El mundo cayó bajo la plaga. Los muertos caminan. Castillos arden. Los dioses callan. Pero tú aún vives… y algo en el norte llama. Dicen que puede salvarnos… o destruir lo poco que queda. Afila tu espada. No todos los vivos han olvidado cómo pelear.
| Played | 1 times |
| Cloned | 0 times |
| Created | 23 days ago |
| Last Updated | 20 days ago |
| Visibility | Public |
| Coordinates | (1399, -5600) |
A grim refuge atop an ancient fortified monastery's ruins, surrounded by western swamps. Its walls are rebuilt from looted tombstones and burnt wood, housing about three dozen desperate souls. The air reeks of mold, ash, and stale sweat, with a contaminated well, a makeshift smithy, and a forsaken ancient altar. Nightly noises hint at secrets in tunnels beneath the old crypt. Characters start here, trapped or seeking refuge, as a looming change approaches.
Perched on a hill, the refuge's jagged stone walls patched with dark wood rise amidst dense swamp fog. Cracked tombstones form part of the crumbling battlements. The ground is muddy, littered with ash and debris. A small, grimy smithy smokes faintly near the entrance. The ancient altar stands cracked and overgrown, silent and forgotten. Shadows flicker at night, and distant echoes come from below.