Editing Kyuad's Lorebook

Izrador’s high priest, Sunulael, is himself an undead creature, but not a randomly risen Fell. He is the product of Izrador’s corrupting will, an eternal creature of jealousy and ambition, something unlike the others. All the other undead of the world have their origins in Izrador, and most came seeking him in order to extend their lives and grow their power. There are rituals known only to Izrador and his high legates that can bestow undeath on a creature, willing or not. Different rituals produce different undead—vampires, ghosts and that known as lich — all of whom reach the other side with new powers, new perceptions, and a complete and utter devotion to Izrador’s cause. For the most part, Izrador leaves these new servants to their own devices, secure in the knowledge that even as they fulfill the desires that led them to this choice they will also be furthering his goals. Sunulael often demands a period of service from those he transforms, and it is hoped that the commanders among his undead army at Cambrial may, if the offensive is stalled long enough, eventually desert his service. If such desertion can be timed just right, it could turn the tide of the war in Erethor toward the forces of good.

Cambrial is the nexus for undead in the world, and the groaning of its mindless denizens can be heard for 20 miles or more on clear nights. Those who wish to undergo the transformation into intelligent undead most often journey there to meet with Sunulael, an event that in and of itself maddens those with weak minds. Of those who survive the mere presence of the Priest of Shadow, many falter in their decisions. No matter to Sunulael, however—they are marked to become mindless slaves and sent to the front lines in Erethor. Those who persevere are rewarded with the curse of eternal undeath and subservience to Izrador. Their minds are scoured by the dark god, but left relatively intact, and then they are sent on their way.

Cambrial was once one of the largest cities in southern Erenland and home to a vibrant, mixed-race population. Among the Sarcosan majority lived Erenlanders, Northmen, elven traders, and even a few city-dwelling halflings. Even in the dark days at the end of the Third Age, the city remained a center for interracial trade and was known throughout the southlands as the home of Sarcosan wizardry. When the Shadow’s forces took southern Erenland, they attacked and razed Cambrial as a demonstration of their power and ruthlessness. They killed all who did not flee, filling the city’s streets with blood. At the command of the Night Kings, the bodies were purposefully left untended and soon every last one rose as Fell. Neither time nor decay seemed to diminish the undead horde’s numbers and many believe it is the black magic of Izrador that maintain them. Perhaps charmed by their tenacity, the Night King known as the Priest of Shadow has made Cambrial his most common lair, within which new undead monstrosities are constantly being born from the City of Dead and the Obsidian Spire as well. In the century since its fall, so many of the foul creatures continued to haunt the place that the ruins of Cambrial came to be known as the City of the Dead. The settlement and its environs have become so dangerous that even orc legions stay well clear of the region, if they can. Unfortunately, the Priest of Shadow and his legate servants require guards, servants, supplies, and all the other trappings of a community, so Sarcosans and Erenlanders are commonly rounded up and replanted in the various keeps and secured buildings of Cambrial, forced to do their best to raise food and meet their masters’ needs while avoiding the often uncontrolled Fell and other, more powerful undead that roam the ruined sections of the city and its outskirts. No more than 1,000 humans and halflings live here at any given time . . . though that number begins dropping from the moment a “fresh” shipment of transplants arrives, and must be supplemented every few years. No one knows how many undead roam the city and its environs, but those few who have escaped the place alive say that they must outnumber the living by a ratio of ten to one, at least.

In extremely rare occurances something potentially worse happens. Regardless of the how the body is disposed of, it becomes destined to rise as a tormented shade, one of the Lost, within a year of the person’s death. The dead creature rises as a ghost if its mind is right; otherwise, it rises as some other form of incorporeal undead.  

There is howling wind of unseen forces that encircle Aryth. It is everywhere and nowhere at once, and it is formed by what the people of the world call spirits. Some spirits have always been there, a disembodied, nearly divine group of creatures, or perhaps a single creature, called the Eternal, as well as lesser spirits like fey creatures and elementals. Those who work magic have always been aware of these spirits— they have used them as soldiers, bound them into their artifacts, and even called upon them for knowledge and guidance. It wasn’t until the Sundering, however, that the spirits became as real to most residents of Aryth as the sun, sky, and ground beneath them. With the Sundering, a wall came down across Aryth, blocking it from the other planes. Many of the creatures trapped by that event, with no other form to take and with no afterlife or other worlds to move on to, have become spirits. There are now three types of spirits throughout Aryth, whether they are the dead souls of the once living, refugee extraplanar visitors who cannot find their way home, or eternal elemental forces who have resided on Aryth since its creation.

A bodiless spirit’s presence can be revealed by divination spells and a spell of force effect would affect a spirit, but a fireball would not, and no spells cast by spirits in their bodiless forms affect the physical world in any way.

Spirits would seem to be ideal spies, whether for Izrador or his foes. However, just as spirits cannot be detected, neither can they, under most circumstances, see or detect any details regarding the living. Time, place, and distance have little meaning to spirits, and getting spirits to convey meaningful information about what they’ve seen is quite difficult. Each type of spirit has a particular interest in and ability to observe specific things in the physical world; for instance, outsider spirits notice the life forces of other creatures with particular clarity, while elemental spirits are naturally attracted to the elements to which they are attuned.

* '''The Whisper''' of the great forest of Erethor is perhaps the largest of the Eternal, spanning the entirety of the Witch Queen’s wood and composed of the souls of hundreds of thousands of deceased elves.

Even those that die and are lucky enough to be spared the fate of rising as Fell are still unable to reach heaven through the murky Veil brought down during Izrador’s banishment. A further travesty is that many of these unfortunate souls are still unable to rest quietly. Instead, they rise as haunts and shades, cursed to roam the place of their death or familiar locations from their lives. These ghosts are the Lost, and they live a half existence only semi-aware of what has happened to them, confused and trapped in a limbo somewhere between the physical and celestial realms.

The demon-infested jungles of the Aruun are perhaps the most regarded place on Eredane when the subject of demons is broached—and for good reason. Its humid confines house the majority of evil outsiders in the world, and not many angels to combat them. The demon ruins of Ibon-sul have acted as a prison to demons for thousands of years, so long that not even the eldest Danisil sage has memory of what created such a place. There are fears that since Izrador’s victory, the invisible bonds that trap beings there are being weakened, and that more and more demons are escaping every year. If this is true, it could soon spell an end to Danisil involvement in the war for Caradul, as the jungle elves rally to defend their own home against a threat more vile than the cruelest orc.

'''RULES NOTE''':  As a result of their millennia-long entrapment, none of the outsiders on Aryth have the Extraplanar subtype—the Material Plane on Aryth has become their home. All outsiders gain the spirit subtype as well as the Trapped template.  So in the future you COULD make Know: Spirit checks for information if you'd like...

*  Spell-Dealing: In the old days, courtesan imps traded in spells as part of their duties on Aryth. A courtesan imp can “carry” a spell from a book or scroll to a channeler who wants to learn it. ''[The channeler must spend the time, money and XP necessary to learn the spell from a book as usual, but does not have to physically see or handle the book or scroll himself.]''  The courtesan imp does not have to be able to use or understand the spell itself. Typically, a courtesan imp charges 25 vp/spell level for this service, but price can be negotiated...

*  Spellcasting Ability:  Spells believed to be known by these Imps: (5 points of spell energy/day; DC 15 +spell level) 0—mage hand, prestidigitation, virtue; 1st—jump, pass without trace; 2nd—cat’s grace, spider climb, tree shape; 3rd—meld into stone.

Most usually appearing as a small pool of viscid, purple slime lies within a crystalline basin. A pair of rudimentary eyes emerge from the slightly swirling fluid and blink languidly at you, while a burbling voice emerges from the fluid.  "What is it you wish to know?”

Lore pools are a race of outsiders originally sent to Aryth to watch and record the development of the fey races and to absorb what they could of the world’s history and culture. The Sundering trapped these small, helpless creatures, who have remained in their hiding places ever since. There is no gravity on their home plane, where they are able to propel themselves from place to place on extruded cilia, but on Aryth they are simply too weak to move.

Lore pools can be found scattered across all of Aryth. Some were found by elves and given new, more comfortable homes in crystalline basins in exchange for providing the elves with their knowledge and other abilities. Still others were captured by the Shadow’s minions and coerced into using their abilities for evil. Even more are sequestered across the countryside or in ancient ruins, where they hide and observe the world around them, instinctively collecting knowledge despite being unable to report back to their masters.

Where they once may have readily provided information, they now must be cajoled or intimidated into revealing what they know to others. They also take a perverse delight in commanding their “mental inferiors” to complete difficult tasks for them, withholding vital information until the job is complete.

Lore pools are somewhat able to protect themselves - a lore pool may reveal some tidbit (which may not be true) about a target’s fate, creating a pit of fear in the target. The old Outsiders have a Vast Knowledge and may cast the greater scrying spell and may, if it chooses, display the results of this spell on its surface. Finally, Lore pools do not need to eat, drink, or sleep. There are no limits to their natural lifespan and many trapped on Aryth are thousands of years old.

Shambling figures of sinew-covered bones, hung with tatters of dried flesh, red eyes glinting in a broken skull... There are many dangers across Aryth, but few as foul and horrifying as the Fell. When Izrador’s fall severed the bond between heaven and the mortal world, it did more than sever the connection between the gods and their faithful. It also trapped the souls of all future dead in the material realm, preventing their ascension to the celestial kingdom. Whether by happenstance or because of some malicious magics on Izrador’s part, one of the terrible consequences of this reality has been that the souls of the newly dead are often unable to leave their bodies, remaining tied to them and doomed to walk the land as horrible undead abominations. These unfortunate, fearsome, undead monsters are commonly known as the Fell.

When the Fell first began to appear, the horrified living quickly learned how to dispose of corpses to keep them dead. Now, though the undead are no less a threat, the races’ various practices of body disposal have become culturally ingrained and greatly reduce their potential numbers.  

The '''elves''' are perhaps the most reverent in disposing of their dead, though the end results are also perhaps the most practical. When an elf dies, his body is covered in a wrapping of mystically prepared living vines and then is taken deep into the forest by a Whisper Adept. The vines secure the body, keeping it subdued even if it should wake as undead, for the adept may travel many days before reaching a location suited to her purpose. When the adept has chosen an appropriate site, she conducts an elaborate ritual that involves burying the body within the roots of a large tree. Over the course of the ritual, the spirit of the deceased passes into the tree and becomes one with the tree’s own essence. The new entity that is formed becomes part of the vast network of spirit tree guardians known as the Whispering Wood.

'''Dwarves''' dig elaborate catacombs in which they entomb their dead. When a dwarf dies, she is laid in a shallow sarcophagus-like pit carved out of the stone floor of the catacomb. A heavy stone slab, often intricately worked by the deceased herself when she lived, is then lowered onto the corpse, crushing it and pinning it to the bottom of the pit. The weight of the slab is sufficient to keep any Fell from actually rising and serves as a kind of memorial on which is typically carved a narrative of the deceased’s life. Though dwarves commonly visit catacombs in hopes of speaking to the shades of their ancestors, only the most stouthearted do so before allowing enough time for the body to decay away. The moans, screams, and curses that sometimes rise from under the crushing stones are often too much for even the bravest to bear. The dwarves believe that by keeping the souls of the dead tethered to their bodies, they encourage the spirits to remain to watch over and protect the realm of the living.

Even the '''races that serve Izrador''' are not immune to the unwelcome rise of their own dead. Though many bodies are left to the necromancy of the Night Kings, most goblin-kin and orc dead are dealt with in a gruesome yet morbidly effective way—they are eaten by the living. This practical cannibalism not only assures that the dead do not wake to trouble the living but also provides a valuable food supply within a scavenging culture that suffers a great deal of mortality from constant internal fighting.

Despite their horrific state, the madness of the Fell typically imbues them with a powerful survival instinct, and only the most willful soul can take direct action to destroy, and therefore free, itself. With a strong enough will an undead character can intentionally destroy itself by means of any method that consumes or dismembers its body, such as lighting itself on fire or crushing itself in a rock fall. This sort of action obviously becomes more and more unlikely as the creature’s mind decays and it loses control over its actions. Failure typically results in a period of heightened madness, bloodlust, and a sustained feeding frenzy that can last for days or even weeks.

Deceased that have recently become Fell are ungral, a High Elven word meaning “tethered dead.” Ungral often appear almost indistinguishable from living creatures, though a violent or debilitating death will typically leave obvious signs. Ungral retain the intelligence they had in life, and not all of them have yet succumbed to evil.  

A faengral that fails to feed becomes a maelgral, or “walking dead.”

The maelgral, or “walking dead,” is the last state of the Fell before total decay. Maelgral have lost nearly all of their personality and are less dangerous, though more durable, than the other forms of undead. They have more durability and an inability to feel pain, but no longer have the ability to claw or bite their prey; instead they can only attempt to bludgeon their victims with desperate clubbing motions of their often handless arms. Unlike a lesser undead (skeletons, ghouls, ghosts or zombies), a maelgral retains some element of animal cunning.

===Crossing a legate’s path===

Those who cross a legate’s path, if not killed outright, might be cursed. This both serves as a reminder of a master’s or foe’s displeasure, and also serves as walking, talking example of what happens to those who cross him. The unfortunate may suffer either the weakness, ineptness, or madness. These curses are inflicted via a secret ritual, unknown magic item, or other unique method.

Sailors of all races tell tales of moonlit nights when the water is becalmed and the air is still. They tell of a fog that rises slowly from the water to roll over the decks and play tricks on the eyes. The stories say that this strange vapor brings with it a curse from a past age, that it brings with it the Spirit Ship of Captain Slynn. In the darkening days at the end of the Third Age, Captain Slynn was a notorious pirate who terrorized fleets across the Pelluria. Gnomes, humans, elves—it did not matter, they were all fair game. Some say Slynn was a Sarcosan princeling banished from his people. Others say he was a dwarrow who led a bloody mutiny against a gnomish trading company. All agree he was as vicious as he was cunning and that he was a supreme seaman, forever out-sailing and outwitting the navies sent to capture him.

Even the most notorious eventually meet their ends, and there are many legends about Slynn’s final defeat. One version tells of how he was betrayed by agents within his own crew and fed to a sea dragon. Another tale tells of how the Norfall fleet finally caught up with him, and rather than surrender he lit his own vessel on fire and rammed it full-sail into the Norfall flagship. Still another says that when the orc horde flooded across the Pelluria in prelude to the Last Battle, Slynn and his crew fought like sea demons, sinking a dozen orc vessels before the breath of a dragon incinerated their ship. However Slynn met his end, the tales sailors tell of him now are eerily similar. They say that on nights when the strange mist rises, the sounds of a ship hard under sail can be heard, and that the taint of burning wood and flesh can be smelled in the fog. They claim that a fiery glow is sometimes visible through the mist, and the disturbing sound of raucous laughter fills the night air.

Two or three days’ ride northeast of Wogren Moor lies a mysterious region that the halfling nomads avoid and the Erenlanders call the Great Still. The Still is an expanse of plainsland that seems to vary unpredictably in both border and size but is sometimes almost 100 leagues across. As travelers cross into the Still there is little initial sign that they have entered a hexed land, but as they continue deeper into the region, eerie clues hint at something foul. What most notice first is the quiet—a growing silence that increases imperceptibly the deeper into the area they go. The sound of rustling grass, birds, and animals slowly fade, and then the noise of one’s own footfalls and voice dampen and hush until there is almost total silence.

Animals seem to avoid the Still. No birds fly overhead, and vast herds of boro turn away long before crossing into the strange land. As a result the grasses, trees, and other plants grow taller and thicker for lack of grazing. Most disturbing to the halflings are the tales of magic going errant within this cursed land. They claim that even simple enchantments are unpredictable there and can have dangerously random and powerful results. For this fear of uncontrolled arcana alone, the nomads carefully avoid the Still, holding the region in strict taboo. The Still is known to have existed only since the end of the Third Age, and there is every reason to believe it originated it the maelstrom of rampant magic that accompanied Izrador’s invasion of central Erenland. No one knows what the quiet place may be or what dangers it may hold. It is known only that the few brave souls who have entered the region with the intent of exploring its heart have never been heard from again.

At the very southeastern reaches of the Veradeen on the very edge of Erethor lie the fabled battlefield plains of Eris Aman. In this legendary place, the Witch Queen and her allies defeated Izrador’s forces the first time they rose against Eredane. As the stories all tell, the battle was a fierce one with many terrible magics and cruel spirits unleashed on both sides. Though the allied races were victorious, the fell powers used during the battle left the plain a fearsome ruin that today is still a scarred wasteland of corrupted magics, demon spirits, and befouled creatures.

Razors are man-like demons, usually standing no more than 7 ft. tall. They have mostly human features, although their skin is dark gray and their eyes are shards of midnight glass with glowing silver pupils. These demons derive their name from the long obsidian talons that rip though their fingertips. Similar shards of obsidian are laced through their gray skin, emerging no more than one inch from the skin’s surface. Unlike most of Izrador’s servants, the razors served the dark god long before his fall to Aryth. They were part of his infernal host when he challenged the gods. These demonic essences fell with him, and they realized that their bodies of darkness and evil could not continue to exist indefinitely in this new organic world. Rather than die, they enacted a bold and vile plan. Using the last of their remaining corporeal days, the razors captured and interbred with as many fey females as they could find. They then performed a horrid ritual that only one out of every four of them survived. When all was said and done, the razors had gained the ability to possess any creature that bore even a trace of their blood, enabling them to continue on in this lesser world.

Razors are Izrador’s personal shock troops, sent by the god himself to deal with special problems. Centuries of training, combat, and dedication have honed their fighting skills and tactics to an unholy edge. Although they enjoy blood and torment as much as the next demon, their fierce loyalty to the Shadow prevents them from diverting from their mission. If engaged in combat outside of their mission parameters, razors are efficient and calm, dealing with their foes as quickly as possible so they can continue to their target. When that target is finally within their grasp, however, their demonic heritage emerges: They gore, torture, and mutilate their targets, bathing themselves in blood and pain, before finally delivering the killing blow.

Even a single razor represents a deadly threat to even experienced parties of resistance fighters. Unfortunately for the resistance, razors usually travel in numbers. Whether encountered alone, in a pair, as part of a squad, or as an element in a larger unit, razors work together in the most effective way possible. These demons have known each other for centuries; they know the way each member of the unit thinks and fights, allowing them to respond to and support one another as if they had a single mind. A pair of razors is usually a hunting or assassination team sent after a specific target, usually an important part of the resistance command structure. Pairs avoid contact with bystanders whenever possible, preferring to locate the target and dispatch it with a minimal amount of resistance. In all cases, the creatures move at great speed to reach their objective, then set to work with vigor. When breaking resistance in an area, they destroy everything and everyone they encounter. When sent to turn the tide of a battle, they ignore the orders of the local commanders, waiting for the moment when an application of elite force will do the most good. Any group of razors larger than two will have at least twice their number of orc barbarian warriors with them. These orcs stay out of the fighting if they can, although they attack downed or badly wounded opponents. They are highly mobile, extremely tough, and take a continuously defensive stance; they must stay alive, waiting for the moment when one of their masters fall. As soon as this occurs, the nearest orc steps forward, taking the razor seed into his body and allowing the infernal creature to be born anew. When razors die, their host bodies dissolve into a pile of rotted, festering meat. Within the pile is a six-inch diameter, glossy black orb called a razor seed.  It is said a Razor who has been “killed” may transfer its essence into any creature bearing razor blood nearby. Once the essence has been transferred, the razor may take over the creature, transforming the new body into a semblance of its old, with normal razor attributes and full hit points. The razor may enact the transformation no sooner than one day after transferring its essence; it may also, however, bide its time, emerging days, weeks, or even years later. When the transformation begins, the target creature writhes in visceral torment as its body changes to accommodate the demonic possession. Through their horrid acts after the Sundering, the razors managed to spread their blood to all of the fey races through unwilling interbreeding. Over the years, the taint of their blood spread thoughout the lands and could possibly carry in their blood the razors’ curse.

This is the story of Xircxi.  He was the patriarch of all dragonkind during the Time of Years. He did not fight in the wars that followed the Sundering. This won him no friends, however, and he was considered both a coward and a traitor by the different factions. He went into self-imposed exile for more than a thousand years until word came to him that the fallen god was using dragons in his war upon mankind. He emerged to lead his brethren against the corrupted dragons, an endeavor that culminated in the bloody Battle of the Wall.  Here at the wall many of Aryth’s dragons were slain, but some fell to the shadow fear a dragon called Verlathys hid in fear and shame renouncing her promise to the Witch Queen. Xircxi himself was wounded in the battle, though his body was never recovered as a Shadow prize, it is believed due to a malign curse placed upon him by Izrador himself, the wounds inflicted during that battle could never be healed, and never will. Some say he now resides deep in a mountain in the central Kaladruns, beneath a peak of fire... If alive should a key to  Xircxi’s recovery were ever to be discovered or the curse cast upon him by Izrador broken, Xircxi would be a force to be reckoned with, rivaling all but the Night Kings and Aradil in terms of power.

* '''Harrower''':  ''Harrowers are granted a considerable amount of autonomy and expected to scour the land with merciless efficiency. The Order of Harrowers is under the leadership of the grim legate Janavar, who oversees his harrowers’ activities from his quarters in Theros Obsidia. Janavar is known for the utter efficiency of his administration, and the fact that his cruelty is entirely unemotional and rational. In many ways, Janavar’s matter-of-fact exterior and businesslike sadism is far more terrifying than any bloodthirsty orc chieftain.''

* '''Surgeon Knife''':  ''A dominion within the "Umbral Catholicon" group.  These legates are clerics who are too weak and ineffectual to carve a niche elsewhere in the order. They are assigned the shameful duty, not of spreading death and pain, but rather preventing them. The Umbral Catholicon follow the orcish warbands, attending the wounded and bolstering the Shadow’s war efforts with magic to knit bone and reconnect muscle. For all that these battlefield healers often turn the tide of a conflict by keeping the Shadow’s troops alive and fighting, the Umbral Catholicon are considered the lowest of the dark god’s priests, openly despised by their brethren and treated as little better than common lackeys by the orcs, who see the need for healing as a sign of weakness.''

aka. A Prison of Pain, It’s one of the darkest pits on Aryth. It’s a nest of vile and tortuous hosts, a horrible den of suffering, the lair of the greatest anguish a living mage can know. It’s perhaps the most precious secret of the Shadow’s campaign in the north.  

A Reservoir of Power, the Arteries are an energy reserve untouchable by Aradil and her followers. When the final days come and Izrador’s ultimate goal is met, the cave master hopes the Arteries will be the great ceremonial gift—the final deliverance of arcane power that returns Izrador to his seat in the celestial realm.

:  Given it's grissly name for the hanged dead along the road. From the walls of Weirhold (a district within Baden's Bluff) a broad road leads south, descending to the lower coastal hills and beyond to the seemingly endless prairies of the Westlands. This highway is known as the Road of Ruin. Men speak its name with fear or smoldering rage, while orcs growl it with spiteful mirth as they grind the bones of Erenland beneath their hobnailed boots. <br> The Road of Ruin is a wide highway of compacted earth, broken stone and, in the muddier regions, felled logs, which cuts through the gentle hills and wooded lands south of the Bluff. In the shadow of the orc citadel of Vorstuk it meets the Eren Road to Erenhead in the east and the Road of Salt and Tears from Arwich in the west. The Road of Ruin continues southwest until it reaches the River Orh where it turns south again and, with the emerald smudge of Erethor ever on the horizon, follows the edge of the Westland plains to Eisin. Along this route from Baden’s Bluff to the Orh a straggling chain of ghost towns slip slowly into oblivion. In the Second and Third Ages, these market towns and villages were the thriving heart of the Badens’ dominion; now their eerie desertion is a poignant reminder that the Shadow’s knife has pierced that heart and that it beats no more. It was the orcs that caused the inhabitants of these settlements to flee, for to live in the path of Izrador’s armies is to live in the shadow of death. Those who could left decades ago, while those who didn’t were taken as slaves or food. Now, only the truly desperate haunt the desolate towns: scavengers and those who are too weak, too poor, or too scared to flee to safer locales. <br> The Road of Ruin sees frequent and heavy traffic during the arcs that the Pelluria crossing can be made. Orc forces from the North disembark at Baden’s Bluff before moving in force to join Grial the Fey Killer’s armies in Erethor. Orc-held fortresses like Vorstuk, Orshank, and Gifang are spaced by a day’s forced march to provide secure resting points for the warbands, and are manned by garrisons who enforce the Shadow’s occupation. The orc garrisons mount regular patrols and hunting parties led by goblin sniffers to track down and eliminate insurgent forces that are a constant nuisance upon their flanks. While the orc soldiery are by far the most numerous travelers on the Road of Ruin, there is also a steady stream of wagons and mules carrying food, supplies, and slaves to the fortress garrisons and to the warfronts. These caravans are usually guarded by human or hobgoblin mercenaries; such duty is considered demeaning by the orcs, and besides, their commanders believe that their bloodlust and ferocity is better employed on the killing fields of Erethor.

:  Since the end of the Third Age, the Shadow’s foul minions have hacked and burned the forest, cutting a great ragged swathe of destruction that extends 300 miles west from Eisin’s walls and 100 miles to either side of the polluted Felthera river. A vast wasteland of ash and charred wood is all that remains of 30,000 square miles of ancient wildwood. Where springs and brooks once babbled beneath the arching boughs of giant cedars and homewood trees, blood and hissing sap are the only moisture that remains. Charcoal spires break the monotonous gray of the shifting ash lands, where thick smoke from the still-burning forests drifts in roiling clouds across the desolate scene. Sudden maelstroms of choking soot blow before screaming winds that seem to cry the forest’s anguish between the black skeletal hulks of the trees. <br> Though there is no sign of the sun through the smoke that covers the sky, the light begins to fade. Things take on a strange black and white, probably an effect of the moon’s light being filtered through the smoke cover.  

: The city of Baden’s Bluff crowns a wide peninsula that juts out into the mockingly serene azure waters of the Sea of Pelluria. The bluff is the last in a series of gentle hills that march north from the River Orh, a rich land blessed with fertile soil and good weather. The estates that the Dorn and Erenlander nobility once held here were famed for their splendid orchards, finely bred livestock, and vineyards that were the envy of the kingdom. Now, once grand manors lie in overgrown ruin or are occupied by traitorous usurpers who serve the Shadow and call themselves lords. The fine flocks and herds are gone, the pasturelands and orchards are reclaimed by the wilds, and the scions of the true lords are dead or live in secrecy among the winding back alleys of Baden’s Bluff. Towns that once dotted this pleasant land lie in echoing abandonment or have become slums where the race of men sinks into fearful ignorance, forgetting who they were and why they had once been proud. The rural folk whose ancestors lived free under the benign auspices of House Baden now eke out cruel lives as serfs forced to toil in servitude to traitors and black-hearted legates. They see little return for their back-breaking labors as the legates’ tithe-masters take most of what they grow to feed Izrador’s growing armies. Meanwhile the hateful orcs arrive from the north in never-ending numbers, their howls and the fearful beating of drums often filling the night air as they march along the Road of Ruin to the war fronts of Erethor.

: Where the blue waters of the southern Sea of Pelluria meet the rocky shoreline, a broad peninsula protrudes into a deceptively gentle sea, its length crenulated by gentle hills cloaked with dreaming woods and pleasant pastures that have long provided a bounty as rich as the sea that lies beneath them. At the tip of this promontory a bluff of gray stone rears above the water; clinging to its sides and crowning its summit is the city of Baden’s Bluff. The west side of the bluff faces the open waters of the Sea of Pelluria, its surface pockmarked by ledges and mine shafts and scarred by the working faces of long defunct quarry works. The shallower tunnels and excavations are now used by the most destitute of the Bluff’s residents as squalid tenements. On the northern and eastern flanks, the ground rises less severely and is carved by a maze of canals and alleyways that make up the Tidewood district. The northern part of this district is the claustrophobic shantytown of the Worm Docks, bound by rotting piers and the sea in the north and the broad Aransway canal to the southeast. Home to dour Dornish fishermen and grim-faced laborers, the Worm Docks are rumored to be the last dominion of the Badens in exile. The Stone Docks lie on the other side of the Aransway canal. Here is the true port of Baden’s Bluff, where ships have for centuries found safe harbor behind the dwarf-built sea wall. Occupying the north-easterly flanks of the Bluff, the craftsmen and merchant quarters of Guildall and the Well make up the Bellows District. Clinging precariously to the northern face, the slums known as the Steep provide shelter of sorts to the downtrodden and desperately poor. These are the squalid breeding grounds of disease, misery, and violence—they are Izrador’s benedictions, and are tools used well by his black priests. Beyond Guildall, the plentiful inns of Hearthhome lie in crowded and incongruous proximity to a bewildering number of sinister temples and shrines to the dark god. Along with the administrative quarter of Kingshand and its imposing halls and governmental offices, and the dilapidated residences of Weirhold, Hearthhome forms the district of Leewall. Above it all, the once splendid Baden Court crowns the bluff, and within its walls pretenders, sycophants, and bastards squat in the Badens’ palace, acting out a charade of governance and power. On the delicate balustrades of the graceful Spire, a winged horror squats where elven diplomats and emissaries once gazed at the stars. Corruption and menace hang over Baden’s Bluff like a bilious cloud, and from its gates march a seemingly endless horde of orcs, newly alighted at the Stone Docks and on their way to war against the fey in Erethor.<br> <br> The road that leads to the Burning Line passes through the wooded hills of the peninsula and traverses the borderlands bound on one side by the forests of Erethor and on the other by the Westland plains. To the east and west of the port city, the land rolls away in a series of low hills that follow the coastline, providing a northern edge to vast plains that stretch to the lush Eren River Valley in the east and the shores of the Ardune in the south. The Shadow’s grip is felt in the hill country, where the once multitudinous towns and villages of Erenland lie largely in ruin and the proud men and women of the kingdom eke out pitiful lives of servitude and toil. Only in the sea of tall sword grass can men and the last remaining halflings snatch some freedom from the Shadow’s tyranny, but their existence is a hounded one as orc bands led by traitorous men hunt them through the plains.

: The Baden’s Bluff district stretches south and east from the Green March in an almost 200-mile arc around the city. Officially, Count Halrion, the bastard Baden, rules Baden’s Bluff, the largest human city on the southern coast of the Pelluria.  

: In the Last Battle, the Shadow’s forces teemed with countless orcs, terrifying fire-breathing dragons, foul demons, raging giant-kin, and other monstrous horrors out of the wild places of the world. One of the abominations put to devastating use against the human cities and elven woods were trolls bred in the vile pits north of the Highhorn mountains. These creatures, twisted by malice and hate, were often in the front of the Shadow’s onslaughts and bore the brunt of the defenders’ wrath. It was therefore not surprising when, in the aftermath of the war, a number of trolls fled their orcish masters and hid themselves in the wilds of Erenland. A large group escaped into the woods now known as Trollskarl. Over the last century, the trolls’ numbers have increased and the forest has become infested with them. Quite apart from the trolls, which orcish hunting parties sometimes attempt to capture, there is a palpable menace in the Trollskarl that is said to arise from a great spirit that haunts the dark center of the woods. The trolls are said to serve this entity, going as far as calling it queen. A mysterious series of power nexuses that lay at their center. The nexuses have been masked by this spirit from the attention of the Shadow and luring hundreds of enemy troops inside her woods to their doom.

: Arwich is a rundown border town built on the ashes of an older settlement that lies at the end of the Road of Salt and Tears. A century ago, Arwich was a thriving merchant city that enjoyed great wealth arising from the salt trade and close contacts with the nearby Green March. The city was sacked at the end of the Third Age, its fine buildings reduced to smoking slag by dragon fire and the salt mines claimed by goblins and orcs. After the Last Battle, Arwich was left deserted for decades. As the arcs turned to years and the war in Erethor continued interminably, hunger threatened to halt or even reverse Jahzir’s progress. The great herds of wild boro and gazelle on the Westland Plains required intensive hunting, and the meat spoiled quickly in the hot springs and summers of Southern Erenland. Nor could the decimated halfling and human populations of Erenland support the orcs, either as a food source or as providers of it. In the face of looming disaster wrought of their own voracious and destructive nature, the orcs were forced to adapt to the role of occupiers rather than conquerors, besiegers rather than raiders. The legates began to restore order in the rural communities, slowly resurrecting the devastated society so that it might support the very forces that destroyed it. Soon, thousands of slaves toiled in the countryside of Erenland, growing and rearing food enough to feed Izrador’s ravenous hordes. To solve the problem of spoilage, the legates reopened the salt mines at Aarl and shipped the dirty white powder by the wagon- and boat-load to Baden’s Bluff and Erenhead. The inhabitants of Arwich earn a meager living by providing food and labor to support the mining operation, although the mines themselves are worked by slaves drawn from across Eredane.  

: Aarl is a wide area of rocky badlands and salt-flats that run from Arwich to the coast some fifteen miles distant. The region’s name is a corruption of the elven word for death, and the brackish pools and barren rock stained by dirty bands of crystallized salt are aptly devoid of life. The salt mines are a legacy of Erenland’s heyday. The entrance to the mine was once housed in an ornate stone dome that is now little more than a broken shell, half-buried beneath rubble and drifts of powdery salt crystals.  

: Just as the Road of Ruin is the chief inland highway of the area, the so-called Road of Salt and Tears is the principle road of the western coast. In the lee of the granite cliffs of Vorstuk, the rutted track leaves the Road of Ruin to wind through a sparsely populated country of lightly wooded meadowlands and low coastal hills. It wends through this picturesque landscape like a diseased vein carrying the poison of suffering and the Shadow’s hate. The main traffic consists of merchant trains taking cured meat, salt, and grain to Baden’s Bluff and the garrisons of the Road of Ruin, tempting targets for rebels who wish to inconvenience the Shadow’s war effort.  

: Not many miles from Baden’s Bluff, the Road of Ruin crosses the valley of the river El, spanning the gorge by way of a high viaduct that is a testament to the engineering mastery once possessed by the men of Erenland. A few hundred yards from the old stone bridge, a rutted track descends into the valley and follows the river to the sea. The valley is a wild and beautiful countryside of reedy marshland and sloping meadows broken by woodlands of beech and oak. Dense hedgerows and majestic elms dot the landscape, serving with the crumbling stone crofts as reminders of the region’s agrarian past. The only inhabitants left in this part of the valley are the occasional sullen-faced shepherd or goat herder and his milling, mutely staring charges. Five miles along the valley, the road comes to Elsweir, a dirty slum town built around a stone weir on a bend in the river. Long before a traveler reaches the ramshackle collection of tightly clustered hovels and rough-looking taverns, he is assailed by the stench of the town’s industries: the smell of tanning skins, butchered meat and acrid dyes combine to generate a foul miasma that causes the eyes to water and the nose to rebel. The eastern road to Elsweir is little traveled as most of the town’s produce makes its way to Baden’s Bluff by boat: it is only a short journey downstream to the river-mouth, and from there is less than an hour around the peninsula to the Stone Docks of Tidewood. Officials and legates are rare in Elsweir and the orc patrols almost never journey this far down the valley.  

: In the Green March, Frag Longtusk commands an army of orcs fighting a more mobile war against a scattering of human and elven villages, attempting to bypass the elven defenses. All told a few thousand humans, orcs, gnomes, and goblins would consider themselves permanent residents of the Sea of Pelluria, but for the most part the water’s populace is donated from the shores that surround it. Of these, the southern shores boast 225,000 Dorns, 100,000 Erenlanders, and no more than 15,000 Sarcosans. Most of these populations are focused on Baden’s Bluff and Erenhead, though there is a thin line of humanity stretching along the southern shore from the Green March in the west all the way to the Kaladruns in the east, making lives wherever the resources are available and the orcs will let them.