The Mountains of Triz rise like broken blades between the great Scales of The Armour of Or and The Asara Plate, a jagged wall of stone and shadow visible from leagues away. Their sharp silhouettes mark the edge of comfort for most travellers, standing as both barrier and guardian—an untamed spine of the world, ancient and unresolved.
They are beautiful in the way storms are beautiful: too large, too loud, and uncaring if you’re ready.
No proper map has ever charted the full depth of the Triz range. What begins as familiar switchbacks and crumbling paths soon gives way to a vast, labyrinthine tunnel system twisting deep into the heart of the mountains. Some believe these tunnels are volcanic in origin—others, especially the locals, insist they were carved by older things.
Dwarves claim ancestral knowledge of the deeper routes, while goblin guides invent new ones as they go. Even the bravest miners and smugglers leave markings behind—runes, scratches, old bones—to keep from vanishing entirely.
The peaks themselves stretch high enough to touch clouds spun with Scale-light. Snow dusts the upper ridges even in the warmer months, though no one has ever lived comfortably up there for long. Strange winds howl through certain passes, and more than one traveller has returned with tales of whispers echoing from nowhere.
The mountains are home to things that don’t care for politics or coin. Trolls, cave ogres, and stonehide serpents dwell in the shadows, claiming old tunnels as their own. Packs of dire mountain wolves are known to hunt along the ridgelines, their howls reverberating through the valleys like the sound of war drums.
Then there are stranger sightings—winged beasts that glide in total silence, glimmer-eyed spiders that spin runes into their webs, and once, supposedly, a singing golem that spoke in languages no one had heard in centuries. Most chalk these up to mountain madness. Most.
For decades now, the dwarves of Or have worked—slowly, stubbornly—on a grand tunnel project through the range known as the Passage of Or. Meant to connect the City of Or with Triz without relying on external guides or merchants, it was once hailed as a symbol of dwarven pride and practicality.
But the project has stalled. Workers quit without explanation. Engineers refuse to return. Strange sounds echo through unfinished corridors. The tunnel’s most recent foreman, Philip Stoneledger, still insists the project is “thirty years from completion,” a number that hasn’t changed in thirty years. The phrase “Philip’s working on it” has since become a city-wide joke for hopeless delays.
And yet… the tunnel does go deeper than it once did. Stones move when no one watches. Old wards need re-inscribing far too often.
To cross the Mountains of Triz, most rely on the goblin-run Guide Clans. These tight-knit groups offer safe passage—at least, safe-ish. Official channels are recommended, but many travellers bargain with cheaper, less reputable guides and vanish into the fog.
Some of these guides are brilliant. Others are brilliant liars. A common saying goes:
“A goblin guide will always get you somewhere. Just don’t ask where until you arrive.”
The most respected goblin guides paint symbols in phosphorescent ink, mark stones with whispered runes, and carry weathered books of half-true stories. Navigation, in Triz, is part cartography and part prophecy.
A nomadic goblin tribe, feared across the Mountains of Triz. Masters of guerrilla tactics and deadly engineering. Their traps are not just lethal—they’re theatrical. Swinging blades, collapsing bridges, illusion-choked ravines. They don’t guard treasure—they bait it.
Travelers often find gold coins… balanced on tripwires. No one ever sees the same trap twice. Some say Gurdalk himself once trapped a troll inside its own shadow. Others say Gurdalk died years ago—then who’s leading now?
In Triz Valley, every missing caravan tells their story.
The dwarves claim that the Mountains of Triz were once the broken bones of a sleeping titan who tried to climb from the underworld and failed. Others say it was where Irion’s claw first touched the world during the Collapse, fracturing the surface and leaving magic tangled in its depths.
Whatever their origin, the mountains feel alive—aware, even. Miners speak of stones that hum like heartbeats. Echoes that answer back. Caverns that feel like they’re listening.
The Mountains of Triz are more than an obstacle. They are a threshold—between city and wilderness, between order and chaos, between the known and the unknowable.
To walk their paths is to test your luck, your resolve, and your ability to argue with a goblin over dinner fees.
Those who make it through often carry stories. Those who don’t become them.