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In the time of your ancestors, the world burned. A generation of conflict between every nation, bringing every civilisation to its knees: alliances shifted as fast as territory changed hands, and the fighting only stopped when no side had the resources or troops to carry on.

At least, that’s what the salvaged fragments of history indicate, etched in stone and buried in disintegrating tomes. Fact and fiction merge until you can be sure of nothing: air ships the size of cities? Craft that flew above the highest clouds, and through solid rock? Weapons that cut through platoons like a fireball through butter? The finest artificiers these days could just about keep a boat into the air, until propulsion failed spectacularly.

You were born into a country far less grand than your people’s legends tell it, but isn’t that always the case. The races are scattered across the face of the planet, new isolated pockets of civilisations rising out of the ruins of the old or wherever they scattered during the war. The world marches on, each year bringing another technological marvel that treads in the footprints of the old. Airships are getting more reliable, black powder more powerful, and reports had the Gnomes trapping lightning in jars.

Every day, in every way, the world is moving on.


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Spelljammed Chuckleboy