Lockeport
Salt-laden winds lash the rugged province of Lockeport, where the sea’s relentless grasp meets the creeping tide of the marshlands. To the north, jagged cliffs crumble into mist-choked waters, and coastal settlements cling to survival, trading with the wider world. Further south, civilization dissolves into shadowed wetlands, where whispered fears and unseen horrors rule. The Gray Lake broods at the heart of it all, a vast, still expanse that swallows light—and those foolish enough to stray too close.
This is a land of hardened survivors, where nature’s fury meets resilience. The people of Lockeport are a diverse mix of traders, hunters, and wanderers. The Vohkin, known for their sharp instincts for commerce, form the province’s economic backbone, while Daijin and Shiman enclaves bring foreign craftsmanship and maritime expertise. Among them, the Bayooan elves—called Swamp Elves—move in rhythm with the flooded lowlands, living as part of the mire rather than against it. For all their differences, one thing binds the people of Lockeport together: an unshaken will to endure.
Yet, survival here is never certain. Smugglers slip through the reeds, ferrying yandu berries and other contraband past watchful patrols. In Lakeview, the province’s largest settlement, fishmongers and fur traders barter beneath the watchful gaze of Alwen Pembrook, whose rule stretches only as far as solid land allows. Beyond her reach, in the depths of the Boiling Brook and the Silent Mire, the Dengar Krand hunters move unseen, and the marsh itself seems eager to consume the unwary.
But Lockeport is not merely a place of decay and ghosts. Its wilds pulse with life—towering Wetland Oaks, the flickering glow of Wisp Moths, and the silent glide of Shimmering Serpents through dark waters. Those who thrive here do so with reverence, understanding both the land’s perils and its quiet, haunting beauty. Lockeport stands as a last bastion before the true unknown, a place where the reckless find ruin, and the resourceful carve out their own legends.
At the jagged edge of The Echose Marshlands, where land breaks into cliffs and the wind never ceases, Wildehail stands defiant. Less a city and more a fortress of necessity, it is built to withstand both man and nature. Trust is not given freely here—it is earned. Strength rules, weakness falls, and beyond the spiked walls, the wild is never far.
From Wildehail, House Venonim has long commanded the skies. Renowned Gryphon riders, their warriors are feared both in aerial skirmishes and open war. Their sigil—a yellow-green gryphon in flight—has flown in countless battles. Yet the latest heir, a son of House Venonim named Bjorn, has altered his crest: a black gryphon against the family’s yellow-green backdrop. Some see it as a sign of change. Others whisper of omens.
Lockeport’s first and fiercest defenders are the Wild Men, aerial warriors who have claimed the skies as others tame the land. Their gryphons, raised in the craggy nests beyond Wildehail, grant them unmatched speed and ferocity. Led by Narissa, a woman whose legend is built upon the back of her Great Roc, these riders have kept the Marshlands secure for generations.
But when the monsoons came, Narissa took to the skies, leading refugees toward the safety of The Firefang Jags. With their leader gone, Lord Blagun Venonim made an unexpected decision—he took his black panther raven gryphon and rode into the storm alongside his remaining Wild Men, seeking the source of the magical calamity and aiding settlements already swallowed by the tempest. No word has come from them since. Some say the storm itself devoured them. Others claim they battle horrors unseen within its eye. If they do not return, Lockeport may already be lost.
Once a refuge for nobles seeking peace, Lakeview stood serene on the shores of Gray Lake, its tidy streets and uniform houses symbols of quiet luxury. But peace does not last in the Marshlands.
The monsoons came, and with them, ruin. The lake, once a glassy mirror of the sky, has grown restless. Piers rot. The shore vanishes under rising waters. And whispers drift across the surface—voices that do not belong to the living. Many have fled, but some remain, unable or unwilling to leave. They speak of shadows moving beneath the waves, of ripples where there should be stillness. Something has awakened in Gray Lake, and Lakeview stands at the edge of its grasp.
Deep within Lockeport’s wooded heart, Imlar Honan thrives beneath the shelter of towering trees. It is not a town for outsiders but a haven for those who understand the language of the wild.
Governed by Marius Quickmark, a hunter whose skill with a bow is rivaled only by his unwavering duty, Imlar Honan is a sanctuary for those unwilling to be tamed. The Rangers of Imlar Honan, a brotherhood of wood elves and men, patrol the deep woods, striking only when the land is threatened. Their task is not merely to defend the town—it is to ensure that the horrors beyond never find their way to it.
At the town’s center stands a sacred stone column, marked with the sigil of Kishar, the Lady of the Woodlands. Offerings are left at its base, whispered prayers for safe passage and bountiful hunts. Yet even here, in the heart of the forest, there is unease. The storm has not yet reached this place, but the wind carries its scent, and the Rangers have begun finding tracks that belong to no beast they know.
Lockeport has always belonged to survivors—a land where storms, beasts, and men wage an endless struggle for dominance. But something has shifted.
With Narissa leading refugees away, Blagun Venonim lost to the storm, and Lakeview standing on the brink of something unspeakable, the province teeters on the edge of disaster. The Wild Men still ride, but how long before the wind claims them too?
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