After a decisively long wait, it is finally here.

With the spread of the Aerslaentean Roegadyn community, the next milestone in our society has been achieved--our very own, custom-made carrd!

It is my most genuine hope that any and all may network through it, learn more of the Firstland from it, or just get connected with other, fellow Roegadyn--regardless if they’re from Aerslaent or not! That’s more or less what our Fellowship is for, after all.

Of course, the Discord, CWLS and else are open to any and all who wish to join and learn more, if not expand, on the Firstland lore themselves, whether canon or fan-canon.

https://aerslaent.carrd.co/

Not sure if the rest of you do this, but I kind of sometimes turn my characters’ retainers into supporting characters.  Like one of Zakuro’s is her estranged sister Sayuri.  I was tinkering around and didn’t really like the eye color of one of Kriss’s retainers, and next thing I knew I had overhauled them into Kriss’s parents and two of her sisters (Kriss is the youngest of seven daughters).

For reference, Kriss hails from Aerslaent.  While the canon tells us literally nothing what it’s like, from my supposition and basing on how the map depicts a Viking-esque longship in that region, in my head Aeslaent’s environment is much like the islands and cultures of the North Sea (Scotland, Ireland, Norway, Sweden, Iceland, and the Faroe Islands) and the Northern Empty is the North Sea.  So kind of this mix of northern Gaelic and Scandanavian, a bit like the Hebrides or the Isle of Skye, and just as rain-soaked and storm-battered.

Okay so I’m really just tinkering around with the character creator and want to show off because I had fun making these little people only I can see. :p

Also, it’s really friggin’ hard getting screenshots of retainers. >:(

So from top to bottom we have:

Ryssuwil: The Old Bear of the Mountain and Kriss’s father.  A titan of a man whose rages literally shake the earth around him, he rarely speaks more than he needs to and more than a few think his only words are “[disapproving grunt]”, “[grudgingly approving grunt]”, and “[intimidating growl].”  Preferring to live out in the woods and mountains of his island and caring little for most people, his tempestuous romance with the sea witch Syggswys gave him seven daughters, all of which he typically refers to as simply “girl.”

Syggswys: The Storm Witch and Kriss’s mother.  A dangerous and wild woman who is technically not a pirate, her strange branch of conjurery and geomancy focuses on the waves and storms that plague the region.  Her magic can see a ship through a hurricane or navigate a reef, or likewise hide them from the kraken and sea serpents indigenous to the Northern Empty.  It can just as easily hex or bring down maladies upon a man who offends her, making her an object of fear and respect among the locals.  Having no small talent for rolling the bones and reading omens such as birds, stars and animal entrails, she comes ashore only when the portents tell her is right, which only contributes to the complex - and often stormy - relationship with Ryssuwil and the seven daughters she’s born him.

Iyrngeim: The Grey Siren and Kriss’s eldest sister.  A proud woman who prefers civilization far more than either of her parents, Iyrngeim makes her living as a skald, a local variety of bard, at the local jarl’s court.  While she does posses some small talent for magic, she prefers music and the finer things.  She thinks of her youngest sister as hotblooded and far too much like her father with Kriss’s berserker ways and affinity for animals.

[Hyrthyml Isil Remastered]

Among the first batch of parchments rolling off fresh from the press, comes the new, and improved, charted record of the elusive waters of Hyrthyml Isil, and all of the islands belonging to its reach. Replete with details of flora, fauna and the whereabouts of certain protective wards, this detailed script will prove useful to any and all that wish to brave the wilderness of the lands and tides heretofore thought vanished to the waves of Aerslaent.

Exclusively available to the patrons of the Embassy, may this depiction serve to safeguard your and yours to the promised, lost haven. Reprinting and acts of sharing are strictly prohibited.

Fair winds and clear skies, The Hyrtfyr Embassy

We’ve come a long way, and not necessarily in a poor fashion. Looking back on the original, first rendition of the map…

…one can not help but feel nostalgic–and proud. The new iteration of the map remains true to the original source material, expands on existing regions, and is enriched with new, and more complex areas whose lore is yet to come.

Wayward lodge, The Step Autumnsfall aerst-eve, third Moon, Seventh Astral Era

The last ribbons of golden sunlight gradually seep behind the cracks and nooks of the mountains overhead. Spring always held sway over these distant shores, so far removed from the mainland... For even in Autumn’s advent could one stumble across fields replete with reds and whites, and yellows and blues; a tapestry of colours in bloom. From boundless glades brandishing beds of petals, inked in all hues of the rainbow, to harrowing peaks of stone and iron, maintaining solitary vigil over us who oft dwell ‘neath their crooked boughs... It truly did hold this unfathomable allure, a getaway haven above any other far and wide... Well, ‘s long as you valued green plains o’er roofs o’ maple crowns, or vast kingdoms of seamless snow that is...

I know I did. At least on that day.

It all began not unlike all other, grand adventures--with small feats. Naught more than a little ‘Dear diary,’ here, and a doe-eyed observation there... Oh, and ‘course, not wanting for a spirit of adventure and mischief o’erlong, nay...

It all began on a sunny day, a normal day by all accounts, I assure you, honest.

With a spirited lad, and his hunger for the world--among other things.

The royal court of Autumn, a terrific place, you see... They held all of these halls and keeps of splendour, bathed in vibrant strokes of the paintbrush, and the Great-forges, the Haer-fyr being the grandest of ‘em all, differed very little. A proud folk, a hearty folk--aye, they found succor in those decorated marbles and draped halls...

...Yet, they also were none the wiser to another quarter, one far more rustic, under Hyrtfyr’s belt. There, in the secluded midst of The Step, laid the Wayward roadside lodge... A rustic cabin, homely and tranquil, long-removed from the troubles that ailed the shores of the Mainland.

That is where, upon that day, a flighty Sea Wolf had made his escape from the familiar life that cradled him thus far, and with no more than eleven summers to his name, did he steal away, under the veil of night, a ship of silver sail and mallorn timber; or had he merely joined a well-versed crew secretly so? Frankly, memory oft eludes me on these matters...

I am but certain the former sounds far more tell-tale worthy, I’d say...

Yet, as the break of dawn sprang ‘hind the jagged pillars of the mountains, so too did he find himself upon this blessed, remote soil. While Roegadyn cubs may’ve been left wanting for stealth, this slippery Wolf honed his own skills throughout the better part of his childhood--fleeing ‘twixt chamber and hall with varying success, at first.

And where did the road take him? Well, of course he knew... In a sense. His destination was made known to him, albeit the course--not so. His day wasted away in exploration, and as morn waxed to midday, had he already learned of the fruits and the flowers that made their peaceful home there. As midday turned to wane into night, however, did he finally chance upon the steadfast planks and crude cobblestone that lined the foundations and walls of the beckoning homestead. A keyturn here, a few cursory glances there... And to bed he went, wholly spent and content, sinking away into dreamscape’s hold...

...Would that he awoke the same fashion--at least, as far as his feelin’ of accomplishment went. As his vibrant hues began to squint open, did he drink deep of the crashing sunlight; of the specks that flitted from window to floor, of the gentle wind that lulled the shutters.

Of the looming silhouette, colossal and terrible, perched by his bedside, with arms in a lax fold atop its breast. Yet, a gasp he could not withhold, no matter how hushed--his instinctive fear entrenched him firmly, forcing him to spring back in his covers. This, of course, was noted by the stalwart shade, now visibly sitting upon a pulled-up chair.

Its bulk soon gave it away--a male Sea Wolf, through and through, his skin brandishing a light tint of seafoam, and his fiery mane long, at ends sharp, with two great braids running past each side of his face, each encased in a metal cask near the bottom. It was the brittle clatter of these very cases that announced his attention steering towards the cub.

“Well, well, what d’ve have here, then... Rise an’ shine, lil’un.” His deep, powerful voice gently ushered into the wind, an unbecoming serenity yielding from his lips.

The child’s jaw unhinged gingerly, for as he took in the form of the man afore him, he could make no mistake; from the runic insignia upon his braids, to the war-paint cherishing his lower eye, even momentarily bereft of crown--the Haerkoen, the Greatking of Hyrthyml stood afore him. The youth was swift to knit his brows in frustration, pulling up the covers in a feeble attempt to remain concealed.

“Your--uh, your... Majesty, what... Brings you ‘ere...” The Sea Wolf feigned a cough, muffling his juvenile voice faintly.

“Oh, you know...” Began the larger Wolf, a single brow flicking up in quizzical amusement. “Making certain my ‘subjects’ are happy and content in all matters. Oh, and seein’ as you’re wholly satisfied with lounging the day away ‘ere by your lonesome, figured I’d take up the undying duty of delivering you this coveted... Journal, which someone simply must’ve stolen from ye--no way you’d e’er be clumsy enough to forget it by yourself... Mm? It belongs to you, I trust--especially so, given the detailed plans o’ yer lil’ flight to the Step littering its pages, and all.” 

Oh, he knew the words to pick at times... While mostly stoic, in the few instances where he could, he’d feed his own twisted amusement until every last drop was siphoned.

“What’re you doin’ ‘ere! Don’t ye have some important errand t’ attend to anyroads...” Barked back the child, the frustration of his own, flighty nature, gnawing at the back of his mind--how in the Seven Hells could he forget his most prized possession!?

“Nortstyr Rhotdornnsyn,” Thundering swept his proud voice, as ire rose and grew ripe in his burly throat, and akin to a whip he barked back, “The most important, unending duty o’ mine rests with my son, my daughter, my wife and my peoples--and none may come inbetween.” The quivering of the shutters would quell in the aftermath, as he assumed a much more resolute, hushed decibel. “Gather your belongings. We are to set out.”

While the rolling thunder instilled him with dread, the King ever knew the blood that ran in the child’s veins--and how a simple spark could give way to an unquenchable flame of anger. Not that he had been any different in his childhood, anyroads.

Off came the covers, and with a swift swipe of his arm did he snag back his adventuring journal--greedily pressing it to his chest, plumes of fire nearly seeping through his nostrils, as his own anger began to boil. 

“I am not leaving! I barely got here, lil’alone findin’ the place besides. I have no mind to go home yet.” Baleful daggers were shot towards the larger Wolf’s crimson hues, who only reprimanded him with a proud smirk. It did occur to the younger’un then that his senior wore less so a royal garb or anything alluding to his status--no, a simple, leather jacket, dark trousers and journeying boots was all he required for this task.

“I ne’er mentioned returning home just yet, my son. Come, while the dew is still fresh, and the ground rousing awake.” Into his arms he would guide Nortstyr, reassuringly guiding him off the weathered bedside. In bewildered wonder did the child glance up to the figure of order, and for the first time in a long, tiresome while, did the light of morn wash over not the High-king, but his father. Together, they would eat and make merry still, at the expense of the mature Wolf’s love for cuisine--before setting out into the wild.

There, after a longer trek drowned in rising laughter and, past halfway of the route, a piggybacking, did they at long last reach their quarry--an aged, immense oak, resting upon a sizable glade--a glade entirely cradled and embraced by the arms of the mountain. A quiet brook trickled and bubbled nearby, running off into a timid pond at the far side of the verdant plateau.

“We are come, at last. The Ahldeyha, or Old Oak, in short.” Spoke the labouring male, squeezing the child’s ankles within each fist affectionately. He gave him little room to ask his queries, for he knew what puzzled the cub’s mind. “You see, back when I was no more’n a lil’un, I fell into the same woes I seem to have cast upon you... My Pa was awfully invested in running everything, yet even in spite of it all, he noticed my turmoil... And while he did his best, it hardly sufficed.” Rhotdornn’s lips curled into a nostalgic smile, as he gazed up the terrible crown of the lush giant ahead, slowly taking his approach.

“So one day, o’erloaded as we both were with our burdens, our duties--I was stolen away, in the naught o’ night, by a mysterious figure cloaked in shadow... An’ next thing I knew, I awoke in that very cabin, with ol’ Hyrtfyr by my bedside, in these... Farmin’ trousers an’ suspender vest. I’ve never quite seen him out of his royal attire afore then, either.”

Nortstyr found great irony in this, if the devilish smirk upon his lips gave any indication. “Like father, like son.” He jabbed lower, prompting his father to rustle his legs playfully.

“Aye... Suppose it runs in our blood. An’ so we made away, an’ he took me to this place... A thing of beauty at night, as you’ll witness yourself. And together, we... Well...” Bracing both of his palms against the smaller one’s sides, he’d gradually pry him off, softly allowing him to find his own footing once more upon the gentle, dew-crowned blades of grass. From his large palm, at last, he’d unearth the smallest of seeds, to which the youth took immediately, taking it away as if it were the most brittle of all things.

“We made a promise or two to eachother, and dug into the earth together a little seed--no bigger than the one in your hand, my little lion.” Dornn’s hand soon proudly sat atop his son’s fiery locks, ruffling them with unwarranted affection.

“As we gave birth to a new life that day, so too did our bond grow, replenished with new life, new hope... And as our sapling grew greater an’ greater, so too did it nourish and strengthen the ties that bound us. A simple ritual, to be sure--but on this enchanted glade... You need little more than a bit of love, care and determination to see the smallest of saplings burst the mightiest of branches. Great feats oft spring from the smallest, most humble beginnings. Remember this, my child.”

The child nodded but once, awestruck as he had become from the intimidating shadow, blotting out the rays of daylight’s break near-wholly. “Aye, I... Think I un’erstand.” He slowly muttered, honouring the seed within his palm with an impressed, if not slightly fearful, glance. But in the end... It mellowed out, ultimately finding greater comfort than intimidation in such a small, timid thing.

Rhotdornn guided him ever lower, with one palm on Nortstyr’s back, and another patting a malleable patch of heavenly-soft ground to boot. With a bare palm each did they endeavour to draw out a smaller hole, none too far from the great Oak, gingerly lodging the seedling within the firm mouth of the earth. Rhotdornn slowly guided Nortstyr’s steps, piece by piece, showing him even as much as to how to pat the land together, how to straighten up the stalk... And from the nearby, gurgling brook did they draw water, sprinkling it across with due diligence, to tide the newborn life over, until new clouds were to blanket the sky, and pour clear rains upon the fertile soil.

At long last, they’d merely sit upon the ground, enjoying the peace that spoiled their senses vehemently. At long last, Rhotdornn spoke once more.

“The deed is done, Nortstyr. We ought to think of a name for it, I reckon... But that can wait. ‘Tis funny, in a sense--e’ery time I visit this spot, I visit a life I’ve given to one, while in the company of another... Much like my father, I’d say. Mayhap one day, even you will... Or you may yet unravel the magicks that stir within this place at dawn and dusk. Or you might chance upon a fetching lil’ witch and bring her hither to solve the mystery... Among other things.”

A sharp fang protruded from the roof of his upper lip, as his lips spread in a subtle grin, offering the smaller Wolf a little nudge with his elbow. Nortstyr scoffed, unused--and nearly unsettled--to witness his father in such informal chatter.

“Hrmph... As if. Besides, didn’t uncle Ornn say that adventure waits for no Wolf!? And so, none will hold me in one place with the world so large and ripe for the taking. Besides...” He quizzically peered up at his father, ever so innocently blinking upwards. “You mean to tell me sis an’ I were planted in the soil, too? Is that where Roegadyn children come from?”

Rhotdornn near-froze up, billowing a long breath out of his nose at the assumption. A long sigh followed thereafter, as a profound chuckle stirred his chest boisterously. “...Eh, let’s... Leave that mystery fer ‘nother day, can always ask one of your uncles or aunts--not Dhem, though. Never Dhem.” His brows knit together in a flat line, half-lidded as he had grown at the mere idea of his twin granting any... Quality advice in hindsight.

And so did the waning of the Sun, and the waxing of the Moon, finally come to pass. Together, did the two set out once more, homeward bound--hopeful glints for a brighter future twinkling in their eyes.

Signed, Nortstyr Rhotdornnsyn

[ The lower section of the entry appears to have weathered a few drops of liquid at the very bottom of the signature, bearing a more recent addition. ]

[The Rainlanders of Aerslaent Fellowship], under the patronage and due aid of the [Hyrtfyr Embassy] will soon be releasing, hot off the press and still freshly inked, new and visually improved cartography pieces detailing the lay of the land around the Northern Empty, with the first volume tied expressively to the First Land. 

However, given the vast number of islands and settlements about the land, any and all members of the [Fellowship] are welcome to contribute to the fresh issue of maps by detailing the whereabouts, geography and notable features of their homes within the Blank. 

Submissions, too, are welcome to those with roots physically removed from the Empty, so long as the selfsame roots persist in their Aerslaentean settlements.

We hope to hear of and pen many new and perhaps even uncharted homes soon.

Ever at your service, and your family’s, The Hyrtfyr Embassy

Before you stands the uncropped version of the new and detailed Aerslaent map, reworked from the original map;

Into the following:

To whom it may concern,

Whether you are a denizen of the Northern Empty, fleeing the tyrannical hand of ‘law’ imposed by the despot, hail from one of the islands surrounding the archipelago’s Mainland, or possess roots of the Blank while living in settlements removed from its shores across all of Eorzea, all who adhere--or wish to, at least--to the Old ways and tongue, are hereby cordially invited to join the Rainlanders of Aerslaent fellowship. From salty sailor to sheltered shaman, all are welcome within its fold.

Signed, The Hyrtfyr Embassy

[Part I]

[Accompanying music theme]

Child of Winter, and the flakes it bore Already flitting away Fleeing with the wind that saw them soar Once more lost, condemned to stray

The crash of roaring currents, lapping over stone and root by the waterfall, dissuaded her step little and less. She had come here on the account of a summon, and on that account she’d remain, until the council was concluded.

The plateau of their meeting place had been carved out of eight pillars, suspending a tall roof above their heads. Upon it, the gentle lines of a maple leaf had long since been drawn out—peering overhead, as if watching over the events beneath with a wary vigil. Eight pillars, indeed, had been planted into one—for the platform was suspended tall, with four staircases climbing up against it, and from its circular edge would these pillars scrape towards and court the heavens.

With her flowing dress in swift pursuit of her languid, voiceless step, the lady soon bade her way upwards. Hair of enchanting silver waxing and waning against the gentle stream of wind whispered throughout the first—and last—bastion of the valley that stood fast at the throat of Gwaith-i-Nanduirion. Beyond these blazing forges and tranquil falls lay a forsaken refuge, long since abandoned—its sculptor and bane both unknown to most scripts and scrolls alike. Such landscape reeked of treachery and demise, so it came as no surprise that none would see the haunt’s peace disturbed. No, beyond locked gates it’d remain, the truth of its fate kept shy of mortal eyes until all days were counted, and the land’s breath was all but spent.

Yet on this day, the sun would still wash over cool stream and dewy pasture green. No darkness would teeter overhead to thwart the morn, and sink the hearts of man.

As her mind drifted back and forth, swaying betwixt possible causes for such an abrupt audience, Light had failed to notice the mounted steps winding down to none swiftly. Atop the minuscule tower, the company had gathered—and of no small prestige were their garbs, and their emblems and weapons, too. Their posture bespoke discipline and virtue, nobility and elegance—yet might and authority were imparted more on some than others, all the same.

“Loetrliht Wintrammwyn,” the first booming voice beckoned. “You are come at last, for which you have my gratitude.”

Her golden hues would strain upwards, fending against the setting sun. A polite dip of her chin she saw fit to grant, yet naught further. Before her stood a Sea Wolf clad in steadfast armor—a lancer of high rank, if the eye deceived her not. In truth, she soon recognized the visage of one particular Aerstspyr Fyrterbyn, commander of the Autumn’s Lance, and personal envoy to the King himself. His crimson-golden mane gave him away from leagues on ahead, as did his authoritative glare all the same.

“Ah... Aye, I am come, swept once more off winding road and rippling wave, bound for home yet young a knave...” Light never took kindly to code and rules fit tightly enough to choke one’s life out, and Autumn’s Court would, come certain encounters, strike her no more, no less, as such.

“We shan’t waste your patience o’erlong. The council is set to begin soon.” Fyrterbyn issued a rigid slam of his fist against his breast in honoured greeting, his honeyed gaze glazing over the few empty seats yet remaining. Light, too, began to wonder as to where their occupants were—one in particular pestering her mind incessantly as of late.

“Master Fyrterbyn,” she abruptly chimed in, wrapping her hands together before her abdomen. “I shan’t be long.”

Awaiting neither reply nor permission, the swelling stubbornness in her mind implored her to retreat—and her receding step bore her down the well of stairs with greater haste than it saw her ascend the same shortly afore.

Wander. The one thing the Roegadyn had ever come to know. Wandering. Through bush and fern, thicket and verdant screen she’d strive onward, braving a longer road under the guidance of her instincts. At last, a clear lake would spread before her—the clash of water storming from a fall nearby tickling her ears with seductive nostalgia.

There she had come to meet him the first time—seated against the bark of a tree by the shore, deeply snared in slumber and contentment, with a mane as molten and blazing as his infernal namesake would suggest. The Moon loomed above his noggin, and the stars clung direly to the lake’s surface—a wall of mountains encircled the other end of the lake, from which the steady stream would seep and soar.

“Someone’s up awfully early.” A low, calm bass ripped her from the nostalgic current, however sweet and reassuring it might’ve tasted. Turning her glimpse over her shoulder, the female would spot the very same male with arms crossed beneath his pectorals, sporting a hint of amusement upon his lips. “Not that a wanderer’s token trait is aught but a restless nature.”

“D—Lord Rhotdornn,” swift to correct herself, the Sea Wolf would spring to her most convincing greeting yet—tapping her fingers against her collar, and gingerly dipping forwards. “The land whispered of thine steps, as I had come to hope it would.”

“You know...” Stretching a lax step onwards, the male would peer across the brilliant lakeside with his wit busied on another matter. “For someone so detached from rank and authority, you certainly invest no small amount of effort into your etiquette.” A small, coy smirk would creep up to the corner of his lip. “Worry naught. We’re by our lonesome. I’m still just Dornn.”

“Just Dornn.” She affirmatively rehearsed, her lips drinking in a sweeter smile of the words. “Well, just Dornn... Might thou tell me, then, what this meeting shall entail, given the perfume of urgency surround it?”

“I shall, yet it best be done on our trek back. The other lordlings will grow weary—or worse yet for some, bored—if we tarry too long. Come, let us away.” His albino-pale hand would extend to greet her own, which would lock their fingers together with nary a second wasted.

“...Arst thou hinting that Rhyll of Spring and Blyss of Summer shall attend, too?” Her voice, now laden with a string of curiosity and worry alike, inquired—yet a tug of his limb saw her worries quell. If all four of the representatives were summoned in one haven, the matter must not’ve been light, she deemed.

“Chance has it. Hopefully they’ve arrived in the meantime—I mean not to entertain Dhem’s and Rhyll’s unpleasant undertakings for long.”

“Very well. Hath aught changed with thy arrangements for the oncoming voyage?”

“Aye.” He sternly nodded, withdrawing a moderate breath into his lungs.

“The Lord of Autumn better not have grown shy on me.” She teasingly retorted, yet his own sentiment came swift and quiet; drawn in by the pull of his arm, she’d remain in his embrace, and the Sun would peer over the misty mountain tops, capped with drifts of snow, to see them joined in a heartfelt kiss—with the male submitting his heart to her, and in turn, being awarded with no shortage of her own. In the wake of such affection, a low whisper would pluck from his heart strings.

“I mean to spend my days with you. Yet, let us not delay now... We’ll dust over this matter once the company disbands. You’ll be spending the night here, I trust?”

“...Mm. Would that happen to be an invitation, or order milord?” She’d playfully probe him anew, setting unto the path that led them back.