Their passing and the passing of Oernan, their leader marked the beginning of the end for the small insignificant nation of Nether and with its end the beginning of an Empire. The Demon-King, Visyrik, rose to power in the south, supplanting even a god, and with his Grothe army he conquered Nether and began warping entire cultures to his whim. The old religions have been outlawed and state enforced worship of Visyrik dominates the country. Templars, the highest of Viryrik’s loyal servants, rule the cities and patrol the countryside with iron fists backed with hellish divinity.

Now, everyone knows the evil at the core of Nether’s heart. Many hold out the final bastion of hope deep in the confines of their hearts. There are some who whisper longingly of the evil’s demise. And there are a few who cry out in the night for something, anything to save them. Their cries are answered by the caw of a murder of crows, the hiss of a demon’s lash, or, the most despairing, the silence of an empty night.

But breaking that silence may be the faintest whispering keen of the Gray Wolf…

Gray Wolves' Keening