The Runes Must Hold

Hard Days Beneath Open Sky

Where harvests are earned with blood, and the soil remembers every buried secret.

Sleepy Town of Quiet Shadows

A quiet town where nobility walks among the common folk, and the world’s troubles feel distant—until they are not.

City of Commerce and Control

Where gold flows like water, power is measured in secrets, and the line between law and crime is thinner than a blade’s edge.

2
Talismans

5
Lodges

12
Species

1
Bystander

32
Chronicles

He carves because he must. Every mark is a tether, every line a lullaby for something older than sleep. The Keep has grown colder—not in temperature, but in silence. Runes flicker where they once glowed steady. The arc-lines pull against the stone like muscle beneath skin. He blames the weather, or time, or madness—but still, he carves. A shift in rhythm. A hum out of sync. The kind of silence that means something is listening.

There’s movement, too—shadows where there should be none, laughter in distant halls, and misplaced boots near unlit stairwells. He dismisses it as his mind unraveling… until one of the keystone runes loses its light entirely. Now, he works faster, hands raw against the stone, desperate to maintain what feels like unraveling thread. Somewhere above, a dog chases sounds only it can hear—and below, something begins to pulse.

Sir Craigford “The Warden of Timony”

Tazarus

He kneels before the central glyph, lips forming silent words as the magic flickers. Behind him, claws scrabble across stone—again. "Tazarus," he mutters, voice flat. "That’s the fifth containment circle this week. We talked about this." The dog sneezes. The glyphs dim slightly. He sighs

Tazarus “Taz” Bernard

Craigford

He sniffed the air, hackles rising. "Smells wrong. Not bad wrong. Just… itchy." He turned in a circle twice, then sat with a huff. "I sit here now. Safer here." His tail wagged once before he added, "Also someone left pie."

Timony Keep

Craigford ● Tazarus

The wind howls beyond the ice-laced windows. Frost crawls along the floor like living veins. He presses his palm to the runic seal—light answers, trembling. "It’s weakening," he mutters, eyes distant. "Not the conduit. The cost."