The Drift, a district born from catastrophe, has no official founding date, its existence emerging from chaos rather than planned settlement. Its story begins before its physical manifestation, with events that laid the groundwork for its peculiar future.
In 1232, the sophisticated criminal syndicate known as The Red Cloaks rose to prominence following their successful Monastery heist. This event cemented their reputation and established them as a significant power in the region, a shadow that would one day stretch over the nascent district.
The true genesis of The Drift occurred in 1248, a year marked by cataclysmic magical backwash. This was a direct consequence of the Dragonbone Vanguard's destruction of nearby gateways, unleashing uncontrolled magical energies. These forces sheared several city blocks from the earth, suspending them in a permanent, gravity-defying stasis above a central crater.
What began as a terrified huddle of survivors clinging to floating debris above the newly formed crater slowly evolved. The precarious collection of earth and structures transformed into The Drift, a vibrant, vertigo-inducing favela. It quickly became an epicenter of bohemian meritocracy, where high art coexisted with low morals, and life was a constant high-wire act.
The district became a sanctuary for disgraced arcane practitioners from the Order of Sea and Stone, and Tiefling refugees seeking respite from mainland prejudices. Its governance became an illusion maintained by The Curators, a cabal of influential artists and tavern owners. Silas Fernsby, proprietor of The Caffeine Canvas, emerged as a key figure, with his establishment serving as the de facto town hall and bank where beans are currency.
However, The Drift's unique Melting Pot philosophy began to come under siege as The Red Cloaks, having solidified their power since 1232, infiltrated its lower levels. They erected Tall Blank Walls around seized warehouses, transforming open walkways into corridors of Locked Gates and paranoia. While the upper decks continued their riot of color and hallucinogenic Inspiration, the underbelly transformed into a surveillance state where unseen eyes watched from the shadows.
The Red Cloaks' intentions extended beyond mere protection money; they were actively hunting for the true source of the district's levitation. They believed the orthodox view, that it was merely residual magic, was a deliberate lie covering a far more valuable secret. Life in The Drift grew increasingly tenuous, with one misstep in a duel of poetry or a missed payment to the Cloaks meaning a fatal fall.
Currently, The Drift teeters on the brink of outright gang warfare, its physical stability compromised by fluctuating magical energies. The precarious balance of its existence, held aloft by rusted iron chains and unpredictable magic, reflects the fragile social order within.
