The kingdom of Beomor held no king. Its lineage once believed divine, now lost in the death of Raythan the Brutal, the youngest son who sired no heir. His untimely demise, whether natural or foul, shattered the gates for others to seize power. For many years, the nobles fought to gain control of the throne. Yet their armies united under one banner, led by several generals of merit, dispatching the nobles and their families. In the gruesome years that followed, each general was assassinated due to their tyranny in continuing their pursuit of the throne. Each assassin crept back into the shadows whence they came, hesitant in seeking the throne themselves. Beomor’s throne remained empty inside crumbling fortress walls, passing the days like a prisoner doomed to the underbelly of a dungeon chasm. People of the realm began to govern themselves, dividing and spreading the kingdom into regions. Thus, the lands of Halimar, which means the realm of the cleaved, were born.
Bosite emerged and established in the northeast, then Shintis to the northwest, while almost a decade later Pronada in the southeast, followed by Ithuvell in the southwest only a year after Pronada. Each land heralds a contrasting tale of its prominence, a catalyst foreshadowing an inevitable conflict biding time beneath a peaceful era.
The region of Bosite proudly held its name from a farmer who gained renown in the killing of enormous bears. Such beasts prowled the nights, known to break into children’s windows and carry them off. It is why homes in Bosite are built with two or three floors, where the beds are high above the ground.
The farmer, Bosite, stewed in a vengeful rage for several days once his daughter’s remains were found in the woods. His fury drove him to track every bear he could, and at times killed them with nothing more than a sharpened stick. Praised by many for the scars he bore, his son, Bosite the II, followed in his footsteps, growing in prowess and stature, but holding his demeanor in humility. No pair of hunters compared to their skill, and it was no surprise the people raised their voices to name the region of the northeast after the ones who came to avenge their children. Yet the son of Bosite grew in a deeper gift. When his father laid to rest in the home of his forebears, he spied a bear cub wandering, abandoned, or orphaned in a day like the rest when he tracked to slay a beast. Biding his time, he watched the cub play without care, naive to his presence—the hunter who could take its life at any pressing moment.
Bosite (II) remained for hours, drawing his bow back time and again, though silently bringing it to repose. Something in his heart stirred, and when night returned to day, he revealed his frame to the unaware cub. It did not scurry away nor did it growl hostile toward him. The cub simply stood, trembling, and for that moment, Bosite saw the cub as an innocent creature. He admitted aloud to the forest that he had never witnessed such a blameless soul, even in the hearts of men. His kinsmen would not understand why he spared the cub’s life, but he did, as his heart led him to do so. In his care, the cub became stronger and heeded the words of its new master. And it was here that Bosite revealed greater prowess than his father by riding the bear into the towns of the northeast, proclaiming he had learned to conquer the fierce beasts without slaying them. What occurred from his leadership would be the slaying of hundreds of mother bears so the people would captivate their cubs, training them to bow to the will. Bears in Bosite became bred to plow the fields, haul timber, and armored steeds for battle. And the wilds of Bosite scarcely hold a trace of the undomesticated now, teeming with game—deer of all kinds—ready to feed warriors and their steeds.
Shintis, to the northwest, gave rise to the lore of quadruplet sisters who cried in their mother’s arms before the twelfth hour on the first day of spring, in the days of Bosite’s father seeking his vengeance against child-preying beasts. Shintis was their family name. But they were stripped of it as their father banished their mother when he learned he had not received a son. He, himself fortunate, had married the name to take up the mantle, yet remained embittered toward his wife’s grandfather. Thus, driven from her home, the largest hamlet within the valley, their mother fled out into the night with two loyal servants, each becoming a surrogate mother to the four.
When the girls began learning speech, their mother caught the eye of a retired soldier, Gladius, who earned his living in the blacksmith and cloth trades. He had created a small hamlet of several retired soldiers and their families approximately twenty miles from the Shintis’ lost home. Gladius proved to be an excellent teacher of his blacksmith trade and soldier knowledge, remaining unashamed in passing his wisdom on to his adopted daughters, for he could not sire children of his own.
The four learned much of the sword and shield, a favored practice and accouterments of the region. Gladius taught them how to hone their muscles for warfare and swing the hammer to the anvil. He honed their minds in the foundations of strategic ideals and to withstand the fiery pains of the forge, where they came to substantially understand their strengths and incinerate their fears. Yet what strengthened them utterly, and bound them together remained their love for their mother—and as they watched her decay from a disease most abhor, they gave oath in blood unto one another to never betray or abandon each other.
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In the days of Bosite (II) bringing domestication to the wild bears in the northeast, the girls became of age and laid their mother to rest after many years of suffrage, nearest the high meadowlands pervading with ancient willows, standing as colossal protectors of Gladius’ kin. He was not yet frail, but among the graves of his family line, he spoke courage to his daughters, believing his time was nearing. Yet his desire to perish was not in his bed. He brought them to ride with him in his final siege. And where his eyes lay upon, the true father of the four, where he bayed them to take back what rightfully belonged to them, the hamlet of Shintis. Such a victory would echo throughout the region, and gain them a willing army to secure their future. When Gladius spoke the name of their true father, Thiago, Idalia, the eldest of the four, tore her sword from its sheath and cursed his name. Each daughter denied Thiago and swore upon their lives that it was Gladius who seeded them to their mother.
“Listen closely,” Gladius beckoned. “The name Shintis belongs not to Thiago, but to your grandfather who joined his daughter with him. I promised your mother before her death that I would remove the name from him. The name belongs to you alone.”
“Not so,” Idalia stepped forward. “We give the name to you as well.”
“Then take care of our people when I am gone,” Gladius replied. “For the only established hamlets left are mine and his. The rest of the clans cling their loyalty to me and save none for him, which is why you must prove your strength and overthrow him. Then, all shall fall in line.”
Within three sunrises, Gladius besieged Thiago’s hamlet with a small group of warriors and the four who desired nothing more than to prove their worth.
Idalia, the eldest, bore a black leather breastplate decorated with an etched equine standing abroad on its hind legs, its mane flung toward the heavens, and its eyes inlaid with diamond prisms. Her gauntlets shimmered with plated steel, and the helm upon her brow sharpened to a razor’s edge front to back. The diamond-shaped shield she possessed punctured like spears from a single thrust. And the sword she carried was short, yet broad, bringing her enemies close before striking them to their graves with calculated precision.
Langhuie, the second eldest, was not unlike Idalia. Yet she stood broader, having a honed muscle mass with the potential to outmatch most men who dared stand against her. Her black steel and leather breastplate depicted a crouching lion seeking to pounce on its prey. She bore a circular shield that covered her defense from neck to feet and hid the ranseur well in her other hand. Despite her masterful defense, she wore full-sleeved steel garments and armored her legs fully to her pelvis. The extra weight, however, did not slow the thrust of her weapon nor the swift movement of her footwork. And as several enemies were careless in trying to bring her down, they felt the sharp protrusion from the brow of her helm that played a role in displaying her might.
Evren, the third born of the four, delighted more in dual-wielding weapon styles. Slender yet resilient, vain yet cunning, alluring yet elusive—she wore a belt of throwing daggers, fifty or sixty at least, with hardened black leather surrounding vital points of her frame. Her face remained covered by a protective sheisty mask, black like the leather she wore, and etched with the teeth of a viper along her mouth. And though blades swung or arrows let loose—it seemed none desired to touch her, as she weaved in and around her enemy’s defenses, cutting them to pieces with her double-edged rapiers.
Finally, Seron, the youngest of the four—not as brawny as her two eldest sisters, nor as slender or agile as Evren. Yet she held a peculiar talent of communing with ravens, of which flocks followed her into battle, plucking the flesh and the eyes of her enemies, distracting them from her presence until she positioned herself to deliver a killing blow with one of the four silver daggers she carried. Ravens were not the only birds who shared their utmost devotion to her, the monstrous ancients of long past known as Griffins, pledged their allegiance to her command. Several accompanied her wherever she roamed, her personal steeds to fight by her side on the battlefield. Her black armor, hardened leather, and feather covered like that of her feather helm depicting a Griffin's skull.
These were the four champions who attacked Thiago’s lands with Gladius, who pulled his soldiers back once his adopted daughters entered the fray. The troops loyal to Thiago’s rule were soon thwarted from the battlefield and retreated heavily into the hamlet’s keep. How they met their end is uncertain, only knowingly falling to one of the four—even Thiago. For neither sister claimed praise for his head they brought back as proof of their victory. It would remain a blissful memory for Gladius in the final days of his breath, singing the praises of his daughters he never sired. Thiago’s dwelling became the lands of the four sisters, and they allied it with Gladius’ lands, and those who pledged loyalty to him. Thus, the realm of Shintis established its hold.