The Plight of the Twelve Cities
You open your eyes to discover you're on a road. Rolling hills spread out to either side, lush green meadows to one side, fields of crops on the other. The road is composed of packed dirt, dotted by the occasional patch of wildflowers growing along the edge of the path, reaching in like brightly colored Christmas lights on their twisting green stems, as thin as threads. The flowers glow faintly, their pulsing light playing on the pebbles around them.
The sky is clear and the wrong shade of blue. The sun beats down on you from above, and you realize there's a building in the distance. The sign above the door is adorned with strange twisting letters that you cannot read. Through a window, you can see candlelight and movement, hear faint voices carrying out to where you are.
You begin to realize that some things are different. Your clothes, your body, they've changed. You might have the telltale pointed ears of an elf, or the draconic features of a dragonborn. Your clothes might have been swapped out for armor or robes, and you may feel something different. Some connection to a force you didn't have before, or just the weight of weapons that you didn't have before, or that changed in some way.
You're just different, and you don't know where you are.
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