It is a difficult thing to transcend the sins of one's forebears. For all that the past is still and immutable, it nonetheless races toward us when we look away from it. And when we are distracted, our eyes focused on the unformed horizon of a new day, often it is in this moment that the past takes us unaware.
There are no firsthand accounts detailing with certainty what happened one hundred and thirteen years after the end of the Summoning War—during the reign of Queen Mysandra Thalvarn, remembered as the Iron Queen of Yldan. The truth of how the Multitude first entered our world has been lost, swept away by the sheer chaos of those final days. What remains are fragments—whispers of testimony recorded only after the Diaspora, conjectures formed in hindsight, and the terrified recollections of those few survivors who made it to Thaedros with their minds still intact.
Even the precise location of the first emergence remains uncertain. Some scholars posit that it began in the shattered remnants of southern Yost, near the borderlands of the Imperial Remnant. Others claim it first appeared in Ainor's great forests, or the distant tundras of Luthstrieg. In truth, it may have been all these places at once, for when the Multitude came, it did not arrive as an invading force pressing forward from a single front. It was simply there, woven into the very fabric of reality, unraveling the world at its seams.
Among the most widely cited accounts is a single, chilling journal entry dated six months before the Diaspora, written by a Marshal Yannis Svaldasdottr, an Athandr dwarf stationed near what had once been the border between Yost and the Imperial Remnant. It reads:
"It was not darkness, Fadr. It was not even black. It was an un-light, an absence so absolute that even to look at it was to fall, as though the very ground and air and sky—indeed, even the flesh of my own body—were but a stage being tilted until I should lose my footing, and feel myself plummet into oblivion eternal. When I say, Fadr, that I was frightened, I cannot tell you that it is true in the common sense of the notion. Rather, it was as though the mountain itself were afraid, and as it shuddered, I felt but a pale echo of that tremor in the very depths of my soul. It is coming, Fadr. It is coming, and I am afraid."
This was the final entry in Svaldasdottr's journal, but on the following page, a missive and a writ of passage appear to have been hastily scrawled, signed with her name. It is my belief that upon witnessing the first signs of the Multitude, she dispatched messengers in every direction—perhaps toward Yldan, perhaps further afield—to warn of what was to come. It was an effort made in vain, for by the time any message could have reached those in power, similar horrors had already unfolded elsewhere.
It is now widely believed that the Emergence occurred simultaneously across Encara. Worldgates that had long been sealed by divine intervention stood silent and untouched, but the lands surrounding them became... nothing. Not razed, not barren, not even scarred—just gone, erased as though they had never existed at all. This was the same terrible power that Algrim Vanbrauscht had once summoned to end the Summoning War, but now, there were no desperate sorcerers to bind it, no warlocks to leash it, no hands left to direct its purpose. It had no master.
And wherever it emerged, it began to spread.
At first, there were attempts to resist. How could there not be? The nations of Encara had fought against devastation before and emerged from the ashes stronger than ever. Surely, this would be no different. A grand coalition of the greatest magic users, warriors, and scholars from across the world assembled to combat this new threat—wizards and druids, clerics and paladins, even warlocks and artificers, all putting aside their differences to hold back the tide. The first encounters were met with what seemed, for a time, like success. Barriers of raw magic were erected, ancient rites of containment were performed, even the gods themselves sent forth their champions to battle against this encroaching annihilation.
But the Multitude could not be stopped. Every defense placed in its path was simply another thing for it to devour. Enchanted walls of arcane force lasted longer than stone, but not forever. Divine seals flickered and held for days before collapsing into themselves. It was not a force that could be fought—not with swords, nor spells, nor the faith of the most devoted clerics. Every strategy was merely a delay.
And then came the horrors. The Multitude was not content with simply unmaking the world. From its depths, things began to emerge. At first, they were formless, writhing, shifting things—masses of flesh and claw and teeth, gibbering hungrily as they dragged themselves free from the void. But as more appeared, it became clear that they were not separate creatures at all, but expressions of the same singular entity. These were not invaders, not a legion of otherworldly conquerors seeking dominion over Encara. They were the Multitude's failed attempts at creation. Or perhaps, at self-expression.
And they were hungry. In a matter of weeks, whole provinces vanished beneath waves of incomprehensible monstrosities. Where once the coalition had fought to contain the Multitude, now it fought simply to escape it. The gods of Encara themselves took to the battlefield, manifesting through their champions, bringing their divine might to bear against an enemy that had no mind, no purpose beyond hunger.
Felidara Thanorax, the Opaline Saint, did not begin the work which ultimately delivered us to Thaedros with the intent to abandon Encara. In the earliest days of the emergence, as the Multitude began its slow, inevitable consumption of the world, she sought to re-seal the worldgates, believing that they were still the key to undoing what had been set in motion. It was during this effort that she uncovered the lost journals and notes of Algrim Vanbrauscht and Ciaranol Kalvorsson. Their research, written in the midst of the Summoning War, was a desperate attempt to understand and control the very forces that had now spiraled beyond reckoning. As she read, a horrifying truth took shape—there was no undoing what had begun. The Multitude was not a thing to be sealed away; it had already rooted itself in Encara's fabric. It could only spread, only consume, until nothing remained.
Faced with this bleak reality, Felidara turned her research toward an unthinkable alternative. If the worldgates could no longer be closed, then perhaps they could be used as they were originally intended—as passages to other planes. If they could be activated properly, all at once, then the people of Encara might yet escape. It was a desperate solution, one that she herself struggled to fully accept. When she brought her findings before the rulers of the west, the answer was unequivocal. No one was willing to flee. For all that had been lost, for all the suffering endured, the people of Encara would fight for their home. They would stand against the darkness.
That belief shattered on the night that Tyrmaln, god of dusk and death, cycles and boundaries, walked upon Encara.
It is recorded that in the great hall of Yldan's palace, in the presence of Queen Mysandra Thalvarn and her assembled court, an attending cleric of Tyrmaln fell into a sudden trance. A hush fell over those gathered as the woman's body grew rigid, her eyes filled with twilight, her voice no longer her own. It was Tyrmaln himself who spoke, manifesting in the world as he never had before. He did not come to rally his followers, nor to promise salvation. He came with a warning.
Doom had come not only for Encara, but for the gods themselves.
They would stand against the Multitude, he told them. They would hold back the darkness for as long as they were able, but they could not do it alone. If their people remained, if they chose to stand and fight, they would be consumed along with everything else. The only hope for survival lay in escape. Felidara Thanorax, he declared, would find a new home for those who could be saved. Then, just as suddenly as he had come, Tyrmaln was gone. Whether he gave the same message to other nations is unknown, but it is widely believed that similar visitations must have occurred elsewhere, for within days, rulers across the world began to turn their eyes toward the worldgates.
It was then that Queen Mysandra issued her final decree. All who were able and willing would join the Shining Legion. Clerics and paladins of every faith answered the call, as did knights, mages, and common folk alike. In one final, desperate stand, they would hold the Multitude at bay for as long as possible, buying time for Felidara and her coalition to see their plan through. Among those who joined her were the devoted clerics of Broghna, goddess of passage, travel, and secrets. It is said that she called her followers to this task herself, guiding them to aid Felidara in the creation of the spell that would activate the worldgates one final time. Across Encara, wizards, sorcerers, and warlocks—many of whom had once sworn never to tamper with such magic again—gathered for a singular purpose.
But even as the spell took shape, the final, unanswerable question remained.
No one had ever crossed through a worldgate and returned. There was no way to control where the gates might lead. They had no way of knowing if there was even anywhere to go. And yet, they had no choice but to try. With the Multitude devouring their world and time running out, Felidara and her coalition had to find a destination, one chance to lead the people of Encara into the unknown.
One chance to find a new home.