As the final sword stroke fell, the world gave way. Broken under relentless steel. Tempered by arcana long sealed by wiser men. The collective nightmare of a dead generation spilled forth from the now sundered plane.
The sky began to crack.
An inky darkness spilled forth, coating the sky in a ichorus black.
It dripped at first, slowly, dots of sludge staining the once magnificent sky. A corruption ever present.
Then the ground cracked and shook. It jerked suddenly as if it were a beast freshly branded.
A great fissure split Kor’Kala. It broke into the palace, tearing off the western wall. Once brilliant marble now reduced to rubble before the witnesses on the stairs.
With another great rumble the fissure split in two. From below the ink bubbled up to where the land once stood. An indigo shimmer gave the liquid that roiled forth an swampy thickness.
The continents drifted from one another. As the ground opened below.
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