Brady Cole awoke one morning to find the street out front of his house in Juvegol filled with the dead. They were not corpses, necessarily, nor zombies fresh from the grave, but skeletons, fully clothed in rags of clothes or tattered armor. Some held clubs made of broken branches. Some held swords limply in their bleach-white hands. Their eye sockets stared vaguely forward as they dragged themselves down the cobblestone street. There must've been about a thousand of them, moving as the most nonchalant mob ever seen. Occasionally, one would wander into a pole or crash into a carriage. It would hit the object, fall down into a pile of bones, roll its head away from the object, reform, and then would continue lurching along. A small crowd watched them from the alleyways. Children pointed and laughed. Mothers cowered in fear. Fathers stood with hatchets or butcher's knives should one of the mob decide to get hungry.
Perplexed, Brady pulled off his night gown. He pulled on trousers and a beige tunic. Then he fastened his sword belt and pulled on a pair of leather boots. A steel falchion hung from the left side of the belt. A short rondel was sheathed in the right. He walked down the stairs and out into the street. The skeletons still blithely lurched along in silence. They were no more than a meter away from him. Curious, he walked up to one and waved a hand in its face. The monster barely even flinched. He poked another in the ear hole. Its head bobbled a little. Then it continued walking along. Brady drew his sword and leveled it at one of the monsters.
"They're called wights," a high-pitched voice nearby said. Brady looked down and saw a very short, shriveled old man looking up at him. He was wrinkled and pale, with a hooked nose and pale blue eyes. A hooded cloak of what appeared to be raven feathers hung from his shoulders. He was bald. "They've been appearing all over the nation in hordes. They're not particularly dangerous at all. Mindless, docile, non-aggressive. They're the most nonchalant horde of monsters you've ever seen." He stuck his cane out and tripped one of the wights. It fell to its face, broke apart, and reformed. This it continued walking, completely unfazed.
"Why are they here?" Brady asked.
"No one knows," Ravencloak replied. Brady could tell he was frustrated.
"Where are they going?" Brady asked.
"Listen to them." Ravencloak pointed at the heads of the wights. Brady noticed that their mouths were moving in unison. They all were mouthing the same word over and over again. If Brady listened hard, he could hear just a faint whisper. Perhaps it was just the wind blowing through their hollow skulls.
"Maceron," they were all saying. "Go...to Maceron."
***
The continent of Tithe has been overrun by wights. Normally nonaggressive, solitary creatures, wights are very rarely seen on roads outside of battles, walking towards no destination in particular. Never before in the history of Tithe has such an influx of wights been seen, and never before have they congregated in such hordes. They have made it a point to travel through large cities, marching down crowded streets. They have congregated at Maceron, the capitol of the kingdom of Talbor. No one knows why they're going there, yet. Suspicions are that they're not there for a good reason.
Your character has also ended up in Maceron, whether be it that they're passing through on a trade route or sent on an assassination mission. They have congregated in Maceron one way or another. Though they do not know it yet, they will be heroes who will quite possibly save Tithe from the cold, rigid grasp of the dead. Play as one of nine different races in a world that had waaaaay too much development time. The rp will revolve around character interactions, combat, and quest series which will act as quazi-side-arcs.
