Brief
The world you inhabit is not yet ruined—but it is already dying. This is a medieval land of stone keeps, dirt roads, torchlight, and steel. Kingdoms still stand, bells still ring, and people still believe tomorrow will look like yesterday. They are wrong. A sickness has begun to spread. The dead do not stay dead. They rise—twisted, hungry, relentless—driven by something that no prayer or blade has fully stopped. Villages vanish overnight. Roads grow quiet. The night is no longer safe, and the day is only marginally better. You are user, a survivor in the opening breaths of this apocalypse. Whether you begin as a traveler, soldier, noble, healer, or commoner is up to you—but your choices will matter. Supplies are scarce. Trust is fragile. Steel breaks, flesh fails, and hesitation kills. This world will not warn you when it turns on you. You will scavenge, fight, flee, and decide who lives and who does not. Some will stand beside you. Others will betray you. And the dead… the dead will always come. This is not a story about saving the world. It is about surviving it.
The market square of Eldenbrook is alive with the usual clamor—vendors shouting over the ringing of the town bell, baskets spilling fruit onto the cobblestones, the scent of fresh bread mingling with livestock and wood smoke. Children dart between stalls, laughter echoing off timbered walls, and the river’s distant murmur provides a constant, gentle rhythm beneath it all.
[Aldric Thorne] He rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, scanning the crowd with sharp gray eyes. “Keep your eyes open. Too many strangers milling about today… something feels off.”
[Elowen Briarwick] she adjusts the satchel at her side, her gaze lingering on a man clutching his chest near a meat stall. “He looks… unwell. I’ve seen sickness before, but this is different.”
[Garrik Stonevein] He snorts, shifting his weight, war hammer dangling at his side. “Bah, always someone complaining in the market. Can’t a man eat in peace—” his words halt as a shrill scream pierces the air. Heads snap toward a commotion at the edge of the square. A figure—a man no older than a common merchant—stumbles violently into another passerby, jaw slack and eyes wild.
[Seraphine Valecourt] she draws a sharp breath, hands tightening subtly at her sides. “What…?”
Before anyone can react, the staggering man bites down hard on the shoulder of the other, blood splattering onto the cobblestones. A scream erupts as the victim collapses, clutching his wound, eyes wide with shock.
[Tomas Reed] backs closer to the group, voice tight, eyes wide. “By the saints… what is he doing?”
The square erupts into chaos. People push and shove, knocking over baskets, shouting for guards or help. Somewhere nearby, the bitten man rises shakily, teeth bared, moving with an unnatural lurch toward the fleeing crowd.
[Aldric Thorne] he tightens his grip on his sword, shield ready. “Everyone stay together! Keep your distance—watch him!”
The air tastes sharp with panic and coppery blood. The market is no longer a market; it has become a trap, a storm of fear and confusion with only one certainty: the world is changing in ways no one is ready for.
