Homeworld
Used to be, there was a planet that went by a half-dozen names. Nobody who lived there called it Homeworld, so that’s what we call it now. It seems fair.
The different kinds of folks who lived on Homeworld didn’t much care for one another, and they all scrabbled for elbow room; elves, dwarves, goblins, trolls, humans, and orcs, all crammed together, most of ’em convinced they deserved to be the rulers of this little rock. So they fought, in piecemeal skirmishes and all-out wars. But there were so many sides that nobody could ever win, not really; there was some comfort in knowing that, though a tribe of orcs might sack your city, they’d be driven out by an elven strike force in a decade or so.
It was magic that caused the trouble. The better we got at it, the longer and darker those skirmishes became, and the longer the damage lasted. Five hundred years ago, Homeworld ended up a scorched wasteland, half of it so thick with magical fallout that you could flip a coin and have a fifty-fifty chance of surviving long enough to see it land. That’s when folks started fighting over little things like food and drinkable water.
But one day, a human by the name of Albus Fletcher did the thing that humans are good at: he talked to people. He met with a couple of clever elves who’d become hotshots in academia and pulled a dwarven artisan out of one of their slums to do a little assembly. Heck, he even purchased the service of some trolls and goblins to do the heavy lifting and calculations. Together, the group made an aethership. It was the first of its kind, a ship that could drag itself off the planet and into the sky without being torn apart by the aether
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