A New Order

A shot rings out in Eclein, echoing like peals of furious thunder across the continents.

The Festival of Festivals concluded, for most, in desperate disaster —  but for some the terrifying finale was a roaring success. Where once Mage Hunters had organized in secret, making their plans under the cover of night, now —  emboldened by the chaos and the fear provoked by the mage hunter trio — more and more anti-mage groups, and mage hunters, spring up, each one more fervent than the last. 

In Eclein —  ground zero to the mounting anti-magic sentiments — a grand escape takes place. An explosion shakes the city to its roots, and when the dust settles, two things are made clear: the town’s jail will need extensive repairs if it wants to house criminals again, and the trio of hunters are nowhere to be found. The news of their grand flight from Eclein spreads quickly, and sightings of the trios symbol, their banner, began to pop up across the land, seemingly having captured the fascination or horror of the world at large with their very public acts of rebellion. 

As the anti-mage campaigns push forward, a resistance is beginning to be felt — growing more unyielding by the hour. Rumors' spread of wildfires blazing against the wind through forests and townships; of storms blooming suddenly from clear blue skies, flashing and thundering as lighting strikes down trees and torrential rains raise floodwaters. There are reports of mages able to influence another's mind; to reanimate the dead; to drain the blood from one's veins with naught but a thought; to bend the very fabric of time to their will. It is said that some have the ability take the form of common beasts, condemning even family pets to the scrutiny and punishment of the law.

Fear has seeped into the marrow of Kestrana's bones. 

Buildings hewn from solid limestone blocks — facades adorned with ochre and blue-copper dyes — cast heavy shadows over the long line of refugees waiting to enter at the south gate. The air hangs heavy with tension, as thick as the dust stirred up by the legs of humans and animals alike. In times past the line of hopefuls would be rambunctious as a party, groups of children playing and adults passing out food and drink while they wait for their turn to be admitted into the city. Now the air is filled with worried murmurs. Children stick close to their parents, eyes wide. 

In the parched heat of Kestrana’s market square, a herald dressed in the blue-and-gold livery of the Kesh Bank (Kestrana’s oldest and proudest lending institution) climbs the stairs to a rough wooden platform. Clasped in his hand is a scroll stamped with all five guild seals — the farmers and fishers, the herders, the hunters and scouts, the racers, and (last but not least) the richest of them all — the moneylenders. His hands shake as he unfurls it and clears his throat. 

At the base of the platform, a trio of rough-looking guardsmen glare suspiciously out at the crowd. Once a symbol of protection, the presence of the city guard evokes a silent dread in Kestrana’s populace — at least, in the populace remaining after the Delberelt, the Night of Burning. In the aftermath of the explosion, many of the guards turned their ire on the very city they were sworn to protect.

The herald’s voice rises unsteadily above the murmur of the market before finding his pace — and his confidence — as attentions swing in his direction.

“By decree of the City Guard, in collaboration with the merchant guilds,” he begins, “all practice of unsanctioned magic within the city limits is hereby forbidden.”

A pause as he stares at the gathered crowd. Many have stopped even the pretense of shopping.

"Let it be known," the herald continues, "that any person found harboring mages, or abetting the use of arcane arts, shall face the full severity of the law."

A murmur ripples through the crowd, a shared unease that knits their fates together under the shadow of magic’s corruption. In back alleys and between stalls, wary glances are exchanged, fear etched onto a myriad of faces.

"Furthermore," the herald's voice climbs higher, reaching a fevered pitch, "searches will be conducted at the discretion of the city guard to root out the nefarious elements among us."

A heavy silence follows this pronouncement — a collective holding of breath. The crowd shifts, uneasy. Perhaps there are a few who remember Delberelt, the panic and fear of that day.

"Magic is a blight —" the herald concludes zealously, beaming at the gathered crowd, "— a blight upon our fair city that must be cleansed."

Ehiasall’s heart is broken.

A foulness pervades the atmosphere; a heavy, grey tonnage lingers, blanketing the world below in shadow. The land is naught but dirt and mud now. The flowers are gone; the tree's limbs bare and trunks bleached like old, weathered bones; and the stream that had once run crystal clear and teeming with life through the Great Plains now cuts an infected gash into a dry, bitter earth. There bears no resemblance to the lush, green paradise it had been.

There is no sound. No buzz of bees, nor crickets to chirp. No bird song, trill nor squawk. The herders and their songs are gone, their huts stand empty; hearths cold. The brays and whinnies of meandering livestock herds have receded into memory, as has the bark of the dogs standing watch, and the consonant groan of tack leathers and clasp chink. Not even a grieving wind whispers. 

All that remains now of the last living things to have given up their struggle litter the desolate landscape, gnarled and broken amid the insurmountable Rot. And yet, not all is still.

The shadows writhe in the depths of a terrible darkness; a discarnate formlessness leeching oil-slick deep into every fissure of befouled earth. There, uninhibited by the reaches of light, it hungers, consumes and grows; tendrils of blackness reaching ever deeper, ever greedier into the ley lines —  poisoning the very magic from which it was birthed  —  so as soon not even the light will keep it at bay.

Something other is beginning to take form...

More than ever, mages have felt the need to organize in response to the rising hostility. Some seek safe harbors, others to pay blood with blood. People are caught in the middle are finding themselves ever more torn by the discourse, and forced to make a choice. When push comes to shove… what do they do?