The At a Glance Archive
The furthest flung outpost of a mighty kingdom, turbulent waters and forbidding, trackless forests separate the folk of the Lonely Coast from civilisation’s gaudy lights and soft pleasures. Pirates and slavers ply the southern storm-tossed waters while goblins and other foul things creep through the gloom of the Tangled Wood that seemingly chokes the forgotten holds and sacred places of the Old People. Deep within the forest, a narrow, rock-choked defile piled deep with shadow cuts through a nameless range of rugged, tree-shrouded hills birthing dark, fearsome legends of terrifying monsters and glittering, doom-laden treasures. The perils of the Lonely Coast are legion and thus there is always a need for those with stout hearts and skill with blade and spell, or for those merely hungry for glory, to defend humanity’s most tenuous enclave.
Standing on Selka Street, this rowdy inn is a favoured haunt of adventurers, mercenaries and other rough and ready sorts. Run by the grizzled ex-mercenary Rister Osma the place offers cheap, no-frills food, drink and accommodation.
Lurking twixt the crag-jagged hills south of Dunstone sit the ruined remains of an old dwarven fortress-temple. Rusted helms and broken blades jut from the surrounding soil like cast-off husks of iron grain, betraying the area’s violent history.
Nestled in a deep valley, sunlight has never caressed centuried Shroudhaven. Thick fog—rendered permanent by ancient magics—fills the valley. Here, refugees from a long-forgotten war found sanctuary from their enemies. Most villagers are undead, and a dark reputation hangs over the village. Visitors to the village, though, tell a different story. They speak of the undead battling their basest urges and trying to live peaceful lives.
For much of its life, the village of Arcmoor was a sleepy place, far removed from the doings of heroes, kings and warlords. All that changed, however, when an orcish horde was destroyed near the village by the hero Therald Arcmoor. Therald died at the moment of his greatest triumph, and his death—strangely—heralded great change in the village. A shrine raised in his honour has grown increasingly popular of late and Arcmoor is slowly being transformed from a sleepy backwater into a popular destination for pilgrims, visiting warriors and the like.
White Moon Cove is a respectable fishing town located in a cove which acts as an excellent, natural harbour. The inhabitants of this tightly-knit community are sober, hardworking and amiable fishermen, traders and other sturdy folk making their living from the sea.
The Mottled Spire’s wild, rugged uplands lie beyond the Selka River. Crumbling ruins and abandoned mines—the leavings of civilisation’s ebbing tide—dot the hills. One such place is the isolated wind-blasted ruin of Bleak Hill Manor.
Nestled in a twisting ravine amid the Luminous Desert’s endless windblown dunes, Rifthammer is home to a desert-dwelling tribe of dwarves. Hidden in the cool shadows of their cliff-side home, these reclusive folk offer peaceful seclusion for those seeking refuge from the desert's relentless heat, or simply the troubles of the wider world. However, not all is as idyllic as Rifthammer’s dwarven masters pretend, and a festering ruin of otherworldly creatures in the darkest recesses of the rift threatens all who reside above.
Ringed by a timber palisade, the village of Hjalward comprises wooden lodges and cabins built atop snow-covered hills in the shadow of ancient, giant-crafted architecture of a fallen elder kingdom. Looming over Hjalward like a tombstone, a crumbling stone wall fully 200 ft. high and 60 ft. thick and a yet higher sky-scraping tower remind the residents of this mining community of the follies of past civilisations, and that in time all empires crumble. Nearby deposits of iron, silver and lead draw desperate or avaricious miners to this cold, hard place while legends of lost giant treasure ensure a steady trickle of adventurers make the long, perilous journey to Hjalward.
Cut from a chunk of local limestone and set above the tavern’s front door, the luridly carved face of an orc identifies this place as the infamous Orc’s Head. Notorious throughout the duchy as the haunt for adventurers preparing to dare Gloamhold’s depths, the Orc’s Head is a place of tall tales and hard drinking. Decent folk rarely venture inside.
One of the best-known establishments on Cheap Street, Raisa’s Curios fills the first three floors of a tottering four-storey townhouse. Known throughout the city, Raisa’s Curios is one of those places adventurers often come to browse in hopes of finding something interesting or valuable among the junk and bric-a-brac.
Standing on a dingy side street (location L3 on the City of Languard map), a stylised sign of an oversized scythe cutting through an ankle spurting a ridiculous amount of blood marks this semi-reputable establishment. Run by its one-legged owner Arvo Outila this inn has operated under its current name since he purchased it 15 years ago after a horrendous accident on his farm. It doesn’t offer food or accommodation. This is a place to drink (copiously) and listen to music.
Languard is a busy, noisy place. The administrative and mercantile heart of the Duchy of Ashlar it is, however, also a place of fear and gradual decay.
A pirate enclave surrounded by dense woods on three sides and the ocean’s tumultuous waters to the east, Deksport is a perfect base from which to raid nearby shipping lanes. Built at the mouth of a valley opening into a sheltered bay the town possesses a deep, safe natural anchorage. Protected by a slippery, seaweed-fringed breakwater of decrepit, ancient construct at any time up to a dozen ocean-going ships and scores of smaller craft rest at anchor in the harbour.
Dulwich stares out across the Salt Mire towards Hard Bay, the Forest of Gray Spires at its back. Just a few hundred years old, it rests on the remnants of numerous older structures, built on a strip of dry land between the swamp and forest. One of the largest settlements in the Duchy of Ashlar, Dulwich serves as a major hub for merchants and travellers. A stout, stone wall surrounds the main town, offering protection from the dangers living in the Salt Mire.
The village of Swallowfeld stands hard against the turbulent waters of the Lonely Coast and the forbidding depths of a trackless, primeval forest. A hard, frontier place hemmed in by danger without and threatened by a lurking darkness within, the village is in dire need of doughty protectors.
Wolverton rests on the rocky shores of the far‐flung Lonely Coast. The mighty fortress Caer Syllan keeps a protective eye over its harbour which hosts ships from all over the world coming to trade for the precious metals and gems pulled from the nearby mines. A muddy, noisy place, Wolverton is home to hardy frontier folk eking a living from the earth while contending with half‐goblin tribes, packs of shadow wolves and other monsters dwelling in the nearby Tangled Woods.
A stone circle marks the confluence of ley lines in this bleak and broken place. Among the ancient runes and onyx pillars burn secret powers hidden by gods and men alike. But to the people of Y’taris, the stone circle is just a tourist destination for the rich. Every year, hundreds of spellcasters make the long pilgrimage to the stone circle high in the Broken Mountains. The villagers provide food, shelter, baubles and entertainment, all for exorbitant prices. Merchants bleed visitors of their gold, while pickpockets and scam artists take the rest. Y’taris is a nest of thieves. Anyone is welcome, until they run out of coin.
Five years ago, the bandits won. They overwhelmed the village of Hornwall, killed its citizens and looted their treasures. Then, they settled down. The bandits of Hornwall now reside within the very defences meant to keep them out. They have given up the sword and taken up the ploughshare, exchanging a life of danger for one of safety. The villagers hide their secret well, but bodies keep appearing—floating in on the current, dug up by dogs and even emerging from the thawing winter snows. And the citizens who wish to return to the old ways are murdered in their sleep by their loved ones and business owners who wish to keep the past dead and buried. If passing travellers learn the truth, they have a choice. Forgive and forget? Or avenge the uncaring dead and leave Hornwall nothing but ashes.
Wracked by disaster, Tigley is a village reborn. Standing on the fringes of the noisome Gnatmarsh, its folk make their living from the swamp and harvesting guano from the caves honeycombing the spire of rock upon which stands much of the village. But all is not peaceful in Tigley. The villagers’ burial rituals have attracted undead to certain nearby sunken ruins and goblins now lurk in the locality. In the village itself, influential figures vie for control of the local industries, a bully uses his influence to spread lies and cause trouble and the village priest hides a terrible secret. Once again, Tigley is a village teetering on the edge of disaster, but this time it is a disaster of the village’s own making.
Most dwarven holds are vast and ordered halls filled with solemn and stoic craftsfolk. But that’s not Feigrvidr. Some say it’s not a dwarf hold at all, but rather a lawless mining camp ruled by dwarf thugs and ruthless agents of the ruling thane.
Founded less than three years ago by Svingal Halfbeard, the ore coming from a vale carved out of the headlands of the Titan Peaks is of the greatest purity and the works coming forth from Feigrvidr’s forges are both subtle and ingenious, rivalling those of any traditional dwarven stronghold. The great wealth coming from the foot of the Titan Peaks was only the beginning, now with the discovery of ancient and abandoned giant halls deeper among the mountains’ spires adventurers are flocking to the camp, increasing its wealth and its danger.
Hidden in the wild uplands beyond the Selka River, the sinkhole-mine of Delthur’s Folly is a byword among the locals for a fool’s errand doomed to fail. The only survivor of the fated expedition—driven mad by his ordeal and raving of “the water’s sibilant whispers”—died shortly after staggering into Dunstone a year or more after Delthur and his miners disappeared into the wilderness. And yet, every year adventurers cross the Selka in search of the mine—gold and silver are said to lie within. Some return empty-handed and some do not return at all. Local legend has it that something terrible dwells in the mine.
Shielded to the north by the Vurdfell Spine’s lofty peaks and protected from the Hordelands of the east by the Greatshadow Gorge, the town of Wolfsbane Hollow has persisted in relative isolation for hundreds of years. Seemingly a simple border town, a dark shadow hangs over this hard, rough settlement. For here, the rule of law is tenuous at best, and the mayor is but a figurehead. The true power of Wolfsbane Hollow is the shadowy thieves’ guild and their monstrous, bestial guildmaster who lurks in his lair carved from the fallen, mouldering bones of an ancient empire.
For centuries, the people of Aldwater have guarded and revered the wooden labyrinth holding the their ancestors' remains. Only the Spiritspeaker ever ventures inside, using an ancient relic to hold council with the dead. The wisdom of the council is vast, but not without fault, and for several years the advice of the ancestral spirits has done nothing to halt Aldwater's increasing plight. Each season, the fishermen and trappers bring back a little less, and the children grow up a little hungrier.
In the dreary village of Fulhurst Moors, most residents spend their days cutting peat from the nearby bogs or tending flocks of rugged sheep on the moor. When night falls, the villagers huddle in their homes or gather inside the solid stone walls of the Bell and Whistles. Here they trade stories of the latest gruesome misfortunes to befall those foolish enough to venture out onto the moor after sunset or unfortunate enough to be caught by sudden fog or rain while working in the bogs.
The local priest has been driven close to madness by his inability to provide solace to his congregation, and the mayor and constable become increasingly concerned as a growing number of villagers drown their fears in moonshine whiskey. The fearful atmosphere is well deserved, for ancient beings of malice and cruelty haunt the mists beyond the village. And they have struck a terrible bargain with someone inside Fulhurst Moors.
A thriving village is the last thing a traveller expects to find on a cracked and blasted volcanic plain belching lava and poisonous gases. However, Vulcanbridge defies expectations and offers a haven for wayward souls and desperate travellers alike. Primarily home to dwarven and gnomish engineers and miners, the village also attracts adventurers and greedy merchants keen to turn a healthy profit. The village relies on trading valuable metals and gemstones harvested from its surrounds for necessities, and this influx of wealth has also attracted the wrong kind of attention. Vulcanbridge seems like a tempting target to raiders who see an isolated village endowed with treasure. This threat adds to the dangers posed by the environment itself and the fiery creatures dwelling in the magmatic caverns beneath the plain. Then there are the dark rumours the deep-dwelling owner of all the treasure harvested by the villagers has awoken and intends to take it all back...
On what was once the lonely crossroads of two rarely used roads sits the village of Lady Cross, a tight community of stone houses surrounded by a high stone wall. Now a popular rest stop for travellers and merchants alike, Lady Cross is known for the heady spirits distilled in the village and sold at the local inn, The Lady’s Rest. Unknown to most, it is a different type of spirit the villagers fear—a sinister secret wreathed in foul treachery and hysteria that speaks to the darkness and greedy lurking in men’s souls.
Gloya’s Bridge is a village swathed in secrets. Wearing masks and veils in the streets is normal, giving a chance at unparalleled anonymity and the freedom to indulge in a variety of entertainments with minimal restrictions. Those who want a second chance flock here, in no small part because an unconventional order offers a chance for criminals to leave their pasts behind and be recognised as reformed. Yet, not everyone has the will to reform or the patience to prove it, and the work of the Merciful Order is not enough for all the foes dogging some troubled souls. The offer of a new life for anyone is an important promise to many in Gloya’s Bridge, but the richest patriarch has designs on a new, firmer order. And deep below the surface, a conspiracy threatens to dim or even extinguish this beacon of hope as it gathers the hidden secrets of dangerous and troubled people who have come here from across the region.
Standing on the fringes of a vast and noisome swamp, Thornhill is a miserable, hard place of cloying mud, grasping thorns and insular, superstitious folk. There is a little cheer to be had in Thornhill; the few visitors describing it as dull and dreary as the surrounding swamps. For all that, though, a steady trickle of adventurers visit Thornhill for the half-buried and drowned ruins of several tombs said to lie forgotten in the surrounding marshland and the villagers have friends among the nearby degenerate lizardfolk who make excellent guides in the trackless, far reaches of the swamp.
The House of Yspher sits perched upon a lonely hilltop south of Dunstone. It can be reached only by climbing a narrow, bramble-choked path snaking its way up along the hill’s rugged flanks. Stubborn thickets of holly and hawthorn surround the old manor, and vines of pale ivy crawl across its crumbling face like veins and exposed muscles. Only the sullen, eye-like windows are spared, behind which lurks an utter blackness, even on the brightest day.