North West of Albion’s shores lies Bethmuir, a mist-veiled island where sea and sky mingle. Its coasts are sheer cliffs, its forests deep and endless, and its mountains rise like jagged crowns over the sea. Sailors say that no compass points true near Bethmuir — only those welcomed by its spirits can find safe harbor.
Bethmuir is steeped in fae magic. The Seelie Court dwells in its glades and glens — lords and ladies of light, beauty, and beguilement. They weave enchantments into the very land:
Forests shift to hide their halls.
Animals speak in riddles.
Rivers laugh and mourn.
The Seelie of Bethmuir are not wholly kind, but they prize beauty, honor, and hospitality. A mortal guest may find wonders beyond imagining — or be bound in a bargain that lasts a lifetime.
Sharing the island are the Norsci, seafaring clans with blood said to mingle with wolf and bear. Called shifters for their gift of assuming beast-forms, they are fierce warriors and hunters. Their longships raid the southern shores in summer, but in winter they retreat to mead-halls carved into mountainsides, where they sing sagas of gods and heroes.
The Norsci value strength, loyalty, and oaths above all.
Their shamans claim kinship with the Seelie, swearing that their shifting gift was granted by fae queens of old.
To foes, they are wolves in men’s skins; to allies, they are unbreakable shields.
Bethmuir is a place of tense harmony.
The Seelie Fae see themselves as stewards of the island’s magic.
The Norsci Shifters see themselves as its rightful children, born of sea and storm.
Sometimes they war, sometimes they feast together. Outsiders rarely know which mood they’ll find.
Bethmuir’s mountains hide ancient cairns where stars align with stone, its forests are said to house paths to Avalon itself, and its seas teem with selkies, nixies, and great serpent-dragons. Few lands hold so much living magic. Few lands are as dangerous to tread without invitation.