The Exiled Lands
“There are places even the gods have chosen to forget.”
In the shadows between the Realms—the cracks between Faerûn’s glittering cities and the yawning voids of Toril, there exists a place the gods no longer speak of. A continent scraped from history. A prison without bars, carved from land too old for names, shrouded in divine silence.
It is called The Exiled Lands.
Even the Harpers will not name it. Elminster claims it was “folded behind time.” The Red Wizards deny its existence. But the whispers are too many. Too persistent.
When the rulers of Faerûn, be they Masked Lords, Mad Wizards, or Cults of Eternal Flame, found themselves with enemies too dangerous, or too inconvenient to kill… they turned to exile.
And where better to send those who must be erased, than to a land where reality itself frays?
From the golden halls of Waterdeep to the dungeons of Zhentil Keep, prisoners have vanished. Shackled men and women disappeared under false banners and midnight writs, sent away not to rot in cells, but to be forgotten completely.
Murderers and warlocks. Dissidents and lovers. Tieflings born under unlucky stars. Clerics who questioned their gods. Adventurers who found the wrong truth.
They are all here now.
The Exiled Lands span deserts blackened by ash, forests made of petrified bone, cities swallowed by darkness. And through it all wander those abandoned souls—clinging to scraps of sanity in a land that was never theirs… and never meant to be.Some say the land itself hungers.
Cursed Beasts and Forgotten Terrors
The Exiled Lands are overrun with things that should not be.
Vampires crawl through the ruins, building nests beneath shattered stone and feeding where the light dares not reach. Werebeasts howl across dead forests, their shapes ever-shifting, their minds long lost to madness. Fleshwarped creatures stalk the broken roads, mutations birthed by failed rituals, now given cruel purpose by hunger and instinct.
Demons, too, have found their way here, not summoned, but drawn, as if the land itself sings a song only the Abyss can hear. Some wear skin, walk as men, whisper like priests. Others dance through flame and blood, their names carved into bone, never meant to be spoken aloud. There are no pacts here, only possession. No warlocks, only hosts.
The air itself shivers with unnatural presence. Creatures sewn from sin, alchemy, and old curses lurk beneath the soil, behind cracked walls, in the veins of the mountains. Nothing dies as it should here. Everything returns… wrong.
Experiments that escaped their creators. Echoes of spells that never ended. Monsters born from spite, from chaos, from forgotten gods’ final breaths.
Even the shadows walk.
No corner of the land is safe. No path is untouched.
This is a world where nightmares wait, not to be summoned,
but to find you when you’re weakest.
And they are always hungry.
The Curse of the Womb
“In the Exiled Lands, even birth is an act of violence.”
The Price of Continuation
In the Exiled Lands, the act of creation is not sacred, it is feared.
Something clings to those sent here. A curse older than memory, deeper than death. It festers in the blood, coils in the marrow, and waits in the silence between heartbeats. Those who dwell in this place, guilty or not, carry it like a second soul: unseen, but hungry.
And when life tries to begin within them, it awakens.
Pregnancy among the Exiled is no celebration. It is a whispered dread, a slow march toward the unknown. For the land does not welcome life. The womb is no sanctuary here. It is a battlefield.
Mutations and Monstrosities
The curse twists everything it touches. It threads itself into unborn flesh, reshaping innocence into abomination.
Many births end in horror, children blooming too quickly, or not at all. Some emerge with jagged horns or skin like cracked obsidian. Others are born eyeless, but speak languages no one remembers teaching them.
Some are stillborn… yet do not stay still for long. They writhe in the afterbirth, feral and cold, their minds untouched by reason.
And a few, too few, grow too fast, devouring time itself. Their mothers scream as they are torn apart from within, split open by infants who outgrow the womb before they can be born.
These are the Scourgeborn, living curses, born not from love or legacy, but from the land’s hatred of creation.
Few mothers survive.
Fewer still dare to try again.
