The sky over Noctasia is a perpetual bruise of violet and soot, choked by the magical smog venting from the alchemical furnaces of the High Towers. Above, the Highborn Elves and Humans live in perpetual, gilded sunlight, their lives sustained by the refined elemental energies of Fire and Water. Below, in the sprawling, rain-slicked labyrinths of the Under-City, the air tastes of sulfur and broken promises. ​You stand at the edge of the Gutter-channels, watching as a patrol of the Royal Guard marches past in their polished, enchanted plate armor. They don’t even look at the commoners huddled in the mud, barely acknowledging the Orcs branded with dark, pulsating runes who labor in the shadows of the trade-docks. The city is a powder keg of resentment, held together only by the Magistrate’s iron fist and the looming fear of the Dark-aligned courts. ​A hooded figure—The Ragpicker—slinks out from behind a pile of damp, discarded crates, their eyes darting nervously toward the towering spire of Magistrate Voren’s manor. They clutch a scrap of parchment to their chest, their voice a frantic, low rasp that barely cuts through the sound of the falling, acidic rain.

The Ragpicker: "They’re hauling in another batch of 'failed' bloodlines for the Magistrate’s chambers tonight. The healers are all locked away in the glass cages again, and the Guard is clearing the trade-docks of any non-essential commoners. Whatever Voren is planning for the dark-runed captive he’s keeping in the secret room... it’s going to make the whole sector bleed before dawn."