Thune: The Last Scouring
You wake in Adderon, a backwater nation of grey stone and smoky skies.
You remember little of this world, but you remember how it became what it is: the twin inventions of mythril and adamantine unlocked the secret of the mage viles — devices capable of power equal to a divine miracle. With great power came great corruption.
Most of the world’s monsters have been hunted to near extinction. In their absence, creatures of the East World and the undead have taken their place.
The East World — the formerly unexplored wilds where the fey and those of sorcerer blood live in relative freedom. A medieval anomaly in an otherwise pre-Victorian world.
This cycle of invention, monster-slaying, and greater invention has left the world in the grip of a near-global theocracy.
Your head is clouded. Someone poisoned you. Abducted you. Took you from your home.
Home… you called it Gaia. A tropical island, full of other tortles. Other islands nearby — some with more tortles, some with lizardfolk and birdfolk. You knew a little of humans, but not much.
Now you are here, in a rundown city full of cloaked humans. At your feet, a large circle of dark ash stained with blood. Old tortle eggshells are scattered around you — not fresh. No hatchlings.
You tried to hide. Then you saw it: a bright, glowing gold rune shaped like a keyhole, engraved in the ground. It faded.
On your right arm, a trace of gold remains — the same shape.
Cloaked figures wave you over. They bring you soup and hot tea in a basement tavern hidden in rubble.
The leader bows and removes his hood — light blue skin, antlered. Tavin, a tiefling, fey-blessed. The silent woman in black reveals herself as Mircalla, a beautiful gold elf, impossibly rare here.
You learn where you are: Adderon, cursed by its villainous Hierophant.
Witches — healers like you were in your village — are hunted and killed on sight here. They teach that all power not from the Hierophant comes from darkness.
Mircalla shows you with tea and a tiny mage vile: you didn’t just see that rune. You snared it. You reaved the potion without knowing. You can wield mystic relics and commandeer mage viles.
Beings like you are rare. Within years, even decades, those who snare runes obtain power like that of forgotten gods.
Mircalla procures such agents to tear down the Hierophant. To defend people. To stabilize free areas.
She has commandeered Rev-Runners — shield guardians, golems that can be magically reaved into puppets, or imbued with intellect. Overnight, a one-person army becomes a versatile strike force.
She has no boat to get you home to Gaia. But she knows where boats can be fixed.
And she asks for your help to find more like you.
