The Darrowden Hills

'Step upon the path, and pray. To what, it doesn't matter. If the mists set their sights on you, you'll know. Take this dagger and drive it in your heart. To spare you the horror of their embrace.' - Nameless Darrowden Tracker

Written by Yerran

To cross the spine of Lenwir is no easy feat, with seas of steam and mountains of fire in the south and frigid blizzards and mountain passes in the north. The sensible path on any map leads through the lowlands connecting the two, where gentle hills and forest paths avoid the violent dangers of the others, The Darrowden Hills. Many have made this mistake in the past and many will make it again. No map shows the dangers that lurk in the mists, but they are a conduit for broken magic that flows through the cracks in the veil. Any living being caught within its path is consumed. Drained husks of trees and plants are left in their wake but never has a creature been recovered after the mists pass. Whatever happens, they are lost to this world forever. No place in Lenwir is safe, this is true, but anywhere is safer than Darrowden.

A Tumultuous Region

Following The Splintering the Darrowdens Hills became a reflection of the worlds that had breached the veil. Propelled by an insidious magical force at odds with the fabric of reality it continues to cause fragmentation and further splintering. The omnipresent mist acts as a conduit for the magic devastating the region, creating magically charged natural disasters that sweep at random over the region and spread further each year. It is difficult for most to differentiate the natural mists of the region from the magical until it's too late for them to flee. These mists slither and cling to all they touch, creeping along the moss-covered ground and up the trees, swallowing the life of all they pass over, leaving nought but husks of trees, plants and animals in their wake. They move and strike with no warning or way to divine and each year spread further afield, swallowing villages and settlements upon the edges of the Darrowden Hills. A more deadly phenomenon does not exist upon Venya, and many consider the death by far worse than to meet your end within the scalding waters of the Boiling Sea or the volcanic fires of the Flametip Mountains

Myths of The Harbinger have spread in the region of late. A being that comes before the mists, chanting the names of stolen souls and settlements. A tallyman of the mists, or a warning no one knows, but some are thankful these deadly mists now have a warning of sorts. Even if it usually comes too late.

The Myth of The Darrow

All who have passed through the Darrowden Hills, and live, tell of tiny dwellings of stone built along the forest paths, some leading you through, while others lead you to cities of tiny stacked houses, straddling trees, open doors and windows staring out. These are the dens of the darrow and tales tell they are spirits of life and death. Ones that spell doom for any that cross their path. Most would flee on sight of them or their cities, though some that escaped tried to return. Those who lived to return spread tales of fairy-like creatures with bodies shifting like luminous mist flitting between the houses deep within the cities, their musical chatter and warmth drawing them further in. Though none that entered returned.

Ancient texts tell the forest once existed free of the darrow, though they were drawn here in great numbers years before the Splintering. Whether attracted by the fated doom, or a cause of what would come, no one knows.

Type

Forested Hills

Another Tale of Venya

Learn more about the world, its history and the factions here.

The Harbinger 

It begins with a whisper, like a note on the breeze, hidden within the rustling of leaves. Growing to a murmur, like water babbling upon the stones of a hill stream. If you have yet to turn and run, then that time is already past. For next come the words of the Harbinger. Slipping through the boles of mist-shrouded trees, crisp as mountain air and just as chilled. So smooth you stop in your tracks. They draw you in like the call of a mythical creature. Names, familiar and unfamiliar alike. A list of souls stolen by Auturi. You wait for yours to touch your ear, and from the mist, he appears. The shambling shape of a man, armour-clad and aged, his gate odd and decrepit. A broken bearing, for a broken being. But feel no sorrow as his legs buckle and twist. It is the weight of souls that draws him down, and he that refused to fall and lie. Should he do just that, you may survive, but he walks on, and you cannot. Your legs do not move and your heart freezes. As he passes your mouth opens to scream, only for you to choke. For what he brings cannot be seen, and what he pulls cannot be fought. But your breath is stolen and darkness falls. Until at last it's uttered and rings in your ears. Your name, upon his list. Beware, beware the Harbinger.