The forge looks like any other.
That’s how the old knowledge survives.

The rarest blades are forged with sidereal metal.
They can bind things better left unnamed.
Most adventurers still do fine with good steel.

Caravans stop at the Boar King before facing the gates. Messengers wait for daylight.
Those turned away for their bearing, their origins, or their refusal to pay the sergeant’s price find, when night falls, that this is the only door still open to them.

The Boar King stands just outside Bardenfell’s gates.
When they are shut, the sign welcomes late travelers for the night.

Travelers still slow down when they reach it.
Some touch the stone before moving on.
No one remembers why.

Old powers don’t disappear when their influence fades. They linger as habits, superstitions, and small acts of caution.

Narramor is a land of intrigues, corporations, rival houses, forgotten places and buried schemes, but also of safe havens, stubborn kindness, and fragile beauty.

Most adventurers arrives unremarkable.
Poorly equipped. Slightly afraid. And hoping that today won’t be the day everything goes wrong.

Factions rule through rigid hierarchies, unchanged for generations.
Power resists. The world endures.
Until enough people begin pushing in the same direction.
Then even the oldest structures start to crack.

Ancient ruins stand where they have stood for centuries, silent witnesses to countless failed ambitions and a few accidental victories.

Not everything becomes legend.
But nothing truly disappears.

A single deed is unlikely to doom the world.
Or save it.
Which is probably for the best.