Found mostly below the regions of Hauth and Zor, the Deep Warrens lay at the very heart of the Everdeep, a place so far beneath the surface that few living beings had ever set foot there—and fewer still had returned to tell of it. It was a realm of unrelenting heat, where rivers of molten rock carved ever-changing paths through caverns of obsidian and brimstone. The air itself shimmered with waves of suffocating heat, thick with the scent of sulfur and the distant roar of shifting stone.

Here, in the infernal depths, the Ingnars reigned supreme. Born from the very fire of the world’s core, these beings of living flame and hardened magma had carved their domain into the searing rock, forming the legendary city of Seerathest. It was said that Seerathest had stood for millennia, its towers of blackened basalt and molten gold rising defiantly against the oppressive weight of the deep. Bridges of tempered obsidian spanned lakes of liquid fire, and the streets pulsed with an eerie, crimson glow, as if the city itself breathed in the rhythm of the earth’s slow, volcanic heartbeat.

Legends spoke of the first Ingnars, those who had emerged from the heart of the Deep Warrens in a time before mortals walked the lands above. Their spirits had been forged in fire, their forms shaped from the molten rivers, and their minds tempered by the endless dark. They were neither mortal nor entirely elemental, but something in between—guardians of an ancient knowledge lost to all but their own kind.

The path to the Deep Warrens was treacherous beyond measure. Even those who had braved the upper caverns of the Everdeep spoke in hushed whispers of the descent into the molten abyss. Great chasms split the rock, plunging into endless darkness where the heat grew unbearable. Fire-gas vents erupted without warning, sending gouts of white-hot flame into the tunnels, and the very ground pulsed with an eerie energy, as if some great, slumbering force lay just beneath the surface.

Known Entrances

The Maw of Morgun

Beneath the smoldering peaks of Morgun’s Mantle, hidden within a network of craggy fissures and smoking chasms, lay one of the most infamous gateways to the Deep Warrens—the Maw of Morgun. This yawning, sulfur-choked rift had long been whispered of in legend, for it was said that the first Ingnars had clawed their way from its depths in ages past, bringing with them the embered fury of the molten underworld.

The entrance itself had been a treacherous descent, concealed beneath shifting ash fields and treacherous rockfalls that often swallowed the foolhardy. Those who dared enter without preparation found themselves trapped within a labyrinth of obsidian tunnels, where the walls pulsed with residual heat, and unseen tremors threatened to send entire corridors collapsing into the abyss. Some explorers had sworn they heard voices in the depths—sibilant whispers woven into the steam, luring them further down until the heat became unbearable, and the ground beneath their feet turned to rivers of slow-moving magma. The Maw of Morgun was not merely a path into the Everdeep—it was a threshold to torment, and only those truly desperate or mad dared cross it.

The Black Gullet of Zor

Far to the north, along the storm-lashed coast of Zor, another passage to the Deep Warrens had existed—though few had ever spoken of it willingly. Known as the Black Gullet, this coastal cave entrance had been a well-guarded secret among smugglers, exiles, and outlaws, for it led deep beneath the earth, where the tunnels of the Everdeep snaked beneath the ocean itself. Legends held that the Black Gullet had once been a temple of sorts, a forgotten shrine to a god of fire long since devoured by time. Crumbling basalt statues lined its entrance, their faces worn smooth by centuries of salt and wind, their hollow sockets ever gazing into the endless dark.

The first explorers who braved the descent into the Gullet found their torches smothered by the eerie, unnatural dampness of the caverns. The deeper one traveled, the more oppressive the air became—thick with the scent of brine and something acrid, something old. At certain depths, the sound of the ocean above could still be heard, a distant, rhythmic groan as the tides echoed through the hollow stone. But far below, in the deepest veins of the Everdeep, the tunnels grew warm once more, and ancient, half-submerged passages led toward the burning halls of Seerathest. It was said that those who entered the Black Gullet either never returned or emerged with their minds frayed, muttering about things that watched from the dark, waiting.

Both of these entrances—one born of fire, the other of drowned ruin—had served as the only known paths to the Deep Warrens. But whether they were mere gateways or deliberate tests set by whatever ruled the molten abyss, none could say for certain.

Yet there were those who sought the Deep Warrens, for its riches and its secrets were the stuff of legend. Blacksteel, a metal said to be harder than diamond and unbreakable save by the heat of Seerathest’s great forges, could only be found in these depths. Even more enticing were the Heartstones—crystals imbued with the raw fire of the earth, rumored to grant power over flame itself. But to take such treasures was to risk the wrath of the Inganars, and no thief had ever escaped their vengeance.

The Deep Warrens were not uninhabited beyond the Ingnars. Other creatures, warped by the heat and darkness, prowled its tunnels. The Ash Crawlers, massive centipede-like creatures with carapaces hardened by centuries of exposure to molten rock, moved unseen along the cavern walls, waiting for unsuspecting prey to wander too close. The Emberwraiths, ghostly beings formed of lingering fire-essence, drifted through the molten rivers, feeding off the lifeblood of those who strayed too near. But the most feared of all were the Pyrespawns—ancient, mindless behemoths that slumbered in the deepest pits, their bodies so immense and saturated with heat that they radiated an eternal, consuming fire. Even the Inganars spoke of them with reverence, for it was said that the Pyrespawns had once been gods of flame, cast into slumber when the world was young.

Of all the stories told of the Deep Warrens, one stood out above the rest—the tale of the Akarian Expedition. A hundred years past, a company of fearless scholars, mercenaries, and seekers of fortune had ventured into the depths, determined to reach Seerathest and unlock its secrets. They had carried enchanted armor to ward off the heat, weapons forged in the upper forges of the Everdeep, and scrolls filled with ancient incantations to protect against the unknown. Yet none returned.

Some say they were consumed by the fires, their bodies turned to nothing but ash and memory. Others whisper that they reached Seerathest, but were ensnared by the Inganars, doomed to serve as eternal scribes of their fiery overlords. And a few, the boldest storytellers, claim that a single survivor escaped, blinded and burned beyond recognition, babbling of a great secret hidden in the city’s depths—something the Inganars had sworn to protect until the end of days.

Thus, the Deep Warrens remained a place of myth and nightmare, a realm of fire and forgotten power. And those who sought its riches, its secrets, or the wisdom of the Inganars did so knowing that they ventured into a place where even the stone itself burned, and where the flames had memories older than time.