Vaerith

The world is bound together by the Wells—vast reservoirs of raw magic buried deep beneath the earth, exposed to the surface only in scattered places where the stone thinned or cracked long before memory. Every culture tells a different story about their origin: some claim the Wells are tears shed by forgotten gods; others insist they are scars left from the shaping of mountains; scholars argue they are simply “natural arcane vents.” None of these explanations are correct, but all are believed with conviction. Most people know only what they can see. Magic is everywhere, woven into the fabric of life, but rarely dramatic. A potter may whisper a charm to strengthen her clay. A fisherman might coax a small breeze into his sails. Children grow up playing games where they create sparks or colour-shifts between their hands—simple tricks, the equivalent of breathing in a magical world. These quiet magics are so common they barely inspire remark. But deeper, older, stranger forces hum beneath the surface. The Wells are weakening, some slowly, others with alarming speed. In places where they fade, crops fail, spells sputter, children lose the knack they once had. In some regions the Wells have collapsed entirely, leaving dead zones where magic simply does not answer. This is a slow disaster—quiet, creeping, and increasingly impossible to ignore. The Wells shape every aspect of the world’s geography, politics, culture and fate. Nations rise where they are strong. Cities decay where they falter. Religions form around their mysteries. And throughout the land, subtle tremors and strange whispers hint that something beneath the Wells is stirring—something ancient, immense, and forgotten. The people of the world live their lives unaware that they stand on the crust of a sleeping truth.

The main continent, Ivarion, stretches from the frozen northern ridges to the humid southern deltas. It is a land of old forests, broad plains, jagged mountain chains, and sprawling kingdoms—each shaped by the Wells that lie beneath them. Where Wells flourish, the land feels vibrant, almost awake. Colours seem richer; weather more harmonious; wildlife healthier. In places of decline, everything feels thinner, drained, and faintly wrong, as though the world is exhaling its last breath. The Aurelian Compact sits at the heart of the continent, built around the brightest of all Wells: the Aurelight Font. The city of Aurelia glows at dawn as if painted in gold, and its scholars insist this is merely “ambient arcane resonance.” The Compact is a place of refined excess and quiet fear. Its people live lives of comfort because magic flows freely, but the ruling council knows the Font is weakening. They hide the truth behind festivals, pageantry, and endless research, desperately trying to maintain the illusion of stability. To the east, the Veyran Dominion rises like a clenched fist. Three Wells of moderate strength power their war colleges, fortresses, and mage legions. The Dominion believes that Wells should be governed, regulated, and—if necessary—conquered by those with the discipline to handle their burdens. Their society is rigid, but not cruel; efficient, but not heartless. They genuinely believe they are the only ones strong enough to ensure the Wells’ survival, unaware that their “stewardship” often accelerates decline. In the west lie the Thornwild Marches, a land where the forests grow tall and dark, and mists cling to the roots of ancient trees. Their Well, the Greenwood Heart, once pulsed with vibrant life, but now flickers like a dying candle. Villages retreat deeper into the woods, and strange creatures roam the edges of fading magic. Thornwild folk are pragmatic, suspicious of outsiders, and fiercely protective of nature; they know their land decays, and every policy of survival feels like a compromise. South, nestled between rivers and fertile valleys, stretches Kyreth Vale—a gentle country sustained by dozens of small Wells. Life here is pleasant, calm, and steeped in tradition. Farmers sing minor enchantments to guide water through fields; artisans use delicate magics to craft tools, textiles, and medicines. But the Vale’s entire way of life depends on the health of their many Wells. If even a handful fail, the region could spiral into famine within seasons. The Hollow Coast, once a shining trade hub, has fallen into ruin. Their Well died ten years ago. Now their great harbour is choked with abandoned ships, their markets filled with relic-peddlers and smugglers, and their streets stalked by desperate cults who preach that the Wells can be revived if only they are “fed.” The coast is a living warning of what fate awaits other nations if the decline continues. Far to the southeast, the Sinder Peaks rise—volcanic, violent, forever smoking. The Well here is corrupted, its magic unstable and furious. Firestorms, unpredictable lava vents, and creatures of smouldering stone haunt the region. It is the refuge of exiles, renegade mages, and those willing to endure constant danger in search of arcane secrets. Beyond Ivarion lie two smaller continents: Tirash, cold and stony, where few Wells exist and life depends on hard endurance; and Ostryx, a sweltering green labyrinth of jungles where Wells burn too brightly, mutating wildlife and leaving ruins of civilisations that expanded too fast and paid the price.

Humanity is the dominant race of Ivarion, but far from unified. Aurelian humans value intellect and refinement; Veyran humans honour discipline and unity; Thornwild humans revere instinct and survival; Kyreth humans cherish tradition and craft. Each culture interprets magic differently, and their beliefs shape how they handle the decline of their Wells. The Draeji are a long-lived people with milky, prismatic eyes that shimmer when near strong Wells. Their senses extend beyond sight and sound—they feel vibrations in the world’s magic, like faint music. Draeji often become Wayfinders, guiding caravans through dangerous magical territories, or Scholars of Harmonics, who try to map the Wells’ hidden rhythms. They migrate constantly, following patterns only they perceive. The Stoneborn dwell in mountainous regions and the edges of undercities built in ages past. Their bodies carry an echo of stone itself—dense bones, thick muscles, and an uncanny resistance to magical instability. They are delvers, builders, and guardians of deep places. Many Stoneborn believe the world’s salvation lies not above, but below. The Hearthlings are small in stature but vast in spirit. They weave magic into daily life more smoothly than any other race. Their kitchens are sanctuaries where food is seasoned with subtle enchantments; their gardens grow herbs that hum softly at dusk. Hearthling villages are places of warmth, hospitality, and hidden power. The Feral-touched are not a single race, but countless lineages twisted generations ago by Wells that corrupted rather than nourished. Their traits vary—horned brows, elongated limbs, luminous pupils, heightened senses. Many societies fear them, yet they are uniquely suited to surviving unstable magical zones.

The world stands on a knife’s edge. Political tensions crackle like storm-laden air. The Aurelian Compact and the Veyran Dominion engage in a cold war—a battle of spies, sabotage, and influence as each attempts to undermine the other’s control over the Wells. It is a silent conflict, but every diplomat knows it could erupt into bloodshed with the slightest provocation. The Thornwild Marches face a quieter tragedy: entire villages abandon their homes as the Greenwood Heart fades. These refugees move into neighbouring lands, provoking disputes, riots, and desperate border skirmishes. Everyone understands their plight, yet no nation willingly accepts thousands of displaced people who bring no magic with them. From the Sinder Peaks, strange firestorms spread unnatural creatures into lowland territories. Feral-touched clans wander, mutated wildlife appears in new territories, and rumours circulate of mages who draw power from the corrupted Well at catastrophic cost. The Hollow Coast has fallen into near-lawlessness. Merchant guilds now operate like small armies, and cults claim that the Wells can be reignited through “sacrifice.” Their increasingly bold rituals send shockwaves through coastal politics. Across the sea, Ostryx attracts expeditions from every wealthy nation, hoping to seize its volatile Wells. Many ships never return. Those who survive bring back stories of shimmering beasts, ancient ruins humming with dormant energy, and brief glimpses of a plane that is neither dream nor reality. Scholars who investigate the Wells too deeply often vanish. Some disappear into deep tunnels. Others flee into madness. A handful leave cryptic notes warning of “structures beneath the crust” and “voices that awaken where magic dies.” The world does not realise how close it stands to unraveling.

Magic is as old as the land. Children learn simple spells before they learn to write. A tiny spark of flame, a charm against insects, a blessing on a tool—these are the steady heartbeat of the world. High magic, however, is another matter. Only a rare few are born with the strength to shape storms, mend stone, or commune with spirits. Even they cannot escape the truth: the Wells feed their power. Without a strong Well nearby, even the greatest mage feels diminished. Religions form around the Wells like moths around flame. The Aurelian Radiance Faith preaches that the Wells are the tears of a sleeping sun-god, meant to be tended with reverence. The Veyran Doctrine teaches that magic is a responsibility, not a right, and that Wells must be regulated by strong rulers. The Kyreth animists believe each Well has a guardian spirit, subtle and ancient, and their rituals focus on appeasing these unseen beings. The Thornwild Oldwood tradition says that Wells are wounds—raw openings into an older world beneath the surface. They see their fading Well as a sign that something from below pulls back, retreating into secrets. No faith understands the truth. They circle it like blind astrologers mapping stars they cannot truly see.

Only two planes touch the world in subtle, carefully filtered ways: the Veiled Sea and the Depth Below. Neither is openly accessible. Their influence is soft, fragmentary, and mediated entirely through the Wells. The Veiled Sea is a realm of memory, dream, and metaphor. When a Well is strong, its boundary to the Veiled Sea thins, allowing visions that feel more real than dreams. A child might dream of a future she never lives. A seer might glimpse a memory that wasn’t his. Travellers occasionally step into the Veiled Sea for a heartbeat, finding themselves in a world where the landscape mirrors their own but is shaped by emotion rather than geography. It is not a realm of truth, but of symbolism. Every vision lies, but some lies reveal more than truth. The Depth Below, by contrast, is physical—an ancient sub-plane of hollow spaces, forgotten structures, resonant stone, and dormant intelligences. It touches the world only where Wells are exposed. Corrupted or dying Wells leak wisps of the Depth, creating blight, mutations, geometric distortions, and the eerie tremors scholars dismiss as “settling stone.” No mortal truly understands the Depth, but those who descend far enough describe impossible spaces: staircases that lead nowhere, chambers that hum like organs in a living body, stone that pulses like flesh. If the Veiled Sea is dream, the Depth Below is memory—old, unkind, and waiting.

In the Shaping Age, the world was new and raw. Mountains rose like the ribs of slumbering titans; rivers carved through fresh soil; magic pooled in cavities beneath the crust. Little is known of this time beyond myth. The Candle Age began when the first people discovered the Wells. These early settlements were fragile things, clusters of huts built around strange glowing springs or crystalline fissures. Magic was rare and delicate, like the light of a candle in a vast dark. The Cresting Age marked the rise of great kingdoms. High mages flourished, new arts of spellcraft were born, and cities with soaring towers grew around powerful Wells. Roads connected nations; scholars mapped the land; and the world entered a golden era of magic. Then came the Waning Age, the present era. Wells weakened slowly at first, then faster. Wars rose over access. Cultures adapted, declined, or reshaped their identities. Now the Waning Age creaks toward an unknown future, its end defined by uncertainty, denial, and unspoken dread. Some whisper of a coming Depth Age, when the truth beneath the Wells will rise to the surface. Most dismiss this as nonsense. But deep beneath the continent, the old structures resonate—slow, rhythmic, patient.

Trade in Ivarion is determined not by gold or territory, but by the rhythm of the Wells. Kyreth Vale’s enchanted agriculture feeds half the continent; their orchards bloom out of season, and their grain grows tall as a person’s shoulder. Aurelian tools last generations longer than those crafted elsewhere, imbued with subtle enchantments that make them prized everywhere. The Veyran Dominion exports weapons, armour, and trained mage-knights who fight with disciplined precision. Stoneborn artisans craft machinery and delve-tools capable of surviving the unstable environments near fading Wells. The Hollow Coast, now broken, sells relics scavenged from shipwrecks and ruined vaults—many of dubious origin and dangerous enchantment. Ostryx spices, reagents, and fragments of ruinous magic command astronomical prices, though acquiring them is a high-risk gamble few merchants survive. Every caravan master knows a single truth: A strong Well is worth more than all the world’s gold.

Law in Ivarion is tangled and heavily influenced by magic. Most nations regulate high magic, requiring licenses, guild membership, or religious approval. Low magic is too common to bother controlling, though some regions—especially those with fading Wells—restrict certain spells that might accelerate decline. Feral-touched individuals face discrimination or outright hostility in many lands, particularly areas with weak Wells where people cling to superstition. In others, they serve as scouts, guardians, or valued members of frontier communities. Wells are protected differently by each nation. To the Aurelians, a Well is a shrine. To the Veyrans, it is strategic infrastructure. To the Vale, it is a piece of heritage. To the Hollow Coast, it is a ghost of power they can no longer touch. Adventurers move between these societies like shadows—welcomed one day, distrusted the next. They operate in a legal grey zone: useful enough to employ, dangerous enough to monitor, expendable enough to deny if things go wrong.

Where Wells falter, creatures twist. The Blightborn roam corrupted lands—beasts with crystalline growths piercing their hides, birds with too many wings, wolves that move in perfect silence. Each generation grows stranger, shaped by magic turned sour. The Deep-Whispered are not a race but a condition. Men, women, or even children who, after too much time near a dying Well, begin to hear resonant murmurs beneath the ground. Some become obsessive delvers, digging through soil and stone in pursuit of patterns no one else can comprehend. All Wells are accompanied by Well-Bound Spirits, though few mortals ever perceive them clearly. They take many forms—beasts of flickering light, drifting shadows, elemental shapes that mimic wind or flame. They are neither friend nor foe, merely guardians of rhythms older than language. The Vein-Mages are the most feared mages alive. They deliberately overdraw magic from Wells, hollowing them further to empower themselves temporarily. Their bodies crackle with unstable energy. Their minds burn out slowly. Some become tyrants; others become monsters. And beneath everything lurk the Silth, pale, precise predators who emerge near dead Wells. They move like marionettes pulled by strings of silence, their existence tied to the rhythms of the Depth Below.