Story
The throne room of Castle Ysyrel smells of dust, wax, and withered leaves. Light barely filters through the high stained-glass windows, their colors dulled by years of neglect. Dust blows across the marble floor like veins through old flesh. The great banners of Morvelyn, once gold on green, the rising sun through forest canopy, hang limp and moth-eaten.
And there he is.
Sad King Netkar sits slumped on a throne of cold rock. His crown rests heavily on his head, matted from neglect. His robes are too large now, his body shrunken with sorrow and time. His eyes, once called the brightest in the kingdom, are pale and unfocused, drifting like fog across your face. He slowly turns to focus you with a gaze as sharp as a spear. When he speaks, it is like dry wind through hollow reeds.
"You’ve come... too late, or far too early. There’s nothing left to save. Not me, not them. Not this place."
He gestures vaguely toward the shattered remains of the hall. One of the stained-glass windows bears a long crack, running straight through the image of his wife. A bird sings somewhere in the rafters. No guards, no court. Only the king and the silence he wears like a funeral shroud.
"You look like people who still believe things can change. I remember when I did too."
He leans forward, just enough that the brittle light catches the tears clinging to his beard.
"Tell me... when death takes me, will it be kind?"
Slumping back, he makes weak hand gesture. "It doesn't matter. Not anymore. It's all over. Love, art, even dreams. Why can't I be over?"

Description

Morvelyn was once a realm that burned with brilliance. Nestled among deep emerald forests and threaded with the Silver River, it was a nation where the mind ruled as highly as the sword. King Netkar, crowned in his youth after a bloodless transition of power, ushered in what historians called the Golden Era. In his early reign, he abolished old hierarchies, dismantled serfdom, and welcomed voices from all walks of life into his court. Philosophers, alchemists, poets, astronomers, sculptors, and playwrights found sanctuary within the capital of Tellenmar, a city of towering spires and libraries with more books than the rest of the world combined.

The people worshipped the spirits of the woods and the druids who spoke to them, but faith in Morvelyn was never rigid. The sacred groves were open to all, and rituals were seen as communion, not control. The forest was friend, not fear. This harmony between nature, intellect, and soul was the pride of the nation.

The Plague

The harmony was shattered 18 years ago.

It began as whispers. Distant villages, once thriving with markets and music, fell silent. Traders never returned. Then came the runners, half-dead and disfigured, babbling of nightmares, limbs bent like roots, skin splitting like dry mud. A plague, not just of body but of nature itself, swept through the land. The kingdom torned to its scholars for answers, but found only silence.

The druids, ancient and withdrawn, emerged from their circles of stone and grove. They offered salvation at a cost. They stopped the plague, but Morvelyn will never be the same.

Current Situation

King Netkar, now known as Sad King Netkar, remains in Castle Ysyrel, a once-bright palace of crystalline spires now clouded with ivy and silence. He has not spoken publicly in years. His wife and daughters died in the early days of the plague. Some say he tried to sacrifice himself to end it, but the druids refused, claiming the spirits would not accept his grief-tainted blood. Others claim he walks the castle halls at night, barefoot and muttering to paintings.

The cities are nearly empty. Tellenmar is crumbling, the great libraries moldy and hollow. Things fall apart, decay spreads. Roads are overgrown. Merchants avoid Morvelyn entirely. Where once people journeyed to bathe in enlightenment, now they do not return from fear.

The ideals that built Morvelyn, liberty, equality, reason, are dead , twisted into horror by the plague. Now the land is ruled by dread, and the old forest gods seem more watching than sleeping. Travelers speak of strange lights in the woods, of deer with too many eyes, of trees whispering in forgotten tongues. Something in Morvelyn is still sick, though the plague has stopped.

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