The ink is still wet on the page, and my hand aches from the effort of holding the quill steady against the biting wind that sweeps down from the peaks. I write this by the light of a small, flickering flame—a solitary beacon of warmth in the otherwise crushing dark of the stone shelter I have found for the night. Today has been a trial of both body and spirit, a long march through the treacherous winding paths of the Crimson Ridge. The date is the thirteenth of High Sun, 2026, though in this ancient place, time feels less like a linear progression and more like a spiral, looping back on itself with every step I take.
The Long Road North
I left the safety of the Silverwood groves three days past, bidding farewell to the Elven caretakers who tend the roots of the World Tree. They offered me warnings, of course. The elves always do. They spoke of the ‘Unbound’—spirits of the earth that had been shaken loose by the tremors plaguing the northern territories. I nodded politely, accepting their dried meats and their blessings, but I did not fully grasp the severity of their words until I breached the tree line and saw the jagged silhouette of the Ridge cutting into the sky like a serrated blade.
The journey here was uneventful in the sense that I did not draw my sword, but it was exhausting in a way that only travel through Aethelgard can be. The gravity here feels heavier, as if the land itself is trying to pull you down into its history. Every step up the scree slope required a deliberate exertion of will, my boots crunching on the red-grey stones that have seen the passing of dragons and armies alike. The air grew thinner the higher I climbed, sharp and cold against my lungs, carrying the scent of ozone and sulfur. It is a smell that always precedes a storm, or perhaps, a magical disturbance.
I stopped for a brief respite at the halfway mark, where the old statue of the Forgotten King still stands, or what remains of it. It is nothing but a torso and a head now, half-buried in a landslide of rock. I sat in the shadow of his stone visage and ate a piece of hard bread, watching the clouds drift below me. It is a humbling thing, to look down on the world from such a height. The valleys of Aethelgard, usually so vibrant and green from the ground, looked like abstract paintings of moss and jade. I felt small, insignificant—a fleeting speck of life amidst the enduring geology of the realm. It is a feeling I chase, in a way. It reminds me that my troubles, my debts, and my mission are temporary things.
The Merchant at the Crossroads
It was at the Crossroads Pass, where the trail splits toward the Obsidian Plains or the summit, that I encountered a stranger. He was a peculiar figure, sitting atop a large, chestnut-colored draft horse that looked too weary to be carrying such a burden. He wore a cloak of patchwork furs—wolf, bear, and something that looked distinctly like wyvern hide. His face was obscured by a hood, but I could see the glint of grey eyes and the curl of a smile that didn’t quite reach them.
We exchanged the customary greetings of travelers on the lonely roads. He asked my destination; I gave a vague answer about seeking the high peaks. He laughed, a dry, rasping sound, and told me that few men sought the summit unless they were running from something or hunting something. I asked what he was doing so far up the ridge, and he revealed his wares. He was a merchant of sorts, though he carried no wagon. Instead, his saddlebags were filled with glass jars containing swirling colored mists, bones carved with runes, and small vials of liquid that glowed with a faint luminescence.
"Curiosities," he called them. "Harvested from the places where the veil is thin." I am no novice to the trade of magical trinkets, but I have to admit, his goods were of a higher quality than the usual charlatan’s fare. I inspected a jar containing a smoke that seemed to form shapes of screaming faces before dissipating. He told me it was captured breath from a dying banshee. I declined the purchase—such items carry a heavy curse—but the interaction lingered with me. There was an aura about him, a scent of dried blood and old parchment that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He asked if I was ‘Hermes the Walker,’ and when I nodded, he tipped his hood and vanished down the southern path with a speed that belied his weary appearance. It unsettles me to think that my name is known even in these desolate heights.
Disturbances in the Ley Lines
Since that encounter, the atmosphere has changed. As I neared the summit where I now make my camp, the wind stopped blowing for a full hour. Not a pause, not a lull, but a total cessation of movement. The silence was absolute, heavier than the roar of the gale. It is in those quiet moments that the true nature of Aethelgard reveals itself. This land is alive, not in the biological sense, but in a magical one. The ley lines that crisscross the continent are visible here, if one knows how to look—not with the eyes, but with the mind’s eye.
I sat on a flat rock and closed my eyes, reaching out with my senses. Usually, the flow of mana is rhythmic, like a heartbeat or the tide of the ocean. But today, it was erratic. I felt jarring spikes of energy, sharp and hot, followed by voids of absolute cold. It felt as though the earth itself was shivering. This confirms the rumors I heard in the tavern back in Oakhaven. There is a disruption in the Weave, something leaking out from the deep places or intruding from the outside. As a traveler who relies on the stability of the magical roads to expedite my journeys, this is concerning. If the leylines are fracturing, teleportation becomes a gamble with one’s life.
I focused my will on a small rune stone I carry, trying to draw a trickle of energy to light a fire. The response was sluggish. The magic was there, but it felt thick, like moving through molasses. I had to exert twice the usual effort to spark a flame. This draining of the ambient magic is a bad omen. It suggests that something is feeding on the energy of the land, or that a barrier has been breached, allowing the chaotic energy of the Void to seep in. I need to be cautious. My usual wards may not hold if the source of their power is compromised.
Whispers on the Wind
As night fully fell and I lit the fire that now warms my hands, the wind returned. But it was not the same wind as before. It carried voices. At first, I thought it was a trick of the acoustics in the canyon, the wind whistling through the rocky crags. But the sounds formed words, fragmented and disjointed, but intelligible. They spoke of ‘the seal breaking’ and ‘the return of the King.’ Whether this refers to the ancient line of Aethelgard’s monarchs or something more sinister, I cannot say.
I moved deeper into the recess of the cliff face, trying to block out the sound. It is maddening to hear voices when you know you are alone. It preys on the mind, making you doubt your own sanity. I recited the Litany of Focus, an old mental exercise taught to me by the monks of the Silent Order. It helped to center me, to push the auditory hallucinations to the periphery of my consciousness. However, the feeling of being watched has not abated. I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see the merchant with the patchwork cloak standing there, or perhaps something worse.
The fire is dying down now. I must ration the wood I gathered; there is little fuel to be found at this altitude. I will sleep in shifts, keeping one hand on the hilt of my blade. Tomorrow, I will attempt to reach the summit shrine. If the leylines are damaged, the ancient attunement stones there might give me a clearer picture of the source. If they are shattered, then I am afraid for the future of this realm. Aethelgard has survived wars, plagues, and droughts, but a collapse of the magical foundation is something no army can fight.
I am tired, but sleep will not come easily. My thoughts drift to the people of Oakhaven, to the innkeeper who always keeps a room for me, and to the green fields of the south. They seem so far away now. Up here, there is only rock, ice, and the trembling magic of a world in distress. I will write again tomorrow, assuming the mountain does not claim me first. If these entries cease, let it be known that Hermes walked the Ridge with eyes open, seeking the truth behind the silence.