The Journal of Elara Thorne, citizen and historian of the Free City of Cymara
Entry I, 1st of Rising Sun 201IE
At the dawn of the 201st year of the Imperial Era, I arrived at my first stop on my journey East to visit the holdings of the former
Imperial League. I am chronicling these journeys at the behest of my Elven colleagues of the Conclave, for the lands of the shattered Empire still remain far too hazardous for them to brave themselves.
The Cymaran colours adorning the West Star, that is the vessel I sought passage on, proved to raise little suspicion from the Holzen ships patrolling
The Gulf of Eleran. Our passage through the blockade was thus surprisingly uneventful, and so on the morn of the 1st we sailed into the port of
Grunga.
Although of little interest to my Elven colleagues,
The Frontier’s story is one which I find undeserving of its neglect. Yes, it had little a role to play in the exodus of their kin from The North and yet, it was perhaps the first place to feel the death throes of the Empire that brought Elven dominion over the world crashing down.
From the vantage view of the sea, the Grunga cityscape forms a formidable silhouette, its skyline a jagged mosaic. Nestled at the base of the Stena Mountains, the cities walls stretch from cliff face to sea. Though a city said to be at peace, her appearances would suggest quite the contrary. Her scarred battlements betrayed her storied past, the battered guardians standing watch over the dense urban sprawl between them. The
Reichguard camp naught but 600 feet from the base of her western wall suggested that the city’s story was far from over, its black banners standing in stark contrast to forrest green cloth adorning the city’s towers. Grunga’s brief years of independence aside, both those colours had decorated those towers in the last century.
As we came into port, the harbour presented a vibrancy that the city’s initial impression concealed. Merchants gathered on the piers of the eastern docks haggling over goods from all across the North, their animated talks blending with the calls of sailors unloading vessels and the distant resonance of craftsmens hammers. As I stepped foot on dry land, I was offered textiles from
The Velvet Coast, and beckoned at by fish mongers, all eager to offload their wares.
Journeying through the iron district, I passed all manner of workshops producing wares. In no city in
Siarland had I seen so many blacksmiths collocated together. They laboured on all manner of soldiering equipment, with helms and blades positively piled on carts outside some of the establishments I observed.
The North Quarter, a district bordering the north eastern wall of the city and the one in which I sought my lodging, was comparatively quaint. Although constructed of the same grey stone as the rest of the worn city, the structures here were of newer make and clearly maintained to a higher standard. I briefly inquired about this fact with a local shopkeeper, whom explained that these renovations were only made recently with the
Novayan conquest of the city thirteen years prior.
At his recommendation, I found my way to a cozy establishment known as The Sturdy Anchor, its exterior boasting a charming blend of aged wood and solid stone. The Innkeep was a younger woman named Zofia who boasted a friendly demeanour and entertained my inquests. Over a steaming plate of pierogi and a cup of spiced tea, she shared snippets of her life in Grunga. Her father was a
Frontiersmen through and through. He found a living working at the docks unloading the merchant vessels, and military vessels in times of war. Her mother was a skilled weaver from the Novaya side of the border, hailing from a small village in the Sosna Wood. She also admitted to me that the prosperity of the eastern districts of the city was but a part of a fluid shift in prosperity that has taken place since the days of
The King of the Gap. She explained that as the city changed hands, so did the governing administration of the days focus on different districts of the city, with the eastern side being seen as more closely tied to Novaya both ethnically and culturally, and the same being true of the west. The city was split down the middle by a fortress known as the Bastion, which housed the barracks for the city garrison whom maintained a checkpoint between east and west. She advised that if I wished to see this side of the city, I should attempt to pass through the bastion and visit the district of Nightfair.
Entry II, 2nd of Rising Sun 201IE
I awoke in my modest but satisfactory accomodation with renewed vigour and purpose. I looked out over the city from my window, the morning sun casting a warm glow over the battered battlements and already bustling streets. After a hearty breakfast prepared by Zofia, washed down with a mug of spiced ale, I set out to explore the Bastion, the fortress that bisects the city in two.
As I approached the imposing structure, its looming presence over the Grunga became clear to see. The bastion’s gates, reinforced with heavy iron, bore the sigil of the
Grand Duchy of Novaya. Guards clad in Novayan livery patrolled the walls, their eyes scanning their surroundings with practiced discipline. Inside, the bastion was a hive of military activity. Soldiers drilled in the courtyard and craftsmen maintained armaments. I had allowed the relative serenity of the North Quarter to temporarily suppress my knowledge that Grunga is a city on the brink of war.
Upon my arrival at the western gate of the fortress, I was met with firm resistance. The guards cited a string of unlawful gatherings and activities that had occurred in the last day or so and told me that prohibiting my access was in the interests of my own safety. I accepted their decision out of respect of their station, however I remained determined to at least observe the western side of the city. I was granted access to the ramparts of the western wall of the Bastion from where I was able to look out over the district of Nightfair. The western districts were quite clearly worse off than their eastern kin, with poorly maintained structures scarred and crumbling. Makeshift markets appeared to thrive in the chaos, canvas stalls decorating the walls of buildings, their brightly coloured cloths a stark contrast to the dull grey stone. Novayan soldiers patrolled the streets, drawing stares and whispers from onlookers, their presence a reminder of the fragile peace holding the city together.
As the day progressed, I returned to The Sturdy Anchor to document my observations. The inn’s common room was alive with the gentle hum of conversations and the occasional burst of laughter, a stark contrast to the day’s explorations. This city of contrasts paints a vivid picture of a region defined by its enduring resilience and the intricate interplay of power, culture, and survival.
On the morrow I intend to try my luck at visiting Nightfair again, perhaps the guards will be more cooperative after a day of quiet.
Entry III, 3rd of Rising Sun 201IE
I am penning this entry from the Sosna Wood, about three hours walk from the eastern gate of Grunga.
I was awoken by cannon fire, resonating through the misty morning air. I gathered my belongings and made my way down stairs. Zofia told me I should flee the city with some haste. Crowds flooded the streets, many with the same idea. It took near an hour to make it through the gate and into the countryside, hundreds fleeing with me. In my short years as a historian, I have yet to have lived my writings until now. I have little clarity on the situation in Grunga at this time, save for the tower of smoke rising above the trees in the direction of the city.
I must cease my writings at this time and will continue once I have found some manner of asylum. Til then.
