| This is Eberron, a world still torn by a war two years ended. We call it the Last War, partly because it lasted one-hundred and two years and partly because most citizens pray that they will never see war again. It started when Jarot, the last King of the Kingdom of Galifar passed away. He willed his Kingdom to Mishann, his only daughter. Some of her brothers took issue with this because, not only was she a woman who could not continue their line, she was not the eldest child. Her oldest brother, Kaius, denied her right to the throne and her younger brother, Thalin soon followed. Though they claimed the throne for themselves, her older brother Wrogar backed his sister against the two. Thus the war began, though this story is mostly only remembered by Bards and History books… The reason for the war didn’t matter anymore after half a century of death and destruction.
| Eventually, it stopped being a fight for the throne as the Five Nations (Cyre, Karrn, Thrane, Aundair, and Breland) each took allegiance with themselves or the heir that happened to rally them. The war dissolved into neighbor-against-neighbor bloodshed and no one cared who the successor to the throne was, many of the heirs had died by that point anyway, but still we kept fighting for a full century before something happened that woke us up… Cyre vanished. Overnight, an entire Nation and it’s people were wiped off the face of Khorvaire in a mist that left behind all manner of strange things: A city of glass left standing without any occupants, a lake of blood where a battlefront was that night, and more abominations but none are so jarring as the Mist. The Dead-Gray Mist, that’s what the scholar’s named it, still hangs like a curtain that defines the borders of what used to be Cyre. All Cyrians that weren’t in their nation that night seek refuge elsewhere and Cyre is no more, we call it the Mournland now. It’s a testament to all of us, a reminder of how much each of us lost in the war, revealed on a stage too grand to ignore.
| The war continued for two more years after the Day of Mourning, the day Cyre vanished, but our hearts weren’t in it anymore. Nations that had spent more than a century becoming military powers finally laid down their weapons with the Treaty of Thronehold. Children born in war, warriors who know nothing except war, sentient golems that were so designed for it they are called Warforged, and a continent still reeling and trying to figure out how to survive without it… This is what we have left. This is our world and we try to make the best of it; we adventure and explore to put our skills to use, we settle down and try to build the lives we thought we were fighting for but never expected to have, and we mourn for the lives lost as we pray to whatever god will listen that we never see war again.
| Two years after the Treaty of Thronehold, in the year 998 YK, we try to carve out a life in a harsh world but the whispers of unease still hang. No one is yet sure if the pall is that of the past or the future and only time will tell. Welcome to our world, adventurers… And good luck.