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It is well known that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

It is also well known that oftentimes people convince themselves that they mean well, when in truth they are self serving and filled with greed.

This was the story of the covenants of old. They professed to mean well, and many even fooled themselves into believing it was true. Each had some reason they thought the power was worth wielding, some excuse to validate the minds and souls they were defiling in the attempt.

It did not help that so many feared death. It did not help that they thought this power they were foolishly attempting to harness would help them escape it.

It was only when something slipped through that they realized they had bitten off more than they could chew. It was only the intervention of the divine that saved them. The monstrous beast that came through was near impossible to lay into the ground, and even then it could not be slain, merely put to sleep. The horrifying part wasn't so much the difficulty of defeating that beast, but the fact that it seemed it was roughly the equivalent of a squirrel in comparison with some of the other entities on the Outside.

After the monstrosity crawled through the gap and into our world, those people who had been such fools came to their senses and made every effort to lay it down and to seal the door.

The door could not be wholly sealed. Reality itself was wounded… the energies pulsing through the cracks were its blood. Only Time could heal it.

The Covenants, thoroughly shaken and nearly wiped out by the terrible creature, relented in their efforts to harness the powers of the Outside… powers present only because of Reality bleeding. They disbanded, all but a few left to guard the isle while the wounds healed.

At least… that was the agreement.

One covenant couldn't relinquish their greed. When it became apparent to the others that they were still tampering with the wounds, there came an inquisition. Violet lightning crackled through the sky for years as the Onyx Guardians hunted down every last black cloak they could find. It wasn't ideal, but it was necessary.

But the Onyx Dragons died out not long after. It is suspected that the stragglers of that covenant of greed found some way to eradicate their oppressors, the only ones who could detect their presence, and therefore survive.

In their meager numbers, that last covenant laid hidden in Anaril, waiting until they were forgotten enough to resume their efforts to harness the powers of the Outside bleeding into our Reality. They waited long enough that the wounds very nearly finished healing. Magic was behaving normally most of the time once more… and then they again arose.

In their rabid pursuit of power and immortality, they reopened the wounds, gleefully beginning to carelessly gut Reality to sate their lust for power. They were nothing if not persistent.

Two hundred years ago, in another great war, it was thought that they had once again been put down. Without the Onyx Dragons to hunt them, however, there was no way to be certain. The wounds were again bleeding heavily, though not quite as heavily as they had all those millennia ago. They were to be left alone again, left alone so Time could stitch them back together and eventually sever Reality from the Outside once and for all.

The wounds are still being tampered with. They are bleeding more now than they were two centuries ago when it was thought that the meddlers had finally been sufficiently squashed. Someone must have rallied them. Someone took over leading them when the war was thought to be won.

The Black Covenant is alive and well… and they must be stopped at all costs, lest our Reality be torn apart at the seams.

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