It is the Fourth Age.
What humans built, the godsplague laid low. For nine generations, that withering sickness has enforced the pact of the gods, killing not just the living, but killing civilization itself. The weight of the recurring pestilence ground the populace, milling human ambition into dust. The highest arts of humankind are now lost, their artifacts buried like glittering treasures in the abandoned cities of the world. An abiding dark age grips the land as human communities no longer seek to advance themselves, but rather cling to their meager homes and strict religion to save them from the ravages of evil.
The moon has gone unseen for generations and the land is cloaked in shadow. In this time of darkness, as so many humans die, evil truly comes alive. In the wild places between the hamlets and other sheltered communities of the world roam murderous brigands, hordes of ravenous wolves, and darker creatures of unspeakable origins. Safety is found only in numbers, and those numbers huddle together in xenophobic circles. High walls guarded by careful sentries are typical of every town. Outsiders bring danger, particularly in the form of the plague.
Only one city in all of Palamux, the fabled Fontra Cilor, has grown during the dying times. It stands as a monument of hubris, gathering untold numbers together in stark defiance of the plague. What rites or craft protect the sprawling city from sickness? Theories and rumors abound. Whatever the true reason, Fontra Cilor thrives, building ever outward and skyward, it’s dark towers crawling up into the clouds. Long the capital city of Palamux, the city now vies to become the capital of the entire Trakorien Empire.