As I lay this to paper I can feel the tugging of my mind to look back to the days before the Cataclysm. It begs for me to rest in these memories. Yet even as my mind is comforted here I know what my chosen path is.

My name is Donavan, Keeper of Antiquity, and though many things surrounding the Cataclysm still remain unclear there is a need to have what I know put to the page. Many who could feel the currents during the waning of Maylos knew. It began years before the true Cataclysm as the cycle of Maylos came near to the end. Wait, I get ahead of myself, let me begin again.

Many people in the modern world have come to accept magick. What they do not understand is how or way magick is what it is. They say in the time before time, legends speak that the gods placed a cycle and an order to all things. Those of the Magnus lay claims that Maylos is the cycle of magick. Though none can place a definite date, all which understood the nature of Maylos knew the time was at hand. Slowly man's precious science began to fail them. The pinpricks of fringe science became the safest of airplanes dropping from the sky with no explanation, and then the storm came.

It was late into the last month of the Christian year. Some would say later, the last Christian year. It began slowly; the crimson of dawn never gave way to the blue of the daylight. Masses of black and purple came rolling from the coasts, and it was said the heavens waited silent till at last the all the clouds met. The storm finally broke in waves of lightning snapping from cloud to cloud striking the earth in rage. In it's defense the earth broke forth in fissures of magma and black pitch choking the sky from its sight. This was the turning point. Maylos had finished its circuit and was ready to return the world to the lush garden of its youth. Yet, there had to be a cleansing first. The foulness that humanity had forced onto the world had to be purged if by the blade of Thanatos himself. Cities burned, or were swallowed whole in great fissures only to be regurgitated as fresh soil. Doomsayers spoke of end times, yet they knew in their souls it was only a beginning. There is no real way to tell how long this great storm lasted. Yet, when it was finished the children who lived though it where now men and the world of steel and cement was buried with no gravestone other than in the memories of the men and women who had lived in that other place.

Every garden has a weed somewhere.
                    -Donavan, Keeper of Antiquity