Once mortals and gods existed in harmony. The gods as the all powerful bringers of creation and we as the ever grateful worshipers glad to have been chosen. The gods were pleased by our devotion and bestowed upon us many gifts, the first of which was magic. Magic, was but a small taste of their power and yet it would shape the very fabric of civilization. It fueled advances in technology and helped grow empires from small kingdoms and miracles where there was once only the bland and harsh reality of life. Yet it was this first gift that proved to be the most dangerous. Through the use of magic, mortals were introduced to vanity in its most basest form. Magic allowed then to grow powerful, to alter the very fabric of reality if only in short bursts. Magic implanted within us the seeds of rebellion that we could usurp even gods. It was only a matter of time before we acted upon those ideas. Little did we know of the consequences.

The Gods War erupted almost as suddenly as it ended. A group of powerful mages opened a doorway into the gods' realm leading in an army that stretched far beyond the horizon. The intent of this sinner's march was to take the gods' power and to "free man from the chains of servitude". Yet as soon as a mortal man sat upon the All-Father's throne, the gods' realm began to crumble and turn tainted by the wickedness within their hearts. The boundary between the two realms collapsed forever separating creator and creation, forever trapping the sinner's army within the prison of their own creation. The screams of those trapped within the god's realm as it came undone around them could be heard in their for an entire night only followed by the fearsome deafening silence that came afterwards. Thus an age ended with the border between man and god forever severed, the god's who once walked among us and whom shaped the fates for centuries turned there eyes away from their rebellious creation. The sinner's march had done its job at the coast of all those who marched under its causes banner, the world was freed from the wants and desires of the almighty. Little did we know the consequences for such actions.

The gods were the ones that created our world and so it was only natural that without them it would begin to fall apart. Skies once blue turned grey as heavy clouds filled with snow drifted above and let out their unrelenting downfall burying roads, crops and towns within icy prisoners of death. The bitter chill and lacked of resources killed much of the fauna and flora unfit to survive in such environments including many animals essential for hunting further cutting down foodstuffs. Those who did not die in the first few months due to the chill were set upon the slow and painful path of starvation as what little food stores that could be scavenge had to be rationed heavily to sustain even the dwindling populations for more than a couple of days at a time. The savage and unrelenting winter's grip did not just destroy the food but also fragment whatever political unity was left in the world. Mighty empires and kingdoms fragmented and shattered as the many cities that once swore independence to kings and greater ideals broke off form one another becoming independent city states only concerned with their own matters rather than those of a king or emperor that sat far away with food stores aplenty. With these cities concerned about keeping what meager peace they could within their own walls, the roads that they once protected as the vital veins of civilization were now abandoned and haunted by wandering bandits intent on pillage what little they could from those brave enough to weather the wilds, further compounding the dreadful isolation.

As the world fades, so does magic itself. Magic was a so called gift given to the faithful in exchange for their good service to the gods or that is how all the legends go. The emergence of magic changed the world as it was known forever shaping science, industry and every life allowing repairs to be down instantly for great tunnels and canals to be built with only a matter of the mind and even raise fortresses into the sky. But now magic has seemed to vanish from the world, once powerful sorceress and mages can no longer even do what would accumulate to even a basic spell anymore. The very fabric of society based heavily upon the use of what was once lost shifted and collapsed as power became measured not be intellect or political clot but by brute strength and size of armies. Yet not just civilization was effected by the lose of such a vital resource, creatures which depended upon magic for their survival began to fade away. Small creatures such is faeries and pixies vanished in their entirety from the world never to be seen again with only stories of them remaining. Larger creatures fared little better: trolls, giants and even the great dragons themselves which once ruled the skies became severely weakened and infertile cursed to slowly fade away with the knowledge that they are the very last of their kind.

To make matters worse there was the matter of the Wyld Folk. These northern savages lived far beyond the reaches of civilization in the frozen wastes at the tip of the world but sometimes they move southwards for unexplained reasons. Some believe it is because the winter had hit their frozen lands even harder and they moved south to find warmer climes but some think something else had occurred, something far more sinister. Five times have the Wyld Folk pushed south and five times they were repulsed but during those times the lands were united and armies could be marshaled to fight back the advancing barbarians. This time there was no such army, no such unification to repulse the brutes as they marched leaving only ruined cities and destruction in their wake. Without a proper army or the supplies to stop them, the vast horde seems to be all but impossible to stop further destroying any remnants of life desperately clinging to the world in their own fight for survival.

And so everything seems to be fading away into the snow and into the cold embrace of death. Yet life goes on as long as the world still turns.

This story begins in the port city of Aoalvik located on the northern shore of White Crystal Bay. Before the Gods War, Aoalvik was the most prosperous trading hub past the Fingers sending furs and whale meat and oil on southbound ships who in return came to the city with vast supplies of foodstuffs and other luxary items from the more gentle climates. But then snows came and the White Crystal Bay froze over with ice so thick that no long ship could get through her waters intact. When the Wyld Folk began to be spotted and began to leave a path of destruction and death in their wake, many fled to Aoalvik with its high walls of stone thinking that they could take a ship further south to escape carnage not knowing that the state of the Bay. In any other winter, it freezing over would of not been a problem for mages could use fire magics to burn a channel through the ice to allow the ships to pass, but now without magic they were trapped. Ever still though many flocked to the port thinking that they could at least take refuge within its walls where the garrison could protect them better than them trying to defend themselves in their small villages.

To his credit Jarl Sigbjorn of Aoalvik took in many of the first waves of refugees that came to the society intent on protecting those that needed it. But as more and more heard of promises of safety, warmth and food many flocked to the city much more than the port could handle without starving itself out or falling to anarchy. So the Jarl to protect his people and to ensure as many as possible could survive he shut the gates to the city. Guards manned the walls of the city at all times not protecting against the arrival of the Wyld Folk but against the peasants and villagers that tried daily to get into the city firing arrows and dumping hot water upon the angry crowds below. Despite this the refugees, still camp outside the city walls with some ill fated hope that the Jarl will change his mind filling the surrounding flatland with tents and the mill of activity lands that will run red with blood once the Wyld Folk arrive.

Yet time is running out for Aoalvik and all both inside and outside it walls. During the nights upon the horizon one can see the first edges of the Wyld Folk Camp, approaching closer and closer by the day. The city itself is plagued with infighting and chaos with the Jarl refusing to leave his Great Hall or muster any sort of defense against the Wyldlings too afraid that if he does than the angry populace will the storm the undefended hall and kill him in their wild anger. Some want to stand and fight, others want to leave either by fleeing along the coast or by crossing the iced over bay but without a consolidating effort in any of the attempts nothing will work as their own indecisiveness and infighting will be the end of them. Soon the Wyldings will be at the walls and soon even Aoalvik will fall, but if they are lucky and persistent enough maybe some will surive the onslaught to live another day.

Welcome one and all to Síðasta, a low fantasy role play set in the crumbling and collapsing ruins of a high fantasy world. Síðasta takes place in a world that is dying, it isn't going to die, it won't someday die, it is dying and there is nothing nobody can do to stop it. Plagued by an unforgiving and endless winter and a cataclysmic horde of savage warriors from lands forever caught in frost things don't look good. Síðasta isn't about saving the day as it were, repulsing the evils and putting the world back together by finding seven amulets or something like that. Síðasta is about survival plain and simple and the bounds at which people go to survive. There is a heroism but there are no heroes there time has long since passed replaced by those with the determination and the will that is needed to do the things that need to be done to live another day. It's a story that follows the refugee survivors of the fall of Aoalvik as the flee southward from the advancing horde towards the ancient city of Kollshamrar, the very place where the first Wylding horde was repulsed many, many years ago. A place where rumors have it that many survivors are amassing to muster their forces and face the threat or die trying. But the road is long and filled with many dangers.

Síðasta takes place in a world with a history and a story behind it and I've done my best to make it that way. But that story is now ending with a few final pages left before it is all over and there are gaps and many stories to till and for that I need your help. So if you are interested in a tale of a darker tale of fantasy with some more mature themes and ideas. Well why don't you come and say hi?