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Civilization was lost. Mankind
knew nothing but war. The
dark times lasted hundreds
of years. Finally, out of the
ashes, man pulled together;
the nation of Naridor was
formed. Led by an ancient
succession of dukes that
had somehow survived the
battles of the past, Naridor
was ruled by those who
knew how to rebuild. It is
in the land of Naridor that
we first see evidence of magic,
although the Arts may have
been practiced even before the dark times.
From the formation of Naridor
comes our measure of time:Derrat Sorcerum-- Oldspeak -- meaning"In the age of magic."
The few who could bend the power
of magic to their wills pulled together,
for they were persecuted and
feared by the common people. In an
isolated corner of Naridor a small
fortress, known as the Crimson Tower,
was built over several hundred years.
The Tower weathered the attack of
local militia and marauding bandits, and
eventually even scholars from afar
made the pilgrimage to study there.
Having served its purpose, the Tower was
abandoned, and the Arts spread to the
nearby towns and villiages.
But it was simply too good to last.
The grand dukes were corrupted,
and in the year 447 Derrat
Sorcerum the nation of Naridor was in
political chaos. The mad Duke Chort's
religious condemnation of the magical
arts had led to an ordinance forbidding
the practice of magic at the risk of
banishment from the land. Knadatorn,
Naridor's capitol city,
was struck heavily by the ban.
Free trade of spell-related
spices and powders was
immediately shut
down by the government,
putting thousands of Artists out
of work. Public practitioners of
magic were hunted down and
imprisoned; those who resisted faced the guillotine. The Duke had
allocated a monstrous budget to the
enforcement of his law, and
patrols of militia roamed
Knadatorn's streets day and
night. One by one, many of
the great sorcerers began to disappear.
To where, no one knew.
Unbeknownst to the Duke, the Crimson
Tower was again in full operation, this
time secretly. And the hierarchy
of mages was re-established, promising
young scholars stealthily recruited to
the Tower and advancing in the
ranks of wizardry.
Now, in the year D.S. 872, the
city of Knatadorn is again ruled with
a just hand, by the well-meaning if
somewhat senile Duke Darwin. The
Crimson Tower is filled with hundreds
of mages and the magical arts are
flourishing.
You are Corin, a young apprentice
recruited to the Tower three years ago.
After much tedious menial labor
(and in your off time, magical instruction)
you have face the Journeyman Trial.
You easily complete the routine
magic tests, and now the final obstacle
is before you: you are bound and
locked in a prison cell and must escape
to prove your skill. But upon successfully
completing the test, you find no High
Wizard to greet you. Instead, there
is only silence.
As you explore the Tower's deserted
hallways, you find the bodies of your
friends and teachers. The sound
of marching boots resonates through
the ancient stone. The Tower has
fallen. But how did it happen so quickly?
And why is there no conquering army?
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