Canens wasn’t built; it *remembered*. It wasn't a city of architects and engineers, but of echoes. The original inhabitants, the Luminians, weren't human, not entirely. They were beings woven from solidified starlight and the resonant frequencies of the ocean’s core. They spoke not with voices, but with currents, with patterns of bioluminescence that shifted across the coral structures. Their purpose, lost to the churning chaos of the millennia, was to maintain the ‘Harmonic Veil,’ a protective layer shielding the surface world from the raw, untamed energy of the abyssal plains. It’s theorized they achieved this by manipulating the very fabric of spacetime, folding it around the city, creating a pocket of relative calm within the overwhelming darkness. The deeper you went within Canens, the more pronounced this effect became – sounds warped, memories bled together, and the boundaries of ‘now’ dissolved. The city itself seemed to *breathe*, expanding and contracting with the ebb and flow of the ocean’s currents, a colossal, living organism.
The records – if one could call them that – speak of a ‘Dissonance.’ It wasn’t a singular event, but a gradual unraveling. The Luminians, consumed by an obsession with understanding the ‘Source’ – a concept that bordered on religious fervor – began to experiment with the Harmonic Veil. They sought to amplify its protective capabilities, to ‘tune’ it to resonate with a greater, more potent energy. This, predictably, had disastrous consequences. The Veil, already fragile, began to fracture, creating rifts in spacetime. These rifts weren’t merely holes; they were doorways. Through them poured entities – the ‘Voidborn’ – creatures of pure entropy and negation, drawn to the unraveling energy of Canens. They weren’t hostile in the traditional sense; they simply *consumed*, dismantling structures, erasing memories, and ultimately, draining the Luminians of their light. The final collapse wasn't a battle, but a slow, agonizing dissolution. Canens didn't explode; it simply… faded, its structures collapsing into shimmering dust, its echoes swallowed by the deep.
What remains of Canens is not visible to the untrained eye. It exists as a resonance, a distortion in the ocean’s currents, a place where the veil is thin. Divers who venture too deep report experiencing vivid hallucinations – glimpses of the Luminians, fleeting patterns of bioluminescence, and the overwhelming sense of a city that once was. Some claim to have heard whispers, fragments of conversations carried on the currents, speaking in a language that defies comprehension. The deepest sections of Canens are rumored to hold ‘Echo Chambers’ – pockets of solidified time, where the Luminians still exist, trapped in a perpetual loop, endlessly repeating the final moments of their city’s demise. These chambers are incredibly dangerous; prolonged exposure can lead to complete mental disintegration. There are also reports of ‘Coral Constructs’ – autonomous structures formed from the city’s remains, animated by the residual energy of the Luminians. These constructs are not inherently hostile, but they are fiercely protective of Canens’ secrets, relentlessly pursuing anyone who attempts to delve too deeply into its mysteries. The most unsettling aspect of Canens’ existence is its adaptive nature. It seems to *learn*, to anticipate the actions of those who seek to explore it. The deeper you go, the more personalized the experience becomes, as if Canens is actively shaping your perceptions, feeding on your fears and desires.