"It was seven seasons ago when the sky turned black, and the foul rains came.
A great war had been waging between the three major continents; Vaskai, Pallanec and Dellamae. Unimaginable leaps had been made in industry, great iron war machines crossed the seas, constructed by countless legions of labourers in great factories at the hearts of the major cities of the world.
The reasons for the beginning of the fighting were varied, but were mainly petty political disagreements, blown out of all reasonable proportion. Many men fell in suicidal costal assaults, cities burned. Looting and panic consumed the streets.
It was the beginning of the season of Asghan when the sky turned to poison. Fighting had reached new peaks, and on that night had continued on in to the dawn with unheard of vigour. The clouds began to stir and discolour, mutating above the belching smoke of the cities. The air seemed to crackle with energy, and the sticky, dirty rain began to cascade down on to the land. Within days many were incapacitated, wasting away and choking blood.
The rains continued heavily for three days. Forces were withdrawn as the respective governments turned their attentions to dealing with this greater threat to their continued survival.
That was then. This is now. A time of paranoia, accusations of culpability. Continuing sickness, and poverty. Political manouvering, and the need for questions to be answered.