Anphillia is perhaps one of the more unique locations in faerun, located in the sea of swords - almost due west of the city of Neverwinter itself. As such, neverwinter serves as it's main trade partner - with the occasional competition from Luskan. Nothing, it could be said is unusual about that - many an island is located off of the sword coast. However, anphillia is soaked in blood, littered with bones and the site of a seemingly neverending war.
The story began several hundred years ago, in the most unlikliest place, aboard a slave ship bound for Luskan. The slavers were cruel folk, vicious and sadistic - their leader took the name of Olaf Axfell and he was not there out of need for money, or out of being forced but rather because he loved doing his job. He was one of the most notorious slave traders as well as sea captains of his time, renowned in Luskan for his brutality and the mixture of fear and discipline he instilled in both his crewmen and his cargo.
Now, being one of the most renowned slave traders - it was most upsetting to him when he found a slave that he couldnt break, a slave that gave the others hope. A despicable insect, the most wretched creature he could hope to have obtained. A humble paladin. Being such as he was, competetive and stubborn to the highest degree, the sensible option of simply killing the paladin simply never occured to him. Instead the paladin was subjected to torture, almost continuous torture - the paladin did not sleep, did not eat and did not drink. Yet every day he would, between his involuntary screams, let loose a small prayer to his god and a small glimmer of hope would sparkle throughout the eyes of the captives.
Hope is a strange thing, it gives weak men strength, starving men food, purposeless men purpose and on that ship it instilled fear amongst the slavers. The glimmer in the captives eyes became a glow and whispers of plots became shouts. The paladin would not succumb and Olaf would not simply put an end to it. This would have gone on, perhaps, until the ship had reached Luskan at least, but it had no such luck. A ferocious storm, seemingly from nowhere hit the ship one night. Olaf was present and attending to the paladin at this point. As the shouts from deck erupted and the sound of crushing timber was heard, the paladin, with his last strength cracked a small smile and whispered something. Enraged by his words, whatever they were, Olaf finally snapped and drove a branding pole straight through the paladins chest before rushing out unto the deck. Some say that the paladin whispered prayer and that the storm was a divine act, but that is simply hear-say.
What he saw next was absolute chaos, men lay crushed under fallen rigging - some slaves, some slavers. It was impossible to tell who was who in the fiersome weather. The storm still raged, men were thrown overboard and in amongst it all, the slaves were fighting - enraged, beating slavers with theirs fists, throwing themselves at their captors in a desperate plea for escape. Olafs men fought back, cutting them down with swords and axes in there dozens, but they could not keep the combined might of all the slaves back - one cannot cut forever. Olaf himself grabbed a piece of the splintered deck and struck out like a man possessed at anyone who approached him, be they friend or foe. Shouting, he was heard even over the raging storm.
"The Paladin is dead, you are finished, he is dead - I will kill every last one of you if I have too!"
The fury in his eyes caused some to stop in their tracks, but as his words were spoken, they instilled a greater rage than before. He had killed their paladin, their friend - their saviour. All eyes were on him now and the slaves advanced, despite Olafs shouts and mighty swings of his quickly fashioned weapon.
As the storm subsided, the ship was left in a wreck - stained red with blood and littered with corpses of slavers and slaves alike - those that had not been washed overboard at least. Olaf had retreated to his cabin, with 4 dozen of the surviving slavers they held there easily - the bloodlust had faded from the slaves now and they had claimed the lower decks as their own.
Things seemed to calm, but a general sense of unease rippled throughout everyone on the vessel. There was no rigging left, no way to sail anywhere - and noone willling to brave the deck to fashion anything to move them. They were at the mercy of the ocean.
They drifted for less than a day before anyone realised that food was an issue, how would they eat? What would they drink? - This problem was solved, it seemed some people had taken up residence within the ships hold and had managed to secure much of the food and grain - however, both slavers and slaves had hidden here during the chaotic events of the night before, neither had any interest to fight and an uneasy truce grew between them and both the slaves and Olafs men - one they couldnt paticularly deny, since they would be without food otherwise.
The ship washed around in the unforgiving currents of the sea of swords, going nowhere, or at least it seemed - the sharp crash of wood splintering and the large mass of rocks that crushed into the ship came as a suprise to everyone - they had hit land.
Immediately, Olaf and his remaining slavers spilled unto the island, bloody footsteps of the slaughter that seemed so long ago marking there arrival in the sand - without so much as a glance back at the ship they dissapeared into the woods, cutting a bloody path through anything that stood in their way. They were weary and did not want to try their chances against the slaves, at least for the moment.
Next to come where the slaves, carrying the strangely undecayed body of the paladin that had given them hope, that had given them their freedom. Not one person knew his name, but they carried him like the most fragile, precious thing they had ever possessed. They moved again into the forest - the body scaring off wolves, giant bears and strange creatures as if it were enchanted, the slaves passed through without incident. They buried the paladin in a clearing when they had the chance - a former scholar simply placed one word upon the headstone. "Cleaven" he explained that it meant saviour in a forgotten tongue, the slaves hero finally had a name.
Finally, the few that had hidden emerged - their leader, by general consensus, was Erik Ranzington a sensible, down to earth son of a farmer. The forest did not look at all safe to him, so the people that followed him set about making a settlement on the shore and by his orders started repairs upon the ship that had brought them here.
A year passed before the village of Ranzington, named in honour of there leader had finished repairs on the ship - they had heard no word of the people that had ventured into the forest and they presumed them dead. However they found the island, which they called Anphillia, to be a kind mistress - if one was carefull you could obtain vast quantities of precious minerals and metals that were worth a fortune back home. It was for this reason they held off returning to the mainland, they would make their fortunes here.
The people of cleaven were the first to make contact with the village - the years and the island had changed the slaves that the Ranzington people had once known, yet the light and strong sense of morales that the paladin had instilled in each and every one of them remained. They brought trade to the small village of Ranzington and were welcomed with open arms. Only ten-day later, the first of the Axfell clan made contact with Ranzington - they too brought trade but they also brought the problem of conflict with the cleavens.
Upon learning of their survival Olaf and his men killed several of the former slaves within Ranzington, the bloodlust and ferocity of the attack sending chilling echoes of what had occured upon the slave ship all that time ago across the entire island. The conflict escalated - some of the neutral Ranzington people where killed, by both sides. Erik Ranzington frowned upon this, as any leader would - but in his wisdom he did not escalate the conflict further, rather he tried to resolve it.
Cleaven at this time was ruled by a council, Axfell still remained in the iron grip of Olaf - not even the Cleavens would admit any wrongdoing in their actions, perhaps something which would have been different had the paladin survived. Erik was able, with all his cunning and persuasion, to sit both sides around the same table - however even he could not persuade anyone to admit fault or to stop the pointless conflict. The Axfell in their rage and fury would not back down and the Cleavens, with their righteous mentality swore to hunt them till the end of their days. Needless to say, the conflict continued.
Years passed, tales of slaughter, backstabbing and open combat played out upon the landscape of anphillia were common place. Both Axfell and Cleaven grew in strength, the only place they would simply not harm each other was in Ranzingtons make-shift wooden walls. This was only due to Lord Ranzington's decree and the several well armed, well trained guards which now lined Ranzingtons streets. As the ship, which had brought them here filled up with precious metals - it sailed back to the mainland and made port in neverwinter. It sold it's cargo as well as the story of anphillia to eager ears. Of course, when it returned it was loaded with many, many types of people. Those that lusted for power, war, fame, fortune or those that simply sympathised with the warring factions.
To this day, Axfell and Cleaven still fight each other across the landscape of anphillia - riches, untold treasures, secrets and artefacts lay undiscovered beneath the bloody ground. Neither side has had the power or tact to overcome the other... but perhaps you can change that.
- Thonil
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Subject: Anphillia, A History. 
Wed Apr 29, 2009 1:11 am