Borslev fen
A vast mire of slow-choked creeks and treacherous peat bogs, Borslev Fen sprawls like a weeping wound between the Calathi River and the shadowed fringes of Darklight Swamp. Its low, waterlogged terrain is cloaked not by forest canopy, but by a damp sea of tall grasses, knotted shrubs, and waist-high ferns. Peat moss spreads in thick, spongy carpets, releasing the scent of ancient rot beneath every footstep.
The Fen is a place of endless fog and muted sound, where the sun is a pale smear and the sky rarely shows its face. Pools of stagnant water reflect nothing but grey, and strange lights sometimes flicker across the marsh at night—too steady for fireflies, too erratic for lanterns.
Though the land may appear open, it is far from safe. Beneath its stillness lies a quiet madness, born from the lingering echoes of Niflheim’s unbinding. The very soil seems to remember, its bogs swallowing the unwise, its reeds murmuring with voices that ought not linger. Some say the Fen marks one of the places where the world wore thin, where something slipped through and never left.
Borderguard patrols avoid the heart of Borslev Fen when they can. Those who do not often vanish without trace. Sometimes their helms or shattered spears are found weeks later, cradled in the knotted roots of a lonely hillock or half-submerged in black water—always accompanied by silence, always heavy with dread.
Travelers speak of sudden sinkings, of things watching from the reeds, and of dreams that begin only after leaving the Fen behind.
The Fen is a place of endless fog and muted sound, where the sun is a pale smear and the sky rarely shows its face. Pools of stagnant water reflect nothing but grey, and strange lights sometimes flicker across the marsh at night—too steady for fireflies, too erratic for lanterns.
Though the land may appear open, it is far from safe. Beneath its stillness lies a quiet madness, born from the lingering echoes of Niflheim’s unbinding. The very soil seems to remember, its bogs swallowing the unwise, its reeds murmuring with voices that ought not linger. Some say the Fen marks one of the places where the world wore thin, where something slipped through and never left.
Borderguard patrols avoid the heart of Borslev Fen when they can. Those who do not often vanish without trace. Sometimes their helms or shattered spears are found weeks later, cradled in the knotted roots of a lonely hillock or half-submerged in black water—always accompanied by silence, always heavy with dread.
Travelers speak of sudden sinkings, of things watching from the reeds, and of dreams that begin only after leaving the Fen behind.
