It wasn't right. None of it. In sandstone crypts, good people wasted away in sickness, filth, and disease. Men died by the light of a devil, a thumping, rattling void cast into the heart of Asroka. Cyran Dawngazer, Oracle of the moonlit dunes, strode peacefully atop shivering grains of sand. The eroding ground beneath his feet trembled with each step into the Eastern Wastes, a pulsing rhythm that grew more rapid by the day. His legs had grown weary, his beard unkempt, and his skin burned from the heavy sun beating steadily above his head. A World Eater. The tower pulsed with a ghastly, sunlit glow, sending out a vibration so powerful it shook the core of the world, penetrating deep beneath the sand.