Under the Iron Sky, the world has become a dark and terrible place. Tyrants stoke the flame of civilization with the ashes of criminals, rebels, and the many who have succumbed to the ravages of plague and war. Priests offer the blood of heretics and infidels to violent, jealous gods – if any exist to watch over the world in the first place. All that lurks in the darkness between kingdoms loathes humanity, and those that venture out to face them are often little more than murderers, zealots, and privateers. True, honest good is rare.

You’re no hero.

You’re a reaver, a cutpurse, a heathen-slayer, a tight-lipped warlock guarding long-dead secrets. You seek gold and glory, winning it with sword and spell, caked in the blood and filth of the weak, the dark, the demons, and the vanquished. There are treasures to be won deep underneath, and you shall have them.

Your party serves a purpose; for a split of the loot, you keep each other alive. Friends or enemies, you would never go against a member of your group lest you be the next to die. The lands under the Iron Sky are dangerous to walk alone, and a dead man can’t spend his gold.