Sylva
Origins of Sylva
A myriad annum had passed since the long lost druidic tribes had settled on the [[Crescent Bay]], known at the time for its fertile grounds and pristine coasts, lush emerald fields and towering mountains that split the clouds. It was an ideal location to begin anew amidst being run out of every town that had fallen into the alure of an ever growing industrial period. The fragmented tribes had at first kept to themselves, taking care of their own the best they could, however this proved more difficult as industrialist zealots sought out the land. The tribes had endured the worst of treatment from these invaders.
The zealots carved through sacred groves, defiled rivers with blackened sludge, and choked the air with smoke. Crops withered, waters turned to poison, and the young and frail perished in droves. When the land refused to yield, the invaders turned to fire. The once-lush fields became an ocean of flame, roaring and crackling for what felt like an eternity, embers dancing like dying spirits against a blood-red sky. Those who did not fall to blade, illness, or starvation met a fate far worse. Shackled and broken, the surviving druids were forced into servitude—not as mere laborers, but as living fuel. Bound by cruel sorcery, their bodies forced to no longer be that of their own, reshaped into tireless beasts—cogs in the insatiable machinery of progress.
Those who remained huddled together beneath the ashen sky, voices raw from weeping, hands clasped in desperate prayer to Sylvanus. They begged for salvation, for the earth to rise in defiance, for the winds to howl in fury against their tormentors. But whether their cries were met with divine silence or the will of an unseen mercy, history does not say.
Industry Established
The founding of the Cobalt Coast Settlement was long delayed, as centuries of poisoned earth had to be painstakingly restored. Yet, once the land was reborn, the settlement flourished with astonishing speed. Nestled against the sea, it became a thriving trade hub, its harbors teeming with vessels laden with goods from every corner of the known world. Trade routes branched out like veins across the continent, pulsing with commerce and progress, all leading to what is now Sylva—the beating heart of an ever-evolving civilization.
The earliest surviving records, estimated to date back to 6500 P.S. (Pre-Sylva), consist mainly of trade ledgers and written agreements with neighboring settlements, documenting the alliances that paved the way for vast networks of commerce. Before long, the Cobalt Coast Settlement had become a force to be reckoned with, its wealth and influence growing with each passing year.
Yet, prosperity breeds envy. While nearby settlements flourished alongside this new epicenter of trade, distant powers watched with wary eyes. To them, the settlement was not just an economic marvel—it was an encroaching shadow, a threat to the balance of power that had long governed the land.
Despite its wealth and technological prowess, the Cobalt Coast Settlement had little in the way of military strength. Its power had always rested on diplomacy—mutual trust, shared prosperity, and the belief that commerce could weave bonds stronger than mithril. But against a continent plagued by greed and envy, trust was a fragile shield. War, should it come, would be swift and merciless. And it was a risk the settlement was not willing to take.
Instead, they turned to patience. The settlement sealed itself off from the world, shutting down trade routes and severing the lifelines of continental commerce. No ships sailed in; no transport rolled out. Their grand markets fell silent. Within their borders, industry surged into overdrive. Generations of enslaved druids, already battered and broken, were pushed beyond their limits—forced to pour the last remnants of their strength into the city’s relentless march toward the future. When their bodies failed, clerics intervened—not to heal, but to keep them teetering at the edge of life, just functional enough to serve. The transformation had begun. The first stone in the foundation of Sylva had been laid, not with mortar, but with blood and sacrifice.
Founding of Sylva
Through centuries of bloodshed, untold sacrifices, and relentless ambition, the Cobalt Coast Settlement had forged its solution—not from peace, but from steel and fire. Its triumph was not one of diplomacy, nor of compromise, but of endurance. And when the final rivet was driven into place, the ruling elite deemed the old name insufficient. Thus, as the stories go, the settlement was reborn as Sylva.
It was a bitter irony. The enslaved druids had prayed ceaselessly to Sylvanus for salvation, their voices drowned beneath the relentless hiss of steam and the grinding roar of machinery. But no god answered. Instead, the walls of Sylva rose—gargantuan barriers of tempered steel, bolted and welded into an unbreakable fortress. Their sheer mass dwarfed the mountains that once marked the horizon, now little more than shadows beneath the cold gleam of iron. No longer did the land shape its people; now, the people shaped the land.
By the year 6000 P.S., Sylva stood as an unchallenged titan of industry, its skyline a maze of towering smokestacks and glimmering spires. Whether this date is truth or legend, lost to time, matters little. What remains undeniable is the lesson it carved into history—paranoia never sleeps. One wall was not enough. If even the slimmest chance of a breach existed, it could spell ruin. And so, the rulers of Sylva decreed that a second ring must rise—thicker, higher, stronger. A monument to progress. A testament to fear.
As time passed, Sylva’s ability to expand its walls grew exponentially. Each new ring was larger, more advanced, and more imposing than the last. The second wall was erected in 5875 P.S., followed by a third, then a fourth, until the city was encased in nine concentric monolithic barriers of iron and industry. What had once been a coastal settlement had become a world unto itself, an unstoppable machine consuming everything in its path. Neighboring settlements were given little choice—assimilate, relocate, or be erased.
With every expansion, the city’s momentum surged forward, and those at the bottom were pushed further outward. The slave class—once woven into the very foundation of Sylva’s rise—found themselves exiled to the city’s farthest reaches. By the time the ninth and final ring was completed in 3072 P.S., the druids were no longer needed. Their purpose had been served, their toil exhausted. And then, they were gone.
No one knows for certain what became of them. Some say they were slaughtered, purged in secret to ensure they would never rise against their oppressors. Others whisper that they were cast out beyond the walls, left to fend for themselves. A handful of theories even claim they were granted citizenship—a hollow gesture, forcing them to remain within the ninth ring as second-class denizens, bound by the city that once enslaved them.
The Down Feather
Once a floating barge, The Down Feather is now a beloved canal-side hotspot in Limbus, drawing patrons from sectors 1 through 4. The building still hints at its nautical past - curved walls, porthole windows, and a gently sloping floor - but has been transformed into a cozy, eclectic club. Feathered drapes, mismatched furniture, and floating lanterns create a laid-back, welcoming atmosphere.
The Down Feather is famous for its open mic nights, impromptu dance parties, and signature cocktails inspired by local spices and canal life. Locals gather here to share stories, celebrate, and unwind after long days. The crowd is a lively mix of dockworkers, artists, traders, and travelers, all watched over by a vigilant but friendly Seraph bouncer who ensures the club remains a safe and spirited haven for all.
Limbus - The First Ring
The threshold of Sylva - where the city’s pulse first quickens, and every arrival finds a place to belong or begin anew.
Overview
Limbus, the largest of Sylva’s rings, is a living testament to adaptation and community. Its eight sectors each hum with their own rhythm, but together form a tapestry of resilience and welcome. Far from decrepit, Limbus is a place where resourcefulness is celebrated, and neighbors are kin by necessity and choice. Here, the city’s outer edge is not a margin, but a mosaic - where tradition, innovation, and the spirit of mutual aid thrive.
Aurora Pier
Ships of Aurora Pier
Many vessels that dock at Aurora Pier bear names and designs influenced by Galapan, the native tongue of neighboring Galapos Island. This tradition honors a long history of trade and collaboration between the island and Sylva. Crews are a vibrant mix of Galapas islanders, Clank (mechanical folk), Humans, Katari (feline), and Ribbet (amphibian), each bringing their own customs and skills to the docks.
Mercator (Merchant Ships / Bayrunners)
Large, sleek vessels - typically 100-130 feet long - built for both speed and capacity. Their hulls are a patchwork of polished woods and recycled metals, painted in deep blues and copper with Galapan script along the sides. Colorful banners and solar sails ripple above, while light strips trace the rails. Crews are a lively mix of Galapas, Clank, Human, Katari, and Ribbet, working together as traders, engineers, deckhands, and cooks. The Mercator is the backbone of trade, always bustling with goods and gossip.