In the shadow of the Great Catastrophe, Skyland did not fall—it splintered. The thunder of Drako's wrath had faded, but its echoes would ripple across the ages. No single event since the Creation had so violently shaken the land, nor so deeply cleaved its people.
Peace was not shattered in a single blow. It was worn down by fear, polished by pride, and chiseled by silence. In the days that followed Shiruba's fall and Drako's rise, the peoples of Skyland did not unite against the storm. They looked inward, each seeking protection, meaning, or blame. Unity fractured into isolation. Trust was traded for security. Hope was buried beneath strategy and survival.
Where once Shiruba had reigned as a Quendikin among equals—a shepherd of harmony—now there stood only doubt. The great dragon who had forged the sky from earth was lost. And so too was the unity he had once inspired.
The first to rise from the silence were the Adanels. In the heartland of Firya, among rivers and fertile plains, they gathered the remnants of Shiruba's old kingdom and renamed it Greimdall. From this rebuilt capital, they established trade routes, guarded knowledge, and raised banners of order. But as the years stretched on, that order grew rigid. What began as a mission to restore balance turned cold and calculated.
Greimdall itself became a city divided—structured into three grand tiers. The Outermost Tier, bustling with markets and worn stone, housed the common folk and travelers who arrived to trade. The Middle Tier, refined and polished, belonged to the merchants, guild leaders, and craftsmen of rising influence. And deep within the Inner Tier, surrounded by high walls and watchful towers, stood the old castle once ruled by Shiruba. It had become the realm of aristocrats, bureaucrats, and secret councils. Whispers spoke of things that happened behind those sealed doors—rituals, hidden indulgences, power games veiled in etiquette. But the truth, if ever revealed, remained locked beneath layers of privilege.
Greimdall's council, once built to represent the many voices of Skyland, slowly became a circle of highborn. Voices of dissent were smothered beneath protocol and law. Whispers of rebellion were answered with steel. Some regions were purged under the guise of protection, and entire villages vanished—their names forgotten, their fates blamed on shadow or dragon.
Within Greimdall, the Adanels thrived in structure. Their cities gleamed with architecture that mirrored their ambition. But the warmth that had once driven them—the curiosity, the unity—cooled to distant civility. They became gatekeepers of tradition, rulers of trade, and, to many, stewards who had lost the spirit of their rise.
To the southwest of Firya lies Taur, a vast wilderness of deep jungles and open plains. It is home to tribal Lycans, once protectors of wildlife, now hardened hunters. And to the southeast rise the mountains of Duragzund—the subterranean domain of the industrious Dwarves. They keep to their caverns and peaks, crafting with care and caution, their forges ever lit.
Far to the northwest, in the mists of Sylvanmyr, the Eldians had turned inward. Once protectors of the Ether Tree, their retreat into Yal Elunore was both an act of self-preservation and silent surrender. Behind an impenetrable etheric barrier, their culture blossomed in solitude. Yal Elunore became a sanctuary of learning and elegance, where ancient scrolls were preserved in massive crystalline libraries, and new sigils were crafted with precision to control and shape the Ether around them. Their mastery of runic manipulation through sigils became unmatched, treating Ether as a disciplined science—structured, studied, and ever-evolving. Their architecture—slender, curved, and elegant—rose from the deep blue forest like carved ether itself.
To some, the Eldians are wise. To others, cowards. But in truth, they are a people of discipline and sorrow—ever refining, ever watching, and ever haunted by the guardianship they abandoned. Within their walls, they uphold a strong belief in the righteousness of their isolation, convinced that sealing themselves away is the only path to preserve what remains. Yet, for many of the younger generations, this dogma feels like a quiet prison. Few are permitted to leave the city, primarily traders or diplomats. Most are assigned lifelong duties—those attuned to Ether must train as Benders to maintain the city's protective barrier, while others become Scrives to guard and study scrolls, or Herbalists who gather Ether from the rare plants growing near the forests and rivers, since the Ether Tree no longer grants them its blessings directly. It is a society both graceful and oppressive, marked by tradition, sorrow, and a quiet fear of change.
To the east, along the banks of the Mythriel River and the shimmering shores of Aeloria Lake, lived the Elves—the half-Eldian, half-Adanel descendants who shared the luminous skin and elongated features of the Eldians, yet bore the sturdy hearts and independent spirits of the Adanels. Shaped by both lineages, they embraced a life of simplicity, fishing and coexistence, distinct from both their forebears. Though the Eldians protected them, the Elves remained independent in spirit, their villages forming quiet echoes of a forgotten unity.
Deeper into the forest, toward the heart of Sylvanmyr, lay the Ether Tree—the radiant source of all Ether in Skyland. It was no longer guarded by the Eldians, but by the Nyxes: half-wild beings born of Ether and Eldian essence. These protectors, shaped in part by the very tree they now defend, harbor a natural-born hatred for their progenitors. To them, the Eldians are symbols of betrayal and arrogance. The Nyxes refuse to embrace the legacy of their creators and swear never to become like them. They live within the great Ether Forest, in watchposts and tree-homes wrapped in glowing flora, keeping silent vigil over the Ether Tree.
To the south of Sylvanmyr stretches the great desert of Eshlenora. There, the heat rises like breath from the earth, and the sands sing with ancient secrets. Though harsh and unforgiving, the desert is not lifeless. It is home to the proud and resilient Zhadarri, who carved their city of Zhadarra from stone and storm. From here, they mined rare minerals and refined Ether-infused constructs. Their ingenuity rivaled the brilliance of the lost Gnommers, yet their guarded nature ran deeper than the dunes. They welcomed traders only at the outer edge of their dominion. What lay beyond the gates of Zhadarra was known only to them. Among the Zhadarri, secrecy was strength, and trust was earned slowly—if at all.
To the northeast, the volcanic region of Mogger rises in smoke and molten stone. Beyond the ridges of Kozgren Kar—the capital city of the Turocs and their half-blood kin, the Orkins—blazes the rhythm of hammer and flame. These broad-shouldered warriors, once honored defenders of Skyland's balance, now forged endlessly in the heart of fire. Their partnership with the Dwarves endured, linking their fates to the rugged region of Duragzund. Together, they exchanged Keslite and craftsmanship, yet their alliance, while strong, was watchful. Trust had become a forge-tempered bond.
Bordering Mogger's western edge lies the swamp-laced homeland of the Zcyrt'eks—a reclusive, reptilian species who thrive in marsh and shadow. Tensions simmer between the Turocs of Mogger and the Zcyrt'eks, who seek independence and lay claim to the Rockcoln Bog Swamp. This swamp, humid and treacherous, comprises nearly seventy percent of Mogger's territory. The Zcyrt'eks argue that their dominion over it is natural, while the Turocs cling to their ancient charge handed down by Shiruba U'windo. The rivalry is one of pride and ancient duty, with neither side willing to yield.
To the north-central skies lie the scorched remains of Glimmerthund—once a beacon of Gnommer ingenuity, now twisted into the wild and perilous Drake Lands. What was once the land of progress and invention now burns beneath the wings of the elder dragons. Their reign brought ruin, as ancient machines roamed unchecked and skies thundered with battles for dominion. Here, ash falls like snow, and only the strongest dare survive.
With the Gnommers driven into hiding or wiped away entirely, the elder dragons emerged from the caverns of the world, claiming the skies and territories for themselves. Their reign is not peaceful—constant rivalries erupt between dragons for control and territory. The region became a no-man's-land where power is law. Old machines roam the wastes, and shadows from the Abyss creep near the gates of Drako's Lair. To hold back the tide, the bordering regions—Firya, Mogger, and Sylvanmyr—formed a loose front of defense, building outposts and watchtowers to stem the chaos.
Out of this chaos rose the dragon hunters. Many were born from Greimdall's fringes, disillusioned or exiled. Others joined from all corners of Skyland—some seeking fame, some fortune, and some believing in a duty to protect their people. Dragon hunting became both revered and feared. The guilds formed were not noble orders, but organized mercenary factions—often backed by aristocrats who preferred to spend coin rather than risk soldiers. Rivalries ran deep among hunters, especially between Adanels, Zcyrt'eks, and Lycans—each believing they were the superior slayers of dragons. And while the strongest gained glory, many more perished, their ambitions lost to fire and fang.
But what of Drako?
The beast who shattered the skies does not sleep in silence. Deep within the Abyss, he festers. His corruption seeps through the roots of Skyland, not merely in land but in heart. Villages succumb to greed. Leaders lose themselves in pride. Envy, gluttony, wrath, lust—sins once buried rise anew. His influence stirs even without form. And it spreads.
The wildlife darkens. Forests rot. Ether twists into shadow. Where once rivers shimmered with life, now black tendrils creep. These manifestations—called Shadows—are the foot soldiers of Drako's will, grotesque echoes of life corrupted.
But not all yield.
The Fwllings and Nyxes, guided by the Ether Tree's pulsing heart, rose as Skyland's final shield. Where others saw ruin, they saw a forest to mend. The Fwllings, once Gnommers of craft and machine, were caught in the fall of Magmore — their city lost, their identity shattered. But the Ether Tree, ancient and aware, looked upon them with mercy.
It felt their grief… and saw their hearts.
Refusing to let them vanish, the Ether embraced them — not with destruction, but with rebirth. It reshaped them into the Fwllings: smaller, softer, but no less fierce. They became druids of the wild, caretakers of roots and river, protectors of breath and bloom. What they lacked in might, they carried in resilience.
Now they live as shepherds of nature — but when shadows creep, they stand their ground. With vines and thorns, with light and spirit, they fight. For the forest is not a place of retreat — it is a home worth defending. And the Fwllings defend it fiercely.
Beside them, the Nyxes — guardians born of Ether itself — stand like silver flame. Swift and silent, they patrol the deep groves, warding off the dark with blade and bond alike. Together, they do not forget.
For while others watch the skies in fear… They listen to the roots. And they remember... Skyland endures. Though kingdoms have fallen and names faded into dust, the Ether still flows. The skies still shimmer with distant hope. The forests still breathe. And in the quiet places of the world — where courage is calm and duty unspoken — the seeds of new legends begin to stir.The war is far from over…
But now, dear reader… our tale begins. A tale of wandering hearts, fractured truths, and unlikely souls. Of those who rose not in power, but in purpose. Of those who walked through the flames… And faced the Sins of the Sky.