the Place is Cursed
For centuries, before the Empire, the scattered kingdoms of the Western Reaches fought one another in ceaseless wars, sending their legions to fight and die upon the plains to satisfy the whims of their lords. Tales say that the crimson lifeblood of these soldiers soaked into the earth, saturating the soil until it could hold no more, overflowing and drowning the plains in a blighted marshland. Today, the place is cursed.
Though the truth of such legends is uncertain, those who travel here whisper of rotten soldiers rising from the muck and eerie lights that glimmer above placid black waters in the deeper mire.
Trapped in an everlasting cycle of agony and torment, the damned souls here shamble aimlessly about in peaty bogs and mucky quagmires. Driven by a need to satiate their soulless husks of bodies, they are drawn to feed on all forms of life. Though decrepit and eyeless, they are able to identify prey, through some strange paranormal sense.
The Deadmire is a marshland that crosses the Western Reaches, making it difficult to travel from the north of the region to the south.
The peaty bogs here are clogged with cadavers, nameless masses of soldiers and serfs, victims to the wars of ancient kings that quarreled with one another unceasingly in the days of yore.
Their reanimated corpses roam through flooded farmsteads and ruins of ancient battlefields, seeking to pull them down to drown amidst the fetid pools and strangling reeds.
The Restless are a common sight in the Deadmire. Unlucky civilians that were slaughtered at the whims of one lord or another, their bodies were casually discarded on the ground or left to hang on trees by the hundred. Now, these soulless husks know no rest. They are driven by insatiable hunger to feed on the flesh of the living, in a futile attempt to feed their hollow souls.