Ages of Time:

History in Everwealth is not a neat scroll of progress, it is a jagged, bloodstained ledger scrawled with the desperate pen of survival. The ages of time do not merely catalog events; they tell of an unraveling world stitched back together with the sinew of gods, kings, monsters, and fools. Each era bears a name shaped by its wounds and wonders, The Origin Age, where myth became matter; The Lost Ages, when mortals danced with the divine and built wonders that defy memory; The years amid The Great Schism, a cataclysm that sundered creation and rewrote the rules of magick, meaning; And the ages that followed, fractured, desperate, grasping for stability like a man clinging to the shore after shipwreck. The people of Everwealth do not speak of history as something distant. They live in it. The ruins of the Lost Ages still smolder beneath vine-choked cities. The echoes of divine betrayal still crackle in the prayers of clerics and the silences of the damned. Time is layered here, one need not dig deep to find bones from a dozen failed empires. A crumbling aqueduct might be Elfese, Dwarfish, or something older, something with runes no scholar dares name aloud.   Entire villages are built upon the bones of ages past, sometimes literally. And though most Everwealthy cannot read a book, they carry the past in their idioms, their curses, their scars. Time is not measured in years. It is measured in what was lost, what was taken, and what we still dare to hope might return. Every age holds its own flavor of madness. The Origin Age birthed the gods and the first sparks of mortal ambition, flooded with creation myths and elemental giants. The Lost Ages gave rise to the first machines, cities that floated on wind, and pacts with the divine that blurred the line between science and sorcery. Then came the Great Schism, a thousand-year crucible of war, famine, and faith turned weapon. What emerged was not peace, but a kingdom forged from the bones of every ruined dream: Everwealth. Since then, The Civil Age has seen shifting alliances, new faiths, and broken technologies reforged into terrible tools. But no one agrees if we are rising or falling. Scholars debate it. Priests deny it. But every grave tells the same tale, the age you’re born into is the one that kills you. The ages of history are thus not just chapters, they are battlegrounds of memory. Every race, guild, and god lays claim to a version of history that justifies their sins. Truth, in Everwealth, is a treasure rarer than gold, and more dangerous to hold. To know too much of the past is to walk with shadows. To forget it entirely is to repeat its worst chapters with louder screams.