Community Atlas - Fonlorn Archipelago - Bleakness - Death Forest.
Ricko
🖼 138 images Mapmaker
I'm experiencing an unusual problem. I imported (maybe by mistake, because as you know I don't operate the program very well) a Bitmap fill for effects along the river, and when I showed it to Quenten, it showed an image error. After he reported the error to me, I searched all the sheets and didn't find this water green MS file.
In my program the file location is in Program files x 86 - profantasy - cartographers collection - exotic locales - textures - tiles - modern - CA 148 moody mansion. Although it has all the CC3 extensions, when he open it on your computer he get an error.
In any case, could someone please delete this file so I can submit it to the Community Atlas without any problems?
Thank you
Comments
I tried but am missing to many of the resources, so most of the map is red x's.
Here it is with the missing asset deleted.
Do you place all of those trees manually? Makes my carpal tunnel hurt when thinking about it!
Wow one deleted item and it changed the map that much. I love the fixed version coloration.
(Only thing I would change if it was mine would be the color of the text. Just a bit to close to the land color)
Nice work to fix it for Ricko.
Thanks @Royal Scribe <3
Oh, the biggest change is that Ricko's image didn't have sheet effects turned on. I turned them on before making a JPG.
Yes, including changing the colors to black and gray tones to have more visual variety.
In fact, this map, as for trees, is child's play. Here on this map there are many more and it was one by one too. 🤣
So lets Begin with the new zone. Here is the Overland map, more coming soon.
I set aside this small area for further expansion. And imagined a place completely desolate and destroyed by the severe eruptions that occurred in this part of the island. I was inspired by the recent eruptions that occurred a few years ago in the Chilean/Argentine Patagonia region to use as a scenario.
In yellow the last zone mapped in the last post, and in red the new zone chosen with 80x80 miles. I hope this minimum Overlap between the squares is not a big problem, but it was difficult to make a harmonic cut without it.
This time I worked on the Lore before I started drawing the map. It took me a few days... I hope you enjoy.
Death Forest – Where Not Even Death Treads
1. Introduction
East of the towering Churning Mountains, there once stood an ancient forest, where its canopy once provided shade, shelter, and food for travelers and animals alike, and the Slimy River, once a pure, crystal-clear stream, meandered through hills and valleys, bringing sustenance to villages and creatures alike. But all that died the day the sky turned gray, the ground rotted, and the once-vibrant forest fell silent.
Now the trunks stand like blackened corpses, their twisted branches reaching skyward like frozen arms in a final spasm of agony. No birds sing. Only the hollow sound of silence itself, deep and crushing. It is said that if one stops and listens, one can hear faint whispers in the gusts of wind—not natural breezes, but echoes of something that was once alive.
2. Geography of Death Forest – A Corpse That Insists on Breathing
The dry, cracked and irregular terrain extends into dry hills and desolate valleys, where the native vegetation has been taken over by a thick layer of ash and hardened lava. Charred trees stand like skeletons, their roots exposed and broken by the violence of the underground fire. Twisted and dried-out bushes rest on the barren soil, unable to resist the weight of destruction.
The rivers and streams, once winding and clear, are now snakes of mud and poison, dragging debris and fragments of a forest that no longer exists. Their darkened waters reflect the cloudy and suffocating sky, where the smoke from occasional eruptions sometimes obscures any trace of light. From the Churning Mountains and their snow-capped peaks, now come the winds that carry with them the volcanic dust that ravages every space. The sky is covered by heavy clouds and ash storms cloud the landscape. In every corner, nature seems to be in a slow confrontation between decay and resurrection, a silent battle where the earth itself hesitates about its fate.
3. Daily life in the region:
In this isolated region, the sparse survivors continue their daily struggle for survival. Agriculture, which once sustained families, has been reduced to small fields where the soil, affected by volcanic ash, can barely produce anything other than stunted fruits. The fishermen, who depended on the abundant waters of the Slimy River, now face rough seas, whose nets often return empty or loaded with deformed creatures, a reflection of the changes that have affected the region. Even in the face of adversity, stubbornness and resilience remain, and life goes on, slowly, one day at a time.
At dawn, the men and women begin their tasks, aware of the hardship of the journey, but with a sense of quiet determination. Farmers, with their hoes and calloused hands, try to cultivate what they can on patches of infertile land, searching for roots and hardy herbs for food. Fishermen, staring at the horizon, wait for the tides that could perhaps bring some hope. There are few words exchanged between them; the collective suffering makes them more focused on their daily activities. Traditionally, the simplicity of the tasks transforms into a ritual of connection with the land and with what remains of life around them.
At night, people gather in small wooden huts, where the heat of the wood fire provides some comfort. There are no heroes or great stories in this region, but rather the experiences of ordinary men and women, who resist each dawn. Before going to sleep, there is a custom that persists: each person writes, with charcoal, a wish or prayer on the wall of the hut.
They believe that the land, in some way, hears their words, and that the ancestors who inhabited these lands still watch over their descendants. In the midst of destruction, the community finds strength in memories and in the need to move forward.
4. Places of interest
For fearless souls seeking to explore the limits of the unknown, there are places where mystery and danger intersect, challenging the human spirit. Risk is a constant, but so is the fascination of discovery. For those brave enough, these points of interest are more than destinations:
4.1 The Stone Forest
In the northwest, near the Churning Mountains, the forest takes on a different form: a graveyard of petrified trees. The trunks that were burned there by the infernal heat of the eruption did not crumble into ashes, but were sealed in time, like twisted stone pillars. Gray, immobile and hardened, they look like prisoners condemned to an eternity of vigil.
Absolute silence reigns in this place. There is no wind, there is no life, there is not even the sound of one's own footsteps. Travelers speak of a suffocating emptiness, as if something were stalking them, hidden in the stillness. Some swear that, at nightfall, they hear originless murmurs, ancient whispers that slide between the stone trunks like invisible serpents.
4.2 The Hell's Baths
Hidden among volcanic debris and poisoned mudflats lie the Hot Springs, nicknamed the Hell's Baths by the few survivors of the region. There is no welcoming steam here, only an unbearable stench of sulfur and rotting flesh. The pools bubble with a yellowish-black viscosity, and anything that touches their waters dissolves into fetid goo.
Rocks covered in reddish moss and the carcasses of deformed animals surround this boiling swamp. Some say that the place is inhabited by something that crawls among the rocks and mud of the region, waiting. No man who has entered the pools has ever emerged whole.
4.3 The Slimy River – The Great Vein Exposed
Once clear and vibrant, it now cuts through the forest like an infected wound. Its banks are a poisonous bog, where rare mosses crawl like necrotic skin over dead flesh, covered in swarms of fat, shiny flies.
The river itself runs thick as old oil and gives off a sickening odor—a smell of sulfur, iron, and something sweet and putrid, like a decaying corpse. No fish swim in its waters. No roots dare touch them. The few who have tried to drink from the river have died in agony, their bodies contorted, their eyes leaking black fluid before their skins melt like wax under fire.
4.4 The Veltmar Hills – The Flash of Life
In the heart of the destruction, one place still stands: the Veltmar Hills. Here, the forest refuses to die.
There is a legend of the Healing Tree, which lives and endures near the source of the small river, a tributary of the Slimy. Its leaves are a ghostly golden green, and are said to have magical properties, capable of curing any illness. But its presence defies logic, and those who have tried to take it say that something protects it. Some speak of roots that move like serpents. Others have voices that warn intruders in forgotten languages.
Between the hills and the great tree, hidden in a gorge, lies the Cave of Onnith, a dark tunnel whose entrance opens like a hungry mouth. It is said that it is here that lies the last remnant of something that the eruption should have destroyed but that survived—or worse, something that was born from the ashes.
4.5 The Forgotten Villages of the Coast
To the east, towards the sea, small villages endure like ghosts of what they once were. Once prosperous, the villages that once cultivated the fertile fields now struggle to survive. The land has been poisoned by volcanic ash, and nothing grows in the dry, toxic soils.
The villagers live off the sea, but even the waters seem to have been affected. The fish they catch have strange flesh, a rusty taste, and something acidic that irritates the tongue. The elders whisper that the dead forest corrupts even the tides, and that one day the ocean will turn against them. Though humble and with scarce supplies, these small settlements are indispensable for resupplying those who venture into the wilderness.
5. The Dangers of Death Forest
Enter Death Forest at your own risk! Maddening mists, poisoned soil, and lightning strikes await you in this dead land! Nameless creatures lurk in the fossilized shadows, and ancient whispers seek to invade your mind. Here, even death itself fears to linger.
5.1 The Lurkers – The Hungry Shadows of the Slimy River
On the filthy, rotting banks of the Slimy River, the Lurkers appear, grotesque specters, the very children of corruption and oblivion. Their tall, skeletal figures, shrouded in shadow, ooze from the darkness as if they were part of it. Those few who dare to cross this land in search of more than survival speak of them with the dread of those who have encountered something that cannot be described. Are they beasts degenerated by the disgrace of the land, specters chained between worlds, or beings whose purpose surpasses mortal comprehension?
In the damp mud holes along the riverbed, the Lurkers hide. They do not walk, they crawl, they slither through the darkness of the night. Their bodies are stretched skeletons, like rotting flesh, with sagging gray skin stretched tight over broken bones. The black veins in their limbs seem to throb as if something alive, something grotesque, were moving beneath, a force that reaches down from the abyss and permeates everything it touches. Their eyes, if they have such eyes, do not reflect light—they are opaque holes that swallow hope. Most terrifying, however, is the silence. There is no sound—not even the rustle of a leaf in the wind or the snap of a broken twig. Only an immense void, an absolute emptiness that precedes the attack.
The elders say that the Lurkers were born of the eruption. Others say they are a fusion of men and beasts, corrupted by the madness of drinking the poisonous waters of the Slimy, deformed by the destruction. And there are those who point to the obelisk upstream – an ancient structure, its main lair. Few have dared to approach it, but those who have returned speak of a presence there, a palpable force that insinuates itself into the minds, calling the Lurkers, like a beacon of their own decay, to the darkness of its lair.
If there is a reason for the Lurkers’ hunts, no one knows. But the missing, those who are swallowed up in the night without a single scream, become just another nameless echo in the endless darkness of the forest, a shadow forgotten in the abyss, lost forever in the teeth of the shadows.
5.2 Bone Worms
Emerging from the cracks of the parched soil, the Bone Worms are hideous creatures that crawl like serpents. Their scales are white as marble and they have disproportionate jaws with long, blade-like teeth. These predators devour everything that crosses their path, without mercy. Their bodies have a rigid outer shell and a gelatinous interior; they are agile enough to move at great speed underground, leaving only a trail of destruction.
They feed on everything that still lives, be it humans, animals or even other creatures from the abyss. Nothing escapes their voracity, and nothing remains after their passage. Where these worms walk, life is a distant memory, swallowed by the earth and silence.
5.3 Ash Golem
After the eruptions that devastated the earth, a wizard named Arelith, in desperation, tried to create an immortal defense force. Using forbidden magic, he fused human beings and volcanic minerals with the power of magma, creating the Ash Golems.
Their massive, twisted forms are composed of fragmented rock and ash, with veins of visible lava flowing from their joints. Their bodies are disproportionate, with large, clumsy limbs and imposing heads, but with empty eyes, like slits of darkness. Their feet and hands are like great obsidian boulders, capable of crushing everything beneath their weight. Arelith believed them to be her immortal servants, but the corruption of magic took hold of the golems, turning them into insatiable creatures. They rebelled against their creator and crushed him like a dry twig. Now, they roam consuming what remains of the devastated land, guided only by eternal destruction.
5.4 Eurynomes
These vengeful spirits are said to have been awakened by the eruptions and are known as Eurynomes. Their bodies are now made of fire and ash, with burning skin and flames flowing through their entire bodies. Their eyes glow with immortal fury, and their flaming claws tear the air. They are the very wrath of the earth, manifested by primal fire.
Wandering the devastated ruins, they hunt those who transgress natural or divine laws, punishing them with eternal fire. Their every step sets the earth ablaze, and anyone who comes near feels the unbearable heat. Their presence is a harbinger of doom.
5.5 Specters of Wrath
During the eruptions that devastated this area, hundreds of people were tragically consumed by flames and lava. Those who died in anger could find no rest buttheir souls trapped between the world of the living and the afterlife. They emerged as Wrath Wraiths, beings whose screams echo through the charred ruins, fueled by the rage and suffering of their violent deaths.
With bodies translucent but still shaped like humans, they float through the ashes, their eyes burning with a savage glow of pain and resentment. Their wails echo through the dark nights, a harbinger of imminent death for those who dare trespass on their cursed lands. When their prey is found, their screams of pain and vengeance are so intense that they can tear through body and soul, dragging the living to an unbearable fate.
5.6 The Guardian
They say that, deep in the dry forest, a sleeping giant awaits awakening. Somewhere in the distance stands a great statue, but its outlines are not carved stone—they are petrified flesh. Ancient storytellers tell of a giant warrior who, in ancient times, challenged a primeval entity that inhabited the forest. This creature, made of the very essence of the earth, did not kill the giant, but turned him to stone, imprisoning him in an eternal form, as a reminder of his fury.
Some say that, on moonless nights, one can hear the faint sound of stones moving, as if the giant were trying to free himself. The elders claim that the giant is not only a guardian of the forest, but its very soul. And when he awakens, the earth will rise again, and the forest will once again be unbeatable, burying those who dare disturb it.
5. Npcs
5.1 Oswin, the Last Dwarf
Oswin is the last surviving dwarf of Toren, a dwarven settlement near the mountains that was swallowed by death. He works to create contraptions that can survive in the toxic environment of the forest and has a deep desire to rebuild what is left of his community.
5.2 Draza, the Desperate Healer
Draza was the chief healer of a village on the edge of the forest. After the eruption, she lost everything, including her divine gift, but she continues to seek remedies for the forest's curses, drawn by the hope of a tree that can heal.
5.3 Gar, the Merchant of Relics
The half-orc Hrothgar roams the edges of the Death Forest, offering rare artifacts and ancient riddles. He sells items and precious information, but most of his wares are priced far higher than anyone would expect to pay.
5.4 Zyra the Seer
She was born into a simple family on the banks of the Slimy River. As a child, she suffered an accident that marked her with the corruption of the river, gaining psychic and spiritual abilities. Growing up in contact with the spirits of the drowned, she seeks to understand the source of this corruption and restore the lost spiritual balance. Her mission is also to free the spirits trapped in the waters and discover what really happened to them.
Want a clever little trick for manually placing small symbols like that?
Make a few groups off the side of your map. Make each group haphazzard, just totally random. Then copy the groups and randomly intersperse singles, and sometimes overlap the groups.
I did this in just a few minutes. I should have added more tree types.
Hope this idea helps in the future.
So I used only those few groups on the side of the map.
Ooops I didn't sort symbols. but you get the idea.
This time we're going with a ready-made mini adventure adaptable to any system, made in an unpretentious way to spend time with friends. =)
The Tower of Ancient Deceit ☠
1.Introduction
On nights when lightning slashes the gray skies and the fog creeps like a living thing, the cracked bell in the ruined tower tolls alone. No wind shakes it, no mortal hand touches it—but its call echoes through the Death Forest.
The stories say that this tower, once a watchtower, was meant to warn the world against an ancient threat. But now that its guardians have vanished and its walls have crumbled, who or what watches over the depths below?
As the adventurers explore the ruins, they discover a forgotten staircase beneath the tower, hidden by rubble and volcanic ash. When they manage to open its door, a damp wind blows up from the depths, carrying the smell of rotting earth and something worse.
Someone or something awaits them down there.
2.The Underdark
What lies beneath the tower is older than the forest itself.
The passage leads to a set of forgotten chambers carved into the rough stone, decorated with unholy symbols and carvings that writhe in the torchlight, as if refusing to be read. The stone feels sweaty, hot to the touch, as if something throbs beyond its layers.
Further down, the passage opens into a vast hall, its cracked columns towering towering.
And the bell in the tower begins to toll again.
3.The Presence in the Shadows
The explorers are not alone.
Something ancient and infamous creeps in the shadows of the underworld, a being whose silhouette can never be seen in its entirety, as if its form does not belong entirely to this world. Its bony claws scratch at the walls, its breath a hot, damp breath, carrying the smell of things dead for centuries.
The Watcher, the last guardian of the prison, still roams these great chambers, its body twisted by its eternity of vigil. But he is no longer a protector—he is a blind, hungry aberration, driven only by the desire to protect this place at any cost.
And if the explorers go further, if they descend into the depths where reality itself twists…they will discover that the prisoner is still there. Waiting.
4.The True Purpose of the Tower
A small, abandoned library, tended for centuries, tells the story that the tower was built to watch over an unfathomable evil imprisoned beneath it. A being from before the dawn of man, sealed away by a forgotten order, watched over for centuries.
But the truth is much worse. The tower was never a watchpost. It was built to keep the ignorant at bay. And the prisoner was no monster…but a forgotten God.
5.The Prisoner
What lies (or lay) beneath the tower is called, in ancient whispers, Karalor, Who Pulses Beneath the Earth. He is no demon, nor an aberration—he was a god of vitality and thought, worshipped in the earliest times by the first peoples of this world.
But one day, other gods feared his rise. They manipulated mortals, twisting their myths, turning Karalor into a villain, and convincing civilizations to imprison him.
"Karalor never devoured souls."
"He never spread terror."
"He offered knowledge and health… and was silenced."
And the Sentinel, the last guardian of the seal, had fought furiously to prevent any change in order.
The bell in the tower is not a warning to a monster.
It is a call for help.
6.Options
Now, the adventurers have a choice before them (feel free to add another possibility):
1. Do they depart and leave the tower behind? The forest will once again consume the tower, and the cycle of fear will continue, the bell echoing until the end of time.
2. Will they attempt to reinforce the seal? To do so, they will need to discover how the ancient gods betrayed them, and perhaps pay a terrible price to prevent Karalor from returning.
3. Will they free the prisoner? But is Karalor a benevolent god, or merely a long-forgotten entity whose true purpose surpasses human comprehension?
This idea is practical and really speeds up the work, just like using pre-assembled groups of tree images in the Mike Schley style, for example.
However, just like using Mike Schley's images of groups of trees, I (we) have to be careful with two things in particular: 1. the overlapping of symbols where trunks appear on top of treetops. 2. the difficulty of creating more densely populated areas because there will always be some space left over no matter how well the groups of trees are fitted.
From my experience and personal taste, I prefer to continue with manual positioning of trees one by one, even in spaces very densely populated with trees - like the Serenia forest above.
Yes, this is great. I've done that on the actual map, but this is much easier. Thank you!
Not sure where to place this battlemap within Death Forest, I was more inspired by Sue's mix of beautiful styles to create an arid environment.
Here's a picture with names and "monster", and another without the player version maybe (?).
I'll leave it up to Master @Monsen to choose a spot for this battlemap 😅
The Lament of the Spectres
There was a time when Rheon and Lysara were just two souls who found solace in each other in the heart of the woods. He, a skilled hunter who knew every path through the trees. She, a healer whose delicate hands could save wounded animals and people. Together, they built a modest home at the edge of the woods, near a cliff that overlooked the valley, where they could watch the sunset tinge the world golden.
It was there that they promised each other eternal love, a vow whispered beneath the stars and sealed with a gentle touch amid the ashes of a smoldering hearth.
But then the fire came.
As volcanoes roared in the distance, spewing their fiery fury upon the land, hell spread through the forest like a ravenous monster. Flames devoured the trees, animals fled in madness, and the earth itself cracked and boiled under the weight of the disaster. Rheon and Lysara tried to flee, but the forest became a maze of flames and choking smoke.
The river water was already poisoned by corruption, and the only escape was the cliff. They ran, hands clasped, their skin already scarred by burns, their breathing shallow and ragged. But there was no escape.
The fire surrounded them. Trees fell like burning spears around them. Their only option was to jump into the swamp below, but their strength was already fading. They died there, embraced, swallowed by the heat, consumed by fire and despair.
And in death, something wrong happened.
The love that held them together was distorted by pain. Their screams echoed across the scorched earth, their souls unable to accept the end. The place where they fell became a poisoned swamp, and there, hidden among the dead trees and dry roots, a black cave opened its mouth to welcome them.
Now, Rheon and Lysara are no longer human. Their bodies have dissolved, but their shadows remain trapped in the world, feeding on the hatred and injustice of their deaths. Within the cavern, two specters roam, whispering words of love that become threats, memories of fondness that twist into promises of vengeance.
The few who venture into the tainted marsh find the entrance to the cavern. Skeletal figures dance among the shadows, their faces disfigured as if they still burn. The air is heavy and humid, and a double voice whispers in incomprehensible tongues, luring the unwary inside, promising eternal love.
But those who enter do not come out.
Some say that the specters of Rheon and Lysara do not just kill—they devour. They tear out the souls of travelers to strengthen their own corrupted existence. Others claim that deep within the cavern lies a lost shrine, where their ashes mingle with black stones, forming an altar of eternal mourning.
And they say that on nights when the wind blows hard through the dead trees, you can hear the echo of his last words, repeated over and over:
“If we burn together… everyone else will burn too.”
And a battlemap turned into a quick monster of the week adventure doing morning aerobic exercise for more than 40 minutes... these things happen. Usually it is the best time to come up with ideas, this time the sad story of a once happy couple. 😅
Ravenscar
On the polluted banks of the Slimy River lies Ravenscar—a town on the brink of collapse, sustained only by the stubbornness of the few who have not succumbed to death or madness.
Before the great catastrophe, Ravenscar was a modest port, a stopping point for travelers following the river to and from the sea. Its markets were simple but well-stocked, its cobblestone streets weathered but sturdy. The air was always fresh, and there was something comforting about the peal of the small, humble church bell at dusk.
But then all hell broke loose.
The eruption brought ash that choked the sky, disease that corrupted the land, and many fled. Others perished. And those who remained learned to live in misery and fear.
Today, Ravenscar is not a place for the faint-hearted. Most of the houses are tattered, broken, splintered—but still inhabited. The rotting timbers creak in the wind, and the shattered roofs are covered with anything that can provide shelter from the acid rain and biting cold. Here, no one sleeps without a weapon within reach.
Its small streets are deserted most of the time, except for those desperate enough to brave the pestilent mist that creeps in from the river at dusk.
And always, always, there are eyes watching.
Points of Interest
1. Assembly of the Faithful Remnant - With tragedy came faith—or worse. In the rubble of the ancient temple, a fanatical sect was born that sees the destruction as a divine sign. They believe that Ravenscar was spared for a reason, and that those who suffer still have a chance to purify themselves. Their leader, a feverish-eyed man named Father Anastas, teaches that pain is redemption, and his followers undergo self-flagellation, blood-soaked prayers, and mysterious rituals by the river.
2. The Town Cemetery - A forgotten field of toppled headstones and half-open graves, where the dead do not sleep peacefully. The oldest graves have been desecrated, not by thieves, but by something that came from below. The ground is sunken in places, as if something were crawling beneath it. Rumor has it that one of the mausoleums contains something ancient, a forgotten secret that the Lurkers seem to fear... or worship.
3. The Shrine of Zyra - Hidden on the outskirts of Ravenscar, the Shrine of Zyra is a humble building of damp stone and rotting wood. In the center of the shrine is a circle of candles. A small stone basin sits on the altar - sometimes empty, sometimes filled with dark water. Some say that on the quietest nights, unreal shadows dance on the walls, as if something invisible and yet alive were there. The locals avoid the place. Zyra is said to commune there with the spirits of the drowned, hearing secrets that the black water of Slimy has buried.
The Blind Watcher Awakens
On the night the ground split open, something that should have remained buried felt the world again. The tremors that ravaged the land did not free the Blind Watcher, but they did loosen the invisible chains that held him asleep.
In the heart of the dead forest, a fissure belched out a thick, fetid vapor, laden with a smell that did not belong to this world. Something pulsed beneath the earth, buried for countless eons. When the sediments parted, they revealed a black obelisk, its cracked base exposing a narrow hole that descended into the bowels of the earth.
Far below, in the newly revealed cavern, a nameless entity opened its sightless eyes. There were more than a few—hundreds, white and empty as dead moons, embedded in a tumorous mass of blackened flesh. Each one slowly opened, one by one, staring at nothing and everything at once.
The Blind Watcher never needed limbs or a mouth, for his hunger was not physical—it was a poison in the mind, a sickness that seeped like a virus on the wind, spreading through the forest and the poisoned waters of the Slimy River. He did not call. He did not whisper. He only awakened what had always belonged to him.
The First Lurkers
The first servants were not created—they were awakened, against their will.
As the earth shook and the cavern’s seal broke, the dead stirred. Bodies forgotten in the dark waters, bones stiffened beneath the swamp’s slime, carcasses that should have long since been devoured by time… something pulled them back. But what rose was not human.
Black, withered skin stretched tight over crooked bones. Dislocated jaws opened without a sound. Mangled hands groped the ground, as if feeling the world for the first time. The blind eyes, as white as their master’s, opened in unison. They had no voice, no identity. They were merely extensions of the Blind Watcher, his eyes on the world of the living.
But his hunger was insatiable. And new servants had to be made.
The Master’s Feeding Process
At night, the Lurkers scour the banks of the Slimy River, collecting bodies from the tainted waters. But they do not stop at the dead—sometimes a victim is still breathing when they are dragged deeper into the cavern.
Inside, the grotesque ritual begins.
The Blind Watcher does not devour flesh. He devours essence. The Lurkers pile the bodies around him and, with thin, brittle claws, rip open the victims’ bellies, exposing their entrails as if they were offerings. The flesh slowly dissolves into a sticky, fetid broth, but the true horror lies in what happens to their souls.
The victims do not die immediately. Their spirits are pulled from their bodies like invisible silver threads, twisting and stretching as they struggle. But there is no escape. The Blind Watcher absorbs them drop by drop, tearing away every shred of identity, until all that remains is a void with no will, no memory... no soul.
Then the empty body begins to move.
The Birth of a New Lurker
First, the limbs twitch spasmodically, as if still resisting. Then they bend at odd angles, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. And then, the white eyes open.
The creature that awakens is no ordinary corpse—it is a soul trapped within its own body, conscious but unable to resist. A fate worse than death.
With each new Lurker created, the Blind Watcher sees further. With each sacrifice, its influence spreads across the dead forest.
In Ravenscar, the survivors feel its presence in feverish nightmares, with the feeling that something is watching them even when there are no eyes around. But the village, somehow, remains spared... as if something or someone still resists its influence.
The Obelisk and the Cavern Below
For centuries, only the black top of the obelisk peeked above the mud, a weathered point indistinguishable from the rocks and twisted roots around it. Now it rises from the earth like a half-open tomb, a great stone structure, scarred with reddish veins of inscriptions that once faded with time and now glow faintly in purple and green, absorbing the rotting energy of the dead forest.
The crack at the base of the obelisk exposes a narrow hole, from which steam rises hot and greasy, tainted with the smell of decay and rotting flesh. A shadowy path leads down into the depths. The entrance is a jagged crevice that slowly widens. The air within is sickly—hot, damp, feverish. The walls ooze a sticky black slime that clings to the skin at the slightest touch. Dark drops drip from the ceiling, forming oily pools that reflect nonexistent light.
The lower you go, the stronger the smell becomes. It’s not just death. It’s something worse—a deep, ancient odor that suffuses your throat and leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. The floor, covered in a viscous mud, sinks slightly with each step, as if it were the sodden skin of something still alive.
The silence is unnatural. It’s thick, dense, as if the air itself is trapped in the cavern’s throat.
Until a noise begins.
A rhythmic thumping.
The Blind Watcher’s Chamber
The hall opens into a vast, suffocating space. The smooth walls don’t seem natural—they’re melted and molded, as if the stone has been forged by something that shouldn’t exist.
And in the center of the chamber, he rests.
A misshapen mass of flesh, pulsing, covered in blind eyes. It spreads across the ground like a living tumor, its translucent skin revealing swollen black veins running beneath its gelatinous surface. Its eyes open and close without pattern, reflecting visions of pain, faces distorted by suffering, echoes of eternal agony.
The sound that fills the chamber is soft and terrifying—a faint murmur, a chorus of muffled voices, trying to scream but never able.
Here, there is no hope. Only servitude and oblivion.
The Expansion of the Lurkers and the Decline of the Villages
The awakening of the infamous creature marked the beginning of a silent plague, suffocating the surrounding lands with its insidious influence. Where once there were only rumors of disappearances and bodies floating in the Slimy River, now there is a growing fear, a sense that something unseen walks in the shadows, watching... waiting.
As the Lurkers multiply, their reach expands beyond the swamps, encroaching on nearby settlements. With each attack, they don’t just kill—they recruit. For every life they take, a new Lurker is born.
Ravenscar, the village closest to the rift where the Obelisk stands, is first in the line of fire. Yet somehow, it still holds out. Something protects its inhabitants from complete destruction—perhaps the presence of the Shrine of Zyra, perhaps an unknown force that prevents the creatures from advancing fully.
But that doesn’t mean the town is safe. The nights are long and tense. Constantly, the creatures surround the village, their presence felt in the darkness beyond the makeshift palisades and ruined homes. They don’t attack in hordes, but move stealthily, testing defenses, carrying off those who stray too far from the safety of their fires.
The villagers survive through sheer resilience, but their existence is a constant torment. No one sleeps well. No one trusts the darkness. Some say they have heard whispers coming from the trees, calling their names. Others report seeing shadows that shouldn’t be there, moving in the wrong directions.
If this stoic town is still holding out, other places have not been so lucky. Small settlements, isolated huts, outposts—all are gone. No messages have come back. No survivors have appeared. Only silence and the certainty that something has taken them.
Those who have dared to investigate have found only wreckage. Broken doors, trails in the mud indicating bodies dragged away, abandoned homes with food on the tables. In some houses, the walls are scrawled with strange marks, as if the last inhabitants had tried to write something… before they were taken.
The coastal towns, once considered possible refuges, no longer offer safety. The terror does not come only from the eruptions. Now it comes from all sides. No one knows where to run or what to do. The roads are unsafe, the forests are dry and dirty, and the sea does not return those who disappear into it. Despair grows, and the cities murmur among themselves the only saying that still makes sense:
"If you run, the beast will catch you. If you stay, the beast will eat you."
My friend!
Your talent is endless...I love your artwork so much.
But, I wonder: "If you run, the beast will catch you. If you stay, the beast will eat you."
What if I throw pepper at its nose?
😁
Cal
This final phrase belongs to a song by a famous Brazilian composer and singer called Ney Mato Grosso - Homem com H (track).
He has a striking voice, magnetic stage presence and aesthetic boldness. In the 70s and 80s he broke gender and behavior barriers, becoming an icon of music and freedom of expression. A person ahead of his time.
There is a theory that the band Secos & Molhados may have influenced Kiss's look, especially the use of makeup and face masks. This comes from the fact that Secos & Molhados released their first album in 1973, with a striking and theatrical aesthetic, while Kiss officially emerged little after, adopting a similar style.
Here is a link to one of the versions of the song for your enjoyment.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8iW3-8hwXnM
This phrase in the song comes from a popular Brazilian saying. It exemplifies a situation of choices where both situations will be bad and will invariably lead to a problem.
And now I humbly present to you the largest concentration of (living) souls in the region. The small and suffering city of Dunmaris that resists and serves as a base of operations for any unfortunate group that is trapped in this reality 😅.
The quality is far from me, but I was inspired by Van Gogh's initial phase and his earthy tones for the composition of the floor colors, trying to show the difficulty of living in a devastated land, only using @Loopysue Patches.
The Town of Dunmaris
Dunmaris was once a thriving hub in the heart of the region for those who dreamed of a prosperous life. But times have changed, and what was once a thriving city has become a place of constant struggle against hunger and despair.
The land around it is hard, dry, and unforgiving. Crops barely thrive, and the few vegetables and root crops that do grow are stunted. The wind blows dust and ash, remnants of ancient fires and the decline of the region itself.
Life in this region is a daily struggle. Families survive by scraping the bottom of barrels, cooking thin porridge with what they can find. Game is scarce, and what little meat is obtained must be shared among many. With no other options, the inhabitants rely on bartering with the coastal villages, exchanging what little they have for salted and dried fish, just enough to stave off starvation.
The days are long and hard. The smell of rust and mold permeates the alleys, and the markets no longer vibrate with life—only the murmurs of weary people trading the bare minimum needed to make it to the next day. Children play with straw dolls and bones, while the elderly stare at the horizon, as if waiting for something to finally put an end to this cycle of misery.
Points of Interest:
1. Bleu Tower - Once the heart of Dunmaris' defenses, the Bleu Tower housed the local militia, men hardened by hardship and the duty of protecting the city. Its walls were once a symbol of strength and order. But the tremors changed everything. The tower cracked, its top collapsed, burying some of the guards who lived within. Now, its mutilated shell rises like a silent tomb.
2. Old Market - Once the commercial heart of Dunmaris, full of merchants and artisans. Today it is a desolate wasteland where weeds grow between the cracked stones. The shacks rot, and the wind carries the echoes of a vibrant past. No one trades here anymore.
3. Blacksmith - Peter has always been a man of few words and a gruff temperament, but his forge keeps Dunmaris standing. With calloused hands and a frowning gaze, he works tirelessly, forging tools, weapons, and horseshoes for the few who still resist in the city. He does not believe in miracles, only in iron and sweat. Despite his grumpiness, his forge has become a crucial point in the rebuilding of Dunmaris.
4. The Tired Boar Tavern - Within its soot-blackened walls, the smell of bitter ale mixes with despair. Here people drown their sorrows, while old songs try to drown out the stories of what lurks outside. The flickering candlelight barely dispels the shadow of misery, but for a few hours, the regulars pretend the city is still alive. For many, drinking here is not a pleasure—it is survival.
5. The Sleepy Roaster Inn - Before the earthquakes, an old rooster perched on the roof of the tavern would crow at odd times—at noon, at dusk, but never at dawn. Over time, it became a joke among the locals, and the establishment took its name. Today, the bird is gone, but the tavern remains, serving meager food and a bed for weary bodies.
6. Stable - Once vital for housing horses and storing equipment, it shows signs of neglect. Its cracked wooden walls support a worn roof. Broken buckets and dusty harnesses accumulate in corners, while the smell of manure and old urine permeates the air. It still serves to protect animals, but lack of care has compromised its functionality, reflecting the neglect of its owners.
7. Chapel - The small chapel stands as a quiet refuge. For some locals, it is a sanctuary of hope on difficult days. Here, they seek comfort in the quiet, bring offerings and whisper prayers. His simple and austere presence reminds them that, even in adversity, there is a place to find peace and renew strength, uniting the community in times of pain or uncertainty.
8. Oswin, the last Dwarf – The humble home of Oswin, the last dwarf of Toren, is located in the southern part of the city, which was chosen for its “abundance” of resources, essential for building his equipment resistant to the toxic environment of the forest. Suspicious at first, the dwarf reveals himself to be a loyal and friendly ally to those who earn his trust. His manual skills and ingenuity have made him a fundamental part of the community, which depends on his inventions to survive. In addition to repairing tools and machines, Oswin inspires hope, showing that, even in desolation, it is possible to rebuild. He waits patiently for people willing to help him in his mission to restore what was lost, dreaming of the day when he will no longer be alone in this arduous task.
9. Miss Cleuza Inn – A welcoming refuge amidst the chaos, run by Cleuza, a woman with a toothless smile and a big heart. Her strong temperament keeps order, while her friendliness captivates everyone. Even surrounded by despair, Cleuza laughs out loud, spreading lightness and resilience. Her tavern is more than a place to drink and eat; it is a symbol of perseverance, where strangers become friends and life, despite its hardship, still deserves a toast.
Ironvale
This modest settlement was born next to the only bridge that crosses the Slimy River, in a region where few dare to put down roots. Today, its greatest gift is a spring of pure water that survived the collapse of the region, an unexpected blessing in a land where everything seems doomed. With this spring, the villagers are able to irrigate their tiny crops, making Ironvale a rare oasis amidst the devastation that plagues the region.
The name that gives the place its name came from the first workers who came to build the bridge. During a stormy night, trapped by the river swollen by the rains and the treacherous darkness of the night, they found safety in these hills. When the first light of dawn broke through the fog and touched the earth, the sight of a fertile soil protected from the inclement winds filled them with hope. "As firm and unbreakable as iron," they said, and that is how they named the place.
The village is located about 20 miles (32 km) from Dunmaris, the largest settlement south of the Slimy River. Despite their relative proximity, the journey between the two is not easy these days. The path winds through treacherous terrain and requires caution, especially after the tremors that have ravaged the region. Still, Dunmaris and Ironvale maintain a modest trade, exchanging sparse supplies and information about the horrors that grow at the headwaters of the river.
Although far from the direct influence of the Lurkers, the stories from Ravenscar and Dunmaris travel through the village on the cold wind, bringing fear and distrust. No one ignores the rumors of creatures that move in the shadows, and at night, doors and windows are locked preemptively. Many believe that it is only a matter of time before the plague that ravages the north reaches their haven.
Npcs
Old John - Old John is a man with skin as dark as wet earth, covered in wrinkles that speak louder than his words. His eyes are deep and tired, but they glow like embers in the dark. With a pipe always lit and a hand-carved staff, he sits by the Ironvale spring, telling stories that few believe, but all listen to.
He came with the first wave of workers who built the bridge over the Slimy River. While many left when the job was done, John stayed. He said that the land whispered to him, that the valley called him to stay. “Bridges connect, but they also separate,” he often says. “And when bad things come, the bridge will decide who crosses and who stays.”
The villagers respect him and listen to his words carefully, but always with a certain amount of fear. To some, he is just a tired old man. To others, he knows more than he should.
Draza - A woman of few words, with calloused hands and a tired look, she knows every herb, root and infusion that can alleviate the ailments that afflict one.
She has lived in Ironvale since she was a child, learning the secrets of plants from her grandmother, a healer before her. But times have changed. The winds carry dark tales, and the Slimy water whispers promises of death. Draza fears that the shadow of the Lurkers will reach her home, fears that the blight of the dead land will consume her refuge.
As a child, she heard her grandmother speak of a place among the hills, and protected by a great cave where the soil never dried, where a tree as old as time itself stretched its roots into the heart of the world. The Tree of Life, a name whispered only by those who believed in miracles. Its leaves were said to cure any illness, that its trunk held secrets no mortal should know.
But no one knew where it was—or if it even existed.
As the years passed, Draza clung to this story like a castaway to a piece of driftwood in the raging sea. Perhaps it was a fable, a dream of dying old men. But maybe... just maybe... in that doomed land, there was still an uncorrupted root.
Every night, before she goes to sleep, she asks herself: “How much time do we have left?” And, more than ever, the doubt grows within her: what if the Tree of Life is real?
Herathglen
This place was once a haven for lumberjacks, its few wooden houses nestled among the towering trees of the forest. The sawmill, supported by the mill that turned to the rhythm of the clear tributary of the Slimy River, was the heart of the village. From it came the valuable Lenga planks, a noble and resistant wood, sent to the cities of the north to build homes and fortresses.
But the tremors brought ruin, and the ash that fell afterwards suffocated the land. The once pure tributary became a river of green and sticky liquid, its surface forever shrouded in putrid mist. The poisoned water eroded the hope of life and silenced the blades of the mill. The villagers fled in haste, leaving behind their tools, their memories... and the bodies of those who had already been buried in the now cursed soil.
Now Hearthglen is a place without purpose, forgotten even by the crows.
Orenshire
This was once a bustling village, where kilns burned restlessly, shaping soft clay into sturdy tiles and exquisite pottery. The clay, mined from local quarries, was renowned for its reddish hue and malleable texture, making the town a small but thriving crafts centre. Small boats glided down the Slimy River, laden with goods that were bound for Ironvale before heading north for markets.
Then came the catastrophe. The tremors opened deep crevasses, sucking up the groundwater and leaving the land parched and barren. The river became a rotting watercourse, its black, oily waters swallowing the boats that once carried the town’s livelihood. Disease spread like wildfire, claiming lives in despair. Many fled, but those who stayed… changed. Today, just over two hundred souls inhabit this place, dragging themselves through indistinct days, trapped in a fog of resignation. Their eyes wander unfocused, their mouths murmur incoherent words, as if trying to remember something that has faded with time.
Behind the town, the forest remains like a ghost. Its dry orange trunks seem to ignite in the cold light, and from them emanates a sweet smell, almost hypnotic, but charged with something wrong. Invisible spores float through the air, sticking to skin, infiltrating tired lungs. Some claim to feel something crawling inside them after a walk along the edge of the dry forest. Others wake from restless dreams with the feeling that the forest is calling their name.
The Tower of Arelith
Long before the colonization of this land, before the villages and the plowed fields, the tower of Arelith already stood alone. A man with slender and thin features—no one knew for sure his origin, and few dared to ask—lived there, studying the world around him with infinite patience. Always reserved, of few words, he seemed to carry with him the weight of a knowledge that few would understand. His eyes, deep and attentive, saw beyond what mere mortals could perceive.
Over time, some peasants settled at the foot of his tower. They came seeking protection, for even he who promised nothing was still a strong shadow against the chaos of the region. Arelith did not expel them, nor did he welcome them with enthusiasm. He accepted them as an inevitability, and, in exchange for his protection, they received him as lord. Thus was born the small domain around the tower, a place where order reigned only because his presence imposed it.
But then came the tremors. Cracks tore the earth, rivers dried up, and the once starry sky was dyed black by the ash that spread in the wind. In the chaos that followed, Arethusa, his wife and only true companion, was taken. Dead? Missing? No one knows for sure, as Arelith never told the story. What is known is that, from that day on, he was no longer the same.
Locked in his laboratory, immersed in his studies, he obsessively sought a solution to restore his ruined land. If the world had been destroyed by the force of nature, then force should be his answer. And so the Ash Golems were born, molded from the bowels of the volcano, with beating hearts made of rare Black Gold, a mineral that emerged from the flaming bowels of the earth. They were supposed to be salvation. The force that would purify the soil, that would raise the villages, that would expel the threats.
Your creation was born flawed. The golems awoke not as guardians, but as raging, untamable creatures. The fire of the volcano still burned within them, destruction etched into their very essence. Without conscience, without purpose beyond ruin, they rebelled. What was supposed to restore their land only deepened its tragedy. Wherever they went, they left a trail of ash and devastation.
Faced with her colossal mistake, Arelith retreated to her tower, never to be seen outside it again. Her refuge became his cell, and each of its four floors was an echo of his penance. On the first, where she once dealt with merchants and resolved conflicts among her vassals, silence now reigns. On the second, her laboratory, the weight of her failures piles up, each scroll more useless than the last. On the third, her ritual room, only burned candles and scratched symbols remain from her desperate attempts to control her own creation.
And at the top, on the fourth floor, she gazes out to sea. The cool wind blowing from the coast is perhaps the last thing keeping him connected to the world. But even here, amid the salty breezes and the endless horizon, he knows the truth: nothing can repair what has been done. Nothing will bring Arethusa back.
The peasants below whisper stories of his tower. They say that sometimes his window opens and a motionless shadow can be seen against the dim light. They say he still searches for answers. Or perhaps he simply looks south toward the ocean, hoping the winds will carry his guilt away.
But the winds do not carry sins and regrets.
Mr. @Monsen After a series of 10 maps, area finished... for now.
Thank you 💀
Thanks. I'll throw them into the processing queue.