Fenmire Overview
Fenmire isFenmire, the most forsaken region of Faulmoor,Faulmoor, is a vast, tangledvast expanse of deep bogs, brackish fens, and mist-choked waterways that stretchstretching toward the Greymere Sea. The land itself is half-drowned, acharacterized shifting mire ofby sinking peat, twisted mangroves, and decaying reedsreeds, that makesmaking travel treacherous. WhereVillages, thewhen soilthey iscan firmbe enoughbuilt toat build, villagesall, are precariously perched atop raised wooden platforms, stilts, or half-sunken ruins from anages agepast, longa past.patchwork of resilience against a land that does not welcome habitation.
The air is thick with humidity, heavy with the stench of damp rot, stagnant water, and the faint,faint sour tang of decay. Even inat the height of day,midday, low, curling mists slither through the trees and rise from the bogs, obscuring vision and muffling sound. At night, pale green wisps—known as swamp lanterns—flicker through the gloom, playing tricks on the eyes and luring the unwary deeper into the marsh.
FenmireThe land is an old place,old—far older than the noble houses and thetheir kingdomstenuous thatclaims. now squabble over it. The land is littered with ruins—half-Half-buried stonework and shattered obelisks—claimedobelisks byrise from the miremuck, centuries ago. Some say thesethe remnants belongof a civilization lost to atime. forgotten empire, others claim they markFenwatch, the gravesonly semblance of somethinga farseat older.of Whateverpower, was built upon what was once a mere trading post, growing as necessity demanded rather than through any true design. Its structures, reinforced with salvaged stone and water-resistant timber, stand as the truth,closest thosething to permanence in a place where the ground itself shifts beneath one’s feet.
Yet even here, the Blight and isolation take their toll. With the fall of Gristmere, the arteries that once connected the settlements of Fenmire to the outside world have all but collapsed. Mirefield, ever loyal to House Harrowden, has turned inward, fortifying its walls and blocking the old mountain passes in a desperate attempt to keep the horrors of the marsh at bay. Those who seekonce relied on roads now cling to unearthprecarious Fenmire’sferries, pasthopping rarelyfrom return.
Toto liveisland in Fenmirean iseffort to endure.keep trade routes open. It is toa rise each day knowingsystem that works for now, but the landwaters itselfare resents your presence,unreliable, and thatWeeping survivalFen’s issilence nothas granted—itonly is stolen fromdeepened the jawsgrowing sense of dread.
The marshfolk endure because they must. They are an insular people, pragmatic to the swamp. The peoplepoint of Fenmire, known as marshfolk, are a hard, insular people—superstitious and deeply distrustful of outsiders. They do not waste words and rarely offer help freely,cruelty, for charity in FenmireFenmire, generosity is often the death of both the giver and receiver. They aretravel accustomednot toby hunger,roads, sickness,for and hardship, but theythere are notnone, weak. Those who cannot fend for themselves are lost to the marsh, one way or another.
Settlements are small and spread thin, often built along narrow riverways or upon high ridges of solid ground. The buildings are made of waterlogged timber, woven reeds, and clay, with roofs thatched from dyed moss or dark straw. Wooden walkways and rope bridges connect homes, keeping them raised above the ever-present water.
Few roads exist here. Instead, the marshfolk travelbut by pole-boatboats orand raft,rafts, navigating the winding,dark, reed-choked waterways with long wooden poles that sink deep intowhere the blackenedland muck.itself Thoseconspires whoagainst mustthem. travelFood onis foot rely on narrow boardwalks or well-worn trails that skirt the worst of the sinking bogs. Stray too far, and the mire will claim you.
Fenmire has little in the way of farmland.hard-won. The soil is too wet, too acidic, and too poor for traditional crops,farming, forcing the marshfolkthem to ekesurvive out a living throughon fishing, foraging, and trapping.
FishingYet iseven athis wayhas become dangerous. The waters, once teeming with life, now churn with things better left undisturbed. The fish, once the lifeblood of life,Weeping butFen, have grown sick, twisted by the waterssame areaffliction treacherous.that Thenow Greymere Sea is unpredictable, andgrips the deepland. marsh hides things beneath the surface that should not be disturbed. Trappers hunt the strange and twisted creatures that call the swamp home, their skins and bones traded for coin in the few markets that still stand. Herbalists and alchemists prize the rare plants that grow only in Fenmire’s depths, from luminescent fungi to hallucinogenic swamp blossoms. Silver from Thornmere Mines is, the only true wealthsource of wealth in Fenmire, still bleed silver, but at great cost. Rumors persist that the mines have been exhausted, yet House Harrowden tightens its grip, unwilling to relinquish control of what little remains. The mines are heavily guarded, not just against would-be thieves, but against the growing number of desperate souls who would risk anything for a glimmer of silver, a chance at escape.
Some seek refuge elsewhere. Bogsend, despite its name, has become one of the last safe havens, a rare place of solid ground where deserters and evensurvivors alike have banded together to outlast the coming collapse. They call themselves free men, but they operate under the grim belief that iswhen cursedthe withworld blood.finally crumbles, they will be the only ones left standing. They are self-sufficient, yet not above taking what they need from others. Smuggling has become their currency, their lifeline. They look upon the rest of Fenmire as doomed.
DespiteDoomed theseor industries,not, hungerthe island constant.still holds its secrets. Weeping Fen was built on old bones, its people unknowingly raising homes atop something long buried. The marshdeeper givesthey littledug, the more they uncovered—walls too smooth, steps leading nowhere, carvings too precise to be the work of ordinary hands. No one thought much of it until the silence fell. No ships. No scouts. No trade. No sound but the whisper of reeds in the wind and takesthe much,name of something unknown—The Last God.
The Pale Ruins stand in eerie contrast to the rest of Fenmire. Though partially submerged, they remain intact, untouched by time in a way that defies explanation. Before the Blight, pilgrims and mystics traveled there, swearing they could hear the voices of the gods in the wind. Now, those who cannotgo findsearching enoughfor to eat often vanish in the night—either taken by the Blight, lost to the marsh, or given to whatever lurks in its depths.
There are no safe places in Fenmire, only places that are less dangerous than others. The land shifts underfoot. What is solid ground one day may be a sucking bog the next. Sinkholes swallow entire homes, and the quicksilt pits—grey-black sludge that pulls victims under—are nearly invisible beneath the water.
The deep fen breeds monsters, creatures shaped by hunger and shadow. Pale gators with rotting flesh and too many eyes. Leechmen, with swollen, pulsing throats that whisper names in the dark. Worse still are the hollow walkers—tall, spindly things that move like men but wear the stretched skin of their victims.
The Blight has spread to Fenmire, though it does not burn through the land as it does elsewhere. Here, it festers. The infected do not turn immediately. Instead, they linger—rotting, weeping, and bloating with stagnant water—until the mire swallows them, or they rise in the night, hollow and hungering.
There are places in Fenmire that do not belong to mortals. Ruins where the air hums, and the shadows seem to move on their own. Places where whispers curl through the fog, promising knowledge or madness. Those who stray into these places oftenrelics return changed—if they return at all. And beneath the mire, beneath the ruins, something stirs.
House Harrowden does not rule Fenmire. ItThey enduresendure it,it. justTheir hold on Fenwatch is tenuous, their influence fraying. Once seen as thenecessary, marshfolkthey do.are Thoughnow their seat of power remains in Fenwatch, their grip is tenuous at best. The marshfolk do not see them as lords, butviewed as a necessaryburden, evil—usefula whenforce cointhat flowstakes andwithout suppliesgiving. are plentiful, despised when hunger sets in.
Since the Blight, Housethey Harrowden hashave grown paranoidparanoid, and withdrawn. They destroyed theirdestroying bridges, severing land routesroutes, andcutting isolatingthemselves themselves.off in a misguided attempt to preserve what little they have left. Their soldiers, once seen as enforcers of the Baron’s rule,will, are now littlenothing more than marshwell-armed reavers—scavengers, taking what they need fromunder theirthe own people to ensure their own survival.
The lordpretense of Houselaw. HarrowdenTheir islord, a bitter, uncivilized man,man once seendismissed as a brutebrute, butis now feared for his ruthless pragmatism. He does not care for honor, nor for the politics of Faulmoor—politics—only survival.
This has led to a dangerous, unspoken truth: Fenmire is lawless. The noble house that claims it cannot rule it, and the marshfolk know it. The strong take what they need, the weak vanish into the mire, and in the end, the swamp takes everything.
As the plague festers, Fenmire becomes more isolated, more desperate. The marshfolkBlight turnfesters inward,here, refusingdifferent tothan helpelsewhere. outsidersIt unlessdoes not consume—it benefits them directly. Quarantine is impossible—the land itself is too vast, too fluid, and too uncharted to be contained.lingers. The infected aredo simplynot castturn intoimmediately but rot, weep, and swell with stagnant water until the marsh,marsh whereswallows theythem wanderwhole, or worse, until they rotrise away.
SilverThe hasland becometakes currency, but only among those who believewhat it can save them. Others hoard food, water,will, and weapons, believing these will outlast all else. Rumors spread of something movingnow, in theits deepdepths, fen—something older than the Blight, older than the noble houses,kings and far,sickness farwatches hungrier.and waits.
Fenmire is dying,dying. butBut it does not die quickly.