The Rift Storms

02-22-1899 - 03-08-1899 (‘25)

It was as if the sky had split open, lightning tearing through the heavens as red consumed the world around them. Beams of light struck the earth, ripping open rifts unlike anything anyone had ever seen. From these fissures poured monstrosities—twisted, evil, sinister. Many fled, crossing borders, piling onto boats in a desperate bid for safety. Others stayed, determined to defend their homes, their livelihoods, and their loved ones.

For two weeks, an unending night swallowed the land, the sun eclipsed by the darkness that clung to the Badlands. No one could tell when one day ended and another began. The undead roamed ceaselessly, cultists attempted to lay claim to the land, their eerie chants echoing through the streets as they left disturbing offerings to drive residents away. Exhaustion and madness crept in, turning brothers against one another, fracturing trust, and unravelling the bonds of once-unbreakable communities. Some people vanished without a trace, their fates unknown—missing, taken, or worse. Others were confirmed dead, their remains grim reminders of the horrors that lurked in the endless dark.

The longer the rifts remained open, the larger they became. The red moon, suspended in the ink-black sky, deepened in colour, its glow intensifying as reality itself frayed. Beams of light continued to pierce the earth, tearing wider holes in existence, until it seemed as though the world would be bathed in blood. Yet, amidst the chaos, groups emerged in every region, standing against the darkness despite their fatigue. They fought relentlessly, their bodies aching under the weight of endless battles. Slowly, they began to notice a shift—the number of rift-born entities dwindled. And within the heart of the Badlands, a new sense of purpose took root.

Hope.

Hope is a powerful and dangerous thing. Even after two weeks trapped in eternal night, people fought harder, longer. Unexpected alliances formed, even if only briefly, as survivors poured every ounce of strength and desperation into reclaiming their world.

Home. Family. Purpose.

As time passed, the rifts began to shrink. The shrieks of beasts clawing their way from the portals no longer sent people scrambling in terror. The undead, once a relentless tide, were met with fearless resistance. Even the cultists, with their incessant chanting that once drowned out all thought, no longer commanded the same dread. Though the darkness still loomed, the world was beginning to heal. And with each victory, the weight on everyone’s hearts grew just a little lighter.