About 1,200 years ago there was another jarring twist, the Gates of Death tried to snap open and swallow the world. Once more, anonymous and long-forgotten heroes thwarted the attempt. However, even a momentary breach drew a mass of the world down below the surface, this time some islands in the sea.
The sky is not broken. Instead, when you look up, you see the deep cracks and rivulets in the ghost of the surface. To see the sky, we look up past the memory of the surface and its ocean, that rematerialized after the Gates of Death were again clamped shut. In the meantime, what we know as the world was disconnected and drawn into a dream-like state, out of synch with the real but still somehow in the dream of the earth.
Dragged below the surface, our part of the world was wrenched away from the ley lines that carry the living energy of the earth. Because of that breach, life does not flow into the pulse of the planet anymore. In a realm already saturated with the desperately escaping dead, our own lives and deaths are washed out in that background, with no currents to carry them away.
Also, we breached some of the veins of the earth that carry demonic energy. The spills formed into leviathans, or perhaps the concept of leviathans filled themselves out with demonic ichor and energy. That ichor was the waste product of a planet’s life and creativity, siphoned away from living systems to protect them. Demonic dreams and ideas took on further flesh, mingling with the dream realm of humanity and creating hybrids and shapes alien to all their sources and to each other. Demonic energy warped humans, and humans gave shape to demonic energy in an incestuously creative dance.
Now trapped between the reality of the earth and the reality of the Gates of the Dead, the land jutting from an ink-black ocean polluted with death and demons hosts still-living, still-vibrant descendants of those who walked beneath a proper sun. The dream worlds connect with the living, and some ideas drift back and forth. The dream worlds also connect with the dead, in some awfully peculiar ways that allow a human mind to sense, adjust, and command electroplasmic energy.
Spun loose of the sunlit world and the Gates of the Dead, Neversea holds its pockets of islands and life against a backdrop of half-freed ghosts gone mad from cannibalized hope. Demons drift through the deep below, their mournful dirge echoing and resounding beyond the walls of this half-real place. Humans, as always, continue to do what they do even in this peculiar supernatural terrarium.
Duskwall rears against this backdrop.