The Blight Moors

The Blight Moors stretch endlessly, a marshland of decay and fog, where the earth itself seems to resist life. Pools of stagnant water glimmer dimly, reflecting twisted trees whose roots writhe like serpents across the surface of the bog. Mist rises constantly from the ground, thick and clinging, distorting perception and muffling sound. The land is sickly, reeking of rot and stagnant waters, with the occasional skeletal remains of travelers or beasts half-submerged in the mud.

Once a fertile region, the Moors fell to a slow, creeping corruption, the cause of which is long forgotten. Some say the land drank the blood of countless battles, and that the spirits of the dead still wander, whispering to the living. Travelers speak of phantoms flickering in the mist, and of disembodied cries carried on the wind. Paths through the Moors are treacherous, often disappearing beneath soft, sucking mud, leaving the unwary stranded or lost for days.

Settlements are rare, and only the most resilient survive here. Isolated huts dot the land, inhabited by hermits, witches, or desperate souls eking out existence. These dwellers rely on ancient knowledge of the Moors to avoid quicksand, navigate fog-choked paths, and defend against the land’s restless dead. Fires are constant, meant to repel unseen threats, but they barely cut through the pervasive damp and gloom.

The Blight Moors are a place of endurance, where time seems to stretch endlessly, and where every step carries the risk of being swallowed by mud, mist, or the whispers of the dead. It is a land that tests both body and mind, a liminal space between life and decay.