It is the fallen realm, decimated by the Steam of Vector and the Iron of Grothkor. It is the high country where dwarves claim home and dragonborn perch upon their towers. It is the bleak mountains where men are scattered into tribes, leaderless, and devoid of any faith that some day they could be reunited. Contrary to Elenion and Primidia, Scorlanthe was actually forced into the Treay of Thronehold by submission. After their cities fell, Scorlanthe had no choice but to make a disarmament pact. Once loyal men now run scattered throughout the land as barbarians; they choose exile rather than domination.
There is hardly a shining citadel or white tower left in the snowy peaks of Scorlanthe, but those structures left in tact usually house hundreds of refugees. The mountains still host dwarven keeps and the cliffs still might have monasteries. Vector raiding parties have learned not to venture too far into them, for in the advances of knowledge and science that has enlightened the world over, dwarves have become masters of explosives and forging adamantite.
Most warriors of Scorlanthe are now mercenaries for other nations. There are no jobs or professions left there. Though some might now be captains of a Grothkor squabble of Bloodforged mutants, very few opt to work for the Vector Empire. Their seeds of hatred towards them run deep.
The extreme despair that haunts the land is more than just emotionally gripping. For whatever reason, those that become too saddened here turn to stone. It is an eerie sight to walk the plains between statues of the melancholic that have been stricken with such a bizarre curse.
Many of the most primal creatures run rampant here. Powerful divine warding magic waned away as soon as the kingdom fell. Travelers must now watch out for manticore, wyverns, dragons, demons, and worse.
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