Ysyr

High in the Chalcedon Mountains stands the ancient city ofYsyr. Buildings cluster like massed crystals on terraced plazas carved out of the mountainside. Avenues sunk into the stone lead to vaulted chambers within, ringed by many levels of galleries. The citizens of Ysyr move here among the signs and symbols of sorcery. Wyrdlights dart around them like insects, while coronas of cold fire crackle upon walls, statues, and balustrades. Golems haul heavy goods while flitting winged things like congeries of stained glass carry messages across the city, singing.

Ysyr was built upon the ruins of the First Age city of Pinnacle, sculpted by Solar artifice from the living rock. Years after the Contagion slew all within, the seafaring Ys people found the city and made it their own. But without the science of the Solars to regulate sorcerous engines beneath the city, Essence emanations warped the Ys, twisting their bodies and minds—and, through chance, attuning them to the power of sorcery.

But only a handful of Ysyr’s people master the sorcerous arts. These few mage-lords form the ruling class, identified not merely by their elaborate finery, laden with jewels and precious gems, but also by their sorcerously endowed physical perfection. The rest of the city’s people forever bear the marks of mutation—twisted limbs, bloated features, cracked and discolored skin. These are the marks of servitude, for in Ysyr, all who are not sorcerers are slaves

Ysyr

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