Along the banks of the primordial Vaultrun river, lies a city. An ancient city, without name and without fame, a city where crimes go unpunished and yet the law rules with an iron grip. A city with logic only discernible to the inhabitants, and almost no other.
And that sleepy city that does beside the dreaming Vaultrun dwell, is overcome with a nightmare. An enigmatic, maze-like nightmare, that holds it in spectral thralls and prevents all good rest and peace of mind - when the city sleeps it is always exhausting, and the days go by as if through haze, a mere suggestion of normalcy passing by.
 
There's war in the city.
In the hushed dwelling that became a city, besides the silent Vaultrun,
Secret wars of attrition, unknown catastrophes break out regularly.
It started happening quite suddenly.
 
You could say it was to be expected, in that strange city that was found next to the river more elusive still,
that disaster would strike quickly. Plagues, famine, and eventual rot into nothingness - all of that was expected by those who did not come, those who did not believe in the pioneers. But for centuries the city trundled along, blossoming slowly, that giant besides the massive Vaultrun stretching out and grunting in growing pains, taking care of itself.
 
It started with a meteor shower that blackened the sky.
Besides that onyx river a veritable field of chaotic, meteoric debris flourished - rapidly grew into blossoming fireflowers, seemingly fed solely by the wind. The city's inhabitants watched from their doors and windows, unbelieving, refused to believe it will not pass, as do all things.
 
It did not.
Instead, there was a cry among the people, a roar to go the fireflower field, to bask in the glory of cosmic chaos. Feed the flowers, they said, fulfill the destiny we never knew we had. Go they did, feed they did, and bask they did. Bask until their eyes shone with liquid fire, and their minds were forever altered.
There were others.
 
Order of the Iron Fist they were called, the militia in that city of bronze and wood. Their purpose was always clear - keep the peace, whatever it may be that upset it. Their method completely single-minded, their means brutal and effective. They seized the Fireflower Followers by the throat, locked them up. It was procedure, procedure all.
But in that unrestful city that does by the troubled Vaultrun lie, the fire has spread - and faster than they could imagine. Followers sprang up everywhere, fiery eyes, prophecies of the great uproar that will deliver their city into a heavenly conflagration in their ears, flint in their hands and their trinkets, ritualistic bonfires their ecstatic celebrations -
And so the city went, down the path of fire and uncertainty.
 
Eventually, it rained.
In that sunken city by the drowned Vaultrun, it stormed and rained for days, putting out any all flames - and aiding the Order in putting out Followers, as well.
The fireflower field hissed and spat, grown so much larger by the fanatic tending, but it could do naught to the rain - it fought to breathe, again and again sparked back to life, but the water smothered it slowly but surely, like a defective babe in its crib.
 
Eventually, the Order tried to breathe easy - and found itself coughing. Smoke was still coming from somewhere in the city, some fire was still alight! With hounds they hunted the rogue flame, searching frantically through the drenched city and that abyssal river's bank, a search so intense and violent it would drive the city insane in days if it went on.
And it did.
 
The rogue flame danced elusively, from hearth to hearth, candle to candle, mouth to ear. Its worship was in secret, its cultivation a beautiful sin. All the Iron Fist could possibly do was tighten their hold of the city, and that tragic township besides the sorrowful Vaultrun struggled to breathe.
 
And so the city found itself in its current state, a nightmare stranglehold - the Iron Fist, clenching it tightly, promising a steady future - with no flame or spark or any of the unpredictable, and the Followers, promising a future unknown but oh so terribly bright, to that city that was once alight, that city whose reflection blossomed in the warm, cauterizing waters of the Vaultrun.
The city struggles, in its heart a burning ember - and around it a fist. The fist crushing the city, and the ember burning it - both desperately trying to shape it, and to banish the other for good.