Ebonmoor Locations

• Ebonmere
• Gloommire
• Rimewatch Keep
• Dunmere
• Duskford
• Fetterbrook

Ebonmere

The Black Thorne Strikes Deep.

Ebonmoor was never meant to wither in the shadow of another’s rule. We are not vassals waiting for scraps, nor a mere province to be bled dry in another man's war against inevitability. The world is changing, and we will not be dragged down by the weight of Faulmoor’s suffering. We are destined for greater things—our ships reach beyond these dying lands, our wealth does not depend on the mercy of a grieving lord, and our future will not be shackled to the failings of another. Ebonmoor will rise, as it always has, on its own terms.

– Lord Eadric Wilthorne

Ebonmere stands as a city of two worlds—one carved into the very cliffs that have withstood the test of centuries, the other built atop the land by the hands of men seeking to expand its reach. Its roots stretch back to an era before Faulmoor even existed, when an older civilization first saw the value in its towering sea-facing cliffs and carved their dwellings into the stone. Though their names and purpose have long been lost to time, their structures remain, the darkened halls and grand chambers now serving as the seat of House Wilthorne.

Over generations, Ebonmere has grown outward, expanding into a more traditional cityscape of stone and timber, yet its heart remains embedded in the cliffs, a symbol of its enduring strength. To outsiders, it is an awe-inspiring sight, a city that appears almost as if it has grown from the rock itself, an unshakable fortress standing against the relentless crash of the Greymere Sea.

The noble lord of Ebonmoor, Eadric Wilthorne, and his family still reside in these ancient halls, overseeing their domain from the heights above, where the wind howls against the stone and the sea spray never quite reaches. Beneath them, life in Ebonmere thrives in ways that set it apart from the rest of Faulmoor. Unlike the damp and decaying settlements of the mainland, Ebonmere bustles with industry, its harbors filled with ships that travel far beyond Faulmoor’s troubled borders.

Trade has always been the city’s lifeblood, its merchants renowned for their skill in navigating the treacherous Greymere and reaching distant markets. Even before the Blight, Ebonmere’s fleets traveled as far as Galdarra, a powerful kingdom across the western ocean, bringing back exotic goods and rare wares that were unseen elsewhere in Norvostra. Among the many treasures imported from Galdarra, none are as coveted—or as dangerous—as black powder, a volatile substance capable of creating fire and destruction with but a spark. Still an unknown force in Norvostra, black powder has begun to trickle into the hands of the ambitious and the desperate, its potential not yet fully understood.

Ebonmere’s position has always made it a powerhouse of shipping, a city of merchants and shipwrights whose influence extends far beyond Faulmoor. Its harbors, sheltered by natural inlets and fortified by centuries of naval expertise, allow for trade that no other city in Faulmoor can rival. Its fleets are among the best-equipped in Norvostra, not only in craftsmanship but in reach, with routes that stretch beyond the continent itself. With this vast shipping network, Ebonmere holds a silent but undeniable grip over the flow of goods in and out of Faulmoor. But where there is trade, there is also secrecy, and the same routes that once carried luxury goods and silver now serve a darker purpose.

With the world crumbling under the weight of the Rotmire Blight, a new economy has begun to take root. Smuggling, once a shadowed practice, has flourished, with desperate nobles, refugees, and mercenaries willing to pay whatever it takes to escape the mainland’s decay. Silver, relics, and illicit goods pass through Ebonmere’s ports under the watchful but often complicit eyes of House Wilthorne. The city’s merchants and ship captains know that the right cargo, if discreetly handled, can be worth more than a lifetime of honest trade.

It is an open secret that House Wilthorne, beneath its outwardly noble facade, controls the most powerful smuggling operations in the region—perhaps in all of Norvostra. Every black-market deal, every forbidden shipment that slips past the Baron's watchful eyes, every noble desperate to flee the mainland, all inevitably trace their way back to Ebonmere’s docks. The operation is vast, its reach extending beyond Faulmoor’s crumbling borders. There are whispers that silver and relics once thought lost in the chaos of the Blight have resurfaced in foreign lands, carried away on the very ships that once swore loyalty to the Baron’s cause.

Though Baron Valkenmar surely suspects the depth of House Wilthorne’s involvement, he is in no position to confront them. Ebonmere’s fleets remain the last link between Faulmoor and the outside world, and as much as the Baron might resent their growing independence, he cannot afford to sever that tie. Even as his grasp tightens on the mainland, his control over Ebonmere slips further away with every ship that departs its harbors under the cover of darkness.

Despite Ebonmere’s close historical ties to the mainland, a growing tension simmers beneath its surface. Many among the common folk look upon Faulmoor and see only sickness, suffering, and decay. The people whisper of severing the city’s ties to the dying land, of sealing Ebonmere off from the mainland entirely, ensuring their survival by refusing entry to those who would bring ruin to their shores.

Small movements advocating for full independence have begun to take root, fueled by fear and a desire to protect what remains untouched. The question of loyalty to Faulmoor is no longer as simple as it once was.

For now, Ebonmere remains open, but the future of the city teeters on the edge of uncertainty. Its ships still sail, its economy thrives in ways both legal and illicit, and its people continue on as they always have. But the question lingers—how long before Ebonmere must decide whether to remain tethered to a crumbling Faulmoor, or to carve its own path, as independent and unyielding as the cliffs upon which it was built?

Detailed Overview

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Notable Establishments

The Gilded Tide (Tavern & Smuggler’s Haven)

Nestled along the edge of the lower docks, The Gilded Tide is both a bustling waterfront tavern and the beating heart of Ebonmere’s smuggling operations. A sprawling two-story structure built from dark timber and reinforced with salvaged shipwrecks, its windows are always aglow with warm lantern light, offering comfort to weary sailors, traders, and criminals alike. Officially, it is owned by Derrick Halloway, an aging but sharp-tongued former privateer, but everyone in Ebonmere knows that true authority over the establishment lies with Lady Elspeth Wilthorne, whose silent influence ensures that those who seek passage, forbidden goods, or a discreet audience with House Wilthorne can find it here—for a price. Beneath the tavern, a series of tunnels and hidden piers allow for shipments to slip in and out of the city unnoticed, making it a critical nerve center for Ebonmere’s illicit trade.

The Saltspire (Noble Merchant Guild & Relic Trading House)

Ebonmere's nobility has long been entwined with trade, and nowhere is this more evident than at the Saltspire, an opulent merchant guild hall that towers above the harbor, its polished stone facade marked with gilded etchings of ships and sea creatures. While it serves as a legitimate meeting ground for merchants and noble traders, behind its closed doors, rare and forbidden relics from the Old Ways are quietly bought and sold, with House Wilthorne ensuring that anything of value never leaves the city without their approval. The guild is overseen by Lord Callister Veyne, an ambitious noble who has no love for Faulmoor’s declining state and sees the city’s growing independence as an opportunity to establish himself as one of the wealthiest men in Norvostra.

The Broken Keel (Dockside Tavern & Brawler’s Den)

A stark contrast to the elegance of The Gilded Tide, The Broken Keel is a dockside drinking hole infamous for its raucous fights, cheap ale, and a clientele that consists largely of mercenaries, outcasts, and sailors with nothing to lose. The walls are lined with shattered ship parts and rusted harpoons, each one telling the story of a lost voyage or an unfortunate soul who crossed the wrong patron. While many see it as little more than a den of scoundrels, those seeking to hire blades, crew a ship, or disappear from the eyes of the law will find no better place in the city. The tavern is run by Kaelen "Red Tooth" Draeven, a former pirate whose missing front teeth and deep scars are a testament to a lifetime of bad choices. He has no allegiance to House Wilthorne but knows better than to stand in their way.

The Widow’s Walk (Temple & Crypt)

Unlike the grand cathedrals of the mainland, Ebonmere’s primary place of worship is a somber and weathered structure perched at the highest point of the cliffs, its black stone towers rising like fingers grasping at the sky. Known as The Widow’s Walk, it is both a temple and a crypt, its subterranean halls lined with the resting places of Ebonmere’s greatest figures. The people of the city come here to mourn those lost at sea, offering small carved driftwood effigies to ensure their souls find their way home. In the wake of the Blight, the temple has become a place of unease, with whispers that some of the dead interred within have begun to stir, and that the deeper catacombs, long sealed, are being pried open by forces unknown. The temple is tended by Reverend Aedwyn Thorne, an elderly priest who no longer knows if the gods still listen, but continues his rites nonetheless.

The Hollow Dagger (Hidden Smuggler’s Vault & Black Market)

Few in Ebonmere know of The Hollow Dagger, and those who do speak of it only in whispers. Hidden deep within the tunnels beneath the city, this secretive marketplace is where the true dealings of the underworld take place. Rare artifacts, stolen relics, illicit goods, and forbidden alchemical substances change hands in candlelit alcoves, their buyers cloaked in shadow. Only those with the right connections can gain access, and even then, survival is not guaranteed. It is said that the market is watched over by a masked figure known only as the Veil, a merchant whose face has never been seen, and whose influence stretches even beyond Ebonmere itself.

The Tidecourt (House Wilthorne’s Seat of Power)

Deep within the cliffs, where the oldest halls of Ebonmere still stand, lies The Tidecourt, the seat of House Wilthorne and the true center of power in the city. A vast series of interconnected chambers, carved long before Faulmoor’s founding, it is a place of cold stone and flickering torchlight, where noble affairs are conducted in hushed voices and grand feasts are held beneath vaulted ceilings that still bear the markings of a forgotten era. The Wilthorne family’s quarters, war rooms, and private council chambers are all hidden within this labyrinthine structure, ensuring that the ruling family is both protected and ever watchful. It is said that passages run even deeper into the cliffs, to places even the Wilthornes do not speak of, but none who have wandered too far have returned to confirm such rumors.

Gloommire

The First to Fall

This so-called Blight is just another hardship, no different from famine, war, or the thousand other misfortunes that have come and gone. Gloommire was meant to be the beating heart of Ebonmoor’s future, the bridge—literally and figuratively—that would cement our place in Faulmoor’s prosperity. You don’t halt a project of this magnitude over a handful of sick workers. Trade doesn’t stop, commerce doesn’t stop, and neither will we. The kingdom demands progress, and progress does not yield to fear.

— Master Architect Halvar Roen, Lead Overseer (last recorded statement before the quarantine was enacted)

Gloommire was once a city on the cusp of transformation, a rising star within Ebonmoor that promised to cement the region’s importance in Faulmoor’s future. Positioned on a smaller island just off the mainland, it had long served as a center for timber harvesting and trade, but it was the ambitious infrastructure projects connecting it to both Ebonmoor and Faulmoor that were set to define its legacy. Grand stone bridges, reinforced causeways, and expanding roads were meant to turn Gloommire into a major hub, a gateway between Faulmoor and the outer isles. Workers from across the kingdom—builders, masons, sailors, and merchants—flocked to the city, drawn by the promise of steady work and wealth.

Then came the Rotmire Blight.

At the time, no one truly understood what they were dealing with. Whispers of sickness had spread across Norvostra, but it was always somewhere else—a distant problem, a plague of the desperate and the poor, a misfortune for those who lacked the means to protect themselves. Gloommire, bustling with workers, trade, and noble investment, felt untouchable.

The first cases were dismissed as exhaustion, a natural result of the brutal labor required for the massive infrastructure projects. The workforce had swollen to unprecedented numbers, bringing laborers from across Norvostra—builders, masons, sailors, and merchants who came for opportunity and prosperity. Men collapsing at their posts was not uncommon. Fevers spread in the crowded barracks, and coughs echoed through the timber yards, but no one thought much of it at first. It was the damp air, the hard work, the demands of an expanding city.

Then, they started not getting back up.

The first confirmed outbreak began in the lower districts near the harbors, where the laborers’ quarters stood packed against the waterfront. When the fever took hold, it did not let go. The sick lingered in agonizing delirium, eyes glassy, their breathing heavy and unnatural. Then came the violent convulsions, the blackened veins, the hollow moans that echoed long after their final breath. The first deaths were swift but not unexpected. Sickness, after all, was no stranger to labor camps. It was the return of the dead that shattered any illusions of normalcy.

When the first of the infected rose, clawing their way out of their deathbeds with stiff, unnatural movements, panic ripped through the city like wildfire. At first, many refused to believe what they saw—men they had worked alongside only a day prior moving with jerking, unnatural steps, attacking friends and kin without reason, without recognition. Some of the dead stood motionless for hours, swaying as if listening to something unheard, while others turned immediately, tearing into the flesh of the living before anyone had time to react.

The city’s leadership was unprepared. The local guards, many of whom were laborers themselves, tried to restore order, but how does one fight against something that should not be? Some tried to contain the infected, locking them in buildings, only to hear them scratching at the doors, wailing in the dark. Others attempted to burn the bodies, but by then, the disease had already taken hold across the city.

The noble overseers in charge of the bridge projects sent word to Ebonmere and Faulmoor, begging for assistance, but help never came. The decision had already been made—Gloommire would not be saved.

Ebonmere’s response was immediate and merciless. The first bridge—newly completed—was destroyed within days. Great explosions and fires took it down, cutting off any chance of escape to Ebonmoor. The second bridge, still under construction and nearing completion to Faulmoor, was reduced to rubble soon after. Ships were burned in the harbor, roads leading to the work camps were abandoned, and Gloommire was declared lost. The speed of the containment effort left behind a graveyard of resources—unfinished stone structures, abandoned supply depots, and vast stockpiles of timber, tools, and goods that had once been meant to fuel Faulmoor’s expansion.

Inside Gloommire, the last remnants of resistance collapsed into chaos. Those still alive ran for the forests, only to find the roads abandoned, their camps and supply stations eerily silent. Some sought refuge in their homes, barricading themselves inside, hoping for salvation that would never come. Others tried to fight their way out, only to meet the cold steel of their former allies, unwilling to let the Blight spread further.

And then, silence.

Days passed, and no more messages came from the city. No cries for help, no signals from stranded survivors. Just the wind carrying the distant, low groans of the dead. The fires burned out, leaving only the skeletal remains of once-thriving streets, and the only movement came from shambling figures that now called Gloommire their own.

Though cut off, Gloommire is far from lifeless. It is estimated that thousands of undead now roam the city, shambling between half-finished structures and within the skeletal remains of its fallen bridges. No full-scale expedition has been sent to reclaim the city, for it is deemed too dangerous, and those who do attempt to approach do not return. Outside the city, the surrounding forests and construction sites remain eerily silent. Timber camps and small work settlements, once filled with life, now stand in ruin, their inhabitants either long dead or trapped in the wilderness. Some whisper that there may yet be survivors—stranded workers or isolated families who fled the city before its fall—but Ebonmoor has deemed it a lost cause.

The ruined streets remain strewn with supplies, untouched stockpiles of wood, stone, and metal meant for the bridges that were never completed. Hidden beneath the debris are chests of tools, half-built mechanisms, and caches of untouched provisions, all waiting to be reclaimed. But few dare approach its haunted shores, for the dead do not rest easy in Gloommire, and none know what horrors lurk beyond its ruined gates.

Gloommire, once destined to be the gateway between Faulmoor and Ebonmoor, is now nothing more than a graveyard of broken ambition, a testament to how swiftly progress can become ruin. The bridges may be destroyed, but the city remains, waiting in the mist, its riches still untouched, its horrors still unseen.

Rimewatch Keep

The Sentinel of Ebonmoor

They come with their children in their arms, with nothing but the clothes on their backs, begging—pleading—to be let through. They hold up old documents, coins, relics, anything they think might buy them passage, but none of it matters. Orders are orders. We search them, we check for signs, and if there’s even a whisper of sickness, we send them back. Some cry. Some scream. Some just stand there, staring at us like they’ve already died.

I tell myself I’m keeping Ebonmoor safe. That we’re doing what must be done. But at night, I still hear them. I see their faces when I close my eyes. And I wonder—how many of them were really sick? How many of them could have lived, if we’d only let them through?

– Sergeant Willem Grast, Rimewatch Garrison

Rimewatch Keep has stood for centuries, a relic of a time before Faulmoor’s unification, when the land was a battleground of rival lords, shifting borders, and endless disputes. The fortress was built into the towering cliffs overlooking the treacherous waters of the Greymere Sea, its position chosen for both defensive superiority and control over the land bridge to Ebonmoor. In those early days, Rimewatch was a bulwark against invasion, guarding against both raiders from the sea and the warring factions that sought control of the growing settlements inland.

House Wilthorne and House Valkenmar were once bitter rivals, their domains frequently clashing over land, trade routes, and influence. Rimewatch stood between them, not only as a fortress of war but as a reluctant mediator, ensuring neither side could seize full control of Ebonmoor. Generations of soldiers and commanders upheld their duty to protect the keep, not knowing that one day, it would serve as the last bastion of safety against something far worse than war.

Over time, as the conflicts waned and the two houses grew into allies, Rimewatch Keep slowly transitioned from a fortress of sieges and stalemates to one of security and stability. With peace came opportunity—traders, fishers, and farmers saw value in the land surrounding the keep, knowing that its garrison provided protection from bandits, raiders, and the lawless dangers of the marshes beyond. The coastal waters were rich with fish, and the rocky terrain gave way to fertile patches of farmland, feeding both the keep and the growing settlement around it. Soon, a village emerged beneath the shadow of the keep, with stone homes, small markets, and piers stretching into the sea. Fishing vessels crowded the docks, and merchant wagons lined the roads leading toward the mainland, carrying salted fish, grains, and preserved goods to markets in Vexenford and beyond.

The keep itself remained a military stronghold, but its purpose became more than just war. It was the gateway to Ebonmoor, ensuring that trade, travelers, and diplomacy flowed freely between the island and the mainland. The once-imposing battlements, meant to keep enemies at bay, now welcomed traders, emissaries, and settlers, reinforcing Ebonmoor’s growing importance in Faulmoor’s political landscape.

The fortress and its people thrived in this delicate balance of security and commerce, standing as both a guardian and a bridge between Ebonmoor and Faulmoor. Nobles and merchants alike saw it as a necessary stop—a place of protection, respite, and, in time, prosperity. It was no longer a mere outpost but a vital artery in the lifeblood of Ebonmoor’s future.

The first signs of the Blight were met with skepticism at Rimewatch. Rumors of sickness and strange deaths from the mainland had circulated for weeks, but such tales were common enough in Faulmoor—plague, famine, and war had always come and gone, leaving ruin in their wake but never lasting. The keep’s commanders remained steadfast, unwilling to close off trade or turn away travelers on the basis of fear alone.

But then came the smoke.

Thick, black plumes rose on the horizon from Gloommire, darkening the skies over the sea. At first, many believed it was an accident—a ship aflame in the harbor, perhaps, or one of the construction camps suffering an unfortunate fire. But as the hours passed, the smoke did not fade. It grew, it thickened, and then the reports came: The bridges had been destroyed. The city was burning. The people were dead—or worse.

It was in that moment that Rimewatch truly understood the nature of the threat. This was no ordinary sickness. This was something else. Gloommire had been a city of thousands, a rising trade hub at the heart of a massive construction effort. Its destruction had not been the work of time or war—it had been deliberate, swift, and absolute. No one from Ebonmoor had come to help. No ships had been sent to rescue the stranded. It had been abandoned, quarantined in fire, left to rot beneath the ashes of its own ambition.

The decision was made without debate. Ebonmoor would not share Gloommire’s fate. Rimewatch’s duties shifted overnight—from protecting trade and travelers to ensuring that nothing—absolutely nothing—could bring the Blight into Ebonmoor.

The fortified bridge at Vexenford, once a vital artery between the mainland and the island, became a military lockdown zone, where those seeking passage were subjected to invasive searches and unforgiving scrutiny. Even the slightest cough, the faintest sign of illness—whether it was the Blight or not—could mean exile or execution.

Merchants, once welcomed with open hands, now found themselves at the mercy of the keep’s increasingly unyielding enforcers. The fortified bridge at Vexenford, which had once carried wagons of goods into Ebonmoor, became a bottleneck of desperation. Soldiers stationed at either end no longer saw each other as allies but as gatekeepers protecting their own lands from a shared, unseen enemy. The bridge remained open, but the people crossing it were watched with unrelenting suspicion, and fewer still were allowed through.

On the far end of the bridge, the soldiers of Faulmoor watched their counterparts with growing unease. Once, they had shared meals, laughed over drinks in the village below. Now, they stood apart, their hands gripping their weapons just a little tighter, their gazes wary. The sickness was not just eating away at the bodies of men—it was eroding trust itself.

Beneath the keep, the village that had once thrived grew silent. The fishers who had spent their lives on the docks no longer sailed beyond the sight of the keep’s walls. The farmers who once welcomed traders into their homes now kept to themselves, watching from behind shuttered windows. They were afraid—not just of the Blight, but of the men sworn to protect them, the soldiers who would not hesitate to remove them should they show any sign of illness.

The black smoke over Gloommire had marked the end of an era for Rimewatch. No longer a symbol of peace, it had returned to its roots—a fortress built to stand against an enemy that could not be reasoned with, could not be fought with steel, and could not be allowed to pass.

Though Rimewatch remains untouched by the Blight, it is far from unscathed. The burden of being Ebonmoor’s last line of defense has weighed heavily on those stationed within its walls. The small fishing and farming community that once coexisted with the garrison has grown colder, more insular, fearful of the disease, but also of the men who enforce the quarantine with brutal efficiency. Whispers of resentment have begun to spread, and though no one dares openly defy the keep’s commanders, many wonder how much longer Rimewatch will stand as a protector before it becomes a prison.

The once-great bridge to Ebonmoor, which had symbolized trade and unity, now stands as a wall in all but name, its guards no longer gatekeepers of commerce but enforcers of quarantine. Rimewatch, once the heart of Faulmoor’s greatest peace, has returned to its origins—a fortress of fear, a bastion against an enemy that cannot be fought with steel, and a city now defined not by its thriving people, but by those it refuses to let in.

Detailed Overview

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Notable Establishments

The Stone Flask (Tavern & Last Refuge for Travelers)

The only true tavern and inn in Rimewatch, The Stone Flask sits just outside the fortress walls, its heavy stone foundation and thick wooden beams offering a sturdy respite for travelers and soldiers alike. Once, it was a lively meeting place, filled with merchants awaiting passage across the bridge, mercenaries boasting of their latest exploits, and off-duty guards sharing drinks over friendly wagers. Now, it is far quieter. Travelers rarely linger, knowing that even the slightest sign of illness could see them dragged from their rooms in the dead of night.

The innkeeper, Oswin Margrave, an aging former soldier, still runs the place as best he can, though his patience has grown thin. He keeps a careful ledger of all who pass through his doors, knowing that Rimewatch’s commanders expect regular reports. He does not ask too many questions, but he does not abide fools. Those who drink too much, who start fights, or who seem even slightly unwell often find themselves waking up on the wrong side of the keep’s gates, exiled with nothing but the clothes on their back.

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The Iron Spire (Armory & Blacksmith Guildhouse)

As Rimewatch Keep remains a military installation, the Iron Spire—a forge and armory built directly into the fortress’s cliffside—has long been responsible for supplying the garrison with weapons, armor, and repairs. Though it was never a merchant’s guild in the traditional sense, the Spire used to take private commissions, crafting fine blades and sturdy tools for merchants and nobles passing through the keep. Since the Blight, its doors are largely closed to all but the soldiers, and any work deemed unnecessary to the keep’s survival has been put on indefinite hold.

Master blacksmith Yorik Draylan, once an ambitious craftsman known for his skill in working silver and steel, now spends most of his time overseeing the reforging of old weapons and maintaining the keep’s dwindling supply of arrows and armor. He has no patience for civilians seeking work done and has been known to turn away desperate farmers looking for tools or repairs, unwilling to waste iron on those who may not live long enough to use it.

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The Watcher’s Gate (Garrison Headquarters & Quarantine Checkpoint)

Situated at the entrance to the fortified bridge leading to Vexenford, the Watcher’s Gate is the final checkpoint for anyone seeking passage between Ebonmoor and the mainland. It is a heavily reinforced guardhouse, lined with iron cages, medical examination rooms, and holding cells, where travelers are subjected to invasive inspections before being allowed through.

Here, the true harshness of Rimewatch’s new role is most apparent. Any who cough, tremble, or appear even slightly fevered are immediately detained, often without explanation. Some are turned away, sent back into the unknown. Others are never seen again.

The current commander of the gate, Captain Edric Faulke, is a hard man, unflinching in his duty. He has ordered executions when necessary, ensuring that no risk, no matter how small, makes it across the bridge. While some within Rimewatch consider him a cruel man, few can argue with his results—Ebonmoor still stands free of the Blight, and he intends to keep it that way.

Dunmere

The Dying Heart of Ebonmoor

We’ve tilled this land since our fathers' fathers walked it. We’ve raised cattle so strong they could weather the worst winters. But now? Now they rot on their feet, their eyes black as the Blight itself. The rivers still flow, the fields still stand, but I swear by the Old Ways—something in Dunmere has turned against us."

— Jorwel Kaelssen, cattleman 

Dunmere was once the Breadbasket of Ebonmoor, a town built on the lifeblood of its fertile fields and strong rivers flowing from the Grimholt Peaks. It was a place of stability, prosperity, and abundance, where the cycles of planting, harvesting, and butchering dictated the rhythm of life rather than war or famine. Its golden wheat fields stretched as far as the eye could see, and its rolling pastures were thick with fattened cattle and sturdy hogs, raised for generations by families who took pride in their craft. The Kaelssen, Bronstad, and Hegerholm clans were among the most respected, known for breeding the healthiest livestock, their herds famous across Norvostra for the quality of their meat and resilience to harsh winters.

At the heart of Dunmere stood the Stonehall Market, a vast, open-air trading hub where farmers, butchers, and merchants bartered and sold their goods. The scent of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and earthen spices filled the streets, and traders from as far as Mistvale and Blackvale made the journey just to secure the finest cuts of beef and pork. The town’s butchers were renowned, not just for their skill in carving meat but for their deep understanding of preservation, seasoning, and smoking techniques, ensuring that Dunmere’s meats were coveted even in lands beyond Faulmoor. During the autumn harvest festivals, the town would transform into a place of joyous revelry, with great feasts, music, and competitions where young ranchers showcased their prize-winning cattle and bakers competed for the title of the finest loaf.

Dunmere’s people were proud but welcoming, a mix of hardworking farmers, seasoned herders, and skilled tradesmen who valued tradition and community. Unlike the tense nobility of Valkenheim or the shadowed dealings of Greymire, Dunmere had no taste for intrigue or politics. It was a town of honest work and simple joys, where families passed down the knowledge of the land from one generation to the next. It was said that a man in Dunmere could be judged by the quality of his fields, the strength of his livestock, and the generosity of his table, and guests were always greeted with a hearty meal and a tankard of thick, honeyed ale.

Duskford, Dunmere’s sister town, served as its gateway to the wider world, with its bustling river docks sending barrels of salted pork, dried beef, and fresh grains to Blackvale and beyond. The two settlements thrived together, one feeding the region, the other ensuring its bounty reached those in need. Their connection was more than economic—it was personal. Many families had kin in both towns, and marriages between Dunmere’s herders and Duskford’s traders were common, strengthening the bond between them.

But when the Rotmire Blight took Duskford, that bond was severed in an instant.

Those who escaped fled to Dunmere, carrying nothing but desperation and grim determination. Yet, unlike the aimless refugees wandering other parts of Faulmoor, these people knew what was at stake. Many had once worked the fields or tended livestock, and instead of waiting for aid, they threw themselves into rebuilding Dunmere. Fields were expanded, irrigation systems improved, and new livestock enclosures erected in a desperate effort to secure food for Ebonmoor. They saw Dunmere as the last true stronghold of agriculture, the only hope for their people. But time was against them—while the crops flourished, the demand for food had tripled, stretching their resources to the limit.

Then came the sickness. It did not strike the people, but the livestock. At first, it was subtle—cattle grew restless, refusing to eat or sleep, their eyes wild with fever. Then the signs became clearer: veins blackened beneath their skin, their bodies bloated overnight, and some rotted from within, dissolving into a foul-smelling sludge that even carrion birds refused to touch. Dunmere’s butchers slaughtered thousands in an attempt to stop the spread, but the sickness persisted, creeping through the herds like an unseen shadow. No living person in Dunmere showed signs of the Blight, yet the symptoms mirrored it too closely to ignore. Fear gripped the town, for if the sickness could take the livestock, it was only a matter of time before it found its way into human flesh.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Some claimed the rivers from the Grimholt Peaks carried a hidden corruption, poisoning the land with every flood. Others believed the soil itself had turned, that the Blight had seeped into the earth and taken root. There were those who blamed the air, saying the Rotmire’s breath had begun to spread even where no undead walked. And then there were the voices of superstition and dread, whispering that this was punishment—that something older than the gods had cursed them for failing to save Duskford. No one knew the truth, but everyone understood one thing: if Dunmere’s livestock failed completely, there would be no saving Ebonmoor.

Recognizing Dunmere’s absolute importance, House Wilthorne and its vassals fortified the roads between Dunmere and Duskford, constructing multiple small forts and heavily guarded checkpoints along the key routes. Soldiers patrol the perimeter, searching for any sign of Blight encroachment or potential threats. These defensive measures have slowed travel, but they are necessary—if Dunmere falls, there is nowhere left to retreat. The fall of Dunmere would not only doom Ebonmoor but likely Faulmoor itself. Without its food supply, the region would collapse into chaos, leaving Ebonmoor defenseless and the survivors of Faulmoor with no means of sustaining themselves.

With its famed meat industry on the verge of collapse, Dunmere’s once-thriving butcheries now stand half-empty, their salted reserves dwindling dangerously fast. The town still produces grains and vegetables, but without livestock, they cannot sustain Ebonmoor’s needs. Food shortages have led to rising tensions—some have turned to smuggling, hoarding food for personal profit, while others grow increasingly hostile toward outsiders and traders seeking to take what little remains. Though Dunmere is still governed under Eadric Wilthorne, control has largely fallen to a council of farmers and butchers, led by Jorwel Kaelssen, an aging but respected rancher. He fights to keep Dunmere stable, but the cracks are showing.

Dunmere is not lost—not yet—but time is running out. If the sickness cannot be stopped, if the food supply continues to dwindle, Ebonmoor will not survive another year. The people of Dunmere work with desperate urgency, but beneath their resolve lies a growing fear. They know the truth that no one dares speak aloud: it is only a matter of time.

Detailed Overview

Attribute	Details
Region	Ebonmoor
Ruling House	House Wilthorne
Population (Before Blight)	~1,500 (A thriving agricultural town, vital to Ebonmoor’s food supply)
Population (After Blight)	~2,800 (Influx of Duskford refugees who immediately went to work on the farms, knowing the survival of Ebonmoor depends on them)
Major Industries	Farming, livestock breeding, butchering, grain storage, and food distribution
Primary Exports	Wheat, barley, vegetables, beef, pork, dairy products, and preserved meats
Current Ruler	Lord Eadric Wilthorne (oversees from Ebonmere, but local control is handled by the Farmers' Council, led by Jorik Kaelssen)
Government Type	Feudal rule under House Wilthorne, though de facto governed by a council of farmers and butchers due to the town’s crucial role in survival
Defenses	Multiple small forts and heavily guarded checkpoints between Dunmere and Duskford, patrolled by soldiers of House Wilthorne to prevent Blight contamination and secure food transport
Notable Features	Stonehall Market (once a bustling trade hub, now a tense center of food rationing), Kaelssen Ranch (largest cattle and hog farm, now struggling with livestock sickness), The River Gate (main waterway access, suspected source of contamination), Salted Hoof Butchery (once a thriving meat shop, now eerily quiet), The Farmer’s Keep (council hall where decisions are made about rationing and livestock culling)
Status	Critical condition. Crops still grow, but the unexplained sickness among livestock is rapidly depleting meat supplies. Smuggling is on the rise, and tensions between farmers, soldiers, and merchants continue to escalate. If Dunmere falls, Ebonmoor—and possibly Faulmoor—will collapse.

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Notable Establishments

Stonehall Market

At the heart of Dunmere lies Stonehall Market, once a bustling hub where farmers, ranchers, and butchers gathered to sell their goods. The scent of fresh bread and smoked meats once filled the air, and traders from all across Faulmoor came to buy Dunmere’s famous beef and pork. Now, the market has become a place of rationing and conflict. With food supplies dwindling, every transaction is filled with tension and suspicion, and disputes over portions are common. Smugglers move through the crowd in the shadows, and some claim that corrupt traders are skimming off supplies for their own profit.

Kaelssen Ranch

Once the pride of Dunmere, Kaelssen Ranch was the largest and most respected livestock farm in the region, owned by Jorik Kaelssen. Generations of ranchers raised strong cattle and hogs, their herds famous for their quality and resilience. Now, it is the epicenter of the livestock sickness. The enclosures reek of death as cattle collapse overnight, their veins blackened with disease. Workers burn entire herds to prevent further contamination, but the sickness persists. Whispers spread among the ranch hands—this is not a natural plague. Some believe the land itself has turned against them, while others blame the waters of the Grimholt Peaks for poisoning their herds.

The Salted Hoof Butchery

Once the finest butcher shop in Dunmere, The Salted Hoof was known for its masterful cuts, smoked meats, and salted provisions. It supplied merchants as far as Blackvale, and its owner, Erik Lothsen, was considered one of the most skilled butchers in Faulmoor. Now, the shop barely operates—livestock is scarce, and what little remains is diseased. Lothsen struggles to keep his doors open, but behind the counter, he is quietly supplying smugglers, selling what he can to those willing to pay in silver. Though many suspect his dealings, no one has the proof to accuse him outright.

The Farmer’s Keep

The Farmer’s Keep was once a communal hall where Dunmere’s ranchers and farmers made decisions for the town’s prosperity. It was a place of unity, where disputes were settled fairly and the future of the settlement was planned with care. Now, it is a site of arguments and desperation, as the Farmers’ Council, led by Jorwel Kaelssen, struggles to keep order. Every day, tough decisions must be made—which herds to cull, how much grain to ration, and who should be prioritized for food. Some farmers argue for greater military protection, fearing an attack from raiders or starving refugees, while others insist that the true enemy is within—those hoarding supplies for personal gain.

The River Gate

The River Gate is the main access point to Dunmere’s water supply, fed by the great rivers of the Grimholt Peaks. For centuries, this water nourished the fields and sustained the livestock, but now, it has become a source of fear. Many believe that the sickness spreading through Dunmere’s animals originates from the water, though no one can prove it. Some farmers have begun sealing off parts of the river, refusing to use its waters, while others continue out of necessity, hoping the sickness is nothing more than rumor.

The Last Harvest Tavern

A grim shadow of its former self, The Last Harvest Tavern was once the beating heart of Dunmere’s social life. Farmers and cattlemen gathered there after long days of work, sharing tankards of thick, honeyed ale and laughing over stories of past harvests and great cattle drives. Now, the laughter is gone. The ale flows slower, and the conversations have turned to fear, suspicion, and grim predictions. The owner, Maren Hegsdottir, struggles to keep her doors open, but behind the bar, she has begun hoarding grain, fearing that soon, even she will not have enough to eat.

Duskford

The Stolen Harvest

Ships come and go, always have. But that one… that one just sat there. No sails, no lanterns, no crew I could see. Days passed, and it didn’t move, didn’t drift, just sat watchin’. Then folk started gettin’ sick. Fast. Too fast. And when the dead got up, that ship was gone, slipped into the mist like it was never there. But I saw it. I know what I saw.

— Renholt Grayne, former fisherman of Duskford

Once the beating heart of Ebonmoor’s agriculture, Duskford stood as a pillar of stability, its rich, fertile lands yielding crops that not only fed its own people but sustained Ebonmere and even portions of Faulmoor. Alongside Dunmere, it was the breadbasket of the region, a land transformed from simple farmland into an agricultural powerhouse after years of investment and cultivation. Its fertile soil, abundant water supply, and organized farming estates made it a critical asset, ensuring that even during difficult seasons, Ebonmoor had food to sustain itself and its trade routes.

When Gloommire fell to the Blight, Duskford stood firm, untouched and prepared to endure. The destruction of the bridges had severed Ebonmoor from the mainland’s growing sickness, and for a time, it seemed the threat had been stopped before it could take hold. Vigilant quarantine measures, reinforced patrols, and cautious trade ensured that not a single trace of the disease entered Ebonmere or its surrounding towns. Ebonmoor, it seemed, had won.

But then the Blight came anyway.

Strangely, it did not arrive from the south, as expected. It did not creep through the marshes, nor did it follow the roads from Faulmoor. Instead, it struck Duskford directly, seemingly out of nowhere. While Ebonmere and Dunmere remained untouched, Duskford fell fast, almost unnaturally so. Before any could react, the sickness had already taken hold, spreading through the town with terrifying speed. Overnight, it was as if the Blight had appeared from nowhere, severing Fetterbrook in the north and cutting off another vital lifeline for Ebonmoor.

It was a disaster, but to some, it was also too convenient.

Rumors spread like wildfire. How had the Blight skipped over Ebonmere and Dunmere? Why had it struck so suddenly in a town that had been untouched for so long? Some whispered that it had been placed there intentionally, that the sickness had arrived not by land, but by sea—brought by a plague ship that had deliberately anchored near Duskford’s shores. None can prove it, but among the lesser nobles of Ebonmere, there are whispers that Baron Valkenmar had a hand in it—that he knew Ebonmoor had survived too well, that it had remained too independent while the rest of Faulmoor suffered. If Duskford fell, so too would Ebonmoor’s food supply, forcing it to rely on the Baron’s grain stores and kneel to his rule.

Now, Duskford is lost, and the once-fertile lands that surrounded it are tainted by the Blight. Where golden fields of wheat and barley once swayed in the wind, only rot remains. The Blight has warped the soil, blackening the ground with unnatural decay, leaving the land unfit for harvest. What crops remain are twisted, inedible things, tainted by whatever force has taken root beneath the earth. The great granaries and storehouses that once held Ebonmoor’s surplus are now infested with the dead, their halls silent but for the distant sound of shuffling, unseen figures lurking within.

With Duskford gone, travel north is all but impossible. Fetterbrook, once a minor but stable community, is now completely cut off, its survival uncertain. The roads that once carried trade, supplies, and messages between the settlements are overrun, with only the boldest smugglers and desperate hunters daring to travel through the infected farmlands. The few who have returned tell of fields where the dead wander aimlessly, as if drawn by something unseen, and of things hiding in the silos and abandoned farmhouses, waiting in the dark for those foolish enough to approach.

With Duskford lost, Dunmere has become Ebonmoor’s last hope for food. Extra protections have been sanctioned, with patrols increasing and those who enter or leave scrutinized as never before. But it is not enough. The food demand is simply too high. The once-overflowing granaries now empty faster than they can be replenished, and famine is a very real threat. Without trade routes to the north, without access to the farmland that once fed an entire region, Ebonmoor now faces an uncertain future.

And yet, the rumors persist.

How did the Blight truly reach Duskford? Was it chance? Or was it placed there by design? As winter approaches and hunger sets in, the people of Ebonmoor begin to look for someone to blame.

Fetterbrook

The Forgotten Retreat

Fetterbrook? Yes, dreadful business, truly. Cut off, you say? Starving? A real tragedy, of course... but tell me, do you know what this means for me? I used to summer there, you know. My estate overlooked the finest hunting grounds in Ebonmoor! The stag were magnificent, the air unspoiled—and now? Now I’m trapped in this miserable city, forced to endure this... this squalor while that wretched place rots away! I am the real victim in all of this! A man of my standing should not be denied his comforts simply because some peasants have misplaced their survival instincts!

— Lord Alrin Vaunhast, displaced noble

Nestled within the heart of Ebonmoor’s dense forests and winding waterways, Fetterbrook was once a peaceful haven—a retreat for nobility seeking respite from the political scheming of Valkenheim and the harsh realities of Faulmoor’s marshes. The town’s many brooks and streams, which flow steadily south, once provided a gentle, idyllic setting for hunting, fishing, and leisure. Rich in wildlife and thick with towering oaks, the town flourished not as a center of trade but as a place of comfort and escape. It was never meant to sustain itself, instead relying on regular shipments from Duskford and other northern settlements.

One of the oldest settlements in Ebonmoor, Fetterbrook grew from a collection of private estates into a small but wealthy town, catering to hunters, craftsmen, and those who provided luxury goods to visiting aristocrats. Falconry, archery, and lavish feasts beneath the forest canopy were common pastimes, and its people lived well, knowing that supply lines from the north would always keep their town thriving. For generations, this was true.

Then the Rotmire Blight came, and Duskford fell.

With Duskford’s fall, Fetterbrook was severed from the north, leaving its people stranded. The waters that once carried goods and wealth southward now work against them—the brooks flow only in one direction, meaning no supplies can be sent back upstream. In an instant, the town found itself trapped, with no way to receive food, medicine, or tools. The forests, once a playground of sport, became a last desperate resource for survival.

For the first few months, they relied on their reserves, believing that help would come. But as the Blight worsened and the roads became unsafe, it became clear that no aid was coming. The nobility fled, abandoning their grand estates, while the remaining servants, hunters, and tradespeople were left to fend for themselves.

Now, Fetterbrook is fading. The people hunt, forage, and salvage what they can, but the land was never meant to support them indefinitely. Many speak in whispers of leaving, drifting south in the hopes of finding help, but few dare attempt it. The world beyond their forested home has grown dark and uncertain.

Though the people of Fetterbrook are trapped, the outside world has not forgotten them entirely—even if not in the way they had hoped.

South of Fetterbrook, where the brooks converge into larger rivers, bodies have begun washing ashore. At first, there were only a few—perhaps the unfortunate victims of a river accident, or wanderers who had succumbed to hunger. But now, more appear each week, found by travelers and villages downstream.

Some of the corpses bear the unmistakable lesions of the Rotmire Blight, bloated and twisted beyond recognition. Others, however, show no sign of infection—their faces frozen in silent terror, their bodies unmarked. The people living further south whisper that not all of them drowned—some look as though they clawed their way out of the water, only to collapse on the banks.

No one knows where they come from, or how many more will follow. Some believe they are victims of a massacre upriver, while others fear something lurks within the waters, dragging the living beneath its surface. Those downstream now refuse to drink from the brooks, believing the waters carry something worse than sickness.

Yet, in Fetterbrook, no one speaks of the dead. They have their own troubles—and besides, the water only flows south.

The town that once housed nobility and wealth has become a place of ghosts and whispers. The grand estates stand empty, their fine wooden halls now homes to squatters and the desperate. The forests that once rang with laughter and hunting horns are now quiet, save for the occasional crack of a bowstring or the distant howl of wolves.

Those who remain do not know how much longer they can last. Some hold out hope that the north will recover, that Duskford will rise again and reconnect them to the world. Others believe that Fetterbrook has already been forgotten, left to wither and die in its own isolation. And somewhere beyond their town, the rivers still run south, carrying secrets and the dead to those who will find them.

Detailed Overview

Attribute	Details
Region	Ebonmoor
Ruling House	House Wilthorne
Population (Before Blight)	~1,200 (A quiet noble retreat, with a mix of aristocrats, hunters, and estate workers)
Population (After Blight)	~800 (Nobility fled, leaving behind servants, hunters, and those unable to escape)
Major Industries	Game hunting, falconry, leatherworking, woodcraft, and minor river trade
Primary Exports	Furs, preserved meats, fine timber, hunting falcons, and artisanal bows and arrows
Current Ruler	Lord Eadric Wilthorne (nominally), but the settlement is effectively leaderless
Government Type	Previously overseen by noble estate holders; now operates on a loose communal survival structure
Defenses	Naturally protected by dense forests and rivers, but no organized military presence; some former gamekeepers and hunters act as makeshift guards
Notable Features	The Falcon’s Rest (once a training ground for hunting birds, now nearly abandoned), The Old Manors (former noble estates, now crumbling or used as communal shelters), Hunter’s Hall (meeting place for the remaining residents, now serving as a rationing station), The River Brood (main dock used for transport, now eerily quiet), The Winding Paths (a network of game trails, now more dangerous as hunters push deeper for food)
Status	Cut off from the north, struggling to survive. With the fall of Duskford, all supply chains were severed, leaving Fetterbrook without vital resources. The forests provide food, but the land was never meant to sustain an independent population. The brooks flow only south, not north, making resupply impossible. Downriver settlements now report bodies washing ashore, some marked with the Blight, others unscathed but lifeless. The town’s future is bleak—those who remain either believe salvation will come, or they are too afraid to leave.

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Notable Establishments

The Falcon’s Rest

Once a renowned training ground for hunting birds, the Falcon’s Rest was where nobles bred and trained falcons for sport and prestige. The high stone perches and wooden aviaries still stand, though most of the birds have either starved or flown away. Only a handful remain, kept by a few dedicated falconers who refuse to abandon them. Some believe that if they can keep the falcons alive, they may yet find a way to trade them for supplies—if anyone is left to buy.

The Old Manors

Scattered across the forest, the noble estates of Fetterbrook were once grand homes of leisure, filled with roaring hearths, fine tapestries, and well-stocked cellars. Now, many of them are abandoned, their windows dark and their gardens overgrown. Some have been repurposed into makeshift communal shelters, where those left behind try to survive. Others remain locked and sealed, their former owners having fled in haste, leaving behind only empty halls and forgotten luxuries that no one can afford to care for anymore.

Hunter’s Hall

This wooden longhouse was once the center of Fetterbrook’s hunting community, where skilled bowyers and trackers shared their kills and traded furs. Now, it serves as a rationing station and gathering place for the survivors. Every day, hunters return here with whatever they can find—deer, rabbits, even squirrels—and the meat is divided among those who remain. Disputes over food are becoming more common, and there are whispers that some hunters are keeping more for themselves than they admit.

The River Brood

The small dock that once sent boats downriver now sits eerily quiet. It was used to transport goods south, ensuring that Fetterbrook could trade with distant villages. Now, it holds only empty moorings and forgotten fishing nets, the water lapping softly against the wood. No one sails from Fetterbrook anymore—not when the river brings only the dead. Those who live near the water refuse to speak of it, but they all know what’s being found further downstream.