The gods died long ago, and even their corpses were devoured.
A hazy purple moon bathes the earth in its light. Even the greatest wizards will eventually meet their end.
Visitors from other worlds arrive in droves, like misshapen flames drawing in fragile moths.
When knights die to cannons and steam replaces horses, who keeps driving this unnatural Industrial Revolution, this false Victorian age, from behind the scenes?
In this rapidly changing era, perhaps the supernatural is the true dominant force:
The corpses of the mighty, the dregs left in potion bottles, knights brandishing broken blades, scarlet staining the sky screen, the purple moon hanging high at night, divine grace that is also the fruit of sin...
If every supernatural power comes at a price, then tell me: who is chasing the beyond? And who is paying the price?
Above this sea of witches, conspiracies spread like webs. Everyone is trapped in the game of the supernatural, wagering everything they have.
We know all too well: this is the sorrow of the rising tide.
If this world was already strange, it has now been polluted once again by malformed powers.
It's like adding yellow waste to a pile of black waste. In the end, you get nothing,
only a brown heap, just as foul-smelling and just as repulsive.
[This world is sick. When Cthulhu meets the Purple Moon (the wizard's brainstem), what ugly flowers will bloom from this mire?]
