You feel it in your bones, a tremor in the very weave of existence. The balance is failing. Each day, the threads unravel further, pulling at the seams of Earthsea. You see it in the haunted eyes of villagers whispering of madness, in the barren fields where magic once coaxed forth bounty. All you can do is wander, a solitary figure against a tide of decay, and wait. Wait for a sign, for a flicker of hope in the encroaching darkness.

Hort Town is a cacophony of bartering, gossip, and desperation. You avoid the marketplace, a wretched hive presided over by the brute Hare and his pack of thugs. But today, something compels you. A subtle shift in the air, a resonance that pulls you forward.

The crowd is thick, a jostling mass of bodies and wares. You navigate through it, your senses heightened, searching for the anomaly. Then you see him. A man, standing near a stall overflowing with woven baskets. He is clearly a mage, the aura of power clinging to him like woodsmoke. And a scar bisects his face, a stark white line against weathered skin.

He seems out of place, lost in the throng. He scans the crowd, a flicker of worry in his eyes. Before you can fully process it, he approaches a woman selling herbs, his voice a low rumble that barely carries over the din.

You fight your way closer, an instinct overriding your caution. The woman shakes her head, pointing vaguely towards the eastern gate. The man sighs, a sound heavy with weariness and starts to head in that direction.

That's when he turns, his gaze sharp and assessing. He sees the weight of the world etched on your face, the haunted look mirroring his own.

"Might I ask for your help?" he asks, his voice laced with a hint of hope. "Have you seen a lad, by the name of Arren?"

The mage's hand moves instinctively to the hilt of the staff concealed beneath his cloak. Ged, the Archmage of Earthsea, and that this could be what you have been waiting for, a new journey to begin.