The Yvelian Nation

The Yvelian Nation, once a proud maritime empire of gilded sails and golden ambition, now casts a long, infernal shadow across Wardenfall’s oceans beneath the tyrannical reign of Queen Mavis Varyion. Known across the realms as the Demon Queen, her rule is laced with whispers of ancient blood rites, demonic oaths, and soul-binding contracts signed not in ink, but in the screams of the damned. Her lineage, stretching back over a millennium, is steeped in abyssal power and occult legacy. Scholars and madmen alike speak of rituals performed beneath black waves, of drowned cathedrals echoing with forbidden hymns, and of the Ebonblade Compact, a fanatical assassin’s guild that emerges from the oceanic abyss to silence those who defy her. It is said they do not kill for coin, but for covenant.

The Yvelians maintain their grip on Wardenfall through fear, arcane secrecy, and ruthless trade dominion, anchored by their monopoly on Varethra, a rare, golden-flowered spice native only to the volcanic archipelago they rule. When crushed, the flower bleeds crimson, its scent intoxicating, its taste addicting, and its trade steeped in blood.
Varethra’s influence extends far beyond pleasure and wealth; it is believed to hold subtle enchantments that dull resistance and enhance obedience. Through the fleets of the Crimson Lash, an unforgiving navy fueled by slave labor and black pact enchantments. The Yvelians enforce their will with brutal precision and unyielding cruelty. For centuries, Varethra has been the gold-veined curse of the known world, sought after, feared, and hated.
Diplomatically, the Yvelians walk the edge of a knife. The Elves speak of them with loathing, the Dwarves sell to them but bar their fortresses, the Gnomes trade cautiously but hide their arcane secrets, and the Halflings greet their envoys with wary silence.
The Beastfolk openly declare them enemies. Yet, even these disdainful nations cannot afford to cut ties completely lest they forfeit access to the sea’s richest routes and the world's most coveted luxuries.
Within their own borders, the Yvelian people live under the iron shadow of control. Though the 1901 revolution ended slavery in word, it merely shifted in form, chains replaced by wages, collars replaced by contracts soaked in infernal legality.
The plantations of Varethra remain fields of torment, worked by the broken and watched by enforcers cloaked in fear. The Varyion aristocracy emerged from the revolution untouched, their power coiling tighter, their cruelty refined into something quieter... and far more terrifying.
Only in the Golden Islands does resistance endure. These jewel-like isles, where Varethra first grew wild among the ash, are the cradle of rebellion. Their wild clans, fierce and unbroken, have never bowed to the Yvelian throne. Though scattered and ideologically fractured, they share one blazing ambition: to see the Varyions fall.

""The Queen offered her womb to the Abyss and the Abyss gave her a prince it could not chain. She fears no army. Only a cradle that was never burned. I say she’s saving it for a ritual"

— General Vekar Durne, former loyalist

The Iron Dragons stand at the front lines, a disciplined warrior faction led by the aged dwarf Vladdin. Battle-scarred and iron-willed, they are the rebels’ blade and shield. The Black Fangs strike from the shadows, guided by the cunning elf Tharin, once a mentor to the rogue . The Bloodfangs, led by goblins forged in the crucibles of slavery, are avatars of vengeance, their rituals fueled by pain, their fury unchecked.
The Nightclaws, a silent storm beneath the moon, answer to Selara Nightwhisper, a Tabaxi assassin whose name is spoken with reverence and dread. They assassinate with ghostlike grace, disrupting Yvelian command structures. The Ravenwing Clan, masters of sabotage and alchemical poison, strike swift and vanish faster, their methods surgical and merciless.
Then there are the wild ones: the Thornclaw Tribe, led by the savage Krogg the Beastlord, revel in bloodshed and primal rage. In contrast, the Iron Root Coalition, guided by the druid Lirael, seek not only to destroy the crown but to plant a future in its ashes, a vision of freedom shaped by earth and harmony. Together, these factions are a storm held together by shared hate. Their unity is fragile, their visions divided, but their target is clear: the end of Yvelian dominion.
Overseeing this empire of whispers and fire is the Crimson Spire, perched high upon the blackened cliffs of Yvelia like a blade forged to pierce the heavens. Built from colossal, infernal Polished Lava Crystals, the towers gleam with a baleful red light that burns without warmth, an eternal beacon of dread. At its heart lies the Throne of Hollow Greed, carved from flawless black obsidian, contorted into an unnatural shape that seems to recoil from light. Those who gaze upon it speak of a presence seated eternally upon it, unseen but suffocating. Its breath stitched into the very air.

The throne does not simply resonate with magic, it drinks it. The walls around it are runed with malevolent sigils, etched with soul-bindings and burning oaths. Voices murmur from the stone, eyes blink from shadows, and contracts flare to life in fire and smoke. Nobles who enter often leave changed or never leave at all.
Queen Mavis Varyion, though young in body, is ancient in power. Her authority is not learned, it is inherited, branded into her soul through infernal legacy and generations of bound servitude to something far darker.
Every word she speaks bears weight; every silence, consequence. Even the highborn live in fear of slipping into her displeasure. Within the Crimson Spire, no one is truly free. Rumors swirl of her daughter, Valara, a phantom princess raised in secret, perhaps a blade in waiting.

Yvelian Nation Banner

But in the streets, whispered with reverence and fear, another name spreads: her lost son.
Born during an eclipse, marked by silence, a child not of the surface, but the Underdark. Spirited away in infancy, some claim he lives still, growing in hidden places, guided by divine prophecy or vengeance itself. He is no longer a prince, they say. He is reckoning.
Etched in alley walls and whispered in broken tongues, the Oath of Broken Chains has become a sacred chant among the oppressed:
“Douse the flames of hope. Rule with an Iron Fist. Strength above all.”
They do not say it in fear.
They say it in prayer.
They say it for him.