A cold breeze bellows through Caer Edwyn, the town folk are lively; shops are open, and the smells of cooking meats, melted cheese, and finely crafted honey mead spread amongst the ribbon-covered wooden houses. Hasty stands have been put up; doors hang open even though the cold is enough to make one bundle up; people carry tankards around, the lap of the ocean heard around them as the flickering fires in street lanterns provide enough vision as the sun sinks below the horizon. Various types of fish are on sale in these stands, pearls collected from the beach and hunted grain horrors; their cores stand for sale. Wares from Spires outside of town reach the stands as well.

The archipelago is home to various Baronies, Duchies, towns, and even a kingdom. With some of the land being connected by a bridge, the townsfolk of the archipelago are all seafaring: fishers, harpoonmen, and whalers. Though, wayfarers, adventurers, or Delvers, as some folk call them, still call the archipelago home. A wayfarer guild stands in every city, taking on requests for members to undertake, keeping track of spires, and standing as a place to sell spire-gained loot. To the far west, past the sea, lay the Empire's capital and the mainland of the empire of Miralith; the empire controls the known world, the Southlands, as well as the main continent where various kingdoms stretch from ocean to shining ocean. The archipelago is the only patchwork of small nations split from the known world. Yet the iron fist of the Emperor is still felt. The Silk Road, the stone arteries of the empire do not reach here, and as such, ships and exports keep these nations alive, with good relations being prioritized.

Spires, these obsidian structures appeared after the shattering, a cataclysm caused by the shattering of the great jewel. Mysteries surround the shattering, and even years after it happened, no one knows why. Yet, these spires litter the landscape much the same. Housing grain horrors and things yet to be discovered by delvers much the same. These spires are dangerous; rattlers, as well as Oblons, and slimes, live in them. Many other creatures of the unknown call the darkness that is the spires their home; Wayfarers delve in for bit marks, for items to sell, and to gain fame, or even land. With the grain being the foremost mystical and magical feature of the world, grain horrors still permeate the world; aberrations of natural humans and animals corrupted beyond what is known and spawning forth things that wreak havoc, Wayfarers are called to slay them much the same.

With blades, there comes sorcery, or the grain, a tameable feature of the world gifted by wyrms of old; runes were first gifted, written grain that, when focused on, would spawn forth various forms of grain, be it fire, water, stone, air, ice, or even things that are past such natural elements. When this was mastered, humans, mice, and other races of Edenhel spoke these runes into existence and then spawned spoken sorceries. Once lost, it is now known again and practiced by all. Yet only a select few have a grain core, a product of living near the grain in the world of Edenhel. As the grain is needed for spoken sorceries and runes, it in turn is visible to the naked eye. Purple, small globes that float as if with a mind of its own. Some are gifted to be able to tread where the grain has faded and still be able to wield sorceries.

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As folk crowd around games of throwing, archery, and many other drinking and strong-man games, cheering can be heard, and children run around with sticks, playing at knights. Guardsmen keep the peace, making sure no prying hands slip into pockets or items get lost and fights break out. A hooded figure steps past a guardsman, slipping a hand around his dagger and pulling it out swiftly. The figure reaches into a pocket and pulls out a shimmering purple shard. The hum and grain coming off of it is palpable even for the people who aren’t paying attention to him; people suddenly stop as he walks past them, looking down at his hand, the dagger being dragged down his skin, crimson blood dripping down onto the stone of the game square. The hood falls off the figure, his head is nothing but bone, his hands a mishmash of rotting skin, exposed bone, and veins. His eyes are nothing but redness in the deep pits of the skull.

With a loud clamor, those around the figure fall to their knees, blood seeping from their eyes, a blackness spreading through their heads as the skin on their skulls begins to split and fall off. The figure stops as the crowd begins to yell and retreat from the figure, but holding up the shard in its hand, the figure mutters something under its breath, and everyone stops, a purple glow capturing them, stopping everyone in a small radius around him. Their faces full of horror, unable to run, stuck watching this abomination beyond comprehension raise the shard higher.

Running the dagger across the black arm that holds the shard, black blood seeps from the cut, pouring forth. The blood begins to rise up towards the shard, surrounding the shard a black ring latches around it. The figure, looking over the guardsmen that strike and stab at the barrier up, the figure laughs, a creak, and moan; something inhumane. Blood seeping from its eyes, the figure brings the dagger up in the air and brings it down onto its chest. A loud crack is heard, the shard explodes, and a great blackness consumes everyone in the square. Buildings crash down, reduced to rubble or half-destroyed, people are vaporized, and all that remains is their lifeless black skeletons; out sprouts from this chaos is a spire black as the night, taking up the entire square. As high as a small keep, this spire raises.

The air settles, and guardsmen step out of various buildings, the insignia of the Barony of Karthorin. Looking around, bodies litter the ground, cries are heard, children are not spared, women are not spared. Looking over the destruction, bodies begin to move; skeletons begin to get up, their blackened, empty eyes now filled with the redness of the rattlers.