You live in a world called Urnoth. We would think of it as a region or small continent, but for your characters, Urnoth is the world. You have heard what lies beyond, in far-away lands. Impossible things. Wondrous things. Terrible things.
You are a part of the Morkai tribe, one of a hundred people who live as one, every man a brother or father or son, every woman a mother or sister or daughter. On Urnoth, your tribe is your family, one you would willingly give your life to serve. It is a trait of the Morkai, and it has held them together in times that shattered many other tribes.
All of these tribes, including your own, live on Urnoth, and though you are one of many tribes, you are all of the same people, the Urnothi.
Some tribes are friendly, willing to trade... in rare cases, even do favors for one another. Some are suspicious, touchy to meet, at times dangerous. The rest are hostile. Morkai fares better against these than most, for the Morkai never break. Every fallen warrior is a brother or sister, fueling a ferocity that tends to break enemy tribes.
Most of the hostile tribes are wary of confronting the Morkai, for even if they could win, the cost would be savage, and leave them vulnerable to their enemies. A renegade chief could not change this – their own tribe would rise up to kill the chief, a saner replacement chosen by the wisdoms of the tribe.
Each of you wear the mark of the Morkai proudly, a bold line tattooed downward from the bottom lip, separating the chin down the center with a bold red line the color of fresh blood. Placed after birth, the tattoo marks every member of the tribe, at first as a thin line, then strengthened, thicker and brighter, at each stage of the young one’s life, until they claim their worth among the tribe as as either warriors, crafters, or apprentices to the wisdoms, young ones no more in the eyes of the tribe, though some have claimed their places at a younger age than many.
Urnothi are of their world, a part of it. They depend on the world – they give thanks for what it gives them, praying to the spirits of animal, leaf, earth, sky, and water. They listen to the omens, and these days, the signs bode ill: there are dark days ahead. Whispers of storms from the south, black as night, skirted in dark mists. It is said that entire tribes have been swallowed by these storms, hidden within the tempests for days. When the storms clear, nothing of the tribespeople remains, save their blood upon the earth. So it is rumored.
Whispers spread from the north as well, of outworlder warbands who ride monsters and hunt Urnothi for sport. Such is their numbers, it is said, that no tribe could stand against them. Some speak of tribes lost to these outworlders, slaughtered whole, others say they march for war, heading south, to confront the storms. None are certain, but it seems there is more to fear these days than enemy tribes.