[OOC] ☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

[pugbutter]

^{Dark Fantasy ☀ Low Fantasy ☀ Military ☀ History ☀ Drama}

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_Šulmu!

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Welcome to "How Far the Spearsong," the first story in The Devourer Cycle. Proceed and you will enter a world of bronze and gold; of love and betrayal; of dreams, paid for in blood.

Though wide and wondrous be the Known World, this time you play a little people, tucked away in one of its more obscure corners: the Angaturiz, the "sons of the clay," so named for the earth which nourishes their way of life. Of it you craft your houses, your idols, your art. Your ancestors are there, in that sullen soil, with the gods and the spirits who they worshiped for centuries, and who you worship still. Your halls are humble but warm. Your wars are short and small but hideously fierce. Even the tiniest "civilized" empires hasten to call you barbarians, though in the same breath they buy your iron, your strange foods, your pottery, the slaves of your enemies.

Except some are no longer content with buying. Nhir, a city far to the south, has mobilized its fading Empire, thinking your Thraxian Mountains, your tribes, the perfect stone on which to whet its troops, to restore the glamor and glory of reigns past. These royals seem to have tired of giving their silver to savages for goods they already deserve simply for being Nhirians. The Mountains have saved you once before, trapping their armies in with snowfall and rockslides, concealing you from their hateful gaze. But the Nhirians field the most terrifying soldiers in the world; not because of their thick iron hides, or the disciplined rows in which they march, but because when someone has injured their king's pride they return the blow with thrice the fury, and they fight again, they fight until they have extinguished the victory and humiliated the "victors" beyond recovery. Their numbers never end; their resolve never breaks. Or these have never been seen. So does only a slow, agonizing, inevitable doom await the Angaturiz?

Not all have lost hope; not yet. While the eastern tribes lick their wounds, and make their choice—the same choice as faced by every other enemy to the Nhirians—kneel, work, or die—the western tribes, and those already preparing for war from the perilous mountain passes, have all heard the same strange gossip. It tells of a truce between enemies. In pockets all throughout Thraxia the sons of dead men have forgiven their fathers' killers; countless feuds have ended upon a menhir and a wax tablet, instead of a battlefield. Far and wide the tribes have sheathed their weapons, listened to old grudges long and late into the night, packed their mules, and pilgrimmed together to the same place. Skeldefjarn. It is not certain how this was decided as the gathering-place for the first ever Great-Council of Thraxia. It is little more than a field, a menhir on a hill. The villages at its foot are ramshackle, and belong to many tribes of many allegiances, for the land is well-disputed; far from the frontlines, but days away from a defended settlement, too. But perhaps that is precisely why. They will not think to look here. If they do, they will have to fight, or sneak, over hundreds of miles to reach it. For the Thraxians are not theirs yet.

Chieftains, heroes, and petty kings have answered the call, bringing only the finest members of their retinues as accompaniment. Their goal: to put aside their differences, unite under one command, and strike back with such ferocity to ensure that the second assault is the last. But not all differences will be put aside so easily; dozens of cultures and philosophies will clash at this meeting. Not every candidate for high warlord will be content to let another steal his glory. Moreover, the Nhirian Empire is sure to have more up its sleeves than just its hitherto-invincible army.

Can the quarrelsome Angaturiz clans really come together to preserve their freedom, and their way of life, while the age of empires dawns around them? What comes after—if an after awaits them?

This and more, dear players, we will discover together; for even I do not know under whom you will rally your warcry. About whom the bards will write their songs. Which of you will become heroes, even kings and emperors. How your decisions and your actions will irreversibly reroute the flow of this world's legends and history—for good or ill.

What I do know is that this game aims to please the people who like their gritty HBO shows, their three-in-the-morning Wiki-binges also. It is Fantasy, but inspired by history—ancient history in particular—anywhere from ≈800BC to ≈100AD, if you need specifics—and will capture the appropriate moods to the best of its abilities. People's livelihoods here, to quote Hobbes, are "nasty, brutish, and short," whether owing to monsters and forces of fantastical design, or of a more familiar, human aspect. The world is not balanced, fair, or morally pure; the strongest nations and warlords may prove the most depraved, and will not coddle you simply for having posted a sheet in the Characters tab. This is not the game for a team of snarky superheroes saving the day in style. Some of you will perish, some not even gloriously, nor with any dignity or good reason. But if you do survive, and you have both a vision and the will to see it done, then your deeds may just become permanent fixtures of the Devourer lore and world. If this game sees success then there will be sequels, and future players will hear of your exploits, be they wondrous or wicked; just as NPC's, in this and future games, will tell them to their children after dark, and sing of them by the fire. This is your opportunity to roleplay in a truly immersive style; where the setting reacts dynamically to your existence within it. You are a Great Man and the world awaits your orders.

This game will feature several mechanical novelties, unique among RPGuild roleplays. Chiefly these are:

• This game will feature no, or minimal, Greco-Roman influences.

Remember when I said this Fantasy game is heavily history-inspired? Specifically I meant the late-Bronze Age, early-Iron Age societies which often go overlooked in Ancient-tagged RP games. In the case of Devourer this includes (and is not limited to) Scythians and Huns, Parthians and Persians, Franks, Suebi (and other Germanic/Scandinavian proto-peoples), Egyptians, Africans, and even a few New World influences.

Naturally these are not 1:1 translations, as I have brought my own creativity into making these historical peoples fit into a true Fantasy setting (albeit one which feels very much like their own world may have felt). But what this means is simple: when designing your character, and (if it suits you) when giving him a unique and engaging society somewhere on the map, not permitted are any phalanxes, togas, Triumphs, Corinthian helmets and cuirasses, legionary cohorts, etc. Enough of this exists in other games and frankly I find them quite tiring by now. I think you will agree when you have had a taste of what else this blood-and-sand setting can offer.

• Magic and monsters work differently here.

Any and all supernatural forces within the Devourer canon are designed, like so many other elements, to reflect the beliefs and understandings of the distant past. This begins and ends with the keystone of ancient society: religion. I will not tell you which gods are real and which are not because no such answer awaits you. Every god exists as long as enough men continue to believe in him. And he is the fount from which all their powers flow.

Only a god can bestow magical favors, and first you must ingratiate yourself to him. Some methods of earning this favor will be more effective than others, depending on his disposition and his place in the pantheon. Conversion of unbelievers and heretics is a surer method than most. Many gods like conquest as it brings glory and recognition to their names while it is done in their honor. Sacrifices, offerings, and rituals, meanwhile, depend on the frequency with which they are given, and also the quality, which means their worth to the practitioner. Burning your enemies' children will not bring you much favor, as they are a sanctimonious gesture; they mean little to you. Meanwhile the man who can burn large stores of food, his finest weapons and horses, even his own family, can bring in far greater boons.

No one knows whether a sacrifice has worked until the crucial moment arrives: the rains which will save your harvests from drought, a decisive victory in the crucial battle, a great misfortune befalling your greatest foe. Because the gods are fickle and because men often misjudge the sacrifices necessary to receive a gift of true salvation. Thus, these important and costly decisions are left almost entirely to the men who are sure to have the gods' undivided attention: priests, kings, prophets. They who can gather flocks a hundred-thousand strong, who speak and are heard by millions, who make men obey and believe, are the most blessed of all, when their works are good. And they alone can guarantee magical favors, if they assume the right costs ...

Magic is a subtle thing here. You cannot see it (no fireballs, glowing sigils, flaming swords, Force Lightning, etc.). But you can feel it. It's in the air when your emperor delivers a rousing speech. It buzzes on the breeze while arrows and javelins fly. It brings the storms, floods, and plagues which can save a nation or ruin it. It is not "power" in the traditional sense, but a force of nature, like luck, or fate, which in effect can be bribed.

• Collaboration (including joining the Discord channel) is not optional. The game's social system depends on it.

Roleplaying to our greatest potential is a tricky business because it's all too easy to approach the narrative from an emotionally detached perspective; a min-maxing, self-serving sort of angle. "Well, if the tribes need to unite to beat the empire, then let's unite." We will "win" the game then but we will have done so without drama, the essential ingredient to an excellent story. And to join this game is to join me in the ranks of those who want to tell excellent stories. We are not mere hobbyists or colleagues here, but co-authors, all contributing to make the narrative great for everyone involved.

One solution I've devised begins in post-signup. Once everyone has been accepted, each player will be assigned to at least two reputations/relationships with his fellow players: one positive (meaning you like this character), one negative (meaning you dislike him), alluding to histories your characters share from past encounters. (Remember, the tribes are not used to getting along.) Why you like or dislike someone is entirely up to the collaboration between you and your "partner": maybe he killed your brother. Maybe he fled from a battle, causing your side to fall in defeat. Maybe you and he just fundamentally disagree on something. Maybe he just feels wrong from the moment you meet him. Whatever the case, your character enters the great-council with a certain history, and certain prejudices.

Some of these relationships will be mutual. Some won't. Some will cross national or tribal lines while others will betray the trust of those nearest you. The GM will decide according to what seems like it will result in the juiciest drama.

(Please note: these social assignments DO NOT predetermine how your relationships will unfold over the course of the story; merely how they begin! Only you can decide whether your rivals and enemies have succeeded in winning back your trust, and whether your "friends" still deserve your respect and obedience after what they have done over the course of the story.)

If you were not assigned to a certain player then you have never met him before, and your relationship with him is thus a blank slate. Or, alternatively, you can collaborate with him as well, to further complexify your characters' histories. But any relations which the GM does not assign are completely optional.

Please remember the rules and etiquettes for metagaming. Players are not welcome here who will let IC enmities influence their opinions of their fellow players.

• All characters will be leadership material, but not all will be leaders.

Furthermore, I am maintaining a certain ratio of characters over the course of this game.

All the important voices at the great-council will come from leaders: chiefs, priests, and petty-kings predominantly. But to ensure that every voice carries a certain degree of rapport, and that player interests will clash in a more satisfying way, at least two retainers will be assigned to each chief. Thus for every PC who is a ruler, two more will be trusted followers, including commanders, confidants, advisors, bodyguards, etc. So for a cast of twelve players I will allow up to four chieftains, for example.

You can collaborate and agree on who gets to be a chief, or the GM can assign you to certain spots as they are needed. Accordingly you should design your character sheets with some degree of fluidity; you are important to your tribe, no doubt, but not necessarily its primary leader. If you are unsure of where you want to be placed, or where you will be needed, then your app can be accepted with this section left blank.

You need not necessarily be from the same tribe as your chief/retainers (foreign sellswords, for example, can be accepted, as long as their chieftains' players have written in good reasons for trusting them). You need not stay in their employ over the course of the story, either. But you will begin the game as a solid, relatively unified micro-faction, and whether you rise to the top together, or kneel to another, or fracture and fall, will be up to the three of you as a team. Help your leader rise to greatness; overthrow him and replace him yourself; or sell your tribe to another. The choice is yours.

• Want to get another player "out of the picture"? Here's how.

I've seen enough IC rivalries, wars, and betrayals to know that there are few things in RP more satisfying than a well-timed and genuinely shocking death. I also know nothing has caused more frustration or longer OOC shouting-matches. People grow fond of their characters and will not put them down (a sort of betrayal in itself, if the feelings it elicits are to be believed) without a fight. As such conflicts will be inevitable in this game, the process has been heavily modified both to minimize OOC drama and to make inter-tribal violence a source of mystery and dramatic tension all its own.

To summarize, the player who wishes to organize another character's death will first contact the GM via PM to request a logistical report, containing many factors which will help to plan the assassination. These may include weather and lighting, security, suspicions, routines, etc. When the GM has acknowledged this request the player will then fill out a short application and send it, again, anonymously, to the GM, who will decide whether the attack succeeded or failed based on a number of factors. The app can be perused here:

[+]

• Contractor: (On whose behalf has this assassination been organized? Who wants someone dead?)
• Operative: (If a different person) (Who will actually be carrying out the assassination?)
• Primary Murder Weapon:
• Misc. Weapons, Tools, & Equipment: (Including any camouflage/disguises)
• Plan Outline: (Roughly describe the sequence of events as it has been planned between the assassin and his master IC. When and where will it happen? Any variables that have been accounted for? Is evidence being hidden, or a drop weapon being planted? Do you have to slip past a guard patrol route or a locked door? The more thorough this section is, the likelier the plan is to succeed.)

At no point through this OOC process will anyone but the GM, the Contractor, and (if he is a different character) the Operative know that this process is underway, at least until the plan has come to full fruition, or someone has talked IC. In any case players are all but certain in any game to want to defend their characters from an untimely fate, sometimes justifiably, always passionately. These passions can easily result in the wrong types of conflict, the ones which make enemies out of players rather than characters, so this method of crowd control is designed to let a smart, thorough, well-executed plan culminate in its rightful results; and, by contrast, to let the right characters (the ones who were adequately prepared, paranoid, and/or lucky) survive to take their vengeance another day.

As for me, I obviously need to be trustworthy with these matters. The first step toward this end is removing any and all personal stakes from my own RP. As a result, although I will be playing a multitude of NPC's, no one character will become a designated DMPC. I will not participate in the politics of the game except as a diverse array of background voices, ones which will not overshadow player agency (unless to respond to overwhelmingly foolish choices). I do hold myself to the Advanced standard of writing, and have over half a decade of GMing experience under my belt. My longest and most successful project lasted three years on the RPing server of a popular MMO. But I am also pushing myself to become even better, so this will be my most ambitious project to date, and I will be accepting and actively seeking out your suggestions throughout: whether for writing, for planning/organizing, or even for a cool story beat you thought up for your character.

𒐼𒈬

Rules

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Rules & Etiquettes

Violations for which I can reject your character sheet

Rule #1: Read the Rules

^{You're one for one so far!}

Rule #2: On Images

Quite a prominent challenge in developing this game has been finding an abundance of decent images which fit both the time period I wish to emulate and a sufficient degree of the "realism" or practicality which I want from my world. The aesthetic is extremely important to the feel of this game, which while not an historical experience is all too much inspired by historical events, cultures, and people. Thus the suitability of an image is of tantamount importance to the overall quality of a character.

Below are the parameters on image use. If you do not wish to meet them, or cannot meet them with the images you like, you may use period art to cast rather an abstract bearing over your character; or you may use written descriptions as a substitute for image files entirely.

No Greek or Roman influences wheresoever possible. No Caesar, no Alexander, no Macedonian phalanxes, no Roman legions. You can go to any other "Ancient"-tagged game for your fill of this. The aim of this game is to emulate other cultural interactions of the period, the ones oft-overlooked. (Just about anything else is fair game from the late Bronze Age to very early AD.)

No blatantly stereotyped imagery. As this world is a proxy for the Mediterranean and the "Near East" this will mostly mean turbans, curved daggers, curly shoes, and that sort of thing. Think Aladdin. Now, by all means make your character a huge racist if you'd like, who spreads stories of such things about other cultures, but I don't want any stereotypes actually walking around the world, least of all any anachronistic ones.

Make sure the clothing and equipment look at least "plausible" as practical fashions if not outright historically accurate. I won't reject your image for minor anachronisms but these can easily go too far and become glaring, with an asymmetrical pauldron here, a scimitar there ...

No Marvel actors, catwalk supermodels, or sassy tumblr gifs as faceclaims. You know the look. They represent ridiculous ultra-manicured 21^st Century beauty standards which should be rare if not entirely impossible from such a setting as this. I aim to capture a diverse range of characters in all matters, including physical beauty, and nobody should be without his disease, his parasite, his wound or scar, his deformity, his imperfection. (Obviously few fantasy character portraits will actually reflect this, but the principle stands: a little ugliness goes a long way in making the cast feel more human and less silly power fantasy.) If you genuinely want to play a drop-dead gorgeous faceclaim then the onus is on you to create a character to match; they simply are not the default look in this world. That's all.

No anime or other extremely stylized cartoon art. Photography, historical art (including sculptures and busts), paintings, and "realistic" digital art are all accepted.

If in doubt feel free to send the image my way via PM so I can greenlight it.

Rule #3: Give Your Characters Flaws. Real Flaws.

"Your characters need both strengths and weaknesses to feel like fleshed out people." We've all heard some variation on this advice before, whether from a creative writing professor, a veteran Guild member, or our favorite authors' podcasts. What they don't always include is the necessary disclaimer: that these weaknesses be immediately pertinent to the action of the story.

So Susie is afraid of spiders, or deep water, or long falls. So what? How will she confront these fears over the course of the RP? How will they change her as she tries (and maybe fails) to confront them, to overcome them, to change and mature as a person who has just undergone a journey of self-discovery and growth? If the answers are "she won't" and "they don't" then you haven't actually written a flaw; you've written a bit of Jeopardy trivia.

Flaws are as necessary to your character's story as wheels to a car. The story is not worth telling if she's not a different person at the end as she was in the beginning; if she is mentally, emotionally, and circumstantially inert. This change needn't necessarily be clean, or good; she can fall into bad habits, she can make mistakes which can never be undone. She can regress. She can feel powerless against old habits and the echoes of the past. In short, her flaws can fucking hurt. And they should, whether she's fighting relentlessly to change her ways, or succumbing to their cheap and easy temptations.

For more on this principle please see "knife theory."

Rule #4: Miscellaneous

I'm holding you more or less to an Advanced standard of writing. Your posts may run shorter than is often expected there, particularly during dialogue-heavy scenes, but I can reject your application for distracting or detracting in terms of its elements of style or grammar. This is a subjective thing and I cannot fully rationalize what I want to see in an app, but I will be fairly forgiving as long as you poured a sincere and wholesale effort into the project.

I'm also holding you to a respectful level of historicity (or historical accuracy, if you so choose—feel free to ask if you're having trouble distinguishing the two) and to a tone befitting the setting, the "time period," and the narrative I wish to tell. I will reject any joke characters and any blatant, gratuitous anachronisms.

Violations for which I can ban you from this and future roleplays

Etiquette #1: The Usual

Mary Sue, Gary Stu, metagame, godmod, autohit, blah, blah. You know all this. No need to dwell.

Etiquette #2: On Consequences

I'm not a sadistic GM, nor a sadistic person. As a result, players' characters will not be killed without sufficient reason and sufficient foreshadowing.

Nonetheless, some of them will die. Because in Devourer you will reap what you sow, and sometimes what you sow will be an enemy, a grudge, a slight, a sin, a scarcity, a distrust, a feud. NPCs can betray you; your fellow players can attack you; but not without good cause, generally. (I don't like "crazy"/"insane" characters and never will, so you're safe from people killing you for no reason, but the occasional bad luck in life is wonderfully unavoidable and this may be reflected late into the game.)

This is where I suggest that you join this game only if you have thick enough skin to let your character be shafted sometimes, sometimes severely, particularly if he has brought it on himself. (Again, a stroke of very bad luck will be rare.) This is not the RP to join if you need good to always triumph over evil and your favorite characters to always make it to their happy ending. Good guys are going to clash with good guys here and not all of them will resolve their differences peaceably.

Etiquette #3: On Adult Content & the Delicacy of Its Handling

Thematically this game is a no-holds-barred exploration of humanity's best and worst. The shit which won't get me banned from the site and/or thrown in prison will be depicted rather explicitly; the illegal/ban-worthy shit (ie. rape, incest, pedophilia, and really anything overtly sexual), though not written in detail, can be mentioned in passing as happening somewhere off-screen. This is not to shock or needlessly challenge anyone but rather to enrich, and render even more accurately, the experience of living in a world torn asunder by war, fear, superstition, and casual inequality. I shouldn't need tell you, of course, that conquering armies raped their enemies' families, or that pederasty was a common thing in Greece, or that priestesses sacrificed their children to the gods.

Although this is not an "historical" game (in that it does not depict factual events) it does draw from historicity, and seeks thus to best simulate within this fictional setting the raw brutality often found in our own world's ancient history. This means political correctness, and 21^st Century ideologies altogether, will not be found here; not as author proselytizing, not as #woke NPC's.

This is your content warning as well: if explicit portrayals of slavery, sexism, racism, religious fanaticism, authoritarianism, warcrimes, and other sensitive topics might insult you then I would not recommend this game as an entertaining or educational experience.

Etiquette #4: On IC & OOC

Just because another character is attacking yours does not mean that the player controlling him is attacking you. He might hate your character, maybe he even has OOC motivations for leading the RP in a certain direction, but the conflict itself is no excuse to abruptly quit the game, to bitch people out, or otherwise to throw a tantrum.

Just as I need mature players in terms of handling sensitive adult themes, I also need players who can reflect on their own behavior and adapt it the delicate situations which have sabotaged so many roleplays before ours. That means taking the game in stride, realizing it's just a game, and not taking its events or outcomes personally. On the other hand it means not using your character(s) to punish other players for doing something you didn't like. It also means communicating if you do have a problem, or suspect that one is in the works; both with your GM (moi) and with your fellow players.

I expect that this didn't need saying as the cast has been pretty awesome so far but I do so as a precaution nonetheless. I don't want IC emotions bleeding into OOC and vice-versa.

Etiquette #5: On Leaving the Game

It happens. You can't stand your GM, or an argument with another player proved irreconcilable, or you couldn't handle the responsibilities as well as you thought, or other, more important obligations came up, or you simply haven't enjoyed the experience. I'm sorry to see you go. But whatever your reason, you should not simply dump the RP and wash your hands of it as quickly as possible. I have designed this simple opt-out process not only so you remain in the good graces of the players and yours truly, but also so the story itself does not suffer. You leaving means your characters are up in the air, and the arcs connecting them to the other characters are compromised. So giving the GM enough time to write them out in a satisfying way (whether that means death or miscellaneous) is crucial to the success of the RP.

Simply send the GM, that is me, or the Co-GM (TBD), a PM detailing your reasons for wanting to leave the game. We will accept your request and either give your characters to willing players, or, if no one wants to continue their story, think of how best to write them out. You do this privately so the other players do not know that you are exiting the story until it has already happened. Suspense and tension are maintained. Everyone is happier: you, me, and the rest of the cast.

Showing courtesy for your fellow players and consideration for their time and energy is both an easy and effective way of ensuring that the game feels accepting, pleasant, and respectful for everyone involved. I look forward to working with you.

With all these warnings and protocols behind us, I can finally say, quite simply, that I hope you look forward to joining and engaging with the Devourer canon as much as I enjoyed writing it. And I look forward to writing with you, too.

[pugbutter]

𒌫𒊏𒄷𒆜𒇻

Encyclopedia

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Map (click to expand)

Factions & Nations

Atalmo & the Talomaics

A young man stares out at a shimmering sapphire horizon and he sees opportunity: for wealth, for glory, for adventure, for escape. What he neglects to see are the monster, the monsoon; gods and nature in conspiracy. Any sailor worth his rations could have warned these bitch-whelps that their big blue lover suffers no infidelity; she can swallow them as soon as kiss them. And many will never see land again who mistook her summer sweetness for affection. But sometimes, by moonlight or by the oppressive afternoon heat, they do return to land. They drift up on a foreign shore, clinging to their flotsam, battered, weary. And they bring a warning.	______________________________________________________________________

"The drums," they say through trembling lips and chattering teeth, "the drums ..." Worse things haunt the seas than the fang-gaped beasts under its surface and the winds and the waves. They are reavers and chain-makers. They are Atalmo. Most striking at a glance is the ebony of their skin, deeper and richer than any other race can boast; and their cloaks, woven with the feathers of exotic birds. They reserve peacocks for only their wealthiest merchants; blue-gold macaws for their brides and daughters. But when other men see these resplendent colors they tend to avert their eyes, cough politely, and shuffle on; or murmur a favorite obscenity; or, if they particularly catch the interests of the Talomaics, they drop their wares and run, run as far and as fast as their bodies allow. Because the colors are a message, the same one painted over their sails, their decks, their bodies: that some men are buyers, others are sellers, but every man, in his way, is a commodity. People say the Talomaics have discovered a toxin for every degree of painful death they could ever wish to inflict. A certain frog's skin blackens and liquefies the body from the inside out, starting at the organ nearest the point of contact. The spittle from a hooded viper's fangs pops the eyes and the blood vessels, leaving a purple bruisy corpse. The flowers of a particular plant are wringed of a sweet nectar which makes the muscles unable to relax again after they have been made rigid, leaving the victim to slowly strangle himself. Maybe it's all true. But another application none can refute; the Talomaics' favorite poisons are used to subdue and to tranquilize. Then they begin the harvest, and when they have collected their fill of flesh they ship it back to the islands to be branded, speyed, and broken. Only when it is immaculate is it fit for market, where they will display it in fine clothes and perfumes, with unerring straight-spined elegance. Atalmo needs everything utterly perfect. Its archers do not miss; its training does not falter; and it delivers the most obedient slaves in the world, for the highest rates. Despite their cruelty, Talomaics select their leaders almost solely by their ability to do this: bringing the most wealth, the most labor, the most ships, the most influence to the mother nation. They do not answer to their strongest and meanest warriors but to merchants, wardens, ship-kings, who govern the islands and currents from their forums deep in the emerald jungles. Atalmo has geography and ecology to thank for this; no one dares, for none before have yet succeeded, to march the length of the peninsula. They can only hack in vain at the dense, roadless brush, and wait for the predators and strange diseases to take them. Should someone send his fleet instead to take one capital island, the peacock ships will simply rendezvous at another. So it goes for as long as the invader can bear to fight his futile war. The smart ones turn round and flee at first sight of the futility of it; the foolish are sold back to their homelands, branded and castrated and tongueless. It is slightly the shame that no one has ever returned from the greatest deeps of Atalmo's forests (or at least has never told of it). At other ports these shadowy men chant ceaselessly of their palaces, carved of volcanic glass in the images of animal gods, circled by menageries holding beasts no other men but they have seen or collected. But if a Talomaic says he has an obsidian palace then people are quick to believe him, unlike most alehouse braggarts; he has been bred, born, and groomed all his life to prefer death over the shame of a broken promise. In fact, the more ludicrous and exaggerated the promise, the stronger the Talomaic's earnestness. Because whereas most nations need soldiers to survive, this one needs customers, and the customers will go elsewhere if another peddler proves more trustworthy. The Talomaics will not win any glorious wars. But they have won a lot of loyalty from the right men—the ones with heavy purses and kingdoms to build.

Fashions

<sup>The hues of this Talomaic's cloak would suggest a relatively low standing on his ship of employ. He may be an ordinary slaver-soldier or even a mercenary.


Woman and daughter. The elder is wife to a wealthy and important man—a fleet captain, perhaps—as proved in the colors of her mantle.</sup>

Music

Warfare

Advantages

Disadvantages

Arguably the best sailors and pirates in the world. Excellent archers and skirmishers, skilled with all manners of ranged weapons including bows, throwing spears, blowguns, slings, and darts. Their slaves can offer basic infantry support; battle-fodder weakens foe before the main clash. Excellent fighters in tight quarters (ie., below deck, thick jungles). Great at ambushing and guerilla tactics. Well-fed and strong of body.

No cavalry whatsoever. Inadequate infantry support. Easily enveloped on unfavorable ground; a widespread lack of tactical prowess due to a penchant for targeting weaker foes. Fragile morale; mercenaries and pirates waver quickly against a superior enemy.

Eshkhep, Upper, & the Eshkhep Canon

They call their mountainous land Kher-ap-let-sepernefri: literally, "the world's-edge fingernail," owing to their belief in a hierarchy of body parts. The fingers and toes, being the pieces furthest from the heart, are the channels by which evil energies escape the body. It is perfectly typical for a nation to have an ego. Each believes itself the greatest, the most important piece of the world; the heart, or the head, as it were. But what the gods dream, the Eshkheps build, and their land is a crossroads for the mystical and the occult, the dead and the devilrous. They fancy themselves the world's hand, fingernails and all.

Be it an ailing and afflicted hand, to be true. Whereas the northern Eshkhep lives and dies at the mercy of a single river, the southern is drowned under a thousand tributaries when the mountains melt in autumn (maybe the same disaster said to have razed the Nasha Valley, and driven from that place the once-peaceful Aqqiyabats). Where the Lower is buried and mummified in storms of salt and sand, the sweet rot and the pestilence cling to the damp of the Upper's air.

The mysteries and perils do not end at the borders, either. West are the Dusklands, where cross the dead into their afterlife (and the wars have blotted the sky with them of late). East are the harrows of the Screaming Sand, and to the south those same impassable mountains, guarding—or holding back, like a dam and a deluge—the true heart of darkness, the great nothing beyond the lip of the world. While kings and conquerors largely ignore Upper Eshkhep, or try to forget it, their magi, oracles, and high priests come from all round to train here their subtle arts. Their masters believe these lands strategically worthless and infertile, but these practitioners see the true value hidden beneath the miasmas and the soupy soil: their powers deepen here. The stone, the trees, the swamps themselves are somehow more sensitive to rites and rituals. At Qur-Qesh-Nathri they are free to study and train without persecution, and anyone claiming to know magic who has not studied at the Riddling City is of scarcely more consequence to the arts than a streetside busker. (Its name is not Eshkhepish for they and their King did not build it; its origins and meaning go unknown, and that may be best.)

The land seems near death even under its brightest stars and cheeriest summers. That is because it is—sometimes but a river-crossing away—though an odd peace has taken root on this side of the Mesphoth. The Eshkheps still worship their death-gods here, and they are many: a dragonfly avatar for the stench of stagnant water, and the wormy ills which slither up from it; a frog god for drowning, a heron whose grasp steals souls from the afterlife's arbiters. But the rest of the old canon receives its due worship as well. The crocodiles are not quite so malevolent here as in the Nhirian north; these deities give virility to men, and protect women in labor. The King is not a mere god's-son here, but a full-blooded god unto Himself; upon His earthly death He enters the pantheon for all of posterity to venerate, taking the form of a hybrid creature, half the man he was, half the animal He took as His symbol during His reign. Nor is one god revered here as the sole and premier Creator of all life. But this old culture, once thought extinguished with the coming of Hamurmātā, is not alone in having thrived in cursed and forsaken places. The Eshkheps worship hundreds of gods, but the magi and oracles who are their guests uphold ten thousand between them. Even these gods manage to coexist with the other pantheons while Their disciples share in the reverence here, for all the laws of creation.

Fashions

Music

Mirab Eshrw & the Dusklands

In most corners of the world exile means mercy; to live when one should have died. To the Eshkheps, however, it means crossing the River Mesphoth unto the lands of the dead—and those to whom death is the greatest boon.

Two types of people come to this place by choice: the slaves who ferry the old kings and build their tombs, and the thieves come to rob them of their treasures. For one it is redemption, a chance to be buried with their lords, a great honor which will scrub their souls of all their staining sins; for the other a stain anew. Neither would be there, of course, if he had better options, if he had not run out of money or been convicted of his crimes. But the lepers, the defilers of religious sites, the pretenders to the god-king's throne, the children of enemy leaders, the unwanted, the dangerous, the cursed—they never had a choice at all. Pushed onto the rowboats were they with spears to their backs, archers aimed to shoot down anyone who tries to swim away. Even other nations have taken to sending their unwanted elements to Eshkhep, that they may take on the burdens of quick and efficient disposal.

No one knows for sure what becomes of these people after they have passed the horizon, which looks as gold and bleary in that direction as in any other, at least from the riverbank. Allegedly they have built a city there, these outcasts and untouchables: Mirab Eshrw, "trysting [with] jackals." Here they slit a throat—animal or man will do—and quench themselves on the flow of the wound, as the hellish ground gives them no wells or rivers or oases. When the tunics have rotted from their bodies they must smear themselves in dung to clothe themselves, as no flax or linen grows for textiles. Hair sprouts from their eyeballs, teeth on the soles of their feet, and fingernails on their genitals. But nothing is confirmed and no one should want to be the one to confirm it; but all would agree these people are cursed, cursed and doomed and worse off than any corpse buried under the Hill of Kings.

Yet this land also has not hidden all its mysteries. Sailors pass by its capes sometimes, and describe what they see there, and land to land they spin the same tales: of a jagged and raging earth which spits liquid fire from its mountaintops; pink sharks swimming sulfur seas; and men, or manlike figures, grey-skinned with bristly manes of hair matted over sloped brows. They use soot and a red clay for warpaint, and wear nothing for clothing but little thongs of leather round their hips. They carry spears with bone blades and arrows with bone tips, and they wear bones in their hair, ears, noses, lips. They have thrown their weapons at the ships which got too near, but are seemingly unable to make chase by swimming or by sallying with their own seaworthy crafts. They, like the exiles, are trapped on that dark continent; or are they what men become when they have crossed the river with their souls and bodies still conjoined? Could they even be the spirits themselves made visible, like sunbeams in smoke?

The Eshkheps' holy texts give no answer for this. They only say, quite meagerly, that west of the Mesphoth is the kingdom of the dead; that here are judged all souls, the good ones born again, the ill cast to flames like the waste parts of a calf. They speak of terrible punishments for the sinful and the unworthy but nothing of whether this image on the capes is the fate awaiting all mortal creatures. Regardless, the world has only benefited of these stories woven at its western precipice; even if only a few souls have seen it, and if only a fraction of them have given it meaning, there are men nonetheless who have lost all cravings for war. They will retire their weapons and better appreciate a life which is still yet their own, which has not been given over to the silencing dark which comes for us all.

Music

Nhir & the Ûzurenids

Even kings need mothers to teach them temperance and wisdom, fathers their courage. They are sown of the same flesh, bleeding under iron and withering under dirt like all other sons. But what about the perpetual part of a man, the part reclaimed and rekindled as the material stuff rots away? Here, say the Nhirians, is whence comes the king's true power, for he is a flame from the Flame of Ārtammat, and this power alone can melt away the eye's artifices, and forge the will of destiny. Nhir did not sire the first empire, but the largest, and the eldest of those which still rule today. It has suffered more hushed whispers, more dark and eerie incantations, more screams of sorrow and bloody vengeance than any other. But not all was as it now is; the Nhirian Empire did not spring from the darkness already formed, like a womb cannot birth a man full-grown. Even gods must build their paradise. Hezeret was His name, the last city-king of Nhir. Any who would call himself an Ûzurenid claims direct lineage back to Him, and many are such men, priests and nobles and the like, for the God-King took many wives and many concubines when he had ended the other city-states and their would-be warlords. Past were the days of bickering over wheat fields and lengths of riverbank; His great vanquishing started with the nearby Simil-sumir, then Limtuk, the rest falling not long thereafter. Old men with clay and ink under their fingernails will debate until the end of time on just how Hezeret ended this abject period in their history, of human baseness, of relentless infighting and usurpation. What they cannot dispute is that He held the favor of heaven and the Flame Imperishable; that His heart pumped royal blood from the day it was formed of the Material-Ashen. For Nhir is the schematic by which all other nations are designed. She recorded the first history, she codified the first human rights, and she has survived, through her customs and folkways, whereas her precedents have returned to the dust. She delights her Creator, or she did.

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But Hezeret only laid the foundation for the state as it is now known; He only united a dozen heartlands into the one, and executed those who perpetuated the wars of brother and brother, Nhirian and Nhirian. Upon this foundation His sons have built His true legacy. Bešem-kullu III, for example, founded what is now the empire's capital, honoring his tutelary with the first temple sanctified there, and with the city's name: "True be the Words of Ilišim." His son, Kin-ulur-šarâkkur, finished the walls and palace of this, the most ambitious of the Nhirian public works (dwarfing Nhir itself), and began the construction of the new city's Sea-Gates, today the empire's first line of naval defense; its greatest singular source of wealth; a wondrous monument to the ingenuity and the glory of its architects; and a work of art, carved and painted with the reliefs of over three-hundred demons between them. Another yet of Hezeret's line, Zugil I, built the frontier-town of Ninbânnupur into the true border-march that it is today, complete with roads, wells, watchtowers, thick limestone walls, and dozens of grain stores, all of which can sustain a siege for months, and which serve admirably as the empire's first land-defense. Others still have extinguished pretender-lines. They have settled other lands. They have established suzerainties and alliances, and, of course, conquered. Thus it is: that to inherit His forefathers' glories, and to further them, is the chief duty of any Nhirian king. Not all have proven so great, but at festival they worship all the ancestors alongside Ārtammat and His demons, owing to all in equal turns for the works of which the Nhirians still profit. Alas that they allowed their authority to wane. Whereas Nhir was once the benchmark of civilization, its God feared and its rituals upheld worldwide (whether to pay her true tribute or merely to stay her wrath), now only the puppet-states and exiled bastard lines honor the eldest traditions. Kings who once brought the Known World to heel have let it slip from their greasy, goblet-gripping fingers; their inheritance rots like a garden of unpicked vegetables. It should come as no surprise that King Mneššebnar V aims to restore the name back to the glory which the third and fourth and their ilk had allowed to decay and decline. He wants it to strike terror from the tongue, like sparks from steel, as it did in centuries past; the conqueror's fire has swept over his soul, the very same perhaps as which consumed Hezeret so long ago. This is not curious for one who has inherited an empire past its golden age. No, what is odd is how He aims to re-earn his long-due respect: by leading the most ambitious land-conquest in the Nhirians' history, over the largest single territory and the most perilous terrain. His predecessors never dreamed or attempted such a feat, never mind achieved it, and He Himself is certainly no seasoned warlord like the primogen was. But already Mneššebnar has marched on the Thraxians, bringing His idea of civilization with Him. The steep, sheer cliffs and deep fjords stopped His cataphracts once, but He will not be so hindered again; not while His enemy still recovers from the first assault, and not while Ārtammat, the Flame Everlasting, favors the gifts His son contributes. Mneššebnar, meanwhile, has been reforming His army, which was already said to be the strongest in the world; and gathering talented advisors, said to be the wisest philosophers and the generals of greatest esteem. As High Priest the King also prays, recites, and invokes, and stacks high the altars with wheat and flesh. Yet while the army visibly swells its ranks and improves its tactics, the favor of heaven is not so evident. Only future fortunes will tell whether these sacrifices have earned the blessings of the First Father. He may graciously accept the Nhirians' offerings and efforts; or, thinking them sanctimonious, He may yet give them over to to the cruel infinity beyond, whose name is Matra Qazru. Matra Qazru—this name belongs to the Devouring Darkness Himself, but it is synonymous too with what He represents: death instead of life; hate instead of love; barbarism instead of civility. And for Nhir's empire to succumb to these forces would be the worst destiny they could imagine, they who have ruled so long, and achieved so much, sure that they will live forever and inherit all creation.

Fashions

Music

Warfare

Advantages

Disadvantages

Nhirians field the heaviest cavalry on the map, and some of the heaviest infantry too. Equipment, training, and discipline together forge a serious and deadly center line; these professional soldiers are nigh unbroken from the fore. Archers are paired with lightweight sparabara skirmishers, protecting them from enemy missiles. The Nhirian heavy elites, the Ardent Host (from whom the royal guard is also drawn), do battle with eager hearts and iron wills, believing their ruler a god, His causes always righteous. The Nhirians pioneered shock-tactics. At great cost to their finest troops they have earned uncountable victories.

Whereas the center line is rigid and hard-broken, the flanks are thin and easily outmaneuvered. Nhir is slow to replenish its ranks, for much time and money and many resources are needed to train the world's finest from fresh stock. This is particularly true of the archers, who are two men to a bow. Sparabaras and archers don't fare well in the mêlée; nor do cataphracts and the Ardent Host on unruly terrain.

The Pearled Sea & the Gwidlic Kingdoms

If a Gwidlic boy thirsts for glory or good fortune then he takes to the sea; if he be a sloth, or a coward, then his women will spurn him there. "How useless are you," his mother may say, or his betrothed, "that you drink near the fire while the other boys bring back ivory and jewels?" He will know then what he must do, and from what indignities he must save his name. He sells his dagger and his boyhood trinkets to buy a spearhook. If he comes back, he comes back a man, certainly; a hero, sometimes; a king, if a certain rare fate so favors him; a slayer of gods. The land rewards the hardworking Gwidling, too, of course. They stalk game with bow and arrow; they forage their forests; they net the bogs for iron, and pull up minerals from the skin of the earth: nickel, jet, coal, amber-gold. But these are the realms of old, fearful men, men who have lost their luck and whose spirits have gone to ash. The sea belongs to those with spirits still ablaze. It makes fishermen of the smallest of them. Many again are traders in fat times and plunderers in lean, buying meat or stealing it from other lands when their own has yielded none, taking only enough slaves to see their chores done back home. A decent living is always easy to earn on the lakes and rivers, too: the demand never dries up for young, strong workers to portage ships, loaded with casks and weapons, from water to water. But the greatest of these men, the ones with infernos inside, they go hunting.	Inside a Gwidlic king's roundhall. Each shield, painted with its respective sigil and colors, represents a nobleman who has sworn himself and his domain into fealty, being stricken from the wall only to symbolize the most severe betrayals, including oathbreakage, treason, and unlawful murder. (Lesser crimes may see the shield marked with a black ink until its lord has redeemed his honor and paid the appropriate debts.) The hearth, being at the center of the hall, represents its central role within the community, as a gathering place both for warmth and for justice; the columns are carved with runes and idols honoring benevolent gods. ________________________________________

The beaches may offer the first good omen: a piece of amber-grey washed ashore. It tells that the storms bring glory, for their princes stir below. The Gwidlings set out in strong morale, singing while they row, telling stories of their fathers' and grandfathers' hunts of yore as they settle into their sealskin blankets that night. This first of nights is the proving night, so these will be tall tales, even satires; the shivers are setting in now, from the cold and the fear alike, and the fledgling crewmen have need of their smiles still. Days will have passed when this crew, already quite brotherly, has caught glance of its first fin; or of a great mad eye set in a regal brow, an abyssal jaw, for many and motley are the deep-terrors. Their captain, well-seasoned and bearing proudly his scars, has led their ship through many a labyrinth, whirlpools and riptides and rocks and pearly glaciers, but even he is awed with this monster, despite that it may be his tenth battle or his fiftieth against this wildest of the four seas. "There! There!" cries he, or whosoever he had placed at the prow as watch, and the men take up their polearms and cordage in a blink. These be minor gods, as gods go, but deific nonetheless; crafted of their bones are the strongest tools and shelters; an oil is rendered of their bellies which burns brighter, hotter, and longer than any peat or hardwood; these leviathans even defecate wealth, for the Gwidlings will skim their bowels of that same grey amber, which southern ladies use to maintain the smoothness and perfuming of their skin; but the flesh! Be it the richest and oiliest food in the north, and served in such quantities to nourish a village for months. As for the ivories, pride of the Gwidlings though they may be, hanging from their ears and necks and fingers in such hues as to rival the fairness of their skin, no single piece has ever surpassed the seat of the Beducian king, said to be carved of one terrible, twisted tusk. The Beducars were another petty kingdom not so long ago, but Letheoric the Younger is said to have bested a beast so great that its singular slaughter ended a winter famine under which his people's doom was thought certain. He returned not only with this abundance of meat and oil, but with this greatest of all the sea-trophies, and with assurance, perhaps from the very sea-god he slew, that his line would carve a throne of it. From this throne his line would forge a land belonging to all the Gwidlic peoples, and a dynasty to rule it. Overthrowing the previous king was not at all difficult under such circumstances; Letheoric God-Eater was the hero of his people and they took the enormous ivory as proof that he had been chosen to fell far greater foes than he had as a mere chieftain. Fate has backed their boasting so far. King Bódlo rules as the third Lethengian, and he has nearly finished the work his grandfather started. Only a few kingdoms-minor continue to resist the total dominion of the Greater Gwidlic Kingdom (previously the Beducian Empire) over the Pearled Sea and its fairhair champions. Although these territories have proven troublesome, within his borders Bódlo has founded a relative peace and stability for his subjects. He was quick to quell the revolts which come with any king's rise to power, and he has only expanded the system of law which helped Letheoric in reconciling the fractured kingdoms' many disagreements. Duels and pitched feuds are now fought on the many islands along the coasts, for example, where they cannot disrupt the routines and productivity of civilized life. Bódlo has also ended the sacrifice of freedmen and slaves to the bogs, decreeing that all of his loyal citizens, regardless of status, deserve a true water-burial (if in a lesser body, as in a lake or a river). The bogs he has reserved for his dearest enemies only, though who be these enemies will not be so obvious for very much longer. Unification of the Gwidlings seems certain. But what will become of this fledgling faction when it has reached this crucial moment? Rumors tell of Bódlo's ambitions stretching further, into a distant north where the winters are white and the seas are locked in ice. Or will he turn his gaze to his nearer neighbors, who worship the clay and the mountains as he worships the fruits of the sea? Maybe another foe, greater and far more ancient than he, will elude him, until they have already arrived at his borders, hungering for the glories that he has managed to build among the strife and the storms.

Fashions

^{Cithica, Queen of the Othogots, with attendants.}

Music

Warfare

Advantages	Disadvantages
Beducish knights are the finest heavy infantry any barbarian faction can boast; perhaps the finest worldwide, man to man. They have great armor, good training, strong morale, and long weapons, suiting them both for charging their foe and for resisting a charge. Infantry in general boasts a superior grade of armor and training. Gwidlic warriors can fight either on land or at sea, on cramped decks or the open field. Even Gwidlic archers make acceptable infantrymen in a pinch, though mostly due to their good equipment. Most men boast archery skills, either as a profession or as part of the king's militia training.	Low mobility. Gwidlings tire themselves easily under their heavy equipment. Though more Gwidlings wear iron than warriors of other nations, theirs is softer and of inferior quality to the irons extracted from other lands. Only knights have any practical access to cavalry. The terrain doesn't suit horses, so they are a status symbol at best for most warlords. Archers are the riffraff of an army: boys and elders too weak to withstand frontline fighting. The strength of the Gwidlic levy is more dependent than most on the seasons and their yields. As few Gwidlings are farmers, a badly timed war creates a weaker, hungrier main force; and many of them will desert back to their steads if their families need them more than the king does.

Sarsis & the Sarsinids

There stands a shrine for every fallen Sarsinid whose sacrifice is worth remembering; a dozen shrines for every hero among them, his deeds venerated in song and reiterated on the battlefield. As for Acamydos, the Deliverer, he is worshiped in every home, with every kind of charm and altar and idol, from the land's edge to its tallest peak. For without him there would be no Sarsis, which in the language of its dwellers means "respite"; a word very much lost in translation, comprising all the land which provides them with steed and stead; house and home. It was he who led them from famine unto bounty and from persecution, from land and man alike, unto a nation of their own.

Across the River Pyrhos and the Shackling Sea they hold a different repute, however, from their much-favored hero: for treachery, kinslaying. The best of them, at least in the public eye, are loyal to gold, or maybe to a tight-knit group of outriders; the worst, to themselves and their beasts alone, to the idea of war itself, so drunk on it that they forget why they fight at all. But this is not the whole truth of it. Only those with no grand aspirations whatever can depart from Sarsis and never return, having scarcely tasted its strife of a hundred little kings. These travelers will take whatever work they can find with their quite specialized skills, and although many of them do become mercenaries, they are scouts and couriers and honest huntsmen as well; if the locals allow it. They are more than pleased to line the Sarsinid's palms with silver when it suits them, but the smell on him is unmistakable: of dung, of soured milk, and of blood. No more trustworthiness has ever been assumed of him than a coin or two can buy.

As for those who don't leave, they too are wanderers, living and dying by the pastures to which they lead their herds. The horse is their milk and jerky; the skins of their drums and the strings of their lutes; their mount. Ergo it is, all at once, a companion, a weapon, a vehicle, a sustenance, and a song. The boy's horse will carry him into manhood as he makes his pilgrimage to the three greatest shrines of the realm (representing the harmony between god, man, and nature, via their chief deity, their heroes, and the scourge of their first homeland, respectively), and then this same horse will carry him into battle, sometimes even to his pyre. And all the while the rider's whole purpose lays in bringing the animal to the tallest and greenest grasses. He will win it from those already grazing there; fertilize the grass with their blood, if it comes to that, which oft it does. They're hardy warriors here, man and girl alike. They like bows and spears the best, softening an enemy with missiles before sending in the charge. And where the grass grows best they are sure to be squabbling.

He would lead a horde two hundred thousand strong who unites the clans, unprecedented and unstoppable. They could seize whatever part of the world they favored best, as large and plentiful as their hunger for power. This is proved in that Sarsis, the fluid and shifting nation by now we know it, has never been conquered. They have a saying here: "the stranger's sword spills hoofglue," and it rings true in all the alliances ever conjured up between chiefs on the eve before a battle, all the grudges ever forgotten, if only temporarily. For only the foreign invader has managed to unite the clans, whereas upon each other they fracture again like ill-quenched iron upon an oaken shield. They have many enemies, cruel and countless, but few fool enough to challenge them on their native plains, where several good commanders of yore have been humiliated, several masterwork armies crumpled, by the horselords' greater hatred for the encroacher than for each other. The thundering hooves of even a thousand chargers are subject of many songs, sometimes in abject admiration, more often as a faceless plague come to torture a more civilized folk.

They show the world much mercy, in their way: first, that they are poor engineers, erecting structures of wood and rotting rope which will scarcely serve a generation, if that. Sometimes their bridges fall even before an entire horde has crossed. (Only Acamydos's bridge still stands, centuries later.) And never has a Sarsinid ship seen the breadth of the Shackling Sea; they take water faster than a drunkard's cup. Second: that they squander their men and beasts on inconsequential skirmishes, their ambitions on bits of leaf. But few would dare try their luck, nonetheless, on their grazing lands. The Sarsinids may fear open water, and the aridity of the Screaming Sands, and even many passes through their own Kharakhis mountains, but to the armies of the enemy they will never, ever yield. Their cloaks of horsehair and human scalps will testify, that ultimately, these stinking swarms carry and kindle within their hearts the same flame as any other people: to eat, to prosper, to tell stories, and to give their sons a legacy which will never turn barren.

Fashions

Music

Warfare

Advantages

Disadvantages

The best mounted archers on the map. Fantastic lancers. Cannot be sieged; the Sarsinids live on their herds, and their herds live on endless miles of grassland. On their home territory they will wage, and win, a war of attrition against near any foe. Guerilla and harassing tactics support a terrifying main charge. Excellent scouts, trackers, light cavalry etc. They move quickly despite their large and unwieldy baggage trains. Their yurts can be packed up in minutes.

Only basic infantry support; fighting on foot is the domain of boys, elders, and those shameful men with no more beasts left to ride. Need appropriate terrain to fight: relatively flat and featureless, with plenty of low foliage for grazing. The Sarsinids fear the Screaming Sands in particular for how the desert starves and squanders their herds, a lesson they have learned well. Their supply lines are short and feeble. They must either graze the land they conquer or carry all their food with them, severely limiting expansion. A Sarsinid's family is never far from the battle; the baggage train is always vulnerable to attack, if he is not wary.

The Screaming Sands & the Aqqiyabats

Nothing short of a miracle could have created the Mesphoth River and the valleys which follow its lengths. These slivers of black mud, the sweetest and most fecund in the world, are like the smear of luscious butter down the middle of an arid bread. West are the Dusklands, the hell-province ruled by cruel forces and outcast gods, each of them a hateful and evil crasftsman, fashioning his legions after the nightmares of man; east, a more familiar hell, almost pleasant by compare. The mirages comfort a dying man's mind. The earth is soft and shifting under his weight, cradling his body to sleep like blankets of golden silk. People have always had an ambivalent relationship with Ptetho-kwsek, "The Screaming Sands." This desert is simultaneously their destroyer and their savior. Countless die within its borders, but countless again could live nowhere else. If a conqueror would take Nekhermis, the capital of the Eshkheps, he would send ships sure enough to blockade the ports; but he need send an army, too, on foot and in chariots, to burn the wheat outside the walls, and to poison the river. The desert has prevented this time and again (every time but once, in fact). Sarsinid generals, thinking they are invincible if they can but reach the cities and batter down their doors and break into the storehouses, have learned the true meaning of apathy when the land gives them no water, no grasses; and ten thousand horses collapse, then their ten thousand riders soon after, who had dreamt only of seeing the Kharakhis once more. Pureblood Nhirians will never serve their empire again who were sent to the lowermost corner of the world to unfurl its banner there and further its glory. Even refugees receive no kindness; the bladed winds reach the fleeing Jalwarudi where the tasseled swords of their enemies cannot. The elements do not think nor feel nor regret. They only shift as they will, blind to all the suffering within their borders, deaf to the shrieking of their namesake.	The Aqqiyabats keep their brides, their children, and their slaves tucked away while they brave the wastes. These noncombatants dwell at an oasis very far from the roads; in a tent-city teeming with food and decent water; or in the Nasha Valley, their paradise of legend now desolated. Its ruins are said to sit at the southernmost edge of the Screaming Sands—thus, at the edge of the world. ____________________________________________________________

Even the Eshkheps beware this graveyard bordering their gardens and nurseries, despite that they are so well acquainted with the multitudes and magnitudes of its agonies—or because they are. They too must march the Ptetho-kwsek before their largest ambitions can be realized and it has proved the ruin of many a halfhearted conqueror, leading his army, already harrowed and exhausted, into the maw of a waiting foe. But not everyone fears and hates the Screaming Sands, although they have earned well their stench of death. Not all flee from their blazing touch, rather crawling over them eagily, thirstily, like lice. They are the Aqqiyabats and they laugh and sing songs as other men depart from their domain, either on their own terms or on the desert's. The Aqqiyabats do not fight very well; no, they kill in other ways. They are not a professional army but they also needn't be; they "advance" by running away, and the desert harries their foe. They are a subtle presence on the battlefield, while the wolves and the buzzards wreak death with spear-teeth and sword-talons. When these men do fight it is only on their terms: on the right ground, by the right light of the heavens. The nations know them firstly as the bandits who menace the roads, those veins of civilization running through a frontier body. They startle at the red and black robes just as their horses do at the snort and the stench of the Aqqiyabats' camels. But these are merely images, aspects. The reality comes at their caravans with flashes of cold iron, stripping the fineries and leaving behind the ruin of their broken bodies and beasts and wagons. They do take slaves sometimes, but it seems some sort of custom, maybe a religious rite, to leave meat for the other scavengers. But sometimes even the silks and jewels and casks of wine are left behind. If the gossip is to be heeded, when they are not skimming riches from the well-trodded trade routes they are walking the subtlest of the sands; leaving no footprints, and no other evidence, either, of their having been there, like a storm dried up. The Nhirian and Eshkhep Empires take them on as assassins, it is said, and few can refute; who better to open a throat than the man who goes unnoticed until he has already arrived, and who retreats again into the wastes as easily as rain into dry soil? The nomads probably have craftsmen and artists just like a people any other. Scholars and scribes might follow in their ranks, drawing up maps of their oasis networks, immortalizing the stories of women and children who the rest of the world have not met nor even seen, hidden within the deepest enclaves of the Sands. But these honest and decent Aqqiyabats are buried here like honest and decent folks are buried everywhere else: under the sands of time, under the shadows of kings and killers. They have given the world no kings, but killers aplenty, for if hard lands breed hard creatures then this is the land of jackals: those of four legs and those of two. Fashions Music

(WORK IN PROGRESS) Eshkhep, Lower, & the Hamurmid Dynasty

Preview: This is what a nation looks like when Nhirians have conquered it wholesale: the old ways squashed, repressed, or, in some cases, beaten and warped to fit in with the new. For example, Matra Qazru is not a dragon here, but a red-eyed crocodile, patrolling the river of the dead for the errant souls of good and kind men. Some worship the old pantheon in secret, but risk great punishment in doing so.

The dynasty here, however, is a bastard line; Hamurmata, for which it is named, was exiled from Nhir, and conquered Lower Eshkhep not for glory but for saving his people from certain starvation, for nowhere else in the Sands were they safe. The Hamurmids claim their primogen defeated the city of Nekhermis fair and square on the plains of battle, but popular knowledge insists that Nekhermis is invincible, insinuating that the conqueror cheated his way inside.

The most recent Hamurmid, son of a forsaken wife and half-brother to the true heirs, has violently deposed his father, continuing the Neo-Nhirians' tradition of tarnishing the name of the true-bloods, but also possessing their own brand of low cunning.

(WORK IN PROGRESS) Haddi-srivar & the Jalwarudi

Preview: Like the Sarsinids, the Jalwarudi are pastoralist nomads. Unlike the Sarsinids they herd cattle rather than horses, and are quite peaceful rather than warlike. The results are quite predictable: they are easily vanquished, and their ancestral homeland is rife with raiders and slavers. More and more Jalwarudi are being driven south, toward the mountains and the ruins of the old kingdoms, both said to be cursed. How much desperation and suffering can a single people survive?

(WORK IN PROGRESS) Kharakhis Minor & the Hitravites

Preview: This nation bows to Nhir as a suzerain rather than as a liege. It seats its own kings and fields its own armies, but pays tribute to its larger neighbor. In theory Nhir should be protecting Hitravata in return, but they seldom cross the sea to do so. Perhaps they fear the Sarsinids to the south, or whatever dark secrets may hide in the mountains.

(WORK IN PROGRESS) The Silken Sea & the Velucians

Preview: In times of peace and plenty they herd sheep, goats, and other livestock, and carry their weapons solely to defend these flocks from wolves. But when the bounties dry up and their children hunger, these islanders set off on ships, and join the ranks of the world's most famous mercenaries. Such is their skill with bow, sling, and javelin that most seafaring nations have built their own ports here (with the Velucian king's permission, of course) just to buy them out before their rivals can, for these are the choicest light infantrymen and skirmishers in the world, training with their weapons nearly from birth to protect their livestock from wolves.

Ironically, these islands are the most peaceful place in the wartorn Silken Sea; the different nations manage to coexist here, even as prices fluctuate and as tensions swell on the main shores. They can even wander into each other's ports relatively without incident, trader and soldier alike.

(WORK IN PROGRESS) Thraxia & the Angaturiz

Preview: A red-haired, grey-eyed people of the Thraxian mountains and the lying valleys. They are most famous for their pottery, for their public works are small, their ambitions petty, their armies scarcely more than a swarm. But they have proven to have a will of iron, and a surprising penchant for politics, despite having no kingdom of their own. Their poets and storytellers are known the world over, well-practiced in memorizing whole sagas, and these castes of men are welcome wherever they go. The rest, however, are viewed as bloodthirsty savages.

They worship animistic gods and spirits, and do, indeed, have a keen thirst for sacrifice. Most sacrifices are fed to the bogs along with casks of mead and butter.

[pugbutter]

Just to clarify: if you see someone post in the Characters tab without having submitted his app in OOC first, it's because I accepted his app through PM's (or through Discord). If you haven't been accepted yet then please post here as is the usual. Thank you~

You may now post, of course. And here's a bump.

[pugbutter]

Started an image repository for the clothing and armor styles of each respective culture. I'll fill these out in full once Discord's servers are functioning properly again, since that's where I've been storing all the cool faceclaims.

We have just enough people who want to play chiefs (some rather grudgingly, but they've stepped up all the same), but 1-2 more retainers would help to even out the player factions. Come on down!

[Sadko]

Lubbo Bladetaker

"I was born many, many years ago." The man would laugh, his strong fingers tracing the form of the wine jar. "The time when the Carogacts were naught but packs of hungry dogs, squabbling over bones and sticks whilst foreigners were free to come and take as they liked. "My father.. Well, he was a foreigner alright. A man from Veluzia, bare with a sling and a bag of stones, in the service of a minor chief who placed his trust in him. The chief did not go wrong with his decision, and my father killed many of his enemies, taking his pay in wine and women. He took his daughter, too, when the chief was down with malady and on his deathbed." He gazed into the hearth, as if pondering something for a moment. "I was the son of their union. Ever since I was a babe, my father put a blade in my hand and made me his helper. Spotting wolves, skinning stags, making traps and building fences.. I did it all. "Gods, I was strong as an ox; once I felled an oak as tall as thirty good men standing atop each other's shoulders. Our village had enough timber to last us three winters, and we built a new fence for the sheep pen using the branches. That feat alone had men casting their votes for me when it was time to decide who would be chief. "The same year, a potter and his family begged to join our village. They fled down south after their home was destroyed by a rival clan. The potter's daughter.. Ysilla. A beauty. Buxom, with wide, child-bearing hips; I knew just then that she would be my wife." The chieftain grinned as memories came flooding back. The glint of his eyes seems to change as he'd continue, "I wasn't the only one who thought to make her mine." He looked into the flame, grimacing. "They called him Babon the Strong. I figure Babon the Stupid would be a more fitting name for such a bloody oaf. Challenged me for chieftaincy and tried to take her from me, he did. And so we settled it in a deathly struggle. He and I, spear and axe, blood for blood. Tossed at a spear at me as we closed in on each other, hoping he'd surprise me. I surprised him instead, when I caught it out of the air with my hand and stabbed the thing through his mouth, right into his little brain." Lubbo ran his hand over the shaft of his spear. "No one questioned me after that. From that day they called me Bladetaker, and you know why that is so. The very same spear I took from Babon, is the one I heft in my hands at this moment. I was named chief, and Ysilla was named my wife. I'll tell you all something. I never aspired to conquer my neighbours, to tear down their livelihood and drive their people into chains and graves. But I made my clan a power not to be trifled with. I tripled our harvests, raised up the hundreds of huts you see dotting our hills, felled the trees in our forests to build a palisade around us. Know this, I toiled whilst other chieftains spent their riches on their own vanity, in the search of trinkets and useless things. It is their people alone that asked me to lead in their stead, and I could not decline their plea. "Some sought to topple me, to have me poisoned or struck in my sleep. Their little bones are scattered on the riverbed. Those that bent the knee and accepted me as their leader, I helped stand to their feet once more. You men can see the fruits of my work. A people as one, protected from the thieves and the elements. I will do everything in my power to make sure that my children continue my legacy and multiply it, that no foe dare ruin us."

Skills & Talents __________________________________ He is known as a leader of men, and has been at the helm of his tribe for decades. This alone speaks for his aptitude in command and stewardship, understanding what his people expect of him and knowing how to keep his subjects happy and respectful of his name. Though aged and not as strong as he was in his youth, he keeps himself in good shape. The man is a resourceful fighter and picks his battles well, knowing the importance of positioning and formation in ensuring a victory. Traits __________________________________ Assertive; Wisened; Brave; Uncompromising; Distrustful; Conservative. Allegiances __________________________________ He lives for his tribe and family. Rank __________________________________ Chief of the Carogacts

[pugbutter]

Some sought to topple me, to have me poisoned or struck in my sleep. Their little bones are scattered on the riverbed.

@Sadko

Not much to nitpick here. Accepted!

[pugbutter]

Need just one or two more to replace the inevitable ghosters. The IC is starting soon; bump!

Discord link

[Strange Rodent]

Character Teaser. Expect far more in a similar style.

Aedthel the Blessed

_{Finding images that fit both the theme of this rp and the character is exceedingly difficult, and some concessions have been made. Just... pretend the eyes are normal eyes, not those black and gold things.}

---

A grand priest who dared to approach the older gods on a pilgrimage to the Ruins of the First Kingdom. For the gall, he was cursed. Though, what are curses but blessings in disguise?

The gods saw fit to plant a seed in his mind, a seething, writhing, growing thing. This caused his holy knowledge to grow, but at the cost of his physical strength - and, later, voice. Currently, at age 26 he is so weak that he is effectively paralyzed from the waist down.

When the fruits of this god's touch came to bear, he and the expedition returned to their tribe among the Angaturiz. Upon arrival, all who laid eyes on him and held the gods in their hearts felt the truth of what had happened. He was deemed most holy, and appointed as the ruler of both religion and state, forming a theocracy. Though, the mantle of lord is merely idle thought fodder to him, considering the presence on the inside.

[DELETED08740]

Idk if I will join, but respect for amount you put into this and encouraging other ancient societies man.

[pugbutter]

Much appreciated, @PigeonOfAstora. The thread isn't 100% finished only because I want to do every idea justice, and give each its due effort and passion. I'm so glad that it has shone through into the final product for you.

[Strange Rodent]

And here is what I'm submitting for the final sheet. Also bump.

If you're thinking about joining this, bloody well do it.

Aedthel the Blessed

_{Finding images that fit both the theme of this rp and the character is exceedingly difficult, and some concessions have been made. Just... pretend the eyes are normal eyes, not those black and gold things.}

---

A grand priest who dared to approach the older gods on a pilgrimage to the Ruins of the First Kingdom. For the gall, he was cursed. Though, what are curses but blessings in disguise?

The gods saw fit to plant a seed in his mind, a seething, writhing, growing thing. This caused his holy knowledge to grow, but at the cost of his physical strength - and, later, voice. Currently, at age 26 he is so weak that he is effectively paralyzed from the waist down.

When the fruits of this god's touch came to bear, he and the expedition returned to their tribe among the Angaturiz. Upon arrival, it was the will of the gods that all who laid eyes on him and held faith would know the truth of what had happened. He was deemed most holy, and appointed as the ruler of both religion and state, forming a theocracy. His first act was to proclaim the Old Gods found in the First Kingdom as the true forms of those they already worshipped.

Those who do not hold the gods in their hearts can be quick to judge him, and these people spread lies about what he does behind closed doors. Of course, these rumors are baseless, and the longevity of the ones who spread these lies testify to that. Consider the effect of a little suspicion on one’s perception of another.

Being a priest, he is literate, a rare talent to boast of. He also is well studied, most proudly in Theology and Philosophy. Were he able to talk, he would be a prominent debater. Though mute, he has found a way to communicate via other means, and this can be considered a talent in and of itself. This works most effectively with (Fenway), due to their close bond.

Would you ask those close to Aedthel what he was like, they would cast two separate shadows. Before the pilgrimage, he was lively, full of joy, energy, and faith. He would talk for hours about his studies, were you to let him. After the pilgrimage, he took the atrophy and silence hard. While he did not lose his passion for study, he was not able to speak of it or show others his learnings. No longer able to express the excitement he held, it faded.

Due to the presence on the inside, the mantle of lord interests him little, so a good deal of his political power is wielded and defended by (Fenway) the Handmaiden. Though the name sounds innocent, his ruthlessness is well known.

As a man of faith, Aedthel owes his loyalty to the older gods who so marked him. As a learned man, he owes Piety to As a leader, he owes loyalty to those who look up to him. As a dear friend, he owes loyalty to (Fenway), and as an acquaintance, he owes loyalty to many more.

[Strange Rodent]

Just updated Aedthel as per Pug's instructions. The rest of you should get onto this, it's been a while.

[Kalleth]

Character Sheet: Oswin of Rigobod

Have you ever thought about where stories come from? Why people tell stories, and how mere series of events are molded and shaped into legends and tales that survive and even outlast empires? Since the dawn of mankind, such questions have run wild in the minds of those who make their craft that of the written, spoken, sung. In Rigobod, a young lad was born and weaned on the stories of glory and great hunts by his father. Years passed and the boy became a man, though not before his unmatched love for stories led him to seek training as a menestrel. A year and seven days before Oswin's 18th birth day, his father went out to sea on the hunt. Oswin never saw him again. The hunting boat did return eventually, severely battered, burnt, and barely in one piece. The vengeful words on the lips of the broken men were poison to Oswin's innocence, as they spoke of "Nhirian bastards, who capture men for their damned campaign against the Thraxians." From that day on, Oswin sat at the docks with a hungry look in his eye, waiting patiently for more news from far-flung Gwidlings come home to tell their tales. It’s said the seas call men in their own time, once they have matured to the point where the bounds of their birthplaces can raise them no longer. Oswin felt this call when he had learned of the Thraxian cause and their Great Council. Filled to the brim with legends, tales, myths, and yarns of utter fanciful nonsense, Oswin felt a hunger to find those who stole his father and wreak vengeance on them. The honeyed wine of rumour seduced the young man, and the wind took him across the sea on the deck of a Gwidlic merchant’s ship. A Thraxian port town of the Carogacts was the Gwidling’s landing, where he heard that the chieftain had not long left for the meeting place. Oswin rushed down the road, heedless of the risks he was taking, in order to meet this chieftain and join his forces. ... The meeting of a nation’s tribes to rally against an overwhelming and ruinous empire. Chieftains and mercenaries from the world over banding together, to either break the old power or die together trying. All the makings of a civilization-defining legend, and all that was missing was a suitable chronicler to record and immortalize the events, as they happened. No longer, it would come to pass, as Oswin of Rigobod raced toward the mountains and landed in the company of one of the many chieftains. An oddity amongst warriors and warlords, his strength of arm far inferior to the strength of his wit, Oswin hoped to inspire hope and witness heroism. It would remain to be seen whether his hopes would soar or plummet, alongside the Thraxian cause.	Oswin has the rugged appearance of a Gwidlic youth, sporting blonde-brown shoulder-length curls and a youthful face. His wide green eyes can be seen gawking at every new sight to be seen in his environs, and is himself not particularly remarkable in dress, tending to wear garments of muted colours. Oswin’s stature is not small, but he is not muscular by any measure even if he is taller than average. As a man barely grown, Oswin’s scruffy beard is kept to a close shave, although it is doubtful any would call his fuzz a beard in the first place. Overall, Oswin is a youthful nondescript man who emphasizes cleanliness. Age: 19 Skills & Talents: As a Menestrel, Oswin is competent at Writing, Singing, Memorizing, Carving, and Poetry. As a Gwidling, he also has passing skill in Fishing, and is an Amateur Sailor. Traits: Well-Spoken, Attentive, Naive, Imaginative, Proud, Jealous Allegiances: Gwidlic Gods, God of Skalds, Storms, and Songs (Bragi), Gwidlic Kingdoms, Rigobod, Lubbo Bladetaker Rank & Role: RETAINER

[Cyclone]

I stumbled upon this and found it very interesting. You’ve found a unique (and good) niche and idea. For that alone you have my respect, because it’s hard to make original and standout RPs.

Sadly I’m in no position to join this, at least for the next few weeks. I just wanted to offer you my praise, encouragement, and best wishes. I hope this succeeds because it’s the rare type of RP that I love, and I’d like to see more like this on the guild.

I’ll offer you one piece of advice: be very wary of the difference between creating a “game” that’s meant to be “won,” and a collaborative story environment where everyone works together for fun and there is no “winning.” As cheesy as it sounds, I’ve found that making a conscious effort to strive for the latter keeps the RP more enjoyable, attracts a better base, and is more sustainable. That’s just my experience and opinion, though. I say this primarily because your section about the mechanics surrounding character deaths and assassinations, and it felt very gamey and gave me that wary tingling that I’m sure we’ve all felt when browsing new RPs.

[One Who Tames]

@Cyclone I had a similar issue when I saw his pitch for the RP. Try as I might to hate it, I couldn’t deny that it interested me. Pug has been pretty cool so far too.

[pugbutter]

@Cyclone, thank you for your encouragement and your advice.

Regarding your last paragraph: I quickly realized while planning this RP that there would be no perfect solution which allows me to have my cake and eat it too. I definitely don't want minmaxing, stat rolling, or for people to otherwise "win" my game. But by the same token, this being the goal for many characters was inevitable, given the IC circumstances. Even if they have no ambitions of their own they must concede that they will only have a feasible chance of standing up to the Nhirian Empire under a unified rule, and everyone ought to have a different idea of who will be most capable, or the most deserving, within this role.

Furthermore I wanted other players to be just as much a source of conflict as Nhir itself. I think I wrote about this in the mechanics section already but seeing as how this game will generally have a lot of talking and not a whole lot of fighting (at least at first), those different voices need to be the biggest obstacle between Thraxia and its due progress. This inherently entails a certain degree of competition, and an "us vs. them" mentality.

You can see the dilemma. I had to choose between encouraging IC conflict and stifling it. This same choice is also between players being rivals or partners. If they come as a packaged deal then the story will benefit most from the former, at the OOC's expense, and vice-versa.

Ultimately however it all comes down to metagaming. If the players can keep these bitter sentiments IC then I believe we'll have no issues. And I'm assuming the best of everyone until someone gives me reason to doubt his true motives for playing.

Thank you again for your comments. While I must currently focus on moving forward with the IC, I will take some time—eventually—to review what is already written, and assure that it does not give the wrong impression.

[pugbutter]

@Kalleth You've received my critique via Discord, but I liked what you've provided so far.

[Peik]

Expect a CHOONKY character application here soon-ish.

[Peik]

Say hello to the newest contender, everyone!