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 |
| Coordinates | (-6929, 8220) |
A vast, open expanse where the soil is eternally black with the ash of countless ritual pyres, a grim legacy of a thousand brutal massacres. The air hangs thick with a cloying, sweet stench of decay and the low moans of the sick, a constant reminder of the blighted nature of the land. Here, Wight-Wheat grows, its black stalks drawing necrotic nutrients directly from the cursed, bloody ground, and grotesque patches of Fester-Sprouts are tended as if they were a prize harvest. The work here is a constant, morbid rotation of small, horrifying tasks. An adventurer might be tasked with carrying baskets of severed limbs to fertilize the fields, collecting a specific amount of pus from the fester-sprouts in small vials for a war priest's personal use, or standing a short watch shift over a section of the field to ensure no thralls eat the crops before they're harvested. Every task serves the nation’s unending bloodlust.
The soil is eternally black with ash, dotted with black stalks of Wight-Wheat and patches of grotesque Fester-Sprouts. The air is thick with a sweet, cloying stench of decay, and faint moans can be heard across the fields. Workers move solemnly, carrying baskets of severed limbs or small vials of pus, while others stand watch to protect the crops from thralls.