Egriss

"There it is Martha - Egriss! Our hope for a better world and a future for ourselves and our village!"

— Arthur Solman

Nestled in the gentle crest of the Bay of Tomorrow, Egriss is a small bustling city - an economic powerhouse along the eastern seaboard of Eryia. For many, the seekers, Egriss is a place of hope. For the villages they leave behind, it is a place of death and despair. For the Mayarcs tribe, it is a place of economic opportunity.

So... a city just like every city.

Yet not like every other city - at least not like every other city in Eryia, because Ergiss is the place where people gather together to challenge history, to face the unknown and seek a new life and a future filled with hope. It is the place of departure into the unknown. It is the place of egress from Eryia .

The Seekers

It takes a different kind of person to be a seeker. Some would say a fool, others would say desperate, but all agree they're brave. The seekers live for hope. They come for their own particular flavor of the same reasons: the chaos of the dying Eryian cities, the gang warfare, the early death from Magichem Poisoning. Many are old, and seek the possibility of a long life in a world uncontaminated by Magichem. All of them seeking for a place they know exists - or so says the math. The world is huge, the ocean hides other lands.

Here in Egriss, they find other seekers who will join with them to purchase a ship, to venture into the unknown on a journey to discover and build a new life in a new place without the evil of magic and the stench of decay everywhere. Here they find others with whom to hope.

It takes a little while to gather enough seekers to make the trip. In the beginning, in the years after the Jordbani and in the decades after Phillion’s Proclamation and the fall of the Great House of Eryia the ships left in great flotillas daily then weekly, then monthly, then yearly. But the seekers never returned reporting success. The journey was pointless and too difficult it was said. Then people became accustomed to the hopelessness and the dying in Eryia. It was just the way life was, so the numbers of seekers trailed off. Now the flotillas leave every five years.

Once a generation, and today is the day.

Bran

It was dark when his brother finished his packing, all his bags and boxes piled near the front door. All save his precious plants.

Bran straightened and stretched the kinks out of his back as he placed the last seeds into the oilcloth seed bag. He had wrapped each and every one of Dresden's precious cuttings, and carefully marked each tiny waxed packet of seeds in his clear handwriting. Seeds of hope and life.

Maybe.

“Come with us, Bran,” Dres said again, his voice hoarse from repeating the plea. “Talia is going to miss you. I will miss you. Please, just come.”

Bran stood in the doorway, arms crossed, the wind tugging at his coat, begging him to go. The house behind him stood silently, quietly waiting. It was old—four stories of creaking floors and fogged glass, perched stubbornly on Windward Hill. It was the house their solparents had died in. The house they grew up in. The house that still held their voices, if you listened closely at night.

He shook his head.

"Why not? We both know there's nothing left here for you. Our village is dead. The Mayarcs won't care, the Daytons are dead to them too. What is there to lose? Are you afraid?"

"You know I'm not."

"Then why not come?"

“Dres, someone has to remember. Who's gone on, what’s left behind.”

Dresden stepped forward, touched his hand. “I don't want to remember you, I want you to come. You’re all I have.”

“No,” Bran said. “You’ll have everything you've ever dreamed of. I’m nothing, Just a stubborn old man in a creaky house.”

“You’re twenty-eight, Bran.”

He smiled a wistful smile that held secret thoughts. They hugged. Briefly. Desperately. There were well wishes, and eyes that brimmed with moisture, but didn't quite overflow. Then the carriage arrived, and Dres boarded and looked back one last time. Bran waved, and then

Dres was gone.

The stars seemed… closer. Not brighter, just lower, like the sky itself had grown heavy. Bran stood in the threshold of his house, staring at the horizon. A breeze rustled through the dry grass. Somewhere far off, a ship's whistle moaned. He closed the door and went back to his bedroom.

He picked up the old village picture album off his bed, then touched each image like it was a fragile spell.

And cried.

Talia

Everyone knew humanity was dying, it was everywhere, unavoidable, everyone dying, the cities decaying, every day there was less than the day before. But Talia believed - no Talia knew - she was different, and down at the port, where the tide lapped against rusted iron, her people, the people like her still dreamed.

She stood in line in the cold grey dawn, clutching her papers to her breast, half afraid that the precious bundle might vanish. Around her, others waited too, people she had come to know and love so well over the past few years. Arthur and Martha with their entire village in tow, dressed in patched coats and worn drawers, the littles running wild like bees surrounding their queen's hive. There was Katrina with her beloved journals, Dresden with his precious crates of heirloom seeds that he'd scrimped and saved to buy from the Slate Scarrs. "What will we eat?" he had asked teasing both her and Bran. But he was right. It was best to be prepared to grow their own food. After the last couple years of living in Egriss, preparing for the greatest adventure in the world, they all knew each other, and every face glowed with the same hunger—for something bigger, brighter, newer - and they all hid the same tiny sliver of fear - that this hope they reached for was all for naught. But that was a thought for a different day. Today that thought would only lead them to failure and regret and hopelessness. Talia couldn't live like that. Not any more. This was her chance. There would be no flotilla tomorrow, not for years. No second chances.

Today was the day.

Talia had sold much of what she had - her old life was gone and with it, it's trappings. Yes, she had kept a few precious memories - her Solmother's jewelry, her father's telescope, but most of what she carried were the things that served pragmatic needs for travel and to set up her new life when they arrived in Arrhynsia.

Ah Arrhynsia, such a lovely name. The name the priest of Sol had told her that they called the other land - a name that meant hope. A place of legend, where there was no magic to corrupt the world. Where everything was healthy and life was abundant.

Dresden caught sight of her and raced to her side. "You made it!" he exclaimed. "I was almost afraid you would chicken out."

"Never!" she replied breathlessly as he scooped her up into his arms and kissed her.

"I'm sorry, I should have asked first," he stammered red faced as he set her down. "It's just that... Bran didn't come. I was so glad to see you."

"Oh," she replied stricken and she gripped his arm tightly. "I'm sorry. That must be hard."

He shook his head. "No, I knew he wouldn't come, but I couldn't help but hope."

"Well, I'm here." she replied then smiled all the way to her eyes. "I'm glad that you came. It's easier to be brave when you're with friends."

They laughed. It was an adventure.

The priest of the Convocation of Sol officiated. He blessed each of them, placing his hands on each person's head and pronouncing Sol's blessing on them. Talia had seen him out on the dock yesterday with Captain Call casting blessings on the Starling's hull. The strange entwined patterns that decorated the hull had glowed a brilliant blue when he touched them. They were magic she knew, hopefully the last magic she would ever depend on, but necessary. The Ur-Hilgarria was as much a barrier of wild magic as it was of water and wind.

The boarding bell rang, and a cheer broke across the dock. The Starling loomed tall and the strange markings on her hull glowed a bright blue. Captain Call, a weather wise old sailor welcomed them aboard, and guided them up the ramp.

Talia’s heart raced. She reached out and grabbed Dresden's hand.

Life was theirs for the taking.

Revin

The morning the Starling departed, Captain Revin Call wore his finest uniform—navy blue with brass buttons polished to a shine, boots stiff with age. He stood at the helm as the final passengers boarded, his back straight, his face unreadable. People called him “The Eternal Mariner.” He was ancient - almost thirty five, and had crossed every known sea, charted forgotten islands, survived storms that swallowed fleets. But this voyage was his first search and would be his last.

Because Revin Call did not believe in returning.

Not in the literal sense. Ships had come back from from the search, but never with news of success. That much was fact. But Revin didn’t believe in returns at all. To him, the search was a form of death—and rebirth that would leave the old self behind. So this was his funeral, in a way. It was all their funerals. He had read the reports, spoken to the Port Archivist, who trembled when she recalled ships leaving, yet couldn’t remember their names.

Still, he’d accepted the commission. Why?

The Starling set sail at dawn, gliding silently from the Port of Hope. The passengers cheered and waved farewell to those on the shore. Revin did not. He stayed quiet, hands on the wheel, eyes on the horizon like a man steering into his own reckoning. The crew was young and eager. Revin gave them orders gently. He didn’t shout anymore—not like he used to. What was the point? They would not return. No one ever did.

The sea changed after the third day.

The stars above stopped moving. One night they just… held still, as if the sky had frozen. The compass spun in lazy circles. The water grew calm in a way that unnerved the other sailors. Passengers whispered of dreams. Captain Call said nothing. But he knew. It was magic. They were leaving the world behind.

The next day, a boy from steerage came to him. Twelve years old, wide-eyed and sharp.

“Captain,” the boy asked, “do you think we’ll go back to Egriss one day?”

Revin looked at him a long time. Then knelt beside him and said, “No, lad. We go forward now. That’s what the search is—it’s going forward, leaving the past behind. We're looking for a new land and a new life.”

The boy blinked. “Is it real?”

“Yes it's real. It’s more real than anything else I've ever known.”

Matteo

Every evening, as the sun bled into the sea, old Matteo lit the last lantern on the westernmost pier. A lantern to guide the seeker's ships back home.

He’d lit the lantern every night for thirteen years now, ever since his Solfather gave him the job before he died. Soon he would turn it over to his nephew. The latest flotilla had left yesterday morning filled with the hopeful souls he had tried so hard to dissuade from embarking on a foolish journey into death. Tabia, Arthur with his entire village, Dresden.

They were gone now, and that foolish priest of Sol had blessed them all - made them feel good, but Matteo knew. He knew there were leviathans, monsters, magic laced storms in the turbulent Ur-Hilgarria. The nightmare ocean was miles deep and filled with more wild magic horrors than the thin blanket of Magichem ash that covered the land could possibly hold.

The city seemed strangely empty tonight. Every street mourned the departure of the vibrant energy and hope of the seekers. Window after window that had glowed brightly two nights ago was dark.

This would be the last ship in his lifetime. The last ship of fools. The last ship to remember.

The last ship that might return.

Domen

Domen Vex owned the largest warehouse in Ergis—and every last piece of everything in it was his. He bought what others left behind. Antique wardrobes from sun-washed villas. Adoption dresses never worn. Spices from inland caravans, still fragrant. Crates of books no one had the time or skill to read. Mechanical toys, handcrafted violins, oil portraits of villages who had no surviving members.

Seekers sold quickly. They had no room for sentiment, no patience for negotiation. To them, everything they owned was ballast to be cast off. He offered coins, sometimes less than fair. They accepted. They were too busy chasing dreams to see the real world around them.

The Mayarcs called him The Vulture behind his back. He didn’t mind. Vultures were survivors.

His shop was an impossible place, the size of a dry dock, shelves arranged like the ribs of a ship. Customers wandered in, adventurers, residents, historians, scroungers . He'd sell to them at good prices and whatever he didn't sell here, he would ship inland to sell in the scrounger market or to the fyrir bjod. His business provided well for his village and his tribe - no one went without, they could even afford to send their littles to school.

The last flotilla had left just two mornings ago, He had bought till he had no room left, then bought some more and stuffed his house with the excess. He rubbed his hands together grinning. Soon the next crop of seekers would come, and they would settle into the empty houses, spending good coin, needing things to live with while they waited - until there was another captain old enough to not care if he lived or died, who would take them out and drown them in the wild magic ocean - or maybe not, but there was one thing certain, they weren't coming back.

Domen didn't care - they could do as they willed, and he wouldn't worry about it like old Matteo did either.

He made the future here in Egriss with trade.