The Doomcourt
Realm of Hoar
Pantheon: Faerûnian
Location: Mechanus
From an interview with Judge Thalaia, Third Circle of the Fraternity of Order
You ever been to the Doomcourt? I hope you haven’t. But if you’re asking, I reckon you’re at least thinking about it. Maybe you’ve heard the tales – the place where justice comes in the form of cold steel and even colder stares. The realm where vengeance ain’t a choice, it’s an obligation. Hoar’s realm, buried deep in Mechanus, is where the scales of justice tip in only one direction, and the odds are never in your favour.
The Doomcourt’s a marvel of brutal symmetry. Massive iron pillars shoot from the cog it stands upon, like frozen fingers clawing toward the heavens, each one etched with the crimes of those judged here. Every surface is laced with a thin sheet of frost, sharp as a blade and bitter as the bite of long-held grudges. That frost gets into everything, even your thoughts – cold, precise, like the vengeance Hoar represents. It’s not chilly cold; it’s the kind of cold that makes your bones feel regret.
I’ve seen petitioners there, folk who met their end with words of vengeance on their lips. They don’t come here to rest, no. They come to serve, as harsh enforcers of Hoar’s will. Souls twisted by long-buried grudges, frozen in time like statues. The worst part? They still wear the faces of the wronged, their features twisted in rage and frustration. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but in the Doomcourt, they’re ice-bound prisons for those who couldn’t forgive. These petitioners serve as judges, executioners, spies, and assassins, carrying out the punishments of Hoar’s exacting judgement.
Now, the courtrooms here – they ain’t like the ones in the rest of Mechanus. No jury, no mercy, no appeals. Just endless halls of black stone, the air buzzing with the low hum of inevitability. Chains of frosted iron run from floor to ceiling, and you can hear the echoes of crimes as they are committed in far-off planes, each clink of a chain a death sentence waiting to be signed. I know what you’re thinking—there’s order to it, Mechanus runs on laws, on structure. But Hoar? Hoar’s justice isn’t about balance or fairness. It’s about retribution. If you wrong someone, it’s only a matter of time before your name gets etched into one of those frozen pillars, and someone comes to collect.
Don’t even get me started on the maruts, those inevitable constructs of retribution, that stalk these halls like silent spectres. Tall, imposing, their forms shrouded in an ever-present frost. They enforce Hoar’s will with terrifying precision. It’s said that when a marut turns its hollow gaze upon you, it’s already seen the moment of your death. They handle the big fish—the ones who try to slip through the cracks, the betrayers who’ve evaded justice for too long. And when they come for you, they don’t stop until their icy hands close around your throat. I’ve seen it happen. I swear I could still hear the crack of frozen bone days later.
The chant goes that the Doomcourt has a connection to the Courts of the Fraternity of Order, a shadowy hand of law reaching out to don the gauntlet of vengeance. Well it’s true. The Guvners do have a hand in everything legal here, we oversee the Doomcourts as independent outsiders to ensure the laws of Mechanus are being followed. But don’t fool yourself into thinking this gives you a leg to stand on. Law may guide the judgement, but the punishment? That’s all Hoar. And he loves his punishments.
If you find yourself there, you’d better tread lightly. The place shifts in strange ways—corridors touched by the silent breath of the frost, and the chill itself grows thicker the deeper into the realm you go, almost as if it senses your own guilt. And trust me, in the Doomcourt, everyone’s guilty of something.
I… I oversaw a sentence just last week. A minor offence—disruption of the gears. A cog slipped, nothing more. But here in Mechanus, every disruption is a crime. So, I passed judgement. Sent them down to the Doomcourt. At the time, it seemed just, necessary. But now… I can’t stop thinking about it. The frost has started creeping into my thoughts, numbing them, the insidious whispers of Hoar’s inevitable vengeance. Because once the wheels of justice begin turning here, and the cold, vindictive gaze of the Silent Scale assassins fixes on its prey, and it doesn’t let go. I keep hearing the clicking whirr of a marut’s approach. Did I overreach? Was it too harsh for a simple error? Mechanus doesn’t care, but Hoar? Hoar takes delight in these moments.
So, a warning to you, cutter. If you find yourself in the Doomcourt, make sure your conscience is clear. Because if it’s not, the frost won’t just numb your limbs—it’ll freeze your soul. Hoar doesn’t care if your crime was small. He’ll make sure the punishment fits… his sense of justice, not yours.
I wish I could take it back. But that’s not how things work here. Not in the Doomcourt.
Source: Jon Winter-Holt
