Rising from the mist-wreathed deltas where river meets sea south of the mountain stronghold of Stalwart, Telmeroon is a city unlike any other. Built upon layers of silt, acacia wood stilts, and half-sunken stone, it is as much a maze of boardwalks and hanging bridges as it is a city of towers and tide-gates. It is a place of masks, bargains, and slow decay—where even the wealthiest homes creak with damp secrets.

The Bog-Layered City

Telmeroon is divided vertically into three districts—known not by wards or boroughs, but by layers of mud, moss, and money.

• The Lower Bog: A fetid sprawl of stilt-houses, sunken docks, and narrow waterways, the Lower Bog is home to the city’s fisherfolk, laborers, smugglers, and castaways. Life here is hard and wet, but not joyless. Street festivals bloom from misery, and salt plum moonshine warms many a soul. Yet, whispers of revolution and resentment bubble just beneath the surface.
• The Middle Layer: Perched above the fog line but beneath the towers, the middle heights of Telmeroon are graced by the sprawling salt plum wineries. These gnarled orchards and distilleries cling to the marshy slopes like ivy on a tomb. The wine produced here is sharp, briny, and infamous across the coast—Telmeroon’s one true export.
• The Upper Bog: Ironically named, the "Upper Bog" is a mist-draped district of high towers, stainedglass balconies, and domed estates, built on the ancient stonework. Here live the Sires—the elite families who rule Telmeroon like a private banquet. They rarely descend below the fog. When they do, it is either for ceremony... or suppression.

The Rule of the Sires

Telmeroon is not ruled by kings or councils, but by an ancient alliance of noble bloodlines known as the Sires. Each Sire represents an old family, and together they form the Tide Table—a council whose decisions shape trade, law, and military power. Their bloodlines are considered “salt-bound”—entitled to rule as long as their family has remained above the floodwaters. It is rare for those from the Lower Bog to ever hold such a seat.

Tensions between upper and lower classes are at a boiling point. Food prices rise, dikes are left unrepaired, and the Sires seem more interested in wine tariffs than rising floodwaters. Murmurs of sabotage, strikes, and secession simmer like the bog mists.

The Upper Bog calls it unrest. The Lower Bog calls it awakening.

The Bronze Tide

At the heart of Telmeroon’s military and moral identity is the Bronze Tide—an ancient order of knight-patriots who patrol the canals, guard the Tide Table, and enforce the city’s laws. Founded centuries ago during the War of Drowned Crowns, the Bronze Tide once stood for honor, protection, and balance between the classes.

But in recent decades, their image has tarnished. Many knights now answer to individual Sires rather than the Code. Some act as glorified bodyguards for noble estates. Others use their arms to break worker strikes or silence dissidents.

Yet, not all is lost. Within the order, whispers grow of a return to the old Code—of restoring honor, of casting aside rotten commands and defending Telmeroon, not just its masters. Young idealists, disgraced veterans, and exiles alike search for meaning within the bronze once more.

The Soul of the Bog

To live in Telmeroon is to be wet, watchful, and wary. Deals are made aboard gondolas and misty basements. Ghost stories cling to every post. Wine flows like blood, and blood flows too easily. But beneath the fog, Telmeroon endures.

Its towers may lean. Its docks may sink. But its people—the mud-caked poets, mask-wearing knights, and salt-plum-scarred rebels—carry a strength as old as the tides.