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 list below does not represent the "order" of my favorite styles, but rather the order in which they appear when I open the program/overland:

Ancient Realms - Its mountains and hills are beautiful.

Dark Lands - Very versatile and amazing color palette, however it lacks many icons for structures. It goes very well with Mike Schley's icons - which expands the possibilities.

Herwin Wielink - I love this style, but the lack of more icons (mountains, hills, structures) really hinders variety. The color palette of the Fills is beautiful.

Jon Roberts - Very beautiful "watercolor" art, but the same criticism from Herwin Wielink applies to this one, it lacks structure and flora variety. I know it's difficult, but they both deserve a beautiful icon expansion.

Spectrum Overland - Huge variety of natural icons, however it lacks more structures and I have a problem fitting mountains since they are all "peaks".

Mike Schley - No comments needed regarding the variety of possibilities.

Beyond the chosen style, the most important thing is that I believe that an Overland project like this for the CC4, and based on the high quality of those who produce it, has everything to be a flagship for the company. Therefore, this "Ultimate Sue Richards Overland Super Plus Master" could follow Mike Schley's line, where the chosen style continually receives image pack expansions.

The Domains of Zargash stretch like a sea of ​​stone and sand beneath a merciless sun, where the winds howl like damned spirits. Once home to a majestic civilization whose temples defied the heavens, it now lies like a graveyard of fallen colossi. Buried beneath centuries of dust and silence, these ruins are all that remain of the Zargathai, the lords of the parched earth, whose names have been swallowed by time.

Legends speak of living stones that move when no one is watching, opaque eyes that peer from deep within forgotten caverns. It is said that the Blood Idols, carved from black basalt, still retain the essence of forbidden rites. Many travelers who dared to desecrate the Temples and tombs never returned, and those who did babble madly about the slithering shadows and murmurs in the darkness.

The land is unforgiving, but life persists. Thorns sprout from rocky crevices, their hungry roots seeking what remains of ancient water. Dust-scaled serpents slither stealthily among the ruins, while the storm-carvers—great birds of prey—circle over the bones of fools who braved the desert.

When the warm wind blows, the air smells of dust and mystery.

Maybe better center the compass rose and the N of north?

As for the variety of possibilities (big overland, small overland, Ricko zone style, city, city isometric, dungeon) none beats Mike Schley.