Jorus Q. Merrill
I'm a Vima-da-Boda, honey
Now, Tython has been torn up, looted down to the bedrock, a dozen times in the last century alone. Messy world, Tython, and yet not remotely low on secret vaults set up by the truly prepped and paranoid and just plain smarter than most.
Behold one such vault: a dank cube cut from the bedrock in question, accessible by tunnels and shafts and Flesh Reaver warrens.
A tiny automated signal has gone out to the Caretaker of First Knowledge. A staticky image shows a hooded figure cramming shards of holocron into its mouth. Behind it, barely visible, a pale blue silhouette is shouting, mouth just as wide—
Corazona von Ascania
Behold one such vault: a dank cube cut from the bedrock in question, accessible by tunnels and shafts and Flesh Reaver warrens.
A tiny automated signal has gone out to the Caretaker of First Knowledge. A staticky image shows a hooded figure cramming shards of holocron into its mouth. Behind it, barely visible, a pale blue silhouette is shouting, mouth just as wide—
