By Eitros Tixe, Friend of the Tari, Former Templar of Abalach-Re

The most impressive pack lived in a sprawling cave complex that extended deep into the mountains. Here, in the damp darkness, they had cultivated a thriving mushroom farm.

Rows upon rows of fungi grew in carefully tended beds, their pale caps glowing faintly in the dim light. The mushrooms provided food, medicine, and even a modest trade commodity for the tari, making the pack one of the most prosperous in the region.

It was here, among the mushroom cultivators, that I first heard the teachings of Nikaram al-Soury in detail.

The elder of the pack, a wizened tari with fur as grey as ashes, gestured for me to sit closer one evening after a meal. The air in the cave was warm with the quiet camaraderie of the gathered tari, their eyes gleaming with curiosity and reverence as they formed a circle around the elder.

“Nikaram Al-Soury,” the elder began, his voice carrying a rhythmic cadence that commanded attention, “was more than a tari druid. He was the beacon, the guide to those of us lost in the shadows.”

He paused, as he looked around the circle. “His story begins in the chaos of the city-states, among the sewers and alleys where our people scrabbled for survival. The tari of his time had forgotten their roots, their pride, and their purpose. We had become scavengers, vermin in the eyes of others. But Al-Soury… he saw what we had been and what we could become again.”

The elder leaned forward, his tone growing softer, as if sharing a secret meant only for those present. “He spoke of a land far to the south, beyond the wastes, where the ground remembers the footsteps of our ancestors. Ythri, he called it. A place of green pastures and towering mountains that our people once called home. There, he said, the land still whispers our names, waiting for us to return.”

“Al-Soury did not simply speak,” the elder continued. “He acted. He left the cities behind, venturing into the wilds alone. His journey was long and perilous, but he sought out the remnants of our people who had hidden themselves among the refuse of humanity. And in caves and canyons, in forgotten corners of the desert, he found tari who still carried the spark of our heritage.”

The elder’s eyes glimmered with emotion as he spoke. “He taught them to listen to the land, to see the hidden life in the barren wastes. He showed them how to grow food in the cracks of stone and draw water from the air itself. And always, always, he spoke of Ythri, the city of our ancestors, where we once thrived alongside the land instead of merely surviving upon it.”

“But not all believed him,” the elder admitted, his tone tinged with sorrow. “Many tari clung to the cities, to the scraps of life they had carved out in the gutters and sewers. They feared the wilds and doubted his vision. ‘The past is gone,’ they said. ‘The world has changed, and so must we.’”

His voice grew firm, filled with quiet determination. “But for those who followed him, for those who dared to leave behind the misery of the cities, his words planted a seed. He led them north, to the edges of those hills, those hills and mountains, we now call Okarath. Here, he taught them to begin anew. ‘We must become like the earth,’ he said. ‘Steady, enduring, and patient. Only then will the land welcome us back.’”

The elder sat back, his gaze distant as if seeing the past unfold before him. “Though Al-Soury left us long ago, his teachings remain. In every seed we plant, in every shelter we build, in every story we tell, his vision lives on. We tend that vision here, in these mountains, in the hope that one day it will grow into something greater.”