Ravnsríki

Ravnsríki (pronounced RAVNS-ree-kee, with rolled 'r's) is Raven's Realm. It is the home of Humans whose customs and religious beliefs strongly resemble those of the Old Norse from 1500 years ago. The kingdom is an inherited monarchy ruled by a king and advised by court advisors. The capital is Ravnborg (Raven's City).

Ravnsríki lies in the middle of three kingdoms jutting out in the Norðrlönd Peninsula in the Norðrsær (North Sea). To the northwest lies the Dwarfinn Kingdom of Dûrgath, and to the southeast lies the Aelfinn kingdom called AEldoria. Sitting in the westernmost part of Ravnsríki is a place called 'Hel' based on the myth about Hel, daughter of Loki, and her domain inhabited by Dragons. About a hundred years ago, the Wyverns pushed the Humans back to the Helsgaard Plateau and vanished during a conflict. Their disappearance made them into tavern tales and nighttime stories for the following generations.

The chief industry exports are food (grains and cattle) and lumber. They clear the trees to make room for farms and ranches. King Valdissen aspires to export warrior defense to the whole Norðrlönd Peninsula.

Located in the western part of Ravnsríki is an area known as Hel—a volcanic plain with a cavernous labyrinth rumored to house Wyverns. The Wyverns haven't been seen for a hundred years, but there are growing reports of very large bats flying at night and missing cattle. Relative peace has existed between the Wyverns and the Humans for the last hundred years. As Humans migrate and expanded their dominion over the land ruled by King Valdissen, known as Ravnsríki, the Wyverns chose to move away from the encroaching human settlements, preferring avoidance over conflict. Until recently, human expansion in the valley, which the Wyverns call the Verdant Valley and the Humans call Helsgaard Frontier, was non-existent. Peace reigned in Helsgaard and the surrounding areas.

Hel is geologically unique in that it has active volcanic flows with large volcanic caverns and a lush valley to the east. This suited the Wyverns as the temperatures in the Verdant Valley are relatively temperate, occasionally snowing, so the Wyverns keep to the caverns in the winter and harvest deer and elk in the lush forest the rest of the year, building up fat stores in their massive tails to hold them through their winter hibernation.

Further east of the forest, a sharp wall rises up to the Helsgaard Plateau 1500 feet above the valley floor named the Western Helsgaard Wall. Over the years, a narrow animal trail had been carved out as animals migrated between the cooler summer plateau and the warmer winter valley. Even further east of the plateau lies the Eastern Helsgaard Wall—a near-vertical cliff completely unnavigable except by flight, and for one trail that is easy to go down and impossible to go up. This puts the plateau in a relatively safe location, as the only access was from the northern mountains and the southern forests.

A small sea was far to the south of Hel and the Helsgaard Frontier (Verdant Valley). Recently, humans built a small fishing port town there called South Shore. Since the scouts discovered Hel and reported the northern areas to be uninhabitable, the humans didn't venture too far from the port, which suited the Wyverns. 

To the west of Hel lies a high desert with scrub vegetation inhabited by small animals such as rabbits and coyotes. This area is unsuitable for Wyvernkind. Beyond that lies the Ironroot Mountains, a rugged range occupied by the Dwarfinn folk.

To the north of the Helsgaard Plateau, another sharp, mountainous, tree-covered cliff rises to complete the lush valley. Past that plateau are very tall mountains with their eternally snow-capped peaks. A group of humans are known to live in relatively lower elevations in a place called the Aethel Monastery. They never ventured into the valley, living simply off the gardens they maintain and the elk they harvest from the forest and focusing on philosophy, telekinesis and other things that don't concern hungry Wyverns.

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Aeldoria

Aeldoria is the home of the Aelfs. The Aelfs are typically taller, and 98% have platinum blonde hair and are very slender. This leads to extreme agility and grace as they move through the forest. They excel at archery and mystical medicines, including herbalism and no-touch healing (known in the Far East as Reiki).

The government has a king appointed by the Council of Elders, which operates out of the capital, Eryn Lasgalen. It comprises the twelve wisest elders from the local cities/towns/regions elected by the local populace to represent them. The Council is politically divided between "conservors," who want to keep things as they are and remain isolated from Humans, and the "progressors," who want to make progress toward peace and cooperation with Humans. As a result of the two factions, the king is usually a representative of the majority of the Elders.

As a rule, Aelfs are very elegant and strongly emphasize protocol and etiquette. Their speech is grammatically perfect, and they look down on the common rendition of language. They are universally bilingual, speaking the Aelfinn tongue and the common tongue of Humans and other races.

This leads to a feeling of superiority and supremacy over the Humans.

Sadly, the 18-year war destroyed their economy due to restrictions on legitimate trade. Their exports are medicinals, healing potions, healing services, and finely crafted swords, all of which were embargoed by the Humans during the war.

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Kingdom of Dûrgath

Dûrgath (pronounced DOOR-gath) is a dispersed community of several cities, each operating as meritocracies, with the most skilled Dwarf claiming the title of Clan Leader. The High King, Durgrin Ironbrow, rules from Thunderstrike and is advised by a council of Elders, with representatives from each of the Clan's around the realm. These representatives are the most experienced and respected members of each clan. This council guides on governance, trade, and defense, ensuring the kingdom's continued prosperity and stability.

Dwarfinn culture emphasizes excellence, tradition, and ancestral wisdom. This reverence for the past can be a source of strength, providing a solid foundation for governance and decision-making. However, it can also lead to resistance to change and innovation, potentially hindering progress in certain areas.

The people of Dûrgath are typically short in stature, very muscular, and predominately red-haired. They excel at mining irons and crafting iron products like axes, swords, and armor.

There may be a splinter group that focuses on advancing technology. Fable says they built a city out of iron and called it Jarnborg, or "Iron City." Jarnborg and the Wyverns had a war 300 years ago and allegedly destroyed the city of Jarnborg.

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Jarnborg

Map coming soon!

Forged in iron and shadow, Jarnborg (pronounced YARN-borg) lies in the narrow valley where the Ironroot and Aethel Mountains grind against each other, straddling the isolated border between Ravnsríki and Dûrgath.

Three centuries ago, Wyverns swept down in the Dragonstorm, a ruinous firestorm that legend claims reduced the city to ash, thus ending a limited Human-Wyvern war. But Jarnborg was built of iron, not timber. It did not burn—it bent, it scarred, and it endured. From those twisted bones, the smiths rebuilt, harder than before.

Trade came easier from the north than the south, and so Jarnborg bound itself to the Dwarfs of Dûrgath. The Dwarfs delved for ore in the deep mountains, while Jarnborg smelted it in rivers of fire, hammering it into weapons, locks, and wonders of craft. Over time, their fields spread into Dwarven lands, feeding both peoples. Food for ore, steel for bread—and silence bought from those who muttered of trespass.

Here, bloodlines blurred. Dwarf and Human, stocky and tall, bearded and smooth-faced—Jarnborg’s people became something in between, bound less by heritage than by the iron discipline of the state. An authoritarian commune, they share work, food, and shelter: longhouses where laborers sleep shoulder to shoulder, vast halls where meals are ladled out twice daily, and ale rationed each night. Evenings echo with the clatter of Hnefatafl, the old war-game played while real wars stir beyond the walls.

Yet all of it lies beneath the shadow of the Jarnøskahrafn—the Iron Ravens. Zealots draped in black robes with an iron feather as their symbol of authority, they seized power and turned the city’s forges toward a single obsession: vengeance. Every ingot, every rivet, every innovation is bent to one end—the annihilation of the Wyverns, in retribution for the Dragonstorm. They whisper that the city will not rest until fire is answered with fire, until winged death itself is scoured from the skies.

Jarnborg is no longer merely a city. It is a weapon, waiting to be loosed.

Gorathökk (pronounced GOR-ah-theck)—They call it the Land of the Orcs—a harsh realm across the gray waters of the Gorathökksaer, where blood is both currency and creed. Few outsiders have set foot upon its broken coasts and returned, and fewer still speak willingly of what they saw.

The Orcs live for war. They raid, they burn, they feast on the ruin left behind. With skin the sickly hue of blue-green copper and jaws split wide by tusks, they are built for killing—heavy-boned, corded with muscle, their faces marked by scars that tell the story of every battle they’ve survived. Most wear their hair in bristling mohawks, crests like blades daring the world to strike.

When the Rangers of Helsgaard met them at South Shore, the truth was laid bare: there is no mistaking the fury of Gorathökk in the flesh.

The one mercy? Orcs are not sailors. The Gorathökksaer stands between them and the rest of Norðrlönd. Or so it is said.

Yet corpses have begun to walk in Ravnsríki and Dûrgath—Orc corpses, raised by the hand of necromancy. How did they cross seas they could never sail? What dark bargain bridged that divide?

The answer lies in Skullsplitter’s Shoal—a jagged island halfway between the Orc land of Gorathökk and the Dwarven coast. Once a nameless rock, it now bears a history written in blood. The Necromancers claimed it as their stepping stone, a place from which to send their dead legions across the waters. From there, they struck Copperhearth, the Dwarfinn town that fell screaming into shadow.

Gorathökk’s warriors may not yet have crossed the seas themselves, but their dead already march. And the living? They cannot be far behind.

Map to be published once the Gorathökk Expedition launches.

Gorathökk