Long ago, the Elves had bid fare well to the other races, and retreated to their mythical isle to the West. There was a land-grab, as they knew there would be, but they cared not. They had a bountiful and primeval land to remold into their image.
Millenia passed. The other kingdoms divided huge swathes of their territory and made it their own. Human kingdoms reigned throughout the more temperate lands to the south, along the Cerulean Coast and to the east, past the Principalities of Itala, to the eastern edges where the barbaric tribes roam their verdant lands and raid one another. The Gnomes and Halflings inhabit a swathe of land past a forbidding mountain range, existing in peaceful idyll and sailing through the Earthen Sea. The Dwarven people had built their mountain fastnesses along the Edge of Iron, a forbidding bearded waraxe consistently threatening the Humans’ northern borders.
They lived, they thrived and they spread. The Gnomes travelled southwards, following their
noses to profit in the Dead Veldt, a massive countryside all but unknown since the Orc tribes had invaded over the centuries. The Dwarves colonised the last fastness of the Elves, an island bastion that was reputed to be their first colony in the new world, known as the Alabaster Isle. The Humans warred among themselves, attempting to garner some advantage over their rivals, mainly failing; but at least keeping them occupied.
Originally, the first accounts are reputed to have come from the Gnomes, calling for the first ever Convocation of Nations, as they were seeing disturbing movements with their trading partners and allies to the south. Then several barbarian tribes, or rather, their remains, fled west to Itala. Word that a concerted effort was being made to attack the tribes, not simply the raids of yesteryear, these were controlled, orderly advances into hostile country with clear intent at conquering the land.
It ended in slaughter. A leader had risen among their tribes, one said to have a will of mithril, a sword of light and a vision that encompassed the known world.
Slowly, the races were pushed back. It seemed to not matter the vows made, the alliances struck or battles won, there were always more of them, and they continued pushing westward.
After the barbarians, the Principalities were the next to fall. Over 70 years, they were
consistently pushed westwards, until only an amalgamation of refugees and exhausted soldiers of every stripe and race were left on the Cerulean Coast. The Dwarves had retreated into their mountain fastnesses, but even in their holds the talk was dire and empty of hope.
Until Thane Azagar Firebellows, of the Lech Dwarves, shared an ancient map found on the surface years ago, only now deciphered; the route necessary for the Elves to retreat westward. With the threat posed to the east, the remaining kingdoms collapsed. Ships were loaded with as much supplies and tools they could carry and fled to the new land; Speron.
It was a new land, a verdant land, but something was amiss. There were no Elves. There were ruins, and items left behind, that which was left in flight, but no people. Where they were and what they had fled were questions for another day. It was time to re-build.