Argentora

In the days when life pulsed through its veins, Argentora was a marvel of the south. Nestled within the embrace of New Tabor's fertile heart, the town blossomed like a garden in spring's warm touch. Its buildings, crafted from the golden stone that ran rich through the island, shone with a radiance that seemed to mirror the sun itself. Roofs of terracotta tile glowed a deep crimson, a stark contrast to the brilliant azure of the sky above. The streets, wide and paved with smooth cobblestones, thrummed with the laughter of children and the hearty calls of merchants hawking their wares.

​​The town square stood as Argentora's beating heart, a grand expanse of emerald grass where festivals and celebrations would draw the entire community. At its center, a magnificent fountain sang a ceaseless melody, its waters leaping and dancing in the sunlight. The air would be heavy with the scents of roasting meats and freshly baked bread, mingling with the sweet perfume of blooming flowers that adorned every window and balcony.

Yet, Argentora’s true pride lay in its bountiful harvests. The lands surrounding the town, nourished by the island's potent Sa-Tarna, yielded crops of unparalleled abundance. The fields would shimmer with golden grains, and the orchards would hang heavy with fruits that shone like jewels in the ripe sunlight. It was a place where life was cherished, where every day held the promise of joy and the nights were filled with the warm glow of camaraderie.

But, as with all things, time brought change to Argentora. The laughter grew less, the markets less vibrant. One by one, the homes fell silent, their windows like the empty eyes of a skull. The magnificent fountain, once the town's joyful heart, fell still and quiet. And when the last of the people departed, they left behind naught but the echoes of memories, and a town that stood as a haunting monument to the transience of life and prosperity.