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The winds that sweep across the Plains of Ash carry with them the unbreathable dust of volcanic eruptions, sometimes bringing with them the voices of the ancient dead - whispering tales of forgotten times. Once known as the Plains of Dawn, these lands were a verdant paradise, where rivers danced silver in the sunlight and forests rose in reverence to the heavens. The great Murky Lake reflected the vastness of the sky, its crystalline mirror nourishing life in all directions.
These were times of glory and life. The tribes that inhabited these lands saw them as a gift from the gods. It was sacred ground, where only the noblest sorcerers and warriors deserved to rest in their tombs. The ancients said that the spirits of these honored dead rose on nights of the full moon, watching over the crops, spreading their strength across the fertile soil. The power of the past flowed like invisible blood through the roots of the trees and through the golden grains of the fields.
But the old gods are capricious and merciless.
The Great Hecatomb came, and the earth roared like a caged beast, the mountains convulsed, spewing fire and destruction in every direction. Columns of black smoke rose like pillars from the underworld itself, and a storm of ash fell upon the earth, suffocating all life. Lake Murky bubbled in its own death, its waters poisoned by sulfur. The rivers became putrid veins, winding through the barren land, dooming any form of existence that dared venture there.
Now, the Plains of Ash are a wasteland of desolation. The ground is hard as iron, cracked and barren. Charred trees rise like twisted specters. The sky, often veiled in sulfuric mists, refuses to shine over this cursed place. The few who dare to cross this land swear they hear voices carried on the wind—murmurs of the ancient warriors and sorcerers who rest there, perhaps furious that their rest has been disturbed, perhaps still watching over something deep beneath the scorched earth.
Are their tombs strong enough to withstand the eruption? Do the spirits of old still lie sealed beneath the ashes, or have they awakened as dark guardians of a forgotten realm?
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In the days of yore, when a men were worth less than the blade they wielded, there lived Blauhaus the Wanderer. He was no prince, nor lord of land, but in the hovels and taverns where the fires crackled and the wine flowed freely, his name was revered with laughter and murmurs of respect.
Blauhaus was a man of colossal size, with shoulders as broad as an oak trunk and arms that seemed forged for war. But he was also an inveterate drinker, finding solace and strength in the rich warmth of ale. With a raucous laugh and a heart as vast as his thirst, he never turned down a bet or a fight, whether for honor or amusement.
Yet amidst the drunkenness and the tavern songs, there was a spirit within him that could not be broken: a silent oath of loyalty to those who called him brother. When his land was overrun by raiders from overseas, Blauhaus was where he had always been—sitting on a barrel, a dirty cup in his hands, his boots covered in mud. But as he watched the flames consume the houses, the women and children being swept away, his mind cleared as if the liquor had evaporated from his veins. Armed only with his old blade and the fury of a man who never abandoned his own, he advanced against the invaders. It is said that he cut down dozens before he was wounded, his blows more like those of a beast than a man. But not even the steel embedded in his body was enough to stop him. With his blood leaking like rivers onto the ground, he grabbed the burning stake of a fallen hut and, in a last act, charged the enemy barricade, opening a path for his people to escape. The next morning, when the smell of death still hung in the air, the survivors found his body lying in the rubble, surrounded by the corpses of his enemies. Raised as a hero, Blauhaus was buried in a sacred tomb, sealed with protective runes, so that his soul would never wander lost.
Travelers say that on stormy nights, when thunder shakes the earth and the wind howls like a wounded wolf, echoes of a deep laugh resound among the cold stones. And if a lost man is about to succumb to despair, there are those who swear they will see a colossal shadow of a warrior with burning eyes, drinking one last drink before guiding him out of the darkness.
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Timody Taldon was a name that echoed through the halls and among the whispers of the people. A warrior without equal, Grand Master of the Red Order, feared on the battlefield and beloved by his people. With his black sword, Dark Aria, he felled tyrants and crushed enemies. But the blade that had taken so many lives began to weigh on his soul.
One day, without warning, Timody hung his sword on the wall and never raised it again. He retreated to his fortress, where he delved into the arcane mysteries, seeking wisdom beyond war. He became the protector of his land not with iron, but with spells that warded off plagues, raised crops, and healed the sick. His people revered him as a saint, but in the solitude of his tower, he faced his own demons.
For every man carries shadows, and Timody's was deep. Some whispered that his magic went beyond light, that he studied forbidden scrolls beneath the red moon. There were nights when screams echoed from his tower and no one dared ask why. They say that one day an old enemy knocked on his door—and was never seen again.
But death, treacherous and indifferent to power, found him in a ridiculous way. Not in battle with arcane horrors, nor in a duel with enemies. Timody Taldon, the great hero, slipped on a wet staircase and broke his neck.
The elders said it was fate laughing at his greatness. His disciples buried him in a spell-sealed tomb on the Plain of Dawn, and his black sword and staff rest beside their master.
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In the annals of existence on this island, few names inspire as much admiration and revulsion as Elayon Varonihl. The sorcerer who built walls against the shadows, who saved thousands from plague and famine, yet whose name is still whispered with horror on cold nights. For Elayon was no ordinary man – he was a force of power and contradiction, a paradox of light and darkness.
Born the bastard of a nobleman and a witch, Elayon was rejected by his father and given to the learned monks, where he soon surpassed his masters. His intellect was an insatiable fire, and his ambition burned like a bonfire on a windy night. When his land was ravaged by war and disease, it was he who raised his hand and changed the fate of his people.
He healed the sick, but he also cursed them.
He made rain fall upon the fields, but he also watered them with blood.
He protected his land from invaders, but the walls of his city were supported by forbidden spells, echoing the cries of forgotten souls.
Elayon was generous to his people, providing them with food, safety, and knowledge, but his decadence was well known. His marble palace resounded with whispers of unholy orgies, dark pacts, and experiments that tore the veil between the human and the unnameable. His followers worshipped him as a savior, but feared him as a cruel god.
Yet fate did not reserve a grand death for him. No vengeful army defeated him, no conjured spirit dragged his soul into the abyss. He died alone, in his chamber, suffocated by his own vomit after a drunken binge. When they found him, his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling of his room, his lips curled in a final smile. His servants buried him in a tomb adorned with enchantments, an underground chamber sealed with arcane symbols.
The elders warn: if at night they hear laughter coming from beyond, they should stay away! For Elayon Varonihl may be dead, but his presence has never left this world.
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The day of their birth was marked by a rare eclipse, a phenomenon that tore the sky in two, as if the universe itself were divided between light and darkness.
From a young age, Lorran and Elran showed remarkable gifts. They displayed a kindness that brightened the lives of those around them. They were known in their village and surrounding areas for healing the sick, helping those in need, and bringing hope to the desperate. However, as they grew older, it also became clear that there was a dark side that pulsed within them, a mysterious connection that united them in ways that defied understanding.
The twins shared a deep bond, their very essence intertwined. While Lorran was known for his compassion and courage, Elran harbored a darker spirit, capable of summoning hidden fears and awakening the fury of nature.
One night, in a moment of weakness, they performed an ancient ritual, seeking the power to transgress the boundaries of life and death, without understanding the litany they had conjured. The earth shook, and the heavens opened, pouring flames down upon them. The sacrifice demanded by the powers they had invoked was high. In that same instant, the lives of Lorran and Elran were extinguished, leaving a void of pain and bewilderment in the hearts of those who worshipped them.
However, their legacy did not end. Twenty-two willing disciples, who had followed the twins in life, decided to accompany them on their journey to the afterlife. Each brought with them a fervent devotion and a singular purpose: to serve Lorran and Elran in a realm where only goodness and darkness would coexist.
In the new dimension, the twins became guardians of dreams and nightmares, balancing benevolence and terror in a world without borders. The remaining disciples spread the stories of the brothers, inspiring both fear and reverence.
The legends grew, echoing through time, and their souls, now linked in eternity, continued in a constant play of light and darkness.
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In the bleak and inhospitable Plains of Ash, where the ground burns under the curse of the ancient gods and the air is heavy with the lament of this forgotten land, there lies a whisper of hope: the Tomb of Eldora. This powerful woman who lived in communion with nature is a legend that transcends the boundaries of time.
In life, her days were spent among the ancient trees and crystal-clear streams, where she spoke to animals as if they were her equals, and delved into a vast knowledge of herbs and healing.
Considered the last druid in a world forgotten by the blessings of life, Eldora was a beacon of light amidst the desolation. Whenever a traveler was lost or a creature suffered, she was there, ready to offer aid, often at the cost of her own life force. Her presence was a balm to the wounded and a beacon to the lost.
Yet the harmony she cultivated led to fear among those around her. The powerful lords of the neighboring lands, fearing what they could not control, banded together to eradicate what they considered a threat. On a windless night, a horde of warriors, armed with shadows and curses, invaded Eldora's home. Even amidst the fighting, she stood firm, calling upon the spirits of the forest and the animals. However, the strength of steel prevailed, and Eldora was murdered, her body becoming part of the land she loved so much.
Contrary to what her oppressors had hoped, the peasants managed to recover her body. Her tomb, erected on the sacred ground where she had lived and loved, has now become an oasis of life amidst the despair of the Plains of Ash. Where there was once nothing but desolation, now blooms vibrant flowers, fruit trees, and springs of pure water. Rays of light pierce the eternally gray clouds, and the few animals that remain gather around her eternal rest.
Travelers who cross the arid plains are inexorably drawn to this inexplicable bounty, finding food and fresh water, as if Eldora herself were there, offering her aid once more. Many leave offerings of flowers and small tributes, telling stories of their love and gratitude, or simply sitting in her presence, healing not only physically but also in their worn-out souls.
Though the shadow of death has taken Eldora’s life, her strength remains, alive in the variety of life that flourishes around her. Eldora’s Tomb has become a place of pilgrimage and reverence, where all are invited to reflect on the interconnectedness of all creatures and the beauty that can emerge from even the most desolate terrain.
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Few dare to pronounce the name of Surubon, the Devourer of Souls, for even the memory of his existence carries a funereal weight on the shoulders of the living. But there is a place where his name still burns in the depths of the stone, where the steel of the dead still resounds in the sepulchral silence: the Mausoleum of the Guardians.
In times that no longer count in centuries, during the reign of Abcess IV, in an era of darkness and blood, Surubon tore the veil of reality and entered this world. Not as an army, nor as a storm, but as a disease that consumed kings and beggars, devouring souls and leaving behind empty bodies, moved only by his unholy will. No blade could cut him, no shield could stop him. The very air turned to poison around him, and the king's armies were reduced to nothing before they even touched their swords to the enemy.
It was then up to the Crown Guards, the bravest warriors and mages of Abcess IV, to capture the demon. Seventeen men and women set out, led by the archmage Vaedros Murk, bearing anointed weapons, ancient runes, and hearts that would not hesitate in the face of the abyss. For two days and three nights, they fought against the entity in a valley forgotten by the gods, while the stars faded in the sky and the very ground pulsed like living flesh.
Surubon did not bleed, but each enchantment weakened him; each blow driven into his shadowy flesh reduced his fury, until, exhausted and mutilated, the Guardians chanted the last rite, a forbidden sacrifice. With their own blood and the last strength they had left, they used their own souls to seal him. They did not kill the demon—they became his prison.
The Mausoleum of the Guardians was built on the ruins of the battlefield, carved from grey rock, shrouded in sigils so ancient that even the dead avoid its presence. Rivers of liquid silver run in deep grooves in the walls, forming a labyrinth of sorcery capable of tearing the sanity of those who approach it.
The Guardians do not rest. Their spirits, torn apart by sacrifice, remain trapped between life and death, guarding the runes and hunting any fool who dares enter the dark corridors. There are no allies here, only shadows that wield swords and hurl curses with the same voices that once cried out for the king. They are both jailers and prisoners, condemned to an eternity of vigil, so that the horror they fought against will never awaken.
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In ancient times, before the skies were stained with soot and the rivers turned to sulphur, Abscess IV ruled with an iron fist and a sharp mind. He was no ordinary king – his crown was made not only of gold, but of alchemical secrets and formulas known only to him.
It is said that in his prime, the mighty King discovered the secret of ultimate transmutation. Some say he sought eternal life, others that his obsession was absolute power. Whatever the truth, he ordered the construction of a tomb even before his death – not as a simple mausoleum, but as a shrine of alchemy, a place where forbidden secrets would be buried with him.
The ancients spoke with reverence of his tomb, a pyramid of stone carved into the bowels of the earth. But then came the great eruptions—mountains spewed fire, the skies turned to perpetual night, and the purging of the earth devoured the entire island. When the ash finally settled, the Tomb of Abcess IV had disappeared beneath an even greater tomb: an ocean of volcanic debris.
The Forgotten Treasures
The old storytellers speak of unparalleled riches hidden within the tomb—not mere coins or jewels, but artifacts of unimaginable power. Alchemy manuscripts that could disintegrate mountains, elixirs that could turn flesh to gold, and blades that would never rust. But above all these treasures, one legend stands tall: The Abscess Machine.
The Abscess Machine
In the deepest chamber of the tomb, protected by sigils that not even the dead dare violate, lies the final creation of the alchemist king. A mechanism of living metal, pulsing with hidden energy. It is said that it was built for a single purpose: to consume souls and distill the very essence of life.
The Tombkeepers
Neither suffocating ash nor oblivion have extinguished the king's watchmen. Within the buried corridors of the tomb, beings still prowl. They say that the enemies who betrayed Abcess were melted down and molded into bronze statues, condemned to remain eternally as their master's guardians. Their metal armor creaks as they move, and their hollow eyes still burn with the glow of ancient enchantments.
Others speak of golems forged of mercury, moldable as smoke and sharp as blades. And there are those who say that even the dead of Abscess still walk, not as ghosts, but as experiments of twisted flesh, creatures that should not exist.
Wait a minute! What would happen if there was no smalllandscape photo/map? 😅
I went to sleep thinking about Veilvale and woke up with the panorama of a destroyed city.
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There was a time when Veilvale was a haven among the hills. From its docks, fishermen returned laden with fish from Murky Lake. The fields around it were fertile, the taverns always full, and the winds that came down from the mountains carried the sweet smell of ripening crops. No army had ever marched upon its roads, no plague had ever plagued its people. Veilvale was a haven.
Then came the tremors.
The mountains to the north roared like awakened beasts, spewing fire and death. The sky darkened with ash, the air grew thick and toxic. Murky Lake became a graveyard, its waters tinged green and black, boiling with sulfur and consuming everything it touched. Pastures lay barren, livestock died in agony, and the earth itself opened up to swallow homes whole. The few who survived fled to the coastal lands, carrying only the rags they had on their bodies. Veilvale was abandoned and forgotten.
The Dark Heart of Veilvale
But one structure still stands tall amidst the ruins - a shadowy silhouette against the perpetually overcast sky, the Tower of Vessanthor.
No one knows who built it. Some say it was Abscess IV himself, or one of his alchemists. Others believe the tower is much older, built on something that should never have been disturbed. In the past, the people of Veilvale avoided speaking of it, despite its constant presence over the city.
Now, its forgotten halls are a pit of darkness. Its top is cracked, tilted like a bony finger pointing toward the merciless heavens. But its subterranean bowels remain intact, sealed with iron doors and carved with runes from times gone by.
The Black Blood Spiders
Veilvale may be dead, but something crawls among its ruins. Monstrous spiders, their exoskeletons hardened by sulfur, proliferate in the fallen structures, turning the halls of abandoned buildings into their lairs. Their bloated bodies are greenish black, and their fangs drip a venom that burns like acid. They do not hunt like ordinary predators—they wait, ambush, move in the shadows, and watch.
Some travelers say there is something wrong with them. That they are intelligent, that they work together, that they guard the Tower of Vessanthor like evil sentinels. As if they are not just creatures of nature, but guardians placed there by something much older and crueler.
Staying at home in very hot weather (38-47 Celsius) has some advantages, making more maps sweating a lot and with a fan on Max on the CPU :). I've been studying the region and I'm taking the liberty of picking Bleak Castle @JimP <3. After all... one more ruin is always useful.
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Chronicles of a Historian – The Terror of Bleak Castle
May the gods have mercy on my soul for all that I have seen and for all that I dare to recount in these pages. My name no longer matters much, for what I experienced in Bleak Castle has left such a mark on me that I am no longer the man I once was. For years, I have traveled through forgotten kingdoms, delved into dusty parchments, and listened to the whispers of the last old men who still remembered the horrors of the past. But nothing, nothing could have prepared me for what I found in those cursed lands.
Ever since I heard the first reports about the three fortresses to the east, I have felt the call of history. They said that, at the foot of the Churning Mountains, stood the ruins of the castles Bleak, Arrow, and Good Behavior, sentinels of a dark past, abandoned to a fate forgotten by time. The few villagers who still lived on the edges of this forbidden land warned me with pale faces and downcast eyes. They whispered of night whispers, ownerless shadows, nameless misfortunes. They told me that those who dared to approach never returned. But I did not listen. A scholar does not bow to superstition. He laughs at the foolish fears of ignorant peasants.
And so I stayed three months in those lands and regret every moment.
The Three Fortresses and Their Secrets
Upon reaching the ruins, I was faced with a sight I will never forget. Bleak Castle, along with Arrow and Good Behavior, dominated the horizon like a trio of immortal shadows, relics of an era that time itself had tried to erase.
The walls were cracked, consumed by abandonment, but they still resisted, as if something kept them standing. The wind that came down from the mountains carried a chill that came not only from the altitude, but from something deeper, something that seemed to crawl under the skin and infiltrate the bones.
And then there were the stones. They were unlike any castle I had ever seen. They were not carved or stacked, but molded, cast, as if the fires of hell itself had created them. Some bore marks, symbols that time had worn away but could still be seen by the keen eye.
And there was silence.
Not an ordinary silence, but a suffocating emptiness, as if the earth itself held its breath in horror. No animal ventured there. No bird flew across the sky above the fortresses. It was as if the world had forgotten that this place existed.
Then I understood. Bleak Castle is not dead. It merely waits.
The Rites of the God of Blood and Darkness
My research led me to ancient accounts, forgotten fragments of a time that few dare to remember. I discovered that the castles were not military bastions, but temple-fortresses erected by an unholy cult. A cult of the God of Blood and Darkness.
These worshippers were not mere priests. They were warlords, sorcerers, and assassins, corrupted souls who served not men, but something far worse. With each great red moon, the gates of Bleak Castle would open and the followers of the cult would drag their victims to the Black Altar. Men, women, children… No one was safe.
Blood flowed like a river. Screams echoed through the walls, but nothing ever answered them. No benevolent god came to save them. No avenging warrior put an end to the carnage. The castle gates closed and the sacrifice continued, unwitnessed, uninterrupted.
The blood was not spilled in vain. It fed something. Something that waited in the depths. Something that, perhaps, still waits.
My Last Impressions
I will never forget that night.
Mist crept through the ruins, wrapping around the ancient stones like spectral fingers. My eyes were heavy with fatigue, but my ears picked up something I didn't want to believe was real.
Footsteps.
Footsteps shuffling, coming from the depths.
I closed my eyes, shivering, trying to convince myself that it was just the wind, just the cracking of stones in the cold of the night. But then I heard the whispers.
They weren't words. They were formless sounds, echoes of something that no longer belonged to this world.
I don't know how long I stood there, motionless, frozen in terror. But when the first ray of sunlight touched the broken walls of Bleak, I fled. And I didn't come back.
The lands around the three fortresses are dying. The rot spreads, slow and inexorable. Perhaps the cult has been extinguished, perhaps its priests have perished... but something still inhabits that place.
And I fear that, one day, it will awaken.
Lorenzo Vademecum – historian, philosopher and traveler
This time I take the liberty of invading Master @Quenten map to build the Shinem Tower. It is located in Fonlorn Archipelago > The Bleakness > Ashburton Region, near the Doom Chasm.
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About twenty-five miles from the village of AshBurton, Shinem Tower stands alone. Its rough, rocky surface is covered in half-dry, half-alive vines, as if the very vegetation that surrounds it were wavering between death and life. There are no doors. There are no windows. Just a lonely tower, of uncertain origin, watching over a desolate horizon.
The locals avoid talking about it. When questioned, their expressions darken, their eyes avert. Some make superstitious signs of protection, while others simply walk away in silence. None of them approach the tower willingly.
Yet someone – or something – still lives within.
The Hidden Inhabitant
For decades, every three weeks, a volunteer from among the villagers of AshBurton has brought supplies to the base of the tower. Bread, meat, fruit, water. Enough to sustain a man for a while. He always leaves without seeing anyone and returns the same way. In times past, villagers who ignored or refused to practice this ancient custom mysteriously disappeared, their homes found empty and without signs of struggle. The fear that the same thing will happen again keeps the tradition alive.
Sometimes, someone tried to watch the place from a distance, hidden among the shadows and stones. They never saw who was bringing the supplies. But, at dawn, the food was gone.
Legends and Whispers
The stories about Shinem Tower vary from villager to villager, but they all carry the same atmosphere of superstition and fear.
Some say that a reclusive sorcerer takes refuge inside, dedicated to obscure studies on the nature of the human body. A scholar who, according to legend, dismantles flesh and bone like a craftsman would dismantle an old carriage and then rebuilds it to his will.
Others believe that he is not human.
The most superstitious say that a pact was made long ago with dark forces. That on moonless nights, shapeless beings emerge from the darkness and crawl towards the tower, bringing with them lifeless bodies.
These bodies disappear without a trace, as do the supplies. But despite this, no smoke has ever been seen coming out of the tower.
If there is a fire inside, it is not fueled by wood.
The Signs of the Occult
Those who have dared to approach the tower have reported an abnormal silence that dominates the region. The wind, common in the surrounding plains, seems to cease as soon as one steps foot in its vicinity.
The surface of the stones is strangely cold, even under the heat of the sun.
Some swear they have heard muffled noises from inside. Not footsteps, not voices, but a slow and continuous dragging, as if something were moving within the sealed walls.
No one has ever managed to enter. No one has ever discovered the truth.
Ricko
🖼 138 images Mapmaker
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Plains of Ash - North
The winds that sweep across the Plains of Ash carry with them the unbreathable dust of volcanic eruptions, sometimes bringing with them the voices of the ancient dead - whispering tales of forgotten times. Once known as the Plains of Dawn, these lands were a verdant paradise, where rivers danced silver in the sunlight and forests rose in reverence to the heavens. The great Murky Lake reflected the vastness of the sky, its crystalline mirror nourishing life in all directions.
These were times of glory and life. The tribes that inhabited these lands saw them as a gift from the gods. It was sacred ground, where only the noblest sorcerers and warriors deserved to rest in their tombs. The ancients said that the spirits of these honored dead rose on nights of the full moon, watching over the crops, spreading their strength across the fertile soil. The power of the past flowed like invisible blood through the roots of the trees and through the golden grains of the fields.
But the old gods are capricious and merciless.
The Great Hecatomb came, and the earth roared like a caged beast, the mountains convulsed, spewing fire and destruction in every direction. Columns of black smoke rose like pillars from the underworld itself, and a storm of ash fell upon the earth, suffocating all life. Lake Murky bubbled in its own death, its waters poisoned by sulfur. The rivers became putrid veins, winding through the barren land, dooming any form of existence that dared venture there.
Now, the Plains of Ash are a wasteland of desolation. The ground is hard as iron, cracked and barren. Charred trees rise like twisted specters. The sky, often veiled in sulfuric mists, refuses to shine over this cursed place. The few who dare to cross this land swear they hear voices carried on the wind—murmurs of the ancient warriors and sorcerers who rest there, perhaps furious that their rest has been disturbed, perhaps still watching over something deep beneath the scorched earth.
Are their tombs strong enough to withstand the eruption? Do the spirits of old still lie sealed beneath the ashes, or have they awakened as dark guardians of a forgotten realm?
The Tomb of Blauhaus the Warrior
In the days of yore, when a men were worth less than the blade they wielded, there lived Blauhaus the Wanderer. He was no prince, nor lord of land, but in the hovels and taverns where the fires crackled and the wine flowed freely, his name was revered with laughter and murmurs of respect.
Blauhaus was a man of colossal size, with shoulders as broad as an oak trunk and arms that seemed forged for war. But he was also an inveterate drinker, finding solace and strength in the rich warmth of ale. With a raucous laugh and a heart as vast as his thirst, he never turned down a bet or a fight, whether for honor or amusement.
Yet amidst the drunkenness and the tavern songs, there was a spirit within him that could not be broken: a silent oath of loyalty to those who called him brother. When his land was overrun by raiders from overseas, Blauhaus was where he had always been—sitting on a barrel, a dirty cup in his hands, his boots covered in mud. But as he watched the flames consume the houses, the women and children being swept away, his mind cleared as if the liquor had evaporated from his veins. Armed only with his old blade and the fury of a man who never abandoned his own, he advanced against the invaders. It is said that he cut down dozens before he was wounded, his blows more like those of a beast than a man. But not even the steel embedded in his body was enough to stop him. With his blood leaking like rivers onto the ground, he grabbed the burning stake of a fallen hut and, in a last act, charged the enemy barricade, opening a path for his people to escape. The next morning, when the smell of death still hung in the air, the survivors found his body lying in the rubble, surrounded by the corpses of his enemies. Raised as a hero, Blauhaus was buried in a sacred tomb, sealed with protective runes, so that his soul would never wander lost.
Travelers say that on stormy nights, when thunder shakes the earth and the wind howls like a wounded wolf, echoes of a deep laugh resound among the cold stones. And if a lost man is about to succumb to despair, there are those who swear they will see a colossal shadow of a warrior with burning eyes, drinking one last drink before guiding him out of the darkness.
The Tomb of Timody Taldon
Timody Taldon was a name that echoed through the halls and among the whispers of the people. A warrior without equal, Grand Master of the Red Order, feared on the battlefield and beloved by his people. With his black sword, Dark Aria, he felled tyrants and crushed enemies. But the blade that had taken so many lives began to weigh on his soul.
One day, without warning, Timody hung his sword on the wall and never raised it again. He retreated to his fortress, where he delved into the arcane mysteries, seeking wisdom beyond war. He became the protector of his land not with iron, but with spells that warded off plagues, raised crops, and healed the sick. His people revered him as a saint, but in the solitude of his tower, he faced his own demons.
For every man carries shadows, and Timody's was deep. Some whispered that his magic went beyond light, that he studied forbidden scrolls beneath the red moon. There were nights when screams echoed from his tower and no one dared ask why. They say that one day an old enemy knocked on his door—and was never seen again.
But death, treacherous and indifferent to power, found him in a ridiculous way. Not in battle with arcane horrors, nor in a duel with enemies. Timody Taldon, the great hero, slipped on a wet staircase and broke his neck.
The elders said it was fate laughing at his greatness. His disciples buried him in a spell-sealed tomb on the Plain of Dawn, and his black sword and staff rest beside their master.
Second Level
The Tomb of Elayon Varonihl
In the annals of existence on this island, few names inspire as much admiration and revulsion as Elayon Varonihl. The sorcerer who built walls against the shadows, who saved thousands from plague and famine, yet whose name is still whispered with horror on cold nights. For Elayon was no ordinary man – he was a force of power and contradiction, a paradox of light and darkness.
Born the bastard of a nobleman and a witch, Elayon was rejected by his father and given to the learned monks, where he soon surpassed his masters. His intellect was an insatiable fire, and his ambition burned like a bonfire on a windy night. When his land was ravaged by war and disease, it was he who raised his hand and changed the fate of his people.
He healed the sick, but he also cursed them.
He made rain fall upon the fields, but he also watered them with blood.
He protected his land from invaders, but the walls of his city were supported by forbidden spells, echoing the cries of forgotten souls.
Elayon was generous to his people, providing them with food, safety, and knowledge, but his decadence was well known. His marble palace resounded with whispers of unholy orgies, dark pacts, and experiments that tore the veil between the human and the unnameable. His followers worshipped him as a savior, but feared him as a cruel god.
Yet fate did not reserve a grand death for him. No vengeful army defeated him, no conjured spirit dragged his soul into the abyss. He died alone, in his chamber, suffocated by his own vomit after a drunken binge. When they found him, his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling of his room, his lips curled in a final smile. His servants buried him in a tomb adorned with enchantments, an underground chamber sealed with arcane symbols.
The elders warn: if at night they hear laughter coming from beyond, they should stay away! For Elayon Varonihl may be dead, but his presence has never left this world.
The Tomb of the Twins Lorran and Elran
The day of their birth was marked by a rare eclipse, a phenomenon that tore the sky in two, as if the universe itself were divided between light and darkness.
From a young age, Lorran and Elran showed remarkable gifts. They displayed a kindness that brightened the lives of those around them. They were known in their village and surrounding areas for healing the sick, helping those in need, and bringing hope to the desperate. However, as they grew older, it also became clear that there was a dark side that pulsed within them, a mysterious connection that united them in ways that defied understanding.
The twins shared a deep bond, their very essence intertwined. While Lorran was known for his compassion and courage, Elran harbored a darker spirit, capable of summoning hidden fears and awakening the fury of nature.
One night, in a moment of weakness, they performed an ancient ritual, seeking the power to transgress the boundaries of life and death, without understanding the litany they had conjured. The earth shook, and the heavens opened, pouring flames down upon them. The sacrifice demanded by the powers they had invoked was high. In that same instant, the lives of Lorran and Elran were extinguished, leaving a void of pain and bewilderment in the hearts of those who worshipped them.
However, their legacy did not end. Twenty-two willing disciples, who had followed the twins in life, decided to accompany them on their journey to the afterlife. Each brought with them a fervent devotion and a singular purpose: to serve Lorran and Elran in a realm where only goodness and darkness would coexist.
In the new dimension, the twins became guardians of dreams and nightmares, balancing benevolence and terror in a world without borders. The remaining disciples spread the stories of the brothers, inspiring both fear and reverence.
The legends grew, echoing through time, and their souls, now linked in eternity, continued in a constant play of light and darkness.
The Tomb of Eldora
In the bleak and inhospitable Plains of Ash, where the ground burns under the curse of the ancient gods and the air is heavy with the lament of this forgotten land, there lies a whisper of hope: the Tomb of Eldora. This powerful woman who lived in communion with nature is a legend that transcends the boundaries of time.
In life, her days were spent among the ancient trees and crystal-clear streams, where she spoke to animals as if they were her equals, and delved into a vast knowledge of herbs and healing.
Considered the last druid in a world forgotten by the blessings of life, Eldora was a beacon of light amidst the desolation. Whenever a traveler was lost or a creature suffered, she was there, ready to offer aid, often at the cost of her own life force. Her presence was a balm to the wounded and a beacon to the lost.
Yet the harmony she cultivated led to fear among those around her. The powerful lords of the neighboring lands, fearing what they could not control, banded together to eradicate what they considered a threat. On a windless night, a horde of warriors, armed with shadows and curses, invaded Eldora's home. Even amidst the fighting, she stood firm, calling upon the spirits of the forest and the animals. However, the strength of steel prevailed, and Eldora was murdered, her body becoming part of the land she loved so much.
Contrary to what her oppressors had hoped, the peasants managed to recover her body. Her tomb, erected on the sacred ground where she had lived and loved, has now become an oasis of life amidst the despair of the Plains of Ash. Where there was once nothing but desolation, now blooms vibrant flowers, fruit trees, and springs of pure water. Rays of light pierce the eternally gray clouds, and the few animals that remain gather around her eternal rest.
Travelers who cross the arid plains are inexorably drawn to this inexplicable bounty, finding food and fresh water, as if Eldora herself were there, offering her aid once more. Many leave offerings of flowers and small tributes, telling stories of their love and gratitude, or simply sitting in her presence, healing not only physically but also in their worn-out souls.
Though the shadow of death has taken Eldora’s life, her strength remains, alive in the variety of life that flourishes around her. Eldora’s Tomb has become a place of pilgrimage and reverence, where all are invited to reflect on the interconnectedness of all creatures and the beauty that can emerge from even the most desolate terrain.
The Mausoleum of the Guardians
Few dare to pronounce the name of Surubon, the Devourer of Souls, for even the memory of his existence carries a funereal weight on the shoulders of the living. But there is a place where his name still burns in the depths of the stone, where the steel of the dead still resounds in the sepulchral silence: the Mausoleum of the Guardians.
In times that no longer count in centuries, during the reign of Abcess IV, in an era of darkness and blood, Surubon tore the veil of reality and entered this world. Not as an army, nor as a storm, but as a disease that consumed kings and beggars, devouring souls and leaving behind empty bodies, moved only by his unholy will. No blade could cut him, no shield could stop him. The very air turned to poison around him, and the king's armies were reduced to nothing before they even touched their swords to the enemy.
It was then up to the Crown Guards, the bravest warriors and mages of Abcess IV, to capture the demon. Seventeen men and women set out, led by the archmage Vaedros Murk, bearing anointed weapons, ancient runes, and hearts that would not hesitate in the face of the abyss. For two days and three nights, they fought against the entity in a valley forgotten by the gods, while the stars faded in the sky and the very ground pulsed like living flesh.
Surubon did not bleed, but each enchantment weakened him; each blow driven into his shadowy flesh reduced his fury, until, exhausted and mutilated, the Guardians chanted the last rite, a forbidden sacrifice. With their own blood and the last strength they had left, they used their own souls to seal him. They did not kill the demon—they became his prison.
The Mausoleum of the Guardians was built on the ruins of the battlefield, carved from grey rock, shrouded in sigils so ancient that even the dead avoid its presence. Rivers of liquid silver run in deep grooves in the walls, forming a labyrinth of sorcery capable of tearing the sanity of those who approach it.
The Guardians do not rest. Their spirits, torn apart by sacrifice, remain trapped between life and death, guarding the runes and hunting any fool who dares enter the dark corridors. There are no allies here, only shadows that wield swords and hurl curses with the same voices that once cried out for the king. They are both jailers and prisoners, condemned to an eternity of vigil, so that the horror they fought against will never awaken.
The Tomb of Abscess IV
In ancient times, before the skies were stained with soot and the rivers turned to sulphur, Abscess IV ruled with an iron fist and a sharp mind. He was no ordinary king – his crown was made not only of gold, but of alchemical secrets and formulas known only to him.
It is said that in his prime, the mighty King discovered the secret of ultimate transmutation. Some say he sought eternal life, others that his obsession was absolute power. Whatever the truth, he ordered the construction of a tomb even before his death – not as a simple mausoleum, but as a shrine of alchemy, a place where forbidden secrets would be buried with him.
The ancients spoke with reverence of his tomb, a pyramid of stone carved into the bowels of the earth. But then came the great eruptions—mountains spewed fire, the skies turned to perpetual night, and the purging of the earth devoured the entire island. When the ash finally settled, the Tomb of Abcess IV had disappeared beneath an even greater tomb: an ocean of volcanic debris.
The Forgotten Treasures
The old storytellers speak of unparalleled riches hidden within the tomb—not mere coins or jewels, but artifacts of unimaginable power. Alchemy manuscripts that could disintegrate mountains, elixirs that could turn flesh to gold, and blades that would never rust. But above all these treasures, one legend stands tall: The Abscess Machine.
The Abscess Machine
In the deepest chamber of the tomb, protected by sigils that not even the dead dare violate, lies the final creation of the alchemist king. A mechanism of living metal, pulsing with hidden energy. It is said that it was built for a single purpose: to consume souls and distill the very essence of life.
The Tombkeepers
Neither suffocating ash nor oblivion have extinguished the king's watchmen. Within the buried corridors of the tomb, beings still prowl. They say that the enemies who betrayed Abcess were melted down and molded into bronze statues, condemned to remain eternally as their master's guardians. Their metal armor creaks as they move, and their hollow eyes still burn with the glow of ancient enchantments.
Others speak of golems forged of mercury, moldable as smoke and sharp as blades. And there are those who say that even the dead of Abscess still walk, not as ghosts, but as experiments of twisted flesh, creatures that should not exist.
At least for now, this section is finished @Monsen @Quenten 12 more maps to the Atlas <3.
Thank you very much!
Thanks. I've added them to the processing queue.
Man... I don't know what's better, the maps or the stories. Congratulations!
Wait a minute! What would happen if there was no smalllandscape photo/map? 😅
I went to sleep thinking about Veilvale and woke up with the panorama of a destroyed city.
Veilvale’s Disgrace
There was a time when Veilvale was a haven among the hills. From its docks, fishermen returned laden with fish from Murky Lake. The fields around it were fertile, the taverns always full, and the winds that came down from the mountains carried the sweet smell of ripening crops. No army had ever marched upon its roads, no plague had ever plagued its people. Veilvale was a haven.
Then came the tremors.
The mountains to the north roared like awakened beasts, spewing fire and death. The sky darkened with ash, the air grew thick and toxic. Murky Lake became a graveyard, its waters tinged green and black, boiling with sulfur and consuming everything it touched. Pastures lay barren, livestock died in agony, and the earth itself opened up to swallow homes whole. The few who survived fled to the coastal lands, carrying only the rags they had on their bodies. Veilvale was abandoned and forgotten.
The Dark Heart of Veilvale
But one structure still stands tall amidst the ruins - a shadowy silhouette against the perpetually overcast sky, the Tower of Vessanthor.
No one knows who built it. Some say it was Abscess IV himself, or one of his alchemists. Others believe the tower is much older, built on something that should never have been disturbed. In the past, the people of Veilvale avoided speaking of it, despite its constant presence over the city.
Now, its forgotten halls are a pit of darkness. Its top is cracked, tilted like a bony finger pointing toward the merciless heavens. But its subterranean bowels remain intact, sealed with iron doors and carved with runes from times gone by.
The Black Blood Spiders
Veilvale may be dead, but something crawls among its ruins. Monstrous spiders, their exoskeletons hardened by sulfur, proliferate in the fallen structures, turning the halls of abandoned buildings into their lairs. Their bloated bodies are greenish black, and their fangs drip a venom that burns like acid. They do not hunt like ordinary predators—they wait, ambush, move in the shadows, and watch.
Some travelers say there is something wrong with them. That they are intelligent, that they work together, that they guard the Tower of Vessanthor like evil sentinels. As if they are not just creatures of nature, but guardians placed there by something much older and crueler.
Staying at home in very hot weather (38-47 Celsius) has some advantages, making more maps sweating a lot and with a fan on Max on the CPU :). I've been studying the region and I'm taking the liberty of picking Bleak Castle @JimP <3. After all... one more ruin is always useful.
Chronicles of a Historian – The Terror of Bleak Castle
May the gods have mercy on my soul for all that I have seen and for all that I dare to recount in these pages. My name no longer matters much, for what I experienced in Bleak Castle has left such a mark on me that I am no longer the man I once was. For years, I have traveled through forgotten kingdoms, delved into dusty parchments, and listened to the whispers of the last old men who still remembered the horrors of the past. But nothing, nothing could have prepared me for what I found in those cursed lands.
Ever since I heard the first reports about the three fortresses to the east, I have felt the call of history. They said that, at the foot of the Churning Mountains, stood the ruins of the castles Bleak, Arrow, and Good Behavior, sentinels of a dark past, abandoned to a fate forgotten by time. The few villagers who still lived on the edges of this forbidden land warned me with pale faces and downcast eyes. They whispered of night whispers, ownerless shadows, nameless misfortunes. They told me that those who dared to approach never returned. But I did not listen. A scholar does not bow to superstition. He laughs at the foolish fears of ignorant peasants.
And so I stayed three months in those lands and regret every moment.
The Three Fortresses and Their Secrets
Upon reaching the ruins, I was faced with a sight I will never forget. Bleak Castle, along with Arrow and Good Behavior, dominated the horizon like a trio of immortal shadows, relics of an era that time itself had tried to erase.
The walls were cracked, consumed by abandonment, but they still resisted, as if something kept them standing. The wind that came down from the mountains carried a chill that came not only from the altitude, but from something deeper, something that seemed to crawl under the skin and infiltrate the bones.
And then there were the stones. They were unlike any castle I had ever seen. They were not carved or stacked, but molded, cast, as if the fires of hell itself had created them. Some bore marks, symbols that time had worn away but could still be seen by the keen eye.
And there was silence.
Not an ordinary silence, but a suffocating emptiness, as if the earth itself held its breath in horror. No animal ventured there. No bird flew across the sky above the fortresses. It was as if the world had forgotten that this place existed.
Then I understood. Bleak Castle is not dead. It merely waits.
The Rites of the God of Blood and Darkness
My research led me to ancient accounts, forgotten fragments of a time that few dare to remember. I discovered that the castles were not military bastions, but temple-fortresses erected by an unholy cult. A cult of the God of Blood and Darkness.
These worshippers were not mere priests. They were warlords, sorcerers, and assassins, corrupted souls who served not men, but something far worse. With each great red moon, the gates of Bleak Castle would open and the followers of the cult would drag their victims to the Black Altar. Men, women, children… No one was safe.
Blood flowed like a river. Screams echoed through the walls, but nothing ever answered them. No benevolent god came to save them. No avenging warrior put an end to the carnage. The castle gates closed and the sacrifice continued, unwitnessed, uninterrupted.
The blood was not spilled in vain. It fed something. Something that waited in the depths. Something that, perhaps, still waits.
My Last Impressions
I will never forget that night.
Mist crept through the ruins, wrapping around the ancient stones like spectral fingers. My eyes were heavy with fatigue, but my ears picked up something I didn't want to believe was real.
Footsteps.
Footsteps shuffling, coming from the depths.
I closed my eyes, shivering, trying to convince myself that it was just the wind, just the cracking of stones in the cold of the night. But then I heard the whispers.
They weren't words. They were formless sounds, echoes of something that no longer belonged to this world.
I don't know how long I stood there, motionless, frozen in terror. But when the first ray of sunlight touched the broken walls of Bleak, I fled. And I didn't come back.
The lands around the three fortresses are dying. The rot spreads, slow and inexorable. Perhaps the cult has been extinguished, perhaps its priests have perished... but something still inhabits that place.
And I fear that, one day, it will awaken.
Lorenzo Vademecum – historian, philosopher and traveler
This time I take the liberty of invading Master @Quenten map to build the Shinem Tower. It is located in Fonlorn Archipelago > The Bleakness > Ashburton Region, near the Doom Chasm.
The Shinem Tower
About twenty-five miles from the village of AshBurton, Shinem Tower stands alone. Its rough, rocky surface is covered in half-dry, half-alive vines, as if the very vegetation that surrounds it were wavering between death and life. There are no doors. There are no windows. Just a lonely tower, of uncertain origin, watching over a desolate horizon.
The locals avoid talking about it. When questioned, their expressions darken, their eyes avert. Some make superstitious signs of protection, while others simply walk away in silence. None of them approach the tower willingly.
Yet someone – or something – still lives within.
The Hidden Inhabitant
For decades, every three weeks, a volunteer from among the villagers of AshBurton has brought supplies to the base of the tower. Bread, meat, fruit, water. Enough to sustain a man for a while. He always leaves without seeing anyone and returns the same way. In times past, villagers who ignored or refused to practice this ancient custom mysteriously disappeared, their homes found empty and without signs of struggle. The fear that the same thing will happen again keeps the tradition alive.
Sometimes, someone tried to watch the place from a distance, hidden among the shadows and stones. They never saw who was bringing the supplies. But, at dawn, the food was gone.
Legends and Whispers
The stories about Shinem Tower vary from villager to villager, but they all carry the same atmosphere of superstition and fear.
Some say that a reclusive sorcerer takes refuge inside, dedicated to obscure studies on the nature of the human body. A scholar who, according to legend, dismantles flesh and bone like a craftsman would dismantle an old carriage and then rebuilds it to his will.
Others believe that he is not human.
The most superstitious say that a pact was made long ago with dark forces. That on moonless nights, shapeless beings emerge from the darkness and crawl towards the tower, bringing with them lifeless bodies.
These bodies disappear without a trace, as do the supplies. But despite this, no smoke has ever been seen coming out of the tower.
If there is a fire inside, it is not fueled by wood.
The Signs of the Occult
Those who have dared to approach the tower have reported an abnormal silence that dominates the region. The wind, common in the surrounding plains, seems to cease as soon as one steps foot in its vicinity.
The surface of the stones is strangely cold, even under the heat of the sun.
Some swear they have heard muffled noises from inside. Not footsteps, not voices, but a slow and continuous dragging, as if something were moving within the sealed walls.
No one has ever managed to enter. No one has ever discovered the truth.
Lovely idea with the background map.
I think the first sentence has been duplicated.
thanks! I always struggle with the forum text editor 😅