And as the darkness fell, his armies spread like locusts, consuming all that would sustain the fair folk of Eredane…
Welcome to midnight, the nightmare of your fantasies. 100 years ago the dark god Izrador has defeated the people of Erenland and now he spreads his shadow across the land.
Each of you were born to, or forcefully brought to, the northern land of Bastion. Once, it was a thriving plain of grasslands on the edge of the arctic tundra north. The soils of Bastion were always fertile and as such the Dorns settled there mostly as farmers, sowing endless fields of lush crops to feed the people of Erenland. Since the shadow fell, Bastion fell to treachery and corruption from within and now a pawn prince of Izrador governs Bastion with cruelty and terror.
Long has it been that all the great warriors have been either killed or driven off from Bastion and now it is held firmly by tens of thousands of orcs and goblins. Those unfortunate humans that remained settled in the fields of Bastions were forced into slave labor, sowing their crops for the massive armies of Izrador. Their communities and living conditions have begun to degrade into squalor. Trade is non-existent, except for the shipments of food for the shadow armies, and the trickle of captured slaves shipped in to work the fields. Most can barely feed themselves since the crop quota demanded by the legates are so high, and hoarding food is a crime punishable by crucifixion in the fields.
Since then, dark, over-casting shadows hang over the lands of Bastion, orc and goblins roam the land enforcing their god’s will, and a great temple-tower, made of black obsidian, was erected over the once majestic Bastion keep. The soil is mostly leached and dry from over-farming, the water becomes more tainted everyday and plants become sickly and recede from the once lush land of Bastion. Those that refuse to work, try to escape or commit any crime against the shadow are crucified in the fields, where their blood waters the crops. Soon the locusts will turn Bastion to a wasteland in the glory of Izrador.
Despite the misfortunes of you life that ended you up in Bastion, you have been taken in and looked after by a man named Ural Sant. Ural has always done what he could to keep you beneath the notice of the shadow like a slave broken and fearing of the slaver whip, but you suspect there is more to him than what appears.
One night, Ural wakes you and with sweat upon his brow and determination and fear in his eyes, he urges you to meet him in his decaying ruin of a barn. It startles and unsettles you the uncharacteristic waking, the look in his eyes. Yet, after all your years beneath the yoke of the shadow, being whipped 16 hours a day, everyday. Working with bloody, blistered, calloused hands with orc swords at your backs and razor wire between you and safety. Listening to the screaming of the crucified in the field, you sense a change in the winds and the smile of fortune. Perhaps destiny has come…