The Creation Myth

In the beginning, there was only darkness.

And in that darkness, three great dragons stirred.

Siberys, radiant and vast, scales like molten stars.

Khyber, a coil of shadow, jaws that could swallow worlds.

And between them, Eberron, who longed to shape and to shelter.

Khyber struck first, hunger driving her upward, jaws seeking the light. Siberys met her in the void, brilliance a blade of gold. The heavens themselves burned as they clashed. Siberys struck hard, but not before Khyber’s fangs tore his body apart, scattering his blood like jewels across the night.

The fragments of Siberys became the twelve moons — eternal witnesses to a war that never truly ended. His body was gone. Eberron, in sorrow and vengeance, coiled around Khyber, binding her deep below. Thus was the world made: Siberys above, Eberron between, Khyber below.

A Descent to the World

From the vaults of heaven the camera turns, plunging through clouds. Below, the world of Eberron lies vast and alive — seas gleaming like scales, mountains coiled like a sleeping spine, rivers winding like silver veins.

The clouds break.

Beneath them: Sharn.

The City of Towers.

An impossible sprawl of stone and steel rising into mist, airships drifting between docking spires, lightning rails sparking along their tracks. Skybridges teem with merchants. Children chase mage-lights along balconies. Duelists clash on high platforms as banners snap in the wind.

And in the heart of it all, Morgrave University: banners proud, halls crowded, lecture theatres alive with whispered notes and glowing chalk.

A professor’s voice carries above the throng:

“Their struggle shapes us still.

We walk upon Eberron, the Dragon Between.

We look to the moons of Siberys, the Dragon Above.

And we fear the shadows of Khyber, the Dragon Below.”

Across Khorvaire

The vision soars outward: forests, villages, mountains, cities. A wall of grey roiling mist looms — the Mournland, where dead armies still march. To the south, Talenta halflings on their clawed steeds raise war cries as Valenar elves charge with double scimitars flashing. Snow lashes the Endworld peaks. And finally: the jungle of Q’barra, thick, endless, dangerous.

At the river’s mouth lies a frontier town: Saltmarsh. Fishing boats rock in its harbour. An airship hovers above a blackened scar of land. And west of town, warm lights glow in the Archimedes Estate.

A New Companion

Inside, the Morgrave Five gather — and at their door, an old friend: Kal, the halfling ranger.

Kal remembers the University well. He worked with Overhaul, trusted Roto, but looks uneasily at M, whom he calls “unnatural.”

As greetings are exchanged, another knock comes.

A liveried servant, letter in hand, the Governor’s seal unbroken:

“The Governor requests your presence at the gala tonight. Your attendance… is expected.”

Shadows Stirring

On the road into town, Kal and M spot him: Olric the warlock, half-hidden in the trees. His skin shines faintly like scales, his eyes slit like a serpent’s. And in his hands, the book the party once reclaimed. He slips away into the fog.

Troubled, the party turns instead toward the Temple. Roto is still in dire need of greater restoration.

But the Temple is chaos. A woman lies dying as her child screams. Sister Elena kneels over her, prayers faltering. The spell fails. Healing will not come. Elena stares at the Morgrave Six, eyes hollow, then bolts from the Temple.

Roto follows. M tries to calm the child, but her words falter. Kal examines the woman’s wounds and sees the marks of an industrial accident reopening. Overhaul, restless, begins rummaging through the Temple’s corners in search of hidden levers and forgotten buttons, as though the gods themselves might be caught behind a panel.

Elena’s Desperation

Roto pursues Sister Elena through Saltmarsh. She storms past the guards of the Governor’s mansion, knocking them sprawling, then charges up the steps toward the Governor’s chambers. Roto follows close, just in time to see her rush out again, whispering “no, no, no, no” as she flees back into the shantytown.

In a smoke-blackened hut, she kneels beside the corpse of a burned child and screams. Roto seizes the moment to beg for greater restoration. Eyes wild, Elena grants it, then tears herself away, running for the militia house.

Saltmarsh in Crisis

Back at the Temple, Overhaul’s inventions catch sight of the commotion at the Governors mansion. They arrive to find the Governor collapsed in his chambers, his body marked with wounds of war. Kal’s steady hands save him from the brink, though Fireborn is pale, barely conscious.

Meanwhile, Roto and Elena push into the militia barracks — carnage everywhere, soldiers bleeding out, Elena frantically trying to save them with hands that no longer heal.

At last, the party regroups at the Governor’s mansion. Saltmarsh teeters on the edge: the Governor wounded, the Temple silent, the militia broken.

And yet, tonight the gala awaits.

Kal and Roto steal a moment for pastries and beer. Because even at the end of the world, one must not face it on an empty stomach.