Arafelis/Raxgard
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There was a great Kingdom whose name no one knows. It was ruled by eight queens and eight kings; the daughters of a great lord, and their consorts.
The queens still live.
One with memory worn away by waves; she is the priestess of the city of the Free, whose lonesome god-leviathan accepts his devotees' flesh unnoticed.
One lies in armor beneath the ice in a frozen forest of moss and mushrooms, waiting to be reborn when the world needs her once again.
One, once the servant of her Goddess of Love, now serves only the flesh in her temple of tent-canvas and pillows.
One warrioress, the last of her kind, runs with the bandits and thieves that remain of her legions and dreams.
One, mightiest of the queens, a sorceress and oracle beyond compare, ravages the countryside looking for omens in the chaos.
One follows her sister and heals what she can, which is less than what she once could.
One who once ruled the night is hunted by the demons her hounds became.
And the White Queen still rules her City from its throne, in the chains that bind her there.
The kings, mere mortals, are dead save for the evil /thing/ that rides the body of their champion. Its curse undoes all.
Wyverns and manticores range the countryside, growing mighty on the dreams they eat. And on the flesh.
Demon-wasps and locusts pour from a hole in the sky to blanket a mountain; the desperate wards that hold them there keep them barely in check, sometimes letting one or a dozen spill into the countryside. And it is said /their/ queen lays her eggs in the body of a god, with each larva having a tiny apportioning of divine flesh as its first meal.
And to the east, there is a vast desert with only ruined walls and a single half-remaining statue. "Wormwood," it reads; and the dust there is said to be poison. Yet somehow at night mad chanting is heard from beneath...
This is a land in need of heroes and storytellers, for all of its own have been leeched away.
