Southern Nembulon - more often referred as Eldervale - lies cradled in the Far Eastern Hemisphere of the world. Its soil is among the most ancient ever trodden, its chronicle stretching back over a hundred million years. The terrain within Eldervale is a bewildering patchwork: petrified forests abutting silver marshes, mountain spines that twist into impossible spirals, and valleys that shift their contours with the seasons. None of it follows any logic, nor is it meant to. This is a realm of sublime absurdity.
Eldervale is home to hundreds of sovereign nations, each a vault of immeasurable cultural, folklore riches. Every reigns harbors its own distinct identity, its own separate reality. Here were born thousands of legends and lullabies passed down through generations, songs that have weathered millennia, and arts that blur the line between craft and sorcery. It is a magical, fey-touched land. A land of haunting beauty, where dreams step out of imagination and draw breath.
Yet for all its splendor, Eldervale ranks among the most violent realms on the globe. Who would suspect that such picturesque vistas are painted in blood? Centuries of ceaseless warfare have drenched its meadows and ruins alike. Conflict is not an aberration here - it is tradition. States cannot abide by each other for long; their ideologies clash like tidal waves, their ambitions forever divergent. Strife has shadowed them since civilization's first spark. Sometimes war erupts without any cause at all - it simply happens, as naturally as a storm brewing over a summer field.
And despite all this - despite the butchery, the paranoia, the age-old grudges - Eldervale remains gorgeous, poetic, and utterly ethereal. A contradiction alive and breathing.