Long ago, the fair Tsinganoi were the only humans in Multan. Living in relative peace with the other races of their land, they knew only the magic of the gods and the earth. Then came dark haired foreigners, arriving amidst great storms that ravaged the skies. Walking an invisible bridge, the Zincali arrived with a great swirling of magic. The Zincali, though human, possessed a magic unknown to the Tsinganoi, a magic which needed no source. The native Tsinganoi watched in awe, and wariness.
The Zincali settled in the west, building a temple to their god, [[Lord Narasimha]], the great magic-giver. They told a tale of a land far to the west, unreachable by ship, their native Katasraj. Dwelling also on Katasraj were an old race, slender of build, with milky skin and point-tipped ears, whose magic exceeded even that of the Zincali. Rivalries began, and wars were fought between great armies of sorcerers, to no avail. It was finally decided, to avoid further bloodshed, that the greatest mage of each race would fight a final battle to determine the war’s outcome. Khsatris, the Zincali matriarch, and Tzigane, leader of the Elder Race’s magicians, fought hard. The battle took to the skies, and the heavens crackled. In time, Khsatris had only the power to build a bridge to take her people to their only hope, a new land to the east. With her magic flickering, she constructed that final bridge of her very essence.
As time went on, the Zincali and the Tsinganoi learned to cohabit their land. Though they seldom truly mingle, each race had something to teach the other. The Zincali taught the rigid Tsinganoi the joys of entertainment and song, and the Tsinganoi taught the Zincali how to settle down and have the peace of a home. Lately, word of a great conflict among members of the Elder Race back on Katasraj. The Multani just wait and watch.