History of Mortal Edifice

Distraught, or simply wishing maintain balance - the gods known as the Cadences and Axioms worked to protect Apocrypha from devastation. Combined with the efforts of mortalkind, they established a barrier, that banished both the Betrayers and themselves to the outer planes. Divine magics and planar travel were still possible, but Apocrypha was now in mortal hands.

As the fabric of reality refolded, without gods on Apocrypha, mortals dictated its shape. In the timeless moment beyond divinity, the consensus decree of mortality was reached. The planar pathways to Apocrypha were closed, opened only at the invitation of mortals. Divine influence and magics were to be mediated by mortals, only at their behest, and of their own volition.

Ancient murals and engravings depict a world that was drowning. Invaders from western seas; clad in armour of fibre and reed, bearing weapons of fractured light. Armies and cities swept away by tides, at the command of generals atop thunderous clouds. With historical records all but destroyed, only Apocrypha remained. Nobody yet living knows how it happened, or why.

As suddenly as it arrived, the maelstrom allayed. The Wyrd Regent, begotten, laid down their roots, bearing a vessel to reservoirs beyond. A grand tree flourished - an anchor unto which the brine cascaded - imbued with the essence and memories of water. The ceremonial flooding of the Wellspring Festival marks remembrance of the event, for with it, the Everglade was born.

Moments repeated. Artwork and records of a towering mountain appeared, as though they had always been. Days repeated. Thousand-year histories of the summit-city atop a sunken planet. Weeks repeated. Untold tales of the creation of a flying enclave, and arcane endeavours now forgotten. Months repeated. Scattered ruins, from a world of stories unwoven. Years repeated.

Wild and anti-magic reverberated across Apocrypha, stirring dormant yet untamed sorceries. Arcane practitioners were persecuted by ravaged communities, and driven to retaliation. Many turned to the divines, seeking to control - or subjugate - the flux. In time, divine magic became the dominant force, sowing the seeds for an era of newfound piety, and mistrust of the occult.

Tensions grew and conflicts escalated. World-walls grew thin, and time enough had whittled away that betrayers' schemes bore fruit. Blood ran rivers through ash-frozen sands; Avatars clashing beyond the broken veil of severance. With Torog's death, Vecna's ascension, and Gruumsh's shame, mortal kin asserted themselves once more, over their domains of rubble.

Zhen-folk and Lolth-slave, hand in hand, treading through the swamps of exodus. Gith-chained Dragons, stalking the gold and ivory streets of ascension. As the Drachim Empire crumbled into the Dragonclaw Republic, the Bloodroot city grew atop the splinters of the prairie-forged-mesa. The world had been broken, and the flames of war were revealing the shape of things to come.

The world awoke with weary eyes, and a gentle sense of clarity. Hate and passion gave way to apathy, with the reasons why all but forgotten. Ancient grudges fell to the wayside, as though they were all nothing but distant memories A lingering desperation to not be alone. Recurring nightmares without recall. Something was wrong - but nobody could withstand to remember.

In the wake of the Forgetful Night, the authorities of Apocrypha convened, and answered their citizens' calls for peace. With treaties signed, and both calendars and currencies standardised, the Era of Prosperity had officially begun. Though conflict still lurks in shadow, this promise of prosperity remains fulfilled. The future seems bright, illuminating the clouds on the horizon.