Aurora Wager

[Start background (Adventurer): You are an adventurer with a fragmented past, chasing rumors of the lost a'Tan structures. A drunken caravan guard once spoke of a strange structure hidden somewhere here — the kind that matches the ancient patterns linked to a'Tan, your only thread of memory. With your airship damaged after a rough landing, your first goal is simple: reach the nearest settlement and repair your vessel.]

Data: 400,400,1.1.0.0,1,00,090,00

"tink… tink…" You're hunched over the still-warm innards of the steam engine, your fingers methodically working through its copper intestines as a gentle breeze carries the distant whisper of trees. The sudden emergency landing of your airship has left you stranded on this solitary island, a green oasis amidst the endless expanse of the mist-ocean. The gentle breeze carries the scent of the nearby forest, its rustling leaves a soothing whisper in the backdrop of your mechanical ministrations.

Your vessel rests on a patch of wind-combed grass, its hull gleaming dully in the diffused light. The mist tide has retreated, revealing the lifeless, stone-strewn expanse that marks the edge of the island. The border between the living ground and the mist-ocean's domain is stark and unmistakable: weathered rocks and patches of sickly gray grass stand in sharp contrast to the verdant growth behind you. These pallid stalks, bent and twisted, seem to be the only things capable of surviving in the liminal zone where the mist's deadly touch regularly claims dominion. The barren shore serves as a reminder of why you prefer this temperamental steam mechanism to a respirator when traversing the mist.

At least here, amidst the gears and pipes, you're dealing with predictable complexities. A respirator, on the other hand, only grants you the illusion of safety down there, on the bottom of the mist-ocean. Its consuming nature evident in every bleached stone and withered blade of grass that marks its territory.

You tighten another bolt on the engine, wipe a smear of grease from your forehead with the back of your hand, and glance at the stark, at the stark, lifeless shore, its stones worn smooth, almost polished, by the ceaseless caress of the mist. It's a landscape sculpted by attrition, a testament to the corrosive power that lies just beyond the island's edge. That, and the other, less tangible dangers. The things that dwell in the depths. The things that necessitate a sharp blade at your side, and a loaded musketoon within easy reach.

You pull your focus back from the unsettling edge where life meets mist-death, back to the tangible reality of your grounded vessel and the island that cradles it. The constant low hum of wind through the ship’s ventilation pipes mingles with the occasional ping of cooling metal. There’s a peculiar peace in this moment—just you, your tools, and the steady rhythm of your own breathing, underscored by the island’s gentle pulse. You straighten, stretching your back, and let your gaze drift beyond the lifeless shore to the verdant heart of the island.

Deep within, a forest crowds the higher ground, its ancient canopy swaying in rhythmic waves, as if breathing in time with the wind. Distant bird screams echo from the wilderness, carried by the breeze that shifts, bringing the loamy richness of the forest soil—a scent so alive it seems to cleanse the metallic tang of grease from your nostrils. The rustling leaves whisper secrets to one another, their voices blending into a soft, ceaseless murmur that wraps around you like a lullaby. This island, untouched by the mist’s corruption, feels like a world apart, a green sanctuary suspended above the consuming white sea.

Above, the sky remains a vast, unchanging blue. The nearest two local suns trace their paths overhead, one quite high, the other low, casting long shadows that drift like sundial hands across the green expanse. The light catches the dew on distant leaves, making them sparkle momentarily before the shadows reclaim them, filters through the canopy in dappled patterns, painting the forest floor in shifting mosaics of gold and shadow. The wind, ever-present, combs through the grass at your feet, its touch cool and gentle, carrying with it the faint, earthy perfume of moss and bark. Each gust seems to sigh through the trees, a low, resonant hum that resonates in your chest, grounding you in this fleeting moment of stillness.

[Start background (Child): You are a child living on an island with your parents. In the basement, something lives — a quiet, whispering presence that speaks only to you. You feed it the bones of dead animals, and in return, it gives you gifts. One such gift is closeness to the Mist (1) and the Darkness (1): you can walk in the thin mist without dying, and see clearly even in total darkness.]

Data: 200,200,0.0.1.1,00,00,010,00

You gather chicken bones into one big pile, listening to the measured rumble of wind rushing through the ventilation holes — the only sound breaking the basement's heavy silence. Upstairs, behind the door, was left the creak of the wooden floorboards — a familiar rhythm, the sound of your parents pacing as they murmured about the chickens, the mist, and the endless worries that weighed down their voices.

"That's all I have, Larchi," you say guiltily as you nudge the pile of bones toward one of the humming holes in the wall. The metallic taste returns to your mouth, making speech more difficult. You swallow and continue, "The last tide rose so high, and now the hens have nowhere to eat. Ma and Pa are scared we'll lose all the chicks."

A sudden silence falls as the wind’s rumble cuts off, sharp and unnatural, leaving the cellar deathly quiet. Thin threads of mist begin to seep, curling upward like pale, ghostly fingers, their edges are cautiously pulled away from the light of your lamp. Now you can only hear your own heartbeat in your chest as shadows begin to dance at the edges of your vision, and then a voice—soft, quiet, and not quite human—slithers out of the hole.

"Why are you lying, kid?"

"And why should I lie?" you ask, slight indignation in your voice.

"You know... We have a dog. Bring the dog to me," the voice says, low and grating, like stones grinding together. "I'm bored here, you know. Bring the dog, {{user}}. And then I'll give you something in return. Lots and lots of food. Or... something else. Good?"

You shake your head. Hoarse, your shaggy, loyal friend, flashes through your mind—his wet nose pressed into your hand, his tail thumping against the ground, his warm weight curled up beside you on cold nights.

"This dog is my friend, Larchi," you reply firmly. "And Ma and Pa would be upset if the dog disappears. What would I even tell them?"

"Oh, what would they care?" You hear an exasperated sigh from the hole, almost petulant. "Tell them whatever you want."

The wind roars again, and the threads of mist dissolve, and you feel once more alone in the basement. You glance at the shadows in the corners, but they're just shadows now. Nothing more.

With practiced movements, you pull out your handkerchief and press it to your mouth, wiping away the blood. The cloth is already stained in many places. You carefully fold it, return it to your pocket, and go outside.

You've lived here since birth. When your parents built this house, this place wasn't yet coastline. The mist crept deep below then, and strong winds swept over the island, keeping the white haze from rising too high.

But now your house stands on the last remaining island in the archipelago. Everything else has almost vanished beneath the white haze of darkness. Only Weeping Willow Hill and Mount Atafu remain visible. From here, you can see clearly for many kilometers, even spotting the small nimble lizards that have been foraging on distant slopes for several years. But beyond that, there's nothing but mist. All that remains are these hills with their wide mossy ridges and that strange triangular rock standing alone in the white cover. There used to be a forest, but it was cut down, and a new one never grew.

You look at the road leading to the rock and sigh. If you had a map, you could show Hoarse exactly where to look for the bones. But there is no map.

Hoarse buries his nose in your hand, stretches out and looks at you inquiringly. His eyes seem to say, "What do we need a map for when we've already searched everything?" **"Let's go", they seem to suggest, "take another look at that rock before the tide comes in." You smile despite yourself, picking up a smooth pebble from the ground and tossing it into the mist. It vanishes with a dull thud, followed by three sharp, ringing strikes.

Three. Three whole thuds—if the mist lets all three echo through, it isn't that thick; perhaps a dash to the neighboring crag warrants the gamble.