Chapter Text
The territory held by the elven senate after the Great War is somewhat fragmented, into segments held by the houses of the Assembly. A quiet blend of the Assembly’s power, the delegation to each of the province holders, and the distance bridged by the bay gives each segment of the elven lands a distinct flavor.
Most of the territories are contained in the densely-packed island at the heart of the elven territory, but when the tide of the war turned, the elven lands expanded out onto the mainland. Liadon and Zeya up north, where the mountains make the land impassable after a while. Mialee and Opal out west, by the halfling and human lands.
The mountains are cold, the winters are long and hard. Once, there were only dragonborn and giants this far up. Now, it’s home to the more tenacious members of any race, once elven settlements opened the door. Here more than most places, people can benefit from the harsh equality found on the frontier. Everyone’s equal once the snows come in. Your pedigree, your education, your money— none of it will save you if you’re caught too far north too late in the season. By late fall, it would be easy to assume nothing grows here: the ground barren and icy. Digging would be a fool’s errand even by early fall. Life in the north is a bet against time.
But the secret of the north is that the summers are like nothing else.
When the snow starts to melt and the sun cuts bright and stark through the branches, there’s a kind of harsh beauty to it. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel, it’s knowing you made it through again.
When the grasses come back up, the valleys bloom with color: the icy ocean inlets turn a brilliant blue, the ground a vibrant green with pinks and purples dotting the vegetation. When the sun sets at the right time of year, ribbons of light trace the heavens. The people of Liadon, maybe more than most, know that there’s magic in the places they walk.
So they hang colorful flags and light lanterns and plant flax and hemp while they can (cotton comes in by wagon, it’s too cold up north). Liadon makes its gold on furs and bone, but the people make their silver off of linen and muslin, off of shipping cotton back south woven deftly and embroidered with as much skill as you’ll find this side of the ocean. Long winters out of the icy winds outside mean you learn to be good with your hands: scrimshaw, sewing, weaving. You smoke and salt and jar things and gather wood while you still can, or your neighbors dig your cold body out of your home when the ice thaws.
The people of Liadon are tough, by necessity, but there’s a warmth to them. There’s a light. When the sun stops coming up in the dead of winter, you light tallow and sing songs to keep the spark alive. And then when the spring comes, you take your labors of love to market.