Campara: Chalice of the North
How any city could be this prosperous, you shudder to think. What unspeakable deal with things unseen can lead to such rampant contentedness, such assuredness in culture and creed. You squeeze yourself through the brick-walled alley in Ephebus’ northeast quarter, stumbling into the marketplace. All around you, tents of wine-red cloth shield sun-kissed elves and their togas from the unrelenting heat. The capital’s monolith gazes down at its people as they wander about a city all too big for its inhabitants. Scents of soil and summer waft from the crops of a one-armed farmer. You can’t help but wonder; where did he lose it?
A sonic boom sends a shockwave through the tents! You whip your eyes into the sky not a moment too soon to see them. Three massive mithrul dragons flying in tight formation, their scales adorned with golden armor. You squint, catching the worthy riders as they steer their mounts. Spear-wielders in tight helmets, breastplates reflecting the sun’s grace, and half-cloaks proclaiming from which legion they hail. Under each elven brow, the descendant of an ancient dragon slayer. On each helmet, accolades won in distant wars.
Your gaze falls to the scroll in your hands, its seal still hiding the truth of your summons. For all this glory, you could almost believe the promise of the chalice stamped in the wax.
These fields were full of chains. Elves were born to die in the service of bloated dragons. Myths about the very beginning of Camparan history are scarce, but two truths remain irrefutable in the minds of scholars. Firstly, the dragons of this fertile land were quick to yoke the race of elves as it was born. Secondly, they named this place “Campara,” a metallic draconic word meaning “chalice.” Using the calloused and swift hands of the elves as their labor force, the first Camparan dragons built an empire atop the corpses of their slaves. The culture they forged was the pride of all dragonkind. Their language was complex, their art was splendid, and their architecture was the envy of gods.
Seven great cities rose, each in the shadow of its own monolith. Ephebus, Lamié, Corpya, Klion, Krace, Pelor, and Thrax all glittered with treasures uncountable. Metallic dragon tyrants flew betwixt them, claws heavy with gold mined by dying elves. The power structure of the Camparan dragons was fragile. While metallic dragons possess immense natural strength and prowess, the steady flow of food and wealth fostered weakness in their scales.
A select few elves began to mobilize. The skilled among them reappropriated the tools of servitude to forge weapons and armor. Rebellions seldom happen overnight, and the emancipation of the Camparan elves came over the course of three (elven) generations. Culverts were raided by the most suspicious of mithrul dragons, and the executions of despondent elves were widespread. Buried under the fields lay arsenals of dull blades, thin helmets, and most fragile of all… hope.
The rebellion truly began with only a few brave souls, those heroic elves now worshipped as gods by their descendants. Those such as Herak, Delgo, Ykthos, and Okr, took up arms and waged a war of attrition against a species of primordial predation. Nearly unanimous in their valor, the race of elves claimed their right to the land on which they were born. The rage of centuries burned in their blood. Any dragon quick to underestimate them was quick to be butchered. The Age of Tears, encompassing the servitude and rebellion of the elves, lasted nearly four generations. Though it is hard to place the end of the war, many attribute it to the duel of Antethox the Warden and Ykthos the Unyielding. Ykthos descended into the underground spiral city of Glaivecrypt, determined to put an end to the cruelest dragon who ever lived. Fighting through waves of enthralled monsters, corrupted elves, and sorcery that verges on the unspeakable, this elven hero found his quarry in a palace of bones. Their battle cracked the earth, and the death of Antethox is said to have killed the spirit of every dragon in Campara.
So dawned the First Age of Alves. Instead of razing everything left behind by the dragons, the elves decided to build their liberated bloodlines under arches of draconic runes. The dragons that remained were subjugated, shackled with chains once placed on elven hands. Using dark magic discovered in draconic tomes, the Camparans bred the intelligence out of their former masters. Turned into beasts of burden and weapons of war, the dragons of Campara would suffer the ultimate shame… to toil without reward in the halls carved by their godlike ancestors. It is here that the humans and halflings of Mytyrra take issue with the Camparans dark reign.
As the last of the great heroes passed on to fields unknown, a strange turn took place in the hearts of the elves. They began to adopt the culture, art, music, and storytelling of the ancient dragons that once enslaved them. Wearing togas made of scales, hanging tapestries of draconic victories, and singing the waning hymns of the gold dragon bards, the elves became, in spirit and in purpose… draconic.
From a meteor that had once towered over northeastern Campara, the high smiths forged eight wreaths of great power. Seven were gifted to the descending families of the first heroes, and the eighth bestowed upon the line of Ykthos. The seven became the Ajax families, each in command of a legion and a monolith city. All were subject to the house of Ykthos, named “Imperator” of the Camparan Empire until the end of time.
Screeching across the sky on their gold-fanged mounts, the Camparans claim sovereignty over all they see. Their farms and foundries yield prosperity in abundance behind their towering marble walls. Between the crumbling pillars of draconic forums, the high elves debate fine magic and the divine responsibility passed down by those who died in the Age of Tears. Regional hero cults hold immense power, their paladins and clerics swaying the power-grabs of the wreath-bearers. Though Campara overflows with splendor, no elf lord will truly be content until their Imperator rules all Mytyrra.
On every surface, the chalice symbol reminds the elves what abundance they enjoy. In essence, it is a symbol of plenty. The word “Campara” itself evokes a cup that never runs dry. At the core of Camparan creed stands the responsibility to remember the tragedy of the symbol. In all truth, the chalice of this land was named so for never running dry with the sweet blood of elven ancestors…
Where have these strange high elves marched in their quest for world domination? What became of the palace and treasure hoard of the great tyrant Antethox? Who are the Imperators that drink from the great goblet of the dragons? All these questions and more to be answered here!
