Heh. Heroes. In this Age, heroes are strangled in their cribs by their mothers before the orcs tear down the door and eat them feet first so that they can listen to them scream while they chew.
No, this is no Age for heroes.
If the strongholds of civilization are points of light in the darkness, then this is a Dark Age, growing dimmer by the year as another candle flickers out. And another. And another.
The Andarian Empire of the far North is long dead. Once we all swore fealty to the God-Emperess and her Holy Daughters, angels in the flesh who it is said flew across the world to enforce her will. But a plague struck the capital of the Empire, spreading outward, and now we are on our own. Andar is dead, but it does not rest quietly. We no longer see the horrible beautiful faces of the Holy Daughters, but bear hunters and fisherman of the north tell of emissaries southbound, unable to speak for their tongues have long rotted out of their heads, but their message is clear enough. They'll melt the snow with the blood of any who let them come close.
To the East the Great Walls of Zinna built by Erathis himself have tumbled and shattered as the earth shakes. The walls beg forgiveness for failing in their task as they fall, and the people of Zinna weep as their ancient guardians crumble and die. The holy men of Zinna, monks of Ioun, sworn to peace and compassion for all beings, have begun to arm themselves as the Horseaters of Kalsoon come through the barriers that once kept them out and ransack their holy temples. Though they say it is not the Horseaters that cause them to raise swords, but the beasts of the earth that would swallow all of mankind.
The Raven Queen's flock of the South send warnings on their lavender-winged wordcrows. The mountains have awakened. They tear down the sky and rain fire and send their children to reclaim the temples of the elementals. The gods are dead, all but the Raven Queen who will remain until every last creature becomes soil, and the Primordials who they overthrew are taking back what they created. As the children of the gods, our time on this world is over.
The jungles of the far West have filled with a fog. The masked mute tribes, once isolated and avoiding contact with all but the Holy Daughters, are now fleeing their homes amongst the trees and seeking refuge in the keeps of the Mohadj. Their bodies are gaunt, sometimes marked with wounds and lashes, and their masks have twisted into expressions of pain and fear. The Mohadj, no friends of the masked mute tribes after the Curse War, admit them grimly and without protest and sharpen their swords.
It is not only the humans that have seen signs of the end. Dragonborn eggs hatch and spill out nothing but blood and bones. Tieflings turn on their kin and slaughter friends and family in the night when the Black Moons turn and run, still covered in blood, to the west, which you'd think might be normal for the demonspawn but as the Black Moons approach the Tieflings go white as salt with fear. Eladrin oracles without warning scream and scream until they drown in their own blood.
The heroes of the Andarian Age are gone. Statues of Bharash Proudscale and Brandis the Morbid crumble and crack, and instead the likes of Arjhan Acidblood who spends his time between mercenary jobs putting the skulls of Tiefling children atop spears or Cassi the Holy who would (and it is said, did) slit her mother's throat for an authentic elven goldwood lute are the subjects of tales and stories. No, this is no Age for heroes. In this Age, heroes are strangled in their cribs, and that is because the gods still smile on heroes.