Pharos

Overview

Seventy years ago, the sun was hidden by a gargantuan, circle-shaped figure called the Devourer. This dark figure stands between the sun and the world so that only a thin circle of red light appears at its edges, plunging the world in a state of eternal night. With the coming of the Devourer however, cataclysms also occurred across the world: volcanoes entering into eternal eruptions and covering their surroundings with unending rains of ashes, tidal waves continuously wiping away the coastlines, perpetual storms that rend through entire regions rendering them uninhabitable. All the while, legions of demons and monsters poured across the world, ravaging and rampaging, causing untold destruction in their wake. Civilisations and societies collapsed, and the populations of the world were annihilated by the coming of the Devourer and its scions of destruction. Seventy years of frozen twilight have transformed Pharos, the very last city still standing, into something between a shrine and a tomb. The city owes its salvation to its towering lighthouse carrying the Light of the Nehilin - the last relic of the Torel beliefs, a derelict religion of old that believed in angel-like figures called Nehilins who watched over humanity from the planes of Heavens. Pharos was the last city of the world still practicing the Torel beliefs, and its lighthouse, illuminated by what is believed to be a gift from the Nehilins themselves, has kept the Devourer’s forces of evil at bay for seven decades now. Famine, disease and despair are all part of the Pharossians’ lives who all since turned to the Torel church in hope that the Nehilins will come for the salvation of humanity. The city stretches in concentric rings around the lighthouse, each district older and more desperate than the last. Buildings crowd together as if seeking warmth, their upper stories leaning inward until they nearly touch overhead. The perpetual crimson glow filtering around the Devourer paints every surface in shades of dried blood. Ash from the distant volcanoes drifts down like gray snow, accumulating in corners and forcing daily sweeps from rooftops. The population has dwindled to fewer than twelve thousand, and narrow streets feel too wide. Everyone has lost someone to the hunger or the things that wait beyond the light's edge. The lighthouse beam rotates in its endless vigil, and each pass of the light brings a moment of genuine warmth that locals call 'the Nehilin's breath.'

Society

The Church of the Nehilin controls food distribution, housing assignments, and the vital work rotations that keep everyone alive. Bishops hold more power than the hereditary Duke, whose family once ruled Pharos. Food rations are tied to religious observance. Miss a dawn prayer, lose a portion. Skip a tithe, lose your place in the cultivation rotations. The desperate have no room for faithlessness. Labor is divided between those who work the fields in the light's protection, those who maintain the city's crumbling infrastructure, and the Nightwatch, who guard the periphery where the beam is weakest. Corpses are not buried. They are processed in the Quarter of Rendered Hope, where every gram of material serves survival. Nothing is wasted.

Technology

Renaissance-level technology persists in fragile islands of craftsmanship. Glassblowers maintain the lighthouse lenses through methods passed down in strict apprenticeship lines. Clockwork mechanisms control the rotation of the great beam, requiring constant adjustment by engineers who treat their tools with religious reverence. Scavenged equipment from before the Devourer breaks down with increasing frequency. Several water wheels salvaged from old grain mills generate power for the lighthouse mechanism. Gunpowder exists but is reserved exclusively for the Nightwatch, who use it in desperate defense when creatures breach the perimeter. The rarest resource is lens-grade crystal, essential for repairing the lighthouse. The Church maintains that the Nehilins provide such materials when the faithful prove worthy, though the supply has dwindled to nearly nothing over seven decades.