Perched on a cliff, high above the Tharean Sea, sits the age-old city of Jarentho.

In times past, Jarentho was the capitol of a powerful empire and a thriving center of trade. The mountain tribes from the north brought diamonds, iron, silver, and beautiful Fyezha feathers to trade for the crops grown by the cities that dotted the southern plains. Gold and silvans changed hands, along with glorious stories of the Malach and ballads recounting the greatness of the Sykeald warriors.

But that was two thousand years ago.

Jarentho is no longer the center of anything. Only five cities remain united. The mountain mines have reportedly run dry, and the cities of the plains now struggle to keep their food supplies safe from raiders who were once their allies.

Gold is held only by the nobles and the criminal masterminds that

control large portions of the five cities. Merchants, tradesmen, and poor

count their silvans and coppers and dream of a day when food rations

are a thing of the past. The once-glorious Sykeald army has been

reduced to a score of lethal spies, each with expertise and

skills that are still legendary, even if they are forced to

steal most of their food and weapons.

And the Malach? If they ever truly existed, that

knowledge has been forgotten. Now, only Jarentho's

children have time to enjoy the dragon fairy tales that

everyone once knew.