Myrvand is a harsh and beautiful world of the north. Longships cut through black water beneath the aurora, oath-rings stand in windy harbors, and pine smoke drifts over valleys that no map has ever fully caught. It is a world of iron and salt, of ravens and antlers, of bells, drums and snow, and of homes worth defending.
At its heart lies a simple struggle: mortal peoples trying to remain themselves. Above them, an immortal people who came from beyond the sky are divided over whether saving the world means ruling it, guarding it, or leaving it. Beneath them, older powers of land, sea, winter and memory are beginning to move again.
The mood
Myrvand is mythic rather than explained. Its stories are told, sung and argued over, never settled in a single book. It can be brutal, but it is never hopeless. Enemies have histories and mourn their own dead. Its roots are in the old north, yet it is a world of its own.
Above all, nature here is not scenery. Forests remember. Migrations reshape whole economies. Sea currents decide wars. Winter can silence magic, and mountains may have heartbeats.
The land at a glance
Myrvand is a broad northern continent ringed by seas. In the far north lies the White Beyond, a realm of blue ice and months of darkness. South of it, the fjords and black cliffs of Skeldheim face the great sailing routes of the Whale-Road Sea. The pale-barked forest of Eilvaran fills the west, while the broken isles of the Shattercoast scatter off its shore.
In the centre lies the Greenfold, a basin of orchards, beechwoods and hidden villages. The Blackspine walls the east with basalt peaks and deep halls. To the south spread the fog-bound wetlands of the Reed Marches, and in the southeast the Ember Crown smoulders, a volcanic land fused into black and red glass.
Beyond all maps lie places no one can walk to: Aethra Above, the shimmering Aurora Veil, the hall of Valhal, and the impossible depths of the Underdeep.