The County of Hark lies along a bleak stretch of the Arethian coastline, where dense woodland presses against slate-gray seas. It is a small holding by imperial standards, yet once it was prosperous beyond its modest borders. The towering pines and ironbark oaks of the Harkwood provided timber prized across the empire—straight-grained, resin-rich, and resistant to rot. Shipwrights, coopers, and bowyers spoke the county’s name with respect.
Two islands sit off its coast: Hark and Harkless. Once dotted with watchfires and small fishing settlements, they served as early-warning outposts and timber staging grounds. Now they stand barren and lawless, black silhouettes on the horizon.
The land itself is heavy with mist and salt. Moss clings to roots and stone alike. Narrow roads wind through forest corridors where light filters in pale shafts. Even at midday, the canopy dims the world to a muted green gloom. It is a county that feels perpetually overcast, even beneath clear skies. Trade still flows—but thinner than before. Caravans arrive cautiously. Ships anchor briefly. Conversations lower when unfamiliar ears approach. Hark endures, but it no longer thrives.
Harkwood’s dense forests provide cover not only for lumber operations but for smugglers and clandestine meetings. Timber shipments are occasionally diverted. Records vanish. Certain logging routes are suspiciously under-patrolled. Greymast’s officials enforce law unevenly. Some merchants enjoy inexplicable protection. Others find their ventures disrupted without cause. The Outfit’s influence is subtle but pervasive. Debts are called in quietly. Threats are delivered indirectly. The county’s economy limps forward, stabilized just enough to prevent open revolt. Hark has not fallen into chaos, It has fallen into compromise.
The County of Hark remains technically loyal to the Arethian Crown. Taxes are paid. Oaths are upheld. Timber still flows southward. But beneath the surface lies strain, should the Count’s secret be exposed, the political consequences would ripple beyond the county’s borders. Should the pirates grow bolder, Greymast may face open conflict. Should the hostage be freed, Harkwood Keep might once again light its watchfires in defiance. For now, the sea remains gray. The forests remain dense. The islands remain occupied, and from the battlements of Harkwood Keep, the Count of Hark watches the horizon—measuring the cost of patience against the price of action.
Greymast, the county’s only true town, stands upon a narrow peninsula of dark rock that juts into the sea. It is both shielded and exposed: protected on three sides by water, yet vulnerable to whatever sails upon it.
Weather-beaten timber houses cluster along sloping cobbled streets. Roofs are steep and shingled in dark wood to repel coastal rain. Salt stains the lower stonework of nearly every building. The harbor is deep and naturally defensible, once bustling with timber barges and merchant vessels. Now it sees fewer sails, and more of them fly unfamiliar colors.
Greymast’s docks creak constantly under wind and tide. Fishermen still cast their nets, though catches have grown unpredictable. Whispers circulate that pirates operating from Hark and Harkless demand quiet tribute from certain merchants in exchange for safe passage. The town has the feel of a place holding its breath.
Markets operate as usual, yet coin changes hands carefully. Tavern talk is loud but guarded. The presence of unfamiliar sailors rarely prompts questions. Everyone knows something is wrong. Few dare to say it plainly. At dusk, when the fog rolls in from the sea, Greymast seems to dissolve into gray silence.
Overlooking Greymast from a rocky rise stands Harkwood Keep, the seat of House Marrowind. Squat and practical, it is more fortress than palace. Thick stone walls are reinforced with heavy timber palisades and tarred barricades—defensive measures born of older wars. From its battlements, the pirate-held islands are clearly visible on a clear day. That sight has become a daily humiliation.
Harkwood Keep was built to repel invaders, yet no banners of reclamation fly from its towers. Ballistae remain mounted but seldom maintained. Watchfires are lit more from habit than urgency. Within its walls, maps of the coastline remain marked with careful notes and sightings. The Count continues to hold court. Orders are issued. Taxes are collected. Patrols are sent along forest roads.
The keep’s halls echo with restraint. Servants speak softly. Guards avoid prolonged eye contact. The atmosphere is one of quiet endurance rather than command. It is not weakness of stone that grips Harkwood Keep—it is weakness of circumstance.
Once vital extensions of the county’s authority, the islands now serve as pirate havens. Watchtowers that once flew Marrowind colors now burn unfamiliar signal fires. Timber storehouses have been repurposed into smuggler depots. Ships vanish near their shores. Certain merchant captains avoid them entirely; others pass without incident.
The County’s official stance is that reclamation requires imperial support and careful timing. Unofficially, most believe something far more personal prevents action. The islands loom constantly in sight—a reminder that Hark’s power ends where fear begins.
On the storm-battered cliffs of Hark Isle rises Blackwake Bastion, a fortress-city carved from black stone and shipwreck timber. Once a modest Marrowind watch settlement, it has been transformed into a brutal maritime stronghold—a haven for pirates, smugglers, and privateers who no longer pretend to serve crown or law.
The city crouches around a natural crescent harbor whose deep waters allow even heavy vessels to anchor close to shore. Jagged reefs and half-submerged wrecks form a lethal natural barrier, known locally as The Grave-Teeth, navigable only by those who know the hidden channels. Signal fires burn atop cliff towers day and night, their smoke coded to guide allied ships or warn of approaching patrols.
Blackwake Bastion is not anarchic chaos. It is ruled by a tight inner circle known as the Tidebound Compact, a council of pirate captains who balance ambition with survival. Leadership is earned through cunning, strength, and demonstrated profitability.
The Compact enforces three core laws:
No sabotage of the harbor.
No theft from fellow Compact captains without sanction.
No betrayal that draws overwhelming retaliation from the mainland.
Punishments are public and severe—keelhauling in the harbor channel or hanging from the Ironmast.
Despite its brutality, Blackwake thrives because it offers stability in lawlessness. Smugglers know agreements will be honored. Captains know disputes will be arbitrated. Even certain mainland merchants quietly prefer dealing with predictable criminals over unstable nobility.
Not all who live in Blackwake are hardened raiders. Shipwrights, blacksmiths, cooks, healers, and laborers form a permanent population. Many were once fishermen or settlers abandoned when House Marrowind ceased effective patrols.
Children run through narrow alleys, learning knots before letters. Markets trade in salted fish, stolen wine, enchanted trinkets, and Harkwood lumber diverted from legitimate trade routes.
At night, music and raucous laughter echo from taverns carved into cliff faces. Lantern light flickers against dark waves. Above it all, the signal fires burn steady.
House Marrowind is the ruling noble house of the County of Hark, an old coastal lineage once respected for its shipwright-lords and steadfast defense of Arethian shores. Their legacy is one of timber, tide, and endurance—but in recent decades, that legacy has frayed.
Where once they were known for naval patrols and disciplined marines, House Marrowind now governs a diminished coastline, their authority hollowed by corruption, piracy, and quiet coercion.
Outwardly, they remain loyal vassals of the Arethian Empire.
Privately, they struggle beneath invisible chains.
The Outfit—a shadowy criminal syndicate with tendrils across multiple kingdoms—holds leverage over House Marrowind. The Count’s only son has been taken and is kept somewhere beyond his reach. The price for the boy’s continued survival is inaction. No banners are raised. No fleets are assembled. The Count obeys.
House Marrowind’s retainers suspect something, but none dare accuse their lord openly. To challenge him would risk unraveling what little stability remains. The Count walks a narrow edge between appearing cautious and being revealed as compromised. Thus, the house that once embodied coastal defiance now embodies silent endurance.
House Marrowind traces its lineage back nearly three centuries to Ser Alric Marrowind, a knight in service to the early Arethian crown. During a brutal coastal war against raiders from the western sea, Alric led a decisive naval engagement off the Hark Isles, burning the enemy fleet and securing the peninsula. In reward, he was granted lordship of the region.
The house quickly grew prosperous through Timber exports, Shipbuilding contracts for the Empire, Coastal patrol levies, Trade with southern nations. For generations, the Marrowinds were considered practical, sea-hardened nobles—less concerned with courtly politics and more with tangible strength.