“Marketh these words”, said the scribes of the elder, “for they herald the reign of chaos, and the ending of the brethren!”
Source The Book of Dragor
Fear is aflame across the continent of Bothrinda, none who live here can resist the edge of panic which besets the coming of darkness. Each night more are taken from their homes, silently, like the darkness itself is somehow conspiring against the good and honest people of the land
Bandits roam freely almost seeming to thrive upon the peoples fear, feasting upon it like a roasting carcass of rotting meat. Their king is enslaved by an impenetrable barrier and all his knights and many of the heroes of their now scattered armies have been lost seeking entrance to the once glorious castle of Miltrams lineage.
Once arable land has become barren leaving those who once called themselves farmers to sit and watch while their sons are taken into the army of Dragors service and their daughters become the whores that line the streets or else give themselves to the priests of salvation. These become the sacrifices to the Dark Lords name and their blood flows freely across the land, staining their alters with innocence lost amongst the horrors of Salvation.
The street side beggars whisper and weep “The prophet, who reigns with a King in Chains, must surely glisten in bloody crimson”
The days are becoming shorter and nights seem to have no end. What light that seeps through finds the land tierd and dreary with mist and rain coating the land in a suffocating gloom. The people here are desperate, and each day the crys of Salvation become like the honey calling to the hive…
