A SPECIES HUNTED

It is the year 217 in the new reckoning (217 AC (after cataclysm)).

In the preceding decades, the conflicts between Man and Metahuman escalated into a global catastrophe. Nation warred against nation and brother against brother. No life was left untouched by the cataclysm.

In what the storytellers refer to as World War III, civilization as our forebears knew it was destroyed by the fire. Cities were leveled and Nations were erased. The population of metahumans was nearly eradicated.

We are told tales of wondrous magic… steel chariots that move without horses… flameless torches… all-knowing oracles that lives in boxes… but these are all gone now. Time has erased much of the ‘old world’ – all that remains are the ruins, the remnants, and the forests.

The forests teem with life. We are able to fill our smokehouses with venison and rabbit. There are dangers however from the packs of coyotes and feral pigs and cats. Mankind may think they are dominant, but nature still rules supreme.

We are told tales of glorious champions… powerful metahumans that fought for the good of all. We are also told of devilish villains who opposed them.

Now all that remains are the scraps. The elders sometimes call this land ‘America’ – but the term no longer has any meaning. We are a small alliance of survivors struggling to live day to day and to stay out from under the boot heels of the warlords.

The warlords hunt us because of who we are – or what we are. The race of metahumans did not die out in the purges following the cataclysm, and they fear us.

The Ravagers hunt us because we are not one of them – feral and destructive.

Malcolm tells us that this place was once called ‘Nee-Town’ — we just call it Sanctuary.

An Oasis in the Deadlands

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