Media Terra is a paradise. Its rolling plains, glittering dunes, vast stone pillars, and deep blue sea are enchanting.
 

It is an island of like-bodied folks, most who live their lives in ignorant bliss. What does the centaur need to worry about other than their crop? The harpies are content to fish on the frozen shoreline. The mermaids enjoy the depth of their ocean and the naga the heat of their sands.
 

Of course, some are less content with everyday trivialities and strive to achieve political greatness. Some will always yearn for more than what they're given.
 

But what does that yield?
 

What answers will they find in the throws of their prestige?
 

What does one see when they gaze too far into the open ocean? What does the cold, wet, fog whisper in the twilight?

Where do the people go, when they go? Do you remember them before they left?

It is assured that you do not. The citizens will not recall. There is nothing to recall because Media Terra is a paradise. Surely, you remember that.
 

There are those on the island who strive for more. They follow the path towards their renown. Where that path takes them is too distant to make out at this time.
 

The path stretches before you now, unpaved and beckoning.