Thanorthic Dominion
Geography
Rolling hills dominate the nation’s central heartland, blanketed by a deep gray soil that seems perpetually moist under low, brooding skies. Rivers cut winding paths, their banks lined with jagged rocks and crowned by ancient watchtowers whose silhouettes loom against the haze. Small hamlets and farmsteads cluster around tall stone chapels, each building sporting narrow windows and sharp, angular spires. Lanterns flicker at dusk, illuminating cobblestone roads with spectral glows that hint at underlying necromantic energies. Even on fair days, a thin mist lingers, giving the region an eerie tranquility that invites both fascination and unease. Settlers here maintain carefully tended fields of dark crops, sustaining the population’s basic needs. Knights patrol with measured vigilance, fully aware that a sudden hush may portend an emerging threat.
Past these gentle inclines, the land merges into denser forests, thick with twisted trees bearing pale lichen and spindly branches. At times, the bark itself appears etched with faint runes, reflecting ancient pacts and hidden wards. Narrow trails coil through the undergrowth, lit only by faint ghostlights that hover above gnarled roots. Dense canopies let little sunlight in, casting the forest floor in perpetual dusk. Locals speak of roaming creatures with silent steps, as though part of the forest’s breathing tapestry. In certain clearings, half-hidden catacombs slip underground, linking to the massive necropoleis beyond. Knights of the Jade Cloak often patrol these woodlands, ensuring no blight disturbs the delicate balance of living flora and crypt-laden soil. Despite the hints of menace, an ethereal beauty cloaks these groves, as if unseen guardians watch from every knothole.
Toward the realm’s western fringes, an expanse of open meadows stretches out, dotted with villages behind sturdy palisades. Gloom-shrouded moors frame the horizon, dotted by tall, stony ridges where gargoyles perch on long-abandoned shrines. Thick mists roll in each evening, cocooning scattered sheep pens and roadside shrines in a muffled quiet. Farmers raise hardy beasts to supply city markets, though they seldom stray far after nightfall, wary of rumored phantasms that might wander from the necromantic depths. Windmills punctuate these plains, each typically adorned with carved bone reliefs, turning slowly in a near-constant breeze. The open sky overhead is a mix of slate-gray clouds and sudden, dramatic sunbeams, highlighting lonely silhouettes of watchtowers. Locals claim that storms here spawn lightning which crackles with arcane sparks.
Moving further inward, one finds imposing fortifications—massive walled towns perched on hilltops, connected by winding roads that often skirt around yawning chasms. These citadels reflect the society’s blend of martial glory and subdued reverence: their ramparts stand tall against potential invaders, yet stained-glass windows depict ancestral knights rather than scenes of triumph. Banners flutter atop gatehouses, each marked by skull motifs or a crowned emblem, reinforcing the unity between living defenders and the immortal watchers below. Stone arches lead into central squares lined with crypt entrances, so interwoven with daily life that it’s not uncommon to see townsfolk slip beneath the surface to commune with ancestors. At dusk, these cityscapes transform into a panorama of torchlit spires and quiet, somber reflections. The region’s people bustle in cloaked silhouettes, always mindful of the hush of necromancy in the substructures. Despite looming architecture and the pale hush, friendly laughter resonates in mead halls where knights share stories of undead wards and frontier exploits.
In the eastern domain, formidable mountains loom, their crags perpetually dusted with fine, grayish frost. Narrow passes navigate sheer cliffs where carved statues of knightly figures stare blankly into endless chasms. Strongholds cling to ridges at improbable angles, protected by ancient wards said to merge stone and bone. High altitude crypts tunnel into the mountainside, rumored to house the remains of storied champions who braved ages of warfare. Glacial winds rattle the iron gates, and patrolling knights rely on reanimated beasts to haul supplies through the treacherous terrain. Despite the harsh conditions, these peaks contain hidden pockets of lush greenery warmed by subterranean currents of necromantic energy. Scaling these summits provides breathtaking views over the plains and forests below, reminding all that a profound power thrums beneath the Dominion’s domain.
On the opposite side, rolling lowlands slope gradually into thick, primal woodlands, a place of intertwined roots and whispering leaves. Tree canopies stretch high, illuminated by flickers of ghostlights strung between branches in sacred groves. Vines drape over crumbling walls of moss-coated ruins, occasionally revealing hidden altars or crypt entrances woven into the forest floor itself. Knights of a druidic bent guard these areas, believing each branch and vine resonates with the same energy guiding the Dominion’s undead wards. Many travelers note a peculiar sensation of stepping into two worlds at once—the mortal environment of flora and an ever-present necromantic hum echoing in the distance. Local glades sometimes house festivals for the equinox or rites for ancestral druids who meld plant and bone symbology. The interplay of dancing fireflies and spectral lanterns gives the impression that the living forest itself acknowledges the Dominion’s cryptic power.
Meandering rivers trace through this varied geography, acting as both trade routes and spiritual corridors. Sturdy stone bridges connect key market towns with remote hamlets. Certain stretches of these waters are said to run black, not from pollution but from the infusion of centuries-old necromantic sediment. Even so, fish abound, adapted to dark currents; local fishers rely on modest enchantments or reanimated assistances to handle heavy nets. Riverbanks often host shrines carved into their rocky faces, where passersby offer small bones or tokens in memory of fallen ancestors lost far from any necropolis. River barges lit by floating corpse-lanterns glide silently at night, carrying goods and perhaps the occasional mortal remains bound for deeper crypts. On windy evenings, watchers on city walls swear they can hear choruses of the dead carried along by the current’s hush.
Encircling all these domains—mountains, moors, forests, and plains—are imposing border bastions equipped with siege engines that harness undead labor. Coastal edges, where they exist, feature jagged cliffs overlooking turbulent seas, and watchers man lighthouses powered by faint necromantic glows. The entire landscape conveys a duality: grand chivalric presence meets the whisper of unfathomable death-energies. At the heart of it all lies the capital, famed for its enormous mausoleum-palace, where the silent monarch maintains her throne. Generation after generation, the geography itself adapts to reflect the people’s reverence for unbroken cycles of life, death, and vigil. Rolling farmland meets gnarled forests, sweeping mountains overshadow labyrinthine catacombs, and through every valley and riverbend resonates the pulse of a realm forged by knights and necromancers alike. The hush carries on, linking each stretch of land to the eternal guardians beneath the surface.
Ecosystem
The land’s ubiquitous necromantic energy has molded a curious equilibrium, where plant and animal life adapt to subtle pulses emanating from underground crypt networks. Fields of Ty—those hardy stalks with grey husks—thrive in black, somewhat charred soil, their roots drawing on faint arcane traces. Dense forests bordering these fields display twisted trunks and luminescent fungi blooming under the perpetual twilight of thick canopies. Many animals have grown unusually cautious, sensing undead presences that patrol or linger in the gloom. Smaller herbivores congregate near wards or shrines, seemingly reassured by the subdued magic that keeps more aggressive spirits at bay. Predators, in turn, prowl the deep undergrowth, occasionally crossing paths with patrolling Ashenborn rangers. The entire ecosystem reflects a delicate tension: life flourishes in proximity to death, yet neither force wholly subdues the other.
At the lower levels of the food web, specialized fungi and mosses—like the necro-laced white growth called Sef—feed on ambient arcane residue. These organisms, in turn, nurture insect colonies that burrow through crypt-strewn soil, carrying traces of necromantic essence on their shells. Scavenger animals, such as mutated rodents or carrion crows, have grown adept at eking out nourishment from old battlefields or fallen undead constructs, breaking down decaying matter to recycle vital nutrients. In watery regions, fish populations have adapted to dark riverbeds that ripple with faint bone-silt, giving them pale scales and a heightened sensitivity to spectral energies. Migratory birds, though somewhat wary, follow seasonal paths along the Dominion’s edges, drawn by the black-soil farmland brimming with seeds and the relative safety of quiet enclaves patrolled by reanimated guardians. Plant pollination benefits from ephemeral glow-insects that carry faint sparks of necromantic luminescence, guiding them in the otherwise dim environment. Through this interconnected web, each living organism partakes of an ecosystem shaped by centuries of magic, mortality, and a resolute sense of balance.
Livestock, notably the stout Bril, graze in enclosed pastures under watchful eyes, their meat and hides forming a staple resource for the Dominion. Caretakers incorporate ward-lanterns and subtle protective spells to shield herds from roving predators or residual undead. Wild beasts that pose threats—like savage wolf-like creatures that have adapted to night hunts—are carefully managed, with knights ensuring they don’t encroach on settled areas. Around subterranean crypt entrances, niche flora like red-veined creepers cling to masonry, drawing sustenance from deep magical flows. Locals harvest these vines for medicinal extracts or fermented pastes, carefully balancing their use so as not to destabilize the wards that feed them. The result is a carefully maintained synergy: farmland, orchard, and forest realms each exist in tandem with underlying necromantic influences, shaping a truly distinct environment. Eventually, everything returns to the soil, whether by natural decay or reanimated guardians bringing remains back to catacombs, renewing the cycle in a land where life and death remain in constant dialogue.
Meanwhile, emergent pockets of biodiversity highlight the dual nature of this realm’s arcane currents. In the deepest crypt caverns, luminous mushrooms flourish, releasing faintly visible spores that glow turquoise in the dark. Sprites and small ghostly creatures, drawn by these lights, gather in curious clusters, almost merging a fey-like wonder with necromantic shadows. Mountain ledges host hardy shrubs that can repel lesser undead, exuding saps rumored to neutralize mild curses. Crypt-forest canopies, for their part, provide habitats for bird species whose melodious calls can calm restless spirits, bridging wildlife and arcana in ways few outside societies comprehend. Across these varied biomes—plains, moors, forests, mountains, and subterranean catacombs—the land teems with intricate balances, each life-form coexisting with the Dominion’s unwavering link to the afterlife. By carefully tending these delicate threads of existence, the Ashenborn sustain an ecosystem unlike any other: a place where spectral hush meets quiet abundance, woven seamlessly across living roots and buried bones.
Ecosystem Cycles
Each season within this necromantic realm sees subtle shifts in how plants and animals harness the land’s arcane undercurrents. In late autumn, for instance, underground crypt energies intensify, sparking brief surges of fungal growth—like the luminescent Sef—that feed on spectral residue left behind by restless spirits. Herbivores graze on these enchanted flora, passing faint necromantic traces up the food chain to predators that lurk at the fringes of dense forests. Through winter’s harsher months, vigilant knights or reanimated creatures help balance predator–prey dynamics by curbing incursions near farmland. Come spring, black-soil fields awaken with Ty and Niv vines, their seeds nourished by the residual magic saturating the ground. As these plants reach maturity, insects and pollinators flourish in tandem, transferring glimmers of necromantic luminescence among blossoms. Finally, summer sees the land’s peak abundance as sunlight filters through haunted groves, farmland yields expand, and reanimated workers ensure no harvest goes to waste.
Death itself becomes cyclical nourishment here, with every carcass or fallen construct methodically returned to catacombs or to specialized boneworks. Decomposing remains invigorate the soil, reinforcing crypt-lantern wards that keep malevolent undead at bay. End-of-season harvests typically conclude with solemn rites, ensuring any leftover energies funnel back into ward-lantern networks rather than festering as wild revenants. Rivers, laden with faint spectral sediment, circulate these energies across multiple regions, feeding hidden wetlands and fostering distinct aquatic habitats adapted to necromantic runoff. Meanwhile, windborne spores from nocturnal fungi settle in remote corners, seeding pockets of further arcane growth. Thus, each phase of life—from planting seeds to the end of a creature’s lifespan—contributes to a stable yet ever-shifting tapestry, where growth and decay continually cycle through necromantic synergy.
Localized Phenomena
One peculiar sight travelers mention is the occasional Ghostwind Storm, a swirling gust of pallid fog that drifts between crypt entrances and cemetery plots. Triggered by surges in necromantic wards, these eerie whirlwinds momentarily reveal translucent silhouettes of long-deceased knights or peasants caught in its vortex. Despite its unsettling appearance, the storm typically passes within minutes, leaving behind a faint chill and sporadic bone fragments scattered on the ground. Locals interpret these gusts as gentle reminders of the lingering bond between ancestral spirits and those above. While harmless to most, unprepared newcomers sometimes panic at the sudden chorus of distant whispers carried on the wind.
Another phenomenon, sometimes called the Harvest Gloom Surge, manifests in autumn due to an arcane alignment of the black, charred moon overhead—barely discernible in the sky yet exerting a subtle gravitational pull on necromantic energies. Although no visible moonlight graces the land, crops like Ty stalks and Niv vines begin to shimmer faintly under the ward-lanterns’ spectral glow. Farmers use this ephemeral surge to work late hours, finding that the heightened necromantic currents enrich both soil and harvest yields. Children often dance among softly glowing fields, entranced by the otherworldly haze that drifts between rows of grain. Elders maintain that these evenings create a rare bond between living families and the spirits resting below, a time when the wards’ protective aura intensifies and fosters a gentle communion. The fact that no visible moon hangs overhead only deepens the mystery, reinforcing the Dominion’s belief that unseen forces guide their nocturnal toils. In the hush that follows, villagers quietly give thanks to ancestral guardians, inspired by a phenomenon that seems to arise from the silence of a moon that few even know exists.
Deep beneath the Dominion’s surface lies a rare occurrence known as the Bone-Shift, a subtle tremor in the labyrinthine Deeproot Necropoleis where pockets of undead energy rearrange stacks of ancient remains. Walls and corridors reconfigure overnight, startling crypt-watchers and occasionally trapping those unaware. The shift, while unpredictable, tends to follow intense rituals or battles that upset the realm’s necromantic equilibrium. Seasoned knights regard such events as omens of ancestral restlessness, prompting them to renew warding incantations and double-check key tomb seals. Although no city has collapsed from these subterranean movements, the phenomenon reinforces local respect for the swirling energies that govern both the living and the endless sea of bones below.
Climate
The Dominion experiences a persistent mantle of overcast skies, drizzling rain, and frequent fog banks that roll across moorland and farmland alike. Daylight tends to be dim, as thick clouds block out direct sun for much of the year, and evenings arrive swiftly, steeping towns and fields in a soft gloom. Temperatures remain relatively mild in spring and autumn, yet biting winds sweep down from the mountains come winter, rattling wooden shutters and chilling travelers to the bone. Summers never grow especially hot, but humidity lingers in the air, sustaining fields of Ty crops and the fungal clusters nurtured in crypt-side clearings. The overall impression is one of perpetual twilight, where sudden gusts of wind can bring eerie silences or ghostly echoes from necromantic wards.
Rainfall is steady rather than torrential, with short, misty drizzles spaced throughout the week. This dampness fosters thick undergrowth in the forests, while farmland retains just enough moisture to support hearty staple crops. Occasionally, violent storms blow in from the moors, accompanied by thunder that reverberates through the catacomb-filled hills. Despite the gloom, locals have adapted to the long stretches of soft, diffused light, viewing it as a natural companion to their culture’s necromantic synergy. Whenever the clouds do part—usually no more than a handful of times each season—the land is bathed in an unaccustomed brightness, highlighting the Dominion’s stark beauty: rolling fields, looming fortresses, and a world shaped by silent guardianship against a backdrop of quiet, tenebrous skies.
Fauna & Flora
In these dimly lit fields and valleys, hardy strains of Ty—a pale-stalked grain—stand as a staple crop, absorbing faint necromantic traces from the black soil. Interspersed among them, Niv vines wind across damp lowlands, offering sweet pulp or fibrous stems coveted by both cooks and traveling soldiers. Strange fungi like Sef sprout wherever residual necromantic aura concentrates, reflecting the spectral energies that seep through crypt floors; their soft glow and sponge-like texture make them prized additions to stews or grilled dishes. In cool months, the delicate herb Kull emerges near shrines, reputed to ward off night terrors when added to soups or sprinkled over Ty cakes. For sweeter flavors, orchard gardens produce Aru fruits—dark, juicy orbs boiled into syrupy sauces that brighten otherwise sober menus. Beneath shadowy canopies, twisted trees host patches of luminescent moss that feed on crypt-lantern residue, giving the forests an otherworldly shimmer. Even with the land’s necromantic undertones, the flora retain a quiet vibrancy, entwining living growth with steady, arcane pulses.
Fauna similarly balance mundane needs with the Dominion’s ever-present hush. Robust Bril herds roam rocky slopes, raised for their dense meat and hardy hides despite their tusks and thick hides. Meanwhile, small rodents adapt to crypt-laden soils, gnawing on fallen Ty seeds or foraging lingering fungus, and some develop eerie, pallid markings from subtle magical seepage. White crows or ashen ravens circle watchtowers, scavenging crypt-litter or patrolling for morsels in fields below, their calls echoing across the moors at twilight. Predatory creatures lurk deeper in the forests—wolf-like beasts with faint necromantic resonance in their blood—kept at bay by patrolling rangers and ward-lantern protections. Occasional sightings of reanimated wildlife testify to the Dominion’s bone-driven magic, though these creatures rarely roam free, more often pressed into specialized tasks like hauling or patrolling. Across plains, moors, and crypt-woods, each species finds a niche in a realm where the line between life and unlife is but a permeable boundary, and natural cycles harmonize with silent energies pulsing below the earth.
Natural Resources
The Thanorthic Dominion’s black-soil fields rank among its most prized assets, producing hardy crops like Ty and Niv vines that feed the populace and supply ingredients for bone-lantern fuel or medicinal extracts. Beneath these arable lands lie veins of iron and trace metals, often discovered when new crypt tunnels are excavated, providing raw material for armaments and reinforced city structures. Timber from twisted forests augments stone sourced from quarries dotting the foothills, giving builders the means to erect sturdy fortifications with necromantic embellishments. Smaller but vital resources emerge from the crypt-laden terrain itself: Sef fungus, used in cooking and rumored to fortify the spirit, and Kull herb, which many consider an arcane ward enhancer. Even livestock like Bril thrive on the ashen grass, yielding hides and tusks valuable for trade or local artisans.
A more intangible but no less significant resource is the ambient necromantic energy suffusing the land—tapped via bone-lantern conduits or crypt-lining wards. Skilled necromancers harness this power for everything from mills and workshops to advanced siege constructs, freeing living labor for higher-skilled pursuits. Bone remnants from the Dominion’s massive catacombs serve as both raw material for refined sculptures and essential components in specialized glyph work. Rare pockets of arcane minerals sometimes surface in deeper crypt excavations, fueling the Eldritch Council’s magical innovations. While outside nations might overlook these “ghostly” commodities, the Thanorim hold them in high esteem, treating their harnessing of necromancy and bone-craft as the core that sustains their people’s independence and resilience.
History
In the earliest days, the region now called the Thanorthic Dominion was a bleak stretch of hills and valleys overlooked by morose skies, haunted by leftover energies from the dying sun’s last gasp. Scattered survivors, newly emerged from underground bunkers, stumbled into these lands, clashing with Beastkin raiders who treated them as lesser creatures. At first, the humans’ presence barely registered—until the Beastkin discovered their resilience, capturing them and forcing them into brutal labor. Shallow mines and grim farmland soon expanded under slave-driven toil, as the Beastkin exploited every resource the land offered. For these enslaved people, each sunrise promised a fresh ordeal beneath an overcast sky that rarely brightened.
Over time, one figure rose among the captives: Catithryn Starborn, infamous for dying repeatedly yet awakening each time with unwavering resolve. Her defiance stoked hope in a populace once resigned to chain and whip, inspiring small, clandestine uprisings. As the Beastkin cracked down more viciously, Catithryn’s uncanny immortality became the focal point of a rebellion, and the land itself played silent witness to the blood spilled in its fields. At night, slaves gathered in hidden gullies or half-dug crypts, forging alliances and planning escape routes. Every corner of the moors and farmland began telling tales of desperate courage, setting the stage for a far-reaching upheaval.
When the Beastkin discovered Catithryn’s revolts, they responded with savage reprisal, torching settlements, executing ringleaders, and terrorizing entire enclaves. Still, the dominion’s rolling topography of forest groves, stony ridges, and damp farmland gave the rebels places to hide, regroup, and ambush roving slavers. Gradually, an underground network thrived, using crypts as meeting points where no Beastkin dared to linger long. These hidden catacombs would someday grow into the sprawling Deeproot Necropoleis, but at the time, they served merely as covert refuges. When the tide began to turn, the land trembled with the echoes of new, necromantic energies, awakened by Catithryn’s repeated resurrections. That synergy fused the captives’ will to break free with the soil’s latent magical essence.
Through countless skirmishes and cunning sabotage, the slave uprising spread across every corner of these territories. Rebel cells learned to harness death itself as a tool, forging the beginnings of bone-lantern wards and spectral guardians. Plains that once bore witness to cruelty and subjugation soon watched newly united forces drive Beastkin warbands back. Families from distant bunkers joined, finding that the region’s black-soil fields and hidden crypts offered both sustenance and strategic advantage. Over time, strongholds rose where farmland met the edges of twisted forests, each tower bristling with undead watchers or spectral knights. In the end, the Beastkin receded to their own lands, no longer able to overwhelm a people whose spirits refused final rest.
Having secured independence, the nascent Dominion coalesced around Catithryn Starborn’s silent authority. Her seat in a grand mausoleum-palace crowned the land’s central plateau, a steadfast reminder of her countless rebirths. Meanwhile, returning refugees repurposed Beastkin outposts and underground bunkers into thriving towns, weaving necromancy into daily chores—powering mills, lighting streets, and maintaining farmland. Lush farmland and orchard patches expanded, aided by undead labor, ensuring no family starved in a realm shaped by grim determination. Scholars, newly free to experiment, delved deeper into crypt-labyrinths, discovering relics that shed further light on how to unify living and dead energies. Gradually, roads linked each settlement to a central capital brimming with crypt shrines and a subdued marketplace where ghostlights flickered at twilight.
In those next centuries, ward networks solidified, forging an invisible shield over farmland and forest alike. Monthly vigils and festivals honored the fallen, encouraging families to open crypts and speak with ancestors. Entire generations grew up acknowledging the hush of necromantic synergy as part of everyday life—an echo in the wind that swept the moors and ascended the stony passes. Age-old bunkers still dotted the edges, but many were emptied or claimed for expansions of the subterranean necropoleis. With each new shrine or watchtower, the Dominion’s borders settled into a recognizable shape: fertile inland plains, spectral-tinged forests, and mountainous ridges bounding the horizon. Slowly, outsiders learned that no invading army could easily take a land protected by the living and the restless dead standing side by side.
However, not all threats arrived in open combat. Internal rifts emerged over necromancy’s ethical boundaries; some enclaves questioned the relentless use of undead labor, while others called for stricter control of crypt expansions. Splinter sects formed in remote valleys, denouncing undead guardians as an affront to natural order, testing the Dominion’s commitment to tolerance. Harsh winters on the mountainous outskirts also pressured the people, forcing them to adapt further through cunning agriculture and well-maintained wards. Despite occasional friction, a collective memory of Beastkin oppression kept them united against external foes, forging uneasy but enduring unity. The Ebony Round leadership, comprising necromancers, knights, and crypt-lantern artisans, guided the realm through these ideological squalls, ensuring no rift fractured the fragile peace.
Over time, trade routes sprouted along the kingdom’s perimeter, prompting cautious connections with neighboring powers. Timber, bonecraft relics, and ward-lantern technology became the Dominion’s export treasures. Foreign merchants traveled carefully, mindful of the necromantic hush saturating the farmland and forest, but drawn by the land’s unique goods and unwavering martial discipline. Tensions arose when zealot groups attempted to “cleanse” the region of undead influence, only to confront unbreakable lines of spectral knights. Diplomacy flourished with societies who, while uneasy about necromancy, acknowledged the Dominion’s strength and cultural sophistication. Thus, the land’s identity crystallized: a realm neither purely grim nor wholly peaceful, where death served as caretaker rather than conqueror.
In the modern era, the domain stands proudly under an elected monarchy that rotates every seventeen years and seventeen days, a nod to the cyclical interplay of life and death. Granite fortresses anchor the heartland, each enthroning carved effigies of prior rulers who guided expansions or quelled invasions. Marshlands near the southern frontier remain watchful outposts where rangers scout for Beastkin resurgence. Meanwhile, the Ebony Round convenes in a grand mausoleum-hall, lit by bone sconces, to arbitrate disputes, plan expansions of farmland, and uphold the vow that future generations never taste the chains of slavery again. Farmers, blacksmiths, necromancers, and knights continue to refine the synergy binding them to crypt-bound ancestors. Throughout every harvest, crypt vigil, and festival, the hush of necromancy unites them, forging a society that stands vigilant against complacency.
Today, travelers find a land shaped by centuries of tenacious survival, rich farmland thriving under gloom, watchtowers perched on shadowed ridges, and towns where bone-lanterns glow at twilight. Each settlement hums with purposeful quiet, from the hush that greets newborns upon midnight baptisms to the silent throngs who gather at the capital to honor Catithryn’s continuing, wordless guard. Though the kingdom’s necromantic aura may unsettle outsiders, it remains the lifeblood that transformed once-enslaved humans into an unbreakable Dominion. Every path, crypt-lantern, and citadel stands testament to the forging of a world where neither death nor invasion can quell a people bound by old scars, new hope, and an enduring vow to remain forever vigilant.
Tourism
Travelers who venture into the Thanorthic Dominion as tourists typically arrive with a blend of curiosity and caution, drawn by rumors of a land where life and death intermingle beneath looming skies. Though the realm’s doors do not fling wide for all outsiders, determined scholars, spiritual pilgrims, and trade emissaries sometimes pass through its guarded borders, each bearing the correct permits or a letter of favor from the Ebony Round. Those who arrive unannounced often find themselves facing stern questions at watchtowers or city gates, where knights assess if the newcomers pose any threat. For the few who clear this scrutiny, a realm of half-lit crypt passages, ghost-lit festivals, and old-world architecture awaits—fascinating, if at times uneasy.
Foremost among those who come specifically to visit are arcane researchers, some hailing from quiet enclaves or distant academies. They aim to observe the Dominion’s necromantic synergy firsthand, scribbling notes on how bone-lantern wards illuminate even the darkest streets. Others are historians and genealogists who believe the Dominion’s crypt records could hold ancestral secrets lost to time. Gaining access to these vaults, however, requires official sanction from local necromancers, who only occasionally oblige if the visitors display sincere respect for ancestral remains. Curiosity alone rarely sways the Ebony Round; alignment with Dominion values and proven trustworthiness weigh more heavily than gold in acquiring crypt entry.
Religious or spiritual pilgrims also trickle in, especially from societies that treat undead magic or communion with spirits as permissible, if not sacred. Such pilgrims yearn to witness the Dominion’s famed Midnight Vigils or even attend the semi-annual Bone Lantern Festivals. Wide-eyed, they gather at crypt entrances at dusk, eager to experience the hushed processions of robed acolytes carrying flickering bone lanterns. Though local watchers remain wary—mindful of infiltration attempts—these faithful visitors are usually granted a vantage point on raised platforms or balconies. The silent communion with restless ancestors beneath the earth leaves many pilgrims with an awed reverence, one that they carry home as tales of a hauntingly beautiful place.
Unsurprisingly, there is no bustling “tourist district” as might be found in other realms. Instead, newly arrived guests lodge in small, carefully monitored inns set at the edges of major towns or near watchtowers. These establishments feature sturdy walls, reinforced windows, and subtle ward-lantern arrays to ensure both the travelers’ security and the Dominion’s privacy. Proprietors run modest businesses, offering simple meals of Ty and stewed Bril, plus a small corner in the main hall for visitors to rest. Unlike the free-for-all hospitality of some kingdoms, these inns require visitors to abide by a strict curfew: after sundown, guests are strongly encouraged to remain indoors, respecting the hush that falls across the streets.
For those allowed deeper access, select necromantic wonders are key attractions. Some want to see the forging of ghostlights in specialized workshops, where artisan-necromancers inscribe glyphs onto bone shards to create floating lanterns. Others aim to attend a Crimson Cloak training session, marveling at the synergy between disciplined knights and ethereal guardians. A select handful might even observe Jade Cloak patrols in the ancient forests, seeing how these warriors protect crypt sites among gnarled vines and half-lit groves. Despite the Dominion’s reticence, these glimpses of everyday necromantic craft enthrall those seeking glimpses of an eerie, meticulously woven culture.
The Ebony Round sponsors only limited tours into the Deeproot Necropoleis—vast labyrinths of branching tunnels older than many recorded civilizations. Approved visitors, accompanied by official guides, walk through a few upper-level alcoves, glimpsing thousands of bone compartments and softly humming wards. The temperature drops noticeably as they descend, and spectral lights flicker at the edges of vision. It’s a sobering experience for outsiders: understanding that each sealed alcove could be awakened should the Dominion require ancestral might. Participants are expected to maintain absolute decorum: no loud exclamations or intrusive demands, lest they offend the spirits or the necromancers guiding them.
Commerce-based travelers—usually from recognized trade confederations—come seeking specialized bonecraft items, necromantic ward-lanterns, or the distinctive minted coin used by the Dominion. Even these transactions unfold under watchful oversight; foreign merchants must abide by local etiquette, learning to speak softly, moving between booths in carefully delineated markets. While trade fosters some measure of trust, suspicious undercurrents remain constant. Many shopkeepers keep minimal contact with outsiders after dusk, rarely inviting them home. Despite the caution, successful deals can prove profitable on both sides, as few realms match the Dominion’s artisanal skill in bone filigree or low-level undead constructs.
While slaving is outright banned, rumors persist that unscrupulous smugglers lurk along the edges, hoping to peddle contraband relics or abduct unsuspecting travelers in remote moorland paths. The Dominion’s patrols swiftly crack down on any such criminal activity, keen to prove that they won’t allow even peripheral nods to enslaving practices. Indeed, visitors who violate local laws or openly disrespect crypt sites risk immediate expulsion or, in egregious cases, imprisonment. The specter of harsh punishments keeps most outsiders on their best behavior, reinforcing an atmosphere of subdued diligence in all public areas.
Despite—or perhaps because of—this vigilant environment, a certain type of daring adventurer specifically seeks out the Dominion’s most forbidding corners. They wander through mist-shrouded moors or request scouting passes to traverse crypt-laden forests. Some yearn to encounter faint echoes of ancient battles or rumored undead guardians roving at the perimeter. Inns and tavern corners buzz quietly with hushed tales: rumors of the Crimson Rider’s silent challenges, or ghostly apparitions along bone-littered ravines. Local rangers politely discourage reckless wanderings, reminding visitors that a single misstep could land them lost in labyrinthine catacombs or facing wrathful spirits unbound by human courtesy.
In the end, tourism within the Dominion hinges on an unusual contract of trust: outsiders must earn or request approval from watchful authorities, abiding by solemn protocols that define every facet of local life. Those who comply find themselves immersed in a culture simultaneously reverent and formidable—where midnight vigils and bone-lantern festivals shed quiet warmth amid an austere gloom. By day, they see farmland tended by villagers who never forget the hush of ancestral eyes upon them. By night, crypt entrances softly glow, as if welcoming them to glimpse a realm bridging mortal breath and spectral watch. For the earnest traveler, these experiences transcend mere sightseeing, turning a brief sojourn into an unforgettable communion with a land whose lifeblood—and tourist appeal—lies in the bond between living and dead.
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