Genesis
In the beginning there was the nothingness of the Void. Yet the Void itself was something, the absence of everything. From this paradox something came to be where nothing was, and thus was Creation born, the Primordial force which makes out of nothing. But the Void’s essence was absence itself and thus, while Creation came to be first, Destruction was ever the older of the two, the Void’s very soul and will to be naught. This was the dawn of existence, and the two primordial powers, Creation and Destruction, vied for dominance.
Fragile as the paradox that birthed it, Creation struggled to endure against Destruction and the will of the Void. This uneven contest between the two siblings unfolded countless times across countless eons, endless universes being born by Creation only to be consumed by Destruction.
Then, in the midst of a particularly savage bout between the two primordial siblings, something new happened. Reaching into its sibling, Creation sparked forth a small Cosmos within Destruction itself, landing a telling blow against its elder. Maddened and humiliated, it unleashed its counterblow with tremendous power, but no thought or plan, shattering Creation into untold pieces, and scattering its glowing Essence across existence. Confounded by the consequences of its ill-considered blow, Destruction realized he had to regather Creation’s essence from the far reaches of existence to once more subsume him. Wounded, bewildered and weary, the elder Primordial chose instead to rest and heal before this monumental task. And so, Destruction curled upon its wound and slept, its essence slowly trickling from its gash and into Existence.
So, it came to be that for the first time ever since the dawn of existence itself, Creation and Destruction were silent. In the absence of their presence and power a new Primordial was born: Balance.
Weaker by far than its two mighty siblings, Balance knew, from the very first moment of its awareness, that should either Creation or Destruction awake, its own existence would come to an end. Thus, Balance set the stars spinning in the night sky, ensuring that they, the mightiest shards of Creation, would remain in constant movement, never to meet and coalesce once more.
The fledgling Primordial then turned to Destruction, which lay in fitful slumber still, curled around its wound as it slowly spun in space. Gently, quietly, so as not to wake It, Balance started enveloping its sibling, insulating it from existence so that nothing might disturb its slumber. Cocooning Destruction in its own Essence, Balance wove the dust that hung in the Void following the primordial conflict of its siblings, slowly but surely binding Destruction within a prison forged of stone, dust and the very essence of Balance. Soon, it had enveloped Destruction in a gigantic sphere of stone and dust, inside which the eldest of the Primordials raged.
And thus was the World born.
The Four Horsemen and the War of Hosts
Alas, the Coming of Balance and the silencing of its older, Primordial siblings did not herald the peace that the cosmos yearned. Even in wounded slumber, the might of Destruction could not be contained, while pieces of Creation exploded with intellect. As the Souls Incarnate of the ancient Primordials treaded violently upon the delicate creations of Balance’s age, Four Horsemen rode to meet in the field of battle, as in the end, so in the beginning.
First came Famine, First of the Horsemen, Incarnate Soul of Destruction, its Will to return all to the Void. Such was its insatiable appetite that not even Destruction would prove safe from its predations. Raging at this betrayal in its slumber, Destruction raised temperatures to fight the parasite its own desires had spawned. Before the will of its dreamer, Famine was forced to flee only to find a new feast: Balance, whose body formed the prison bounding Destruction. Desperate were Balance’s attempts to contain the Black Horseman, weaving ever denser materials around it, encasing its prison’s core in metal. It was then, it is said, that Silubaster was created, a metal so strong and imbued by Balance, that not even the primordial forces can breach. If true, this miraculous material proved too little, its creation too late. Famine tendrilled maws churned through the surface of Balance and reached the cosmos beyond, forging holes of emptiness against the fabric of reality. And as entire Stars were lost, their nature was revealed: Shards of Creation, sent flying in the emptiness of the Cosmos.
Spurred by the agony of its peers, one amongst them, the greatest of their number, awoke. Vulnerable on its own as much as its peers, this Shard forsook its place in the heavens. Sweeping through the cosmos, it rallied its slumbering brethren, uniting them against Famine, urging them to regain control of the empty cosmos and reclaim by force their place in existence. Soon, a Celestial Host, the greatest fighting force the universe had ever seen, was marshaled. And at its head rode Conquest, Second of the Horsemen, Incarnate Soul of Creation.
Unlike Balance, the Host could answer Famine on multiple fronts and, unlike Famine, which was driven by desire and instinct, Conquest had purpose and design. One by one, the tendrilled maws of Famine were cut off, before others answered somewhere else, only to be severed too, again and again. For the first time in the cosmos, something was stirring, something new, something that, even as Creation’s shards were reveling in it, resonated with Destruction. And as echoes of endless conflict raging through existence reached the slumbering Primordial, its matching dreams… stirred. And into the fray rode crimson, bloody-handed, Third of the Horsemen, Second Soul Incarnate of Destruction: War.
War rode to answer Conquest’s challenge in kind, drawing on the blood of Destruction that now coursed under and over the surface of Balance/ From it, it awoke an army of Destruction, to match heralded by Conquest. And instantly, the cosmos exploded in conflict, Conquest’s visionary genius ever countered by War’s ruthless efficiency, a mirror of the endless wars before Balance. But as the Hosts occupied each other, Famine was left unchecked; and from the pain it caused, Balance gave in to despair and wept. Its tears tracked their way through the scars opened on her surface, cooling the violent blood mixing it with the spilt Essence of Creation, bringing forth perhaps the greatest miracle in all of existence.
Life.
Smitten by its fragile beauty, Balance threw caution to the wind in order to preserve Life. It led the tendrilled maws of Famine to the heavens, offering stars to hide motes, feeding it mountains to preserve crevices. And Life bloomed under the gentle care of the slowly dying Primordial. Before long, it outpaced the devouring maws of Famine and, without ever realizing it, the First Horseman found itself assailed on a million fronts, its essence matched and contained by the miraculous power of Life. Soon, Life was growing everywhere, swimming where it couldn’t grow, crawling where it couldn’t swim, and flying where it couldn’t crawl, blocking all possible avenues of escape from within Balance’s prison and healing Balance.
For the first time, Balance could take the offensive and slowly but surely, Destruction was being smothered, slipping ever deeper into its slumber. But its sleep was haunted by the incessant echoes of whispers and calls, of myriad feet and endless roots ever thundering their cacophony down the Primordial’s prison, challenging its desire to return to the silence and stillness of the Void. And from that dream of Silence and Stillness, crawled out a quiet, inevitable curse against the Primordial’s tormentors. Death, Fourth of the Horsemen, Last Incarnate Soul of Destruction, rode pale unto the cosmos.
It is said that, as the first living creature died, Balance, which had borne the incessant gnawing of Famine at its very core with no more than silent tears, let out a wail of sorrow and despair that pierced the heavens. Death stifled Life relentlessly, a single touch enough for bright, vibrant continents to turn dim and silent across the surface of Balance. Only the hardiest of beings survived the reign of Death while, freed from the constraints of Life, mindless Famine renewed its assault. Soon the tide had turned once more.
But from across the void, Balance’s desperate cry was heard. And the Dragons answered.
Born out of the endless possibilities of the battles between Creation and Destruction, the first Dragons were beings of primordial might, a product of chance when opposite primordial powers fused, rather than cancel each other out. Existing, thus, in Balance but not born of it, they were aware of the conflict between the Hosts but remained uninterested until they, themselves, witnessed Life. Driven by curiosity about its endless possibilities, they entered an alliance with Conquest, joining the side of the Celestial Host. With their help, Famine, War and Death were sealed, while the legions of their Host cast into the Elemental Cores to be ground and recycled into Balance. True to the agreement with the dragons, Conquest and most of its Host were broken and scattered to the edges of the cosmos. Life, overseen by Dragons, was preserved.
The time of the Horsemen was over.
The Dragons and the Age of Elders
And so it was that with the coming of the Dragons and the Sealing of the Horsemen, life came to take the center stage in the cosmos. Intrigued by its mysteries, many Dragons were lured into mortality, while the Eldest safeguarded reality from the predations of the Primordials. Countless civilizations, afflicted by the imbalances of various remnants of the Hosts, were utterly destroyed by the caretakers of the world. Two great people would escape such a fate. The first would be the Exiles, a non-native, near-immortal and Creation-influenced people, who, despite their divided castes and endless machinations, would entice the Dragons with their Life-Binding magic and their science of Biomancy. The other would be the Dweghom, an unintended offshoot of the Makers, made by the Dragons themselves, and imbued by the might of War and his Prison – an act that would unleash the shattered might of a Horseman upon the world once more and shatter the face of Eӓ, driving the Dragons effectively into extinction.
With the whole world at their fingertips and the mysteries of life unveiling delicately before their eyes, it was not long before the Dragons tried to look closer, tried to understand more and experience more. Forging elemental frames to host some of their might, it took millennia and more shedding of power before properly living bodies could become a reality. Even then, true, draconic progeny that transcended the spawn of animalistic drakes, required a parental sacrifice, with dragonic essence being imbued into the unhatched egg. Thus, with each new generation, dragonic lineages were diminished and the imbalance of power between older dragons and younger ones was ever increasing. But even diminished as their youngest were, they roamed the world unhindered for eons. Enamored with the running waters on the face of the world, they named it Eӓ in their nascent language – and for all intents and purposes, the Dragons were its keepers.
Countless intelligent species and proto-cultures rose and fell under the watchful eye of the Dragons, as fugitive shards of the Hosts attempted to shape them in their image, corrupting their budding civilizations to their very core. To this day, cyclopean ruins, dark caverns and mysterious relics from these lost peoples endure, their corrupted auras lingering. But despite their lasting remains, none of them would challenge the reign of Dragons. That would happen by their own hand and the life that they themselves would come to create. But before that, the instrument of their fall would be delivered by the hands of another species: the Exiles.
It is often thought that the Exiles came from a world whose star of Creation influenced life’s path. If that is so, then perhaps the Dragons should have done what they always had when they encountered imbalanced life-forms: eliminate them. But the first Exiles to arrive were but scholars and explorers, their presence limited and scattered around the world, there only to lay the groundwork for future expansion. Then, suddenly, things changed. Within a single century, where dozens of scientists and explorers dwelled, hundreds of thousands of Exiles had arrived – soldiers, workers, spiritual leaders, and noble lineages included. Then, the Sovereign, their leader, collapsed the Ways behind him after he crossed, so that none would follow, dooming the rest of his kind to whatever Calamity had befallen their homeland. In this single act, the fates of millions left behind – as well as the future of Eӓ – would be decided. But until then, to ensure survival in a hostile environment, the Exiles would turn to their natural gift, Life-Binding, and a return to traditional tools and social structures, which saw the Sovereign and his Lineages reign supreme, while the labor castes ensured survival. Soon, where small settlements once lay, rose gigantic Spires capable of hosting cities.
When the Dragons inevitably confronted the Exiles, they did so with the arrogance of their might, allowing their youngest to address the issue. But the predestined weakness of these youths compared to their elders laid eyes upon the tools and Life-Binding of the Exiles and coveted them. Rather than intimidating the Exiles into submission, they instead demanded like children. Unimpressed, the Exiles dismissed them, thinking of them as little more than animals. Fueled by this insult and the certainty of their superiority against all but older dragons, the Envoys attacked. And while the enormous Spires proved too hard a target, caravans, seed sites and research centers were ripe for the taking. Soon, losses would be met by both sides. And before long, both sides would field more. The Dragon War was upon the world, as Exiles and the youngest Dragons clashed for dominion over Eӓ. But while the eldest dragons allowed their youths to settle the matter alone, the Sovereign had to intervene.
Unwilling to share this, second, world, and believing his enemies to be naught but the powerful individually but defeatable young Dragons, he mustered his forces, driving the entire warmachine of his people against them. Entire populations of the lower castes were drilled, outfitted and sent to drive the Dragons off their Rooks… only to vanish, leaving behind the mangled bodies of the Sovereign’s enforcers and sycophants as proof of their mutiny. The lower castes had exacted their revenge against the Sovereign for collapsing the Ways and abandoning their peers.
The effects were felt immediately. For the first time, the Spires were vulnerable to the dragons’ attacks, as their defenders and caretakers were gone. Panicked and facing a second defeat, the Sovereign turned to the scientists and, ignoring the warnings of the religious caste and their leader, the Voice, he allowed them to follow their perverse methods of Life-Binding and embraced the twisted science of Biomancy. Soon, vats of life-spawning ooze would birth countless, obedient clones to man the stations and die for the Sovereign. This would be the final straw for the Voice.
The remaining population of the Spires would rebel against this new blasphemy, only for their revolt to be ruthlessly put down by the Sovereign’s clone army – until the Elder Dragons arrived. Enlisting the artisan caste, the Voice had reached an agreement with the Elders, promising the plunder and craftmanship of an entire world in return for lands to be settled by the people. Witnessing the awesome majesty of three elders, the Sovereign had no choice but agree to the Dragons’ terms. He allowed for any who wished to follow the religious and artisan castes to do so unhindered and submitted all the wealth and resources of the Spires to the eldest dragons. But the younger ones, against whom the Sovereign had stroke, had to be satisfied again. For peace to be brokered another price was offered: Biomancy.
Thus it was that the younger generations of Dragons would find in sorcery and Biomancy the tools to increase their power. But try as they might, they could never hope to match the power of their elders – until finesse was required more than might. Even as the Voice had outlined the blasphemy that was Biomancy, she had failed to understand how the Dragons, ever fascinated with the workings of Life, would find it. As the most gifted of young dragons joined forces with the most curious and power of elders, a new life-form was created, made to be the perfect servants to dragons. Dwarves before their masters’ might but deft in crafting, with perfect memories and instilled submission towards the elder dragons, the Makers would soon fill Dragon Rooks, forge them into places of awe-inspiring size and unparalleled beauty, side by side with the dragon automata and forges their masters provided.
But submission does not mean loyalty. Before long, toiling under the Dragons meant little more than slavery for the Makers. Rebellions were frequent but ever quenched by the mere appearance of an Elder. The staunchest of the rebels were sentenced to the deepest mines. And there their salvation lied. With each hit of the pickaxe fueled by their hatred and will to fight their masters, those rebels would eventually stumble into a place beyond this world, long-forgotten by all but its forgers:
War’s prison.
Sealed by the combined efforts of the Dragons at the end of the War of Hosts, War awaited ever trapped in a prison of Fire and Earth – and there the Makers saw their salvation, subsuming the Horseman and the powers of its prison alike. As their Working was undone, across the world of Eä, Elder Dragons collapsed, their physical bodies unable to withstand the magical feedback. And as the world crumbled and broke around the shattered might of the Elders, a new people, the Dweghom, immerged, fueled by centuries of rage and powerlessness and ready to launch a genocidal campaign against their former masters, targeting defenseless Elders, younger Dragon… and their kin, the loyal Makers, alike.
It is hard to calculate how long the Shattering lasted. But when it was over, the Dweghom stood upon the ashes of a world without dragons. Pondering upon their next steps, they turned to each other and disagreed. Their bloods quickened by the Memories of War, they turned against each other with the same ferocity as they had turned against their former masters and their servants. Echoes of the Memory Wars that started that day endure, with Dweghom societies riddled by division and warmongering. But at the time, as the dust settled, a power vacuum emerged, with the Elder Dragons gone and the Dweghom and Spires reeling from their losses. This stalemate created an opportunity for a new power to rise and challenge the primacy of the Elder races.
Hazlia and Humanity.
The Age of Worship
Trapped under the feuds of the Elder races, a nascent species of primates will discover an untapped power of the cosmos: belief. Through it, humanity will elevate a minor Primordial shard of Creation to the heights of Divinity. And in turn, Hazlia, Pantokrator, Father of Mankind, will forge a Dominion to rival the elders for his believers. Shielded by a byzantine pantheon with Hazlia at its top, the theocracy of the Dominion will lead humanity in a meteoric rise, with magic, science and arts reaching unprecedented levels – before corruption, madness and hybris, on the Elysium of the Heavens as well as on its mortal counterpart, will inevitably lead the world to a second cataclysm.
There are many theories about the origin of humanity and the manner of their evolution and survival. Trapped under the feuds of the Elder races and wondering in their ignorance, it is a wonder they survived the clashes of titans around them, as they did. And they did more than survive; in the aftermath of the Shuttering, and as the Elder races still struggled to find their footing in the ashes of the cataclysmic wars they had endured, humanity came to rise like a second sun. It is, some say, the essence of human spirit, the grit and persistence of humanity, that allowed them not only to endure, but to prevail and dominate. Others, however, know better. For by accident or fate, this nascent species of primates discovered an untapped power of the cosmos, one avenue to might which remained hidden from the Dweghom and the Exiles, and which humanity would come to wield masterfully, creating its own champion, protector and guide powerful enough to forge an empire for his beloved people:
Belief.
While the details remain elusive, it is known that, in the aftermath of the Shuttering and the Memory Wars, many early human tribes sought shelter in the emptied Dragon Rooks and Dweghom Holds. There, the tools and materials, and even the writings, would provide safety and shelter at worst, propel their advancement at best. Among the rest of the treasure troves of knowledge and advanced toolmaking, one such tribe, since known only as the First Tribe, discovered something that gave them pause: a Dragon Forge. Imbued with primordial shards of creation, these forges had produced some of the most advanced creations known to the cosmos – but to those early humans, it spoke of simpler things: heat, light and safety in a world of darkness and turmoil. It was not long before the small shard within the forge would become the object of the First Tribe’s adoration. And through that belief, the shard would come to expand, in size and understanding, until it came to be elevated from a minor Primordial shard of Creation to the heights of Divinity. And in turn, the fledgling god, Hazlia, would forge a Dominion for his believers, an empire to rival the influence of the Elders.
As Hazlia’s power and reach grew, he gathered allies, Ninuah, the Mother and Cleon, the Protector, being the far greatest among them. As a triumvirate, they would preside over an ever growing pantheon until, before long, the triumvirate was overshadowed by Hazlia, Pantokrator, Father of Mankind; and his Dominion was happy to fuel his ever-increasing power. Shielded by this byzantine pantheon with Hazlia at its top, the theocracy of the Dominion would lead humanity in a meteoric rise, with magic, science and arts reaching unprecedented levels. Even the Dweghom and Exiles would hesitate before directly confronting the Dominion at the height of its power. But while the bylaws of belief are many, its mechanics intricate and largely unknown to this day, its three basic tenets were ever simple: Belief is Power. Power attracts Power. And Power corrupts. Hazlia’s rise had proven the first one true. The others were to follow soon after.
While on the mainland of Alektria Hazlia’s Dominion would come to dominate, especially in the east, on the northern island of Mannheim another miracle was taking place. Shielded by the brunt of the wars that plagued their kin, a single Spire had managed to retain unity and forge an alliance against the dragons, rather than betray each other time and time again. There, known to the local human population as the Aesir and Vanir, the Lineages and the scientists caste had allied with the artisans and the religious caste, creating a Spire whose beauty surpassed this world and where Biomancy and Life-Binding walked hand in hand. Much like Hazlia and his pantheon, these Exiles would become the object of faithful adoration by the human population, elevating them into divinity. Hazlia would not abide by such a challenge. And in the year now known as 313 A.R., the divine Caelesor, mortal leader of the Dominion asked for guidance and Hazlia answered:
Build ships. You have run out of men to conquer.
These words would signal a three-century period of violence, madness and escalating decay, culminating in a single, cataclysmic event, that would nearly wipe out all life.
The Fall
Three centuries of chaos followed the Northern Crusades. As Hazlia withdrew from the Dominion, the absolute hierarchy of its theocracy descended into the typical machinations of any convoluted and bureaucratic body of government. Desperate to hold to the authority of their station, the Celesors, rulers of the theocracy, turned against enemies imagined and real alike. Amidst the chaos, the Dweghom launched the Exile Campaign, driving away remnants of Weavers and toppling Spires, but not before they spewed a new warrior species. Fugitives left the Dominion in wave, guarded by the last, defiant Legion… as the Heavens behind them fell, plunging the dominion into fire and ash and the world in a winter unlike any other.
Hazlia’s Crusade against the gods of the Nords was nothing short of ruthless, bordering on the psychotic. Few, if any at the time, understood what drove Hazlia to such extremes. Whatever it was, the Gods of Yggdrasil knew, for their powers of divination were unmatched. They had awaited and they had prepared. But then, they were betrayed. Struck by Loki, Heimdall’s clarion call to awaken the subjects of the Einherjar project and quicken the carefully selected and elevated mortal warriors never came – and Yggdrasil burnt.
While the Crusade was, technically, a success, the death toll had all but decimated the fabled Legions and the scope of the expedition had crippled the Dominion’s byzantine economic structure. Worst of all for a theocracy, its God had disappeared. Leaving prayers unanswered and rituals unattended, Hazlia allowed his Dominion to doubt itself and civil war, rebellions and chaos would follow. Such was the violence that already Ninuah urged her faithful Keltonni tribes to abandon the Dominion and flee west, forming the first of the three waves of exodus that would follow.
With the divine choke of the Dominion loosening around the continent, the Elder races awoke. While desperate Celesors declared one religious war after another, in their attempts to keep their fragile power in the absence of Hazlia, the Dweghom, ever first to be drawn to turmoil, launched their own Campaign. Falling upon Spires and Weavers alike, they largely ignored the Dominion – until, inevitably, the Dominion refused passage or misread their intentions. All-out war broke out around the continent, with the weakened Dominion soon realizing it was fighting to survive, not to win. Withdrawing, as waves of refugees increased in numbers, the Last Legion, who had disobeyed their orders to disband, focused their efforts to escorting refugees, creating as safe a passage west for them as they could, while the Dweghom focused on bringing down entire Spires. Answering the challenge, and with their hand forced, the Spires responded by unleashing their latest creation, a warrior species meant to serve and fight better than any clone or drone could: the W’adrhŭn.
It was in such a world, and after three hundred years of turmoil, that two men finally glimpsed into Hazlia’s purpose: the destruction of his own people. One of them, known as Platon, sought to preserve, spiriting away the amassed knowledge of the Dominion and laying the foundation of a perfect society, where belief and science would police politicians and each other. The other, known solely as the Anathematic, found a way to kill a god. And while he never committed the deicide himself, he left his research for his most trusted and powerful acolytes to find.
Before long, they struck. And Hazlia, in his end, pulled down the heavens with him, trying to end the world. Were it not for the sacrifices of Ninuah and the efforts of Cleon’s chosen last surviving Legion, humanity, and perhaps all Life, would have found their end in Hazlia’s Fall. As it were, the world endured; but so did, in a way, Hazlia.
Deep beneath the bowels of Capitas, main city of the Old Dominion, there was a massive lake of still, black waters and unfathomable depth. There, for centuries, the Dominion theocracy would bring its honored dead, at first crafting tombs along the shoreline, then expanding in crypts and catacombs beyond counting. It was there were Hazlia’s essence fell – and it was there that, eons ago, the Dragons had sealed Death. How the two interacted, no one knows. But mere hours after the Dominion died, all those sworn to Hazlia in life would serve as host to His shuttered power beyond death.
It is said that Hazlia’s undead relic itself attacked the walls raised by the Last Legion in the Claustrine Mountains, hunting its fleeing people. Three times Hazlia and his unliving hosts attacked and three times Cleon and his last legion repelled them, assisted by a single Dweghom clan. In the end, both Cleon and Hazlia fell, the Last Legion shattered and humanity, along with the rest of the world, survived. For a hundred years, the Long Winter would force all civilizations to withdraw, focusing on survival and their internal differences.
Today, it has been over six centuries since the Fall, five hundred years since the Long Winter ended.
And everyone is flexing their muscles once more.
The World Today
More than six centuries have passed since the Fall changed Eä. Humanity stands on its own feet once more, not under the single banner of a god and his Dominion, but as multiple and varied civilizations. Much that was common knowledge has passed unto myth, tales and even new religions – but such things change quickly and the legends of yesterday become the enemies of tomorrow.
Despite its rise, humanity still struggles to rebuild after the cataclysm and the Long Winter that followed. With the Hollow Throne of the come and gone Telian empty, the Hundred Kingdoms remain embroiled in internecine warfare, as the Nobility covets the remnants of the Empire, while the Church grinds its teeth at the weakened Orders. The City States of the south struggle to recover from the collapse of their paradigms at the hands of demagogues and tyrants. To the north, the Nords have finally left behind the horrors of the Fimbulwinter and the rule of the Jotnar, and have started expanding from their shattered realms turning their covetous eyes to the rich lands of the south, lusting for revenge for their murdered gods.
With mankind far from the glory and might of its Old Dominion, the enigmatic Spires exert their power for the first time in eons. Shedding millennia of custom and practice, the Merchant Princes seek the wealth of the lesser races to break the stranglehold of power the Directorate and the Sovereign Lineages exert. As the vicious games of these elders spill into the mortal realms, misery and warfare spread like a disease from their domains.
While the clamor of war spreads, the wisest amongst those living fear the rising of the Dweghom. Deep in their Holds, they hear the clamor of battle approaching and feel the pulse quicken in their veins. They are the eldest disciples of War. The last time the entirety of their Hosts marched to battle, the eternal reign of Dragons came to an end in a conflict so violent, the land itself withdrew. Far to the east, darkness is gathering. The fearless Tribes of W’adrhŭn hurl themselves against the Claustrine Gates as their lands shrink. Their warbands are unable to contend with the ancient evil that stirs in what was once the heartland of the Old Dominion.
As legends walk upon the world once more, humanity’s own fables could not be missing. From a hidden continent of their own making, the deicidal elite of the Sorcerer Kings who brought down Hazlia return to the world, expecting to be worshipped as saviors, lest they install themselves as leaders at worst. Pushed by their political enemies, the Theist Church will bring their own temples to life, leading their Crusades and fueled by the power of angelic powers – or something of the sort. And as the excessive rituals weaken the borders between worlds, the Yoroni, reforged remnants of the Abyssal Host, will return to the world and teach mortals their paths of ascension…
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