This is the record kept in stone and ink, not song or sigh. Here is the unvarnished account—lineage, war, migration, and law—presented in the sober manner of those who must remember, not simply believe.

Compiled from the earliest surviving fragments through the great succession wars of 5747 AC, this history aims for clarity, chronology, and the unromantic burden of fact. It is the Roedani scholar’s answer to legend: a ledger of what can be proved, traced, and disputed by the living, however dim the dawn from which it rises.

---

The History of Roedon

I. The Founding of The Northern Halls

••••

II. The Cull of the Kinslayer

•••

III. Reckoning The White Witch

••

IV. The Fearless

•••••••••••••••••••

V. The Fall of Valbara

••••••

Vi. Legend of The Cystalkalibur

••••••••••••

VII. A Hall of Myth and Legend

•

viii. The little Tymerean War

••••••

IX. Trade Hell from Varduun

•••

X. That Cold Northern Attrition

••••••

XI. Beware Bleak Mundaynum

•

---

I. The Founding of The Northern Halls

After a wager of skill and reason was won against the elder-beards of the Londorai—whether by clever tongues, crooked dice, or the hand of fate itself—there was struck a common and good deal in the wake of a war whose name is lost. History forgets the weak and the petty, and the Londorai remember only victories, yet Roedon sings that the bargain was sealed not by crowns but by laughter, not by oaths but by necessity. Some say it was done together, shoulder to shoulder.

Others mutter that it was the work of Rowes of Dayne alone, that queer hero of half-remembered tale, who in one telling bested the sky-king Arynn at arm-wrestle, and in another struck him blind and mocked him while the folk of Roedon learned to stand as one. There are songs where Arynn is made drunk on his own thunder, waking certain he had won, while Rowes stayed behind turning meat upon a spit and swearing all was as the sky-king remembered. Roedon prefers both versions and sees no need to choose.

Thus it was that the silver-frozen halls of Londoraia, with their ermine thrones and star-bright gold, sent their giants south to carve a city from mountain bone, long, long ago—before the hill that would one day crown the heights of Den’Rydan had yet learned its name. These Londorai giants were of kin, tall and boisterous, and they walked the sea itself, wading deep through black water to drag the old rowendyre ships ashore, hauling whole peoples with them from the Eld’Hal, that ancestral north now lost to ice and oath alike.

Liars and lions will tell you these works are Vandyrian dirt, relics of some dead empire, but they have yet to tilt a true rowendyre without snapping it like kindling. Here stand the northern forts, halls born of ships—wood of the sea set into living stone, not by spellcraft but by hand and law. Blocks taller than any stronghold were torn free and crushed until diamonds lined the great central terrace, the labor of the strongest Londorai males, while the towering wee girls pressed rubies from the same ruinous weight. The oldest halls were dug naked into the mountain, ships slid within them like bones into flesh, and the strongholds locked fast by giant swords driven deep—not as threat, nor as boast, but as covenant.

For the vow was plain: if Londorai ever returned to make war, it would be against the enemies of the world, and Roedon would stand back to back with them. The giants drank, and the mirth of it shook the rafters of heaven and the highest halls on high. Then horns sounded from the frozen west. In less than nine days they had built what others would call a world, and after the revel they went stone-faced to answer that call. They were never seen again, for into myth they strode, and Roedon remembers them only by what they left standing.

The females of the Londorai remained. It is said they stayed knowingly, and gave themselves to the males who had fought and lost for them, trusting that their own would one day return the favor. These were no dire giants, but a lesser, equally majestic kind of wolf—still tall, still proud, still enough that their blood runs thick in Roedon to this day, though few will admit it aloud.

---

The Bard’s Song

---

More Tales To Tell

More Tales From The History of Roedon & The Ro’Edyne Cycle
are in the process of being translated, archived, restored and preserved.

Treat this page as an ongoing serial and check back for updates….

---