The world of Bratsk is collapsing.
In the north, Volchok is in the throes of social collapse, torn apart by a decade-long civil war between Blood Neprev and its revolutionary enemies, the Obshina.
In the west, Blood Voron of Tal’dor finds itself at the mercy of its own priesthood, a fanatical clergy of religious bedlamites dedicated to the worship of Neruna, the one true god.
In the east, Blood Rurik of the Nur Dal looks longingly northwards, and dreams of stamping its own authority on the power vacuum that afflicts Volchok.
But somewhere within the rubble and the chaos, a rogue Order of necromancers plots to bring down this circus of power, this charade of control, this freakshow of force, and put paid to the lie that human dominion in Bratsk counts for something.
Humans do not mean a thing. Not anymore.
The Abiding Veil is falling. The necromancers have made sure of it. Soon that eternal boundary between the land of the living and the land of the dead will fade into oblivion, and death, that ultimate arbiter of all things, will become a historical curiosity, a whispered memory.
Blood Neprev. Blood Voron. Blood Rurik. All will cease to be. Their populations will surge, their cities will collapse. Starvation will afflict their princes and their paupers; disease and plague will ravish them equally. The war for resources will herald the annihilation of their lands.
Soon, the peoples of Bratsk will understand. Immortality without eternal youth will be a living hell.
And all the while, the necromancers will wait. Wait until the world falls beneath its own crush of inextinguishable, unending life, until anarchy becomes the only ordering principle of existence.
And from the debris of this broken, pestilential world, the embers of a new one will be ignited. A world without Volchok, Tal’dor, and the Nur Dal. A world without the Bloods.
For the necromancers shall inherit Bratsk.
And the dawn of the Nekromika will break.