📻 BBN Transmission Log
Date: 1900 BC - 300 BC
Location: Continent of Novus, Terranova
Civilization: The Western Kingdom and Eastern Empire
Event Type: Political/Cultural/Natural
Story Arc: The Great Schism
📡 Chapter Navigation
⬅️ Previous: The Rise of Two Powers
➡️ Next: [Coming Soon (04.09.2025) - Subscribe for Updates]
📚 Series Hub: Complete chapter list and series info
Previously: The Rise of Two Powers
By 2500 BC, the scattered settlements of Novus began consolidating into larger political entities. In the western jungles along the River Vitalis, communities united peacefully under Queen Ashara the Wise, forming the Western Kingdom in 2100 BC—a realm built on cooperation, knowledge, and harmony with nature. The kingdom wore a living crown of vines, symbolizing growth and nurture.
In the harsh eastern lands beyond the River Ferronis, fragmentation initially prevailed, with seventeen independent nations competing for scarce resources. This changed when Magnus the Ruthless of Ferrox embarked on a campaign of conquest through bribes, extortion, and war, ultimately forging the Eastern Empire in 2005 BC. His iron crown symbolized absolute authority and pragmatic power.
By 2000 BC, only these two great powers remained on Novus. Despite their opposing philosophies—the Kingdom's collaborative wisdom versus the Empire's efficient might—both civilizations simultaneously entered the Bronze Age in 1950 BC, ushering in an era of technological revolution that would define the centuries to come...
1900 BC - The Star That Changed Everything
In the late summer of 1900 BC, astronomers of both the Western Kingdom and Eastern Empire observed an extraordinary phenomenon. A new star blazed forth in the northern sky, outshining even the brightest celestial bodies save for the sun and moon. For thirty days and thirty nights, this cosmic visitor dominated the heavens, its light so intense that shadows were cast at midnight, and the learned scholars of both nations scrambled to document its appearance.
In the Western Kingdom, Queen Ashara's great-granddaughter, Queen Lyralei the Contemplative, convened the Circle of Sky Watchers at Verdania's highest observatory tower. The kingdom's astronomers, working alongside their priest-scholars, interpreted the star as a blessing from the cosmos—a sign that knowledge and enlightenment would soon flourish across Terranova. They carefully recorded its position, brightness, and the subtle changes in its coloration on specially prepared bark scrolls, adding these observations to the growing collection in the Great Library.
The Eastern Empire's response proved dramatically different. The third Emperor, Maximus the Absolute—grandson of Magnus the Ruthless—stood atop the Iron Citadel as the star blazed overhead. His advisors whispered conflicting interpretations: some claimed it heralded a new age of imperial dominance, others warned of divine displeasure, and still others suggested it was merely a natural phenomenon worthy of study but not veneration. The cacophony of voices, the uncertainty, the potential for religious schism—all of this represented everything Maximus despised about the old world his grandfather had conquered.
On the thirty-first night, the star vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving only ordinary darkness in its wake. While the Western Kingdom's scholars continued their discussions and debates, carefully comparing observations and seeking meaning through collective wisdom, Emperor Maximus made a decision that would reshape the Empire for generations to come.
1895 BC - The Declaration of Divine Mandate
Five years had passed since the celestial event, but its implications continued to ripple through both civilizations. Emperor Maximus, having consolidated his interpretation of the star's meaning through a combination of persuasion, intimidation, and the strategic elimination of dissenting voices, stood before the assembled masses in the Grand Amphitheater of Ferrox to make his historic proclamation.
"The star that graced our skies was no random celestial wandering," he declared, his voice carrying across the thousands gathered below. "It was a divine acknowledgment of the truth that has always existed—that the Emperor is not merely a man who rules, but the living conduit between the mortal realm and the cosmic order. Through my bloodline flows the essence of divinity itself."
The Declaration of Divine Mandate, as it came to be known, fundamentally restructured imperial society. All existing religions were not merely discouraged but formally outlawed. Temples to local deities were either destroyed or converted into shrines to the Emperor. Scientific gatherings that might question the divine nature of imperial rule were banned under penalty of death. Even philosophical schools that had existed since before the Empire's formation were forced to either incorporate emperor-worship into their teachings or face dissolution.
The machinery of this religious revolution was as efficient as everything else the Empire touched. Within months, the Imperial Orthodoxy had been established, complete with standardized prayers, ritual observances tied to the Emperor's life events, and a hierarchy of priest-administrators who served dual roles as spiritual guides and imperial census-takers. Bronze medallions bearing the Emperor's profile became mandatory religious items—every household was required to display one prominently, and citizens were expected to touch it while reciting morning devotions.
In the Western Kingdom, news of this religious consolidation was met with a mixture of horror and pity. Queen Lyralei convened an emergency council, where the kingdom's diverse spiritual leaders—jungle shamans, river priests, ancestor-venerators, and secular philosophers—discussed how to respond to this theological totalitarianism. The conclusion was unanimous: the Western Kingdom would maintain its tradition of spiritual diversity, even strengthening protections for religious minorities and free-thinking scholars. This decision, while morally satisfying to the kingdom's leadership, would have consequences they could not foresee.
1850 BC - The Heretic Purges
The transformation of the Empire into a theocratic state was neither smooth nor bloodless. Pockets of resistance emerged, particularly in the formerly independent nations that had maintained strong local religious traditions. The mountain people of former Zenithar, who had worshipped the spirits of ore and flame for countless generations, refused to abandon their forge-prayers. The river folk of old Kharvana continued their water rituals in secret, believing that the Ferronis itself was divine and could not be subordinated to any mortal ruler.
Emperor Maximus responded with characteristic imperial efficiency. The Heretic Purges of 1850 BC began with a simple decree: any citizen who failed to perform the daily emperor-devotions would lose their water ration for a week. For repeat offenders, the punishment escalated to confiscation of property. For those who actively preached against the Imperial Orthodoxy, only death awaited.
The Purges created an unexpected consequence—a steady stream of religious refugees fleeing westward. These refugees brought with them not only their suppressed beliefs but also valuable knowledge: eastern metallurgy techniques, engineering principles, and perhaps most importantly, detailed intelligence about the Empire's internal structure. The Western Kingdom, true to its principles of openness and diversity, welcomed these refugees, establishing the Settlement of Sanctuary along its eastern border where the displaced could rebuild their lives.
This humanitarian gesture was interpreted by the Empire as a deliberate provocation. Imperial propaganda began depicting the Western Kingdom as a haven for heretics and traitors, a corrupting influence that threatened the cosmic order itself. The stage was being set for a conflict that would transcend mere territorial or economic disputes—this would be a war of fundamental worldviews.
1700 BC - The Border Incidents Begin
By 1700 BC, the ideological divide between the two powers had manifested in increasingly frequent border skirmishes. What started as isolated incidents—imperial patrols pursuing refugees into kingdom territory, kingdom traders refusing to acknowledge imperial religious authority—escalated into a constant state of low-intensity conflict.
The nature of these conflicts reflected the character of each civilization. Imperial forces operated with mechanical precision, their bronze-armored legions moving in perfect formation, each soldier carrying identical equipment blessed by the priest-administrators. They established fortified positions along the border, each one a small replica of imperial order: standardized layouts, mandatory prayer times marked by bronze bells, and prominent displays of the Emperor's image.
The Western Kingdom's response was more fluid, more adaptive. Their forces emerged from the jungle like the morning mist, struck with poisoned darts and arrows, then vanished back into the green depths. They used their knowledge of the terrain—every hidden path, every seasonal flood pattern, every medicinal or toxic plant—to maximum advantage. Where the Empire brought order, the Kingdom brought chaos; where the Empire imposed uniformity, the Kingdom celebrated unpredictability.
These border incidents rarely resulted in significant casualties, but they maintained a constant tension that prevented meaningful trade or diplomatic exchange. The annual Diplomatic Summits, which had continued even after the Empire's formation, finally ceased in 1698 BC when the Kingdom's envoys refused to participate in the mandatory emperor-veneration ceremony that had been added to the opening protocols.
1500 BC - The Long War Begins
Two centuries of mounting tension finally erupted into open warfare in 1500 BC. The catalyst was seemingly minor—an imperial tax collector was killed while attempting to confiscate a bronze medallion from a Western Kingdom trader who had wandered into disputed territory. But this incident proved to be the spark that ignited preparations on both sides.
What followed would be known to history as the Long War, though it was less a single conflict than a series of campaigns, truces, and renewed hostilities that would define the relationship between the two powers for the next millennium. The war was fought not just with bronze weapons and military strategy, but with competing ideologies and irreconcilable worldviews.
The Empire's approach to the war reflected its religious transformation. Each campaign was preceded by elaborate ceremonies where the Emperor—by now Aurelius the Devout, great-great-grandson of Maximus—would commune with the cosmic forces and declare divine sanction for military action. Soldiers were told they were not merely fighting for territory but for the very order of the universe. Death in battle guaranteed immediate ascension to the celestial realm where they would serve in the Emperor's eternal guard.
The Western Kingdom, under Queen Verdania the Defender, approached the conflict as a matter of survival—not just physical but philosophical. They fought to preserve the right to think freely, to worship as one chose, to pursue knowledge without ideological constraints. Their military ceremonies involved blessings from dozens of different spiritual traditions, each adding their own protections and wisdom to the kingdom's defenders.
The geography of Novus itself shaped the conflict. The Empire's superiority in open-field battles meant they dominated the central plains, but their heavy bronze armor and rigid formations proved disastrous in the jungle warfare of the west. Conversely, the Kingdom's guerrilla tactics were devastatingly effective in their home terrain but could not contest imperial control of the strategic river crossings and mountain passes.
1300 BC - The Scorched Centuries
By 1300 BC, two centuries of intermittent warfare had transformed the central territories of Novus into a devastated no-man's-land. The once-fertile Centrum Plains, which had supported nomadic tribes and served as a continental crossroads, became known as the Scorched Lands—a monument to the destructive capacity of prolonged conflict.
Both civilizations had evolved in response to the constant warfare. The Empire developed new military technologies: improved bronze alloys that could pierce Kingdom armor, siege engines capable of clearing jungle fortifications, and most innovatively, portable temples that could be assembled at the front lines to maintain troop morale through constant religious reinforcement.
The Western Kingdom responded with innovations of their own, though these tended toward the biological rather than mechanical. They cultivated new species of rapidly growing thorned vines that could entangle imperial formations. They bred insects that were attracted to the specific oil used to maintain bronze weapons, causing equipment to rust and fail at crucial moments. Most dramatically, they developed a network of underground tunnels—the Root Roads—that allowed rapid, hidden movement of troops and supplies throughout their territory.
The human cost of these centuries was staggering. Entire generations grew up knowing only war. Children in both civilizations were raised with the understanding that those on the other side of the continent were not merely enemies but existential threats to their way of life. Songs were sung about imperial brutality in the Kingdom's jungle cities; in the Empire's stone fortresses, children were taught that Kingdom dwellers were chaos-worshippers who would destroy the cosmic order if given the chance.
1000 BC - The Great River Merger
The turning point came in 1000 BC, though not through military victory but through an unexpected collaboration born of exhaustion and pragmatism. A particularly devastating series of battles had taken place in the river valleys where the Vitalis and Ferronis ran closest together—barely five miles apart at their nearest point. The fighting had been so intense that both armies had inadvertently destroyed the natural barriers between the rivers through their siege works and defensive earthworks.
When the monsoon season arrived with unusual intensity that year, the two great rivers began to merge at this point of destruction. At first, both sides attempted to use the flooding to military advantage, but the waters proved uncontrollable. Imperial fortifications were swept away; Kingdom jungle outposts were submerged. The rivers, it seemed, cared nothing for human conflict.
In an unprecedented moment of cooperation, military engineers from both civilizations recognized that the merging rivers posed an existential threat to settlements on both banks. If allowed to proceed unchecked, the flooding would destroy cities that had stood for millennia. A temporary truce was called—the first in three hundred years—with a specific purpose: to manage the river merger in a controlled manner.
The project took three years to complete. Working side by side, imperial engineers with their precise measurements and massive bronze tools collaborated with kingdom builders who understood water's natural tendencies and the subtle art of erosion control. Together, they carved a new channel that allowed the rivers to merge gradually, creating what would become known as the Confluence—a massive waterway that effectively bisected the continent.
The psychological impact of this cooperation was profound. Soldiers who had spent their lives viewing the enemy as inhuman monsters found themselves working alongside them, sharing meals, even developing something approaching camaraderie. When the project was complete, neither side seemed eager to immediately resume hostilities.
900 BC - The Divided Continent
The Great River Merger had an unintended consequence that would define Novus for generations to come. The Confluence, now a river system more massive than either of its parents, created a natural barrier more effective than any fortress wall. The water was too wide to bridge with existing technology, too deep and fast-flowing to ford, and too lengthy to circumvent easily.
Both civilizations adapted to this new reality. The Empire established the River Watch—a series of fortified observation posts along their bank of the Confluence, each one a small city unto itself with its own temple to the Emperor, bronze foundries, and agricultural systems. These posts could communicate through an elaborate system of signal fires, creating an early warning network that stretched the entire length of the river.
The Western Kingdom took a different approach, as was their nature. Rather than fortifying against crossing, they embraced the river as a living barrier. They introduced species of carnivorous fish from the deep jungle lakes, creatures that would attack anyone attempting to swim across. They cultivated dense water plants that would entangle boats while appearing to be harmless river grass. The Confluence became not just a physical barrier but a biological one.
Trade between the two powers, already minimal due to ideological differences, ceased almost entirely. Only at a single point—the ancient site of Neutralis, now an island in the middle of the Confluence—did any official exchange occur. Once a year, on the anniversary of the Great River Merger, representatives would meet to exchange prisoners of war and negotiate the few matters that required bilateral agreement.
This division had cultural implications beyond the merely practical. Without regular contact, each civilization's perception of the other became increasingly distorted. In the Empire, tales of Kingdom dwellers evolved into descriptions of barely human jungle spirits who could command nature itself. In the Kingdom, imperial citizens were depicted as soulless automatons, identical in thought and appearance, lacking any individual will.
450 BC - The Comet's First Approach
The year 450 BC brought a new celestial phenomenon that would have consequences far exceeding even the star of 1900 BC. Unlike that brief visitor, this was a comet—a brilliant object with a distinctive tail that grew brighter with each passing night. The astronomers of both civilizations, maintaining their records despite centuries of separation, recognized this as something unprecedented in human observation.
In the Western Kingdom, now ruled by Queen Celestara the Wise, the comet was studied with intense scientific interest. The kingdom's astronomers, working from observatories built high in the jungle canopy, tracked its movement with sophisticated instruments. They calculated its trajectory, estimated its size, and most remarkably, predicted that it would return—though their calculations of when varied wildly, from decades to centuries.
The reaction in the Eastern Empire proved far more consequential. Emperor Cassius the Pure, descendant of a line that had ruled for over fifteen hundred years, interpreted the comet through the lens of imperial theology. The comet's tail, pointing like an accusatory finger across the sky, seemed to him a divine message about the purity of the imperial bloodline.
Standing before the Assembly of Governors, Cassius made a proclamation that would curse his lineage for generations: "The comet reveals what has always been true—that the Emperor's blood must remain undiluted by outside influence. As the comet travels alone through the heavens, pure and untainted, so too must the imperial line remain separate from lesser bloodlines. From this day forward, the Emperor shall take wives only from within the imperial family itself."
This decision was met with private horror even among his most loyal supporters, but none dared voice opposition. The imperial theology had evolved to the point where questioning the Emperor's interpretation of celestial events was equivalent to questioning the cosmic order itself. The practice of imperial incest began immediately, with Cassius marrying his younger sister, Aurelia, in a ceremony that was celebrated publicly but mourned privately by those who understood the biological consequences that would inevitably follow.
400 BC - The Seeds of Degradation
Within fifty years, the consequences of Cassius's decree began to manifest, though the imperial propaganda machine worked tirelessly to suppress any acknowledgment of problems. Emperor Cassius II, son of Cassius and Aurelia, was born with a clubfoot that no amount of bronze armor could fully disguise. His mind remained sharp, perhaps even brilliant, but his physical deformity was impossible to completely hide.
The Empire's response was to double down on the divine narrative. The Emperor's physical imperfection was reframed as a sign of his transcendence beyond mere mortal form. Elaborate ceremonies were developed where the Emperor would remain seated on his throne, never required to walk before the public. A new class of sacred bearers was created, whose sole purpose was to carry the Emperor's palanquin, and it became a capital offense to look directly at the Emperor's feet.
In the Western Kingdom, refugees and spies brought word of the Empire's troubling new practice. Queen Celestara convened a council of the kingdom's finest physicians and natural philosophers to discuss the implications. Their conclusion was unanimous and grave: the Empire had set itself on a path of biological self-destruction that would take generations to fully manifest but would ultimately prove catastrophic.
Some in the Kingdom's military leadership suggested this was an opportunity—that they should wait for the Empire to weaken from within before striking. Queen Celestara rejected this approach, declaring that they would not build their strategy on the suffering of innocents, even imperial children who had no choice in their parentage. Instead, she ordered the creation of medical texts that explained the dangers of close-relation marriages, hoping that somehow this knowledge might reach those in the Empire who could still be swayed by reason.
350 BC - The Hidden Afflictions
By 350 BC, the imperial family's genetic deterioration had accelerated beyond what even the most pessimistic predictions had suggested. Emperor Tiberius the Blessed, grandson of Cassius II, suffered from multiple afflictions that the imperial propaganda struggled to recontextualize as divine attributes. His persistent seizures were declared to be moments of cosmic communion. His inability to digest certain foods was proclaimed as evidence that he sustained himself on divine essence rather than mortal sustenance.
More troubling than the physical ailments were the mental deteriorations. Tiberius experienced prolonged periods of confusion, sometimes failing to recognize his own advisors or forgetting imperial edicts he had issued days before. The Empire's governance increasingly fell to the Council of Interpreters, a body of priests and administrators who claimed to divine the Emperor's "true" intentions from his often incomprehensible utterances.
The Empire itself began to fragment, not through external pressure but through internal dysfunction. Provincial governors, receiving contradictory or nonsensical orders from the capital, began making autonomous decisions while maintaining the fiction of imperial authority. The standardization that had been the Empire's greatest strength started to break down as regions adapted to local needs rather than imperial mandates.
Yet the imperial military remained strong, perhaps even stronger than before. The officer corps, drawn from families outside the imperial bloodline, had developed into a highly professional force that maintained order despite the chaos at the center. They continued to man the River Watch, continued to drill with mechanical precision, and continued to believe—or at least to act as if they believed—in the divine nature of their deteriorating Emperor.
300 BC - The Comet Returns
As the fourth century BC drew to a close, the comet returned, exactly as the Western Kingdom's astronomers had predicted—though earlier than even their most aggressive estimates. This time, however, its appearance had changed dramatically. The single tail had split into two distinct streams, creating what appeared to be a celestial fork or division in the heavens.
In the Western Kingdom, Queen Serena the Enlightened saw this as vindication of their scientific approach. Their astronomers had not only predicted the comet's return but had even theorized that solar winds and rotational dynamics might alter its appearance. The successful prediction strengthened the kingdom's commitment to empirical observation and rational inquiry, leading to the establishment of the Academy of Celestial Studies.
The reaction in the Eastern Empire was one of barely controlled panic. Emperor Marcus the Divine, whose physical deformities were so severe that he had not been seen in public for three years, interpreted the comet's divided tail as a sign of divine displeasure. Some whispered that it represented the splitting of the empire itself; others claimed it foretold the division of the imperial bloodline.
Marcus's response was to demand even greater genetic purity. He decreed that future emperors could only marry their full siblings—half-siblings were no longer sufficiently pure. He also instituted the Practice of Verification, where imperial children would be examined at birth by the priest-physicians. Those showing any sign of "divine transcendence beyond mortal form" (the euphemism for deformity had evolved over the generations) would be declared especially blessed and segregated in the Sacred Palace, never to be seen by common citizens.
The Empire's administrators watched with growing horror as their civilization's leadership descended further into biological and psychological dysfunction. Yet the theological trap was complete—to acknowledge the problem would be to deny the Emperor's divinity, which would unravel the entire basis of imperial society. They could only continue the elaborate charade, hoping that somehow, someday, a solution would present itself.
As 300 BC ended, both civilizations stood at crucial junctures. The Western Kingdom had reached new heights of scientific understanding and social harmony, their diverse society unified by shared values rather than imposed ideology. The Eastern Empire, despite its military might and territorial control, was rotting from within, its divine emperor system having become a prison from which there seemed no escape.
The comet, indifferent to human interpretation, continued its journey through the cosmos, its divided tail streaming behind like a banner of warning—or promise—depending on who observed it. It would return again, the astronomers calculated, in another century and a half. What state would the two civilizations be in when next it graced Terranova's skies? Only time would tell, but the seeds of transformation—both creative and destructive—had been thoroughly sown.
The chronicle of this age would end here, with the continent divided by water and ideology, one civilization reaching for the stars through reason and cooperation, the other trapped in a divine mandate that was slowly destroying it from within. The Empire's curse would continue for sixteen more centuries, a testament to how a single decision, made in fearful reaction to celestial phenomena, could echo through generations of human suffering.
Yet history had shown that no empire, no kingdom, no human institution was permanent. Change would come, as inevitable as the comet's return, as certain as the monsoon rains that had once merged two rivers into one. The only question was whether that change would come through evolution or revolution, through wisdom or through catastrophe.
📡 End of Historical Transmission
Oliver here - Fascinating period in this world's development! Our historical frequency archives are picking up significant resonance from these events. The ripple effects of what you just read will influence countless future chronicles. What aspects of this era do you find most intriguing? Fellow dimensional historians in the comments are already debating the implications...