The Riven Lands are a fractured realm born from a magical event, The Sundering which violently pulled people from countless realities into a bleeding scar across existence. Magic here is a vile, twisting curse, its power warping flesh and mind. Its inhabitants, xenophobic and without loyalty, cling to life amidst decaying lands, endless wars, and horrifying Gods that everyone worships in some form. Hope is a lie; only brutal struggle remains in this world drowned in cynicism and sheer cruelty.
| Played | 8 times |
| Cloned | 3 times |
| Created | 2 days ago |
| Last Updated | Yesterday |
| Visibility | Public |
| Size | 0 |
| Type | Continent |
This jagged scar upon churning seas is cleaved by the Iron-Fell Peaks—colossal, splintered rock perpetually cloaked in gloom, its face scarred by forgotten cataclysms. Their craggy slopes pierce the sullen, smoke-choked sky, riddled with lightless caves where ghouls feast and desperation breeds horrors. Below, choked, lightless forests sprawl, skeletal branches reaching into mist where the desperate hide. Vegetation clings like starved moss to dead rock. Twisted rivers, dark as spilled blood, carve venomous paths through desolate plains, draining into the perpetually grey, iron-tasting sea. Small, blighted outposts of crumbling stone, these island shards guard its fringes—conduits of the land's deep corruption, where dark rites for grim survival defy howling storms. Ruined watchtowers stand as skeletal sentinels; every shadow holds a whisper of ancient evils, and the very ground feels cursed, soaked in forgotten, human despair.
The Bleak-Shale Straits loom, a jagged scar beneath a sullen, smoke-choked sky. Iron-Fell Peaks, colossal and splintered, pierce the clouds, riddled with lightless caves. Below, choked forests of skeletal branches claw at perpetual mist. Twisted rivers like black veins bleed into a grey, iron-tasting sea. Small, crumbling island outposts and ruined watchtowers cling to blighted shores, remnants of a cursed, despair-soaked land.