The world as most know it is in turmoil. From the freezing winds of the Nordlands to the tropical climes of the Gulfmen, worrying rumors abound. Rumors of war, of a Two-Headed Wolf, of forces across the freezing Easter Sea, of men long thought dead returning to reclaim what was once theirs. Most sensible men dismiss these as the talk of sailors, peasants, and the superstitious, but there are a few who believe them. Chief among them is the Duc de Terreneuve, who has sent his great fleet across the Easter Sea to learn of these so-called "Brythons." His fellow Nordlanders have dubbed him 'the Mad,' for no ship has ever crossed the Easter Sea and lived to tell the tale, but the Duc believes that if he can learn of these Brythons, and their mystical land of Albys, he could perhaps stand a chance of surviving the coming storm, if the talk of sailors is to be believed.
In the South, the burgeoning Confederacy of the Neurld faced threats both internal and external. The current Emperor, Maxwell II Rothschild, won the election by a mere two votes, and so his rival, the self-proclaimed Emperor Clark IX Tennesley, has roused his supporters to rebellion. As the Confederacy deals with a civil war, Lonestar raiders under the Texarkan king, Bartolmew Beckett, have crossed the Confederate border into the Grand Duchy of Misasipye, wreaking havoc across the fertile fields and towns. Even the great city of Saint Lewis, old even before the Collapse, is under threat.
Farther West, the people sing praises to the Seraph, the Heavens, and to the line of Nortonid, who trace their lineage to the first Emperor of Calif, Norton I. The current Son-of-the-Seraph, Celestial Zophar 'the Magnificent,' rules the Heavenly Empire of Calif with a firm hand, yet beneath the calm exterior, Calif is in turmoil. To the South, the revanchist Empire of Mexica, under Emperador Zipactonal Coaqui, seeks to bring the rowdy Lonestar tribes to heel, while even farther South, a great jaguar sleeps.
Rising amongst the ruins of the fallen Union of Northemeria, the great maritime republics of Neuangla hold the ears of king and emperor alike. The greatest of these, the Serene Archate of Neuyore, is where the Blood of Old Northemeria still runs thick, and names like Roseavelt, Clinetoon, Barocke, and more still hold sway. It is here where the Aekademi of the Olurld is situated, which studies the possible existence of the Olurld, which is mentioned many times in antediluvian works, especially ones by the great Gaemes Worshop, who most historians have credited with writing most of what is known about the Olurld. It is here where the tongue of the Old Northemerians is still spoke, Anglith, and to speak the Common Tongue is to be treated as scum.
And lastly, we journey to the Sea of Eyrie, where the rising power of the Kingdom of the Cleave rules. Holding land from the Ilynoi Marches to the border of the Nordlands, the Kingdom of the Cleave has been ruled by House Hexos for the last century. Situated in the ancient city of Cleaven, the current ruler of the Cleave, King Bismaric III, seeks to expand his territory, and has recently sent his twin children, Prince Lykos and Princess Lupa, to harass the border villages of the Pensigreik in preparation for the main force. Yet King Bismaric III does not lack for enemies, and his half-brother, Ottaker, has managed to rouse the various jarls and petty kings of Mikag to war, and has had himself proclaimed Iskonge of Mikag, and prepares to march his Mikager host to war. In the Wolf Court itself, Bismaric's brother-in-law, Lord Peremyr Nikraski of Chikagoe, seeks to restore the ancient line of Nikraski to the Chikagoen throne, and will most likely make a move against House Hexos if Bismaric marches to war.
It is a horrid time to live in Northemeria, with such conflict brewing just on the horizon. But if the rumors are true, can the lords of Northemeria put aside their differences to throw the men across the waters back into the sea, or will they drown in their own hubris? Only time will tell, and the wills of men.
King Bismaric III Hexos looked out over the Salt Bay, past the Goldport, past the Sunken City, and past the ships in bay. Bismaric stared at the horizon, where just beyond his sight, the frozen island of Mikag stood, and a horde of barbarians under his half-brother, Ottaker, prepared to burn all his forefathers had made to ash. The cold wind coming off the bay bothered Bismaric naught, as he was a true Cleaveman and had grown up on the water. Bismaric smiled, though under the great mass of his black beard it was nigh invisible. He remembered his days as a pirate, plundering ships up and down the Easter Coast and bringing great wealth to the Hexos name. Though that was years ago, and Bismaric was no longer a petty pirate, but king of all the lands from Ilynoi to the Great Forest of Kentuck. The black iron crown on his head attested to this. The sound of footsteps broke Bismaric out of his reverie, and the king turned to see who was approaching him. The man was tall, pale and had the blue eyes and blond hair of a Chikagoen. His plate armor bore the crest of House Nikraski, an eagle on a red and white field, and the great wings on his back rattled in the wind.
"How are you, Lord Peremyr? I thought you were leading you Winged Knights against the nomad horde of Jineral Nathaniel Marfont?"
The Lord of Chikagoe smiled, and from behind his back threw a head, dipped in tar. Bismaric smiled, and had a servant take it away to be shown to the people of Cleaven. Striding forward, Bismaric placed his hand on Peremyr's shoulder.
"You will be rewarded for this, my friend. In the eyes of God, I hereby proclaim you Warden of the Ilynoi Marches, and Viceregent of the Cleave."
Peremyr smiled, though the titles were mere honors with no power, and bowed low.
"Thank you, Your Royal Majesty. You are too generous."
Bismaric laughed, and ordered a servant to prepare the guest rooms for Lord Peremyr, while inwardly hoping his troublesome brother-in-law would suffer an unfortunate fall.
"Please, Lord Peremyr, you must be tired from your journey! Why don't you stay the night? There will be a great feast!"
Peremyr shook his head, knowing his life expectancy fell the longer he stayed in Cleaven, and spoke up.
"I am sorry, my king, but I will have to pass. Maryna is expected to give birth soon, and I would like to be in the Hall of the Eagle when she does."
Bismaric nodded, and watched the man walk away, wondering if he could hire an archer to shoot Nikraski before he returned home.
The noise in the Confederate Diet was deafening. Electors shouting, pounding on tables, stomping their feet, and all the while their Emperor, Maxwell II Rothschild, sat in the center of it all, trying desperately to sink into his throne.
"How dare they? Those heretics dare to raise a sword against the God-chosen Emperor!? They will burn forever in Hell for this!"
The booming voice of Patriarch Graham echoed through the hall, and was met by a chorus of agreements. After allowing the noise to continue, Elector-Duke Frederick Hanover of Marielyn raised his hands and shouted.
"ENOUGH! Electors of the Confederacy, quiet yourselves. Arguing amongst ourselves will accomplish nothing. While we sit here, Clark Tennesley and his Noileaners, Texarkans, and Gulfmen are marching unimpeded through Jorga, and unless we do something, then we'll all be hanging from the tress in the Confederate Garden."
This quieted the Diet, who listened as Frederick explained his plan.
"I will lead the combined might of our armies to the Jorgan Pass. We will establish fortifications and force the rebels to meet us on our terms, lest they starve. That is how we'll beat back Clark and his horde of rebels!"
The Diet erupted with cheers, and Frederick stood stoically, soaking in the praise.