Winnowing Hall

Light Follower Town

nce a thriving community and prominent agricultural producer, the town of Winnowing Hall - our home - has ever existed in relative peace and prosperity - until now, that the Changing of the World draws nigh.

The grim harbinger of this World Change is the steadily encroaching shadow of the Serpent Riders. As darkness spreads across the land, looming ever closer, the very wind seems to bear tidings of impending doom. Directly in the path of this approaching evil, Winnowing Hall is at last falling to the Riders' dark oppression. The Change is taking its toll in both lives and livelihood - crops perish, trading has ceased, and the townsfolk can but cower in their homes - helpless, hungry and terror-stricken.

The Legion - one of the three main factions of the Realm - were our only protection. Funded by the Council in order to salvage what they could of their most abundant source of fresh produce, the Legion had been consigned the task of building two great perimeter walls around Winnowing Hall - an inner wall to enclave the town itself, and an outer bulwark to encircle the arable land beyond. Barely had the inner wall been completed, however, when Winnowing Hall suffered the first of the Serpent Riders' onslaughts. Construction of the outer wall has scarcely begun, but even now the Minions of Chaos descend upon the denizens of Winnowing Hall. Builders were slaughtered where they toiled, and the farmlands they hoped to protect were brutally ravaged. The desperate few who venture beyond the inner wall in an attempt to gather crops, are themselves cut down like wheat. None ever return.

Despite repeated pleas to the Council for more aid, the town has been deemed beyond salvation. At the loss of so many Legion craftsmen at the hands of the Minions, all ties have been severed. Winnowing Hall has been left for dead.

Unwilling to risk their lives, merchants and traders dare not come near the town. And so, with no harvest, no trade, nor any means of self-sufficiency, we languish in poverty; bereft of all hope, we live in fear and despair. The constant threat of attack from the Order of the Triad looms dark above us - what little we have left could at any time be snatched from our failing grasp.

The townsfolk have become suspicious of each other, pitting father against son, kin against kin. No-one is trusted. Anyone alleged to fraternise with the Order is callously shunned, or worse - summarily and cruelly murdered in the night...

...And yet, our darkest fear is not what we know of the Order. Rumours are spreading of a far greater evil that lurks beyond the gates of Winnowing Hall. Some say that Eidolon himself is mustering enough power to summon the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and that Famine is already rife beyond these sombre walls...

Elegy Written in the Graveyard

The churchbell tolls the oncoming of doom,

The lowing herd wind no more o'er the heath,

The plowman, bleeding, cries out in the gloom,

And leaves the world to darkness and to death.

Now fades the lingering dusk and turns to night,

And all the air a foetid pungence holds;

And where the Pestilence wields its moaning blight,

A thousand poisons cull the distant folds.

And yet, from yonder dark-enshrouded tower,

A mournful howl does to the moon complain –

As one, unseen, invades Their secret bower,

Usurps Their ancient solitary reign.

Screenshots