Warbands, Beer & Pizza.
Still illegal in 3 countries.
Welcome to The Eightpints, thirsty traveller! So, you want to understand this place? Forget the grand histories and the pretty maps. This world is a broken pub, full of angry patrons fighting over the last few dregs of a forgotten ale.
The lore isn't written in books; it's carved in the scars on a mercenary's face. Welcome to the party, and please try to not bleed on the furniture.
The Eightpints is a bloody, chaotic argument between three dozen different kinds of fanatic and fool, aka the factions of The Eightpints.
A warband is the small, desperate family you build to survive heresaid argument. They're not your friends; but they are the ones who'll drag your bleeding carcass back to the pub because you're carrying their share of the loot.
Every corner of this world has invented its own unique and either worrisomely straightforward or needlessly complicated way to kill you. This is your catalogue of those bad ends.
A bestiary of the things that hunt you in the dark, and a guide to the miserable, trap-filled places they call home. Pay attention; knowing what's about to eat you is a small but important comfort.
In this life, you learn to be good at something, or you die. You might become a Warlord who can shout louder than the chaos, or an Assassin who can think faster than a blade. How about a Merchant who buys the blade off the enemy mid-stab?
The loot is what gives you an edge. It's the scavenged gear, cursed trinkets, and legendary junk you'll find, lose, and steal on your way to the grave.
A quest is not a noble calling; it is a bad job taken for poor pay. It is the act of walking from one miserable place to another, usually in bad weather, to solve a problem for someone who will likely try to kill you afterwards.
Exploration is what happens between the getting stabbed: the long, muddy roads and the endless, weary watch. Maybe the odd free pint!
Here's the only game that matters: It's played in the mud and the mire, with a rusty blade for a pawn and your own life as the stake. The rules are simple: the one who walks away gets to drink tonight.
Everything else—the "quests", the Shiners, the so-called "glory"—is just a distraction from that one, simple, brutal truth: who's buying the next round?
