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.silver. A dagger through the skull, a sword through the heart, the blessed metal cutting away the corruption before it takes root. 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.
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 AlricMalric 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,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’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.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.Faulmoor. This once-thriving fishing 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 high-end inn, 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.
But you have seen the way men bargain in Greymire. You know that promises are made to be broken. And you know, deep down, that nothing in Faulmoor is ever that simple.
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.