Themwane, one of few countries on the continent Aegrar, is a safehaven. All walks of life, people or otherwise, flock to the kingdom for a number of reasons; Glory, riches, refuge, or perhaps a new start. One thing is true of all who come to the kingdom: They are always looking for something. Whether they find it, however, is a different matter…
For time immemorial, Themwane has been a beacon of acceptance of all creatures and their cultures, provided that they keep to themselves. The streets of every town and city are a vast melting pot of those from every corner of Aegrar, though humans and elves still outnumber any other. The capital, Ironhaven,  however, is more of a melting vat. Street vendors speak in a dozen different languages, selling goods from around the land; taverns and inns serve customers of indescribable variety. In such a tavern, there exist 5 Individuals bound by fate, though they know of it not yet.

Called the “Harpy’s Fist,” this particular tavern is seedy. An echo of several tongues fills the room and bounces off of the dirty, rotting walls. At the bar, a seemingly human man with bird-like feet and wings serves drinks and speaks in a strangely chirpy language. Folks of all types drink, eat, and speak with one another, while others keep to themselves, sitting silently, performing menial tasks, or simply waiting. Sitting separate from each other, and without notice of the others, the 5 Individuals mind their own business.
A hooded man sits in a dark corner, whittling the shaft of a wooden arrow with his blade. At the bar, another man, blonde of hair, silently enjoys a drink and contemplates. Along with the other refugees and rejects of the tavern, a Tiefling woman slumps in her chair and cautiously watches everyone who enters. A drinking contest erupts between two large men; the only thing interesting to happen within the bar all night. One is clearly a half-orc, the other, indistinguishable under a set of full scalemail.