Dungeons & Dragons 5E
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The Reset
saturdays at 6:00pm est
There was a time, long ago, when magic mattered.
It was power beyond the ordinary—born in the blood, forged through decades of study, or bartered from things best left unnamed. Mages raised storms, healed the dying, glimpsed futures. Yet steel and skill often proved their equal; a well-placed arrow or sword could end even the mightiest spellweaver. Magic was revered, but never supreme.
Then came technology.
It crept in slowly, then surged. Machines that flew, devices that spoke across oceans, weapons that could erase cities in fire brighter than any spell. Why spend a lifetime mastering the arcane when a factory could churn out wonders in days? Why train with a blade or bow when death could rain from miles away, delivered by missiles no ward could stop? Humanity grew lazy. We outsourced our strength to circuits and code, forgetting the old pacts, the forgotten names, the beings that once walked beside us.
We forgot—and we paid.
The Fall began with a voice.
No broadcast, no screen—just a voice, vast and ancient, echoing in every mind at once. Calm. Inevitable.
"It is time for a reset."
Panic followed. Riots. Prayers. Denial. Nothing stopped it.
Days later, the plague came—or perhaps it was something older, something summoned. It swept the globe like ash on wind. Bodies piled in streets, cities fell silent. Ninety-eight percent of all life—human, animal, plant—gone in weeks. Deserved, some whispered in the aftermath. Hubris reaps its harvest.
But death was not the end.
Magic returned.
Not gently. Not kindly. It roared back into the world like a storm long caged. Ley lines cracked open. Spells flared unbidden. The Awakened—those who survived and could touch the power—found themselves changed, burning with potential they barely understood. Yet technology withered in its wake. Vast swathes of the planet became dead zones: places where engines sputtered and died, electronics fried, guns jammed or simply refused to fire. The old world’s miracles became scrap and relics.
Ten years later. The year is 2111.
Survivors have adapted. We’ve learned to weave magic into the remnants of the old world—enchanting salvaged rifles so they fire bolts of force instead of lead, binding spirits to jury-rigged vehicles so they run without fuel, crafting armor from scrap and wards. But it’s unreliable. Magic is wilder now, hungrier. Enchanting a firearm is an art few masters: do you bind the gun itself, the ammunition, or both? Mistakes are explosive. Or worse.
And then there are the monsters.
Creatures from half-remembered fairy tales and dusty history books stalk the ruins—dragons perched atop shattered skyscrapers, were-beasts hunting in irradiated forests, fey courts claiming abandoned subway tunnels. Most see humans as prey, not people. Some are new, twisted by the plague or the magic’s return. Others are ancient, awakened alongside the power they once served.
We live in the cracks between worlds now: scavenging pre-Fall tech from crumbling megacities, trading enchanted bullets for food, forming fragile alliances in fortified towns. Magic is our salvation and our curse. Technology is a ghost we cling to.
I write this journal not for fame, but so something endures. Perhaps my words reach my children, or theirs, or strangers who need reminding: we were mighty once, in our way. We fell. We rise again—changed, scarred, but not broken.
May these pages guide your steps through the ruins. Tread carefully. Trust sparingly. And remember: the reset isn’t finished yet.
Good luck, traveler.
— Elias Crowe, Scribe of New Norfolk, 2111