The Deorlas looked out and what they saw was uncertain.
The Dwarves and Mountain Orcs withered, wrapped in a senseless war that had driven both races to nigh genocide.
Martessia was embroiled in a knot of entangled intrigue; the nation carelessly dancing along the streams of magic without realising their reckless abandon.
Imberia tried to forget it’s bloody past, ormant warriors souls resurfacing in the outraged passion of fiery youths. Elders feared the return of tyranny whils the rising generations took up arms out of necessity.
The Osiran flames burned bright, scorching all that they touched. Lavish lives laid upon the backs of shackles slaves suffering the southern sun could only last so long – as the brightest light casts the darkest shadow, so too does the biggest flame burn quickest.
The Greenskins continues to live their simple wandering lives, facing nature every day and disputing ancient grudges with their fellow clans in largely ceremonial contests.
Goblins crawled over the walls of their hives in uniformity, with one directive; goop must flow.
The Elves huddled in the darkened forests, stealing victims in the dead of night from Imberia to sacrifice. Red water birthing generation upon generation of twisted flora away from the eyes of the world.
And the dragons? The dragons were gone.
The Deorlas looked out, searching for answers.
They found none.