Palewater

The Barony of Palewater is a soggy, muddy, and dreary region at the southwestern corner of Westridge. Most of the rivers and streams of the Duchy empty into these lowlands, and floods are common and destructive year after year. Few crops grow in the saturated ground, and even fewer villages have managed to remain. The ruling house of Palewater has only recently been raised to Lordship after the Second Orcish War, offered their choice to settle land for their bravery during the wars. Were it not for the Bernhardts accepting this particular unpleasant fiefdom, Palewater would likely be populated only by monsters and criminals. Ironically enough, it still does count criminals among its population. The Blackfort houses convicts from all corners of Westridge, and of those that are eventually released from the prison island, many choose to stay in the Barony of Palewater where their kind are better tolerated. It is ruled by House Bernhardt.

Palewater has no beautiful rolling hills like those of Midcost nor the unobstructed waters of the West Isles. Instead, Palewater is beset both by Defias coming in from Westfall, a perilously rocky approach to the coast by sea, and yearly lowland flooding that make settling both difficult and tenuous. While crops tolerant of saturated ground can be grown in Palewater, most of the region’s population choose to serve in skilled trades ranging anywhere from cobblers to fishermen.

Crook’s Cove is the crescent bay and namesake of the town at the most southwestern part of Palewater. It is here that the run down, slime blackened buildings of Palewater’s capital sit. Oil lamps burn day and night, as even with the sun out, the constant fog makes it difficult to see much without extra light. Every building sits on piers and stilts, kept high above the raging tide and murloc reach. The scent of Crook’s Cove is hardly that of fish - but rather one of sea slime and rot. Visitors are advised to keep their eyes where they belong and watch their step. It is a dreadful place, lacking cheer or hope. The people, however, have a quiet sense of determination and pride in their carefully maintained town. Considered a town of exiles, like the rest of Palewater, Crook’s Cove is a resting place for many who made mistakes in their lives. With hard work, a hard life is made worthwhile.

The Blackfort itself is a stout island keep originally constructed by the Arathorians many centuries ago for an unknown purpose. When the Empire left the southern kingdoms, the fort fell into disrepair until its discovery by pirates seeking a safe haven. For nearly 100 years, the Blackfort was a pirate fortress and bitterly defended as such. It was only until the Bernhardts used alchemical fire to burn them out that it was finally put back in noble hands. Originally, they intended to occupy it as their own home but found it entirely unsuitable for that purpose with how wet and filthy it was. Instead, iron bars, watchtowers, and reopened dungeons turned it into Westridge’ first and only operating non-military prison.

Life in the Blackfort is considered to be a terrible experience. Behind rusty iron bars, the inmates suffer. Bitter cold and hunger chews them to the bone during the winter, and the stifling heat of summer bakes them in filthy salt and odor. Those condemned to execution hang in cages above the jagged rocks awaiting their turn at the noose. Guards dressed in black cloaks patrol the sea-sprayed walls of the fort, subject to many of the same unpleasant conditions for their months long stays. Rodent and lice infestations are common, as is sickness and plague. Escape from the Blackfort is possible, and has been done, but rarely to much success after. The walls of the prison drop to a sheer cliff with violent surf below that would drown any man not endowed with water breathing spells. Even if one could breath underwater, the current would almost certainly drag a man out to sea after smashing his body against the razor sharp rocks. It is no surprise that escapes are rare and always assisted.

Fogmoore, at the northern coast of Palewater, is a small town settled by exiles and ex-cons. Most undesirables of Westridge eventually find their way here by choice or circumstance. Those who do are finally offered some measure of peaceful living, unbothered by scorn. Ironically, crime is nearly unheard of here. The people keep to themselves, plying their simple trades such as cobbling, fishing, or otherwise trying to forget their past lives. For their humility, they are left to their own devices, watched by Bernhardt and untroubled by public scorn or oppressive tax.

Despite this, Fogmoore is no pleasant place to live. Leaking roofs, rotting foundations, and washed out roads present a town that has fallen far beyond disrepair without the expertise to maintain it. The days and nights are punctuated by frequent storms and fog, while superstition runs rampant. Technology, magic, nobility, weapons, and anything resembling the outside world are met with revulsion. Even the Chapel of the Light has long been abandoned after the last priest threw himself off a cliff. Everybody in Fogmoore carries some burden, regret, or painful memories. Reminding all of them every day and night, visible in the distance, sits the dark silhouette of the Blackfort.

Loamhaven is literally the only major production town of Palewater. It is a walled town centrally located in the oldest part of The Mire. The hardy and dirty laborers of Loamhaven work six out of every seven weekdays to harvest peat by hand. Each morning, teams of men and women alike tromp off into the peatland to carve off sections of the valuable fossil fuel and load it onto sleds. The work is backbreaking and filthy, and dangerous by no small measure. Aside from the obvious dangers of a mire, murlocs populate the region in vast numbers unchecked by the forces of Bernhardt. An uneasy truce is maintained with the monsters by ritual sacrifice of livestock in exchange for safety while working. This truce is part of the reason Bernhardt has not intervened, as to do so would invite a wrathful swarm that would surely overwhelm and consume the townspeople.

The Mire is the vast wetland area that covers most of Palewater. Blanketed by thick layers of plant matter, it is a precious but perilous bounty of peat. Peat, a soil-like material of decaying plant matter, is widely used across westridge for gardening and fuel. Traveling through the Mire is difficult at best. Those without special knowledge of how to cross the often floating carpets of moss risk falling through the top layers into the water below, never to surface again. Those with more experience know how to test the ground for a solid surface first. Those with any decent sense merely stick to the established roads. In any case, The Mire is heavily populated by murloc colonies, many tens of thousands in number. These monstrous creatures, known to hunt lone humans as prey, live beneath the surface in the vast hidden lakes. Long written off as a fool’s errand, it is largely assumed that any attempt to exterminate them would be fruitless and costly. Thus, the area is marked with plenty of warning signs alerting travelers to the danger.

The Moaning Isle, located just off the coast from Fogmoore, is a rock formation featuring a pit cave entrance near the top opening into a sheer drop nearly two hundred feet. The mouth of the cave catches wind in such a way that it produces a near constant moaning sound even in a mild breeze. Aside from the unsettling noise it produces, the island is noted as a location of ill-repute and haunt. Strange happenings and lights seen atop the isle at odd hours of the night have lead locals to believe the rocks are haunted by the souls of those who cast themselves into the pit in despair. During the worst of storms, the Moaning Isle’s horrified wail is more than enough reason for residents of Fogmoore to shutter their windows out of fear.