"My father's father used to tell us this story, always the same one, about this blackened tower deep in the north, and the locked doors he found at it's top. Even when he lost his mind, he still held on to that memory, like there was something important hidden within it, something he'd never quite figured out himself, but had remained buried in there, gnawing at the back of his mind to his dying day."
You will wake up to a starless world, built upon the graves of a thousand civilizations. A mausoleum that runs through endless depths and forbidden halls that run deep into the earth. This is a world that marks it's steps with the ashes of each one of it's eras.
In the world of Wyrdrock, magic is a tangible part of everything and everyone. Every action and reaction, every patch of grass and every whisp of wind harmonize within it, sending echoes through it's currents that subtly reshape the world around them.
Some people embrace the arcane and the onyric, wielding such forces to overcome the rules of their reality and achieve impossible feats.
Others choose to fear it instead, and deposit their faith in the certainty of steel and stone to carve their own destiny.
Just past beyond the veil of the material, there lay the realms of the onyric. These realms draw the exact edge between what's real and what isn't. Here the material becomes undone into ideas and concepts that merge and collude with eachother, forming into maddening new constructs all together.
It is said that many of this realm's inhavitants witnessed the birth of creation itself, and decided to build their own dominions at it's edges, where they remained as rullers of their incomprehensible kingdoms for ever more, unburdened by the rules imposed upon the lower realms.
Although many forms of otherworldly powers and creeds can be found through the world of Wyr, plenty of creatures have claimed the title of godhood over the years just to fall flat on their aspirations. Very few have truly achieved a semblance of it over the years, and even these bowed their head low to the real rullers of this world.
Unkown in number, shape, or purpose, only hints of these creatures have been divined over the ages. Their pressence undeniable, measured in rivers of blood and mountains of ash. Unimpressed by prayer or sacrifice, these beings show no regard for either peasants, lords nor kings.
They rule the world in silence, their will uncomprehensible, their edicts sudden, unforseable and catastrophic.
Only one prayer can part one's lips when thinking about them:
Beware of the wolf, for it's hunger will consume you from within.
Keep your word before the judge and don't stray from the path, for darkness has us surrounded now, and her cold breath will snuff out the last embers of our age.
Safe travels dear reader, and may your steps avoid the gaze of the gods.