Etalyr

A tepid group of young men and women gather their supplies and pack them away into a covered wagon. The town is quietly watching in anxious anticipation, a flurry of heartbeats pounding out a discordant rhythm between them. Parents whisper soft goodbyes to their children. Their children, who no more than a few years ago were running around the rivers of the tiny village playing tag, now stood before them holding swords, bows, and staffs, adorned in whatever paltry armors their parents could scrap enough coins together to buy. It was a bittersweet moment. To be chosen as a Caravaner was a great honor, but everyone knew the dangers that lay beyond the village walls. Most travelers never came back.   The world outside the village lay in a thick fog. Not the kind of fog you could see, but it permeated the air and its pressure could be felt palpably. A few moments alone in it, and you'd drown in your own lungs, unable to find breath as the moisture clawed its way up from your stomach and out of your throat. It was a particularly gruesome and ugly way to die. It was called the Gloom.   The caravans set out each year in search of the only thing that could stop it's cold and relentless march, Anisaratha, called aratha for short. They made their journeys to find this elusive and mystical element, because when it was made to vapor, it dissolved the gloom and made it safe to breathe the air. To keep themselves safe, the caravans would take a small supply of their village's aratha reserves with them and carry it in an Arathafier, a vessel which could burn aratha to keep a small area around them safe. Protecting this vessel was the first priority of any journeyman, as it meant the difference between life and death on the roads. Seeking out more aratha and bringing it back to the village before the end of the year's All Light's Festival was the journeyman's only goal.   The world has been this way for as long as anyone can remember, though historical records tell of a time of peace and prosperity before the Gloom came. Even the oldest elders tell stories of their great grandparents' first journeys to find the aratha and return it to the village. Aratha is not easy to find, it lies hidden in dark and dangerous corners of the world, and draws the attention of monsters. And if monsters weren't enough, some caravans return empty handed to tell tales of bandits and barbarians who steal the aratha for themselves. It has even been known that some villages stand in contention with one another, each striving to gather enough life saving aratha to last another year, knowing full well they damn another village by doing so. A few large cities dot the landscape, with enough aratha to keep vast populations safe from the gloom. But they too must send their own caravans to seek out the lifeblood and return it home.   Some, mostly madmen and fools, dare to speak whispers of a time before the gloom. A time when the world was free to roam for all, and no one had to travel away in search of anisaratha. Each story weaves a different thread as to the gloom's cause. Some say the gloom was created by the gods as punishment for mortal sins. Others claim the monsters themselves create the gloom with their very presence, or even that the gloom creates the monsters. Further still there are those who say that the machines of old created the gloom, when mortals meddled with dark forces beyond their own understanding. What is true cannot be said for certain, and most tales are nothing more than children's bedtime stories and campfire ghost tales. What is fact, is that the gloom has remained for centuries and so long as it continues to intoxicate the world, there will always be journeyman determined to keep their friends, families, and villages safe from its deadly embrace.