The vale between ‘this’ and ‘the other’ has worn thin. centuries of disregard for the careful balance between the magical and mortal worlds has caused a once clear delineation to smear. few realize what it means if these wounds continue to tear… and even fewer know how to repair the damage. the elder races have seen this rash of magic as a boon, ripe for the taking… merchants profit off the rape of arcana, dug from the bowels of antiquity. they spice their wine with the residuum of lost empires, growing fat and complacent at the world’s breast. even now, that milk slowly sours… and i fear, when the age changes, nary a soul will be prepared for the undertide laping upon our shores.