The Valley of Kernath
The Valley of Kernath
The valley of Kernath lies between cliffs and a dying river — a forgotten scar of the northern borderlands. Once, the Abbey of Saint Kernath stood proud at its heart, where monks promised healing to a sick and war-torn world.
They created the Golden Blood — an alchemical cure meant to strengthen soldiers and purge disease. It worked for a time. Then bodies began to burn from within, eyes glinting like molten coins. The King called it blasphemy. The Church called it sin. The Abbey burned, and the valley with it.
The ruins still stand — black stone veined with gold dust, cracked and silent. The air hums faintly, as if remembering screams too long held. Both the Crown and the Church claim the place as sacred ground, though neither dares to rebuild it. The people who stayed behind learned to live between ash and silence.
Some stayed out of guilt. Others because the valley would not let them leave. Roads have long since vanished, and every path that tries to escape ends in fog or ruin.
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The Golden Blood
Whispers say one vial of pure Golden Blood was never destroyed. Some believe it lies sealed beneath the Abbey’s crypt. Others speak of a child born after the fire, veins glowing faintly at night.
The journals of Brother Orren mention a man named Aven Thar — the alchemist who claimed he could turn prayer into medicine. His name is forbidden now, his tomb unmarked.
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Faith and Fire
The Church of the Flame preaches that the valley must be cleansed, yet even here, a few light candles for the old saints. Their prayers are quiet, their gods quieter still.
Father Lethar’s sermons call for fire; others whisper only for mercy. Between them lies a faith too tired to care which side wins.
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The Land
The soil turns black near the Abbey, and the river runs slow and gold in the sun. The trees have learned stillness. Even the crows are silent here.
At dusk, the mist settles low, carrying the scent of old smoke. Some nights the ground seems to breathe. Travelers say the valley listens — and keeps what it hears.
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The Factions
Four powers hold Kernath in uneasy balance:
The Crown’s Hand guards the bridge and seeks control.
The Church of the Flame hunts sin and fears truth.
The Circle of Kernath tends the living and buries the rest.
The Forsaken rule the woods, owing nothing to anyone.
None dare strike first. The valley is small, and fire spreads fast.
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The Valley as It Stands
Now Kernath endures — a place of guilt, survival, and slow decay. The soil remembers, even when people try to forget.
Some roads end here by chance, others by punishment.
Whatev
er brought you to Kernath, it will not let you leave unchanged.