Over a thousand years ago, green grass and warm springs rolled across all corners of the great kingdom of Schrade. Its wealth was bountiful, its lords loved, and its people happy. However, like the great kingdom of Atlantis, so too would this courtship be reduced to but a memory. A powerful, never-ending storm struck the kingdom, born of evil magics and twisted sorcery that plunged the lands into darkness. Today, those hills are barren, dead plains. Where once there were villages and towns etched around its circumference, now were only their corpses.

Lightning crackled sanguine bolts from a tempestuous, angry sky. Purple clouds, splotched with crimson icor swirled like a hurricane for miles and miles. Within the eye of the storm, were the remnants of what had once been the fulcrum of the kingdom; Castle Schrade. Once a splendid feudal manor, now it could only cling to what remained of itself. 

The International Society of Druids long since abandoned its restoration project. The storm was simply too powerful, and the wild magic beyond the ken of even the most astute of their ranks. So it would seem, the castle would fade away into legend.... At least until a particular, dark-robed enterprising mage stumbled across it. He stood within the wide courtyard, interwoven crystal ribbons of his robe glowing like circuitry. Beset on all four sides were the castle ramparts, which looked out towards the lifeless plains. A scabbard and sword hung from his side without sash or belt, and kneeling low to touch fingers to grainy earth, the gears of Corban's mind began to tumble into motion. 

"Ishtalle, it's still breathing, but on life support..... I think I can heal its wounds."