Mirages

 A Mirage is a colloquial term for a creature, thing, or otherwise supernatural phenomenon that has perforated our reality through mortal thought. The term was originally claimed by astronomer and philosopher Gisèle De Roy, who also proposed their original name; Tache d'encre (literally "ink stain").

It is impossible to empirically categorize a Mirage. While their various forms can sometimes be studied and even replicated, the pure chaotic circumstances of their birth mean that they are often in a constant state of change. A Mirage may one day have the arms of a bear, which then suddenly sprouts wings, as a flock of birds begin terrorizing its home at the same time as it. A Mirage, for all intents and purposes, is not alive. Their understanding of the universe is far too alien to us, and most attempts at communication with "intelligent" Mirages often end in violent dismemberment. They are not made of flesh and blood, although many appear to be, yet bleed the same shadowy nonsense they were born from. The Glass House claims that Mirages are shades; shadows of molecules at the slimmest parts of reality, which explains their seemingly infinite configurations.

Are You Afraid Of The Dark?

They begin as will-o-wisps, strange lumps in vacant space or wispy tongues of darkness. It is a sprout, like that from a seed, watered by doubt and misery. A mother scolds her child for staring aimlessly out the window, whose boundless creativity springs projections over the neighbour's fence. As the child stares, his eyes focus on intangible shapes, and the sheep in his mind's eye becomes ever pronounced.

As thought progresses, figures are made. Mindless tangents of floating mist become tendons, then bone, then limbs. Given time and sufficient feed, what is produced is an echo of the creator's chaotic thoughts: a chimera of a thousand related concepts.

Note: Human beings think a lot. Our minds are often constantly bombarded with impromptu words and images, some more than others, which are only then accelerated with time. Think about the last time you had a daydream, or even a regular dream, and consider what you saw. Was the image complex? A solid recording of events that have never occurred? Was there audio or clear video? Were multiple characters talking all at the same time? Consider that you can have dozens of fragmented renditions of that daydream every second. Our imagination is chaos, and that chaos feeds the Mirage.

Mirages, on top of not being alive, technically do not exist. Their existence is tangential; consequently, they form and break apart in wild spittle. As its creator(s) mind wanders, so does the Mirage grow. If its inventor somehow lost all recollection at an early enough stage, or the source of the thought was silenced, the Mirage would slowly starve and whittle away. 

Given time, the Mirage will outgrow its birthplace and break free of its birther's chains. This often results in the violent maiming or murder of the person. A Mirage at this stage no longer relies on its original benefactor for sustenance, and will usually set out for greener pastures.

Art by Hagarg Ryonis

Not all Mirages are beastly in nature. Some are humanoid, while others play mockery with constructs and machines. Many mirages aren't even conscious, as the wandering mind bleeds outward towards concepts and ideas, creating strange events and fueling wives' tales. Many of these tales, ironically, become somewhat accurate as a result.

The Republic has invested over a century's worth of time, men, and wealth into safely handling Mirages and their spawn. With the modern reintroduction of Inquisitors by The Fourth Committee, dozens of specially-trained soldiers and investigators are released yearly from educational camps such as The Farm. These inquisitors are tasked with discovering, preventing, and eliminating Mirages wherever The Republic's influence lies. It is a respected position, if not a feared one.

Common Rumours And Catalysts

1. Projecting shadows in multiple directions is a sign of otherworldly possession.
2. Blood in the cold crystallizes, leaving strange geodes in their wake.
3. Imaginary friends aren't imaginary at all.
4. Monsters roam the blackness between the ground and the treetops, ever watching and hungry for the exposed.
5. Light a candle for the death of a calf and kill a calf for the death of a man. Replacement of either path brings illness.
6. Roll your eyes at an honest man's word, and they will pop out like marbles to flee.
7. Stagnant bodies of water in the middle of a field aren't reflective, but rather open windows into the sky.
8. Long hair drapes doubt in the corners of one's vision. Doubt brings spectres.
9. If you cannot immediately recognize your shape in a glass's reflection, break it.
10. Soldiers who get lost in the mountains become catalysts for rockslides.
11. Goat horns are a prized possession, both for alchemy and status, but unethically retrieving these horns will bring their owner's wrath.
12. The Moon Cries.

Phobophobia

F3LC4T on Artstation

Mortal beings are complex things; the best way for an alien to understand one is to view them through mortal eyes. What emotions make up the human experience are as unique as they are dangerous.

Pleasure. Passion. Fear. These things make up the genetic makeup of every creature. They mould our understanding of the universe around us into mutable shapes, granting us eyes to places previously misunderstood. You only understand anger because you have experienced anger before. You can empathize with a mother's loss of a child because you've experienced that loss, or at least some vague approximation of it. The death of a loved one. A beloved pet. 

The feeling doesn't have to be exact. It can be close or entirely off the mark. You wouldn't consider the loss of a pet even close to that of a child, but you can draw some conclusions. Both are a kind of grief. Both are debilitating, and yet one is far worse than the other.

Something that is not human could draw that conclusion. It may not understand, but it could try.

Fear in Faith

In Bromeilles, belief is power. Rumours carry genuine danger in their delivery. Wive's tales are more than just stories; their creation can actively spurn violence in the community. This was true long before the trappings of civilization and has only worsened in the wake of The Storm. 

Mankind has always feared its own thoughts. As necessities are met, tensions rise, and more esoteric concerns enter the fray. Once a home has been built, and physiological needs are met, what of improvement? What of one's social standing, achievements, and doubts? The hierarchy of needs states plainly that there is more to fullness than survival. 

This does not have to be a good thing. More requirements are simply more problems to fix. And in a world with so many issues, what harm could one more supplant?

Maslow had a pretty good framework.

La Republique has always known of The Mirages. It was founded with the things in mind; shaded beasts just beyond the vale. Creatures made from nightmares and whispers. Phenomena of the unknowable. When the republic's amendments were finally written, prefaced by a brief struggle for power, handling these mirages became a point of utmost importance. 

Hunting down mirages is a simple task. It is even easier to identify the things, which dwell where children speak to shadows and hunters say of tigers. Resistance arrives when one remembers that, while it is easy to tell someone to avoid a place or stop a slipshod habit, it is far more challenging to order an entire country to stop thinking.

Mirages spawn from mortal misunderstanding. A peasant girl who fears monsters in the woodlands may create one on accident. A child who sacrifices bones to the "well-thing" is curious, yes, but could just as likely conjure something to consume those bones. Once a Mirage has been fed its due diligence, it breaks free from its fear-ridden chains, granting it a sort of freedom it should never be allowed. These are the monsters which devour towns. These are the beasts who take children away.

Not all mirages are malevolent, nor alive. Some have brought good to the people of Bromeilles. Others are active in its continued subsistence. This does not make them any less undesirable.

Faith in Fear

There was no great fanfare when The Authority came to Seraphine, no blowing trumpets or grand parade. It came to the first king in a gust of wind, shapeless yet with booming voice, and ordered its will as it would be. The angels came later, strapped in jointless wings and molten chariots, but it was he who etched the first words on parchment.

The many manuscripts of the angels, conjoined with both the first king's writings and the complete work of The Manual, bring a somewhat complicated canon to the church. What all three of the works agree on, however, is their stance on mortality:

"Mortals are in a state of constant, perpetual suffering. This suffering is their fault, but it is not something they can control. We cannot simply remove this misery from them. Therefore, we shall work with what we have. They will be tormented as a result. We do not blame them, but it must be done."

This uncomfortable truth has led to several revelations in the world, most notably the existence of Devils. The official canon states that devils have always existed in the material plane, influencing mortal lives and inflicting pain upon them. It is their vulnerability to suffering which grants these devils such power. Devils are considered vile, despicable creatures. They are also considered a necessity.

According to church canon, Devils are the natural consequence of mortal will. Their freedom to both emote and inflict harm on one another is a sheer indicator of maliciousness, which these same creatures accept like parasites. By consequence of existing, the people of Seraphine have created vessels containing their worst parts. Beings which hate more than any living thing. Things which hunger to consume more than the world could possibly provide.

This is as expected, and therefore it is right. Angels give no hesitation in slaying the beasts, but it is known by all that they are under no false pretenses; they will continue to exist so long as man does.

The Fishing Devil

David Johnson

Makram Al-Tervih was the greatest entertainer to ever live. 

A young talent from the moment of his inception, the gold jester was born to indentured servitude. A result of his father's secret affair with a water peddler. He was stricken in two for the act, but his mother was allowed to carry the young child to term. They were subsequently servants to the man's old house.

A titular munchkin at his emergence, the midwife joked that had he been born any smaller, he could fit into a mail canister. It is said that young Makram smiled with glee at the proposal.

A Golden Child

Born Makram Aben Rahmat after his blood father, it took many years for the young entertainer's talents to be noticed. A self-proclaimed rascal in his youth, the boy's quick wit and arrogance were his grandest defence, keeping him out of far more trouble than he deserved. 

Note: Seraphine is a continent built under extreme predeterminism. When the Authority first came to Aabrya and became acclimated to the building of its church, a set of ground rules were delivered from its molten throne to the growing theocracy below. Such rules, comprised in The Codex of Kings, include a strict code of destiny; Peasants are peasants, and kings are kings. Few gain the privilege of defying this rule. It is always given and infallibly earned.

He was a jester at heart. A boy of laughter and chide, as quick on his feet as he was with his tongue. A menace to all, including his mother, the boy's antics were permitted unfettered so long as he completed his drudge tasks. A chore he performed amicably even long after his departure.

David Lloyd Glover

Under the palm of his new lord's house, Makram performed diligently to age 17. His attitude was jovial in all things, lighthearted even at the darkest times. It was that spark that made him so desirable. Suitors would come in well-packed suits, attempting to marry a poor servant boy their daughters and sons. Time and time again would their advances be brought to the house. In dowry or word, proclamations of love and wedlock. All would be denied with a gallant whump.

Makram had no need for the trappings of love. Prestige and honour were merely a means to greater aspirations. Those without a knack for wit, without patience for jest or laughs, were discarded in his mind instantaneously. For if you could not understand what a man loves most, why bother at all?

A Silver Lord

It took many years for the boy's talents to be noticed. After innumerable letters and heartfelt summons, it seemed as if he would remain forever a joyous servant. His jokes were of little interest to the master of the house, his father's brother, and there was only so much content that could be scrapped from the bottom of his surroundings. 

Makram was content with the knowledge that he would never truly be free. He would have been right had he never met the Lord Aphotritchides.

Son of Fahid, Father of a Million Sons, ruler of the Mesquite for a hundred years. He came for the young entertainer in a letter fashioned from beads of silver and parchment gold. The Old Lord was, at the time, a grand duke of Seraphine's eastern provinces. A ruler of beaches and timberyards, who ripped trees by their roots with great success. A man of limitless coffers, he had a penchant for petitioning artists from all across the land. His hunger for new talent was voracious.

And so, the young entertainer found himself in the company of royals. His talents would only grow with age, and his mind would swim in the pleasures of life.

A Copper Coin

For twenty years, the now-proclaimed Makram Al-Tervih served as crown jester to the duke's throne. His journeys took him across the continent, to country and island, filling his eyes with the many great wonders of the world. His blessings were great; wine, comfort, lovers: for his duty was as crucial to the realm as his master. He was a comedian. A clown of the heart. His words were a source of much-needed joy.

But the boy had a secret. Whisperings of the heart never meant to be heard. Known only by his closest friends and then only truly understood by his mother, he had managed to avoid its woes for decades.

Andreas Achenbach

One day, The Lord Aphotritchides declared yet another hosted celebration, set to the sight of his most prestigious villa. It was a grandiose occasion for a monstrously large locale, his favourite summer home atop the rocky shelves of the coast. Its cliffs crumbled into the waves below.

Even as the festivities began, the duke could see his jester's essence flush. Eyes chattering in their sockets, sweat rolling down his arms and into the baggy pockets of his leggings. Indeed this was not his first celebration, so what was the fuss? His grin was wide as he called those in assembly to attention.

"As a means of goodwill and pleasant feasts," he spoke, tongue flippant with liquor, "I ask that my most trusted confidant perform his greatest feat yet!"

The jester's heart sank beneath his bowels. Several servants began to unravel the final festivity: a massive stage atop the cliff's edge. Its foundations crumbled rock as they were nailed to the earth.

"My golden child shall complete a daring performance atop the blessed cliffs of my home! His rushing blood shall liven this land. His sweat will purify the surf below!"

"May his composure in the face of death bless our nation for years to come!"

Edward Potthast

Makram Al-Tervih was scared of the sea. It had terrified him since he was a child, its inky depths as mysterious as the endless cosmos above. He had written entire plays on the folly of man in war. Love, science, and the great forever above were topics he took great joy in dismantling, but never the ocean. He avoided the subject as if his attempts would offend it. His gaze avoided its as if some great catastrophe was set to strike, would they have met.

He lasted thirty minutes. Half an hour of constant, incessant dancing and performing. Not a word slipped from his lips, even as he tumbled between brass rings and burning spears, and yet the crowd still roared with applause. Makram could be funny as a mute or an amputee, but never to the sea. He finally met his end, catching his foot beneath a copper plate, snapping the support and sending them plunging into the waves below.

It is said that he cried as he plummeted. It was a long drop, ten seconds before the rocks or the water took him. Plenty of time for the terrified trickster's mind to conjure up some final words. The rumours say that he spoke of fear and devils, of heresies unheard of by his tongue, just before his lips touched the water. A servant whispers that the waves broke as he approached, and that his body flattened against the seabed dry as a stone.

Of Consequence

The Old Lord never returned to that palace. His guests were ushered outwards, and the gates locked behind them. Its location was stricken from all the world maps, and its serfs cut at the tongue. It is muttered that he never spoke of what occurred that day. Many post-mortem accounts proclaim that it caused a profound change in him. The Lord Aphotritchides would live another six years after this event, completing his centennial service and allowing his body to rest.

Makram Al-Tervih is remembered as a man of great talent, who gave his life in worship to the Authority and its teachings. Lessons are taught from his works in universities, and statues are erected in his honour. But it is the sailors who speak most highly of him. Those who ride the eastern cliff walls speak blessings to his soul and cast gifts in his name, seeking protection from the man who missed the tide.

The fishermen curse his name inland and speak of him nowhere else. They believe that his spirit roams the ocean still, a pocket husk burrowing beneath the ocean. They would be partially mistaken.

Mix-And-Match Magic Items

Art by Dominik Zdenkovic

 Here's a quick, simple generator to use whenever you need ideas for a weird magic item. I have no clue what it'll make, or what the mechanical effect of the thing will be. Probably something cool.

A) Magic Item Size

1. Diminutive
2. Small
3. Medium
4. Large
5. Huge
6. Gargantuan

B) Magic Item Shape

1. A sphere
2. Crystalline formations 
3. A cube 
4. Conal or spiral
5. A hemisphere
6. A necklace
7. A ring or bracelet
8. A pyramid
9. A box 
10. A cylinder 
11. A crescent
12. A Vehicle 
13. A cross
14. An instrument 
15. A star
16. A weapon
17. Wands or staves
18. A piece of armour
19. Clothes or robes
20. A potion

C) Magic Item Property

1. Hyperactive
2. Eldritch
3. Animate
4. Flaming
5. Electric
6. Celestial
7. Liquid
8. Acidic
9. Necrotic
10. Bloody
11. Alluring
12. Omniscient
13. Oscillating
14. Macabre
15. Whimsical
16. Complex
17. Melodic
18. Loutish
19. Ethereal
20. Intelligent

D) Magic Item Material

1. Sand
2. Clockwork
3. Marble
4. String or Fabric
5. Iron
6. Wood
7. Bone
8. Glass
9. Gold
10. Leather
11. Flesh and Bone
12. Gemstones
13. Brick, Mud, Clay, or Stone
14. Hair or Ivory
15. Paper
16. Dirt
17. Paint or Art Supplies
18. Porcelain
19. Cotton 
20. Ectoplasm

Consent Tools In TTRPG's

 I've been trying to learn to write without really overthinking it. Just letting the words exit my head and out onto the page. It isn't easy, especially now, but what better way to practice it than to talk about accommodation?

It Just Makes Sense

I never grew up in an environment where "consensual content" for TTRPGs was a thing. I didn't really have to learn about it, because my brother and I taught ourselves how to play in the first place. Of course, we had a few friends who showed interest, but that wasn't until well into our adolescent years and only when we showed them the hobby. Out of maybe a dozen people, one stuck around consistently. 

And that's okay! While a shame, it was expected: games like Dungeons & Dragons were still in the weird space between "nerdy" and "cool." Critical Role was still just growing in popularity. Matthew Colville hadn't founded MCDM. Paizo was the king of content. 5e's only published adventure was Phandelver, and even that was puddles compared to the two decades of RPG content before it.

I love DnD, but I didn't grow up on it. The first-ever RPG I self-taught was Pathfinder: First Edition, a game I hold dearly in my heart even now. That also means I grew up surrounded by hot takes on forums and game stores from those kinds of people.

The PvP Game Master. The Murderhobos. The types of players who love scorpions in their coffee and saves vs Death when they go to bed. Y'know, the OSR crowd. 

And I appreciate them! I love grit in my literature and struggle in my gameplay. It's satisfying in a way that can't be believed to struggle and fight for a goal, through thick and thin, only to feel the release at the peak. That catharsis is essential to me, both as a player and a GM. Hell, there's a reason I call it Game-Master and not Dungeon-Master. But that also meant I never really learned about handling content-facing difficulties early. It never came to mind or was shrugged off as "they aren't a fit for this game." That's a valid argument, but perhaps we can put a smidge more effort into it.

Black Cards

I've seen a dozen names for this kind of tool; red cards, X cards, safety tool cards. A million words for the same tool, which serves to provide an indicator for whenever an event in the game is providing some kind of discomfort or irritation. All you have to do is tap the card that's on the table or flash it to your GM, and the game either pauses for a moment or skips along to the next segment. Many people use this to omit references to events of extreme violence, especially those of a sexual nature. They're also good when a particularly notable phobia of a player suddenly comes to the forefront of a scene. I don't currently use these in my own home games (although I ask my players to speak up if a similar situation occurs) because my main game consists of online play. This doesn't mean we couldn't use it; we just don't.

I like black cards. I think they make sense for the purpose they serve. You don't need NPCs to commit horrific moral acts against other NPCs or player characters. And even if you are (and everyone else is, to a degree) okay with it, you still don't have to dangle over it. If the player has to pull out the card at that point, you've probably been on it for too long anyway.

Consent Sheets

This is something I actually have used, and to great effect. A consent sheet is basically an addendum you can make to your session zero (or whenever you want), asking your players to comment on a general list of phobias, controversial topics, or bigotries. Its goal is to effectively gauge what your players are looking for in the upcoming adventure and any issues that may make the playing experience uncomfortable or unwelcome.

I used a sheet like this for my current 5e game. Made by Monte Cook.

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Personally, I used it by first filling out the checklist myself, which I then showed my players to let them know the kind of game I wanted to run. I allowed them to fill out their own copy and send it anonymously. Thankfully, most of our interests align. (Who would have thought that none of us wanted to act out a fully-fledged sex scene?)

Between this and black cards, I really do like consent sheets. I've used them both for in-character and OOC purposes, and it's been an excellent resource for figuring out my player's worries and wants. I do not shy away from extreme topics, and my players are always fully aware of this. This lets me stick to that style when I want to while still avoiding things that would otherwise damage both the game and our actual relationships with one another. 

Does the game you want to play differ significantly from the one your players are comfortable with? That's okay. You can always try another game. Not every style will work for every kind of person, nor will every person be compatible with your preferred type of game.

Just don't be a jerk about it. Don't use a player's feelings or phobias as a way to ostracize them. And for God's sake, don't push content that they state they're uncomfortable with because you think it isn't a big deal.

Talk To Your Players!

You would assume that this would be a given. It should be.

As a Game Master (and in large part a player), it is your duty to discuss topics regarding the game. Nobody should be told they're going to play a "gritty, dark-fantasy horror game" and then show up at a care bear convention. Could it be an exciting misdirection? Yes. Is it kinda funny? Absolutely. But generally, as a rule of thumb, everyone at the table should be aware of precisely what they're getting into. It's why the previous two tools are so essential.

Having a history of depression and suicidal tendencies means you might not like to encounter those things in your games! Being a sexual abuse survivor means you might react negatively to that same activity happening to you while roleplaying! You might be desensitized to it, but that is the exception, not the rule.

It should be said that, while you as the Game Master can put whatever you want into your game, that does not mean your players will recognize it in the same way. You can have a grim-dark, gory, sex-filled extravaganza with not an inch of lightheartedness in sight. Do not assume that anyone will want to be in it. There comes the point where sacrifices must be made, compromises drawn, and that's okay. It's good to work under limitations. 

Talk with your players. Let them know your intentions long before the dice are rolled, and character sheets are filled. Players, speak with your DM! Do not think that just because they need to have your best interests in mind, you can just sit back and let them bend to your every whim!

Role-playing games are a storytelling medium. A cooperative storytelling medium. Nobody gets anything done without talking about it. Did somebody make a mistake? That's okay; you can work it out with them. Is one of your players feeding into an attitude or habit that is harming the table's atmosphere? Talk to them about it. You won't solve everything this way; some things require compromise, and others involve stubborn people. If the player doesn't seem to fit the vibe (or you, as the player, feel disconnected), that's alright. There's always another opportunity.

And for those players who can never seem to find the game that fits them? Try running what you want to play in. We need more of them anyway, and luckily, there are almost certainly people with the same exact problem as you. 

My current play group started with just a singular DM. She doesn't play anymore, but there are four of us now, and some of them thought that they never could.

Don't be afraid to learn.

The Storm Eternal, Pt. 2

 This is part two. You can find part one here.

P.A. Nisbet

Nobody remembers life before the storm. There are no beings, alive or dead, who still reminisce of azure skies and celestial rays. The idea of Bromeilles before The Storm Eternal is a dead memory, a dream lost in the seas of human consciousness, chased endlessly by poets and envious politicians. Anything alive that could possibly share its recollections of the old world has no desire to, especially not with mortals. 

History books are filled with eyewitness accounts. Thousands of old fables, fears and hopes, each recorded tediously over generations. Shelves complete with compendiums line the wall of high society like wallpaper. Many have read their contents. Others have no need. Whatever idea the books represent is invaluable compared to the actual content shared. 

The Storm Eternal was a manifestation. A clockwork machine of enigmatic design focused on achieving a goal far beyond our understanding. With it came the rain, the dark, and the violence. But the children of the old world were familiar with oddity; They had witnessed the great blood storms, of beasts born through human fear. If this storm was simply another creation of their own beliefs, they could surely destroy it? And so villages fell to their knees in synchrony. Those first great cities toiled their bells and pounded drums. The children of The Old World looked to the sky and begged the universe for salvation, giving in exchange whatever they did not have. 

As forests burned, haybales were struck ablaze. While farms were ripped from their foundations by magnetic winds, lambs were slaughtered by the litter. If they could merely buy some time, a moment of reprise in an eternity of grief, then surely something could be done. And so it was. 

The final seven years of The Storm Eternal are considered the official end of the Old World's anthology. This was when the meteor swarms began, thus introducing the Exterior Races to the world. 

The Old World did not end because of The Storm Eternal. It ended because The New World superseded it.

By BrandonSticker 

End of An Era

Before The Storm Eternal, Bromeilles had three "intelligent" species:

1. Hallwani, an immigrant species from a far-away continent, are long removed from their cultural centre. Although stout and short-lived, they are a proud race of sailors and labourers. They are one of the only major religious factions remaining on the cracked continent.
2. Imps, a viciously diverse race of insectoids. Their culture is highly isolationist, only truly revealing themselves to the other races in bulk when The Storm Eternal tore open their burrows and threatened their colonies. Progenitors of the Artisinal Schools.
3. Humans, the most populous of the kin. Their cultural barriers alone number in the hundreds, and the half-dozen ethnic groups which now permeate the continent's surface are as distinct as they are alike. They are disproportionately afflicted with Curseridden.

The Exterior Races are a collection of intelligent, collaborating species that arrived Post-Storm and have since engaged in active communication with The Republic. First contact with most of these races occurred in the final years of The Storm's operational period, outliers notwithstanding. Some of the more prominent Exterior Races include:

1. The Elkem, a race of lean, sharp-eared creatures placed somewhere in the uncanny valley between the humanoid and the utterly alien. Solid eyes of unnatural colour, skin the tone of beaten flames, and an unnatural lankiness to their form. The Elkem, as they are now, rival even The Republic in places. They have fragments of their own culture to thank, brought over from whatever world they came from. They are the closest thing to "elves" in this setting, and they are not pleased.
2. La Verre, a colloquial term for elemental spirits that have cobbled together (or have been forced into) a humanoid vessel. These vessels are typically capable of safe communication with their neighbours. Some believe that the Verre was always present; that the congregant nature spirits that possessed the world were granted the ability to better interact with humanity. Or were forced into it by The Storm.

Hundreds of species landed in Bromeilles in the starting weeks. Thousands were wiped out in months without ever being known. The ecology of an entire continent was forced to adapt to this new, alien environment. Its new inhabitants were no luckier, now introduced to a locale entirely unlike their own. Local flora was foreign to these creatures, and diseases were strange weapons in an unfamiliar arms race. Predators became prey. Animals previously hunted to extinction found themselves engorged on land.

The druids remember the old ecology, but even their own fears have subsided. The natural order has adapted. Many have grown fat on such opportunity, jovial bears through and through. Even still, there are some who believe in the sanctity of a world restored to longevity. An uncracked continent. Their circles collect in quiet commune under the moonlight. Their bodies will be thrashed by beasts never meant to flay human flesh. Their siblings will collect the pieces, hoping that their next life will be one returned to grace. 

Only the Elkem live to tell tales of The Old World, but their numbers are few, and their words are melancholy. What little knowledge they share is that of a sputtering flame, struggling to outlast its final breath. They have already witnessed the death of one world. They have no desire to wrangle with ours.