In a time before us, it is written in the Grimoire of Journeys of a land torn by war, the mortal plane of Daubnoth, the Static Dimension, a land split between two empires, the Craftworld Graul, a land littered with machinations of the thinkers and scientists it harbored. Protected by impregnable iron walls, defended by mighty warriors and sturdy golems. A land with a single equal in this plane, the Wizardry Institute to the north, a land run by magicians and spellcasters of all ages and origins, whose spellcraft was said to be supreme in their world and all others. The two empires fought for many decades over the control of the realm, equal forces of unholy power clashed day and night giving up not an inch to their enemy. These many decades of endless war put pressure on the economy of both empires, and in a desperate move, both of them gambled their strongest weapons, their most powerful spells in one final battle at the Planes of Revolution. The Craftworld with the most advanced machination in the realm, the golem Ernathil, built of iron, reinforced with obsidian and armored in granite. The Institute with the Manifestation of Garnid the Warmonger. The two clash at sunset twice, at sunrise once, and at nightfall thrice. At sunset they clash one last time, the golem and the spirit. Two beings of opposing nature. Garnid the Warmonger, said to be tired from the fight with the golem who did not know of rest, appealed to other spirits for power. His wish granted, Garnid obtained a power far beyond his control, with a single strike the machination lay wasted, but the Garnid could not control himself and unleashed the entirety of his power upon the land, shattering the world and cursing its inhabitants to be stranded forever in the Void of planes.

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It is now the third day of the fifth month, two hundred and twenty five years after the cataclysm that shattered the world, the event the came to be known as The Rupture. The world once again lives in peace, kept together by bridges leading from a piece of land to the other, the Empires long gone, there are now only kingdoms and their fiefs. The mortal plane of Daubnoth, the Static Dimension exists no more, it is now the Shattered Land, Faltodt.
In the far south, in the Kingdom of Nippo, a land of commoners and simple people, in a small fief located at the edge of the kingdom lay the house of Astrad, considered by the people of his village a complete and utter idiot, the land would be better without him than with him they said. These words never mattered to Astrad however, for he, in his idiocy, preferred to claim that he is not only a misunderstood genius but also a master of the arts. Of course, these are all lies, the man could only fight with a sword, and even at that he was terrible, his fellow neighbours say. The poor man was tall, spiritual age could be read off of his temple where wrinkles made their nest, becoming deeper and deeper as the years passed. The man was not as old as he would like to admit, he was 35, most would give him that and half more.