The Sundering of Treme

Long before they called themselves Riverfolk, these people were desert traders; master caravaners of the Bodmany Desert, guiding serpentine wagons across scalding sands, linking the dwarven strongholds of the Bellever Mountains with the far off City Of Pensan. They were bonded not by blood but by purpose: a nomadic culture of traders, tinkers and storytellers, moving as one great convoy between worlds. Then came the avalanche. The Tremenydh Pass, the only safe route through the Bellever Mountains, was buried in a single, thunderous morning. Entire families vanished beneath the stonefall. Caravans were trapped on either side, cut off from their kin — and from their way of life. The western clans remained in the desert, stubbornly clinging to the old paths. But those on the eastern side faced a new landscape: lush rivers, dense forest, and no roads. Where their wheels couldn’t turn, they adapted. Wains became barges, their canvas stretched into sails, their wheels stripped for parts. The eastern caravaners took to the Loubasyger and Glanwyn rivers like they'd been born to it. Villages sprang up along the banks, each dock a new stop on the winding trade route. Within a generation, they became something new — the Riverfolk. To this day, the Riverfolk call that moment “The Sundering.” Some still keep old relics from their caravan days — an unspun wheel, a camel bell, a bolt of sun-bleached silk — passed down not as tools, but as sacred memory. They do not speak of going back. The pass remains buried, the Riverfolk sail eastward, and every wake they leave behind is a quiet hymn to the lives they lost and the new one they built — flowing, flexible, and utterly free.