Bant’s armies are primarily composed of members of the Mortar caste, loyal commoners who haven’t yet earned a sigil.

Clash of sword and cry of beast fall mute when angels sound the call to prayer.

“I find its symmetry pleasing. It rids our world of offensive refuse while disposing of itself.”
—Dolomarus, Proctor of the Clean

Rebels and other malcontents forced into the ritual awake lost in Topa’s vast savannahs. Those who find their way back return humble and repentant.

“Only by the bravery of those who put loyalty above glory is our home kept safe.”
—Elspeth

“The elves claim the canopy. The nacatl claim the mountains. I suppose you think we ought to stay on the jungle floor?”

The Order of the Skyward Eye does the bidding of an evil force, unwittingly stirring fear and mistrust across Bant in accordance with his plans.

The cup was a gift from the sphinx Tameron, who hoped that those who drank from it would live long enough to decrypt the sphinxes’ wisdom.

A circle of light and a word of confinement.

As their supplies of etherium dwindled, mechanists sent gargoyles farther and farther afield in search of salvage.

An avatar he sculpts of fellowship and light.

“Those talons really dig into your skin, but it’s better than being dropped.”
—Rafiq of the Many

“It is sacrilege to confine a gargantuan to the grinding of straight lines. I will pray that it remembers who is the master of this land.”
—Syeena, elvish godtoucher

On Bant, a sigil is both a prize of honor and a bond of duty. The one who bears it may be called to fulfill that charge at any moment.

“What you are attempting is not against the law. It is, however, extremely foolish.”

“Forget. Only then will there be space for hope between the pain and fear.”

A permanent storm rages over the plain of Cloudheath, and drakes ride its currents—two reminders that some elements of Esper will not be controlled.

Etherium does not know sleep. Only magic can teach it the resting state of cold steel.