The kingdom of Mourne was a sprawling realm of verdant valleys and craggy peaks, where the light of the sun struggled to pierce through a perpetually hazy sky.

The land was as chaotic as it was enchanted, with tangled forests that whispered in strange tongues and meadows dotted with wildflowers that glowed faintly under the moon. Rivers snaked through the countryside, their waters shimmering unnaturally as if imbued with a magic older than the stones themselves. Hidden among the hills were the lairs of trolls, whose guttural roars echoed in the night, and the dens of mischievous fae who danced invisible in the mists. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning incense, carried from the altars of wandering druids who muttered cryptic prayers to gods no one dared to name.

At the heart of the realm stood the castle of Mourne, a hulking mass of stone and iron that loomed over the kingdom like a grim guardian. His home. Its towers jutted into the sky, their spires tipped with banners that fluttered in the wind, emblazoned with the royal crest: a lion clutching a sword in one paw and a goblet in the other. Gargoyles leered from the ramparts, their grotesque faces seemingly alive, watching all who entered.

The courtyard was a bustling cacophony of knights polishing their armor, squires chasing chickens, and the occasional orcish mercenary sharpening crude weapons. Inside, the grand hall was a cavernous space lit by roaring hearths and chandeliers dripping with candles. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting battles against hydras and alliances with elf clans, their vibrant threads barely masking the underlying tension of a kingdom constantly teetering between splendor and ruin.