Wazloth

Four hundred and thirty years ago, the gods fell silent. And with their absence, magic began to go wrong. People began to go wrong. All the rules the world was supposed to obey began to bend and break, in ways only told of in legends. Sorcerers able - and willing - to level countries, vast areas rendered instantly lethal to all life, civilizations pushed and warped into caricatures of their former selves.   Now, the only place free from the encroaching is the area called the Crucible -- and, nestled in the center, Wazloth, the last known bastion of sanity in a vast sea of madness.   But, even in Wazloth, rot has taken root. Corruption runs rampant, revolution bubbles beneath the surface, and there are rumors of a new underworld boss with unknown motives. The glittering towers and steeples of Aurelian Heights hover, resplendent, over the dirt and dingy streets below. Government-funded mercenaries - often as warped as the things they fight - are dispatched to capture, kill, or contain any manifestations of Old Magic to try and beat back the tide, regardless of the civilian casualties.   It has been four hundred and thirty-seven years since the beginning of the Rending, and the end of the world shows no signs of stopping.