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Long ago, in the shadowy corridors of forgotten ages, the world of Baltun’ia trembled beneath the boots of Rangrim the Conqueror.
From the cold, jagged heights of the Mimfjell mountains, the dwarves plotted in silence. Their strongholds, carved deep into the living stone, became crucibles of invention and ambition. For decades, they tunneled ever downward, deeper than any had dared—piercing the crust of the world in search of something more than wealth. Whispers in the dark spoke of ancient power. Of forbidden veins of magic. Of forgotten truths etched into the bones of the earth.
It was there that Master Asprit Pemcage, an old sage cloaked in starlight and secrecy, emerged from the wandering east. He warned the dwarves of the creeping rot—the slow seep of greed that had begun to pool at the heart of Rangrim’s realm. But no ears listened. The forges roared louder than reason.
Rangrim’s engineers, visionary and ruthless, built machines that could bore through mantle and magma, carving paths no creature was meant to tread. From the depths came glittering wonders—gemstones that glowed with inner fire, metals light as feathers and hard as truth, and compounds unknown to any alchemist. Dwarven trade exploded like a struck vein, flooding the markets of Baltun with riches beyond imagining. Cities across the continent became dependent on these gifts. Cultures shifted. Thrones bent. Coin became covenant.
The most prized treasures were never sold, but offered—to Dukes, Knights, and courtly houses hungry for prestige. A pact sealed not in ink, but in desire. Quietly, Rangrim sowed allegiance. One by one, the monarchies of Baltun were unmade, not by sword, but by favor. Until the kingdoms were but puppets—and the strings led back to the Deep Halls.
Then came the eve of the Hollow’s Festival.
On that night, the skies above the mountains burned blue. The earth split with a sound like a god weeping. And from the heart of Dwarvendom, Rangrim unleashed his war. Towering machines, belching fire and wielding energy unknown, marched across the land. Villages were cinders before dawn. Palaces crumbled beneath the thunder of steel titans. Magic failed. Resistance shattered.
By the time the sun next rose, Rangrim ruled all lands from the crashing coasts of the Westfront to the green shores of the Verdant Isles. This was no alliance. This was dominion. The Age of Dwarven Rule had begun.
For centuries, Rangrim’s bloodline reigned with an iron grip, strangling culture and will beneath their golden throne. In the mountains, they drilled ever deeper. In the margins, the free peoples whispered and waited.
And then—they rose.
It began at the edges: a flicker of rebellion, a breath of hope. A crack in the stone. The drills faltered. The mountains trembled. And from the cracks poured fury. The Revolt of the Free Peoples erupted, shaking the world to its roots. Within a generation, Rangrim's empire collapsed. The throne was cast down. The shackles broken. And Baltun’ia breathed again.
Out of the ashes, a new order formed. Monarchies gave way to councils, to republics and federations. The memory of oppression became the foundation of freedom. The dwarves were not destroyed—but humbled. Their power shattered. Their pride scarred. Reparations were demanded. Forgiveness, only partially granted.
Peace followed, fragile but true.
The land blossomed. Cities rose anew. Trade flowed like rivers, and across the oceans came new sails—ships bearing strange men and women from distant shores. The humans had arrived.
They brought fresh customs, new creeds, and the weight of distant empires. What began as colonies soon became cities, and then citizens. Until one day, the ships simply… stopped. The connection severed. The humans remained, and Baltun’ia changed again. Their presence spread like ink in water—blending into every culture, reshaping every region. A Fourth Age dawned.
Gone were the armies. In their place, scholars debated the ethics of conquest. Clerics preached unity. Mages refined the arcane. A golden peace endured—long enough for the world to forget that peace is not a promise, but a pause.
Then came the day the sky split.
In the heart of Felenthor, the fourth month of the year, a great tremor rattled the bones of the continent. From deep below, a burst of blue light exploded into the heavens—so bright it was seen from sea to sea. Where it touched the land, it left a wound. A gash across the continent’s center. And from it came ripples—unseen, unheard, but unmistakably felt.
Old machines stirred.
The Automatons—long-dead constructs, forged in the forgotten eons—awakened. And they were not mindless. They spoke. They dreamed. They learned. Some cast spells with the precision of an elf. Others built and painted like gnomish artisans. Some wept. Some killed.
Fear swept the land.
Some blamed the Automatons. Others the gnomes, for their endless tinkering. Still others whispered of the dwarves, once again digging too deep.
Whatever the cause, the world began to unravel. Magic—once stable and studied—fractured. A simple charm might cause frostbite. A healing prayer might birth flame. Spells twisted, turned, and tore through reality with unpredictable force. Magic had become… wild.
Now, Baltun’ia teeters on a new precipice.
Prejudices simmer. Factions rise. Cities split from within. New alliances form in shadows and light alike. The world is no longer as it was—and it may never be again.
And so it is, in this time of uncertainty, as the old world cracks and the new one struggles to be born, that you find yourselves here.
Adventurers. Wanderers. Scholars. Outcasts. Champions. Fools.
Whatever you are, the world awaits your story. So I ask of you these simple questions:
What songs will be sung of you, travelers of Baltun’ia?
What legends will bear your names?