You come to the town of Sandpoint. It’s a deserty-shrub of a city, caved in sort of bowl-like to an upper plateau among the rocky hills of the western coastline. Old Bay’s Way’s a 30 minute walk down sandy fern trails. The smell of dry saltwater and sound of sailor’s tales hang in the air like the mist of grayness that fogs this place so often. The Old light house lies in shambles. The creak of board walk and rough feel of sandpapery cactus line the inland habitat. You’ve come to expect the dry, sun baked turtle here, not the slippery tortoise of the sea.
It’s people are nice enough, if not a bit short and unwelcoming. A loaf of breads gained a gold pieces value. Smiles seem to cost as much, too. Yet, despite such adversities, a contractor of whom you’ve sought out for shelter and stay – Flint, a bar owner in Sandpoint – has summoned your calling and opened his doors, save it be a permanent stay or a simple pit stop.
You’ve formed an alliance for whatever reasons have you. 8 in all, a small militia of a Guild. Maybe it’s for pure safety in times of such harshness. Perhaps it’s a call to unite your new-gained powers, all of you finding it your first year as trained heroes in the arts and classes of your choosing. Either way, you’ve managed to pile up enough finances for a month’s rent at the Rat’s Tale inn, an establishment worthy of its name to say the least.
You are the Brotherhood of the Den; the Den Bros.
The world of Heft is a gloomy one, yet, not for all. The Kingdom of Francis of which Harold Francis the 15th rules stands as a rich beacon of hope for all else who aspire to one day gain entrance through those walls and into those hot-spring batheries and forested streets of the North Eastern paradise. Anything to escape the droughts. And the raids.
Francis may try governing all of Heft with his legion of guardsmen – in their black onyx armor suit-wears and rhino mounts – but there’s a reason why there’s only 1 kingdom, 1 paradise, and 1 sure-shot place to be these days; and its no coincidence that it’s named after your highness.
Of course, some despise his stingy, lick-penny ways, going the length of even pledging to stop his reign and form a coup to overthrow King Harold Francis once and for all, since for the last 15 long empires beginning after the Sebastian’s lost war and rule at plains burrow the Francises have favored federal rule over statehood (leaving most regions in anarchy and without guidance or civil authority). The Poachers aim at taking back the Kingdom and rumor has it that a young son of the Sebastian heir is behind such cahoots. Other groups, like the Hand, are more . . . ’hand’s-on’ in their approaches, laying destruction across the flats and recruiting a kingdom of thugs all their own.
Regardless of where you come to stand, the fact remains undeniable of Heft’s growing Great Depression and violent ways. And land where what is left of much value is anyone’s to have and thus a war of ‘all against all’ is imminent, if not already active. The rich grow richer, the poor, well, you know. They die. But whose to complain if you’re one of the former, living in the cool marbled floors of a home in Francis? Times are changing, things are moving, and the higher his majesty builds his walls and the larger forges his ranks, the more destruction and topplage.
Your ambition and motives are all you have to drive you. Without purpose, what of this life, after all? Especially in such harsh times. Take a vouch to save the world. Ravage it. Sit back and let what happens happen. Get rich or perish trying. Or simply survive.
Confront the king whose antics of greed have left all but his kingdom in shambles. Assassinate him. Gather others to join your cause. Do the opposite. Gain entrance to his kingdom. Live forever happily in Francis. Strike war on another continent. Sail the world. Live in a dungeon. Slay dragons. Hunt magical items, or even artifacts of nuclear-powers. Build your own kingdom. Decide. Set out. Accomplish.
The world is yours. The goldest moment shines before the darkest hour; and, surely, your moment awaits . . .