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

It is strange how the smallest, most inconsequential moments can shape the course of an entire life. As I pen these words among my new people, the tari who now call me one of their own, I cannot help but reflect on a single act of whimsy that saved me…it seems a lifetime ago.

Although I’m a half-elf and former templar of Abalach-Re, I hardly fit the mold of my former brethren. Recruited as a boy, not for my fervor in worship of Badna, but for my dexterity and talents, I was a healer first, apprenticed in the art of medicinal herbs and ointments. Yet it was my skill in mimicry, and my ability to copy and reproduce manuscripts with near-perfect precision, that drew the attention of the templars’ of the Archive House. Though I was illiterate, my hand could imitate the ornate calligraphy of those holiest of scriptures with an artistry I barely understood.

It was this gift that saw me assigned to the Archives of Raam. There, I toiled for years, creating expensive copies for the temples of Badna scattered across the city. Though I lacked the zeal for the faith, I found quiet pride in my work. The beauty of the letters I could not read initially became my solace, a form of devotion untainted by belief.

It was a year before the fall of Abalach-Re, a time when Raam simmered with unrest. Even as a templar, safe behind the doors of the Archives, the tension was palpable; the city teetered on the edge of insurrection. On one of my duties, I was sent to the temple in the Ghost City, a place that I viewed with distaste, for it reeked of desperation and death.

It was there, for the first time as a templar and now an inducted servant of Badna, that I saw them: the tari. A handful of the rat-like humanoid scavengers sat quietly at the edges of the ceremony, their hunched forms attempting to disappear into the shadows. This was unprecedented. Sewer-dwelling pariahs, the tari were rarely allowed among the faithful, even in the slums of the Ghost City. Yet there they were, eyes wide with wonder, daring to draw near the sacred rites of the Queen’s sanctioned religion.

I might have dismissed them altogether, but they sought me out. After the ceremony, a small group of tari approached, led by one of their own: a shy, nervous creature whose name I would later learn but have long since forgotten. His fur was matted, and his movements were jerky, as though every step closer to me might lead to his doom. “Forgive me, templar,” he said, his voice high-pitched and quivering. “We… we have a humble request.”

His audacity was astounding. For a tari to address a templar was suicidal; to do so with a request in hand was sheer madness. Yet, in his trembling claws, he held a small parchment filled with intricate script. The characters were unfamiliar to me, angular and flowing in a way that defied description. But the script itself… I dare to say, was beautiful.

For a moment, I was stunned into silence. I had spent years surrounded by the most elaborate works of Raam’s scribes, and yet this scrap of parchment, this creation of a race I had only ever seen as vermin, was among the most striking things I had ever encountered.

“You are either brave or stupid,” I told him with a laugh, snatching the parchment from his hands. “But I find that enough to entertain me.”

The poor creature flinched as if I had struck him. He mumbled an apology, turned, and scurried back into the shadows, leaving me holding his forbidden request. I should have burned it. For a tari to even show signs of literacy was punishable by death, and for me to entertain such a request was unthinkable.

And yet, I did not.

Instead, I found myself obsessing over it. I recreated his script in ornate calligraphy, spending hours refining the curves and angles until the letters seemed to dance on the page. It became my secret project, hidden from the eyes of my fellow templars. The work was too beautiful to destroy, but too dangerous to keep.

In the end, I went back to the Ghost City. Under the guise of admonishing a group of tari for some fabricated slight, I handed the parchment back to their leader. My words were sharp, a performance for the other templars who might be watching, but the tari’s trembling claws carefully accepted the gift.

For a moment, his eyes met mine, wide with confusion and fear. As I turned and walked away, I heard whispers and gasps behind me. Glancing back, I saw them: their expressions had transformed from suspicion to wonder. They stared at the parchment, marveling at the beauty of the calligraphy, their eyes filled with stars.

It was in that moment, seeing their joy, that something in me shifted. I did not yet know it, but that act of rebellion, however small, would become the thread that unraveled my life as a templar and tied me forever to the tari people.

It is said that all great journeys begin with a single step. For me, it began with a single stroke of ink, a stolen moment of creation that carried more meaning than any scripture I had ever copied.

The gratitude of the tari that day was not what changed me. No, it was the realization that, for all their suffering, they still saw beauty. They still had hope. And so, in my small way, I began to hope as well.

The Fall of Raam

When Raam fell into chaos, it did so with a swiftness and brutality that none could have foreseen. The death of Abalach-Re should have brought relief to the city’s people, or so I had thought in my naivety. Instead, it unleashed a madness that turned every street into a battlefield and every shadow into a threat.

As the Queen’s templars, we were feared under her rule, wielding her authority like a blade. But without her, we became hated prey. The citizens of Raam, long suppressed and embittered, rose up in fury. Our former power became a curse, a mark of death upon us. To be recognized as a templar in those days was a death sentence, often delivered by a howling mob.

The city-state was a storm of violence. Templars and mansabdars turned on each other, vying for scraps of power, while non-templar factions emerged from the chaos, each hungry for dominance. What began as purges and backstabbing quickly devolved into open warfare.

The earthquake might have shaken throughout the Tablelands, but it was the magma-filled fissures that were said to have opened up beneath the Queen’s palace that marked the beginning of the end for Raam’s already-crumbling order. Proudly claiming it as an act of their elemental overlord’s disapproval of the sorcerer-queen’s rule, the underground fanatics of the Scorching Flame Temple moved against the dying order even faster than the Veiled Alliance. The Royal District, once the heart of Abalach-Re’s power, was burnt to ashes. Its palaces and spires were swallowed by the flames, leaving the Archives (the only sanctuary I had once known) buried and inaccessible.

For we templars who had survived the first wave of bloodletting, there were few options left. Those who sought the Councillors faction or aligned themselves with the South Gate Mansabdars faced their own dangers. The rest of us had only two choices: escape or disappear.

The Road to Rocky Hill

Whispers reached me of a village called Rocky Hill, located two days’ ride from Raam. Once a client village of the city, it had reportedly been taken over by rogue templars and turned into a haven for those fleeing the madness. Whether it was true have or a trap, I did not know.

With little else to lose, I gathered what I could. I put what little I had (a few herbs, tools, and the garments of a common traveler) on a kank, a beast of sturdy legs and steady temperament. I could not bear to wear the insignia of the templars, though its absence left me vulnerable to those who might see me as prey.

As the first light of dawn broke over the jagged horizon, I rode away from Raam. The air was thick with ash, and the distant city and its never-ending struggles already seemed like a fading nightmare.

Two days, I told myself. Two days to safety.

I hardly thought of the tari or the calligraphy during those harrowing days. The beauty of their script and the joy of their discovery seemed like a distant memory, something from a life that no longer belonged to me. Survival consumed every thought, every breath. Yet, as I rode through the barren landscape, I found myself reaching into my pack and brushing my fingers against the small vial of ink I had kept hidden - a relic of the life I had abandoned. I did not know why I kept it, only that it gave me a strange sense of comfort.