The Unclaimed Wastes
Don't call it a kingdom. Don't call it a realm. It's the place on the map where the ink ran out. It's the leftovers. The land that Hubland, Gordon, and the Exiles all looked at and said, "You can have it." It is a blighted expanse of fractured ground and dust-choked canyons, ruled by nothing but hunger and a sharp bit of steel.
The Laws of the Lawless
There's one rule here: what you can hold is yours. Your canteen, your blade, your life. The moment you can't hold it anymore, it belongs to someone else. Or something else. This is a haven for outcasts, deserters, and monsters—and for the people who had to become worse than monsters to survive among them.
Reality Storms
The real danger ain't the bandits. It's the weather. Shimmering walls of heat-haze that ain't heat. Walk into one of these reality storms, and you might come out with three arms, or not come out at all. I once saw a skitter-beast and a bandit get merged into a screaming, fleshy heap of regret. You don't outrun a storm. You just find a deep hole and pray it doesn't find you. Weakness is fatal.