Across the Orravel Plains, where the horizon stretches unbroken and the wind sings through endless grass, wander the Eltarians. They are nomads of the open steppe, golden-skinned and round-featured, calling themselves the children of the horizon. For generations they remained apart, elusive as mirages, keeping to the vastness of the plains where few dared follow. Only recently have they begun to appear beyond Orravel, and knowledge of their ways remains scarce.

What little is known tells of small, shifting bands who travel with the seasons. Their tents are light and fleeting, their possessions few but sacred: charms of bone or copper, reed flutes, and relics etched with patterns that shift like wind in grass. Stories are traded as readily as goods, for among the Eltarians, memory itself is a treasure.

Those who meet them speak of fire circles glowing under starlight, of songs that fade into the wind, and of camps vanished without a trace by morning. Even now, their lives remain half-veiled—forever moving, forever just beyond reach—yet with each encounter, a little more of their mystery drifts into the open.