Arastéra is a vast and richly varied realm, where ancient magic stirs beneath every stone and the land itself seems to breathe with untold stories. From the sun-scorched desert steppes where nomadic tribes trace the paths of their ancestors, to the deep, mist-shrouded jungles pulsing with primal life, each region bears the mark of its people and their traditions. In the secluded village of Zath’Kora, nestled among sacred groves and hidden by thick canopies, wolf-shifters commune with the spirits of the wild, practicing a quiet magic bound to the rhythms of the natural world. High above in the Thundral Spine, the cliff-carved city of Dravathyn clings to the mountains like a hawk to its perch, its eagle-shifters soaring through icy winds in service of sky and stone, guardians of ancient wind-bound rites and secrets.

Deep in the north lies the Mournwood Expanse, a twisted forest of black-barked trees and ever-hanging mist where sunlight rarely breaks through. The air hums with old magic, and ruins lie half-swallowed by vines and silence. Among borderfolk and travelers, tales speak of a crimson-scaled dragon known as the Fire-Touched, said to guard the forest’s heart with molten eyes and breath like a storm of flame. Whether spirit, beast, or curse, none who seek him return unchanged. Even the beastfolk of Zath’Kora whisper of the Mournwood with caution, calling it a place where the earth remembers blood.

Far from these sacred heights and hidden groves lies Blackharrow, a choking sprawl of smoke and shadow where ambition grinds louder than morality. Built along the banks of the polluted Ironweave River, Blackharrow fuels the continent with its forges and factories—at the cost of its soul. It is a city of contrasts: opulence and rot, power and poverty, progress and corruption. And yet, it is only one of many. Across Arastéra lie cities whispered about in legend—hidden under the waves, lost in the shifting sands, or suspended among the branches of colossal trees. Some are beacons of forgotten knowledge or arcane mastery; others are little more than ruins consumed by time and war. Though divided by distance and belief, each civilization plays a role in the delicate, volatile balance that holds Arastéra together—a world teetering between reverence and ruin.


Iᴍᴀɢᴇ ɪs ᴀ ʟɪɴᴋ Tucked deep within the emerald veil of Arastéra’s southern jungles, Zath’Kora is a village shrouded in secrecy and reverence. Hidden from the outside world by dense foliage, winding spirit-paths, and natural illusions woven by the elders, the village is nearly impossible to find without a guide—or a calling. It rests in a sacred clearing ringed by towering, ancient trees whose roots rise like the ribs of the earth, cradling the village in a protective embrace. The air is thick with the scent of moss, earth, and flowering vines, and soft, bioluminescent plants glow gently after dusk, lending the village a dreamlike, otherworldly quality.

Zath’Kora is home to a reclusive people descended from wolf-shifters, known for their deep spiritual bond with nature and the ancestral spirits that dwell within the jungle. Their way of life is rooted in harmony, guided by omens, celestial movements, and the voices of the forest. Homes are crafted from living wood, shaped without harm using old magic that coaxes trees and plants into shelter. Rituals are held in the Heartgrove, a sacred space marked by a stone altar entwined with luminous vines where offerings are left and communions take place. The villagers live communally, guided by the Spiritseers, seers and shamans who interpret visions and keep the balance between the physical and spirit worlds. Outsiders are rarely welcomed, and when they are, it is with cautious observation and the understanding that Zath’Kora protects its secrets fiercely. Though quiet and peaceful, the village’s stillness holds power—an ancient, feral magic that sleeps beneath the roots, watching and waiting.


Dravathyn is a city of rugged grandeur, perched high among the craggy peaks of the Thundral Spine, a mountain range that pierces the sky like jagged blades. Built into the very cliffs, its architecture merges seamlessly with the stone, with buildings carved from sheer rock faces and connected by suspended bridges and winding paths. The city’s heart, Aerie Plaza, is an expansive, open space that serves as a meeting ground and ceremonial site, surrounded by towering spires where the city’s leaders and guardians reside.

Dravathyn thrives on its unique relationship with the skies. Its people are expert mountaineers, falconers, and aerial navigators, and eagle shifters play an integral role in its society. These shifters, known as the Skybound, are revered not only for their ability to patrol the vast skies but also for their spiritual connection to the heavens. They are often seen launching from Dravathyn’s Skyreach Pinnacle, a sacred tower that overlooks the surrounding valleys and is crowned with wind-carved sculptures of great eagles.

The city’s economy revolves around mining precious metals from the mountains, crafting intricate tools and jewelry, and trading with lowland settlements for food and textiles. Dravathyn’s isolation fosters a fiercely independent spirit among its people, yet they are also known for their unshakable loyalty to one another and their readiness to defend their highland home from external threats.

Legends tell of a hidden chamber beneath Dravathyn, The Windvault, said to house ancient relics tied to the origin of eagle shifters and their bond with the winds. Few have seen it, but its existence adds an air of mystique to this already extraordinary city.


Blackharrow is the iron heart of Arastéra’s industrial machine—a sprawling, smoke-choked city where the sun is a myth and the streets never sleep. Built in jagged layers along the poisoned banks of the Ironweave River, the city exudes grime, ambition, and desperation in equal measure. Towering smokestacks belch black clouds into a permanently gray sky, casting an eternal twilight over cobbled alleys and rusted rail lines. The air is thick with soot, the scent of burnt oil and metal clinging to every surface. Entire districts are devoted to the relentless churn of production: hissing factories, clanging foundries, and refineries that work around the clock, their glow turning the night into a dull orange haze.

Life in Blackharrow is a brutal hierarchy. The lower wards, like Ashen Row and The Shallows, teem with overworked laborers, petty thieves, and orphan gangs just trying to survive. Disease spreads as fast as rumors, and clean water is a luxury only the rich can afford. Above it all sits the Guild Promenade, a gilded illusion of civility where corrupt guild leaders and magnates sip aged brandy while deciding the fates of thousands. The Shadowspire, the city’s towering seat of power, looms over every quarter like a blackened fang, its influence stretching into every factory, brothel, and back alley. Blackharrow is a city where gold flows uphill and blood runs down, where rebellion simmers in the gutters, and where magic—once sacred—is bought, sold, and broken in backroom deals. It is a place of invention and exploitation, brilliance and brutality, where hope flickers dimly—but never quite dies.


The Mournwood Expanse is a vast, brooding forest that stretches across Arastéra’s northern reaches like a wound that never healed. Its trees rise like blackened spears into a perpetually mist-choked sky, their trunks gnarled and twisted, their branches forming a canopy so dense that sunlight barely touches the forest floor. The air is heavy with damp rot and the metallic tang of old magic. Vines creep like veins over fallen statues and forgotten altars, remnants of a civilization that vanished without a trace. Birds do not sing here. Instead, the woods murmur with strange rustlings, half-heard whispers, and the low, echoing growls of something that moves between the trees but is never seen. Even the beastfolk of Zath’Kora speak of the Mournwood in hushed tones, calling it a place “where the earth remembers blood.”

Among the scattered border settlements, tales abound of a crimson-scaled beast who stalks the forest's heart—the Fire-Touched, a feral dragon shrouded in ash and legend. Said to have eyes like molten gold and a breath that scorches the mist into steam, he is both guardian and warning, a living omen wrapped in muscle and flame. No one agrees where he came from—some claim he was born from the forest’s own grief, others say he is the last of a cursed bloodline—but all agree he is territorial, unpredictable, and utterly untamed. Children are told never to wander near the Mournwood’s edge, for if the Fire-Touched sees you, he does not forget.

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Pub: 14 Apr 2025 20:38 UTC

Edit: 17 Apr 2025 14:57 UTC

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