Within the cloud-thickened mists of Eldrath, a land both whispered of and forgotten, lies the village of Myrrhmaw. Built upon the skeletal remains of the ancient dragon Ytherok, its roofed streets snake through alleyways of cobblestone slick with the dew of midnight.
"The stones speak underfoot," an old sage once warned. "Heed their hymns, for they guide when eyes can no longer pierce the veil."
The Cartographer's quill dances hesitantly over parchments in a worn attic where even dreams dare not tread. His fingers trace the edge of Moonscar, a land of eternal twilight and clandestine flora.
"In twilight realms," a phantom voice intones, "the moon is both guide and jailor."
Beyond the Veil of Whispers, wrapped in the sanguine shadows of silent litanies, lies a secret wellspring—the Conundrum Spring—said to be guarded by eternally vigilant sentinels of stone, their hollow eyes harboring centuries of forgotten grace.
"The stones cry," whispers an unseen wretch, "when the stars align in morose dance."