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It looms on the horizon like a limestone orchid, a green and grey vertigo of sharp knives glinting in the arid sun. These are the spires of the world hinge, the magick-ivied temple of the Soul Adept. In corridors of living stone strange destinies are woven and weary travellers become vessels of violent dream. This is the Castle, home to the homeless and light to the lost, its roots as deep as the Erth's soul and its steeples as high as the stars.
In the forests and deserts and junk-yards, beneath the helicopters and the scorching sun swarm the nations of Erth. Countless lives traffic the jewelled cities and smoky, neon-lit underworlds where the poor bump shoulders with the rich and the dead bump shoulders with the living. Over deserts of glass soar the Fire Kind, collossal hives of nuclear tissue policing the Sun's rays on diamond-scaled wings.
Beyond the Sea of Fire, in the bonetowns and bloodlands, strange creatures sleep in abbattorish pits. Here the damned carve labryinths into their flesh and leprous prayers nurture Tsetsequinox, Horclyme, Scarpigrene, Jassyrgut, Nilktolypkos and Zero. These are the Gods of the Deadisles, of the nightmare wastes where the Crimson Key conquer and the Shadow Hand wage a guerrilla war.