Skein of Bones

Far across the western expanse of Iridia sprawls the Skein of Bones—a vast, wind-tattered tapestry of fossil and dust, where the earth is woven together from the twisted ribcages of forgotten leviathans. The soil here crumbles into a powder the color of pale red ash, steeped in the bitter memory of ancient marrow. The sun, cruel and glaring, scours the plains with a relentless zeal, as if trying to erase the last evidence of whatever cataclysm once birthed this desolation. It is here that the mighty Tuskbreakers ply their sacred trade, hacking and hauling the ossified remains of beasts said to have roamed before even Etheria breathed its first, before the whisper of the Dense ever wormed into mortal dreams.

Yet the Skein does not slumber quietly. Beneath the cracked bones and brittle soil thrums the heavy tread of Skul’Kruk, a dread being whose presence alone fractures the earth in trembling seizures. Some claim Skul’Kruk is the ragged memory of a Titan, slain in the chaos wars of Resonance and void. Others mutter it is the land’s own hatred made flesh—too weary to forgive, too bound to fade. Whatever the truth, the rule is the same: when the ground beneath your feet hums like a plucked sinew, you best not tarry long.

To the orcish clans of Iridia, the Skein of Bones is more than desolation—it is a crucible. Here, under the baleful eye of the sun, bands cloaked in ash and crowned in tusk come to reclaim the lost glories of their bloodlines. Relics of power, fragments of soul-etched weaponry, and buried memories of elder rites await those bold enough to dig deep enough to disturb the old sleep. Shamans of the shattered Gorgrath’s Wrath often wander into the heart of the Skein, weaving chants so ancient even the stones seem to strain to recall the words, hoping to awaken the spirits of an age when orcish destiny still burned like a forge-fire.

Of late, a new ripple disturbs the dust. A lone scholar from the City of Or wanders the Skein, clutching a cracked jawbone carved with runes older than recorded time. It is said the bone hums with a music only the dead remember, and the stranger—known only as Dorn of the Withered Ink—seeks something deeper yet: a vast, tangled root of the Skein itself, perhaps a secret so potent it could topple even the scales itself. Some say Dorn intends to bargain with the Tuskbreakers, others whisper he hopes to resurrect something best left broken.

Legends told by the fire-pitted elders speak of the Threefold Coil hidden beneath the Skein—a sleeping lattice of bone and sorrow, a place where even the dense shudders when its name is spoken. Whether truth or fearful myth, one thing remains certain: the Skein of Bones endures, stretching its pale tapestry across the horizon, stitched by death, and humming with the patient vengeance of the earth.

Here, in the Skein's dry whisper, nothing ends. It merely tangles itself anew.