Regions

A blighted moorland stretching beneath an overcast sky, dotted with ancient burial mounds that rise from the mist like the backs of sleeping giants. The ground is soft and treacherous, and the air carries the faint smell of grave earth. The dead do not rest easily here, and travelers speak of pale lights that lead the unwary into bottomless bogs.

The Ashwood is what remains of a great forest that once stretched between the Briarwood and the foot of the Ashen Caldera. Volcanic heat killed it from the roots up over decades, leaving a cathedral of dead trees whose black bark has shed to reveal pale, heat-bleached wood beneath. Ash covers everything to knee-depth in places, muffling sound and blurring the distinction between ground and fallen trunk. Cinder wolves hunt through the dead trunks, ash wraiths drift between the leafless branches, and the smoldering treants that still stand cannot die and cannot stop burning.

A landscape of superheated geothermal lakes linked by channels of scalding mineral-rich water, the air permanently fogged with steam that rolls off the surface in dense, obscuring clouds. The water ranges from pale white to vivid orange depending on the mineral content, and nothing that falls in survives more than moments. Mud geysers erupt without warning. Steam crabs pick their way along the banks, steam vents from their shells as they move, and vent serpents dart through the shallows faster than the eye can follow. The sound is constant -- hissing, bubbling, the deep thud of geysers discharging, and beneath it all, a low rumble from the Caldera above.

A dense, haunted forest stretching between the woodland of Thornwatch and the lakeland of Millhaven. The trees grow so close together that sunlight barely reaches the forest floor, and the undergrowth is a tangle of thorned briars and creeping vines. An ancient corruption seeps through the soil, twisting the wildlife into something darker.

A vast expanse of scorched plains stretching toward the heat-shimmer on the horizon where the Ashen Caldera dominates the sky. The earth here is cracked and blackened, littered with the remnants of ancient battles -- shattered war golems half-buried in ash, the ruins of fortifications whose purpose has been long forgotten, and bones fused to the ground by centuries of volcanic heat. The air tastes of sulfur and old smoke.

The grand capital, a sprawling city of white stone walls and bustling markets beneath the shadow of the royal palace. Banners of the Hearthmother flutter from every tower, and the clatter of commerce fills the cobbled streets from dawn to dusk.

Rolling fields of wheat and barley stretch from the outskirts of Crownhaven toward the frontier, dotted with stone farmsteads and weathered barns. Bandit raids have grown bolder in recent months, and wild boars root through the crops at night. The farmers are desperate for help.

A deep forest stretching north of Crownhaven, where ancient oaks tower overhead and the undergrowth grows thick with ferns and brambles. Wolf packs have grown bold, and enormous forest spiders spin their webs between the trees. Woodsmen warn travelers to stay on the marked trails.

A rough frontier city built against the crumbling remains of an ancient border wall at the edge of the great desert. Scavengers, bounty hunters, and deserters have turned this waypoint into a lawless trading post where steel and coin speak louder than any authority. Sandstone buildings crowd together in narrow alleys, and the hot wind carries the smell of spice and dust.

A narrow canyon system cutting through the desert rock south of Dustwall, where towering sandstone walls cast deep shadows across the winding passages. Desert hyenas hunt in the slot canyons, and bandits have established outposts in the cliff-side caves. The canyon is a natural chokepoint, and those who control it control the southern trade routes.

An arid wasteland stretching beyond Dustwall's crumbling border wall, where sun-baked flatlands give way to rocky scrub and dry creek beds. Scorpions skitter between the rocks, sand vipers coil in the shade, and desert hyenas prowl in packs at dusk. The heat is relentless, and water is worth more than gold.

Where the King's Road crumbles into mud and the last milestone of the Hearthlands leans at a drunken angle, the Greenmarche begins. Rolling fields of wild barley and thistle stretch toward a darkening treeline, and the wind carries the smell of turned earth and something older -- iron and decay. Crows circle above the ruins of a watchtower that once marked the border of civilization.

A great fortress carved into the living rock of the Ironspine Peaks. Great halls echo with the thunder of hammers on anvils, and rivers of molten metal flow through channels cut deep into the stone. The air shimmers with forge-heat and the tang of hot iron.

The abandoned lower galleries of Ironhold's mine network, sealed off generations ago after a cave-in revealed tunnels infested with spiders, bats, and worse. The hold has reopened the upper sections for brave adventurers willing to clear the passages and recover the rich ore veins within.

The rocky foothills leading up to the Ironspine Peaks, where the terrain shifts from rolling grassland to steep, boulder-strewn slopes. Mountain lions prowl the ridgelines, and wolves hunt in the narrow valleys. Ironhold's engineers have blazed a trail through the most passable routes, but the wilderness remains untamed.

An ancient forest road that winds through dense woodland between Crownhaven and Millhaven. Once a well-patrolled royal highway, the pass has fallen into disrepair as the crown's reach has weakened. Now dire wolves prowl the overgrown track, and bandits prey on unwary travelers from hidden camps among the trees.

A landscape of ancient cooled lava flows that stretch for miles, their surfaces cracked into vast geometric plates of black rock. Dwarven survey equipment rusts amid the formations -- the remnants of an ambitious excavation project abandoned when the ground became too unstable and too hot to work safely. Lava crabs pick through the mineral-rich crevices, and pockets of magma still bubble up through the cracks, glowing orange in the dimness of the overcast sky.

A quiet fishing village nestled along the shores of a vast freshwater lake. The smell of smoked fish and wet rope hangs in the air, and the gentle lap of waves against wooden docks provides a constant rhythm. Fishermen mend their nets while children chase crabs along the muddy shore.

Rolling hills rising above the great lake, where heather and gorse cover the windswept slopes and mountain lions prowl the rocky outcrops. Tin and iron veins thread through the exposed rock, drawing miners who must contend with both the wildlife and the treacherous terrain.

A sprawling wetland south of the great lake, where the water seeps into the earth and transforms the landscape into a maze of reed beds, mudflats, and stagnant pools. The air is thick with the drone of insects and the croaking of frogs. Snakes coil in the warm mud, and crabs scuttle through the shallows.

A sun-blasted expanse of cracked earth and jagged rock formations stretching between the desert frontier and the deep forest. The air shimmers with heat haze, and dust devils dance across the flats without warning. Scorpions the size of dogs skitter between the rocks, and vultures circle endlessly overhead.

Where the desert meets the volcano's reach, the pale sand of the Scorchflats darkens into grey volcanic ash that buries everything in silence. Ancient stone obelisks rise from the dunes at regular intervals, their inscriptions worn to illegibility by wind and heat. The air here is dense with fine ash that coats the lungs and burns the eyes, and the heat is relentless -- not the dry heat of the desert, but a wet, sulfurous warmth that rises from the ground itself. Ashwalkers drift between the dunes like mirages that kill.

A forest outpost woven into the living canopy of an ancient woodland. An ancient settlement grown from the living trees -- walls of shaped bark, bridges of braided root, and lanterns of captured moonlight swaying in the branches. Druids commune with the old spirits here, and the forest watches with a thousand unseen eyes.

An enchanted forest clearing on the outskirts of Thornwatch, where the boundary between the natural and the fey grows thin. Will-o'-wisps dance among the ancient trees, and corrupted deer move through the undergrowth with unnatural silence. The druids speak of a faerie hollow hidden beneath the roots of the oldest oak.

Dense, corrupted undergrowth on the dark side of Thornwatch's territory, where the blight has taken firm hold. The canopy is so thick that no sunlight reaches the forest floor, and the air is heavy with the sweet-rot smell of corrupted sap. Blightworms burrow through the black soil, and twisted deer move through the shadows with hollow eyes.