The World of the Wayfarer
The Wayfarer of Baile is set in a modern fantasy world. A world where monsters can exist next to great feats of technological might. Instead, however, the Old Ways are quickly pushed into the wilds while humans stick to their mighty megacities and well-defended towns.
Of those great leisurely enslaves of human advancement, the megacity of St. Catherine’s has set a high standard. Their ivory towers loom tall in the horizon, peering out even in the thick fog that pushes up the bay and obfuscates most. From the small coastal town of Baile, located on the opposite side of St. Catherine’s, one can watch the light of the city glimmer in the darkness of the eve.
Those who call Baile their home are otherwise simple folks. Most are fishermen or work on the docks. Those who do not, find work within the town. This is especially true for folks like Isaac Hughes, who runs his uncle’s antique book shop. His uncle, James Hughes, is easily the most well-known man in town. Before Isaac was even born, he was sailing the world and dousing out the dark flames of savagery, replacing it instead with those ravenous beacons of hope known as modernity. For his efforts, he found wealth and fame, and now, in his elderly years, dementia.
“The platform began to tremble. Metal bolts loosened. The plates which guarded or simply colored the ground rattled back and forth, sending up small plumes of dust that would once again fall back from whence they had risen. Mr. Hughes looked down to the surface of his coffee, his eyes watching the tiny waves moving outward from the middle. He reared his hand back to avoid being splashed with the hot liquid.
Iron and steel molested one another. A train, one as old as the station itself, grunted in the far distance of the tunnel. The ancient behemoth of might, left now in a state of miserable disrepair, spat forth from its twisted belly a vile humidity that stained the windows in both fog and that insidious grease that lingered on most surfaces but could only truly be seen as near translucent smears of crusted light across the panes of glass.
This was no ship of Theseus. This was the original.”
Outside the constructs of the megacities and even the smaller towns idling beside the ancient black forests and herdlands, exists a much different world. A world where dangers lurk in strange places. A world where hidden kingdoms watch in isolation, carefully guiding any travelers away from their view. A world of magic, of creatures unknown, of witches bound to dead sorcerers.
Of all the oddities residing within the outside world, none more relatable can be found within the Hobbish kingdoms. Known by some as the Moor and by others as the Acreage, the subterranean cities of the Hobs bustle with activity. Thousands, perhaps even more, of the small creatures bandy about their daily lives, their world not entirely unlike our own. Still, because they linger within their holes in the Black Forest, they are entitled as Wild Hobs. The sort to slit your throat should you utter a wrong translation of their ancient runic language.
““You’re not the first human to see this place,” Jack told her. He guided her toward one of the many archways along the side of the curved wall. “Ever since Sten the Weaver’s fall, the magistrates of my land like to keep this place separate from the human lands.”
“What’s it called? Your land.”
Jack hesitated a moment. With a grumble, he replied, “To most, it is known as the Moor. To others, such as the Redcaps, we call it the acreage. Moors aren’t cultivated, you see, and we Redcap’s ain’t the sort to squander land like some folk are.””
In the town of Baile, an ancient custom is still held by most of the residents. Hobs are adopted by families, who give them a place to stay (most often, the attic) in exchange for tutoring a child of theirs. Known as fearful and skittish, they stick to their homes and to their duty as a house spirit.
It was said that when Sten the Weaver betrayed his thane and raised his army of homunculi, the custom was mostly abandoned due to the Hobbish magic used by Sten. Hobs and magicfolk were pushed out of the towns, thrown into the wilds, and forgotten. Only those with a strong connection to their hobs kept them.