Each of you heard some version of this story in your childhood, from parents, grandparents, teachers, storytellers and bards:
In the beginning, the first age, the Age of Dragons, there were the three progenitor wyrms. Shining Siberys was the source of all magic; Verdant Eberron was the fountain of life, and Shadowy Khyber was the master of secret knowledge, and of the powers that lurk in the darkness.
Together they made the planes of existence, each one to embody a concept; and the final plane, the Material Plane, was to be a place where all ideas become manifest: war and peace, life and death, order and chaos. And so together they made the Sun, and the Moons, and Golden Siberys made the Stars; but Greedy Khyber, who wanted dominion over all things, began to eat the stars as quickly as Siberys could make them.
And so they argued, and Khyber struck Siberys without warning, and tore him asunder, and scattered the broken bits of his body among the stars he loved so much. And you can still see him, up in the sky, in the white gold band that rings our world.
Then Khyber turned on Eberron. But Khyber was spent from their battle with Siberys, and Eberron was fresh. But rather than slay the Betrayer, Gentle Eberron embraced them, and folded them in her coils, and held them until they were quiescent.
And then Eberron called on the powers of life, and gave birth to soil, tree, and ocean, to me and to thee, and so she bound Cruel Khyber for the protection of all creation, in her loving embrace, until the end of time.
Is this truth, or metaphor? Nobody really knows. But is true that the Ring of Siberys is a source of great magic. And it is true that the world of Eberron sustains us.
And it is also true that, beneath the surface of this world, in the underworld that we name Khyber, great evils are spawned. Devils and demons and tiger-faced fiends come to the surface, to terrorize, and seduce, and corrupt. And it is true that the depths are a place of malevolence, where even the stone you walk on and the air you breathe will seek to hinder you, and to aid the fiends that hunt you. There is a reason that when we dig into the earth, we are careful not to dig too deep.
But sometimes we have no choice.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
You are all from the same village, in the foothills of the Greywall Mountains, close enough to the monstrous nation of Droaam that you must be prepared to fight off raiders and monsters from time to time.
But the Last War was not kind to your village. Though there has been peace for two years, most of the fighting men and women of your village never returned. So when danger calls, the villagers turn to you to address it. Though some of you, whether young or old, are scarcely trained, and the old warriors among you have had your skills atrophy through age and long years of farming, you are the best your village has to offer.
This afternoon you learned that little Tommy Carter, who never ignored an offer of mischief whenever it presented itself, was playing with some friends up by the ruined Abby – where they knew they were not supposed to be – and the earth opened up under Tommy, and he fell into the depths.
And the village expects you to go find him.