999 ASF

With the Fractured Centuries firmly in the past, conditions were ripe for kingdom-building across Avelliron. Over the next several hundred years, the kingdoms we recognize today began to form, some more violently than others (see: Rugon the Ruthless of Rivona). As borders expanded, they brushed against new peoples, as well as strange geography, flora, and fauna—some of which pushed back. Thus, Lorekeeping continued to flourish, and Lorekeepers achieved a social status on par with eloquent bards, influential priests, and well-connected merchants.

Keep in mind that no central authority governed all Lorekeepers. Nor did one kingdom or peoples lay claim to Lorekeeping. For good or ill, anyone could call themselves Lorekeeper. After suffering one too many fabrications, one monarch—Queen Runa of Rivona, often known to history as Runa the Researcher—had enough. In her capital city of Great Forks, she constructed the Great Library and flung its doors open to all Lorekeepers. Any Lorekeeper that contributed valuable and verifiable lore into the archives was granted a special crest, recognizing them as a legitimate professional.

In many ways, this marked the beginning of the present-day practice of Lorekeeping. Lorekeepers flocked to Runa’s library, seeking the benefits and protections a crest provided. Of course, this did not fully stop the fibs and fabrications, it just necessitated new ways to deceive. Runa’s crests, for example, emerged as a priceless rarity in black markets, where it remains to this day. But Runa’s librarians ensured that the lore amassing in the archives could be trusted in some form or fashion. Over the course of a hundred years, Runa’s library grew into an unrivaled repository of knowledge—a shining beacon of lore that represented generational and collective effort from countless Lorekeepers.

Then, one stormy night in 999 ASF, a flame caught in the library. Despite the safeguards in place for this apocalyptic scenario, the inferno could not be contained. It swept through the halls, devouring fathomless amounts of lore before spreading to neighboring buildings. The fire blazed for over a week and could be seen from miles away.

To this day, we cannot be sure what sparked the Great Forks Fire. A rogue lightning bolt? A jealous Lorekeeper denied a crest? An aftershock of Starfall? We may never know, for very little of the library’s collection survived the flames. Many of the items lost were originals with no copies. Many of the Lorekeepers who had contributed lore had died.

There was, however, a way some knowledge might be salvaged. His name was Wickas the Wise, but was more broadly known as the First Sage. A Gaetican man who had dedicated his life to Lorekeeping, he traveled farther and wider than any of his peers, collecting countless pieces of lore along the way. Indeed, the First Sage was famous for his extensive knowledge base, how he possessed unrivaled vision into the past, and how his lore never failed to hold up to scrutiny by other Lorekeepers. It was often said that the First Sage’s mind was a library unto itself, one bursting with a thousand years of history or more. There were even rumors he possessed lore too secretive and dangerous for the wider world.

There was only one problem: he wrote nothing down.

Nor had he ever visited Runa’s library. After it burned down, the librarians sent for the First Sage, asking him to chronicle everything he knew. After much pleading, bribing, and cajoling, Wickas the Wise begrudgingly agreed. He traveled to Great Forks, where he was given royal quarters, a host of assistants, and direct access to the crown. Anything he needed was at his beck and call so that he could focus on pulling the reservoir of lore out of his mind and into the written record.

At the turn of the year into 1000 ASF, the First Sage sat down to record everything he knew of the last thousand years and beyond. Upon the finest of paper with the blackest of ink and the softest of quills, he transcribed one word.

“The”.

And then died.

Within an hour, his body was found slumped over his desk. There were no injuries on his body, no signs of a fight. An autopsy turned up no significant findings. To this day, we do not know what slew the First Sage, or why. Most believe it was an assassination. Nor can we fully rule out natural causes, for he was well past his august years when he took up the quill. I have read a distressingly grounded theory that the First Sage may have taken his own life.

The twin tragedies of the Fire and the First Sage destroyed an unimaginable amount of lore, of our understanding of the past. Gods, it is difficult to understate what the world might have looked like had the Great Library survived to this day.

But the hindsight of history is often laced with silver linings. These events stoked a fire under the Lorekeeping profession, transforming it into what it is today—and in turn, leading me to you.