The year is twenty five hundred and twelve, by the imperial calender, though dwarves and elves count by different reckoning. It is ten years since Emperor Karl-Franz the first took the throne from the deposed Dieter the fourth, at the behest of the electors. His reign has been unnote worthy, neither glorious nor cursed, he is neither a cruel tyrant nor a successful reformer, though his supporters call him a reformer, and his enemies a tyrant. The threat of Chaos has grown distant since the days of Magnus the Pious, and even the Orcs of the World's Edge mountains have for a time ceased their battering at the empires door. Man has contented itself with warring upon itself, while the Elves of Ulthan have grown still more distant, and the dwarves ever more gruff.
Times are still hard however. A recession has washed across the empire east of nuln, after the collapse of three banks in an experiment in 'paper money'. For many of those affected by these economic hardships, even those with a trade, the idea of seeking a batter life elsewhere has taken on a near mystical appeal.
You are one such individual, travelling west along the upper riek, hoping to find work in Nuln.
