The shadows have fallen.

It has been a hundred years since the day of the Ruin. The day the skies turned dark, the day the mists swallowed the oceans. A hundred years since the last ship arrived on the continent of Aniada, since anyone, by sea or air, could leave for lands abroad and return.

A century since the souls in the West grew restless, forcing the armies of Daelows and Churt to put an end to their endless warring to turn their forces against their own dead. Since the ravenous manes rose up from beneath the mountains to meet the Dwarves of Ehtome-Naom, locking them in a desperate battle to keep the hordes at bay. A century since Skylding Hall, far to the North, fell utterly and completely silent. A century since the spirits of the land became twisted and dark, the magicks sick, unnatural, disharmonious.

One hundred years since the Gods last spoke to the people of the Worlde, since the oracles and augurs and clergy felt the touch of the divine. Now there is only power thrumming through the ley lines of Aniada, power that speaks from one of four voices. Voices the people have named in hushed whispers around hearths and campfires. The Souleater. The Unraveller. The Bloodwake. The Lost Salvation.

Come, traveler, and meet us in Seven Oaks. Once a sleepy fishing village on the edge of the Vericul Sea, it is the only place left in the south of Aniada that one could consider safe. Rest a while at the Inn and sit a while at the fire.

And hope and pray the torches don’t go out.