The Dead Men of Bolochtar

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On the northern tip of Mortegard lies a land once rich and virtuous, now cloaked in shadow: the Kingdom of Bolochtar. Since the end of the war, many scholars have argued over the nature of the curse that befell the kingdom, but on one thing surviving mortals can agree: All those who fear death should stay clear of Bolochtar.

This kingdom of men was hit the hardest during The Great War. The vile forces of [The Crooked] closed in on their capital, the [City of Men]—the last stronghold in the kingdom. When the ramparts were breached and all seemed lost, a great blast of green lightning shot into the sky, a heavy rainfall blanketed the lands and the dead of Bolochtar began to rise from the ground. Fueled only by the rage of their own demise, the risen dead decimated the Crooked forces and tirelessly chased the remnants out of their kingdom. It was not until the war had ended that they began to see this curse of undeath reflected in the very land they stood upon—The Curse of Bolochtar.

In the sands of [Dun’thak], it is now common to witness undead lords of necromancy standing atop great monuments erected by mindless wights and rotten corpses of those undead who lost all will and purpose when the war ended. Further east, in the foggy marshlands of [Grimmhorst], long-standing castles of fallen nobility act as historical legacies marked upon its landscape. Within the confines of their stony exterior reside many who have taken on a different approach to the embrace of undeath—now only finding pleasure in the delicacies of the blood of the living. Under their command, monstrosities haphazardly stitched together by madmen and fanatics whose allegiance is tied only to the things that lurk between the precipice of reality and dreams.

But, even for such unholy things that bump in the night, there is still a small sliver of humanity that remains. In that, they swear their fealty to their undying king with unyielding fervor. The citizens that retained their humanity even in undeath are fiercely loyal, and with their second chance at life, work tirelessly to the betterment of their people.

Locked away in self-exile is a man whose very existence is nearly wiped out from all of recorded history. In the remote corners of the world, behind a gate that only a few sworn to secrecy have access to, is a singular vellum parchment wrapped in a frayed lock of golden hair. There, and only there, are the true actions of Bolochtar’s last living king chronicled—The King in Black. Extending his blackened soul into the world, he works personally to right the evils intended to save his people he wrought upon them.

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