Born practically with an ax in hand, he and his family were the umpteenth generation of foresters in the little town of Dever-on-Arden. Before the [Lost Wars]], the heart of Mikk was the great swath of Arden. Yet, before civilization had really taken hold, there was little building, and little use for felled trees beyond firewood. And so, the Pages lived a meager existence, but a happy one. They thanked Kai’ckul for sustenance and life, and Mediena for their purpose in this life. They were a faithful family, and drawn by duty and righteousness to defend the Mother and themselves from the evil that beset them in the form of the Lost.
Ian was a broad, quiet, and dutiful boy, with incredible prowess and strength with an ax. When the tribes of Mikk came into the fold of the alliance, he was selected by Merla Underfoot to lead a company in her vanguard. In other armies, Mikken were often fodder and filler, but in the Southern Army they received the brunt of violence as they fought their long-time enemies at Prktakk. They were targeted by Lost and Wild Men alike, and few made it out alive, let alone unscathed. Ian was one of those few, and in the midst of battle, furiously swinging his ax, he had a vision. Clarity and truth had come to him in the last moments before he passed out, collapsing on top of vanquished foes and ignored for the remainder of the battle — thought dead.
He awoke to cries of anguish and pain and loss. He stood, body spasming in revulsion and his ax left behind. He ran, pell-mell in what direction — to him — felt right, and he came upon the remains of Underfoot’s Southern Army. Camp was being broken, and the harried troops were making north with little time to waste. Ian grabbed a boy, one eye missing but hidden by a bandage, and commanded him to tell all Mikken to lag to the back of the column. The boy’s one remaining eye burned bright and alive and he sped off. By the end of the day, units were broken and all of Underfoot’s Mikken had gathered with Ian. At nightfall, as the rest of the column forced march, they stopped and watched the torches burn into the distance.
That night, he recounted his vision, and all were swept up in its power — the respite, the hope, the promise — and the intensity of this once solemn, but well-known man. The next morning, they left to reclaim what they had paid so dearly to have: home. The gods had judged them worthy. And before The Codification and the Council of the Code, Mikk had experienced the Unification and were a country brought together under one religious-minded man, and a singular people.
Ian and many others headed straight for Dever-on-Arden, but found the old name could no longer be used: Arden was no longer. What trees remained were used as the foundation of The Source, and no time was spent mourning the loss, even of his childhood home. Deveron would rise anew, grateful for the blank slate. The pain and loss was all a part of a greater plan, and Ian would lead the way.
Most of Mikk fell to their knees piously, but others — and many from the Northern Army under Lothar Greatworth who had disbanded them after their task was done — who flocked to the relatively unspoiled and always burgeoning seaside city of Tyun were resistant from the beginning. The farming and penitent way of life was not the norm there, and they even pressed for complete autonomy, but when Reverend-King Page ceased export of all goods via the waterways with a single command, the rebel city fell under sway. Temples were erected, and the black sheep of the flock has been kept in the herd thanks to Ian’s swift and effective action.
Ian ruled Mikk for scant seven years. Despite his outward hardiness, and keen vision and precise action, he fought with a wracking illness for all of his tenure as first Reverend-King. It is said that he had truly died on that field of battle of Prktakk, and had returned as a vessel of the gods to bring Mikk to the glory of today, and passed once more into the world beyond and the waiting arms of Keres the moment that the nation could move forward, prepared and guided.