• hmenear94

MAP - Yarrow's Reach

An area map and concept based on some thinking about spaces at the edge of much larger spaces. A lot of D&D happens in these places - right at the edge of the map, on borderlands (duh), frontiers, and the ragged edge of the civilised world.

Yarrow's Reach is just that - the crooked pinkie toe, the smallest talon on the vast clawed foot of something vast, chimeric, with its boot firmly on the throat of these lands, at least politically. In reality, however, the empire is very far away.

I'm from a penninsula just like it. And while Cornwall's struggles with identity are to do with more of a cultural and economic colonisation (up-country folk gotta put their second homes somewhere) I think that tension, that absolute resistance to anything even a halfmile beyond what's truly "local", is fertile ground for adventuring. As are the many, many layers of "local-ness". What do the witches in the dark wood think about the manlings who have farmed the hills and fished the seas for mere centuries? What do the things that watch the witches dancing on the moors think about uppity crones who've barely put in a millennia or two daring to call this place home?

How might new outsiders, another layer of human silt drifting down, choking what makes its home here already, change things yet again? What desperate measures and uneasy pacts might congeal in the face of the bright light of "progress"?

Yarrow's Reach lies like an afterthought at the extremity of a larger, grander continent. Cut off from those who nevertheless lay claim to these lands, the peninsula prospers in quiet isolation.

At least, it did.

Now, something troubling, ancient, angry stalks these lands. The nuns of the Iron Sisters watched smugly from their abbey in Runkin as it took soldiers from the garrison. Now, they fret and bicker as it comes for the villagers too. Every night more and more disappear in the dark hours before dawn.

In Black Crest, Holming, and Ölm, the serfs and jarls alike grow restless. No one grazes cattle on the moors any more. Not even in daylight. The fisher fleet huddles in harbour, cowering. As the salt and spray rage beyond the breakwaters. The sky might be made of iron, streaked with green fire. Storms like this are all wrong for the time of year.

And in the tower of the Bleak Magistrate, she who is part of a greater whole, emblem of a power unknowable and unfeeling, thinks uneasy thoughts - of the mutilated bodies hastily covered up, of fires reported burning in the deep woods and high on cliffs above the salt storms.

She frets over the possibility of losing these lands, of her standing in the empire far away. She plots and plans and tries so very hard not to think of the harsh reality - that this place was never hers to begin with.

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