Eldritch Guidance

“The Mythic Era. Also referred to as the Age of Sorrow for the giants. It is any time that predates 50,000 BAE(Before Aether Era).

“We call this the Mythic Era because most of what we know about this time borders on possible myth, and might not have any validity. However, there are a few things we do know about this time.

“During this time, ancient magic was prevalent, dragons roamed the land, and giants still lived in their flying cities. And, judging by the size of some of these ruins, it is thought to have possibly been a time of great prosperity for mankind.

“So, you might ask, what happened? No one alive today has ever seen a living dragon. Ancient magic is so scarce that examples of it can be counted on two hands. And, there are no more flying cities.@@novelbin@@

“The simple answer is that a lot happened, and most of it we don’t entirely know.

“The dragons apparently started a war with the giants, but the exact reasons for this conflict are never fully known. The giant sages only speak about the Giant-Dragon war in great vagueness and riddles. Regardless of why the war started, it ended with the giants winning and killing all dragons. Burying their bodies in countless unmarked graves all over the western continent.

“In terms of ancient magic, we actually don’t know anything about it. We still don’t know how it works, or how to craft it, or why it just suddenly disappeared in history. So few objects of this magic exist today. All we know is that it seems to have been very common in these ancient societies. When historians ask giant sages about what happened to the ancient magic and where it went, the giants said, “man destroyed their past, with purpose.”

“The giants call this the Age of Sorrows because of what happened to their cities. Apparently they sent all their flying cities to the far north and they never returned. This devastated the culture and identity of the giants, as their accumulated knowledge, history, magical arts, and institutions were stored in those cities. Without this knowledge, the giants who did not travel north on their cities, and their descendants, do not know how to construct flying cities, they do not have access to the ancient giant magic that they once possessed, and much of their history and language has been forgotten.

“And again, we don't know why they did this. We only know about this because of the vague comments the ancient giant sages have said about sending their cities north.

“Now, you may have noticed that most of our knowledge of this era seems to come from giant sages. And the reason for that is that giants are effectively immortal. The sages of giants were alive during that time. There are no written records of the Mythic Era and the only information we can gather is from oral history that was passed down, which is unreliable. Making the first hand accounts from the giant sages the most reliable information we have about this time.

“However, a thing about giants that needs to be said. While technically considered effectively immortal, the older they get, the stranger their mind becomes. The sages don’t lie, but become very difficult to understand and speak in almost riddles. Even the younger generation of giants apparently have a hard time understanding them, and because of this, what we know of the era is muddled.”

—“Ancient Times Forgotten” By disgraced archmage Alexandria Scarlett

John strolled down Eld Street, humming a tune that echoed faintly in the quiet air while Lunar followed behind. It was mid-morning, and the sun was still climbing, casting long, angled shadows across the cobblestone road. The street, typically more lively at this hour, felt oddly deserted. The usual bustle had been subdued, the lingering few scattered here and there. Unbeknownst to John, this eerie stillness was no coincidence. The Nighthound gang had swept through earlier, corralling the regulars and ensuring the area remained under their control.

The figures John did encounter were mutants with many non-human members of the Nighthound gang, masquerading as ordinary pedestrians. Their gazes lingered just a second before looking away, their movements unnervingly deliberate. Yet John, lost in his own world and his melody, remained blissfully unaware of the tension threading through the air.

His steps led him to Stavvy’s Bar and Grill, a modest establishment tucked between the aging façades of neighboring shops. Once a place that didn’t open until noon, Stavvy had adapted, offering breakfast to lure in the early crowd. A few months back, the shift in hours had piqued John's interest, and since then, he’d found himself dropping by on occasion. There was something comforting about the food here—earthy, hearty meals crafted with care. It was a welcome contrast to the impersonal, conjured sustenance from the Mystic Emporium. Today, as always, the aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed black tea drew him in.

John stepped inside and paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of Stavvy’s Bar and Grill. The place was just as he remembered it—familiar and welcoming, yet steeped in a quiet stillness that came from being the first customer of the day. Countless tables were spread across the floor, their chairs neatly tucked in, as if waiting patiently for the day's patrons to arrive. The hum of the morning outside seemed a world away here, replaced by the faint crackle of the grill and the occasional clink of dishes from the back.

To his right, the focal point of the room stretched along nearly the entire length of the wall: the bar. It wasn’t just any bar; Stavvy had made sure it stood out. The polished wood surface gleamed faintly, its rich grain catching the muted light. Built directly into the bar itself was an unusual feature—a long grill. John found himself lingering on it, as he often did. It reminded him vaguely of a Korean BBQ setup, though this was something entirely unique.

He’d never seen a grill like this integrated into a bar before, a design that allowed patrons to sit comfortably with their drinks while watching meat sizzle and cook right in front of them. It was partly theatrical, but still practical—a touch that perfectly captured Stavvy’s knack for blending the familiar with the unexpected. John had always appreciated it, even if he rarely thought much about it. It was one of those quirks that made this place feel alive, even when it was empty like this.

Behind the grill stood Stavvy, the owner, chef, and unmistakable soul of the restaurant. He was a mouse mutant, his entire body covered in soft grayish-white fur. His face was distinctly rodent-like, with twitching whiskers and sharp, red alert eyes that missed nothing. Stavvy had an appearance that John found a little cute, with a mix of confidence and warmth that had made him a beloved figure in the neighborhood.

Today, he was dressed in his signature red ensemble—a vibrant apron tied snugly around his waist, a matching bandana wrapped around his head, and a neatly knotted scarf around his neck. The splash of color stood out against his fur, giving him a jaunty, almost flamboyant appearance. Stavvy's attire, though practical, hinted at his flair for presentation—a trait reflected in everything from the restaurant's unique design to the dishes he served.

At the moment, he was focused on the task at hand, deftly working over a sizzling pan on the grill embedded into the bar. The air was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of seared butter and spices, mingling with the faint smoky scent of the grill. His movements were unhurried, the kind of effortless rhythm born from years of experience. Stavvy glanced up briefly as John entered, a flicker of recognition and a welcoming nod crossing his features before he returned to his cooking with practiced ease.

John: “Hey Stavvy,” he said as he approached the bar.

Stavvy: “Hello John. The usual?”

John: “Yup,” he said, taking a seat in front of Stavvy.

Stavvy turned with fluid motion, reaching behind him to retrieve another pan from the neatly organized rack on the wall. With a practiced motion, he placed it on the grill beside the one he was already working on. The sizzle began almost immediately as he dropped a generous pat of butter into the new pan, the rich aroma of melting dairy joining the already tantalizing scents wafting through the room.

Without missing a beat, Stavvy cracked a couple of eggs directly into the sizzling butter, the golden yolks settling perfectly in the center. Meanwhile, he deftly handled the pan he had been working with before. With a quick flick of his wrist, the contents—an enticing mix of green and red vegetables—soared into the air in a colorful arc. The motion was seamless, almost artistic, and the sizzling medley landed back in the pan with a satisfying hiss.

Each movement spoke of years of skill and a deep familiarity as a chef. Stavvy’s focus never wavered, yet there was an air of ease to his cooking as if he were performing a well-rehearsed dance. The soft clatter of utensils and the rhythmic sizzling of the grill filled the room, creating a comforting soundtrack to accompany the mouthwatering visuals of breakfast in the making.

John: “What ya got cookin' there?”

Stavvy: “It is a vegetable stir-fry. My husband has been telling me I’ve been getting fat. So, I've been trying to up my vegetable intake.”

John: “Really? You don’t look like you put on any weight to me.”

Stavvy: “It’s the fur. It hides the pudge. But, the scale doesn't lie. I’ve put on weight.”

John: “Have you been getting some exercise too?”

Stavvy: “I wish. Just haven’t had the time.”

John: “Too busy with the bar, I guess?”

Stavvy: “Not really, actually. Business has been slow.”

John: “Really? Did something happen?”

Stavvy: “I get a lot of business from students that come here in the evening, but they haven’t been coming here since that shitstorm happened at the university.”

John: “What shitstorm at the university?”

Stavvy: “You haven’t heard? It was all over the news.”

John: “No, the person who delivers my newspaper was chased off by Lunar one day when they came to drop it off. They haven’t sent anyone else to deliver me news since,” he said while looking down at Lunar.

John's “dog”, Lunar, gazed up at him with wide, innocent eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side in that universally endearing way dogs had mastered. His fluffy white fur looked as soft as freshly fallen snow, and his pink tongue lolled out of his mouth in an exaggerated effort to appear as cute as possible. It was a tactic Lunar often employed—and one that rarely failed.

Seeing this, John couldn't get angry at Lunar. And instead, reached down to pet him.

Stavvy glanced up from his cooking, his eyes darting between Lunar and John. He could almost picture the poor soul tasked with delivering John’s newspaper, fleeing in terror from this "adorable" fluff ball turned otherworldly horror. Stavvy signed under his breath, shaking his head slightly as he flipped the eggs in the pan.

Stavvy: “Well, it seems that one of the professors working at the university was a necromancer.”

John: “Necromancer? Like the ones that can raise the dead?”

Stavvy: “Yup. The same ones. But, it was more than just that. He was secretly killing students for some sort of experiment. Cutting them open while alive to turn them into undead I hear.”

John: “That’s terrible!” he said, sounding horrified.

Moments like these served as stark reminders to John that the world he now inhabited was every bit as cruel—if not crueler—than the one he had left behind. It was a place where horror and madness lurked just beneath the surface of everyday life, woven into the very fabric of society.

Here, he had learned of necromancers so twisted they would hunt and kill indiscriminately, collecting the bones of their victims to fuel bizarre rituals for an insane, shadowy cult. He had encountered whispers of factions that thrived on chaos, groups dedicated to perpetuating endless wars with no purpose beyond destruction and profit. And then there was the quiet yet pervasive oppression—an insidious system of racial and societal segregation rooted in one’s ability to wield aether. It was the kind of discrimination John had never imagined enduring or witnessing, an arbitrary divide that fractured communities and sowed deep resentment.

The cruelty of this world wasn’t limited to its grand, grotesque spectacles. It was in the small things, the unseen struggles, the relentless systems of exploitation. But, every once in a while he would hear of such horrible stories like the one Stavvy was saying.

John: “Did they catch the guy?”

Stavvy: “The university didn’t. But, some students found out and got in a fight with that necromancer and killed him in the ensuing battle.”

John: “So they let a necromancer in as a professor and it was the students who had to stop him?”

Stavvy: “Yup. I have to say, it's crazy how incompetent that university is. They have the best mages in the whole continent working at that school and they let a necromancer slip in under their noses. And, of course it is the people under them who suffer, whether it is the students or people like us. Typical wizards,” he cursed under his breath.

John: “That’s crazy.”

“Who would have thought that the university had a necromancer hiding in it… hang on a second. Onyx said something about something big happening at the university…” John silently thought to himself.

As John sat there the pieces suddenly snapped in place in his mind.

John: “That's it! That’s what he meant!” he halved yelped out in realization

Stavvy: “What’s it?”

John: “Sorry, I just had an epiphany from what you told me. Thank you.”

Stavvy: “Oh, OK. Glad I could help. Here’s your food by the way,” he said as he placed a dish of food in front of John.

John glanced down at his plate, taking in the hearty meal before him. Center stage was a serving of fried yaka, a starchy orange root vegetable native to this world, strikingly similar to the yams he had known in his original world. Its golden-brown edges glistened slightly, promising a satisfying crunch with every bite.

Beside the yaka sat two perfectly cooked over-easy eggs, their soft, golden yolks wobbling delicately under the thin cooked layer of egg white with the promise of a rich creamy runny yolk. Completing the trio was a pair of thick, juicy sausages—Stavvy's signature creation. The sausages were popular amongst the locals and a bit of a mystery. Stavvy staunchly refused to divulge the recipe or ingredients beyond a single detail: they were primarily made from boar. This air of secrecy only heightened their allure, and the sausages had earned a reputation as the star of Stavvy’s grill.

John couldn’t help but wonder, for the hundredth time, what gave them their unique, smoky depth and perfectly spiced profile. Whatever it was, the sausages alone were worth the trip.

John: “Looking good as usual,” he complimented the food.

Stavvy: “Thanks. Enjoy your meal while I continue preparing my own breakfast,” he said as he went back to tossing the vegetables in his pan.

John nodded appreciatively before picking up his fork and diving into the meal. He speared a piece of yaka, its crispy exterior yielding slightly under the pressure. Lifting it to his mouth, he bit into it, and the satisfying crunch echoed faintly in the quiet room. A burst of flavor followed—a perfect blend of sweet and savory that danced across his taste buds. The natural sweetness of the yaka was balanced by the subtle seasoning and the caramelized edges, making each bite a small delight. John couldn't help but pause for a moment, savoring the comforting, earthy flavors that reminded him of home while offering something entirely unique to this world.

As John ate, his mind drifted to the details Stavvy had shared earlier about the university.

“That warning about the university from Onyx must have been about that! ‘He’ knew there was a necromancer at the university, and that was what he was talking about. But, how did he know that this necromancer would be discovered soon by students? He said it would boil over soon, so I assume he meant that.” John pondered.

“John, that’s a stupid question. Onyx can already do impossible things. Knowing that this necromancer would be caught and killed soon would be easy for him to know. Well, now that I know what the warning was, I can let Cid know. But, I haven’t seen him for a while. Oh, well. I guess I could ask Scarlett to let Cid know about the passing danger. But, I haven’t seen her lately either. They must be both busy with something. I wonder what they’re doing?”