Absalom Reckoning

Time

To tell the tale of the River Kingdoms from 4606 AR to 4704 AR is to tell a tale of a river that never changes its course, no matter what storms rage on the land around it. You see, while the rest of Golarion was plunged into the dreadful Age of Lost Omens, the River Kingdoms simply... continued to be themselves, a glorious mess of chaos and freedom.

In 4606 AR, when the god Aroden died, the cosmic shock was felt across the world. In Cheliax, it meant the rise of devils. In Mendev, it meant a war with demons. But in the River Kingdoms, it meant only one thing: the old order was gone, and the strong could now claim what they pleased. The prophets’ silence was no great loss to a people who trusted steel more than fate. The River Kingdoms, which had always been a haven for those who sought to escape tyranny, found themselves with a fresh wave of refugees and a new supply of ambitious souls.

The immediate years following Aroden’s death were, in their own chaotic way, a period of strange opportunity. Established powers like Daggermark and Mivon saw their chance to expand. Daggermark, the City of Daggers, used the confusion to send its assassins and spies to new heights of influence, toppling fledgling lords and manipulating political crises from afar. I imagine a dozen little kings were slain in those years, their kingdoms crumbling before they even truly began.

Meanwhile, Mivon's so-called "emperors" felt their arrogance was justified. With Cheliax now a land of devils, Mivon saw itself as the rightful heir to the legacy of order, though their idea of order was simply to dominate everyone else. They sent their armies out on constant raids, clashing with the free towns and small baronies that stubbornly refused to bow. It was a time of unending, small-scale wars, a perfect backdrop for a young adventurer to make a name for themselves.

Amidst this chaos, the truly remarkable events were often the small ones. In Touvette, the collective of free towns became even more fiercely independent, standing as a bulwark against the tyrannical ambitions of both Mivon and the encroaching Rostland. A simple trade hub like Gralton found itself richer than ever, as river traffic, no longer trusting the old trade routes, found its way to their docks. And the philosophers of Artume simply continued their quiet, intellectual pursuits, debating the nature of the universe as a dozen battles raged just outside their hearing.

As the years marched toward 4704 AR, the world around the River Kingdoms began to settle into its new form. The Mendevian Crusade became a grinding, endless war, and the best-hearted of Golarion's heroes were drawn away to fight it. This left the River Kingdoms to its own devices, a breeding ground for ambitious scoundrels and free-willed heroes who had no interest in a holy war. This was the time when new opportunities presented themselves, such as the chance to forge a new kingdom in the nearby Stolen Lands, a testament to the idea that if a kingdom is not given to you, you may have to carve it out for yourself.

By 4704 AR, the River Kingdoms were a land of settled chaos, where the laws of nature and strength were the only ones that truly mattered. It was a time of great adventure, a land of forgotten ruins, lost treasures, and a thousand different stories waiting to be told.

Age of Lost Omens (AR) > 4,606

To speak of the Age of Lost Omens is to speak of the great scar on the face of the world, and what happened after. It is a story I have seen unfold with my own eyes, a tale of hope shattered and new destinies forged. Pour a glass, for this story begins with a sudden, dreadful silence.

The Age of Lost Omens did not begin with a trumpet blast or a divine sign. It began with an absence, a quiet, dreadful moment in the year of 4606 AR. On that day, the god Aroden—the Last Azlanti, the patron of humanity, the very anchor of the world's prophecies—simply... ceased to be. His death was not a heroic sacrifice or a dramatic battle. He simply died. The prophets of his church, who had for millennia foretold the future with unerring accuracy, went silent. The divine voice that had guided nations vanished, and the world was left to stumble in the dark.

The immediate aftermath was nothing short of apocalyptic. Without Aroden's divine hand to hold back the storm, a great, ever-churning hurricane known as the Eye of Abendego formed off the coast of the old nation of Sargava, plunging the entire region into a perpetual state of ruin. Worse, a great, open wound—a screaming rift to the Abyss itself—tore through the northern lands of Sarkoris. The Worldwound spewed forth a tide of demons and corrupted the land around it, a direct and horrifying result of the cosmic shock of Aroden's death. This marked the end of the Age of Enthronement and the beginning of our current, uncertain age.

In the years that followed, the world scrambled to react. The nation of Cheliax, once a beacon of Aroden's faith and the heart of his empire, fractured. With Aroden gone, its rulers turned to the only power that could bring order to the chaos: a pact with the archdevil Asmodeus. By 4608 AR, the ruthless House Thrune had seized control, turning the entire nation into an infernal empire built on law, order, and cruelty. It was a trade of light for shadow, and Cheliax has been ruled by devils ever since.

Meanwhile, the people of the north, in Mendev, found themselves on the front lines of a war against demons. The Mendevian Crusade was launched in 4607 AR, a holy war that continues to this very day. In the early years, it was a desperate, unorganized struggle. Many brave souls were lost, but new heroes, like the paladin Iomedae—who had ascended to godhood after Aroden's death—rose to the challenge. The crusades have been a constant drain on the world's resources, but they have, thus far, kept the worst of the Abyss from spreading.

By the year 4704 AR, the world has settled into its new, perilous reality. The Age of Lost Omens is nearly a century old, and its scars have become a part of the landscape. The Worldwound still festers, but the Crusades hold the line. Cheliax is a stable, terrifying infernal power. The prophecies remain silent, and the future is not foretold, but is instead forged by the actions of mortals.

It is a difficult age, to be sure, but it is also a beautiful one. It is a time when a simple adventurer can truly change the world. It is the age of the hero, not the chosen one. And that, to me, is a far more compelling tale than any old prophecy could ever tell.

Brick through a window
Fellnight 4, 4703

Our adventure begins

Word count: 3
The Year of Discord and Whispers
4703

The frost of winter held Gralton in its icy grip, mirroring the chill that crept into the Blackbird's halls. Whispers of betrayal, sharp as a Galtan shiv, poisoned the inner circle. Accusations flew like ravens on a carrion wind, and soon, a head rolled, quenching the thirst for vengeance but sowing the seeds of civil war.
Meanwhile, in Artume, embers of a hidden conspiracy smoldered under the ashes of tragedy. Pathfinders, their cloaks heavy with purpose, unearthed secrets tangled in smoke and deceit. Across the Sellen, a new star flickered in Pitax. The Starseer, shrouded in enigma, unveiled a plan both audacious and unsettling, whispering of a city reborn from the dust of despair.
As spring coaxed reluctant buds from the earth, shadows stirred deep within the Whispering Woods. An ancient evil, roused from its slumber, stretched its maleficence towards unsuspecting communities. Lambreth's druids, guardians of the verdant realm, felt the tremor in their bones, the whisper of corruption on the wind. With grim resolve, they joined forces with the Pathfinders, their battle cries echoing through the ancient oaks, a desperate symphony against the encroaching darkness.
Summer's warmth brought its own unease. Rumors of Deskari's return slithered through the River Kingdoms like vipers, chilling hearts and sharpening blades. Gralton, fractured and belligerent, turned inward, blind to the gathering storm. Artume, scarred but resolute, hosted a grand tournament, a display of martial prowess aimed at forging alliances amidst simmering mistrust. In Pitax, whispers turned to murmurs of doubt as neighboring kingdoms eyed the Starseer's plan with suspicion, the artifact's true nature a bone of contention.
As autumn painted the land in hues of rust and gold, the standoff in Pitax reached a tense impasse. Gralton's internal squabbles reached a fever pitch, threatening to shatter the kingdom itself. The battle in the Whispering Woods, though temporarily won, left a festering wound in the heart of the forest. The year drew to a close, cloaked in uncertainty. A fragile peace held, but the ground beneath it trembled, riddled with fault lines of discord and whispers of darkness yet to come. The Pathfinders, ever vigilant, stood watch, their eyes fixed on the horizon, for they knew the storm was far from over.

Word count: 364

The Age of Enthronement (AR) 1 — 4,606

The Age of Enthronement! A grand and complicated chapter in the story of Golarion. It was the age I watched unfold, and for thousands of years, it felt as though it would never end. It was a time of great ambition, when humanity, guided by a living god, reached for the stars. Pour a drink, my friend, and let this old elf tell you of a world with a ruler on its throne.

The age did not begin with a battle or a grand declaration, but with a simple act of creation. In the year 1 AR, the living god Aroden raised the great island of Absalom from the sea and placed upon it the Starstone, a divine relic of his own creation. With this act, he began the Age of Enthronement. He was a god who ruled over mortals, and for the next four and a half millennia, his word was the law, and his prophets were the truth. Humanity flourished under his guidance, building empires of staggering size and power.

The great empire of Taldor was the first to rise to true prominence. Its legions marched across continents, its cultural influence spread like a wildfire, and its golden lion banner was a symbol of strength and art across the Inner Sea. For centuries, they were the undisputed masters of the known world, their throne a gilded symbol of humanity’s success. It was a time of grand palaces, epic romances, and the belief that the future was a thing to be built, not merely awaited. I remember the grand parades of Taldor's legions in my youth; they were a magnificent sight, full of pomp and golden armor.

But the ages, like rivers, always change course. From the shadow of Taldor, a young nation named Cheliax rose. They were pragmatic, disciplined, and utterly ambitious. Over time, their power grew, and Taldor, mired in its own traditions and internal politics, began to slowly decay. The great empires of the older races, the elves of Kyonin and the dwarves of the Five Kings Mountains, had retreated from the world long ago, leaving the stage to humanity. In the heart of this new Age, the Church of Aroden became a central pillar of life. The prophecies were a divine map, a guide to all things, and mortals lived their lives secure in the knowledge that they were part of a grand design.

The age was not without its shadows, of course. There was the epic Shining Crusade, a centuries-long war to defeat the tyrannical lich known as the Whispering Tyrant. It was a time of great loss but also of a unity humanity had rarely seen. And the eternal border war between Taldor and Qadira was a constant, simmering conflict that bled both nations dry for generations.

The true end of the age came not with a clash of armies, but with a deafening silence. In 4606 AR, a moment that was prophesied by none, the god Aroden died. The divine order of the world was broken. The prophets went silent, the prophecies shattered, and the world was left to its own devices. It was a shock that reverberated through every corner of Golarion.

The Age of Enthronement, for all its triumphs, was an age of a world on a leash. The death of Aroden did not simply end an era; it cut the leash and set the world free. It was a time of certainty, yes, but its ending forced us all into a new, terrifying, and ultimately more heroic, Age of Lost Omens.

The Age of Destiny (AR) -1,600 — 1

Ah, the Age of Destiny! A quiet, slow-burning period after the great fires of the past. It is not an age of cataclysms or grand battles, but an age of patience and perseverance. It is a story of a long, difficult climb out of a deep, dark abyss. Pull your cloak a little tighter, Michael, and let this old elf tell you of a time before the calendar began.

After the terrible calamities of the Age of Anguish, Golarion was a world scarred and broken. The great empires of old were nothing but dust and fading memory. Humanity was scattered in small tribes, living as survivors in a world that had forgotten them. The land itself still writhed with the wounds of the ancient destruction. The Age of Destiny began not with a grand event, but with a simple, collective decision: to not give up.

Over centuries, these scattered tribes began to coalesce. They learned to farm the land again, to build with sturdy stone, and to pass on what little knowledge they had salvaged from the wreckage of the past. It was a time of slow, deliberate progress. There was no single king who ruled the world, but a thousand small chieftains and wise elders who simply tried to make a home for their people.

This was the age of the first human empire to truly rise from the ashes: Osirion. Born from a union of tribes, its people looked to the stars and the divine, building grand monuments to their gods and carving out a kingdom from the shifting sands of the desert. They were a testament to humanity’s newfound resilience and ambition. It is said that their god-kings, with their divine guidance, set the standard for what a human kingdom could be.

At the same time, in the distant north, the tribes that would one day become Taldor began to unite, forging a disciplined and martial culture that would eventually grow to dominate an entire continent. The dwarves, having survived the destruction deep within their mountains, began to cautiously emerge, and the elves who had returned from their great exodus began to build their quiet cities. The world was slowly, painstakingly, beginning to heal.

But the defining moment of this age came in the year that would eventually be known as 1 AR. In that year, a living god, the champion of humanity named Aroden, appeared to the world. He was a being of immense power and purpose, and he brought with him a gift that would define the next four and a half millennia. It is said that he challenged any mortal to pass a great test, to walk the Path of the Starstone, a divine trial that was meant to create a new god. He was the first to do so, raising a divine relic, the Starstone, from the sea.

With that single, monumental act, he founded the great city of Absalom, a beacon of hope and a testament to the future of humanity. This event marked not only the beginning of a new city but the beginning of a new age. The Age of Destiny, with its slow, arduous journey from ruin to rebirth, had found its climax.

It was an age of promise, a time when humanity, by its own will and with the aid of a divine hand, began to chart its own course for a glorious future. It was a long journey, but it was one that set the stage for all the triumphs and tragedies that were yet to come.

The Age of Anguish (AR) -2,760 — -1,600

We step back now from a time of building and rebuilding, and into a time of great destruction and sorrow. This is not a tale of heroic triumph, Michael, but a story of endurance. It is a memory that Golarion carries in its very bones, a wound that has never fully healed. I have seen the scars of this age across the world, and they speak of a time when the world itself screamed in pain.

The Age of Anguish began with a catastrophic event known as Earthfall. While the gods had promised Aroden a golden age for humanity, their promise came with a cruel twist. A great meteorite of immense size and power, a cosmic rock of black stone, fell from the sky and plunged into the world. It struck Golarion with such force that it shattered continents, sent tidal waves across the land, and plunged the world into a thousand years of darkness.

Do not confuse this falling star with the Starstone Aroden would later raise from the sea; this was a separate, purely destructive force. Its impact was so great that the once-mighty continent of Azlant, the cradle of human civilization, was shattered and largely sunk beneath the waves. The great empire of Thassilon, a land of mythic magic and terrifying hubris, was likewise brought to a grinding halt. The magical energy unleashed by the event twisted and warped the very fabric of the world, creating the Mana Wastes and other terrible scars. The sky was filled with dust and shadow for a thousand years, a perpetual night that brought about the Age of Darkness.

Civilization, as it was known, utterly collapsed. The great empires were gone, their knowledge and their wonders lost forever. The survivors of humanity were scattered, living in isolated tribes, clinging to what little they had left. The elves, with their foresight, had seen the coming doom and had escaped the world on their great ships, leaving Golarion to its fate. The dwarves, in their own wisdom, had delved deep into the earth and sealed their mountain strongholds, riding out the storm in their sturdy halls. Humanity was left alone on a broken, mournful world.

The Age of Anguish was a time of survival. It was a time when civilization was reduced to its most basic form: finding food, securing shelter, and fighting back the new, monstrous creatures that roamed the desolate lands. Hope was a rare and precious thing, and knowledge from the past was lost with every passing generation. It was a thousand years of slow, painful, grinding existence.

This sorrowful age ended not with a bang, but with a slow, gentle dawn. As the dust cleared from the sky and the sun's light finally returned to the world, the survivors of the calamity began to look to the future. With the world slowly healing, the Age of Anguish came to its somber conclusion, giving way to the Age of Destiny and the long, arduous task of rebuilding.

It is a sobering thought, is it not, that our world has already faced and survived its own apocalypse? It is a grim story, but one that proves the resilience of life and the tenacity of those who refuse to be defeated.

The Age of Darkness (AR) -5,293 — -2,760

We now step back from the wound and into the very shadow that was cast. It is a tale not of nations, but of survival, for the world as we know it nearly did not survive at all. It is a story so old, even to an elf, that its truths are found in the hushed whispers of forgotten lore.

The Age of Darkness began with the very same catastrophe that birthed the Age of Anguish: Earthfall. But while the Age of Anguish was the suffering that came after, the Age of Darkness was the cause. It was a thousand-year period of perpetual night, a time when the sun was swallowed by a great, churning cloud of dust and debris that billowed up from the wound in the planet. The sky, once a canvas of blue and gold, was now a perpetually gray, starless void.

In this endless twilight, civilization utterly collapsed. The great wonders of the Age of Legend, the powerful magic and the grand empires, were rendered useless. A society built on sun and open fields could not survive in the eternal dark. What was not destroyed by the initial impact was lost to the cold, the starvation, and the terrifying new monsters that thrived in the gloom. Humanity was reduced to its most base instincts, surviving as huddles of desperate, brutal scavengers. There were no kings, no cities, and no grand purposes. There was only the struggle to find food and a place to hide from the things that hunted in the dark.

For a thousand years, a full millennium of ceaseless night, the world mourned. The dwarves, wise and foresightful, were safe in their deep tunnels, but even they felt the despair of a world that had lost its sun. The few elves who had not fled the planet in their star-ships found a desperate peace in the deepest, most secluded parts of the old forests, where the old magic still lingered. But for humanity, there was only survival. I have read old tales of tribes who worshipped the faintest flicker of fire, a reminder of the lost warmth of the sun, and others who prayed to the stars that no one could see anymore.

This long, dreadful night came to an end not with a grand event, but with a slow, agonizing dawn. Over the centuries, the dust and debris in the atmosphere slowly began to settle. The first rays of light were not a glorious burst of warmth, but a soft, pale luminescence that hinted at the sun's return. This slow, gradual return of the light marked the end of the Age of Darkness and the beginning of the long, painful road to recovery that was the Age of Anguish.

It is a sobering thought, is it not, that our world has already walked through a thousand years of darkness? It is a testament to the fact that even in the deepest despair, the hope for a new dawn can never be truly extinguished.

The Age of Legend (c. -9000 AR - c. -5293 AR) (AR) -9,000 — -5,293

Ah, the Age of Legend! We have walked backward through the long night and the painful dawn, and now, my friend, we stand at the beginning. This is a story of a world that was bright with magic and filled with wonders that would seem like fairytales today. It is a time before the great wound of Earthfall, a time when humanity was young and brimming with power.

The Age of Legend was the golden age of human civilization, a time of unparalleled magical and technological marvels. There were two great, human empires that ruled the world. The first, and most majestic, was Azlant. It was a grand continent of towering spires and cities built of pearl and coral, a place where humanity lived in harmony with the ebb and flow of magic. The Azlanti people were master mages, their knowledge of the arcane arts so profound that they could raise great floating cities and communicate with the stars. Their civilization was a beacon of light and reason, and their people were long-lived and beautiful, in a way that reminds me of my own kind.

But across the sea, on the continent that would one day become Avistan, another empire rose in contrast to the gentle brilliance of Azlant. This was the empire of Thassilon, ruled by the powerful and terrifying runelords. These masters of sin magic built their kingdoms on a foundation of vice, each one a monument to a particular sin. They raised great, magical structures that defied the very laws of nature and crafted artifacts of immense power. Their arrogance was as boundless as their magic, and their power was absolute. I have seen the lingering echoes of their works in my travels—the great monuments that still stand, filled with the dark magic of an age long gone.

In this age, magic was a natural part of life. Artifacts of unimaginable power were crafted and wielded as simple tools. Spells that could reshape the landscape and divine the future were common knowledge. The very air was alive with magic, and the world was a canvas for a young and ambitious race. It was a time of epic heroes and terrible villains, of a world that seemed to have no limits.

And yet, it did. The end of the Age of Legend came not with a slow decline, but with a terrible, instantaneous price. The great hubris of these empires—their reckless pursuit of power and their disregard for the natural order—brought about the very doom they sought to prevent. The gods, or some great cosmic force, looked upon their arrogance and saw fit to end it. It is said that the Starstone fell as a final, dreadful lesson.

The Earthfall shattered continents, sank Azlant beneath the waves, and snuffed out the twin flames of magical power that had so carelessly burned. The Age of Legend ended in a great cataclysm of fire and shadow, a mournful end to a beautiful, terrible time. Its passing gave way to the ages of Darkness and Anguish, a long and brutal night from which the world only barely survived.

And so, our journey through the ages comes full circle, from the glorious, magical beginning to the grim, practical present. It is a long story, Michael, and a humbling one.