Factions

        High upon the jagged spine of the world sits Rabbit Hutch, a city crowned by snow and scorn. From their windswept perch, its grim-faced denizens cast watchful eyes over The Burning Lily below, choking the lifeblood of commerce by severing the vital trade route to Slumberton. Their defiance is not for coin, but for vengeance — a vengeance brewed and bottled with bitter intent.

        Within their market halls, the merchants of The Callous Chamomile peddle their wares at fair price, not from fairness of heart, but because wrath has no need for greed. Their satisfaction lies not in profit, but in poison. Under false banners, their caravans slither into The Garden, posing as loyal traders to The Burning Lily and The Avid Stargazer — their carts laden not with silks and spices, but with corrupted goods, their deceit as subtle as it is deadly.

        At the root of this slow-burning malice stands Lord Ira, Prince Once-Promised, Brother to Humilitas, and Heir Denied. Once, he was destined to rule The Garden, and in his youth, walked its golden courts with the proud gait of a future king. Yet pride already wore a crown — his father, Superbia, the king who saw in his son not strength, but threat.

        Superbia noted that when death cast its long shadow over him, he would not name an heir. Instead, he proclaimed that with his dying breath, the crown would be claimed through combat — a grand tournament, where blood and glory would decide the throne.

        Bitter and emboldened, Ira’s hope curdled into hatred. With no promise of rule, he turned from courtly skill to alchemical sin, finding solace in vices unfit for nobility. It was a common alewife, cunning and nameless, who aided him in his darkest craft: a chamomile brew laced with slow poison, sweet to the taste, cruel to the bone. Ira offered it to his father with the ceremonial grace of a devoted son. Over time, the drink did its work — and Superbia’s pride perished in agony.

        The court, cloaked in suspicion yet bound by ritual, let the tournament proceed.

        Both Ira and his younger brother, Humilitas, entered the contest. The former, fueled by rage and entitlement; the latter, by honor and resolve. They rose swiftly, their names whispered with awe and tension — a fraternal clash seemingly inevitable.

        But that duel never came.

        On the eve of the final, Ira withdrew. Exhausted and untested in true war, he lacked the bloodied hands of a veteran. His princely training ended at ceremony, not carnage.

        Humilitas, victorious, extended neither comfort nor cruelty — only justice. He named Ira steward of Rabbit Hutch: a place vital yet burdensome, isolated yet strategic. A post meant to punish, not banish.

        Ira accepted, unwilling to lose status, but seethed beneath the surface. Now, atop the mountain, he broods and schemes, cloaked in frost and fury. His ale flows freely, and his wrath, though patient, ferments still.

        He waits — not for redemption, but for retribution.