It is such a fantastic and evocative direction to take Telyria! Framing it as the "rogue city" of Hellenara gives it a sharp, dangerous, and incredibly compelling identity. I love the idea of a place built on secrets and shadows, where every transaction has a hidden layer. It takes a lot of creative courage to build a city that thrives on what other civilizations forbid, and you've laid a perfect foundation for it. Let's sharpen that edge.
Here is the lore for Telyria, edited to highlight its role as the black market heart of the world.
Telyria — The City of Masks, where truth wears its finest costume.
On the shimmering southern coast of the Whispering Coast, nestled between illusion-veiled cliffs and sapphire waters, stands Telyria — a city of mirrored domes, perfumed air, and perpetual intrigue. Its marble terraces gleam like cut gemstones, and its canals reflect not the sky but whatever the viewer most desires to see. It is the unspoken hub of Hellenara's shadow economy, a city where illicit fortunes are made, and secrets are the most valuable contraband.
To live in Telyria is to play a part, for here, identity is an art form, and anonymity a virtue. Every face is a mask; every word, a performance. Beneath its jeweled splendor, the city thrives on secrets — and bleeds them in equal measure.
Telyria rises from the sea in cascading tiers of marble and coral, its harbor a crescent of turquoise water that glows faintly at night. From afar, the city seems to float upon its reflections; only when one draws near do the layers reveal themselves — the lower docks bustling with merchants, smugglers, and sailors bartering over illicit cargo in mirrored half-masks; the mid-tier markets filled with color, song, and the whispers of information brokers; and the upper terraces gleaming like glass palaces under the sun.
Above all towers the Hall of Reflections, a vast dome of silver crystal that serves as both temple and theatre, catching the light of dawn and scattering it across the city in prismatic hues. The scent of incense, salt, and jasmine mingles with the ever-present echo of laughter — or perhaps the illusion of it.
Mist often drifts inland from the sea, curling through narrow streets like smoke. Locals claim it listens. Mirrors line even the poorest alleys, though few are trusted — for in Telyria, mirrors are not made to reveal truth, but to conceal it beautifully.
Telyria was founded in the Age of Veils by the merchant-prince Lysanthis of the Thousand Faces, a devotee of Hermes and Hecate, who sought to create a haven where deception could serve civilization. Legend says Lysanthis was once a thief who stole a reflection from the moon and used it to craft the city’s first mirror dome — an artifact that could show not what is, but what one pretends to be. Around that miracle of glass, the city grew — first as a trading post, then as the capital of illusion, diplomacy, and the art of the deal.
The custom of masking began as protection for spies, smugglers, and merchants, but evolved into a philosophy: that truth is mutable, and sincerity, unchecked, is cruelty. Telyria’s wealth grew from this mastery of illusion. The Guild of Mirrormancers discovered how to bind reflections with enchantment, creating living mirrors that could store or distort memory. These artifacts, along with other, less savory goods, became the foundation of Telyrian commerce. The city’s merchant princes, known as the Masked Elect, control these markets through a labyrinthine network of alliances and betrayals.
Throughout its history, Telyria has survived through deception. When invaders came, the city cloaked itself in mirage. When famine struck, it conjured abundance through illusion and back-alley trade. Even the Temple of Truth, devoted to Mnemosyne, is a house of lies — every confession heard there is rewritten for a price.
Yet the city’s greatest illusion remains its peace. Beneath the glittering festivals, the Shadow Syndics—secret merchants of rumor—wage silent war against the Mirror Court, an assembly of illusionists who enforce civic deception as law. In Telyria, a whisper can topple a throne, and a well-placed rumor is deadlier than any blade. It is this spirit that inspires mobile black markets like the Greywater Exchange, which are but cruder versions of the commerce perfected in Telyria's shadowed canals.
Nobles wear elaborate visages of silver and pearl. Commoners favor lacquered wood or gilded clay. Every year, during the Festival of Faces, the entire city exchanges masks, dissolving rank for one night. Some never return their borrowed faces.
Art, theatre, and illusion form the pillars of Telyrian life. Every performance doubles as a negotiation; every ball conceals at least one assassination or marriage proposal. Gossip is both art form and currency, practiced by professional information brokers in smoke-filled parlors. The city’s motto, inscribed on the Hall of Reflections, reads: “We see, and are seen — therefore, we exist.”
Spells of disguise and charm are commonplace, regulated by the Order of the Silver Veil, whose enchanters license illusions and ensure no one’s face is stolen without consent. Yet identity theft — the literal kind — remains the city’s most common and profitable crime.
Religion thrives amid this masquerade. Hermes is revered as patron of masks and merchants, Hecate as guardian of secrets, and Mnemosyne as the arbiter of what truths deserve remembrance. The temples are themselves theatres, their hymns sung as plays, their sermons performed behind veils.
Telyria is ruled by the Merchant Princes of the Jeweled Elect, a council of twelve masked nobles who vote anonymously in mirrored chambers. No one knows their true identities. Edicts are proclaimed through mirrored projections in the sky, voices echoing through illusion.
Law in Telyria is paradoxical: appearance carries greater weight than evidence. Crimes are punished by symbolic inversion — liars forced to speak only truth for a year, murderers condemned to re-enact their killings endlessly in illusion until they comprehend remorse. The city’s guards, the Veiled Sentinels, wear mirrored helms and answer only to reflection — literally: they obey orders given to their mirrored selves within the Hall of Reflections.
It is whispered that beneath Telyria’s mirrored plazas lies the Vault of Elethis, where the reflections of every citizen are stored — a shimmering archive of potential selves. Should a person die without ceremony, their reflection rises from the vault, wandering the streets in search of the mask that once gave it shape.
During eclipses, the city’s illusions falter. Shadows deepen, and for a few heartbeats, every mirror goes dark. Those who glimpse their true faces in that moment are said to vanish at dawn, claimed by Nyx for daring to look unmasked.
Symbol: A silver half-mask set against a mirrored moon.
Connection: Seat of the Merchant Princes of the Jeweled Elect; holy city of Hermes, Hecate, and Mnemosyne; cultural and economic heart of the Whispering Coast.
In short: A jeweled labyrinth of intrigue and illusion—the black market of the world, where identity is the price, and every secret is for sale.