Ydrasog is a forsaken realm where ancient curses seep from the very soil, and the boundary between the mortal world and darker realms grows thin as the magics protecting The Pit grow weak. Rolling hills of sickly heath stretch between brooding forests of gnarled oak and twisted pine, their shadows harboring things that should not be. Crumbling stone circles and weathered burial mounds dot the landscape like infected wounds, while isolated hamlets huddle behind wards of iron and salt, their inhabitants speaking in hushed tones of old compacts made with entities best left unnamed. The only cities able to thrive are those protected by The Church, and within the walls of these metropolis’ their word is law. The air itself feels heavy with malevolent intent, carrying the scent of bog water and decay, and those who venture too far into the wild places often return changed—if they return at all. Here, folklore bleeds into terrible reality, and the old ways still hold sway over a land that remembers every sin committed upon its scarred flesh.