Of Snakes and Fiends

The year is 2999 of the Aeon of Legends. Since the end of the Fyernsdaen War that marked the end of the Aeon of Fiends, the world of Aedrothin has been rocked by conflict after conflict. Revolutions shattered the ancient Magicarum, a mageocracy that once unified the diverse realms under the centralized rule of the mages. The bloodthirsty Yuan-ti empire rose to prominence and conquered the neighboring territories, then were cast down, and rose again to reclaim its ancestral home. The frozen wastes of the south and the north poles have waged a perpetual war against their neighbors, whether to flee or spread the dark powers brewing within their own boundaries. But as the decades stretched into centuries and centuries into millennia, a relatively calm yet uneasy peace has settled over the various lands of Aedrothin.   Hidden behind a blanket of thick overcast sky, the afternoon sun still spreads its merciless heat upon the marshland of the kingdom of Waethern. Humidity clings to the air like a tenacious tick, sucking away comfort and leaving in its wake a sticky sweat. Outside, a distinct odor, like soaking algae mixed with rotten eggs, wafts from the nearby Mollen Marsh to cover the small village of Ravendale like a thick invisible fog. Yet the residents of this humble village go about their daily lives, seeming unperturbed by the perpetual stench pervading their home. There is plenty of laundry to be done, bread loaves to cook, and crops to tend in the nutrient-rich bogland, and worrying over the ever-present scents of the marsh is something none would consider.   Within the nearby inn of darkened wood – aptly named The Raven's Perch for its location and coloring – the balding innkeeper, a stout man by the name of Banders, sits upon a stool before the kitchen as if not a care in the world awaits him. That he appears so nonchalant would be odd if he were anywhere but this sleepy town, as he also is the duly-elected mayor or Ravendale. A long-stemmed pipe rests between his teeth while he puffs thin streams of sweet-scented smoke toward the rafters, and he scratches his beard, as if wondering what lies ahead this day. Within the kitchen, his stouter and more surly wife Hilda clatters away, flicking blonde hair from her face as she works to prepare a fresh lunch for any and all looking for a meal – of which many already are waiting impatiently for in the common room, under the relaxed gaze of Banders himself.   Amongst the crowd filling the benches of the scarred tables illuminated by the dimly lit candles are a group of three strangers. Pushed perhaps by fate or the less-than-welcoming denizens of Ravendale to share a single table closest the window overlooking the nearby marsh, a group of three strangers passing through sit together, waiting their meals….