Endlessly spinning as a gazing ball plopped in a bird bath the world of Arda carves a path across the vast black pudding of space dotted with stars, or so some believe (the pudding was hotly up for debate and lead to a major schism as some pilgrims were certain it was actually a plate of potatoes that held the heavens and the stars were a dusting of salt). For others their world is in fact inside out, and to look up at the sky is to look down upon the core. When people try to point out how if the world were upside down shouldn't all of our spare change wind up on the sun they tend to change the subject rather dramatically and ask if they accepted gravity-defying boots in their life.
Some of the older generation subscribes to the ancient theory of a flat disc rotating on the back of some pachyderms and an amphibian. A strange cult, who called themselves Hatchers, spent many wasted lunch hours passing out interesting literature with lots of drawings of flying salamanders to people who didn't have time to ponder what kept the ground in place as long as it continued to do so. This was, of course, widely hailed as a hoax and ridiculed from the pulpit by the guys in 3 foot tall hats because what would the amphibian eat?
Theories, ideas and wild stabs in the dark that sound really great late at night after one had a bit too much from that still she's not supposed to know about that then lose their luster in the morning are all fine and dandy for those viewing Arda from above trying to capture within a small frame all of life teeming below. But for the serf whose entire existence consists of the two acres he farms every day for the Feudal Master until the sweet embrace of eternal vacation, for the kings and ostrogoths warring upon each other and occasionally forgetting who's the barbarian and for the mages more concerned keeping track of their eyebrows the exact shape and nature of their world is unimportant. Certainly not when there is a harvest to bring in, land to claim and spirits to banish then distill.
In fact, in all of its convoluted, bloody history only one man ever stumbled upon the true nature of Arda. Known throughout the Caddatch mountains for his powerful odor and tendency to lick interesting rocks the hermit was studying tree roots trying to determine which was the evil root (there isn't much on the hermit codebook to help pass the time - it's one sentence "Avoid people, also some mushrooms are deadly." The Hermit made due by making up his own games and seeing how long it took until inanimate objects talked back) when a Eureka moment struck him. After changing his trousers, he attempted to share this discovery of why we're here, how we're here and why you get that nasty film on soup with the world, but a few steps down the mountain his foot caught on an exposed root and he met his fate at the bottom of a chasm.
The prelates in the sanctorium have their tales of how the world was formed, when the king of the gods got a bit too excited one day and spilled his seed all over the land which, perhaps because the gods were bored and liked a good dirty joke, transformed into foliage and other helpful plants instead of god goo.
This is, of course, cleaned up for children and anyone else with a child's mentality. Instead, most of the continent intones the tale of how one day Ordren seeing the land was empty and rather dull gave to Mighnot - the god of wind - a single word, which he was to carry across the entire globe/disc/rhombus and call forth life. The old tale, filled with sex and blood, is whispered in back pews and behind closed doors while the prelates rattle on about loving a son that takes all your money and blows it on prostitutes. What is history but a scrubbing of all the good dirty bits so no one cares anymore?
None have since put much thought, outside of late tavern crawls or warm spring days trying to avoid cleaning the midden, into the shape and nature of Arda since. They know their small kingdoms, encircled and enslaved inside an even larger Empire that stretches out across, as far as they are concerned are the only decent parts of Arda where people don't eat other people and wear enough clothes to hide their shame, thank you very much. Why waste such time on useless quandaries when there are barbarians to enslave, teach, kill or sleep with?
Certainly not the gods pantomiming life within their palatial tree house molded perhaps from the minds of people down below who needed something to pray to when it didn't rain and curse at when it did. The dwarves were focused more on the fundamental forces of how much pressure one could apply to a rock face before it got really mad and hit back. And as for the elves, no one wanted to think much about the elves lest they started thinking back about you.
Tucked away, deep inside an abandoned dwarven tunnel long since forgotten by all except for an Ogre and the two adventures sent to slay it exposes the essence of Arda. A cold eye watches as the young man, rising from the dimly lit rock floor, bravely believes he has fooled the ignorant monster into a rather devious trap.
Except, the monster is older perhaps than the very tunnels they find themselves trapped in. Against his friend's wishes the man uses himself as bait to lure the Ogre out and straight into a hastily, and frankly rather poorly dug pit.
He turns back to his companion, having given his all of an "Oh woe is me to be a tasty person trapped under a small rock" routine unsure of why the fiend has not appeared when a fist large enough to crush a grown man does just that. Crumpling in half like a straw doll the Ogre tosses the broken body aside and rounds upon the woman rooted in their hiding spot as her whole world snaps. A determination guides her throwing arm that most would attribute to a god or two, but those who have seen and felt it know is from the knowledge that no deity is there. The dagger slices through the air embedding itself deep inside the Ogre's eye.
The monster's roar reverberates through the mountains exposed walls rooting out a family of griffins that takes to the thermals. Curious, the mother watches through her thick talons as one of those small bipeds always bringing fiery sticks to her nest bursts through the exposed mountain crevice, her arms wrapped around something she's dragging behind. It left the pile, ah yes another one of the bipeds but looking far less mobile than normal, away from the entrance and dug inside one of those leather pouches that so nicely line a griffin's nest.
Pulling free the only magical item they ever dare carry, (only an idiot or someone who enjoyed exploding would fully trust a mage) a flask wrapped in protective cloth, the woman breaks the safety seal and tosses the small foaming bottle towards the mine opening as the Ogre's bone shattering howls grow closer. Throwing herself overtop her companion she tries to protect them both as the potions mix completely and realizing they didn't really get on too well especially after what was said about their mother explode in a shockwave that digs deep into the ground rocking it at the core collapsing the mine and hopefully the monster inside.
As the entire continent shudders at the scar digging into its range, a deafening tumult rings out as shockwave meets tin helmet meets eardrums. Even with her ears deafened from the cacophony and her face buried deep in his broken chest, his final rattling breath roars across her heart. The woman, a piece of granite in the salad of life, truly falls for the first time and wonders how can Arda keep turning, how can the sun keep rising when her whole world breathed his last.