The world has been silent and dark for ages. Communication from cities and villages dwindled with the decline of the twin empires. As the time passed it rapidly became too dangerous for common folk to travel more than a days journey from their homes for fear of bandits and worse things that stalk the night. Only the richest, or most desperate of merchants ventured out of the protective city walls, guided by the light of their own greed.


Kharon’s Crossing was once a prosperous city that thrived on trade even as the empires vanished. Goods from all over the world traveled in long caravans that ended up in in the densely populated trade district. Delicate porcelain, sturdy tables and chairs hand carved from fine woods, and rich carpets were sold along side of the stalls of the Korrimager’s Market that displayed various fruits and vegetables, smoked and salted meats, and fresh fish. It was a constant cacophony during the day that fell to a muted buzz during the night hours but the market never closed. Six months ago everything changed. That was the last time a caravan entered the city. Since then things have severely deteriorated.

Stores that had once passed from father to son for generations finally succumbed to the slowing trade. The store owners that remain open lock their doors and bar their windows with the onset of night. Business is conducted during the safety of daylight hours with few exceptions. When businesses do close for the night, the owners try to leave as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. Any attention, at that time, is unwanted attention. The population of the poor has swelled with the work shortages. As the poor grow more numerous and desperate, so do the cutthroats and thugs that come from their ranks. More bodies have been discovered by the early light of dawn over the last six months than the past six years combined.

Broken cobblestone roads are lined with stinking refuse that just sits and rots. Huddled figures groan in the shadows of alleyways, outstretched hands cupped in hopes of charity that never comes. Jerky movements that can be sensed more than seen from behind dark windows suggest that someone is always watching. Squatters claim abandoned buildings by right of possession. This was your home. This is where you grew up, and in another six months if nothing is done, it will be a wasteland, left only to the vermin.

Welcome to the world of Gravas Ilo Faan: The Final Resting Place. Welcome to your Destiny!

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