General

After a long and arduous journey, we've finally arrived at Rookmore.

I'd hoped for a field hospital here, but instead, the only thing I found was tired faces, twisted by suspicion... I cannot blame them. The Kingdom of Meldore has many reasons to distrust Rimgard refugees, but the war affects us all, no matter the "side" we're on.

They won't hesitate for long. Everyone bleeds the same, whether it's at the bottom of a muddy trench or on a makeshift cot. I'll take matters into my own hands, as I did at the front, and set up camp in Woodgard. Once I can start treatment, they'll open up to me... and they'll stop seeing me as some northern stranger, let alone enemy.

There's one thing that makes me feel at home: The cold air, the gray skies... Yearfall here is not too different from a day in the Summits, though I miss the snow.

- Helên

A small caravan of refugees arrived from the Kindlewastes today. And I thought my journey had been long...

I've never spoken with anyone from the Kingdom of Orindell, and the thought made me nervous, but there was no time to tattle. I dove into work, dressing the wounds. A battle for life and death, even now. Sadly, some lost. We put them to rest in the crypt below. May the northern winds guide them to the afterlife.

There's one who might live despite it all. A deep leg wound — but maybe not too far gone. The wounded, Salim, smiles a lot. Says he owes me his life... just luck, I think.

- Helên

The new arrivals have wasted no time breaking ground, building something. A Flame Sanctum, Salim says. Their determination to the Ancients and the Flame is... fanatical. To think that we were all one people just about 25 years ago astounds me.

Some nights I've lingered near the caravan. Salim insists. Over the fire, they talk of their home, the sands, and the creeping ruin. I can't understand their devotion, but I feel their sorrow. Everyone bleeds the same, as I've said...

Salim says I am like a daffodil, the first sign of yearwake. He is a fool... though a sweet one.

- Helên

Please hold your tears and sit by my side. Let us gaze over the valley, as we've done before. The setting sun and falling leaves are like our brief and precious time. Let us share these hours before the Shroud whisks them away.

Come rest your head on my shoulder, my daffodil.

Yours forever,
Salim

They came in droves again yesterday. Sunburnt heathens. They twist and mangle their bodies whenever they bow to their gods, their idols, the Ancients.
They bring too many mouths to feed, and hold out their hands for alms instead of getting to work! I'd send them back to the Kindlewastes... why would Orindell's drought be my problem? The Kingdom of Meldore belongs to us! These are my crops, my riches!

They won't fool me. I buried my treasure in the fenced lot underneath the small shelter, not far from here. They won't find it when it's hidden beneath the mud. Tonight, I'll sleep deeply.

The following precautions against the Shroud must be taken at all times:

— Don't venture into valleys or near river basins. The Shroud can overtake quickly!
— Avoid contact. DO NOT breathe it in, and be sure to shield your eyes.
— After contact, medicate immediately with approved remedies and quarantine.

Please, ONLY take prescribed medication! Stay clear of the Elixir. Its long-term effects are unknown!

— Balthazar, Yearwake, 503 D.A.

We are all weary for lack of rest, but I assure you, I will have more tinctures and remedies ready soon. Please be patient, and come to my tower to pick up your ration in the midyear.

In these times of need, I've noticed some of you've turned toward the Elixir for brief respite. I beg of you to refrain from such measures. The Elixir is highly volatile and, above all, addictive. I need not remind you of the destruction its inception has caused our kingdom, nay, Embervale at large.

— Balthazar, Yearwake, 505 D.A.

My spirit is broken.

Can I really blame the people for turning away from my potions in their desperation? Most of my visitors these days are rats and other sad pests... so far, they have not proven to be great patrons, let alone lab partners.

There must be a better way to withstand the Shroud... to overcome it. Perhaps I should reconsider my efforts.

— Balthazar, Midyear, 505 D.A.

Pure light engulfs the knowledge of the ancient breed, protects it in a flaming core. Wisdom far beyond my own imagination. I could stare into the fire for hours, seeking answers, a whisper... But I hear none. Despite possessing a voice, it only speaks to those born from the Flame.

A shame, as I believe we could have quite enlightened conversations.
— Balthazar, 508 D.A.

A rather adventurous landing, but I'm quite satisfied otherwise. After all, I found a Flame Shrine.

I postulate that the Ancients leave behind a Spark after they expire. In fact, the spark may be their entire being, their soul — a mystical core, a fragment of the Flame!
Normally, their light joins the Flame and imbues all knowledge collected throughout their lifespan. At times, however, they rest in these shrines instead, atop cliffs or amidst faraway caves... especially recently. To "protect" us, as the people of Orindell would believe. Or to "survey" us, as a Rimgardian would say.

What whispers of wisdom are they hiding?

...Also, how does one get down from here?
— Balthazar, 507 D.A.

These spires stretch to the firmament and deny entry to those who are unworthy. The ancient breed enters, but I never see them leave... I've 2 theories:
1. The Ancient Spires are somehow connected to another, and the silent ones travel between them as they please.
2. The Ancient Spires serve as a burial site, similar to the Flame Shrines. The Ancients store all knowledge of the land in the Flame here when they leave the mortal plane.

One way or another, I cannot enter. When I step on the ornate plate, nothing occurs. What a shame.
— Balthazar, 507 D.A.

Another Elixir Well is built on the backs of workers, slaving away tirelessly to gouge a tunnel into the earth. The plans for this construction are... otherworldly.

The chasm spits fumes with every jab. Thin veils of mist cause headaches and irritate the eyes... at least they haven't caused a lasting sickness yet.

Such destruction and upheaval... All for "the Elixir". I hope this foul air will not spread to Lone Thistle.
— Balthazar, 498 D.A.

It's a formula I do not quite grasp, sophisticated beyond imagination. I'm not surprised to know that the source of this recipe is otherworldly.

Created from the flesh of these tiny, delicate fungi growing deep beneath the earth... It grants power. Yet, when I look at this flask, worry fills my heart. This will never be a cure. This will always be a weapon. Perhaps the Ancients hid this for a reason.

— Balthazar, 500 D.A.

The bluejays no longer drift so carelessly through the air. Something is changing.

A nebula flows towards us, springs from the abyss like a tidal wave. They call it the Shroud. It carries disease and suffering, changes soil and people.

I must understand this madness, but discovering a remedy may prove difficult. Many trade routes between kingdoms have ceased operation... it seems that both materials and trust are in low supply.

— Balthazar, 500 D.A.

They took Pikemead's Reach. They killed King Gormander.
An army of lunatics, sickly pale, barely lifting their feet above the bloodied ground. They drag themselves through our valleys, through the miasma, led by the mad Guard of the North, Lord Vorgoth of Rimgard. I always knew the Elixir would sow a seed of distrust.

I look up at the Ancient Spires, at the sky... There is no running, no hiding. We must persevere.

— Balthazar, 503 D.A.

The Shroud swallows all, even us. We become lost to dusk, vanish, and morph into a sea of cornflower-stained twilight.
Never have I encountered a sickness, a curse of this gravitas. The fog burns eyes and lungs, but doesn't quite kill. It spreads. It manipulates. It eats away at us, slowly, leaving only a husk.

Even the Ancients have become ephemeral in the face of this malady. Their capital, a city far beyond reach and comprehension, has ascended above the clouds... an act of dereliction, or desperation?

There is no cure for this. Only the power of the Flame can keep the Shroud at bay.

— Balthazar, 505 D.A.

I believe the Shroud to be spores. Tiny, almost minuscule fragments that spread through the air... now condensed, heavy, and potent. They cling to airways, eyes, fur, and skin. They spread.

The fungi release these spores upon contact, but their roots might've been anchored below us for a long time... We awoke a slumbering malady at the earth's core when we built the initial Wells and distilled the first Elixir. The Mysterious Wanderer opened the floodgates to ruin, pushing us down a spiraling staircase towards doom.

— Balthazar, 501 D.A.

Even during times of Shroud and war, there is light. A flicker. A spark of hope.
A group of Ancients spoke to me... younglings, smaller in stature — kinder. Empathetic, rueful... Or perhaps remorseful.

For the first time, in an age of outcries, they hushed. They plan to build "Cinder Vaults", and vessels that will guide an Ancient Flame into a human shell. Body and mind, Flame and flesh... a mortal soul born from fire, able to banish the fog.

Hopefully, we can bring forward a new age this way.
— Balthazar, 506 D.A.

We held out hope, digging through the rubble, our lips whispering prayers to the Ancients. Always a watchful eye towards the horizon. Even in this furthest corner of the world, the Shroud threatens to engulf us and seal away any ray of hope.

As the air grew thick with that cursed fog, we held on. As fires raged on the horizon, ash falling like snow on Howling Peak, we pushed harder.

May this home, long kept, usher us into a brighter age.

513 D.A.

Argon,

Take care with this new shipment from the valley. The Merchant said it is highly volatile. Apparently, the "explosives explode" if jostled or tossed about. Who would have known?

Anyway, I paid a pretty penny for this. DO NOT mess around in here. I can't afford to fix another hole in the wall!

Finally, a break from the tedious work. My bones are sore... but some shelter, the warmth of a fire, and comfort should allow me to gather new energy.

This old cot isn't the softest, but it'll do. I'll get some shut-eye here until I'm rested — ready and full of stamina for another sunrise. I hope I'll have sweet dreams despite the hunger...

Food is getting scarce... I hear they're planning an expedition. Thankfully, I hid some rations behind my bed. They will make for a nice meal when cooked over fire.

Curses! Last night's wind made a mess of our church — or what was left of it. Everett was right. We should have reinforced the roof when we still had the chance. He'll relish that, too!

Now I must patch the holes, but I can't recall where I had last placed the chest with the materials... I thought I saw it near the church, but I can't find it anywhere! Did my eyes grow tired with age after all?

We laid another one to rest today. Poor folk. Traveled all this way looking for respite, only to find ruins and scraps. This church won't hold, Helên said as much. The wind howls and forges new paths into our halls every night.
Storms tore our roof apart, and we're too busy tending to the caravan's people to patch it up. Yet, we must stay. We are needed here and will hardly find shelter elsewhere.

Burying these vagabonds next to relics and artifacts feels wrong to me, but perhaps Helên is right. Maybe the old times must make way for new customs and rites. Perhaps we may find that spark that united us decades ago once more.

I've always been fond of birds. They weave through the wind so effortlessly.
To embrace the horizon in these trying times... To discover whatever it is you seek, free of all corruption spreading beneath. Such a wondrous journey.

Mayhap mankind can conquer the skies through invention? I shall craft a glider and voyage to the hills from here. One way or the other, I'll land among the bluejays!

Balthazar, 503 D.A.

You spot sunken stone pillars on the horizon, obscured by mounds of dirt. They stretch towards the sky like a titan's stone-cold fingerbones. The mark of a hidden tomb! The stairs inside lead into darkness. Torch in hand, you slip down into uncertainty. Into dread. Yet, your search drives you deeper. A morbid treasure calls for you, left to rot in the dust! Is it family jewels? Heirlooms from faraway shores? Whatever it is, my friend, it'll be the foundation of our empire! The cornerstone to a fortress raised from spilled blood!

Sound good? I know the rough location. If you take up the search, Gerith, I'll split the goods. Deal?

The lightning sets the skies ablaze. It's my only source of light since the fire was doused by this merciless downpour. Of course, I had seen the clouds gather before I left to search the hidden tomb. I had tasted the threat in the breeze. Despite the warning signs, he pushed me to venture forth.

You can wait out the storm, but the water may smother our treasure in mud! Can you bear to see our empire wash away, Gerith? Oh, that silver-tongued devil. The tomb is close by, but wind and rain bar me from venturing further! These creaking trees scarcely shelter me, so I'll surely be soak—

(The text ends abruptly.)

You have the sharpest gaze around. Keep your keen eyes open for my brother, will you? I haven't heard from Gerith since the storm. Last time we spoke, he planned to loot this hidden tomb. I don't know where exactly, but he said it wasn't too far from here.

So please, if you spot a scrawny lad on the horizon, don't shoot! Notify me instead. It might be my brother Gerith!

Plan's changed, Filbert. I can't get the staff to you without the guards noticing. This little note is all I can leave you.

They've changed their routes, so I adapted. I stashed our haul from that trader's wagon below the big house by the canal.

If you want the goods, you'll need to get them yourself. Don't get caught on the way! And don't fall into the water. Nasty currents, lately...

By the way, I found buyers for the sword. Gonna meet with 'em tomorrow night. Come join us on the far side of Willow Crush if you wanna be around for the deal.

I see him when I wake
The tip of his little, devilish blue hat
And what a stupid hat it is
So pointy, and silly, and filled with hatred

I see him when I close my eyes
The wicked smile, the shaking shovel in his tiny, wrinkled hands

I see him dig, dig, dig in the fields
He wants to push me in
He wants to bury me under rocks and soil

I won't let him win, that fiend. That grave he digs in my smallest field will be his own tomb! And then when he is gone, I can finally sleep again, sleep tight, so tight, and no one will call me loopy no more

To all who set their eyes upon my wonderous — no, allow me to begin again.

To the people of Meldore, and all of Embervale — I have conquered this terrain with my greatness! I'm afraid that's not right, either...

The bridge is nearly finished, and I cannot find the words to express my joy, confound it! How lucky we had a bountiful mine so close by for materials and ore!

One thing I do know: I'll name this bridge Braelyn, after my 5th Aunt! Though I'm not sure she would be flattered... for her and the bridge share not just the name, but a brash nature.

Signed,
Cade Hawthorn, Yearwake, 490 D.A.

We had to fill the carts with at least 6 pounds of salt for Saline Springs, so I was pulling extra hours after the sun had gone down.

I went through the motions with a blank mind when my pickaxe suddenly struck something solid. As I pulled to loosen my tool, a large stone chunk was brought forth into the lantern's dim glow. The relief looked different from the shimmering salt surrounding it, but I could barely make it out in the low light. Squinting, I tried to focus on the shape. Nestled inside a lap of rubble sat a near-spherical object.
I commanded my tired eyes to follow the swirling lines that drew toward its center, but became ever more drowsy. When I reached out to trace it, I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder. How long had I been digging? I decided to rest.

It took some time to heal up. In my absence, they've opened a new mineshaft and boarded up the old one. Maybe it's for the better. We can't be distracted when there's a quota to meet.

I've been wandering the lands, fascinated by the rich and vibrant purples that nature so effortlessly weaves into petal and berry. Such depth, such brilliance — I must seize it for myself. I have boiled roots and crushed blossoms, mixed minerals and whispered spells, yet the color eludes me. The shade slips through my fingers like mist at dawn.

But I will not rest. Somewhere in earth or essence, the secret awaits. And when I seize it, it shall be more than mere pigment. It shall be power, beauty, and fortune itself.

Perhaps such bewildering and unusual implementation for my button causes more issues than anticipated. I thought locking my laboratory door this way would be useful, but my back pain tells me otherwise.

Soot besmirches my feathers, and my spine aches. This was among my worse ideas.

Humanity will fade, as all beings do. Their light will flicker and die, untouched by the eternal Flame.

Meaningless and minuscule in the face of near-endless insight, burning brightly.

Turning to dust as we turn to fire. An endless cycle of ruin and turmoil.

Unforeseen — Humanity is ephemeral! Nothing but a brief moment in time, a breath long taken, the blink of an eye!

Yet — despite their mortal nature — they have created fire.

A Flame of their own to brighten their impending dawn.

Nestled below our lands once lay a chasm so deep, its contents eluded us for millennia.

No secret can resist illumination by the light of the eternal Flame. An archaic evil, brewing... growing.

It must be buried, flooded, and sealed. Humanity should never brush against these tendrils of pandemonium.

Crude lifeblood is extracted, diluted, and alchemized. Transformed, transfigured. Molten and born anew.

Profound power, fueling the bodies of the youngest in Embervale, rotting them. We've failed, blinded by our stoicism.

Let us point our gaze back towards the sky — for this hollowed core cannot be saved.

Energy, welling from deep inside the core. A light erupts, breaching the boundaries of space itself.

A door to be opened by the flame touched — the brightest of sparks will walk a path lined by fire, and illuminate what is shrouded in shadow.

Never let the stars be extinguished, never douse the sun. Rise above all, a legacy to last an eternity.

We've been split. Ripped apart like a twin-headed eel.

The discordance in our midsts sunders our youngest from the empyrean — a new chapter at last. They wish to protect the ephemeral flame, inspired by the hearthlights and fireflies of humankind.

We will all shift and fall. At last, we stumble.

Finally — Remnants of an elusive age, cast away.

Drowned in waves. Yet another evil — a mistake — brushed away, and sealed.

Let the water flush out all that is tainted. After us, the flood.

Perhaps the Flame had been tainted all its life. Blinded by its own light — or perhaps, it was us.

The final flaw, raised too high above the rest. A fall so deep, so devastating, it rivals the chasms below. A failure that ripped us in two.

Divided, in shambles. Our young drowning in war, our old locked inside the stars. A miscalculation. Ash among starfire, after all. We must start anew.

— Manathor

The wild spirit of the Blackmire remains untamed.

Winding roots entangle us, twist around all efforts of our kin. Everything fades into the sounds of the night, a symphony of sweet and somber melodies.

We drown in them like bugs in the blackwater bog, dragged below by the vines. Such unbound energy, shining bright like the stars.

We sit among the crags and tips of daggers, hallowed by pure snow. To seek understanding, to reclaim the unity our kind lost in the fog.

What a wide and whistling land. What a quiet echo, helpless and shattered. Our minds are frozen in place, unmovable, unreachable by reason or compassion. We are split like valleys, lined by ivory cliffs that pierce our sides, contort our beings, and force our hands.

Some of us will rise. Some of us will stay. The eldest will be pure, the youngest lost and melted into new shapes.
We are no longer one. We are twin flames dancing to different melodies.

Climb upon the highest mountain and peer over the snow-blessed rim. Gaze into the swirling white, into the spiraling void. Just across the horizon, illuminated by the rising sun's light, is our land — and our gate to the stars, now barred.

Hear this: We aim to ascend, to rise, to flee — to leave the rotting lands below, corrupted by the spreading roots and blossoms of a familiar seed.
We yearn to return to the celestial light and purity of our cosmic blood.

Anything — or anyone — untamed, impure, or foolish must remain, even our youngest flames. Our doors are locked to you.
Do not pry them open.

We stepped foot in humanity's Night Sanctum, crossed its threshold with glee and ease, shared our knowledge and voices.

Yet, as the brutish Drak built their temples on broken bones, their offerings held little interest to us, so we averted our gaze.

A farce, a failure, a fated misstep — for the creatures saw in this a challenge, and favor to be won in battle. When they attacked humanity for our attention, we recoiled... and vowed to never pick a side again, even as the Shroud emerged.

Two bloods laid siege to these lands.

One was cold and violet as a yearfall's plum, encased in emerald leaves like scales. The other red and warm as a song shared by the fireside.

A forsaken clash, brought forth by our favoritism of fire. When we lifted humanity, we lowered all else... trampled a seed that thought us to be its sun, its god. But the seed grew in silence and hate, and where one purple petal fell, its roots took hold.

Manathor is gone. Faded, somewhere at world's end... moments before the final reckoning.
The fleeting, the wild brutes, the cursed, the bloodthirsty. The wise, both the embraced, and the lost...
In the end, it did not matter who or what you were — what we were.

All were swallowed. And all will be gone.
A dark void to take in all light; to blacken the skies... the shadows fall on us the same.

And it always will.
Over, and over, and over... unless we strike at the root.

Still, nothing to eat. Nothing to serve. Bones, scraps, and watery soup... The village is frightened, the trade routes cut off. With this war on the horizon, when will we meet our demise?

A new traveler arrived, hungry and tired. She ordered stew and asked for the bones to be left in. Quiet anger lingered in her eyes — wild determination, like a starving wolf.

We were all out of meat, of course... haven't had a fresh catch in weeks. All I could do was to offer her a room. Instead of warming herself by our hearth, she declined with a grunt, turned around, and disappeared into the night. I saw her march northwards into the woods, to sleep on the cold, hard ground. What a brute... she belongs in the wild, anyhow.

I awoke to the smell of freshly spilled blood.
When I looked outside my bedroom window, I saw that some predator had dragged 2 Fae Deer from the northern wilds all the way to the village square. The kill looked effortless, but it certainly wasn't painless.

At first, I cried out in shock. But then the realization hit me: 2 Fae Deer. 8 rib portions. Maybe 10, 12 sausages. Blood pudding as dessert. Gallons of stew! This will feed the whole village, war or not. Thank the Ancients!

I've entered the thicket. Plenty of cover, but too much mud — I'm leaving footprints. I miss the solid, rocky mountain paths and kicking pebbles down chasms to wait for the echo.

A strange odor hangs over the bog. Foul and fermented, it reminds me of the distilleries near Howling Peak. I decided to avoid Glennwood's End... Too much activity and I taste copper in the water... Bad omens. I'll drift away from here as soon as possible.

A comforting heat emanates from the rocks, so I won't need a fire tonight. I hear them in the distance, searching, howling. It's the wind that carries their madness my way, a draft from the mines. What are they digging for? Their screams rip through the night and scare away all prey. I'm starving.

Should I have stocked up on resources when I was near Glennwood's End? No.The entire town reeks of blood and betrayal... a scent I know too well. I'll walk with hunger in my heart if I must.

Finally, fresh air. Not heavy with the scent of pollen or sweet, sickening decay. My head spins. I haven't slept in days. Not since I left my spindle in the Revelwood atop that cliffside. So far away now... but I can't turn back.

I had to flee. Something sinister is buried in that thicket... spreads through the undergrowth like roots. It embraces and entangles, squeezes, and suffocates. Shimmering in the darkness, between the branches, under the skin: the silky web of a two-clawed hunting spider.

Nightmares like these are forged by man, I've learned.

Log NR. 01
Last Fed: Monday, Hand (accidental)
Note: Has a nasty bite. Remind Rafael to get some pliers. Might need to remove teeth.

Log NR. 02
Last Fed: Late yearwake? Who knows
Note: Gaunt now. Don't forget to feed again.

Log NR. 03
Last Fed: Friday, bones and scraps (didn't eat them)
Note: Looks pretty weird for a wolf, don't know if this is right. Keeps crying and barking at night. Just yell back, then it stops.

I still remember when every shattered mirror meant twice the misfortune. Back then, I traded my old belt buckle for a new pair of scissors and spent days fixing the broken salon roof while looking at the stars. I traced the constellations as if they'd reveal my path, letting the moon's silvery glow burn into my mind. It greets me whenever I close my eyes, in waking and dreams.

It's been my calling to make my clients shine brighter than the sun, but the stars have inscribed a new fate for me.

As war approaches, the light bids me in the direction of Fort Kelvin. Our walls won't stop the assault, and neither will my razor blade, so the celestial divinity demands I leave my salon. Is this a sacrifice I can make? I wish I could reach the stars and entangle myself in their web of constellations, realigning the threads — enforcing my will on them, just this once.

- Elio, in the beautiful year of 502 D.A.

They hide their horror with pungent cologne, barely masking the underlying stench of sweat. None revealed why. Only an older lady, with gray hair carelessly fallen into her kind face, would dare to name what they all feared.

A "tremble in the earth" they feel at night keeps them awake. They've reported it to Pikemead's Reach, but to no avail. As a son of the glorious capital myself, I admit I've never heard of this story, either. Acknowledging it beyond a report would set their fears in stone, so most prefer to remain silent.
In my deep slumber, the unnerving sounds don't reach me — still, I am restless. The light from my dreams burns brighter here.

I've closed the salon for a few days to recover and have spent my time mixing pigments. The red dye I've concocted glistens in the sun like fresh blood. I hope it's not a bad omen. Did the stars call me here to suffer different carnage more to their liking?

- Elio, forever pondering!

Olric always had a strange way of seeing things. Where I saw danger, he saw wonder. Especially with those damn plants — the Vicious Vines. Venomous things, full of poison, shooting god-knows-what at anything that moves.
He dragged me all the way out here, grinning like a kid. Said he'd never seen so many in one place. Told me to watch – then he let one hit him. Right on the head. Laughed it off like it was nothing.
I thought he was crazy. But he looked… fine. Better than fine, like he'd gained something from it.
I was going to try it too. Really, I was.
I couldn't bring myself to — maybe I am just a coward.

I know we didn't part on good terms. And you know I'm bad with words.

So, how to start...?
...When I look at the sky, I recall how you taught me to glide. Remember how I was so scared to jump, to drop down the ledge of the harbor? You were there. You held my hand. Guided my strike when I hammered my first iron, sparks flying. You never wavered.

...I didn't mean to raze your forge down. I was angry. Livid. I have my mother's temperament, as you always say. I'm sending new Smithing Tools. They work like a charm. Because...

I wanted to apologi— ...No.
You'll always be my fath— No...
Oh, I don't know. Forget it.

We both know I'm not good at goodbyes. A true Anders at heart, like mother. So, how to end...?

Well. Goodbye.

— Rochelle

Something rotten is festering below this ruin, and for once, I don't think it's the Shroud. The stench on the lower levels is abhorrent. The lavatories there exist only to mock me with their dreadful, rising fumes.

When facing one, the odor overtook me and commanded my body to turn, sprint up the basement stairs, and gulp down the fresh air outside.
I had to relieve myself in the bushes instead.
It's curious — thought I saw something glisten down there, but perhaps my vision was blurred by the haze. I'm tempted to descend once more — are there canals below? Sewage that allows the mephitis to putrefy and mold forth? Hidden treasures, washed up, though never dulled? — But I retch at the thought.

The sun is setting. I'll risk staying overnight. Above ground has little cover, but it's far from the smell!

That kid is playing tricks on me again! I told Phil to bring some Regular Stone Blocks for the bridge repairs... sure, he didn't seem happy, but he's young and spry! He can carry them with ease! Of course, he just drops them off and scurries away!! "You're sure to find them on your own, Pop. Don't break your back!" Such a rabble-rouser... now where are the blocks?

Draconis Communis

Over 1000 years old
Embervale - Nomad Highlands; Umber Hollow

Dragons are perhaps the earliest known inhabitants of Embervale. Traces of their reign can still be discovered in the Nomad Highlands, the Kindlewastes, and the Albaneve Summits, from where they seem to originate.
Our approximation of their origin and subsequent migratory patterns is based on the occurrence and density of ivory samples.

These winged and long-extinct giants are presumed to be the ancestors of Vultures, and perhaps even the Drak.
The displayed specimen was discovered at the bottom of the once-water-filled Umber Hollow. It was retrieved from beneath the wing bones of a similar but larger and severely fractured skeleton, presumably damaged by meteorite impacts. It is due to this presumed sacrifice that the remains of our Common Dragon could be preserved and exhibited today.

Location: Embervale (East)

Climate: Dry, Arid. (Formerly: Lush.)
Precipitation: No recent data.

Flora & Fauna:
The Kindlewastes are a vast desert expanse of amber dunes and wind-swept plains. Though our kind would consider the local temperatures comfortable, they are interpreted as harsh and even hostile by local life forms.
Once a thriving, verdant ecosystem, the region now supports only the hardiest animals, including the elusive Dune Armadillo, carrion-feeding Draconian Vultures, and the ephemeral Humans.

Geological & Mineral Data
Beneath the barren surface lies a wealth of natural resources, with deposits of iron, sulfur, lapis, and vast reserves of ancient ivory preserved beneath the sands.

Summary:
The Kindlewastes remain the largest terraforming experiment ever attempted, a monumental undertaking following the incident. Today, they stand as a testament to the rift between failure and success — and the resilience found within.

Location: Embervale (South West)

Climate: Continental, Mild
Precipitation: Around 700 mm annually

Flora & Fauna:
The welcoming wilds of the springlands harbor a plethora of ecological species. Temperatures in this biosphere remain relatively constant throughout the year, thereby facilitating the ideal conditions for a thriving, stable ecosystem.
Hophares and wolves are common wildlife sightings, but some Vukah tribes have recently settled here, too. Berries, mushrooms, and tomatoes create the basis of every herbivore's diet.

Geological & Mineral Data
Resource variety is seemingly poor. Only common minerals and rocks, such as salt and flintstone, can be obtained here.

Summary:
The verdant fields of the Springlands are considered pleasant and quiet by most. Due to their temperate nature and well-preserved biodiversity, they serve as a still frame of a perfectly balanced habitat.

Location: Embervale (Mid-West)

Climate: Continental, Humid
Precipitation: Around 1200 mm annually

Flora & Fauna:
This biosphere is rich in a variety of hardwood species and wildlife. The thick underbrush and dense canopy deserve special attention, as they shelter countless insects, and most notably, arachnids.
Alongside the many muddied pathways, strawberries, chamomile, flax, and indigo plants foster a fragrant and colorful environment. Despite this enticing pull of the bosque, it is advised not to wander off the pathways. Boars roam in the forest, aggressively defending their farrowing nests and young.

Geological & Mineral Data
Alongside the many mossy cliff faces, wanderers are likely to find bright orange deposits of clay, copper, and, at lower levels, amber.

Summary:
The overgrown wilds of the Revelwood teem with life and mystery. Anyone brave enough to venture off the beaten path will be able to find proverbial "pearls" in the mud. Still, it is imperative not to be caught off guard by sudden rainfall or hungry, feral pigs.

Location: Embervale (Centre)

Climate: Semi-arid
Precipitation: Around 350 mm annually

Flora & Fauna:
Plant growth here is limited to select areas wherein the ground can retain adequate moisture. Within the pale green fields that dot the Nomad Highlands, travellers may encounter sugar cane and bell pepper plants, as well as Flightless Redtails, which feed on their seeds.
The local birdlife produces nutritious eggs, which serve as excellent sources of protein for the primary predators: Sabertooth Tigers and Humans.

Geological & Mineral Data
The region presents both flat plains and staggering differences in altitude. The biosphere is undercut with an underground river network that converges on a former lake (Umber Hollow), which was caused by a large meteorite impact.

Summary:
The Highlands are equidistant to both the Revelwood and the Kindlewastes — serving as a transitional space between the very humid and extensively dry climates, respectively. The central location and easily traveled upper layer have elevated the area to a bustling trade hub that hides many riches in the forgotten caverns below.

Location: Embervale (North East)

Climate: Alpine
Precipitation: From 500 mm (leeward) to 2000 mm (windward)

Flora & Fauna:
The frigid summits are defined by low to sub-zero temperatures, which cover the local peaks in thick layers of snow. Below the frost, only a few species dare to thrive. Yaks have proven resilient to the climate due to their insulating coat of fur. Their biggest adversary is not the cold, but the Cyclops that roam the bluffs looking for a feast to roast.

Geological & Mineral Data
Many rare earths and minerals can be found in the mountains. Red marble, amethyst, and even ancient deposits of obsidian hide deep within the rock.

Summary:
The freezing cold of the summits is considered unpleasant, if not hostile, by most lifeforms (especially ours!) Still, between snow-covered fields and the aurora borealis dancing above, life persists.

Location: Embervale (North West)

Climate: Tropical, Marine
Precipitation: Around 3000 mm annually

Flora & Fauna:
The Veilwater Basin is characterized by crystal lakes and lush ecological variety. The rivulets teem with fish, and docile species such as the capybara can be encountered enjoying bananas and coconuts by the shore.
Despite this bliss, considerable dangers lurk below the water. The Basin was previously home to the Drak'Dal, a subspecies or tribe of the Drak. Their temples and altars may be no more than flooded ruins, but as a highly territorial species, they may eventually attempt to reclaim their old hunting grounds.

Geological & Mineral Data
The coastal region is rich with gold, nacre, and pearls. Unfortunatly, many resources are buried beneath the water's surface, requiring eager gatherers to expose themselves to the elements.

Summary:
The Veilwater Basin may appear like a paradise at first, but its foreboding history may yet reveal a dark future. Nevertheless, the area remains a fascinating botanical playground with an endless amount of genetic material to probe.