The world has ended. It has ended, like it has ended before, in blood and tears. And yet, it has always endured. Somehow.

When the Rotting Death finally disappeared as mysteriously as it had come, the survivors looked around at a world that seemed empty. Villages without villagers, farms without farmers and garrisons without soldiers. And beyond the borders of those settlements, where there were still people, monsters lurked.

But this was not the first time, the world had ended. It had ended when the Two Empires clashed in a war that could only ruin them both. At least, the world had only ended for the Imperials.

When the Empire fell in an explosion of Magick, tearing apart the very foundation of magical knowledge and turning green lands into a desert, the world had ended, too. But that had happened thousands of years ago, and had it not been for the Church of the One Emperor, only scholars would remember this today.

Legend and myth told of endings, that happened even farther back in time, millennia ago. When the legendary Runemasters died, the creators of all there is in the world. Or so it is said.

So many endings. And from every ending, a new beginning  sprang. Life endures, even when the world has ended. And even if there seems to be no hope left, there are still those that are too stubborn to give up, to lie down to die. Some call them stupid. Others call them heroes.

Maybe, it needs heroes to forge beginnings from the end.