The continent of Tenroha unfurls as a storied wilderness, a shifting mosaic of jagged peaks, sun-drenched lowlands, and wind-swept plateaus of the high country. To the south lie the elven lands of Myrkvier, an ancient, shadow-swallowed expanse where the trees are said to breathe and the sunlight rarely finds the moss-encrusted floor. Magic is the breath of the forest and can be felt like a mist permeating the very soul. This beauty and danger stands in stark contrast to the frozen glacial desolation of the northern frontier, where the land yields to no master. To the west, the temperate coasts stretch in an unbroken line of towering cliffs and white sand beaches, spanning nearly three thousand leagues to a familiar distant eastern shore. To traverse this realm from the twilight depths of the elven woods to the perpetual frost of the north is a journey of eighteen hundred leagues, and the Ocean of Sorrows surrounds it all.
Spanning the heart of this expanse lies the spine of the land. Beginning a thousand leagues from the western shore, the world gives rise to the Attikì Mountains. The range bisects the land, and is home to two-thirds of the dwarven population. They carved enormous cities within the mountain, and hundreds of mines pockmark the entire range.
Until the time of the Great Rising, it was merely a humble range that split the continent from north to south. Now, it stands as a testament to ancient power: a colossal barrier of stone with faces sheer and polished as the walls of a fortress, rising to unnatural heights that pierce the very heavens.
With the soaring of the Attikì, the peoples of the western plains, once vibrant threads in the world's trade, were severed from the reach of the sun-drenched lands. Cut away by that impenetrable stone, they were left to the silence of their own horizon. Now, the goings-on beyond the mountain fortress are shrouded in shadow, a fading memory to the rest of the world and a mystery that even the boldest scholars cannot unravel, locked behind a barrier that neither merchant nor marauder can hope to scale.
Where the southern tip of this great range meets the sea, the Ocean of Sorrows spews forth a volcanic archipelago: a jagged chain of fire and ash where dragons make their nests. These island chains stretch far and wide along the southern shore, their smoking peaks serving as a scorched warning to any who would sail too close to the edge of the known world.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
In Tenroha, lakes, rivers, and other landmarks remain unnamed until a time when something of importance happens within its gaze. Deep within the northern recesses of the Attikì, where the peaks pierce the heavens, a hidden spring pours forth its bounty. Joined by the runoff of ancient snows, it births the River Quoe. This majestic vein of water, named after a traveling bard, surges southward, tracing the base of the smooth mountain wall like a silver ribbon before veering sharply eastward at West Port, the westernmost settlement of man, a full day's march from a dwarven city. From there, it snakes across the heart of Tenroha, a winding serpent of blue that finally empties its silts into the Ocean of Sorrows within the towering gates of the yet-unnamed capital city of men.
East of the impenetrable Attikì, the land breathes in vast, open stretches before rising again into the Crescent Mountains. Situated a hundred leagues from the Great Wall’s polished face, this range forms a massive, silver arc that curves two hundred leagues toward the northern frontier, shielding and cradling the lowlands like a hunter’s bow.
Standing apart from this curve, another river traces a path for a hundred leagues to the southeast of where the Crescent begins, separating two solitary titans that pierce the clouds. At their feet, the land gives way to a deep and silent lake, its waters stilled by the massive, toppled ruin of a fallen peak. From this mountain mere, the Kilgor River earned its name after a battle long forgotten and spills forth, carving a path through the rocky foothills. It winds for a hundred leagues toward the southlands before its waters are swallowed by the River Quoe, joining that majestic serpent on its long journey toward the Ocean of Sorrows at the city port of Oaken Meadow.
Eastward still, across the rugged Highland Steps, a sister river descends from the frostbitten frontier of the north. As it cuts through the high stone, the channel cleaves in two, earning the name of Serpent’s Tongue as the twin streams race at an even pace toward a sheer precipice. There, they cascade into a hidden basin, rejoined in a roiling lake before drifting onward to find the River Quoe.
The cliffs encircling this pool rise like a vast, natural amphitheater, where the roar of the falls is caught and thrown back by the stone. In this hollow of eternal resonance, the village of Echo has taken root; a place where every whisper is mirrored by the cliffs, and the land itself never truly falls silent.
There are countless tales yet untold, and places to discover. Join us now as we embark on a quest or two to see for ourselves the vastness of this land.
