Savage, deadly, each entirely unique, and up until recently, thought to be completely mindless; the Sinti are the ancient enemy of Amona. As the full moon rises in the sky, every Amonian knows that reckless hate will barrel through the Breach from the Void lands, and if they fail in their duty then their home and potentially Erdgard itself will fall. 

They have been killed for generations, studied by the sharpest minds of the Archives, but even after a thousand years almost nothing is known about their life cycle or motivations.

Recent events have ominously predicted an even greater threat, rekindling interest in the generations-old mystery. After his battle with a Watcher—of which there are reportedly more—and before his departure, Warden Inla of the Spiral shared what he'd learned from the being known as Elder. Now, many Archivists feverishly plan and coordinate expeditions into the Void in the hope to uncover the secrets of the Sinti before it's too late.

Whether it's the will of the Sleeper that perverts their form, or purely happenstance based on the individual particularities of those that give themselves to the Malignancy, the Watchers a.k.a. Sleepless are to be feared above all.

"A slight from an in-law, an indulgence in pride, a jealousy, and countless other everyday vulnerabilities all provide a way for the Malignancy to find you, Amonians. Make no mistake, the weak will fall. The only solution is fire and blade. The strong will remain, but none are safe. 

I expect you to be true to yourselves, and honest with your brothers. Skill and discipline for the Narak are one matter—and I will punish you for slacking—but how you maintain your mind and conduct your business outside of that time is of the utmost priority." 

—Drillmaster Hawk

All that was clear was that it wasn't like the others. Despite its broken form, it resonated with power that shook the very foundations of my convictions.

"Long ago our cousins of the Fyrnweald would permit entry past their borders and towns every 12 cycles for any brave or foolish enough soul to seek the dance. Through the wicked undergrowth to the deep wood, the sentiment of the land bubbles forth. Beautiful and deadly, I'm told. A waltz, as the Gerns put it. A waltz of life and death.

To what end? Power, of course. Is there any other pursuit for men in this life? It was said that if you're deemed worthy to witness, then you're worthy to wield.

That all stopped when they found their witch—or the witch found them."

-Old Fiorgan mariner

In the Haligernian sea, off the coast of western Erdgard is an island that was once a functioning beacon for ships returning to port. The isolated, unforgiving task of maintaining the brazier to prevent ships from dashing their hulls on rocks and shallow waters was managed by a small colony of hardy Haligernian men and their families for the better part of a century.

Now, it lays abandoned.

After an unbroken chain of a dutiful 100 years, one fateful night the beacon went unlit. The morning after, investigating crews found the island completely abandoned. The bloodstains, strange coral-like objects, and obvious signs of battle were waived in favour of the Haligernian tradition of industry, and a new colony was installed by the end of the day.

But once more, the coming night did not see the beacon lit, and the morning told the same tale as before. 2 dozen men and women gone without word nor trace. Frustrated, and fretting for lost productivity by delayed shipments, the dock masters and merchants sent a small contingent of armed military reserves with another new colony.

For a third and final night the beacon wasn't lit, but in the morning a lone survivor remained. The unnamed soldier, a man more of wit than honour, was found hiding in a salt barrel in a trapdoor storage space under the floorboards. He hadn't offered his position, still gripped by terror.

As he clutched his sword in trembling hands, he recounted the events of the night from quivering lips. He spoke of men that were not men rising from the sea, draped in seaweed and wearing armor made from coral. Their movements stiff like old oars, but their power and ruthlessness complete. Steel would not penetrate what they wore, but the mysterious attackers wielded armaments that pierced chain-link like it was leather.

When pressed for further detail, the cowardly soldier protested, begged, and prayed for peace. It wasn't until he was back on familiar shores that he divulged the most unsettling details of the attackers. In hushed whispers he spoke of a clicking language like no tongue he'd ever heard, uniquely decorated masks that hid their true form, and with tears pooling in the whites of his eyes, he spoke of them carrying off the dead like they were sacks of grain until all disappeared beneath the waves.

Since those three days, the island has remained uninhabited, and the strange men from the sea have not been seen again. A replacement lighthouse was build high above on the cliffs of the southern coastline.