A Rising Tide
One hundred years ago, the lands of Louria and Malath were locked in bitter war. Two empires in full glory staring down a future of perpetual conflict.
But Malath fell. A doom delivered by the gods snatched its people away, leaving empty cities and haunted woods. Only the coastal duchies were spared.
Fifty years ago Louria fell. Its capital, Ayren, smashed by unnatural tidal waves that cut the western shores into an archipelago.
The wilderness encroached. Famine spread. Villages were abandoned; pasture left to the wilds. Civilization very nearly died.
Rising from these ashes: three great cities. Once provincial capitals of Louria, now the centres of their own kingdoms.
Marinburg, in the north, across the straits from Malath and still at war with its remains.
Azaleum in the east, at the walls of the great desert.
Damelleon on the southern shores, seat of the powerful Ajdallan Orthodoxy.
Between these centers of light: brigandry and lawlessness. Here, or there, a candle held against the darkness; a fortress that has survived and shields its inhabitants; a village high in a vale, protected by the forces of nature itself.
In Marinburg the terrors are at the city gates.
Five years ago the child countess Dashelle was wed to Marinburg’s cruel Red Duke.
Three weeks ago, the Duke passed away leaving a court in disarray and a populace fearful of what comes next.