Power. Madness. Magic. Death.
This is the world of Thumos. A land of the broken.
There are no kings on Thumos, not since the Age of the Mad Kings who boiled children in vats of liquid fire for the simple pleasure of watching golden flames crack blackened flesh. Now only greedy old men rule and that is by the grace of the Absent Emperor, an illiterate peasant elected as master of all Eleutheria. An emperor who rules nothing but rebellious soldiers.
There is no magic anymore, not since the Blood Reaver Wars, where those gifted with the blood of the Immortals were purged, slaughtered in their thousands, but that power waits in the Darklands for the one strong enough to remember its name.
There are no heroes here. Only broken crippled souls seeking to survive, as they are made to dance for the pleasure of the cruel Immortals. Even the dead are tormented on Thumos. They roam as lost ghastly shades striving, without choice or memory, to complete labours that will never free their chained souls.
They all await the coming of the dread dream. The savoir called death. And as savoirs go, death is indifferent to good and evil, to right or wrong. Souls are souls, and they all come to death eventually. All he has to do it wait.
The end begins in Barathron, an underground prison mine reserved for the worst criminals – traitors, thieves, and monsters. But it is the monster who will save them all, but first, that monster must choose if they are worth saving.
This is the world of Thumos. A land of the broken.
There are no kings on Thumos, not since the Age of the Mad Kings who boiled children in vats of liquid fire for the simple pleasure of watching golden flames crack blackened flesh. Now only greedy old men rule and that is by the grace of the Absent Emperor, an illiterate peasant elected as master of all Eleutheria. An emperor who rules nothing but rebellious soldiers.
There is no magic anymore, not since the Blood Reaver Wars, where those gifted with the blood of the Immortals were purged, slaughtered in their thousands, but that power waits in the Darklands for the one strong enough to remember its name.
There are no heroes here. Only broken crippled souls seeking to survive, as they are made to dance for the pleasure of the cruel Immortals. Even the dead are tormented on Thumos. They roam as lost ghastly shades striving, without choice or memory, to complete labours that will never free their chained souls.
They all await the coming of the dread dream. The savoir called death. And as savoirs go, death is indifferent to good and evil, to right or wrong. Souls are souls, and they all come to death eventually. All he has to do it wait.
The end begins in Barathron, an underground prison mine reserved for the worst criminals – traitors, thieves, and monsters. But it is the monster who will save them all, but first, that monster must choose if they are worth saving.
