Folklore

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At first it was a whisper in the wind, a thought mumbled in passing. Return to fundamentalist ideals. There is corruption in this land. Hatred was the flame that lit the candle's wick... and all at once the world was ablaze. Such was the passage of a rigid, nihilistic religion that holds no name. Its followers have amassed in number, and all who reject it are the wicked. If the holy are to walk the fertile lands, where flee the wretched? The heretics? Well, they run to the beggars and the thieves. They hide for they cannot fight. They run for they cannot stand still and watch.
There rests Cyrileth, a land named for its treachery and cursed origin. All who live here have hid away from the world of their own volition. They have forged a life where living is mere misery. What is scarce is just barely enough for those who walk the hills and mountain passes.

And now you have arrived, or perhaps you have always been.

Refugees who cannot stand the crusades have chosen to gamble with the elements, but it is not with a god that they have bargained. It is with those native peoples whose blood run with iron and rust.

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