prologue

We can hear a soft, listless cello and a dead wind blowing dust over an empty plain.

 

NAMELESS HISTORIAN:

I’m going to tell you a story.

 

It’s all about death.

 

The crumbling nation-empire of Old Cyshane, long reduced from its past colonial glories, has been conquered by its own history.

 

Ancient corpse-kings and ragged bone-empresses reign here upon thrones of whimpering flesh. Merchant dynasties and barbarian tribes from centuries past scheme and bicker over their collective legacy like dogs snapping over a bone.

 

And the living?

 

The living go on living; picking a path forwards amongst a new world of dead labour and dead technology.

 

Do we surrender? Do we adapt? Do we resist? Do we have a future here? 

 

Or is there nothing left but the endless recycling of the storied past, the perpetuity of bondage beneath those who ruled us once and rule us now forever more?

 

This is Our Wars Have Ended.