Dark Tidings (event)
The Foglands stir.
I can feel it in my bones, in my every breath—I feel it every time I wake up at night, covered in sweat, gasping, heaving, struggling to escape the adumbral shapes that haunt my dreams. Mornings offer no respite as the sunlight grows dim and tattered, and silent whispers fray the edges of my sanity.
The eye of the coming storm eclipses the moon, the bones of Aeras shudder, and mountains wail in terror.
The others do not notice—they do not understand.
They do not Listen.
And they shall not Become.