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The Foundation for Obtaining Magical Objects, or FOMO, had been the sole branch within the larger operations of the Historical Societies that focused on locating long-lost treasures and deciphering what was only gossip and what words that passed through the grapevine held any merit. They had been tracking a rumor for many years, the Rumor itself. According to all legends, every scrap of history that could be located by the Foundation, the Rumor was a powerful artifact that granted inhuman abilities to the one that carried it. It was spoken of only in whispers, in the tattered margins of weathered tomes, and in the questioning looks given by anyone who was asked of the Rumor. Everyone had heard of the Rumor, yet no one could provide anything more than speculation or assumptions on where it may be.
The only thing the Foundation had to go on was what the artifact looked like. The artifact itself came in two pieces. The top was a gilded treasure, a small statue of a soaring eagle that was said to imbue the holder with the power of flight. The bottom was petrified wood of a long-extinct tree that served as a place for the eagle to rest. While the top imbued flight, the bottom ensured enduring vitality and strength for the person that carried it. Based on the texts that the Foundation had combed through, one must possess both pieces of the Rumor for it to function correctly.
It took many more years, voyages into the unknown, to the depths of the Fellian Sea and the peaks of the Ashen Mountains. Every clue that came in was investigated, teams of adventurers and mercenaries sent out on what would always end up being fruitless. The closer they got to the Rumor, the further away it seemed to be. No matter how well-funded the expedition, no matter how sure the Foundation was that this was the time they would finally get to the bottom of the Rumor, it evaded them. Until it didn't. A lucky break, almost an accident. A farmer had sent a letter to the Foundation, he had found a box. A box that looked like it had been lost to time, stamped in black ink with the visage of that same soaring eagle. The farmer said he had an uneasy feeling when he held the box, barely large enough to be more than a handful. If this was, in fact, the Rumor it was smaller than anyone could have predicted. A molehill of an artifact that had evolved into a mountain, but it was more progress than the Foundation had ever made before.
One more month passed before the box arrived at the Foundation's doorstep. A formal celebration had been organized, the entire Foundation and a majority of the Historical Societies were present for the unboxing of this forgotten relic of an age long past. The lid was cracked. It felt as though time stood still as the world held its breath in anticipation to see this piece of history. The Head of the Foundation removed the lid and peered inside. The moment they had been waiting for, the culmination of years of effort.
The Rumor was baseless.
The only thing the Foundation had to go on was what the artifact looked like. The artifact itself came in two pieces. The top was a gilded treasure, a small statue of a soaring eagle that was said to imbue the holder with the power of flight. The bottom was petrified wood of a long-extinct tree that served as a place for the eagle to rest. While the top imbued flight, the bottom ensured enduring vitality and strength for the person that carried it. Based on the texts that the Foundation had combed through, one must possess both pieces of the Rumor for it to function correctly.
It took many more years, voyages into the unknown, to the depths of the Fellian Sea and the peaks of the Ashen Mountains. Every clue that came in was investigated, teams of adventurers and mercenaries sent out on what would always end up being fruitless. The closer they got to the Rumor, the further away it seemed to be. No matter how well-funded the expedition, no matter how sure the Foundation was that this was the time they would finally get to the bottom of the Rumor, it evaded them. Until it didn't. A lucky break, almost an accident. A farmer had sent a letter to the Foundation, he had found a box. A box that looked like it had been lost to time, stamped in black ink with the visage of that same soaring eagle. The farmer said he had an uneasy feeling when he held the box, barely large enough to be more than a handful. If this was, in fact, the Rumor it was smaller than anyone could have predicted. A molehill of an artifact that had evolved into a mountain, but it was more progress than the Foundation had ever made before.
One more month passed before the box arrived at the Foundation's doorstep. A formal celebration had been organized, the entire Foundation and a majority of the Historical Societies were present for the unboxing of this forgotten relic of an age long past. The lid was cracked. It felt as though time stood still as the world held its breath in anticipation to see this piece of history. The Head of the Foundation removed the lid and peered inside. The moment they had been waiting for, the culmination of years of effort.
The Rumor was baseless.
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