“ In the far reaches of a long-lost wilderness, there stands a forgotten town inhabited only by children. Though they appear normal enough, their eyes burn with madness, and they speak in a foreign, archaic tongue. Nearly a millenia ago, a powerful spell had gone awry, or maybe it had succeeded - in any case, it ended up blessing, or cursing, an entire generation of children with agelessness. However, as the centuries passed, the children's parents grew old and died, the buildings of the town crumbled to earth, and even the civilization itself faded into history, becoming lost to time. All that remained were the children, driven mad by the psychological toll of living for hundreds of years beyond their age. In time, most children died, killed off by fighting amongst themselves, while many others were driven to suicide. Only a small handful remain, and they are a strange people indeed.”
“ Meta energy...lent by lunos of the seven skys, father of the dragongods, has the power to alter events, rippling through time and space, no other form of energy is stronger, with the ability to even destory planets.It rips apart sheilds by going back in time before they were brought up. No weapon can withstand the force of such It is a power usable only by families bloodline, and those we have chosen to gift with miniscule amounts of its power. It not being of this plane, isn't even subjective to the so called 'gods' here. Different worlds, different levels of power.
It is a power of change and manipulation, essentially leaving us to create with it what we will, if our mind is strong enough to do so.
Large amounts of this inserted into any one being/energy will cause them to implode, ripping themselves apart and sucked into another dimension entirely.
The limitations of meta are only set by ones mind, an open mind has no limits to the powers of meta.”
“ Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the 'Ash-Wind' comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.”
