Across the whole of Myzelis, a message is played on radio, repeated in all known common languages, written in newspapers, and spread by word of mouth.

On the 16th of Senka, 3518, a public address from Scarcel Brizaen, Magistrate of Kolkaris and CEO of Opal's Heart Engines. The address is broadcasted on all public news frequencies in Kolkaris, and international media (radio, newspaper, word of mouth and other magical and non magical means): 

The following is visible to all neighboring countries to Kolkaris:

On the 18th of Senka, about mid-day, a dark storm cloud appears over the capitol city, Opalspire. Green lightning arcs through the cloud, and dragon-like roars can be heard from the distance as it continues to spiral out from the central city. Over the next two days, a dark shadow grows across Kolkaris. The cloud grows rapidly, encompassing more of the country with each passing minute. The center of the storm can be seen spiraling down like a tornado toward Opalspire. The wild life in and surrounding Kolkaris disappears in the shadow, and all sounds dissipate from within the country's border. 

By the 20th of Senka, all of Kolkaris is consumed by the cloud. The Brume meets the cloud and holds it just within the borders, neither able to push any farther. Just before sunset on that day, the lightning rushes toward the central tornado as it makes contact with the surface. The lightning impacts, causing tremors deep in the earth. The capitol shatters and breaks into thousands of pieces. Ilexford and Midstorm are hit simultaneously, destroying each in the process. Slowly, the remains of the cities begin to float, rising higher and higher before halting, suspended anywhere from 10 feet to 10 miles above the ground. 

After, the lightning stops, and so do the roars. But the cloud remains, lingering overhead the destruction of Kolkaris. 

A voice echoes through the region. It echoes infinitely before settling, the voice enters the minds of the people. "Welcome. Welcome to my creation. Welcome, to the New Age. Welcome to Ashiarant."

On the morning of the 29th of Inviera radios across the Aredián Sea, Puerto Esperanza and Karieba alert their listeners to the news and this paper is distributed in the afternoon across the Republic and Puerto Esperanza.

 "BREAKING NEWS: Puerto Esperanza attacked by powerful supernatural entity allegedly from Gylidd! Mayor Dias rumored to not be dead! IKF and Republic governments to speak about joint security agreements for supernatural threats!"

Thanks to the Brume’s mysterious powers, the same night does not always fall after the same day in every Realm. Time twists, the world turns away from the Mhelydraud - the unique triple sun - and a lovely Summer evening in Gylidd may be still etched in the dews of a Dire Isle Spring. But it is still the same sunset.

On this particular evening, as the shadows grow long and the good and weary folk of Gylidd Syn Aethri retire to feast and rest, a mote of indigo builds in a patch of otherwise clear sky directly above the Rhuddinwyd. Like a spool of thread, it unravels far above the clouds, swirling and unfolding into a rapidly cooling night sky until it begins to blot out the stars. It churns noiselessly, folding in on itself and blossoming anew like a flower at twice the size each time it does, and soundless lightning races from within the center out toward the edges.

Reflecting sunlight and the haze of the atmosphere draw ever more eyes skyward, as the purple storm expands ever larger. Some are awed into silence at the sight of something they’d never seen before, while others are galvanized into action to anticipate or divine its meaning. But no one is without at least some fear or trepidation of the unknown.

Soon it is over ten miles across - the size of Gylidd Syn Aethri city - and it expands exponentially after that to cover the skies above all of Gylidd Island. Only once it reaches the absolute limit of the Realm - the Binding Sea that circles it - does it begin to twist at the ends into tendrils that seek the invisible paths of the leylines towards the other Realms. 

Growing ever larger, the purple storm in Myzelis’ upper atmosphere traces its way towards the nearest Realms first. It winds its way into the skies over Ulloren, Zahira, Eslaiqeza, and Kaedo, replacing star and moonlight with a violet glow that flashes brighter each time a silent bolt or orb of lightning races through it in streaks over one hundred miles long. It brings no rain, no wind, only anxious pause as the common and learned alike are stymied by its origin and purpose. Its tendrils eventually find even the furthest Realms; Vesnica, Tlalli, Terota, the Dire Isle, and the skies of Rilumir. 

It does not spread across these other Realms the way it had covered Gylidd’s skies. Instead, it lingers over only parts of each Realm. These territories are not small by any means, but the fact that the purple clouds seem to have preference - or perhaps targets - seems significant. The night sky still visible overhead does little to assuage the fear building in the hearts of even those who are far away from the violet tainted lands of their neighbors.

And for those living beneath the superatmospheric clouds as they settle… dread sets in. Not all at once, but in waves, reinforced by the worries spoken or shared by others around them. Subtly, the tethers of unity and peace fostered by the Leylines start to unravel, weakening the bonds between Aethrin until relationships are but tinder in a hearth, perpetually in fear of the flame…

The skies above Kaedo grow dark as a storm from the north blows in. Billowing dark purple clouds crackling with otherworldly energy cover the realm in dark shadows. As the realm is enveloped in darkness, an eldritch bestial screech cuts through the air. It echoes across the island and over the surrounding oceans, shattering glass and injuring those unprepared to cover their ears. 

And then suddenly the screeching stops, as it is replaced with a more concerning noise. The sound of shattering glass so loud it shakes the realm. People look up to the sky to see it shattering like glass, revealing a white void beneath. The shards of Kaedian sky plummet into the surrounding oceans creating massive pillars of water that can be seen for miles. Black streaks shoot across the vacant sky like ink being violently thrown at a blank canvas. A meteor shower serves as the backdrop of Kaedo’s destruction. 

The crashing stops and is quickly replaced by the static of thousands of Kaedian radios. Breaking through the white noise is a panicked voice of an older man barely able to keep his breath. 

“People of Kaedo, the end of days is upon us! The powers in Kigan, Guo, Koujin have abandoned us to hide in their towers! They’ve left the people of Kaedo in the dark about the forces of Xultras that corrupt our realm! This exact same thing that’s gotten a hold of our realm is what brought down Kolkaris! OH WAIT THEY’VE CENSORED THE MEDIA SO ANYONE OUTSIDE OF THE BUSINESS CLASS HASN’T EVEN HEARD OF IT! THEY’VE KNOWN ABOUT FOR WEEKS AND HAVE KEPT US IN THE DARK SO THEY CAN RUN!

THE REALM IS GOING TO BE TORN APART! LOOK AT THE SKY, DOOM IS HERE. ABANDON YOUR LEADERS! ABANDON YOUR JOBS! RUN! LIVE! LI-”

The frantic broadcast ends, and quickly chaos ensues. People huddled around their radios begin to panic. As fear takes their hearts, as all hope fades as the literal sky has fallen, people begin to change. As they scramble around the streets running to the nearest source of transportation, a dark cloud emerges from those that have let the fear of Xultras consume them. They twist and break into something altogether wretched. Emerging from the mists are corrupted monsters that begin to tear into those around them, spreading the fear further. 

As the streets of Kaedo run red with the blood of citizens slain by their own families and friends, the leader of Koujin Oda Deva looks over the carnage from atop his skyscraper. Horrified by what he sees, Oda looks to the sky wondering what he can do to save his realm from this calamity.

In Rilumir, the coastal city of Rodezon buzzes with activity, people flock to the streets in celebration. The royal castle of the Acharoi gleams on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, packed with nobles and dignitaries of many realms. Amidst the festivities the Acharoi moves to make a speech to all gathered, but as he looks upon the crowds, a shadowy haze billows up from the sea. 

The waters churn as a hulking, bird-like construct explodes out of the depths, with a wingspan nearly two hundred feet long. It is made of old, rotten wood planks, salt-sprayed canvas sails, blood-soaked ropes, and its ribcage and belly are filled to bursting with bloated corpses. Every facet of the wood and metal monstrosity bears resemblance to a sailing vessel, and judging by the breadth of its hull-like chest, the ship from which it was made must have been at least three masted. The Falcon's Fury - the vessel of the infamous necromancer, the Shrike of Hsira - had come.

Long black banners flutter like pinions in the turbulent wind as it ascends, racing towards the castle to drench the stones in filth and seawater. It explodes through an entire wall of the building, shattering glass and splintering wood, sending stones flying into the crowd as its rudder-like talons tear and take purchase at the opening. At the heart of the construct's chest, a skeletal aarakocra swathed in tattered, voluminous black robes clutches at the wood with a hand and a foot claw, using the other to summon necromantic energy tethered to five mangled bodies within the Fury's rattled cage.

In an instant, they drag themselves free of the animate wreckage and race to surround the Acharoi, whose face has twisted into an eager grin as he grabs hold of his own High Priest, dark mist coiling around his fingertips as the crowd begins to scream. The Shrike of Hsira leers from his perch, “Let the great sacrifice begin,” before launching back the way he came, his construct's violent exit causing even more damage to rain down on those assembled.

Tremors shake the castle in the Shrike’s wake as massive tendrils curl around the windows from the blackened waters below, tugging at the architecture and digging into the cliffside. Masonry cracks and bursts apart under the assault, sending the ballroom full of dignitaries tumbling into the pitch-dark sea as the form of a primordial kraken opens its maw. In the streets of Rodezon, the voice of the Acharoi can be heard calling out to the masses in a frenzy as the kraken looms over the port. Moments later, the cries for help from the submerging castle gallery fall eerily quiet, and across the entire coastline an aeon’s worth of corpses claimed by the ocean wash up like flotsam, and begin to move.

Far out past the screams and wanton sounds of violence, echoing across the city comes a booming, shrill voice. "I am the Shrike of Hsira, a Curse upon all the Realms. I have brought the Doom of Kolkaris to Rilumir, to prove to you that fear is stronger than hope. Embrace it... and fear me."

With the sorceress' plans foiled, a group of heroes stand in the dark, now dormant caves of Ar-Zahirazîn. While the once warped and mind-bending caves return to normal, a sense of urgency fills them as they realize this is far from over. With their work not done quite yet, the quick spreading news of their victory and what has happened here arms the Eslaiqi people. 

Soldiers of the Flessen Hills arm themselves with new found determination to fend off the horrors beyond their understanding. Diplomats in the capital send out impassioned calls for aid to those within and without the Eslaiqi lands. The people band ever closer together, not letting a spot of inclimate indigo shake their resolve. As for those beyond its borders, they see a community held together and arming themselves with the knowledge that these threats can be stopped and that hope is not lost.

As quickly as the violet storm had gathered in the upper atmosphere of Myzelis, churning out from the skies of Gylidd and racing along the leylines to smother the Realms, it began to dissipate. The clearly magical storm had been conjured far too high for its shape to be naturally maintained. Starting far above the Rhuddinwyd - the forest at the heart of Myzelis - it breaks apart and loses density until there is nothing left but the rumbling echo of lightning.

While the skies above return to peace, the lands below are not so lucky. The storm clouds peel apart like the curtains on a second act, revealing a world on metaphorical, philosophical, magical, and in some cases literal fire. The storm filled the world with the fuel of apprehension and the tinder of fear, and like grenades small sparks were lit in many Realms that burst into roaring conflagration. Hundreds, if not thousands of lives - not all of whom were innocent - were lost in the first few hours as terrifying beasts and depraved monsters revealed themselves. 

Agents of Xultras, the Doom of Kolkaris.

Agents of the Shrike of Hsira, the Dread Necromancer.

Not all willing, not all witting, but all consumed by the chance to take power for themselves. To weaponize their own fears with supernatural strength, and victimize others to encourage them to do the same. An endless chain of anxious pressure boiling over as Myzelis realizes the storm did not leave - it entered the people, and they became the storm.

Now as the Realms are rocked off-balance, infiltrated by the same powers that destroyed Kolkaris, the people of the world cling to the last vestiges of hope that strength still exists to repel this long night of the soul. For if unity proves too weak to bind their cultures to the leylines, then in the face of Vrokíva’s malevolence, the people will turn willingly to fear. 

And in that fear, be bound.

A ripping noise fills the air across Ulloren, like parchment being torn from the spine of its book. The floating castle Vimgolai, which is fueled by the Leylines, has absorbed too much of the fear energy coursing through them. The party of desperate heroes moments before total destruction of the castle and the city below have found a way to avert the catastrophe, with unforeseen and terrible consequences. Looking to the sky over Ulloren, a fissure of effervescent liquid obsidian opens. The space beyond looks to be filled with the worst fears of every mortal on the prime material, writhing and embroiled in constant pain. The people of Ulloren are reminded of the fear that gripped them so tightly during the Age of Isolation, the terror of returning to that age of chaos with no end in sight. The country that was once embroiled in constant war and famine knows what this portents — death. A drop of that primeval chaos falls towards Ulloren, a drop of ink off a freshly dipped quill that will stain all it touches.

Animals panic, children become inconsolable, food spoils, and Ulloren holds its breath in apprehension, then... nothing. Then, an ear splitting roar rings out carrying with it a fetid taste on the tongue, a cold sweat on the palms, a wobble in the knees and a searing pain as the image of a creature that takes on the image of each aethrin’s most primal fear is burned into the backs of the eyes; a nightmare thrust upon the minds of those who still hold tightly to the shreds of sanity and serenity. Whenever you close your eyes the image is there, and there it shall stay.

The echoes travel across the world, that spark of terror that inspired the first aethrin lighting a fire to combat the dark. Whatever caused this knows the taste of ancient fears. Now it’s for others to learn.

For those that can see the floating island-tower of The Storm Eternal, its focus becomes clear; not only sowing Fey chaos, but destruction, pain, fear. Hundreds lay dead while hundreds of others are overtaken by dark myconid growths, an undeath becoming them. With these undead swarming the shattered remains of the temples to the dragon "gods," heroes in Eastlee, Vesnica had to make a choice…

Their protection of the temple of the land left the temple of the sea less fortified, and in its weakness, calamity. Rarely known magical glyphs the temple held safe shatter in explosions as The Storm Eternal oversees, slaying what the Witch at the top of the tower can see for well over a thousand feet around. As the glyphs break, the sea of the Windward Sound itself begins to buckle inward. Trillions of gallons of water fall into a roiling storm seeming to grow from the sea floor; a tear in the fabric of the Planes – all Planes attached to the Material – becomes unbandaged. Parts of the Storm Wall begin to buckle under the pressure of the rest of Myzelis' oceans…

That fracture of the leyline quakes through the oceans, a pearlescent sheen washing up the sea floor from the south. The water currents of Myzelis begin to pull a little southward while little tendrils of chaotic energy flow north.

Through the dense cloud cover of Xultras' Kolkarian oppression, a light can be seen. Piercing through the veil of silence, the sound a crackling wood and electricity. The top of the clouds begin to bend and warp, attempting to keep what is below within. Draconic screams begin to echo, as something pushes against the Spawn of Xultras.

Then, a shape begins to emerge from the cloudtop canopy. Branches of a tree, beautiful and evergreen. The tips of them begin to blossom and bloom in flowers and fruit of all kinds. The smells of a fresh harvest begins to drip from the tallest branches to the roots of the tree. Quickly, the branches pierce and suffuse the dark clouds above.

A voice is heard from within the branches and blooms. The voice, soft and warm, fills all who hear it with a divine energy.

"I am Eloria, Kodama of the Shifting Sands, and life of Kolkaris. Be afraid no longer of this trespasser. Kolkaris is our home. Fight. Fight for each other. Fight for yourselves. Fight for your home!"

A burst of energy radiates from the tree, and long dead plants begin to bloom. The hum of insects and wildlife are heard in the distance. Dried husks of flora and fauna are revitalized. Waterfalls are resumed and rivers refreshed. The roll of the ocean hums along the coast.

"Nothing will snuff out our light. No creature. No fear. Be not afraid! This is our home. Now, fight for it."

A figure, cloaked in Shadow, appears at the edge of the great Tepoztoca, a bastion of radiance against a ghoulish army encamped on the other side. The Shrike of Hsira stands, raising their hands to the sky, gathering wisps of weave and power, drawing from the very ground they stand on, before plunging it into the clear waters. For a moment, the Shrike is buffeted, the holy water sizzling against this new force. This lasts only but a moment, as the once clear water quickly becomes an inky black

The ghouls at their master’s heel carefully touch the water, expecting the pain they have always felt, but finding instead power. An order is called from a Leonin holding a wicked glaive. Her voice booms across the town, reaching past all the gates that were closed to her. “GO FORTH AND DOUSE ANY WHISPER OF RESISTANCE!!” As the howl of victory echoes among the undead, the masses swarm across the false river. What once was holy has become desecrated. What was once a gleaming line of defense has become a death trap.

Silence and darkness begins to consume the ruins of Illexford in Northern Kolkaris. The crumbling stone and concrete of the city’s dilapidated buildings begin to fall unseen and unheard as an Avatar of Xultras, the body of a giant shrouded in shadow that steps silently wielding a greatsword befit for its huge size, is seen marching towards the city's port. A group made up of a loose assortment of Wrenjers, Mercenaries and everything in between, hold the secrets to potentially reseal Xultras in their prison and over 100 Kolkarians depend on them for their survival. They are also the only ones who stand in the way of the daunting supernatural power towards its goal. To Silence all those who have acted against Xultras. As the Avatar of Xultras strides into the city limits towards the group who dared take the fight to them, its power can be felt even at great distance...

... but the group stands resolute in the face of terror, they find unity and purpose against that which seeks to destroy and facilitate those who will spread fear and terror across Myzelis. The speech of the first President of the Aredián Republic, Punua Proto, that was broadcasted on the radio waves of the country 256 years ago when the Republic started it’s fight against the Juntas that terrorized their seas and their islands, echoes now in the minds of those who fight against Xultras and the Shrike: “What use is negotiation when the other party is deaf to our words? What use are treaties when they are broken? What use are protocols when we can only turn a blind eye to their violations? What use is every diplomatic solution possible when it is a force of the most cruel sort?! Where is there left to go? Unfortunately, the answer is a simple and inevitable one. To war.”

The Shrike of Hsira, having visited many Realms and expended much of itself to not just leave behind the seeds of Xultras - but plant them in fertile soil - was beginning to wane. Despite its deathless animation, the ancient necromancer looked haggard and diminished as it apparated from the shadows at the edge of the torchlight. The colossal Tower of Hopewatch, surrounded by over eight hundred sanctified graves of the Wrenjers who had given their lives for a chance to banish the Shrike many months ago, loomed over the tiny aarakocran monster as if it meant to collapse upon him and permanently bury him in the soil.

“I was born by magic into flesh and blood.” He hissed, his voice amplified by arcana to echo throughout the clearing and into the ears of the Wrenjers and others assembled before him. “I was a spirit first, bound to my master as familiar and servant. An eternity of blissful ignorance to the world and its machinations. Destroyed so easily, restored just as easily, and wont for nothing.”

The Shrike’s clawed feet rang tinny and sharp on the cobblestone as it stepped forward in a slow gait.

“But then my conjurer gave me want. Ritually, he imbued me with intellect to further his designs, and ensouled me. But I was still bound.” The necromancer’s words took a cruel turn, the hissing gaining in strength. “Bound to seek him. Bound to obey. Bound by love.”

The Shrike pauses, lurking at the edge of the torchlight.

“With every day that goes by I see less and less of his face. Every moment the memory gets darker still, and now I see more of my own reflection. The familiar love fades, and in its place I see the world arrayed against us both, a world from which he is sequestered and I am left to haunt it. A world that would destroy this spirit once and for all, for all the things I have done for him - to liberate him. I am afraid of unbecoming.”

The sharp beak and dirty bones rattle in the umbral night, suspended in midair as the Shrike begins to levitate. From the shadows of its tattered robes, a small square urn is produced, looking for all its etches and gilding like a glorified birdcage.

“My fear is stronger now than my love. It liberates ME. It makes me more powerful. It motivates me to be more than just a servant, to be unbound from his fate and make one for myself. So here it is. The moment of my unmaking.”

The Shrike smashes the metal urn with a claw, shattering his own phylactery. A deep, guttural, primal screech ripples out through the air from the Shrike’s maw, causing the air itself to wave and distort with its volume. In the next moment, all across Myzelis, a resonance occurs as the coins of Xultras suddenly hum with secret magic fed upon their surfaces. They begin to glow, and the creatures possessing them, as well as all creatures within a mile of the coin, are suddenly hit with a wave of negative energy conjured by magic beyond the ninth circle. 

Open wounds are bled anew, the sanguine broth issuing forth into the sky to turn to vapor in the air and zooming towards the Realm of Gylidd. Those who have not yet bled, or cannot bleed, are siphoned of energy all the same, as the Shrike turns fear and death into raw power. It ripples invisibly through the leylines, streaking to the center and funneling itself into the dread necromancer’s diminished form. The Shrike’s feathers fan out and bristle with violet energy, rippling through its form and feeding him until the endless scream is flush with life.

“Let us feed our fears together - and see what is MADE FROM OUR ASHES!”

The shattered form of the Shrike of Hsira - a mess of broken bones - crashes to the ground barely muffled by the tattered remnants of his robes. A deathly silence numbs the senses of those who had been locked in mortal combat with him, and though wounds are swiftly mended to ensure survival should it all be a ruse, the onlooking survivors measure the next minute by the sound of their hearts beating in their ears. His now-brittle bones still collapsing, the necromancer lies still.

Gradually muscles relax, joints release their white-knuckle hold, and spells are stilled on the motionless tongue. Relief and hope tease their way to the front of the mind. Eyes are permitted to blink.

But they would not, if they knew the importance of this moment. A moment that has not come to pass since the Age of Stone; unwitnessed since the Age of the Inaethri. All across Myzelis, fear had spread with a name, and onto that fear the name was etched. All the death, all the terror, all the destruction caused by the weaponization of Xultras had one engineer - the Shrike of Hsira.

Anger spread as well, of course, but it was anger born of fear, the fear that a threat cannot be ignored and must be stopped. Even now, the connections that had at one time carried naught but hope and unity from the Rhuddinwyd to the furthest reaches of the leylines was tainted by the resonance of the peoples’ terror. For as those who cultivate the Leylines into Realms combine their hopes and belief into gods, so too do they bind their darker emotions… into darker gods. Via the ascendant path of godhood - the Inaethrid.

The corpse lay still, but the soul had long since transcended it. The spirit that was once the Shrike of Hsira drank deep of the fear and supped upon the death it had sown, lurking and growing in the ethereal like a titanic weed. The form grew from the psychic link to not just Gylidd’s fear, but Myzelis’ fear. The terror of undeath and chaos… and evil. 

Myzelis bore witness to the Inaethrid of the Shrike of Hsira.

The Shrike reached into and through the earth, grappling with a dark and evil cancer unseen and hidden away, and snatched divinity from it. Another inaethri, the Master, now rendered little more than a patron with a spiritual jerk of the Shrike’s ethereal beak. The Shrike was the Gylidder Inaethri of Chaotic Evil Death, now, and the Master was exposed for the outsider it truly was, a mere interloper demon prince, whose days in this world were already numbered.

Bristling with newfound depths of power, the Shrike prepared to will the world to change to suit its needs. It manifested visibly in the material plane, towering over Gylidd Syn Aethri and distorting the skies around it. But for all of the Shrike’s planning, he forgot the rule of natural law, and failed to account for its eternal enforcer. 

The Brume in every Realm began to bristle and seethe at the audacity of an aethrin god in her World. Vrokíva would never again tolerate reckless, limitless power, and so she surged forth across the borders of Gylidd, her Brume headed into the sky but uncaring about the tiny villages she smothered in her wake, blotting them out forever. 

The inaethric Shrike recoiled, withdrawing from the touch of the Brume, and chose like so many others before it to exile itself to the outer planes rather than be permanently destroyed. There it would remain, granting magic to those who saw wisdom in his madness. As for Vrokíva, once the threat had gone, its Brume retreated without apology.

In the coming days, the world would find balance again, adapting to the new emergence of leylines of fear alongside the leylines of peace. In many places, the threats of Xultras’ presence and the Shrike’s influence had been banished, but not all, and that would be a terror for another day. But with all hope, a stronger, more unified Myzelis would rise to defy them.

On the morning of the 5th of Sevira, radio stations all across the Realm of Terota buzz about the news abroad. The subject is typically about Kaedo, Eslaiqeza and Gylidd with occasional conversation of Tlalli and Rilumir coming from the radio hosts. Kaedo dominates the air time for most stations as recordings from interviews are available from the island and the the cry's of those who are wounded or those who have lost someone echo behind a reporters voice describing the scenes of destruction on the streets of Hoshi. On the 7th, the Newspaper Carta della Repubblica (CDR) in their weekly paper distributed on Primdia reminds readers of the fragility of the world.