"What . . . do you hear?" "I hear the silent voices floating on the wind . . ." "What . . . can you feel?" "The ground . . . jagged and hard, digging, clawing into my flesh, and cold as ice . . . " "What . . . can you see?" ". . ." "TELL ME WHAT YOU SEE!" ". . . I see . . . " ". . ." ". . . I see Death." A man lives and dies. His life is fleeting, bright, and definite. In the West, the Ancient Keladorians believed that a man would be tested after his passing, pitted against terrible demons from another world. For every act of valor, for every comrade made on the field of battle, for every victory - for each of these things in life, a Keladorian man would be granted an ally in his final battle in death. Those that pass the trials earn the right to walk in the shadows of their gods, and extend the right to their wives and children. Those that fall are consumed and dragged into eternal darkness. In the East, Atlyan funeral tradition calls to the Naia, the Spirit of the Cycle. They believed that one's conscious never faded, even as the body decays. Both Atlyan Men and Women were believed to be part of Naia, and it is to Naia that they must return. In life, the physical form is weak, needing sustenance. In life, the physical form is limited, only seeing that which is before one's eyes. In death, Naia shatters the shackles and frees the spirit, cleansing it so that it may be reborn. Yet the Cycle is not a gift given freely - one must respect the Cycle in life, to hope to rejoin it in death. Every nation in Eturia has such myths. They have existed since the first civilisations, passed from father to son, mother to daughter, at first by song and dance, then eventually by the written word. Every culture has different beliefs, different values that are prized above others, different stories of worlds beyond. Yet for all their differences, one legend has been present in them all . . . the Silent Graves. A world that never turns. The sun does not rise, the stars do not shine. A realm still as stone, where life seems to have halted, faded into icy stillness. An unchanging terrain as far as the eye can see, lined with the graves of the forgotten. There is no life for the damned souls, for they never lived. There is no death for the damned souls, for they cannot die. They are drawn by a force they do not understand, even as their voices echo their pain. They are compelled to wander among the graves of those who have succumbed, forever lost and never found. And at the center of this doomed, cursed world, it is said that there lies a great and terrible construct, always in shadows, looming but never there - the Phantom Tower, where the Gravekeeper maintains a silent, impassive vigil over the shattered realm.