The Silver Scarabs
They used to walk among the dunes with armour that gleamed like stardust, the Silver Scarabs—one of three desert tribes that carved Silvermound from drought and desperation. Legends say they were born of falling stars, who witnessed water bloom from moonlit impacts and found purpose in that miracle. Now, in the ashes of Swarmstill—their once-proud quarter reduced to soot—they linger as shadows of former glory.
Beyond the crumbling sandstone façade lies the Silver Scarab Barracks—a quiet echo chamber of the old guard. You can still feel the discipline in its cracked stone corridors, the ghostly drumming of boots never marching, a place where veterans gather and memory holds more power than steel.
Across the way, in winding alleys, stand the Silver Scarab Housing—dilapidated homes that bear silent witness to heritages clutched by descendants who refuse to let their history be dust .
In this ashen quarter, identity refuses to die. Here, families tend home fires built atop fractured legacies, hoping their children will rise beyond disappointed whispers. The Scarabs may no longer ride beneath desert stars, but their stories still burn—in every charred wall and determined heartbeat.
