Gespaltener is not merely the tallest peak in Hesa—it is a wound in the world, a monument to the first gods and the war that birthed the land. Its twin spires rise like broken teeth from the Stahlbrandter range, cleft by what legend calls the Scream of the Sky, when the gods split the mountains with their blades and burned the oceans to smoke. The stars, say the old priests, are the sparks of their dying breath—and Gespaltener is where that breath still lingers.
No road climbs it fully. No map marks its heart. Within its frozen ribs lies the @Tomb of Barbarossan, and @The Deepworks mines of @Kharburg from the @Ismark side of @Gespaltener. Gespaltener is sacred, perilous, and alive. It is the battlefield that forgot its war—but remembers its dead.
(References @Barbarossan, the Warden of Frost , and @Tomb of Barbarossan )
Within the mountain of @Gespaltener lies a ruin shrouded in snow and silence: the @Tomb of Barbarossan, once a sanctum of ancient reverence, now a place of myth and dread. Legend holds that @Barbarossan, the Warden of Frost was a warlord of the ancient days of pre-imperial Hesa, crowned not by lineage but by conquest. He unified the fractured highland clans and forged the first mountain accords, pledging Hesan steel to the first gods who carved order from chaos. Upon his death, he was entombed in a vault carved into the mountain itself, sealed with rites so old they predate the current imperial calendar.
The tomb is said to be unreachable in summer, as the mountain storms guard it jealously. Only in the thinning breath of winter can one ascend the narrow Mountain Approach that lead to its Broken Archway. The entrance is a broken arch of black stone, half-swallowed by ice, with the sigil of Hesa etched above: a sword entwined with a serpent. Inside, the air is still and bitter. The first chamber is a Rotunda of Murals of cracked pillars and faded murals depicting Barbarossan's campaigns—his pact with the sky-priests, his duel atop the burning ridge, his final march into the frost.
Deeper within lies the Hall of Vigil, where stone sentinels stand in eternal watch. It is said that Barbarossan sleeps beneath a slab of red granite in the Sanctum of the Warden, his beard still growing, his sword still warm. Some claim he will rise when Hesa is threatened by a foe no steel can pierce. Others say he stirs already.
Barbarossan was no heir—he was a conqueror. In the age before the imperial calendar, he rose from the highland clans of Hesa, uniting them not by blood but by blade. His campaigns were brutal, but his vision was clear: a mountain accord, sealed by steel and sky. He pledged his warband to the gods that carved chaos into order, and in return, the regents gave him a tomb worthy of legend.
Some say he sleeps still, waiting for a threat no steel can pierce. Others whisper that he stirs already—that the Accord is broken, and the Warden must rise.
Before its conquest by the newly unified Hesan Empire some 240 years ago during the reign of Emperor Sigmar I, the southeastern realm was known as the coastal Kingdom of Varnhessa, of stone citadels, salt winds, and mountain rites. Its people spoke a clipped, consonant-heavy tongue and traced their lineage to the Frostbound Kings, who claimed descent from sea spirits and mountain wolves. Its culture prized endurance, ancestral memory, and the sacred bond between land and blood. Though its armies were small, they were fiercely loyal and deeply superstitious, fighting with curved blades and bone-carved talismans. The kingdom fell not through weakness, but through isolation—its mountain passes sealed by snow, its coastal fleets outmatched by imperial steel.
Today, @Varnhessa is part of the Hesan Empire, and its people speak Hesan, wear imperial colors, and serve under noble houses appointed by the throne. Yet the old ways linger. Visitors note the stone masks worn during funerals, the salt-braided hair of coastal elders, and the moonlit vigils held on the equinox. Hesanized Varnesse houses, rumored to have betrayed its former king, that now rule Varnessa—Haus Drovanskir and Haus Velmira—have adopted the trappings of Hesan nobility, but their banners still bear symbols older than the empire: the wolf’s eye, the spiral tide, the broken crown.
The land of Varnessa is a realm of stark contrasts and quiet resilience. Its northwestern border rises into the mountains, whose snow-fed rivers carve deep valleys and mist-laced gorges before spilling into the lowlands. From there, the terrain softens into rolling pinewood hills, salt-streaked cliffs, and windblown coastal plains that stretch toward the stormy southern sea. Villages cling to the land like moss to stone—built from dark timber and riverstone, their roofs steep and shingled to shed snow and sea spray alike. Narrow roads wind between them, often flanked by standing stones or carved waymarkers bearing symbols older than the empire. In the highlands, settlements are sparse and fortified, with watchtowers that double as shrines. Along the coast, fishing hamlets cluster around natural harbors, their docks lashed with kelp and prayer-ribbons. Though imperial roads now cross the region, the villages of Varnessa still feel carved from an older world—weathered, watchful, and quietly enduring.
@Ismark, once a sovereign dwarven territory called the Kingdom of Khazdural nestled in the eastern reaches of the @Gespaltener, was captured by the Hesan Empire approximately 150 years ago. The annexation marked a turning point in imperial expansion, as Hesa gained access not only to strategic territory, but to the deep mineral wealth and ancestral expertise of the native Khazdural dwarves.
Alendria, once the cradle of civilization, fell not to siege but to neglect. Its capital, Sphaira, still gleams faintly with domes and marble colonnades, but the grandeur is hollow. King Theodor the Dreamer ruled with verse and vision, hosting salons of poets and philosophers while his walls crumbled and his armies dwindled. When the Hesan Empire advanced, Alendria’s defenses proved ceremonial at best—its soldiers untrained, its navy ineffective, its spirit softened by centuries of indulgence. The empire’s campaign was swift and overwhelming, a conquest achieved more by walking through open gates than by battle.
Theodor and House Landon were executed in Konigsheim under the principle of Erbbruchrecht, the “right of rupture,” their lineage declared broken by failure. Yet Princess Elara vanished before the surrender, her absence haunting the occupation. Imperial investigators suspect she was spirited away by Sir Alaric Rochefort, and men under Rochefort and Falkenhayn banners now scour the western frontiers for her. The Emperor demands certainty—no rumor, no ambiguity.
Though Alendria is militarily secured, its people remain restless. Philosophers spar with Hesan officials in the streets, songs of different type of creation story echo when soldiers turn their backs, and refugees abroad weave resistance through the Harmonic Thread. The empire holds Alendria’s stones, but its spirit resists, whispering of a civilization that refuses to be silenced.