No one remembers what this place was before the sky vanished along with the sun and stars the elders insist remain just beyond the Ashen veil pervading the entirety of the known world’s horizon. When a troop of Auxiliaries in the service of the Empire of the Crimson Throne happened upon the place all that remained of it was an open courtyard caged in old world brick some fifty square yards across and twelve feet high, backed into a Southward mountain range with an open entrance to the North and what seemed to be an exit to the South. This exit was in reality a downward descent along steps of old world cement into a natural cave system, carved out and supported with further brick to create spaces no larger than what might have once passed for a walk-in closet which, at its lowest point, led to a natural spring pouring forth from the mountain above. Perhaps it had once stored wine, or some other ancient contrivance or luxury. Maybe it had been constructed for the express purpose it would find itself relegated to by the people of the Empire whom had found it lying in repose amongst the sands.

No Wizard has ever traveled here, and if any elder had an inkling as to the origination of this place they didn’t come forth to produce it. Purchased from the State some thirty years before the current date by an Imperial by the name of Valen ou Gregorian it was cleaned up, strengthened with the addition of mud bricks and scavenged old world structural additions, primarily rusted junk but better than nothing and cheaper than proper building materials, and a retinue of professional staff was dispatched to the site. A foreign born warrior here, a former Auxiliary there, a smith and a tailor, all under contract to do one thing. It wasn’t long before they came. Dirty, bloody, beaten, still they came. People from all walks of life, former slaves, for the owner does not permit currently owned people to join the camp, scavengers, warriors and professional soldiers alike, all drawn to the same desire as all the rest had been. There was more leather and bronze to be won in the arenas of the Empire than there would ever be in fighting over the last of the scraps in the Wastes which had been their lifeblood regardless of class or social standing, and if you were going to compete in the arena you needed a benefactor.

The peoples of the Empire of the Crimson Throne are notoriously fickle, outward appearance centric and afflicted with the same sickness of the mind the rest of the species are prone to, that of bloodshed. The less purpose and reason for that bloodshed, and the grander the show in the spilling of it all the better, all the more valuable, all the more satisfying to their vicarious appetite. And so they came, and in droves, all for the promise of a chance at glory and wealth to be found in the killing field. This has not changed in the thirty years since the opening of the camp, and though the faces have all come and gone save for old man Valen who hasn’t made an appearance at the camp proper in several years leaving the affairs to the staff, himself happy to simply accept his cut as primary investor and enjoy his easy retirement in the capital, the purpose of the camp remains the same. Take the forgotten and the desperate, the proud and the meek alike, and forge them in the fires of combat into new beings whose singular goal from many become one; from blood and sand be reborn, become the bringers of death.

The year is 99SIO, ninety nine years since the Imperially accepted date of the end of the old world and the beginning of the new, and preparations throughout the Wastes for the Dying Season, the wizards call the season Autumn, have begun in earnest. The Growing Season has come to a close, and those far from home have turned towards the nearest settlements that will house them until the middle of the growing season some six months from now, making haste to sell the profits of their summertime raiding and getting ready to tuck themselves away in the safest watering holes that will have them until the weather permits for them to do it all over again. At Australos the first of the year’s recruits will soon begin to arrive, be they displaced refugees whose homes were burned and holds seized during the perpetual war of the warmer seasons, or those who had naively believed their own raiding parties would bring in a greater haul than was realistic to expect who now find themselves in need of a way out. The specifics don’t matter here. If the resident Doctora accepts you as an addition to the camp and you pledge your sacramenta to the school then here your old life will burn away and your new life will begin.

This camp does not train warfighters, assassins, strategists, nor support staff. If you’ve come looking for someone to teach you the best way to defeat your enemies in open warfare and revenge yourself upon those who have wronged you and your people through mischief, trickery and grand plots enacted on an epic scale you have come to the wrong place. Unless an Imperial Warrant seeks who you once were out and finds you at the camp whoever you used to be is no longer relevant, not here. The Empire and her legions may have killed your family and sold you to the camp, the fighter in the room next to yours may belong to a tribe who your people have warred against for a hundred years. You may have been a cannibal, a barbarian, a revolutionary or a law abiding, tax paying Imperial subject. Those people are dead, forged in flames and reborn through Austara to new life and new purpose. This camp trains bringers of death upon the sands of the arena, champions whose sole purpose is to fight well, kill well, and die well in fair combat in the ring for the amusement of the crowd, for glory, for wealth, and for the honor of camp Australos.