Submission (#466) Approved
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30 May 2025, 01:04:39 CDT (4 weeks ago)
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30 May 2025, 18:39:26 CDT (4 weeks ago) by BrokenBottleChandelier
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(Aesh'ruun and its unique lore are original concepts created by Stormdew. Staff of the Tatsukoi species have full permission to use, reference, or expand on these ideas in official content. Please credit Stormdew as the original creator)
Aesh’ruun, the Shattered Crucible of Layer Five
Perched among the jagged ruin-spires of Layer Five, where the land buckles like broken bones and the sky hangs heavy with ash and silence, stands Aesh’ruun—if "stands" is the word. It doesn’t rise so much as cling: to cliff edges, to frayed stone bridges, to the last thread of survival in a land that chews through the unworthy. There is one road that leads to Aesh’ruun. Along this road, trails are left behind in blood, dust, and memory. Aesh’ruun is a city forged, not built—carved directly into the ribs of a fallen mountain, its foundations cracked and cruel. Homes are more like dens or holds, chipped into rock faces and reached only by spiked ladders, swinging chains, or sheer will. Bridges stretch across yawning crevasses with no railings, just the certainty that if you fall, no one catches you. The mist here isn’t soft. It cuts. The wind doesn’t whisper. It judges.
This is not a city of safety. It’s a city of proof. Every part of Aesh’ruun is a test: every surface a training ground, every wall a scoreboard, every breath earned. The people here are cut from flint and pressure, born into traditions older than names. You don’t get a name until you take one—from the cliffs, from an opponent, from the climb. Until then, you’re just another voice in the pit. You’re nothing. Until you make yourself something.
Here, children are raised on calloused hands and bruised pride, trained in the ways of the Griefpits—the massive arenas carved into the cracked heart of the city. Challenges are held daily: for territory, for honor, for love. Some fights are silent. Some are ceremonial. Others are pure rage given shape. Blood is not sacred. It’s expected. Victory brings respect. Defeat brings scars. Cowardice? Cowardice brings nothing at all. At the center of it all is the Trophylit Court, a plaza lined with relics of triumph: cracked helmets, broken blades, teeth nailed into stone. These are not trophies—they are warnings. Every piece a promise: this city remembers what it took to win. There are no festivals in Aesh’ruun. Only Rendtrials—competitions of combat, endurance, and raw defiance. Winners are celebrated in silence. Losers must try again. Or vanish.
Yet amidst the stone and sweat, there is culture—strange and brutal in its own right. Ritual scarring marks the milestones of one’s journey. The Mourning Call is how the dead are honored: a name screamed into the dawn so that the cliffs themselves remember. Love or alliance is declared through public challenge. If one party defeats the other, they may claim partnership, if the loser accepts. If they don’t, the duel continues.
Then there is the Chain Garden: a hanging maze of metal and wind where young warriors are sent blindfolded to climb without sound, sight, or support. It is not a punishment. It is a tradition. The city listens to their struggle. And if they fall? The mist below takes them, and the silence moves on.
Aesh’ruun does not cradle its people. It grinds them sharp. It does not comfort the weak. It makes the strong earn every breath they draw. Those who leave it carry something deeper than scars. They carry silence. Focus. Purpose.
Aesh’ruun, the Shattered Crucible of Layer Five
Perched among the jagged ruin-spires of Layer Five, where the land buckles like broken bones and the sky hangs heavy with ash and silence, stands Aesh’ruun—if "stands" is the word. It doesn’t rise so much as cling: to cliff edges, to frayed stone bridges, to the last thread of survival in a land that chews through the unworthy. There is one road that leads to Aesh’ruun. Along this road, trails are left behind in blood, dust, and memory. Aesh’ruun is a city forged, not built—carved directly into the ribs of a fallen mountain, its foundations cracked and cruel. Homes are more like dens or holds, chipped into rock faces and reached only by spiked ladders, swinging chains, or sheer will. Bridges stretch across yawning crevasses with no railings, just the certainty that if you fall, no one catches you. The mist here isn’t soft. It cuts. The wind doesn’t whisper. It judges.
This is not a city of safety. It’s a city of proof. Every part of Aesh’ruun is a test: every surface a training ground, every wall a scoreboard, every breath earned. The people here are cut from flint and pressure, born into traditions older than names. You don’t get a name until you take one—from the cliffs, from an opponent, from the climb. Until then, you’re just another voice in the pit. You’re nothing. Until you make yourself something.
Here, children are raised on calloused hands and bruised pride, trained in the ways of the Griefpits—the massive arenas carved into the cracked heart of the city. Challenges are held daily: for territory, for honor, for love. Some fights are silent. Some are ceremonial. Others are pure rage given shape. Blood is not sacred. It’s expected. Victory brings respect. Defeat brings scars. Cowardice? Cowardice brings nothing at all. At the center of it all is the Trophylit Court, a plaza lined with relics of triumph: cracked helmets, broken blades, teeth nailed into stone. These are not trophies—they are warnings. Every piece a promise: this city remembers what it took to win. There are no festivals in Aesh’ruun. Only Rendtrials—competitions of combat, endurance, and raw defiance. Winners are celebrated in silence. Losers must try again. Or vanish.
Yet amidst the stone and sweat, there is culture—strange and brutal in its own right. Ritual scarring marks the milestones of one’s journey. The Mourning Call is how the dead are honored: a name screamed into the dawn so that the cliffs themselves remember. Love or alliance is declared through public challenge. If one party defeats the other, they may claim partnership, if the loser accepts. If they don’t, the duel continues.
Then there is the Chain Garden: a hanging maze of metal and wind where young warriors are sent blindfolded to climb without sound, sight, or support. It is not a punishment. It is a tradition. The city listens to their struggle. And if they fall? The mist below takes them, and the silence moves on.
Aesh’ruun does not cradle its people. It grinds them sharp. It does not comfort the weak. It makes the strong earn every breath they draw. Those who leave it carry something deeper than scars. They carry silence. Focus. Purpose.
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