Prologue: A Taste of Echoes of Exile

The rain hammered relentlessly against the cabin's thatched roof, the wind's mournful howls adding to the din of the storm outside.

“Ahh, that hit the spot,” the large burly man said to his small friend, his hands resting on his bulging stomach as he leaned back into his wooden chair. With each creak, the chair protested under his weight, struggling to hold him.

Suddenly, the old wooden door burst open with a smash, hitting the wall and denting the logs that formed the cabin's structure. Freezing air rushed in, followed by large raindrops, as a robed figure with a crooked pointed hat and long flowing robes rushed inside. The unexpected entrance caused the two inhabitants to snap to attention, their movements quick and alert.

In the commotion, one of the large man's chair legs gave way, snapping cleanly in half. With a loud groan, he tumbled backward out of the chair, the clang of his plate armour hitting the stone floor echoing through the room. The robed figure slammed the door shut, panting as he leaned against it, muttering to himself.

“What the hell is going on?” the large man grunted as he clambered to his feet, regaining his composure. He ran a hand over the back of his bald head, feeling for a lump.

The robed figure began to shake the water off his robes and long black beard like a wet dog, before rushing over to a small alchemy workbench, positioned at the rear wall of the small wooden cabin. Still mumbling to himself, he used the flickering candlelight that shone down onto the work area, allowing him to sort through the various scrolls and maps that lay unorganised and sprawled over the bench.

“Malkhia, what is it?” a small half-elf with flowing blonde locks of hair covering half her face said as she stood up and moved next to the heavy-set man, concern etched on her face while adjusting her emerald green hooded cloak, which had somehow managed to tangle itself in the dark handwoven leather chest strap of her quiver hanging on the chair, making it twist off her back.

“They are coming, I told you they would. They were right behind me. I thought I lost them; we need to find it and get out of this place,” Malkhia said hurriedly, scattering papers and maps around the alchemy workbench.

“Find what and who is coming? I think the magic's finally gotten to him and he has lost his damn mind,” the large man said, glancing down to the small rogue.

“Stop it, Horethian, this looks serious,” the rogue said, brushing her fringe from her eyes before thumping at the man's chest, her hand met by a painful thud against his iron plate.

“The map to the Forgotten Lands, I know it is here, and I knew we should not have listened to you, Horethian, and taken out that scouting party. They knew what was in that dungeon same as us,” Malkhia replied.

“Slow down a minute, that snobby prince’s scouting party? And that silly old parchment with random lines and drawings we almost sold to the provisioner?” the rogue questioned.

“Yes, the prince wants it. It’s not silly, Atlas — the Forgotten Lands are real and they’re coming. We need to find it and get out of here quickly,” Malkhia insisted.

“I don’t see what the big deal is around these Forgotten Lands,” Horethian said, peering out the front window, squinting through the downpour. He spotted a trail of torches off in the distance. “Shit, he’s not joking. Quickly, gear up, Atlas — we have company, and a lot of it,” he said, turning away from the window.

“I told you!” Malkhia snapped.

Atlas rushed to the other side of the house, grabbing an exceptionally hand-crafted yew bow off a hook and slinging it over her shoulder. Meanwhile, Horethian opened a wooden locked box, tossing a bundle of arrows over to Atlas.

“Ah ha! Here it is! We must leave!” Malkhia exclaimed urgently, his voice tinged with a mix of adrenaline and anxiety. As he spoke, he grabbed small leather pouches, potions, and a handful of scrolls, stuffing them inside his dark royal blue robes.

Horethian peered out the window once more, noticing the trail of torches flickering much closer than before. “Hurry, Malk, get us out of here,” he said, wrapping his iron-clad fingers around the hilt of a blued metal sword resting against the wall.

Malkhia continued to search the table, grabbing a rolled-up note held with a blue ribbon and a broken red wax seal, stuffing it into his pack. He picked up his staff and started to chant the incantation as his free hand flowed through the air, forming different shapes with his fingers.

“Trea Ango Mov.” A small fizzling sound followed the words as a puff of dark black smoke shot out.

“I don’t think this is the time to fail casts, Malk,” Atlas said.

“Trea Ango Mov,” he chanted once again. This time, a small blue lightning bolt shot down to the ground and swirled at his feet. Malkhia stepped back to watch the portal grow to above head height, a whirlpool of white starting to swirl inside as the room glowed bright blue.

“Quick, everyone through,” Malkhia said, stepping through the portal with Horethian and Atlas close behind. The three vanished, and the portal along with them.