Abyssal the Grand Hunt

Malgornia is a world strangled by shadow. True daylight has been gone for an age; the land rots beneath a dim, dying glow. Long ago, the Sun and Moon were one god, bound in perfect, terrible harmony. Time corrupted that union. The Sun grew fat on worship, blind to the suffering below. The Moon did not mourn. In an act of divine violence, he tore the Sun apart, scattering its broken remains across the heavens. What light survived was thin and merciless. Thus Malgornia was born into half-light—a world caught between life and death. The Moon claimed dominion over mankind. He would hold back the dark, not out of love, but duty. In return, humanity would kneel. Faith was not a blessing; it was a debt. Where this pact was sealed, the White Palace rose—a colossal citadel of blinding marble carved into the mountains. Its walls bleed a sickly teal glow, visible for leagues, a reminder that the Moon is always watching. Those who flee there find shelter, never freedom. Not all obeyed. The defiant turned to the Outer Gods—ancient forces clawing at reality beyond the veil. They are not creators, but engines of ruin. To worship them is to invite rot into flesh and madness into the soul. Their cultists still infest Malgornia: butcher-priests, warbands bloated with blasphemy, zealots who burn cities in the name of oblivion. The Moon answered with slaughter. He forged the Hunters Guild—men and women stripped of mercy and reforged as weapons. They hunt with spell and scripture, blade and black powder. They do not save. They eradicate. Their vows end only in death. Beside them stands the Holy Order—priests, judges, executioners clad in sanctity. Prayer is obedience. Doubt is heresy. And heresy is punished beneath a broken sky. In Malgornia, the light does not comfort. It condemns.