 Welcome to the first, and possibly last, of the great cities of the dead. Welcome to a Necropolis so vast and steeped with dust and age that not the armies of the Malfeans, nor the armies of Jade that came before them, nor the screaming winds of the Maelstrom could break its back. Welcome to London. Now, in these days following the impact of the Sixth Great Maelstrom, when the winds still ravage the streets and beat at the cracking walls that have stood firm against them for centuries, the Shadowlands of London are a twisting, chaotic place. Spectres ravage the world from both sides of the Shroud, and the powerful Nephwrack Shadowshimmer, thrown through the shroud by the Maelstrom, rages in every fire and death and murder, dancing in the rubble as she wrestles the world to its knees and her army crosses both sides of the Shroud, wiping out every Pardoner and Wraith blessed with Castigate it can find. Contact with the outside world is all but non-existent, and those that do fight against the winds of the Maelstrom to reach the city tell of a few disparate Necropoli left scattered across the world, fighting desperately against their own downfall, Too wrapped up in holding back the Maelstrom to care about any city but their own. A faceless prince at the head of a Heretic Cult is proclaimed ruler of all London, and no one has yet opposed that rule, although the Cult seems to have no military strength to back up their claim or enforce their rule. The Hierarchy were decimated by the Jade attack and the Maelstrom that followed it. Those that were not lost, abandoned their posts, and now only a handful of loyal soldiers remain, slogging it out with an equally small number of Renegades for control of the Thames, not wanting to see how low their power has ebbed. The Guilds rise and fall, break and reform in the chaos. It was the Artificers Guild that united to save the city, rebuilding and reinforcing the wall that held the Maelstrom back, and they doubtless would lay claim to power, if the Guild had not finally suffered the complete divide between old and new that has been coming for so long now. The Harbingers are all but extinct after mounting a crusade to brave the Storm and reach out for help from the other Necropoli, from which most of their number did not return. The Pardoners have their own problems to worry about and are hunted in every corner of the city by Shadowshimmer's Army. And that just leaves the Freewraiths: the unorganised group of unaligned Wraiths that make up the majority of the city's population. Making their own way in the world and gathering at the large, communal Haunts that lie in the hands of their number. It was in the midst of this chaos and darkness that the Wraiths began to receive world from the city's other denizens. All were faced with their own darkness that suddenly seemed so organised, so effective, and the disease that spread ennui and turned souls to ash, was causing all great losses. And so the Restless joined the council to add their own darkness to that of the others in the hope that in by uniting, they may fight back. But the Maelstrom had one further effect on the lives of the dead, and one that they could never have expected. For when the Maelstrom hit, the Shroud was weakened by the hundreds of souls that were cast through it, and now lies in tatters about the feet of the Dead. Many more of the ranks of the Vampires, Fae, Garou and Magi can see London's dead then ever before, reports of hauntings are rocketing, and breaking the Shroud has never been so easy or so uncontrolled by the Hierarchy. And so it comes to pass that in the cold, colourless city, wracked by storm, fragmented, fractured and frightened, that the reigns of power fell through the fingers of those who have held them for millennia, and in the hands of the Enfants. In these dark times when Shadows are stronger and inky fingers rarer then ever before, all that has come to pass is crumbling, for the first time, the dead are fighting back ... |