In an age when mythical creatures roamed the earth, when colossal krakens ruled the
boundless depths of the seas, and runic bears - whose fur pulsed with ancient power -
wandered the lands, outward manifestations of magic were rarely witnessed. It was present,
yet hidden - flowing through the veins of the world like a silent current, unseen to the eye,
but felt by those who knew how to listen. Balance prevailed, and power held its rightful place,
untouched by the hand of man.
Yet this state could not endure. During the great war - its causes long since lost to memory
and the fading records of chroniclers - the very laws that governed the world were broken.
Spells cast without restraint, rituals performed in desperation, and weapons infused with
forces no one truly understood tore at the fabric of reality itself. Where chaos took root,
fractures appeared - thin as cracks in glass, yet as dangerous as open wounds - through
which venom began to seep.
At first, it was barely noticeable. Only the most sensitive spoke of a strange chill lingering in
the air, of dreams that did not belong to the dreamer, and of a silence that seemed to listen.
But with each passing year, the fractures widened, and what leaked from them began to
change the world in ways that could not be undone.
When the last kraken drew its final breath and its immense body sank into the ocean depths,
stirring the waters as never before, and when the bones of the last dragon began to gather
moss and fade into oblivion, something in the world broke for good. From shallow-rooted
streams of energy beneath the earth - where power once flowed unseen - the first crystals
began to grow. Sharp, gleaming, and pulsing with light, they were the physical manifestation
of magic left unconsumed when the creatures that once fed upon it and kept it in balance
were gone.
It did not take long for them to become just another part of the landscape. At first, they
inspired fear and distrust, but curiosity soon prevailed. Over time, many peoples learned to
harness them - to study their nature, to store energy within them, and to wield it for their own
purposes. The first schools were founded, the first orders arose, and with them the first
heresies. Thus began the age of magic - an era in which power was no longer guarded by
ancient beings, but by those bold enough to claim it.
Yet wherever good emerges, in the darkest corners evil takes root as well. Deep within the
chambers of long-forgotten temples, buried beneath layers of time, sand, and silence, the
boldest explorers uncovered something that should never have been found. It was neither a
relic of the old gods nor an echo of their might, but something older—something that should
not have endured.
With the excess of power in the world, its opposite returned. A black, malevolent force that
stains everything it touches, like spilled ink seeping into the very parchment of existence. It
does not burn, nor does it shine - it devours. It extinguishes light, suffocates life, and warps
all that falls within its reach. Nothing that has once tasted it ever returns to the light. Even the
most twisted followers of the ancient gods - those long devoid of morality - fear to wield it. It
is spoken of only in hushed voices, within sealed circles, and if it has a name, it is not uttered
aloud.
All the greater, then, was the astonishment - and the dread-when, for the first time in
recorded memory and in the oldest of chronicles, a figure appeared who was not consumed
by the black ink. More than that, they seemed to endure within it without harm.
More than that - They appear to live in symbiosis with it.