The Stagnant Waters
Gordon is a realm that breathes. The mists are its exhalations, carrying the heavy scent of rot and rebirth. The waters are its blood, slow and thick with the memories of millennia, reflecting a sky that is perpetually overcast. Massive, ancient trees form a dense canopy, their roots tangling into complex labyrinths both above and below the water's surface. To walk here is to feel the weight of ages, to understand that the land itself is the oldest living thing.
The Jovithar
The Jovithar do not rule the bog; they are the bog's nervous system. This wise, reptilian race moves with a patience learned from a land that does not hurry. Their scales mirror the patterns of bark on ancient trees, and their shamanic leaders hear the whispers of the spirits that dwell in the deep mud and the hollows of petrified wood. Their rituals are not for worship, but for communion—a way to maintain the delicate balance between the living and the countless generations of spirits that linger.
The Withering
But the breathing of the marsh falters. A strange withering creeps from the edges, turning vibrant green moss to a brittle, lifeless brown and silencing the drone of insects. The spirits grow quiet, their whispers fading. The shamans' communion is met with a growing static, an emptiness they have never known. The Jovithar now face a choice that goes against their nature: to find a cure, they may have to look beyond their ancestral traditions, a path that feels like a betrayal to the very land that defines their existence.