The City of Scholars. It is in the annals of Baird y Idris, Shepherd of the Sunset Tribe, that we find the first and only references to this city, which once served as a stopover for some of the western Tumult Nomads as they made their way toward Asgartha. He describes it as an underground metropolis, nestled beneath a tall mountain, well sheltered from the Tumult currents. In his accounts, Baird y Idris offers several theories: the city might once have been a nerve center of the World Before, encircled by rocky foothills. These surrounding mountains, under the pressure of the Tumult, are said to have surged over the city like Herculean waves. Before completely engulfing the human settlement, those waves supposedly solidified again, trapping the population in a stone casing shaped like frozen water. It’s difficult to verify such claims, as many of these statements remain speculative at best, but they are the only sources historians can rely on to attempt even a faint understanding of this civilization’s story and fate.

Red tiles, white stone buildings or ochre brick structures, palaces with oval windows—one of them crowned with domes like a cluster of mushrooms… Attempts to depict the city struggle to produce a clear image of its layout, made all the more challenging due to its subterranean nature. But what emerges from these scattered descriptions is the fact that the city’s ruins have been remarkably well preserved. An expedition deep within the rocky structure could allow the Expeditionary Corps to unearth these priceless remnants, shedding light on the daily lives and practices of human communities before the rise of the Confluence. And in doing so, we may finally uncover the meaning behind its name: The City of Scholars. Who were they? Could there have been an order of Nomads we never knew existed? The answers almost certainly lie in the depths of that inverted ziggurat.

First landmark of the City of Scholars, The Crow’s Eye is a yawning chasm that induces vertigo at first glance. The nickname was coined by the Ouroboros' topographers when the craft flew over the area at high altitude, where the dark pit resembles a massive black iris. Its titanic dimensions instantly command awe. With a diameter exceeding a hundred meters, the opening leads to a vast shaft that plunges leagues into the darkness—down toward the city itself. A clever system of terraced scaffolding has been constructed all around the perimeter, granting access to numerous alcoves and troglodytic chambers. However, many of these entryways have collapsed over time and would require extensive repairs to become usable again.

Exposed to daylight, the surface of the terraces has been overrun by vegetation. Like hanging gardens, these areas lend a bucolic quality to the descent or ascent—standing in stark contrast to the oppressive gloom that lies further below. Thanks to the abundance of greenery, small animals have settled in, drawn by the calmer, more sheltered environment compared to the surface, gradually forming a self-contained biotope. Scattered along the concentric levels, one also finds small stone structures slowly being devoured by erosion, ivy, and climbing plants—clear markers of the different districts once present. The Ordis scholars have also expressed surprise at the presence of large, finely cut blocks of Aerolith in abandoned hangars. This suggests that the Crow’s Eye may once have served, at the height of its glory, as a central well for transporting this precious material—from mines deeper underground up to the surface.

Descending along the central shaft, the first cavern that opens halfway down is an ecosystem completely overtaken by invasive vegetation, nicknamed the Undergrowth—a name that reflects both its underground setting and the nature of the habitat. This mezzanine-level expanse stretches across the entire area of the Screed and, at this depth, still benefits from partial sunlight, thanks to numerous gaps in the rocky ceiling above. The collapsed zones make it clear how vital Aerolith was in shaping the geological structure of the crater—allowing for the formation of a protective dome above the Undergrowth, without the upper crust collapsing entirely. Through narrow fissures and wider breaches, sunlight filters in at slanting angles, casting a soft, tranquil glow across the environment. Over time, rainfall has accumulated here, forming numerous ponds, natural reservoirs, and waterlogged lowlands.

No doubt, the Axiom botanists and Muna druids will be able to provide a more exhaustive catalog of its flora and fauna. But at first glance, the Undergrowth appears to be an enchanting setting—though not without its dangers. Notably, despite the reduced light, the vegetation seems to have adapted to compensate for the limited photosynthesis possible compared to the surface. Massive roots and branches snake upward toward the light, forming domes and arches, bridges and intricate tangles beneath the canopy. Covered in thick mosses, unruly vines, and wild grasses, they entwine and lift blocks of stone from the ground, suspending them in midair. Archaeologists who have surveyed this tier believe it once housed temples and cloisters adorned with fountains and statues—but the steady return of nature has buried these remnants beneath a dense, living mantle of greenery.

Even for a bookworm, it’s difficult to say what drove the inhabitants of the City of Scholars to take refuge underground, into the chthonic darkness that pervades this level. Of course, the pressure exerted on the surface by the Tumult must have been immense—but these people seemed to have lived in total absence of light. Had their eyes adapted to the dark? What the first scouts ominously named The Scholars’ Tomb was clearly once a residential district. Numerous traces of past life can still be discerned: apartments, laboratories, dormitories, dining halls, conference rooms, and workshops. All of it bears witness to a once-vibrant intellectual and cultural life, now long vanished.

It is primarily here, amid ruins of a uniquely stylized architecture, that relic hunters find the most valuable objects before returning to the surface to hand them over to the Ordis scholars. There are also furnishings and crafted artifacts that hint at the day-to-day life of the population—each item marked by the same motif of grooves and etched lines repeated across tools, devices, furniture, even walls. The Sanctum historians study these precious finds with intense scrutiny, trying to uncover their full meaning. The best-preserved pieces are usually discovered inside sealed containers, meant to withstand the test of time—perhaps intentionally left behind, either to be rediscovered by future generations, or to be passed down to descendants who would understand their purpose.

But the most fascinating discoveries remain the numerous wall frescos—carved in bas-relief—that cover nearly every surface at this depth. Some were once mosaics, though the tiles have been carefully and systematically removed. These frescos depict everyday scenes, but also what appear to be foundational myths. One recurring image shows the inhabitants consuming or being sustained by a precious liquid. This substance was clearly central to their society—present in every facet of life. Another frequent motif is that of a massive tree—possibly a world-tree—from which rivers of this liquid seem to flow. Is it meant to represent sap, or is it part of a more elaborate metaphor whose meaning escapes us?

The discovery of silos and cisterns containing reserves of golden fluid lends weight to theories about the nature of the liquid depicted in many of the engravings. This “sap” is currently being extracted by the Axiom, who have launched a battery of tests to determine both its nature and function. It appears the substance was poured into clearly artificial beings. It was consumed, inhaled, shared, gifted. It was distributed, stored, used in cultivation. It held a vital, central role in the life of the City of Scholars. And yet, nothing discovered so far truly explains how it was created or harvested. Exploration and extraction efforts have recently intensified, as this sap may hold the key to understanding the entire lost civilization.

Another figure that appears frequently in the engravings is that of a woman—tall, beautiful, and serene. She is often shown watching over the people, or drinking from the sacred liquid. Her prominence across the ruins suggests she was the object of deep veneration. Could she be an unknown Eidolon? A deity from ancient times? Her face appears in corridors and grand ceremonial chambers, often as the focal point of flowing ornamental ridges—as if her hair itself spread in every direction. Her omnipresence raises profound questions about the society’s structure. Was it centered around a single divine figure, where the Asgarthans, by contrast, relied on a diverse pantheon of Eidolons for guidance?

Few have dared venture into the Maze, due to the danger it poses. This vast megacavity is composed of black stone blocks veined with gold—floating cubes and slabs that constantly rearrange themselves, making both navigation and orientation perilous. These regular polyhedra, etched with geometric carvings—interweaving lines, parallels, and concentric patterns—seem to possess a life of their own: flying, assembling, separating, regrouping elsewhere, revealing hidden chambers, creating new ones, or sealing off others. Ubiquitous throughout the cavity, they form a maze in perpetual flux. So far, its shifting layout doesn’t appear to follow any discernible logic or pattern, though without understanding the periodicity of its cycles, it’s impossible to say for certain. Perhaps it takes weeks—or even years—to return to a previous configuration.

What does seem certain is that these blocks are composed, at least in part, of Aerolith. The inhabitants of the City of Scholars appear to have mastered the antigravitational mineral to a far greater extent than the Asgarthans. Yet nothing explains the blocks’ constant, automated movement. The Axiom believe the system is governed by a code—that the blocks follow precise rules or can be activated by specific stimuli. The Yzmir take this even further, proposing that ideas are embedded within the blocks—that they function as information storage units, capable of being combined and reconfigured to trigger sequences of effects still unknown. Ideas, memories, records? Others believe the tesseracts are simply mobile platforms, or perhaps part of a defensive mechanism.

Beyond their unmistakable poetry and strange beauty, the Maze’s cubes—named tesseracts by the Axiom—seem to guard a final, hidden level. But without a true understanding of the labyrinth’s underlying logic, it may remain forever out of reach. And perhaps that is for the best. The deeper explorers descend into these ephemeral megastructures, the more palpable the danger becomes. Reports of attacks by shadowy entities or creeping, sentient smoke are becoming increasingly frequent. Many Initiates now suspect that the Maze’s mutagenic properties may stem from a Tumult Singularity, slumbering in the deepest recesses of the sunken city. What lies at the very bottom? A treasure? The knowledge we seek? Or rather, the very force that led to the downfall of this civilization—one that may have been blossoming in parallel with our own?