Lying in the valley located inbetwixt the massive mountains of Mourn in the west of the Old Empire, the Forlorn Marches' history is one steeped in heroes, and in blood. In the time of the Old Empire, the Marches where once a proud, independent realm, called the Kingdom of Erosia in ages past. With the High mountains to their back, and the mineral wealth they possessed, the king of Erosia sought to oppose the ever-expanding Realm of Loar. He, like many before and after him, was crushed beneath the boots of the Emperor's legions. The Kingdom then became the March of the King's youngest son, who was spirited away from the old king's court and raised as a Loarashi in their courts far in the north. He returned to his father's lost realm a different man, dubbed the Marquess of the Forlorn marches, as with the king's death a ever-present fog had settled over the land. At first the Marquess was a loyal subject of his Loarashi overlords, having man friends in the Imperial court from his childhood there, but with the rise of the southern rebels and the Empire growing weak in its decadence and debauchery, the Marquess was stirred into action. He declared the realm independent, and his its leader, but denied the title of king, rather seeing fit to earn it as his father did. As the Empire was concerned with the rebellion in the south, it could not spare men to bring the Marquess to heel, and the March was finally free from Loarashi subjugation. This freedom, however, was short lived. Living up to its moniker, something came from the forlorn ruins of the March, something worse then any Imperial Army. A spectral horde, some say of the many men who died claiming the old Kingdom for the Empire, or just the screaming souls of ages and battles past, descended upon the March. Their Ethereal blades cutting sharper and cleaner then any blade of man. From the mountains came all manner of beast, both thinking and unthinking, and with claw and blade they rent their share of blood. From all sides the people of the march died, and they died in droves. It was from his father's castle that the Marquess Emerged, holding high the silver blade of his father, and his father before him, and his army followed behind, man determined to fight hell, or at least find it dying to the last. They fought for days, and the soil ran red with blood from all manner of beast and man. From the south came one of the Empire's legions, having received word of the Marquess's treachery, and finally being able to spare some men, came determined to bring the rebellious lord to heel. They instead found a hell unlike any that they had seen in Loar. The Battle was joined, and man, beast, spectre and monster all died alike. It was at the zenith of this battle, as the Marquess locked blades with the leader of the Imperial army, his childhood friend, that the flux was unleashed by the Southerners, and its effect were most odd in the Marches. A shimmering took the air, the ground roiled as if the earth herself seemed fit to swallow the combatants whole, and then the entire battlefield disappeared as if it had never been there at all. Nothing remained of the battle, no bodies, no weapons. It was as if someone had turned back time a few days prior. From the few remaining homes the partly remains of the citizens of the march emerged, bewildered by the sight, or lack thereof, before them, promptly left this obviously cursed land. For a century and a half the land remained forlorn as it were, and only now have the people started to move back into the march. A smattering of folks, mostly human but with the occasional elf and odd dwarf from the mountains coming to join the growing settlements in the shadows of the umber peaks. It was only a few weeks ago when some queer happened at the site of the old castle, where a wild storm raged. In the pale light a figure strode into the castle, armor battered and blood-stained. A silver sword at his side, a pale cloak on his face, the figure strode to the cracked, ancient throne and sat down. When approached by the people he said little, only asking of the state of the march, and the estimated arrival of the Empire's forces. Eventually a young boy approached the figure, and thinking of the stories his father had told him on the long night's when he couldn't sleep, uttered a fearful question.
"Marquess?"
And the figure raised his head, and then rose from his throne and knelt down to face the boy
"Yes, my child?"