Faulmoor

An Explorer’s Account: Into the Rotting Heart of Faulmoor

I had heard tales of Faulmoor isbefore I set foot upon its sodden soil—whispers of a land where the fog 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 echoes of starkthe contrasts,truth. onceFaulmoor is worse than legend claims.

The ground itself shifts like a regionrestless 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 ruggedstagnant beauty,water nowand overshadowedrot bylingers in the relentlessair, spreadmingling with the acrid scent of distant pyres—whole villages burned to the ground in desperate attempts to cleanse the Rotmire Blight.

The terrainRotmire Blight: A Land Choked in Plague

It has been two years since the blight first took hold, and its mark upon the land is definedunmistakable. byQuarantine treacherouswards marshlands,litter densethe forests,region like tombstones, places once teeming with life now reduced to grim, silent husks. No one enters these wards—not unless they have a death wish. I passed through the outskirts of Ashenmoor, where the signs of suffering were still fresh. Barricades of rotting wood, scrawled with desperate warnings—KEEP OUT, THE DEAD WALK—stood as the only barrier between the living world and whatever festers within. I did not dare to linger.

Even outside the imposingquarantined zones, fear grips the land like a vice. Travelers are few, their faces hidden behind cloth masks soaked in bitter herbs. Those who remain in these forsaken lands watch from behind shuttered windows, unwilling to greet strangers for fear of what they might bring. Trust is a dead 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. AshHouse PeaksValkenmar, whichthe concealso-called long-abandonedrulers minesof this festering barony, still maintain their hold over Blackholt Fort and hiddenValkenlheim, secretsbut 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 mist-coveredhalls, slopes.one they refuse to acknowledge. 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.

TheThese landscapehouses includesconspire, perilous wetlands sucheven as the Weepingland Fenrots 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 Siltmarsh,coated wherein stagnantmoss, waterstheir foundations eaten away by the ceaseless damp. The main thoroughfares, those that once carried merchants and shiftingsoldiers, groundare makelittle travelmore hazardous.than Diseasewinding trails of mud and unnaturalbroken creaturescarts. areThe ever-presentdead threatsoutnumber the living here, not in thesebodies, desolatebut regions.in presence.

AtI have traveled to many forsaken places, but Faulmoor weighs upon me differently. The air is too thick, the heartsilence too deep, as if the land itself knows its time is running out. I had intended to press further—to see the ruins of FaulmoorHarrowgate, liesto Valkenheim,follow the capitalwestern citypaths andtoward Weeping Fen—but as I sit beneath the lastrotted great bastion of civilization in the region. Its towering walls, originally constructed for protection, now serve to imprison its people under strict quarantine measures. The ruling House Valkenmar enforces rigid control in an effort to contain the Blight, fostering resentment among the populace.

Further west, Blackholt Fort has become a place of last refuge, overwhelmed with displaced survivors seeking shelter. The fort struggles with dwindling resources and an uncertain future. Meanwhile, Greymire thrives in the shadows, functioning as a haven for smugglers, traders, and those seeking to profit from the region’s misery.

Several other settlements bear the weight of Faulmoor’s decline. Oldfen stands as a ruined graveyardboughs of a once-thrivinggnarled town,tree, abandonedscratching tothese words into my journal, I find myself hesitating.

There is something wrong with this land. Not just the Blight.plague. AshenmoorNot remains defiant, its people unwilling to abandon their home despitejust the loomingpolitics.

threat.

Something Thedeeper. HarrowgateSomething Ruins,old. buriedSomething inwaiting.

—From the marshlands, attract scholars and zealots alike, all seeking to uncover long-forgotten mysteries.

The region is politically fractured, with noble houses vying for power and control. House Valkenmar maintains its grip over Valkenheim, enforcing order through strict governance and quarantine policies. House Wilthorne, ruling from Ebonmere, sees an opportunity to strengthen its influence by manipulating trade and supply routes. House Harrowden, once dismissed as irrelevant, has gained newfound power through controljournal of richAeldric silverVoss, veins,Explorer a resource crucial for combatingof the Blight’sLost undead horrors.

Faulmoor is a region on the edge of collapse, its people forced to navigate a harsh and uncertain future. Trust is scarce, and desperation drives many to ruthless acts of survival. Despite the widespread decay and despair, there are those who refuse to surrender to the Blight, determined to fight against the slow, inevitable decline of their homeland.

 

Lands