The Rotted Apple
"Even though we think we are Conquering the Land, Subduing it…we are really being sucked into a trap" – Cristopher Penzack "City Magick"
"Are we ready to Roll?"
"Where are we Rolling?"
"Into the Heart of the Night." - Tad "Bright Lights, Big City"
"We built this city.
We built this city.
We built this city on Rock and Roll." -Jefferson Starship
They found Rubble. Burned out husks of buildings. Range after range of mountains, neatly ordered into a paralell grids, shapes of near perfect squares. the sole Geometer among them babbled endlessly about those implications. Nobody paid heed.
They had seen cities. No fools they. In all of the worlds, all the planes, from the nearly illiterate valleys or the shining Mage Baronies from their former lives, they had never seen a city of the like.
Large metal husks filled the streets, with rotting synthetic innards. Rats and tiny vile insects scurried in the gutters.
As the homesteaders turned a corner, the urban landscape stopped short, and gave way to an incalculable expanse. Ample plains, beautiful trees, and soft grasses stretched before the company.
This was not right. They all knew it. Their Farlanghenian priest would speak of little in the weeks to come but of his surety that the spell of transport had been cast with unerring precision. But no matter the skill with which the Holy Man had picked his syllables and gestures, the result was present.
They lunched in the center of the Oasis, as they thought of it it. They were far more familiar with these surroundings. As they pecked at their meager rations, and sparser options, one suggestion was voiced. Their goal was to travel to a new land, Build a home. Grow.
"Well," the Geometer mused, "the Travelling is finished…and it looks to me that the Building has been done for us."
(The events of the Campaign follow these by roughly 400 years)