From the writings of Herbert Morlan, 1137 (100 AC)

I was 12 on the Day of Cataclysm. My first year at the Mage’s College in Tyvor, reading histories at dusk beneath the grand oaks in the garden commons. The sky grew grey and sudden wind swept the garden, like a swift spring storm was upon us. There was a great groan, like the twisting of some massive tree. The the crash, the noise was so great it knocked me to the grass, like a great fist of air that then held me in place. The world shook, the statue of then First Librarian toppled ans shattered. It was minutes or hours before the shaking stopped and I gain enough courage to get up. A fire had started just beyond the school wall, some of the students were forming a bucket line from the garden pond. It took an hour to put the fire out, some more hours to find friends, find who was injured, who was killed.

Then we noticed it, hours had passed, but it was still dusk. The sun had not moved. And it hasn’t moved now for 100 years. We didn’t know it that day, but over the months we would lear how forunate we were. Every coastal city in the Tyvorian Empire had fallen into the sea that day. To the south the dragon-built city of Belsis was crushed by massive waves.

What now remains is a world slowing starving. The lands to the west stuck under the midday sun have dried up and become a vast desert, to the east a frozen sheet of ice. And every year these wastelands grow, squeezing out what life remains on their borders.

100 years of research. 100 years of rituals, prayers, experiments and study. There is no answer, no cause, only the slow creeping truth, that these are our last days.

The Last Days of Ilam