Vaurholm / Erskaad / Drasven
Vaurholm / Erskaad / Drasven
The Land of Forgotten Oaths
Vaurholm (northern dialect)
Erskaad (eastern dialect)
Drasven (southern dialect)
“The Shattered North”
“The Promised Grave”
No one agrees on the name. That, more than anything, speaks to the state of this land.
Once temperate, the entire region was thrown violently northward during the divine upheaval that ended its theocracy. Now, it is a realm of bitter cold, snow-laced ruins, and broken cities half-swallowed by ice. Roads collapse into frozen lakes. Shrines lie shattered under heavy drifts. In some places, winter seems to hold not just the land—but time itself.
The people are scattered across makeshift shelters, ruined temples, and abandoned towns. Some warm their hands over sacred braziers, still burning from a forgotten age. Others live in tents atop former sanctuaries, using shattered altars as windbreaks.
No borders exist. No maps are current. And no one rules.
This is not a land of heroes. It is a land of motion, desperation, and survival at all costs.
When the people rose up and overthrew the clerical regime, they did so with fire and fury. The gods were silent. The priests were not. Entire armies of zealots clashed with angry mobs. Divine magic turned the skies blue with flame—and then everything changed. The continent lurched northward, the gods vanished again, and what was left was a frozen grave filled with ash, memory, and regret.
Now, the people keep moving. Partly to stay warm. Partly because no one knows what to do next.
You can tell a Vaurholmer by the way they bounce on the balls of their feet—even while speaking. Their speech is rhythmic, almost like a song. Their eyes are wide and alert. They know how quickly everything can fall apart.
Morality here is a matter of timing. Steal if you must. Fight if you can. Survive, no matter what.
There is no government.
Small groups form—bands, camps, roving tribes—but nothing holds. Attempts at leadership are met with mistrust. Some enclaves are ruled by powerful individuals who take charge through force or charisma. Others operate on mutual aid and shared suffering. Both fall apart eventually.
Old laws are etched into the walls of ruined temples. No one reads them. The only law that remains is: don’t freeze, don’t die, don’t trust promises.
Broken oaths hang in the air like breath in the cold. Some believe the gods are watching. Others believe the gods are dead. Most simply don’t care.
Deep scars remain between former clerics and the descendants of rebels.
New cults rise constantly—some peaceful, others violently seeking to “restore balance.”
Warbands form and dissolve like stormclouds, often driven by rumor and desperation.
The land itself is starting to stir. Strange lights, voices in the snow, and whispers of old gods returning.
The only widely practiced competition across the fractured territories is Rat Ring, often called The Rat Races. Each participant must bring their own rat to compete. Some trap wild rats. Others breed and train their own. A rare few whisper of dark rituals or polymorphing trusted allies into rats for the race.
The reigning champion is a quiet, dangerous figure known only as The Boss, head of the most influential crime syndicate in the region. His rat, Wick, has never lost a race. No one knows how. And everyone has a theory.
Popular rumors include:
Wick is a reincarnated demigod of swiftness, reborn as a rat to claim vengeance.
The Boss sacrifices a rival before each race to empower his rat.
Wick has been alive far too long to be natural—some say she’s undead.
The Boss uses psionic control to force other rats to lose or freeze mid-race.
Wick is not a rat at all, but a cursed lover, trapped in fur until she wins one hundred races.
Bets are high. Cheating is rampant. Loyalty means nothing. The only constant is that Wick always wins.
Vaurholm has no government, so diplomacy is impossible. Most nations treat it as a humanitarian crisis—or a resource-rich frontier.
Tolerated:
The Squirrem – Sends limited aid, though avoids direct involvement.
Carnithal – Occasionally sends performers, artists, or food relief—more out of pity than politics.
Allied or Friendly:
None. Vaurholm cannot form alliances. Some independent factions do trade with outsiders on a case-by-case basis.
At Odds With:
Orvith – Views Vaurholm as a cautionary tale of failed rebellion. Warns its citizens never to emulate its “collapse.”
Kaelvira – Regards the region with contempt. They believe survival without structure is meaningless.
Tarsendral – Prohibits travel to Vaurholm entirely. The psychic instability of the region is seen as a threat.
Drakhalm (The Pirates) – Occasionally raid isolated camps, though often find nothing worth stealing.
Drenvalis – Disapproves of the chaos, and warns against trade or travel there. Several couriers have vanished in its ruins.
Orvayn – Holds complicated feelings. Some see Vaurholm as a failed sibling. Others feel obligated to help—but can’t agree on how.