This is the first intro I wrote for my Broken Gods setting. It might not be accurate anymore, or might be just what PCs living in that world believe. This was the first and one story and one class came from this, hopefully to be followed by more. Some later material might contradict what is in here, but I don’t intend to change this. For in a world where the gods broke reality to kill each other with the sharp edges of the world, accuracy is fleeting.
A generation ago, an eternity to some people, the gods broke through into our world. No content with the ‘safe’ wars between clerics, minions, and mortal followers the gods sent demons and angels into the mortal realm to do battle and determine who would control everything. Clerics lost their powers, suddenly irrelevant to those they worshiped. The presence of demons, angels, and elementals warping the fabric of magic as they fought with magic that crushed mountains and boiled oceans. For a generation, a lifetime of unimaginable war fought by things beyond comprehension with no care for anyone caught underfoot, things stopped. Angels and demons simply not there anymore. Things were safe and even the clerics had their blessings and protections back.
That was just the beginning. Other creatures, other existences, took this as a sign that the old restraints and agreements were broken and began to stir and reach into the mortal world. The aftereffects of the war giving nobody a chance to rest before even worse happened.
In the east, the swamps of Pyrle swarmed with the dead. Expanding to envelop the entire empire of the lotus. The buildings are still there, and so are the people. Everyone knows this despite the fact that nobody returns from there. Rumors born aloft by the ravens circling the border and feasting on the bodies of thousands who tried to escape the wrath of their new rulers.
Across the south ocean. Realm of the dragon-lords and volcanoes holding back the scourge beyond that nobody speaks of. The south stands empty. People go and people return, but they are not quite the same people. The magic wards in the dragon-halls weaken with every story to be brought back. The eyes of those who return are jade jewels that never cry. Those who speak of the scourge are found without eyes. Once the scourge was only spoke of in fairytales, the long safe times removing all memory of it. Now the scourge is spoken of only in hushed whispers at mid-day, the lack of safety removing all courage.
Clerics speak of their gods no longer. Only blessing and protecting those who can with divine power that seems so much stronger than before. Questions about how they got the gods to return their power avoided. No longer do the priests work together. Schism and disagreement tearing apart the Holy Empire. Soldiers deserting or choosing whichever cleric will give them the best blessings and healing.
The Empress of light and peace, light of the empire and last descendent of the divine bloodline that brought all the clerics together a thousand years ago, has not been seen since the gods made war. Some whispered she had been consumed by her blood when the divine came to life. Other rumors have spoken of the leader of the Red Wolves, a mercenary unit of unmatched brutality, has the exact same shining gold hair and silver eyes as the empress once had.
In the west is the dominion of the warring artificer-lords. A realm of clockwork and flesh, untouched in the days of the god war. These days the conflicts between them are ended and their borders are open and offers of safety have been offered throughout the land by living couriers. No one sane would take them up even in these troubled times, yet everyone who has ever had dealings with any of the artificers has been seen rushing to those plains as quickly as possible. None of them wanting to stop long enough to explain why.
The north is where the world ends. Where once the fertile hills of Scarvia grew the food for the empire a jagged cliff runs from east to west for as far as anyone has traveled. The bottom disappears into nothing and nothing can be seen looking out from the cliff. No sign of anything. Simply one day the north stopped being there. People who once lived on the near side of the border have been hearing sounds, low rock-shattering sounds, coming from far down. Either the earth is breaking off more starting at the cliff, or as some fear, whatever was trapped down there under the world is now freed to climb up.
Once held back by the promises binding them to the first mortal, the ravens are starting to speak again. Trading secrets for souls as they did in the days before life. Traders speak of urgency in the raven’s voices when they make deals. Something driving them to gather as many souls as possible. Either to save them, or use them to purchase safety for themselves.
A generation ago, an eternity for some people, the gods were distant and uncaring. The unlucky few who remember wish they had continued to ignore us.