The Sylvarin Strand
The Sylvarin Strand is a place where civilization dares not linger—a narrow, coastal isthmus choked with primeval forests, fertile lowlands, and untamed wilderness. Though the land is rich with resources, it is ruled not by those who would cultivate it, but by those who hunt. Here, the balance of life is measured in fang and claw, in hunger and violence, and only the most formidable creatures carve out a lasting existence.
Stalking through the dense woodlands and shadowed glades of the Strand, the Aunyaina are both legend and nightmare—boar-like Orcs, driven by an insatiable hunger that surpasses mere survival. They do not simply hunt; they dominate. Their tusked faces are the last sight of many who stray too far from the safety of their camps. Organized into small, nomadic packs, they are relentless, pursuing prey over miles of tangled undergrowth with eerie, unshakable determination. Humans are not just food to them—they are the ultimate challenge, a prize worthy of the hunt.
Few who witness an Aunyaina pack in action live to tell the tale. In the rare moments they are not hunting, they adorn themselves in trophies—bones, skins, and teeth—gruesome reminders of past victories. Their dens, crude and temporary, are marked with the remains of their prey, warning all who enter that they have stepped into the domain of apex predators.
Where the Aunyaina are cunning and relentless, the Goblings are something far worse—mindless, insatiable destruction. They do not hunt with skill or purpose; they devour, they dismantle, they ruin. They are the termites of civilization, gnawing away at the edges of settlements, burrowing into refuse heaps, slipping through the cracks of war-ravaged fortifications.
They breed quickly and live without order, but when stronger beings take them in hand, Goblings become terrifying saboteurs—their small, twisted bodies perfect for infiltrating enemy camps, poisoning supplies, setting fires, and sowing chaos. Alone, they are pathetic scavengers. In numbers, they are an unstoppable wave of destruction.
Strangely, they seem immune to the corruption of the Material Wound, as if their chaotic, ruinous nature predates even the breaking of reality. Some scholars have wondered if Goblings are a symptom of something deeper, something ancient and unchanging, a living embodiment of the world's most base, destructive instincts. But few have time to ponder such things when a Gobling warren is discovered too close to home—such infestations are stamped out with fire, and those who delay are soon overrun.
If the Aunyaina rule the land through strength, and Goblings through sheer numbers, then Owlbears rule through sheer, unhinged ferocity. These creatures are not born of natural evolution, but of madness, an experiment that never should have existed, but now flourishes in every untamed corner of the world.
Lurking in Sylvarin's deep forests and craggy cave mouths, they are apex predators with no fear, no hesitation, and no restraint. They attack without provocation, without reason—only instinct and bloodlust. Even seasoned hunters know to avoid an owlbear’s hunting ground, for once it has locked eyes upon its prey, it will not stop until it is dead—or until it has torn itself apart in the process.
Few call the Sylvarin Strand home. Those who do know what it means to live in fear, to move in silence, to fight for every inch of ground they claim. The forests, fertile and rich as they are, belong to the hunters, the devourers, the restless predators whose hunger shapes the land itself.
And yet, some persist—traders passing through on their way to safer lands, desperate refugees with nowhere else to go, warriors looking to test themselves against nature’s cruelest trials. Some make it through. Most do not.
For in the Sylvarin Strand, the strong do not simply survive—they thrive, while the weak are torn apart, swallowed by the primal hunger of the land itself.
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