The world has no name.

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Since the War, whether the “First” or “Last” or “Great” or “War that Broke the World” – since The War – it has existed without benefit or burden of a name. Instead it has many names, bequeathed upon it by those who still inhabit it. Names can be treacherous things, as deceptive as they are descriptive, since they do more to describe the relationship of their speakers to the world than any truth of the world itself.

Sea-of-Forms, High Hunt, Baar, Ven-Atta, Nigord, Tern, Satar, the list of names goes on. Ys, to the cold-blooded priests of Rana as they meditate on the banks of her river. Ovorn to Mowg, god of the dwarves and his deep nation. The world is known by many unwritten names to the pack-tribes of Volk, each based on seasons, prey and terrain. Another name known only to Filx the Trickster, a secret name he whispers to her when he slips away unseen (it is said he stole this name from Aroa in return for a kiss). There is its oldest name, known to few, which out of sorrow or bitterness is not spoken by those few who remember her from before the War, when the earth did not shift amorphously beneath their feet, when it was not sealed away from the other planes. Names and names and names…

In this age, there are Gods and their places. There is the Lake, its silent deity, its priests and peoples. There is Lake Town or Six Rivers, its Order of Mendicants, and its pantheon of six gods combined into one nation. There is the Old City, its traps, secrets and sentries and those who would plunder them.

And there are Those Who Wait…

The Big Lake

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