ESCAPE YOUR FATE

Forget your old life. Whatever station, wealth or fame you may have had has gone up in flames. Old friends now call you a monster, and strangers won’t even speak. The problem is, they are not wrong.

You are Fog-touched, a being both gifted and cursed by the terrible thing that eats at the world. We simply call it what it is - The Fog - and you are now one its unwilling jesters.

You have been unburdened from age, hunger and thirst. The air that has slowly choked you from birth now grants you power…at a cost. You are a pariah and a freak, bound for strife and a violent end. At least, won’t you make it one for the tablets and firecamps?

Whether your goal is fame, freedom or power, the Foglands will ask a lot of you.  You will have to navigate, sacrifice and overcome.

NAVIGATE the dangers of the evershifting landscape, whether in the Wild Grey or in the depths of the Bastions, life is cheap and tasty.

SACRIFICE to gain. Lose a friend to earn a fortune, give an arm to take a life. Lend your soul to borrow power. 

OVERCOME a land that wants what is yours and laughs at your dreams. After all, only time and pain separate you from your victory.

ABOUT THE FOGLANDS

The Thing that Eats at the World

There isn’t a moment where the sun fully pierces through the Fog. It climbs toward its zenith and yet, the cold and dampness remain: 30 degrees in the midmorning, 40 at noon, before reaching a glorious 45 - even 50 on beautiful days - by late afternoon. And that’s during summer in the Bastions - where the fog is lightest.

A person living in the Grey (anywhere outside of the Bastions) endures conditions far harsher still. In the Far Grey, dampness is almost impossible to stave off, and rot is everywhere. In the Wild Grey, all surface water and food is foul and corrupting. Procuring and maintaining fires is a constant necessity to keep warm, but also to keep vile things away.

The sentient Fog itself, deadliest amongst their concerns, ebbs and flows like a sea. Getting caught unprepared by a wind shift means spending precious energy to avoid getting swallowed by the rolling waves. As the weeks drag on, one will feel weak, angry and paranoid if they do not stave off Fog Sickness. Ignoring the signs, one will soon be overcome by twisted thoughts of violence. Finally, their rational mind gone, they will get lost in the Fog and become mindless beasts.

The world is savage, but there is hope

There are few dawns without a storm and few nights without terrors. Bloodthirsty elves, greedy slavers, and deadly Fog Spawns infest every hill and valley, every diseased grassland, mountain, crag and cave.

The Bastions are no better. They are as fool’s gold, beautiful and full of false hopes. In there, your life is only worth what you create or what blood you can spill.  All nine bastions have been claimed by their immortal ruler-once-hero, and all choke in their grasp. All, but one.

 Deephaven stands alone, free and unbowed. Thought it is flawed and corrupt, all is forgiven to the last city to kindle Hope.

Greater Powers

The gods, if they still exist, can no longer reach the Foglands. Their only legacy is out there in the Grey, where broken temples and nomadic tribes preserve the Old Faith. In the Bastions, the Rulers enjoy their own worship, at times mandatory. The only true recipients of divine power however, worship The Flame - a weakening entity, both gentle and crazed, without whom none would survive, but who cannot be trusted either.

Worshipers of the Fog also exist, and they are invariably insane.