The Falling Tide
Walk Without Rhythm
Black sails coast the waters of the Crystal Ocean, ever towards The Spire. It looms, casting a shadow upon all the people’s of the world each day, briefly sending chills down their spines.
Songs of mourning echo from the Western Wood, as the last generation of elves prepares their sacred forest for the time beyond.
To the east, the forge’s burn at the ever-wroking billows, an empire of ore and oil isolated from the rest of the world, finds itself on the verge of starvation, and soothsayers of other races and cultures are assaulted by visions of the great city, littered only with bones.
Deep underground, the gnomes to the Northeast (woefully lacking in soothsayers and fortune tellers) strive to solve all the world’s problems. One admixture or tinkertron at a time.
To the North and South, two gargantuan cities, spanning miles in all directions: Cho’tun and Thrak’tu are the breeders of the black sailed shipped, with miles of coastline dedicated to their manufacture, to replace those never return. Cities of circumstance rather than organization, Cho’tun grew from the desert wastes to the south, while Thrak’tu emerged from the frozen hills to the north.
Other settlements and villages, towns and cities dot and scatter about the landscape, all of them touched by the Spire’s Shadow, all of them counting the cycles of the four moons.
And unbeknownst to all of these people’s and cultures, a ship with black sails dies slowly off the eastern inner-coast, it’s cargo unbound. It’s death was no accident…malice and violence forever embedded in it’s hull as it sinks into The Falling Tide.