Grimcrag Valley: Harsh Expanse of Rock and Ruin
Foothills, jagged landscape, and sun-scorched earth where the wind carves whispers into stone and the sky stretches vast and unyielding. Cracked ravines and treacherous trails mark the landscape, shaping the lives of those who walk them. To outsiders, it is barren, lifeless—an unforgiving wasteland where nothing thrives. But to the Satyr who call it home, it is something else entirely. It is a proving ground, a land that does not yield but rewards those strong enough to endure. Every rock, every wind-blasted peak, every deep-cut valley tells a story of resilience. Here, survival is more than instinct; it is a way of life, and those who falter do not remain long enough to be remembered.
His hooves struck stone as he stalked toward the altar, blood steaming on his blade. A priest of the Light whimpered, cornered and trembling.
Kregath bared his fangs. "No sermons," he spat, lifting his swords "Only screams."
The strike echoed like thunder through the hollowed bones of the valley.
The weight of his battleaxe felt heavier in his grasp as his gaze darkened. His claws tightened around the haft of his weapon, his muscles taut with restrained fury.
A low growl rumbled in his chest as he turned to his warband, their silver-streaked fur bristling in the firelight. "Mark this day," he snarled, his voice a thunderous growl. "They will learn that even their ‘light’ cannot extinguish the fury of Grimcrag’s shadows."
"They called it mercy." The words fall flat over the crackle of flame, boots shifting in blood-soaked ash. "Do you believe them?" A pause. A glance toward the rising smoke on the horizon. The silence that follows is answer enough.
The banner still flies, gold against the blackened sky. But those who march behind it are not here to save—they are here to finish what was started.
A land of stone and strife, where the strong endure and the weak are forgotten.
