A dark-fantasy setting where myth bleeds into steel. Celtic-leaning pantheons, fae courts, dragon hungers, and mortal rebellions—all tuned for 5E-compatible play.
An 8-Act epic that carries a party from village embers to god-touched ruin and back again. Boxed text, DM sidebars, travel events, and set-piece encounters.
A realm of myth and ruin reborn. The Worldbook is your guide to Annwyre, where fae walk in daylight and gods whisper through relics. Within lie the histories of shattered empires, living forests, rune-scarred dwarves, and storm-called sailors — every page bound for play in 5E.
Inside: a living timeline, detailed nations and cultures, divine Aspects, new player ancestries, and myth-touched relics that shape destiny.
Talam endures through fire, faith, and fracture — a world not waiting to be saved, but to see who dares to try.
Worldbook — Preview Excerpts
It begins in Antioch at the Harvest Festival: joy, then a bone-deep boom, then the dead. The company survives a night of pounding terror behind a barricade, is pulled into a hard dawn by Dawnguard horns, and staggers through a hollow day riddled with a shared dream that drags them south to the Mallachd.
Act II carries them to Cael Anoch: tokens bought for coppers awaken as relic sparks; the Rootwalker names their purpose and opens the Crossing Arch. In Act III, they earn Cael Anoch’s libraries by cleansing a rotting repository, face the shadow that hunts their relics, and piece together the truth of Kael’Alir, the corrupted leylines, and the rites to cleanse them.
Act IV takes them into Tharnach’s stone: council, descent, a crystal cavern whose heartbeat falters, and the first cleansing that restores the vein — relics ascend and the dwarves honor them as oath-keepers. The road turns toward Namarra and the sea as Samhain approaches. The hunt closes in.
Garlands, bells, Brigit’s candles in carved gourds — Antioch at its brightest. Then the ground breathes in and the city holds its breath. Screams. Pale hands from the grates. The crowd detonates into panic.
You slam a shop door, boards shrieking as the dead pound through the night. A farmer dies screaming beside the window. Hours grind like years — then silence, and a hooded figure among the parted horde, two cold lights where eyes should be. Dawn’s horns. Ash in the mouth. You will sleep, but you will not rest.
