The Umirsvet Trinity

The age of the Gods is dead.   The Avatars of the Gods once walked the soil we now plant, working miracles with every passing sun... but those days are no more. With the son of Válastog - the Caged Prince himself - seeking the total destruction of life on this holy world, the Gods were forced to retreat from their mutual plane to battle this relentless plague on Umirsvet. With his imprisonment in his own corner of the Hells - his torturous Pit - the Twenty knew they could never return to their world, lest they risk another calamity befalling their creation. And so, it was that the world of Umirsvet was given over to the next in line - a smattering of civilised races and a horde of monsters beneath them - in the hopes that something better might exist on the horizon.   Twelve thousand years. At least twelve thousand years have passed since that day, and still the same mistakes repeat themselves. When will we ever learn? An old man - or a young Elf - today, has seen the Imperial Colony of Peloria plunge into open war against itself. They have seen one of the last vestiges of Dwarven civilisation collapse. They have seen the rise of a crime family, a mage's rebellion, and an insurrection against an Empire. Those Elves blessed with long life might have a nostalgia for the Vibrant Thorn - Nan'iel's beautiful champion - pulling the Free City of Raumora from the jaws of Mor'thanar, and Yeara Aen Aetherys - the Free Mage of Vajkiera Saryn - taking her century-long pilgrimage before returning to her people with a fitting, strong husband at her side and a wonderful daughter somewhere out in the world. That era - an era of clear heroes and malevolent villains - was simpler... and that epoch has breathed its last.   Today, the world is much smaller. The land of Kon Ul is a smouldering ruin. The distant continent of Erathis Maw is too remote to even be a memory. The Ewarician Empire teeters on the brink of war, with every colonial misstep giving just that little more of a push. The once-grand civilisation of the Pelorian Dwarves is all but extinct, their race fading into obscurity as gilded refugees from the perches of their newfound mountain cities. The deserts of Khurfari are more violent than ever, with the ruthless crime lords and zealous templars making way for a new, more terrible figurehead, as within the same day, the outrageously wealthy Emisi watch from their marble palaces and sandstone pyramids as they squeeze every last copper they can from struggling noble houses and failing adventurers from across the seas. The Free City of Raumora still mourns its Vibrant Thorn, whose death brought about the age of peace they now hold so dear. The archipelago of Abana has fallen to a magocratic coup de'tat, setting their new arcane leadership at odds with just about everyone in the world. The Elven homeland of Vajkiera Saryn is in its final stages of quelling an attempt at the same, watching their Circle Magi with deeply-distrusting eyes and counting the days until they can bury the bodies of their loved ones. And of course, watching it all, are the Gods; but they do not intend to sit entirely silent. In the shadows, out of reach of civilisation, or even right in plain sight, the Gods put their stock in mortal men and women, tasked with advancing their agenda in the grand game of the continent. These "Seers" wander the world with reckless abandon, stumbling across one another and walking into the most important moments of recent history as though fate itself demanded it, altering the course of this history to their masters' desire. Veredin, Seer of Válastog. Kraneia, Seer of Zaris. Amaranthae Aen Kovaran, the Vibrant Thorn, Seer of Nan'iel. All have played their part in the game, and all shall continue to in the millennia to come. All that they can do now... is wait. Wait for the world to thrust them to the forefront yet again, with the patience of angels... or the hunger of demons.