The Realm of Altamira
Of the three great powers of Embar, none has been so closely bound to the memory of the living world as Altamira, nor has any preserved with greater devotion the belief that the land is not merely the possession of those who dwell upon it. For among the Altamirans it has long been held that the earth is an inheritance received rather than a dominion conquered, and that every generation owes a debt to those who shall follow after it. The forests, rivers, mountains, and fertile fields of the continent have therefore been regarded not simply as sources of sustenance, but as the visible expression of an order older than the kingdoms of men.
From this understanding arose much of Altamira's character. Where Valahir learned to endure through strength, and Belkand sought to prosper through invention, Altamira placed its greatest faith in preservation, harmony, and the wisdom gathered through long remembrance. Its people learned to cultivate the abundance of their lands without wholly surrendering them to cultivation, and the traditions by which fields were tended, waters protected, and forests maintained became inseparable from their religious and civic life. Yet Altamira was never a realm untouched by ambition, nor were its people free from the failings of those elsewhere in Embar. Its history bears witness to disputes over authority, the defense of sacred places, and the difficult judgments demanded whenever the needs of the living stood against the customs of the dead.
The lands of Altamira are varied beyond what many foreign accounts suggest. Though remembered chiefly for their forests and abundant fields, they encompass great deserts, mountains buried beneath snow, treacherous wetlands, broad lakes, secluded islands, and shores upon which the waters of distant seas have broken since before the oldest surviving chronicles. Across these regions arose communities whose ways of life differed greatly, yet whose traditions commonly reflected a belief that the world possessed an order which ought not lightly be disturbed.
In the fertile country surrounding Flanoire, fields extend beyond the sight of travelers, and the labor of farmers has long sustained populations far removed from Altamira itself. Harvests gathered there pass through markets and ports before reaching the tables of distant cities, and in prosperous years the abundance of those fields has been counted among the greatest blessings of the continent. Yet even in such places, where cultivation has transformed the land more thoroughly than elsewhere, older customs continue to govern the care of soil and water, for the people of Altamira have seldom regarded abundance as an assurance that abundance shall endure.
Elsewhere the continent reveals a less generous countenance. The Murkmire Woods, though rich in strange plants and creatures valued by healers and scholars, remain dangerous to those unfamiliar with their winding passages. Beyond them lie colder regions beneath the Hollowed Peaks, where Yukimi stands as a refuge for travelers, miners, and pilgrims journeying toward the heights. Farther away, Harvenset rests among autumn woods overlooking the approaches to Murkmire, serving those who cross the Celestia Mountains or seek passage through the darker country beyond.
Such places have long reminded the Altamirans that reverence for the natural world need not arise from any belief that it is gentle. The earth gives life, yet it also takes it, and neither kindness nor cruelty may rightly be attributed to every working of nature. Thus the traditions of Altamira teach not merely affection for living things, but respect for their power and an awareness of the limits placed upon mortal ambition.
The governance of Altamira grew from these convictions. Unlike Valahir, whose institutions arose chiefly from military command, Altamira entrusted authority to religious leaders chosen through the traditions of its people. The priesthoods and learned orders of the continent came to exercise considerable influence over matters of law, education, public welfare, and the protection of sacred places, though their teachings were neither everywhere identical nor wholly free from dispute.
The greatest seat of this authority stands at Angloria, the jewel of the Palu Desert. There, amid lands otherwise poor in water, rises a city sustained by the waters of a great oasis, its turquoise roofs and shining towers visible to travelers long before they reach its gates. Broad marketplaces occupy the heart of the city, sheltered beneath colored awnings and surrounded by the sounds of merchants whose wares arrive from every corner of Embar. Above them rises the great cathedral, adorned with gold and colored glass, whose towers have become among the most recognizable monuments of Altamira.
Within Angloria resides the High Priestess, whose office has long represented the union of spiritual responsibility and political authority. In the present age that mantle is borne by Nadim Al-Zahar, though the traditions through which such authority is conferred are older than any single holder of the office. From the capital, the great decisions of the realm pass outward through councils, religious institutions, and local authorities whose responsibilities vary according to the needs and customs of their communities.
Yet not all wisdom in Altamira is gathered beneath the towers of Angloria. Upon the island of Lewynd stand the greatest institutions of learning in the realm, maintained through the labors of monks, priests, and scholars. Its libraries preserve writings concerning the histories of Embar, the traditions of its peoples, and subjects whose study has occupied generations. Access to Lewynd is governed by longstanding restrictions, and those seeking admission ordinarily require recognition from the institutions responsible for its keeping.
It is said that within its halls may be found accounts of ages whose memory has elsewhere faded, though the records preserved there are neither complete nor free from contradiction. Scholars have long disagreed concerning the interpretation of ancient writings, and even among those who devote their lives to the study of sacred history there are matters upon which no common judgment has been reached. Thus has Lewynd remained a place of both learning and contention, where reverence for the past does not always bring agreement concerning its meaning.
In the forests of Tel'Vari, another expression of Altamira's traditions may be found. There the settlement rests amid the waters beneath a tremendous waterfall, its dwellings and walkways raised upon wooden platforms, while great brightly colored fish known as Dodola move through the waterways and assist the inhabitants in the work of daily life. The people have long been remembered for their hospitality, and the village stands among those places in which the distinction between settlement and surrounding nature seems least pronounced.
Along the coast, Port Naydra reveals a similar restraint. Its buildings were raised among the trees with such care that travelers remarked upon the lengths to which its builders had gone to preserve the surrounding forest. Farther inland and upon the shores of Mirror Lake, smaller communities such as Enviss maintain lives centered upon fishing, hunting, farming, and the passage of travelers toward the great institutions of the realm.
Yet the prosperity and beauty of Altamira concealed divisions that became increasingly apparent as the three powers drew nearer to war. The customs by which its people sought to preserve their lands were not always understood by those beyond its borders. Belkand regarded certain restrictions as obstacles to invention and necessary industry, while Valahir questioned whether resources vital to the security of nations could rightly remain beyond their reach. Among the Altamirans, these demands were often received as evidence that foreign rulers understood little of the obligations imposed upon those who inherited the earth.
Thus did disagreements over timber, minerals, waterways, and the passage of foreign interests become matters of growing consequence. Religious authorities who had once disputed questions of stewardship among themselves found their teachings invoked in councils of state, and decisions concerning the preservation of particular lands acquired a significance far beyond the communities immediately affected by them.
When the Great War began, Altamira did not remain beyond its reach. Its defenders were called from settlements, forests, sanctuaries, and the institutions of religious authority, and the knowledge by which generations had preserved their lands was turned in part toward their defense. What had once served to sustain life became necessary also to the conduct of war, and throughout the continent there arose disputes concerning the sacrifices demanded by survival.
Forests were damaged, fields exhausted, and communities displaced by the movement of armies. Sanctuaries and charitable houses received those driven from their homes, among them many children separated from their families by death, flight, or the ruin of settlements. The obligations of compassion remained strongly upheld, yet the burden placed upon these institutions grew throughout the years of conflict until even the wealthier among them struggled to provide for all who sought shelter.
Nor did the traditions of Altamira remain untouched by the questions raised through the treatment of the dead. Many religious authorities condemned attempts to return the departed to mortal life, regarding such workings as violations of an order whose boundaries no living hand possessed the right to alter. Others, including scholars and healers, questioned whether all such acts must be judged alike, particularly in an age when death had been visited upon so many through the ambitions of men.
The destruction of battlefield remains, undertaken in some places through fear that enemies might draw knowledge from the dead, likewise provoked bitter disagreement. To those charged with the defense of armies, such measures were sometimes defended as necessities of war; to others, they represented an offense against the rites owed to the fallen. The surviving records preserve these arguments imperfectly, and it would be mistaken to suppose that every religious house or learned authority rendered the same judgment upon them.
By the war's end, Altamira had suffered losses that no restoration of trade or territory could readily mend. The fields could be replanted, the damaged sanctuaries repaired, and the displaced invited to return wherever homes remained to receive them. Yet the destruction of living things left injuries that were not so easily measured, and there were places where those who returned found that the lands of their childhood no longer answered the seasons as they once had.
For a time the people believed these changes to be the lingering wounds of war. Such was the judgment of many scholars and priests, and it was not without reason, for the armies of the three powers had altered rivers, consumed forests, and exhausted lands whose former abundance had seemed inexhaustible.
Yet as the years passed, the decline continued beyond the regions directly touched by battle. Harvests weakened in places long removed from the old fronts, familiar creatures vanished from forests whose shelter remained, and waters changed in ways not easily attributed to mortal works. In Altamira, where the rhythms of the living world had long occupied so central a place in both learning and faith, these disturbances were regarded with particular unease.
Some spoke of an imbalance brought about through generations of neglect and the violence of the Great War. Others believed that the old traditions had been abandoned too readily, and that the people had forgotten obligations upon which their prosperity had once depended. Still others searched the archives of Lewynd and the sacred histories preserved throughout the continent, seeking accounts of earlier calamities whose meaning might illuminate the present.
No agreement emerged, though the urgency of the question grew with every failing season.
Thus does Altamira endure in the year 925 P.D., a realm of extraordinary beauty and ancient learning, whose people remain bound to the land even as the land itself begins to change beyond their understanding. Its fields still nourish distant nations, its sanctuaries continue to receive those in need, and its scholars preserve writings whose authors have long since passed beyond remembrance. Yet the certainty with which earlier generations understood the obligations of stewardship has been shaken, for there are wounds that no tending has yet restored.
The peoples of Altamira have long believed that the world must be cared for rather than conquered. Whether that wisdom may preserve Embar against a decline whose cause remains unknown is a question upon which the present age has not yet rendered judgment.