It has been nearly fifty years since the first afflicted appeared within the lands of the Venerated Republic of Decus. The ruinous byproduct of the plague known simply as the Torment, the Afflicted have reduced the world of Eden into ruin. Five decades has the Torment plagued the lands of Vitaveus, equating to nearly two full generations of the deadly scourge wreaking havoc across the known world.
Two generations worth of misery, death and destruction; two generations worth of madness, chaos and suffering.
Two generations worth of watching and waiting as a world upon the precipice of apocalypse slide closer and closer towards the final choking breaths of existence.
Yet to truly appreciate the End of Days and the hopeless predicament the world of Eden finds itself within today, one must go back to the beginning – the origins of the Torment, of its’ victims, and of course, its’ creators. And like any truly entertaining tale, our story begins with humble beginnings; for what appeared, at first glance, to be nothing more than a simple flu evolved into something far more sinister. The Venerated Republic of Decus, the grand benefactor and superpower of the known world of Eden, paid little heed to the fledgling days of the mysterious sickness that would later become known as the Torment. Embraced within a veritable renaissance of technological breakthroughs and cultural achievements, the Venerated Church, the monolithic ruling faction of the Republic, had never known a worthy adversary for over thirteen hundred years. Dismissing the Torment as but a common illness to be extinguished easily by the ingenuity of the Republic’s top minds, little effort was put in to handling the peculiar sickness with the severity of a plague
Embraced within a veritable renaissance of technological breakthroughs and cultural achievements, the Venerated Church, the monolithic ruling faction of the Republic, had never known a worthy adversary for over thirteen hundred years.
And, alas, such pride would be the undoing of the Republic proper. When the wretched disease had truly blossomed in its unholy glory across the lands, it had appeared that the gates of Hell itself had been opened upon the face of Eden. Countless thousands fell to the Torment in the first year alone, for the sickness did not discriminate; men, women and children had all been claimed with equal prejudice. While countless millions had simply perished due to the Torment, there had been some that had survived the initial stages of the disease – and in turn, had been subjected to a fate worse than death itself. For these forsaken souls, known colloquially as The Tormented, had turned to feral beasts, blinded with madness and rage, turning upon friend and family like wild animals. Rending their brethren countrymen from limb to limb, those unfortunate to succumb to the wounds of a Tormented would in turn become afflicted with the ungodly disease themselves. And so did the propagation of the true nature of the Torment begin; thousands upon thousands of forsaken souls cursed to spread death and disease across the Republic, their weapons of destruction not the torch or the sword, but the tooth and nail.
In the early days of the outbreak, the great Church desperately scrambled to keep order in a kingdom tainted with madness. The Apothecary Corps. worked tirelessly in an effort to understand the unholy sickness. The Holy Decusian Legion and Church Templar, the two arms of the Republic’s monolithic military mighty, were dispatched far and wide across the Republic to keep order in states that were stricken with the sickness. Most all of these efforts, however, were in vain. Where the Torment did not strike directly, its effects were felt indirectly through rioting and famine. Entire cities fell to chaos. Those states and territories that could be saved were quickly placed under martial law, while most other areas were simply lost to the wake of the Torment. In a mere six months after the first outbreaks of the Torment, nearly a quarter of the Republic has been already abandoned or lost.
The following year did not bode any better; as epidemic turned to pandemic, the Venerated Church could only watch in horror as entire city-states fell to the groves of those infected with the terrible sickness. The Torment and those afflicted with it spread like wildfire through the countryside of Vitaveus. Flooding across nation and state, town and territory; millions believed it was truly the End of Days. By the time the Church could properly utilize its forces of Templar and the Legion proper, nearly half of the continent had devolved into frenzied madness. Death ran rampant through the Republic, and millions had succumbed to the chaos which ensued.
And in the midst of this ever-encroaching darkness, this time of doubt, misery and the questioning of faith, yet another revelation emerged. For thirteen months to the day that the first known reports of the Torment emerged within the Republic, a mysterious entity arose, claiming the title of the Republic’s saviors. Inconceivably, this collective claimed to be true to life warlocks and witches; Magi, straight from the tales of Old. And true to their fantastical claims, they indeed possessed the power of what could only be described as Magic. They performed feats of unimaginable power throughout the Republic; creating food from thin air with the uttering of but a few words, healing the lame, giving voice to the mute, bestowing sight to the blind, and other veritable miracles unimaginable to the layman of the Republic. Those who would dare to raise fist or sword upon them were struck down by the fires of the arcane, and as easily as simply murmuring a few words.
For thirteen months to the day that the first known reports of the Torment emerged within the Republic, a mysterious entity arose, claiming the title of the Republic’s saviors. Inconceivably, this collective claimed to be true to life warlocks and witches; Magi, straight from the tales of Old.
Their greatest feat, however, had not been the miracles they performed upon the crippled, nor the ease in which they dispatched their foes. No, for their greatest power had been that of a blessing and a promise, a solemn oath to any that would seek to follow them in lieu of the Church that failed them:
Immunity from the ravishes of the Torment.
And like the rider upon the pale horse, they had indeed been capable of fulfilling such a promise; for their power was so great, even the deadliest plague known to man could not pose a threat to them. And so many elected to follow these mysterious saviors, seeking refuge among their ranks as an escape from the certain death of the Torment, swearing their fealty to these demi-gods of power never before witnessed upon the face of Eden.
Yet these supposed saviors were an evasive and suspicious lot. Their customs and methods were foreign to even the most backwater citizen of the Republic. Whilst proficient in the common tongues and languages of the lands, their native language was an amalgamation of sounds and phrases that had never before graced the modern world of Eden. And most disturbing was, when asked of their names and titles, these mysterious souls would offer no customary reply – for they did not consider themselves individuals. Instead, their answer was a simple yet cryptic phrase that would forever live in infamy…
“We are the Resolve.”
The Resolve.
How does one introduce the story about the most destructive entity the world has ever seen? The tale of the Resolve is one of betrayal and of wickedness, something that could very well be mistaken for fantasy, if the effects of their reprehensible deeds had not still been felt to this day. What is known of the Resolve is somewhat scarce and limited, but what information that is available paints a truly horrific picture.
In order to truly understand the Resolve, one must understand the world of Eden before their arrival. Before the Torment and the arrival of the Resolve, the idea of “Magic” in its most traditional sense was largely regarded as folklore by the layman. Across the thousands of cities and villages that comprised the Republic, the concept of magic was something that very few people put any credence into. While referenced often in the canon lore and literature of the Decusian Church, the common man had no reason to believe such fantastical Old tales were true; there had been no evidence to suggest mystical and unseen powers lay waiting to be wielded by those willing to pursue them. As such, magic and the arcane had been looked upon simply as allegories to great strength and fortitude of the founding elements of the Church and society.
Across the thousands of cities and villages that comprised the Republic, the concept of magic was something that very few people put any credence into.
It was this lack of faith, so to say, that the Resolve had preyed upon, for their arrival in the Republic was met with wonder and awe. Each member of the collective, of whom only thirteen had been seen at any given time, had been a veritable master of the arcane, wielding powers only ever dreamed of. With this fame, the Resolve set out upon a show of power that solidified their reputation as miracle workers. They moved from city to city, territory to territory, performing nothing short of wonders. Where the Church had failed to devise any sort of protection from the Torment that had been raging across the Republic, the Resolve had been able to immunize those willing to follow them with but the utterance of a few words. Their acts of benevolence quickly spread through the Republic, and with each city they visited, more and more joined their ranks as willing followers. As the year 1313 drew to a close, thousands of citizens had abandoned their lives within the Republic to join with the mysterious collective, many out of simple fear of the Torment, and some out of the desire to learn a mere fraction of their knowledge of the arcane.
Of course, it did not take long for the Church to grow discontent of the actions of these mysterious magi. The act of miracles and, of course, the wielding of Magic had been the domain of the Church for millennia – to suggest otherwise was pure blasphemy. For the only known and acknowledged practitioners of magic, in the Church’s eyes, had been the founding Templar of the Decusian Church nearly thirteen hundred years past. With each sighting of the Resolve, envoys of the Church were sent to demand that the powerful magi to share their knowledge and power with the Church under pain of death. Yet each request was met with refusal, for the Resolve had no interest in acting benevolent to the Church. With their hand forced, the Church had made a bold but necessary decision. In the city of Allamarone, a bustling trade city seated in the heart of the Midlands, an entire chapter of Church Templar, coupled with a full Clergy of Inquisitors had been dispatched to stop and detain the blaspheming Magi and their heretical followers. A force of nearly four hundred men strong, the Templar and Inquisitors represented some of the most well-trained and well-outfitted soldiers the Republic could spare. Infused with zeal, the Church’s forces moved upon Allamarone like an army laying siege, surrounding the Resolve and their traveling caravan of followers with ease. Yet their lack of humility in the face of such raw and unimaginable power would be their undoing.
The act of miracles and, of course, the wielding of Magic had been the domain of the Church for millennia – to suggest otherwise was pure blasphemy.
In but one single hour, more than three hundred Templar and Inquisitors fell to the power of but a dozen and one Resolvists, all as the collected thousands within Allamarone watched in abject horror. The wonton unleashing of death and destruction upon the hundreds of assembled Templar and Inquisitor forces had been nigh unimaginable. Onlookers had gone on to describe the scene as something out of the Old texts – a truly overwhelming sight to behold and fathom. After a hasty retreat and medical triage, less than fifty men of the original four hundred would survive the ordeal.
It was with this unabashed display of raw power (of which would later become known as the Slaughter of Allamarone) that the attention of the entire Republic had been cast upon the Resolve. Capitalizing upon their infamy, they continued westward across the Republic, fleeing the more civilized and powerful territories of the kingdom all the while bringing thousands within their folds. And as 1313 faded into history, so did the Resolve. Their exodus across the Republic had brought them far west, into portions of the kingdom that were referred to as the “Blacklands”. It was here in the Blacklands that the Torment had struck most violently, mostly due to the lack of infrastructure and overwhelming Church presence. Civilization was actively collapsing in these Blacklands, as many cities and states had been overrun by the Torment months prior, and Legion and Church forces were scarce and scattered.
And as mysteriously as they arrived, they had vanished. The Resolve, with their following of faithful, disappeared into the Blacklands in those last days of 1313, never to be seen again; yet it would not be long before they were heard of again.
]As the Republic came to know the Resolve’s awesome and terrible power in defeating nearly two entire outfits of Church forces, the Ecclesial Authority would respond in kind; not only against that of the Resolve threat, but against any and all whom would dare even consider wielding the powers of magic and the arcane. On Paedrig’s Day of 1313, a formal decree issued by the Venerated Church’s Council of Bishops was made; magic was considered a blight against one’s own immortal soul, and any whom dared to practice it would be subjected to execution without trial or jury. In mere days, word of this decree traveled far and wide across the far reaches of Vitaveus. What would soon follow would be the literal slaughter of thousands of Republic citizens at the hands of both the Church, the Inquisition, and even the laypeople of the Republic itself. Those that were known to study the art of the arcane were slain in the streets and alleys of the Republic, often by the hands of their own neighbors.
No consideration had been given to the fact that the average arcane user’s prowess over magic had been infantile at best; if one was known or even suspected of having dabbled in the arcane arts, their life was essentially forfeit. The Church, its’ Templar along with the fabled Inquisition Corps, now roiling with excitement and bloodlust over the declaration of a “crusade of this generation”, wasted no time in bringing forth “divine justice” to those that, only a week prior, had been the very people they had been oath-bound to protect and serve. Homes, farms, shops and property of suspected magic users, now simply referred to as “witches” by those of the Cloth, were burned to the ground. Those even thought to have been associated with witches – witchkindred – were often executed in the streets as well. Only when time would permit, these collaborators would be treated with what would become customary treatment of those suspected of witchcraft: crucifixion or being burned at the stake. Literature concerning the arcane had been further deemed illegal and immoral by the marauding Church forces, and it was burned in great pyres whenever and wherever it was found, with those found in possession of it suffering a similar fate. This frenzied Inquisition against magic and the arcane had reached across every corner of the Republic, lasting for nearly two months, and was punctuated in many areas with civil unrest, rioting, rampant property damage, and other collateral crimes against humanity. This period of unrest would be come to known as the “Purge of the Witchkin”.
During the horrors inflicted upon Republic citizens during the Purge, the Resolve took a grand opportunity to make their intentions well known. In each city that the cabal had made their presence within during their trek across the kingdom a year prior, those supposedly blessed by their mysterious powers of Miracles had become stricken with misfortune. Those that the collective of warlocks and witches had healed of the turned feral and mindless. Grateful souls that were cured of blindness were stricken with horrifying visions of otherworldly creatures, speaking of dreadful sights of daemons and Ill. Those that were bestowed the gift of hearing were damned with voices beckoning them to commit atrocious deeds upon their fellow man.
Yet it was the mute whom had been chosen to deliver the Resolve’s true message to the forsaken Republic. Across the Republic, thousands of the misfortunate whom were blessed with the supposed Miracle of Speech raised their voices in unholy unison, their cacophony revealing the true nature of the Resolve’s deceit:
“The End is Nigh for the Children of Decus; may their Torment sew the seeds of the New World”.
The Church, its’ Templar along with the fabled Inquisition Corps, now roiling with excitement and bloodlust over the declaration of a “crusade of this generation”, wasted no time in bringing forth “divine justice” to those that, only a week prior, had been the very people they had been oath-bound to protect and serve.
Following the Church’s inquisition against witchcraft, a considerable void was left within the Republic. The Resolve, now having seemingly vanished into the frontier lands of the Western Territories, proved to have had been an unassailable force of unfathomable power. The Torment continued to ravage the Republic, with every alchemical and apothecarial treatment devised by the Foundry and Apothecary Corps proving to be ineffective. Magical practice and even research had been deemed wholly heretical, despite that the only known cures to the Torment had been that of the Resolve’s incantations of protection and magical spells of healing. With the Republic burning, it had become begrudgingly and painfully aware to the Ecclesial Authority that an understanding of magic was vital to the survival of the Decusian peoples, not simply for divining a cure to the Torment, but out of fear of the Resolve one day returning to conquer and subjugate an unprepared Republic with the super-weapon of magic, of which no match to existed within the armories of the Decusian war machine.
While it was an inarguable fact that, surreptitiously, select Chapters of Templar and cloisters of those within the Authority had been engaging in the state-sponsored study, documentation and perpetuation of magical practice for countless centuries, their prowess over the mystic arts were but a fraction of that seen on display by the Resolve. Furthermore, such work towards the mastery of the arcane arts could not be relegated to the shadows if any true progress was to be made – only a minute portion of the population had appeared to be “attuned” to be able to practically use and harness the powers of magic. Thus, the Church had turned to the millions of laypersons whom, just months prior, they had hunted with impunity for the mere speculation of practicing magic. A new bureaucracy would be required – one under the purview of the Church, but seemingly independent from its influence. This bureaucracy would walk the fine line between seeking salvation of the Decusian peoples form the threat of the Torment and Resolve while also keeping ever-in mind the lessons learned from the Act of Blasphemy, the infamous event that had been responsible for deeming magic heretical and a threat to the eternal salvation of mankind in the first place. A new faction would be thus be birthed, under the close supervision of the College of Bishops; a collaborative of enlightened minds whom would research, develop and perfect the magical arts; this collaborative would be come to known formally as the Consortium of Mages.
Magical practice and even research had been deemed wholly heretical, despite that the only known cures to the Torment had been that of the Resolve’s incantations of protection and magical spells of healing.
]As 1313 came to a close, a new day and age of the Republic had come to pass. A kingdom divided, both literally and figuratively, constituted the New Republic. With the western half of Vitaveus considered Blacklands, the Eastern Baronies were but a shadow of their former self. The Church, whose favor and power had never been so solidified since the days of Old, reigned over every aspect of life with an air of authoritarianism never before witnessed. Following the Darkest Dawn, a tentative sense of order had been regained, paid for in the blood of tens of thousands of citizens. All across Vitaveus, even the most progressive Decusian reverted to their faith; for if such a thing as Magic existed, undoubtedly the other stories of Old were not folklore, but accounts of reality in the flesh.
And thus, the word of the Church had now been unquestionable. And it was with this unquestionable word that the Church did rebuild the ailing Republic, solidifying its’ control over the Eastern Baronies, shoring up the borders of the Midlands, and in but a few short years, setting its sights farther. By 1315, with the Baronies under firm martial control, the Church now focused its attention to reclaiming control over the entirety of the Midlands, intent on reclaiming absolute control over the continent by any means necessary.
Blood streamed down her face, yet she did not seem to notice. The heavy golden armor, boasting proudly the embossed emblem of the Decusian Holy Legion, protested against her fatigued body. Her arm writhed in excruciating pain, undoubtedly broken in more than two separate places. Her body pleaded with her to yield, yet her mind knew better than to concede; to stop was to die, die like the others, die like everyone else in this god forsaken world called Eden…
She would survive, however she could. It was her will.
The midnight storm poured rain down upon her that had blurred her vision, yet what lay ahead of her was unmistakable. Billowing flames reached high into the heavens, licking the storm clouds in defiance, resembling an insolent child in midst of a tantrum. Despite the disturbing scene, she felt relief; for escape from this gauntlet of horrors lay just within reach. She staggered, tripped, and hobbled, nearly losing her footing in the soft mud beneath her.
Various buildings and charred rubble lay in a small meadow no more than a half mile away. What was once a small village was now engulfed in flames, the heavy downpour having little effect on the raging inferno. The scattered buildings had been nothing more than hovels and shanties, a collection of shacks that comprised one of the many humble farming communities that littered the Midlands’ rolling countryside. Now, it was naught but a graveyard; a place where the dying had bid their final farewell to the cruel land of Eden and went on to the worlds that lay ahead.
She knew this to be fact, for Legionnaire Alana Morgan, Twelfth Battalion of the Twenty Fourth Vesica Brigade, had been personally responsible in helping assemble that graveyard. For this particular village had been situated upon a stretch of land on the wrong side of the Badlands line, and thus, anything found breathing was to be considered a threat.
Considered…afflicted.
Suddenly, the screams erupted behind her again. The familiar feeling of adrenaline flooding her body returned, and she managed to increase her pace. Her legs burned with pain and her arm exploded in writhing agony, yet she continued on, for the sounds of screams quickly turned into the sounds of footfalls; footfalls closing in behind her. Terror filled her heart and soul, daring not to look back. Her entire Company had been decimated in this god-forsaken shithole, and undoubtedly, they were now behind her amongst the undying…the unliving. The cold midnight air burned her lungs, pleading her to stop.
More voices joined the unholy screams as Alana pawed at her armor, attempting to loosen it from her person. Only through her ragged gasps of breath had she begun to realize that her own guttural screams had joined the choir of voices that pursued her. Just as a frantic set of footsteps grew in volume over her right shoulder, she managed to jostle free the buckles holding her pauldrons in place; plates of tempered steel slid free from her shoulders and arms, tumbling into the soft mud below. Her pace quickened as she heard the clatter of the armor make contact with one of her pursuers, the footfalls turning to a loud tumble and labored scream of anger.
Her entire Company had been decimated in this god-forsaken shithole, and undoubtedly, they were now behind her amongst the undying…the unliving.
Sensing a momentary second of reprieve, Alana worked to manipulate the leather bindings that held her cuirass firmly to her chest, and allowed herself a quick glance behind…
Seven figures gave chase to her, sprinting at full speed. They were no more than fifty yards behind her and were gaining quickly. The moonlight did little more than illuminate their silhouettes due to the storm churning above, yet the visage was enough of a sight to strike fear into the deepest recesses of her soul. With trembling hands, Alana loosened the cuirass from her chest, shedding it off like a discarded shirt. A hopeless scream erupted from deep inside her, and somewhere, she found the strength to run even faster.
Rounding the village, she could now feel the heat of the raging fires upon her blood-soaked face, and, distantly, a sound that graced her ears like nothing else could. Approximately fifteen horses had been tethered to a large Yew tree upon the northern outskirts of the former village, and now they stood no more than a hundred yards away. One in particular had caught her eye; a sorrel stallion neighing in angered protest of the storm above. It was her Company commandant who thought it to be wise to scout the village and farm on foot, mostly as to avoid getting a mare’s foot stuck in a rabbit hole or soft patch of mud. Consequently, it was a tactical mistake that lead to the ambush and subsequent deaths of her entire company. Ironically, it may be the one thing that could save her yet.
She quickened her pace. She passed burning embers and the ruins of what were once homes. The scent of burning flesh pierced her nostrils, yet she paid little attention to it. Her voice was coarse, and her legs burned. Escape lay just in reach, and as she reached the Yew tree, her eyes locked upon a silhouette sitting with its back against the tree’s trunk. She recognized the figure as the young recruit they had picked up back in Taltha, a young teen with strawberry blonde hair and freckles lining his nose. He was assigned sentry duty in order to keep an eye on the mounts while the others scouted the meadow and farmland for the afflicted. Upon hearing Alana’s labored approached, the teen suddenly stirred to his feet. It had not taken long for him to make out the half-dozen or more figures giving her chase, and the teen stammered impotently about, his legs paralyzed in fear.
Yet Alana wasted no time. Her shaking hands grasped the leather tether of the sorrel stallion that caught her eye moments before, straining to untie it. The horse neighed and snorted, as if as desperate as Alana to leave as well. The young sentry was still petrified, unsure as to what to do. He rushed to the Alana’s side, only to be answered with incomprehensible babble and a sharp push, sending him to the soft ground below. It was only when Alana’s pursuers wailed their ungodly screams that the teen realize what was truly at hand. He scrambled madly for the nearest tethered mount, clawing at the hemp bindings with shaking hands.
A sheer sense of terror filled Alana as she manipulated the rope from the stallion’s neck, scurrying to mount the steed. To her right, the sentry fumbled with his own attempts, yet to no avail; his shaking hands had naught the dexterity to unfasten such knots in haste. The afflicted that had given her chase for more than a mile now were no more than fifteen yards away, parting the high grasses of the meadow in pursuit of the injured Legionnaire, the scent of blood filling their nostrils and frenzied lust driving their every move.
Consequently, it was a tactical mistake that lead to the ambush and subsequent deaths of her entire company. Ironically, it may be the one thing that could save her yet.
The sentry screamed, looking to Alana. He turned on his heel, making a sprint towards her, his arms outstretched in pleading terror. The grasses surrounding the Yew tree parted, and from within came spewing forth the afflicted ones; her former comrades, now mindless husks driven by one simple emotion;
Rage.
Without thinking, Alana whipped the steed to the left, striking off in a gallop. In one moment of sublime chaos, the scene had all came to a crashing climax. The sorrel stallion Alana sat upon neighed in both fright and surprise as the sky above cracked with ear-shattering thunder, all the while the screams of her former brethren coalesced into a blood-curdling rapture. Yet despite the cacophony of madness that filled her ears, Alana could make out one last distinct sound above the rest of the chaos; a gurgling, wet cry that that she would never forget for the rest of her tortured life. It was the sound of blood racing into the undeveloped lungs of a young man that would never see the age of fifteen; one that would never lay with a woman, or lay claim to his own land. It was the sound of surprise, terror, and agony.
It was the sound of death; it was the sound of abandonment.
By 1320, the continent known as Vitaveus, home of the Venerated Republic, had been divided. Maps of the continent pre-dating the Torment displayed, quite proudly, a single unified nation of numerous territories and states that had stretched across one mighty landmass. By early 1320, however, cartographers had begun to paint a new picture of the Republic, a land divided not by war or political agendas, but by famine and death. Upon this map had been three boundaries, each with its own story to tell.
Upon the eastern side of the continent lay what was known as the Eastern Baronies. This collection of states and territories represented the culmination of the Republic’s culture, faith, and technology, and it was from here where the roots in which the kingdom grew from centuries ago. The eldest and most influential cities in the Republic had been located on the eastern side of the continent, branching outwards from the Republic’s former capitol of Tor, known colloquially as the First City.
The Eastern Baronies had been rendered relatively safe as early as 1315 by the combined efforts of the Church, Legion and Inquisition. Before the Torment, the cities of the Baronies were strong and powerful in their own rights and, for the most part, were able to contain the Torment during the early months of 1313 as well as the events following the Darkest Dawn and the Witchkin Purge. Coupled with support from the Church and Legion, the Baronies were spared much of the horror witnessed in other parts of the Republic. By 1320, life had been tolerable in these areas of the Republic, if not for suffering the authoritarian rule of the Church, overcrowding in most all of the larger Municipalities and city-states, and the occasional food shortage due to disruptions in the supply lines from the Midlands.
Most of the eldest cities in the Republic had been located on the eastern side of the continent, branching outwards from the coastal capitol of Tor, known colloquially as the First City.
Somewhere between the Western Territories and Eastern Baronies laid thin designation of land that had stretched many thousands of miles, reaching from the northern mountains to the southern coasts of the continent. This area was known as the Midlands, and it was here that the first efforts in retaking the lost lands of the Republic took place. By 1320, the Midlands were still a chaotic and dangerous place, serving as the veritable border between the civilized and safe sections of the Republic, and the Western Territories that had been hit the hardest by the Torment. Most all military units in the Republic that were not tasked with peacekeeping in the Baronies had been commissioned to the Midlands to secure a foothold. This foothold would serve as a base of operations for the grand task of exploring the Blacklands of the Western Territories, both in an attempt to recover the lost portions of the Republic as well as to hunt down the Resolve. Additionally, the Midlands served as an imperative strategical asset to the Republic, for without their workable arable land and the significant amount of agricultural products it produced, the Baronies would collapse under it’s own unsustainable needs of food.
As for father west, little information concerning the fate of the Western Territories was available in 1320. Handfuls of refugees had occasionally made their way into Midlands between 1315 to 1320, harboring tales of horror and madness; where the Torment hadn’t claimed lives, lawlessness and civil unrest had. What little presence the Church and Legion had in the Western Territories prior to the onset of the Torment and the horrors that followed had been futile, as most battalions had been cut off from orders, supplies and reinforcements since the middle of 1313. The Western Territories were, essentially, a no-man’s land, a portion of the civilized world that had succumbed to anarchy, plague and chaos. Where little bastions of order did remain, they operated without the official guidance or procedure from the Church proper.
By 1320, the Midlands were still a chaotic and dangerous place, serving as the veritable border between the civilized and safe sections of the Republic, and the Western Territories that had been hit the hardest by the Torment
When asked of the Resolve, the only answer refugees of the Western Territories could ever give had been that they had gone west, farther and farther into the horizon, leaving a trail of misery and destruction behind.
Intent on both re-securing the lost territories of the Republic and to track down the insidious cult, the Church and Legion worked diligently to fortify their positions in the Midlands, and to prepare to embark on a crusade unlike the continent had seen since the ancient days of the Reclamation. By 1324, the first expeditions were made into the Blacklands of the Western Territories by battalions of both Church Templar and Legionnaires. These expeditions would continue for nearly an entire decade, yielding little gains and offering even more losses. Yet there had been some headway; for with passing year, a scant few towns and territories were retaken, the veritable frontlines slowly moved farther and farther west. Slowly but surely the campaign to reclaim Vitaveus sauntered forth, deeper into the ruined lands of the Western Territories and in to the unknown. By 1322, it had even been believed that one day Republic forces may even reach Angelspire herself; a monolithic construction seated in some of the farthest reaches of Collatia, a territory deep into the Western Territories, and for many, represented the idea that the Republic could in fact reclaim order and reel back from the edge of anarchy.
In the year of 1333, however, that belief had been crushed by a peculiar report from a collection of Republic colonies far to the east of the continent of Vitaveus, situated upon a chain of islands known colloquially as the End of the World…