Its heraldry is a white field which represents humility, peace, and devotion, the quiet strength of a people rooted in faith and tradition. The three black towers, stark and unadorned, represent the triad of Hartegoorn’s soul: labor, faith, and strength.
The northern half is cloaked in dense deciduous forests, where axes ring out daily and timber is king. The southern half unfurls into lush, grassy mountains and fertile valleys that cradle barley fields, goat pastures, and thriving orchards. Its vast western border kisses the Maria’s Bucht, giving Hartegoorn open access to sea trade, while the River Piel snakes around it binding highland to coast.
Hartegoorn is known as the "workhorse of the west", a fertile and resource-rich province where the people measure their worth in sweat and scripture. Its timber keeps the hearths of Steinau burning. Its grains fill the bakeries of Köningshaven. Its goats, oxen, and riverboats carry the lifeblood of a kingdom that too often forgets its roots. But Hartegoorn is more than farmland and timber. It was also once the cornerstone of the bishop’s western flank in the War of the Sceptre and the Crown, until the king burned it to ash.
At the center of the county stood the fortified Ampiel Manor, a proud stone estate rising from a low hill like a beacon of peasant nobility. Though not a great castle, Ampiel’s thick walls and strategic position between river and road made it an ideal logistical hub and regional seat of power.
The ruling family of Ampiel were known as faithful stewards, beloved by the people and blessed by the bishop. They ensured roads were paved, granaries filled, and tithe wagons bound for the cathedral always on time.
Hartegoorn is a land of plain speech and plain worship. Its people are simple in manner but deep in faith, Christian to the core, though less zealous than Gransmark. The Church is a presence in every village, but it is the working priest and barefoot friar, not the jeweled bishop, who wins hearts here. Still, superstition and traditions run deep.
The Piel Procession: Every spring, villagers build small wooden boats carrying holy tokens and float them down the River Piel. It is believed that blessings ride the river as surely as grain, and that households who join the procession will have safe harvests and strong sons. Ampiel Ashes: A grim but holy relic. Many homes keep a pinch of charcoal from Ampiel's ruins in a locket or hidden under floorboards, believed to grant protection from betrayal and royal taxmen. The Church does not officially sanction this, but rural priests turn a blind eye. Tithe Stones: Each village has a mossy stone slab outside its chapel. Farmers place their first sheaf of barley or a carved token on it as a symbolic tithe. The act is more important than the gift, seen as a vow between God and plough. Saint Hilde of the Mountains: A local folk-saint, said to be a young shepherdess who once faced down a warband with only her rosary and a sharpened crook. She is prayed to in times of fear, especially when riders from the highlands are seen on the horizon. Sermons on the Piel: Priests often deliver open-air sermons along the riverbanks, calling the flowing water a reminder of God's presence in all things that move, nourish, and connect.
Their loyalty to the bishop proved their undoing. When it became clear that Hartegoorn would never yield to royal authority, King Heinrich ordered the destruction of Ampiel, not in battle, but by siege and torch. The manor was razed, the vineyards trampled, and its lords either slain or scattered. The Bucketheads called it martyrdom. The people of Hartegoorn call it the Day the Grain Bled.
Despite the destruction of Ampiel, Hartegoorn remains a loyal haven for the bucketheads, though its wounds are fresh and deep. With Ampiel gone, no central authority governs the county, and many villages now rely on abbots and merchant-brotherhoods to organize trade and defense. Still, the people of Hartegoorn hope for a rightful heir, some child or cousin of Ampiel blood, hidden away before the siege. Whether such a soul exists or not, the idea persists like an ember in the hayloft, waiting for the wind.