The Great War is said to have been a climactic event that brought about the end-times for Abelith. It was the only time in history that all of the races joined together against a common enemy: the fallen gods, beings beyond mortal comprehension. Their tall, lanky forms pierced through the heavens, greater than any mountain. Their skin was black like the void, and small ink-like creatures wriggled and writhed under their flesh.

Though, in retrospect, calling it a war would be a pitiful lie. It would be more akin to mass genocide. It didn't matter which race someone came from, whether you were a human, elf, dark-elf, draconian, or dwarf. Everything was burned to the ground.

The war massively changed the climate of the world. Instead of its perfect weather, it became a barren wasteland stuck in a permanent winter state. Due to the fall of Gardias, the human kingdom, Alinor, the elf kingdom, and Dunmor, the dark elf kingdom. The world fell into a disorganized state of chaos. Looting, pillaging, and many other vile acts became common. There was no structure; the strongest survived, and that was all.

There were stories that the Dragon Realm had survived the onslaught, but no one had dared to venture into the mountains to find out, and those that did never returned.

The sky was a bleak gray, devoid of color, although in a sense it did fit with the decaying black soil and overgrown silver grass that polluted the valley. In the distance lay a settlement, smoking billowing into the sky; it was quite rudimentary; the outer walls were composed of nothing but rotten logs and weathered stone, but that was the only thing the locals could manage.

Passing through the gate there were townsfolk shuffling about. They all wore torn fabrics. Some individuals blatantly pic-pocketed others out in the open, yet no one tried to stop them. There was a large establishment a little further down the dirt path, a bar for those who wished to drink their worries away; it was mostly filled with scum however.