It is past the Time of Beginings, past the Age of Heroes and the Descent of Madness. Races that once were, are no more, and many who still are dwindle into memory and myth. On Peranorn’s major continent, Andril, the orcs have been driven away, the Elves have been extinct for millennia, and only the dwarves muddy the human domination of the continent.
In the far north, tribes of barbarians strive for dominance. To the south, merchant fleets control a vast empire of trade and piracy with no more stability than the waves they ride. In the west, the land is untamed; Druids rule with all of Nature’s wrath, per treaties older than many hills. In the heart of the continent lie six kingdoms, old and powerful. Numerous city-states lie scattered across the continent, some with powerful friends, others with no powerful enemies.
Things are changing, and even the wisest cannot tell how. To the east, a new conqueror has risen, younger by far than any of the ancient kingdoms, but so far a machine of war that has not been stopped. Rumors of one of elven descent have recently spread like wildfire, and murder has happened in Charndale. The barbarian hordes have been silent in the south for generations, yet the Ironhalls insist that war from the north is coming. Prophecies, their context long forgotten, are coming to pass.
It is the dawn of a time when tapestries of history, long woven by the ancient powers of the world, are drawing together, divergent no longer. One will consume the weaver of plots, and all others will be consumed by it.