The Varnhollow Peaks

Stone, Web, and Ley

The Varnhollow Peaks form the darkest spine of Maer’thalas Ridge. Cliffs rise in sharp steps. Ridges run like teeth. Soil is thin, and only lichen and low brush hold to the faces. Old seams of green crystal break the stone and mark the strain of ley-lines below. When storms build across the ridge, the Peaks often take the first blow. Snow can fall at midsummer on the upper shelves. At night, the wind drops and the air goes still, as if the cliffs themselves are holding breath. Webs hang in sheets and ropes across defiles, catching mist and grit. In the morning, they sag with dew and dust. The web is not random. The spiders keep their lines tight, and new spans appear after every rockslide.

Caverns honeycomb the Peaks. Some are shallow vents made by thaw and ice. Others run deep at strange angles. The Wardens of Rootwatch have mapped only the mouths nearest to Naath, and they mark them with stone rings and cut signs: safe for one hour, safe for two, no fire, no sound, no rope. A few caves exhale a cold breath that smells like old shells and oil. Those lead down into ancient tunnels carved by spells that no one in Naath admits to knowing. The Lorekeepers send small study teams in spring when the slopes are firm. They test the seams, lift samples, and come home before storm season. A team that stays past nightfall risks more than loose rock. Spiders move by vibration, and the Peaks carry sound farther than a voice. A single strike of a hammer can reach a lair two shelves away.

The Peaks border two hard neighbors. To the west lies open chasm country where the wind has no floor to hit. To the south, the Bronthok Reaches push up with red stone and hot springs. The Redfang orcs patrol those highlands and rarely cross into Varnhollow unless the hunt drives them there or the Skeliri pull them with hidden terms. The Wardens try to keep the border clean: cairns rebuilt, warning poles upright, snags of web burned at the edges so goats and lowland herders do not stumble into a silk line that cuts harness and hand in a blink. The Naath Council funds the work and posts the boards, but the Council’s writ runs thin above the tree line. Up here, custom and speed decide more than law.

The Skeliri and Their Rule

The Skeliri dwell in the chasms and cliff hollows of Varnhollow. Their skin has a rose cast, their eyes are glossy and dark, and their hair is worn in braided cords to anchor scent-knots and silk charms. They live by a hard creed: silence, control, obedience. They say little to outsiders. They give no warnings twice. They do not treat with Naath in open court. When they bargain, it is by sign on a ledge at set times, or by a token sealed in silk left at a marked hook. Even then, the price is never simple. A tool returned must be paid for with a debt of service. A passage bought must be walked without a word. They believe spiders are kin and patrons. They train with them, ride them, and feed them before they feed their own grunts. Their priests, called Fang-Priests, speak through venom rites and web-sign. Their spellwrights, the Arachnomancers, layer silk with glyphs until it behaves like glass, rope, and memory at once.

Most Skeliri do not leave the chasms. Those who do are hunters, scouts, or enforcers. The Silkbound Ascendants are the worst of these. Their bodies have been cut, fused, and trained to move like spiders. They climb on palms and toes, cross under ledges without a slip, and fight in silence. They take captives alive when they can, dead when they must, and they waste nothing. The Skeliri hold courts that do not use voices. Judgments are made with signs and blows. Punishments range from silk fasting to the Coilglass Cells, where a captive hangs in a clear cocoon and sees their failures fed back into their mind until it breaks. The Skeliri keep records that outsiders never read. They remember insults for generations, and they do not forgive lightly.

They are not simple hermits. They run a city inside the mountain called Vel’Zherineth. It coils around a deep fissure and hangs by silk anchors and carved plates. Bridges glow faintly with oiled threads and ward-knots. Temples cling to the walls like cocoons hardened by heat. Markets trade in venom, spare silk, chitin tools, and dull stones that hum when touched by ley strain. The Spiralthrone Sanctum sits at the center. From there, the current Arachnomancer sets law through the priesthood. Every strand of work in the city ties back to that core. Broodvaults handle the eggs and hatchlings. The Gutterhold Warrens pack the grunts into tight bunks. The Fangshear Coil trains the Ascendants. Above and below, prisons hang in the dark like lanterns gone cold. To live in Vel’Zherineth is to live inside a plan that leaves no slack. To visit is to accept that the city reads you as prey until proven otherwise.

The Skeliri claim to guard old tunnels and seal things that should not wake. They use this claim when it suits them. They close passes, take tribute, and demand that Naath keep workers and study teams away from certain slopes. When a threat rises—ley surges, tunnel sighs, strange tremors—they deal with it first and speak of it later, if at all. The Wardens hate this but accept the fact that the Skeliri move faster on their own stone. The Naath Council keeps a narrow accord: no raids on Verdwood herds, no night hunts below the tree line, no silk traps within sight of marked shrines. The Skeliri have broken each term at least once. Each time, they paid a price that they chose, not one set for them. This is how they work: always as far as others will allow, never a step further than they judge safe for themselves.

Roads, Hunts, and the Work of Survival

Only three routes are used by people who want to come back with all their limbs. Glimvale Teeth is a ring of spires at the western edge of the Peaks. Silk lines run between them and look weak until a body hits. The lines hold wagons. They hold trolls. They hold anything not cut with fire first. Silkbound hunts patrol there. If a caravan gets through, it is because a contract was paid or a mistake was made. Skathrow Spine is a ridge-track no wider than two paces. Webs stretch across the drops. Spiders nest above and wait for tremors. The Wardens marked it as closed five seasons ago, and that mark has not changed. Needletrem Ravine is a slit through the stone where sound dies. A phase spider lives there and strings its web across cracks that do not always exist in the same place twice. The Lorekeepers teach a simple law for the Ravine: no singing lines, no iron chains, no steel nails. Threads of silk tied to wood shake less and save lives.

The Seekers take contracts into the Peaks when there is no other choice. Missing guides. Lost carts. Wandering giants pulled too far south. Goblin nests that must be burned before winter. The Seekers post for oil that does not smoke, for hooks that lie flat, for lines tied in pairs, for veils to keep silk threads off the face. They keep to the low routes where they can and leave chalk signs that weather quickly. After a run, the survivors file reports at Ezra’s Tavern and the Cloister. Those reports decide if a path on the boards is open, risky, or closed. The Merchant Guild reads the same boards. They tie permits to those marks. A “risky” mark raises the toll. A “closed” mark cancels charters and frees bonds without fines. Traders complain, but most still live to complain again.

Hunts in the Peaks demand a different craft. Noise kills. Light kills. Loose rope kills. Spears and short bows work in tight places, but they must pierce chitin at the joints, not the plates. Fire must be hot and brief. Smoke brings a swarm, and a swarm is the end of the hunt. The Wardens drill this into hillfolk every autumn. If a spider takes someone, do not chase. Mark the trail with cut sticks and retreat in pairs. If a web blocks a retreat, cut low and back, never up. If a body is wrapped and lifted, the rule is cold: do not cut them down unless the silk is still wet. Dry silk means the priesthood has laid claim. To steal a claimed bundle brings war. This law is not written in Naath’s courts, but it is enforced by Fang-Priests who do not parley more than once.

Seasons shape the risk. Spring loosens the shelves. The spiders mend lines. Rockfalls trigger web repairs that change where a person can step. Summer brings heat to the green seams. Ley strain rises. The Cloister posts red glyphs on the boards and warns against spellwork above cracked crystal beds. Autumn is the crossing season. Traders push their luck. Skeliri patrols grow thick to catch them or to charge for care. Winter locks the Peaks down. Avalanches tear silk and seal mouths. Goblins breed in warm cracks and spill out hungry. The Wardens run light raids to burn nests near the low shrines. The Skeliri ignore goblins unless they foul tunnels or poison webs. When the thaw comes, bones and rusted iron show in drifts, and the count begins again.