You come from different lands, different families, and the stories you were told as children are

different. And they were told in different languages. But what you have in common is the 
Flanaess, a land built of a multitude of princedoms. It is a vibrant land with a long history of 
war. Conflict is everywhere, Evil and Good, of course, but the forces of Law and Chaos and 
Balance are often equally strong, or stronger. Ancient tombs and battlegrounds are secreted in 
haunted highlands, dark forests.

A thousand years ago this was an uncivilized place of nomads, but a distant war sent refugees 
fleeing to these lands. The influx of new peoples crowded out the old ways of life. The Oerdian 
people, responsible for much of the horrible destruction of this eastern war established The 
Great Kingdom about six hundred years ago. The Great Kingdom spanned much of eastern Flanaess, 
and was the greatest power of the Flanaess for hundreds of years. But like all empires, its 
decadence fueled it destruction.

Eight years ago a series of small conflicts, fueled by hatred and the manipulations of a wicked 
wizard, Iuz, exploded into a war that swept through much of the central and eastern Flanaess. 
The Great Kingdom, much reduced by civil war in the previous three hundred years, was lead by 
the mad king, Ivid V, also known as "The Undying." By the end of this war Iuz was gone, and Ivid 
was assassinated within a few years. The Great Kingdom is no more. The United Kingdom of 
Ahlissa, risen partly in its place, is no more than a shell for its infighting nobles. Much of 
it is unruled. Bandits and soldiers are one and the same. Nobles may rules less than a dozen 
square miles, and call it a Dukedom. Arbitrary punishment, crushing taxes, vicious authority -- 
these are the lot of its inhabitants.


Just to the North, the recently seceded "Great Kingdom of Northern Aerdy" is little 
different. Humanoid armies from the Bone March, used as mercenaries during the war, have 
encamped themselves throughout Northern Aerdy and are barely held in check. The remnants of a 
barely defeated undead army wander in dark places. It is a land on the edge of hysteria. 
Debauchery and excess mask terror. It's ignorant and self-serving peasants resort to cruelty to 
survive under crueler masters. There couldn't possibly be a worse place to be.


Except where you are. Almost naked. Unarmed. Starving. Exhausted. In the middle of the 
BoneMarch. The icy cold wind out of the mountains rattling like bones in the leafless trees. A 
thin snow clearly marking out your tracks to Euroz wolf-riders behind. Night darkens the sky. 
Leaving home wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be like the stories: Gold! 
Glory! Victory! Until, in some distant place you were seized by a band of orcs, brought across 
mountains and hills in a slowly growing chain of stumbling slaves and forced to work deep 
underground in unsafe mines, scrabbling at ore with bleeding fingers, your former life buried 
away. Uncountable time passes. A hole through the wall into stale darkness, a clambering escape 
through a narrow crevice. Pale light: the surface. Where the Euroz wait. A brief slaughter -- 
most killed -- a few of you escape in the confusion. But luck has never held for you.


The wolves are howling and yapping eagerly, just behind and over the ridge -- you will be seen  
soon. Someone stumbles, falls, does not get up again. You are almost too tired to be afraid.  
Things couldn't possibly be worse.