The World, once of Scythaius, the Fallen God There where crows feast on the flesh of the fallen

A world within:  

Praise be the Ancients

The sacred ones, the wise ones, all call them by their own name. These great beings of power control the world, they divided it amongst themselves thousands of years ago, and now humanity has the privilege of being in their care, part of their property. Except for those that would break their oaths to their masters, those who would flee from civilization, who would rather trudge in the filth of the leaderless, in the sacreds forsaken, so-called no man's land.  

Cursed be the Heathen

Magic isnt common in the lands of the sacreds, not here in civilized lands, where such heresy isnt needed, magic is reserved for those who would sacrifice even their humanity itself, to learn. Those who would subjugate themselves to the heathen rituals required to obtain these magics. They will be punished for their treachery, by the laws of gods and men, and may their accursed souls rot in the void for all eternity.  

Death to the Markless

Those who live under the grace of the Ancients receive their mark at birth, to signify loyalty, and respect. But there are those who would remove their mark, those who would spit at the honor they represent, these are the greatest of traitors, the worst of the vermin.