“I’ve decided.”

As Sutorys Sharizi’s voice carried over the bog, the caravan slowed. Worn from a year of travel, the band celebrated any opportunity to pause. They were ragged, having faced destructive storms and struggles, sustaining injuries both physical and emotional. The end to the journey was nigh, but could not come soon enough.

“It’s time I tell you of our destiny,” the Dras said, his voice a spark of power. “I believe it as truly as I believe we are standing here in this swamp - the heartlands of my ancestors.” He paused a beat for impact, then clapped to shatter the tension. “But first, let us settle for the evening.”

Camp was made swiftly, many as eager for rest as they were for one of Sutorys’s stories. As bread was broken and wine bladders passed around, the party gathered before the main fire to listen to their leader speak.

“Synduir, known in the North as the Bloodoak: a great tree that survived the Burning. To know our future, you must know Synduir’s past. You see, in ages lost, there were no so called Tribes of Menn. No… There were Spirits.”

“Born of raw energy existing as bodiless souls, Spirits were boundless collections of knowledge, emotion, and experience wrapped into ethereal clusters of consciousness. Eventually, that same energy would evolve, expanding and contracting to form new planes of existence; the material and spiritual dimensions began to overlap, creating Old Elyria. But, for aeons, the Spirits were alone.

“Lo! With a surge of brilliance, energy began coalescing again, pooling for thousands of years. At last, forth came the proto-menn, spilling out into the world with their infinite curiosity. Some Spirits chose to ignore these creatures; others became enamored with them. It was not long before menn began to attempt communication with Spirits, offering words and rituals. Smitten, those Spirits began to develop relationships with menn, going so far as to teach the gifted how to manipulate the energies of creation. Thus, menn learned magic.

“Although few menn had such an aptitude, those among them with these talents were deemed ‘Rizi’ - fated - by their teachers. However, other Spirits began to fear how much primal essence menn were drawing from the ethereal planes.

“One Spirit in particular, Nazik…”

A few listening laughed, knowing that word only as a quite lewd curse.

Grinning, Sutorys continued, “... whose original name meaning has been lost in time, yes. Nazik was convinced that menn’s self-indulgent nature would imbalance the flow of arcane and send the world into energetic chaos. In a valiant but misguided effort, Nazik tried to construct a seal between the material and ethereal planes to stem the streams of energy between them, and thus, limit the Rizi’s power. Succeed he did, but at great cost.

“It was in fact that untempered flow of energy maintaining the balance between worlds. As this synergy was disrupted, the world itself began to crumble. Planes destabilized. Fracturing into uncontrollable forms, chaotic energy raged across Elyria. The devastation came, too fast.”

Sutorys took a long draw of wine, sighing. “Countless lives perished as Elyria was torn asunder. Our beloved Bloodoak Synduir, though, would not be defeated.

“Calling upon their seven most powerful Rizi, Synduir orchestrated a final ritual. With the last of their magic, Synduir fused theirself into an oak tree. In this body, they would be reborn in New Elyria still containing the seeds of magic. Synduir would rest until the fated arrived to spread the ancient wisdom.

“That time has finally come. Untold years have passed by mann’s reckoning, and at last the Spirits of the land have begun to reawaken. Synduir calls out to them… To us. Synduir lead us home to the land where the Spirit’s children, the Senteri, have settled. A place that holds many secrets and even more answers. We are chosen to restore the old ways; the Spirits will guide us just as they did to bring us here.”

Sutorys saw pride, inspiration, and purpose reflected in his people’s faces. Eyes glistening, he said, “Yes, I have heard their whispers to me in their Spirit tongue, Tonasyn. They say, Val kur sha’hathrim, thu’i rizi. I entrust the land to you, my fated.”

“So hear me, Spirits!” he shouted. “We embrace our destiny. Let us reawaken your lost language as we name these lands the words you would have. We will call these swamps what they are. Sha’harizi: Entrusted to the fated.”