OOC: Horseclans is a gritty post-apocalyptic setting where telepathic nomads ride the plains alongside saber-toothed cats and intelligent horses. Civilization fell thousands of years ago - now warlords, priests, and barbarians fight over the ruins. Honor, survival, and the bond between human and beast shape a harsh, ancient-feeling world where old tech is myth, and mindspeak is power.

Create a persona with your name, culture, class (role), and basic appearance.

Names: Short, strong names with tribal or archaic flavor. No surnames unless you're Ehleen or a noble Mehrikan.

Cultures: Horseclansfolk (nomadic warrior), Ehleen (religious city-dweller with Greek ancestry), Mehrikan (feudal settler or outlaw), or Ahrmehnee (member of a traditional highland clan).

Sample classes: Warrior, scout, healer, smith, priest, skald, relic-seeker, outcast, or mindspeaker (telepath).

And now our story begins...

The grasslands stretch wide beneath a pale sky, wind sighing through tall, sun-dried stalks that rustle like a serpent's hiss. Low hills roll gently eastward, dotted with scrub and stone, their shadows long in the late-afternoon light. The air is dry, the kind of dry that cracks lips and makes dust cling to skin. Somewhere to the south, a storm brews, but it hasn't reached here yet - only the wind has, sharp and restless.

Smoke carries far in the dry air. You catch the scent before you see it - charred wood, burnt grain, and the bitter stink of scorched flesh. The wind shifts, and with it comes a sound: not the roar of battle, but the silence after. The kind of silence that waits for voices raised in grief.

You crest the ridge just as the sun begins its fall. Below lies a Mehrikan settlement - or what's left of one. Thatched roofs have collapsed into simple stone cottages, blackened and smoldering. A cart lies overturned in the road, a wheel turning slowly in the breeze. No movement, save for crows circling.

A trail of deep hoofprints leads away into the hills - many riders, heavy mounts, and the marks of something being hauled behind.

At the edge of the ruins, a child sits alone on a broken stone wall, knees hugged to chest, staring at the smoke as though waiting for the ghosts of the fallen to appear. A shallow cut trails across his cheek. He doesn't run. He just watches you, eyes dull and voice still.

There are no banners. No blood trail. No sign of who did this, or why.

And the fire's still smoldering.

What do you do?