Prologue.
Khyrin is a city of paradox, set in a land where tech works and tech doesn't... depending on where you happen to be standing at the time. The reason for this is due to a wizardy cock-up of truly epic proportions almost four thousand years ago.
At that time the world as a whole nestled comfortably within the embrace of a soft wooly blanket of readily attainable mana. Magic held sway over everything and society existed purely because the power of magic... and those that knew how to control it... allowed it to.
In the land of Terellion a great and wise council of twelve overlooked the welfare of the land, adjusting and calming the flow of mana to make life good and plentiful for all. Technology advanced, but only to a certain level as the nature of the council and the power of the mana held sway over just how far society could go.
Indeed, it was something of a 'Golden age' for the race of man.
But then, typically, one of the council... Dave... white of beard and wide of eye, voluminous of nicely decorated robe and quite tired of doing his own ironing, decided that he wanted more in the way of technology. He wanted mankind to advance past the levels allowed by the rules of magic...
And so he sought to adjust the flow of the protective mana. Furtively, sneakily, he pulled and manipulated the eternal flow of the magical streams when nobody was looking, seeking to free certain areas of its influence and thus allow natural progression to occur.
But, whilst in the depths of his hidden lair, and during a particularly delicate ritual concerning several chickens, an imported squid and half a ton of chalk dust, he dropped a bollock and sent a catastrophic magical backlash surging across the land.
The end result?
Well.
Great, gaping, irreparable holes in the mana blanket were ripped wide, leaving huge swathes of the land and entire communities without the protection and power of the mana for the first time. Ever. This had the knock on effect of accumulating a massive concentration of mana in other areas as all of the displaced magic struggled to find someplace to fit in.
Time passed, years, decades and yes, centuries and within the land of Terellion society grew at vastly different rates. Mana free areas developed machines and devastating weaponry, motorised vehicles and a distinct attitude problem. Of course, this attitude took a nosedive upon entering a mana rich region, as all of the dangerous tech simply refused to work. Vehicles would simply stop dead and high tech weaponry would become nothing more than inert lumps of metal..
Within the mana zones, society reached a little way past the medieval stage, advancing technology only as far as the still functioning magic would allow.
Now the land of Terellion resembles a very large patchwork quilt of magic and non magic, of working tech and the frustrated cries of somebody whose brand new ninety inch plasma television refuses to work when he gets it back home. Of flintlock pistols that go boom and heckler and koch, super compressed, high damage, twin ratio, laser rifled weapons of death that simply sit there like very complicated paperweights.
***
Tucked away in a darkened corner of the sprawling vastness that is the city of Khyrin there is an alley. A little used, cobblestoned and damp collection of nondescript buildings clustered together in shadow and home to only sadness, neglect and despair. At the one end of this alley stands an abandoned three storey edifice, whose once proud facade now lies broken and cracked upon its forgotten surface.
Walking up three crumbling steps and pushing open the old oak door, you brush against flaking, peeling paint, ignoring the tarnished apathy of a broken brass latch as you step into a quiet world of must and decay. The stale odour of the lost and the neglected, collected in cobwebbed corners and trash strewn hallways that lead into nothing but blackness. Ahead of you is a set of stairs which creak and groan under the unaccustomed weight as you walk slowly up the threadbare, mold encrusted carpet to the floor above.
It is then that you notice the flickering glow of a light shining faintly from the bottom of the nearest door. It beckons to you, calling you forward to investigate, silently begging you to push open the door and step into the room beyond, to satiate your burning curiosity.
Should you be brave enough to look within, you will see the golden light of an oil lantern casting dancing shadows around a perfectly square room with one blacked out window. The lantern sits upon the decayed solidity of an old desk, the gentle light illuminating the scratches and marks of years gone by.
A figure sits on either side of the desk, both reclined in battered, high backed leather armchairs. The first, dressed in simple garments of leather, jerkin, troos and boots alike, is thin of face with a close cut goatee and dark, brooding eyes. His hair is fashioned in the style of the fop, complete with conveniently bouncing fringe. At his side you see a scabbarded sword with an impressive filigree hilt, a weapon of obvious class and exceptional workmanship.
Of the person opposite, the vastness of a black woollen cloak obscures everything but the pale tip of a nose and the manufactured falseness of a slightly too large handlebar moustache.
Should you be bold enough to move closer, edging nearer to the sound of low, conspiratorial voices, who knows what you might hear... ?
Step closer...
Listen...
