These are the last tales of humankind. It is an age of great wonder and dying sorcery. The world writhes and spasms in the aftermath of the conflicts of ages past. Magic itself is now a tattered thing, contorted for millennia into shapes ever more complex and potent. It heaves and quakes under the strain, bringing mutation and madness to lands barren with generations of brutal conflict. But in its death throes it is at its most vibrant and wonderful.
The corpses of Gods, shattered and broken, drift and coalesce within the Tempest or lie upon the hot sand, untouched by the ages. A tempest of magical energy convulses on the site of their demise, vomiting forth amalgamations of half-remembered legends that poison the world with their very existence. The murder weapon still stands upon a desert of glass, half-sentient fragments of its components prowling its innards while undying guardians kill all that seek to unearth the blasphemous knowledge that forged it.
Great spires, like jagged teeth, stand amidst the savaged lands, their undying inhabitants warring ceaselessly for the magical energy that sustains them. For miles around these cities, the essence of life is leeched from the very air to sustain their endless war till the world itself is ruin and the bloated sun goes dark. Creatures terrible and bizarre, nightmare soldiers from the unfathomable wars of aeons past, walk the wastes baying for blood and souls.
Mankind is as it ever was, divided and struggling yet unbowed, trapped in an endless violent cycle of growth, stagnation and collapse. But the cycle has run its course, and all things must end. This is the last age, the greatest age, an age of heroes and villains like gods born anew, of fire and blood and the ringing of swordplay, of sorcery and abomination. Not for humanity the quiet dwindling of old age and the gentle death in bed. Mankind dies on its feet, screaming and bellowing, spitting at the onrushing tide of Final Night as it devours all.
These are the tales of the Age of Dusk.