They are three feet long, with legs and thighs that when they have been dried can be used as saws. This plague
is interpreted as a sign of the wrath of the gods ; for they are seen of exceptional size, and also they fly
with such a noise of wings that they are believed to be birds, and they obscure the sun, making the nation gaze
upward in anxiety lest they should settle all over their land. In fact their strength does not fail, and as
though it were not enough to have crossed the seas, they pass over immense tracts of land and cover them with a
cloud disastrous for the crops, scorching up many things with their touch and gnawing away everything with
their bite, even the doors of houses as well.  They are a horrible plague, poisonous like snakes, except that
they inflict a worse torture by despatching the victim with a lingering death lasting three days.

Queros Plinius Inominalis, "Natura Myro Lanarius", Liber XI, XXXV

Over one hundred years have passed since The Irruption ended, and the sound of rattling grasshoppers and dragonflies still haunts the memories of those below. The Tagmaton Irruption was the worst epidemic Myrland had ever experienced, etched into recorded history with the blood of those whom the moment took with it.

The giant insectoids first disembarked in the southern part of the continent, secretly nesting in the Stairs of Echidna and the Sunken Isles before making their clattering advance over the steppes. First came the Fleshbiters, black clouds of foot-long locusts devouring crops and cattle alike.

Following in the devastating wake of the Fleshbiters came six legged slayers of varying castes. Towering above men, bearing scythes, burrowing below ground and releasing venomous projectiles, nothing could stand in their way.

Caught in a sudden moment with no possibility of retaliation, the tribes of Myrland—and furthermore the legacy of the Human races—was facing its end. However, when all seemed lost, a number of great earthquakes shook the ground, and then—for whatever inscrutable reason—the numberless Tagmatons suddenly dispersed even faster than they had once appeared. From whence they came no one is sure—where they went, no one knows.

The damage was far beyond the destruction to the physical. The land had become desolate and barren leaving the tribes in a perilous situation. Many of the inhabitants of Tindrem had sought refuge in the city sewers, some Khurites had managed to shelter in the Sheevran colony of Toxai, and the Huérgar most likely remained sequestered in their caves—yet it is estimated that more than two-thirds of the humanoid population on Myrland succumbed to the slaughter, or perished in the years of starvation to come.

The newly reconstructed Bridge of Tecton lay in ruins, effectively severing the land link between Myrland and the western continents.

The Myrland Steppe today is blossoming with life. Standing above the scars are flourishing wildlife, billowing grass and a breeze that brings warmth to all those that feel it. The fauna bears an abundance of game for all hunters of the realm. Synchronously with the rejuvenation of life outside their shelters, the human races slowly began rebuilding their societies and reconnecting with their neighboring dwellings.

As the Steppe continues to portray life, the scars and the memories of the event still swell deep within the inhabitants and seep into the essence of Myrland, extending beyond their artificial surface presence. Perhaps this phenomena is most easily observed in the Hivebreakers, who have dedicated their lives to hunting the Tagmatons even long after most every Human survivor met their natural end to the progression of time.

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