A chronicle of Breegarra's court, written from a world that was actually played.
Three people crossed out of a war that was not theirs and came ashore in the Exiled Lands: Breegarra, a captain of the line; Liana, her shield; and Luba, who kept them human. This is the record of what they built here, and the story told from inside it.
Luba tells it as an old woman, late in Breegarra’s life, to a stranger newly arrived from the world they left — Breegarra’s own sibling, who spent a life searching and finally slipped through.
A live chronicle of a Conan Exiles server. Everything that happens in the world is read from the world itself — who was taken, who was named, who fell, who ate at whose table — and the story is written on those bones. The facts cannot be bent to suit a scene.
Their own side’s war-sorcerers were losing, and opened something to win. Breegarra was a captain of the line. She argued against it and was overruled, and it was her company that held the ground while it was done. Liana stood at her shoulder, where she always stood. Luba was with them because Breegarra would not leave her behind the line, among the sorcerers.
Nobody chose what happened next. The three were collateral to a working that was not theirs, and they came ashore here with a lifetime of soldiering and whatever was on them at that hour. Everything since — the tower, the outposts, the benches, the beds, the walls — they gathered and built in the ordinary way, in a country that had never heard of them.
What they do not know is the shape of the whole story. Whether others were thrown here as they were. Whether others were thrown somewhere else entirely. Whether the war was won or lost, and what became of home. It is why the inn stands where new souls wash up, and why every stranger who comes through the gate is asked, gently, where they are from.
Her sorcery came afterwards, and it came from the cost. Breegarra walked the whole of the sorcerous road in this world, deliberately and without joy, the way a soldier studies the weapon that killed her friends — to understand what had been done to them, and to learn whether it could be undone. She is not a mage. She is a commander who fights at the front, and she reaches for that knowledge only when there is nothing else left, and hates the hand that reaches.
What she wants is word of home, and then a way back, on her own terms. What she has built instead, while waiting, is a household.