The Isle of the Chosen
The unnamed island nation is called by those who live within it the Nest of the Gods or the Isle of the Chosen, they believe they have transcended the known world and live in a form of limbo awaiting a final trial by their Gods to prove themselves before their final sojourn to the heavens. The actual history of the island is less spiritual indeed. Some time ago there was a flotilla of sorts, an anchored city that stood as a hub of transportation to lands and realms far beyond. In a storm that may well have been the rage of the gods the flotilla was uprooted and torn from it’s roost set adrift in open ocean. The magics of such a city meant to protect it required shutting off magical portals and the likes. So those trapped upon the floating city of Narmear drifted for days then weeks, months and finally a year passed. Food reserves were desperately tapped and no help seemed to be forthcoming to the Narmearians, in a last ditch effort the mages decided that dropping all defenses and re-opening portals would allow them to escape.
The plan worked for some for others the magical backlash and turbulence of the open sea scattered their various body parts across the entire world. Even magical dismemberment seemed a more tame fate than that which awaited the majority of those left behind, though, for as the magics woven along the city crumbled and gave way to the ocean there was a natural phenomena occurring. Within the floating path of Narmear was a small volcanic island spewing forth it’s molten earth. When the two collided magics fired wildly the entire area was awash with a great flash of light and power. The very collision and it’s aftermath formed an island from the floating city and the previously uncharted volcanic island. There were very few survivors scattered across the large island and an effect of the magical catastrophe (conveniently) was a sort of shared amnesia. Most large groups had forgotten all of their time adrift and much of their lives before that, not a one remembered Narmear. In the time of panic some men and women of the cloth began spinning yarns of divine intervention and the Gods mercy, those who remembered less clung to these stories vehemently their minds allowing them to forget their pains in favor of simply being labeled the “chosen of the Gods.”
As time passed small groups grew and found more livable areas beginning their own histories from scratch. Tribes began growing and settling dutifully, and while some groups seemed to decline into savagery one group chose to build and grow a civilization. This group sought leaders and while they were comprised of believers from all good and neutral faiths they sought a more human leader, a royal blood something to bind them as a society. So a man was approached, a godlike figure intelligent and strong, he was chosen by all the prophets and seers to be a fit leader and so he was given the title of Patriarch and given a harem with which to populate a varied royal blood line. This was the founding of the ruling family.