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Wanii'igan
Civilization is dead.
Sprawling cities once dominated the landscape. These gleaming bastions of life, order, and magic were home to the combined races comprising the Nipoth Empire. Stories whisper of miracles of magic; wondrous spires floating in the air, fountains of water or wine that would never run dry, lights that would change color and dance with music, and every luxury one could imagine. The underlying beauty of the planet was reflected upon its surface, as the coursing power of the leylines were followed precisely by the ancient architects.
Life is bleak.
Small pockets of survivors cling desperately to what vestiges remain of the previous age. Roving bands of miscreants pillage relentlessly, forcing many into a semi-nomadic life. Each time their home is discovered, the survivors relocate. Constant attacks by creatures higher on the food chain make relocation especially dangerous. Nowhere is safe. The only certainty is death. The lives of those unfortunate enough to have survived in this wasteland is bleak indeed.
Creation is King.
The generations of running, hiding, and dying like prey has destroyed the knowledge that had been cultivated since the discovery of fire and magic. Even the most fundamental technologies have been lost or stolen over the generations since the fall of the Nipoth Empire. When desperate enough, those with stronger souls venture into the dead cities for tools or knowledge. Funerals are held for them as they leave, for few ever return. Tools are held as precious heirlooms, with a steel dagger or axe being an entire villages most precious resource. The rare few who posses the ability to create tools are cherished and protected fiercely. Creatives nearly always become leaders of their village. The land of Wanii'igan is broken. The people are broken. The flames of hope have died down to tiniest sliver of an ember in a bed of thick ashes.
Cover image by JJcanvas