There was a world once long, long, long ago where time was orderly and righteous. Magic was buried deep in the crust of everything. Life forgot about magic and time churned and churned until all the edges of one day blurred into one year and a year into an eon.

Everything (humans,animals, plants and space) forgot that time was a beautiful and feral thing when the mood took it. It wasn't until time had ticked itself down to nothing that the world remembered the magic buried in the hearts of everything. Death was coming for everything and everything shook off its sheep skin for a cloak of desperateness.

And so the world went digging, down in the rocks and rust. Seers sold their prophecies to the desperate until the desperate tore between their ribs and ate their hearts to maybe give themselves magic they could own. The world descended into chaos in the quest of survival. Even the plants and animals turned to cannibals so that their genes might become eternal when all the others died.

While everything forgot about time in their desperate plea for magic, time did not forget about everything. Ocean's dried up and mountains sprouted from marshes. Strange fantastical places swallowed up deserts and stars devoured soft, silken clouds. Time had found it's own magic and nothing would be the same in the wake of it.

Years passed in this frantic chaos; maybe centuries or merely days. Only time knows how long the world descended into a violent, unrelenting death knell.



Only one girl (barely old enough to be called a woman) was touched by only magic. Time had passed over her for the magic had whispered wisdom to her.

In blood she had anointed herself. Over and over again she prayed over death until her veins flowed with the blood of humans and animals and plant sap. The girl became a thing time did not know and she she survived it's wrath where others descended into desperation.

The girl started to kill to save the suffering of everything. One by one she devoured souls until her touch expanded to acres and then to miles. Most of the dead had giving willingly but there were times that there were not enough souls to soothe the time and magic. And so the girl took to corpses and rotten flesh where the blood flowed thick and thin (but still it flowed and that was the only thing that mattered).

It was the dead that began her descent into madness. The remnants of their strife corrupted her good intentions. Her quest to master time became vicious and the dead began to pile into mountains. Finally the magic, turned away by her instability, stopped whispering to her.

The girl, now queen of her iron and ore city, still remembered some of the secrets of magic and she was able to hold the chaos of time away. Still she reigns, locked away in her towers while the city below her thrives but giving freely to the blood-lust of her. Everything between her walls took on once again, their skins of sheep. They are happy to forget about the broken time and the magic that now runs wild and rampant.

But eventually the rivers of blood will run dry and time will reclaim what belongs to it (and everything can be sheep no more).



The Riftlands are a highly unstable place. Time and magic are unchained and tangled together. Lands can vanish in a day and oceans in dry up to nothing in the blink of an eyes. The past, present and future follow no order and they never end.

The strange has become normal. Maybe a forest is made of stone and rust; maybe a cave is formed with man-eating flowers and gemstones. There is nothing that cannot be here, nothing that cannot happen. Death and life follow no rules and you can be killed in one moment and born the moment before that.

The only thing there is to do it survive. Random creatures will pop out of nowhere, quests will be given and magic can be earned and tamed. You may take any occupation you like, sell your soul, thieve, kill or save the sheep from themselves.

In the Riftlands there is nothing one cannot become.