Isle Of Men

The mythical Isle of Men was the cradle of the landsmen, long since lost below the waves in the sundering two and a half thousand years ago. This ancient land lay to the south-east of Allornus, over a densely packed island chain known as 'the bridge' that lay just south of modern Ahlonia. Here the six tribes and their divh were placed in the world to prosper as they would.

In the north the now-extinct tribe of the Nofo lived with their divhi Nofus along the long stretch of land leading to the bridge. Their closest neighbours were Malar's Malorns inhabiting the mountain valleys to the east. The Ghans and Ghanda occupied large savannah to the south of the Nofo, north of the lands of the Ral, over which the sun passed close to her beloved people on the southern portion of the continent. Towards the heart of the continent were the Iri, dwelling amongst the foothills with their herds, and much of the east was occupied by the Haedar, chosen of the divhi Haederas, first amongst the divh of that land.

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The landsmen of old dwelt in crude villages, with few turning an eye to the sea, and fishermen enjoying the bounty of the rivers that flowed from the mountains that dominated the centre of the vast continent. The Isle of Men was a paradise, without war or conflict, a land of great bounty and plenty, where the light of the divh shone down upon the landsmen, and there was neither sickness nor scarcity to be heard of in the entire land, or so the old holy books say. It was a hot land, but the rains came often, and so there were no deserts or wastelands, and vast forests filled with wild berries and fat game provided shade and shelter from the worst extremes of the climate.

However when the monstrous Nofo killed and ate their divh, the other divh saw the truth - that their people were becoming decadent degenerates after countless aeons of paradise, and took their most loyal and pious followers and fled to the north. Once the divh and those they had chosen to save were in the dark, savage northern continent the other divh let loose their retribution upon the Isle of Men, sinking the coasts below monstrous waves, pouring liquid fire from the peaks of the mountains, sending bolts of lightening miles wide to scour the hills and tearing the plains into great rifts, into which the sea flowed. And when they were done the Isle was no more, and an immense, perpetual storm - the echoes of all that destruction - remains there to this day as a reminder of the destruction turning upon the divines invites.

Some whisper that somewhere, further south than any can venture in this age, at the very heart of the Maelstrom, the tips of the mightiest peaks still reach above the savage waves, and here, on what was once a mountain range, the liquid fire had died, and a vast stony plateau is home to the last of the old race of men. Decadent, angry, vengeful and jealous, they have been abandoned by the divh, faced their most savage wrath, but endured. If this myth is anything more than mere fancy - for none can reach that cursed place to prove it - then these creatures must be terrible indeed!