Welcome to the Towns & Cities page, here you can find all there is to know about the cities and their people!
This post is a simple and easy way to tell how all of Aetheria Cities are gauged by population, all capitals such as Stormpoint sit in the metropolis ranking while the smallest of cities like Rock port sit in the Town Ranking. Anything below town ranking is not shown on the world maps to keep clutter down as well as give you creative freedom!
Stormpoint
Capital
The Heart of Gibarra
Cradled at the basin of the Thunder Mountain Range, resting along the northern shore of the Long Lake, lies the sprawling and storied city of Stormpoint—a shining emblem of hope, strength, and perseverance in the vast continent of Gibarra. To many, Stormpoint is not just a city—it is the living heart of the realm, a place where tradition and ambition intertwine, and where the legacy of a single woman birthed one of the greatest Houses in all of Aetheria.
A City of Life and Order
Stormpoint pulses with energy. Its inner city is a vibrant maze of stone streets, colorful banners, and the constant murmur of merchants, travelers, scholars, and adventurers alike. Shops and open markets fill every corner, offering everything from enchanted relics to homegrown spices. Towering stone archways and artisan-crafted buildings stand side by side with more modest homes, creating a beautiful tapestry of class, culture, and coexistence.
At the city’s core looms the White Castle, a gleaming monument of alabaster stone built into the rising cliffs at the base of the Thunder Mountains. Its high towers and battlements catch the first light of dawn, symbolizing the watchful protection of House Barron, the city’s noble protectors and founders. From these halls, the Barron's have ruled Stormpoint for generations with a commitment to honor, sacrifice, and truth.
Stormpoint is well-guarded, with trained patrols, seasoned knights, and a robust city watch ensuring that law and order are upheld. Yet despite its size and status, the city is known for being welcoming and fair—a haven for the honest, a challenge for the corrupt.
The Farmlands and the Outskirts
Beyond the fortified walls and bustling inner rings of the city lie the open stretches of farmland, where generations of families have tilled the soil under the shadow of the mountains. These fertile plains, enriched by runoff from the Thunder Range and the freshwater currents of Long Lake, provide most of Stormpoint’s food and grain, making it not just a military and political hub, but also a vital agricultural center.
Out here, the air is quieter, and the people live by the rhythm of the earth. Villages dot the countryside, connected to Stormpoint by well-maintained roads and caravans. The people of the outskirts are fiercely proud of their connection to the city—they call themselves Stormfolk, and carry the same values as House Barron: resilience, community, and strength through unity.
The Legacy of Avelina Barron
Stormpoint’s origins stretch back to Year 5c 078 of the Second Age, when a woman named Avelina Barron first led her kin across the untamed plains of northern Gibarra. With little more than a vision and unyielding determination, she guided her family through harsh lands, tribal skirmishes, and monstrous threats, until she reached the basin where the mountains met the lake—a place of natural beauty and strategic power. She called it home.
Avelina was no noble. She was a mother, a protector, and a visionary, who wore her burdens with dignity. It was said that she stood tall where others would kneel, and that the winds that whip through Stormpoint’s cliffs still carry her name.
Her second son, Argon Tzolkin, would later take her surname, Barron, in her honor. Thirty years after she settled the land, he officially founded the settlement of Stormpoint, declaring it a place of legacy, freedom, and strength. From there, House Barron was born, and Stormpoint began its transformation from a humble lakeside village into one of the most important cities in Aetheria.
A Symbol of Unity and Purpose
Today, Stormpoint stands as a testament not just to wealth or might, but to vision, sacrifice, and the quiet strength of the people who built it. It is a city where anyone, no matter how small, can rise to greatness. Where hard work is valued, and honor is more than just a word. Where the old ways are remembered, and new legends are written every day.
Whether you're a merchant looking for trade, a scholar seeking ancient texts, a warrior chasing glory, or a farmer hoping for honest work Stormpoint has a place for you.
Just be sure to honor its laws, respect its people, and remember the name of the woman who made it all possible.
Welcome to Stormpoint—the White City of the North, the Beacon of the Thunder Basin, and the Heart of Gibarra.
Raven Crest
The Silent Steeple of the South
Just south of Stormpoint, nestled in the rolling highlands where the wind carries whispers of prayer and old names, stands Raven Crest. A town carved from faith, silence, and history. Once the crown of Gibarra’s civilization, Raven Crest now endures not as a monument to lost glory, but as a sentinel of tradition. Its bells toll not for conquest, but for continuity. This is a place where time moves slowly, and reverence lingers in the stones.
The City that Guided a Continent
In the earliest days of the Second Age, when the land trembled under the chaos of the Booming—a time of unrestrained expansion, invention, and disorder, one man chose not to build a kingdom of power, but a refuge of peace. His name was Vector Richter, a weary traveler who wandered through broken roads and lawless lands, seeking not fame, but balance.
On the 35th year of the 4th cycle, Vector laid the first stones of what would become Raven Crest. Atop a hill where ravens circled like sentries and clouds parted in reverence, he raised a sanctuary, both of stone and spirit. It was a beacon of calm during an age of wild ambition a city of law, worship, and solemn order.
In time, Vector's followers grew. He taught them that strength came not from the sword, but from unity; not from innovation, but from discipline. The Richter Family, born from his legacy, has led Raven Crest ever since, guardians of faith and law, even as the world around them changed beyond recognition.
Fallen Glory, Unshaken Roots
Long before House Barron’s banners flew over Gibarra, Raven Crest stood as the largest and most respected city in the realm. Its temples reached for the heavens; its sermons echoed across valleys. When war threatened, its priests offered truce. When famine struck, its granaries opened.
But as the Age advanced, and the tide of progress swept across the land, Raven Crest’s unwavering devotion to the old ways became a tether. While others bent to change, Raven Crest stood still. Commerce slowed. Pilgrims came fewer. And the eyes of the world turned elsewhere toward gold, power, and ambition.
Yet Raven Crest did not crumble. It simply grew quieter. Its steeples still stand. Its halls still open. And though its voice may not command the continent, it still speaks to those willing to listen.
The Laws of Silence
Raven Crest is not a place for reckless minds or riotous hearts. It is a town of structure, of ancient codes and ceremonial rites. Outsiders are welcomed, but with firm expectation: do not break the rules. For while the people of Raven Crest offer kindness, their punishments are old, and their judgments stern.
Their justice is rooted not in vengeance, but in restoration. Offenders may find themselves cloistered in reflection, branded with truths rather than scars, or required to serve in ways that touch the spirit more than the body. These practices are seen by some as archaic but here, they are sacred.
The Enduring Flame of the Faithful
Today, Raven Crest is a place of quiet endurance. The bells still ring at dawn and dusk. The ravens still circle the chapel towers. The people still kneel at Vector’s shrine, reciting vows written before their great-great-grandparents were born.
Travelers often arrive in search of answers, or escape and many leave changed. Some find peace in the town’s stillness. Others feel suffocated by its solemnity. But all agree: Raven Crest remembers.
It remembers what it was. What it stood for. And what it still protects in a world moving too fast to notice.
The Spirit of Raven Crest
Raven Crest is not a city of ambition, but of conviction. Where Silver Watch soars and Marleme dances, Raven Crest prays. Its cobbled paths lead not to markets, but to meaning. It is not the heart of the empire. It is its soul.
“We do not rise to be seen. We remain to remind.”
So say the stone-cut letters above the great chapel gate, a message to all who enter: that Raven Crest is not here to dazzle. It is here to endure.
And endure it will.
Lockwood
The Heartbeat of Long Lake
Where the gentle waves of Long Lake kiss the southern shore and the wind carries the scent of pine and freshwater, you’ll find Lockwood a small, spirited town with a soul far larger than its borders. Cradled in a natural bay and glowing with warmth year-round, Lockwood is a place where strangers are treated like friends, and friends are treated like family. It is not a city of walls or towers but one of laughter, lanterns, and legacy.
A Ferry, A Fisherman, A Future
Lockwood is one of Gibarra’s youngest towns, founded not by noble decree or divine prophecy, but by Jason Lockwood, a humble fisherman with more heart than coin. In the early days of the 4th Age, travel around Long Lake’s vast shoreline was long, winding, and often perilous. Jason saw what others overlooked: the lake was not a barrier it was a bridge.
With nothing but a patched sail and a promise to help, Jason began ferrying travelers across the water. What started as a favor became a fixture. Word spread. Campfires turned to cabins. Travelers became townsfolk. And in the year 1C 085, Lockwood was officially born—a town rooted in kindness, practicality, and a sense of togetherness that still defines it today.
The Crossroads of the Lake
Though modest in size, Lockwood holds a unique place in Gibarra’s geography and culture. It is the gateway across Long Lake, with ferry routes leading directly to the great city of Stormpoint. What once took days by land can now be crossed in hours by water, and Lockwood stands as the vital artery between east and west.
Dozens of ships dock daily, from cargo barges to pleasure skiffs, all guided by weather-worn but cheerful captains who greet each traveler with a wave and a tale. Every pier creaks with activity, and the harbormaster’s bell rings with the rhythm of life. Lockwood may not bear the banners of the great houses, but it commands respect for one simple truth: you cannot cross Gibarra without passing through Lockwood.
The Town that Dances with the New Year
Lockwood is best known not for its trade, but for its spirit and nowhere is that more evident than during the New Year Festival. For seven nights at winter’s end, the town transforms into a glowing celebration of life, light, and legacy. Lanterns float across the lake like stars set free. Music spills from taverns and hilltops. Fireworks crackle like thunder over the water.
Travelers from across the continent arrive in Lockwood to ring in the new year, and no one leaves unchanged. The festival is a joyful reminder of Lockwood’s founding spirit: that something small can spark something spectacular.
The Soul of Lockwood
What sets Lockwood apart is not its age, size, or wealth, but its people. They are warm-hearted, quick to laugh, and proud of their home. From the dockhands who whistle while they work, to the bakers whose ovens never go cold, to the town’s storytellers who remember every name that ever mattered. Lockwood is alive with love for its own history and its ever-growing family.
The original Lockwood cabin still stands near the ferry dock, lovingly preserved as both a shrine and a meeting hall. Inside, a carved plaque bears the town’s quiet motto:
“One oar, one boat, one journey at a time.”
It is a reminder of the man who saw potential in the lake—and the people who keep his dream afloat every day.
A Place to Pass Through and Stay Forever
Lockwood may not rival the grand metropolises of Gibarra, but it does not try to. It is a town of purpose, where paths cross and lives change. It does not rise with ambition, but with joy. It does not command with power, but with welcome.
To pass through Lockwood is to feel its pulse. To stay is to become part of it.
Lake View
The Quiet Net Beneath the Mist
On the still waters of Smith Lake, where the fog drifts low and the trees press in close, lies Lake View a quiet, unassuming fishing village that seems more whispered than spoken. It does not call attention to itself, nor does it try to. Lake View endures, not through might or trade, but through resilience, routine, and the cold, clean pull of the lake.
To many, it is little more than a pause on the road. But to those who stay, those who see past the peeling paint and watch the sun rise through the lake mist it becomes something unforgettable.
A Village Born of Silence
Lake View traces its roots far deeper than its modest appearance suggests. In the latter half of the Second Age, a man named Gustaf Klingensmith and a band of weary adventurers stumbled upon the lake’s southern edge, searching not for glory, but for peace. What they found was a mirror-like lake brimming with fish and shadowed by pine-covered slopes. Here, they laid down their swords, built cabins, and gave up the noise of the world.
For many years, the settlement had no name just a place for quiet people to live quiet lives. Its founders asked for nothing from the world and expected even less in return. But time, as it always does, brought change.
The Dillard Legacy and the Salmon That Changed Everything
The change came not in fire or war, but in love. Gustaf’s daughter, Victoria, married a thoughtful and enterprising man named Hector Dillard a quiet visionary with a dream no one else had seen yet. Where others saw only fish, Hector saw opportunity. Over a lifetime, he selectively bred a line of lake salmon so flavorful, so rich and tender, that even distant nobles sought it by name. He called it Gustaf Salmon, in honor of the old man who gave him a home.
The fish brought wealth—not gold, but attention. Traders arrived, kitchens praised, and slowly the unnamed village took a title of its own. In the year 6C, 042 of the Second Age, the settlement became known officially as Lake View—a name simple enough, but fitting. It was Hector’s gift to the lake that fed them, and to the man who founded it all.
The Village Beyond the Veil
Lake View is a place of contradictions. It is welcoming in time, but not at first. Strangers are met with cautious eyes and long silences. The villagers do not gossip, nor do they smile quickly, but they remember names, and they never forget kindness. To be accepted in Lake View is to be earned, not invited. But once inside, you are family.
The town itself is humble. Moss-covered roofs. Creaking boardwalks. Smoke curling from chimneys like the breath of sleeping giants. The lake is the center of everything—a mirror, a provider, and a secret-keeper. Boats leave at dawn and return before dusk, nets heavy with salmon and stories untold.
The Spirit of Lake View
There are no great monuments in Lake View. No towers, no banners, no sprawling markets. There is only the sound of water against wood, the scent of brine and pine, and the quiet thrum of a people who have found enough.
Here, life is simple, and so are its joys: a shared meal, a perfect cast, the first snow, the taste of Gustaf salmon pan-seared over open flame.
The village is still run by the Dillard family, now several generations deep. They do not lead with titles, but with example first on the boat, last to sit at the table.
And carved into the wooden arch above the lakefront dock reads the only motto they’ve ever needed:
“Let the lake provide.”
A Place Few Stay But None Forget
Lake View does not try to grow. It simply is. And that is enough.
It asks for nothing but patience, and in return, it gives something rare in this world: a peace that cannot be bought, only found.
So if you pass through Lake View, be still. Be quiet. Watch the mist roll in. You might just hear the water whisper its thanks.
Red Rock
The Loom Beneath the Mountain
At the foot of the mighty Thunder Mountain, where the earth glows with hidden stone and the wind smells of grain and morning mist, lies Red Rock a village of bounty, brilliance, and balance. Though quiet and unassuming from afar, Red Rock holds a heartbeat unlike any other in northern Gibarra. It is a place where crops sway like golden seas, herds of alpaca graze freely, and stone shimmers in the hands of patient crafters.
Red Rock does not roar it resonates.
The Village That Chose to Stay
During the chaotic surge of the Booming in the Second Age, travelers poured north in search of untouched lands and fortune. With the jagged expanse of the Thunder Mountain range forming a natural wall, many were tempted to press onward but the journey was cruel, the winds harsher still, and the land beyond uncertain.
Yet at the mountain’s base, some chose a different path—not forward, but rooted. A camp formed, meant only to serve the needs of the passing. But as time passed, and the firelight stretched longer into the valley nights, travelers became settlers.
And then came Gale Shroomin.
Gale Shroomin and the Spirit of the Soil
Gale was a humble gnome with clever hands and a farmer’s soul. Where others saw soil, he saw promise. With a few companions, he began to till, to plant, to build—not for a journey ahead, but for a life here. What was once a transient rest became a thriving pocket of permanence.
By the year 4C 095 of the Second Age, Red Rock was more than a campfire stop—it was a village of cottages, gardens, and laughter in the fields. Gale’s vision, stitched together with patience and practicality, still guides the people of Red Rock to this day.
The Jewel of the Valley
Though its rolling fields of soy, herbs, and oats feed much of the northern region, and its alpaca herds produce some of the finest yarn and woven goods in Gibarra, it is Red Rock’s Glimmerstone mines that have made the village famous.
The Glimmerstone is a rare mineral found deep within the foothills of Thunder Mountain—translucent, radiant, and kissed by hues of amethyst, sky-blue, and amber. Crafters in Red Rock have perfected the art of cutting, polishing, and setting these stones into jewelry, hairpins, charms, and ceremonial rings, often paired with fine wools dyed with natural pigments from local herbs.
These goods are sold not with the pride of a merchant, but with the care of a storyteller. Every stone has a vein. Every thread has a tale.
A Quiet Thread in the Tapestry of Gibarra
Red Rock is welcoming, but unhurried. Its people move with purpose but not urgency. They are proud of their heritage, proud of their crops, and especially proud of their alpacas—who are often treated with more patience than some visitors. The village isn’t lavish or loud, but it is whole, stitched together by family, fieldwork, and faith in the land.
Visitors are often surprised by the kindness here. Warm tea at the gate. An offered scarf. A story over stew. Red Rock may be nestled at the edge of a mountain, but it makes a home in the hearts of many.
The Spirit of Red Rock
Red Rock is more than a village. It is a rhythm—a steady hum of spinning wheels, soft bleats, clinking stone, and hands in the earth. Where others chase fortune, Red Rock simply creates it—from yarn, from soil, from stone, and from time.
Above the village square, engraved in weather-worn wood beneath a sun-faded Glimmerstone, is a line passed down since Gale’s day:
“We stopped here—and found enough.”
A Place Woven, Not Built
Red Rock does not command a region or defend a border. It tends, it mends, and it endures.
In the shadow of the Thunder Mountain, beneath the glint of buried stone, the village waits with open doors, warm yarn, and a quiet understanding:
That sometimes, the greatest journey is the choice not to leave.
Forrd
The Crossroads of a Continent
In the heart of Gibarra’s central plains, where the great trade roads fork like rivers of stone and footfall, lies Forrd a city of motion, memory, and might. It hums with life at every hour, a place where the boots of travelers never stop echoing through stone alleys and banner-lined markets. From Stormpoint to Whalebourne, all roads pass through Forrd.
Built on legacy and lit by ambition, Forrd is the flame that never flickers.
The City That Grew from a Fortress
To gaze upon Forrd today, with its sprawling Markets, and miles of crop wrapped outskirts. It’s hard to imagine it was ever a place of desperate beginnings. But before it was a city, Forrd was little more than a growing shadow around an ancient keep: the home of the fabled guild known as The North Star.
The origins of the North Star remain shrouded in legend. Some claim their fortress was built during the First Age, raised in the chaos of the Eutherian and Dragon War, when divine sparks lit the earth and magic carved mountains. Whether truth or tale, the fortress stood, and its presence brought structure to the wild Booming that followed.
Bailor Stoneskin and the Birth of a City
As the Booming spread chaos across the continent, a Goliath woman named Bailor Stoneskin arrived at the North Star gates with her young son in tow, fleeing a past of sorrow and flame. She came seeking refuge—like many others, creature and kin alike—but what she found was purpose.
Bailor was no noble, no knight, no great name of lore. But she was steady. She listened. She led. As more came, it was Bailor they looked to. Fields were tilled, shelters raised, disputes settled. A refugee camp turned into a village, and the village, over years, into a city.
When Bailor succumbed to sickness, her son Jorgen Stoneskin inherited not just her mantle—but her dream. He named the town Forrd, after the father who died protecting them both, and the city was officially established in year 5C 082 of the Second Age.
The Pulse of the Plains
Today, Forrd is one of the largest and fastest-growing cities in all of Gibarra. The roads from east and west converge here, feeding its ever-beating heart with traders, pilgrims, mercenaries, and merchants. Its streets are wide and worn, lined with carts and color. Taverns spill over with songs in every tongue. Markets bloom with spices, silks, tools, and tales.
Forrd is called “The City That Never Sleeps” not out of exhaustion, but vitality. The lights burn at all hours. The bakers work before dawn, the performers play past midnight, and the walls never go quiet. If the world of Gibarra has a crossroads soul, it beats in Forrd.
The North Star
At the city's Western crown, the North Star Keep still stands. Ancient, unshaken, and ever watchful. The guild remains active, a bastion of honor and strength, guiding Forrd not as rulers, but as protectors and patrons. Their sigil, The North Star is carved into every major gate, a reminder of the origin around which this great city spun to life.
The Spirit of Forrd
Though its roots lie in ancient stone and silent sacrifice, Forrd is a city of movement. Its people are diverse, fast-talking, fast-working, and always dreaming bigger. From field hands to guild masters, every citizen feels the hum of progress in their bones.
On the eastern ridge of the city’s central square, beneath the bronze statue of Bailor and Jorgen Stoneskin, are words carved in stone words many believe to be Bailor’s final breath:
“We walked here to survive. We stayed here to become.”
A City for All Paths
Forrd does not judge where you’ve come from, only where you're going. It is a place of refuge and ambition, of craft and cause, of mourning and momentum.
Whether you seek rest, riches, or redemption, one truth remains:
All roads lead through Forrd.
Northgrove
Capital
The Iron Heart of the North
Carved from the bone of the wild and wrapped in a mantle of snow and pine, Northgrove is a city like no other in Aetheria. Tucked deep within the boreal forests of northern Gibarra, it stands as a fortress not just of stone, but of will—a bulwark against the cold, the creatures, and the chaos of the untamed world beyond.
What began as a simple riverside campsite, little more than tents clustered around a fire, has now grown into a monolithic city-fortress, its towering stone walls stretching outward as it continues to consume the forest around it. Trees have given way to iron, and the once-silent woods now echo with the hammering of forges, the chants of warriors, and the beat of a city that refuses to die.
A City Forged by Strength and Survival
The people of Northgrove are known across Gibarra for their unyielding resolve. Life here is hard—brutal winters, prowling beasts, and isolation from the wider world keep the weak away. But for those who endure, Northgrove becomes a crucible, forging its people into steel-hearted survivors. Here, challenges are not avoided—they are hunted, bested, and worn as marks of pride.
Travel by land is slow and treacherous through the thick, dangerous woodlands that protect the region like a natural fortress. As such, the river is lifeblood—a frozen vein in the winter, a swift-moving path in spring. Many travelers, traders, and messengers rely on riverboats to make their way downstream, avoiding the lurking threats and gnarled trails that twist through the forest.
Outside the great walls, homesteads and frontier villages have begun to bloom—small pockets of civilization that stretch deeper into the wilderness. These settlements act as outposts, hunting grounds, and farmlands, all sustained by Northgrove’s protection and their own grit.
House Orthon – Blood of the North
At the heart of Northgrove’s strength lies House Orthon, an ancient bloodline of proud orcish origin, with roots stretching as far back as the First Age. Known for their honor-bound traditions and spiritual depth, the Orthons are not just rulers—they are guardians, warriors, and teachers, respected by their people and feared by their enemies.
The story of Northgrove begins in 5c 005 of the Second Age, when the Orthon family left the war-torn south and ventured north in search of a new beginning. Many warned them against the frost-bitten wilds and the monsters said to dwell within, but the Orthons saw the north not as a threat—but as a promise. They were drawn by the land’s raw, untamed spirit, and it was there that they planted the seed of a city that would outlast generations.
Now, centuries later, Northgrove is their legacy, and their blood still runs in the veins of its warriors, priests, and craftsmen.
Faith in the Wild – Spirit of the Grove
Northgrove’s people are not only warriors—they are deeply spiritual, their faith rooted not in distant gods, but in the living soul of the land itself. To live here is to honor the forest, respect the beasts, and understand the balance of life and death.
Shrines to ancient spirits and elemental forces dot the city’s streets and riverbanks. Every child is taught to revere the Great Hunt, the Cycle of the Seasons, and the Whispering Grove, where it’s said the forest itself speaks in dreams and wind.
The Orthons uphold these traditions with reverence and pride, seeing their rulership not as dominion, but stewardship—a sacred bond between people and land.
A Monument to Orcish Endurance
Northgrove is more than just a city—it is a monument to the orcish spirit: enduring, unyielding, and honorable. It stands not in defiance of the world, but as proof that strength and soul can thrive even in the harshest of places.
For those who seek challenge, who crave purpose, or who are simply looking for a place to prove themselves—Northgrove offers the forge. All you must do is survive the flame.
Pine Barrow
The Vigil Beneath the Ice
High in the wind-scoured reaches of northwest Whitestone, where snow clings to the pines like armor and the sun rises slow behind silver peaks, lies Pine Barrow. A village of endurance, silence, and watchful eyes. Few find their way here, and fewer still stay. But those who do call it home do so not for comfort, but for duty.
Pine Barrow is not a place for the faint hearted. It is a place for those who remember, and for those who keep vigil when the rest of the world forgets.
A Camp of Last Hope
Pine Barrow’s roots run deep into war and frost. In the blood soaked closing chapters of the Torrvan Rampage, when the North fought to maintain its fractured dominion, the warlord Torrvan divisive, powerful, and doomed ordered the construction of a hidden fallback position in the remote Whitestone basin.
Nestled beneath the icy canopy, this troop camp was never meant to be found. Here, Torrvan stored relics, supplies, and scrolls and items too dangerous to fall into enemy hands. When the southern forces, led by the rising Orthon family, overwhelmed Torrvan’s legions and shattered his legacy, it was to Pine Barrow that his last loyalists fled.
But the Orthons came too, seeking to erase every trace of Torrvan’s defiance. They razed the camp, scattered its guards, and buried the past in snow and silence.
The Watchers Who Remained
Not all were broken. Some survived, retreating deeper into the Whitestone shadows. As time wore on, soldiers became settlers. Volunteers, veterans, and their kin gathered, not to worship Torrvan, but to protect what was left and to ensure that no force, northern or southern, would ever again threaten Gibarra from these heights.
In 1C 006 of the Fourth Age, the outpost was officially founded as the village of Pine Barrow named for the mounds of frozen earth beneath the pine trees where fallen warriors still rest, and for the solemn duty their descendants uphold.
The Frozen Flame
Though small in number, the people of Pine Barrow are formidable. They are hunters, herbalists, and craftsmen, but most of all, they are guardians. Every child knows the history. Every family maintains a blade. Their buildings are carved from timber and stone, low and windproof, with embers always burning beneath hearth and heart.
Pine Barrow remains one of the least-visited villages in all of Gibarra, yet its importance is known to those who study history and war. Its strategic location at the mouth of the northern pass gives it eyes on the Whitestone range and its people have never stopped watching.
A Village of Oaths and Ice
Life in Pine Barrow is not glamorous, but it is anchored in meaning. The people are wary of outsiders, but they are not cruel. Given time and respect, they open their homes and share their fire. Within their walls lie scrolls of ancient battle orders, blades passed down since the Third Age, and stories spoken in low tones over broth and bear meat.
To stay in Pine Barrow is to feel the cold truth of legacy: that some places were not built for glory, but for remembrance.
Etched in the ice-chipped stone of the old watchtower are the words spoken by the village’s founders after the fall of Torrvan:
“We hold the line, even when no one else remembers it’s there.”
The Silent Sentinel of the North
Pine Barrow does not shine like the markets of Forrd. It does not ring with laughter like Lockwood. But its fires have never gone out. It stands as a testament not to conquest but to resolve. To the promise that some wounds will never be reopened. That some duties are never complete.
When the mountain storms howl and the snow climbs past the roofs, the people of Pine Barrow keep watch eyes sharp, hearts steady, always ready.
Because peace is not something you find in Pine Barrow. It’s something you guard.
Elder Hold Ruins
The Stone Cage of the Forgotten
In the far northeastern edge of Gibarra, where glacial winds carve the earth and the stars seem frozen in place, there stands a ruin older than memory, older than kings, Elder Hold.
Its spires rise like broken teeth from the frostbitten tundra, half-buried in permafrost and shadow. Once built by the Eutherians themselves in the earliest days of the First Age, Elder Hold was never meant for mortal hands. And yet, mortals came.
Now, it stands not as a beacon but as a warning. Stone forged and soul stained, Elder Hold Ruins is a place where the dead do not sleep, and the living are seldom heard from again.
The Origin Beneath the Ice
No one knows why the Eutherians, beings of harmony and creation, built Elder Hold in such a bleak, cursed place. Some scholars believe it was not a castle at all, but a seal, a prison for something that was never meant to see the light again. Others claim it was a sanctuary carved in desperation during the final days of the First Age War, when dragons scorched the skies and the World Tree cried out.
Whatever its purpose, Elder Hold was abandoned before the Second Age ever began, left to rot in the cold like a buried secret.
The Goliath Who Brought Back the Dead
During the Booming, when travelers sought untouched land and lawless sanctuary, some ventured too far north and found Elder Hold standing against the horizon like a wound that refused to close.
Among them was a Goliath named Ja’Karr, a man of cold ambition and grim practicality. He saw not a ruin, but a resource. The stronghold’s walls still stood. Its corridors still breathed warmth from the stone. With coin and cunning, Ja’Karr offered lords across Gibarra a solution to their problems: a place to send the unwanted.
And so they came criminals, exiles, traitors, warlocks, and worse shipped north in chains and silence.
In 5C 047 of the Second Age, Elder Hold was reborn not as a haven, but as a fortress prison. Ja’Karr ruled it like a cold sovereign, building a grim township around the keep’s base, feeding off the coin of fear. He promised containment. He promised silence. And in doing so, he awoke something.
The Curse of Elder Hold
Something old and malevolent stirs beneath the ruins. The children of the town, gaunt and pale, still sing a folk rhyme passed down in whispers:
"Stone keeps stone, and bone keeps bone,
No lock can rust, no soul can roam.
Eyes that watch where fires died,
We’re buried here but never died."
Many believe the original Eutherian seal was never broken only forgotten, overwritten by Ja’Karr’s ambition and the ignorance of mortals. The prison that now holds men may also hold something else and in Elder Hold, death offers no escape.
It is said that those who die within its walls still walk its corridors in silence. Shadows that don’t move with the light. Chains that rattle with no hands to carry them. Even the guards go mad in time.
A Town That Should Not Be
In 6C 012 of the Second Age, the growing settlement around Elder Hold was formally named a town, but none celebrated. To this day, it remains a place few speak of and fewer still admit to being from.
The “town” functions, if barely. Black snow crusts the rooftops. The crops are bitter, grown in frozen soil under leaden skies. Taverns serve silence more than ale. Trade caravans arrive under armed escort and never linger. And the fortress still looms larger than it should be, darker than the light around it.
Elder Hold has no mayor, no council. It is still ruled by the warden-bloodline, distant descendants of Ja’Karr, who are said to be born with pale eyes and no shadows.
The Spirit of Elder Hold
Where other cities rise in hope, Elder Hold survives in warning. Its people are weary, guarded, and thin. Yet they remain perhaps by oath, perhaps by curse, perhaps by duty no one else will accept.
They are keepers of a secret no one wants to remember. Not protectors of the world—but of what lies beneath it.
Carved into the original stone gate now cracked, cold, and overgrown with frost—is a phrase believed to be Eutherian in origin:
“What is buried here must never rise.”
A Place You Leave in Chains, If You Leave at All
Elder Hold Ruins is not a city. It is a sentence. A silence. A scar.
And like all scars, it whispers of something far worse.
Whalebourne
Capital
The Shining Port of the East
Resting like a jewel upon the tropical eastern coast of Gibarra, the bustling city of Whalebourne stands as Aetheria’s great naval capital—a place where the sea meets civilization, and the hum of commerce never sleeps. Known for its unmatched maritime trade, multicultural population, and dazzling oceanic architecture, Whalebourne is more than a city—it is the lifeblood of Gibarra’s eastern trade and the pride of House Sylla.
A City Carved by Tide and Time
Once little more than a pirate outpost hidden among rocky coves, Whalebourne has grown into a sprawling, thriving metropolis that serves as the primary gateway to the eastern seas. Its growth has been nothing short of phenomenal—today, it stretches from the crystal-blue shoreline to the sea breeze kissed rolling hills in the west, bustling harbors, and sea-washed terraces forming a cityscape of constant motion and radiant energy.
At the heart of the harbor, ships of every shape and size dock daily, unloading exotic goods from faraway continents or preparing for voyages across the Derdeen Sea. Whalebourne now handles more than 80% of all overseas trade entering and leaving Gibarra. From silks and spices, to arcane relics and alchemical reagents—if it exists, it passes through Whalebourne’s docks.
The Temple of Mazu & Castle Sylla
Two monuments define the city's skyline and symbolize its past, present, and future:
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Castle Sylla, an architectural marvel of white stone and golden trim, perched like a lighthouse above the sea, stands as the proud seat of House Sylla. Built with both elegance and defense in mind, it watches over the city like a sentinel—its high towers wrapped in flowering vines, its walls etched with carvings that tell the Sylla family’s long journey from merchants to nobility.
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The Temple of Mazu, goddess of the sea, is one of the most sacred and unique sites in all of Aetheria. Designed with divine intention, water flows directly through the temple’s lower halls, creating an inner waterway where ships may pass through to receive blessings before departure. Sailors come from all corners of the world to offer tribute at her shrine, believing the ocean’s favor is the difference between life and death.
A Market Without End
Whalebourne’s streets are lined with colorful banners, spice-scented stalls, and the voices of dozens of languages. Merchants from Dornn, Valain, the Shattered Isles, and beyond trade in everything from fine jewelry and magical wares to imported fruits and enchanted beasts. Entire districts have evolved around trade specialization—Goldstrand Market for luxury goods, Lowwharf for rougher black-market trade, and The Windwalk, a high street that runs directly along the sea cliffs, known for its breathtaking views and high-end boutiques.
The city’s population has surged over the centuries—what once housed a few hundred now supports nearly half a million souls, from nobles and guildmasters to pirates-turned-politicians and wanderers seeking fortune. Whalebourne's open ports have made it one of the most culturally diverse places in Aetheria.
A Legacy Born in Fire and Salt
The story of Whalebourne begins in 4c 088 of the Second Age, with two brothers: Gale and Braum Sylla. After losing their family to a pirate raid, the brothers—not warriors, but humble tradesmen—gathered what farmers, leatherworkers, and blacksmiths they could and launched a daring siege against the very camp where their lives had been shattered. Against all odds, they won.
What was once a lawless pirate den became a place of purpose. The brothers renamed it Whalebourne, for the great whale that washed ashore during their victory feast, which they saw as a sign of Mazu’s blessing. From those early days of rebuilding, House Sylla was born—not of bloodlines and blades, but of resilience, trade, and vision.
A City of Opportunity and Intrigue
Today, Whalebourne is a city of opportunity. For sailors, it is a safe harbor. For merchants, it is a golden road. For adventurers, it is the place where quests begin and legends rise. But beneath the gleaming surface lies a tangle of guild rivalries, black market politics, and whispered rumors of rising pirate lords seeking to reclaim what was once theirs.
Still, the city endures, driven by House Sylla’s cunning diplomacy and relentless innovation. Though many noble houses underestimate them for their merchant origins, those who cross Sylla rarely do so twice.
Whalebourne Today
What began as an act of vengeance has become the eastern jewel of Aetheria, a city built not by kings, but by those who dared to dream bigger than the world would allow.
Here, in the city where sea and land meet, the tides carry more than ships—they carry stories, fortunes, and destinies.
Welcome to Whalebourne. May the ocean favor your steps.
Saltcoast
The City on Borrowed Sand
In the far southern reaches of Gibarra, where the desert meets the sea and the air hums with heat and history, stands Saltcoast a sun-bleached port city perched on the edge of erosion. Built atop the crumbling limestone cliffs of the south, Saltcoast is a place of motion, passion, and impermanence. The waves take more of the city with each year, yet the people dance, fish, and forge beauty from glass and grit.
Saltcoast may not endure forever, but while it stands, it lives more fiercely than most cities ever dare.
A City Fighting the Tide
Unlike the grand metropolises of the north, Saltcoast was never meant to last. The cliffs it was built upon chalky, brittle, and wind-worn have long been at odds with time. Over generations, entire districts have fallen into the sea, swallowed by saltwater and memory.
Yet the people of Saltcoast do not mourn what’s lost. They celebrate what remains.
Homes are painted in brilliant colors, even as their foundations crack. Streets are lined with woven tapestries and hand-blown glass, glittering like captured starlight. Every corner of the city tells the same story: we are still here.
Built Different, Burned Bright
Saltcoast sits farther south than nearly any other city in Gibarra, tucked where blazing dunes stretch endlessly and salty winds bite harder than most winters. Life here is hard. Water is scarce. But the people are tougher still lean, sun-tempered, loud with laughter, and filled with a joy that defies the dry earth.
Fishermen ride narrow vessels into volatile surf, hauling in exotic catches prized across the region. Artisans shape colorful glass from the desert’s sand, drawing travelers from across the land to purchase their delicate crafts. Saltcoast glass is known not just for its form, but for the spirit that lives inside it fragile, fleeting, and fiercely alive.
The Lilith Coliseum Flame of the South
At the heart of Saltcoast stands its blazing jewel: the Lilith Coliseum. Named for an old southern war-priestess turned folk legend, the coliseum is carved directly into the cliffside, rising like a sun-scorched crown above the sea.
Here, the city’s fire is made flesh gladiatorial games, musical duels, beast fights, and ritual contests of faith and fire all take place beneath the open sky. The Coliseum is the soul of Saltcoast a stage where pride and performance bleed together. Even as the sea eats away at its base, the people rebuild it stone by stone, year after year.
To fight in the Lilith Coliseum is to be remembered, even after the city is gone.
The Spirit of Saltcoast
Saltcoast is not a city of plans, it is a city of moments. Its people do not build for the future, because the future is uncertain. They build for now. For flame, for laughter, for love, for song. And in this fleeting life, they find something few other places understand:
That sometimes, the truest beauty lies in what won’t last.
Etched into the outer gate of the Lilith Coliseum is a phrase every child in Saltcoast knows by heart:
“Let the sea take what it will we’ll dance until it does.”
A City Like Glass
Saltcoast may one day disappear beneath the waves, its cliffs crumbled, its coliseum sunken. But its spirit burned into every shard of glass and every grain of desert sand will outlive even the sea.
It is a place of art, of fire, of music and memory.
And while it stands, it stands blazing.
Beach Hollow
The Island That Laughs
Tucked along the gentle curve of Sahosa Island’s western shore, just north of Green Bay and west of the sun baked Saltcoast cliffs, lies a hidden haven known as Beach Hollow, a village so small it’s often left off maps, and yet so vibrant, it lives in the hearts of every traveler lucky enough to find it.
Built not for war or wealth, but for joy, Beach Hollow is a place of open arms, sandy feet, and sun-warmed song. The sea hums. The breeze dances. And the people mostly halflings make the world feel a little brighter just by being in it.
A Destination, Not a Stop
Unlike the trade-heavy ports of Gibarra, Beach Hollow is not a place you pass through, it’s a place you go to. The journey is deliberate: across shallows and dunes, through coral shallows and dense island groves, until the path finally opens into a crescent-shaped village where the buildings sway like sails and laughter spills through the air.
Its isolation, cradled between Saltcoast’s limestone cliffs and Green Bay’s jungle-fed shoreline, has preserved it from the bustle of mainland politics. Time moves slower here, not from laziness but from contentment.
And yet, Beach Hollow is far from sleepy. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in life.
The Tunnley Legacy, Hearth Over Honor
Both Green Bay and Beach Hollow fall under the joyful rule of the Tunnley Halfling family, a long-standing kin known not for steel or silver, but for their ability to lead with compassion, cleverness, and community. The Tunnleys don’t sit on thrones. They host dinners, mediate disputes over garden fences, and remember the birthdays of every child in town.
The current matriarch, Maelis Tunnley, is as beloved as she is shrewd, known for her five-bean stew, her pier-side folk songs, and her uncanny ability to settle disagreements with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a slice of coconut pie.
To be part of the Tunnley lands is to be welcomed, fed, and remembered.
A Village of Song, Sand, and Celebration
Beach Hollow lives by rhythm, not by rule. Music is as common as breath, and most evenings end with a drum circle, a barefoot dance, or a feast under paper lanterns. The halflings here are fisherfolk, foragers, bakers, and storytellers, known far and wide for their fruit wines, salt-crusted bread, and grilled reef fish skewers.
They weave stories in their cooking, history in their dances, and poetry in the patterns of their sand gardens.
Despite its cheerful reputation, Beach Hollow is no stranger to hardship storms batter the coast each year, and the seas can be cruel but the people here weather the world with grace, grit, and a grin.
The Spirit of Beach Hollow
While cities like Forrd move with ambition and Saltcoast burns with defiance, Beach Hollow breathes with peace. It is not ignorant of the world’s dangers it simply chooses not to let fear spoil joy.
Etched into the driftwood arch above the central village dock is the town’s simple creed:
“The sea sings. So do we.”
Visitors often arrive tense and world-weary, but leave with sunburned noses, full bellies, and songs they can’t forget. Some never leave at all.
A Home the World Forgot, But Shouldn’t
Beach Hollow is not a capital, nor a fortress, nor a name carved into stone. It is a village of laughter and legacy, of waves and woven hammocks. And though it may be small, it knows a great secret:
That a life well loved is greater than a kingdom well-feared.
So if you ever find yourself on Sahosa Island, follow the music down the hill. You’ll know when you’ve found Beach Hollow, because the ocean will be singing, and the people will already have a place set for you at the table.
Green Bay
The Crown of Sahosa
Nestled along the lush, salt-sweet coast of Sahosa Island, where the ocean kisses golden sand and towering palms sway like ancient guardians, lies Green Bay, a village as serene as a whispered prayer and as vibrant as the jungle that cradles it.
The largest settlement on Sahosa, Green Bay is not a city of roads and war-halls, but of garden paths, bamboo eaves, and tranquil pools. Here, nobles come not to rule but to forget they ever did. The wind carries no horns, only birdsong. The waves make no war, only rhythm. And life, in Green Bay, is measured not in coin but in sunsets, fruit harvests, and warm, quiet mornings.
The Village of Escape
Unlike the bustling ports and war-born towns of Gibarra’s mainland, Green Bay was never meant to grow. It was meant to endure and to be hidden. Travelers first came to its shores centuries ago, seeking nothing more than shade and silence. But it was the Tunnley family, a clever and kind-hearted halfling clan, who shaped it into something lasting.
The Tunnleys, known also for their stewardship of nearby Beach Hollow, brought with them not conquest, but curiosity. They studied the land, learned from its rhythms, and taught others to build with the jungle, not over it.
Today, nobles and merchants from across Gibarra slip away from the mainland’s pressures to find rest here but they do so quietly, respectfully. Green Bay is not a resort. It is a sanctuary.
A Life Made of Earth and Sky
The people of Green Bay are humble but proud, thriving not through trade or politics, but through harmony with their island. Their homes, often raised on stilts, are made from woven fronds, polished bamboo, and coral stone, blending seamlessly into the trees and cliffs. Even the largest structures, communal halls, sun shrines, fishing lodges feel grown, not built.
Waterfalls feed natural aqueducts. Wild fruit groves and herb gardens stretch across shaded terraces. Fishing, foraging, and crafting form the core of their economy, though no coin ever changes hands in the markets. Goods are traded with trust. Meals are shared. Time is taken.
Despite their isolation, the people of Green Bay are artisans of quiet renown weavers, woodworkers, and shell carvers whose crafts, when they do reach the outside world, are sought for their precision and spiritual beauty.
A Paradise with Purpose
Green Bay’s peaceful nature belies its depth. Though many assume the village passive or simple, there is a wisdom here that runs deeper than the sea caves beneath the cliffs. Islanders believe that everything the sea, the stone, the sky, and the self must be kept in balance.
Each full moon, the people gather at the Moonlit Steps, a tiered garden carved into a crescent hill, where songs are sung in the old tongue and offerings are laid at the Altar of Return, a smooth coral sculpture believed to guide lost spirits home.
Even the visiting nobles are invited to participate not as lords, but as guests. And if they stay long enough, they often find themselves changed.
The Spirit of Green Bay
Green Bay is not about power, but presence. It is about slowing down, listening closely, and letting the wind shape your day. It is a reminder that stillness is not the absence of life—but the foundation of it.
Etched into a weathered shell slab at the village harbor, beneath strands of flowering vine, are words that capture the soul of Green Bay:
“Leave the world behind, find the one within.”
The Crown that Doesn’t Shout
Though it is the largest village on Sahosa Island, Green Bay does not flaunt its size. Its greatness lies not in how far it stretches, but in how deeply rooted it has become.
It is a place of escape. Of healing. Of identity reclaimed in the hush of the waves and the shimmer of starlight on still water.
And for those who stay long enough to understand it, Green Bay becomes something greater than a destination. It becomes a part of who they are.
Kh'alahan & Fort Astragoth
Capital
Stone born Legacy of the Dwarves
In the northern crags of Valain, carved into the unyielding stone of the Dwarn Mountain Range, lies the great dwarven capital of Kh’alahan, nestled at the foot of the impenetrable bastion known as Fort Astragoth. Together, these twin marvels form the ancestral home of the dwarves and serve as the heart of House Onyxbrow, one of the oldest and most storied noble lines in all of Aetheria.
Built in the First Age, Kh’alahan and Fort Astragoth are among the oldest living cities still in use across the world. Unlike other cities that have risen and fallen with the ages, the bones of Kh’alahan have never cracked, and its people have never wavered.
Kh’alahan – The City of Stone and Fire
Beneath the towering cliffs and ever-snowcapped peaks, Kh’alahan thrives as a symbol of dwarven endurance and ingenuity. The lower city, open to all peoples, is a vibrant hub of commerce and craftsmanship. Its cobblestone streets echo with the sound of hammers, the hiss of forges, and the chants of dwarven workers who still honor the old ways with every strike.
Here, merchants from across Aetheria come to trade for weapons of legend, tools of unmatched precision, and jewelry so fine it could make an elven lord weep. The city is the backbone of noble craftsmanship, and many ruling houses rely on Kh’alahan’s artisans for their gear, armaments, and heirlooms.
Every home, every beam, every pillar within the city is a work of pride and permanence, hand-carved by dwarves over generations. Murals of battles past, statues of great kings, and rune-etched halls speak of a people who remember everything—and forget nothing.
Fort Astragoth – The Undying Citadel
Above the city, carved directly into the mountain face, sits the imposing stronghold of Fort Astragoth—the ancestral seat of House Onyxbrow, and a structure as eternal as the stone it was born from. Its black iron gates are flanked by ancient runic guardians, and its walls are said to be infused with forgotten magics and fire-forged ore, resistant to both age and assault.
Only those of dwarven descent are permitted beyond its gates, a sacred tradition upheld since the First Age. To step inside Fort Astragoth is to walk among the tombs of kings, the blueprints of ancient war-machines, and the great archives of dwarven knowledge—secrets not meant for outside eyes.
For non-dwarves who seek to glimpse the heart of the fortress, special permission must be granted by the reigning King or Queen of the Onyxbrow line—a rare and hard-won honor.
House Onyxbrow – Forged in Flame and Stone
House Onyxbrow is as much a part of the mountain as the fort itself. With a lineage that stretches back to the first smiths and rune priests, the house has stood through wars, plagues, and the rise and fall of empires. They are stoic, wise, and relentless, placing tradition, craftsmanship, and family above all else.
Their sigil, a hammer striking an obsidian anvil beneath a mountain peak, is seen everywhere—from banners in the lower city to the etched gates of the fort. The current ruler is King Durvyn Onyxbrow, a seasoned warrior-smith known for his wisdom and his unyielding defense of dwarven independence.
A City Rich in History and Adventure
Kh’alahan is a treasure trove for scholars, adventurers, and lore seekers alike. From forgotten ruins buried beneath the foundations to the ancient Dwarven Libraries guarded by rune-bound constructs, there is no shortage of mysteries for those brave enough to delve.
Tales are whispered of hidden vaults sealed since the Age of Fire, forges that burn with the last embers of a dying god, and artifacts so powerful they were locked away forever. For all its stone and steel, Kh’alahan is still alive with secrets waiting to be unearthed.
Kh’alahan & Fort Astragoth Today
Though the world above changes, the halls of Kh’alahan remain steady, eternal, and proud. It is a place where the forge never cools, where tradition still holds meaning, and where the mountains speak in echoes of old songs.
To walk its streets is to feel the weight of ages.
To be welcomed into its walls is an honor.
To be remembered here… is to be immortal.
The Red Keep
The Silent Forge Beneath the Stone
Buried in the crag-heart of the Dwarn Mountain Range, where no birds fly and no maps dare speak plainly, lies the Red Keep. A fortress wrapped in silence, shadow, and stone. Few know of its existence, and fewer still believe it truly remains. But the dwarves do. And they speak of it in hushed tones, as one might speak of a sin too ancient to punish, or a secret too dangerous to tell.
They call it Kar Dumorr, the Old Name. But across the realms, it’s known only as the Red Keep the lost forge, the birthplace of the Warforged, and the sealed shame of a people who once sought to master creation itself.
A Fortress Hidden by War and Time
The Red Keep was once the crown jewel of dwarven ingenuity a citadel carved from molten-veined stone, encased in iron, and built deeper than any fortress before or since. Some say it was a city, others say it was a forge-temple, but all agree it was more than just a stronghold, it was a monument to dwarven ambition.
It was here, during the height of the Third Age, with the great dwarven kingdom divided Doren gathered his finest smiths, sages, and stone weavers to pursue a single, impossible goal:
To craft life.
The Forging of the Warforged
The Red Keep’s deepest forge, called in legend, The Ember Cradle, is whispered to be the place where the first Warforged were born. Not just constructed, but infused with life through ancient rites, divine sparks, and forgotten alchemy once used by the Eutherians.
These towering sentient constructs were forged for war, endurance, and unerring obedience. Perfect soldiers for a divided kingdom on the edge of collapse. In Doren's eyes they brought Strength & Victory.
After Doren's defeat his creations of war were locked away many destroyed, seen as too dangerous to roam.
By the war’s end, the mountains were scorched. Kingdoms were sundered. And the Red Keep, the womb of steel and flame was sealed and locked away from the world.
A Place Lost, But Never Abandoned
To this day, the path to the Red Keep lies broken, buried beneath rockslides and collapse. The only rumored access is through the deep mining tunnels or the long-abandoned fortress routes, ancient stone paths once connecting the Red Keep to outer settlements. Many believe it remains linked to the Iron Remnant mines or subterranean passageways beneath the Dwarn Range.
What is known is this: the Red Keep is not unguarded.
Stone sentinels, ancient defense runes, and sealed doors of unknowable complexity still guard the last threshold. Warforged still walk those halls, not as soldiers, but as keepers watching, waiting, maintaining the forges in silence.
No king claims it. No guild governs it. It is a scar and a shrine, and the dwarves will not speak of it.
EdgeWarf
The Last Light of the North
Far in the frozen reaches of northern Valain, beyond the tree lines where snow buries roads and breath hangs heavy in the air, lies Edgewarf. A humble village etched into the shorelines of three glacial lakes, Lake Jupiter, Lake Dawn, & Lake Dwarf each deeper and darker than the last. Here, the wind is sharp as knives, and the sun visits only briefly before vanishing again behind steel-gray clouds.
A Village Between Lakes and Legends
Edgewarf is built where the wild dares most not to tread, sat by the icy arms of Lake Dwarf, fed by ancient glacier melt and unknown mountain springs. The waters are beautiful, black, and bitterly cold. Teeming with freshwater fish, long-limbed eels, and a kind of pale trout that locals call Frost fin.
The lakes give Edgewarf life. They are the village’s source of food, trade, and identity.
But they also bring ruin.
The Ice Storm Curse
When the seasons shift, when autumn winds slip into the mountains and the lakes begin their slow, reluctant freeze. A new danger comes: ice storms. Born of water and wind, these storms descend without warning, coating every surface in a sheen of glassy death. Homes shatter, roofs cave, crops freeze mid-harvest. Entire winters are defined by how many storms the village survived.
In Edgewarf, you do not outlast the storm. You build to withstand it.
Life at the Edge
Despite the brutal climate, the people of Edgewarf are among the toughest and most tight-knit in all of Valain. They are hunters, net fishers, frost-foragers, and woodworkers. Their homes are reinforced with double stone walls and fur-insulated ceilings. Narrow tunnel-paths connect the homes in the worst months, dug beneath the snowline for safer passage.
They have learned to work with the land, not against it, to see the ice not as enemy, but as a warning.
In the short, bright summers, Edgewarf transforms. The village comes alive with fairs, solstice feasts, and boat races across the thawed lakes. Children sing traditional lake songs on the water’s edge, and elders tell tales of spirits that walk the ice with lanterns to guide lost souls home.
The Spirit of Edgewarf
Edgewarf is not loud, nor lavish, nor known beyond the maps of northern couriers. But it is honest. Its people know cold, and so they value warmth. They know loss, and so they celebrate life. They are shaped by storms and silence, by the ever present reminder that survival is a shared act, not an individual one.
Etched into the ice-scarred stone of the village’s central long hall is their solemn creed:
“The ice gives. The ice takes. We remain.”
North Slums
The Forgotten Ashes of War
Beyond the mountain shadows and frost-cracked passes of northern Valain, where the snow falls heavy and the air stings of rust and soot, there lies a place many do not speak of, The North Slums.
It is not marked on most maps. Travelers avoid it. Nobles pretend it never existed. But it stands still, battered and broken, a patchwork of lean-tos and stone skeletons half-buried in ash. For those who remain, the North Slums is not a home. It is a sentence they never chose.
Born in Chains
In the grim years of the Third Age, during the rise of the Self-Proclaimed Dwarven King, the North Slums began not as a settlement, but as a concentration camp, a prison in all but name.
Anyone who opposed the King Doren's decree, be they human, dwarf, or otherwise...was rounded up and marched north, beyond the reach of compassion. Rebels. Refugees. Dissidents. Survivors. They were shackled and dumped into an open basin surrounded by ice and stone, forced to build their own walls, then left to rot behind them.
The camp had no official name. The prisoners called it The North, and in time, The Slums.
After the War, What Remained
When the war finally ended, and the self-made king was overthrown, no liberation came to those in the North. By then, too many had died. Too many had been born behind the fences. The world had moved on, and the prisoners forgotten by both victor and vanquished, were left to fend for themselves.
Some left many couldn’t, No money, No family, No place else that would take them.
So they stayed, and what was once a prison became a broken village, stitched together from the bones of a battlefield.
Today, the North Slums is a scar that never healed, a place where smoke clings low and fires are never warm enough.
A Refuge for the Unwanted
In time, others came not as prisoners, but as exiles. Runaways, debt dodgers, outcasts, and outlaws. People who didn’t fit elsewhere. People who the world didn’t want.
They brought with them skills, stories, and trauma. They rebuilt what little could be rebuilt. A stone wall reinforced with scrap iron. A shrine made from shattered weapons. A tavern where the ale is sour but the stories are real.
And though most still call it the North Slums, within the fences, the locals call it simply: “Ashhome”
The Spirit of the North Slums
Make no mistake, life here is hard. The winters come fast and leave slow. Food is scarce. Work is dangerous. Crime is a constant shadow.
In the North Slums, no one cares where you came from. Only that you keep your word, keep your head down, and Keep the law away.
There are no lords. No banners. No lawmen.
But there are people. Real people, who have lost everything and still wake up the next morning ready to survive.
Marleme
Capital
The Blooming Heart of Valain
Nestled on the eastern edge of the Nerelli Rainforest, where the thick green canopy begins to thin and the jungle mist gives way to open sky, lies the lush, radiant city of Marleme. Alive with color, music, and joy, Marleme is often called “The City of Petals” by travelers and poets alike. It is one of the few cities in Valain where anyone is welcome, regardless of race, creed, or origin—a beacon of openness in a continent often known for its seclusion and guarded traditions.
A Living Tapestry of Cultures
Marleme is a vibrant, ever-moving city, with winding vine-laced streets, colorful cloth banners that flutter from rooftop to rooftop, and music that echoes from every corner, morning to midnight. Artisans, traders, scholars, and pilgrims from every part of Aetheria pass through its gates, and many end up staying, swept up by the city’s warmth and rhythm.
The inner city is a true melting pot, unlike much of Valain, which is often insular and tribal. In Marleme, Loxodon chefs cook beside human musicians, dragonborn dancers perform with Tabaxi drummers, and Hobgoblin alchemists trade with Dwarven jewelers. Every plaza is a celebration, every alley a story waiting to unfold.
And when night falls, Marleme glows like a constellation laid upon the earth. Bioluminescent moss lines the city’s stone walls, while enchanted lanterns sway like fireflies, bathing the streets in soft hues of blue, gold, and green.
The Rule of House Wormwood
Marleme is governed by the benevolent and wise House Wormwood, a noble Loxodon bloodline revered for their dedication to peace, life, and balance with nature. Unlike most noble houses, the Wormwoods do not rule from a throne, but rather guide through council, consensus, and sacred tradition.
The centerpiece of their leadership is the Wormwood Temple, a grand, ivy-covered structure that serves not only as a spiritual haven but as the heart of the city's cultural and political life. Its great central chamber is open to the public, filled with gardens, pools, and resonating chimes that echo with calming magic. The temple itself is said to be built on a place of old power, where the rainforest once sang with primal energy.
Each spring, during the Festival of Renewal, the temple and the entire city erupt in celebration. Flowers bloom overnight through enchanted seed rites, street performers fill every corner, and visitors from across Aetheria come to witness the magic of Marleme in full bloom.
The Founding of Marleme – A Forest’s Mercy
Long before Marleme was the glowing jewel it is today, the land it stands on was a battlefield between warring jungle tribes and encroaching settlers during the 5c of the Second Age. Amid the bloodshed, an ancient Loxodon mystic named Arvani Wormwood arrived with a vision of unity and healing. Guided by a dream from an ancient forest spirit, Arvani stood between the clashing forces and demanded peace—not with weapons, but with wisdom.
Legend tells that on the day the final battle was meant to take place, the jungle itself intervened. Vines rose from the earth to stop weapons mid-strike. Wild beasts gathered in silence, staring down both sides. The rain fell gently, and the earth hummed with a power so ancient it silenced all in its presence.
Arvani declared the spot sacred, and with the support of both sides, he planted the Heartseed Tree—a mystical seed given to him in the dream. Where it grew, Marleme began. A city of peace, for all people. A city born not of conquest, but of mercy, music, and magic. On 5c 032 Second age Marleme was founded.
The Spirit of Marleme Today
Modern Marleme still echoes with Arvani’s dream. Its people are passionate and free-spirited, their culture shaped by the belief that life is to be celebrated, not merely endured. Education, music, and hospitality are held as sacred values, and many young adventurers begin their journey here—drawn by the stories, the color, and the open arms.
But while Marleme is a city of light, it is not without shadow. Outside its walls, the rainforest stirs, ancient and wild. And some say the Heartseed Tree in the Temple gardens grows restless, as if remembering the blood once shed upon the land.
Still, within the city walls, the celebration continues.
Because in Marleme, every voice matters, every heart is welcome, and the city will always dance to the rhythm of life.
Delta Marsh
Capital
The Heart of Humanity in Valain
Tucked just northwest of Marleme, where the tangled rainforests of Valain give way to wide-open wetlands and fertile floodplains, lies the industrious city of Delta Marsh. As the largest human-led settlement in all of Valain, Delta Marsh stands as a monument to grit, growth, and perseverance—a shining example that hard work can tame even the wildest lands.
Here, the noble House Quinn governs not from a throne of gold, but from the very soil they worked with their own hands. The people of Delta Marsh are farmers, fishers, cultivators, and craftsmen, and they wear their labor like armor. The city hums not with songs or magic, but with the steady rhythm of boots in mud, carts on planks, and tools on wood.
A Working City, Built by Calloused Hands
Delta Marsh is no place for idleness. Its streets are lined with barley carts and fishmongers, its harbors filled with flat-bottomed boats and harvest barges. Raised wooden walkways crisscross over the murky ground, connecting homes, markets, and mills built on stilts above the marsh waters. The air carries the scent of wet earth, fresh grain, and roasted root vegetables, and the songs heard here are working chants and river ballads, not minstrel tunes.
The city’s identity is deeply woven into sustaining the continent—producing massive quantities of rice, vegetables, freshwater fish, and medicinal herbs that are traded across Valain and beyond. Delta Marsh is a lifeline, and everyone here knows that their labor feeds the world.
The Quinn Manor – Seat of the People’s Nobility
At the center of the city rises the Quinn Manor, a grand yet humble estate built with thick blackwood beams and red-tiled roofs, nestled atop a wide earthen rise known as The Dryback. Though stately, the manor is less a symbol of power and more a hall of collaboration and stewardship.
Here, House Quinn hosts emissaries from across Aetheria, negotiates new trade routes, drafts agricultural pacts, and oversees seasonal planting festivals and flood protections. The manor is also a gathering place for the people—a site of communal meetings, educational forums, and emergency refuge during seasonal surges in the marshes.
Founding of Delta Marsh – The Stubborn Seeds of Survival
The tale of Delta Marsh begins in the late Second Age, when the rainforests to the south were already dominated by scattered beast clans and dense tribal territories. Few dared to travel north into the sodden floodplains, believing the land too wet, wild, and unyielding to support any lasting settlement.
But then came Elias Quinn, a second-born son of a minor noble family in eastern Gibarra—a man with no titles, no lands, and no chance of inheritance. With little more than a mule, a small group of loyal followers, and a vision for something greater, Elias journeyed into Valain seeking a place where a name could be earned, not inherited.
Where others saw mud and ruin, Elias saw rich black soil, natural irrigation, and untapped bounty. He and his people built levees by hand, dug out their first rice paddies, and constructed shelters on stilts above the waterlogged ground. The first years were brutal—floods, fever, beasts—but the settlers endured.
The turning point came when Elias found a way to tame the floods, using ancient techniques learned from a wandering druid and local Lizardfolk. Through a system of sluices and earth walls, the marsh began to yield. Crops grew. Trade followed. And within decades, Delta Marsh bloomed.
Elias never claimed the title of lord. But when he died, the people he served named his family the House of Quinn, in honor of his unwavering commitment to building not just a city, but a future.
The Spirit of Delta Marsh Today
House Quinn continues to carry that legacy: nobles of the land, but never above the people. They walk the fields with their farmers, eat with their citizens, and govern with pragmatism and pride.
While some view the city as humble compared to the grand towers of Marleme or the fortified halls of Fort Astragoth, no one questions its importance. Delta Marsh feeds the continent, and those who dwell there take immense pride in being the backbone of Valain.
“Honor the Seed, Earn the Harvest”
A common saying in Delta Marsh, passed down from the early days of Elias Quinn. It still echoes in every field, every canal, and every deal brokered from Quinn Manor.
Delta Marsh is not just a city—it’s a promise.
That through patience, purpose, and hard work, even the wildest land can bloom.
Nessy
Nessy is a large village northeast of Delta Marsh, run by the Wormwood house. Nessy is a port town off the golf in the swamps; it is a place for travelers crossing the Derdeen Sea as a safe refuge and giving Marleme port access. Nessy is unique in that it is a Tortole ran village.
Zubi
The Roots That Refuse to Bow
Deep within the emerald canopy of the Nerelli Rainforest, where the sun filters through a ceiling of vines and the air hangs thick with mist and memory, rises Zubi, a village unlike any other in Valain.
Balanced high among the massive roots and sprawling branches of ancient jungle trees, and built alongside a roaring waterfall that splits the forest like a living blade, Zubi is as much a fortress as it is a home. Few who enter uninvited ever find their way out.
It is not a village of welcome. It is a village of strength.
From Tribe to Territory
Zubi was not always called a village. For centuries, it existed only as the Zubi Clan. A powerful tribal group known for their mastery of the jungle and their unmatched prowess in close-quarters combat. They lived in hidden encampments high above the forest floor, invisible to outsiders and unreachable to invaders.
When the tribes of the Nerelli were fractured and scattered during the Booming, the Zubi did not retreat they endured. And when the time came to rebuild, they did not return to the ground. They raised Zubi Village in the sky, woven through the trees, rooted in stone, perched beside thunderous falls, beyond the reach of fire or flood.
In recent years, Zubi has grown not just in number, but in recognition. What was once whispered about in tales of jungle ghosts and warrior blood has now become a recognized Noble House of Valain. This wasn’t granted by diplomacy or politics, it was earned through dominance, protection, and unshakable pride.
The Fearsome Peacekeepers of the Jungle
Zubi remains fiercely isolated. Humans and most outsiders are not welcome, and few who stumble into the rainforest are spared a warning, if they’re even seen again. The clan holds deep-rooted grudges against non-locals, born from centuries of exploitation, betrayal, and the loss of sacred lands.
Yet in the shifting balance of Valain’s future, Zubi has taken a tentative step outward. They have formed an uneasy alliance with the free city of Marleme, providing warriors to keep the jungle’s borderlands secure and silently eliminating threats before they ever reach the city walls.
To many, the Zubi are still ghosts of the wild. But to those who know better, they are the shield of the rainforest a force of discipline, loyalty, and terrifying precision.
A City in the Canopy
Zubi’s construction is a marvel. Homes are bound into the crooks of trees the size of towers. Walkways swing from vine bridges, reinforced with woven bark, resin, and bone. At the heart of the village, near the crest of the waterfall, stands the Root Throne—a living seat of wood and stone where the Zubi matriarch or war-chief governs.
Water from the falls feeds the village’s lifelines, powering simple machinery and spiritual shrines alike. The roar of falling water is constant, a natural heartbeat for those who live above.
Despite their ferocity, the Zubi are deeply spiritual. They believe their ancestors live on in the trees, watching through the leaves, speaking through the wind. Every warrior is trained to listen to the jungle before drawing their blade.
The Spirit of Zubi
Zubi is not a place of politics. It is a place of ancestral will. Their strength is not in numbers or gold, but in unity. In the jungle, you either hold together or you are swallowed whole.
Outsiders may see them as primitive. But to the Zubi, civilization is not how high your towers rise it is how deep your roots grow.
Carved into the bark of the central tree in their hidden shrine is the village’s oldest vow:
“We bow to no king. We bleed for no coin. We grow only for our own.”
Silver Watch
Capital
The Mile High Sentinel of the South
Far to the southeast of Valain, where sheer ocean cliffs rise like sharpened blades against the wind, stands Silver Watch, the famed Mile High City. Perched along the jagged coastline, this awe-inspiring settlement balances between peril and potential, its roots clinging to the stone as fiercely as its people cling to ambition. It is a place of salt-stained stone, soaring architecture, and sea-swept dreams a city shaped not by gentleness, but by survival.
A City Born of Wreckage
Silver Watch began not as a grand vision, but as a desperate campfire flickering on the edge of oblivion. The original founders were a band of castaways, their vessel wrecked along the treacherous cliffside during a storm that shattered both ship and spirit. With nowhere to go but up, they scaled the cliffs and dug into the rock itself, carving shelters from stone and driftwood. Many expected them to perish. Instead, they endured, and then they built.
Generations later, the cliffs that nearly claimed their lives now serve as the foundation of one of the fastest-growing cities in Valain. The vertical sprawl of Silver Watch rises in terraces and platforms, suspended walkways and cliffside elevators, a testament to ingenuity and resilience. What was once a broken refuge is now a beacon for bold traders, explorers, engineers, and outcasts who believe that greatness is worth climbing for.
House Tully — The Claw on the Wind
Silver Watch is governed by House Tully, a noble Tabaxi family whose ancestors were among the first to scale the cliffs and claim the heights. Agile, cunning, and endlessly ambitious, House Tully is both merchant prince and city steward, guiding Silver Watch not with soft words but with sharp instincts.
Their banner, a Roaring Lion adorned over the yellow Horizon is a symbol to their perseverance. House Tully does not rule from gilded thrones, but from wind-battered terraces and bustling trade halls, always with a keen eye on both the sea and the sky. They have forged alliances, crushed pirate threats, and built the city into what it is today: the premier southern port of Valain.
The Heart of Southern Trade
Silver Watch is a hub of commerce, culture, and calculated risk. Its cliff-tiered harbors, supported by reinforced platforms and ancient sea hooks, welcome vessels from Dornn, the Shattered Isles, and even the distant eastern kingdoms. It has become the largest trader of Dornnish products in all of Valain—offloading everything from crimson silk and saltstone to rare liquors and rune-etched steel.
Markets bustle day and night across the winding tiers, filled with goods, tongues, and traditions from every corner of Aetheria. Here, one might find a dwarven smelter beside a jungle-born apothecary, or a sea captain haggling with a skyship courier. The city is alive with movement, trade, and noise—held together by the rhythm of opportunity.
A City of Grit, Stone, and Sky
Life in Silver Watch is not easy. The city’s terrain is harsh, and its architecture clings to cliff faces like moss on stone. Towering windmills catch the sea breeze to power lifts and water pumps; reinforced rope bridges sway between districts suspended over sheer drops. Yet the people here wear their environment like armor. They are climbers, builders, and survivors—equal parts daring and driven.
There is little room for complacency on the cliffs. Whether unloading crates, scaling walls, or repairing wind-torn platforms, the people of Silver Watch know that to live here is to earn it every day.
The Spirit of Silver Watch
What truly defines Silver Watch is its soul: a community of wanderers, survivors, and dreamers drawn by the challenge and promise of something greater. It is a city of newcomers—of those cast out or cast away—who find in the heights a place to rise.
Unlike the courtly splendor of Marleme or the marsh-born grit of Delta Marsh, Silver Watch is built on ambition, risk, and reinvention. It does not boast ancient temples or sacred traditions—but it does promise one thing: a chance. A chance to climb. A chance to start over. A chance to build something unforgettable from the edge of the world.
“We were born in the wreckage. Now we rise in stone.”
A saying among the cliffborn folk of Silver Watch, etched into harbor walls and whispered in every tavern perched on the wind.
Silver Watch is not just a city—it’s a challenge.
One the bold are willing to meet.
Jade City
Captial
Jade City — The Sunborn Throne of Dornn
“Built by gods, ruled by light, and raised to touch the heavens.”
Rising from the heart of Dornn like a colossus carved by the very sun, Jade City stands not as a city, but as an empire of emerald stone and golden ambition. Towering over the land upon a 500-foot-tall foundation of sun-blessed stone, it gleams with unmatched splendor, drawing awe and reverence from all corners of Aetheria. This is the seat of power, the jewel of the south, the living heart of the Khafra Daora, the Children of the Sun—and rulers of Dornn.
It is said that when the gods first blessed the mortal world, they poured their favor into the land now called Jade City, willing it into glory. Whether myth or truth, none deny its magnificence.
An Empire Carved in Tiers of Power
Jade City is unlike any settlement across the continent. It is a layered kingdom, sculpted into three vast levels, each more elevated—both physically and politically—than the last:
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The Third Level ( The Sandstones )
The city’s base layer, nestled directly upon the vast stone foundation, is a sprawling and shadowed district. Here dwell the poor, the forgotten, the laborers who bear the city's weight literally and figuratively. The sun touches this level only in narrow shafts between jade pillars, but its people burn with their own quiet fire. Markets, foundries, and tenements stretch endlessly across this undercity, a dense warren of necessity and survival. It is said that some never leave the Deep Quarter in their entire lives. Though even here, the majesty of the Jade City looms above as a constant reminder of what lies beyond. -
The Second Level ( The Emerald Vein )
Above the shadowed base rises the living heart of Jade City a vast, radiant expanse of winding streets, suspended gardens, crystalline canals, and golden-domed marketplaces. This is where the majority of the population lives and thrives. Homes built of green-veined stone rest beneath arched causeways covered in hanging vines. Singing birds nest in the trees of terraced courtyards, and perfumed breezes drift through open plazas. Life here pulses with elegance and energy, a place where the arts, education, and commerce blossom. This level connects the people with power, the past with progress. -
The First Level ( The Celestial Crown )
Crowning the city like a temple on the peak of the world, the highest tier is a realm of breathtaking wonder and unassailable authority. Only the most powerful—nobles, dignitaries, foreign emissaries, and the bloodline of Khafra Daora walk its radiant halls. Here rise towers clad in sun-gold and jade, bridges carved with celestial glyphs, and great halls where rulers pass judgment and shape the fate of empires. It is from this level that Dornn is governed and its influence felt across the world.
The Khafra Daora — Children of the Sun
At the core of this monumental city reigns House Khafra Daora, a noble dynasty as ancient as the stone that upholds Jade City itself. Descended from what many believe to be god-blooded ancestors, they are revered not only as monarchs but as sunborn, chosen to rule by divine will.
Clad in robes of white, gold, and green, their presence is a symbol of unity and power. Their word is law, their gaze absolute. And while other noble houses rise and fall, the Khafra Daora have endured every age, war, famine, rebellion—burning ever brighter. Their rule is both feared and honored, their will shaping everything from imperial trade routes to continental alliances.
The Monument of the Age
Jade City is the largest standing structure in the current age, its scale beyond comprehension. From afar, it appears as a mountain sculpted by civilization. A massive stepped pyramid stretching into the heavens, its tiers wrapped in terraces, aqueducts, guard walls, and domed sanctuaries. In the sunlight, it shines like a beacon; in the moonlight, it glows with a faint inner luminance, as if lit from within by the sun’s memory.
Scholars, engineers, and mystics have studied its design for generations, calling it a living monument of both divine inspiration and mortal will. It is more than a city—it is a symbol. One that speaks of Dornn’s power, its faith, and its unyielding command over both land and people.
Legacy and Reach of the Empire
Jade City’s influence stretches beyond its walls. Its courts dictate law for hundreds of leagues. Its scholars write the histories taught in distant provinces. Its army, clad in emerald-scaled armor, stands as one of the most disciplined in Aetheria. From the deserts of eastern Dornn to the humid jungles of Valain, all pay tribute to the city on the sunlit stone.
Ships bearing the Jade Seal dock in every major harbor. Artisans across the realm strive to mimic the city’s craftsmanship. Even the rival courts of the North whisper in wary awe of its unstoppable expansion.
The Soul of the Jade City
Despite its grandeur, Jade City is more than opulence. It is a place of hierarchy and harmony, where every stone, every tier, every soul has its place in the sun. It is a city where ambition is forged from stone and legacy is etched into every step. It is a place where legends are born, and destinies ascend.
To live in Jade City is to serve something greater. To walk its streets is to feel history beneath your feet and eternity overhead.
“As the Sun rises, so does Dornn.”
Inscribed at the base of the Grand Sunspire, carved in goldleaf and jade.
Jade City is not just a capital—it is the soul of an empire.
A shining, immovable monument to the might and majesty of the Children of the Sun.
Dragon Barrow
The Gateway of the Sun Empire
Across the glimmering waters of the Jade Gulf, where saltwind and sunlight weave golden ribbons across the sea, stands Dragon Barrow. The proud sister city to the mighty Jade City, and the southern pulse of Dornn’s ever-growing empire.
If the Jade City is the heart of power, then Dragon Barrow is the lifeblood that feeds it, a city of sails and splendor, noise and motion, where the sea never sleeps and the horizon is always crowded with the silhouettes of ships.
Under the banner of House Khafra Daora, Dragon Barrow rises as Dornn’s maritime jewel: a beacon of color, culture, and commerce, built on salt, sweat, and sun.
The Gate to Dornn
Dragon Barrow is Dornn’s most vital link to the outside world. Nestled perfectly along the Jade Gulf’s eastern curve, it serves as the empire’s primary import hub, with its Deepwater ports drawing vessels from the Shattered Isles, Valain, and even as far east as the cloud-covered archipelagos beyond the Serpent Current.
Here, goods flow like tides, spices, silks, metals, timber, jewels, exotic creatures, and ideas. Dockhands work through the night. Lanterns line the piers like constellations fallen to earth. And in the distance, the great statues of the Daora ancestors watch over the sea, their gazes carved toward the horizon, where opportunity and risk sail side by side.
What enters Dragon Barrow feeds the empire and what leaves it carries Dornn’s might.
City of Color, City of Commerce
Dragon Barrow is a city of color, more so than even the towering layers of Jade City itself. Homes and markets are painted in sea-born hues, turquoise, coral pink, ochre, and deep jade green each shade a symbol of the house or merchant who owns it.
Canals run between merchant districts like veins, guiding flatboats beneath carved bridges and past open-air plazas where deals are struck in five languages and handshakes mean little without a stamped seal. Towering cranes hoist cargo, bells ring in rhythm with the tides, and the scent of roasted fish, spiced citrus, and salt brine fills the air.
Under the Eye of Khafra Daora
As part of the Sun Empire, Dragon Barrow is governed under the same laws, customs, and spiritual codes as its sister city across the water. The ruling family, House Khafra Daora, maintains firm control over every aspect of trade and policy from taxation and shipping permits to festival rites and military patrols.
The Scarab Order oversees justice and conduct, while emissaries from the Crimson Suns Guild are often stationed nearby to handle more sensitive matters be it smuggling, piracy, or political unrest.
Yet, for all its regulation, Dragon Barrow is a city of opportunity, especially for the ambitious and adaptable. Many who cannot climb the high steps of Jade City find their start here, carving lives from sea-stone and sails.
The Spirit of the Barrow
Despite its name, Dragon Barrow is not a place of death, but of motion, breath, and flame. It was named after the mythic resting place of an ancient sea serpent said to have curled beneath the bay when the world was young. Locals say the spirit of the dragon still sleeps beneath the water, and that its dreams stir the tides and beckon ships from beyond the known seas.
The city reflects that legend restless, powerful, and full of hidden depth. Its people are diverse, sharp-tongued, and resourceful, with sun-scorched skin and eyes that reflect the sea. They are not as polished as the elite of Jade City but they are just as proud, and perhaps even more free.
The Sister That Stands Alone
Though bound by law and blood to Jade City, Dragon Barrow is not a shadow. It is a reflection, yes, but one cast across the water, shaped by waves and storm, by trade and travel.
It stands because it must. It grows because it can. And it thrives because no empire survives without its ports.
To understand the Khafra Daora’s power, you must look not only to the towers of Jade City but to the wharves, warehouses, and wild, wave-borne avenues of Dragon Barrow.
It is the dockyard of dreams. The gateway of gold. The tide-wrapped sister of the sun-soaked throne.
Little Rock
The Quiet Pulse of the Sun Empire
Just a few miles inland from the bustling piers of Dragon Barrow, nestled among wind-sculpted sandstone hills and warm river groves, lies Little Rock—the smallest of the three Daoran cities, and the one most often overlooked.
And that, for the people of Little Rock, is exactly how they prefer it.
Where Jade City towers in glory and Dragon Barrow roars with motion, Little Rock hums with tranquility—a place where the wind whistles softly through sun-carved stones, where children fly paper kites from rooftop gardens, and where life moves not by decree, but by rhythm.
The City Beneath the Shadow
Little Rock exists in the shadow of power, quite literally. The sandstone ridges to the west rise just high enough that the spires of Dragon Barrow catch the morning sun long before the light reaches Little Rock’s courtyards. And while the larger cities teem with politics, trade, and ambition, Little Rock finds freedom in simplicity.
It was built not as a fortress or trade post, but as a resting place—a haven for administrators, scholars, and craftsmen of House Khafra Daora who sought a life apart from the clamor of the empire’s heart.
Here, the empire exhales. Here, there is room to think, to reflect, to live quietly without being forgotten.
A City of Quiet Industry
Though small, Little Rock is far from idle. Its people are renowned for their attention to detail, and the city is home to some of the finest artisans, calligraphers, glass-blowers, and jewel setters in all of Dornn. It is said that every official scroll from the Khafran court passes through Little Rock’s parchment house, and every ceremonial robe worn in the Jade Palace bears stitchwork that began in one of Little Rock’s hidden looms.
Its streets are narrow, its homes low and carved into the rock itself, often adorned with mosaics, flower boxes, and polished limestone screens that catch the afternoon light like shards of starlight.
Every year, the city hosts the Festival of Threads, where artisans from across Dornn come to compete not in wealth or speed, but in patience—celebrating craftsmanship over commerce.
Still Loyal to the Sun
Though it lives quietly, Little Rock is still firmly under the rule of House Khafra Daora, and its laws, traditions, and responsibilities mirror those of its larger siblings. The Order of the Scarab maintains a small outpost here, ensuring justice and order, and a Khafran-appointed governor—often a retired diplomat or scholar—acts as the city’s steward.
But unlike Jade City’s towering bureaucracy or Dragon Barrow’s frenzied merchant courts, Little Rock’s leadership is grounded. It is said that a citizen here can speak to their governor without appointment, provided they bring tea and speak truthfully.
The Spirit of Little Rock
The people of Little Rock take no pride in grandeur. Their pride comes from permanence. From focusing on the little things: a stone fit perfectly into a mosaic wall, a kettle carved by hand, a life lived with intention rather than ambition.
They are watchful, gracious, and deeply respectful of the land they’ve carved their home into. Where the winds carry dust to Dragon Barrow and gold to Jade City, they carry silence to Little Rock—and the people listen.
Shadow Band
Shadow band is a small free city in the far south west of Dornn, here the people fight for survival with the constant threat of the Khafra Daora's hold creeps toward them. Being so far from the rest of the world has made the people here distant and lost from the rest of the world.
Sandstone
Sandstone was once a Growing city that the rebellion against the Khafra Daora called home until the location of this city was leaked, and the army of the sun came with a vengeance destroying much of the city and killing hundreds to end the rebellion; now Sandstone is a shadow of what it was. The rebellion persists even after this grave defeat.
Rock Port
Rock port is Found on the most significant island west in the Derdeen sea. As the Nobel House, Lyena Works hard to turn this dead and abandoned island into a thriving city. Rock Port is the largest producer of seafood goods as the house has a very effective old trick. The island brings plenty as the ruins of the original city are quite the sight for sight seekers or adventures looking for lost goods and history.
leon
Leon, just west of Aeros. Leon is a thriving town built as a resting town for many sailors, traders, and travelers. The Leader of Leon is a half-elf by the name of Varin. Varin has no proper house and is a self-built man. Many respect him because his vision made Leon such a quickly growing place. Leon continues to grow and pull more and more people to not only drive his business but grow the community.
Aeros
Aeros is a free city with no true leader. It functions more as a trading town. Many people who visit Aeros are either stopping to collect and or drop off goods and then moving on or getting people from one island to the other. So, with the constant influx of people, the city thrives off of the lack of government, Aeros is constantly growing and has consumed multiple islands
Pirates Cove
Pirates Cove is not a Recognized town, but many know of pirates cove; the location of pirates cove is hidden as only those with the correct coordinates can navigate the treacherous waters surrounding the island. Here all kinds of sum plan, loot, murder, and honestly do as they please Here, it's a free for all, despite the lows it's safe from the Nobel houses that hunt them down.
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