This world is burning.
You are the survivor, bearing the mark of death and destruction. From your hand leaps the flame, and from the flame comes order. With order you will save this land, or damn it to the pyre that it has built for itself.
But it comes at a cost. Everything does. Your people sing of hardship and sorrow but you have never seen this; never seen so much death. "Lath sulevin, lath araval ena" they cry, "Be certain in need, and the path will emerge".
The path is long and winding however, and your certainty is drowning beneath the swelling tide of blood.
But you are the Inquisitor.
Your armies await, thousands-strong.
And you will bring the light to the darkest places and whatever you find there will burn.
Burn until there is nothing left and your ashes blow through the charred ruins of entire nations.