The Rude

Crops are being lost, babies are being miscarried. People are starving and supernatural forces are teeming more than ever, wrecking havoc in the outskirts of civilization. The country folk are even beginning to take arms to either defend their agonizing villages or become mercenaries serving the few big interests that still have resources, though they use them only to wage war on one another. The world is dying. The gods are nonrespondent. All hope is lost.   From the north hails the Ishtar Conclave, a conglomerate of desert folk trying to seize lands in the south, running from the sudden drought that besieges their expansive civilization. Southward lay the Empire of Kor, miners from the epic dimensioned Felantric Mountain Range. In pushing eastward, the Empire began clashing with greenfolk from the Wuthering Plains, a stale country of goblins, orcs, and newly awakened Verdant, some of whom have, through their superior intelligence, risen to godhood for some of the tribes, organizing the numbers of the greenskin ranks to bulge like never before.