Located in the central lowlands, Kardeth is a land of foggy hills, sacred groves, and fertile valleys. It is considered a spiritual heartland of the Woven Path, with many great shrines and cairn-fields nestled between rivers and tree-covered knolls. The Kinholds of Kardeth are deeply superstitious, and nearly every village maintains a Threadbinder year-round. Stone paths and totem-posts crisscross the land, marking pilgrim trails. 

Ashford lies at a shallow ford of the Veilwater, where the river narrows enough for wagons to cross in dry months. A handful of cottages cling to the muddy banks, their thatch stained grey by smoke and mist. The ford is marked by blackened stumps of ash trees long since felled, giving the hamlet its name.

The people of Ashford live hard lives, scratching crops from tired soil and ferrying travelers across the ford when they can. A low stone ridge nearby serves as their holy site, where the dead are burned and their ash scattered into the soil. To the villagers, this rite is sacred, and they guard it fiercely. Outsiders are met with suspicion, for Ashford has little to spare and less to trust.

Brannholt lies on the edge of the lowland fields where the ground begins to soften into fen. Timber cottages stand on raised earthworks, linked by plank walkways during the wet months when the ground turns to mud. The village is small but hardy, its folk living by farming rye and barley, cutting peat, and tending small herds on the drier hills nearby.

The air often carries the smell of damp earth and smoke from peat fires, and crows circle the fields in flocks, feeding on the furrows. Brannholt has long been called “the broken bough” in local speech, a memory of the feud that first sent its founders from their kin. The village bears that reputation still: a place of quiet endurance, cautious of strangers, and always watchful of the forest that presses close around it.

Dornhollow is built around a shallow hollow in the earth, where a natural spring seeps up to form a cold pool. The cottages are set in a ring above the hollow, their thatched roofs darkened by constant mist. The spring is both boon and bane: it keeps the village supplied with clean water year-round, but the damp brings sickness in long winters.

The people here are reclusive, tending to their herds and carving wooden charms that they hang on every lintel. Fires smoke heavily in the hollows, and strangers often find the air close and uneasy. Yet Dornhollow is known for its carved talismans, which are traded in nearby villages as wards against ill fortune.

Drevskar clings to the rocky rise where the lowlands climb toward the high forest. Its homes are built from stone rather than timber, with heavy slate roofs that withstand the harsh winds that sweep down from the hills. The sound of axes echoes here in every season, for the people of Drevskar make their living by felling timber and hauling it to the river.

The village is a place of constant labor: oxen dragging sledges, smoke rising from saw pits, and stacks of logs seasoning for trade. Though life is hard, Drevskar folk are known for their blunt honesty and quick tempers, like the axes they swing. Visitors often find the place noisy and rough, but no one doubts its importance when timber is needed.

Haskirn sits on the edge of the moors, where rolling fog drifts over heather and stone. The village is a scatter of low cottages with turf roofs, built close together for warmth against the constant wind. A single stone tower, long since crumbled at the top, stands at its edge, used now as a watch post.

The people of Haskirn herd sheep on the moors and cut stone from shallow pits. Their wool is coarse but warm, and their stone is used for cairns and low walls across the region. Visitors often call Haskirn bleak, yet its folk are proud of their endurance and the quiet beauty of the moors they call home.

Kaer Draebjorn rises from the cliffs of the Draemyr Peaks, a dark-walled keep built into the mountain itself. Its towers are stout rather than lofty, often hidden in cloud or snow, and the narrow road leading up to its gate is little traveled. The fortress is functional, not ornate, its heavy gates and thick walls showing the Bear School’s preference for strength over polish.

Inside, life is quieter than stories suggest. The training yard is scarred from use but seldom crowded, the sound of sparring echoing across empty stone. A single forge provides the weapons and armor the school favors, kept hot by a small crew of smiths. The great hall is plain, its benches worn smooth, its banners faded by smoke. There are enough Witchers and students to keep the keep alive, but much of the fortress remains empty.

Kaer Draebjorn is not a place of pageantry. It endures as a fortress of discipline and survival, where Witchers of the Bear train in silence, prepare for the road, and return with the trophies and scars of their hunts.

Karsved lies at the fork of two trade paths, making it a waystation for travelers and herders alike. The village has more inns and stables than most, though its buildings are worn from heavy use. The land nearby is rocky and thin, better for goats than crops, and so the villagers trade food and hides for what they cannot grow.

Karsved is known for its lively market square, where traveling merchants set up stalls, and news from distant places is exchanged over mugs of sour ale. It is less insular than many nearby settlements, but its openness makes it vulnerable to raiders, and every household keeps a spear near at hand.

Ostmere straddles the marshlands that stretch east of the Veilwater. Its cottages are raised on wooden pilings, connected by walkways above the reeds and black water. Boats serve as wagons here, carrying peat and fish through the narrow channels. The air is thick with the sound of frogs and the buzzing of insects in summer.

The folk of Ostmere are marsh-born, quiet and secretive, moving easily across the fen where outsiders stumble and sink. They trade peat, smoked fish, and marsh herbs prized for medicine. Though their lives seem precarious, Ostmere has endured for generations, its people bound to the water and mist.

Skarvek rises where the lowlands meet a series of broken ridges. The cottages cluster in a narrow valley, smoke drifting up against dark cliffs. The soil is thin and stony, and the villagers scrape by on hardy crops and goat herding. A wooden palisade runs along the ridge path, less against armies than the wolves that haunt the rocks.

Skarvek has a reputation for hardiness and suspicion. Outsiders are rare here, and when they come, they are met with watchful eyes. Yet the people are fiercely loyal to their kin and have a long tradition of skilled stonemasons, shaping the very ridges that hem them in.

Thalvog sits on the edge of a long ravine carved by an ancient river named Veythrin. The village is strung along the rim, with narrow bridges spanning the gorge where water still runs deep below. Homes are built from dark stone quarried from the ravine walls, giving the place a severe and weighty look.

The people of Thalvog are known for their superstitions: they believe voices can rise from the gorge, carrying messages from the dead. At night, candles often burn along the ravine edge, left as offerings to lost kin. Though outsiders scoff, the Thalvog folk are steadfast in their rituals, and their village is considered a somber but sacred place.

Tormyre lies in a valley where thunder often rolls between high cliffs, giving the settlement its name. The cottages are built from heavy timber, their roofs pitched steep against the constant storms. A watchtower crowns the cliff above, used to light warning fires when raiders are spotted crossing the lowlands.

The villagers are weather-hardened and loud-voiced, with a culture of song and tale told over roaring hearths. They herd cattle on the valley floor and carve charms from storm-felled trees, said to hold the strength of thunder. Though life here is harsh, Tormyre folk are spirited and proud, always ready to stand shoulder to shoulder when danger comes.

Velbrunn rests in a mist-choked river valley, where the Veilwater bends slow and wide through black pines and pale reeds. The cottages form a loose ring around a moss-covered hall, their thatched roofs dripping with fog that never seems to lift. Wooden walkways cross patches of sodden ground, and the constant trickle of water fills the air.

The village is quiet, almost brooding, its people cautious and close-knit. Fishing, peat-cutting, and small fields provide what little sustenance they can manage. The Veilwater is both lifeline and burden: it nourishes the settlement yet often floods its banks, and many in Velbrunn speak of the river as if it were a living thing to be appeased.