A thousand years ago, in the age when the orcish race waged war to conquer the continent, a small tribe dwelt upon the shore of the sea. It was one of the few that practised fishing and preserved the knowledge of building ships capable of venturing into the sea. The tribe lived in peace, trading resources with its neighbours and taking no part in the bloody campaigns.
They were seldom noticed. Small in number, modest in wealth, and devoid of political alliances, the tribe was nearly invisible against the vast backdrop of conquest. Yet they required no recognition. They had their own path, valuing freedom and independence above glory and power.
But the conquest of the continent demanded fresh recruits. With each passing year, fewer young and strong orcs remained in the settlement. The elders fretted: it became harder to secure food and goods for trade, and most of all, there was no one left to inherit the priceless knowledge of their ancestors. Realising the gravity of the threat, the chieftain sought counsel from the shaman.
The shaman performed a ritual and was granted a vision. In his mind arose an image of the future, veiled in heavy mist: the tribe perishing in the fires of war, leaving nothing behind but ash. The greater clans celebrated their victories, praising Pa’agrio, and none mourned the lost legacy — neither the fallen nor the knowledge that had died with them.
What he witnessed kindled anger in the shaman’s soul. Why praise Pa’agrio if their fate was to vanish in his own flame? What meaning was there in devotion to a father-god who demanded sacrifice yet offered no future?
The vision stood in defiance of all the tribe held dear. And then the shaman understood: it’s time to forsake the old god. For the sake of their children, for the sake of their future, the tribe must choose another path.
At dawn, he summoned a council. Men and women, elders and warriors gathered in silence, listening. He spoke of the vision and the inevitable doom of a path ordained by Pa’agrio that led not to glory but to annihilation. He proposed a radical course: to reject God’s will, abandon the continent, and seek their own destiny — free from wars and ambitions.
The debate raged for days. Doubts were voiced, fears laid bare. Did they possess the courage, the strength, the resources for such an exodus? Yet slowly, resolve hardened within their hearts. Fear yielded to hope, and hesitation gave way to understanding: there was no other way.
At last, a single decision was reached. The tribe would depart from the continent, placing their fate in the hands of the sea and in their own resilience, determined to forge a brighter future. Thus began the Age of the Sea for the people who rejected their god and took upon themselves a new name — the Vorgars, “those who went beyond the horizon.”
The first generations of Vorgars spent long years wandering the northern seas. After their exile, they moved from island to island, seldom remaining longer than a single season. Ships were lost to storms, people died of cold and sickness, and every attempt to find a land fit for life ended in disappointment.
Yet in time, the Vorgars learned to survive. They learned to read shifting winds, to recognise underwater currents by the colour of the water, to reinforce hulls with whatever materials they possessed, and to repair their vessels even amid the open sea.
Centuries passed in the same relentless rhythm: brief harbours, long crossings, eternal suspicion of the horizon. People sickened, ships sank, and only the constancy of the wind endured. The sea became a merciless teacher. Yet it granted them their greatest understanding — it could not be begged for mercy. Survival depended not on prayer, but on skill.
Having abandoned Pa’agrio, the Vorgars ignored all new beliefs for many years. But gradually their outlook changed. The sea demanded no worship — it existed. The longer they lived among water and ice, the clearer it became: their path depended solely upon themselves. The sea neither saves nor betrays; it responds only to those who comprehend it, decide in time, and do not await guidance from above.
This belief became the foundation of their way of life. Each carved his own course, and strength was measured not by lineage but by one’s ability to endure the storm and lead others through it. Thus emerged a new cultural order — reverence for knowledge and mastery. Shamans were no longer seers, but those who knew the sea better than any other. Honour shifted from spirits to the wisdom of the eldest helmsmen. Ritual gave way to the transmission of skill.
Families began settling upon islands barely fit for life. Some were naked outcrops of stone that held only a handful of huts; others were narrow stretches of tundra with a single freshwater spring. Small encampments formed, and in time, they grew into clans.
Scarcity compelled cooperation. Some mastered seal hunting and the rendering of blubber, others found islands rich in copper ore, and still others learned to weave unbreakable rope from seaweed. From these bonds arose a trade network. In winter, any island survived only because its neighbour sent food, timber, or materials for ship repair.
To prevent conflict and establish common rules of trade and passage through the straits, the Council of Admirals was established. It consisted of the most experienced captains — one from each of the largest clans. They did not rule the sea, but they safeguarded order and resolved matters upon which all Vorgars depended.
In time, a permanent centre became necessary.
That centre became Raudskar — a great island covered in ship-timber forests and blessed with a harbour sheltered by cliffs from the fiercest storms. What began as a safe anchorage grew into a city. The upper tiers housed the elder clans and warehouses; below lay shipyards and deep docks where vessels could be repaired even in winter gales. Raudskar became the heart of maritime knowledge and decision-making.
At the first Council of Admirals held there, it was decreed that the state formed among these islands would bear a name: Ur-Leviar — the Icebound Realm.
From scattered survivors cast across northern seas arose a people who ceased searching for land. They found their home in the sea — and built a world around it.
When the Vorgars established themselves upon the islands of Ur-Leviar and ceased to be fugitives, becoming a true people of the sea, they faced a new necessity: to master the Leviathan’s Path — the perilous stretch of ocean lying between the northern islands and the old continent. For other nations, the Path was an ordeal to be survived. For the Vorgars, it was a dialogue that had to be conducted properly. If you spoke precisely, the sea would hear you. And if the sea heard you, you would return home.
The Leviathan’s Path was alive, and lethally so. Within its depths dwelt Gharrmash — colossal sea serpents capable of capsizing a vessel with a single lash of their tail. The Vorgars learned to sense their approach long before the waters stirred: by the faint scent of sulphur in the wind, by the sudden surfacing of dead fish drifting belly-up across the swells. Tides shifted without warning, dragging ships sideways into unseen reefs. Winds turned treacherous in the span of a heartbeat, tearing sails and wrenching rudders from steady hands. Upon the skeletal remains of shattered ships appeared the vardrøggs — spirits of drowned sailors who tested the resolve and vigilance of those bold enough to cross this sea.
Yet to the Vorgars, the sea was never an enemy. It demanded study. It demanded respect. The one who could hear it and read its language could guide a fleet along the Leviathan’s Path, foresee danger, and circumvent it before it claimed lives. This ability became the foundation of authority within Ur-Leviar.
Centuries of crossings, failures, losses and victories were transformed into accumulated knowledge, passed from mentor to apprentice with care and precision. The Vorgars refined techniques that allowed them to traverse the Path without loss. Those who mastered this art beyond all others were eventually given a name: Morgrim.
The Morgrim were never a hereditary title, nor a privilege bestowed by birth. It was a rank that confirmed one’s ability to lead a fleet through the Leviathan’s Path while preserving calm, confidence, and attention to the slightest change in the sea. In time, a formal selection took shape — the Trial of Three Depths. It stood as a testament to skill, endurance, and mind, where even the smallest mistake could cost a life. Only those who endured all three Depths were acknowledged as Morgrim, worthy of the honour of leading the Vorgars.
The First Depth demanded strength and flawless command of arms. The candidate was required to slay a sea creature alone — without magic, using only cold steel and rope. Not from the safety of a ship’s deck, but in the water itself, where the advantage belonged entirely to the beast. Here, not only physical power was tested, but the ability to retain composure at the brink of death. P
The Second Depth tested mind and endurance. The Vorgar had to spend a night upon the Island of the Drowned, where the vardrøggs — spirits of sailors lost to the sea. One must not close one’s eyes. One must not answer the voices. One must not touch what moves within the mist. By dawn, many lost their reason. Those who endured until sunrise emerged changed. They gained the ability to hear the sea — not in words, but in signs: the subtle tremor before a wave breaks differently, the shift of wind before it becomes visible.
The Third Depth became the culmination of the trial. The Vorgar had to traverse the Leviathan’s Path alone aboard a skjar — a narrow vessel no more than ten paces in length. No crew. No spare sail. To complete this passage meant becoming Morgrim — one capable of leading fleets through the most perilous waters in the known world.
Those who survived all three Depths did not return unchanged. A Morgrim could be recognised at once. It was in the way he looked upon the water: neither with challenge nor with reverence, but as one regards an equal. He plotted routes through waters where ordinary helmsmen would falter, gripped by uncertainty. He sensed danger long before it could be seen or heard.
Drogan Ice-Fang and Kromm Skulltide stood over a spread map of the Leviathan’s Path. The parchment bore no ornament, no symbols of glory — only current lines, navigators’ markings, and a notation of the place where the trace of a Gharrmash had been sighted three days earlier.
— The current is changing, — Drogan said. He did not raise his eyes. — If we move now, we arrive two days sooner.
Kromm snorted and planted his fist upon the table.
— Or we meet the serpent directly beneath the keel. Eager for a date?
Drogan lifted his head slightly. Not in irritation — rather in assessment, as one studies waves before a coming gale.
— You propose we wait?
— I propose we sail faster while the wind still allows it. — Kromm jabbed a finger at a line Drogan would have circled with caution. — If the Gharrmash rises, we cut away at an angle. We’ve done worse.
— You speak as though the sea answers to us.
— The sea favours those who move, — Kromm replied with a crooked grin. — Not those who study the same clouds ten times over.
They fell silent. Their conversations were always thus — direct, sometimes sharp, yet without hostility. Each knew that the other saw what might escape his own perception.
Drogan shifted his gaze to the compass lying nearby — old, its lid scarred by a dark scratch.
— The Forgotten Storm is retreating north, — he said. — If we enter too early, we catch its tail.
— And if we enter too late, we take a headwind that feeds us to the Gharrmash, — Kromm countered. — My men are ready. They know we’ll have to move quickly.
— So are mine, — Drogan answered quietly. — But readiness is not reason enough to lose a ship.
Kromm straightened.
— You want me to stay? While you take the drakkars along your course?
— I want you to lead those who sail along the left edge of the current, — Drogan said. — You read the wind better than I do. I hold the main line.
Kromm gave a short, humourless chuckle.
— You could’ve said that at once. Instead of beginning with ‘if the sea permits’.
— The sea permits only those who do not lie to themselves, — Drogan replied evenly. — That is why there are two of us.
Kromm nodded. There was no friendship between them, but there was understanding. Without one, the other would become blind — Drogan without Kromm’s boldness; Kromm without Drogan’s restraint.
— Very well, — Kromm said at last. — I’ll take three vessels along the left edge. If it turns dangerous, I return to formation.
— You will return, — Drogan repeated, meeting his gaze directly, — even if the wind favours you.
Kromm’s grin widened.
— Look at that. The High Admiral knows how to give an order without inviting argument.
— We sail on my signal, — Drogan said sternly, folding the map.
— Give the word. — Kromm clapped him on the shoulder and turned toward his ship.
Drogan remained alone. He rested his palm upon the lid of the compass and spoke quietly:
— Do you hear us?
The needle trembled. Barely perceptible, yet distinct.
He inclined his head, as though the answer sufficed, and walked toward his crew.
At present, Ur-Leviar is ruled by two Morgrim whose decisions determine the course of the entire Icebound Realm. The elder of them, Drogan Ice-Fang, unites strategic thought with decades of maritime experience. He studies maps, plots routes, accounts for currents and winds, anticipates where danger may lie and how it may be avoided. His approach is measured and calculated: each decision carefully weighed, yet its weight is felt across every ship and every harbour of Ur-Leviar.
The younger Morgrim, Kromm Skultide, stands in many ways as Drogan’s opposite. Swift and daring, he acts quickly, testing both crew and sea alike. Where Drogan analyses depths and currents, Kromm tests courage and precision. His impulsiveness carries risk — yet it inspires. Kromm proves that the unpredictability of the Leviathan’s Path may be met face to face without surrendering resolve.
Drogan and Kromm were never friends. Together, however, they forged the equilibrium upon which the authority of Ur-Leviar rests. The first provides stability and long-term design. The second ensures motion and initiative. When a question arises whether to attempt a new route, Drogan consults charts and calculations — and Kromm stands ready to test those conclusions in practice. Through this union, the Leviathan’s Path became more than a maritime corridor between continents. It became the foundation of Vorgar's power. The Morgrim, guided by these two, can lead a fleet where no one else dares to sail.
Yet the Leviathan’s Path remains mortally dangerous. Waves and currents conceal reefs and whirlpools. Encounters with colossal sea creatures or sudden shifts of wind may still condemn a ship to the depths. The Vorgars survived not because they were stronger than others, but because they learned to understand the sea as a living system — its motions, its sounds, its scents, the way water reacts to a changing wind.
The Morgrim became the custodians of that knowledge. They neither command the sea nor worship it. They listen. They study. They account for it. And thus the sea permits them their path.
In the archives of Raudskar were preserved charts depicting a continent far to the south of the Leviathan’s Path — a land where, according to legend, dwarves once mined a metal the colour of the morning sky.
Drogan studied those scrolls for years.
Again and again, he returned to them, tracing the coastlines with his finger and studying the faded annotations left behind by long-dead navigators. In the contours of those shores and the careful markings of currents, he felt a call — the kind that does not shout, yet cannot be ignored. It was the same pull that once drove the first Vorgars beyond the horizon.
Kromm watched him and understood: these were not merely maps.
Within them sounded the voices of ancestors — those who had gone beyond the horizon and never returned, yet left behind direction and knowledge. The decision, when it finally came, felt less like a choice and more like the continuation of an unfinished sentence.
When the Council of Admirals at last granted approval for the expedition, doubt had already faded.
A fleet of thirty ships sailed forth under the joint command of Drogan and Kromm.
Among them were Morgrim and the finest sailors of Ur-Leviar — men and women hardened by storms, ice, and deadly crossings. They had endured the Leviathan’s Path countless times. They believed themselves prepared for whatever the sea might send.
But what awaited them was not something the sea sent lightly.
The first week passed in deceptive calm. Winds were steady. On the eighth day, the lookout aboard the drakkar Veldraugr cried out, pointing toward the horizon. There, where sea met sky, a dark band appeared — as though someone had drawn a line of charcoal between worlds.
Drogan raised his spyglass. His expression did not change, but his fingers tightened around the brass tube.
— Reef the sails by half. Prepare storm anchors. Lash everyone on deck.
The storm arrived without warning.
The sky sealed over the fleet as though a black bowl had been inverted above them. Stars vanished. The moon was swallowed whole. The wind shifted direction twice within a single hour — first filling the sails from astern, driving the fleet forward at unnatural speed, then slamming head-on with such violence that canvas tore like rotten cloth.
Waves rose without pattern. One struck from starboard. Another surged from the stern. A third lifted a ship high as driftwood and cast it down with such force that the keel cracked against the water as if against stone.
The sea did not merely rage. It roared, like a living creature in agony.
Horn signals dissolved in the thunder. Commands vanished within the wind. Sailors could not hear one another at three paces’ distance. Waves swept men from decks, and their cries were swallowed instantly.
Drogan stood at the helm of “Grimnirsholl”, gripping the handles until the skin of his palms split. Beside him, the navigator clutched a magical compass. The needle spun wildly. It pointed north. Then downward, toward the depths. Then sideways. Then froze, trembling.
— This is no ordinary storm! — The navigator shouted, but the gale tore apart the words.
Drogan already knew. This was one of the Forgotten Storms. The kind spoken of only in lowered voices. The worst of them. Perhaps the legendary Storm of Oblivion — the name known to every captain who had sailed the Leviathan’s Path.
A magical tempest where the laws of navigation failed. Where time fractured. Where reason itself lost shape.
Lightning struck the mast of a ship left of the flagship. Wood ignited instantly, despite the rain. The vessel spun, uncontrolled — and within a minute, a wall of water descended upon it, dragging it beneath the surface. Only burning debris remained.
— Hold formation! — The horn sounded, though Drogan knew none could hear.
Kromm aboard the “Veldraugr” tried to manoeuvre, but the chaotic waves didn't let him do it. The ship was hurled so high that for a moment Drogan saw its silhouette against the black sky: the dragon’s head at the prow bared its teeth, as if defying the storm.
Then “Veldraugr” came crashing down. Sharp crack of its keel splitting tore through even the roar of the storm.
When dawn finally broke, the sea lay deathly calm. The water was black and smooth. Fragments of ships drifted between bodies. Of fifteen hundred souls, only a few hundred remained. Before them stretched the icy shore of an unknown continent — grey, cold, indifferent. They clung to wreckage, dragging themselves onto land. Frozen, wounded, exhausted but alive.
Drogan was among them — soaked, bloodied, but living. “Grimnirsholl” had been thrown aground and lay nearly intact upon a shoal. Kromm emerged from the water last, dragging a wounded sailor behind him. “Veldraugr” lay broken in two upon the shallows.
They gathered upon the shore — a pitiful remnant of what had once been a fleet.
Drogan turned his gaze toward the horizon. There was no sea behind them now — only impenetrable fog.
— Count the living, — he said evenly. — Bury the dead. Find shelter.
Kromm gave a faint grin, holding his dented, horned helm with one horn broken. His eyes were full of fire:
— So, we have found new lands?
Drogan did not answer. But in his gaze was something Kromm understood without words.
We did not find them. They found us.
While the Vorgars hauled salvaged supplies ashore, the scouts discovered an entrance beneath the mountain. Old dwarven mines descended into the depths, reeking of rust and coal dust. The rails were twisted, the carts overturned, and the runes upon the walls had faded with age.
Drogan entered first, bearing a torch. The vaults proved sturdy, the halls vast. It seemed that mithril had once been mined here — the metal of the morning sky, from which the dwarves forged their finest blades and armor. Yet the mines had long been abandoned. Only the echo of former life hummed through the stone corridors.
— We stay here, — Drogan said.
The Vorgars exchanged glances.
— We make our hold, — he continued. — The other ships have either sunk or been driven into other waters. If they live, they will find us. And until then…
He turned toward the entrance, where an icy wind carried the scent of snow — and something else: wildness, danger, possibility.
— …until then, we settle what the sea has granted us.
One of the younger Vorgars, who had passed only the First Depth, asked quietly:
— Why did the dwarves leave this place?
Drogan looked into the depths of the mine, where torchlight stretched and twisted shadows across the walls.
— We will learn in time, — he replied evenly. — For now, surviving until spring is what matters.
The Vorgars began claiming their new territory. Hills and forests were cleared of dangerous creatures. Old structures were repaired or dismantled to build new fortifications. The mines were reinforced and expanded, transforming into storehouses, barracks, and forges. The railway leading into the mountain was restored, and carts once more carried ore and timber.
The old harbour gradually became a port: piers and docks were rebuilt, and shipyards established for the construction of new vessels. The first wooden houses and barracks appeared near the mines. In time, roads were laid, markets formed, and trade posts emerged. The land surrounding the settlement became controlled and secured, forming a strategic hub for overseeing the continent’s resources and its trade routes.
Gradually, the settlement became a port-mine — a place where both land and sea lay under Vorgar command. Fortified mines and harbour allowed them to manage resources, secure defences, and plan further expansion inland.
Yet the surrounding lands were far from safe. Packs of gnolls and goblins roamed the hills, while bandits and exiles had taken refuge in the ruins of dwarven structures. The Vorgars would have to impose order upon their territory if this new land were to become a home rather than a trap.
Drogan convened the council of captains in the main hall.
— We remain here for a long time. Perhaps forever. This place is our new port. But first, the land must be cleared.
Kromm smirked, drawing a finger along the edge of his axe:
— I’ll lead the Vorgars. Give me a month.
— Done, — Drogan answered. — And return alive. We have too few people to lose them in skirmishes with jackals.
Kromm Skulltide led the first raid personally. He marched into the hills with a hundred warriors in light mail, armed with axes and boarding hooks. They moved as they had upon storm-tossed decks — swift, silent, assured, every motion honed by the sea.
The gnolls caught their scent and surrounded them, howling and baring their fangs. There were more than three hundred — an entire pack. They believed they faced easy prey. Strangers. Survivors of a storm. Weak.
They were mistaken.
Kromm gave no command. He stepped forward, seized the pack leader by the throat — a massive grey gnoll scarred across the muzzle — and lifted him from the ground with one hand.
The creature howled, choking, claws tearing at the air. Kromm turned to the rest of the pack and spoke a single sentence:
— Run. Or die here.
Then he tightened his grip and released the beast. The lifeless body fell at his feet. The pack faltered. A few younger gnolls lunged forward with snarls, but the Vorgars met them with axes wielded in the cold discipline of countless sea campaigns.
Within two months, the lands were subdued. But not without cost — thirty-four Vorgars did not return. They were buried according to the old tradition — in the coastal waters, with weapons and armour.
Upon the shore, they raised a stone — plain and unadorned. Upon it, in Vorgar runes, were carved the words:
“The first fell upon the Plunderous Plains. The sea remembers them.”
Thus, the Vorgars secured themselves upon the Plundered Plains — not by their own will, but by the decision of the sea, as they would say. Slowly, they began to transform the harsh land into a stronghold linking Ur-Leviar with the mainland. New caravans appeared, and the first restored ships took to the water. Forges burned once more. News and goods flowed inward; from there, detachments marched out to guard the borders or explore the distant reaches of the continent.
Yet true unity was never fully formed among them. Those who believed in the strength of the blade and the supremacy of sea-hardened discipline sought to maintain power through firm control of territory, allowing the locals no closer than necessity demanded. Others — who saw advantage in trade and peaceful coexistence — upheld their own camp, unwilling to reject the knowledge neighbouring peoples might offer. Both factions remained of one blood, yet their paths gradually diverged, like two currents within the same sea moving at different depths.
The Vorgars understood this well: time is capable of changing everything. Perhaps one day they would wish to return to Ur-Leviar — to the icy islands and the winds that had shaped them. Perhaps the new lands would grow dearer to them than their native cliffs, and they would root themselves here forever. It was possible their settlements would remain insular and warlike, or perhaps evolve into thriving centres of trade and vibrant culture exchange.
No one could say with certainty what the future held for their people. The Vorgars did not fear that uncertainty. They lived as they always had — looking forward as one gazes into a dark horizon before a storm, accepting each new day as a continuation of a path the sea had not yet finished writing.
And in that uncertain tomorrow, they saw no threat — only choice.
When blind orders lose their meaning, and losses become simply unbearable, that is when one’s own choice is born. Marak paid for it with exile, fleeing northward
There, he encountered the Vorgars — a people who made the same choice. They placed a bow in his hands. The sea did the rest
