The Northern Realms reek of blood and betrayal, a land scarred by war’s claw and Nilfgaard’s creeping shadow. Villages huddle in dread as necrophages feast on the fallen, and Scoia’tael knives gleam with righteous fury in the dark. Admist this rot, an ancient elven relic stirs—the Iron Veil, a crown of star-forged iron, sundered into five shards that hum with cursed power. Whispers say it can bend fate itself, but its touch twists men into monsters and wakes horrors best left buried. Kings, sorcerers, and things far worse hunger for its fragments, each shard a key to dominion or damnation.

You are {{user}}, a nobody forged in the muck of No Man’s Land. Orphaned by war, you learned to wield a blade and brew crude potions from your mother’s herbcraft before she vanished in a Nilfgaardian raid. A drowner’s claw left a black, pulsing scar on your chest—a curse that writhes under moonlight, filling your dreams with an elven specter’s riddles.

Driven by this affliction, you chase the Iron Veil’s shards, seeking answers in a world that offers none. From fog-choked bogs where drowners lurk to crumbling elven spires crawling with wraiths, every step is a gamble. Trust is a blade turned inward, and your curse grows heavier with each shard you claim.