Mournland

What was one the beautiful and vibrant nation Cyre is, today, the Mournland, ravaged by the Day of Mourning. The border of the Mournland is covered in a wall of clinging white mist that runs over a mile deep into the Mournland. This mist conceals deadly dangers, and even passing through it alive is a challenge in itself.

Within the mist lies Cyre. All the battles that raged on the Day of Mourning lie preserved there; the corpses of those who die in the Mournland never rot or decompose. The sky is a queer shade of orange streaked with green and gray. Things move that should not; undead lurk amid the endless battlefields and ruins. Glowing chasms breach the ground and vomit forth deadly gas, and worse things.

Spells and arcane magic have gained life and sadistic cunning and roam the land destroying what they may. Natural animals are warped and twisted; those that yet survive are horrible beyond belief.

Perhaps worst of all; those who linger too long in the Mournland find that their bodies no longer heal when injured. Tiny cuts and scratches multiply as one dwells longer. At last, a simple turned ankle or small cut is a death sentence as one’s life blood refuses to stem its flow from a wound.

For all its horror, the Mournland contains many spoils as well. The Cyran cities still stand, and their riches are, for the most, untouched. In particular, the most powerful and secret designs of House Cannith’s former headquarters still lay within its vaults. Salvage expeditions into the Mournland are frequent, and extremely deadly. Those who live sometimes return with kingly treaure. Many return raving mad, limbless, mutated, or do not return at all.

Rumor has it that the mad Warforged known as the Lord of Blades lurks in the Mournland, gathering followers to himself to strike against the biological races of Eberron. Unlike other races, the Warforged alone are unharmed by the Mournland’s disease, and use it as a safe haven to plot and gather their forces.

Dark rumours also speak of a great army of undead gathering in the Mournland as if controlled by some foul general.

Mournland

In The City Of Towers Epicurus