[ WP ] Magic is discovered and it 's channeled with music . Modern nations dissolve and new countries rise in their place divided by the preferred music . In the frozen north lie the Metal kingdoms . Far to the south are the countries of Soul etc .

John Robertson stood alone at the crossroads. Beside him was a road sign pointing four ways. Beyond him lied nothing but dry, open fields. Not a single tree, nor bush, no hill nor mountain stood in his sight, just the flat wheat fields stretching as far as the eye would see. He wore a three piece suit and fedora hat, all wrinkled and dusty, dust clung to his shoes, the dark glossy shine but a memory. In his hand he held his guitar case, his weathered hands dripping sweat. 
 
 `` Well, I'm here.'' He shouted at the top of his lungs. For several moments, only the wind's lonely howling answered. Then, a form materialized from black smoke in front of him. The figure was impeccably dressed, a business suit of the latest and most prestigious fashion. Despite the blowing wind, not a single iota of dust clung to the man. 
 
 `` So, you have arrived at the crossroads.'' The figure said. `` Are you ready to sign your contract?'' 
 
 `` I am.'' John Robertson answered. 
 
 `` Before we sign our covenant, you must first demonstrate your worthiness. Play.'' 
 
 John placed his case on the ground and released the clamps. His guitar was a weathered acoustic model. Not a brand name, it bore the name of a generic, defunct company on the headstock. The pickguard was almost sheared completely, as if coarse sandpaper had withered it away, the frets worn as time itself, the strings seemed ready to snap at the slightest provocation. 
 
 Despite these limitations, John held the guitar close to his chest and played a bewildering series of notes. And he sang. His voice and his guitar were one, singing of miseries timeless and everlasting. Songs passed on from his ancestors, from the Mississippi Delta to Chicago to Memphis and New Orleans. His performance, as skilled as it was emotional, awed the figure standing before him. 
 
 `` Most impressive.'' The figure said, a hint of emotion in his otherwise stoic voice. 
 
 `` Do we have a deal?'' John Roberston asked. 
 
 `` We do.'' The figure materialized a contract and a felt-tip pen. John signed, promising his soul in return for even greater gifts of musicalchemical prowess. After signing, John felt oddly wistful. `` I was born under a bad sign, you see.'' He said. The figure collected the contract. `` If it was n't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.'' 
 
 John was embraced by a blinding white light, his fingers tingled with an odd sensation, as if his fingertips were asleep, only magnified a thousandfold. Just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. The light and tingling sensations were gone. 
 
 `` Congratulations, John.'' The man said. `` You are now a master guitar-mage. The spirit of the Blues has possessed you. None will best your skill with the guitar for long as you live. In return, I now have possession of your immortal soul and henceforth, consider yourself my mage-apprentice. You will spread my gospel, from taverns and concert halls, from village to city, from country to country. Together, Blues will triumph. 12 Bar Blues will be the standard rallying cry and the 1-4-5 progression will be the standard bearer for a thousand centuries. People will get very blue indeed. You have only final test to prove yourself worthy.'' 
 
 `` What is it, my lord?'' John asked, newly confident. 
 
 `` You must best my previous apprentice in a guitar duel. If you are truly worthy of your soul's enthrallment to me, you must defeat Steve Vai.'' 
 

