Faulmoor Overview
An Explorer’s Account: Into the Rotting Heart of Faulmoor
I had heard tales of Faulmoor before I set foot upon its sodden soil—whispers ofis a land wheresteeped thein fog never lifts,sorrow, 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.Rotmire FaulmoorBlight ispresses worse than legend claims.
The ground itself shifts like a restless beast beneath my boots, treacherous and untrustworthy. One moment,against the pathhearts isof firm,its people as surely as the next,thick I am knee-deep in sucking mudfog that clings as though it wishes to pullits me into the depths.marshes. The stenchair ofis stagnant water and rot lingers in the air, minglingheavy with decay, carrying the acrid scent of distantdamp pyres—wholeearth, villagesstagnant burnedwater, toand something far fouler—the distant, cloying rot of the grounddead. in desperate attempts to cleanseIn the Rotmiresecond Blight.
The Rotmire Blight: A Land Choked in Plague
It has been two years sinceof the blight first took hold, and its mark uponBlight, the land is unmistakable.neither Quarantinefully wardsconsumed litternor truly untouched, existing in a purgatory of slow decline. The deeper reaches of the regionswamps like tombstones, places once teemingpulse with lifethe nowfoul reducedsickness, toand grim,abandoned silenthamlets husks.sag No one enters these wards—not unless they have a death wish. I passed throughbeneath the outskirtsweight of Ashenmoor,creeping wheremold theand signsdeathless ofhunger. sufferingBut wereFaulmoor is not yet lost—its roads are 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 quarantined 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 totraveled, its knees,villages the noble housesstill cling to powerlife, likeand drowningits menpeople graspingstill atfight driftwood.for whatever scraps remain.
At the heart of this festering land stands Valkenheim, a fortress-city of iron discipline and cold sacrifice, the seat of House Valkenmar,. Its walls rise like blackened teeth against the so-calledsky, rulersunyielding against both the Blight and the desperation of thisthose festeringwho barony,would stillseek maintainshelter theirwithin. holdThe overnobility Blackholthere Fortrule andwith Valkenlheim,unflinching butcruelty, theirsacrificing strength is waning. Their bannermen patrol the roads, notthousands to keep order,the butsickness toat ensurebay. their own survival. I have seen them—gaunt men in rusted armor, more akin to brigands than knights.
Further north,Eastward, 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. And then there is House Harrowden of FenmireVexenford, their lands half-drowned by the encroaching tide of the Siltmarsh. They have always beenonce a desperatethriving people,stronghold, butnow now, they are something worse—cornered.
These houses conspire, evenserves 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 windinga trailscheckpoint of mudsuffering, where enforced quarantine and brokenruthless carts.order Thehave dead outnumberturned the livingstreets here,into nota incage bodies,of butslow, ininevitable presence.death.
IBeyond havethese traveledbastions toof many forsaken places, but Faulmoor weighs upon me differently. The air is too thick, the silence too deep, as ifpower, the land itselfbecomes knowswild and lawless. The smuggler’s haven of Greymire thrives in the chaos, where silver changes hands as swiftly as knives in the dark. Here, anything can be bought—false identities, stolen relics, desperate passage through forbidden lands—but nothing is ever free. Further inland, Oldfen, known as the Walled Grave, stands as a grotesque monument to House Valkenmar’s unyielding containment policies. Its crumbling barricades now serve only to trap the shambling remnants of its timeformer inhabitants, their hollowed moans carried by the wind as a warning to those who would seek escape.
The tragedy of Ashenmoor plays out in slow motion, its people trapped between denial and doom. Here, the half-built barricades were meant to keep the dead out, but instead, they now serve only to remind its survivors that the walls were never finished. Every night, the undead scratch at the wood, dragging themselves forward with relentless, mindless hunger. Blackholt Fort, once a proud military stronghold, has become a sanctuary of last resort, its halls crammed with desperate souls. The once-disciplined soldiers stationed there have become little more than glorified wardens, struggling to keep both the refugees and their own dwindling morale in check.
To the east, the Ash Peaks loom like silent sentinels, their jagged heights untouched by the sickness that festers below. The mountains remain wild and unclaimed, their deep caves whispering of secrets that have lain buried for centuries. The few who dare the heights speak of ancient ruins, forgotten paths, and relics of power waiting to be unearthed.
Further south, Southvale stands as a bitter testament to human greed. What was once an idyllic village, a place of rolling green pastures and slow-moving rivers, has been devoured by the wealth it once welcomed. The elite fled to Southvale in the early days of the Blight, believing it to be a temporary refuge, but when the sickness did not fade, they made their stay permanent. Now, their lavish manors rise like monuments to excess, while the original residents are crushed beneath their bootheels. Food is runninghoarded, out.prices Iare hadgouged, intendedand the people starve as the rich revel in their illusion of safety. But vengeance moves in the shadows—the Copper Judge, a faceless executioner, leaves a trail of corrupt aristocrats choking on their own wealth, copper coins stuffed into their lifeless mouths.
And beyond it all, half-swallowed by the marshlands, the Harrowgate Ruins stand as a testament to pressa further—toforgotten seeage. Buried beneath thick brambles and drowned in stagnant waters, the ruins ofhum Harrowgate,with an eerie presence. Some claim to followhear whispers on the westernwind, pathsvoices towardfrom Weepingan Fen—butage aslong Ipast, sitcalling out to those who dare disturb their slumber. Others seek the lost relics hidden beneath the rotted boughsstone—artifacts of a gnarledworld tree,before scratchingthe thesesickness, wordsbefore intothe my journal, I find myself hesitating.fall.
ThereFaulmoor is somethingneither wrongfully dead nor truly alive. It is a land in twilight, teetering on the edge of oblivion. The Blight spreads, but not with thisthe land.mindless Nothunger justof a wildfire—it is slow, insidious, creeping like roots beneath the plague.soil, Notready justto strangle the politics.
Somethingremnants deeper.of Somethingcivilization old.when Somethingthey waiting.
—Fromexpect it. The nobles fight to maintain their fractured dominion, the journalcommon offolk Aeldricstruggle Voss,to Explorersurvive, and in the dark corners of the Lostland, Landsthe dead whisper and wait.
When Faulmoor finally falls, it will not be to war or conquest. It will be to rot, ruin, and the simple, inevitable weight of time.