In a land rife with unnamed terrors and untold danger... A generation ago, something began to fail in the foundations of our country. Devoid of a culprit, our cities began to crumble, becoming a derangement of ruin and decay. No one could put a name to what began to happen in the nation, that day, and thus was born the term 'mischief' for the dark things that began to creep through the woodwork. I, Avante, am a slave of this dark time. But for all its terrors, it's a good time to be a slave. The Masters, fragile and loathe to be surrounded by anything crude or horrific, have retreated upstairs, and locked themselves away. They don't come out. As such, we're as good as free, now. Free to take the ruined land for ourselves. The only pitfall, really, is the challenge of surviving in such a forsaken place. The Masters are not the only ones afraid to set foot out of their cowering domains. Even the angels, it seems, have to be charged with standing their ground - lest they run from this place. Lest they run headlong from our beloved, forsaken Dar'on. ...is there anyone who can rise above the grueling task of survival to fight for greater things, and put a name to the mischief haunting the age?

A Mischief in the Woodwork PDF

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