The world is dying. Not just in the physical realm, where hot winds tear at unguarded flesh, seas flood and drain at the whim of nameless deities, and a red sun burns but offers little light. But it is also the soul of the world which gasps for breath. The fractured kingdoms and tribes of the civilized parts of the world slaughter each other over scant resources while warlords grasp at wealth and power from mounds of innocent dead. It is difficult to find the rare motes of light and goodness in this world. They are there. Once, the realm of Shira'tol was good and whole, a home to heroes. But as the life is slowly strangled from the world, heroes are hard to find. Yet heroes are what Shira'tol desperately needs. The world hangs by a thread. One way or another, you've found yourself at the crossroads called Wayward Refuge, a town full of misfits, wanderers, and escaped slaves. As you walked the dusty streets a soft voice called your name. You followed the voice to a dimly lit alley where a hooded figure sat at a stone table. The shadows within the hood were unnaturally dark and the voice echoed as if from a great distance, at once feminine, masculine, young, and ancient. "It's about time you made it. We've been waiting for you so long." A gloved hand extends holding a shimmering oracle card. "Follow the howling of the Hoodoo stones tonight as the second moon touches the western horizon. Don't keep us waiting." As you look down at the card the image shifts several times, the golden ink flowing like smoke on the wind, until it settles into a solid form. When you look up to respond to the figure you find yourself alone in the shadows of the alley.