Thornwick
Fewer than two hundred people are still clinging to a life in Thornwick. Nestled in a cold, lonely valley right at the foot of the Hungry Mountains, it used to be a decent enough stopover for pilgrims heading south toward the old Pharasmin shrines, while local shepherds raised goats along the rocky crags above. Those quiet days are long gone now.
The land itself has begun to reject life. Ever since the first Threshold Seed took root in the church crypts, cold planar static from the Boneyard has been seeping upward into the earth. The corrupted soil leaves crops sparse and stunted, half the spring lambs don't make it through their first week, and lingering ghost-echoes drift out from the church floorboards to drive the livestock wild.
Families pack up and slip away in the middle of the night whenever they scrape together enough coin. The folks who stay behind keep their doors bolted and talk in low whispers after sundown—especially once the church bells start ringing on their own. Nobody has touched those ropes in months, but down below, the tear continues to leak its gray haze into the roots of the village.