Shankuru

In Shankuru, life is defined by two miracles and one curse. Any who has beheld the City knows the first miracle; it is carved from a vast mesa, a structure beyond reckoning, stretching far into the sky and deep into the bowels of the earth. Whole nations could comfortably fit inside. Who constructed it and when, the gods only know.

Less apparent, but more consequential, is the second miracle. Throughout the City, water flows from fountains, pipes, and frescos. More incredible still, this water nourishes as well as food. The desperate flock to the city, for here no one need ever starve.

But nothing is without cost, and what is known as the Curse is a disease unlike any other. Skin turns black and withered. Lips, fingers, even limbs, rot away. The Curse can be managed, but never cured. It is simply a fact of life to the City’s denizens that all must eventually succumb. In its final stages, the Curse destroys the mind. These wretched souls live in a semi-catatonic state, wandering the lowest levels of the City, a terrifying reminder of the toll exacted by the City.

The Patron of the City, whatever it is, dispassionately observes his flock. He offers reprieve from the world, but only for a time. Neither sun nor stars shine in the City. The Curse touches everyone. Wars rage in the streets.

And He watches their lives as candles in the void.