An Explorer's Guide to Norvostra

This section explores the history and current state of Norvostra, a kingdom ravaged by the Rotmire Blight and the conflicts it has sparked. Once a land of order and tradition, it now faces political unrest, desperate struggles for survival, and the resurfacing of ancient relics from the Old Ways.

Campaign Introduction

Welcome to The Festering Lands

A Land Dying, A People Forsaken

It started as a sickness. A fever in the night, sweat pooling on straw bedding, a cough that never stopped. Then the flesh began to blacken and split, sores blooming like rotten fruit across skin. People prayed, called for healers, whispered of curses, but no remedy came. They watched as loved ones withered before their eyes, eyes glassy, breath slowing—until, finally, there was silence.

But death was not the end.

The first to return did so in the dark of night, their bodies stiff, their movements jerky and unnatural, as if they had forgotten how to be human. Their mouths opened in silent screams, black ichor leaking from dry lips, their twisted limbs reaching, grasping, pulling toward the living with a hunger that was neither born of need nor reason—only instinct. At first, people thought it was sorcery, a hex placed upon the land. Then they realized the truth.

The Rotmire Blight is not a plague, not a disease that passes from one body to the next. It is something else. Something that burrows into the flesh, that lingers in the marrow, that seeps into the very soil. The infected do not spread it through touch alone. The land itself carries it. The air carries it. A single misstep, a breath taken in the wrong place, a wound exposed to the mist, and the Blight takes root.

There is no cure. No escape.

The dead do not merely rise. They change. Some become slow, shuffling horrors, their bodies bloated and leaking. Others… others become something worse. Their forms stretch, their bones twist, their limbs lengthen into grotesque shapes, eyes bulging from hollow sockets as they learn new ways to hunt. Some speak in voices they do not own, mocking, whispering, pleading—not for salvation, but to lure the living closer.

The only mercy is silver. A dagger through the skull, a sword through the heart, the blessed metal cutting away the corruption. Fire works, but fire is slow. Fire allows them time to scream.

And so the people of Faulmoor suffer. The land itself is turning against them—black rot creeping along once-fertile fields, water growing thick with decay, animals found ripped apart, yet still moving, their milky eyes staring as they try to drag themselves forward. The forests are silent now. Even the crows have fled, leaving only the things that should not be.

The people burn their dead, but ashes whisper in the wind.

They close their doors at night, but claws scratch at the wood.

They pray… but the gods do not answer.

A Kingdom Cut Off – The Blockade of Norvostra

The Blight does not recognize borders, but kings and lords do. As the Rotmire Blight spreads, the rulers of neighboring lands watched with growing horror, not only at the dead rising, but at the desperation of the living. And so, they chose the only course of action they believed would keep their own people safe—Norvostra must be sealed.

The land borders have been shut, fortified with walls, barricades, and garrisons that do not hesitate to cut down those who attempt to flee. The desperate—men, women, and children who seek only to escape—are met with cold steel and burning arrows. No plea is heard, no bribe accepted. To those beyond Norvostra’s borders, anyone who leaves may carry the Blight with them. Even the few who manage to slip past the watchful eyes of the blockade soon find themselves hunted, dragged from their hiding places, and put to the sword. Mercy is a luxury the outside world can no longer afford.

Beyond the Greymere Sea, Norvostra’s ports are no safer. The navies of other kingdoms patrol the waters ruthlessly, sinking any ship that dares sail beyond the quarantined coasts. Entire fishing villages have been left to rot, their livelihoods stolen by a decree issued from a throne far away, their boats burned before they could even attempt an escape. Smugglers, once confident in their trade, now operate at even greater risk—for to be caught is not simply to be turned away, but to be sent to the depths, ship and all. Those who command the blockade have made their orders clear: nothing leaves Norvostra. Not the infected, not the healthy. Not even the dead.

Faulmoor: A Land Ruled by Fear

The Rotmire Blight was not just an end to life—it was an end to order. The noble houses of Faulmoor were once stewards of the land, bound by ancient laws and sacred duty. But the Blight has shattered their oaths. Now, they rule not as protectors, but as tyrants, schemers, and profiteers, each clawing for survival at the expense of the dying land.

At the head of them all stands House Valkenmar, the baronial family that once ruled Faulmoor with iron discipline. The Valkenmars are a house of soldiers, their name a byword for unwavering order. But order has become something cruel beneath the rule of Baron Malric Valkenmar. Having lost his wife and children to the Blight, his grief has hardened into something unrecognizable—obsession. His soldiers enforce brutal quarantines, his alchemists conduct inhumane experiments, and his scholars whisper of things that should remain buried. Entire villages have been put to the torch to slow the spread, and those caught outside the fortified halls of Valkenheim or the bleak walls of Blackholt Fort find themselves abandoned to fate. The Baron’s one remaining heir, a boy no older than ten, is the last flickering ember of his bloodline, and his father’s madness is driven by a singular goal—to keep the child alive, no matter the cost.

Across the Greymere Sea, on the island of Ebonmoor, House Wilthorne watches the chaos unfold with calculating eyes. Lord Eadric Wilthorne was once a man of honor, but honor is a fool’s game in a land without hope. While he professes loyalty to House Valkenmar, his true allegiance is to gold, secrecy, and opportunity. He has turned Ebonmoor into a smuggler’s haven, profiting from the suffering of those too desperate to see the knife at their back. Ships slip through the Greymere under cover of night, ferrying silver, grain, and relics of the old ways—all at a price. His men speak softly and carry poisoned blades, and in the shadows of Ebonmere’s ancient towers, they plot a future in which the Valkenmars fall and Ebonmoor rises.

Then there is House Harrowden, the unwanted child of Faulmoor, long mocked for its backwater lands and swamp-born lords. But the world has changed, and in this new age, the Harrowdens hold the one thing all men seek—silver. The mines of Thornmere churn out the only metal that can strike down the Blighted, and Lord Garric Harrowden does not forget the years of scorn his house endured. Now, the mighty come to Fenmire with open palms, and Garric makes them pay dearly for every ingot, every silvered blade, every desperate plea for aid. He is no refined lord; he is a bitter, vengeful man who has learned that mercy is weakness. He welcomes supplicants into his halls, feasts them like old friends, then watches them squirm as he sets his price—a price that is always too high.

And so, Faulmoor crumbles, not beneath the weight of the Blight alone, but under greed, desperation, and the cruelty of those who still breathe.

The Old Ways—A Return to Desperation

When the world was whole, the Old Ways were the realm of scholars and mystics, their teachings pondered in dusty libraries but dismissed by the common folk as relics of a forgotten past. But when all else fails, when the prayers to new gods go unanswered, when steel and coin no longer hold meaning, people will cling to anything.

They whisper forgotten names, scratch old sigils into doorways, bind their children’s wrists with strands of consecrated twine. Charms and relics—once mere trinkets—are now clutched with desperate reverence, their bearers convinced that a rusted amulet or a faded scrap of parchment might ward off the horrors that lurk beyond their doors. Shrines that once gathered dust are now polished clean, their altars stacked high with offerings of bread, blood, and silver. The faithful claim to hear voices in their dreams, guiding them toward salvation—or warning them to flee.

But for every true believer, there are two deceivers waiting to feed on their fear. False prophets roam from village to village, peddling hollow blessings in exchange for food and coin. Relic merchants sell baubles of tin and glass, claiming them to be holy artifacts of the Old Ways. Men and women who once scoffed at faith now drape themselves in robes, claiming divine visions, their silvered tongues wringing the desperate dry. Some of them are charlatans. Others… others are something worse.

In Faulmoor, faith is both a shield and a dagger. It is salvation and damnation in equal measure. And those who turn to the old ways for guidance must ask themselves—are they truly calling upon something greater, or are they simply calling something to them?

Your Story Begins in Greymire

Whatever road led you here, it was not a kind one. Greymire is no haven, but it is alive, and that is more than can be said for much of Faulmoor. This once-thriving fishing and shipping town now reeks of desperation, its docks filled with men and women who deal in contraband, who trade in secrets, who know better than to ask too many questions. Gold still changes hands here, but silver is the true currency. The price of a single silvered dagger can buy a man’s life—or end it.

And it is here, in a well-furnished backroom of a dubious tavern, that you find yourself face to face with Jorik Vance, a fixer, a man whose smile is worth less than the breath he wastes speaking. He has a job for you, and in a place like this, work is the difference between eating and starving. A simple task, he says. Retrieve a sealed crate from a monastery deep in quarantined lands and bring it back. He promises gold, promises silver, promises more.

Outside these walls, the world waits—bleeding, burning, dying. The road ahead is uncertain, the land treacherous, and the dead… the dead do not rest.

Whatever fate has in store for you, whatever reason you have for setting foot in this doomed land, one thing is certain: once you enter the Festering Lands, there is no turning back.


Character Creation Guide for The Festering Lands

A world of quarantines, corruption, and survival.

This guide will help you create a character that belongs in the world of Norvostra, whether they are a native survivor or an outsider drawn into the chaos of the Rotmire Blight. Every character must have a reason for being in Faulmoor and an even stronger reason for being in Greymire.

Below are examples to help inspire your character’s background and motivations. You are not limited to these choices—use them as a guide to craft your own story.

Background & Origins

1. Where is your character from?

2. What was their life before the Rotmire Blight?

3. What have they lost?

Why Did Your Character Come to Faulmoor? (For non-natives—what drew them into the heart of the Blight?)

Why Did Your Character Come to Greymire? (Once in Faulmoor, what led them here?)

Survival & Morality

4. How has your character adapted to life in the Blight?

The world is cruel—how has your character survived?

5. What is your character willing to do to survive?

Everyone has limits—what are yours?

6. How does your character view the quarantines?

Faulmoor is a land of walled-off towns and forced isolation. What is your stance?

7. What does your character think of the Blighted?

Political & Social Ties

8. Which noble house (if any) does your character support?

Do you serve one of Faulmoor’s noble houses, or do you despise them all?

9. How does your character view the Silver Crisis?

Silver is rare, and its ability to harm the Blighted has made it more valuable than gold. What role does it play in your life?

10. Does your character have connections to the criminal underworld?

Faith & Superstition

11. Does your character believe in the gods?

12. Has your character witnessed something beyond mortal understanding?

The Journey & Motivations

13. What is your character’s goal in this world?

14. What would push your character to the edge?

15. What is your character’s ultimate fate?

Rotmire Blight

First Entry, Field Notes on the Rotmire Blight

By Doctor Kyra Sheer, Physician of House Valkenmar
First Year of the Rotmire Blight

I have spent the past two years in the afflicted lands of Faulmoor, studying the plague that has come to be known as the Rotmire Blight. It is a disease unlike any other, cruel in both its efficiency and its lingering horrors. No known cure exists, despite my countless attempts. I document my findings here, in the hope that if I do not survive, another will take up my work and perhaps succeed where I have failed.

Onset and Symptoms

The Blight begins with fatigue and an unquenchable thirst. At first, the afflicted mistake it for a simple fever, the body’s way of protesting the wretched damp and decay that permeates Faulmoor. But soon, the telltale signs emerge—darkened veins creeping across the skin, as if something within is trying to claw its way out.

The real horror of the Blight is its unnatural speed. Within a day of exposure, the victim’s breath turns ragged, their flesh grows pallid, and their sweat carries the stench of stagnant water. The skin softens, bruising with the slightest pressure, while the eyes yellow and weep a thick, bile-like fluid. Some afflicted claw at their own skin, maddened by an itch that cannot be soothed.

In the second stage—rarely more than three days after first symptoms—lesions erupt along the spine and joints, leaking a black, viscous discharge. The pain is said to be excruciating, but worse than the pain is the dread; the infected know what comes next. Some take their own lives before the final stage can claim them. Those who do not… change.

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Attempts at a Cure

I have tried everything. Bloodletting seemed the most obvious approach, and yet the most useless. The disease does not reside in the blood alone, and those who are drained too much perish faster. Herbal poultices and tinctures, such as mugwort, wolfsbane, and blackroot, slowed the fever in some, but the infection remained. A mixture of crushed thistle and bittercress produced a violent reaction in the afflicted—one patient seized so forcefully that his bones snapped. Alchemy and distillations held promise, but each attempt ended in failure. Silver nitrate was once my greatest hope, but it only blackened flesh and prolonged agony. Distilled salts, oils infused with rare barks from the southern reaches of Norvostra, and even the venom of marsh serpents yielded fleeting relief at best. Fire and purification remain the only certain methods, and the most terrible. When a town succumbs, the safest course is to burn it before the dead rise. But how can I advocate such barbarism? How many lives have we ended not knowing if a cure was within reach?

The Failure of Restorative Magics

Divine magic, which should cleanse the body of its ailments, offers little more than false hope. Lesser Restoration fails entirely, as if the disease is beyond mortal intervention. Greater Restoration provides only temporary relief—symptoms recede for a day, perhaps two, before returning with renewed ferocity. Healing potions mend the body but do not purge the rot within. In some cases, they seem to prolong suffering rather than end it. Resurrection attempts fail, as if something holds the souls of the afflicted beyond reach. Even the gods, it seems, have turned away from Norvostra.

On the Spread of the Blight

The plague moves with horrifying ease. A cough in a crowded room. A touch. Contaminated water. Even the mist that clings to Faulmoor may carry the sickness, for I have seen cases appear in those who swore they had not been near the infected. Quarantine wards were established to halt the spread, but they are prisons of the doomed. Walls and barricades can keep the sick inside, but they cannot stop the Blight from seeping out. I have seen entire villages sealed away, only for the rot to take hold in the next settlement days later. It is relentless. The worst cases are the “silent carriers,” those who bear no outward signs of disease yet carry death within them. Some walk for weeks before succumbing, infecting all they meet. By the time it is discovered, it is always too late.

The Final Stage: Death and Beyond

Not all who die remain dead. The Blight does not merely consume; it reclaims. The bodies of the fallen do not rest; in some, the infection does not end with death but instead finds new purpose. First, there is stillness. Then, hours—or even days—later, the body jerks with unnatural spasms. The flesh sloughs from their limbs like wet paper, but they do not bleed. They rise, blind and silent, compelled by something beyond reason.

Unlike common undead raised through sorcery, some of these creatures do not hunger. They do not seek to spread their affliction. They simply… move. Some return to places they once knew, standing in eerie stillness outside their former homes. Others march aimlessly into the marsh, sinking into the bog without struggle, as if answering some unknown call. I dissected one once, a man who had been dead for three days. His organs were liquefied, reduced to a foul-smelling slurry, yet his body still responded to touch. A twitch of the fingers. A slow turn of the head. Even severed limbs continued to move, grasping blindly at nothing.

Silver has shown remarkable effects on these creatures once they have turned. Wounds inflicted by silvered weapons do not simply damage them—they disrupt them. A strike that would only sever a limb on an ordinary corpse causes the Blightborn to recoil violently, their movements slowing as if something deeper than the flesh itself is being harmed. Repeated wounds with silver seem to break whatever force animates them, leaving the bodies truly lifeless. It is as if the metal interferes with the very essence of the affliction, severing whatever unseen tether binds them to undeath. However, while effective, silver remains rare and expensive, making it difficult to procure in the quantities needed to combat the risen dead on a large scale.

What force animates them? Some say it is the will of the gods, a punishment for some forgotten sin. Others whisper of ancient things buried deep beneath the mire, stirring for the first time in centuries. I do not know the truth. I only know that the dead do not rest in Faulmoor.

Final Thoughts

If this is my last entry, let it serve as a warning. The Rotmire Blight cannot be stopped by conventional means. Fire is the only certainty. If a cure exists, I have not found it. And if the dead truly rise of their own accord, then I fear this plague is merely the beginning of something far worse.

May the gods have mercy on us all.


Second Entry, Field Notes on the Rotmire Blight

By Doctor Kyra Sheer, Physician of House Valkenmar
Second Year of the Rotmire Blight

I write this entry with shaking hands, for what we have witnessed in this past year defies all reason. The dead are changing.

The first year was spent trying to understand the nature of the affliction. We sought explanations in alchemy, faith, and reason, and we failed at every turn. We burned villages to contain the spread, executed the infected before they could rise, and yet, the Blight endures. It does not merely endure—it adapts.

A Change in the Undead

In the early months of the Blight, those who succumbed to its grasp rose in a slow, shambling mockery of life. They wandered aimlessly, trapped in the remnants of their past existence, standing before their old homes, silent and empty-eyed. There was horror in their return, but at least they lacked intent.

That has changed.

Now, they hunt.

Their movements are no longer sluggish and thoughtless. Some of them have learned to move with unnatural speed, to strike with violent precision, as if remembering some distant echo of their former lives. The soldiers who fell in the early days of the Blight have risen again, and they still know how to kill. They fight with rusted weapons and shattered shields, staggering forward with purpose. They are no longer mindless.

And worse, some of them speak.

At first, it was dismissed as the wind, the ramblings of broken minds grasping at answers. But I have heard it myself—the low, guttural utterances that come from their rotting throats. They do not converse, they do not plead or beg; they mock. They repeat the voices of the dead, the cries of those they have slain. It is as if the Blight remembers.

The Emergence of Variants

The Rotmire Blight is no longer a single, predictable affliction. It now takes different forms, warping its victims into grotesque parodies of humanity. I have classified several of these new horrors as follows:

  1. The Hollowed – Those who have decayed beyond recognition, their bodies little more than skeletal husks held together by the Blight itself. They do not rot further, nor do they tire. They simply persist, their bodies refusing to acknowledge their own death.

  2. The Whisperers – These are the ones who speak. They utter broken phrases, luring the living with the voices of lost loved ones. They are cruel, waiting until their prey comes close before striking with inhuman precision.

  3. The Broken Lords – Former soldiers who retain an uncanny sense of their old training. They move in formation, they fight together, and they still wield weapons, though their armor is rusted, and their flesh hangs from their bones. We cannot afford to underestimate them

What drives these changes? Is it simply time, or is the Blight itself learning, refining, and growing? I do not know, and that ignorance haunts me.

Silver and the Blight’s Weakness

Silver remains our only effective weapon. It does not just wound them—it destroys them. A strike from a silvered blade sends tremors through their forms, as if something unseen is being severed within them. I have tested this theory extensively, and I now believe that the Blight is more than an infection—it is a force that binds them together, something deeper than mere sickness. Silver disrupts that bond.

But silver is scarce, and those who control it hoard it as if it were more valuable than life itself. Perhaps they are right.

The Spread of the Blight

We thought we understood how it spread. Contact with the infected, consumption of tainted water, exposure to the damp fogs that roll across Faulmoor. These were our truths.

They were not enough.

Even those who remain untouched by these factors are beginning to succumb. There are accounts of the Blight taking root in individuals who had never left their fortifications, never touched the infected, never drank from the marshes. Something unseen is carrying it now, something beyond our ability to contain.

Some whisper of cursed land, of buried relics that have begun to stir. I do not entertain such superstitions.

But I fear the Blight no longer needs a host to spread.

Final Thoughts

I do not know how much longer I can continue this work. The others are gone. Some were killed. Some walked into the night and did not return.

I will press on. If I do not survive, let this serve as a warning to those who come after:

The Rotmire Blight is no longer a disease. It is something far worse.


Surviving the Blight

The spread of the Rotmire Blight has forced the people of Norvostra to adopt whatever means they can to avoid infection, yet the vast gulf between wealth and poverty dictates the effectiveness of these efforts. From the lowest peasant to the highest noble, each social tier has developed its own methods of protection, though some are far more effective than others.

The Desperate Poor & Peasantry

The lowest in society—the desperate poor and peasantry—have little to no resources and are left to rely on crude, often superstitious methods. Their clothing is a patchwork of ragged wool and linen, layered in hopes of creating some form of barrier between themselves and the tainted air.

Those who can afford to do so soak their scarves and rags in vinegar or animal fat, believing it blocks the pestilence from their lungs. Some smear mud or grease onto their skin, convinced that rot cannot cling to rot. They wrap their hands in old cloth strips or crude leather scraps and trudge through the streets barefoot or in rotting wooden clogs, their feet caked in filth.

Small charms—bits of bone, dried herbs, or even the corpses of small animals—are sewn into their clothes, acting as wards against the sickness. The poorest burn trash and animal dung in pits outside their homes, hoping that thick, choking smoke will drive away the unseen death in the air. Most among them, however, are doomed to succumb to the Blight, their lack of true protection ensuring a slow and miserable demise.

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The Working Class & Struggling Townsfolk

Slightly above them, the working class fares only marginally better, able to afford simple protective measures that offer at least some resistance to the plague. Their clothing is still made of wool and linen but is sturdier and often treated with wax, oil, or pitch to repel airborne contaminants.

They wear cloaks with additional layers, often lined with scraps of charcoal-soaked cloth to filter the air. Their face coverings are more structured, made from thick linen wraps lined with dried herbs or alchemical tinctures meant to ward off disease.

Gloves of leather, sometimes dipped in wax or lye, protect their hands, while their boots—often patched and worn—are at least reinforced enough to keep their feet from direct contact with filth. These people carry satchels filled with medicinal herbs, vials of vinegar, or crude tonics they sip to ‘cleanse’ their insides.

They still cling to superstition, wearing talismans and sewing runes into their coats, but their methods have at least some basis in function. Though they still face grave danger, their precautions grant them a fighting chance.

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The Skilled Tradesmen & Caravan Guards

Skilled tradesmen, caravan guards, and lower-ranking soldiers employ more practical and durable defenses, benefiting from better craftsmanship and access to basic alchemical treatments. Their clothing consists of quilted tunics reinforced with waxed canvas, making them more resistant to grime and contaminants.

Leather gloves, often reinforced with thin metal plates or padded with thick wool, protect their hands, while their boots are studded and layered for additional insulation. Face coverings become more sophisticated—while still cloth, they are treated with vinegar, charcoal, or even simple alchemical solutions, offering better filtration.

Many wear full hoods or wide-brimmed hats to further shield themselves from airborne rot. Some among them possess rudimentary amulets or relic fragments, believed to provide an extra layer of protection.

These individuals frequently burn strong-smelling herbs, wash with lye, and cleanse their equipment with fire, knowing that their survival depends on vigilance.

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The Soldiers & Men-at-Arms

The professional soldiers and men-at-arms of noble houses wear even stronger defenses, though their concerns lie as much in warfare as they do in disease prevention. They don chainmail, breastplates, or scale armor over thick gambesons, providing both physical and environmental protection.

Their gloves are reinforced, their boots are hardened, and their cloaks—often waxed or treated with alchemical resins—offer additional layers of security. Unlike the lower classes, who wrap their faces in rags, these warriors cover their mouths with tightly fitted scarves or structured linen masks, sometimes with metal or leather reinforcements.

Their hoods and helmets are padded and sometimes incorporate protective neck guards. They carry belts lined with medicinal tinctures and emergency rations, knowing that isolation from the infected is key to survival.

Though they are trained to fight, their primary concern is keeping the plague at bay, and they follow strict regimens of cleansing and purification.

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The Wealthy Merchants & Lesser Nobles

Among the wealthy merchants and lesser nobles, protection shifts from necessity to status. Their garments, while still functional, are of far higher quality, made of rich wool, velvet, and brocade. Deep, expensive colors—blues, purples, and burgundies—denote wealth, while their cloaks are lined with fine silks or embroidered linen.

These people wear gloves of soft leather, stitched with silver thread and scented with rare oils. Their face coverings, rather than crude rags, are layered silk scarves, embroidered with house insignias and filled with sachets of dried herbs or infused cloth.

High collars and decorative but functional hoods shield them from exposure, while their boots—polished and reinforced—keep them from direct contact with filth. Many wear elegant belts lined with alchemical vials and protective charms, each a symbol of both status and supposed immunity.

Though their practices are not entirely without merit, they place as much faith in prestige and relics as they do in actual protection.

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The High Nobility & The Wealthy

At the very pinnacle of society, the high nobility and the absurdly rich exist in near-total seclusion, their fear of the Blight bordering on obsession. Their clothing is the most lavish, made from the finest silks, embroidered with gold and silver filigree, and infused with alchemical treatments meant to repel disease.

Cloaks of deep purple, midnight blue, and blood-red line their figures, trimmed with fur and sewn with protective sigils. Their gloves are of the softest lambskin, stitched with relic fragments and perfumed with scented oils believed to cleanse the air around them.

Their face coverings, far from simple cloths, are elaborate silk veils, half-masks, or wrapped fabrics embroidered with sacred patterns, some even soaked in rare herbal infusions. High collars, decorative mantles, and gilded overcoats ensure no part of their skin is left vulnerable.

Their boots, stitched with precious metals, are as much a display of wealth as they are a barrier against sickness. Around their necks and wrists hang relics, amulets, and alchemically infused gems, each one rumored to grant divine protection.

They move only within the safest parts of their palaces and estates, guarded by layers of quarantine. They live in gilded isolation, cocooned in wealth, yet no amount of luxury can erase the fear that lingers in their eyes.

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Silver and its Importance in the Festering Lands

In game, silvered weapons will deal an additional 1d8 damage against any creature infected with the Rotmire Blight. This effect can stack with Relic weapons such as +1 weapons, etc.

Once, silver was a symbol of prosperity, wealth, and divine favor. Its coinage passed hands in bustling markets, its luster adorned the fingers and necks of nobility, and its purity was revered in rituals and sacred rites. But in the second year of the Rotmire Blight, silver has become something far greater—and far deadlier. No longer a currency of trade, silver is now the currency of survival. It is no longer bartered for luxury but for life itself.

As the Blight took hold of Norvostra, it became clear that conventional weapons were of little use against the afflicted. Swords and axes cut through their flesh, but the wounds closed as if the very disease re-knit their bodies from within. The dead did not stay dead. Yet, when a desperate warrior drove a silvered dagger into the skull of a risen corpse, it did not stir again. Word spread like wildfire—silver was the key. Not only did it slay the Blightborn with finality, but it also seemed to burn the infection from the bodies of the afflicted, searing them as though it carried the wrath of the gods themselves. Whether by divine providence or some unknown force, silver alone could keep the horrors at bay.

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With this revelation, silver ceased to be a mere commodity. Nobles and anyone of means melted down their coinage, reforging wealth into weapons. Blacksmiths, once craftsmen of utility and artistry, became the most vital figures in society, sought after by nobles and commoners alike. The mines that once produced silver for trinkets and coin were now battlegrounds, their control more valuable than entire fiefdoms. House Harrowden, once overlooked as a lesser power, now found itself indispensable, its dominion over the silver-rich Thornmere Mines giving it an authority that even House Valkenmar could not ignore. The veins of silver buried deep beneath the land became the lifeblood of any kingdom that wished to stand against the tide of undeath.

As silver grew rarer, so too did trust. A single silver dagger was worth more than a chest of gold, and men would kill for a handful of silver shavings. The market for counterfeit weapons flourished, with desperate warriors falling prey to blades that shattered upon their first strike. Smugglers and brigands made fortunes ferrying silver ingots across quarantined lands, risking the noose for a chance at riches beyond measure. To hold silver was to hold power, and to hold power in the time of the Blight was to paint a target upon one’s back.

But silver was more than just a weapon—it became a talisman against despair. Villages lined their doorways with slivers of it, hoping to ward off the sickness that lurked beyond their walls. Healers mixed powdered silver into their tinctures, praying it would cleanse the body before the Blight took hold. Priests of the Old Ways declared it sacred, a gift from the gods meant to combat the darkness. Whether through faith or desperation, silver was no longer just a metal—it was salvation.

Now, in the second year of the Blight, silver is more than scarce; it is mythic. The mines are nearly dry, their riches exhausted by war and greed. Those who still possess silver weapons guard them as jealously as their own lives. Bands of mercenaries scour the land in search of forgotten stashes, while scavengers dig through the ruins of old cities, hoping to unearth a single, tarnished coin. To wield silver is to hold onto hope, and in a world where hope is in short supply, its worth cannot be measured in gold or copper. It is the line between life and death, between salvation and oblivion. It is the last light in the dark.

Silvered Weapon Costs in The Festering Lands

Key Notes:
Weapon Type Silver Needed (lbs) Silver Coin Value (sp) Equivalent in Ingots Gold Equivalent (gp)
Club 0.5 25 1 Tiny Ingot 125
Dagger 0.5 25 1 Tiny Ingot 125
Greatclub 2 100 2 Small Ingots 500
Handaxe 1.5 75 1 Small Ingot 375
Javelin 1 50 1 Small Ingot 250
Light Hammer 1 50 1 Small Ingot 250
Mace 2 100 2 Small Ingots 500
Quarterstaff 1 50 1 Small Ingot 250
Sickle 1 50 1 Small Ingot 250
Spear 1.5 75 1 Small + 1 Tiny 375
Battleaxe 3 150 3 Small Ingots 750
Flail 2.5 125 2 Small + 1 Tiny 625
Glaive 5 250 1 Standard Ingot 1,250
Greataxe 5 250 1 Standard Ingot 1,250
Greatsword 5 250 1 Standard Ingot 1,250
Halberd 5 250 1 Standard Ingot 1,250
Lance 3 150 3 Small Ingots 750
Longsword 2 100 2 Small Ingots 500
Maul 5 250 1 Standard Ingot 1,250
Morningstar 3 150 3 Small Ingots 750
Pike 5 250 1 Standard Ingot 1,250
Rapier 1.5 75 1 Small + 1 Tiny 375
Scimitar 1.5 75 1 Small + 1 Tiny 375
Shortsword 1 50 1 Small Ingot 250
Trident 1.5 75 1 Small + 1 Tiny 375
War Pick 2 100 2 Small Ingots 500
Warhammer 3 150 3 Small Ingots 750
Whip 1 50 1 Small Ingot 250
Arrows (10x) 1 50 1 Small Ingot 250
Bolts (10x) 1 50 1 Small Ingot 250

Echoes of Divinity: The Old Ways and Their Sacred Relics


As compiled by Royal Scholar Gorrin of the Royal Archives

Throughout the annals of our history, there have existed those among us who have wielded relics of unparalleled craft and mystery. The common folk whisper of these artifacts as gifts from the gods, while the clergy of varying orders debate their divine provenance. Yet, if we are to seek true understanding, we must set aside superstition and view these relics through the lens of reason and knowledge, as the Old Scholars once did.

The Legacy of the Old Ways

The Old Ways, as they are now called, were a practice known only to the ancients who came before our time. Their artisans and sages possessed a wisdom that has long since been lost to the passage of years. The few remnants of their craft stand as testaments to their mastery, and though they are often mistaken for crude magic, it is clear to any learned mind that these relics were wrought with purpose and design beyond the feeble conjurations of modern spellcasters.

The Old Ways, a system of faith and practice unique to these lands, present a theological structure unlike the conventional deific worship found elsewhere. Rather than worship centered on manifest gods, the practitioners of the Old Ways seek communion with fragmented voices—remnants of a divine presence perceived in relics, rituals, and sacred utterances. These remnants are believed to be the echoes of the gods, distorted and incomplete yet still carrying divine resonance.

The foundations of the Old Ways rest upon four principal tenets. First, that relics serve as conduits of the divine, embodying the last vestiges of the gods' will and power. Second, that the gods speak only in fragments, their voices diminished across time, requiring careful study and interpretation. Third, that true wisdom is attained through devotion to the pursuit of lost knowledge, necessitating both scholarly and spiritual dedication. Lastly, that only those who undergo purification may perceive the divine, a belief that reinforces the practice of fasting, contemplation, and ritualistic hardship.

Ancient texts, though rare and often fragmented, offer glimpses into the nature of the Old Ways. The Canticles of Ash, a tome retrieved from the ruins of a forgotten citadel, speaks of craftsmen who "sang to the bones of the world, and the world answered in kind." The Testament of Eldaemar, a surviving scroll attributed to a lost scholar, describes how relics were not merely shaped but awakened, as if their essence had been drawn from something beyond mortal understanding. The Hymns of the Forgelords recount how entire mountain halls would resonate with sound and light as relics were brought into being, a process described in reverent, almost religious tones, suggesting that the act of relic-making was seen not just as an art, but as a communion with forces greater than humanity itself.

The invocations of the Old Ways take many forms, though they invariably seek to engage with these lingering divine echoes. Priests and scholars recite sacred verses—texts preserved from antiquity, though their origins remain uncertain. Some locations are revered as places of heightened divine presence, where structured chants and vibratory hymns are performed, seemingly facilitating communion with the gods. The role of sound, harmony, and resonance in these ceremonies suggests an intricate understanding of sacred frequencies, though such interpretations remain speculative.

Foremost among the sacred elements of this faith are divine relics—objects revered for their perceived connection to the gods. These relics take many forms, ranging from intricately inscribed tablets to sacred implements that display inexplicable phenomena when handled by the devout. The precise nature of relics is subject to ongoing theological debate: some scholars assert that the gods imbue these objects with their lingering presence, while others propose that relics merely serve as amplifiers for existing divine will. The creation of these relics is beyond our grasp, as the sacred rites and materials of the Old Ways have either been forgotten or were perhaps never meant to be known by common men. What remains is their legacy—an enduring whisper of an age that has crumbled into dust, and yet, through their artifacts, still lingers in the corners of our world.

Pilgrimage and exploration remain central to the practice of the Old Ways, for the faithful believe that further divine knowledge lies undiscovered. Many embark on quests to sites where the gods are thought to have once dwelled, or where past revelations were uncovered. Others dedicate themselves to ritual excavation, approaching the recovery of lost relics as both a sacred duty and a scholarly pursuit. The legend of the Voice of the Gods, a fabled artifact said to grant true understanding of divine will, continues to inspire devoted seekers.

The faith is not monolithic; various sects interpret the Old Ways differently. The Voicekeepers, for example, believe the gods persist through lingering echoes, dedicating themselves to recording and preserving their fragmented words. The Relic Tenders focus on the preservation and function of divine artifacts, while the Silent Order of Helm guards knowledge they deem too dangerous for the uninitiated. There are also the Oracles of the Shroud, mystics who claim to receive direct communion through trance-like states and sacred rites.

The Old Ways shape the cultural and political fabric of these lands. Cities arise around sites of perceived divine significance, rulers seek prophecy before making grave decisions, and wars have been waged over the possession of relics or differing interpretations of divine will. The faith remains ever fluid, evolving with each newly discovered fragment of divine truth, though it is also fraught with discord, as each revelation has the potential to challenge prior understanding.

Thus, the Old Ways persist as both a study of faith and an enduring mystery. The gods do not reveal themselves fully, yet their influence lingers, compelling the faithful to seek, to listen, and to interpret. The pursuit of their voice is unending, for only through vigilance and devotion may one draw closer to the divine.

The Nature of Relics

Relics are unlike the enchanted trinkets crafted by present-day sorcerers and artificers. While our own crude enchantments require frequent reinforcement and tend to degrade with time, relics endure for centuries, their potency unyielding despite age and misuse. Many of them seem impervious to rust, decay, or even the passing of time itself, as though bound by forces that defy nature’s relentless grasp.

In the DnD game, all magical items will be referred to as relics. 

Several defining traits separate relics from lesser enchanted objects. Unlike the spell-forged weapons of modern magi, relics do not require replenishment of their energies through rites or rituals. Some remain dormant for years, only to awaken when touched by the worthy or the desperate. Others display properties that cannot be replicated by modern spellcraft—emitting light without flame, whispering with unseen voices, or mending their own fractures over time. More curiously, not all who wield a relic may benefit from its gifts. Some seem to demand a specific will, bloodline, or trial before their true potential can be unlocked, as if they retain some form of judgment or awareness of their own.

Many scholars have attempted to unlock the secret of relics through mundane study and magical examination, yet most have failed to glean more than surface-level truths. If the Old Ways had a method of crafting these wonders, it is buried beneath centuries of ignorance and misinterpretation. However, there are still those who attempt to walk in the footsteps of the ancients. Though the true methods of the Old Ways remain lost, relics can still be created today, albeit with diminished potency. These modern creations pale in comparison to those forged in ages past, but they remain useful and sought after. The difference lies not only in the loss of knowledge but in the scarcity of the materials once used. Relics of the Old Ways were often wrought from substances unknown to us now—metals that refuse to tarnish, stones that hum with unseen energy, or woven threads that glimmer in darkness. Modern craftsmen must rely on what little remains of these rare components, often scavenged from broken relics or the depths of long-sealed ruins. In some cases, lesser substitutes are found, but these can never fully replicate the wonders of their predecessors.

Relic Classifications

Though many relics are unique in their function, they can be categorized into broader types. There are those relics that remain unresponsive to touch or command, believed to require either a forgotten incantation, a proper wielder, or some esoteric condition to be met before they may awaken once more. Others seem attuned to a single user, rejecting all others, binding themselves upon first contact or demanding lineage, faith, or strength of will. Some relics are not beneficent but instead twist and corrupt those who bear them, demanding sacrifices of blood or mind. The existence of these volatile relics suggests that the artisans of the Old Ways did not only create wonders, but also horrors.

While relics are often revered for their power, history also warns of their terrible potential for destruction. There are many myths and recorded accounts of entire cities and peoples being wiped from existence due to the misuse or unchecked influence of a relic. The Chronicles of Ylthmar tell of a relic known as the Veil of Black Fire, which, when unleashed, consumed an entire kingdom in an inextinguishable blaze, leaving only shadowed ruins in its wake. Another grim tale speaks of the Harrowing of Eldren’s Gate, where a relic designed to preserve life twisted upon itself and rendered all who dwelled there into motionless statues, their bodies eternally frozen in time. In some instances, these catastrophic events are attributed to relics losing control, while in others, it is said that those who sought to wield their power were undone by their own arrogance.

Such accounts serve as stark warnings. Many believe that relics possess a will of their own, a remnant of their creator’s intent or something far more enigmatic. Some relics seem to whisper to those who bear them, luring them toward unknown ends. Others have been known to change hands through means that defy reason, slipping from their wielders only to be found by another at a fated moment. The unpredictability of these artifacts is what makes them both coveted and feared.

Theories and Interpretations

Many theories attempt to explain the origins and nature of relics, yet no single explanation suffices. Some hold that the relics were forged by a forgotten race, one that walked this land before even the first kings of Norvostra. Others claim they were crafted by deities who abandoned our world, leaving only their tools behind. A few whisper that relics are not made at all, but grown, birthed from the very essence of the world itself.

One of the most prevalent theories concerns the price of their creation. While our modern enchantments require effort, relics seem to demand more—something beyond simple craftsmanship. There are records of those who have attempted to replicate relics through artifice and spellwork, but these creations pale in comparison to even the weakest of true relics. Could it be that the artisans of the Old Ways paid a price that we are no longer willing—or able—to meet?

On the Fear and Reverence of Relics

While some seek relics for their power, others fear them. Many ancient tomes warn of relics that bring not fortune, but ruin. There are tales of rulers who built their empires upon the strength of a relic, only to have their kingdoms crumble when the relic turned against them. Some relics seem to possess an eerie will of their own, choosing when and how they function, while others remain cursed with unknown consequences for their wielders. It is this unpredictability that has led to the superstitions surrounding relics. Many villages and temples hold relics within shrines, offering prayers and tributes to what they do not understand. Others go so far as to entomb relics within stone, fearing their use altogether.

If we are to truly understand the Old Ways, we must move beyond mere reverence and superstition. The study of relics must be approached with both caution and determination. Each recovered relic brings us closer to understanding the civilization that once wielded them, and perhaps, in time, we may reclaim the knowledge that has been lost to the ages. But caution is paramount. There are relics that should not be touched, let alone wielded. Until we understand their true nature, we remain children grasping in the dark, tampering with forces beyond our comprehension. We may yet uncover the wisdom of the ancients—or we may repeat their downfall.

For now, we must search. We must learn. And we must remember: not all that is forgotten is meant to be found.

End of Treatise.