For countless days, my eyes have lingered on the wondrous map of Shessar, tracing its rivers and mountains with eager fingers. How many nights have I dreamed of setting foot on its fabled lands? At last, the winds have answered my silent wish, carrying me across restless waters to its shores.

Today, I have landed on the humid green plains of Brukon, where our journey will begin. The air is cold, bitterly cold with the scent of salt and earth, and the whispers of unknown adventures stir within me.

Cheers 😎

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.

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.

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.

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?