From time immemorial, the united tribes of the islands have lived with nature at its most abundant and most vicious. Tribal councils maintain firm borders, every shore was only to be touched by the feet of the tribes. Longships and rafts filled the seas, and honored Umberlee as their auntie and the spirits of the fish and birds and beasts as cousins. The triad of Sylvanus, Malar, and Meilikki, primal gods of earth and fire and wind and water, hundreds of nature spirits, speaking and singing and dancing with goblinkin, halflings, and gnomes. All come from Tal'kei Oh Kala, Elder Uncle of Ten Thousand Fingers, the Dawn's Roar, Birth of life and lover to the sea, Our Mountain that they call Castinea. Messino came with their 13, their armies, lords who were chosen by bloodlines rather than what they gave to their people, and sought our wood, our stone, our sea. We said no. We fought, we welcomed the flotsam and jetsam of their societies and built pirate republics that respected our land, our ports, our way of life. We pushed out the thirteen from the city and rebuilt it as a beacon of hospitality, allowing any and all to come into it or one other port. But Elder Uncle's lava reminds everyone in the city that stepping outside the borders of the city, that the tribes decide, counts as fucking around, and you don't wanna find out. In recent years, as attempts to secure shipping lanes by Al Mara, Messino, and Union, Monroe corporation representatives approached tribal elders, attempting to negotiate the opening of a Monroe warehouse in the capitol. During negotiations, a crescent isles ship was bombed, presumably as an intimidation tactic. Tribal Leadership is left wondering if their power at sea matters with ships in the sky
Zo, from a surprisingly coherent journal entry
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