Somewhere on Summalt, a lone, female Kenku darted through the lengthening shadows. On the surface, the city seemed just as lively as before, but Arocle knew better. From the way the city sat lower in the sky to the clipped way the council members talked to the slight tremors that made their way through the island every once and again, things were wrong. No matter how much everyone pretended, tensions were high under the calm, cheerful mask.

Still, it seemed as though people were trying to forget what had happened but a few months ago. Approaching a loud and rowdy bar, she covered her beak against the stink of alcohol. How people found pleasure in the drink, Arocle had no idea. 

Out of a desire to maintain her sanity tonight, she tried to make her way past the establishment without interacting with the patrons. But quite unluckily, the door was rather rudely thrown open in her face just as she crossed, nearly hitting her in the beak. 

“If you can’t pay, kitty cat, then get out!” The words are tossed out into the crisp evening air, along with an extremely disgruntled Tabaxi rogue. The latter scrambled to his feet indignantly, all ruffled fur and raised hackles. Arocle backed away as he shouted back, “I swear those dice are weighted! ____ never loses, you hear that?!”

“Oh sure, sure, talk all you want.” She heard someone inside the bar scoff as she sidestepped around the man. Faulty dice, huh. Any other day, she would have simply brushed off the comment as the ramblings of a sore loser, but given that the Goblin’s god, Yl, had perished recently…

It certainly doesn’t bode well. And with that, she quickened her steps, hoping to reach her destination sooner rather than later.

It seemed like hours had passed when Arocle finally made it to her archives, located behind the room where she had posed as the Seer of Summalt. On a different day, she would have found the familiar, papery smell of the room calming. But not today. Closing the heavy oaken door behind her, she hurried toward the room’s little secret alcove. Reaching into the dim, dusty space, she seized the papers inside and brought them into the flickering candlelight.

Arocle skimmed the pages briefly, reading her hurried notes. These were from the last visions she had had before she left Summalt to see what was really going on. Her ominous scribbles about gigantic bugs, a dark emperor, living dead, and more, were all barely readable, even to her. 

However, it’s not her terrible handwriting that concerned her. These visions…never came true. Arocle mused, running her finger under one of the sentences. Which really should be impossible. Her visions were always right – they always came to be, one way or another. So why-

Enough. Arocle shook her head, firmly, as if she could banish her misgivings with that simple action. The enemies were dead. She had seen their defeat herself, played a part in that final battle. Ritenus had entered an era of peace. It would do no good to tell anyone about these old things. 

Nevertheless, she couldn’t quite bring herself to get rid of the papers. Perhaps, one day, they’d have a use. Instead, she settled for locking them away in a heavy metal safe, never to see the light of day again. As the lock clicked into place, Arocle finally breathed a sigh of relief. At last, the last bits of these horrible few months were taken care of. She turned away, ready to tidy up the front room to look presentable again. The Seer was back in business.

A fire mysteriously broke out in Summalt that night. No matter how thoroughly the matter was investigated, no source was ever found. Thankfully, it was contained easily and the damage was light. Yet Arocle couldn’t shake off a feeling of unease when she heard the news the next morning. As soon as she could, she made her way through the winding tunnels underneath the floating island until she reached her archive room. Throwing open the door, she felt crushing relief when she spotted the familiar racks of papers, safe and sound. There was no hint of smoke in the air, no singed pages. It seemed the fire hadn’t made its way here.

Yet still, Arocle couldn’t relax fully. Making her way to the back, she picked up the safe she had sealed just yesterday. It is better to be safe than sorry, she muses, looking it over. At first glance, nothing seems to be amiss, the box still as secure as before.

But when she unlocked the box, she caught a sudden whiff of smoke.

Impossible, she thought. The rest of the room, filled with dry and brittle paper, is untouched.

Even so, Arocle found her hands shaking as she opened the door of the safe.

The papers inside were burnt to ashes.

Somewhere, deep and dark and old, there was a snap, no, a clatter, like dice being rolled on a stone table. The sound rang out into the nothingness all around. With nothing to reflect off of, it simply continued, growing fainter, and fainter, till it all but disappeared.

Then slowly, achingly slowly, rivulets of iridescent liquid appeared, weaving their way through the darkness. As they carved new trails, the streams grew wider and faster, ripping through the space until each was a river in its own right. They trailed off into the distance, as if chasing the sound that had disappeared. 

Yet there was one strange thing about the rivers, that you might have noticed if you were, somehow, there.

They never touched.

It was an aggressively sunny day in the Orosea Isles. Birds chirped, bees buzzed, sellers shouted and passersby chattered. The busy market was practically stuffed with animalfolk – after all, it’s the first market day in Algacis in months. It’s no surprise, then, that no one noticed the small Kenku child who slipped out of the shadows, sidled up to the nearest fruit stand, and stole some grapes before calmly waddling away. 

Grapes! The little Kenku’s face broke into a wide smile as he popped some into his mouth. Tasty! As he nibbled and walked, he glanced around the market street. There were animalfolk everywhere, haggling with merchants and browsing wares. Look at them, he thought. Shopping without a care in the world. An outsider would find it hard to believe that the world nearly ended just a month ago. Not that he knew anything about that particular event – no, no, right now he was just Punkiedory, the very, very, very, ordinary Kenku. 

And he was out on a mission! Sida and Cae wanted some advice from Tor Avitpaxu, but they were soooo busy patching up the fabric of reality that they had sent him instead. Not that he minded – at least he wasn’t grounded anymore after the…incident…with the adventurers. 

Hmm, I wonder how they’re doing… Punkiedory pondered if he had enough time to go find some of them after his little errand. He supposed not…and he’d better not push his luck. Being grounded sucks.

It’s not long before he found himself in the great temple in the center of the city, right in front of the ginormous statue of Tor Avitpaxu. It’s not a half-bad depiction, he supposes. Could use a few more wrinkles though… But he wasn’t here to criticize the sculptors. Now if he just stepped here, and did this, he should- 

Floomp! 

As he stepped forward, the world suddenly shifted and swirled most unpleasantly, and then all of a sudden the world snapped back into focus. Trying very hard not to stumble, Punkiedory(or, he supposed, he should call himself Pupsilludo now) narrowly avoided beak planting into the soft green grass of Tor Avitpaxu’s plane.

Traveling to other planes is always the worst… Dusting himself off, Pupsilludo took a minute to orient himself. The home of the Tortle god was always an idyllic sight. There were rolling fields dotted with trees, perpetually fluffy white clouds, and a bright sun above. Off to his left, he spotted a meandering river filled with shimmering water, lazily winding its way through the landscape. 

Aha! There it was, the River of Time! Now if he just followed it in that direction, he should eventually find Tor Avitpaxu…

And so, with a little hop and a skip, Pupsilludo was on his way. After a while, he finally found the Tortle god sitting under a willow tree. Pupsilludo was about to call out when he realized that the older god seemed to be quite focused on…something in the River. That meant it was the perfect time to pull a prank! 

But before he could even figure out what prank to pull (maybe he could drop down from the tree?) the older god turned around, as if he had sensed Pupsilludo’s devious plans. “Little one?” Tor Avitpaxu raised one white-haired eyebrow. “What brings you here?”

“Oh!” Drat. Caught, Pupsilludo slumped a little and twiddled his feathers, waddling forward dejectedly. But no, no, he was on a mission. “Well, Sida and Cae sent me over to ask you…” However, he trailed off before he could finish his sentence, eyes drawn toward the strange, ever shifting images in the water. Was Tor Avitpaxu watching something? It seemed likely enough, as it wouldn’t be the first time the older god had watched the exploits of mortals. Yet as he looked closer, his blood turned icy cold.

One of the pictures showed a bloodstained world, a huge monster consuming all it saw. As he watched, another creature – so small in comparison to the beast grasping it! – was popped into the creature’s ravenous maw. 

In another, Yuan-ti raided villages as a cackling figure stood proudly on a pile of bodies in the background. There was a flash of light, a torch, perhaps, and all of a sudden the world was on fire, flames so hot and bright that Pupsilludo worried his feathers would somehow get singed.

The last image showed giant buzzing insects on every surface. Although the image was soundless, Pupsilludo could practically hear the droning of their wings. Briefly, he noticed a figure pop up out of the water in the image – but only for a second, as the insects descended on it and ripped it apart.

Pupsilludo felt a shiver run down his little spine as he tore his eyes away. What in the world did he just see? Those things were the stuff of his nightmares – and he was a god! As he glanced to the side, he found the Tortle god watching him with strangely sad eyes.

He wouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t ask. His siblings always told him to stay out of things, to stop poking his beak in places where it didn’t belong. But, but, buuut –

“What are you doing?” Oh, now he’s really done it. Why oh why oh why did he have to ask?! Pupsilludo bet his feathers that he would get in so much trouble once he went back home. 

“Hmm?” Tor Avitpaxu seemed almost confused for a second before he turned back to the river. “Ah, right.” As Pupsilludo watched, the images shifted, swirled, changed. Now he saw wild animals attacking emancipated animalfolk, not to kill, but for sport. If he looked closely, he thought he could count the ribs on the closest one. Now he saw a world of eternal darkness, filled with withered plants. Now he saw a dead and rotting world filled with the corpses of Firbolgs. Instinctively, Pupsilludo placed a hand over his beak, even though Tor Avitpaxu’s realm only smelled like green grass and sunshine.

“What are these?” Pupsilludo asked again, quietly. The images were horrible, yes, but also captivating in a grotesque way. And, at the very least, he didn’t seem to be in trouble yet. 

“Ways the world could have ended.” Tor Avitpaxu told him, solemn and calm as ever. “All possibilities are contained within the River. Had one of the six usurpers won, Ritenus would have been destroyed. And if any more of us had died…” A light breeze blew over the river, flipping the scenes in it once again. Now there were scenes of war, silhouetted against lightning bolts and explosions and a world being ripped apart by nature itself. Of burning libraries, thick black smoke filling the air, and bounties placed on the heads of those that dared to learn. Of walking dead and living nightmares. But what scared him most of all was the form in the foreground. Because it…it looked like him, but sadder and older and meaner. He dreaded knowing what had made future-him that way. Tor Avitpaxu followed his gaze and continued, “Well, the world would have survived, but we would have had quite the predicament on our hands.”

“Of course,” the older god watched Pupsilludo’s expression carefully, “The other possibilities will disappear with time. The River simply won’t tolerate it. Soon, there will only be one path forward…” Turning, Tor Avitpaxu’s eyes crinkled into a kind smile. “So count yourself lucky, little bird, that you saw what could have been.” One wrinkly old hand came down to pat Pupsilludo on the head. “And be glad you live in this reality, alright?”

Pupsilludo nodded, considerably more somber. After all, if any of those worlds had come to be, there would have been no time for tricks and pranks and other fun things! He liked the mortals who took time to play with him, thank you very much. 

“Ah, but you aren’t just here to listen to an old god talk.” Patting the ground next to him,Tor Avitpaxu gave Pupsilludo a questioning glance. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh right!” Pupsilludo had almost forgotten! “You see, Sida and Cae want to know…”

And as the two gods talked, the river flowed on, and on, and on beside them, sweeping away the dark images in swirls of gold.

Kaede Lightfoot scouts ahead. The island of Trinka had been devastated by the decline of magic over the year the adventurers had taken to restore a new World Dragon. Even now, five years later, the spores from the mushrooms that had thrived from the decaying plant life fill the air with a gauzy light. Her dappled fur matches the shadows beneath the trees, but the scarf she has had to tie around her face is bright red.

Stealth is not her goal, however. She wouldn’t have the advantage in this forest, anyhow.

No one knows why, but the Firbolgs disappeared after the World Dragon ascended. Not much was known about the mysterious gentle giants, but Kaede had heard the rumors. Of how a Firbolg Revolt after the Laxavis Wars had driven out all the loggers, but not a single person had been injured. Of a rare recluse of a Firbolg who sought after the High Council to help in saving the forest during the Chaos Year, but was rejected. The remains of the abandoned port city is overgrown with trees and ivy now, barely recognizable as a civilized habitation. But with the Firbolg no longer present to defend their forests, unsavory speculations made their way onto the island.

With her contacts in X Society, Kaede was able to learn that a party had gone to uproot some of the most ancient trees on Trinka and, despite the power in their numbers, had disappeared without a trace.

Curiosity has always been a failing for Kaede, but this… this was too much to resist.

Halfway through composing a song about the vanished Firbolg, she stops in her tracks.

Trees were big on Trinka, but this one had gotten BIG. And the strangest part wasn’t its size, but the lichen and mushrooms growing around it. These had grown in such size that it felt like Kaede was walking through a forest made of frilled umbrellas. It made it hard to breathe.

She barely even notices the hole at the bottom of the tree where animals of every sort gather. These creatures do not seem to mind the heaviness of the spores. Instead, they sit around in a small semi-circle around the hole the way little tabaxi would sit around a storyteller. They do not notice her crouch closer to see what is inside.

A kobold appears, bright red against the natural greens and browns. Kaede jumps, the familiar face more shocking than what they carry: a leaf-wrapped bundle shaped like a seed. The kobold looks up, proud of what she carries only to see Kaede doing a little wave from behind a giant mushroom stalk.

“Glory be, is that Ms. Lightfoot?”

“Hi, Kov, what brings you here?”

“Oh this and that” She hefts the seed in their arms and shoos away some critters who try to help him lift it. “Places to be. Come along, it has been too long.”

Kaede follows her old friend out of the copse of mushroom stalks and towards a mountain threshold. It isn’t hard to get her old friend to tell his story. They look well, the little tremor in his hands not as noticeable as it used to be. He carries the seed-shaped package carefully, as if it was a bowl full of water instead of an unsprouted plant. 

“Last I heard,” begins Kaede, “you were at the High Council’s dissolution. Weren’t you about to become the first Kobold representative?”

Kovri snorts. “Best they could find was a kobold raised by Tabaxi to represent the entire genera. The whole council was corrupt; it would have been an insult to accept the position. Nothing would change. It was better to take the kobold issues to the Library’s remaining elders. What that monster had done to my people…” Kovri bares her teeth in an angry grimace. “It still bothers me that some part of that creature escaped.

“Speaking of which, did you keep an eye on that thing I asked before we last saw eachother?”

Kaede’s whiskers droop, guilt tinging her words. “I did look, but I didn’t hear word of your parents. Maybe Link had better luck, but I haven’t heard anything from him.”

The usual energy Kovri exudes dims just enough for her to slow his pace. “I shouldn’t have hoped for much. But things will be what things will be. Come, I have much to show you.”

They stop at the foot of a wide cavern, the base of one of the mountains known as the “the Pebble.” No written records were left of the Firbolg society, but traders who engaged with them for special herbs did mark locations on the island based on what the Firbolgs themselves called things. Usually, a large river would be marked as, “Trickle,” or the lake at the center of the island, “the Puddle.” Firbolgs had a strange concept of size.

Kovri steps into the cavern and a strange glow spreads from her footsteps, making an iridescent blue-green path deeper into the cavern.

“What are you doing here, of all places?”

“Funny thing. Door Door Travel brought me here. We’d been experimenting, you see, ever since the World Dragon broke the pathways. I expected to find some kobolds, as usual, but what I discovered was even stranger.”

At the end of the cavern, Kaede sees lights dance in the air, much like the spores did in the forest. A small child, not much bigger than Kovri, runs down one of the paths. The child has an eerie furlessness to their limbs and fire for hair. It dances over their eyebrows and burns bright on their lashes. Kovri speaks in an unusual tongue to the creature and it laughs and bounds away.

“What is that creature?” asks Kaede.

“They call themselves Genasi, people of the elements. No claws, funnily enough.”

“That isn’t… I’ve never heard of such a people.”

Kovri smiles, a secret burning in their eyes. “Trust me. You’ll be wanting to save saying that for later.”

As they turn another corner in the path, Kaede tries not to suck in her breath.

“I can’t–how in the world–”

“There was something I learned while going through the High Council records. It seems we were not the only plane of existence that had a bit of trouble with the Chaos Year. And a group of adventurers was sent to solve this problem, only they ran into a little problem themselves…”

“I can imagine if this… I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“No,” said Kovri definitively. “You’re not. Welcome to a new world, Kaede Lightfoot. One that is only just beginning.”

Below them, in the expanse of a cavern the size of New Keteratonik, a city of mushrooms glows beneath them, strange people made of light interacting with limbed myconids, flying creatures without wings darting between towers that glittered in that same iridescent blue. The child that Kovri had sent off was returning, a mythic Firbolg tottering after them with careful, slow steps. They greet Kovri with a gentle nod, tears filling their eyes as Kovri passes the seedling to them. A little hand peeks out of the wrapped leaves, fresh as new grass. As Kovri chatters in strange languages, Kaede steps to the edge of the cliff overhanging the glittering city and pulls down her mask. As she breathes in the spores, she feels something move in her mind. An inclination, a feeling. Then, a greeting out of nowhere.

“Hello, Traveler. Welcome to Capetella. How can we help you?”

A new world, indeed.

The twilight sky falls into night again, strange constellations pricking the darkness. The smell of persimmons and orange trees permeate the air as a winged paladin pulls his blade from the body of a dead fox spirit. He kneels over the body, the scab-like scales of his armor shifting unnaturally with his movement. Almost as if it is alive.

“No blood. Damned gods.” At his words, the other member of his party looks over at him: an aaracokra with half his red-tipped feathers burnt off and barely growing back, a frying pan tucked under one wing.

“Long toothed demons, no taste. No good. Ring says we move on.” The red-feathered aaraocokra’s voice is raspy from overuse. “What’s that? No, food not here. World Dragon…”

The other aaracokra’s eyes glazes over as he looks at the sky. There is no moon in this sky, let alone a World Dragon curved into a crescent like a maggot exposed to the light. Athaeos the Willbreaker lets his companion rest and lets his senses spread across the plains of Sidastrea’s domain, seeking that taste of evil that is both noxious and intoxicating. He needs another kill. Something with blood this time and a soul that doesn’t try to wriggle away from his blade.

But instead, he senses a celestial being hovering close by, a subtlety to its essence that reminds him of a small kenku child he had once known–an irritating little god.

A crow caws to the north. It settles on a dead branch only to be followed by another and another until the tree, barren of leaves, is coated in iridescent black wings and beady eyes.

“Feathers. Snack.” The insane Berel Helder begins to chant a spell, but Athaeos clamps his beak shut mid-recitation.

“Stop hiding, you pitiful god. We know you’re there.”

Several of the crows burst from the branches and fly towards the pair of aaracokra, coalescing into a thin figure draped in star-dipped robes.

“State your purpose. I don’t have time for the likes of you.”

But you have enough time to hunt my wards? The voice rings in his head. Much like…

“You talk like her, like the little omelet! I will devour you!” Berel pushes past Athaeos and dives with a fork at the star-robed figure. Before he can reach her, a single finger stretches out from the robes and taps the aaracokra’s forehead. He falls limp to the ground.

Athaeos readies his stance, sword drawn. “Who are you and what did you do to him?”

I am the guardian of this place. Some say goddess, others call me the Silent Sister. No matter, I am Sidastrea, twin to Bcaesorr and cousin to Pupsilludo. You need not fear for your friend. He is simply dreaming.

Athaeos does not relax his guard. “You are one those who kept your distance while thousands died at the hand of Tt’bok’yul. If I had my way, all of you who hid from his crimes should perish into oblivion.”

There is time enough for that. I am not one who sees the future, but I can see the balance of the world and that balance has been tipping one way for far too long. There will be a day you see the scales tip in your favor, young one. After all… With silent speed, the goddess of dreams is before Athaeos, her long beak dark as night and her eyes full of swirling images that Athaeos knows all too well.

It is not all gods whose death you seek… Just one.

A vision of a fire glints in her eyes, the curl of red against a vast spread of wings that burn the sky. 

What will you give me if I hand you the one who kills your people when they reach the beginning of their adulthood? Will you offer me an oath, Oathbreaker?

Athaeos hesitates. Sidastrea, this goddess who harbors the pitiful and the weak, the hungry and the worst of the outcast gods, has read his dreams. He should feel insulted, angry, but the memory of the last time he set foot in the Phoenix’s temple is still festering in his mind. The open sky where the remains of those he had loved were nothing but ash drifting across a white field clouds. The children who never know their parents’ names. His own life, destined to be a sacrifice against his choice. All because of one god and one promise.

But to trust another one of these gods? Even one as despicable as this?

As he wavers, the goddess extends her hand. In its palm, he sees the one thing that can change his mind. A weapon that could pierce the heart of any beast, even one burning with an eternal flame.

And he nods.

Chromatic energy continued to pulse out from the bell tower as Toorilkov leaped out of the closest window; his grandfather’s sword grasped firmly in his hand. As he feather-fell towards the scorched earth, supernatural things continued to happen all around. An arid smell filled his nostrils as the surrounding sea turned green and acidic. He could only float and watch as the whole army and all of their mighty warships melted down in an instant. Hundreds of warriors, his friends, his brothers and sisters, gone…  just like that. 

His kind; the Yuan-ti, were always pinned as “the bad guys, the aggressors”. Well this mass murder at the hands of the new World Dragon was cheered and celebrated. Toorilkov was now one of the last of his kind. The others: Trasta and her “pacifists” also celebrated this tragedy. In his eyes, he was the last of his kind. The few Yuan-ti that made it off the ships continued to be mauled and gunned down by the library’s golems and Trasta’s Tau’s.

Many pangs of sadness were felt, but this next one hurt the most. The white blade of the sword turned a crimson red, a pattern made as if splotched with blood. Toorilkov felt it in his heart: Tt’ubokyul has died. Until recently, he had never met him, only heard stories from his father, Tooril. He hadn’t even known Tt’ubokyul was alive until a couple months ago. No one had. But in his short time serving with him, Tootilkov knew that Tt’ubokyul wasn’t the monster everyone always painted him as: this warmongering genocidal maniac. He did what he did for the good of his people; to save them from persecution and exile on that hellish island. Now he and all of the people he fought so hard to protect were dead.

An anger filled Toorilkov; fueled, unbeknownst to him, by the power from Tt’ubokyul’s sword. Now that Tt’ubokyul, the one previously attuned to it, was dead, Toorilkov was now it’s owner, and he gained Tt’ubokyul’s strength. As he landed, Toorilkov did not scamper into the woods like some cowardly rat, he charged towards his enemies with fury. As his lineage would have done. When the dust settled, you could barely tell the area was a beach. Shattered stone and glass, broken circuitry and metal, scales, blood, and bones.

His bloodlust fading and with a great sigh, Toorilkov looked back towards the Library of Jakardia one last time. He saw a large, dark blue tail shoot into the sky. It was time to leave. He grabbed whatever supplies he could from the area and tore off into the woods. The World Dragon would be after him and the sword next. A sword forged by Tt’ubokyul from a scale of the dying Ouranos: it was the only part of him Toorilkov had left. Now it and it’s legacy were carried by Toorilkov. He would make sure his people’s killers got what was coming to them. The traitors would be first. He started with Trasta.

From a historical standpoint, the years directly after the death of Ouranos are some of the most important since the Laxavis Wars. Despite the restabilization of the planes and the return of magic associated with the birth of the new World Dragon, many of the islands remained in a period of chaos and rebuilding for quite a time. The physical landscape of Ritenus had changed somewhat – most notably with the fall of several flying islands and the warping of the immediate area around the former Library of Jakardia – and various cities had been torn apart by wars and floods of interplanar refugees. In addition, the death of the gods Yl and Shooga disrupted several large religions and threw centuries of established theology into question. Perhaps the most far-reaching consequences of the event, however, were the fundamental power shifts that it prompted in society.

As described in Chapter 4, the world was then largely governed by a body known as the High Council, which was composed of a representative from each genera who had joined the union after the Laxavis Wars. This excluded kobolds, firbolgs, and yuan-ti. The tritons, split as they were into several nation states, did not send a single representative; instead, each coalition of tritons dealt with the High Council as a foreign body, and individually sent ambassadors to act in an advisory capacity. Ostensibly, the High Council had authority over the rest of the world; each participating civilization was bound to follow all Council laws and edicts. However, the High Council functioned less as a centralized, ruling body than as a loose coalition of independent states. Indeed, despite the strict laws against inter-genera wars, conflict always brewed just beneath the surface. 

Before the death of Ouranos, the Dragonborn Empire was one of the most dominant political powers in the world. Their trade revenue was rivalled only by the tritons, who controlled sea trade, and the aaracokra, who continued to enforce their monopoly on air travel; their raw military power was unmatched, largely through the extensive use of trained paladins; through careful sponsorship of goblin artificers, many of the most impactful technological advancements originated on Praxlarr; and cities such as New Keteratonik were the largest and most diverse urban centers in the world. These factors combined gave the dragonborn representative significant authority in Council matters; most historians agree that it was the fracturing of the Dragonborn Empire that ultimately sealed the fate of the High Council.

It was the work of adventurers, initially, that sparked the investigations into the Council Representatives. When the actions of those heroes revealed the magnitude of the secrets that the Dragonborn Empire had been keeping, it shattered the illusion that the populace had previously maintained: that the Council could be trusted implicitly. It soon became evident that none of the High Council members were as blameless as they’d wish to appear. Tibian Tidebreaker, centaur representative, was caught selling classified information to none other than Airru, a member of the very Six that had killed Ouranos. Salan Terriex, it was revealed, had for years been using his position of power to protect a ring of smugglers and pirates. Sreelasa Calentia had been funding groups of airship manufacturers, despite explicit laws against the development of artificial flight. The various islands were soon at one another’s throats.

Meanwhile, individual societies were collapsing. The dragonborn religion splintered into warring factions; some claimed that the death of Ouranos was the final failure of the church and the ultimate condemnation of the religion, while others embraced the worship of [new World Dragon name] as the new dragonborn god. A small minority even formed cults venerating Raxtusar and the Six. As the church fell apart, so did the nation. Leadership of the Empire was disputed, and civil war seemed inevitable. Elsewhere, the death of both Shooga and Representative Foojya left the Loxodons completely without leadership. Into this power vacuum stepped Raxtusar, the White Dragon, who set about establishing herself as the god emperor of a newly formed kingdom, a union between the Loxodons and the previously unrepresented Kobolds. The relationship between Raxtusar and the Council was strained at best, and there seemed no clear way to enforce laws when faced by such a formidable foe.

It was in the midst of these disasters that the question of fault, unfortunately, was first raised. An anonymous essay was published by the Library of Jakardia that laid the blame for the entire disaster at the feet of the Dragonborn Empire. If the dragonborn had not maintained their obstinate secrecy for so long, the piece argued, the crisis may have been averted entirely. Indeed, for such a supposedly powerful nation, they proved remarkably ineffective at defending the World Egg; it was stolen from right underneath their noses, and only the timely intervention of hired adventurers prevented it from being consumed altogether. It was as inflammatory as the author had no doubt intended. What little order had remained on the Council dissolved into shouted arguments, finger pointing, and fruitless demands. Litor Vadu, Tortle Representative, resigned shortly thereafter, and Tibian Tidebreaker was convicted of treason and imprisoned. Saphara Clethtinthiallor mysteriously vanished (with foul play suspected but never proven), and Salan Terriex fled the island, carrying with him a number of stolen goods. On April 8th of ALX 219, with only four of the original ten members of the Council present, Sanctus Ignitori declared the official dissolution of the High Council.

Interestingly, the Library of Jakardia managed to emerge from this conflict without experiencing any significant reduction in power. Arguably, the library could be considered even more culpable for the disaster than the Dragonborn Empire; after all, the library’s leadership had been infiltrated by none other than a member of the Six, who nearly succeeded in stealing and consuming the World Egg. However, through careful essays and public statements, the new leaders of the library managed to almost completely shift blame onto the dragonborn, whose own issues prevented them from properly defending themselves. This was partially accomplished due to the generally favorable public opinion that the library had gained; while the extreme secrecy of the Dragonborn Empire had gained general mistrust over the years, the Library of Jakardia had established branches and offshoots on nearly every island, ingratiating themselves with the local population. Indeed, the new leadership of the library leaned into this aspect in the following years, building schools and establishing literacy programs all across Ritenus. 

The dragonborn, however, refused much of the library’s aid due to their formal betrayal, and as a result the rebuilding process on Praxlarr remained a disorganized, largely ineffective affair. The lack of a single central authority left local leaders to govern individually, and skirmishes between opposing religious splinter groups only added more problems. Though thoroughly embroiled in this chaos, however, goblin society remained remarkably unscathed. Despite the death of Yl and the splintering of the Dragonborn Empire, goblin merchants, craftsmen and artificers continued their work in the same haphazard manner they always had. In fact, organizations such as the Artificer’s Guild provided much needed stability for the people of Praxlarr. As the factions among the dragonborn priesthood split into opposing nations, the goblins largely remained impartial, focusing on the physical aspects of rebuilding and recovery. Without the restrictions that the High Council had placed on industrialization, aspiring inventors had nothing but feasibility to prevent their ideas from becoming reality. Indeed, the instrumental role that various pieces of artificery had taken on during the Battle of Jakardia had shifted public opinion. The world was ripe for a technological revolution.

It was a few years after the fall of the Council that a new proclamation was published, jointly, by the science guilds of the kenkus and the tinker’s guilds of the goblins. Written by none other than Drizzik Rezzenson and Sreelasa Calentia, it announced the formation of the Craftsmen’s Federation, a union of the mercantile guilds of each culture. The proclamation announced a commitment to the free exchange of information and ideas, as well as standardized guidelines for trade and manufacturing. Though the stated purpose and function of the Federation were very different, many saw it as a successor to the High Council. The next few decades saw it rise steadily in membership and influence.

The death of Ouranos and the subsequent collapse of many old governments seemed to indicate the beginning of a new era. Ritenus was becoming a different world; a world where the old magical methods were rejected in favor of technological innovation; a world where the lines between island nations were increasingly blurred; a world where power was no longer solely in the hands of governments, but also held by trade organizations such as the Craftsmen’s Federation, or even the growing underground X-Society; a world no longer beholden to the traditions of the past. It is fitting, then, that historians have termed this period of time “the Rebirth”.

– Excerpt from A Student’s History of Ritenus, published 302 ALX

Five Minutes After the Ascendance of the World Dragon

As I soared over the dark ocean I looked back at the rapidly shrinking library. It was done. The six were dead, the World Dragon had taken its place among the heavens, and best of all I was still alive. The only thing that I was truly angry about was that little omelette obsessed Aarakocra. What kind of maniac uses a frying pan as a weapon? I would have to deal with that eventually. First though, I needed to rebuild my circle of worshippers. This time it needed to be more than just a cult following. If I was going to draw power from my worshippers then I would need thousands. The Kobolds of course would be easy to draw to my cause, but they would not be enough. The Loxodons were perfect for my plan. Shooga was dead, and the Loxodons were going to need a new god. I, Raxtusar, would draw them to my cause and I would become the only god of the north.

Three Years Later…

I had finally managed to convert the majority of the Loxodon population to my worship. I was more powerful than ever before. Not even the Dragonborn would attack me now. From my perch, I could see the Kobold priests of my temple performing a ritual of dedication. For the first time in 300 years, I felt fulfilled.