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.