The marauders were running in the forbidden forest years ago, when a beast chased them down. When they stopped running, they were in an unfamiliar wood. This forest was in a strange land known as 'Middle Earth', and they were part of a prophecy- the last children of the Valar, the Infatar, were due to arrive, lead by four powerful beings known as the Iromar...
The Iromar have spent centuries building their country and everything in it, their knowledge from the land before helping them pave the road for the thousands of young lesser-mages that have come after. Men and women from every race, warriors and thieves, barbarians and kings. The Infatar gave up the lives they knew before as they were brought to the eden of Irovane, safe to protect the land under the protection of their kings and queen. For they were foretold as the final children, the infants of the land that would grow to be a body of peace, a steady people who would protect the people from the darkness which would soon follow them, a shadow of the evil of Morgoth.
It was an age and a day after the four's arrival in Middle-earth.
The marauders were now the warrior-monarchs of their country of Irovane. They had been training and collecting the Infatar with immaculate precision, the children coming to their castle-fortress of Morrohaven to learn and live under the care of the three kings and the queen, as well as their apprentices, who were aging and growing into powerful mages themselves, the oldest reaching well into their eighth decade of life.
A legend was growing in Middle-earth. A legend about a country of all the magical people in the world, who were able to shoot lightning from a stick and change into fantastic beasts with the slightest thought.
Soon enough, the Men began arriving. Adventurers, the occasional ranger, the common fool who thought he could conquer them with his puny metal weapons and brutish muscles.
None had yet lead an army against them, until the orcs of Mordor came knocking.