"In order to begin, a small tale is what I'll spin...
The sun hung low in the sky, painting the waters of the bay with strokes of gold and crimson. Targun, a simple farmer by trade, leaned against the weathered wooden rail of the pier, a fishing rod in hand and a basket of freshly caught crabs by his feet. His life was a simple one, bound to the rhythms of the sea and the soil, in the small fishing hamlet of Blackwater Hollow, nestled between the rolling hills and the vast, unyielding ocean.
The world beyond their shores was a tumultuous one. Word had reached their secluded village of the mounting tensions between their Divine Empire of the Midlands and the Kiyotaka Shogunate against the Spivs and the Gru down south in the Marches and Undvalscairne; the whispers of another, larger war growing louder each day. Factions within the cities to the east vied for power, their squabbles a far cry from the tranquil existence of Blackwater Hollow. Yet even here, they could not escape the encroaching darkness. Monster sightings had become more frequent, and the tales of the Umbral Coven’s sinister rituals reached their ears, casting a shadow of fear and superstition.
Despite the uneasy air that had settled over the land, life in the hamlet remained relatively untouched. The villagers went about their days, tending to their duties and seeking solace in the routine of their labors. Children played by the shore, their laughter mingling with the cries of seagulls and the gentle lapping of waves. In the evenings, the community would gather around the fire, sharing stories and songs, a reminder of the warmth and resilience of their spirits.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Targun felt a chill in the air, a creeping sense of foreboding. The moon began its ascent, a pale orb against the darkening sky. He glanced up, a frown creasing his brow as he watched the moon move, as if drawn by some unseen force. It was then that he noticed the strange alignment, the moon inching closer to the sun, an eerie spectacle that seemed to defy the natural order.
A hush fell over the village as the moon crested the sun, a brilliant corona illuminating the heavens in a blinding ring of light. Targun’s heart raced, a primal fear gripping him as the world plunged into darkness, the day suddenly turned to night. The Gloaming had struck, a phenomenon that no one in Blackwater Hollow had ever witnessed or imagined.
In the moments that followed, a deafening silence enveloped the hamlet, the air thick with an unspoken dread. Targun’s gaze was fixed on the sky, his mind racing with questions and fears, as the once peaceful existence of their village was shattered in an instant.
And just like that, the world they knew was forever changed...
A world ravaged by The Veil from within...
Princess Elara stood on the balcony of the grand palace, overlooking the bustling capital city of Cythara. The streets below teemed with life, a symphony of voices, music, and the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carriages. The setting sun bathed the city in a warm, golden glow, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets and the majestic spires of the cathedral in the distance.
Elara cherished these moments of peace, high above the world, where she could momentarily escape the burdens of courtly life and the weight of her royal duties. But even here, in the heart of the kingdom, the tension was palpable. The court buzzed with rumors of impending war, and the factions within the city grew ever more restless. The Umbral Coven’s dark machinations were whispered in hushed tones, their presence a blight on the otherwise vibrant tapestry of the capital.
As the sky shifted from blue to a deep indigo, Elara’s gaze drifted upwards. The moon, larger and brighter than usual, began its ascent, inching closer to the sun in an otherworldly dance. A strange, hauntingly ethereal aura filled the air, a feeling that something profound and unsettling was about to unfold.
Suddenly, the moon and sun aligned perfectly, and a brilliant halo of light encircled the moon, turning day into night.
The city below fell into an eerie stillness, the sounds of life and laughter silenced by the sheer awe of the celestial display. Elara felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart pounding as she gripped the railing of the balcony, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and wonder.
But the beauty of the moment was short-lived. A scream pierced the silence, followed by the clamor of panic and chaos. Elara watched in horror as the city descended into madness. From the shadows, monstrous creatures emerged, their grotesque forms illuminated by the eerie glow of the eclipse. They surged through the streets, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, their inhuman cries mingling with the terrified screams of the city’s inhabitants.
The palace guards rushed to arms, their shouts of alarm echoing through the halls. Elara turned and fled from the balcony, her heart pounding in her chest as she made her way through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace. The world she had known, the order and structure of her life, crumbled around her as the Gloaming unleashed its fury.
For three months, the city and much of the world would be ravaged by this first Gloaming, a relentless onslaught of darkness and terror. No one knew how it had happened or why, but the whispers of the Dark Mother and her underlings in the Umbral Coven grew louder, the blame falling squarely on their shoulders.
Elara could only watch as her kingdom fell into disarray, the once-great city of Cythara reduced to a shadow of its former glory. The haunting beauty of the eclipse had given way to a nightmare from which there seemed no escape...
Bear your teeth, through thick, and through thin...
The sky was a grim canvas of gray, the sun’s light filtered through a veil of thick, oppressive clouds. Twenty-five years had passed since the first Gloaming struck, and yet the scars of that day remained fresh in the minds of those who had survived. The world had changed, the fabric of society torn and frayed by the relentless onslaught of monsters and the subsequent wars that had ravaged the land.
Marcus, a grizzled veteran of the wars that followed the Gloaming, stood atop the ramparts of the city of New Cythara, a fortress built on the ruins of the old capital. His eyes, once filled with youthful hope, were now hardened by years of conflict and loss. The city bustled with activity below him, a hive of industry and preparation, as if anticipating the inevitable return of the darkness.
On this day, the anniversary of the Gloaming, a palpable tension hung in the air. Conversations were hushed, and the usual laughter and music of the streets were replaced by the somber tolling of bells. People moved with a sense of purpose, their eyes cast warily towards the horizon, as if expecting the darkness to return at any moment.
Marcus had seen firsthand the devastation that followed the first Gloaming. He had fought in the wars that had torn the world apart, brother turning against brother, kingdoms rising and falling in the blink of an eye. The Dark Mother and the Umbral Coven had been the scapegoats, the convenient targets for the fear and hatred that had consumed the world. But as the years passed, the lines between friend and foe had blurred, and the true enemy had become harder to define.
As the day wore on, the sky darkened, the clouds thickening until they blotted out the sun entirely. A shiver ran down Marcus’s spine as he felt the familiar chill in the air, a harbinger of the darkness to come. The city fell silent, the people holding their breath as they watched the sky, their faces a mix of fear and resignation.
And then, it began. The moon crested the sun, casting the world into a familiar, haunting eclipse. The Gloaming had returned, a cycle repeating itself in an endless loop of darkness and despair. Marcus gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white with tension, as the first monstrous roars echoed through the streets.
Hope was a fragile thing, a flickering flame in the face of overwhelming darkness. But it was not yet extinguished. The people of New Cythara and the world beyond had learned to endure, to survive in the face of the unimaginable. They had rebuilt and persevered, finding strength in their unity and resilience.
As the Gloaming engulfed the world once more, Marcus stood tall, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The darkness was a formidable foe, but it was not unbeatable. The world had been brought to the brink, but it had not fallen. Not yet. And so, as the cycle began anew, the people of New Cythara braced themselves for the fight, their hope a beacon in the night...
Hope, my friend, shall come back again."