Remove these ads. Join the Worldbuilders Guild
Ghanwyss
1272 A.A
Wandering between the ethereal and material, Ley Lines are magical pathways that streak the surface of Ghanwyss. Though they themselves are near invisible to the naked eye, their tangible influence cannot be unseen. The blood of the universe itself flows forth from the stolen heart of Basorghan, God of Gods, rushing through the precisely placed veins of a child of the new Gods. An ancient angel, disillusioned with the Gods’ treatment of mortals, planted the otherworldly heart deep in the core of the planet. The lines that they laid suffused the world with the essence of change, blessing mortals with power and reducing their dependence on the heavens’ aid.
Feats of great arcana, fantastic miracles and grand edifices capture most accurately the mortal interactions with such power. But of course, where there is power, someone shall always seek to claim it. An unfathomable number of various nations, empires and cabals have risen, warred and fallen over such, scarring the land with their sovereign desires before time devoured them, names and all. Only the most recent or enduring are known today, ever funnelling the leaking sand back into their imperial hourglasses. This civilised struggle to contend with insignificance defines so many of the mortal races, whose gods glow dimly.
And yet, this struggle has borne fruit, a fuel for expansion to cast into progresses' furnace, to power an empire on which the solar angels may grow accustomed to seeing as they fly. Lumican, the rushing flow of Ley Lines contained in aqueous solution, has thrown into motion a new golden age of arcane invention and industry. Developments in gunpowder weaponry lay at the very knife edge of the horizon, as the curtain begins to call on Feudalism. Advanced magical technology has never been so pervasive and yet its exclusivity enriches the few with ready access to it. Society at large has never been better off than it has in the past two decades - and yet turbulent politics, socioeconomic disparity and bubbling international tensions all disquiet these once placid waters. And all the while, the dark forest of the Abyssal Miasma churns, ever digging its roots into space itself.
And yet, perhaps all these advances, all this struggle, will yet be worthwhile, as truly the darkest days lay ahead. Kalytris, the angel who was granted the duty of being the planet’s sun, was grievously wounded by the serpent god Thassal, leaving only a sickle of gold in the sky. The sun has never been closer, and has never been weaker. Temperatures drop a few degrees on the tail of summer, a sure sign of problems to come. For weeks, the seas churned, upset by the gravitational disturbances of the calamity.
Now, more than ever, this world fights to cling to life as it has been known and a handful of decisions will mark this age in history books, if indeed anyone remains to write them - will it be marked by a descent into anarchy and warfare over dwindling resources for increasingly hostile governments? Will it see a resurgence of heroes, of goodness and of collaboration - of striving against common hardship? Is the end of things now truly upon us? Or is this another age for a world that refuses apocalypse? Perhaps histories' greatest sagas remain to be written.
Feats of great arcana, fantastic miracles and grand edifices capture most accurately the mortal interactions with such power. But of course, where there is power, someone shall always seek to claim it. An unfathomable number of various nations, empires and cabals have risen, warred and fallen over such, scarring the land with their sovereign desires before time devoured them, names and all. Only the most recent or enduring are known today, ever funnelling the leaking sand back into their imperial hourglasses. This civilised struggle to contend with insignificance defines so many of the mortal races, whose gods glow dimly.
And yet, this struggle has borne fruit, a fuel for expansion to cast into progresses' furnace, to power an empire on which the solar angels may grow accustomed to seeing as they fly. Lumican, the rushing flow of Ley Lines contained in aqueous solution, has thrown into motion a new golden age of arcane invention and industry. Developments in gunpowder weaponry lay at the very knife edge of the horizon, as the curtain begins to call on Feudalism. Advanced magical technology has never been so pervasive and yet its exclusivity enriches the few with ready access to it. Society at large has never been better off than it has in the past two decades - and yet turbulent politics, socioeconomic disparity and bubbling international tensions all disquiet these once placid waters. And all the while, the dark forest of the Abyssal Miasma churns, ever digging its roots into space itself.
And yet, perhaps all these advances, all this struggle, will yet be worthwhile, as truly the darkest days lay ahead. Kalytris, the angel who was granted the duty of being the planet’s sun, was grievously wounded by the serpent god Thassal, leaving only a sickle of gold in the sky. The sun has never been closer, and has never been weaker. Temperatures drop a few degrees on the tail of summer, a sure sign of problems to come. For weeks, the seas churned, upset by the gravitational disturbances of the calamity.
Now, more than ever, this world fights to cling to life as it has been known and a handful of decisions will mark this age in history books, if indeed anyone remains to write them - will it be marked by a descent into anarchy and warfare over dwindling resources for increasingly hostile governments? Will it see a resurgence of heroes, of goodness and of collaboration - of striving against common hardship? Is the end of things now truly upon us? Or is this another age for a world that refuses apocalypse? Perhaps histories' greatest sagas remain to be written.