A sprawling, wealthy city state nestled within its fertile provinces.

There are seven administrative quarters to the city itself, ranging from the White Hill where the royal court resides to the repugnant Wormhole.

Asterra is centuries old, almost unparalleled in military power and was founded by a goddess. Much pride has accumulated within its blue walls.

A king rules the people and the high priesthood ensure that the gods' will rules the king.


It is the thirty-seventh year of the fourth Miridian rule. The weather is mild and the harvest should be a good one. When news of the young king's death arrive in the provinces, most shrug it off with a few quick prayers at the temple.

In the city itself, however, the council is growing restless. A succession crisis and even war are like to follow unless an irreputable heir is produced. The populace is distraught as well, having loved their late king well. Vipers speaking of conspiracy and foul play are pulling in more and more curious listeners by the day. The royal court, themselves not impervious to erroneous belief, divides into new factions and fraction far more often than anyone would like to admit.

Unnoticed by all of them, an unremarkable Miridian honorary envoy from Niberia in the North has landed in the Asterran harbor and brought with it the great, forgotten plague.



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