In the beginning, there was Aea, a world of powerful magic, fantastic monsters and danger. A place where the gods roamed the earth and raw primal forces ravaged the wild.
Then there were the races of Aea. First there were the Angels, formed of astral essence but of flesh and blood. Then the Devils, the fallen ones, damned to suffer all hate. Elves, fair and most magical of all races. The Dragini, inheritors of Io and carriers of great wisdom. The Humans, most curious and prolific of all. And the Undead, risen by a sinister will.
The races, in all unlikeliness, coexisted in peace and harmony. Their leaders were just, mighty and carried sacred knowledge that only them and their race could use.
But they carried also a secret. Once they were mere mortals, powerless and vulnerable to the wrath of the world. But they stole from someone. They stole their knowledges from a Great Emperor and escaped, leaving his empire in ruins, bereft of knowledge. There were six knowledges, but seven conspirators. One thief, without the wisdom of the ages, swore revenge upon his betrayers, who had promised him a tome. Thus did he cast himself into the void of insanity we know as the Far Realm.
Even with this dread secret, the rulers were in harmonious synchrony. No wars spread between them, no treachery or deceit.
Until the sky turned black and the earth shuddered. And a rift appeared. It expanded, a gateway of ghastly emerald light and phantasmal sounds. From this rip, hives, city-sized egg-like objects hurtled into Aea.
Around and in each mortal nation, hives crashed into the earth.
The day had come. The Seventh Thief had returned. And it was no longer human. It had become Arrakhiz, Lord of the Deep Ones. And with his army, he would exact his revenge. All the knowledges would be his. As will all of Aea.
Then there were the races of Aea. First there were the Angels, formed of astral essence but of flesh and blood. Then the Devils, the fallen ones, damned to suffer all hate. Elves, fair and most magical of all races. The Dragini, inheritors of Io and carriers of great wisdom. The Humans, most curious and prolific of all. And the Undead, risen by a sinister will.
The races, in all unlikeliness, coexisted in peace and harmony. Their leaders were just, mighty and carried sacred knowledge that only them and their race could use.
But they carried also a secret. Once they were mere mortals, powerless and vulnerable to the wrath of the world. But they stole from someone. They stole their knowledges from a Great Emperor and escaped, leaving his empire in ruins, bereft of knowledge. There were six knowledges, but seven conspirators. One thief, without the wisdom of the ages, swore revenge upon his betrayers, who had promised him a tome. Thus did he cast himself into the void of insanity we know as the Far Realm.
Even with this dread secret, the rulers were in harmonious synchrony. No wars spread between them, no treachery or deceit.
Until the sky turned black and the earth shuddered. And a rift appeared. It expanded, a gateway of ghastly emerald light and phantasmal sounds. From this rip, hives, city-sized egg-like objects hurtled into Aea.
Around and in each mortal nation, hives crashed into the earth.
The day had come. The Seventh Thief had returned. And it was no longer human. It had become Arrakhiz, Lord of the Deep Ones. And with his army, he would exact his revenge. All the knowledges would be his. As will all of Aea.
