The Great Storm

As you reach the top of this golden hilltop, you spot a skeleton clad in tattered robes of once brilliant colors, faded and stained by time, that lay partly immersed into the earth. The fabric flutters, revealing a small moldy and yellowed tome. You take the book into your hands, brushing the leather-bound tome that bears no title on spine nor cover. Upon opening the book, it greets you with a crackle as if letting out a sigh. You flip and flip until you find a page with faded ink. The language to you is, surprisingly, comprehensible. It seems to be an old dialect of the common tongue you speak as your eyes run over the frayed pages.
The world of Vhosparus, as we knew it, is gone. Where our cloud-touching cities formerly stood, only rubble and ruin. Granted, it's been a week or so since the so-called apocalypse claimed this world, but life is just as crafty as death. The light - Sols' Light - isn't easily extinguished. I've been hiding in a wine-cellar near the Vestoi's home, drinking the wine and eating the berries with the least amount of white-fuzz I could find. I lay here inside of what is left of the Vestoi's cottage, rest their souls, in my 23rd year, writing into a book that was spared death. I pray that someone should find my ramblings someday. I know not what was has claimed my world, but I know that I will be taken in time as well. My name is Ishtir Urstos. I am of the former nation of Talaj, which no longer stands as far as I know. I was a magus in training inside the tower of Aedilona inside the quartz quarter of what is left of the city. Strangely, the tower seems to no longer exist. Where it previously lay, a cavernous hole that I've yet to find the bottom of has taken its place like that of a bunghole unstoppered from a barrel.

I'm not sure what day it is, for I've been scavenging for the last twenty or so. My hunger is bound to take me more so than any direct product of the apocalypse. Seemingly I'm the only one who survived with their wit intact. I encountered a small group of people feasting upon the carcass of some sort of woodland creature. From what little I saw of them, their skin was pale and cool in color with eyes that seemed they were looking straight through whatever they gazed upon. I say this knowing that what I could make out as a human male stared right through me. I felt like a window. I felt like I didn't even exist and that I was simply like that of a deity watching in solemnity. I left in a scuttle, of course. I know not what those people have become, though I've decided to refer to these poor, soulless creatures as the Pale. Simple one-syllable name. Impossible to forget.

I'm writing this exactly five days after my first encounter with the Pale. I've been spotted by a hulking man - or what was formerly a man - that let out some sort of shrill noise to alert what slowly began to become a herd. I ran as fast as my shaking legs could carry me, and they gave chase. I've never experienced a sound so eldritch and harrowing. I couldn't even begin to describe it. I was feared for my life, and it was a cacophony of death. I leaped into a lake after galloping and weaving through the brambles of the wood. The lake was brackish and had a scourge of insects patrolling about on the hunt for blood. I've heard of these blood flies before, bet never had I seen them the size of my thumb. I sit here picking leeches from my skin. The Pale were afraid of the blood flies. I was as well, but I had no choice. Thankfully, the bloody bastards hated water as much as they did. The hour is late, and I've taken to setting up my camps in abandoned buildings. I lay in a fishing shack that has a prodigious hole in the roof as if something at one point had smashed through it. To my surprise, as daunting as the sky is the faint hint of blue and violet spin through a thick layer of churning fog that denies a clear view of the moons or the clouds. It is almost beautiful. Comparable to looking at a wild creature and admiring it, yet seemingly forgetting what terrible violence it would deal upon you if it were to be wiser to your existence.
Four days after the 'Pale' incident. Today I swallowed my fears and decided to make my way through the town that some time ago was my home, Eidale. The buildings were a strange sight. The stone paths are stained with maroon splotches and the edifices that had always stood proud and bright now sag as if saddened by the state of the world. I finally found myself able to focus enough to muster magic. With it, I thrust the nails from the boards that barricaded the doors of a humble book shop I frequented in my youth. It was as dark as pitch inside and I mustered a mage-light to guide my way. The appearance of the light wasn't a normal bauble of candle-like light, for it flickered with strange colors like a chemical fire. Before I could go any further, written in black paint were the words, "THE GREAT STORM HAS COME". After staring for a might longer than I should, I discovered a tome beneath. It is sizable and old. By my estimate, the tome is well over seven-hundred pages, filled with scattered and disorganized pieces of information about the weave that binds magic to the material plane being torn asunder. The writing is so small and hastily scrawled, that I can hardly understand anything besides small pieces. I'll keep reading and record what I discover.
Two days after discovering the tome. I've concluded that some sort of crazed oracle must've penned this days before 'The Great Storm' as they called it culled the land. It details exactly how this event would come about: some sort of overwhelmingly powerful magics would essentially thin the weave so much that it would simply combust on itself. But what exactly does that mean? According to the information I've gathered and learned from my former master, magic hasn't influenced the world in such a manner since the death of the Opiitian people of West Ordia. Perhaps there lay another civilization beyond the drink? I suppose I'll never know.

Flipping through the pages, you find that some are so severely damaged by moisture that they are completely unintelligible. The last page or so is stained, causing what is decipherable to profusely melt into the old parchment.

2 days since the attack. Running out of water. Running out of food. My wounds are grievous. I cannot write for very long. Teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. I fear this is my final log. The Great Storm destroyed what we knew. It destroyed lives and edifices. I lay atop a hill, gazing upon a group of people. Actual people. Not the Pale. PEOPLE. I finally understand. What we knew is gone. Survivors shouldn't forget what we were but need to create something new. A blank canvas. Yes. A new beginning. A start over. I just wish I could see what was to become of Ordia. To whoever finds this, look forward. Remember what has happened, but do not look back.

Manifestation

The Great Storm manifested itself as a great mass of ominous clouds that sometimes produce strange phenomena. Lights, harrowing noises, and strange shapes have all been seen in pockets of the Storm especially where it still lingers. Manifestations include pockets of the Storm that twist the weave wherever it rolls over like a great fog bank, leaving creatures and the land twisted. Some occurrences have even led to people seeing events of the far past taking place like a family having dinner or a hunter on the prowl.

Localization

What is now left of Ordia was formerly known as Northern Ordia. The majority of the continent itself was swallowed by the storm, leaving only the North somewhat intact. Entering the storm almost certainly guarantees death, for people that have even passed through a pocket in Northern Ordia have experienced strange occurrences. Hearing strange voices, growing an extra limb, skin changing colors, the growth of tentacles or scales, or sometimes instant death. Central Ordia, as it once stood, is gone. It is completely uninhabitable. Even if one were to survive the initial entrance into the Storm fog, the air inside is incredibly noxious and one could only see five to ten yards ahead of themselves. No one truly knows what lay beyond, but an overwhelming majority of people know not to enter lest they wish to meet a terrible fate.

Type

Metaphysical, Arcane