Life in Edhel was a simple one. It had been countless centuries since the days of the powerful sorcerors who had founded the village. In those days, Edhel was a small, but prosperous community of farmers. 

Most of the villagers had never travelled beyond the borders of Edhel. Had they, they would have seen relics of a world long gone. Another time, another age. Rusted, metallic skeletons embedded into the soiled earth. Their painted majesty providing a vision of an age of flying machines and deadly weapons. These relics were dotted around the landscape, providing a picture into a world that once was, but could never be again. 

These days, this new Edhel was build on the skeletal ruins of the old one. A village of hard working people with one Inn, Edhel was a gathering of hard working farmer folk.

The sorcerors were long gone, and their lineage was now reviled. History had been revised and altered. Where once they were a line of heroes and their courage the thing of legend, things had changed. In these dark times, sorcerors and, indeed, all magic wielding folk were seen as cowardly, villainous, power-hungry despots. Twisted creatures of darkness who had struck out to conquer the world. This revisionism triggered by their association with the thing that had come to lay waste to most of the known world.

Magic.

Once, a number of centuries ago, wielders of magic walked the lands openly. Divine and Arcane magic alike was used to make the world a better place. But over the roll of years though, something happened. It started as a strange, subtle twisting of the magic. When a wizard used their ability to create light, for example, the light was tainted by dark shadows, flickering and burning in the air. That subtle manifestation gradually expanded, until the magic was twisted and altered in ways beyond the wielders control. This random, bizarre manifestation led to magic and magic wielders being barred from the major cities across the land. 

Then, one day, the Plague appeared.

It began through use of magic, spreading from wielder to the next. It twisted their physical bodies as it had their magic, destroying their humanity. What began as a plague carried by magic wielders quickly spread through the rest of civilisation. Despite every possible effort, there was no containing it. In a matter of months, humanity had been devastated, and the twisted, dead bodies of the plague's victims lay broken and rotting across the land. Civilisation was reduced to ash and dust. Those that survived the effects of the plague were twisted into hideous mutants. Their minds shattered, they were reduced to base, murderous killers. They scavenged the ruined wastelands in search of victims to feed their insatiable bloodlust.

Ansolera was dying.

Over the two centuries since, small pockets of civilisation sprung up once more. The survivors of the apocalypse coming together to try and rebuild some small semblance of the lives that they once had.