Myrknash
Myrknash, the realm of the Court of Hoof and Claw, is a wild, unbroken expanse where instinct rules and the howl is law. It is a place untouched by stone or steel, where no road has ever stayed for long and no building ever stood without being reclaimed by root and claw, save for Cerunnos's Hunting Lodge. The land stretches in vast, tangled wilderness—primeval forests with trunks thick as memories, shadowed glens where predator and prey dance their eternal ballet, and windswept highlands where antlers clash and blood feeds the moss. Nothing is cultivated here, but everything thrives. The realm pulses with the heartbeat of a hundred thousand creatures—each path forged by padded feet, feathered wings, and thundering hooves.
The forests of Myrknash are dense and deep, canopied in towering blackpine, stormwillow, and fangvine. Light filters only where it is allowed, and even then, it moves in cautious beams. Here, the trees bend to the presence of great fey beasts—dire stags crowned in moss, shadowcats that melt into mist, and massive owls whose eyes reflect the moonlight with knowing judgment. Trails form only where the packs roam, dissolving soon after, as if the land forgets anything that does not move with purpose. The trees hum with old, wordless songs—lullabies of hunger, territory, and kinship.
Open spaces exist, but they are not tranquil—they are arenas. The Redmane Glades are one such place, a wide, flower-strewn clearing where blood often stains the petals and beasts come to test dominance, challenge rivals, or offer courtship through strength. No fey structures stand here, but dens are hollowed in the roots of ancient trees, nests carved from reeds and furs, and thickets woven with teeth, bone, and vine. These are not homes—they are claims. Each one shifts and reshapes with the seasons and the status of the pack that holds it.
High in the crags of the Howlspire Ridge, the wind carries the voices of wolves, foxes, and mountain-calling elk. These sharp, elevated lands are sacred to the swift and the bold, a place where the air grows thin and the cliffs test every step. It is said that those who climb the highest ridge during a thunder moon may glimpse the primal spirit of Myrknash itself—a great many-eyed beast woven from the flesh of all kin-creatures, whose breath carries the scent of every forest in The Feywild. Those who hear it speak return changed, their eyes flecked with gold and their limbs marked with runes no hand carved.
In Myrknash, Cerunnos rules the Court of Hoof and Claw from the Great Hunting Lodge--the only true structure that stands in the realm. However, with his frequent absences with The Wild Hunt, the Council of Predators rules in his absence, though not from thrones—they run, fight, and mate as leaders of their kin. Rank is proven in battle cries and bloodshed, not declared by decree. Packs gather not in halls, but in moonlit clearings marked by claw-scars on trees and the scent of musk, wild herbs, and warm fur.
Myrknash is not cruel, but it is honest. There is no room for artifice, no patience for indecision. It is a place where instincts are sacred, and survival is a song sung in fang and flame. It does not mourn the fallen—it feeds them to the next generation, letting their strength pass on in growl and gallop.
Geography
The geography of Myrknash is wild, layered, and ever-moving—a living terrain shaped by the paths of beasts and the instincts of predator and prey. It is dominated by a vast, ancient forest known as the Thicketbound, where the canopy weaves so tightly in places that sunlight filters through only in broken, golden shards. Towering blackpine and stormwillow trees twist skyward like great horns, their roots tangling across the ground in a labyrinth that only the four-footed and sharp-eyed can navigate. Moss and lichen carpet the forest floor, softening every footfall and swallowing the echoes of the hunt.
In the realm’s heart lies the Gnarlmarrow Lowlands, a network of sunken glades, hidden gullies, and shallow bogs, fed by slow-moving streams that smell of peat and loam. These waterlogged areas teem with fey crocodiles, reed-dragons, and strange glowing toads whose calls echo like war drums. The bogs shift with the moon, sometimes flooding entire swaths of land and creating new game trails overnight. Only those who know the scent of solid ground can pass without misstep. Large, flat stones covered in claw-gouged markings serve as waypoints for the court’s hunters and messengers.
To the north, Howlspire Ridge rises in jagged defiance—cragged highlands of red stone and wind-lashed cliffs. These elevated plateaus are where the fleet-footed creatures roam: great elk with silver antlers, fey-raptors with crystal talons, and the wolf-blooded who revel in the dance of wind and teeth. Snow gathers in patches here, even when the rest of Myrknash simmers in eternal spring or autumn. At night, the stars seem closer on the ridge, and voices carry farther—so far, it’s said, they’re heard in the dreams of sleeping animals across the Feywild.
In the south, the Emberclaw Fields burn slow and low—a vast stretch of wildgrass and bramble peppered with underground fire vents. These fires don’t destroy, but renew: fire-stalkers and ash-bears make their dens here, and bright orange flowers bloom in the soot just hours after a blaze. The smoke always rises in curling, serpentine spirals, said to be shaped by the breath of the first predator.
Across all of Myrknash run trail-ways—not roads, but paths worn into being by generations of claws, hooves, and paws. These trails are not marked by signs but by broken branches, scent markings, and the rusted traces of long-gone blood. Some are migratory routes, some are hunting paths, and some are sacred Circle Runs, traveled only during rites of passage or mating seasons. They twist and change with the court’s needs, refusing to be mapped, only remembered.
Myrknash does not rise like a kingdom—it unfolds like instinct, raw and pulsing with life. Its hills are haunches, its rivers are tongues, its groves are the ribs of something slumbering and powerful. The land itself is a beast, and it welcomes only those who know how to live by tooth, by tread, and by heartbeat.
Climate
The climate of Myrknash is feral, rich, and untamed—neither mild nor cruel, but alive in every breath. The air is thick with the scent of earth, sweat, and flowering musk, always heavy with moisture as if the land itself is exhaling. Rain comes often but without warning, in sudden bursts that steam off stone and awaken hidden roots. The temperature shifts not with seasons, but with the moods of the beasts who rule it—humid and close when tensions rise, crisp and bracing in the wake of a successful hunt. Mornings are wrapped in mist, thick as fur, and nights are sharp with wind and howls beneath a sky often painted in deep rust-reds and violet blues. Lightning dances often, thunder growls in the distance, but fire is sacred, rare, and always wild when it comes. This is a climate that nourishes the body, sharpens the senses, and leaves no space for softness that cannot defend itself.
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