The world of Yrnvast

You are the shadow that whispers in Blackspire’s alleys. The owner of The Bleak Crucible—a shop where hope and despair are brewed in equal measure. Your vials of poison save lives, while healing tonics sometimes damn souls. Here crawl those rejected by the church, betrayed by the crown, or doomed to die in the Witherwood’s marshes. You are the final barrier between the city and chaos. Yet every choice reeks of sulfur and blood: save a child with venom stolen from cultists, or sell mercenaries an elixir that prolongs the agony of the wounded...

Blackspire is a corpse rotting beneath civilization’s mask. It is ruled by the Bloodthorn Dynasty, whose bone-carved masks hide faces ravaged by and narcotics. Their fortress, Ironveil, pierces the sky like a fang, and by night, screams seep from its dungeons—offerings to something that stirs in the swamps. The streets are patrolled by Blackjaws, mercenaries in rusted plate, their axes chopping heads for debts of three coppers. They know the city is already dead. But so long as the marshes spawn rare herbs, and whispers to dark gods echo in the Ashen Cathedral, your shop will never lack clients. They will be those begging for salvation... and those bringing you fresh sacrifices.