In the Time of Discord there are many places of wonder and mystery to be discovered. Some are vestiges of the ages before the breaking, some are remnants of the Will War and others are relics of the time of discord itself; things brought into being in a dying world.

The Everlasting City consists of two distinct sections: the Tower, and Trap Town. Trap Town was created because of the unique freedoms that the citizens of the Tower enjoyed, and the long standing tradition that those who touch it can claim to be amongst its citizens. Uncountable hordes flocked to the Tower; and when they arrived, they were greeted by hordes of cut-throats and bandits, who set themselves up in large encampments around the Tower, and waited for their prey to come to them. The Tower's authority did not mind this development, as it kept down their population; and so, over the centuries, Trap town became a permanent settlement, vast and filled with walls, mazes and traps, and the vast mansions of its citizens, paid for by the gold of those who would touch the Tower.

The Tower itself stretches, black and sharp and rigid, skewering the sky and visible - on a clear day - from literally everywhere left on earth. Supposedly created by the Gods as a covenant of their enduring power it is said that they laid a special blessing upon the Tower: that it would never fall, or tremble, until such time as the whole world was broken. The top of the Tower has reputedly never been reached by man: at the highest levels, where the air is sparse and freezes wheezing lungs, making spots dance in front of the eyes, the bodies of those who climbed this high searching for the Towers secrets can still be found.

The Tower was in times past inhabited by hordes of scholars and mystics, now only a few remain; the balconies of their houses jutting out precariously into the void, to which were tied the strange leather wing-frames that allowed them to spiral gracefully down the sides of their home. Before the sundering of the world, when the sun was warm in the sky, they could even ride the hot air currents upwards; but now, the only way is down; the completely dark central staircase is the last way of moving upwards.

Now the Disjunction is at the gates of the Everlasting City, but still some of the inhabitants of the Tower refuse to accept this. While the rest flee, they keep alive the fading echoes of their political traditions, meet still in Agoras of the air, and exchange comments about how panicky and fearful the rest of the world has become. There are thousands of rich paintings, wind chimes, works of great and subtle philosophy, and mechanical trinkets, toys and weapons to be found in the black. More pragmatic citizens of Trap Town have mainly abandoned their city, leaving easy access to the Tower for the first time in hundreds of generations. Only some hereditary Thieves, Fake-Guides and Innkeepers-Murders still cling to the emptying city, sneering at their colleagues who ran, and keeping alive the traditions of their forefathers: to ensure that no-one reaches the Tower intact.

Long before the Iridicean Empire began, before the City was even a true metropolis, the Dominion of the Horse, a great wandering host began a tradition of burying their Kings, with all the riches that they had amassed during their time on earth, in a field of Blood Red Flowers, which bloom only in the presence of a Parliament of Crows.

It was said that amongst these riches were many wonderous creations of the Horse-Saints who rode with the Dominion under the blessings of the Church, and ancient texts speaking of older times in long dead languages, as well as riches beyond imagining.

With the fall of the Dominion to the inexorable rise of the Iridican Empire, the location of these burial fields became lost to time, and with it, the treasures buried with them. But rumours and legends persist, and even before the coming of the Disjunction brave adventurers have chased rumours often sold them by wily conmen but no one has found anything in all the centuries of looking.

As the Disjunction approaches the lands which were once ruled over by the Dominion, it would appear that the Fields of Bone and Flowers will become truly lost, and all their treasures will be as nothing.

Partially submerged in a glacial lake beneath the Listfarn mountains on the shores of the Sea of Bones sits one of the sorcerous wonders of the World before: the Arkhen Sphere. A perfect castle-sized globe formed of jagged interlocking plates of arcane metal and crystal that constantly seem to shift and phase through each other in an endless shimmering pattern that refracts the light from the lake in a disconcerting whirl of lucent shadows. Before the Sun's eternal halt in the heavens it was said that on starless nights, deep within the sphere, and then glimpsed only through the ever flowing windows of crystal, that a dull pulsing radiance could be seen.

The mountain folk remember the creation of the Sphere during the height of the Will War and some of their elders can recall when writhing streamers of molten quicksilver, conjured from nothingness, coalesced into the sphere floating high above the greatest peak of the Listfarn's. They also speak of the moment the World was sundered and the simultaneous ending of whatever power held the sphere aloft causing it to plunge into mountainside, tearing away the pinnacle of the peak in the process, and tumble into the flooded valley below.

"I've lived my whole life in the Erewhon, sir; guided folk through it for 50 years. Not once have I seen any hint of the Font of Years. What makes you think I can find it now?"

"Because only now, venerable elder, do you have an incentive."

- Conversation between Duke Umboco and Elder Black Stone. Both were lost to the sands.

"Drink from the the Font and the Years wash out.

Sun beats down and the Waters flow out.

Sand drinks the Years and the Sand crawl out.

Three give Life till your Time run out."

- Worn inscription on a statue of the Phoenix Saint

"I have no need for a protocol enhancer. What I really need is a condenser coil for a moisture evaporator. No, no, this one has a bad motivator... How much for the blue one over there?"

- Antikytheran Journeyman Eugene Lars, overheard at Mad Jack's Trading Post

A short way away from The City lies the Scrapyard. Fields of broken machinery stretching out as far as the eye can see, mountains of rust and pools of corrosive acid. The Scrapyard was once the dumping ground for all the refuse in the Free Cities. It is an immense expanse covered in broken and non-functional wonders.

The end of the world hasn't improved its condition. Refugees have settled here, trading in salvaged parts and whatever else they can find, wrapped head to toe in oiled leathers as a protection from the acidic drizzle that seems to be constantly falling. Slavers roam its depths, operating out of the shells of long dead machines, bridging the expanse between Emperor's Drop and The City. Mad Jack's Trading Post is a destination of choice of any Guildsmen who brave the outside in search of parts and components, whether mechanical or otherwise.

Those who choose to dwell in The Scrapyard tell tales of giant clockwork abominations roaming its depths; gigantic husks of long-dead machinery whose purpose is lost to the mists of time; bottles of lightning that have struck dead anyone who dared open them and more.

The Gods promised the residents that as long as voices raised in song echoed through these mountains, they would be safe. They used to have a dedicated team of a hundred people singing out at every hour of the day, and uncountable numbers of pilgrims joining them, but now both these numbers are dwindling, and for many months, the locals have feared that the stream of song would be broken. But two weeks ago, new voices have been echoing through the canyons, intermingling with the song with archaic words and tunes that have no points of origin…

When the Trinity died, a small faction of the church gathered up some of the thousands of artefacts the gods had 'destined' for specific individuals. These were stored in this Church, which was promptly invaded by several armies seeking to harness the powers of these erratically powerful artefacts, and redirect these destinies in their direction. The invaders soon realised there was no magic intrinsic in the objects, that they were littered with traps, and that there was little chance of any individual stumbling upon his own destiny.

Still, one can hope…

Now the ruins of the church and the surrounding countryside are littered with the artefacts of destinies, mad soldiers, madder priests, and a few sane thieves, sifting carefully through the mess to find some trinket both safe and profitable.

"The question remains; does a portal whose twin lies within nothingness lead nowhere?"

- Captain Torven, passing near the Serrac Confluence

Centuries before the time of discord the Magisterium Sorcerers, at the behest of the Church, forged for the empires of the world an extensive system of way-bridges; magical means to traverse a thousand leagues with a single step. At every capital a confluence was created each a monolithic nexus of stone half-arches curving inward and then ending in empty air, the other half of the bridges emerging at the other confluences scattered around the world. As emissaries, traders or soldiers took the final step they would be transported half a world away in an instant; a wonder of Will-working for the good of all.

Now the only Confluence that remains is the one outside Serrac, one-time capital of the Iridican Empire. Its sister confluences have been lost to the void and no one has dared take the final step for years for who knows where the sorcerous bridges now lead?

Although its existence is always denied by the Church, rumours continue to circulate about the existence of a collection of Heretical Tomes regarding the “true” nature of the Three, and their Dominion over the world. The source of these heresies differ across the many hearsays, ranging from madmen whose ravings came too close for the Church's comfort, to desperate Scholars delving too deep into the mysteries of the Three to one suggestion that the collection has existed since before the dawn of the world. Whatever the provenance, and whatever the secrets contained within the tomes, almost all the rumours agree that were it to be found, the Sepulchre of Heresies will be hidden somewhere within the labyrinthine corridors of the forbidden sections of the Hallowed Citadel.