Welcome to Other World!

 Cymry is a land of misty hills, ancient forests, and deep druidic tradition. Steeped in old magic and bound by honor, it is the spiritual heart of Byd Arall. Here, the voices of the Tuatha Dé Danann still echo in sacred groves, and the line between the mortal and the divine remains perilously thin. Though noble houses rule its cities, the wilds of Cymry belong to older powers — and they do not forget. 

 Albion is a cold and rigid land where steel and law reign over spirit and spell. Once touched by magic, it has turned from the arcane and now enforces order through discipline, faith, and flame. Sorcery is outlawed, and the church wields immense power, casting out the Fey-Touched and purging ancient traditions. Its people are proud, resilient, and deeply loyal — shaped by a belief that salvation comes not from the gods, but from the strength of mankind’s will. Beneath its stone cities and watchful cathedrals, however, forgotten powers still stir, waiting to reclaim what was lost. 

 Drekkarheim is a volcanic island chain rising from the storm-wracked sea, its jagged peaks wreathed in steam and ash. Home to the orc clans, it is a land of living fire and ancestral reverence, where molten rivers carve through obsidian cliffs and sacred forges burn beneath open sky. Each island holds its own clan stronghold, bound by ancient rites and fierce loyalty. The orcs of Drekkarheim are seafarers, blacksmiths, and warriors — their longships crossing treacherous waters to trade, raid, or answer the call of war. Though isolated, their culture runs deep, guided by the spirits of the land and sea, and forged in the crucible of fire and brotherhood. 

Tir Emrith is a borderland of blended bloodlines and uneasy peace, nestled between the great powers of Cymry and Albion. Rolling hills give way to misty moors, ancient stone circles, and bustling trade roads. Its people are a fusion of Cymric mysticism and Albion pragmatism — merchants, mercenaries, and mystics walking side by side. Though nominally allied with Cymry, Tir Emrith is fiercely independent, known for its silver tongues, skilled diplomats, and a quiet resistance to outside rule. Here, the old gods are whispered to, not worshipped — and every deal carries a deeper meaning. It is a land of crossroads, both literal and spiritual.

 Brynareth is a windswept coastal realm and scattered archipelago northwest of Cymry, shaped by crashing seas, towering cliffs, and myth-soaked isles. Its people are a hardy blend of Welsh, Irish, and Norse heritage — longhouse builders, rune-carvers, and wave-riders. The druids of Brynareth speak to the storm, and the ancestors dwell not in graveyards, but in the sea spray and stone. Fiercely independent, they are loyal to clan and spirit before crown, and their songs carry the weight of both sorrow and triumph. In Brynareth, the world is alive — the sea remembers, the stones judge, and the wind tells tales only the brave dare follow. 

  In the jagged mountains that loom beyond Cymry’s western frontier lie the ancient, independent dwarven 

The mightiest of the three, Kragthorum is a fortress-city of granite and glory, known for its warrior-kings and master smiths. Its forges burn with dragonfire, and its halls are lined with statues of long-dead heroes. Kragthorum maintains a proud martial tradition and trades sparingly — preferring alliances sealed by oath and steel rather than coin. It is said that beneath Kragthorum lies a sealed vault that holds the last living spark of a dead god.

Khazrundar is the spiritual heart of dwarvenkind in the region — a citadel of runes, temples, and ancestral memory. Here, the Runepriests and Stone-Singers guide their people by the voices of the Deep Earth. Though less militaristic than Kragthorum, Khazrundar wields immense influence through its ancient lore and enchanted artifacts. It is a city of secrets, where old magic slumbers beneath every step.

The smallest and most reclusive of the three, Durnkarak clings to the shadowed cliffs like a stubborn flame in the wind. Once nearly lost to a subterranean invasion, its people have become survivalists, trap-makers, and cunning tacticians. They are fiercely loyal to their own and distrustful of outsiders. Yet their tunnels stretch far and deep, and many suspect Durnkarak guards routes to ancient ruins far older than the dwarves themselves.

Though divided in rule, the three kingdoms share kinship and culture. Together, they are known as the Triumvirate of Stone, a force of unity when called upon — though such unity comes only in times of great peril.

Few humans tread their high passes uninvited, and fewer still return with more than a tale… and perhaps a dwarven-marked coin of thanks or warning.

 In the storm-blasted crags and cold granite valleys along Albion’s eastern border lie the Iron Marches — a hardened chain of Dwarven strongholds known for their unyielding discipline and centuries-long vigilance. These cities are less reclusive than their western kin, maintaining tense but vital relations with Albion’s kingdoms, trading steel and siegecraft for salt and grain. Yet beneath the surface, ancient grudges and forgotten horrors stir.

The Warden of the Border, Drakkandor is a mighty fortress-city built into the face of a cliff, guarding the high mountain passes that lead into Albion. Its forges are ceaseless, supplying weapons and armor to those who can afford them. Though stern and proud, Drakkandor’s leaders maintain a watchful truce with Albion, wary of both its zeal and its ambition.

Known as the “Silent Spire,” Zwordathil is a vertical city, its towers built into a jagged pinnacle that rises from the valley floor like a fang of the gods. Its stonework is among the most beautiful in the world, and its deep libraries are said to contain scrolls from the time before the Cataclysm. Zwordathil rarely speaks, but when it does, empires listen.

Grimmvararik is a fortress of iron will and ancient grief. Legends claim the dwarves here once made war with the Fey — and won, at a cost. Its people are dour, heavily armored, and bound by rigid codes. Fey-Touched are banned from entry, and the city’s Rune Wardens are known to wear masks of blackened silver etched with warnings in Old Dwarven.

Famed for its breweries, bard halls, and shieldmaidens, Fjaldrikkor is the most vibrant of the eastern dwarven cities. Beneath its ale and song, however, lies a strategic mind — Fjaldrikkor’s military engineers are unmatched, and its alehouses double as war rooms. Here, joy and steel walk hand in hand, and enemies who mistake their cheer for weakness often meet their end beneath a drinking horn and a warhammer.

Bhaldrunhold is the eldest and deepest of the five — a city carved so far beneath the mountains that its lowest halls are said to touch the world’s bones. Its people are pallid and quiet, their eyes adapted to gloom, their ways archaic. Bhaldrunhold's rulers rarely surface, but their emissaries speak with ancient authority. Some believe they guard something far older than dwarves, something the surface world should never wake.

Together, these cities form the Stoneward Line, a bulwark against both Albion’s fanaticism and the nightmares that stir beneath the roots of the world. Though they often act alone, when dwarven horns sound across the Iron Marches, the mountains themselves seem to rise in answer.  

Whispers travel on the northern winds — of hidden cities deep within the shrouded wilds, where ancient elven spires still pierce the canopy and moonlight dances upon crystal towers untouched by time.

Travelers returning from the edge of the known world speak of shimmering lights seen through the treetops, melodic chants heard in the stillness of dawn, and strange footprints left in frost-covered glades. Some claim to have glimpsed Vael'theryn, the "City of Silent Leaves," or Eryndoril, said to be built around a living star fallen to earth.

Others dismiss these tales as drunken nonsense or old forest magic playing tricks on the mind. Still, the bravest adventurers vanish chasing these myths — and a few return changed, bearing gifts not made by mortal hands.

1. Whether truth or tale, one thing is certain: the North remembers the Fey, and the Elves remember the world before it broke.