A high fantasy/sci-fi epic with inspirations in Slavic mythology

The first thing you feel is the cold.

Not the sharp cold of winter, nor the bite of an unforgiving wind, but a damp, creeping chill that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. The briny scent of salt and decay fills your lungs as consciousness drags you, gasping, from the abyss of sleep.

You awaken sprawled across wet sand, the tide lapping at your legs as if the ocean itself were reluctant to release you. The sky overhead is not the black void of space, nor the gentle blue of home, but something else entirely—a swirling, endless mural of deep violets and gold, of smears of light too large and too still to be stars. The sun—if it can be called that—hangs low and swollen on the horizon, casting the world in hues of amber and rust - and next to it, the lit crescent of Nivig, hanging menacingly in the sky.

This is not Skene. The place you've awoken is far, far from home.

You remember the Overture, the expedition that was meant to take you to the edge of the known world. You remember the mission—the promise of something beyond the Great Sky Rift, of answers hidden where none had dared go before. You remember the storms, the winds that should have torn your airship apart. And you remember the celebration - the cheering as the ship emerged, unscathed, in the eye of the Great Rift, proving it could survive the worst of the tempest. And then, red - and nothing else.

You realize you are not alone.

Scattered along the miles and miles of marshy, sandy beach, other bodies stir. Some are waking. Some are not. The remnants of the Overture are nowhere to be seen — no wreckage, no cargo, no shattered frame upon the shore. Only driftwood and bones, tangled together in the pale sand. Miles away, retreating, the waves tower and crash, as if fingers eager to drag you back.

And then, the first real horror: your wounds do not hurt.

The bruises, the broken bones, the cracked ribs—they should be unbearable. But they are not. Your body refuses to register the pain. And beneath your skin, something is wrong. You know it in your blood, in your marrow, in the rhythm of your breath.

Further inland, past the dune grass and the jagged outcroppings of alabaster saltstone, there is life. A city, or something like it—a settlement built into the cliffs, where great wooden fortresses loom like beasts frozen in the act of climbing. Smoke curls from distant fires. Figures move among the tide markets, their bodies too tall, too sharp.

You do not belong here.

You are an intruder on a land untouched by your people for longer than history remembers.

And somewhere, unseen, something is watching.

Welcome to the Near Side.

You do not know how you got here. You do not know why you were spared. But you are not safe. The people of this land are giants, birdlike, warriors born of the cliffs and the tides. Their world is one of war and blood oaths, of silence and sacrifice. Their queen is a child, her kingdom held together by threads.

This is Novzemje, the last great city of the Kralic Tribes.

Weapons are forbidden here—except in the tide markets, where the law of the vod is absolute. To carry a blade is to forfeit your life. But you may not live long enough for that to matter. Already, the eyes of the city are upon you.

You must move. Find allies. Find answers.

Remember.


A gas giant called Nivig has three moons. The verdant second moon is the setting of our story. This moon is called Vechern.

The nation of Kralin exists on the very edge of Vechern's Near Side, nestled up against the coastline at the edge of the Great Rift. It is populated by a large race of humans (called homids in this world) who have avian qualities in terms of bone structure and predatory instincts. Kralin is a loose federation of seven tribes, under a queen.

The queen is a young girl. She is not old enough to rule; so, her mother rules for her in her place.


A vast dominion stretching across the habitable band of Vechern’s Far Side, Skene is a land of fractured nations, crumbling cities, and dying kings. The last great civilization of humanity clings to existence here, a tenuous order upheld by fragile alliances and desperate wars.

For centuries, the people of Skene believed they stood at the edge of the world. The Great Sky Rift, a chasm of endless storms and unseen horrors, severed them from whatever lay beyond. The Other Side was a tale to frighten children, a place of madness and ruin, spoken of in whispers but never in truth.

And then the famine began.


Skene was never a paradise. Kingdoms have risen and fallen like the miles-wide tides, empires crumbling into dust with each turn of history. But now, something is different. The fields no longer yield. The rivers no longer nourish. The soil itself is failing.

The great cities, once thriving, choke on hunger and sickness. The Skenian government, fractured and desperate, has tried to hold back the tide. They bought surplus from farmers to distribute among the starving poor.
They rationed food, though corruption bled the system dry. They paid men to dig irrigation canals into the eastern frontier, reclaiming land once thought lost.

But it is not enough.

The people whisper of cursed soil, of a sickness in the land itself. The old gods turn away. The new gods remain silent. And so the desperate look outward.

With Skene on the edge of collapse, a bold expedition was launched. The Overture, alongside a fleet of explorers, scholars, and warriors, was sent beyond the Great Sky Rift.

Vodan legends speak of the other side. Strange flora drift on the outer bands of the Great Rift, hinting of the exotic plant life found beyond. And so, the expedition was greenlit.

Some believed they would find new lands, fertile and untouched, a place to rebuild what was lost. Others sought ancient knowledge, lost truths buried in the myths of old. There were those who feared what they might find—but still, they went.

And now, they are gone.

Weeks later, no word has come from the Overture. No wreckage. No signals. Only silence.

All signs point to catastrophic failure.


Vechern is a verdant world with astonishing biodiversity, including sapient species. Frequent impact events have guided evolution on the planet toward rapid mutation and speciation. As such, the world is rife with hominid-like species. You're pretty free to create the character you like - here are some canon species but feel free to make your own.

Homid - human analogue
Gnomid - dwarf analogue
Nyphid - elf analogue
Leshid - tree people
Vod - fish/swamp people

Perhaps you are a connected real estate mogul, out to stake new lands. Perhaps you don't belong here, but you happened upon the necessary papers to embark on this journey. Perhaps you are a sailor, or a chef, or a blade for hire. One way or another, you boarded the Overture, you survived the journey through the Sky Rift and made it to the eye - and upon witnessing Nivig, you awoke after an undisclosed time on the beaches of Novzemje, Kralin.

You are Deathless. You feel no pain, and you cannot die.

But soon you'll discover that there are fates worse than death.


Vechern is a moon of Nivig, a gas giant with red and blue bands that swirl together.

The Far Side and the Near Side are terms that we use to describe the two discrete halves of Vechern, separated by a massive storm known colloquially as the Great Sky Rift (in Vodan - Zar'quul above the waves, and Mu'rquul beneath the waves).

Novzemje is the largest city in Kralin, which nests in the rocky cliffs and salt flats beside the ocean, at the mouth of the Velmira River.

Skene is the largest civilization on Vechern, a vaguely-Spanish inspired society with roughly WW1-era technology. They are the undisputed superpower of the Far Side.

The tide markets appear at low tide, virtually anywhere in the world where there is coastline. Tide markets follow Vodan law exclusively, and most land-bound peoples give the vod significant leeway in terms of the way the markets are treated, largely because vodan punishment is steep and nobody wants to make enemies of the vod.


In this world, the highest tech achieved is roughly WW1-level (Skene), although at the start of the RP, the nation we're in (Kralin) is more medieval - think "just before the printing press".

Magic does exist in this world, but its nature is not well-understood - thus, you won't be finding practiced mages slinging fireballs. The vod in particular are regarded as a mystical race capable of strange magics, brought up from deep within Vechern - whether it's true or not...well, everyone does seem to have a story. The Near Side, bathing in the light of Nivig, is a much more magical place by nature compared to the Far Side, but there's no real sense of control when it comes to magical abilities.

The Kralic people have an innate understanding of animal life and in some ways are thought to commune with those who do not speak (animals, plants). This is a magical trait.


You do not feel pain - only pressure. You do not feel heat, but its absence, and the flow of its loss.

Your hair and your nails grow faster than before, thicker and sharper. Any lost teeth will be restored. Eventually, extra teeth will begin to sprout. Your eyes will change color unpredictably.

Your bones will heal, as will your skin. First, in thin layers, like peeling skin off a sunburn.

Your organs no longer do anything, except your lungs, which still help with communication.

If you are destroyed, as in an explosion, or smashed under something big and metal, or spaghettified by an upset eldritch being, you will awaken elsewhere, naked and confused.


The Tide Markets — Where the Land Ends and the Sea Owns All
At the edge of the known world, where the Velmira River spills into the ocean, the Tide Markets cling to the shore like barnacles on a half-sunken wreck. A chaotic sprawl of drifting piers, scavenged wood, and sodden stone, the Markets are neither truly land nor truly sea. Here, the Vod rule. They are the amphibious folk of the deep, traders and scavengers whose webbed hands and sharp, lamp-like eyes make them as eerie as the tides they worship.

The Tide Markets are lawless, save for the one unbreakable rule: the ocean belongs to the Vod. Weapons are allowed here where they are forbidden in Novzemje, for the water is hungry, and those who cheat, steal, or insult the wrong trader often vanish beneath its black surface without a trace.

What is sold in the Markets? Anything and everything. Here, you will find:

Salt-dried fish from depths no human dares dive.
Strange artifacts dredged up from shipwrecks lost to the Maelstrom, some whispering with forgotten voices.
Bioluminescent fungi, glowing blue and red in the damp twilight, harvested from the caverns beneath the cliffs.
Scar-tattooed storytellers, offering secrets in exchange for coin—or for a memory taken directly from your mind.
And, if you know the right Vod, you may barter for passage across the forbidden waters, though none return unchanged.
Slave traders

Novzemje — The Last Bastion of the Near Side
Towering above the Tide Markets atop the cliffs, Novzemje is the last true fortified city before the endless wilds of the Near Side. Its walls are ancient, carved from stone before any alive can remember. The city is a strange mixture of grandeur and brutality, where the powerful rule with heavy hands and the weak survive by wit alone.

Once, Novzemje was merely a fortress for the Kralic tribes, but under the rule of Guld Dornan, the acting Queen of the Six Tribes, it has grown into something far greater. Now, it is a bustling, tense meeting ground where warriors, diplomats, and exiles from across the Near Side gather in uneasy truce.

Yet, it is not a free city. The laws are strict and absolute:

No weapons within the city walls. To be caught with one is to be executed in the streets. The guards enforce this without mercy.

No blood feuds in Novzemje. Vengeance is for the wilds, not the city.

Loyalty to the ruling house is law. The young Queen Dornan is just a child, and many seek to see her dead.

Despite these laws, the city is a den of intrigue, full of spies, mercenaries, and emissaries from every tribe and warband. The cliffs upon which Novzemje stands are etched with the scars of old wars, and its great wooden castle looms over all, a watchful eye above a city full of secrets.

And now, as outsiders arrive, washing up from the tides with no memory of how they came here, Novzemje watches. Some whisper that the gods have returned. Others say the cursed Deathless walk among them. Either way, nothing will remain the same.

The Krals

Immediately, you know that these people are a threat. Just beyond the edge of the Tide Markets, you see the signs of their brutality. On the hilltops, the crucified, 8-foot tall corpses of Kralic criminals are prominently displayed.

They are a people of contradictions: both warriors and mystics, hunters and poets, kings and exiles. The Near Side is harsh, its land scarred by blood and fire, but the Krals endure. They have always endured.

The Six Tribes of Kralin are bound by blood and war, by old grudges and older pacts. They do not worship gods—they kill them. They do not bow—they break those who would force them to kneel.

To outsiders, they are giants, their frames shaped by hardship, their sharp features and predatory eyes reminiscent of the flightless carrion birds that circle their battlefields like jaguars lurking in trees. Their language, Kralic, is a thing of short, brutal syllables, often spoken with teeth bared, not in anger, but in custom.

Yet, for all their might, the Krals are a fractured people, their unity held together only by Guld Dornan, the acting queen. With their true queen, Milla Dornan, still a child, some whisper that the Six Tribes are a sword waiting to break.

(To be continued)