Once these lands were fertile plains. Great fields of wheat and barely were sewn by the garou that made it their home. It was a resting place for a people that had been hunted for too long, a sanctuary at last.
But General Velgar put a stop to that dream. He was injured in battle with an arrogant god, flesh scarred in conflict, with wounds weeping. His blood, warped by the magic gifted to him by his queen, became a terrible toxin that cursed the region forever.
Now, poison mists float out of the soil. All the water is corrupted by this toxic blood. The air alone is dangerous, tinted green by the vengeful cruelty of Ghornfell’s master.
The garou here have grown resistant to the poison, though their minds are addled by constant exposure. They are more dangerous, more violent and more filled with hatred, with an entire settlement that seethes with rage.
Monstrous creatures roam this region. Ancient nightmares from another work prowl in the shadows, hunting any that might foolishly enter unprepared.