Little is known about the origins of the Empire.

We know, of course, that it was glorious. That it was ruled by a benevolent Emperor, who conquered all the known lands of the world and brought them under sacred subjugation.

That this was the Golden Age of the world, where everyone found communion in the shared triumph of Rastaban, and there was peace, prosperity, and plenty for all.

That the Emperor sat on the Throne in the capital of Rastaban and kept everything running in perfect harmony, like the mainspring in an orrery.

How long this Golden Age lasted, none can say.

But end it did.

It started when the Emperor was lost.

The little seeds of discord, unwatered and untended, began to flourish in the minds of the populace.

Differences of opinion bred arguments; the arguments bred conflict; the conflict bred war.

Tyrants rose up and greedily tore at the lands of the Empire, seeking to become Royalty.

The world fell to chaos and destruction.

Darkness reigned.

The Silent Regent, seeking to spare the pride of Rastaban from the depredations of unfettered anarchy, issued an Edict: the city was to be closed, isolated from the world.

Nobody could come. Nobody could leave.

The Gate of Beginnings was shut.

The Wood of Loss swelled massively, embracing Rastaban in its thorny clasp.

Thanks to this decisive action, the people of Rastaban were spared, and the glory of Empire continued.

A thousand years passes.

It is the Day of Triumph.

For every Day of Triumph for the last thousand years, there has been a solemn procession down the Imperial Boulevard, to rehash the faded glories of the Empire. Almost everyone in the city attends; there are delegations and representatives from every Guild and profession. They march along the boulevard, from Gate of Beginnings in the southwest to the Gate of Dynasties in the north, floats and ribbons fluttering in the wind, singing and chanting and playing instruments.

It is the one time of year where the Silent Regent leaves the Imperial District - in her palanquin, carried aloft by hooded servants in dusty robes. She never shows her face.

But this year, it is different.

The palanquin stops.

The Silent Regent disembarks.

She is wrapped from head to toe in mourning cloth.

She announces that the Edict which closed the City is lifted; that the Gate of Beginnings is to be opened. And so the procession returns the way it came, and the Gate is ceremonially unbarred.

In the days that follow, a call goes out for heroes to pledge themselves to the Empire's great reconquest.

You are one such hero.