There are lands that die quietly — fading beneath sand, swallowed by vines, forgotten in peace. But Vareth’Lorn was never meant to rest. It is a world that drowned screaming.
Long ago, before the mists took the horizon, the continent was radiant and whole. The highlands blazed with sunlight, temples shone with divine gold, and the rivers sang hymns to the gods that walked among men. But faith is a fragile thing, and when faith fractures, the world bleeds.
Three great empires once ruled the land: one of light, one of tide, and one of bone. The empire of the sun built its spires so high they kissed the heavens, convinced their god, Sol’Ra, would never abandon them. The followers of the deep god, Tharos the Listener Beneath, built their sanctuaries in the marshes and swore that the world began and would end in silence. And in the cold halls of the scholars, the seekers of Velithar whispered that divinity was not granted, but earned — that gods could be made from knowledge, not prayer.
For a time, the three powers coexisted, bound by fragile treaties written in ink and arrogance. But prophecy is a poison that seeps slowly. When the twin moons eclipsed the sun, blood-red and swollen, the priests of Tharos declared the time of ascension had come. They claimed the Listener demanded sacrifice — that to survive the coming age, the faithful must return their breath to the waters.
The empire of light called it blasphemy. Fire rained upon the marshlands, and the rivers boiled. The temples of Tharos drowned in ash, and his believers drowned in vengeance. From that single act, the tides turned — not only in blood, but in nature itself. Storms that should have lasted hours raged for decades. The sea swallowed the plains. The marshes rose. And what had been prophecy became history written in salt.
The wars that followed were endless and cruel. Armies marched not for conquest, but for survival. The great bridges of Aurelion fell to ruin as their radiant cities collapsed into mire. The necromancers of Velithar raised their fallen brothers to continue the fight, creating ghostly legions that refused to rest. The priests of Tharos sang to the waters, and the drowned answered — rising from the depths with eyes of blue flame. The land itself broke apart under the weight of faith and vengeance, and when the last temple fell, silence reclaimed the air.
Centuries passed. What remains of Vareth’Lorn now floats between the living and the dead — a continent of fog and reflection. The sun rarely breaks through the clouds, and when it does, it glitters upon endless black waters that once were fields and cities. Every ruin has its own ghost; every whisper has a listener. The people who survived have forgotten the old names of their gods, though they still live by their echoes.
The descendants of the drowned priests worship in flooded cathedrals, offering their breath to the tide in exchange for peace. The remnants of the sun-worshippers keep their fires burning in hollow mountains, convinced the dawn will return if their faith burns bright enough. The scholars still drift through their iron cities, powered by relics they do not understand, searching for the secret that could unmake their mistakes.
The wars never truly ended — they simply sank. Each settlement, each half-sunken citadel, carries its own scripture, its own interpretation of what the flood meant. Some say it was divine punishment, others call it renewal. But the truth, like the drowned god himself, sleeps beneath the black water.
And sometimes, on nights when the fog hums and the rivers glow with the light of forgotten souls, people still hear it — the slow pulse of something vast moving in the deep. They say it is Tharos, the Listener Beneath, still waiting for his world to remember his name.
In Vareth’Lorn, the land remembers. The water forgives nothing. And the drowned never stop listening.
