[turbine]
Event Page at Turbine
Leafcull, 14 P.Y.
Quoted Fiction at Turbine
She was gone. The Isparians had stood as one against an ancient creature that had seemed unstoppable, and they had emerged as victors, again. The full depth of her hives and tunnels systems was still unclear -- certainly they all hadnt been found yet -- but she was gone. The festival season could commence and all was well.
But all was not well on Dereth. A queen lay in a death-like slumber, struck down by a treacherous hand. The olthoi, without the guidance of their ancient leader, formed into individual hives led by young and old queens. The would-be hero of the Isparians, Nuhmudira, was missing. Those who saw her last report that she appeared bewildered and stricken with some sort of malady. Sharing her mind with the olthoi queens was debilitating and perhaps too much for her aging body to survive. Then there was the singing and the laughter that floated on the wind and rubbed the bones of every living creature.
That was the past. Winter fast approaches, now. The festival season begins, but a melancholy permeates the crisp air. Something is happening in the dark corners of Dereth and its subtle evidence can be found all across the land. Reports of disappearances, shady travelers and a war brewing in the Valley of Death spread. Adventurers search through ruins uncovered by dust storms and new tunnels shaped of earth.
Not all news is disheartening. From Fort Tethana, news comes of the weakening in the ranks of the Renegades. Crafters have focused their attentions on unlocking the great mysteries of the objects coveted by the loyalists who have taken residence in the ruins of Yanshi. Mask makers promise a host of new ideas that they will offer during this festival season. Friends and allegiances have become a little easier to spot in a crowd, so too have enemies that stalk each other across the world.
In a room, light returns, servants stand once again, and an old man rejoices. Beings of a dark duality are separated; one descends deeper into the inky recesses of all there is, the reflection is left behind. A lonely man slips through the shadows, feeding from the fear and death that seeps across the land. A woman sits alone in darkness, shivering, afraid to sleep because of the visions that swell within her dreams; horror made personal. Voices, echoing in ancient halls, speak of righting what has been made wrong. Two figures sit at a fire and listen to the ramblings of a sleeping and feverish third. Darkness peels away from a womans mind and as she stirs from a terrible dream, she is reborn.
Chaos breeds chaos. But even chaos ends.

