It was a summer like no other. Year after year, decade after decade, century after century, warm breezes rose from the south, gentle rains nourished the crops, and humans prospered. The Illyrian Empire, which grew from a humble city-state to become the most powerful empire in the history of the world, extended its reach to the far corners of the world. The savage races, which had plagued humans since the beginning of time, were driven back to languish on the harsh edges of civilization. The summer lasted so long that the memory of winter was lost altogether. Generation after generation knew nothing but warmth, sun, and plentiful harvests.
Winter did come, however, and brought with it a sudden end to the peace and prosperity of what would later be known as The Unending Summer. There was little warning save for a slackening of the southerly breezes and a stiff wind rising out of the north. Days suddenly grew shorter, nights longer and colder. Prophets and madmen raved in the streets about the end of everything, about human wickedness and the wrath of the gods. Consuls struggled to reassure the frightened magistrates that all would be well, while Aediles in towns and cities across the Empire frantically stockpiled grain and fuel. Scholars excavated dusty tomes to study ancient poems and songs, hoping vainly that the forgotten accounts of past winters might yield a way to stay this one. Then the snows came.
In those early months, there was food and hope that the winter would be short-lived. Rather than relenting, however, the winter grew colder and deeper. Starving refugees took to the roads, bundled in every scrap of clothing they owned, staggering through the deep snow, hoping desperately to find food and warmth somewhere. Some traveled to the nearest city, but most often found the gates locked and the people unwilling to share the meager rations that remained in the stockpiles. Others traveled south, but no matter how far they journeyed, the cold did not relent. Thousands of migrants perished of cold and hunger along snow-choked roads. Justinian XII, a weak and ineffectual ruler even in the peace and prosperity of summer, could do little but huddle by his fire and watch the Empire unravel.
If there was any hope of holding the Empire together, it died with the arrival of the Northmen. Driven from the far north by unthinkable cold, the savage, guttural people who had only existed in tales told to frighten children were suddenly everywhere, driving terrified villagers from their homes and demanding entrance to huddled, starving cities. The Illyrian Legions stood against them, but even if they had not been hampered by the snows, the invaders were too numerous; for every Northman they killed, three more were crossing the border. Desperate and afraid, thousands of Illyrians fled through the snows to the margins of the Empire, and once again, the roadsides began to collect corpses.
In the midst of this chaos, a second wave of migrants arrived: hordes of bugbears, ogres, and other savage creatures began pouring across the borders of the snow-bound Empire, driving both the newly arrived barbarians and the surviving Illyrians to the south, to the west, to the east, to wherever they hoped to find refuge. The capital was overrun one snowy day in July, and Justinian’s head was mounted on a spike, his hands nailed to the shield of the bugbear chieftain who slew him. The Illyrian Empire was no more.
A small group of survivors from the city of Brigantium, which was located at the base of a remote peninsula on the northern marches of the Empire, fled westward onto what had been an obscure, crescent-shaped island called Galicia, which was separated from the mainland only by a narrow tidal estuary, which could be crossed on foot at low tide. Decades earlier, a small population of Illyrians had cleared some of the forests at the southwestern end of the peninsula and established a scattering of towns and estates, but the rest was wild and unsettled, home to a sparse population of Celtic people who had inhabited the island since before written records were kept. The refugees from Brigantium were followed by a wave of Northmen, who made a stand at the edge of the estuary and managed to drive the bugbears and other savages back. They erected a keep there, which still bears the name of their leader, Wulfric, and which still guards the island from the dangers that populate the mainland.
When spring finally came some four years later, the starving, shaken survivors began to rebuild what they could of civilization. They cleared forests, planted crops and built villages and keeps, and prepared for the winter that they knew would eventually return. Thankfully, the summer was nearly two decades long, and the next winter was mercifully brief, so the refugees were able to establish a feudal society that was passably stable. The northern lands of what people had begun to call the Outer Realms became the home of the Northmen and their descendants, while the south, which had been populated by Illyrian settlers before the snows came, became what may be the last vestige of the Empire. The Celtic tribes were pushed into the highlands in the center of the island, where they eventually settled into an uneasy peace with the people to their north and south.
It has been nearly three centuries since the Empire fell, and four winters, most of them relatively brief, have come and gone. The most recent summer lasted nearly four decades, so the young have no memory of the hardships of winter. But the winds have shifted, and autumn has arrived. Winter is coming, and the people of the Outer Realms are busily preparing for it. It may be brief like the previous winter, but the frequency and ferocity of autumn storms has been unprecedented, and could augur a winter that is deeper and longer than those of the past.
Hard times, however, can bring opportunity to some. This is likely what your characters hope, and is probably why they have traveled to the remote town of Northwic, a trading hub in the kingdom of Northymbre. The economy is thriving as people feverishly prepare for winter, and as fishing boats ply into increasingly remote waters, they sometimes encounter opportunities for adventure. It is a bustling place, and may be a gateway to opportunity for your party.
It is here that you begin your adventures. Where chance and opportunity will lead you is anyone’s guess.
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