Kingdom of Valgaard

Amidst the frozen peaks of the Godgraves, in the treacherous heights where few dare venture, the howling wind blows through the ruined halls of a shattered kingdom. Hail-blasted stonework bears the cracks of centuries of neglect. Once mighty statues now fight to hold their heads above the snow, and lament the steady erosion that assails their carved visages year after year. Within, forges that, in days gone by, roared with flame and seared the air cradle nought but ice. This is all that remains of the Kingdom of Valgaard.

Many years ago, this was a land of iron and fire and smoke. An indomitable clan of Fire Giants toiled within their mountainous kingdom, arduously striving toward greater fame and greater fortune. The titans of Valgaard were feared and hated, but all who were wise refrained from voicing their criticisms. Nobody wanted to provoke the ironclad Giants' ire, lest their own homelands be razed by an army of colossal warriors. Similarly, none wished to be excluded from trade with Valgaard. Even amongst Fire Giants, the smiths of the Kingdom were exceptional. Their steel never tarnished, their blades never grew dull, and their armour never faltered. Now, this grand reputation has been relegated to the annals of history.

The downfall of the Kingdom of Valgaard was a slow and painful decline. No outside force could hope to defeat the Fire Giants, yet many had tried: Dragons, Fiends, other Giants. All were repelled. Instead, the nation's demise came from within. Following a king's untimely death, a succession crisis threw the land into disarray, as several different factions arose with their own candidates for successor. The civil war that followed was brief, but its consequences would never relent. Every following monarch would be labelled illegitimate, and a plot would unfurl to dethrone the supposed pretender. Four factions became five, and five factions became six, until there were over a dozen different parties all vying to install their favoured puppet. Amongst the constant skirmishing and treachery, Valgaard's industry collapsed. Economic prosperity, stable government, and national pride all became a relic of the past.

For the common castes, there was little left in Valgaard. Violence was rampant and food became scarce. As the frost thawed in Spring, an exodus began. Giants abandoned Valgaard in droves, searching for greener pastures and calmer seas, both of which were abundant outside of their failing homeland. Eventually, the constant strife came to an end, and an undisputed monarch clambered atop a blood-stained throne. The last King of Valgaard looked out across an empty hall, within an empty palace, within an empty kingdom. Finally, he could call himself ruler of nothing. Some say his bones still sit atop that frigid throne as the snowdrifts rise up to his knees. He wears no crown and holds no sceptre, for both were taken by thieves centuries ago, and he inspires no legacy for nobody recalls his name.