There is no arguing that these last few years, crime in Absalom City has been on the rise. Thugs grow more bold with the rapid decline of the city guard to stem the tide. Thieves, scoundrels, and other never-do-wells see opportunity in the despair of the good citizens. Street violence rises like a storm to flood both the innocent and the guilty in it's lockjaw embrace.
Dark cultist now seem to flock to the city in it's near death-throws, nearing it's fall, but still clinging to the ledge with an ever dwindling tenacity. Past defenders have fallen. In the early days, days now long gone from bleak memory to most, the Pathfinder Society was counted on, but they where the first to fall. It's neutral members murdered in their beds, it's lodges, it's Grand Lodge, plundered by and desecrated by individuals that where never identified. The city begged for help in what they thought was their most desperate hour, the years before it got worse, but even they where turned away. Fought off until trouble in Lastwall called, until Mendev's defenses where destroyed. And then the Sky Citadel fell. A cataclysmic event that devastated the seas and scorched the skies, making travel to the island nation of Absalom City nearly untransversable by any way save the cities prior defenses, through the Flotsam Graveyard, now a hotspot for risen undead pirates and fowl crawling unnatural things.
In all of this, the only heroes that Absalom City can now count on are those few willing to stand up for itself, those willing to hold the torch up, though it paints a target upon them for all to see, in hopes that that torch will endure the ravages of evil and darkness, in fact in spite of it, and preserve to light other beacons of hope.
Welcome to the resistance. . .
A resistance of a small few, brothers and sisters against the darkness. Individuals who, by day, pretend to live lives of the common, downtrodden. The innocents caught in the middle, if not, by day, a part of the problem. But this is their false face. Their disguise. Their shell and their wall. For by night, they rise up to take a swing against the rising evil. To fight for Absalom City. To both light a candle and scream against the darkness.
An elderly man, said by some to once have been a Pathfinder himself, before the, well, just before, calls to you. Through your past crusades, you have come to call other like yourselves friends, even though you know not who the others are underneath the cowl, mask, or cloak. You know how to call to each other, a torch lit from a certain window, a message through a series of messengers, the painting of graffiti upon a certain wall, or even a letter left at a certain point will summon you to your place of meeting. The place of your first unified victory. And once again, you are summoned. . .
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