TheLongSecondAgeSetting/TheCreationoftheLongSecondAge--JakkBey
“So we’re heading out?” Sparks asked as she adjusted her pack. Renard pulled out the map and checked it again, as Jeffers stretched. Tetsubo checked his pistols one last time.
Krieg closed the hood of the carriage, and picked up his kit. “That engine’s running as smooth as I can get it. If we’re heading out, now’s as good as any.”
Jeffers held out his notebook. “I’ve got the passes here, and all the licenses that Sparks snagged. So long as we keep a low profile, we should be able to make Fool’s Rush in a few weeks.”
“And then?” Tet’s pulled his hat low, as he settled into the back.
“Our contact in the Freedom Ride said that Good Water was where they’ve been sending our people. We get there before the Dragons.” Renard smiled. “You’re up for knocking around Dragons?”
“Usually. But won’t they just send a Legion?” Tetsubo scratched his chin. “I’m all for beating down Dragons, but a Legion?”
“They might, but if we can stop the Slavers, that’ll buy us some time to get those folks out. It’ll take some time to get the Realm’s Own mobilized. Threshold ops aren’t their favorite, and if the intel that Sparks lifted is right, the garrison in the Gap’s Teeth is the closest thing they’ve got to the south to mount that sort of thing. The Wall garrisons aren’t up for forays out, just reinforcing the close in pickets.” Renard tossed one of the crystals that Sparks had stolen.
“Besides, our contact inside the Rings of Ledaal Catala said that they had a Circle searching for some big First Age weapon cache.” Jeffers piped in. “Not that I trust Letticus, but if the Mask of Winters has sent out his Functions, we don’t want them finding it.”
Sparks tossed herself in the seat next to Tetsubo. “Think of it as a road trip. We get to travel, see interesting new places. Meet new people. And put a foot up the ass of evil.” She patted Tets on the cheek.
Krieg piled into the rear most seat. “I don’t trust these Gold bastards, but it’s a chance to get some real food. Let’s roll.”
~
When the Solars were cast down from their station, the Dragon Blooded surged into their places. They created their Realm, and in the absence of the Solars, guided by the Sidereals, and the Realm has ground on. For two thousand years, the Realm has built up, and on, the ruins of the First Age. The cities of old have been the base which the glass and metal spires of the Dragons rise from. The Wonders of the First Age have been lost, but the Sidereals and their Dragon Blooded allies have built new wonders, from their own Sorceries.
Order has been restored to the Realm, the Creation has expanded. The Spirit Courts have come to an accommodation with the Realm, and deals a thousand years in the making are fulfilled, the Courts sending their servants to serve the Dragons of the Earth, and in return the Dragons pay respect to the Courts and sacrifice Essence collected across the breadth of the Creation to seal their agreements.
The Empress still rules the Blessed Isle. Powerful magics encircle the Empress, no longer flush with her victory over the Fair Folk after the Great Contagion, she sits in the center of the Realm, seeking to expand the Creation. Pushing the sorceries of great First Age Engines, she has pushed back the frontiers along the Elemental Poles.
Vast stelae dot the Threshold, draining the energies from the Creation, stabilizing the Poles, reining in the Wyld, powering the Realm, and supplying the Celestial Bureaucracy with Essence stolen directly from the roots of Creation. Deep in the Wyld the Fair Folk gnash and grind, but the Wall saps their strength. The Realm itself is now walled, a barrier against the nomads and barbarians that lie beyond the power of the Realm. This great Wall shields the Realm from their depredations, and pushes back the Creation further and further. A Construct of great power, the Wall advances year after year, only a few feet a month, but it grinds on, inexorable. The Wall envelopes trees, rocks and houses, and passes them through itself, leaving them unharmed by its slow march, but the barbarians and Thresholders who’s homes are passed through, find themselves pushed ahead of the Wall, that or they are forced to join the Realm, their lands swallowed by its grinding advance.
The Great Contagion saw the Deathlords rise. With the Shadowlands that sprang into being, the Deathlords advanced, their armies spreading across the Realm. Years of constant warfare with the Realm’s Own has stemmed their invasion, and treaties have been signed by both sides to keep the peace, but in the ruins of the greatest cities, in their own Shadows the Deathlords plot.
Besides the Deathlords, the Yozi whisper in the ears of mortals and Dragon Blooded alike. Cults of Infernal worshipers scheme to bring their dread lords power, and they vie with the Deathlords for followers. Both gnaw in the darkness at the roots of the Realm. The Wyld Hunt and their brethren the Infernalia Diabolicus root out these Cults, with the assistance of the Watchers and Rings of Ledaal Catala and other Sorcerous Societies. Nearly forgotten, the Solars are tales told to children. The Sidereals have written themselves from the histories, and sit behind their towers of jade and crystal, shrouded by their servants, the Bronze and the Gold quietly duel for the hearts and minds of the Realm.
Forgotten by the people, but the Wyld Hunt has gotten adept at finding the few Solars who manifest in the Realm. Their Agents, posing as Magistrates, as Legionnaires, and as any of the Thousand Scales scour the Realm for any trace of their ancient foes. The Immaculates have taught the people to forget their former masters, and most regard the Solars as myths. As legends. And the Realm means to keep them myths. The order of the last two thousand years is maintained by the strictest discipline.
In the last few years, thing have become passing strange. Solars have been spotted more and more often. The Deathlords are rumbling in their pits, the Infernal Cults have stirred in their nests, plots and conspiracies abound. The New Peoples, the barbarians the advancing Wall encompassed, are clamoring for their lands, their sovereignty. Strange creatures are stirring, deep in the Realm, awakened from their ancient slumber, now corralled by the Wall, they turn their fury on the those people who have settled in their old lands.
The Realm has changed. The people are looking beyond the Immaculates for their salvation. Old cults and old gods are finding favor, along with new cults, new gods, new movements. There is growing unrest with the slave bazaars, as well as the lands where slaver raid. Movements have sprung up across the Realm to cast off their chains, and the Patricians, the Guild, and the Dragon Blooded are aligned together to hold the system together.
The Guild, the Immaculates, and the Thousand Scales, the Triumvirate of power holds the Realm, and thus the Creation, together. The Guild runs the businesses, it holds the lines of communications, provides the labor, administrates the finances, and keeps the day to day details of the Realm, and beyond greased. Slaves procured in the Threshold provide labor to an expanding Realm, the Wall pushing back the edges of the Creation create more land for the dissatisfied to flee into. The Immaculates take in the lost and comfort those within the Realm, and watch the rise of the Deathlords and the Infernal cults at the same time. They minister to the homeless, take in the unfortunate, the lost sons and daughters, and provide a place to run to. In addition to their role as the shepherds for the lost, the Orders are the protectors of the Realm against the hordes of Hungry Ghosts that the Deathlords loose, the hundreds of threats from the Underworld and the Spirit Courts. The Realm maintains the Wall, the mystechs that allow the Realm to operate, they hold the Creation together both culturally, and physically. Without the Wall, without the Mystech Kraftwerks, the Elementals poles would surge back to life, the Threshold and the Periphery would be flooded with Fae and Elementals, the Spirit Courts would lose their hold on their subjects, and the Creation would be engulfed in chaos.
The Creation
The streets cleared fast as Tetsubo stepped its dust filled ruts. Cliched as it was, mothers pulled their children inside, and men took cover as he walked along the street’s length. Tets walked slow and measured, his eyes were locked on the brace of men blocking the way to the courthouse, their carriage parked behind them.
“You know, when you start a party, you don’t fool around.” Jeffer’s voice cracked in Tet’s ear. “I’ve got a few possible contenders in this bash, beyond the five that are waiting bedside the crappy Imperitrix Regal.”
“Tell me true then. Give me their positions when I start talking.” Tet’s hands slid the leather catches from his pistols.
“Why don’t you take care of the five in front of you. Me and Sparks will take care of your party crashers. Krieg thinks you’ve got a couple of Outcaste Dragons in front of you. We’ll just make sure that your back doesn’t get creased.” Jeffers popped back. “Krieg’s getting the wagon ready, and Renard is trying to get the Sheriff off his ass.”
“Renard has a lot more faith in that fat slob’s sense of duty than I do.” Tets spat to the side. “Appreciate the assist. Thought I’d be doing this on my own.”
“I still don’t think we’ve got any business getting involved over a land spat. Gonna get us the wrong kind of attention, even if Renard is able to ‘motivate’ the Sheriff. But a Circle doesn’t roll without all the spokes, so I guess if you’re going to do something this stupid, I guess we all do.” Jeffers crackled. “Head’s up, Big Hat Dude is rolling up.”
Indeed, Big Sol was rolling up. Sol was tall, silvery skinned. God Blooded by all accounts. He’d been running things in this Threshold township for quite a while, with a gang of Beastmen, Outcastes, and any other Hammermen he could pull together. This far out from the Realm, there wasn’t much folks could do to stop him. The Waters League was loose, and while they frowned on strongmen like this, they weren’t in much position to stop them. Guild didn’t mind, because Sol kept kicking jade back to them.
Tet’s had taken a dislike to the God Blood the moment they came into town. Big hat, big man, big carriage, and lots of guns. And lots of scared folks running around. Plus, he had tossed his candy wrapper in front of Tetsubo. Too many years in the Unders had given Tets a real hate for litterbugs.
“You got some big iron on your hip, Rimmer. ‘Less you aim to use ‘em, you might want to head back up the road there. Hear that Tea Rose’s got a special on pork pies and bitter. Might be the best call.” Sol carried a Thresholder War Club, big blade shrouded, cradled in his arms. His boys carried a motley of pistols, rifles, and wands. Two of the men had the carriage of Legionaries. The lizard faced one picked his teeth with the blade of his fire hawk, and the last looked like Sol’s brother, same silvery skin, same bald head, same bad attitude. He was rubbing his hands over the grips of his hammers, and was humming.
Tets spat again. “Keep iron to keep coyotes and vultures off. Don’t like to waste good ammunition after bad meat.” He settled into his stance, and let a trickle of Essence flow. Everything settled into place, his reactions synched to the men ahead of him. “We don’t have to do this. You’re men got holed, but they’ll live. Just keep the hell off of the steaders’ land, and stay off. You got no claim.”
Sol chuckled. “Everything in this Vale is mine. You stuck your nose in Big Sol’s business. Dragons don’t come out here. Water League stays out. You, you just don’t know no better, and I think me and the boys are going to have to show these folks what happens when you cross Big Solly.”
“Bang.” Jeffers whispered in Tet’s ear. Tet’s hammers flew into his hands. Essence crackled as it blew out. Tetsubo’s pistols pounded, double tapping the Legionaries each, and the lizardman’s jaw blew away, along with a good sized chunk of his windpipe. Feeling the flow of Essence, Tetsubo turned away from Sol and his brother’s return fire. The street behind him rained glass, as Jeffers and Sparks lit into the snipers.
Still spinning, Tetsubo reversed his grip on his hammers, and caught Little Silverfish’s fire hawk, snapping the weapon away, and catching him in the temple with the butt of the other hammer. He fell without a whimper, and was senseless as Tet’s kicked him into Big Sol. The God Blood stumbled back, and his shot went wide, cracking into the street a yard from Tetsubo.
Big Sol’s hands snapped the cover from his war hawk. He reversed his grip along the barrel, and swung at Tetsubo’s head. Or rather, where Tetsubo’s head would have been. The big man was already in the air, leaping over Sol’s swing. His hands completed the mudra of Unquestioning Speed, and his Gunklaive flew from the recesses of his coat. The orichalcum blade skewered the God Blood through the chest, the momentum of Tetsubo’s jump cleaving Sol’s chest open. As he landed, he snapped the big blade back to guard position, and then flicked the blood clear.
“You know, you don’t have finish with the pose, every time.” Jeffers voice cracked. “Now can we get the hell out of this town? Krieg’s got the wagon on the way. We’ll pick up Renard on the way.”
~
The Realm lies at the center of the Creation, encircled with the Great Wall–a vast iron and jade studded etched edifice, fifty feet high, towers along its girth every thousand yards, and gates along the main road lines. Garrisons blossom along the gates, as the Wall pushes inexorably, a few feet every year, engulfing all structures in its path. The magics that lace the Great Wall allow homes, fences, and inanimate objects to pass through its girth, but repel the living. Those on the Threshold often find their homes passing through the Wall, a few feet every year, but eventually they find themselves, and their land, part of the Realm. The Dragons offer to compensate those who don’t wish to join the Realm, but eventually their lands pass through the Wall.
Beyond the Great Wall, the Stelae push ahead, expanding in a widening circle. Each Stelae channeling Essence from the Elemental Poles, and sending it back into the Mana Net, to power the Great Wall, and send the excess back into the Realm. The effect is two fold; stealing Essence from the Poles fixes the raw Wyld beyond, pushing back the Creation, slowly, and the Essence fuels the Realm, and fulfills the treaties made with the Spirit Courts to provide them with Essence, in return for the use of their subjects to power the Realm’s Mystech devices.
To the North, the Threshold flattens into a grey sheet of ice. The South trails off to black basalt. The West ends in a Horizon of flat water, a curl of wave that doesn’t fall, doesn’t surge, just lies flat and limp, stagnant. The East ends at the tree line, a flat endless chasm beyond the forest.
Along the Threshold, closer to the Great Wall, teocalli dot the country side, Shrines kept by the Immaculates to appease the Little Gods, to help distribute the Essence to the Spirit Courts, and to spread the Mana-Net. By treaty, and long standing tradition, the teocalli are held as inviolate by raiders, barbarians, and the Immaculates will help any who ask them for asylum or assistance. Even the raiders know that a disruption in the Mana Net can only lead to disaster–the Essence that flows along the Mana Net keeps the Great Beasts asleep, powers the Realm’s Mystech, and keeps Spirits placated. The last time the Mana Net was disrupted, Thorns fell to the Mask of Winters, and even the Threshold fears what will happen if the Deathlords aren’t held in check.
The Threshold has been pushed back for millennia. Many of the areas that have been recovered from the Wyld are places of legend from the First Age. The Inland Sea, the Wasting, the Fire Islands, the Court of the Great Beasts, Dragon’s Reach, all have been reclaimed from the Wyld, and set back into Creation by the memories of the Spirit Courts, Lunars, and Sidereals. The Fae retreat and flee from the Great Wall, en masse. The cold iron walls, and the Stelae suck away at their power, rob them of their Essence and their very reality, so they congregate beyond the reach of the Great Wall, to the great oceans, the White Wastes, beyond the Fire Islands or the Wasting, even in the Swamps of Despair, the Fae huddle, feeding on the collective dread of these great names, and tapping the leys that lead back to the Mana Net. Every few years, an expedition of Fae attempt to assault the Reality Towers, only to meet their doom as the Towers leech their last drop of Essence before they can even lay eyes on the immense structures. Some resort to attacking the Stelae, but even these structures wound them greatly by their very presence, leaving them vulnerable to the mortal guardians, and prowess of the Immaculate’s Sorcerous defenses. The Great Beasts have been driven back by the Great Wall as well, the Wards woven into the iron repel them, though a few have managed to sleep through the Wall’s passing, and a few of the Great Ones have been trapped behind the Realm’s territory.
From Beyond, the Wyld creatures are stymied by the Reality Towers. Three for each pole, the Towers seal the Periphery, delineating the Edge of the Creation. While portals to the Wyld can wear through inside the Creation, near Manse and Demesne, the borders to the Creation are sealed to incursions from the Wyld. The Edge is flat, pushed back steadily by the Great Wall, the Elemental Poles are bleak places, their energy syphoned away by the Great Wall for the Realm’s use, only spawning new lands, new places, as the Reality Towers pass beyond them, then the lands haze into the Creation, as they once were, or into new forms as people, and the Gods even, have forgotten What Was.
The people beyond the Wall are considered barbarians by the Realm. Uncivilized, rude, and uncouth, but these barbarians have been trading with the Realm for years, watching their crystal sets, buying their goods, and importing, if not stealing their mystech base for generations. Cast off carriages, sky sails, and even out of date Golems have become commonplace along the Threshold. The Realm still sets the pace for the Creation, even fashion out along the Threshold is often based on the Realm’s, years out of date, but still based on the styles of the Court. They are poor states, without access to the great Kraftwerks of the Realm, without the vast supplies of jade, but they are hardly left behind and clueless. And knowing that the Realm will eventually roll over their lands, gives the Thresholders incentive to keep schooled on the Realm’s ways.
The Realm continues along. Peasants are still bonded to their Lords by their patronage. Bondsmen who have fulfilled their obligation still hold the bond in trust. Freedmen make up the middle class of merchants, tradesmen, with no bond against them, free to make their way in the world. The Patricians are still the peers to the Realm, born of noble families, to privilege and wealth. Next come the Blood, the Terrestrial Exalted who are by their very nature above the rest of humanity, their powers a testament to their nobility. Those who carry the Blood, are raised up to the status of Houses Minor, and most who carry the title were born to a lower strata, but their Blood flared so that the Realm could recognize them. The Dragon Blooded who are born to the Houses Major and Minor rank higher yet, their families having served the Realm for generations, proven, and they maintain their position with ruthless zeal.
The cities rise up, proud, majestic. Steel, iron, brass, copper, vast and soaring, the cities of the Realm are monuments to the skill of their creators. The oldest cities have risen up, their glories built on the roots of the cities. The Immaculate’s cathedrals, enclosed with vast structures of metal, spun crystal, and jade, and then raised by powerful sorcery, the Dragons’ cities are tower after tower, building after building, the original streets lost to sunlight, lost to sight. The Dragons’ estates have been brought to the tops of the towers, some hundred or more stories above the streets. Lattices of bridges span the alleys and lost streets below, lost into darkness, save for the odd shaft that penetrate.
The highest towers are reserved for the Dragons’ estates. Gardens and orchards dot the towers, their Bondsmen living below them. The great merchants live below the Dragons, but with spacious open areas, where they can see sun and feel the breeze. Below them, Freedmen labor, their homes sometimes open to the air, sunlight stolen from clever mirrors, and with spelled crystals, they ape the fashions of their betters. The lower classes limited to the levels below their masters, seeing sunlight on holy days and celebrations, allowed into public parks when they can wrangle the time off, and the permission of the Dragons. In the cavernous bowels of the cities are the peasants, the lost, and worse. In the deepest of the city cores are areas that men no longer wander, too dark, too cut off from the Dragons’ order, things wander the halls of the depths. And they are often sealed there by the Dragons’ strongest wards, and forgotten. But the things that stir haven’t forgotten them...
Outside the great cities, the countryside is stable. Contracted farms work for the Guild, vast stretches of farms worked by slaves, peasants, and Bondsmen toil for the Patricians and the Blood. Roads and train tracks cris cross the land, carriages, trains, and sky sails ply trade. The Guild transports the Dragons’ goods, the vast Kraftwerks of the Dragons’ are serviced by the Guild’s Master Crafters, and the Immaculate Temples dot the countryside to provide instruction, learning, and training for those who wish to dedicate their lives to the Order. Most often sons, who have no chance at inheritance, their sisters of the primary concern for their families, often facing marriages of convenience to seal alliances with other houses. The Order is the one place where a man can have a future not overshadowed by the Matriarchy of the Realm.
Slaves are common in the countryside. They work the land, the factories, the Kraftwerks. Taken from the Threshold, or bought from the Realm’s prisons, they can look to a future of labor, and passing their bond to their children. Agencies exist that keep stables of slaves to rent to businesses. Slaves earn a slight wage, in order to give them the chance to buy their bond, but most slaves opt to buy their children’s’ freedom, these new peasants then Bonding themselves to a House to earn enough to free their parents. Slaves are seen more often working for the Guild, on their farms, their factories, or their caravans and bazaars. The Dragons and Patricians hold slaves, but keep them tucked away behind their estates.
Young Dragons are often on the move, young nobles are encouraged to sow their oats among the lesser classes. While not all of their get bear the Blood of Dragons, generations down the road they may bear fruit. Children belong to their mother’s family, when one of the Blood manifests, their mother and her immediate family are raised into the Blood’s new station. Often the new Blood seeks to free and raise up the rest of his family, and this is one the methods the Houses Major keep the new Blood in line, using their patronage to bring the new Blood to their heels.
Dragon Blooded women dally, but less often with mortals–there is no profit to bearing a mortal child. More likely, they will tarry with a new member of the Blood. Children are of their mother’s line, and unless it is obvious that a child is not the get of her husband, he has little say.
Dragon marriages are complicated, often by affairs, alliances, lovers, and business, and so long as it is productive, both in business and with children, there is little comment. Men are often ornaments and trophies for their ladies. A man must bring wealth to his marriage, and may seek compensation in a divorce, but children rarely pass to the father’s family in such cases. Succession in the Houses is only through the mater’s line. Men can be placed into positions of power, but can only claim such positions through their mother’s line.
The Navy and Air Force are firmly in the hands of the female Dragons. The great Guilder families are ruled by women. The Peerage sends their daughters and sons to the Deliberative Senate of Exceedingly Judicious Nobles, but its highest Councils are made of women. Men are seen to serve their ladies, as generals, as captains, as Advisors, as their hands.
Prostitutes of both sexes are common in the Realm, a legal but a low profession. Rings of forced prostitution are found from time to time, and the Houses prosecute the offenders mercilessly. Slaves are often put to work in brothels in the cities, and even a lowly Bondsman can own a slave for “entertainment” purposes. Nobles tend to visit approved concubines, who are licensed, discreet, and certified clean. Concubines who bear a Dragon’s child are immediately elevated to the new Blood’s house, and it is a common profession for social climbers. Men can only hope to be elevated by a noblewoman’s favor, to be freed to Bondsman status.
The only ones whose position can’t be improved by a Dragon’s birth are the Fringers, those driven to the city cores–escaped slaves, criminals, the poor, debtors, those who have fallen between the cracks, those fleeing indebted servitude, or the sale of their children. Slaves are as often procured by debt bonds, as they are taken from the Threshold. Fringers provide a steady black market of goods and services, and are allowed to operate so long as they don’t get too bold. When they do, they are labeled ‘bandits’ and are hunted down by the Realm’s Own. The Fringers’ Underground ferries escaped slaves, goods, and contraband across the Realm, and beyond. Passage is perilous, and often leads to peasantry or worse, but it is a risk many are willing to take to live free.
Fringers serve a darker purpose as well in the great old cities. Fringers provide the Things Below, deep in the cores, something to feed on. So long as Fringers keep to their levels, they are ignored by the Magistrates and the Eye, but the moment they pass beyond their borders, they are picked up. In the depths of the cities, the crime lords rule, so long as they pay tribute and deference to the Dragons. A few seek to rise above their station, to become Guilders, to become Freedmen, and those who do escape the Fringes remember those who helped them escape.
Deep in the cores of the Great Old cities are the pits where the Deathlords plot. In the darkness, the Malfeans’ servants vie with the Yozi cults, the Lunars who have been trapped by the Realm’s advance, their Beastmen battle with the Lost Things that the Yozi and Malfeans bring to serve them, and their own twisted cultists. The Realm and the Immaculates fight these incursions, quietly, but the rumors persist, and most know that to walk the Unders without protection is to invite death, or worse.
Return of the Anathema
The Solars have returned. In the Realm, in the Threshold, on the very edges of Creation, the Wyld Hunt is stretched far and few, between Infernal Cults, Deathlords, Lunars, Forgotten Gods, Fae, and Solars. The Bronze works at a tireless pace to organize the Dragons and their servants, but with the Solars released from the Jade Prison, and the Deathlords on the move with their Abyssal servants, they have their work cut out for them.
The Wyld Hunt works behind the scenes. Their agents are often seen as Magistrates at large, members of the Eye, Ministers without Portfolio. Their suits are symbols of their office–just cogs in the Realm’s machine. Mystic weaves in their suits give them the protection of a fully armored Legionnaire, and the shields in their wallets flashed quickly can easily break the will and resistance of mortals. Few citizens realize that they are dealing with the Hunt. Most consider the Anathema to be legends, myths, stories told to children to scare them in the dark. When the Hunt acts, it does so from secret, under the guise of the Legions, the All Seeing Eye, the Magistrates. A few suspect that something is amiss in the Realm, the Thousand Scales know that monies are routed to special projects, and that the Suits of the Agents are signs of someone, somewhere’s interest. And most folks know that too.
No one names the Hunt, because the Hunt chases down myth, legend, and no one wants to admit that the Hunt is needed. The Fae are weak and lost, the Lunars are gone, Beastmen are just Touched, and many tribes have been brought into the Realm. The Shadowlands are desperately real, but contained–the military deals with them, the Mystical Ordos. The Celestials have passed on, the world has moved on. The tales of the Exalts and the First Age are merely that, tales. The Deathlords are a reality that the Realm cannot hide, but it can contain them, negotiate, and propriate. The Celestial Court’s servants fuel the Realm, but those Spirits are rational, a part of the Creation, safe as houses.
And the Solars are moving. Rumblings in the Threshold, in Nexus, in the deep city cores, and the rest of the Exalts are answering those rumblings. Lunars are surfacing. The Sidereals are scouring the Realm to search for those they betrayed long ago. The new born Abyssals search for their counterparts and opposites, and there are rumors of something else, something darker than the Deathlords’ servants. As the Solars move, things that have been hidden stir in reaction, seeking their old foes, and to stop them before they can act. The Bronze are organizing their servants, and by their actions, they may be accelerating the pace at which things happen.
And now, to top things off, the Scarlet Empress, the backbone of the Realm, the architect of the Wall, the Reality Towers, and ruler of the Realm for nearly two thousand years has disappeared. The Second Age is drawing to a close, and the bones and auguries the Bronze has cast all point to the fire they had hoped to avoid by deposing the Solars in the first place. It seems that they have succumbed to the Primordials’ Curse to live in interesting times.
The Hunt is on the move, the Solars have returned, the Lunars are rising up from the depths, from the wilds, and the Dead walk from their Shadowlands, and the Yozi are whispering in the ears of those who will listened to the damned.
