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Darkstone. This precious mineral was able to sap away magic around itself, tearing through the ether of the Weave and allowing bullets to pierce through magical shields and projectiles.
When a volley of Darkstone came, it did not matter if grand Archmages formed great walls of fire to protect themselves or struck the bullets with swift lightning, the bullets continued on their terrible path and delivered death. Decades of study and generations of fine breeding could now be undone in a few seconds by a peasant with a good eye and a rifle.
When Darkstone came, magic died. Thus came the Darkstone Wars. The old countries, often ruled by bloodlines strong in magic, underestimated the usefulness of the black bullets. In but a few years, millennia old kingdoms and dynasties crumbled as brutalized serfs rose to overthrow their tyrannical regimes. The most terrible of magics were unleashed by the Weaveborn to protect themselves from the revolutionaries, whole countries shattered under their desperation, but, eventually, they lost. The new regimes hunted down the Weaveborn ruthlessly, they were the symbols of the old; potential tyrants that were better off exterminated before their powers grew too great.
But nothing is so simple. As the magic arts were forbidden, many of these new regimes realized how important they had once been. Humanity had grown dependent on magics that fertilized the land, created water for crops, healed the sick, controlled raging fires… Foul times of hunger and disease followed the Wars. The sky yellowed, the sun reddened. Times of anarchy and death.
When magic died, bullets ruled. Idealistic republics turned into ruthless dictatorships. All men and women were free, and yet they were cowed into a submission not too dissimilar from the old regime. Some Weaveborn were granted the right to live, as long as they used their dominion of magic to support their country.
And then, you were born. It was in 82 AD, After Darkstone, in Piras, capital of the Republic of Frankia. You were a girl, you were given the name Sybille. Your parents were humble factory workers, you lived in a tiny apartment near the district where they worked. Your early days were not too different from those of other Frankian children, you had plenty of siblings, but most of them did not make it past infancy, you went hungry to bed most nights, and you were put to work as soon as you could handle a mop. Your parents were strict and disciplined, everyone had to contribute and improve their lot, there was little joy to be had with them. Yet children will find happiness even where there is none. Two siblings survived into childhood, your elder brother François and your younger sister Justine.
You snuck away from your duties with them when you could. You played around, fought other kids, made friends.
