Faulmoor Overview
AnI Explorer’shave Account:journeyed Intofar across the Rotting Heartlands of Faulmoor
Norvostra, Ibut hadnone heardhave talesleft such an imprint upon my mind as the accursed region of Faulmoor. beforeA Iland setonce footspoken uponof for its soddenstark soil—whispersbeauty ofand arugged landwilderness, whereit now lies ravaged under the fogoppressive never lifts, where the dead outnumber the living, and where even the trees seem to lean in close, listening. Now, as I trudge through this mire-ridden expanse, I find those tales were but feeble echoesweight of the truth. Faulmoor is worse than legend claims.
The ground itself shifts like a restless beast beneath my boots, treacherous and untrustworthy. One moment, the path is firm, the next, I am knee-deep in sucking mud that clings as though it wishes to pull me into the depths. The stench of stagnant water and rot lingers in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of distant pyres—whole villages burned to the ground in desperate attempts to cleanse the Rotmire Blight. The air here is thick, not just with dampness and decay, but with an overwhelming sense of despair. The land itself fights against travelers, as treacherous marshlands, dense forests, and the imposing Ash Peaks loom ominously over the cursed expanse. These jagged mountains, standing defiantly at the heart of Faulmoor, conceal abandoned mines and ancient secrets within their mist-shrouded slopes.
The Rotmirejourney Blight:through Athe LandWeeping ChokedFen and Siltmarsh tested the limits of my endurance. Mud and water pull at every step, and one must always be wary of what lingers beneath the surface. Disease festers in Plague
the stagnant pools, and worse yet, unnatural horrors seem drawn to the unwary.
ItAt the heart of this forsaken land lies Valkenheim, a city that still clings to the illusion of order. Its towering walls, once meant to keep invaders at bay, now serve to hold its own people within. The Baron's rule is one of iron and isolation, the populace suffering under harsh quarantines and unrelenting scrutiny. While it remains one of the last bastions of civilization in Faulmoor, I wonder if it is truly the Blight or the city's own fear that will be its undoing.
Further to the west, Blackholt Fort has beenbecome twoa yearsplace sinceof last refuge. It was once a mighty symbol of military strength, but now it groans under the blightweight firstof tookcountless hold,displaced souls seeking shelter. The fort’s resources are stretched thin, and itsdesperation marklingers uponin every corridor. In contrast, Greymire thrives in the landshadows, isa unmistakable.haven Quarantinefor wardssmugglers litterand those who would take advantage of the regiondesperate. likeIf tombstones,one placeshas oncethe teemingcoin—or withthe lifenerve—anything nowcan reducedbe bought in Greymire, from supplies to grim,secrets silentbest husks.left Noburied.
I passed through theOldfen, outskirtsor at least, what remains of Ashenmoor,it. whereThe town has been reduced to a graveyard, its streets haunted by the signsmemories of sufferingthose werewho stillonce fresh.lived Barricadesthere. Similarly, Ashenmoor remains a settlement in denial, its people clinging to a future that no longer exists. In the southern reaches, the Harrowgate Ruins whisper their forgotten secrets to those willing to listen, drawing both zealots and scholars in equal measure.
The noble houses of rottingFaulmoor wood,remain scrawledensnared within desperatetheir warnings—KEEPceaseless OUT,struggle THEfor DEADpower. WALK—stoodHouse asValkenmar, ruling from Valkenheim, has turned to ruthless enforcement to keep control. The people resent their heavy hand, yet none dare oppose them outright. Meanwhile, House Wilthorne, based in Ebonmere, sees opportunity in the onlyBaron's barrierfaltering betweengrip, thequietly livingdiverting worldresources and whateverinfluence festersin within.their Ifavor. didThen notthere dareis House Harrowden, once insignificant, now holding wealth that makes even Valkenheim take notice. The silver veins of their domain ensure they remain relevant, though how long that will last remains to linger.be seen.
Even outside the quarantined zones, fear grips the land like a vice. Travelers are few, their faces hidden behind cloth masks soakedSurvival in bitterFaulmoor herbs.is Thosean who remain in these forsaken lands watch from behind shuttered windows, unwilling to greet strangers for fearordeal of what they might bring.will. Trust is a deadrare currency in Faulmoor.
The Warring Houses: A Broken Rule
Though the blight has brought Faulmoor to its knees, the noble houses cling to power like drowning men grasping at driftwood. House Valkenmar, the so-called rulers of this festering barony, still maintain their hold over Blackholt Fortcommodity, and Valkenlheim,desperation butbreeds their strength is waning. Their bannermen patrol the roads, not to keep order, but to ensure their own survival. I have seen them—gaunt men in rusted armor, more akin to brigands than knights.
Further north, House Wilthorne of Ebonmoor is no better, ruling from their mist-choked keep, Rimewatch. Rumors tell of a sickness within their halls, one they refuse to acknowledge.cruelty. And then there is House Harrowden of Fenmire, their lands half-drowned by the encroaching tide of the Siltmarsh. They have always been a desperate people, but now, they are something worse—cornered.
These houses conspire, even as the land rots beneath them. I have overheard whispers in roadside taverns—plans to seize what little remains before the blight takes it all. The plague may be their common enemy, but old grudges die hard in Faulmoor.
The Roads to the Dead
If one can call them roads at all. What little infrastructure remains is crumbling, neglected for years as survival takes precedence over governance. The old stone bridges are cracked and coated in moss, their foundations eaten away by the ceaseless damp. The main thoroughfares, those that once carried merchants and soldiers, are little more than winding trails of mud and broken carts. The dead outnumber the living here, not in bodies, but in presence.
I have traveled to many forsaken places, but Faulmoor weighs upon me differently. The air is too thick, the silence too deep, as if the land itself knows its time is running out. I had intended to press further—to see the ruins of Harrowgate, to follow the western paths toward Weeping Fen—butyet, as I sittravel beneaththese thelands, rottedI boughssee glimmers of adefiance, gnarledof tree,hope scratchingnot theseyet wordsextinguished. intoThe myRotmire journal,Blight may have claimed much, but those who still call Faulmoor home are not yet defeated. Their battle against decay and despair is one I findwill myselfnot hesitating.soon forget.
There is something wrong with this land. Not just the plague. Not just the politics.
Something deeper. Something old. Something waiting.
—From the journal of Aeldric Voss, Explorer of the Lost Lands