The West Marches on Golarion

A village in the center of a peaceful plain. The sun overhead, white clouds in the blue sky, warmth on the breeze. Soft wisps of smoke spiral upwards from a few of the houses that populate the town, as the laughter of children playing in the streets can be heard. The town of Silverkeep sits, the citizens happy and calm. As night falls, the volume dwindles, lights spark from within houses, and the town goes quiet as the citizens bed down for the night.

As the town quiets, the biomes beyond the range of the town still chatter with the voices of the wilds. Animals trot through the forests, sheep meander across the hills, and owls call out in the darkness. But there are other creatures afoot in the night, creatures that despise the light of day. Great beasts of hulking proportion, shambling figures who blend life and death in a horrific display of corpse and creature, monstrous arachnids prowling about underground ruins, and perhaps even a sleeping dragon.

The citizens of Silverkeep care not of what lurks in the night, nor what may prowl beyond the borders of their little town. They know farming, kinship, and strive to move to the city in the east when they grow old, to settle down and never work again. They pay no mind to the strange sounds that may pierce the night, the unearthly calls that may beckon. For within their walls, they are safe. Within their walls, life goes on.