Norvostra Overview

An Explorer’s Account of Norvostra, in the Second Year of the Rotmire Blight

To those who would tread the lands of Norvostra, know this: you walk upon a dying land. The Rotmire Blight has choked its breath, and now, only the desperate and the damned remain. What once was a kingdom of struggling but resolute folk is now a patchwork of quarantine wards, abandoned towns, and roads lined with unburied dead.

Yet even in ruin, the traditions of Norvostra endure. Among its people, the Old Ways persist, woven into the fabric of their beliefs and customs. In times past, faith revolved around the echoes of gods whose voices were believed to linger in relics and forgotten places. Though the world crumbles, some still cling to the old teachings, seeking guidance in ancient rites and whispered omens. The devout continue to interpret fragmented prophecies, while relic-seekers scour the ruins for objects imbued with divine significance. In this age of suffering, many believe the salvation of Norvostra lies not in kings or medicine, but in the wisdom of the past.

The existence of relics, long revered as vessels of forgotten power, continues to stir hope and desperation in equal measure. Some claim that certain artifacts hold the ability to protect against the Blight, while others believe they contain knowledge lost to time, knowledge that might turn the tide of the kingdom’s decline. Whether truth or folly, many risk their lives in search of such objects, braving plague-ridden ruins and lands claimed by death in the hope of grasping a fragment of the past.

We began our journey in the north, beyond the towering peaks of Greyhelm, where the land remains harsh but, for now, free of the plague’s reach. The people here live in fearful isolation, barring their gates to any who come from the south. The Withersea, cold and unyielding, swallows those who dare its depths, and it is said the ice itself is creeping ever further down the mountains.

Turning south, we reached Mistvale, where the fog clings to the land like a sickness of its own. Here, the Blight has left villages empty, their inhabitants having either fled or perished. The roads are marked with signs of warning—charcoal-black symbols painted on rotting wood, urging travelers to turn back. We did not heed them, and as we moved through, we saw the bodies piled in pits, charred by fire, their suffering ended by those who had the mercy to grant it.

To the west lies Feldmoor, a land of open plains and cold winds, where farmsteads sit abandoned, their crops left to wither. The Hollow Tides batter the cliffs with endless fury, and the fishing villages along its shore have all but vanished. Some say the sea itself carries the plague, that the mist rolling in from the waves is cursed. Whether truth or madness, the people here do not take chances—they have sealed their homes, and no traveler is welcome.

Crossing the Mistmire Sea, we arrived at the fringes of Blackvale, where the trees grow thick and the air is heavy with rot. The Blight struck this land with cruel precision, cutting off entire settlements overnight. Now, quarantine wards stand at every border, patrolled by men who wear no colors, only masks of iron and leather. They do not speak. They only watch. It is said that those who attempt to flee the quarantines are cut down without hesitation.

But the worst of it is in Faulmoor. Once a land of deep forests and fertile marshland, it has become a festering wound upon Norvostra. The Siltmarsh has swallowed villages whole, leaving only rooftops peeking from the mire. Faulmoor, Ebonmoor, and Fenmire—the last vestiges of civilization here—are ruled by paranoia, each convinced the other harbors the infected. Walls rise between them, and skirmishes break out over food and medicine. The few who live outside the safety of these strongholds wander the swamps, their faces obscured by ragged cloth, their eyes full of despair.

At the coast, Gloomwater Sea remains cloaked in mist, its waters thick with the wreckage of ships. It was once a place of trade and prosperity, but now, few dare to cross it. Some claim that a quarantine ship was set ablaze and left adrift here, its crew doomed to burn or drown. Others whisper of things moving beneath the water, drawn to the sickness, feeding on it.

Beyond Faulmoor lie the Southern Wastes, an inhospitable land at the best of times. Now, it is said that those who flee the Blight vanish here, seeking refuge where none can be found. The ruins of an older world stand in the dust, silent witnesses to yet another age of suffering.

Norvostra is dying, and the people know it. The second year of the Rotmire Blight has left no man untouched. The kingdom teeters on the brink, and unless the gods themselves intervene, I fear there will be no third year to witness.

—From the journal of Aeldric Voss, Explorer of the Lost Lands