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The North, or specifically, the top third portion of landmass of the Western Continent, is a hardy place of extremes and ultimate survivalists. Filled with beasts, gruff lone wolves and small but formidable civilizations long undisturbed, it is a place of mystery and charm to outsiders. Those who live there know the struggles of fighting off bears and natural, though dangerous beasts of other sorts. Plants that attack unprepared bystanders? Commonplace. Poison berries? You should be concerned when you find a berry that doesn't seem to be poisoned, for there is likely something else wrong with it. Crazy old men with beards living in tree shacks talking to monkeys? Probably the sane ones, and they usually make better ale than the combined efforts of the few villages scattered about.

Why in the world would anyone want to go there? Adventure? Insanity? Escaping from a band of bloodstained knights on horseback that just got done murdering everyone else in your city because the city council refused to give up some noble's daughter?

The first two, perhaps not so much. The last? Common story for the flood of refugees that have attempted to move in from all over the world, half of whom die before they even get there and another quarter dead the moment they spend more than a day in the forest. The quarter that remains is already countering the number of natives, and while they often have troubles adapting, it's a far better trade than what the rest of the world is up to. Namely, mass scale civil wars, degeneration of a formerly unstable society and increasingly rampant demons that usually trickle out of the latest city sacked by one of the newly-spawned demon lords. The Eastern Continent is already lost to chaos, and the Western Continent barely retains any sense of sanity.

What happened to make the world come to this? Long, long story.

Perhaps you're a hardcore native, pissed off at the number of special snowflakes that barged in and thought they had a right to your homeland. Perhaps you're a refugee, recently escaped from the south or, if you're extremely lucky or extremely rich, the Eastern Continent. Maybe you're just a poor sod who's lived in a little home in an insignificant village and took a cookie from the kind witch that came in every week to say hello. Whoever you are, it doesn't matter. You're in a little village called Madoa, somewhere in the northern forests, and it is in the late winter that things get interesting.


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