What May the Future Hold

It is the year 653 of the second age of this world, known commonly and simply as 'the world' or 'the earth'. By the reckoning of the scholars of this age, however, it is known as 'Tria Existantus': the third existence. It is the existence between time and the infinite cosmos as explained by the ancient philosophers whose wisdom still remains to this day. Quite remarkable people they were. Although, nowadays the lands are ridden more with god-fearing peasants in the middle lands, naturalists in the northern lands, and people who can't seem to be bothered with such spiritualism in the south, rather than philosophying intellectuals.

If you look at the map of this earth, it points out the mysterious phenomenon that exists as far south as we inhabitants of this world have traveled: an endless expanse of ice, frost, and glacier that seems to span forever and ever. Nobody knows what exists past it, as those who venture into its frozen landscape never return. Those who only have sailed along the frozen shore come back with strange stories about supernatural happenings, such as waves flowing backward, having their boat take sudden flight, or terrifying visages of frozen men standing at the shoreline; unmoving and watchful with white eyes.

However, these stories are now only tall tales, and nobody knows if they're true or not, and the last men who sailed along those frozen shores lived and died well over five centuries ago. Such troubles have not been cared for by people of the current age, and by the looks of it, won't be for a long time.

Back to the map, sailing away from the frozen shores through the white sea, you will find yourself at another shore, albeit this time not frozen. More so warm, though, not comfortably so, as this area is rather humid; it is known now as the 'Far Lands'. Truthfully, not much is known of this place, as but two measly centuries ago it looked and was far different than it is today. The scholarly theorized that the leylines—rivers of magic flowing deep beneath the earth, far away from the reaches of mortal beings—had explosively shifted in this area, causing the previously dry pine landscape to become laden with all kinds of magical forces and energies. This event launched parts of the land far into the sky above, and the fauna changed along with the inhabiting creatures. Giant trees making up even bigger forests, or rather jungles, now barred the rest of the world from entry.

Mythical beasts from the north migrated down south quicker than any could have predicted, and before long the landscape furthest south now became unpenetrable. For two hundred years this land has been shrouded in mystery, as any expeditions attempting to delve deeper quickly find that the terrain and its inhabitants are unforgiving and merciless.

The shifting of leylines is actually a natural part of this world. The strange part, however, is how hastily it had happened, as such shifts usually span over many many centuries (hence the term 'explosively shifted'), and the cause of this occurrence is still not known.

In the past hundred years or so, however, after a group of nomads discovered precious resources—magical ore that emitted immense energy—an international interest from greedy kings and queens had barged uninvited through the door.

All of a sudden, raid parties were being sent down to scavenge for these materials, but before they even reached the Far Lands they had hit a plateau. Separating the lower parts of the southern lands from the Far Lands was an area known as the 'Barren Crag', home to dunes of sand, sandstone, rock, and sun. There was not much life to be found here except for nomadic tribes and toughened beasts.

The nomads took their chance. They began sending their own scavenger crews to collect these rare materials, only so they could trade them with the rest of the world.

Not before long had the nomads created a company known as the 'Jinho Trade Federation', named after Jinho, the man behind the idea. From here on out, it did not take long for these sand-fairing folk to band together in a little town named after its landscape: River Valley; though long since dried, it is clear that a river once used to flow through there. It became a trading hub for all the powers trying to reap treasures from the outer parts of the mysterious southern lands. A hundred years passed, and now in the current day, it had become a thriving city, thanks to the wonders of the JTF; Jinho Trade Federation.

"Though, nowadays they most certainly don't like trading as much as they enjoy hiring goons to do their dirty work," scoffed a bandolier-clad mercenary out loud to himself, sitting in a small room on the third floor of a crooked inn, scouring over old world maps and books, brooding over his future.

His name was Soran Noxia, a renowned mercenary in these parts of River Valley where he grew up, but perhaps a bit more on the infamous side. Though, his skill was notoriously unmatched in his line of work, and for that he garnered the respect of many (or the fear of many, depending on if you respected his code of honor: pay on time and pay the agreed-upon dime).

For far too long had he been cooped up in various inns, doing nothing more than odd jobs on the side to put food on his plate and yeasty beer in his mug. He had come to despise his mercenary lifestyle in favor of more adventurous dreams. And so it was exactly, because all he wanted now was an adventure. A journey he would not forget. Something to stir the stagnant pot of his dusty life. He did not care for coin like he used to, and now only made sure to have just enough to pay for his expenses.

He focused his attention back to the world map: "Now where could I find some more adventure," he mused as he clinked a quill into ink so he could continue scribbling notes onto his rustic maps.

Beyond River Valley and the Barren Crag lay dry fields and drought-plagued farmlands, and past those, an expansive forest of tall ash and pine, perpetually covered in darkness. It was known as 'Burrow Forest' because of the vast number of burrows that dotted the forest floor haphazardly. This was the den of many nocturnal predatory creatures that preferred the coolness of the earth to the warmth of the sun.

"This place has always creeped me out," shivered Soran before continuing further.

Past the forest of burrows lay the plains of Angmar, home to many towns and settlements. These lands are expansive and green and oak-filled with the occasional wisteria. Wisteria in these lands was regarded as holy, and the flowers that bloomed were often gathered for their churches' ceremonies. Under the rule of Angmar, king of Rama Wisteria, the religious military forces that patrolled here were known to be zealot in nature by those that were allowed to speak against them (any inhabitants not under the rule of Angmar, the 'Great').

"Angmar, the Tyrannical is what he's known as here. There are rumors claiming that he's some type of freak. Tell me something new about politicians that I don't already know," said Soran out loud to himself before chuckling crudely at his own comment.

Beyond the plains of Angmar and Rama Wisteria lay another magical land akin to that of the Far Lands. A land known in the common tongue as 'Prospera', because the lands are prosperous, and 'Ebïn' in their local tongue. It is the land of the elves and the aether, two races of magical origin.

"Though I'm fairly certain that humans have had their stake in those lands after the Thousand Isle War a good three centuries past," he muttered to himself. "Perhaps adventure can be gotten here."

Past these lands lie the expansive mountains known as the 'Iron Alps': home to the mysterious dwarves.

Soran's quill had run out of ink in the middle of his writing, causing his notes to be left only halfway finished, but as he went to dip his quill into more ink, he noticed that there was too little left to stick to the tip of his pen.

He sighed and put it down, rolled up his old maps, gathered the rest of his stuff, and piled it in front of him before putting all of it in a small pack. Soran remembered having more than two smoke bombs with him, but reckoned he must've lost a couple since last he double-checked his equipment. However, his load-out was unfinished without one special piece of gear that was currently in the hands of a quartermaster. He had ordered them to be repaired but had yet to pay the fee. He clicked open a loose bandolier he had at his side and peered in: just barely enough coins to pay for the reparations. Just as he had planned.

He adjusted his offset, torn cloak, and flung his pack over his shoulder before heading out of the room he had been staying in for the night. He looked at his ticking bronze watch: it had been approximately one hour since he ordered the reparation, and he was told it would only take about fifteen minutes. Soran was not in any hurry, since his lifestyle in recent times had allowed him to stay inactive for as long as he wished. Though, truthfully, the time had slipped his mind while he was pouring over his maps and books. He actually much preferred to be on time. With this in mind, he exited the inn and hurried his way toward the quartermaster's shop.