The Marches
“Pride in small things, loyalty to great ones”
The Marches: Hearth and home; loyalty and land. Rivalry, pride and a nation of traditions. Sentinel hills, silent marshes, and standing stones that mark the roads to Elsewhere. Generation to generation tilling the good, dark earth as their forebears did and reaping the harvests that feed all the Empire.
For centuries the Marcher Households have marched with the Empire’s armies, reliant not so much on magic or shining faith, but on the strength of their arms, the courage of their hearts, and the knowledge that they fought for the green fields of home.
Old folk tell of glorious conquest in their grandsires’ time, of defeat in their own, and hope for victory in years to come. Lanes once clogged with refugees in unfamiliar colours see change come to the Marches, change born in fire and darkness. The woodsman and the smith turn their hands to things of war. The merchant’s clerk lists supplies for the baggage train. Those granted stewardship remember wicker men. Those who choose to follow know the power of sacrifice. Those versed in lore, revisit darker magics. The ceremonies of the harvest are marked with blood.
The Marches is the sleeping giant of the Empire. Enemy boots churn up the rich soil, as the dog days of Summer give way to the cold dawn of Autumn – and to war.
The nation draws strongly on English history from the 12th century through to the War of the Roses for costume, weaponry and armour.
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