“What in the Five Powers would create such a thing,” the grey-haired shopkeeper exclaimed, his hands forgetting the pot he had been carrying in their haste to shield his ears against the piercing screech that the creature unleashed in its own fear and panic; the man having jolted it awake from a most pleasant dream.
From the first days of the Knowing Races, it was felt by those more … sensitive. A balance, in the best of times, between overlapping and sometimes clashing energies that drifted like unseen currents throughout the world of Mynochral. The ebb and flow of darkness and light, order and chaos, and something else. Something that slipped by at the edge of sight for centuries, escaping like smoke in a fleeting zephyr as soon as one turned to make sense of the haze they thought they saw. The ghost of something one had not known in its life.
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