Flynn Flamm's Backstory

If there's a shining beacon of civilization anywhere in the world, it's Westlay, and the people of Westlay know it. To be sure, the massive Yuan-Ti empire of Serpenti rivals them in size and power, but they're hardly civilized what with sacrificing their people to dark demons and all.

Westlay is a hundred miles of peace and justice, surrounded by a sea of chaos and destruction. One step outside its mighty walls, the world is swimming in dragons and werewolves. Within, its mighty eagles patrol constantly, and even its deep forests are safe. In Westlay alone, in all of Semferia, are the roads safe and the laws just. Even the enchanted forests of the Ivani are not so well protected--though the Westlayans are barely aware of what goes on west the Stonetower Mountains, and wouldn't compare themselves to the Forgotten People anyway. The peace of Westlay has stood firm for twelve generations, even through the war of the Ten Kings. No one else can say that!

Her people are busy humans and half-elves, proud, fierce, and lovers of life. They love music, competition, and innovation. Mount Korzhin is home to a race of giant eagles, the Goldbacks. They count themselves proud citizens. The annual Westlayan athletic games include an entire division of airborne sports the Goldbacks alone can enter, and they take great pride in besting their earthbound contrymen.

On the throne, in the capital city of Old Westlay, sits King Korethian Kelavin III, who has reigned for thirty-two years. At his side, chief judge and advisor Kerastrix, Who Remembers--an ancient gold dragon who has been guardian and protector of justice since the founding of Westlay. The many towers and walls of the mighty keep oversee the busy city of Old Westlay, home to much of Westlays military might, her finest schools, and an assortment of world-famous street musicians and atheletes.

Twenty miles southwest of Old Westlay stands White Fields. White Fields is larger, busier, and wealthier than Old Westlay. What it lacks in cultural and political clout it makes up for in economics. The wheatfields and orchards of White Fields could feed all of Westlay three times over; her fine tradesmen and practical magicians produce sturdy items valued throughout Semferia. Perhaps the richest people in all of Semferia are the noble family of the Flamms, on the White Fields throne.

As the most powerful noble families in all of Westlay, there is (of course) a rivalry between the Flamms and the Kelavins. But it takes the form of swimming competitions and displays of wealth; loyalty in Westlay is absolute. The Kelavins generally best the Flamms in fencing and magic, while the Flamms are generally more successful at driving their Kelavin rivals out of business in, say, the magic carpet industry. Nonetheless, the crown remains securely with King Korethian.

The life of a Westleyan noble is strenuous to say the least. Beginning at three years of age, a young lord or lady trains for ten hours a day. By age twelve, he is expected to have mastered Draconic, Auran, and Sylvan, together with swordplay, etiquette, geometry, history, the local and national laws, and eagle-back riding. Years of economics, magic, agriculture, philosophy, music (harp and horn are both mandatory), literature, and diplomacy await. By the time a lad assumes the throne, long twelve hour days of physical and mental labor are routine. This is a good thing, as the young king continues the habit of study and hard work through public speaking, diplomacy, lawmaking, warmaking, and physically helping his citizens. No one works harder to serve the people better than the nobles of Westlay.

It is the habit of the kings of Westlay to marry late in life, and retire from the throne as soon as an eligible prince comes of age. It is hardly a foregone conclusion that the eldest son will inherit the throne, though it is generally seen as his for the taking. All of the princes, and many in the royal family, train hard for the task, and the most promising, devoted, and wise is chosen. Sometimes it is a newphew or grandson, but more commonly it is one of the princes, and usually the eldest. On the young man's twenty-fifth birthday, the king retires from the throne and assumes the role of chief advisor, with no more power than is delegated to him by his son. For the first year, the old king remains as busy in the affairs of the court as ever, but eventually his power wanes, until finally he retires from regular appearance in the court at all, and lives his final days as a well-beloved friend of the people.

Flynn's father Boyent is the third of the line of Flamms on the White Fields throne, and is by all accounts a good king. Boyent succeded his grandfather's reign of fifty-five years--a reign that was a little long for Westlayan comfort, but the people feel Boyant was a fine choice over the mediocre princes of the previous generation. After reigning thirty-two years, Boyent is now ripe for retirement himself.

But that life was not for Flynn.

Maintaining goodness and justice among power-hungry nobles, to say nothing of running a city and supporting a kingdom, is a strenuous and difficult life. Flynn's training hardly stood him in good stead to take it up. His generosity and kindness were never in doubt, nor his wisdom, nor even really his capability and talent. It seemed obvious he could become a fine swordsman, but somehow swordplay was always neglected for swimming, draconic for drama, the fine intricacies of classical music for energetic and loud progressions of throbbing chords. Flynn's palate leaned more toward the peasant's meat pies than the royalty's seared quail, and his high etiquette suffered while his rapport with the common folk grew. It seemed he would be lucky to even pass his final tests and qualify for the throne; he was hardly anyone's first choice.

This didn't bother Flynn a bit. His mother Ingo worried a little, but Boyent liked Flynn as he was. Indeed, Boyent was fond of camping with Flynn when he could get away from the throne--the best vacations which could pack weeks of rest into days were always Flynn's doing. If Boyent didn't understand Flynn's lowbrow tastes well, he could certainly enjoy them.

Boyent's younger son, Abel, was more ambitious. He threw himself into his studies with a zeal that commanded respect. No subject escaped his amitious attention, and he pleased all of his tutors. Witty, aristocratic, diplomatic, his exacting draconic pronunciations were matched only by his ready knowledge of the doings of the third cousins of the Jetsam family. He was charming to a fault. At any given time, it always seemed nine of any ten nobles owed him a favor. His knowledge of the law was perfect, if his fervor for reforming it was lacking. If he had any drawback, it was that his ambition was selfish; he lacked his older brother's sincerity and generosity. Most of the court loved him dearly and did not know this, but Boyent was not fooled.

Boyent worried about the fate of White Fields under either Flynn or Abel, but worried about Abel more. Flynn's heart was good, and he was competent to manage the throne--if only he would persevere in his studies! The danger for a decadent reign was ever-present. Yet the greater danger lay in Abel's selfish ambition. Under Abel, Boyent worried for the preservation of justice--yet Flynn was no safeguard, as he seemed unlikely to stand up to the more corrupt families.

As Flynn's twenty-fifth birthday approached in May, Boyent made him a unique offer. Boyent offered Flynn the throne, offering even to undertake the hardest of the administrative duties for the first few years, but Flynn would have to study hard to make up for lost time. At the end of ten years, if Flynn had not grown to love the work, Flynn should pass the throne on to another candidate (a few nephews in the family seemed promising, but were far too young.) Boyent knew Flynn wasn't really cut out for a king's life, but pleaded with his son at length for what he felt was the good of the city.

In the days ahead, Flynn sought the advice of friends about the offer. His usual friends, though--farmers and chefs--had little appreciation for the life of the court, or what was at stake. Setting foot uncomfortably in noblemans' parties, he began to seek the advice of his social peers. A bit naive in this setting, he apparently chose the wrong confidants.

In the days leading up to his birthday, strange rumors began to grow. Flynn heard he was seen in places he knew he hadn't been. He was reported to have associated with the most decadant of the nobles, seeking their advice on how to hold the throne without doing the work. His friend the chief chef swore he had seen him preparing meals and inspecting the ingredients used for royal feasts. Late one night, a shadowy figure appeared at his door with an unasked-for delivery--a bright red vial
containing what looked like water.

The next day, an attempt was made on the life of the king. His food was poisoned, and Flynn saw immediately that he would be the only suspect. Flynn fled before he could be arrested and executed. Barely able to breathe, Boyent set on Flynn a sentence of exile, and forbade him return to his homeland on pain of death.

Boyent barely recovered, and remains on the throne. Yet what news Flynn has heard from home holds him still an exile. The diplomatic position enjoyed by the Kingsmen overrides his exile, and he may visit home on official business--but he dare not stay a day late.

Truth be told, Flynn is hardly bitter about the turn of affairs, and has found life on the road to be to his liking. If he misses his father and the comforts of home and wealth, the wonders of the world seem to make up for it.