In the hills overlooking Rhizon, a middle aged man and a young boy gaze over the land, atop powerful steeds, bred for war...
"Since the tribes first settled in this region of Illyria, there has been infighting. Bickering, squabbling, backbiting, and backstabbing. The chieftains would come together here in Rhizon to settle disputes, although they invariably escalated in the council and lead to minor skirmishes until someone gave up and things went back to the way they were. They have weakened Illyria in their petty bids for meaningless power, looking only at this land we have now. Why, son, why are we continuing to fight for what we already have? We waste resources, lives, and time with this ridiculousness. The chieftains are a plague on our people."
"But Father, are you not the Chieftain of the Delmatae? Are you therefore a plague?"
The older man smiled at the young boy, not yet ten years old and already inquiring endlessly about leadership. Gentius looked into the young lad's curious eyes.
"No, son. I am no longer the Chieftain of the Delmatae."
He paused. The boy was confused, but knew his father would not leave him wanting. The older man took a deep breath and gazed over the vast landscape.
"No, son," he said again, "I am the Chieftain of Illyria."
They turned their horses and began riding back to the city. The old man stared hard ahead, seeing not at the road he rode on, but the path he had yet to ride.
Now I must make those words reality...
For Illyria, the next few years would not be pretty.