Changes from Previous Epoch
New default skins: Sailors and Settlers
Towny cost re-balances in effect
Epoch dates
4/5/24 - 7/5/24
Goals for this Epoch
Grow our active player base!
Get more active discussion about future changes!
Expand the server lore!
The Age of Arrival
The salty tang of the harbor spilled through the open door of Ol’ Man Eldred’s Sundries and Supplies, carrying with it the rasp of the wind and the scent of sun-bleached driftwood. Two figures, weathered like the harbor flotsam, entered, their faces grim and dust-crusted from travel.
Eldred, a man whose joints creaked like the shop’s floorboards, pushed himself up from his stool behind the counter. The taller woman, her eyes as hard and blue as a winter sky and her braid as thick as his wrist, gave a curt nod.
“Supplies,” she rasped, her voice a heron’s cry against the creaking sign above the door as she handed him a list.
He shuffled around the shop, gathering their order: water, rations, canvas for repairs. His gaze flickered to the map the younger man clutched, a worried crease etching his brow. The map depicted the jagged teeth of the southeastern coastline, a bold red line marking their intended path.
“Heading for trouble, are you?” Eldred rumbled, tossing a coil of thick rope onto the counter.
The woman shot him a sharp look. “Trouble follows us,” she said, her voice laced with a bitterness that spoke of battles fought and loved ones lost. “War back in the west. These people got no choice but to find a new start.”
Eldred grunted, a low rumble in his chest. “There’s land aplenty down south, fertile valleys untouched by war. But those lands come with their own dangers.”
The woman scoffed. “Dangers we faced plenty. Heard whispers of ruins down there, an old city called…” she nudged the younger man.
“Zillamon,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
“Aye, Zillamon,” Eldred said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. “Grand city it was once, built by a civilization that worshiped a right trickster of a god – a fox-devil they called it.”
“Gods and devils,” the woman scoffed, a flicker of doubt crossing her hardened features for a brief moment. “Just stories to scare children.”
Eldred shook his head, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “Stories hold a sliver of truth, miss. Zillamon, it stands there still, a crumbling monument to a mercurial power. But it remains empty. No man, no creature, dares settle there. The magic of that devil, it lingers, a curse upon the land.”
The younger man’s face paled, but the woman’s jaw clenched tighter. “We ain’t got much choice, do we?” she said, her voice flat but her eyes burning with a desperate defiance. “War or a cursed city. Seems like a choice between the frying pan and the fire, wouldn’t you say, Old Man?”
Eldred studied them, these weary souls driven from their homes by war, seeking refuge in a land shrouded in dark legends. “Mayhap.” he said, his voice gruff but laced with a grudging respect.
The settlers bustled on the deck of the “Wind Chaser,” a cacophony of hope and worry. Their faces, etched with the harsh lines of a life spent battling the elements and their fellow man, held a glimmer of desperation as they steered their meager belongings towards the cursed city of Zillamon.
Captain Haddock, a man whose beard rivaled the sea foam in its whiteness, gripped the weathered railing of the ship’s quarterdeck. Beside him, his first mate, a lean woman named Nessa, scanned the approaching coastline with a practiced eye.
“Looks like Eldred wasn’t exaggerating,” Nessa muttered, pointing towards the horizon. A towering spire, obsidian and sharp as a serpent’s fang, pierced the sky. As they drew closer, a colossal, half-buried statue emerged from the forest – a monstrous form with the head of a fox and a malevolent grin peering from behind its lava-flow covered face. The rest of the city sprawled before them, a labyrinth of crumbling buildings and one towering spire, all bathed in an oppressive silence.
“Mara be kind,” one of the sailors murmured, his voice barely a whisper above the creak of the ship. A palpable sense of unease settled over the deck.
Haddock forced a smile, though his stomach churned. “Prepare to disembark quickly, folks. We can’t stay here long. Nessa, do some soundings before nightfall.” He nodded at Nessa, a pre-arranged signal.
She understood. They weren’t here for sightseeing. Their job was to deliver the settlers and get the hell out. Zillamon held no charm for them, cursed or not. Once the settlers were off-loaded the crew would set sail to unload their belongings at a different destination. One where the merchants didn’t mind so much where the goods came from.
“Settlers will disembark immediately once we arrive, the crew will unload your supplies on the dock, organize yourselves to receive them.” Nessa barked down at the deck.
As the ship approached the shore, the ruins of a dock loomed into view, its wooden planks long devoured by time and salt. The settlers, their faces a mixture of fear and determination, began preparing themselves to disembark on the deck.
Gresh, a tall and wiry man weathered by road and plow, with peppered brown hair newly seasoned by sea-salt, re-assured his fellow settlers.
“Nearly there, folks! Soon we’ll be ashore with our hands in the dirt again!” The journey had not been kind to the settlers. Many families had lost members to the war before setting out, and more were lost to sickness and looters along the way.
He reached out to slap the back of another settler. “All this time and still haven’t found your sea legs yet?” The older man’s face was pale, as it often had been, his knuckles white as he clutched to one of the ropes securing his belongings.
Gresh had lost his own wife and two children in one of the first raids of the war and found his place among these refugees. Being one of the few men still young enough to fight, even if only just, meant he had earned the respect of his fellow refugees on the roads of their homeland, defending them from looters more than once. The older man smiled back at Gresh, who’s nerve steeled his own.
Suddenly, a sickening jolt ran through the ship. Haddock cursed, his grip tightening on the railing. As the ship gave a mighty groan and lurched “Nessa! What…”
“Reef!” Nessa yelled back, her voice tight with panic. “We’ve hit a damn reef!”
The ship moaned in protest, listing sharply to one side. The settlers screamed, scrambling for purchase on the tilting deck. Haddock fought to regain control, the wheel spinning uselessly in his hands. The “Wind Chaser” was caught, its hull scraping against the unforgiving coral.
The skies began to darken as if the evening sun had suddenly been snuffed out. The crashing of the ships hull against the reef was dwarfed by bone rattling thunder. A storm has set upon them in minutes, many of the leathery faces of sailors began to twist in horror, the settlers panic and circumstance causing their own superstitions to awaken and claw at their guts like beasts.
Sailors scrambled to regain control on the chaotic deck, settlers struggling to hold on as the ship began to lurch against the reef in the angry storm surge. Supplies snapped free of their restraints and slid freely across the deck, crushing, concussing, and throwing settlers and sailors overboard.
Hair and tunic already matted to his skin from the fiendish torrent assaulting them, Gresh tore desperately at the wrists of one of the settlers who had been thrown across the deck. The leather-tough muscles in the man’s back strained until it felt like his very fibers would tear, but he could not lift her over the side of the ship.
A wave, larger than any they’d encountered on the journey, rose from the churning sea. It crashed down upon the ship, the force of it snapping the main mast like a twig. Haddock watched in horror as the broken mast came crashing down, pinning crew members beneath its splintered bulk.
Two familiar worn sandals appeared on the deck next to Gresh and before he could look up he felt the strain of the woman’s weight begin to ease. John, the pale-faced man, his eyes burning white-hot with the fire of reforged steel, had laid on the deck next to him, planting his feet against the railing to pull with every ounce of strength left in his aging frame.
The deck was in chaos. The settlers, their dreams of a new beginning shattered, fought for survival. Haddock, his heart hammering against his ribs, knew they were in a desperate situation. Stuck on the cusp of the cursed city, with a raging storm surrounding them, their escape, and perhaps their lives, hung in the balance.
As they pulled the woman onto the deck Gresh felt his stomach falling into a pit. He was not educated in the ways of sailing, but he knew the hearts of men, and the crew had given in to their base instincts. Every massive wave that pounded the ship’s hull against the coral sent another wave of panic through everyone on board the ship, sailors desperate to regain control of the vessel at any cost were pushing settlers out of the way - and overboard - to clear the deck.
Before Gresh could get to his feet the deck dropped from below him with a bone shattering crash. Her back broken, the “Wind Chaser” was now little more than debris.
The storm had finally expended its fury, leaving behind a scene of devastation. The once proud “Wind Chaser” lay broken on the jagged teeth of the reef, waves gnawing at its splintered hull like hungry beasts. The stench of salt, seaweed, and something far more unsettling – death – filled the air.
A handful of survivors clung to the wreckage, the storm having tossed them onto the unforgiving shore like so much flotsam. Among them were the settlers, their faces etched with a mixture of grief and grim determination. Gone were the dreams of a peaceful new beginning; now, their sole focus was survival.
Gresh, propped up against a crate and nursing a badly mangled leg, surveyed the wreckage – broken crates spewed their contents onto the sand, a tangled mess of clothing, tools, and half-eaten rations. Some settlers, their faces pinched with desperation, waded through the debris, salvaging anything that might be of use.
But a different scene played out by a piece of the broken hull. Several figures, unmistakably sailors by their swagger and the crude tattoos that marred their skin, rifled through the pockets of the deceased. Their faces, devoid of any trace of sorrow, wore only avarice. Their leader, a knotted and muscular woman with a cruel opportunistic glint in her eyes, sneered at a young woman clutching a dented pot.
“That ain’t yours, girly,” Nessa growled, reaching for the pot. “Everything washin’ up belongs to my crew.”
“But… it’s mine!” the woman protested, her voice trembling. “It was all I could salvage from the storm.”
The other sailors laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed across the desolate beach. John approached them, his weathered face and fickle nerves hardened with anger.
“Leave her be, Nessa,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “These folks lost everything. Ain’t right to pick on them when they’re down.”
Nessa scoffed. “Lost everything, have they? Well, seems that we oughtta be the ones who find it then.” She stooped and pulled a large, crude, golden ring from the hand of the dead captain. Putting it on her own hand she sneered at the older man “We’ve got no use for charity cases in this crew. Go and tell your people the strong ones can join up, the rest of ya can shove off - and don’t touch our supplies!” She stepped forward, hand on the hilt of her cutlass, daring the man to challenge her.
John’s hands wrung, his knuckles turning white. The tension crackled in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. The survivors, sensing the brewing conflict, gathered closer, their gazes darting between John and the belligerent sailors.
“We can share what we find,” John said, forcing a smile. “There’s enough for everyone if we cooperate. These ruins are rumored to hold something of value, didn’t you know?”
“Now why,” she spat. “would we share anything like that with you lot?” She nodded to the sailors beside her, who stared dead-eyed at John, ready to tear the man apart at her word. “We should gut you right here and take everything, seeing as how you’re the reason we’re in this mess!” The remaining sailors had gathered behind her and now roared in approval.
John nodded curtly, knowing full well he was a walking a knife edge. “Someone among us knows where to look for the secrets here.” He crossed his arms, an outward display of confidence that hid his violently rattling inner nerves. “If you start gutting people now, you’ll never find the treasure.”
Nessa considered this for a moment, her eyes narrowed. “And what if I gut just one?” She leered at him, her eyes dripping with malevolence, her displeasure at being challenged hanging in the air like miasma.
John remained silent. The air was thick with death and the sour notes of sickness. Settlers shuffled nervously as the dark, insidious aura of violence radiated from Nessa.
“Alright.” She said, the pressure suddenly lifting from the chest of every settler. “You lot get to setting up our camp, we’re gatherin’ all the supplies.” John clenched his jaw but remained silent. “Fires, tent, torches, and start work on a clearing. No telling what beasts will come out of that place at night.” She barked past John now, to the settlers behind who were eager to be away from the tension.
The storm had passed, but the survivors faced another challenge – surviving the same treachery and human greed they had fled in their homeland, now amidst the ruins of a cursed city. In the shadow of the crumbling statue of the fox-devil, a new battle was about to begin, a fight not just for survival, but for what remained of their humanity.