Reply to thread

Message: <blockquote data-quote="Edena_of_Neith" data-source="post: 175988" data-attributes="member: 2020">The TwilightIt is a beautiful winter day in Faerun, Maztica, and Kara-Tur.  Under the green sky, balmy tropical conditions prevail clear to the pole.  The friendly sun shines down, pleasant and gentle at this time of year.  Over the polar region, a million stars shine down upon the dormant forests there.  In Zakhara, it is summer, and the moonsoon season has arrived, bringing brief powerful thunderstorms which interrupt the heating of the blazing sun.  Selune, in her blue-green beauty, shines down upon Toril.  Luna, where the Scro Star League comes to trade, also shines down in white, green, and blue glory.  Nobody is watching.  There are no people standing outside, feeling the summer breezes, the gentle warmth, or the fiery sun of Zakhara.  There are no shoppers heading to market.  There is no market to go to:  all the markets are closed.  All forms of communication - satellite, airwave, cable, magical, are broadcasting Emergency Statements.  Nobody is listening.  Abandoned homes sit, the lights still turned on, the doors left open, the appliances still running.  Meals sit half eaten.  Drinks sit untouched, or spilled, and in many cases the delicate glasses and tableware are shattered all over the floors.    Pets sit abandoned, bewildered, wondering where their owners went, or running through the opened doors are wandering through the streets.  They are not in danger of being run over.  The streets are empty.  The wreckage of millions of vehicles bears mute testimony to the final panic that came and went.  Bodies of the dead, and some still alive but unable to move, litter the ghostly streets, and the pavement is covered in blood.  Great skyscrapers loom into the air, all their lights on, their power systems functioning, air conditioning creating a pleasant atmosphere inside.  But there is nobody to enjoy that atmosphere, and the great buildings are empty.  No people watch over the Preservation Combines, which have worked all these years to infuse the native flora and fauna with health and strength, their sacred duty to protect the forests and their inhabitants.  No people sit in the power stations, insuring the steady flow of Technomagical Energy to the billions who depend on it.  No people are working to create the energy anyways, so the power stations won't be running long anyways.  No people are monitoring the vast, underground greenhouses that feed the population of the nations of Oerth.  The plants are being drowned where the sprinklers were left on, or drying up where they are not being watered.  There is nobody there to care now.  No ships of commerce put out of port, either by sea or by spelljammer, by spaceport or by teleportation.  Huge cargoes of imports from hundreds of worlds sit on the docks, some of them priceless in value.  There is nobody to guard them.  The guards left long ago.  Empty papers and debris, garbage and containers, blow down the empty streets of Toril, but nobody comes to pick them up, and the electronic monitors that would have detected the mess are long since shut down.  Fires burn out of control in many places, slowly spreading to become firestorms.  Homes, businesses, and even some of the great skyscrapers go up in flames.  No firefighters or magical preservers come to fight the fires.  There is nobody left, in most cases, to even see the fires.  They are crying.  In the crowded bedlam of the shelters of the Church of Mercy, people by the countless millions weep, or they sit and stare, or they talk about nonsensical things in a desperate effort to not think about the reality hanging over them.  Brittle efforts at humor are made, which are greeted by equally brittle laughter, which ends with bitter, sad looks from all involved, and then dies into silence.    Some people marry.  They were in love, and they want to marry the one they love before the end.  The tears of joy are mingled with the tears of sadness from hundreds of onlookers.  Some people cavort in mad festivals, or orgies, heedless of all else, engorging themselves with wine or seriously disabling substances, harming themselves - maybe even killing themselves, but they do not care anymore.  The soldiers stand dejectedly, offering no help and less comfort.  However, there are very few soldiers.  These are the loyal ones, the ones who would not shirk their duty to protect their people.  Most of the soldiers ran away, and hid in deep bunkers under the ground or in magically protected places.  - - -  This is what it is like, across all of Toril.  Across all of Oerth.  Across all of Krynn.  Across all of Athas.  Across all of Mystara.  Across Selune and Luna, Toril's moons.  Across all the other planets of Realmspace.  Across Celune, Oerth's moon.  Across all the worlds of Greyspace.  Across all the worlds of Krynnspace.  Everyone knows.  Everyone knows the end is coming.  The silence in communications does not fool anyone;  they know the dark truth.  The end is at hand.  Even the kender sit in silence, faces dark and fatal.  Elf, dwarf, gnome, halfling, human, neoillithid, phaerimm, orc, goblin, bugbear, kobold, mull, thri-kreen, giant, kender, ogre, minotaur;  they all sit and wait for what they cannot stop, and they cannot survive.</blockquote>

Verification