Whispers of the Forgotten Realm

Alaric was no ordinary mapmaker. In his small village, his name was synonymous with precision, skill, and an insatiable curiosity about the lands beyond the horizon. His cramped workspace, filled with parchments and compasses, was his world-until the day a stranger arrived.

The man, cloaked in gray with a hood obscuring his face, placed a rolled-up parchment on Alaric's workbench. "This is no ordinary map," he said, his voice gravelly and low.

Curiosity flared in Alaric as he unrolled the parchment, revealing an intricate design that seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive. A central spiral, surrounded by cryptic symbols, drew his attention. "What is this?"

"It is the way to Eryndor," the man said, before disappearing into the misty night.

Alaric knew of Eryndor only through legends-a place of immense power, lost to time. As he stared at the map, he felt an inexplicable pull. This would not be just another commission; it would be the adventure of a lifetime.