Word of interesting events spreads quickly throughout the diminishing world. Although travel is difficult, the approach of the Disjunction has spurred tens of thousands into desperate flight across the land, and the news travels with them.

"In memorial of Lord Daverth a statesman who fought for harmony and cooperation in the darkest of times we call the emissaries of the world to Convocation within the shadow of the City; there to remember a good man who died fighting for his beliefs and to continue his quest for unity against the darkness that opposes us."

- House Daverth

From the eyewitness account of Vida Weit Gor, escaped slave

We had heard that Kyrine-in-Exile was accepting refugees and travelled as we could, across the dead and empty Sea of Bones. We slept, we woke and we marched. Thousands of us moving, like ants across the sands.

And then, as we slept, as our driftwood fires burned low, I heard the screaming. Low at first, and far away, a cries of fear, of terror. I awoke and all that I could see around me was panic and flight. And the Disjunction.

It was behind us, it was ahead of us. It seemed to envelope us. As if the wall of obliterating void had vomited forth terrible limbs blindly groping and reaching for something beyond its borders. It towered into the sky, huge and awful, black and empty, so empty.

I now know, as all must now know, that which all those who have ever gazed into the abyss of the void believed in our heart of hearts. There are no rules. There are no controls. There is no structure. There is no safety. There are no clever tricks. There is no certainty.

No certainty save one.

The Disjunction will devour us all.

We will all die.

And it will be as if we had never existed.

Around the Remains of the World, the Disjunction has now begun to shift and change, tendrils of void snaking out, advancing before the main body of the oblivion. It remains slow enough that a fast walking pace will, for the time being, outrun it.

A undelivered missive to Hierophant Kane sent by a Misericorde mission to the Tower of Chains

“Hierophant Kane had sent us to end the Blasphemy; a work of Sorcery the likes of which had not been seen in three decades.

We came within a day of it and saw a sight never hinted at in the rolls of heresy; a tower of seething chains rising endlessly into the heavens, gouts of lightning dancing between the links. Even as we moved towards the perimeter we heard a thunderous clang as in the distance some monstrous beast of unimaginable size, its form lost in the haze, hammered against the writhing column.

We made to move closer to the tower but as we came within a league of it the ground shook us from our mounts. From between the links bursts of golden light and tongues of golden flame shot forth, spiralling around the tower and we cowered in fear. Yet even as we quailed a song of glorious, inhuman beauty poured forth from the tower so that for a moment we thought the Trinity had revealed themselves to strike down this abomination.

Yet our hope died as the arcane fury with the tower flared, the chains falling away in an avalanche of burning metal and from within…from within came the darkness; rising up to consume the tower and the land around it. We fled and never looked back.”

My Lord,

I write swiftly. All is in chaos here. The Lord Daverth, recently ascended to some great position of worth, lies dead. His work in uniting the City Houses seems to be unravelling by the moment.

It seems by some tragic accident his airship has collided with with the City. I have asked my fellow ambassadors who are housed on this leg, but no one has the full details. The City folk seem very reluctant to speak of it. Indeed some now are making noises that we will be 'jettisoned'!

I fear the Lord Protector will take some severe action as a result of this misadventure. I shall assuredly write again soon.

Your Servant,

Roderick of Dagford.

“Know now citizens of Homton that you shall slave forever beneath dark claws of me- Lord Evernight!”

Groans from the crowd

“For years I was forced into the shadows. Cursed to crumble before the harsh light of your sun. But, now in this eternal darkness, I am King! Soon you shall become my blood-thralls and I shall rule until the end of time!”

Wails of distress

“Gaze upon the withered husk of your slaughtered salvation! That broken orb of sorrows shall stand as an eternal monument to my mastery!”

In the sky above the Sun suddenly appears encased inside a collosal jewel. Fire and light seems to burn from a tiny point within and then rushes out to shatter the gem and bathe the entire world in glorious, heart warming light.

“Noooooo….my only weakness!” Poof!

The Sun has reignited and burns brightly during the day. It dims towards evening, and then in a strange fashion the light distorts, as though passing through many facets, before recoalescing into the pale light of the moon. Both sunlight and moonlight leave those bathed in the light with a faint pleasant feeling of warmth and comfort.

For two days after the fall of the Hallowed Citadel, pages ripped from a journal float down from the highest window of the Tower of Bright Carvings. Taker forces eventually succeeded at gaining access to it, putting all within to the sword. Here are some excerpts from the surviving pages

“The Taker forces have been joined by troops from the Empire of Blood and Skulls, and I have heard reports of White-Robed & Masked priests of slaughter to the South. The Prelate-in-Ordinary Philonia assures me that so long as our walls hold, we shall prevail. Nonetheless, I am growing”

“The Gate of the Tripartite Blessing is fallen to treachery. The Takers are through into the lower city. I can see the Mendicant-Soldiers falling back from the walls. Fires, there are fires in the lower city and”

“The song, the music. It has destroyed me. Faith itself undone by the melody, by the words. Even as the Citadel falls, as the fires burn, that song, that song is the end. Faith is gone and with it our Fideism. In the sky above I can see the Golden Light of Sorcery building. Below me stone melts and flesh boils. It is”

“Fire, fire everywhere now. Smoke choking through the window. And the great Beast, the Metal Behemoth, crushing through the Citadel, buildings collapsing into catacombs as the great weight of it crushes everything before it. We”

“Twenty-two of us have now taken sanctuary in the Tower of Bright Carvings. Philonia lies, her head resting in my lap, her blood soaking into the ground. Soon we will be only twenty-one. The names of those of us who remain are”

The Hallowed Citadel now lies in utter ruins, and nearly every Churchman within is dead or enslaved.

A tavern. Somewhere.

“Times are tough.”

“Tell, me about it, friend. Can't barely move now for more people crowding into town. Food is almost gone, and the Disjunction ain't looking like it's gonna stop.”

“I hear over in Gainwood they raised walls up to keep the refugees out. Bad business. Near on a hundred people crushed against those barricades as I hear it. Trampled by those behind them. Then the damn wall came down and the folks outside swarmed in and killed half the bleeding town.”

“It's gonna get worse. Most of the rivers and lakes are drying up. Weather don't seem to be workin' like it ought if you ask me. Come a month from now, what are we going to drink?”

“Hey would you look at that?”

Beer in the man's tankard begins to float up the sides and then streams upwards into the air, slowly spinning.

“What in the wor-”

The world shakes. Bends. For a moment people float in the air, others stand frozen as if in amber. Fires burn blue then gutter and die or else explode in a catastrophic blaze. The earth groans, cracks and heaves.

All across Annica the world seems to forget itself, and madness manifests. Then it stops, and all returns to normal, save for those unfortunate enough to live in the town of Delk, where the earth has barked fire and a great volcano has risen.

Two Kyrinean scouts stand amidst a the ruins of a refugee caravan

“Gods' mercy! Who would do this to a child? The poor thing's face…It would have been kinder to kill the little one.”

“There's no kindness in the Eisotrophians. There's nothing but madness. Come, take the child and let us return to our main force. They'll be back, and in greater numbers!

The Eisotrophian's dominate the Southern half of the remaining world and their influence stretches as far as a the ruins of the Hallowed Citadel. Their losses to war, famine and plague must be horrendous, but still they come.

As the tower of Chains fell across the world echoed a song speaking of the destiny and heroism of Tycho Flyteworthy. All over the world people now hail him as the Lord of Glory.

It’s coming through a hole in the air, it’s reaching you through the soles of your feet and the soul in your breast. It’s touching you, and it’s touching everyone; a haunting melody that meshes perfectly with all that you are and all that you were, completing you. The soft tune just sifts through your spirit, playing it like a divine instrument, and leaves you more whole in the wake of its passage.

Refugee or city guard, warrior or medic, dying or being born; all are joined in this one musical certainty: the God of Glory is Tycho Flytworthy.

The God of Glory must be Tycho Flytworthy.

The God of Glory will be Tycho Flytworthy.

Words of a vagrant Misericorde, wandering outside the smouldering ruins of the Hallowed Citadel

“Do you see now!? Another Disjunction has been born! We tried to warn you and perhaps…perhaps out faith obscured the message; but that is in the past. I see now that the Gods are dead, I see that clearly.

But our message was a true one. Mankind should not wield the power of Gods; they should not possess the power of Sorcery.

Cities will burn and and countless multitudes will fall to these Sorcerers and what can mere mortals do to oppose them? We shall rue the day we let them rise to the heights of power, as we watch them work their Will upon the world with no regard for others.

We warned you and now our faith has died we cannot aid you. When the fire comes remember that we tried to help.”

A declaration issued by Lord Dreadulous I

All hail me.
For too long, the world has failed to tremble under the boots of my inept and insecure grandson. Darklording is not a state of dress, it’s a state of mind. You don’t need a ridiculous mask, a stupid black cloak, and a cane shaped like a childish fist to be a Dark Lord. You simply need an army of darkness that will unfurl across the world like blood across a wound, teaching the peoples' of the earth all the myriads of ways of expiring in exquisite agony.

Which is precisely what I’ve unleashed. See y'all die soon.

A declaration issued by Lord Dreadulous III

All hail Lord Dreadulous! No, not lord dreadulous the first, that obsolete impostor, no, me, Lord Dreadulous the Third, the only true, genuine Dark Lord.

No, not the glowing floating skull that ran away to Kyrine and pretended to be me. No, me, Lord Dreadulous the Third, the only true, genuine Dark Lord.

Look folk, I really don't see what's complicated about this. I'll re-explain it all to you in the Pit of Ice.

A pair of twins haul with all their strength on a cart, full of children. Beside the cart lies an ox, emaciated and dead from fatigue. Behind them, a forest burns and the Disjunction looms

“Heave there my brother Gordon.”

“Heave indeed good brother Duncan. Heave indeed.”

“Reckon we'll be getting this cart out from the mud afore that fire catches up?”

“Reckon we might if we put our backs into it.”

“Pity really that so many of them kiddies be so weak, as otherwise we might be better off walking with 'em.”

“Tis a pity indeed brother, but seein' as how they are too weak, and we ain't the sort to leave 'em here, best just to heave.”

“Heave indeed good brother. Can't go letting little kiddiwinks be left here for the fire or worse.”

Across what remains of the world, more and more refugees are now in a constant state of flight, never settling anywhere more than a few days before fleeing once more.

The lady Kassandra, my employer, has conceived an unaccountable objection to my cooking of her human and eelish citizens in my kitchens; what part of “anything, anywhere, for anyone” was hard to understand?

Anyway, she has shown her displeasure by hurling me into my own slow-cook oven, so now, loyal sous-chefs, I give you your last mission. My flesh is rather rich, so I recommend a Lemon based sauce, glazed but not too much, with asparagus as the main accompaniment… argh… Now, go to my room, and break out the emergency spices; if there’s an occasion to use them, now is the moment… argh… I demand oregano-flavoured stuffing, and my brain and liver would make a lovely casserole… argh… argh… argh… but whatever happens, don’t forget to… aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…….

• It just so happened to be, The Best Song in the World!
• ”…then Lord Dreadulous III did a Triple Backflip and kicked the guy in the head.”
• The will needs no vessel, it is eternal
• The crystal mage Prim has escaped his prison and is loose in the world.
• Sorcerers don't die. You might think you've killed one, but they're still alive. Watching. Waiting.
• The Tre Rái Cá Club is the finest place to get some privacy in That Which Remains
• Embrace the void and escape the cycle!
• Lord Dreadulous III is really great and any rumours suggesting otherwise are false and when I… I mean when HE gets his hands on the perpetrator there's bound to be a great spectacle at the Death Arena.
• The church moved something large out of the citadel before it was taken
• Your chief advisor is probably a spy for the eels.
• The next rumour is wrong.
• The previous rumour is correct.
• The world is ending. Everybody Panic.
• The Hierophant is a Sorcerer himself.
• You think Lord Mordaeon is tyrannical and horrendous? Hah! Amateur!