A long time ago, the world ended.

Everyone has their own stories of how or why it happened, of terrible armies, angry gods, or greedy kings. The truth is lost, the results are evident. Your world is the shattered remains of a land, fragments floating through the misty void, life clinging to them.

Far above are the storms; a prismatic vortex of light and energy from which rains fire, ice and things more terrible. The energies of the storms are fearsome and beautiful. To you, the storms are light, warmth, and death.

Far below are the mists; an endless boiling sea of cloud that seems to sing. There has never been a break in this cloud. What falls into the mists is never seen again.

You rest somewhere between the Mists and the Storms. The land you rest on has many names: Lightstone, Earthcloud, Homerock. It is a fragment of whatever world there was before, overflowing with plantlife and creatures. The fragments are countless, as small as pebbles or as large as mountains, drifting for as far as you can see.

The lands gently come together, and then lazily drift apart. By this you have traversed the world for as long as you can remember, salvaging what remnants of the old world you can find. A world now broken.