The world is broken. Magic has been shredded. Huge swaths of people have been infected by a corporate spawned virus and changed to something horrible. The earth has been raped, repeatedly, and her sobs wrack the ground we walk on. The old world buried under a sea of sand. The wealthy have left what is now largely a desert planet. The places that do remain verdant and full of life are infested with all manner of dark and twisted things.
Few people outside the Rhiathasian Order understand this, but there are layers beneath us. Those who survived the first apocalypse, the shredding of the weave, lurk in a desperate longing. Even still they obsess over their lost magic. Every thought, every breath, every deed, striving to regain their magic or lamenting its loss.
Above them, in the ruins of massive cities and buried structures dwell the Changed. They are seen sometimes on the surface but it is rare as they avoid sunlight. Some call them reavers, others call them zombies though that name I assure you is false. Whatever one calls them their nature is inescapable. They are beasts with only one impulse. They seek to devour.
On the surface life is hard but bearable. People have found a way to survive. I don’t know if they can survive what’s coming. I’ve seen glimpses. Mere fragments of what is to come. But I’ve seen enough to know that what lurks below shall not remain below much longer.
If the gods of old do exists, may they please see fit to help us in the time to come.
Prophet of Rhiathasia