Across the beleaguered townships of the Empire, survival is measured in palisades, locked gates, and whatever can be dragged into the road before nightfall. Few settlements possess the wealth or time to raise true fortifications, and fewer still can rely on the distant protection of martial orders when terror comes calling.

Barricades are the work of desperate hands. Carts are overturned, timber is lashed into place, furniture is broken down, and iron scraps are hammered into cruel points. They are crude things, raised in panic or habit, but in the frontier lands of Doaden, crude often means alive.

Behind such defences, peasant levies, town guards, and frightened citizens gather with spears, bows, and farm tools. Against bandits, beasts, cults, and the nameless things beyond the firelight, these barricades offer no promise of safety. They offer only a line to stand behind, and sometimes that is enough.