A Note on Race and Classes

I don't believe that this necessarily needs to be done because most people can get the gist of campaign flow, but in the interest of "honing in" on a stronger campaign feel, I'm setting forth the availability of each race/class.

Common Races
 These are the most prevalent and probably have their own cities

Humans (overwhelmingly popular) - +2 any stat
Tiefling - +2 cha/+2 int
Half-orc - +2 dex/+2 str
Dragonborn - +2 str/+2 cha
Goliath - +2 str/+2 con
Shardsworn - +2 int/+2 wis or cha
Revenant - +2 con/+2 dex

Banned Races
 You could feasibly go the entire campaign w/o seeing another of your kind.  I have no interest in placing any emphasis on these races.
Elf
Half-Elf
Halfling
Gnome
Warforged

Less common but acceptable Races
 Don't expect to have many kin
Dwarf - +2 con/+2 wis
Deva - +2 int/+2 wis
Shifter- +2 dex/+2 wis (+2 str/+2 wis??)
Drow -  +2 dex/+2 cha
Genasi - +2 str/+2 int
Eladrin - +2 dex/+2 int
Wilden - +2 ????
Other approved monsterous races

Classes (by power source)

Common Classes
Martial
Psionic
Arcane

Uncommon Classes
Primal
Shadow

Very Rare Classes
Divine

The Ignoble Vistari and the Blighted Dracomar

Vistari

Liars.  Thieves.  Murderers.  The Vistari are gypsy-like degenerates with no place to call home.  Upon first glance, one could take their bizarre traditions to be whimsical and engaging.  In reality, they're completely amoral and would sooner slit your throat than to offer you hospitality.

Traveling by caravan throughout the land are these sporadic people.  They favor elaborate decoration.  They have many holidays and songs.  But for whatever reason, they seem to be completely insane.

If the land of Dracomar wasn't dangerous enough, groups of Vistari hide about, ransacking travelers and plundering farms.  They seem to be the only ones foolish enough to mingle about in the wilds with the ravenous dead.

The bastard orcs, ogres, and rest of goblinkind know not to trust a double-crossing Vistari.  These people, whose origins are among scattered pages in forgotten tomes, are literally shunned by every other society.  The dead are their only friends.

The only thread of loyalty this race possesses is to themselves, esoteric tradition, and the Tower Mortari that stands far to the west.  They guard the land around Mortari with zealousness.  They call it "Dawnspire", but as their true native tongue is deviously jumbled, this name could be a mistranslation.  

This race has a lot of secrets.  They make professions out of traveling carnivalers, assassins, and shepherds of the undead.  There is a Vistarian tradition that dates back a century to when "noble" members of their people achieved temporal exaltation.  The most brave and wise were revered; part of their celebration was their supposed "transcendence" beyond mortality.  Because they were no longer to be recognized by their mortal appearance, they would cut off their faces.  The "Faceless Ones" would craft odd masks for their new faces.  This tradition is kept alive today by proud Vistarians--but they merely wear the masks to honor the nobles.  The days of actual "Faceless Ones" are probably long gone. 

Dracomar

Upon the blighted Aerth of Scourge, the realm of Dracomar sits at the eastern fringe.  The Blasted Steppes claim a good chuck of it.  It is said to be cursed.  There the dead roam free and terrorize passengers.  Men have gathered at Sirocco to carry on life's pursuits despite hostility.

In the northernmost regions, territory becomes less chartered.  Beyond the cliffs lies Wraithmarsh, an aptly named swampland where rivers run muddy and black.  A few villages are scattered about the foggy hills.  They are all weary of Eboracum, a tower that the fearful people literally worship.  They chant and play on instruments the "Requiem of Storms", a haunting melody that is forbidden in other lands as myth holds that it will attract ghosts if played.

In southern Dracomar, before the Ivory Palace of Carunar, there are two small villages: Folium and Eremia.  Most paranoid people have left them and sought fortification at Sirocco.   Beyond that, you reach the great region of Cimaria, which hosts the new Tower Vorox and the ruins of Morgancastle.

Carunar - a once beautiful temple built to Gods of Light.  Might have been overrun by idols.

Folium - agrarian town with just enough water.  Has no wall to keep out the dead.

Eremia - like Sirocco, but less rundown.

Vorox - tower than has claimed Morgancastle.

Morgancastle - fallen noble castle.

Sirocco Flow

Sirocco.

The old city on the fringes of Dracomar.  It stands as the last bastion of sanity in the hopelessness of a land claimed by mystic-lords and legions of the undead.

In the minds of other towns and providences, the city sits as that hustle-bustle outpost in the Blasted Steppes.  Many make pilgrimages believing in the prospects of fortune.  But just as the torch's flicker attracts the unsuspecting moth, voyagers are sure to meet destruction in the flames of hostility that is old Sirocco.

In the centuries past, it might have been ruled by a king or sultan, but now the only sovereignty is the scattered guilds held together by a loose trade alliance and the utter need for one another.  Sticking together was a matter of survival for Siroccans.  Survival was the reason they had built the outer spiked wall--although the hordes of zombies were savvy enough to hide, sprint, and jump, they had yet to master a way of negotiating the tall sandstone fortified with spikes and spears.

And thus despite his noble birthright, Grant would receive no special treatment there (not that he needed the attention).  The days of kings had faded.  Lineages were forgotten.  The culture of Sirocco resembled no particular group; it was merely a melting-pot of peoples that had been forced together from the pressing ravages of a world gone mad.

And Grant needed to make it to the city despite the surrounding danger.  He rode away from the ruins of former glory near the Tower Vorox.  He looked the part of a royalty, tall and stout, but he was armed to his teeth in weapons and magical devices.  His gleaming brown-iron armor with bronze trim, his regal red cloak, and his heavy gold shield would get him hot in the sun but he had to make the trip during the day as zombies seemed to be mostly nocturnal.  His trip would take weeks.  At night, his magics would protect him if he didn't move about.

The sun went down on his last day of travel and he knew he couldn't make it down the cliff to the city before the hordes arose.  He tied his horse to a lone tree and sprinkled crystal dust around them to a rune shape.  His power would make him invisible to the the voracious undead, but not to the Vistari. . .

Grant lay there in a half sleep watching the fire's flicker.  He was a serious man, not prone to smile or otherwise change his stoic facial expression for most things.  Suddenly, a figure from the darkness kicked up enough dirt to break the warding seal.  Before Grant could rise to his feet with sword unsheathed, a nomadic Vistari thief galloped away on his unbridled horse.

There he stood in the darkness, alone.  Rather than idly curse at the horse thief, Grant stood in a brooding glare, listening to the fading gallop.  With the seal broken, his only choice now was to gather his things and petition to whatever gods still gave a damn.  Perhaps he could make it there by morning. . .

Grant sprinted through the gates of Sirocco with about 20 or 30 snarling zombies in pursuit.  The gate guard had seen him coming down the hill, held open the heavy spiked gate, and then smashed it back shut in time to lock out the uncaring devourers.  Grant fell to the earth in exhaustion and pain, watching the gate guards chuckle to themselves as they recreationally took pot shots at the zombies' clawing appendages that protruded through the wooden beams.  He was relieved that they failed to notice the oozing spot of missing flesh on his left arm.  Grant had to keep that a secret; the paranoid Siroccans would hardly welcome a visitor who had been bitten by the newly dead.

When hell is full, the dead shall walk the Aerth.  Damn you, my fallen Fathers, why did you have to be wrong?  I curse the gods for your sakes.

Within the walls of Sirocco, it really wasn't much safer.  The people were prone to violence and extremely superstitious.  As the weeks passed, Grant's arm-wound did not heal.  He most assuredly would have made the perfect candidate for a ritual sacrifice or perhaps the blood-hungry Siroccans would cast him into the gladiatorial fight pits.

A group of monks made their profession there.  The fighting arena was dug out of the ground.  The monks kept to themselves mostly and claimed to hail from some nearby secluded monastery.  It was a great event whenever some hapless convict was pitted up against a professional gladiator, wild animal, or randomly captured undead monster.

The shadows of Sirocco held more sinister secrets still.  There was some thieves' guild that was apparently led by some she-tiefling called Astara the Soulwitch.  There also was some underground religious cult that everyone was afraid of.  They called them "The Harvesters" for two reasons.  One, their creepy cloaks, their sickle and blade styles seemed to hearken to more agrarian culture, and two, because their murdered victims were usually missing a number of organs--as if they'd been harvested.

Astara, the Soulwitch.  The spirit thief.

Grant soon discovered that there were a few more recent events that made the town on edge.

Amalgaloth seemed to be acting up again.  Sirocco had a neighbor--Tower Amalgaloth.  It was a lone tower that stretched up high above the cracked, dry wastes.  It was locked with magic.  No one really knew much about it other than a myriad of rumors and the sporadic flashes of red light that could be seen through spyglass.  The superstitious Siroccans claimed that demons were brought in from there.  They were scared to death of demons.

They blamed one supposed demon named Charnock for drying up their well.  The well was fed from a stream that came from a nearby lake.  The lake dried up; Charnock, the ash-demon was to blame.   Luckily, Grant travelled with the fortune of royalty and could afford the steep price for a cup of the rationed water-supply.

Grant now was safe for the time being, but his quest could arouse suspicion from the Siroccans.  He sought a petition with some of the resident mystics--old men who were sometimes branded as demon mongers and subsequently killed.  He therefore treaded lightly in those dusty streets.  He knew the mystics could help him with his quest--his sole purpose of risking life and limb.  He knew that they could help him get inside Tower Amalgaloth.

He finished his ale, left the bar, and then gave one last prayer to those gods that still gave a damn.

Meet Firebrand

Demons,

The spawn of a blasphemed pit; the children of a cataclysm of destruction.  So feared are the Abyssal Seed that society would sooner embrace death than face the demon's wrath and torment.

Upon the smitten Aerth of Scourge, there dwells one demon, however, that is most peculiar.  The Sorcerer's Tome classifies him as the Red Arremar, a nasty creature that is said to crawl forth from the filth of graveyards where the temporal fabric that separates worlds is weakest.  There, from whence they emerge, they go about the usual malfeasance.  They wreak a good deal of havoc but the champions of men usually manage to rebuke them.  Such is the behavior of a normal Red Arremar.  

Eternity of torment in the acidic storms of darkness incites the rage into the hearts of demons.  The Abyss is the womb from which the beast is incubated.

It must have been only hours before sunrise.

The old master awoke in a sweat of panic.  As he sat up in his bed, he could feel the pains of despair creep within his heart.  These pains were specific and real--more than some gut feeling.  This was the throbbing of Sin and it was cause for the elder Eladrin Swordmage to tremble in fear.

As he gathered his boots and violet crystal scimitar, he made his way from his quarters down the dusty sandstone stairwell to the streets of Sirocco.  The night watch would not see him under the shroud of moon, he hoped.  To an Eladrin, the deep sphere of the sky was as good as any sun, but to man, it was  as an obscuring veil.  In a different time, perhaps he would have held true to his higher fey birthright, but the days of solace and nights of secrets gave him darker things with which to be preoccupied.

The old master needed to remain unseen if he was to get back to the meeting place without being implicated of the crime that was committed there.  He stood with his back against the cold wall, peeking around the corner to the wooden gate and its guard.  Slipping past the sentry would be difficult as his torch cast a revealing light to all the potential places of concealment.  But he had to make it unseen.  To be discovered meant the blood of another innocent would have to be shed.

The old master slipped to the wall easily enough, but his attempt over the wall must have been enough for the guard to notice.  Suddenly the wooden gate creaked open and the sentry entered with sword unsheathed.  His eyes darted about anxiously, but he was not nearly as nervous as the Eladrin Swordmage who watched behind a statue in the darkness.  The old master cursed himself under his breath for the next sin about to be added to his conscience.  If only he could have made it back to this graveyard unseen. . .

As the veteran Swordmage wiped the guard's blood from his purple crystal scimitar, yet another observer sat in the darkness.  The Eladrin came up the steps to the tomb where he had been only hours before.  He  paused for a moment with his bloody hand on the door.  He had to make sure all was well within this tomb; his conscience demanded it.  It was that feeling of darkness swelling up in his heart that made him get out of his bed and come back here, risk being seen at this crime scene, and kill a nosey guard that was only doing his job.

"Please, Gods of Light, I beg thee.  Please let all be well in this forsaken place. . ."

The heavy door creaked open and the sliver of moonlight splashed upon the stairs.  It was enough for the old master's eyes to see into the cold chamber.  He made his way in, and descended to the room where the crime took place.  His hand that held his scimitar shook in fear.  His other hand he placed over his mouth.

The room was as he remembered it.  The blood splattered on the walls and floor had now become as cold as everything else.  He was careful not to step in any of the gore, the body parts, the rites to the particularly grim ritual of which he was not proud.  Blood still even dripped from the sealing and he was careful not to get it on him.  He leaned his weary head on the center altar and sighed in relief, thanking the Gods.  No sooner that he bowed his head did a scratch come from behind the pedestal--a harsh, rigid scraping on the soggy floor.

His heart almost split in twain from the wrenching Sin that now throbbed inside him once again.  Despair raced through his mind.  He could barely breath.  He peered to the other side of the pedestal where the dark ritual took place.  A small, red creature scratched at the stone base.  It was a horrific beast from another world with knives for teeth and bat-like wings.  Yet its ferocity was somehow cheated because it seemed almost like a child.

"You should probably kill it," erupted a soft, deep voice from the chamber doorway.

The Swordmage spun around with sword outstretched.  It glowed with fire from the master's eldritch incantation.  His wide eyes matched the flame's ferocity.

In the doorway stood he who had been watching, a figure in a black cloak.

"Did you know it was here?" cried the Swordmage.

"Not until I followed you back.  Strange. . . it was almost as if you knew this Red Arremar had slipped through, because of the ritual no doubt."

The man in black entered the chamber and unsheathed one sickle and one knife--the iconic sacrificial tools of the cult syndicate that the superstitious Siroccans nicknamed "The Harvesters".  His weapons were spotless; he must have spent some time wiping the blood from them.

"Why is it small?  Why is it young?" the old master gulped nervously.

The man in black traced his gloved finger across some of the gore atop the alter by where the little demon played.  He turned back toward the old Eladrin and spoke in his deep, resonating voice once again.

"You should probably kill it.  Ought there any good that such beasts might wrought?"

The Swordmage stared for a while at the poor creature gnawing on some of the gore that had spilt over to the stone ground.  He became more and more convinced that this was all his fault.

"This creature," he almost could not believe his words as he uttered them, "it has no evil in him."

The man in black almost seemed offended.  He stepped between the Eladrin and the demon.

"Do you mean to tell me you would let this spawn remain?"

"What is it with you?" The Eladrin shouted and pointed his sword, "Why can't you kill it?"

The old master could not see into face of the man as his face was concealed by his cloak hood.  He could not tell that the man was ripe in anger.

"Just as well."  As the man in black turned and reared up his sickle, the old master shouted and intervened.

He came down with a heavy slash that landed down on the man's shoulder.  He fell like a sack of bricks onto the gory floor and clutched his wound.  The master hasted past him and wrapped the demon in a sack.  As he left the chamber, he gave one last look back to the man in black who laid there in the filth.  Should he kill the Harvester?  No, his conscience had been scarred enough.  The damage he inflicted would be enough to keep the cloaked man there until guards came to investigate at which time he would take the fall for the crime that had been committed.

The Eladrin could now make out slight features under the man's hood.  The harvester lay there, holding his shoulder, looking back up at him, and he was smiling.  The old master frowned with confusion, and left.

Some time later, some townsfolk of Sirocco would purport to have witnessed a hulking red demon in the streets.  Due to its incendiary nature and flair for chaos, they have nicknamed it with reference to the consuming sword of the same description.  On the rare and bizarre occasion, one has had the opportunity to meet Firebrand.

Gauthier's Epic

Let take thy drum and make an song
Of men of nights whom not belong
A sleeping god, a demon just
Awake! Dead world, arise from dust