The ghosts of other continents encroach upon the territory of Meranthe.

Villains of yesteryear emerge from their coffins, lips and lungs still untouched by
a long overdue death rattle. Immortals of the eras; souls stolen from the cycle.
The scene: an idyllic summer day in the Vigil. Smalltalk about foreign affairs.
Esshar's sins are put to the spotlight, demonic and vampiric insurrections
introduced to the ken of one most opposed to the eternal. Tomes with
spines so untouched they crack upon opening and scrolls so ignored
they shower with dust when unfurled are lent rigorous scrutiny
until a target has been set at last: a tower, nestled amidst
dead and eternal snows pockmarked by pools of lava. A
tower, the last remnant of Naysien's Coat standing like
an aged monument to a bygone era. A tower, whose
newfound purpose is a flagrant bastardization of
the cultures that once lived there, a place for
those of eternal life or those seeking it to
congregate, swapping knowledge and
partaking in the depraved arts.
A tower of immortals.
Of damned eternals.

Turris Aeterni.