Black water runs in the veins of all life here on the Isle. The trees drink it up from the deepest wells of the earth, and in turn, all life graze on their sap. But the special ones, the kith, they are revered. Black-barked trees as hard as steel, their sap gives more than life; they give magic.

Every pony on the Isle made from something that should be dead. To the north, the Waterforms have their kingdom on a lake. Rich groves of kith are guarded by their Cultivators. The same to the south, where a vast desert land is ruled by Sandmolds, whose lords are ever anxious about their lands becoming too dry for their kith.

Times of strife sit on the horizon now. Smaller clans have already rebelled against the major kingdoms as their own kith groves run dry. Black water rivers become the site of vicious skirmishes as kingdoms struggle to maintain the order of the Isles.

It is the toughest change for the young. Generations have lived never knowing war. At least that is how it is in the kingdoms. Now the desperate are knocking on the gates demanding life. Will future generations be able to give a little of their future for this request? Or will death be the only thing left outside the kingdoms on the Island of Magic?