11の描かれた地方、縫い合わされたひとつの王国。

Glacier-clad peaks at the northern edge of the realm. The wind carries the breath of dead gods, and the wolves remember when the snow ran red.

A dark moor of black tarns and standing stones. Once the seat of a dragon-lord; now only their bones break the heather.

The deep elven forest, older than the kingdom itself. Travellers who stray from the path tend not to come back the same.

A windswept rock off the northern coast. Fishers, smugglers, and one very old lighthouse with a habit of going out on its own.

Rolling farmland and apple-orchards west of the capital. The bread is good, the ale is better, and the bandits know both.

The walled heart of the kingdom. Five banners still fly above the keep — one for each of the fragments the realm is held together by.

Where the last great battle was lost and won. The grass grows thick over the cairns, but ploughs still turn up rusted steel.

A bleached desert of bone-white dunes and sandstone tombs. Caravans hire two guides — one for the road, one for the things that follow.

A grey marsh where the rivers run slow and the reeds whisper of lost names. Most adventurers cut their teeth here — those that keep them.

Rocky badlands held by orc warbands and scarred by old sieges. Patrols ride in pairs; even the crows go cautious here.

A volcanic spine that smoulders day and night. Smiths walk for a season to forge a blade in its glow; few of them make the walk back.

The harbor heart of the Reach — Saltreach town and the wilds at its gates.

Turquoise reef flats off the south-west shore — crabs, eels, and things that sing from the surf.

Dense inland jungle, hot and humming — spiders in the canopy, boar in the brush.

Sun-baked highland groves to the north-west, claimed by harpies and the island lizardfolk.

The bright north-east reef shore — sirens, tide-things, and smugglers working the coves.

Flooded mangrove channels in the east — serpents, naga, and deeper things in the dark water.

Storm-grey shingle where the drowned marble city thins to the sea — and the gate to Lethos.

Half-flooded marble avenues and canals — the drowned heart of the college-city.

The city gone silted and reed-choked at the low edge, mud between the marble.

Bioluminescent grottoes glowing beneath the marble — cold light on still water.

The dry rooftops and observatory standing clear above the flood.

Canyons of flooded bookshelves — the great sunken library district.

Where the marble ruins meet the outer reef and the kelp forest.

The dark deep edge of the city, overlooking the black abyss and what stirs below.

A salvagers' camp of the living on the one dry cape — driftwood, bonfire and dredged relics, the college's cold ghost offshore.

The free landing cape of Goldhollow — gold dust on the tideline and the Kushai tombs shimmering inland.

Open gold desert strewn with caravan wrecks, where scarabs boil out of the sand.

Palms and cool water around the Sunspire Bazaar — the surface haven of the Reach's third island.

A field of steep Meroë pyramids and lion-headed sentinels — the honoured Kushai dead keep their kings.

The fallen Kushite capital, its gold-veined columns toppled and picked over by grave-robbers.

A green river-fed canyon cut deep into red rock — narrow, wraith-haunted, easy to be cornered in.

The great royal tomb-temple of the Candaces — a queen still holds court in death within.

Salt-and-bone flats under a merciless sun — the harshest ground above the vault.

The iron-and-gold doors of the dwarven hold, cut into the cliff — the descent into Goldhollow.

The high sun-terrace where an Apedemak colossus wards the surface — the endgame approach above.

The first descent past the wards — dwarven runework still glowing, the hold's air hot and metal-thick.

The great forge halls cut into living gold, channels of molten metal still running by their own old magic.

A dwarf-remnant holdfast in the undercity — the one safe hearth below, ringed by scrap-barricades.

The ore-tunnels, now Rustmaw goblin diggings — cook-fires, cages and stolen dwarven picks.

A vast dwarven hall of gold pillars, its honour-guard of golems and dead still standing their posts.

The magma level under the forges — molten constructs and fire-things drift over rivers of light.

Where the dwarven dead and the Kushai dead lie together — a tomb-shaft above links it to the Sun Pyramid.

The sapped breach the goblins tunnelled in through — the Rustmaw warcamp, and their warchief's totem-pit.

The warded inner vault of solid gold, elite constructs pacing before the shard's cold light.

The deepest floor, where a dwarven war-colossus fused with the Fragment's light keeps the last watch.

A cracked blue titan of ice, weeping meltwater into caverns that sing with cold.

A river caught mid-fall — pillars of blue ice where the water forgot to land.

The switchback climb into the cloud. Rimefolk lanterns mark the way; the wind argues.

Reindeer-moss under thin snow — the Rimefolk herds graze where the aurora walks.

The Rimefolk capital — hide tents, drum-fires and herd-pens under the dancing lights.

The standing circle where the drum-wardens read the lights. The cold reads back.

Black sand, beached longships and drift-ice — the only door to the Stormcrown Isles.

Nest-crowned storm-cliffs. The harpies kept the wardens’ messages once; now they keep the bones.

The open-air storm-temple — holy gold light through thunderheads, and wardens who never left their posts.

The highest spire, wreathed in lightning. The fourth Fragment burns at its peak.

Sky-gardens bent by the wind, tended by no one, blooming anyway around the great orrery.

The last living Skywarden bastion — a warm hearth in the storm, and the only bed above the clouds.

Lightning-wracked towers strung with brass. The storm lives here; visitors are weather.

Where the Windward Stair breaks through the cloud-sea — the first stone of the floating citadel.

Black basalt piers where the ash-ferry lands. The only foothold on a burning shore.

Grey drifts to the horizon, cut by rivers of dull orange. Nothing grows; something moves.

A dead metropolis of soot and cinder — its people are ash now, and they have not forgotten walking.

The last survivors' redoubt at the world's cinder — hearths against the dark, and eyes on the Maw.

Where the burned dead are stacked and never stay burned. The flames here answer to no hand.

A glass bridge over a lake of fire, laid by no one living. It rings underfoot like a bell.

Titanic ruined bellows still breathing heat — demons work the anvils, forging nothing but hunger.

Needles of cooled magma clawing at a sunless sky. The wind through them sounds like screaming.

A valley of dragon-bone and ash, bleached by old fire. The apex hunters den here.

The wound in the world — a crater of ash and void-light where the fifth fragment fell, and something followed.

Below the ash, the light goes wrong. Floating obsidian and cold violet fire mark the way down.

Shattered islands of black glass hang in the void, turning slowly. Do not look up for long.

A cavern with no walls, only distance. The void-kin nest in the dark between the shards.

A ring of singing stones drowned in violet flame. The song is old and it is not for you.

Pale blue lures drift like drowned lanterns. Each is a mouth. Each is patient.

A fortress of anti-stone raised by the burned dead's masters. Its gate has never once opened outward.

The bottom of the wound, where even the void-fire dims. The pressure here is memory.

The exact place the fragment struck the world. The tear still bleeds light that should not exist.

A ritual ring around the fifth fragment's resting place — and the throne of the thing that guards it.

It opened when the fragment fell. It has been watching the surface ever since. It is awake now.