Scorlanthe Kingdom

"Rabbles of men had hollowed out caves and made homes of old watch towers. Scorlanthe, his majesty's former glory, was reduced to crumbling pillars and hollow castles. There was no more honor here; no more splendor, no more glory. It depressed my soul that the Great Kingdom no longer had a king."



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.

Morgwold Forest

"The gnarled, oozing forest contained horrors I never imagined. It started out as a spinning headache whenever I'd look at each rune-inscribed rock. By the time I reached the lady's court, my mind had succumbed to madness. I could barely tell at that point if the rotten dead were really walking towards me."



It is the great wild shrouded in danger and mystery. It is the ancient forest that induces despair and madness upon outsiders who tarry too long within. It is the woodland kingdom of territorial beasts, fey, and undead. While many elves, halflings and other standard sylvan races call the place home, much of the great forest has been consumed by darkness. Instead of bearing sweet fruit, the trees of Morgwold wrap their vines around the buried dead and give them life anew. The fairies that flutter carry poisonous stingers. The seemingly normal animals are often ridden with terrible "Rotborn" deformities, that is, their normal hides are covered in moss, slime, and decay. The juxtaposition of vibrant life-forms consumed in ominous death is one of Morgwold's most daunting paradoxes.



The deeper recesses contain crumbling shrines from pre-history, monolithic runestones, rivers of poison, and conclaves of embryonic sacs filled with pseudonatural trolls. Most rational creatures have long since abandoned these terrible parts. The bravest sylvan rangers consider it a rite of passage to hunt in Deeper Morgwold; forever praised are the few heroic elves who bring back a Dracolich skull or Plaguewurm hide.



Although hostile and desolate, Morgwold is actually home to a grim nation of sorts. If studied long enough, one notices that the fungus covered skeletons that roam haplessly are actually on patrol. There lives a beautiful lady in the heart of the woods. She is naive, yet stern and unpredictable, much like nature itself. She is known by many names, the Queen of Frogs, the Faery Matron, or the Bramble Witch. To any person so resilient and resolute as to successfully gain an audience in her thicket court, she would merely introduce herself by her proper name Morthissa. The Bramble Witch employs legions of the slimey and compost-filled undead. She is the source of the Rotborn, the many trolls, fey, and shamblers marked with decaying matter. No one knows what she truly guards, but suffice it that one could spend a lifetime scouring the forest maze to no avail.



The ominous runes are just another one of Morgwold's mysteries. Some say that they are the source of Morthissa's influence, and others wager that they were here long before she arrived. Venturers claim that these stones "whisper" to them in passing, and what they tell seems to be too alien for normal minds to accept without being damaged. Missing people are often found days later huddled against these stones babbling to themselves. Those that are not careful are driven to madness, but perhaps it is a choicer fate to being found by the shambling dead or engulfed by a huge green worm.

Some believe that as Rasa is sucked of its elemental energies, the greatest horrors of the Planes are permitted to bleat through. The more rational inhabitants of Morgwold view man's industrialization as a threat to the very future of the planet. The leaves stir with whispers that it is time to act accordingly.

Grothkor Legion

"The first part of the horde that I saw was their banners rising from behind the hill--a black gauntlet on dirty cloth. I next noticed their rusted armor caked in blood and worse. They were orcs, but deformed--spikes attached to stumps, iron plates nailed directly into the skin. . ."



It is the horde of orc and goblin kind. It is the scarred, twisted, ugly badlands where vengeful evil gathers their army. It is chaos, misery, fortification, and domination. Dotted throughout the countryside are their Bloodforges--heinous places of torture and grisly augmentations. The Legion's recruits are well accustomed to chains, gears, cranks and winches. At some point, most soldiers will have been on a slab getting amputated. When their screaming stops, they marvel at their new grafted weapon or armor.



Although they honor the Treaty of Thronehold, Grothkor desires all to submit to their will. Contained within their unholy writ known as the "Ire of Blood" is the doctrine that orcs are the rightful leaders of the world. Settlers who venture too close to Grothkor territory often end up as scrap parts for their filthy Bloodforges. The strongest often join the ranks as a slave or pit-fighter.



Who will you find in Grothkor?
King Balthazor the Glutton, a big fat orc that's too obese to move on his own. Since his legs have long withered away, he often rides attached to the lower half of a dire boar's body.
Orcs of varieties are never in short supply.
Goblins serve as lab lackies and spies.
Ogres and giants are too stupid and sporadic for massive organization. They best serve as enforcers of sheer brutality.
Skeksis are a race of vulture-like flying degenerates. They often divebomb enemies with their nasty polearms.



Nomadic men have also found a place in Grothkor. Their superior intellect makes them great captains to the dull orc armies.