Westland

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avatar Makaneek
Level 42 : Master Answer
126
Here it is folks, the continuation of my lore series, the one you've all been waiting for!

Ever since Svein had served to defend Osokkos during the pillager raid and he had been found innocent of attempting to assassinate the prince, his status in his home village of Whitehelm was increased. After valiantly proving his prowess in battle, Svein was stationed in the Osokkos army, where he fought in some minor battles. But now, Svein was back in Whitehelm, in the prison complex deep under the streets, guarding a valuable prisoner of war named Sargon. All Svein had been told about Sargon was that he was an enemy renegade general who had taken over the desert city of Tresad, and had been apprehended when attempting to conquer the island town of Spartos. Svein also knew that Sargon carried extremely valuable information, but he wasn’t ready to crack. However, when he was ready, Svein would be there. All he would have to do was wait.


Steve sat in his study and sighed wearily. None of it made sense. For weeks and weeks, he had been searching through old maps and ancient legends for a passing mention, even a whisper, of the ancients sailing across the wide ocean, discovering lands that had since been lost. Just one ancient story discussing it, just one small island on some ancient map reading “land of the unknown”, or something of that sort would have been enough to convince him that the captive Sargon had not been bluffing. As it were, Steve had no way to know if Sargon had been bluffing or not, but somehow, he felt that he wasn’t. Or perhaps it was unfounded hope. Then steve remembered something very important. The ancient scribes and scholars of Spartos frequently hid secret messages and double meanings in their writings. Perhaps something of that sort was concealing important information, as it had in many past writings of spartos. After all, Spartosan civilization had been highly seafaring. If and ancient people had discovered a land far across the sea, it would have been them.

Steve went to the Osokkos royal library to continue his studies. The library had a vast collection of ancient Spartosan documents and writings. If the information he was looking for had survived the millennia, it would likely be here. Steve scoured through shelves and shelves of historical texts until he had made a large pile of all books by spartosan authors, not just on mythology and cartography. Steve now knew that any of these books could contain important hidden historical information, preserved through the ages by scribes and translators who had no idea of the importance of their work. Steve spent the rest of the week searching for relevant information. Many of the books had already been thoroughly analyzed, but eventually, Steve found some works more likely to contain ancient secrets than others. Steve copied these down, packed them into a shulker box, and journeyed away to Whitehelm. If he couldn’t decode them, perhaps Sargon could.

After a few days of traveling, Steve arrived in Whitehelm. He was greeted by Vortigern, the mayor of Whitehelm, and Grendol, the prison warden. Vortigern was a tall, strong, middle-aged man with a bald head, a fluffy white beard, and a blue robe several shades duller than his electric blue eyes. Grendol was a sleazy looking man with shoulder-length black greasy hair, gray eyes, and a mostly healed gash from the bridge of his crooked nose to the base of his left cheek, which was sunken like the right one.

“Hallo Stev!” Vortigern said in his thick northern accent. “Ve are glad you could come. Ve vere going to tell the next trader to visit Osokkos from here to invite you, but it seems you have come on your own. Come down to the prisson. I belev our captive has some thing to convess.” Intrigued, Steve followed Vortigern and Grendol to the watchtower in the center of town that housed a secret staircase that led down to the prison complex deep below the town. Whitehelm was an ideal place for such a complex. Even if a prisoner were to escape, they would likely not survive the long cold journey southward to Bushtown, the nearest large village, without essential supplies. Down in the prison complex, the three men made their way to Sargon’s cell. Which was guarded by Svein.

“Has the prisoner spoken since your last report?” Grendol Asked him.

“No, sir.”

“Very vell,” Vortigern there picked up the questioning. “Sargon, I belev you had some thing to tell Stev?”

Sargon’s voice was ragged when he spoke. “Yes. I am ready to give up one ancient secret. There are two great continents across the western sea. The northern one has mountains and deserts and tundras and plains. The people there are nomadic and have nothing to interest me. I know little more about them. The southern continent is warmer, with jungles and more mountains. The people there live in stone cities high in the mountains and deep in the jungles. They are quite powerful. I tried to earn their trust, but they became suspicious, and drove me out.”

“Have any others found this Westland yet?” Steve asked.

“Indeed,” Sargon replied. “Some of the Northmen of this land have been there, and are there still. In the northern tundras of Westland, as you call it, there is a village little smaller than Whitehelm. The people there came from a village called Iceblight, by the sea north of here. The people of Iceblight still have a holiday, honoring the brave souls who set off to start a colony. No one there knows if they survived.” Steve looked to Vortigern for confirmation of this statement.

“Tis true,” he said. “Every mid-autumn, the villagers each light a torch on their doorsteps in honor of lost comrades.”

“Then it is settled,” Steve said. “I will go to the tundra colony in Westland.”

“As vill I,” replied Vortigern, “And I give Svein permission for a sabbatical to join us.”

“I accept,” said Svein.

And so the three heroes made their journey plans to visit this new world.
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