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 | (-2152, 6283) |
A series of meticulously maintained, subterranean "gardens" where the Darakhul cultivate their grim harvest. The "soil" here is not dirt, but a fine, powdery mix of bone dust and pulverized flesh. It is a place of consumption and morbid knowledge, where the Darakhul tend to their crops with a reverence that borders on the obscene. Here, Grave-Lichen grows on the skulls of the dead, its purpose is to harvest the lichen to absorb the memories of the deceased and to add them to their living archive of dangerous truths. In the largest, most fertile pits, Wight-Wheat grows, its black stalks drawing sustenance directly from the dead. The work here is a solitary and grim affair: a task might be to meticulously tend to a single patch of wight-wheat, ensuring it is fertilized with a specific amount of fresh meat and bone, or to carefully scrape a specific amount of Grave-Lichen from a skull for a Darakhul priest.
The gardens are dimly lit by eerie bioluminescent fungi, with patches of black stalks of Wight-Wheat swaying gently. Skulls encrusted with pale green Grave-Lichen are scattered throughout, embedded in the powdery bone dust soil. The air is heavy with the scent of decay and the faint whisper of absorbed memories.