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The world, as we know it, has come to it’s end.

For hundreds of lifetimes of men, we were chased out of the forest and fen. Out of the marble towers of Arcx, the smoky warrens of Urien. They harbored in the very thatch of our beds, in the guise of our people. Impervious to the Gods – whose rancor shown through the lips of their priests. Immune to the armies of the Gouw. The Shadow of Man broke upon us as the sea. Shattering the will of a cursed land.

They had chased us to the Port of Llyrien with the hordes of man before us and the Sea of Mist beyond. We parted then, into the unknown: Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Dragonborn, Tiefling and Eladrin.

We believed then, at that darkest hour, that the time of the Faekind had come to its end.

A thousand years after the culling of Faekind, a child is born in the writhing, pestilence filled ghetto of Portsmouth. Born to an illiterate, dying teenage girl within whose bloodline ran, unknown for generations, the blood of the High Elves. It is this birth – a sigil watched for among the secret and disparate enclaves of Faekind beyond the Sea of Mists – that brings together several strange persons from across the sea.

In their hands lay the fate of Faekind and, perhaps, the fate of the World.

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