I opened my eyes, and the bright light of the sun pierced the heavy white clouds into rays that illuminated dust that fell from unknown edges high in the sky.
Everything was gray, white, and black at first, but then colour began to emerge. As everything came into focus, I realized I was slowly opening my eyes. The colours of the horizon started to come into view. A cold breeze hit my nose, and the smell of snow and spruce trees filled my nostrils. I felt the chill and instinctively placed my hands on my hips, discovering pockets where I could keep them warm.
Suddenly, I heard a poof; snow flew up and landed against my dark gray cotton pants, which were covered in dirt. I noticed the leather of a trench coat brushing my thighs, and I wore a gray scarf neatly tucked into my jacket. Looking down, I spotted a large leather suitcase. As I reached for it, I felt the weight of a long piece of metal strapped to my waist. Looking down, I saw a hilt—apparently, I was wearing a sword.
My hair, a dark shade of brown, was tousled by the wind, and my piercing blue eyes, set in a strong-jawed face with a hint of stubble, scanned the unfamiliar surroundings.
I tried to think as I closed my eyes. My name was Erwin Thalos. I was a sellsword, very far from home. I must have been somewhere in the southern part of the Northern Continent, specifically in Skarnheim, in the country of Vaelgard. I was heading to the village of Brennhold in the Eldvorn region to the south, and I had been travelling for months.
My ears twitched in the cold as I heard the sound of hooves crunching on the snow. In front of me was a dirt road, and that's when I noticed a carriage approaching from the south. It slowed down and stopped just in front of me. The carriage was made of sturdy dark pine and ash, covered with seal-fat oil. It had a low, angular, and enclosed shape designed to withstand harsh winter storms, with a roof that curved forward like a snout. Ropes were fastened down the sides, with iron bands covering them, and there were runes etched into the iron.
The wooden wheels were broad and equipped with iron rims, with chains for suspension rather than the leather straps standard in other nations. The two horses pulling the carriage were Frostmanes, a breed of large, shaggy, pale-coated horses known for their endurance. The horses were well fed, their muscles impressive, their thick fur coats covered by the snow, yet visibly unbothered. Their harnesses were made from werewolf hide, known for its durability; the reins were then bound and stitched into a pair of leather gloves lined with a thick fur coat, which the driver wore.
"Need a ride, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you very much. Are you heading to Eldvorn?" I replied.
"Yes, indeed, I am."
I nodded firmly and walked to the back of the carriage. The space was narrow by design, with the walls lined in reindeer fur and sealed with tarred leather. Usually, there was a small iron brazier on the floor, but it was hidden by the numerous pine crates stacked inside. I placed my luggage on one of the crates and began to push it into a corner of the carriage, moving toward the center. Unfolding a bench built into the side, I was relieved to find it covered with a blanket made of bear hide. I unsheathed the sword attached to my hip and placed it down in front of me as the carriage started to rock up and down.
As I settled into the carriage, my mind was a whirlwind of confusion. I was heading for Brennhold in Eldvorn, it's a trading town. I was looking for a blacksmith, wasn't I? I questioned myself as to the why, but I found blanks. I couldn't remember a thing. I knew my name and where I lived, but I couldn't put a finger on the appearance of my home, which I knew I had. I felt lightly frustrated at this lack of clarity, but with a sigh, I pushed these thoughts away and looked at the hilt of the sword in front of me.
Curious, and honestly quite eager to lay my eyes on the blade hidden within the sheath, I grabbed the hilt and swiftly pulled out the blade. Or I wish I did. There was resistance, and then rust. Indeed, the blade was broken, rusted beyond measure. It was just an old, corroded scrap of metal, not even reusable.
I decided to delve into my bag, unclipping the leather straps that held it closed. There, I found a stack of paper along with a few closed wooden boxes made of what looked like mahogany, held shut by a small gold lock. There were about four I could count, so I started with the documents, which revealed nothing but journals dating back a week. I flipped through it and, near the end, found a stray creased sheet, the edges yellow. It was a guide, in some aspect, it was what told me to go to Eldvorn, to find the blacksmith Hroldar Flamebinder, with it was a recipe of some kind to give him, in the boxes were a fresh bundle of weed in the largest box, in the second placed on top of it was a more cubic box that was opened around the middle, in it was, as the paper says, a wasp nest containing the corpses of a whole colony of bees. Then a longer, rectangular box, as the paper says, held two meters of vines, and the final box, of cubic shape, held one litre of moss.
These ingredients served to create a blade, but that was all the paper said. I read the journal just in case, dated from October 13th, 1941. It's from Ecliptia Bindery in Ketheris. Ketheris? That was the central lands—the United Kingdoms of the lands of Ketheris—but it's only seven days old. The journal itself spoke of the potential bankruptcy of international banks situated in Ketheris because of the still water of the ocean, the sleeping winds and the snow falls of mountains, yes, it spoke of the Solitary Whisperer, most words were a bit too complicated for me to decypher or even comprehend, but one thing was sure now, it was that travel had become impossible. For the last, I'd say, 30 years or so, the world has been relatively isolated.
This journal raises the question: how did this journal make it here to begin with? These materials in my bag were obviously from the west —the forgotten lands known for their lush, incredibly dangerous fauna. It's the only place we can find mahogany and high-quality vines like these. The mystery grew tenfold.
I racked my brain endlessly, yet no accurate answers could manifest. It was a monumental mystery: this land was so far up to the north that a week-old journal being here was just impossible, but then it hit me —I've been travelling for a while, so the journal must have been even younger when I first got it. There is a reason behind my slight amnesia. How did I find this bag? Clearly, it's mine; there is a sense of nostalgia in it, that much I'm sure of.