Everlorn
The Haunted Realm of the North
In the northern reaches of Atharea, where winter's grip never truly loosens and the mists cling to ancient stone, lies the forsaken land of Everlorn. Once a thriving realm of iron and coal, of steam and industry, it now stands as a testament to hubris and the wages of war with the dead.
The empire that ruled these lands grew drunk on progress, building railways that spanned the frozen north, factories that belched smoke into grey skies, and cities of stone and steel that defied the old ways. They forgot the ancient compact. They forgot that some grounds are sacred, some graves are not to be disturbed.
The Rising
When the dead rose in Everlorn, they did not shamble mindlessly. No, these were the restless souls of workers who died in the mines, soldiers who fell defending borders long since redrawn, citizens crushed beneath the wheels of industry. They remembered. They hungered. And they were legion.
The great city of Kronborg stands at the edge of this cursed land, a Georgian-gothic fortress of last defiance. Its walls are thick, its defenders grim, and its people pray nightly to Aredhel of the Blue Moon, goddess of guidance through darkness, to see them through to dawn.
The Haunted Rails
Railway lines still crisscross Everlorn, though no living conductor dares operate them. On moonless nights, travelers claim to hear the shriek of phantom locomotives, the clatter of ghost trains carrying their eternal cargo of the damned. Some say these trains run on a schedule known only to the dead, stopping at stations that no longer exist on any map.
The brave (or the foolish) who venture into Everlorn seeking salvage or forbidden knowledge speak of frozen forests where skeletal hands reach from the snow, of abandoned mining towns where lantern light still flickers in empty windows, and of the Bone Desert to the south where the sand is ground from ancient skeletons.
The Blue Moon's Promise
Yet hope persists. The priests of Aredhel teach that winter, no matter how long and dark, must eventually yield to spring. They speak of prophecies, of chosen champions who will venture into the heart of Everlorn and break the curse that binds the dead to this frozen realm.
Thrar, the god of battle and the forge, watches over those who would take up arms against the undead legions. His temples in Kronborg work day and night, forging blessed steel, training warriors, preparing for the day when living courage might finally reclaim the haunted north.
Thus ends the first tale. More shall be told when the fire burns low
and the ale flows freely. Until then, adventurer, keep your blade sharp
and your wits sharper. The north remembers, and the dead never sleep.
