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 | (-2734, 9011) |
A noisy, soot-stained hall where the powerful human mining guilds hand out work. The air smells of coal, despair, and the sharp, metallic tang of hot metal beneath a perpetually smog-choked sky. Desperate thralls are sold and brutal contracts are haggled over, often with blood as the final seal. The ceaseless clang of hammers from the depths below is the city's mournful heartbeat, a constant reminder of the lives ground down for iron. Work is dangerous and dirty, focused on maintaining Ironfast's grinding productivity. Adventurers can expect to be tasked with exterminating abyssal horrors awakened by ceaseless digging in the sunless mines, their sanity tested by the horrors of the deep earth. Other tasks include quelling violent worker rebellions before they can spread, or navigating collapsed mine shafts to retrieve lost equipment and the mangled bodies of the dead, their faces still contorted in silent screams. This is a place where souls are forged into despair, a currency as valuab
The hall is grimy and dimly lit, with soot-streaked walls and iron fixtures. Crowds of rough miners and guild representatives shout over each other, while the distant echo of hammering reverberates like a mournful heartbeat. Stalls and booths display crude tools, contracts, and shackled thralls awaiting sale or assignment.