PeasantsWorld

The world is a wilder place than what your grandparents lived. What was once predictble is no longer so. Oh, the three moons still race across the sky, but they say the red moon is a darker shade now. The elders claim that moon storms are more common now; storms that come when all three moons are in the sky and touch; storms that shake the earth, and bring buildings down.

The light of civilization is weak, and gutters in the wind. Cities are the only places to be safe from the monsters that prowl the midnight wilderness. You stay in your home, once the sun goes down, and should you hear your neighbor screaming you do not go to help them.

Border villages die. Not often, but often enough. One month they are there, trading eggs for milk, and the next the buildings are burnt to the ground with no sign of survivors. Or maybe they have a new `mayor`, head of some bandit crew, that has stolen the town’s daughters and promises horror should the good folk not do what he says. If you manage to leave, you don’t go back. You pray for them, though, and hope you forget their scared eyes.

PeasantsWorld

A Rising Tide proemial