The hot throb of the noon sun hammered a suffocating heat across the land while a sparkling light glittered within the cerulean movements of the river Nuria’s deeper currents. Was it the hot air on the water that caused this shimmer, or the palpable power of Midgard’s greatest ley-line? Either way, this was a special place.
There was neither the blasted corruption of the Westlands or the sentience of the Margreve but the energy here had been equally shaped, shaped by centuries of purpose, some strange and alien, some humanly familiar to Arcael. A crocodile left the water to doze on a bank, the wetness of its armour drying to clay in no time, ibis and storks waded and scudded from place to place to fish. The tide was turning and the day was beginning to ebb.
It was said by the Elves that the moon was the goddess of tides and that all powers will ultimately wax and wane… theirs did. As did the power of the titans here, and humanity’s too one day also. Our vanities are transient like the midday shimmer of the river.
And yet this place still maintained the practices of ancients, a small number here spoke of centuries before as if they were yesterday. Have the peoples of these lands truly changed? Or does the magical power of this place shape its people? Caught within the tides of the sun, the moon, the river and the ley-line.
A fisherman in a small boat cast his net into the great river, caught on the tide his fortune carried out beyond the prow. He gave a small prayer to himself and settled to wait. Arcael watched as his small skiff passed the great barge he was upon. They were almost at the shore, Nuria Nutal awaited.
Saabu, the lion-priest, seemed to sense his thoughts and said: “How many fishermen have cast their nets into this river over now many centuries? How many casters have tapped this ley-line? In Nuria Natal all things change, and yet somehow stay the same."