A small town in the Highmoor.

The Marche of Brederic was once a thriving, if isolated, country state unto itself owing only nominal fealty to the City of Ageutia. Even in the days it belonged to Ardune, it was seen as mostly remote, self sufficient and best left to its own devices, its denizens primarily so uncaring of the outside world and so removed from key areas of conflict that they weren’t worth the trouble of recruiting. Hemmed in by Ufden to the West, Fens and marsh to the South, the raging currents of the Dans to the East and the spire of Midwall to the North, Brederic seems a fortress enclosed by the walls of Nature herself.

The wealth of pastural land and natural resources at their disposal pales in comparison to the logistical nightmare of getting anything to or from the Highmoor. Kings, generals and clerks alike have dismissed the wealth of this area of the Marches as too remote to be of value, and so it has remained independent and largely unchanged.

Until this current generation.

Brederic is a dying village located in the middle of the Highmoor, a place of both simplicity and complexity, an amazing study in contrasts. The land around it literally teems with life, the rich volcanic soil intertwining with the living magic in the air to give succor to all manner of bird and beast. Legends abound of Moorhorses and Moorhounds, but few outsiders will ever see one in the flesh. If the encounter is with a Moorhound, fewer still will survive.

Please note when I say the magic in the air, I’m not waxing lyrical. Brederic is smack bang in the middle of several major magical confluences – the cauldron of earth and fire in the volcano Hoort, the ebb and flow of the Dans’ waters, the Ufden and its Fae denizens and the icy winds of the Midwall, to say nothing of the mysterious happenings attributed to the fens.

That being said, the townsfolk are very much distrustful of magic, even deigning to visit the local priestess of the Mother only when necessary and just as often choosing to beat their illnesses and injuries with no more than the sheer force of their own stubborness.

Perhaps this can be attributed in part to the fate of their ruling Marks, the lost House of Corwinn.


The Marchlandes elithrar