Fenmire Locations
Fenmire, the most forsaken region of Faulmoor, is a vast expanse of deep bogs, brackish fens, and mist-choked waterways stretching toward the Greymere Sea. The land is half-drowned, characterized by sinking peat, twisted mangroves, and decaying reeds, making travel treacherous. Villages, when they can be built at all, are precariously perched atop raised wooden platforms, stilts, or half-sunken ruins from ages past, a patchwork of resilience against a land that does not welcome habitation.
Fenwatch
By Mire and Might.
Fenwatch is no jewel, no grand city of polished stone and gold. It is wood and iron, grit and toil, built by those who endure, not those who dream. The swamp rises to claim it, the Blight knocks at its gates, but we remain. We do not bow, we do not flee—Fenwatch stands because we have made it so.
— Lord Garric Harrowden
Fenwatch, the capital of Fenmire, began as little more than a trading post—a foothold carved from the swamp where merchants, trappers, and fortune-seekers could rest before delving deeper into the marsh. Positioned at the confluence of several navigable waterways, it became the ideal basecamp for those looking to exploit the riches of the fens. The original settlers were not noble pioneers but opportunists, drawn by the promise of wealth and the ease of taking advantage of the more primitive locals who had long called the marsh home. What started as a loose collection of shacks and market stalls soon grew into something more permanent.
As trade flourished, Fenwatch transformed into an established settlement, its rough-hewn buildings giving way to sturdier wooden structures built upon raised platforms to combat the ever-present floodwaters. Buildings are reinforced with thick pilings driven deep into the swampy earth, using a mixture of treated timber and stone salvaged from long-forgotten ruins to provide stability. The streets are little more than interconnected boardwalks and rope bridges, winding above the murky waters below. Some wealthier merchants and officials have invested in stone foundations, raising their homes above the marsh on fortified stilts, while others make use of intricate drainage systems and flood barriers fashioned from reclaimed iron and heavy wooden beams. The town’s defenses are makeshift but effective—watchtowers made of ironwood overlook the water routes, while palisades and spiked barricades form a rudimentary perimeter against both the dangers of the wild and the ambitions of rival factions.
House Harrowden came into control of Fenwatch not through conquest, but through necessity. In its early days, Fenwatch was little more than a lawless frontier town, ruled by competing factions of smugglers, mercenaries, and self-proclaimed merchant lords. When House Harrowden, a minor noble house at the time, established itself in Fenmire, it sought to bring order to the chaos—not out of benevolence, but out of a desire to claim the wealth flowing through the settlement. Using a combination of brute force, strategic alliances, and control over vital supply chains, they gradually outmaneuvered their rivals and declared themselves the region’s rightful rulers. Their authority was tenuous at first, but their discovery of the silver mines in Thornmere changed everything.
The discovery of silver beneath the fens transformed Fenwatch from a lawless backwater into a capital of consequence. The influx of wealth allowed House Harrowden to fortify its hold, hiring mercenaries to crush resistance and investing in infrastructure to make Fenwatch more than a ramshackle outpost. Harrowden, despite his brutish reputation, has always longed for the respect of the Baron and the noble houses of Faulmoor. He has poured resources into refining Fenwatch, constructing a central stronghold on higher ground where the swamp gives way to firmer land. This fortress, known as Harrow’s Rest, is built from imported stone and iron, a stark contrast to the decaying wood of the lower town. It serves as both a symbol of Harrowden’s power and a desperate plea for legitimacy in the eyes of his noble peers.
The arrival of the Rotmire Blight struck fear into the heart of Fenwatch, forcing the town to take drastic measures to survive. Unlike other settlements that were sealed behind stone walls, Fenwatch had no choice but to adapt its defenses against both the infected and the unforgiving marsh. Those suspected of carrying the Blight are swiftly exiled, cast into the swamp or sent adrift on makeshift rafts with no hope of return. House Harrowden has imposed strict quarantines, using hired enforcers and mercenaries to patrol the streets and enforce martial law. Infected bodies are burned on great pyres along the riverbanks, their smoke thick and acrid, a warning to all who enter.
Trade has been tightly controlled, with merchants forced to undergo rigorous inspections before being allowed to enter the city. Many attempt to bribe their way through, leading to a rise in corruption and underground smuggling. The price of silver has soared, as desperate nobles and warriors seek weapons to defend themselves from the horrors of the Blight. Some whisper that House Harrowden hoards the best supplies for itself, ensuring its own survival while the common folk are left to fend for scraps.
Fenwatch exists in a state of constant tension. It is a place of opportunity and lawlessness, where merchants and smugglers conduct business in equal measure, and where silver from the Thornmere Mines flows through shadowy hands before making its way to the rest of Faulmoor. The nobility’s grip is weak, with power shifting between ruthless merchant lords, hardened mercenaries, and those willing to do whatever it takes to survive. House Harrowden claims dominion over the town, but its rule is enforced by a patchwork of local enforcers, hired blades, and those who see value in maintaining the illusion of order.
Despite its dangers, Fenwatch remains the heart of Fenmire, the only semblance of civilization in a land that resists it at every turn. It is a place where fortunes are made and lives are lost with equal swiftness, where the scent of damp wood and river rot lingers in the air, and where the distant glow of swamp lanterns flicker like ghosts in the mist. Those who come to Fenwatch seeking wealth may find it, but the mire does not give without taking something in return.
Detailed Overview
| Attribute | Details |
|---|---|
| Region | Fenmire |
| Ruling House | House Harrowden |
| Population (Before Blight) | ~2,500 (A growing marshland town and trade hub) |
| Population (After Blight) | ~1,400 (Decline due to disease, forced conscription, and loss of workers to the mines) |
| Major Industries | Silver mining, fishing, smuggling, and black market trade |
| Primary Exports | Silver (from Thornmere Mines), preserved fish, marshland herbs and alchemical ingredients |
| Current Ruler | Lord Harrowden |
| Government Type | Feudal rule, dominated by House Harrowden, with local enforcers keeping order through intimidation and force |
| Defenses | Wooden palisade reinforced with scavenged stone, watchtowers overlooking the marsh, and a fortified bridge leading to Thornmere Mines |
| Notable Features | Thornmere Mines (rich in silver but nearly exhausted), Harrow’s Rest (Lord Harrowden’s fortified estate), The Sunken Stoat (infamous marsh tavern and smuggler haunt) |
| Status | Struggling but still holding, with increasing reliance on the mines, rising tensions over silver control, and growing fear of an approaching Blight outbreak |
Notable Establishments
The Sunken Stoat
A decrepit but lively tavern built atop half-collapsed docks, it serves as a meeting place for smugglers, mercenaries, and desperate travelers looking for work or passage deeper into the fens. Run by a one-eyed former pirate named Gideon Blacktide, it is known for its questionable ale and even more questionable clientele.
Harrow’s Rest
The fortified keep of House Harrowden, constructed of imported stone and iron, looming over the town as both a seat of power and a reminder of Harrowden’s aspirations. It is heavily guarded and only those with business or favor are permitted entry.
The Drowned Market
A floating bazaar where traders peddle goods salvaged from the swamp, from rare herbs to rusted relics of the past. Here, one can find everything from alchemical reagents to forbidden artifacts, though prices—and risks—are high.
Mirefield
Where Loyalty Stands Unshaken
We do not yield, we do not falter. Let the Blight claw at our gates, let the faithless whisper of our ruin—I will not let Mirefield fall. We hold the line, not just for ourselves, but for all of Fenmire. If the world must break, then we will be the last unbroken piece of it.
— Governor Marla Harrowden
Mirefield stands as one of the last bastions of order in the collapsing landscape of Fenmire, its loyalty to House Harrowden unwavering even as the Blight encroaches from the north. Once a thriving trade town, its connection to the greater region was severed when Gristmere fell, cutting off the main land route and forcing its people to rely on a precarious network of ferries and island-hopping to reach Fenwatch. Though still functional, this method of travel is unreliable, and with each passing week, the distance between Mirefield and the rest of Fenmire grows ever wider.
Governor Marla Harrowden, daughter of Lord Harrowden, rules Mirefield with an iron will, determined to protect the stronghold her father entrusted to her. A leader both pragmatic and unyielding, she has taken extreme measures to ensure Mirefield remains secure. Fortifications have been strengthened, and she has overseen the construction of stone walls at the old mountain passes, sealing them off to prevent the spread of the infected. She knows it is only a matter of time before the sickness finds another way through, but she refuses to let Mirefield succumb without a fight.
Before the Blight, Mirefield was a bustling waypoint, its market square filled with traders from across Fenmire. The town flourished due to its strong natural defenses, access to stone, and well-maintained roads that connected it to Gristmere and beyond. Inns bustled with travelers, blacksmiths worked tirelessly to supply tools and weapons, and the harbor was alive with ferries transporting goods and people. Now, those same ferries are the town’s lifeline, their crews navigating the treacherous waters between the scattered islands and Fenwatch, desperately trying to keep Mirefield from being entirely cut off.
The fall of Gristmere sent waves of desperate refugees southward, many of whom reached Mirefield before the Blight swallowed their home. The town swelled beyond its capacity, its once-orderly streets now crowded with makeshift shelters, ration lines, and an air of quiet desperation. The refugees, though grateful for sanctuary, have become both a strain and a necessity—extra mouths to feed, but also hands to build, guard, and fight. Mirefield is no longer just a fortified town; it is a city on the edge, bracing for the inevitable siege of death and decay.
Despite its growing isolation, Mirefield remains a key stronghold for House Harrowden, and its people are fiercely loyal. The town's fortifications and disciplined leadership have kept it from falling into chaos, unlike so many other settlements in Fenmire. Its stone walls, originally built for defense against raiders, are now lined with watchtowers, each manned with archers and sentries who rotate shifts in constant vigilance. The town's armory has been expanded, and makeshift barracks have been constructed to house a standing militia, trained daily under Marla’s strict command. Supply caches have been hidden in case of siege, and well-armed patrols sweep through the outskirts to ensure no infected strays too close to the town’s perimeter.
The increased fortifications and influx of soldiers have made Mirefield feel less like a town and more like a fortress. Blacksmiths work day and night forging weapons, while merchants carefully ration their dwindling supplies, knowing that resupply runs to Fenwatch are growing increasingly dangerous. Religious shrines that once welcomed weary travelers now host fearful gatherings, as priests whisper prayers for protection, their voices tinged with uncertainty. The streets are quieter now, the once-lively markets reduced to rationed trade, and the people have learned to live in wary expectation of the inevitable.
Detailed Overview
| Attribute | Details |
|---|---|
| Region | Fenmire |
| Ruling House | House Harrowden |
| Population (Before Blight) | ~3,000 (A prosperous trade and military town) |
| Population (After Blight) | ~4,500 (Influx of Gristmere refugees and displaced survivors) |
| Major Industries | Military defense, blacksmithing, ferry trade, stone masonry |
| Primary Exports | Weapons, armor, stone, preserved food rations |
| Current Ruler | Governor Marla Harrowden (Daughter of Lord Harrowden) |
| Government Type | Military governance under House Harrowden |
| Defenses | Thick stone walls reinforced with watchtowers and barricades, mountain passes sealed with fortifications, armed patrols along the perimeter, hidden supply caches |
| Notable Features | The Bastion Hall (military command center), The Anvil & Ash (blacksmithing guild), The Stone Drake Inn (fortified refuge for travelers and soldiers), The Drowned Bell Tavern (a haven for ferrymen and smugglers), The Hall of the Last Ember (a temple turned into a place of desperate worship) |
| Status | On high alert; growing isolation and dwindling supplies make survival uncertain, but its people remain fiercely loyal to House Harrowden and willing to fight to the end. Concern over Weeping Fen and the mysterious force calling itself The Last God grows daily. |
Notable Establishments
The Bastion Hall
The heart of Mirefield’s governance and military coordination, this fortified stone structure serves as both Marla Harrowden’s seat of power and the town’s command center. It houses war rooms, supply caches, and quarters for key officials and officers overseeing the town’s defenses. Refugees seeking aid or conscripts looking for orders often gather outside its reinforced doors.
The Anvil & Ash
A once-thriving blacksmithing guild now reduced to a grim forge of necessity, producing weapons, armor, and fortifications instead of merchant goods. The forge burns day and night, run by master smith Jorel Tallow, whose calloused hands and relentless work have made him one of Mirefield’s most respected figures.
The Stone Drake Inn
A sturdy, fortified inn that has become a vital refuge for weary travelers, soldiers, and refugees alike. Unlike its past, when it welcomed merchants and noble visitors, the inn now serves as a hub for rationed meals, heated debates, and the occasional drunken brawl between displaced men desperate for some illusion of normalcy. Its owner, Elsha Varren, holds her ground, ensuring order within its walls.
The Drowned Bell Tavern
A rough, dimly lit watering hole near the harbor, named for the sunken ship bell that serves as its entrance marker. It caters to ferrymen, mercenaries, and those willing to trade in the gray areas of Mirefield’s struggling economy. While Mirefield enforces strict control over its resources, rumors say the tavern’s backrooms serve as a meeting place for smugglers and those who deal in contraband.
Gristmere
A Town Swallowed by Mire and Blight
We had no choice. The bridges had to burn, lest the Blight cross with them. I tell myself this, over and over, yet still, I see their faces in the flames. And if faced with the choice again, I would set them alight without hesitation.
— Lord Harrowden, on the fall of Gristmere.
Gristmere is a drowned husk of a town, its remains half-sunken in the endless mire, claimed by the Rotmire Blight and abandoned to the creeping decay of the swamp. Once a thriving settlement on the fringes of Fenmire, Gristmere was known for its resilience, its people hardened by generations of struggle against the marshlands. Raised walkways and stilts kept the homes and structures above the ever-encroaching waters, and trade flowed through its narrow canals, bringing wealth and survival to those who called it home. Now, all that remains is ruin and silence.
The fall of Gristmere was a devastating blow to Fenmire, as it served as a crucial junction along the main roads leading to the settlements of Mirefield and Weeping Fen. With its loss, travel and trade to the southwest were severely disrupted, leaving those settlements isolated and more vulnerable to the slow spread of the Blight. Merchants and travelers now take dangerous detours through unstable marshland, where the risk of ambush by the desperate or infected grows with each passing day.
The Blight came swiftly to Gristmere, slipping through the waterways and spreading like a sickness that could not be stopped. In a desperate effort to contain the infection, House Harrowden implemented strict quarantine measures. A perimeter of wooden barricades was constructed along the main roads, and guards stationed at checkpoints turned back refugees, unwilling to risk the spread of the Blight. Any who attempted to leave without sanction were met with cold steel, and rumors tell of entire families being forced back into the doomed town to meet their fate. Despite these efforts, the quarantine ultimately failed.
When the dead began to rise from the blackened waters, the barricades were abandoned, and House Harrowden, unwilling to expend resources to reclaim the settlement, declared it lost and set fire to the bridges that once connected it to the rest of Fenmire. What little remains of its walkways and stilted homes are now half-submerged, the water swallowing them piece by piece. The only movement that stirs among its decaying structures is the slow lurch of the dead, still bound to the place they once lived.
Now, Gristmere is a skeletal wreck, its once-thriving canals now filled with stagnant black water and broken timbers jutting from the depths like rotting teeth. The skeletal remains of its raised walkways loom over the mire, many collapsed into the murky swamp below, while others creak with the weight of decay, barely holding together. Crooked stilted houses lean at unnatural angles, their roofs caved in, their windows shattered, their interiors swallowed by creeping vines and waterlogged rot. The old market square, once the town’s heart, is now little more than a half-submerged ruin, where the tops of merchant stalls barely breach the waterline, their wooden beams softened and bloated from years of exposure.
Despite its desolation, Gristmere is not entirely forgotten. The desperate and the foolish still seek it out—smugglers hoping to use its ruins as a hidden waypoint, scavengers looking for valuables left behind, or outcasts with nowhere else to go. Those who venture too deep rarely return, their bodies joining the restless dead beneath the water. Some say the Blight lingers here in ways unseen, that the mist carries whispers, and that those who breathe too deeply feel something creeping into their bones.
Nowadays, Gristmere holds an even more unique interest, as it is believed that a lost silver shipment remains hidden somewhere within its ruins. This shipment, originally bound for Mirefield, was overtaken during the town’s final days, vanishing into the depths of the waterlogged streets. Whether stolen by desperate survivors, lost in the chaos, or buried beneath collapsed buildings, the silver remains unclaimed—drawing treasure hunters and mercenaries willing to risk the dangers of the Blight for the chance at unimaginable wealth. House Harrowden has offered no official comment on the matter, but whispers suggest that they still seek their lost treasure, quietly dispatching agents into the ruins in hopes of reclaiming what was once theirs.
Legends persist of something deeper within the ruins—a presence that watches, waiting beneath the waterlogged streets. Strange lights flicker within the mist at night, shadows shift where none should be, and those who camp near the ruins speak of dreams that feel too real, as if something in Gristmere does not wish to be forgotten. House Harrowden refuses to speak of the town, and those who know its history choose to forget. Whatever Gristmere once was, it is now a graveyard, its secrets drowned beneath the endless swamp.
Bogsend
The Last Haven of the Lost
The world out there is dying, but not here. Not in Bogsend. We are not the lost—we are the ones who endure, the ones who build while others crumble. Let the Blight take its cities, let the lords war over their ruins. We have carved a life from this land, and when the rest of the world falls, we will remain. Strong, free, and unbroken.
— Captain Dain Harthollow, Veteran of Faulmoor
Bogsend, despite its name, stands as an unlikely refuge from the horrors of the Rotmire Blight. Tucked away in a remote expanse of fertile marshland, the settlement thrives where others have withered. Though difficult to reach, with only treacherous footpaths and winding waterways leading to it, Bogsend enjoys an unexpected bounty—rich soil, ample fresh water, and a landscape that, while inhospitable to invaders, provides everything its people need to sustain themselves.
Unlike Fenwatch, which remains tightly bound to the rule of House Harrowden, Bogsend has become an independent enclave, free from the demands of the nobility and the shadow of the mines. With no proper roads leading in or out, trade is limited, but the settlement has adapted, relying on a combination of farming, foraging, and careful hunting to maintain a self-sufficient way of life. Small rice paddies and marsh-grown crops flourish where the land allows, while fishing and trapping in the endless wetlands provide a steady food supply. The people of Bogsend have little use for coin, operating on barter and mutual survival rather than outside wealth.
During the first year of the Blight, Bogsend saw an unexpected surge in population as deserting soldiers from Faulmoor fled to its isolated safety. These trained warriors, unwilling to die for doomed causes or ruthless lords, instead turned their skills to fortifying the settlement. Crude palisades were raised, watchtowers were constructed from scavenged wood, and defensive positions were established to ensure that Bogsend remained secure from both the horrors of the Blight and the reach of Fenwatch. What was once a hidden village became a more structured and well-defended haven, its population growing not just in numbers but in capability.
The soldiers who settled in Bogsend consider themselves free men, unbound by the commands of lords or generals. However, they share a grim conviction—when the world succumbs to the Blight, they will be the last ones left standing. Living like doomsday sentinels, they have drilled discipline into the settlement’s people, ensuring that every able-bodied resident can fight if the need arises. They stockpile weapons, ration supplies with calculated precision, and maintain strict patrols, treating every outsider as a potential threat. While the people of Bogsend are not warmongers, they are survivalists, hardened by the belief that only the prepared will endure the final collapse.
Though they take pride in their self-sufficiency, the people of Bogsend are not above illicit dealings. Smuggling routes snake through the marshes, allowing contraband—silver, weapons, and stolen supplies—to flow in and out of the settlement without interference. Some among them have even orchestrated larger thefts from other towns and cities, targeting supply caravans and outposts with precision that suggests military training. While they justify these actions as necessary for survival, others whisper that Bogsend is becoming less of a refuge and more of a hidden power in the underbelly of Fenmire.
This isolation has made Bogsend one of the few places untouched by the Blight. While other villages fell, their people cut down or turned to horrors, Bogsend remained unseen, overlooked by both plague and the rule of men. It is a quiet place, its people wary of outsiders, especially those who come from the sickness-ridden lands beyond. Though not openly hostile, they are fiercely protective of their home and refuse to let the troubles of Fenmire seep into their secluded world.
Still, rumors persist of those seeking refuge in Bogsend, hoping to escape the Blight and the chaos of the outside world. Some arrive wounded, starved, or desperate—few are turned away outright, but those who bring trouble are swiftly dealt with. No ruler claims dominion over Bogsend, no noble decrees reach its people, and for now, at least, it remains an anomaly—an island of life in a world rotting from within.
Detailed Overview
| Attribute | Details |
|---|---|
| Region | Fenmire |
| Ruling House | None (De facto independent settlement) |
| Population (Before Blight) | ~600 (Small agricultural village) |
| Population (After Blight) | ~1,500 (Growth due to deserting soldiers and refugees) |
| Major Industries | Farming, fishing, foraging, smuggling, black market trade |
| Primary Exports | Smuggled silver, weapons, stolen goods, preserved fish, marsh-grown crops |
| Current Ruler | No formal leadership; settlement operates under a loose council of veteran soldiers and key figures |
| Government Type | Autonomous, survivalist enclave with a structured but unofficial hierarchy |
| Defenses | Wooden palisade reinforced with scavenged iron and sharpened stakes, watchtowers manned by trained sentries, heavily patrolled perimeter |
| Notable Features | The Freehold (center of governance and military planning), The Stockade (hidden supply cache and armory), The Sunken Crossroads (smuggling hub and meeting ground) |
| Status | Secure and self-sufficient, but increasingly reliant on smuggling and theft to maintain independence; highly protective of its borders and wary of outsiders |
Weeping Fen
A Town Built on Bones
At first, it was just old stone—good, solid, nothing more. We built our homes with it, walked our streets over it, never thought twice. But the deeper we dug, the stranger it became. Walls too perfect, carvings too fine, steps leading down to nothing. We weren’t just building a town—we were waking something buried beneath it. And now... I don’t think it ever went back to sleep."
— Edran Marshlow, fisherman and early settler of Weeping Fen
Weeping Fen was the newest and most promising settlement in Fenmire before the Blight, quickly establishing itself as the best fishing hub in all of Faulmoor. The waters surrounding the village teemed with life, offering a bounty of fish unseen in other parts of the region. With access to plentiful food and steady trade, it flourished, drawing settlers eager to carve out a future on the edges of the fens. What began as a modest fishing village rapidly grew into a bustling town, its economy built upon the steady rhythm of nets cast into the dark waters and the smoke of curing fish rising into the sky.
Wooden docks stretched far into the murky depths, lined with fishing boats that came and went at all hours. Large netting racks were built along the shoreline, where fish were cleaned, salted, and stored for trade. Stone smokehouses, some of which were made from the same ancient ruins the town was built upon, worked constantly to preserve the bounty of the water. The town’s market square smelled of brine and smoked fish, with traders from Fenwatch and Mirefield bartering for the finest catches. Fishmongers filled the streets, their stalls packed with fresh eel, pike, and the deep-water species unique to the region. The people of Weeping Fen lived and thrived by the water, and the town’s culture was shaped by it—songs of the sea, superstitions about the spirits that lurked beneath, and the quiet belief that the waters had always watched over them.
However, Weeping Fen was not just built upon fertile waters—it was built upon something far older. At first, the ruins beneath the village were little more than scattered stones buried in the earth, forgotten and nameless. As homes and communal buildings were raised, stones were borrowed from these ancient remains, repurposed into walls, pathways, and foundations. What was once overlooked soon became undeniable. The deeper the settlement dug, the more of the ruins they unearthed—stonework too smooth, too precise for ordinary hands to have shaped. What lay beneath Weeping Fen had been lost to time, but now, piece by piece, it was waking once more.
When the Blight came to Fenmire, Weeping Fen was spared the worst of it, its remote location and distance from major roads keeping the infection at bay. As Gristmere fell, and as Mirefield braced itself for the Blight, Weeping Fen became an unexpected sanctuary. Refugees from the north arrived in increasing numbers, bringing stories of burning towns and rising dead, of barricades torn down and desperate last stands. The village, well-fed and largely untouched, took them in, swelling in size and growing stronger as displaced people added their skills to the settlement’s prosperity.
Yet, as the Blight persisted, the people of Weeping Fen noticed a terrible change—one that began in the waters themselves. Fish, once plentiful, grew scarce. The ones that were caught showed signs of sickness—pale flesh, blackened eyes, unnatural growths along their spines. Nets hauled up horrors that should not have existed, twisted creatures that should have never been. What was once a thriving fishing town saw its livelihood dwindle, its lifeblood poisoned by the same affliction that swallowed the land. Fishermen became hunters, foragers, and scavengers, looking for other means to sustain themselves. Some adapted, but others whispered of something stirring beneath the waters—something that was changing, waiting.
For a time, Weeping Fen stood as a symbol of resilience. Mirefield, ever loyal to House Harrowden, established regular supply runs, sending weapons, tools, and cloth in exchange for shipments of fresh fish and preserved food. It was an arrangement that kept both settlements stable. Then, without warning, the deliveries stopped.
The last supply shipment from Mirefield was sent south, but the ferrymen never returned. Scouts dispatched to investigate have not come back. No messengers have emerged from the village. The waters surrounding Weeping Fen remain calm, but no boats arrive from its once-busy docks. The smokehouses no longer burn, and the scent of salted fish no longer carries on the wind. What was once a place of hope is now an ominous silence on the horizon. And in the whispers of those few who still watch the southern waters, a name has begun to spread—the name of something unknown, something unseen.
The Last God.
Detailed Overview
| Attribute | Details |
|---|---|
| Region | Faulmoor (Fenmire) |
| Ruling House | None (Previously aligned with Mirefield, now unaccounted for) |
| Population (Before Blight) | ~2,200 (Rapidly growing fishing settlement) |
| Population (After Blight) | Unknown (Last confirmed reports suggested a rise due to refugees, but recent silence raises concerns) |
| Major Industries | Fishing, fish curing, small-scale trading |
| Primary Exports | Salted and smoked fish, eel, preserved seafood, fish oil |
| Current Ruler | No confirmed leadership (Previously led by a council of prominent fishmongers and traders) |
| Government Type | Informal leadership through a town council (Status now unknown) |
| Defenses | Natural barriers of wetlands and water, limited wooden palisades, watchtowers along the shore |
| Notable Features | The Great Smokehouse (largest fish curing facility), The Tide Market (trading hub for fish and goods), The Ruined Steps (partially excavated remnants of an ancient structure beneath the town), The Fisherman's Rest (popular inn for merchants and travelers), The Drowned Altar (a recently uncovered, mysterious ruin tied to local superstitions) |
| Status | Isolated and silent; all trade and communication have ceased. Last known reports suggest possible new leadership under a force calling itself The Last God. Scouts and supply runners from Mirefield have not returned. |
Thornmere Mines
A Grave of Silver
You dig long enough in Thornmere, and the silver starts feeling less like fortune and more like a curse. The deeper we go, the stranger the earth becomes—veins that twist in ways they shouldn’t, tunnels that weren’t carved by our hands. Some men hear things in the dark. Some don’t come back at all. But so long as silver spills from these walls, the digging won’t stop.
— Foreman Vren
The Thornmere Mines are the lifeblood of Fenmire, a vast network of tunnels and shafts dug deep into the earth where veins of silver weave through the bedrock like trapped lightning. Discovered decades ago, these mines transformed Fenwatch from a lawless swamp-town into a seat of power, giving House Harrowden the wealth and leverage it needed to solidify its claim over the region.
Though the mines have brought fortune, they have also brought suffering, and those who toil within its depths know only hardship.
The entrance to the mines lies beyond the thickest part of the marsh, where the land rises just enough to hold firm beneath the weight of carts and stonework. The path leading to Thornmere is treacherous, winding through half-sunken trails, over rotting bridges, and past quagmires where the unwary vanish without a trace.
The mine itself is surrounded by a collection of crude barracks, storage buildings, and watchtowers—all constructed from waterlogged timber and reinforced with scavenged stone. Smoke rises from blacksmith forges, mixing with the ever-present mist that clings to the fens. A high palisade encircles the entrance, more to keep desperate thieves and vagrants out than to protect the workers within. Guard towers dot the perimeter, and a defensive garrison maintains a strict watch, ensuring that no one enters—or escapes—without permission.
Since the outbreak of the Rotmire Blight, security has been further tightened, with additional patrols and fortifications to prevent any risk of infection spreading through the workforce. Silver has become more valuable than ever, both as currency and as a weapon against the Blight, making the mines a critical stronghold for House Harrowden.
Inside, the mines are a labyrinth of damp tunnels, echoing with the distant sound of pickaxes striking stone. The walls glisten in the dim lantern light, streaked with veins of silver that seem to pulse when caught at the right angle. Many who work here are prisoners, debtors, or those too poor to refuse the dangerous labor.
The poorest of Fenmire’s native marshfolk are often forced into the mines, condemned to toil away under brutal conditions. Overseers watch from makeshift platforms, their whips ready to lash out at the sluggish. Accidents are frequent—collapsing tunnels, gas pockets, and the ever-present risk of drowning when the swamp above seeps through weakened rock.
Rumors persist that Thornmere runs deeper than any map suggests, that some tunnels were not dug by mortal hands but discovered already existing. Strange symbols are occasionally found carved into the rock, too eroded to decipher, and miners whisper of voices echoing from chambers that should be empty.
Some who venture too deep return raving or do not return at all. Those who disappear are often written off as victims of the mine’s many dangers, but the stories persist—of something waiting in the dark, buried beneath Thornmere long before House Harrowden ever struck its first pick into the earth.
More recently, hushed voices in Fenwatch speak of another threat—not one lurking in the depths, but in the shallowness of the veins. There are whispers that Thornmere has been exhausted, that the once-rich veins of silver are running dry.
Some miners claim to have been sent deeper into the treacherous tunnels in search of more, despite the growing risk of collapses and unknown horrors. If the rumors are true, House Harrowden faces a dire reckoning; their power is built on silver, and without it, their grip on Fenmire may slip.
But for now, the mines continue to produce, and House Harrowden will not relinquish its grip on Thornmere, nor will it spare the lives of those who dig its wealth from the depths. The mines remain a place of opportunity and doom, where fortunes are made and lives are lost in equal measure, and where the darkness beneath the earth may hold secrets that should have remained buried.
Detailed Overview
| Attribute | Details |
|---|---|
| Region | Fenmire (Fenwatch) |
| Ownership | House Harrowden |
| Workforce (Before Blight) | ~1,200 (Miners, laborers, and overseers) |
| Workforce (After Blight) | ~800 (Forced laborers, prisoners, and dwindling workers due to deaths and disappearances) |
| Major Resource | Silver (veins nearly depleted) |
| Current Use | Mining, but also rumored to be used for secretive purposes beneath the tunnels |
| Conditions | Harsh and dangerous; collapsing tunnels, deadly gas pockets, and whispers of unnatural occurrences |
| Security | Stronger after the Blight; wooden palisades, reinforced barricades, and armed enforcers preventing escape or outside interference |
| Notable Features | The Deep Veins (dangerous lower tunnels), Overseer’s Post (fortified control hub), The Chained Pit (a shaft that descends into unexplored darkness) |
| Rumors & Mysteries | Ancient carvings deep within the tunnels, strange disappearances, and whispers of a lost chamber tied to something older than the mines |
| Status | Struggling to maintain operations; House Harrowden is desperate to keep silver flowing, despite growing dangers and unrest among the workers |
The Pale Ruins
The Drowned Halls
The Pale Ruins? A graveyard of stone and silence. People think there's treasure buried in those halls, but all I've ever found is a feeling—like something is watching, something old. The walls hum when the air is still, and the mist moves like it has purpose. I went in once. Once was enough.
— Harlan Vex, Prospector and Relic Hunter.
The Pale Ruins stand as a haunting echo of a long-forgotten past, their pale stone towers and crumbling archways rising defiantly from the marsh, half-consumed by the encroaching waters. Though partially submerged, much of their structure remains accessible, their halls and corridors winding through a history long since buried.
Before the Rotmire Blight, pilgrims would journey to the Pale Ruins, believing it to be a sacred site where the presence of the gods could still be felt. Here, they listened to the whispers carried by the winds through the hollowed chambers, seeking wisdom, revelation, or solace. Among them, those devoted to Mystra, the Weavekeeper, were most drawn to this place, believing it to be a focal point of divine energy, a vessel through which the gods' presence still flowed.
What sets the Pale Ruins apart is not just their state of preservation, but their isolation. They sit upon a lone island, surrounded by treacherous waters and tangled, mist-choked bogs. The island itself is distant from any safe harbors, requiring careful navigation through the shifting tides and unseen perils of the marsh. Yet, even if one were to find passage, the ruins lie deep within a heavily quarantined zone, their presence all but lost to time, guarded not by walls but by fear of the Rotmire Blight. No sanctioned vessel dares make the journey, and those who do attempt the crossing are either desperate or mad.
Though nature has crept into the ruins—vines twisting through ancient stone, roots cracking the once-grand foundations—there is an undeniable stillness to them, as if something lingers just beyond sight. Towering cylindrical halls stand hollow and silent, their original purpose long forgotten, while vast tunnels wind beneath the ruins, leading to chambers swallowed by darkness.
Massive stone corridors stretch outward, their arched ceilings lined with strange, rusted conduits, some broken and spilling long-dry residue onto the cracked floors. Enormous hollow chambers, circular in design, hold rings of towering stone columns, each marked with faintly glowing inlays that pulse ever so faintly in the deepest hours of night. Vast, windowless chambers bear the scars of heat and energy, their walls scorched and glasslike, as though something immense once surged through them. Thick, rusted doors, some wrenched from their hinges, others sealed with unbreakable locks, bar access to the deepest places within.
Some say the Pale Ruins are a place of power, others claim they are cursed, their halls hiding secrets better left undisturbed. Whatever the truth, few have seen them with their own eyes and returned to speak of it.
Legends persist of relics lost beneath the waters, of chambers yet untouched by time, and of whispers that rise with the mist. The ruins are not wholly abandoned; strange lights have been spotted flickering in the depths of night, and those who camp too close to the shores speak of distant voices carried on the wind. House Harrowden does not officially acknowledge the ruins, dismissing them as nothing more than drowned stone, but some whisper that their silence hides something more. Whether a forbidden history, a forgotten treasure, or something far worse, the Pale Ruins remain an enigma, their secrets waiting beneath the water and stone, for those reckless enough to seek them out.