The Cenotes of Maniserp

This dusty, little-traveled stretch of road that cuts through the semi-desert region from Boldhome to Homer is lined with rock and sandstone formations shaped by wind and time. Only the most daring venture this cursed stretch, where the sweltering heat is relieved only by the fleeting sight of the cenotes – crystal-clear pools of pure water surrounded by trees with twisted roots, a treacherous promise of life amid death.

But the waters of the cenotes have an owner, and its name is whispered in fear: Maniserp, the Elder Hydra. A multi-headed monster, its scales are a dull green and gleam like blades in the sunlight, and its eyes, glowing like embers, are the last sight of many an unsuspecting person. For generations, Maniserp has been the queen of the wetlands. Its insatiable hunger is a legend that local merchants know well, as caravans often disappear, leaving only trails of destruction and white bones along the roadside.

The few who have survived an attack speak of its cave, hidden among the largest cenotes. A labyrinth of damp tunnels, where suffocating vapors emanate from the bowels of the earth and glowing lichens illuminate the sodden walls. The bones of its prey, human and animal, adorn the entrance like a macabre warning. Inside, the sound of dripping water is interrupted only by the roars of Maniserp echoing through the depths.

The residents of Homer and Boldhome tell stories of mercenaries who have tried to defeat it through time. None have returned. The blades of their swords rust in the silent lakes, a mute testament to Maniserp’s invincibility.

Good place for a tired adventure with backpain :(

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Saravagard - Land ruled by the Mighty Timelison Rego IV

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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.