My life, as far as my own memory is concerned, began exactly six years ago.

I woke up alone in the dirt, caught in the shadow of a crumbling castle set against a jagged mountain range in the Ashen Marches. I had no childhood to recall, no family to miss, and no name to give myself. All I possessed was the clothes on my back, a grievous, healed burn exposing the bone on the right side of my face, and a jagged, geometric brand etched into the flesh of my right shoulder.

I soon learned the brand wasn't just a scar; it is a violent reaction to the unnatural. Whenever eldritch creatures or ancient, dark magic are near, the brand heats up like a forge iron. The greater the concentration of eldritch presence, the more agonizing the burn becomes, eventually searing my flesh and causing thick, acrid smoke to rise from beneath my tunic. It is a torturous alarm system that I cannot silence.

I took the name Nadir Locke—a fitting title for a man starting at absolute rock bottom, keeping his origins locked away. I don't know who I am, and I don't know exactly what I am compelled to search for in these wastes. But I know I have to keep moving, bearing the agonizing heat of my own skin every time the shadows of the Marches draw too close.