History is an Illusion.


No one can say what the world was like before the Sundering. Bone dull or grandly fanciful? Did dragons do battle with gods among marshmallow marshes, or was the hammering gunmetal grey the only song heard by human ears? It is all terribly confusing to those who can see the cracks, who can feel the pull of history on their sleeve, calling them to revel in days were stillborn when the universe was young.

It is true, now, that magic and myth existed, at least in the minds of those who believed they saw them. Gods rose and fell of painfully fallible humanity, and legends arose of all-to-human heroes and villains taking up arms and songs against the darkness. All of this is true now, but none of it then.

The universe shifts and turns, the cracks breathing like a living pulse down through the ages, and with each flex little shifts occur. Grinding pieces from the edges of the seam to reveal wondrous and horrible possibilities, all of which are false but none of which are lies. This is where the Incarna is born, a child of many possibilities, all at once. Raised in them, with their life and their trials and their vision of a reality now forgotten by reason and reasonable men.

Here the Artifice is shaped.

Here the Incarna is birthed.

Here, the Immortal World breathes.


There was a day, one important day when all of reality fractured. When cracks split through the seams of creation, from beginning to end, in all directions and through every conceivable iteration. On that day, the fractures brushed against the lives of some people, casting them as reflections throughout the ages both backward and forward, a litany of funhouse-mirror faces staring back down through the ages for as long as there were or will be people upon the Earth.

In that moment, the space between the cracks became infinite, though the universe did not shatter. A new universe opened, ruled by the shifting roiling tide of whim and fancy that came crashing out and into the souls trapped within and without, touched by the facets of reality without ever knowing the cause.

On that day, the Incarna were birthed into creation, shadows and reflections down through forever, touching nothing and changing everything. They carry the promise of those cracks through their skin and their souls, and with it bring the promise of chaos and bliss, confinement and freedom. Burdened, with a terrible weight that sets them free.

That day was today.

That moment is now.

It always is.

It always will be.


Now, knowing, how does one step forward? Not only does the Earth spin and scream through the vast empty, so to does the vast nothingness scream as seams split and flex through its skin. A million billion futures open before you, some from your own past, and some from worlds yet untouched by living hands, whose soil is destined to be tilled by some child of a thousand years hence, for whom Earth is a shadow of folklore on the bedroom wall.

The Immortal World beckons, with its promise of absolute freedom within its gilded bars, where the legend you become becomes you, driving away any knowledge of you but the understanding of what you are supposed to be. It can be a frightening, manic world, filled with freaks and angels and a thousand crawling children who speak with one voice. It is beauty and paradise, choirs singing songs of love while grand stages show its most physical acts. The great clockwork winds past, as beasts hunt themselves across grass that breathes and cries with each passing step.

Yesterday, all of creation became a lie.

Today, the universe became a cracked and wondrous place.

Tomorrow, reality is in your hands.

The Winding Wierd