The western region of the continent had been in upheaval for decades. The demon Azazel had reinforced its armies and had destroyed much of the landscape.
Azazel's true talent was in the art of deception and the ability to sow the seeds of chaos. He pitted his followers against Kazrites and divided the Vorites away from the followers of Lia. With alliances shattered and wars breaking out among all factions, fragments of peace became smaller and smaller.
Alastor Silverspur was fortunate enough to have grown up in one of those shards of seeming peace amongst the overwhelming strife. But it did not last, as nothing does in such battle-hardened times.
When he came of age, he was introduced to the art of war. Kazrites moving out of the north struck at his small village searching for supplies to fund their campaigns. A small regiment was pulled together from the farmers and ranch hands, but they were quickly overwhelmed.
During the struggle, Alastor was quickly taken down with a half-orc's cruel swipe of an axe. He would not have lived to see another day if fate had not had bigger plans in store.
An arrow shot from out of nowhere, burying its shaft into the half-orc just as he was about to deliver Alastor a killing blow.
A battlecry from nearby caught his attention. He saw flags emblazoned with Vor's crest. The warriors attacked the Kazrites with a passion, but in their haste to destroy them, they ended up causing as much destruction to the village as the evil ones had.
As the chaotic sounds of battle raged around him, Alastor noticed the soldiers did not seem to differ other than in their colors and standards they bore.
He began to think all was lost as he lay bleeding on the ground. Another battlecry sounded. Alastor was almost beyond caring as a third contingent of elves erupted upon the scene, killing Vorites and Kazrites both.
The tide of the battle turned until all three armies were close to being decimated. The elves seemed to be in the best shape, and as the sounds of the battle subsided, the sounds of the dying came up in force.
The elves had succeeded in ending the battle.
However, they were not quick enough to preserve that shard of peace.
The village lay in ruins. Alastor was healed by a cleric of Lia, but not before one of his eyes was lost for good. His parents, his cousins, his friends had all be taken down.
A few villagers, many of whom he had spent much of his life with, packed their leftover belongings and decided to flee the burnt ground that had been their home for so long.
As he was about to join them, a wizened elf stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He introduced himself as the commander of the elves that had saved him and invited him to join their ranks to perhaps seek vengeance against those who had destroyed his home.
Alastor accepted and joined with what he discovered were warriors of Lia.
Soon, his bitterness at the warring factions became apparent and the elves dismissed him from their company.
He wandered for months, occasionally finding people with like minds. He trained for some time with an elven follower of Eon, and became convinced that even if all the gods were corrupt, that at least Eon was separated enough from the others to make a difference.
Eventually, he gave up looking for the shard of peace he had lost in the west and convinced many of his friends to join him on a journey to a rumored bastion of hope.
Blackstone Keep was said to welcome all. Their region was under attack by another demon named Shalnath.
It all seemed familiar to Alastor, but deep down he knew that if this place was such a haven, there would also be a need for stout souls to protect it from the encroachment of those who would turn it into a battlezone.
He was prepared to find a way to make all follow the law and order that was so critical to creating peace and tranquility.
When he arrived, he knew that he and his friends would have their work cut out for them.
