Lore | Book One: Whispers of the Sea

Alpha Concept Art - Book One: Whispers of the Sea

Author’s Note:

This story is part of the Alpha version of Old Mana Game’s world and lore. As development continues, elements of this tale may evolve, shift, or be refined to better capture the spirit of Thaldris. Your feedback, thoughts, and passion are all part of shaping this world – so thank you for joining the journey.

Cheers,

Indi

Welcome to the World of Thaldris

Thaldris – a world forged by the flow of Mana, the unseen force that breathes life into the earth and binds all living things. It is the pulse of creation, the strength of kingdoms, and the currency of power. Through it, cities have risen like monuments to ambition, and empires have stretched their banners across land and sea.

From the gleaming spires of Kingsreach, where stone and steel stand proud against the sky, to the golden fields of Greenshire, where harvests have fed generations, Mana shapes the lives of all who walk the earth. In the deep shadows of the Kingswood, where ancient trees whisper secrets to the wind, Mana flows like a song, timeless and untamed. And beneath the surface of the world, where veins of crystal glimmer in forgotten caverns, its power lies waiting to be claimed.

It was believed eternal. It was believed unshakable.

Yet nothing in Thaldris lasts forever.

Somewhere, far beyond the borders of the known world, the flow begins to falter. The whispers come first – faint rumors carried on the wind. Farmers speak of fields that turn to ash, of rivers that shimmer black under the moon. Hunters tell of beasts fleeing the forests, their eyes hollow, their cries unheard. And sailors return from distant waters with tales of silence – harbors abandoned, ships adrift with no soul aboard, and shadows shifting just beyond sight.

The wise dismiss it as folly, the ramblings of madmen and drunkards. Life in Kingsreach continues, the markets bustling and the bells of the sanctum chiming as they always have. Yet those who listen closely know the truth: the world is no longer at peace. Beneath the calm lies something darker, something ancient, stirring in the depths of forgotten places.

The Mana that once flowed freely now stirs with uncertainty, as though the world itself holds its breath.

And when Mana fades, kingdoms tremble.

This is Thaldris – a land on the edge of change. A world where the rise and fall of empires begins not with war, but with whispers. Whispers that speak of shadows, of silence, and of the Old Mana Game, where every soul must play their part.

But who will rise? And who will fall?

Kingsreach

At the heart of Thaldris, perched high on the cliffs overlooking the sea, stands Kingsreach – the crown jewel of humanity. Its white-stone walls rise proudly against the horizon, catching the sunlight like polished marble, while the azure rooftops gleam in defiance of the skies above. From afar, it appears untouched, unyielding, as if carved by gods rather than men.

The harbor below, known as The Lion’s Docks, stretches out into the restless waters of the bay. Ships of all sizes crowd the piers – merchant vessels loaded with goods from distant lands, fishing boats weighed down with the bounty of the sea, and the occasional war galley standing ready for unseen threats. Salt hangs thick in the air, mingling with the cries of gulls and the constant hum of voices – sailors barking orders, traders striking deals, and children running along the planks, dreaming of adventures across the waves. The docks pulse with life, but beneath the surface, there are rumors – whispers of ships vanishing beyond the edge of known waters and villages found abandoned along the coast. For now, those are just stories told in taverns, easily ignored amid the bustle of everyday life.

Beyond the gates of Kingsreach, the Kingswood stretches out to the north, a forest as old as the world itself. Its trees stand tall and close, their leaves forming a canopy that swallows sunlight and turns the air cool and heavy. Hunters and rangers know the Kingswood well, but even they admit that some parts are best left unexplored. There are places where the paths twist unnaturally, where shadows linger longer than they should, and where the sounds of birds and beasts fall eerily silent. The people say the Kingswood remembers – though what it remembers, no one can say for sure.

To the east, the fertile lands of Greenshire roll out like a golden tapestry. Here, farmers rise with the dawn to work their fields, their hands stained with the earth that has fed generations. Villages with stone cottages and thatched roofs dot the landscape, each surrounded by gardens and grazing livestock. At the heart of Greenshire lies Greenshire Village, a bustling town known for its markets and its taverns, where merchants gather to trade and travelers find warm hearths and cold ale. The village mill stands tall, its wheel turning steadily with the flow of the river, a symbol of the steady rhythm of life in these lands.

But not all is as it seems. In recent months, farmers have muttered about crops failing, their fields darkened by blight. Fishermen refuse to cast their nets in certain rivers, claiming the water has grown strange and still. In hushed voices, the people of Greenshire speak of something unnatural, though no one can say what. For now, life continues – the fields are tilled, the market stalls filled, and the taverns echo with laughter – but there is unease here, hidden beneath the surface like cracks in a stone wall.

To the west, the cliffs rise higher and sharper, their jagged edges bitten by the unrelenting sea. From there, one can look out across the water and see only endless waves, broken by the faint silhouettes of distant ships. This is where the realm of man meets the unknown – the lands beyond, uncharted and untamed, where few dare to sail.

At the center of it all stands Kingsreach – proud, defiant, and blind to the whispers that crawl along its borders. Its streets are alive with the sound of merchants calling out their wares, of children playing games beneath the shadow of towers, and of blacksmiths hammering steel into swords and tools. The air smells of bread from the bakeries and salt from the docks, of horses and smoke and life. It is a city that stands as a testament to the strength of men, but it is also a city ruled by certainty – the certainty that the fields will always yield, that the ships will always return, and that the world will always be as it is.

But certainty is a fragile thing. Beneath the surface, cracks are forming. In the Kingswood, shadows grow deeper. In Greenshire, the fields turn silent. And at the edge of the cliffs, fishermen hear voices on the wind.

For now, the people of Kingsreach live as they always have – proud and unaware. But those who look closely can see the signs: Mana, the lifeblood of the world, is shifting. And nothing that shifts ever does so without consequence.

The Taverne’s Tale

The Drunken Boar was the kind of tavern where stories were traded like gold, where travelers sought refuge from the biting winds of Greenshire and farmers came to forget their troubles over a mug of ale. Smoke clung thick to the rafters, mingling with the sour tang of sweat, spilled drinks, and the warm, comforting scent of roasted meat. The fire crackled in the corner, its glow dancing across faces worn by labor and time. Tonight, though, it wasn’t the fire that held the crowd’s attention.

At the center of it all stood Captain Barnabas, one boot propped on a chair, a bottle of rum dangling from his fingers. His voice rose above the hum of the room, rich and slurred, but commanding all the same. Barnabas was no ordinary sailor; he was the kind of man who could spin a lie so well that you’d thank him for telling it. His coat, once a deep navy blue, was worn and patched, the silver trim dulled by salt and sun. A deep scar ran down his left cheek, as if to remind the world that he was as dangerous as he was charming.

“I tell you, they were gone!” Barnabas’s voice boomed, his words carrying across the room. “Siltspar – you know the place, aye? Good fishing village, west of the charts. We dropped anchor, expecting the usual fuss – kids chasing us for coins, fishermen haggling for trade. But the place was dead quiet. Tables still set for supper, pots boiling dry on the hearth. Not a soul, not a sound – only ash, and shadows.”

The room shifted uncomfortably. A few men exchanged glances, muttering curses under their breath. Someone spat into the sawdust, as if to ward off the ill omen. The fire popped, and for a moment, the silence that followed his words seemed too heavy.

In the corner, Duncan, Warlord of Kingsreach, sat hunched at a table with his back to the wall. His plate armor, though scuffed and marked, gleamed faintly in the firelight. The tankard in his hand remained half-full as he listened, unmoving, to the pirate’s tale. Unlike the others, Duncan didn’t look afraid – just tired.

“You’ve been at sea too long, Barnabas. Or the rum’s gone to your head,” Duncan’s voice cut through the quiet, low and gravelly like the grind of steel on stone.

Laughter erupted, breaking the tension like glass shattering. Barnabas grinned, unfazed, and raised his bottle in salute.

“Laugh all you like, Duncan, but I’ve seen things your sword can’t cut. And you know me – I don’t spook easy.”

“You don’t spook at all, because you’re drunk half the time,” Duncan shot back, though there was no malice in his tone.

The crowd laughed again, louder this time, and for a moment, it seemed the spell was broken. Yet Barnabas’s grin faded as his voice dropped to a quieter, harsher edge, meant only for those who leaned in close.

“Do you think this is a joke, Duncan? I’ve seen ships adrift with no crew – their holds empty, their decks silent. I’ve walked through villages where the fires were still burning, but the people were gone, as if the earth itself swallowed them whole. And the Mana, Duncan… the Mana is dying there. You can feel it. The air turns heavy, like it’s choking on itself.”

Duncan’s expression hardened. For a moment, his eyes flickered with something unspoken, something Barnabas couldn’t quite place. Then the Warlord leaned back, draining the rest of his tankard.

“And what do you want me to do about it? Take my sword and march west? Chase shadows at sea? Go home, Barnabas. Find yourself another tale.”

Barnabas slammed the bottle onto the table, the glass rattling against the wood. The sudden sound silenced the room once more. His voice dropped to a whisper, but it carried, sharp and cold.

“The sea is whispering, Duncan. And whatever it’s saying… it’s getting louder.”

For a moment, Duncan said nothing. His gaze lingered on Barnabas, searching, before he pushed his chair back with a scrape of steel against wood. He rose to his full height, a towering figure of muscle and armor, and clapped a heavy hand onto Barnabas’s shoulder.

“When the sea starts whispering back, come find me, Captain. Until then, I’ll trust the ground beneath my feet.”

With that, Duncan turned and walked out into the cold night, leaving behind the murmur of voices and the lingering tension of Barnabas’s words.

Lyana in the Shadows

From the far corner of the tavern, Lyana watched the scene unfold, her white cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders. Her hood cast a shadow over her face, but her eyes – sharp and frost-blue – never left Barnabas.

For weeks now, Lyana had felt it. Spells faltering. Crystals dimming. The flow of Mana, the very heartbeat of the world, was… wrong. The Council of Ten had dismissed her warnings, called her paranoid. But here, in a drunken sailor’s ramblings, she heard something chillingly familiar.

"The Mana is dying there."

Lyana’s fingers curled tightly around the frost-covered pendant at her neck. It was no coincidence that the flow of Mana was failing. Nor was it coincidence that Duncan, of all people, was here to hear this tale.

Her pulse quickened. She needed answers, and Barnabas might know more than he realized.

She rose silently, her cloak sweeping across the wooden floor, and slipped toward the door. Outside, the wind howled like a whisper, carrying with it the faint, unmistakable chill of something stirring far beyond the cliffs.

Whispers in the Cold

The door of the Drunken Boar swung open, and the wind howled like a mournful beast. Lyana stepped into the darkened streets of Greenshire, pulling her cloak tight against the chill. Her breath misted in the air, faintly tinged with frost, and the tavern’s muffled hum faded behind her.

She knew where to find him. Barnabas was not a man to waste time lingering in rooms where he no longer had an audience. Sailors like him lived for the noise, the smoke, the ale, but once the crowd turned skeptical, they left – fast.

Sure enough, she caught sight of him stumbling toward the docks, the bottle still clutched in one hand, his heavy boots leaving uneven prints in the mud. Lyana followed silently, her footsteps barely a whisper as she moved between shadowed cottages and fishers’ stalls long abandoned for the night. The village slept, but the cold wind carried with it a low murmur – faint and just out of reach, as if the air itself was speaking.

She shivered.

“You’ve been following me, haven’t you?” Barnabas’s voice broke through the silence.

Lyana halted. Barnabas stood at the edge of the pier, staring down at the black water lapping softly against the wood. His posture was loose, casual, but the way his knuckles whitened around the bottle said otherwise. He didn’t turn, but he knew she was there.

“What did you mean? About Mana dying? About empty villages?” Lyana’s voice was calm, though her breath trembled slightly.

Barnabas laughed softly, the sound bitter. He tossed the bottle aside; it clattered against the dock and rolled into the water, swallowed without a sound.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you? A mage. From Kingsreach, I’d wager. Figures. Only you people think the world runs on theories and glowing rocks.”

Lyana’s gaze narrowed, but she didn’t rise to his bait. “I’ve felt it. The Mana is faltering. It’s not a theory – something is happening.”

Barnabas turned to face her then, his face half-shadowed, half-illuminated by the faint moonlight. “I don’t need a mage to tell me that. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Ships lost at sea, villages gone. Do you think the world ends all at once? No. It’s slower than that. First, the light fades. Then, the air turns heavy. The Mana twists into something else – something wrong.”

He paused, and for the first time, there was no grin on his face. Only grim understanding. “And it’s not just here. I’ve spoken with traders out of the southern wastes. I’ve heard stories from the far cliffs where the orcs roam. They say the forests are turning black, the rivers running dry. The wild things are fleeing – or dying.”

“The orcs have seen it?” Lyana whispered.

Barnabas nodded. “Aye. Some say it’s the old gods coming back. The ones we buried long ago. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll tell you this: it’s spreading. And we’re next.”

The Ork at the Edge

Before Lyana could respond, a heavy sound broke through the air – the unmistakable clang of metal striking wood. Both she and Barnabas turned sharply, eyes scanning the darkness. At the far end of the pier, where the lamps had long gone out, a massive shape emerged from the shadows.

It moved slowly, deliberately, the light catching on ragged armor and rough-hewn steel. An orc. Even in the gloom, the creature’s massive frame was unmistakable, its broad shoulders wrapped in wolf pelts and its face shadowed beneath a hood. His weapon, a curved axe, hung loosely in one hand – but it wasn’t drawn for a fight.

Barnabas tensed. “What in the nine hells—”

The orc stopped a dozen paces away. Close enough for Lyana to see the gleam of his eyes – dark and weary, like stones weathered by the wind. He said nothing at first, only staring at the two of them, as if measuring their worth. Finally, his deep voice rumbled through the night, each word shaped like a stone falling into place.

“The rivers are black. The beasts are gone. The shamans whisper of curses older than the earth. The winds carry shadows, and they are coming for you, humans. For all of us.”

Lyana’s pulse quickened. “You’ve seen it too. The Mana… the corruption?”

The orc turned his gaze to her, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something – anger, perhaps, or fear. It was hard to tell.

“I have seen the rivers die and the forests burn without flame. If you still have eyes, mage, you will see it too.”

With that, the orc turned and disappeared back into the night, his heavy footsteps fading with the wind.

For a long moment, neither Lyana nor Barnabas spoke. The world around them felt heavier, as though the shadows themselves had grown thicker.

Barnabas broke the silence, his voice hoarse.

“You see? It’s not just me. It’s not just empty villages or lost ships. Whatever this is… it’s everywhere.”

Lyana clenched her fists, her breath steady despite the chill running through her bones. “Then we have to warn Kingsreach. Duncan needs to know. The Council needs to know.”

Barnabas barked a dry laugh. “Warn them? You think they’ll believe a pirate? Or an orc? Or even you? No one wants to hear it until the shadows are at their door.”

Lyana turned sharply toward him, her eyes flashing. “Then we make them listen.”

A World on the Edge

That night, as Lyana stood on the edge of Greenshire’s fields, the wind cut sharp and cold across the land. Her cloak flared around her ankles, tugged by invisible hands, and frost curled faintly along her fingertips where they gripped the edges of her hood. The fields stretched out like a vast, empty ocean, the golden wheat swaying gently in the moonlight – but something was wrong.

The Mana had shifted again. She could feel it, faint yet undeniable, like a tremor beneath her feet. It was the kind of feeling that gnawed at the edge of one’s mind, impossible to ignore. The pulse of life that ran through the land, the force that should have hummed in the earth and air, now felt thin, as if the world itself held its breath.

Her gaze lifted toward the distant cliffs, where the horizon melted into the blackened sea. Clouds gathered low there, thick and heavy, swallowing the stars in their wake. It was an unnatural darkness – still and unyielding, as though the night itself had turned to stone. Lyana shivered, though the air around her was colder than any normal chill. It sank into her bones, whispering of something ancient and hungry.

For a long moment, all she could hear was the wind – a low howl that rose and fell across the hills, carrying with it the faint rustle of the fields. But as the moments stretched, Lyana froze.

There was something else.

A sound. Faint at first, like the distant hum of a song just out of reach. Her heart skipped a beat, and her breath stilled as she strained to listen. It came again, riding the wind, soft but deliberate – a murmuring.

Words, she realized with a chill. Words she could not understand, spoken in a language that should have been lost to time. They curled in the back of her mind like smoke, their meaning hidden but their intent clear.

Lyana’s pulse quickened as her hand instinctively found the frost-covered pendant at her neck. She whispered a spell beneath her breath, drawing a thin line of mana into her fingers – enough to light the space around her in a pale, shimmering glow.

Nothing.

The fields lay empty. The cliffs stood silent. Yet the whispers grew louder.

Somewhere beyond the forest and the cliffs, beyond the waters that stretched into the dark unknown, something stirred. Something vast, ancient, and formless, like a shadow rising from beneath the waves.

It couldn’t be seen. Not yet. But it could be felt.

She tore her gaze from the cliffs and looked back toward Greenshire, where the glow of lanterns in the village windows still seemed warm and welcoming. She knew better now. The whispers were moving – crawling into the edges of the world, where no one dared to look.

“The sea is whispering,” Barnabas had said. Lyana pressed her lips into a thin line, her grip on the pendant tightening.

And if the sea whispered, she thought grimly, then it meant only one thing. Something was listening.

The wind rose suddenly, sharp and biting, as though the night itself had teeth. And for the first time in her life, as the whispers grew louder in her mind, Lyana felt something she had not known before.

Fear.

She turned back toward the village, her steps quickening as the glow of the tavern came into view. Duncan had to know. They all had to know. Whatever was stirring out there in the dark, it would not stay silent for long.

As she walked, she swore she could still hear the whispers. Faint, murmuring, crawling through the wind.

The sea was calling, and the world of Thaldris would never be the same again.