The sky fractured and the stars of the vault bloomed in velvet black. Magick had been unleashed once again. As the thread of fate unraveled, a pillar of existence was destroyed. A part of creation, of the tapestry that all known laws of the waking world are built upon. The golden lights that were embedded in the sky melted away as it was torn open, a mutilating wound to reality as the mortal races know it. Immense structures fell from the sky, raining down greenish stone blocks of impossible size. Hideous crowned citadels of a golden-hued city wavered in and out of existence, as gurgling blackened rivers drained from unknown, alien origins and onto the earth below. Where the waters spilled, life was forever transformed. It became disfigured and cruel. Beasts were no longer just that, they were blood-hungry monsters of blasphemous horror. Men who were caught in the tide of magick became husks of their former selves, hunting and slavering creatures that darted across the open plains and hills of Loclan, slaughtering anyone or anything they came across. The horrors unleashed were not limited to just its epicenter. Terrible events unfolded across the land as reality waned and the veil between the worlds faltered.
Unklaw the Scale felt the thread fade from existence upon his throne in Norcia. His rage was so immense that he burned the world. A swath of destruction cascaded from his torturer city of Norcia to the edge of Loclan’s territory, becoming the Obsidian Scar. All who were caught in the flames have become ash walkers, blackened, lost souls who wail and cry in agony for all eternity. Serpents are drawn to the place of the dragon’s fire. Wyverns now make their home here, along with the serpent-men of Ixindar and the brutal tribes of Drakon.
The Notari, an assassin’s guild ruling over the city of Myrefall, has closed its gates and rumors of faceless, horrific guardians protecting the inner city have become widespread. The Rot that once consumed the farmlands of Myrefall has spread, and those unfortunates who are forced to live outside the muted walls of stone of the inner sanctum are now caught in the slimy harbors and dense rotting structures of the water-bogged slums that surround the city. Citizens wander aimlessly in the streets, unable to sleep as visions and haunting nightmares prevent them from doing so. Even more have whispered of “Her Majesty, the Agony”.
The Five Ladies of Ruin have masqueraded long enough, no longer bound by the laws put in place by the Keeper and her tapestry of fate. Their supplicants and followers make war with the people of the Red Sands, the Sorcerer Kings of Ahnki and beyond call to their demonic allies for help, and are answered. Legions of devils and demons swarm through the deserts and midlands of Evslore. Hosts lorded over by the great masters of the shallow halls march over the fallen and slay any who stand in their way.
The Guild Eldritch goes silent and magical seals of great power prevent all outsiders from approaching the monolithic tower of Zundureem. Some claim that the sorcerers and sages that call the tower home have finally gone mad, or perhaps they have dabbled too far into the inner workings of the black book and discovered a terrible truth.
The Age of Death arrives.
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