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The Realm

Before the maps were drawn, the world burned. What the fire left behind, men called Neferon — a country of black forests and an older dark, where the temples still stand but their gods no longer answer, and every road out of town is a promise the road does not intend to keep.

No one is born a hero here. You will wash ashore in Rookgaard with empty hands and a name nothing fears yet — no vocation, no destiny, no god's favor. The rats in the cellar do not care what you will become. Neither does the world. Everything you own, you will take from something that was using it first. Every level will be paid for in full: the world runs at the old rate, x1, and it has never once forgiven a debt.

So learn the dark before you curse it. Keep what you can defend. Trust few, and count your deaths among your teachers. Neferon does not hate you — it simply does not need you. That is the last honest thing anyone will tell you.

The rest, the island will show you.