The village of Gilba Gilba was founded in the year 25 by Sir Gilba of Gilba, a respected man of words and of the world. His companions, Blumberdan, Hurgabatackis, and Marmarmar were all explorers in their own right and the four of them traveled the world with a fervor and zest and zeal and EXCITEMENT that went unmatched in Assol at the time. They all settled in the West of Assol and founded their respective eponymous cities, far from the Crown and the jurisdictions of the Elite. The great thing about travel in the Early Days of the History was that few people were willing to commit to the roughness of it, the difficulty and planning involved, the danger, fear, and all around REALNESS OF IT.

For this reason the roads, waterways, and land itself was fairly empty and those seeking solitude and the lack of any real infrastructure were rewarded. It was neat. Travel was tough in those days. It’s tough these days too but it’s easier to do it easy. Back then it was all you. You and whoever you met along the way. Say for example you took a maneuver off into an Outland village and discovered an old tavern, unmapped and unmarked. You traded your stories for a bit of ale and left with a memory of forgotten company.

On the eve of the Autumn Storms, Gilba of Gilba gathered his compatriots and OFF THE WENT into the Wildness of the land. The politics of the day were similar to the politics of today, which meant crossing Crown borders required deftness and paperwork. It wasn’t a big deal if you were prepared. Seasoned wanderers had their papers in order.

Gilba loved the westlands of Assol and frequently traveled down to the Island Realm, a place to the South O’ Things that was generally regarded as treacherous for those who didn’t know its ways, yet beautiful for those who did. On one of his adventures (solo this time, the other three had elected to veer off; they would reunite at the Crown) he was following a Nightland trail in the south o’ things, gazing straight up into the skies and perceiving the glittering lights of the stars in a fashion he’d never perceived before. Down here they gleamed and flashed like the Thousand Forges in the Northern Reaches (where the blacksmiths worked) on account of the weakness of the moon in this part of the world. The Wayward Spirits in his pocket reminded him of the potential of who he could be meeting on nights such as this if he surrendered to their powers. He probably would.

The trees were turning this time of year and the south o’ things always magnified the already magnificent natural beauty of the season’s change. In the darkness he could make out the desaturated foliage that in the day appeared to be a forest of frozen torches, each the size of a giant Abraxxe’s spear. His mind went into spirals.

He set himself down off the Nightland road and fashioned a shelter. He would be no match for the Autumn Storms but he suspected no such whirlwinds would be blowing his life apart tonight on account of the clear black sky that hovered above him like a comfortable cabalon.

Within minutes a small fire was clicking into the silence. He stared at it, sipping on his hot moonbeams and pondering whether he should write any more words. Loneliness and nature made him reflective. The stars above, vast fields of pointillist art, seemed to push the words out of his thoughts. He looked into his satchel at the Wayward Spirits clustered in there, at their eerie, orange glow that eclipsed the fire.