The ruined city of Oldport, destroyed nearly 200 years ago during a violent raid from the sea. During the day, a desolated skeleton of what once a thriving port city. During the night, magical splendor causes the city to regain its former glory and the dead rise to continue their lives.
The ruin that birthed a society; the Life and Times of a city in the throes of death.
11 great statues of lost gods being chipped away by the condemned.
The accepted mode of getting otherwise unobtainable information is to go visit the cranky old hermit living in the mountains. It's just the sensible thing to do. So, naturally, everyone takes their monthly excursion to the hermit's hovel to consult him on everything, from lock-jaw to lovesickness, necromancers to nasal viruses.
Now, if everyone's always visiting the poor old hermit, there's going to be an enormous queue... "Wellcome to the Hermitt's Hovele, Please Take Ye a Number and Have Ye a Seate" reads the sign outside the packed dwelling.
Imagine the poor hermit, having retreated into the mountains to escape this precise situation...