Earliest existence: 9,500 BR
The life of the sea turtle had only ever known the slow, rhythmic pull of the ocean. For ages, their path was simply instinct, a pilgrimage guided by the tides to the warm, green coast of Undaria. This island was a secret garden, especially for the Prismbloom, a flower whose very petals held a subtle, strange magic, an alchemical song. For nearly eight thousand years, the turtles ate this bloom. The magic was slow, almost impossibly patient, weaving itself into the bone and shell, a silent change deep within their core. By the time 9,500 BR rolled around, that instinct broke. They didn’t just sense the world anymore, they truly saw it. Their ancient eyes, which had only registered light and shadow, were suddenly opened to the shimmering beauty of the Prismbloom and the endless blue sky above them. It was a terrifying, wonderful birth of the Tortle.
Clumsy and full of a new, burning curiosity, the first Tortle began to fumble with their awareness. Their communication became a slow, deliberate language, a reflection of their own heavy, unhurried steps, replacing the old chirps and grunts. The very oldest ones, those with shells like maps, scarred from a hundred migrations, were the first to tell stories. They spoke of the deep places and the newly discovered complexities of the land. One elder, a Tortle named Hoku, who Navigates the Deep, had a shell that looked like a tapestry of all that history. His simple act, the first to pick up a stone and use it to crack open a coconut, was a jolt of pure innovation. It was a clumsy, desperate motion that marked the terrifying line between an animal and a thinking thing. This single, massive shift from instinct to tool use spread like a slow, deliberate fire through the new communities.
The early homes were not villages, just loose family groups huddling near the best nesting areas and, critically, near a healthy supply of the Prismbloom. Their days were ruled by the sun and the rise and fall of the tide. For over seven centuries, society was simple, but already deep. The most revered were the Lorekeepers, their memories sharp enough to hold the communal history and every secret of herbalism. These Tortle, weighed down by their huge, ancient shells, carried the past and the future. They taught the young ones how to brew the first elixirs, those concoctions that could mend a broken shell or settle a troubled spirit. The legend of Te Aho, Who Weaves the Past, grew from this time. His mind was said to be so sharp he could trace every family tree and recall the exact location of every healing plant across the entire island.
As the population grew, those loose family bonds needed to become something stronger. They understood they needed shared wisdom and shared defense. The meeting in 8,764 BR wasn’t a shouting match or a swift political deal, it was a long, patient council. The clans came together and formed The Undari Shores, a chain of coastal communities united by the singular, massive purpose of living at peace with the land and with each other. They established a council of elders, picking the oldest and most respected from each group. One of the first and most crucial was a Tortle named Nona, The Living Stone. She was a patient and wise leader who had spent her life settling disagreements. The elders made their decisions through long, quiet thought. They watched the ocean and the needs of their people, sometimes for days, before ever speaking a word. Their society was quiet and stable, its rhythm dictated by the patient wisdom of long life and the ceaseless motion of the tides.
For a more complete history to present day, see Undaria
