The World of UKSS
The largest of Ukss' continents, Atalanta extends from the southern tropics all the way down to the south pole, and east-to-west stretches halfway around the world. It's home to a wide range of climates and biomes and a subsequently diverse array of cultures and peoples. Atalanta's northernmost peninsula is separated from the south coast of Hyborea by only a narrow channel and defines the western edge of the Omphalos sea. That region is known as the Lowlands and is the most prosperous and technologically advanced in Ukss.
To the southeast of the Lowlands are the Shielding Mountains. They run the entire width of the peninsula, cutting it off from the main body of the continent. South Atalanta is dominated by cold grasslands that gradually shift into temperate rain forests the closer you get to the north coast.
Going east, the Haven Mountains define the edge of another sub-continent. These mountains are considerably more navigable than the Shielding Mountains, with only a few peaks extending up past the tree line. The eastern slopes of the Haven Mountains are covered with rivers, both great and small, making the coastal Twilight Forest region into vast, sprawling wetlands.
Travel across Atalanta is difficult and expensive. The densely-populated Lowlands and Omphalos coast have complex rail systems, but mountainous terrain keeps them from connecting to each other. The south plains are too sparsely populated and the Twilight Forest too wet to support much infrastructure. The preferred method of travel between regions is still the shallow-water ships that specialize in traversing the Omphalos sea, though for direct travel between the richer cities, airplanes are becoming more and more popular.
Despite the difficulties in travel, Atalanta does have a very nearly transcontinental telegraph network the connects human and goblin settlements from the Lowlands to the Haven Mountains (the Yokai who inhabit the Twilight Forest have so far demonstrated little interest in maintaining communications with the outside world.)
True to their name, the Lowlands are astonishingly flat. Though the climate ranges from balmy in the north to chilly in the south, the whole region is remarkably temperate and well-suited for agriculture. The massive Grey River bisects the Lowlands, serving as a conduit for travel and trade, though it has surprisingly few tributaries for a river that size. The region as a whole is very densely populated, and virgin wilderness is rare, save for the occasional old-growth forest that remains protected by Alfar or other Yokai.
At any given date, between 20 and 30 nations call the Lowlands home. The core of any given nation is usually a distinct language, though sometimes linguistic nations will split for religious or cultural reasons or multi-language states will form for mutual protection and/or economic advantage. Despite the diversity of customs and fashions, the entire Lowlands region is quite homogeneously capitalist, and most of the larger states have definite imperial ambitions.
The people of the Lowlands have straight, black hair and skin that ranges from medium brown in the south to near-black in the north. Eyes range from dark brown to hazel, with green eyes being both extremely rare and stereotypically attractive.
This balmy nation near the north coast of the Lowlands is known as "The Land of Summer" and trades extensively with the Bay of Blood. It practices an extremely bureaucratic form of capitalism that looks on paper like it shouldn't possibly work, but in practice is quite robust.
This is thanks to the guiding hand of the country's Empress, a prophetic prodigy of incredible insight and power. She was found, 50 years ago, by an ambitious minister who immediately recognized her potential and put her to work. Since then, she has not visibly aged, appearing as the same serene child that was found in a field all those decades ago. The people of Sheyaugh adore her and believe she has delayed her own deification to stay and guide them. She is known by no other name but The Incarnate.
Sheyaugh is largely ruled by the ministers one level below The Incarnate. Technically, they are civil servants, promoted by nothing but merit, but webs of patronage and reciprocal nepotism-by-proxy are common. Occasionally, The Incarnate will direct her highest ministers to adopt a new law or strike an old one from the books. These actions often seem whimsical or overly specific to other people, but in aggregate, they serve to keep the nation prosperous in ways no conventional economist can quite understand.
This small, but dignified state abuts the Grey river, near its source in the Shielding Mountains. It is known for its crisp autumns and brutal winters, but also for the grace and elegance of its courtiers. It is ruled by Hir Majesty, the Sovereign Sasha Blackberry Capet. The Sovereign is a hard-working, practical soul, ill at ease with hir court's pomp and formality. The masters of protocol have had to work overtime in adapting the nation's ancient customs and rituals to hir non-binary gender, but ze regards it as hir one indulgence in royal prerogative in hir otherwise humble and conventional reign.
Capet strikes many outsiders as quaintly backward, like something out of the last century. Sovereign Sasha has been negotiating with both foreign investors and the nation's home-grown industrialists to try and rapidly modernize, but has been running into problems with a capitalist class that is a little too eager to sacrifice the country's natural beauty on the altar of profit. Capet currently has some of the best air and water quality in all of the Lowlands, something that gives Hir Majesty considerable clout, given its position at the head waters of the Grey River, but ze has not yet mastered the political maneuvering necessary to use it to hir country's advantage.
Despite its lagging technology, Capet is not easy-pickings for its more opportunistic neighbors. It has one of the premiere air forces on Ukss, in the form of the Aeriel Excellence Squadron and its proximity to the Shielding Mountains gives it abundant mineral resources, especially living metal, which can not merely transform a horse into a match for a biplane, but also has a myriad of industrial and sorcerous applications only now being discovered.
Located near the center of the Lowlands region, Seljuk is an economic and military powerhouse. Possessing an ancient culture that distrusts magic, it has taken to identifying and capturing young magicians at an early age, pressing them into service in the King's elite Janissary guard. Though the kingdom lacks the wands to outfit all of its troops, the Janissaries are nonetheless fearsome fighters, able to exploit their connection to the Magic World to shoot straighter, march longer, and fight completely without fear.
Though the Janissaries are technically slaves, as the King's personal bodyguard, they control access to his person, making the Janissary generals some of the most influential figures in the Kingdom. Retired Janissaries have taken positions in all areas of the Seljuk government, and year-by-year the combat readiness of the guard suffers as they indulge more in the civilian pleasures they were previously denied.
The Republic of Crosswoods
The Republic of Crosswoods has the lowest crime rate in all of the Lowlands . . . but it is far from safe. It is policed by an organization known only as the Bureau, and its citizens live in terror of its agents. People go missing when they're taken in to the Bureau's custody. Paperwork is "lost," witnesses are intimidated into silence, and often the families of the accused are arrested shortly thereafter. It doesn't happen every time . . . just often enough that the common folk get the message - never question The Ruling Council.
The horrifying truth, that no one has yet uncovered and lived to talk about, is that the Bureau is riddled with vampires. Their mortal agents don't do much by day except stay visible . . . and take copious notes. The real enforcers always come by night.
The Ruling Council itself is "democratically elected" in typical Lowlands fashion (i.e. it's a free choice, but good luck standing for office if you're not worth at least 20,000 a year). The Bureau technically answers to them, but in practice they never question its decisions or practices. The most frightening secret of the Republic is that the Council is not under vampiric mind control. The quarterly statistics are all the persuasion they need that the Bureau is worth the price.
The City-State of King Mountain is a historical oddity. Fought over by empires for more than 200 years, it was eventually granted a sort of semi-independence to soothe the tensions between the neighboring states of TBD and TBD.
The grandfather of the current Prince flaunted tradition by opening King Mountain's first casino. The wealth this brought in was sufficient to buy the nation's freedom and abolish the national income tax besides.
Today, King Mountain is a playground for the wealthy and powerful. Drawn by its mild climate, decadent night life, and status as the Lowlands' premiere tax haven, industrialists and aristocrats from all over the continent (and beyond) maintain homes in the tiny coastal nation, giving it an influence all out of proportion with its diminutive size.
Though, officially, the economy of King Mountain is driven by its casinos, banks, and rich arts scene, its real national industry may well be espionage. Despite some overly sensational fiction, it's not true that everyone is a spy, but secrets abound at the gaming tables, and there's usually someone around to overhear a careless word.
The Shielding Mountains
The cloud-shrouded peaks of the Shielding Mountains divide the major human civilizations of Atalanta from each other. Impassible by all but the hardiest explorers, they are the last bastion for many of the Lowlands' native Yokai.
Though the Shielding Mountains are synonymous with untamed wilderness among the Lowlands' nations, they are gradually falling under the influence of industry and commerce. Mines riddle the lower elevations and only the most isolated need garrisons to protect them from hostile encroachment.
The Chthonic Empire
A subterranean civilization centered under the Shielding Mountains, the Cthonic Empire is an alliance of goblins, mole-people, and other underground Yokai. It is moderately industrialized, perhaps two or three decades behind the Lowlands in magical and weapons technology, but with sophisticated electric lighting and ventilation techniques.
As a diverse civilization, formed from a union between historical rivals, the Cthonic Empire highly values politeness and ceremony. The mole-person Emperor employs a whole legion of courtiers and diplomats to ensure that his commands are delivered with precision and respect.
Even more than the alpine Yokai, the Chthonic Empire is the main impediment to the Lowlands' eastern expansion. Through careful diplomacy, the Emperor has secured treaties to limit the depth of mines in the Shielding Mountains. These treaties have so far been enforced by the Empire's superior underground engineering experience, but some of the eastern-most nations have been experimenting with mechanized boring machines that threaten to turn the tables.
The Omphalos Coast
A land of rolling, golden hills, slow, muddy rivers, and rich, fertile valleys, the Omphalos coast is blessed with mild winters and long summers. It is almost as capitalist as the Lowlands, but more pastoral, more religious, and less aggressively expansionist.
Bordered on the south by an impassible, yokai-haunted rain forest, the Coast is much more accustomed to strange disappearances, mysterious transformations, and alien revelations than nearly anywhere else on Ukss. The people are earthy, practical, and unpretentious, but they take no chances with the occult. Every village and small town has its own rituals of appeasement, and though the cities don't have the same sort of worries, they never quite lose that cautious edge. Reverence for nature and respect for the gods are key values.
The people of the Omphalos Coast have golden-brown skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. In the country, dark suntans are both expected and considered a sign of a proper work ethic, though city folk view them as an affectation that goes in and out of fashion with periodic regularity.
A small island less than a day's sailing off the coast, Vaporia is a community utterly devoted to its signature industry: glass-making. The famed sorcerer-artisans are world-renowned for their enchanted glass boats and elegant mechanical hawk familiars (made with brass fittings and clockwork mechanisms, holding together the glass feathers which allow them to fly), but the island also produces large amounts of mundane glass, from the exquisite blown-glass figurines that decorate every house on the island to industrial quantities of simple plate glass, to sate the south's ever-growing appetite for modern windows.
The culture of Vaporia is best described as "artistic, but mercenary." They love to show off the latest achievements of the glass-maker's art, but not unless they've been paid first. As long-distance travel continues to drop in price, they've been receiving increasing numbers of tourists, eager to experience its colorful and chime-filled streets. Though this has been an unquestionable economic boon for the people of Vaporia, some of the old guard believe that it threatens to dilute their way of life and replace real glass work with "shows for gawkers."
New Gold City
Celebrated in song and story, New Gold City is the unofficial capital of the Omphalos Coast. Commanding the mouth of The Big River, it is a major commercial port and a military and industrial hub every bit the equal to anything in the Lowlands. It is also widely considered the world's most cosmopolitan city and is a frequent destination for refugees, migrants, and outcasts, all of whom bring their own unique cultures into the mix. New Gold City has a reputation as a place where fortunes are made, true love is discovered, and the unlucky are never seen again.
The city is ruled by the Waters dynasty. Said to be descended from the god of the Big River itself, they are hereditary Prodigies, able to hold back floods and divert river water to outlying farms. The current Queen, Juliana of the Waters, highly values propriety and protocol. Her strictness and exactitude are legendary, though she is also renowned for knowing the birthdays of all of her servants and bestowing upon them gifts that are as lavish as is proper for their station.
The Waters dynasty lives in The Golden Palace, the only part of the first Gold City to survive the Thousand-Year Flood. The Palace is an architectural marvel, meticulously carved by water magic from the gold-colored cliffs that give the city its name. The Palace is also famous for its living paintings, whose figures move when they are unobserved. Whether the paintings are haunted or a product of forgotten sorcery is the subject of much debate.
The core of New Gold City's military is their elite Boar Warriors. Dedicating their minds, bodies, and souls to the Great Boar god of the southern woods, they fight with terrible stubbornness, pushing past wounds to continue the battle up until the very point of death. Though their attrition rates are high, they count much more heavily on the battlefield than their numbers might indicate.
The Equine Steppes
These dry, rolling grasslands in the south of Atalanta get their name thanks to their total domination by the Talking Horses. Though they do not have the hands to use most forms of technologies, the Talking Horses are expert sorcerers, able to call down great storms or raise imposing fortresses out of the bones of the earth. The massive herd-dances may take weeks or months to organize, but they grant a power even dragons fear.
The need for large-scale organization has led to a peculiar sort of feudal society. The Talking Horses are ruled by their master sorcerers, who even on an individual level command devastating ritual magic, but uniquely for horses, sorcerers are tied to their citadels and cannot stray to far from the seat of their power. Thus the nomadic herds will shift their allegiances throughout the year as they roam from fief to fief. Ultimately the balance of power is maintained when new migrants come to replace the departures, but different citadels have different reputations and an overly demanding sorcerer may find their home bypassed entirely. This gives the herd-leaders a certain degree of soft power, which they use to bargain for more generous grazing rights or sorcerous assistance in their various rivalries and feuds.
The only other major intelligent species on the Steppes are the werewolves. Ruthlessly hunted to near-extinction by the more organized Talking Horses, a few werewolf communities exist in the shadow of the citadels - client villages that the sorcerers can exploit for more dextrous labor. A few roving bands of outlaw werewolves still exist on the fringes of society, clinging to an idealized version of the ancient werewolf culture. Half-bandit and half-revolutionary, they fight to break the power of the sorcerers and the herd-leaders and establish a more equitable society. Their code of honor dictates that they may never eat the flesh of any creature that speaks, but the powers that rule the Talking Horses nonetheless slander them as viscious predators - all the better to prevent any idealistic young foals of listening to their talk of equality.
So far, the Equine Steppes have been protected from human imperial attention by geographic barriers like the northern rainforest and the Shielding Mountains, but as the Lowlands begins to colonize the Haven Mountains, conflict has become more frequent. The boldest of the Talking Horses have a game to prove their courage. They'll wander near a human settlement pretending to be a dumb, Lowlands horse. When a human attempts to claim the "windfall" of a "stray" horse, the young bravo bolts wildly as soon as the rider mounts their back. The farther into the wilderness they can carry the hapless human, the more prestige they earn amongst their peers. There is extra acclaim for a horse that is calm and collected enough to make off with saddle and tack, though it usually takes a sorcerer or subservient werewolf to get it off afterwards.
The Haven Mountains
These low, weathered mountains have been ground down by centuries of erosion. But though the terrain is gentle, the land is as wild as any place on Ukss. The original goblin homeland, the Haven Mountains have never been truly settled by humans.
Small, frontier towns dot the landscape, but they must take care not to grow too large, lest they draw the attention of a hungry dragon. They persist because there is good money to be made prospecting, trading with deep goblins and wild yokai, and exploring abandoned ruins from all the prior colonies that had the hubris to think they could tame this land.
There are no humans native to this land. Lowlanders are the most common, driven by their home governments' ambitions and a strong cultural need for profit, but nearly anybody can come here to make their fortune. The most unusual feature of the Haven Mountains' population is the degree to which humans and nonhumans mingle. Goblins make up a bare majority of the population, and in many places Yokai outnumber the human population, even in colonies sponsored by a human nation.
One of the tallest peaks in the Haven Mountains, the Sleeper stretches almost all the way to the tree line. Near the top, a long, sinuous rock formation spirals around the summit, forming a caldera-like divot. From this shallow valley, long streams of dense fog pour down the the sides of the mountain, waterfalls of mist that puddle around the base on a cool day and gradually fade to invisibility when the sun is high. The forest these mists pass through is eerie and sacred. The more spiritual Yokai gather there, and even the most secular of Lowland capitalists hesitates to cut branches or gather stones.
The Sleeper is not an ordinary mountain. It is a great dragon, one of the few that ever been powerful and cunning enough to reach the end of a dragon's natural life span. As it felt the day of its passing draw near, it called upon the deepest of draconic magics to merge itself with the land. The forest and the mountain and the mist all have a rudimentary consciousness, not quite as intelligent or as perceptive as the dragon in its prime, but one that nonetheless has access to potent and poorly understood abilities that serve to keep the area free from human interference.
The Boiling Sea
To get to the Boiling Sea, you must travel to the far south, deep into the interior of Atalanta's polar ice shelf. If you approach from the east, upwind, you'll have only a day's warning, as the permafrost gives way and scalding hot geysers spring from the earth. Downwind, to the west, the warm air thaws a thousand square miles, making it an improbable temperate region in the middle of the arctic.
The Warmlands are home to a small, but thriving civilization. They almost never see outsiders and are curious and friendly, but they can be ruthlessly pragmatic when the winds change and resources become scarce.
The Boiling Sea itself is exactly what it sounds like. A small sea, around 100 miles across, that boils like a kettle running over. It is wreathed in a huge pillar of steam that acts as a beacon from horizon to horizon. The Warmlanders have learned to harness the steam to power simple industry (only their small numbers prevent the adoption of more sophisticated techniques), but it is dangerous work. No one has ever ventured into the center of the sea and its cause is currently unknown.
The people of the Warmlands have tawny skin with golden undertones. They are paler the farther they are from the Boiling Sea, but this does not appear to be genetic. Someone who moves from one area to the other will often find themselves gaining or losing a tan. Hair is brown or auburn, but occasionally shockingly blonde. Eyes are brown with pronounced epicanthic folds. Ruddy cheeks and red noses are common, especially among the region's heavier drinkers (their mastery of steam technology means that flavorless distilled liquors are common and often served in delicious mixed drinks that take visitors completely by surprise).
The Twilight Forest
These expansive wetlands dominate the east coast of Atalanta. For hundreds of miles at a stretch, the branches of the mangrove trees are so tightly intertwined that the swamp floor exists in a state of permanent darkness. Fireflies in a half-dozen colors swarm thick in these areas, and it is a rare piece of deadwood that doesn't quickly become covered in glowing, bio-luminescent fungus. Strange vampire families call the forest home, growing powerful in the absence of their enforced slumber. Some say these vampires are the force behind the will-o-wisps that lure travelers away from safe paths, never to be seen again. Others believe that there are other powers at work there, and old gods that even vampires fear.
The northernmost quarter of the Twilight Forest is dominated by the Frog Nation. Canny to the ways of the swamp, and grown fat on its bounty of fireflies, the Frog People fear neither vampire nor god nor wisp. The Misty River marks the southern border of their traditional range, not out of any power the local Yokai have to stop them, but because they find the chillier, foggier climate uncomfortable.
There are very few humans native to the Twilight Forest. It is more of a Yokai place, but there are a few isolated villages in the colder southern regions, maintained by the vampires as sources of blood and (rarely) new recruits. These people are pessimistic, with dark humors, but are also nonetheless tenacious survivors. They have chalky white skin and blue eyes with hair that ranges from blonde to mousy brown. They worship the solar deity TBD, but in a terrifying apocalyptic aspect. In their prophecies, they will be liberated from their vampiric oppressors when their god consumes the Twilight Forest (and perhaps the entire world) in a cleansing inferno that delivers pure souls to paradise and consigns the monsters to oblivion.
The continent of Hyborea straddles the equator. The Bay of Blood is defined by a spur of land that comes within sighting distance of the northernmost point of the Lowlands peninsula. Its mouth is about 200 miles wide and it's 500 miles across at its widest point. The lands ringing the Bay are hot, but fertile grasslands. They are densely populated with more than 100 fractious city-states.
To the north of the Bay of Blood, the grasslands dry out and turn into the Reliquary Desert. Though now inhospitable to human life, there are grand, cyclopean ruins half-buried in its sands. The desert continues to the north up to the slopes of the Dragontail Mountains. In the east, it fades back into a thin ring of grasslands the border a dense tropical rain forest.
The Bay of Blood
The nation-state never took root in Hyborea thanks to its abundance of powerful magic users. The lands are not intrinsically more magical than Atalanta or Mu, but the old civilization of the Reliquary Desert left behind many sophisticated rituals and magic wands, and that inheritance has deformed the social history of the continent. Every few years, an ambitious treasure-hunter or magician stumbles upon some piece of relic magic that allows them to conquer a city-state and turn it to their will.
The Bay of Blood gets its name from the innumerable wars prompted by the ambitions of these would-be sorcerer-kings. Any individual realm may be stable for decades or centuries, but none can grow too large without provoking rebels, adventurers, and jealous rivals.
This hothouse atmosphere has led to many eccentricities among the Bay's cultures. The only states that survive are the ones who have some edge, usually some unique magic or a powerful sorcerer as a patron.
As a result of the intense competition between city-states, mercenary work is openly legalized almost everywhere in the Bay of Blood (and quietly tolerated even in the places it's not). To protect their identities against old enemies and new employers, a tradition has emerged for these mercenaries to wear elaborate and colorful masks. For large bands, like The Serpent Company, their mask is standardized as part of their uniform, but the Bay has no shortage of solitary heroes who sport their own unique masks. The most celebrated identities sometimes get passed down from generation to generation. It is said that a mask worn by three great heroes will come alive and allow its wearer to become more legend than man.
Except in the few places where it is banned by the local sorcerer-kings, the predominant religion of the Bay of Blood is the Avatar Cult. The Cult believes that there are primordial godforms, called Avatars, in the near reaches of the Magic World that select human beings to guide and watch over. The more liberal branches teach that most humans have an Avatar, even if they've not yet mastered the spiritual practices to allow them to make contact. The more aristocratic Cults insist that only a special few (whether a priestly caste or a select group of heroes) can speak with their Avatars. Regardless, both believe that the Avatars will subtly influence their charges' luck to goad them into greater enlightenment. They can also send dreams and visions, usually in the form of ethical or spiritual tests. It is said that the most powerful Avatars (usually, but not always, belonging to magicians, adepts, or prodigies) can even manifest briefly in this world to physically intervene on their charges' behalf.
The Avatar Cult is a non-exclusive religion. Adherents can and do worship a variety of other gods, often at the Avatars' guidance. These subsidiary forms of worship are highly local, and can cause a certain degree of tension, though the shared culture of the Cult ensures that even deadly rivals usually have a common theological vocabulary.
There is no single dominant racial type in the Bay of Blood. It has been a crossroads for centuries and mixed ancestry is common. Native Hyboreans have skin that ranges from coppery brown to deep black and black hair that ranges from curly to coiled, but after the fall of the Northern Kingdom, nearly the entire human population of the continent migrated to the Bay, so there's no simple geographic distribution of ancestral peoples.
The city-state of Yennin is a rising power in the Bay of Blood, buoyed by its willingness to experiment in areas of magic others treat with superstitious dread. The ritualists of Yennin have devised magic that interferes with the natural process of procreation, potentially bringing to life things that were never meant to be.
The most famous application of this magic is the Clone ritual, which is already changing the way the wealthy cope with death. In the long-run, though, their chimerical breeding program may wind up having even more profound effects.
The champions of Yennin are made from the seed of ten fathers, which is somehow blended together and implanted in a single mother. These champions have super-human strength, durability, and insight. They manifest strange Prodigies, even if their fathers were normal men. If the fathers were Prodigies themselves, these ability may magnify as much as ten-fold.
So far, Yennin is a commercial power, selling the fruits of its research for unheard of profits, but it has imperial ambitions, and the day my come when the people of Ukss curse its champions as the vanguard of a conquering army.
The Kingdom of Bliss
The Kingdom of Bliss is probably not a true kingdom. If it has a monarch, they have never been seen in public. There is no royal palace or crown jewels. In fact, by the standards of most nations, it is barely ruled at all. The sorcerers who perform and interpret the soul-readings are probably the closest thing they have to a government, but that is an open fellowship, and they are constantly admitting new members to help relieve the burden of their work.
The soul-reading ritual is at the heart of The Kingdom of Bliss. It strips away all prejudice and self-delusion to reveal the soul's true calling, whatever vocation, lifestyle, and social associations would make the subject happiest. Then, once the report is ready, the Kingdom of Bliss works its hardest to try and make it happen.
Travelers tell of an upside-down land, where stable-muckers go home to expansive palaces and scientists and engineers live in humble cottages. Where there is song and laughter everywhere, but long lines for grain and water. Where there are few soldiers, but those that exist fight with unseemly passion.
It is unclear exactly how much magic is going into propping up the Kingdom of Bliss, but it is likely that their all-consuming obsession with making every citizen as happy as possible is the only thing keeping them from being a major regional power.
This aggressively expansionist city state has few friends, but many admirers, mostly among romantics, authoritarians, and militarists in societies that otherwise know better. It is a state that has devoted itself utterly to the art of war, and every aspect of its culture, religion, and civic organization is bent towards that end.
Laconia is the most self-regarding state in the Bay of Blood region. It practically worships its own idealized conception of its mission. According to the Laconian constitution, their society is broken up into two castes - serfs, who farm the land and provide auxilliary and irregular troops for the Laconian army and citizens, who are devoted from birth to death to becoming the perfect soldiers (there is also a third unofficial and unnamed caste of merchants and artisans, who are neither tied to the land nor allowed to own it - the Laconian constitution is not very rigorous)
In theory, this means that Laconian citizens live a life of discipline and austerity, devoting their days to fitness regimens and military drills and their nights to the study of tactics and strategy. And superficially, this does appear to be how the Laconians live, but the entire society is shot through with subtle corruption. Though they lack taverns, bawdy houses, and gilded palaces, they find other ways to indulge their pleasure-seeking impulses. Sadism is shockingly common, whether directed at serfs or lower-ranking citizens. Even the best Laconians are hidebound and haughty and seem to delight in reminding their "inferiors" about the purity of the Laconian lifestyle.
Laconia is currently a state in decline. Its warriors are unusually fierce and skilled, but not to such a great degree that it's worth sacrificing science, philosophy, and the arts. And more and more in recent times, they've been facing new weapons and tactics that their overwhelming conservatism is ill-suited to adapt to. The more cosmopolitan wags in neighboring states like to joke that they've become a living museum to an outdated way of life.
It would be foolish to discount Laconia as a threat, though. They are a people who can feel their culture and values slipping away from them and that makes them dangerous. They may not be a match for a modern Lowlands military, but they can still do a lot of damage to states that are lagging behind. Whoever they decide will be their last blaze of glory will find themselves in mortal danger.
Pandaemonium is a blister on the waters of the Bay of Blood. A small volcanic island near the center of the Bay, its winding caverns, filled with a turbid, sulfurous smog, contain a rift into the Demon Courts. One of the widest sacred gates on the surface of Ukss, it is notionally capable of allowing even the Great Dukes to enter the world as Alfar.
But that is not how it's used. Instead, Pandaemonium Island is reserved as a refuge and reward for the demonic masses. Those who please their masters in service, or who can secure the proper bribes, may pass through the rift to enjoy the pleasures of the physical world.
The revels and debauches of Pandaemonium are infamous throughout the world. Strange lights explode over the island at all hours of the night and the haunting screech of demonic music can be heard for miles out to sea.
Pandaemonium represents an irresistible allure to the more decadent sort of partier. When a person has become numb to all safer and saner pleasures, this one last adventure awaits. The demons encourage human visitors, for they themselves are fascinated that bodies so fragile are so willing to partake of their festivals. Despite the moralizing rumors, most visitors actually survive.
The island has a permanent human population of sunken-eyed and sleep-deprived servants. They load and unload ships coming into the docks, keep the feast halls in good repair, perform music (a troubadour can make a fortune in infernal gold playing Pandaemonium . . . if they can escape to spend it), and provide intimate services. The one thing they never do is enforce the law, not against the demons (obviously) and not against their human guests. Whether the natives are hostages or cultists, not even they can say.
Demand to enter Pandaemonium is so high in the Demon Courts that time here is carefully rationed. The day is divided into twelve overlapping segments. Any particular demon may stay eight hours, with one hour set aside on each end of the period for arranging transit (even with these rations, the lines are incredibly long). The most desirable periods are reserved for demons of higher rank and those they wish to reward. The concept of the time segments has filtered down to the human workers, and they themselves measure status by which shift a person works, though, of course, the hours the humans find most appealing are not the same as those of their masters.
Mu is a broadly egg-shaped continent that extends from the equator in the south to tornado-wracked dry grasslands in the north. It is the closest land to the northern ice cap, but it still takes several days of sailing across the Girding Ocean to get there.
The southern third of Mu is a massive savanna of unnerving flatness. In prehistoric times, the gods leveled the savanna and piled all the surplus dirt into the Great Mesa, a six-mile high mound of earth with a flat top hundreds of miles across. In the center of the Great Mesa, perfectly aligned with Ukss' equator, is the Ascension Tower, a massive diamond cable that stretches all the way into the Cosmic Sphere. Those who wish to petition the Celestial Embassy may enter the palace at the base of the Tower, and if their case is deemed worthy, the palace as a whole will rise up the cable, eventually, after seven days and seven nights, reaching the Celestial Embassy itself.
It is not merely the eeriness of the terrain that keeps humans from settling the savanna. Great herds of animals roam the grasslands and they have champions among them. Beasts with wise eyes who scorn bullets and turn magic back against their attackers. The people of Mu revered these creatures as gods, and no one who has faced one in battle could say that they were wrong to do so.
To the north of the savanna is the Crimson Badlands, a desert of red earth that was once a prehistoric sea. The region is rocky and mountainous, though the tallest of the peaks reach only a few hundred meters above sea level. There is a stark beauty to these lands, as if the bones of the earth have been laid bare, but it is so hot and so dry that few have crossed it and lived. In old Mu, the Republic would maintain coastal cities to the north and south of the Badlands to divert cargo and passengers destined for The Great Mesa, but those cities were among the first targets in the Prism Wars.
Farther north, past the Badlands, lies the former heartland of the Republic of Mu. It is now known as The Spectrum Lands, a place where the standard rules of Ukss geography have been put into abeyance. The Spectrum Lands were ground zero for the Prism Wars, where the magician TBD's mad ambition held the greatest sway, and where the Rainbow Knights were allowed to terraform the land to better match their bizarre home dimension. The soil of the Spectrum Lands has been scoured away and replaced by vast stretches of multicolored sands. Strange crystalline life thrives in these wastelands and giant polyhedral crystals dot the landscape. It is a place of quiet dread, but is not without its own alien beauty. Humans survive in the Spectrum Lands only by taking shelter in kaers. A few have opened themselves to the world, now that the worst of the crisis has passed, but many still believe it unsafe to emerge.
The natural borders of the Spectrum Lands are those territories the Republic of Mu found too dangerous or unprofitable to settle - the Crimson Badlands in the South, the volcanic Helltooth mountains to the West, and the Funnelcloud plains to the North. There is a strip of habitable land between the Spectrum Lands and the Girding Ocean to the East, the last vestige of the Republic of Mu, where they made their last stand against the Rainbow Knights, but the political authority of the Republic has collapsed and it currently has no organization above the local level. It is home to villages of survivors, and to colonies from the Lowlands, who hope to exploit the fall of native Mu society to establish a new imperial foothold on the continent.
The people of Mu used to have a wide range of skin colors ranging from russet to pale pink, but the close confinement of the kaers has evened out the human palette a bit. Olive skin and dark hair is the most common, but mutations are everywhere. Due to contamination from the Spectrum Lands, as many as 1 in 3 people in an isolated settlement might have brightly-colored hair or eyes in unnatural colors like orange or purple. These people sometimes try to dye their hair black, but any native of Mu will immediately recognize the shade and wonder what else they might have to hide.
The Equatorial Colonies
After it became clear that the Rainbow Knights were defeated for good, a landrush began to reclaim as much of Mu as possible. This led to the establishment of Lowlands colonies in the southern savanna. Though they are still small and dependent upon their home nations for support, the largest of the Equatorial Colonies are well on their way to becoming self-sufficient.
In addition to providing cheap sources of cotton, corn syrup, and chocolate, the Equatorial Colonies also serve as a dumping ground for petty convicts, political dissidents, and the unemployed. Ships containing transportees operate in a more or less continuous circuit and though as many as one in five die within the first year of arrival (approximately half from the voyage and half from the near-survival conditions of the colonies themselves), the growth rate of the colonies is among the highest in the world.
The Girding Ocean
Surrounding the three continents is a vast expanse of open water. Without the land to break them up, both storms and waves are free to grow to massive size, and as a result it is largely considered unnavigable. However, it is not without life. Underwater mountains sometimes breach the surface, making for small, bare islands that will occasionally bloom with the odd storm-tossed seed or stranded family of birds. Some of these islands, particularly near the continental shelf, are havens for pirates, sorcerers, or forbidden gods.
But it is under the waves that the true life of the Girding Ocean is found. The sea floor is deeper and darker and stranger than anything found in the Omphalos Sea, and yet whole civilizations thrive in its crushing depths.
These aquatic yokai build magnificent cities of coral and pearl, lit by the otherworldly glow of bio-luminescent sea-weed. There are entire monarchies, complete with barons, knights, and courtiers, who play out grand romances never dreamt-of by surface dwellers.
Yet in the darkness between the kingdoms, in great rifts and stygian mountain hollows, there live terrible things. The benthic vampires are often the least of them. Whole wars have been fought to keep even one of these horrors quiescent, and ancient enemies will often put aside their differences when their sages and advisors detect a shift in the familiar currents.
The Dragon Market
If you leave TBD-city and head inland, riding for six days through the TBD-wastes, you will come across a massive meteor crater, nearly a mile across and more than 2000 feet deep. But the ancient signs of carnage pale before the modern ones. Carved into the sides of the crater, to take advantage of the magic-dampening properties of meteoric iron, are the only cages in Ukss capable of holding an enraged dragon.
The Dragon Market is an assault on the senses. Explosions of dragon breath, unleashed in useless rage, light up the sky. Noxious odors of unwashed bodies waft down from the cages and up from the mercenary armies that regularly rotate in and out of the crater. And above all, the noise. Roars and curses, insinuating whispers, offers of bribes, and screams of pain that seem almost human.
And in the center of it all is the Trading Floor, a modest three-story townhouse, made in a popular TBD-city style, that nonetheless seems to dominate its surroundings from the audacity of its smallness. It is here that merchants, potentates, and speculators gather to trade dragons.
It is rare for a dragon, once captured, to actually leave its cage. The ownership is almost entirely on paper, and exists purely to facilitate games of statecraft and realpolitik. But their value is not entirely by fiat. Most dragons, even the nastily evil ones, will honor a bargain made to secure their freedom, making them the ultimate weapon of last resort (The fact that the Market quite provably knows how to contact the really effective Dragon-Hunters also serves to secure the prisoners' honesty).
The proprietors of the Dragon Market are shrouded in secrecy. Any number of heroes, rulers, and apocalyptic cultists would love to move against the people who hold the keys to dragon cages, and not all of them would be dissuaded by the chaos that would ensue if those cages were thrown open all at once.
The Blackfire Cauldron
In the peaceful TBD woods, just off the main road, lies a small cave, tended by an order of monks, sworn to poverty and nonviolence. The cave is the resting place of the Blackfire Cauldron. A sacred relic of the god TBD, it is a simple bronze pot that contains a flickering darkness. If ashes are fed into it, they will un-burn, restoring the original object.
This always seems to work out fairly smoothly, not being confused by partial or mixed ashes, but the exact mechanism is a mystery – the monks gently forbid experimentation. As near as anyone can tell, the Blackfire works by answering a sincere prayer for restoration. Casually tossing in a handful of random ash probably won't do anything.
The Blackfire cannot bring the dead back to life, but it can restore a burned corpse for purposes of identification or dignified burial.
The Order of the Cauldron has an itinerant branch that wanders from city to city, gathering the ashes from the fires that periodically spring up in such places. They return these ashes to the Cauldron as an act of devotion. The walls of the cave are lined with hundreds of items recovered in this manner. Pilgrims, provided they did not bring ashes of their own, are allowed to remove a single such item, as a keepsake of their visit and an icon of the god TBD.
Three Sisters Island
There's an island in the Girding Ocean that wise sailors avoid. It has no name. Very deliberately, it has no name. When the sea-canny refer to it all, they do so obliquely. It is "where the sisters sleep." Or "The place the sisters protect."
No one is quite sure what the sisters are, exactly. Goddesses, perhaps? Or creatures older than humanity's petty categories. It is rare for them to directly confront trespassers, but if you sail towards their island, you will find yourself sailing away into stranger seas. It is a common beginning to many heroes' stories.
The hero always survives, but it may be because only a hero can.
Sandcastle's name isn't purely poetic. The people there have mastered a peculiar alchemy. By means of a certain potion, brewed from a mix of local herbs and minerals, they are able to harden sand so it has the durability of stone. The resulting buildings, which look for all the world like scaled-up children's sandcastles, give the village its distinct character. The exact mixture is a well-kept secret, and protecting it is the only thing the otherwise laid-back residents of Sandcastle Village seem to take seriously.
Sandcastle is "ruled" by Mayor Wally. Chosen by general acclaim, Wally is not your typical politician. No one has ever seen him without his trademark robe and slippers, even in town meetings and important trade negotiations. Similarly, his trusty pipe is always close at hand. The two facts may be somewhat related.
Yet the people of Sandcastle love their mayor, and seem to take special delight in directing impatient outsiders to take their "urgent problems" to him.
The Other Library
In the city of TBD is a library the world's scholars speak of in hushed tones. It is not a center of learning. It does not contain the great historical classics, nor cutting-edge treatises on advancements in science and magic. It is The Other Library, and it contains only books which have never been written.
Most people visit only to satisfy their curiosity. The bulk of its books are histories of events that never happened or the outlandish stories of alien societies that no one on Ukss will ever meet. Sometimes, though, a visitor will become obsessed. They will search the stacks desperately for posthumous works from history's greatest authors, diaries of their enemies (or loved ones!), or for wondrous inventions that never were.
It's a fool's errand, but sometimes it pays off.
The Sky Preserve
As industrial production spreads across the world of Ukss, there are some who worry that their pollution may cause irreparable damage to the natural world. In an attempt to preemptively find a solution to this problem, a group of ecologically minded ritualists gathered together to create the Sky Preserve.
Intended as a model of responsible urban living, The Sky Preserve is a modern city born aloft on an enchanted mountain, pulled from the barren stone of the Crimson Badlands. It is home to about 40,000 people and it flies in a lazy circuit around Mu's southern savanna. It trades finished cloth with the Lowland empires, but after transportation costs, these industries barely break even. It is largely subsidized for its biological research by lowland monarchs and magicians who either agree with their mission or cynically want to exploit it for their own ends.
The Tree of Sages
It is known among the scholars, engineers, and magicians of Ukss that the wisest among them need never die. If they are willing to face the perils of a long and dangerous pilgrimage, they may take themselves to an isolated valley in the Haven mountains to find there The Tree of Sages. If the Tree finds them worthy, it will take the soul from their body and absorb it into its branches, where the now-immortal sage may commune with their fellows until the end of time.
Seekers of knowledge will sometimes seek out the Tree of Sages to answer their questions and provide guidance to their research or inventions. When queried, the Tree will grow faces, like wooden masks, through which its sage-spirits may speak. Since the tree contains hundreds of sages, gathered over centuries, any of whom could speak to any question, the "answers" given are usually more like symposiums (or, less charitably, "massive arguments"). Nonetheless, a discerning student could learn much, provided they don't lose patience first.
The House of Not Yet Midnight
This house is not in any guidebook to the occult. It is neither studied as a mystery, nor marked as a threat. As far as the outside world is concerned, it's just an ordinary house. But the children of TBD know better. They warn each other to stay away from the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, the one hidden behind an overgrown hedge and wrought-iron gates. Kids who venture into that house come back . . . changed.
The House of Not Yet Midnight sits on a vortex of invasive magical energies. The whole structure is like a giant wand that channels its inhabitants' fears and regrets, trapping them in a time-loop of their own creation, one where they face their greatest weakness again and again, until it is overcome. No one ever ages in The House of Not Yet Midnight. Nor do they die. No matter how many hundreds or thousands of times they fail, the House will not grant them that mercy.
The goblins of Vintner's Valley live in comfortable, shallowly-dug burrows, outfitted with all the latest middle-class comforts. They are respectably old-fashioned, wearing styles that were popular among humans a half-century ago. When they are not working, there is almost always some sort of festival or gala or garden party with which to celebrate the turning of the seasons. They are fat, rich, and contented.
The source of this idyll is the Valley's fertility and mild climate, which make it an ideal location for some of the world's best dairies and wineries. The instinctive magic that goblins put into all of their crafts manages to elevate even those natural blessings into the realm of the sublime. Wines, cheeses, and cured meats from Vintner's Valley are the gold standard by which all luxury foodstuffs are measured.
Vintner's Valley is extremely friendly to humans, provided they appear to be of sufficient social class to afford its products. This reputation for chumminess makes it the butt of many jokes among more worldly goblins. "Valley Goblin" is widespread slang for those who appear to have adopted human customs at the expense of their own heritage.
On the continent of Mu, at the edge of the Spectrum Frontier, there lies a town that seems to have escaped the touch of the Prism Wars. So long as its water wheels keep turning, the people of the town continue to go about their lives as if they didn't have a care in the world. Their town is cheerful, prosperous, and blessed with all the arts of ancient Mu.
But when the wheels stop, whether due to seasonal droughts, mechanical failures, or deliberate sabotage, the town grows still. It's as if the life departs along with the power, and everyone, from the shopkeepers to the constables to the playing children (and even most of the livestock and pets) simply freezes into place. The color drains from them and it becomes apparent that they are all merely clockwork dolls, given life by some electric sorcery.
Someone maintains Manikin town, for these outages never last for long, but they have hidden themselves well, and it's unclear whether the village is a monument, an experiment, or a way of making amends. The people of Manikin Town seem unaware of their unique condition (or at least there is no power yet found that will make them admit it), though if you earn their trust, they will confide that they often have nightmares of ice.
The Dead Woods
No living soul remembers the purpose of the monastery at the heart of the Dead Woods. Did they commit some impiety that brought down a curse on the surrounding lands? Or did they perform appeasing rituals to keep an ancient evil sealed away, rituals that failed when they were destroyed by enemies without or within?
Whatever the explanation, the woods truly belong to the dead now. Spectres haunt the decaying trees, and mobile skeletons claw at any life that dares sprout up in the ruins.
Travelers shun the Dead Woods, but sometimes, by mistake, their path takes them perilously close. If it does, they might encounter the land's only survivor, a giant sow, at least as tall as a man. The sow may or may not be a guardian of human life, but what is not in doubt is her hatred of the undead. Many lives have been saved by her timely charge out of the mists. She will trample effortlessly over zombie flesh, and somehow, there is a magic to her that puts fear even into the spirits of the dead.
Not much is known about the protector of the Dead Woods, except that she must, at some point, have been domesticated, for she still bears a rhinestone collar embroidered with the name "Diva."
The Nightmare Theater
In New Gold City, on the Omphalos Coast, there is a shabby and disreputable-looking building that nonetheless has a well-maintained stairwell sinking down below street level to an imposing door of black hardwood. Those who know the password . . . or who have been drawn to the door by fate may pass through to find an intimate, dimly-lit theater.
The shows at The Nightmare Theater are lurid and disturbing. The actors wear grotesque masks and the plots are surreal pastiches stitched together by dream logic. A common theme is sudden, unexpected violence, presented not as spectacle but in a way that makes the audience feel complicit. Patrons leave the Theater feeling psychically drained.
Which is exactly what happened. The Yokai who run the Nightmare Theater live off the spiritual energy they harvest from their performances. But this is not a purely parasitical transaction. Once they get a good night's sleep, those who have sat through an entire show find that for a few days afterwards they perceive the world with unusual clarity. They are more tuned in to the emotions of their friends and coworkers, more alert and observant, and much less focused on their own problems. Whatever it is these minor gods take from their audience, it is the energy that powers anxiety and self-doubt.
Those who figure out the connection often seek to return, but it is said that it's impossible to find the Nightmare Theater unless one's soul is burdened enough to nourish its proprietors.
The House of Helekar
To those that reside in its walls, the House of Helekar is a temple. They serve the Grand Harvester of Souls with utmost devotion, and if he says there is a primordial power that guides their hands, they aren't inclined to question him.
Those on the outside have a different view. Helekar is a place of atrocities, a haven for murderers, and a lure to the most predatory of the Yokai. Children go missing near the House and the ghosts of its victims lay bound in its halls.
There is not a government on Ukss that would not gladly destroy the House of Helekar. Unfortunately, it moves. Sorceries bound deep into its foundations allow it to disappear with nothing more than a word from the Grand Harvester. It may then reappear on a bare patch of earth anywhere on Ukss. Usually, it flits between one distant and unmonitored wilderness and another, but its gnarled minarets and permanently rime-shrouded frescoes have been seen even in major cities - always for just long enough for a few unwary souls to disappear forever.
Despite being in one of King Mountain's less fashionable neighborhoods, the Hourglass Casino does a brisque trade among locals and those tourists who are not quite wealthy enough to afford the more famous establishments. Professional gamblers respect it as a place with fair odds and an understated atmosphere that caters more towards comfort than glamour.
Yet professional gamblers avoid the Hourglass. They've heard the rumors. That if you find the dead spot in the middle of the gaming floor, and follow the trail of silence past the tables and into the basement, you might find the elevator that leads down into the foundation, and to the silent cashier with the ashen face who sells chips made of lead that are purchased with years of your life.
In the casino under the Hourglass, the ghosts gamble. Wagering charms and miracles and brokered lives, they are each and every one trying to win big enough to move on and leave King Mountain behind. The living, if they are wise, will stay away, but they are always welcome. They are the high-rollers, the whales. Rich with life, they can play for riches beyond their wildest imagining.
Though, in the end, of course, the house always wins.
The Seekers demonstrate no other telekinetic of time-manipulating abilities, and they have never claimed to offer such. To their thinking, the clock is humanity's purest invention. A concrete manifestation of Intellect, undiluted by personality, or even knowledge. They believe that their control of clocks comes from a spiritual connection to that pure intellect, and that while they may not be able to control anything as crude as terrestrial time, their practices allow them to influence their own celestial clock – advancing their progress along the wheel of reincarnation or extending their time in a favorable form.
The Seekers of the Hour tend to recruit from well-to-do people, the natural philosophers of the gentry, who use their leisure time to ponder the mysteries of the universe. Connections within the cult can open a lot of doors in high society, and their more or less unique magic allows them to easily identify each other across national lines.
Baron Von Hendriks
The self-styled "Lord of Fort Doom," Von Hendriks is a mystery wrapped in an enigma. His enemies, of which he has many, dismiss him as a fool and a fraud, but they have never been able to defeat him.
He is a conqueror. A schemer. A tyrant. A raider of cities and ransomer of damsels. Above all else, he is theatrical. He attacks when he doesn't need to, overcomes impossible odds, and is left with a prize he can't possibly keep. He gloats when he is merely on the verge of victory and gives grand speeches when his forces should be in retreat. He has a knack for angering the powerful and inspiring peasant uprisings in places that have been peacefully subdued for the past thousand years.
While his tactics are invariably brilliant, none can figure out his strategy. Some say he does it for the glory. Others for the challenge. Some quip that he must have made a deal with a trickster god - peerless might in exchange for fleeting victories. These theories all capture part of his reasons, but his real motivation is much simpler - he does it because he is the one and only Baron Von Hendricks, and no one else would dare.
Built on a volcanic island to the north of the Shielding Mountains, Fort Doom is nearly unassailable by conventional means. Through the mechanical manipulation of a half-dozen stolen Earth Anchors, the Baron (or, presumably, anyone who holds the Fort's main chamber) can direct lava flows anywhere on the island while the defenders stay safe behind ancient god-forged walls. Von Hendriks did not build Fort Doom, but he discovered and named it and it is inexorably bound up in his legend.
Order of the Mantis
This elite martial order operates out of the fortress of TBD and serves as a sort of national symbol for the people of TBD. They are Ukss's only heavy aerial cavalry and fly into battle heavily armed and even more heavily armored. Partly this is to act as hard-hitting shock troops, supporting the infantry wherever air support is needed most.
Mostly, though, it is to protect the riders against their own mounts, should the beasts ever slip out of control. For the Mantis is not simply the Order's heraldry, it is what they ride into battle.
Giant Mantises are natural creatures, native to the northern reaches of the Shielding Mountains. The Order of the Mantis captures them young and bonds them with adept candidates, who must master the magic necessary to control them before the creatures become so large that they can devour their captors.
Those who survive the Order's training develop a cocky swagger, and are treated by the people of TBD as superstars. Though even with the Order's magic, death in the belly of a giant Mantis is only a matter of time, giving the Knights of the Order a live-for-today energy that only heightens their mystique. Despite the dangers, the Order of the Mantis has never suffered from low recruitment.
Ledaal Kes is probably a spy. That's what most people who meet him conclude. There is no way someone with such an incisive mind, such improbable scientific abilities, such effortlessly seductive joie de vivre could possibly be satisfied as an investigator for the Sheyaugh Treasury. He must be hiding something.
Ledaal Kes just smiles and keeps his secrets. It's so much easier getting the beautiful boys into his bed if he has an air of mystery.
The Prince's Folly
The Prince's Folly is a carnival's carnival. It stages greater spectacles, it hosts more esoteric mystics, it offers more elaborate games, it is more riddled with thieves than any other show on the world of Ukss. It is run by the Tainted, M. Corona, a refugee from the spirit courts of the magical world.
M. Corona is, by strict taxonomy, a demon, but that mainly manifests in an unrepentant pragmatism. They employ thieves to keep the Folly afloat, they sabotage rivals to make it easier to acquire key talent, they use their androgynous good looks to seduce yokels questioning their sexuality because it's fun, but they hold no malice for humankind. They took over this struggling carnival in order to hide from their enemies in the magic world, but it has become their passion and their obsession. They want nothing more than to astonish and amaze the mortals that attend the Prince's Folly, shaking their small minds out their limited perspective by showing them something they've never seen before.
All demons are inherently genderless, but unlike most of their kin, M. Corona does not disguise themselves as either male or female. They prefer to tread the line as closely as possible, presenting as mostly masculine, in their frock coat and starched collar, but adding feminine touches like a floral print cravat and dangly diamond earrings. They especially delight in awakening the latent desires of small-town gay and lesbian visitors, and will offer unconditional refuge to any LGBTQ person who wants to run away with The Prince's Folly.
The Wardens of the Sky
Large-scale air travel is still very new to the word of Ukss, but there is great enthusiasm for it among the world's cognescenti. So much so that the most daring among them have gathered together to create an adventurer's conspiracy - a vigilante organization devoted to hunting down and eliminating threats to the expansion of air travel, especially those who misuse it for criminal ends.
The Wardens of the Sky mostly work alone, booking passage on flights to intercept pirates and hijackers as they strike or hanging out in ports, listening for rumors of trouble from the air. They recruit mostly from those that have the wealth and leisure to travel frequently, and while few are full magicians or dedicated ritualists, all must be capable of casting the Cloud Chariot spell, the better to make the Wardens' traditional spectacular entrance.
The Aerial Excellence Squadron
In the rolling hills of western Capet, they breed the world's heartiest destriers. Of these, the strongest and the swiftest are chosen to become the steeds of the Aerial Excellence Squadron.
Using ritual magic, these horses are fused with a form of living metal, growing 20-foot long wings of glittering steel. From then on, the horses must eat iron filings as well as grass, but the transformation seems to have no other ill effects.
Unlike the Order of the Mantis, the knights of The Aerial Excellence Squadron are lightly armed and armored (aside from their steeds' steel skin, that is), but they make up for it in speed and acrobatic skill. Because the transformed horses are indigestible to a giant mantis, the Squadron is one of the only groups that can meet the Mantis Riders on their own terms. The two groups each consider the other to be their greatest rivals.
Captain of the Black Squadron, Juno Eclipse has a fearsome reputation among the world's fliers as the deadliest woman to ever pilot a biplane.
But she has an even more terrible reputation among those conquered by the Lowlands' imperial expansion, for her Black Squadron is the last thing a village will see before being bombed into
Dark, the Blade
He used to have it all. He was the best cop in New Gold City's elite Special Investigations Unit. He had true love, and a family on the way. Then Baron Von Hendriks took everything from him.
Now he goes by the name of Dark, his soul as black as the funeral clothes he's vowed to wear until his wife and child are avenged. He stalks the shadows, bringing his blade of justice to Von Hendriks' criminal associates, eliminating them one by one until he finds the perfect opportunity to not just kill the Baron of Fort Doom, but to destroy him.
The Crypt Rangers
There are many forces in Ukss that would disturb the places where the dead are interred - Mad scientists, sorcerers, and vampires all have their own uses for human remains, uses which would not meet with the approval of their original owners. The Crypt Rangers are the self-appointed guardians of these sacred places, patrolling graveyards for intruders and using their famous tracking skills to bring back escapees.
The Crypt Rangers often come in conflict with necromancers and the undead, but they are not intrinsically opposed. They will inter any necro-automatons they find in the course of their duties, but will often act as protectors and patrons for those sentient undead that have no desire to cause havoc among the living. Though they are not allowed in positions of leadership, many of the most effective Crypt Rangers are themselves vampires and ghosts.
The Serpent Company
Most infamous among the mercenary companies operating out of the Bay of Blood, The Serpent Company markets itself as discreet, professional, and willing to take any contract, no matter how small.
Its detractors call it a gang of assassins-for-hire, and they're mostly correct, but people who go up against them expecting a group of petty criminals are in for a rude surprise. The Serpent Company's discipline and loyalty are second to none. Though they are pragmatic about losses while on assignment, they will go to any lengths to avenge a comrade killed or captured outside the lines of duty.
Given their usefulness and disproportionate vindictiveness, the Serpent Company has attained a sort of defacto legitimacy among the coastal states and the more ruthless lowland empires. No one will admit to tolerating them, but it's an open secret that they are often hired at the highest levels of government.
Nebt Bhakau, the Necromancer
Magicians of all sorts play outsized roles in Ukss' history, but few names have the power to strike dread into nearly any soul who hears them. Nebt Bhakau is one of those names. Quite possibly the greatest Necromancer to ever live, he is the only person to have attained true immortality. At the height of his powers, he was indestructible by any blade or gun or wand wielded by lesser hands. It was a feat attained only after a century of atrocities performed in the name of "research."
Though he was never a great conqueror or tyrant, his outrages against the dignity of both living and dead made him an enemy of every decent person on Ukss. In the end, an alliance of the five closest nations, from which he drew the bulk of his victims, laid siege to his spectre-guarded tower, and though they lost nine tenths of their forces, the survivors were able to bind him in chains of meteoric iron.
With ritual techniques gleaned from his own notes, his captors were able to dismember Nebt Bhakau and bind his six most essential organs (eyes, tongue, heart, hands, genitals, and spleen) into special ceramic jars. So long as the bindings for all six endure, his regenerative capabilities are sealed away. But if even one of the jars is opened, he will be free to live and work his evil once more.
The only blessing is that each jar contains a separate aspect of Nebt Bhakau's full power, so even if he's reborn, he will still need to find the five other jars to assume his true strength. For that reason, each of the five nations holds one of the jars, with the sixth, containing his heart, entombed in a secret location known only to the ones who buried him.
Knights of the Tongue
Not a true martial order, The Knights of the Tongue nevertheless have a complex system of ranks and etiquette that is only half-joking. The Knights are a social club based in TBD city and composed of explorers, adventurers, and the respectable bandits of the gentry who share a singular passion - to discover Ukss's most unusual flora and fauna and sample their taste.
For some, this is but a decadent hobby, for others an important form of scientific and agronomical research. Both types are fond of haunting goblin markets and stalking through yokai-haunted wilderness, looking to buy any vaguely food-like substance the locals might be selling (when they're not hunting the locals for game, of course).
The terror of the grassy, unpolluted fringes of Mu's Spectrum Lands, Dog-Eater is a warlord-scavenger who has made his fortune raiding the ruins of cities destroyed in the Prism Wars (and, rumor has it, looting kaers that had managed to make it through the crisis intact).
The struggling villages that have had the misfortune to play host to his horde of reavers view him more as a malevolent force of nature than a man. He seems to have little interest in conquering territory, but he has no tolerance for anything that could be interpreted as disrespect or defiance. He earned his name through his habit of finding the most pampered, beloved pet in any new town to slaughter and consume as a form of psychological dominance.
Dog-Eater is beloved by his followers for his extravagant generosity when it comes to the spoils of his looting. Whenever he must address his followers or intimidate a recalcitrant village elder, he dons a glittering coat made of strung-together coins of a hundred different denominations and governments. He claims it's strong enough to stop bullets, but conveniently, he only wears it in situations where gunplay is unlikely.
Existing in the fringes of the Lowlands most fabulous and opulent night-life, the Phantoms are a secret society of gentleman-rogues, committed to liberating the plundered treasures of the region's most decadent capitalists and brazenly-lawless crime lords (on those rare occasions anyone can tell the difference).
The Phantoms are anything but radicals. They steal for both personal profit and the thrill of the game, but they have a code. They abhor violence, and will never steal from charities, churches, or museums. They are themselves members of the Lowlands' upper crust and view their activities as nothing more than a harmless way to embarrass those who give their class a bad name. If, in the course of their work, they discover evidence of truly unforgivable crimes, they will not hesitate to deliver it to the proper authorities.
Because of this, they have made some very powerful enemies over the years. Every ambitious police captain in the Lowlands dreams of making their career by being the one to finally unmask their leadership and end the organization once and for all.
The grasslands of Mu are struggling under the depredations of scavengers and warlords, but it has its share of heroes too. One such hero is an intense goblin woman of indeterminate age. Known only as the Wanderer, she is an expert swordswoman who travels from town to town riding a giant lizard. A great foe of injustice, she will accept no payment but room and board. In peaceful times, she lives off the land, but it's been a long time since she'd known peace for more than a few days at a time.
The Sword of the Wanderer is as clean and as sharp as any goblin-forged blade, but it bears a unique inscription that gossips are sure must have a profound occult meaning, "WEAR ME UNTIL YOU FIND A BETTER."
The Priests of Truth
On the Eastern slope of the Shielding Mountains, in a high valley, overlooking the plains, there is a hidden spring. Legend has it that its waters pour forth from the still-bleeding heart of a long-forgotten god. If a mortal being bathes in the crystal-clear waters of the source pool, they will emerge with the ability to unfailingly recognize falsehood in all its forms.
A sworn fellowship of mystics guards this place, both from those who would exploit it and from honest seekers who are not yet prepared for its power. They allow only those who have spent a lifetime in study and contemplation to brave the waters of the spring, for the first lies it reveals are invariably the ones you tell yourself.
Few survive this revelation.
The ones who do, the monks who have spent decades purifying their minds and souls of all self-deception (and even for those such as they, the waters can pose a terrible danger), are highly sought after as judges and arbitrators. Only the greatest of injustices will induce them to leave the monastery, however, for they are as incapable of speaking deception as they are of hearing it and the outside world weighs heavily on them.
For aspirants who seek their wisdom, and ask if it's worth the risk to experience pure truth for themselves, they always give the same answer - "It's almost always better not to know. . . Almost."
As literacy grows more common in the Lowlands, cheap pulp novels have begun to proliferate. Among the most popular are the serialized adventures of Lady Harden - magician, adventurer, and elegant Omphalos Coast heiress, who travels to the most far-flung reaches of human settlement to battle slavers, smugglers, and those who would prey upon the most innocent of the Yokai. Featuring over-the-top action, lush descriptions of exotic locales, and a healthy dollop of . . . ahem . . . romance, they are the favored escapist fantasy of socially conscious dreamers, trapped in the industrial hell of the Lowlands' slums. So far, they've been translated into 11 languages and sold more than a million copies.
Little do the readers suspect that every word of the Lady Harden books is 100% true. There really is a Lady Harden, and she really does spend her days thwarting the worst of the Lowlands' imperial excesses. Numerous governments would love to have her head, but they fear if they acted openly people will realize that the atrocities depicted in the books are real as well. Maybe that's why she writes them.
No adept in Ukss is more storied than Lilith. Though she lived before humanity tamed magic wands and before the invention of all but the most basic of rituals, she is said to have bargained with the gods for a hundred types of wild magic. She was a mentor to heroes (especially women) and a foil to authority (especially kings, fathers, and overbearing husbands). Civilizations on all three continents have stories of Lilith introducing them to some vital craft (Sheyaugh says she taught them the cultivation of millet, Mu that she tamed the first horse, and The Kingdom of Bliss credits her with the soul-reading ritual), though how many of these stories are true is impossible to say. It's likely that for every false accomplishment, there are two more where her contributions have been forgotten.
Magic has confirmed that Lilith was a real person who lived approximately 1000 years before the adoption of the written word, but attempts to trace her origin or identify her final resting place have been futile. Mystery cults that worship Lilith believe that she bodily entered the Magic World and is even now exploring its farthest reaches for new discoveries to share with her children.
Lilith is sometimes known as "the Mother of Demons," though this is a title that mostly promulgates in the more inflexibly patriarchal cultures. Some say that the sobriquet is literal, and that her early dealings with the gods culminated in a physical consummation. Like much surrounding the demon courts, the truth is murky, but it is undeniable that most demons revere Lilith, and all but the most powerful are obligated to respect an oath made in her name (though woe-betide any who breaks such an oath, whether made to a demon or not, for the Demon Princes claim plenipotentiary jurisdiction over any such oath-breakers.)
Buried in the sands of the Reliquary Desert, there is a tomb that is not a tomb. Once it was a place of glory, the throne room of a sorcerer whose unsurpassed power was almost enough to satisfy his ambition. Now it is a monument to his failed ascension.
The mummified body of the God-Emperor still sits on the Golden Throne that was to be vehicle of his transformation from human to divine. Its forbidden magic keeps him trapped between worlds, the spark of his life-force still burning after hundreds of years. Not quite ghost and not quite god, only his legendary willpower has kept him from going completely mad. Destroying the Throne will surely release him, though whether into death or something else, no one can say.
The Sorcerers' Benevolent Association
A charitable organization with branches in every major city in Ukss, their mandate is to use ritual magic to improve their communities and identify and support talented young people who may not otherwise get to study the magical arts.
They are fantastically corrupt.
Though they do indeed donate their services in a desultory sort of way, their real business is almost entirely off the books. They are the people you go to when you need a spell cast by someone who won't ask any questions. At their most benign, they are a gray market for highly regulated transformations, enchantments, and summonings that allows their customers to sidestep government paperwork and its accompanying scrutiny. At their worst, they sell curses, demon contracts, and assassination spells to ruthless criminal gangs.
They are, however, sincere in their commitment to educating young sorcerers from underprivileged backgrounds, though those who accept their aid have a way of finding themselves deep in debts that can only be paid back by a lifetime of "favors."
The Daughters of Gabrielle
There once was a brilliant, vibrant young woman named Gabrielle, and life was not very kind to her. Her parents were important people and they were determined to marry her to the son of one of their rivals, to secure an alliance that would make both houses stronger than ever before. But Gabrielle found she could not love any man, and so one night she ran away from home.
Gabrielle had many adventures and met many people, most of whom were cruel and corrupt. Time and again, it seemed like her fate to confront demons in human form, destroying their host bodies or collapsing the gates through which they entered the world. She eventually became quite good at it.
Until one day, she took one wound too many. She nearly died, but she was nursed back to health by a beautiful, kind woman. After a turn of the seasons, the two were wed.
Though her adventuring days were behind her, Gabrielle found other ways to help. It gradually became known that her home was somewhere lesbians could go to find safety. And though she would never have wished such a life on her surrogate daughters, Gabrielle's stories enchanted her young wards. After she died, they vowed to carry on their mother's mission.
That was nearly a century ago. In the years since, the Daughters of Gabrielle have achieved fame to eclipse even their founder's great deeds. It's even become fashionable for well-off families to send their lesbian daughters to serve a few years in the Gabriellite mission.
Though they have more of the air of a boarding school these days, the Daughters of Gabrielle still fight demons with unusual effectiveness and fervor. Being chosen for a hunting team is something the younger girls train for years to achieve and no one wants to be the one to let down "Mama Gabrielle."
The signature weapon for the Daughters of Gabrielle is the meteor hammer - a fist-sized ball of pure meteoric iron at the end of a long rope. Demons find getting struck with these to be so painful that they will often voluntarily retreat back to the magic world rather than face them in combat.
The Big Sister
The Daughters of Gabrielle produce many great fighters, but the warrior nicknamed "Big Sister" is probably the greatest of them. Though the numbers are in dispute, she may have slain more demons then even the original Gabrielle herself . . . then she made the mistake of listening to one.
Some of the girls who served under her will still loyally maintain that she is possessed and not in control of her actions, but she has been working as a gang enforcer for several years and has certainly not been shy about enjoying the fruits of her wicked deeds. The Daughters of Gabrielle have officially, if reluctantly, declared her anathema and the only reason she is not rotting in a cell is because she has, on three separate occasions, fought the entire student council to a standstill.
River Rat Smith
To hear River Rat Smith tell it, there is no finer guide to the turbulent waters of the eastern Haven Mountains. Though small of stature, like all awakened rats, he has no equal as a steersman, no rival as an explorer, and pound-for-pound he's a pretty decent warrior too.
Ask literally anyone else . . . and you'll hear much the same story, though told grudgingly and with snarky asides about his questionable grooming, his transparent attempts to cheat at cards, and the way even the smallest amount of wine inspires him to sing loudly and off-key.
Still, for all that you wouldn't want him as a roommate, he's completely unflappable in the face of ghosts, wisps, and (if the money's right) dragons. He boasts that no expedition of his has ever returned without survivors, and he's almost good enough to make it as comforting as he tries to make it sound.
"Sabrina" is probably an alias, although, if it is, it's the one she uses most often. Nobody knows where this international woman of mystery came from, least of all the lady herself. But she does seem to have some serious training - mystical martial arts, state-of-the-art spycraft, and a seemingly endless repertoire of useful magic rituals (that she always "just happens to remember" at a convenient moment).
Sabrina has worked freelance for every intelligence agency in the Lowlands and more than a few besides. She's unfailingly professional and never allows her past employers to influence her current loyalties, though if there's one thing that might tempt her to go rogue, it's the secret of her mysterious past.
Sabrina's signature weapon is the enchanted button. With a quick flick of the wrist, she can pop one off her coat to hurl at an enemy. The subsequent explosion is rarely fatal, but does provide her with a suitable distraction to either make a clean getaway or establish dominance in close quarters combat.
Ukss' most unlikely oracle, The Mathematician is a magical Prodigy with the ability to see the underlying mathematical structure of reality. A ghostly halo of numbers swirls around his head at all times, and his blank, silvery eyes don't see shapes or colors, but rather the equations that govern the forces they represent.
The practical upshot of this power is that the Mathematician can intuitively create statistical models that predict the future with uncanny accuracy. Only his own actions are beyond his ability to account for (though he is blessed/cursed with the knowledge of their consequences mere moments after he takes them). As a result, he is extremely reluctant to engage with the world, instead preferring to use the vast wealth he's accumulated as one of Ukss' great industrialists to further tighten his security and make his isolation from the events of the world ever more complete.
Despite his anxieties, the Mathematician is a very lonely man, and he will occasionally take promising young up-and-comers into his confidence. His mentorship can be quite valuable (literally - only massed necromantic calculating pools are as effective at playing the stock market), but there inevitably comes a time when his predictions call for an intolerable sacrifice and few friendships can survive his fear of ruining the future.
An ancient horror, exiled from the self-consciously tolerant Chthonic Empire, the Yokai known as Professor Worm is blessedly the only known one of his kind. A boneless creature of malleable flesh, he can contort his body to imitate almost any creature. With a wig and light makeup, he can even pass for human, a fact he has exploited to become a teacher at TBD University.
Professor Worm is not a popular instructor. His students find him odd and unsettling, and he has little respect for their physical or emotional boundaries. Occasionally, one of his students goes missing, victim to his anatomical curiosity. So far, the authorities have dismissed these disappearances, attributing them to the stress of university life, but if they ever discover he is to blame, they are in for a nasty surprise - he is not only deceptive, he possesses superhuman strength and his rubbery skin can deflect bullets and blades.
A battle-hardened Jannisary who has fought her way up to command of Seljuk's 2nd Army, Hundred Killer is a calm and methodical commander, perhaps overly conservative in her strategies, but unmatched in personal valor. Though it would be irresponsible to risk her on the front lines these days, she began her career as a member of the infantry and every soldier under her command knows that she has lived up to her name a dozen times over (though the exact figure has a way of growing every year).
Hundred Killer is a physical Adept of unrivaled power, and is sometimes known as "Battering Ram," for the time she salvaged a siege by punching the defenders' gates off their hinges. She is not nearly as fearsome as her reputation indicates, but those who know her well come to see that she carries an expertly-suppressed rage that only manifests on the field of battle.
Rocko and Scarlet
Rocko and Scarlet are unlikely friends. He's a wrestler who tours the Lowlands, staging fights for credulous yokels. She's a lounge singer in a low-traffic King Mountain nightclub. Were it not for a chance encounter one night, when Rocko was providing extra security for a Corax spy, the two would have never bonded over their shared showmanship and unshakable moral principles.
In the years since their first meeting, the pair has gotten together almost a dozen times, usually to solve an unsolvable murder. Between her knack for reading people and his effortless charm, the pair make a startling effective investigative team.
Anton, The Gator
As the hungry gators swam towards his barely conscious body, he prayed to the god of the Big River, not for deliverance, not for revenge, not for himself at all, but for justice, that the crime he witnessed would not go unpunished.
The Big River is not known for caring much about human affairs, but something about the plea moved him. The gators dragged Anton beneath the waters, but their jaws did not close around his flesh and he did not drown.
Some time later, the criminals of New Gold City gained a new foe - half man and half gator, he lurked in the city's waters, stalking his prey and striking without warning. He is a terrible guardian, as befits the fickle nature of the river god, but he is also beloved. The poor and the desperate make offerings to The Gator, that they might be delivered from the city's routine injustices and the powers that would exploit them have been growing increasingly worried that these offerings seem to be reciprocated.
The Avatar Guides
In the Bay of Blood, even deadly theological rivals will put aside their difference at the rumor that the Avatar Guides are operating nearby. Few ideas can be considered heresy in the easy-going and adaptable Avatar faith, but the Guides managed to find one. They believe that they can manipulate Avatars by carefully orchestrating the deaths of certain fated individuals.
If the Guides were mere murderers, that would be bad enough, but they claim to have insight gleaned from their own Avatars - that over time the Avatars they "liberate" will change their nature, merging together, shedding impurities, and gradually becoming more and more powerful. In time, they expect a messiah to be born with a "perfected" Avatar, granting the chosen one an unprecedented power and wisdom.
Whether that is to be the end of the world or the beginning of a new one remains to be seen.
The Avatar Guides possess a unique and blasphemous sorcery that allows them to invert the Avatars' normal guidance, causing them to lead their charges into danger and manipulate probability to make their lives more difficult. Though it is sometimes used as a weapon against foes who are protected from more conventional forms of attack, the main use of this magic is in the Guides' brutal training rites. Abandoned in an unfamiliar city with a hostile Avatar, the initiate must overcome the odds and learn to ignore their Avatar's urgings. Only when they have proven willing and able to trust their own judgement above the Avatar's are they allowed to join in the Guides' great apocalyptic work.
The Pirates of the Western Gate
Operating out of the rocky islands of the Girding Ocean, this band of seafaring sorcerers engages in many dark practices to evade capture by technologically advanced Lowland navies. The most dramatic of their arts is their ability to open sacred gates, drawing demons into physical reality in the form of Storm Alfar.
The demons and the pirates have a complex web of contracts, blood oaths, and common interests. In return for giving their ships fair winds and wracking their pursuers with lightning and gales, the demons receive a never-ending stream of human sacrifices and treasures of occult significance.
The Pirates, for their part, appear to be searching for something in the Girding Ocean. They plunder ships to satisfying the hungers of their demonic patrons, but what they want goes beyond mere wealth. The sorcerers who lead them are old and cunning and know many secrets. If they ever find what they're looking for, it could make storms look like child's play.
The Prism Wars
Fifty years ago, the magician TBD, holder of The Wand of Illumination, became unsatisfied with her lot. She held one of the Great Wands, tools of the Creators, each one a key to unlocking some facet of reality, but over time, she came to resent its limitations. She had absolute mastery over elemental light, but deep in her soul, she knew she was capable of more.
And so she broke the Wand of Illumination into seven pieces. The shards could no longer be used as true Wands, and with the breaking TBD lost a lot of her immediate power, but when they were set as the focus for slower, ritual magic, they had profound and far-reaching abilities, unlike anything the world of Ukss had ever seen.
Thus began the Prism Wars. Through the shards, TBD reached into a realm of pure magic and drew out seven legions of warriors - the Rainbow Knights - each one empowered by a different primordial power - from the Red Legion, who could heal themselves by drinking the blood of their enemies all the way to the Violet Legion, who marched in shadow and were never seen until it was already too late.
The people of the continent of Mu were able to band together and defeat the Rainbow Knights, but at a terrible cost. Even now, their kaers - underground shelters, woven with many protective spells - still stand as monuments to their brush with total extinction. They say some kaers still stand undisturbed, their inhabitants refusing to believe that the Rainbow Knights could ever be defeated.
Set for the 11th full moon of the year, just as autumn is giving way to winter, Vine Day officially marks the end of the grape harvest and a celebration of a job well done. Unofficially, it's an excuse to get drunk and act like a fool.
Vine Day is a day sacred to the God TBD, but is primarily celebrated in the more heterodox cities of the Omphalos coast region. There it is an excuse to release inhibitions and express passions that have been suppressed the rest of the year. The more decadent trade cities compete with each other to throw the grandest parade, and in places with a strong Vine Day tradition, anything done while wearing a carnival masque does not count against the year's tally of sins.
Some of the more staid priests of TBD try to shut down Vine Day celebrations, but rulers and subjects alike view it as a necessary release valve for pent-up tensions. This lavish celebration of excess is going nowhere anytime soon.
Festivals of the Departed
It is said on the Omphalos Coast that when the music plays on Vine Day, even the dead tap their feet. Though something of an exaggeration, it is true that ghosts may be drawn back to the living world with a properly-staged revel. There is an entire school of sorcery that focuses on precisely this sort of benevolent necromancy, calling the departed back to Ukss to retrieve lost information, briefly reunite family, friends, and lovers, and learning from the wisdom of the ancient dead.
Vine Day is a popular choice for such rituals, both for its associations with seasonal rebirth and because it is a time the dead remember fondly. Though they can usually only be seen by mediums, everybody's just a bit more psychic on Vine Day, and when the parades are in full swing, many a bottle has been passed unwittingly into skeletal hands.
The War of the Thirded Crown
In the northern reaches of the Bay of Blood, near the Reliquary Desert, the Sorcerer-King Zarub brooded in his growing paranoia. He held a wand that could fracture souls and break wills, but though his might was unquestionable, his cruelty had earned him many enemies among both his neighbors and his own people. He needed champions and protectors, brilliant minds that could lead his armies of golems into battle, but were so loyal they would never betray him.
It was a problem that plagued him for many years until he realized there was only one person he trusted with preserving his life and his rule . . . himself.
And so he turned to dark and terrible sorceries, summoning ancient demons to advise him and sacrificing a hundred lives to gather his power. In the end, he split his own soul into three parts. The bulk of his mind remained in his own body, perhaps a little more fragile, and certainly a lot more unstable, but nonetheless in full possession of his powers. His two shadows, he placed in exquisitely designed golem bodies of incredible beauty and physical might.
The hope was that, as lesser copies of his own mind, his Shadow Generals would serve him willingly. And for a time, they did. But even souls can heal, and as the years passed, the Generals regained a portion of Zarub's ambition. They became the very threat he feared and each sought to claim the throne for his own.
Zarub eventually prevailed, but the people of his kingdom suffered greatly in the crossfire. Zarub was anything but humbled by the near-loss of his crown, and he's since become obsessed with the idea that it was some rival magician that turned his creations against him.
The Feast of Blades
A custom originating in the city-state of TBD, around the Bay of Blood, it has since spread to several major trade cities as an excuse for gambling, excessive drinking, and the spectacle of grievous bodily harm. The real Feast of Blades is only held on festival days sacred to the war god TBD, but knockoffs tend to gravitate to whatever the local drinking holiday happens to be.
Before the Feast of Blades begins, aspirants drink a special potion that gives them the ability to chew and digest metal. Then, they are presented with a table laden with swords, knives, and daggers. Whoever eats the most before the potion wears off wins.
The potion lasts about a quarter-hour, but differences in metabolism, body weight, and other factors can vary that time by up to five minutes. The first sign that it's wearing off is usually bloody lips, cheeks, and gums. The truly determined (or demented . . . or drunk) can push past that to scarf down a few extra inches of steel, and this usually throws the crowd into a raucous frenzy, but it is inevitable that someone is going to take it too far and wind up in the hospital or, rarely, the morgue.
The Bird Civilization
Existing now only in ruins, the villages, temples, and battlefields (especially the battlefields) of the Bird Civilization speak of a time when humanity was not Ukss' dominant species. Archealogists have found traces on both Atalanta and Hyborea, but they suspect that there are sites on Mu that are simply waiting for a calmer political situation to be discovered.
Relatively little is known about the Bird people. They were expert masons and had rudimentary iron working, but the artifacts that survived are tools and weapons, with no verifiable wands or charms, suggesting that they did not know how to wield magic. Some theorize they practiced alchemy, but the evidence is limited to some ambiguous pottery at a single site . . . and the fact that the remains of the Bird people themselves almost always show multiple wounds, suffered as adults and healed over time.
While other aspects of the Bird Civilization culture may remain in doubt, they were indisputably a violent and passionate people. There are several surviving fossils that preserve two of these seven-foot-tall ostrich-like creatures in the immediate aftermath of a vicious combat that killed both within the space of minutes. Mass graves are likewise common. And no one has yet summoned one of their ghosts and escaped unscathed.
The Dark Epoch
An ill-omened comet in a highly eccentric orbit, The Dark Epoch is made of a strange black stone that shimmers with a rainbow of shades invisible to the human eye. The stone attracts the strange, writhing spirits of the outer dark and traps them in the twisting veins of the comet's interior.
As the comet approaches Ukss, every 200-500 years, large pieces break off. These meteors are so suffused with Void energies that they do not burn up in the atmosphere. When they land, the spirits inside are able to break free of their stony prison and rampage across the surface of Ukss, golems without a maker and driven by bizarre, inhuman impulses.
Wonders & Terrors
Over the years, many have tried to tame the Roc. The reward is obvious - she is a giant eagle, capable of lifting an elephant in each of her mighty claws. Anyone who controlled such a thing would have uncontested mastery of the skies. Certainly, even the mightiest hunter quails at the thought of confronting the beast, and every general, warlord, and king in the shadow of the Shielding mountains, where she makes her lair, has planned for the nightmare scenario, where she is drawn into battle against them.
Yet the Roc is too wild, too pure to ever be tamed. The mountain folk revere her for it, seeing her as a symbol of freedom against the encroaching rule of the lowland empires. Though it would be condescending to say they "worshiped" her, they do occasionally leave her offerings of ox and yak. And they keep secret a fact that would draw fortune-seekers from around the world - the Roc's nest contains an egg. A chick is on the way.
Sometimes, for reasons unknown, a rat will grow to giagantic size (for a rat - about 2-3 feet tall), develop articulate fingers, and gain the power of speech. These mutations invariably breed true, and when these Awakened Rats find each other, they form tight-knit bands that stay together generation after generation.
Unlike most other Yokai, Awakened Rats do not separate themselves from human society. Instead, they live at its fringes, finding work as mercenaries, thieves, and, occasionally, heroes. Rat culture is very keen on the idea of the rogue adventurer, and many Awakened Rats seem like they belong to an older, more chivalrous age.
Living in the Reliquary Desert, the Sandcrawlers are a community of Awakened Rats that rejects the romance and chivalry of their brethren for a pragmatic philosophy of survival . . . or so they claim. More mainstream rats point out that they are scrupulously honest in their dealings, but the Sandcrawlers claim it's so their word will have value. They'll point out that the Sandcrawlers rescue stranded travelers and the Sandcrawlers will protest that dead men can't pay a reward. They'll point out that they are meticulous recyclers and careful stewards of the land, and the Sandcrawlers answer that in the desert, you can never afford to waste resources.
The settled villages along the border of the Reliquary desert have a harsher opinion of the Sandcrawlers, viewing them as scavengers and sharp dealers, but even the harshest of their critics would be hard-pressed to say that they are a dangerous threat.
The Sandcrawlers live collectively in massive junk-gathering caravans and wear thick robes to protect themselves from the desert sun. It's said that a Sandcrawler can repair any sort of technology, but only for long enough to pass it on to an unsuspecting customer.
Invasive pests from the world of magic, Dream Beetles enter this reality through the minds of potential magicians who have not yet found a wand to channel their budding magical energies. They rarely stay confined there for long, though, spreading from mind to mind like a plague.
Dream Beetles are not a deadly threat, but they are highly disruptive. They take images from sleepers' dreams and extrude them into the real world to create repulsive nests of rapidly decaying dream-matter. These can cause quite a shock to those not used to the phenomenon, seeing, for example, a hive that appears to be made of the rotting corpses of the infested's friends and family, but which are merely the dream bodies of such people, absent their real-life animating spirit.
The people of Ukss have a rudimentary understanding of magnetism. They know it is the operating principle behind the compass and that it has some relationship to the production of electricity. But they still don't know where it comes from or how to create it directly. Instead, they make magnets by bringing iron to the Hungry Stones.
The Hungry Stones are natural magnets of incredible size, capable of pulling an armored man off his feet at 30 paces. There are about 50 known Hungry Stones, but more are being discovered all the time. The best theory that scholars have is that they were ammunition in a weapon used by the gods to defeat some invading creature of magic. Evidence for this hypothesis is scarce, but it is undeniable that Hungry Stones are found mostly in magic-dead areas. Anyone who could unlock this mystery would have a weapon that governments would pay dearly for.
The Questing Beast
No one knows exactly what the Questing Beast looks like, but most hunters agree that it definitely exists. They can hear it when it taunts them in the woods. Its call is like the ringing of bells and its footprints are always clear and distinct. But it has never been caught. Somehow, when the hunters know they are right on top of it, it vanishes, to find new pursuers to play with.
Chasing the Questing Beast is not without its rewards. It always leads its pursuers to somewhere they didn't know they needed to be. Legend has it that if you catch the Beast it will grant a wish (or perhaps simply reveal an important truth - these legends are pure speculation), but no one has any idea about how such a feat might be accomplished.
They look human, but they're not. Never forget - they are not human.
Maybe they were once. Maybe they were simply so devoted to the worship of the powers of night that they lost the daylight aspects of their personalities. Maybe they were so obsessed with becoming the perfect adepts of shadow that they ultimately became shadows.
Because that's what they are now. Stare at them all you want and you will see only a flat thing, so black its contours vanish into the whole. That doesn't seem so human, sure. But when they come for you and you're fighting for your life, you might see a cock of the head, a tilt of the posture, some small gesture that makes you think there might still be a person inside. You might be tempted to show them mercy.
Don't be fooled. They gave up their voices long ago. They surrendered themselves utterly to their dark patrons and it is those gods who act when the Shinobi come upon you. They will kill you for your mercy. Any glimmer of humanity you might see in them is as substantial as the smoke they leave behind when they're slain.
These elephant-sized birds are surely very wise. Most people who meet them agree that they are very intelligent and know many mystical secrets. Nobody has an unkind word to say against them.
A Typhonian Peacock is definitely as smart as a human. Some of them are even as smart as a clever human. But they lean on their beauty. They are conversationally skillful. They evade questions they don't know how to answer and speak so confidently that none dare gainsay them. They do have magic, often quite potent, but they are Prodigies. Each one is born able to manipulate a particular element (usually sky or flame), but there is no trick to it. They have no secrets to share. They are simply vain enough to imply that they do.
A tail feather from a Typhonian Peacock can be used as a Wand of Splendor, but it is fragile and quickly disintegrates under repeated use.
Fenris, the Dog
Fenris doesn't mean to cause so much trouble, really. He's just a big, clumsy oaf of a puppy . . .
Wait! That thing is a puppy?! That 20-foot-tall slavering hellbeast, with teeth like scimitars and paws the size of a grown-man's torso is a puppy? It's going to get bigger?
And so Fenris was betrayed. As an immortal, he could be slain by none but the gods, but he could be bound. Lured with succulent treats and kind words, he bounded after his human friends into the deepest, darkest cave anyone could find. While he was distracted with a freshly-slain yak carcass, his captors dynamited the entrance.
You can still hear Fenris' howls on a quiet night. They are apologetic and full of sadness. One day, maybe one day soon, the apologies will stop and the sadness will turn to anger.
The glittering stars of the Lowland empires' cocktail party circuit, the Kitsune cut an impressive figure wherever they go. Fox spirits who have taken human shapes, they have an instinctual knack for the predatory social environment of Ukss's elite capitalists.
Many of the ultra-wealthy value the Kitsune as political advisors and personal companions. They are thoughtlessly ruthless and effortlessly beautiful. Only their fox tails (of which they gain more as they age, up to a maximum of nine) mark them as inhuman, but they have the charm to play them off as a fashionable accoutrement.
Kitsune have no sort of organized society or culture. When two fox-spirits meet, if resources are plentiful, they may bond over their shared hustle, but once they come into direct competition, they instantly become deadly rivals.
These ancient megaliths appear all around the world, usually in the shadow of volcanoes. Initially taken as mere monuments, it is now theorized that they are ancient magical artifacts, created to protect the surrounding areas from earthquakes and lava flows. All that is known is that areas which have lost their Anchors will usually succumb to natural disasters within a few decades.
Disturbingly, some Earth Anchors appear in areas that otherwise appear calm and stable. Whether they suppressed volcanic activity in the past or were merely built later, in imitation of the more functional monuments, is currently unknown.
This unique creature has a hundred names among the people of Ukss, though those who study it most just call it "The Forester." It is a giant slug, at least 60 feet long, that is capable of hardening its slimy skin to become as tough as the strongest steel armor. It is drawn to places of devastation and ecological collapse, where it will crawl in complex spiral patterns, a "dance" with meaning known only to itself.
Something about the dance speaks to the memory of plants in the soil, and within a season, everywhere its trail of slime remained undisturbed will sprout new growth to replace the old. Scientists have studied the slime itself and found it to be a remarkable fertilizer, but not inherently magical. The ritual of restoration is the slug's and the slug's alone.
The Sorcerer-Artisans of Vaporia produce these elegant sea-going vessels for a select clientele of discerning customers. Made from a form of enchanted glass that is "grown" into the proper shape over the course of years, the glass boats are lighter than wood and harder than steel. Only dedicated warships are better under cannon fire, and there is not a cargo vessel in the world that can carry more weight, faster. Plus, a glass boat need never worry about barnacles or water termites.
Yet for all their meritorious qualities, glass boats are ludicrously expensive, and thus nearly every one in service acts as a personal yacht for some sorcerer, monarch, or lowland industrialist.
The Field of Spheres
In the vast, flat plains of Mu's savanna, there is a place where the grass thins and the landscape is dominated by hundreds of stone spheres, each the height of a full-grown man. Legend has it that they were created by the god TBD in a single night of drunkenness. Even now, the spheres are sacrosanct, perfectly resistant to axes, hammers, and picks and highly resistant to dynamite and destruction magic. As near as anyone can tell, the spheres have no function or purpose. The god simply likes them.
The Gold Harvest
On the slopes of the Dragontail mountains, grows a most unusual plant. Small-leafed and hardy, it climbs up cliff faces and takes root on any old patch of bare rock. It would be a terribly invasive weed were it not for one miraculous property - its roots contain gold! Through some process not yet understood by scientists, the Dragontail Cliff-clover draws in heavy metals as part of its normal life cycle. Though the amount in any one plant is minuscule, villages in Cliff-clover country can make a decent bit of extra money by harvesting them in the thousands and burning them in specialized kilns. The kilns run hot enough to reduce the plant matter entirely to ash and leave behind only a modest, but profitable stream of molten gold.
The Book of Tales
From time to time, a lonely soul in Ukss will find a strange book among their possessions. They won't remember how they came to possess it, but it will seem familiar, like something they owned in childhood (or if they themselves are children or otherwise too poor to have ever owned a book - then as something they've dreamed of one day owning).
Regardless of the form it takes, The Book of Tales calls to its chosen. Even the most illiterate of them will feel drawn towards reading the book, and after just one or two pages, they'll be hooked. The main character will be immensely relatable, like the sort of strong, resilient, and principled person they wish they could be.
As the readers get deeper into the story, they'll find it takes on a curious applicability. The main character's trials and tribulations are exaggerated, allegorical versions of the problems they face in real life. And if the reader emulates the main character, borrowing their unconventional strategies to overcome challenges with courage and integrity, then things will generally work out.
The Book of Tales doesn't do anything as blunt and direct as prophecy, but in its pages, lost people discover a way to become found. It never fails to change a reader's life for the better, and those who best absorb its wisdom have a habit of becoming legends.
The Dream Twister
Among magical prodigies, telepathy might be the most frequently manifested power. But prodigies of any sort are rare, and telepaths who survive childhood rarer still. That's why the nation of TBD, in the heart of the Lowlands, created the Dream Twister.
The Dream Twister is a work of ruthless cunning and clinical, industrialized evil. It is also the only way anyone knows of consistently creating telepathic adepts. It takes the form of a squat pyramidal structure of eye-watering, geometrically impossible asymmetry. The building both amplifies and taints ambient magical energy, channeling it into a central chamber. Prospective adepts are placed into medically-induced comas, wheeled into the room (in batches of as many as 24, though it is rare for there to be enough volunteers to meet capacity), and left to dream.
Over time (and it may takes days, weeks, or months, depending on a wide range of psychological factors and the subjects' latent magical potential) those placed inside the chamber begin to . . . change. Their dreams no longer connect to their own subconscious, but rather to certain ominous parts of the magic world. At first this manifests as nightmares (and failed subjects never advance beyond this stage), but as time goes on, the dreamer makes peace with the dark realm and their dreams become chillingly functional - not quite lucid, but unfailingly focused on solving their personal problems with sociopathic pragmatism. Once they've reached that stage, they may wake themselves from within the coma, and become telepathic adepts in truth.
Any telepath created with The Dream Twister is fundamentally tainted by its dark energies. They are experts at prying information from the minds of the unwilling, but leave only mental wreckage in their wake. They make poor spies, but excellent assassins. They also find use on the battlefield, cloaking themselves in an aura of fear that will devastate ally and enemy alike.
These enchanted jumpsuits are made of the tanned skins of captured cats, scrubbed and treated so the origins are not apparent. When the zipper is pulled up all the way, the wearer is transformed into the exact type of cat the skin was taken from (usually, because of the use of multiple skins, this has the appearance of a calico domestic cat, but the higher-quality cat suits are made from the hide of a single lion, tiger, or other great cat). Favored by spies and thieves, they are usually worn half-zipped to allow for a sudden escape. Removing a Cat Suit requires the assistance of an accomplice who can speak the code-word that causes the zipper to appear on the feliform's chest (and, of course, provide the human hands necessary to pull the zipper down).
In the forest to the south of the Omphalos Coast, there live many dangerous Yokai, but over the years, explorers and mystics have identified a few dozen patches of neutral ground, places where human beings are tentatively permitted, provided they stay on their best behavior. The most hallowed (and harrowing) of these places are the Red Groves, where the devoted and the desperate may come to make offerings to the powers of the woods. It is said that the trees there get their distinctive color from the centuries' worth of blood that they've absorbed through their roots, but whether that is fact or embellishment, it unmistakable that the Alfar who watch over these groves are strange and wild, and the disembodied spirits who hear the petitions grant enlightenment only to those who have a bit of the predator inside them.
The Terracotta Warriors
Though they have fallen out of favor in the Lowlands since the invention of the cannon, magically enchanted clay statues are still a favored strategic weapon in the Bay of Blood and Omphalos Coast. Relentless, pitiless, and utterly loyal, their only weaknesses are an inability to use firearms (though they are themselves essentially bulletproof) and the expense that goes into their creation. Most city-states can afford to field no more than an elite unit of about 100 or so, though rumor has it that the Republic of Mu had two full divisions that they dared not deploy lest they be subverted by the spell-twisting of the Indigo Legion of Rainbow Knights.
Native to the lower slopes of the volcanic Helltooth Mountains, these small, furry creatures are as dangerous as they are cute. In the days of the old Republic of Mu, they were considered a major pest, creeping into farmlands to steal grain and hunt insects and scaring off predators by breathing fire.
Though the flame of a Dragon Mouse is not enough on its own to do more than startle a human, it is perfectly capable of igniting flammable materials in a human residence. More than one granary was burned entirely to the ground by a Dragon Mouse that was trying to intimidate a fox, cat, or dog. They haven't had quite the same range since the Prism Wars destroyed their major food sources, but in the western reaches of the Spectrum Lands, there are many scorched ruins that never actually saw battle.
The Poison Book
There's a book where if you read it, it will kill you. Not quickly, and not inevitably, but slowly, page after page, you'll get weaker. Most can make it through a single chapter and come away with nothing more serious than the worst flu of their life. The exceptionally strong of will can get through a second chapter with survivable vomiting and paralysis. Nobody has ever made it through a third.
Experiments in spacing out the reading have been disappointing. Apparently whatever contamination you get from the book lingers in your system for decades. Scholars have fully recovered from their book-imposed illness only to immediately suffer fatal hemorrhages after reading a single additional page.
Why even bother? Some do it for the bragging rights, others to test the potency of their magical wards, but the real reason is because The Poison Book is an encyclopedia of weakness. If you can endure long enough to find it, you may learn to kill anything that lives. It is speculated that even the secret dooms of the gods can be found within its pages, though if that's true, they are surely in the later passages, the ones that burn your eyes just for looking at them.
The Priest-Kings of TBD rule their city with an iron fist. None dare oppose them, lest they be forced to drink the anti-waters of the Dark Spring. One sip will afflict a victim with a desperate thirst, as if they'd gone days without water. A belly-full of the anti-waters will destroy a person utterly. They will dry up within minutes and go screaming into death. . . if they're lucky.
Those with the talent for magic - magicians mostly, but also the stronger sort of prodigies - may use their connection to the Magic World to survive. They become the Unquenched, undying ghouls who seek any moisture they can find, whether it be water or blood or crude oil, and drink it down with a disturbing ferocity.
It is possible for a magician of strong will and pure intent to stay ahead of the thirst for some time. They will still drink every liquid they can find, but they retain enough awareness to warn away strangers and prioritize pure waters over filth. However, in the end, everyone succumbs. The echoes of their screams, rising up from the caverns of the undercity, keep the rest of TBD's citizens on the straight and narrow.
These cunning devices are among the most popular form of entertainment in the Lowlands. A moderately-sized box of brass and steel, from the front they resemble a theater stage. On the side is a slot for a wax cylinder.
The cylinder contains an audio recording of a dramatic performance, along with a coded parallel track that the Theater reads to direct the motion of its many gears, bringing to life up to four puppet performers to act out the scene as it is being played.
The puppets themselves are modular, and can be swapped out for different characters, although as Clockwork Theaters become cheaper and more common, playwrights have started writing cylinders explicitly for the four "stock" characters that come bundled with the base model (The Lord, The Lady, the Maid, and The Urchin).
A product of advanced alchemy, Klot is a rapidly-expanding foam that quickly hardens into a durable polymer lattice that is highly resistant to most conventional forms of harm. It is primarily used as a security measure of last resort in Ukss' most well-guarded prisons and laboratory facilities. These installations will feature "Klot chambers" at vulnerable choke-points. When an intruder (or escapee) enters a Klot chamber, guards may pull a lever that releases the Klot's two precursor chemicals. Within seconds, the room fills up with a web of sticky goop. A couple of seconds later, that web freezes, holding everyone in the room in place. Because it is nearly indestructible without exerting unreasonable amounts of pressure, it is perfect for taking prisoners alive (once the proper breakdown enzyme has been administered, of course).
The raven-folk are another form of Yokai that lives quietly among humankind. Though their natural forms are tall, lean humanoids with black, grey, or white feathers, they are prodigies capable of taking human or avian form (usually ravens, but sometime crows, jackdaws, and other similar birds). They also have a natural affinity for illusion magic, though they still need wands or rituals to take advantage of it.
Corax have an unsavory reputation among most human cultures. They feature prominently in many tales about witches, supernatural tricksters, and ill-omened travelers. Some of these stories are even true, though in modern times a great many have found work in Ukss' intelligence agencies, who value their keen observational talents and ability to blend in nearly anywhere.
The Book of Whispers
This deceptively slim volume is considered one of Ukss' most dangerous magical tomes. It does nothing more contentious than describe what's happening in its immediate vicinity (out to about 100 meters, though the effect is blocked by walls), but when those descriptions include the inner thoughts and secret agendas of any nearby "characters," that is more than dangerous enough.
The Book of Whispers is, by this point, thousands of pages long, impossibly crammed into a spine only a half-inch thick. This is despite it being literary enough to condense long periods of uninteresting activity ("the Prince slept through the night"). Those who own it for long enough eventually learn that it is constantly rewriting its own earlier pages to provide historical context, establish foreshadowing, or point out ironies (not to mention discreetly trimming all those paradoxical, recursive passages that occur whenever people read the book itself).
Though it never changes while someone is looking at it (the last sentence is always some variant of "the Prince turned to the final page of the Book of Whispers"), the sound of words moving around on unobserved pages is what gives the book its name. Fortunately for those who would use the Book of Whispers for nefarious purposes, the sound is successfully muffled when the covers are closed.
Necromantic Calculating Pools
The industrial sorcerers of the Lowlands have developed one of the more repellent applications of necromantic ritual, all for the sake of ensuring the success of increasingly-massive mutual funds. Buying the unburied corpses of the poor by the hundreds, they cremate them in special lead-lined ovens to ensure that the soul lingers on after death. Those souls are then brought to an artificial sub-realm of the magic world and chained to one of the limitless calculating desks that extend from horizon to horizon in neat, identical rows.
One might think that randomly conscripted paupers would not make the most effective actuaries, but time moves differently in the magic world. In the space of a week, they might undergo a decade-long apprenticeship where a complex hierarchy of error-checking forces them to learn whether they like it or not. In time, the cold, leaching numbness of the realm itself wears away any thoughts or ambitions not relating to the job and their desks are redesignated as "reliable," to check, in turn, the work of the pool's ever-growing ranks.
The sorcerers who manage the Necromantic Calculating Pools pose difficult statistical and analytical questions, receiving answers in mere minutes that allow them to get a jump on the market by making frequent low-risk trades that steadily increase their funds' value. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, legions of undead slaves labor for subjective weeks or months to provide their captors with more and more detailed projections, leading to a mathematical arms race with no end in sight.
Sometimes a crime is so unforgivable, an atrocity so harrowing that it burns its way into a survivor, witness, or investigator's soul. Such a soul may be alloyed with gold to create a Justice Blade. Etched with a detailed description of the crime that inspired its creation, a Justice blade is normally unwieldy, dull, and extremely heavy, but becomes as light and as strong as steel when its in the presence of one of the crime's perpetrators.
If their only property was unfailingly pointing towards the guilty, Justice Blades would still be worth the effort it takes to make them, but they are also among the most effective weapons to use to punish evildoers. A Justice Blade is immune to all defensive magic used by those who committed the original crime, cutting through the most potent of sorcerous protections with incredible ease, and any wound dealt by the sword to a guilty party is automatically fatal, even if it's as small as a superficial scratch. Those punished by the blade slowly disintegrate from the inside out, eventually becoming a hollow shell of skin that will collapse into a pile of dust at the slightest disturbance.
Because they require both a massive amount of gold and a willing human sacrifice to create, Justice Blades are (usually) only created for massive crimes with dozens or hundreds of perpetrators. Everyone who actively participated, provided material support, or helped cover it up will be subject to the blade's power. Once the last perpetrator is dead (whether by the blade or from other causes), the soul inside the blade departs and it reverts to inert gold. The gold can theoretically be reused for another Justice Blade, but those who craft them often prefer to keep retired blades as a memorial for the victims of the original crime.
Based out of the city-state of Yennin, where they have easy access to the black market sorcery that keeps them "alive," the Cognizants are Adepts who have developed their mental powers by stripping away all the distractions of the flesh until only their magically-sustained brains remain, floating in an enchanted vessel.
Despite the precariousness of their existence, the tradeoff is largely a fruitful one. In addition to gaining telepathic and telekinetic abilities, the Cognizants can think more clearly, calculate more accurately, and remember more completely than normal humans. They use this power to operate the most powerful underworld network in the Bay of Blood.
Though there is very little that would be considered illegal in a region where mercenaries, assassins, and relic sorcery is openly tolerated, there are many codes governing the movement of magic, weapons, and people. No state wants their rivals to gain an unanswerable advantage, and thus customs enforcement is a deadly serious business. The Cognizants make evading customs checks into their business, and they've gotten very good at it.
Though Terracotta Warriors are increasingly coming to be seen as obsolete, the old stockpiles still have their uses. With only a small amount of technological and magical augmentation, old automatons can be rebuilt into the world's most potent armor. Wearers of Automaton Armor have increased strength and endurance, damage resistance comparable to the Terracotta Warriors, and the ability to use complex tools like guns and explosives. This flexibility makes them profitable to deploy in small batches, mitigating the worst disadvantage of the older technology.
Like most magical things, it is highly difficult to make a set of Automaton Armor out of iron or steel, but sorcerers in the Lowlands are experimenting with new materials in the hopes of creating a new generation without the weaknesses of clay.
There's a reason spirits must make the Tainted Bargain or become Alfar - it is very difficult to project anything but the smallest bit of power into the material world. Yet sometimes that bit is enough to cause big trouble. Weak minds can be tempted, small objects can be lost, and souls in crisis can even be possessed. There's not much that humans can do against such intrusions, but if they're knowledgeable or lucky, they might be able to pin the offending spirit in place.
Superstitious people make more of this than they should, and you'll often find homes in the Omphalos Coast with dozens of pins stuck in the walls in the vain hope of warding off ordinary bad luck, but if the circumstances are right (the pin has a high iron content and was previously lost then found), it's possible to catch a genuine mischievous spirit. A pinned spirit cannot move their consciousness anywhere else in either world and may only use their powers on someone who is currently touching the pin. This annoys them greatly, but does them no lasting harm, as their immortal minds do not register time in a concrete enough way for confinement to cause great suffering.
An ordinary pin can only capture a minor spirit, those with barely more power than a gaffling. Anything larger will shoot the pin straight out of the hole. There is some speculation that long spears of meteoric iron may be able to bind more potent entities, but no one has been both rich and desperate enough to attempt it.
Some people, especially children, believe that if you find a pin stuck into some random surface and pull it out, you can make a wish and the grateful spirit will grant it to the best of their ability. In practice, the results are . . . mixed.
This sticky, white powder is made with iron, beeswax, and a variety of obscure alchemical substances. If you completely cover your face with it, you become invisible to telepathy. Anyone trying to scan your mind comes back with a complete blank. It's not a perfect defense, because you're still vulnerable to suggestions, memory alteration (though it becomes much clumsier and easier to detect), illusion, and direct psychic assault, but your secrets are safe as long as there are no gaps between your hairline and your shoulder-blades.
It's possible to dye soul-shroud powder into a variety of colors, which replaces the blank result with a mental signature corresponding to the color (red = angry, blue = sad, etc). An elaborately-patterned face painting can deliver such sophisticated false results that the telepath might not even realize that they're scanning a protected person . . . unless they try to read you twice, that is.
Zarub the Sorcerer-King did not begin his magical experiments with his Shadow Generals. As a proof of concept, he created an elite unit of golem-enforcers animated by the souls of his most vicious and loyal followers. One such golem was severely damaged in the War of the Thirded Crown, not just physically, but mentally. Rather than start from scratch, Zarub simply scoured away its memories. The newly-repaired golem was a complete innocent, and found itself disgusted by the orders it was asked to carry out. One night, while on patrol, it simply absconded into the desert.
Now it wanders the world, evading Zarub's hunters and contemplating the meaning of existence. It does not yet know what it wants to do with its life, but it thinks it would prefer not to be a weapon of war.
The Dream Stele
The followers of the God Emperor of Hyborea's Old Empire are thin on the ground these days, but there are certain pieces of sacred lore that still manage to stay in circulation. One particular legend concerns The Dream Stele, a modest obelisk the last Emperor erected shortly before he made the decision to pursue divine ascension.
According to legend, the Dream Stele documents the prophetic dream that led to that fateful decision. On its sides are listed the great deeds the God Emperor would have to perform to be worthy of joining the ranks of the great spirit courts. If an adventurer or scholar found the Dream Stele in the ruins of the Reliquary Desert, they might reexamine the text to find where the God Emperor went wrong. Perhaps to free him from his torment . . . or follow in his footsteps.
The White Cliff Artificers exist now only in The Witness's memory, but taverns across Hyborea echo with the sound of drinking songs, and the tutors of the wealthy know the history of the Artificer's Council.
These magical tattoos feature clean, bold lines and simple geometric shapes that nonetheless combine to evoke the abstract essence of a particular species of animal. By concentrating on the figures and allowing their mind's eye to walk the labyrinthine paths of their constuction, the bearer of a Shifter's Mark can transform into the depicted creature, remaining in that form until they next sleep.
By their very nature, Shifters' Marks must be placed somewhere visible to their bearer. Mirrors count, however, and the most popular location is over the bearer's heart. Though the people of the Bay of Blood consider these tattoos to be sacred (when the form matches that of the bearer's Avatar), they are also used by criminal gangs on the Omphalos Coast. Misunderstandings such as this do much to foster resentment between the two regions.
The Mist Throne
There is a mountain in the Dragontail Range whose name is politely translated as "The Root of the World." It rises far above its neighbors and is visible, hazily, from the Reliquary Desert to the shores of the Girding Ocean. Its peak is so tall that clouds pass beneath it, and the people of the Dragontail Mountains can divine the weather by charting how much of its silhouette is obscured on any given day.
Atop The Root of the World, there sits a throne of aluminum and sapphire. Any who sit in the throne may cast their senses out and look down from any cloud that touches the slopes of the mountain or through any fog that rises in the shadow of those clouds. In the days leading up to a blizzard, this may extend for hundreds of miles, right down to the villages by the sea.
Only kings, sorcerers, and fools actually attempt to use the Mist Throne, however, for the climb up the Root is perilous in the extreme, and to approach the peak from the air risks angering the ancient gods who watch over the mountain.
The Witch Roads
They say the Magic World is as narrow as the space between raindrops, and that all sacred places are connected. How true that is is debateable, but when two sorcerers truly love or hate each other, their thoughts will fly between Sanctums. When one Alfar sheds the blood of another, it takes on some part of the other's nature. When a Red Grove is consecrated, the leaves of the others shake with a sympathetic thirst.
There are rituals that exploit these connections, allowing insults and curses and spells to bridge the gap between physical locations. The most potent will even allow a human (or group of humans) to cross over, if they possess the right keys and know the words of propriation that keep the predators of the Magic World at bay.
Though rifles and pistols are the preferred weapons of Ukss' great militaries, the world's most powerful warriors still prefer to use the sword. Passing down ancient adept techniques, these masters combine magical skill and martial prowess into deadly fighting arts.
The School of the Gunblade
The most modern of the sword schools, it finds favor in semi-modern nations like Capet and the Kingdom of Bliss. Gunblade adepts wield swords with pistols built into the hilt. These pistols are integrated into many of the style's katas and can be used to add power to a thrust or to punish a careless parry. Naturally, they can also be used to attack enemies at a distance, but the short, unrifled barrel on a typical gunblade makes this a desperation move at best.
Gunblade masters can weave strikes and shots into a complex ballet of carnage and are renowned for their ability to handle multiple opponents at once. A common quip is that half of all gunblade training is spent on learning to manipulate the forces of luck, and while that's not quite true, the school's advanced awareness techniques do lend its practitioners an air of the uncanny.
The School of the Chain-sword
A brutal, uncompromising style, it originated in Laconia, but soon spread to a number of widely-scattered academies that envied its unparalleled might. Chain-swords require utmost discipline to master, as their spinning, toothed blades can pose as much threat to a careless wielder as they do to the enemy.
For those who master the chain-sword, however, the style offers the promise of overcoming any single foe, no matter how mighty. There is little an enchanted chain-sword can't cut through, and against the few creatures capable of withstanding its might, the adept's unnaturally powerful arms and highly focused fury become powerful weapons in their own right.
The School of the Fractal Sword
In the barrens of Luna's northern hemisphere, far from places any human finds fit to settle, there grows a peculiar species. Half crystal and half plant, these strange formations take the shape of large, serrated crescents, ranging in size from a dagger to an office building. Close examination of the teeth of the crescents reveal that each one is a smaller copy of the whole (and the teeth on those copies are themselves copies of the entire structure, and so on, down as small as anyone has cared to look).
A crescent of the appropriate size can be harvested from its parent growth, fitted with a hilt, and used as a high-quality sword. These blades have the strength of fine steel and the weight of pumice stone. Masters can wield them with devastating efficacy, creating lingering wounds that are unnaturally slow to heal. Fractal Adepts are also highly skilled at creating layered defenses that leave their enemies baffled and helpless.
Any tooth of a fractal sword may be broken off and replanted in its native Lunar soil. Given enough time, it will eventually grow into a duplicate sword. Students of the school imbue this process with sacred meaning and when it is time for an apprentice to leave the master's service, their first blade will have been grown from a shard of their teacher's sword.
The School of the Macuahuitl
Though many hoped this terrifying art would have passed away in the wake of the Prism Wars, it nonetheless survives in a few of Mu's more isolated kaers. Given the dangers of the Spectrum Lands, it is likely to thrive in the coming years.
The Macuahuitl was old Mu's signature ceremonial weapon, a dense wooden club with razor-sharp obsidian blades attached to the edges. In years gone by, large quarries on the slopes of the Helltooth mountains would produce tons of high-quality obsidian that would subsequently be treated with alchemy to become as shatter resistant as steel (and not coincidentally keep its impossibly sharp edges for nearly a hundred times as long). At the peak of the Republic, nearly every officer in the military carried one, even if the magical art was confined purely to elite units and civilian experts.
Macuahuitl magic is versatile in its ferocity. Masters have been known to decapitate horses with a single stroke, but the style itself is most feared for its nonlethal techniques. A disciplined practitioner can bring a victim low with dozens of shallow cuts and dazzle any potential rescuers with flying ribbons of blood. They are also skilled at using the wooden core of the weapon for powerful stunning blows.
"Yokai Village" is a collective term for the hidden settlements of lesser spirits and near-human monsters. The classic Yokai Village is a refuge for any supernatural creature strange enough to to be shunned by human society and smart enough to honor the Village truce. These Villages usually reside in "cursed" wilderness, where humans fear to tread, lest they get hopelessly lost . . . or worse. It's unclear whether these curses are caused by the Yokai enforcing their borders or if the Yokai simply seek out the most dangerous lands in which to hide. Either way, a mixed Yokai Village will welcome any of the Old Peoples who need to flee the encroaching hand of humanity.
Not all Yokai Villages are so diverse, however. Some contain only a single species. They still tend to be isolated and well-protected by secrecy, but any unfamiliar monster that wandered through will be treated with suspicion, at best.
High in the Shielding Mountains, there is a valley that dips below the tree line. Inside is an old-growth forest containing gorgeous hardwoods and fragrant pines that have otherwise been logged into extinction. Thanks to the fertile soil and ideal climate conditions, some of these trees are of truly gigantic scale, the size of battleships or office buildings.
There are magnates down in the Lowlands who would pay millions to secure the rights to the valley . . . and profit to the tune of millions more as they stripped it bare. But they cannot, because the Valley has powerful protection in the form of its own native band of Sasquatches.
Despite their size and fearsome demeanor, the Sasquatches are peaceful herbivores. They speak a simple language of grunts and howls, but their knowledge of the valley runs deep. They mostly spend their time observing the valley's animals, tending to the health of the trees, and maintaining the rituals that keep their home hidden from the outside world.
The magic of the Sasquatches is unlike anything else on Ukss. Though it is no match for a true magic wand, it has spared their lands from scrutiny for hundreds of years. If discovered, it would inspire even more greed than the valley's untapped natural resources, but only someone as gentle and humble as the Sasquatches themselves could ever hope to master it.
The Giant Lynx of the Alpine Woods
Though, as solitary predators, the Giant Lynx do not live in villages, as the term is commonly understood, they do try and keep in touch with each other, meeting at the intersections of their territories for trade, mating, and news. The most frequently trafficked points on the network are called "crossroads" and the Lynx name them with smell-signs that only partially translate into spoken languages.
The Giant Lynx prefer to have as little to do with humans as possible. They will sometimes negotiate with isolated mining, logging, or furrier camps, trading their services as scouts and guides for recognition and protection of their favored hunting grounds. However, like all cats, they can see nascent magical energies and will often go out of their way to warn others of major magical threats.
Yokai villages are hidden, but that doesn't mean they are all isolated. Some Yokai maintain a tentative contact with the outside world, staging elaborate traveling markets that bring a little of the wonder of the supernatural to the towns and cities they visit.
Goblin Markets do not advertise, but they are not difficult to find for the determined seeker. Most people don't bother, because the wares for sale mostly appeal to the appetites of the Yokai - a Giant Lynx might find a variety of exotic rats at the concessions stand. A Vampire might find a mirror enchanted to show their true reflection. A Kitsune might find an incense that smells exactly like fox piss, for the rare times she is feeling homesick.
Nonetheless, humans do sometimes find the Goblin Markets, whether they are ritualists looking for rare components, adventurers looking for material to lay or break a curse, or simply drunkards and fools, stumbling in by accident. Few leave entirely unsatisfied, but rumor has it that some never leave at all.
Most Goblin Markets are not directly owned or operated by the goblins themselves. Goblin craft is simply the most attractive lure for human visitors, so that is what humans call them.
The Spider Bazaar
The intelligent spiders of Ukss are not all dedicated enemies of human-kind. Some appear to have a code, or at least are wary enough of humanity's magic and military might to want to coexist. One such group runs a traveling bazaar. Carried from town to town by a colorful swarm of tame servitor spiders, the Spider Bazaar is the best place in Ukss to buy silk and venom. Many of the spiders are themselves enchanters of great skill, and the clothes, tents, and rugs available for purchase will sometimes bear strange, inhuman magics.
The Spider Bazaar never stays in one place for long. Over the course of only a couple of days, its merchants can exhaust the surrounding countryside of any prey animal larger than a rabbit. In the more profitable towns, they will avoid livestock, but rumor persists that some of the smaller villages of the Omphalos Coast have been consigned to ruin by a Bazaar that overstayed its welcome.
At first glance, Gloomshire appears to be a normal, human village. A bit too bucolic, maybe. The people a little too friendly, too eager to extend hospitality to strangers. But, fundamentally, a nice place. What visitors don't realize, not until it's too late, is that Gloomshire is not a human village. Gloomshire belongs to the spiders.
Using a combination of threats, venom-derived narcotics, and obscene magical rituals, the spiders of Gloomshire keep their captive humans tightly under control, forcing them to play-act the role of cheerful welcoming villagers, the better to lure travelers to the spiders' larders. Sometimes, one of these captives will break free of their control, but that just means the spiders don't have to look so far for their next meal.
Gloomshire has existed as a trap for the better part of a generation, and it has worked well, but the locals are starting to catch on. It is only a matter of time before the spiders abandon the "village" and start again somewhere else. They likely won't let any of their prisoners live to tell the tale.
As intelligent dolphins, the Dargonesti do not build shelters, nor do they stay in one location long enough to call it a home, but their Pods are as tight-knit as any human community and last generation after generation with a fixed name and identity.
Some describe the Dargonesti as the playful jokers of the sea who rescue lost seafarers and entertain ships with their acrobatic antics. Others as sadistic brutes who torture the helpless and take pleasure in cruelty. Both assessments miss the mark. The Dargonesti are people, for all the contradictions and complexities that entails. Nonetheless, they are heavily influenced by the local culture of their pod. If it is led by a craven bully, then that's what they become. Otherwise, most Dargonesti culture hews to the hedonic principle - if it makes you happy, do it.
Dargonesti have an affinity for the magical arts. Their natural form precludes using a wand, and most rituals do not work underwater, but they have a knack for wild magic and are some of the few people to become adepts multiple times over. Most Dargonesti magic is what you would expect from an aquatic creature (summon fish, protection from drowning, etc), but they are eager students and a pod with access to highly-trafficked shipping routes will collect an eclectic variety of talents from friendly land-goers.
The signature Dargonesti magic, though, is the ability to shift into a human-like form. This too is an adept ability, taking years to master, but it is so widespread, appearing even in the most antisocial pods, that outsiders tend to mistake it for an innate power. Dargonesti disguises are good, but rarely completely perfect. They usually overdo the ears, though whether this is because hearing is such an important sense to them or because they don't have external ears of their own (or, as more likely, because it's some private joke at humanity's expense) is currently unknown.
The Frog Nation
The hundred or so frog-person villages of the Twilight Forest are not a nation-state in the modern sense, but they do have a shared national identity. They speak the same language. They share many of the same customs and traditions. Until recently, they shared a common religion and values.
But the Frog Nation has become riven by civil war. Radical new ideas have shaken the normally staid frog people. A growing faction, calling themselves the Bullywugs, is preaching a violent doctrine of racial supremacy and hatred for the outside world.
Opposing them are the Grippli, traditionalist Frog People who believe they should live in harmony with nature and ignore the outside world.
The conflict is largely generational. Frog People are biologically immortal. If they can escape cancer, they may live for hundreds of years. The Grippli is a philosophy of the old - deeply spiritual, conservative, and cautious. The Bullywugs are a movement of the young. They believe their longevity and regeneration make them superior to other forms of life and are eager to go out into the world and prove it.
It is a chaotic time in the Frog Nation. The ideological split is tearing apart not just villages, but families. There have been only intermittent flare ups of violence, but no deaths so far. Over time, the factions will migrate so that Gripplis live in Grippli towns and Bullywugs among Bullywugs, but for now, it is a dangerously unpredictable environment for outside visitors.
Deep in the deadliest reaches of the Reliquary desert, where even the Sandcrawlers fear to tread, there lives a culture of nomadic lizard-people. Though they have no name that would translate into a human tongue, the few travelers lucky enough to see them and survive have dubbed them "the Chromatics."
The Chromatics are masters of light. They need no clothes, because their spells can divert the hottest of the sun's rays. They need no weapons, because they can hurl lances of solar fire with pinpoint accuracy. They can make themselves completely invisible or weave complex illusions in the air. They are so attuned to the nature of light that they don't even speak. All of their communication is done through complex patterns of color, many of which are invisible to the human eye.
Because they are so difficult to find (let alone communicate with), scholars mistakenly believe that the Chromatics are Prodigies. And while they do have superhuman vision and the ability to change their skin color, those traits are purely natural. Their magical control over light itself is a form of wand magic.
The Chromatics produce only one kind of wand, polished over years from a certain type of desert crystal, but the number of wands they've accumulated over the years would absolutely stagger the various imperial strategists, were it to become known. Every Chromatic child receives one as a rite of adulthood (whether carved by their parents or handed down from an honored ancestor). Aside from wands, they use little other technology. Mostly bags, belts, and pouches, but also occasionally flint knives for when they need to cut without heat and spearheads for when they wish to fight their own kind.
The City of Illusion
In the heart of the Chromatics' territory is their most sacred site. It is the repository for their cultural memory. It is here that they record their legends and deeds. It is here that they recreate the ruined buildings they find half-buried in the desert, imagining what they must have looked like when they still stood tall. It is here that they share the faces of travelers, both friend and foe. Everything the wandering Chromatics felt worth preserving has been woven into vibrant moving images and then permanently anchored with a bit of the Sun's own generative power.
At some point, the Chromatics began to understand that their use of life energy had . . . side effects. The most ancient illusions broke from their programming, and began to act out new stories, as if they were in truth the characters they were drawn to be. The mystics among them pronounced this a blessing, saying that the living illusions, as they became aware of each other, would reveal paths of meaning between their stories. They say the center of the city is their racial unconscious, and that the dream-like chaos found therein represents the dreams of the Chromatic people.
For their part, the living illusions are unaware of their role in Chromatic culture. The newly awakened still believe they're real, and rationalize the City as a waking nightmare. The oldest ones worship the god they're certain they'll become.
The Slime Cities
Though the Chthonic Empire is an entire nation of subterranean Yokai, the cities of the Slime people deserve a special mention. Though they have integrated fairly well into the multi-species culture of the Empire, the peculiarities of the their physiology have led them to stand (well, not exactly, but you know) apart from the other Yokai. The cities of their original homeland have vertebrate districts and certain hastily-added architectural accommodations, but they are mostly built for the comfort of fluid bodies. They don't have "streets" so much as "pipes" or "doors" so much as "valves." Travel to outlying districts is augmented with pneumatic systems of such incredible efficiency that the slime cities have become the backbone of the Empire's industrial production.
The larger conventional cities of the Chthonic Empire have their own pneumatic-tube transport systems, but even a medium sized town finds it difficult to justify a mass-transit system that can only service a minority of the population. This gives the Slimes a reputation as sophisticated, but out-of-touch urbanites and may bias educators and employers towards directing them to clerical and administrative careers.
From a distance, goblins appear to resemble humanity. They have the same basic body plan - two arms, two legs, an upright posture and hairless skin. Yet there are certain crucial differences. They are smaller than humans, rarely exceeding four feet in height, with three to three and a half feet being more common. Their skin is also not quite human, possessing a mineral luster even in its most human-like shades of earthen-brown (slate grey, jade green, and sapphire are more common, though). Their extremities tend to have exaggerated proportions, with long, clever fingers at the end of their spindly arms and big, floppy feet at their dramatically bowed legs. Their eyes, ears, and noses are proportionately larger than a human's, and their senses are sharper as a result.
Goblins excel at crafts, especially working in metal or gems or with complex mechanisms. There are very few goblin magicians, but they have a special gift for weaving magic directly into the items they create, sometimes without consciously realizing it.
Goblins are instinctual nesters, and are uncomfortable living above ground or in nomadic groups. Goblin homes are usually well-fortified and far enough underground that the surface's light and noise cannot penetrate.
Goblins have an undeserved reputation for avarice. Rather, because they tend to bond very strongly to particular fixed homes, they are very vulnerable to anxieties about scarcity. Many goblins become compulsive hoarders, but this is an illness analogous to depression in humans, and is usually brought on by the same sort of stresses.
Deep Goblins hold themselves apart from other Goblin peoples. They live much farther underground than their kin, often hundreds or thousands of feet below the surface in cavernous cities that have been meticulously carved over the centuries.
Conservative to a fault, Deep Goblins eschew most forms of mechanical and electrical technology, instead relying on their own, long-cultivated magical crafts. Though they use only the traditional arts of stone-cutting, blacksmithing, and carpentry, their tools and weapons are coveted by the wealthy and powerful on Ukss's surface. Any goblin-forged blade will cut effortlessly through armor. An axe made by a Deep Goblin will cleave an engine block in half.
The Deep Goblins pride themselves on being fierce warriors who will never back down from defending their own. They are slow to anger, but their stubbornness has drawn out many conflicts far longer than the surface goblins think wise.
The culture of the Deep Goblins often strikes outsiders as bleak and depressing. It is shameful for a Deep Goblin to publicly show emotion or to flaunt their wealth in any way. Thus they dress in practical browns and greys and adopt a gruff, stoic demeanor. Inside the home is different. A Deep Goblin's lair is almost always decorated with exquisite craft that catches the light of the hearth and echoes the sounds of the family's laughter.
Vampires in Ukss are no mere bloodsuckers. They are the harbingers of the end of the world. The vampires themselves are either unclear or deliberately evasive about their initial origins, but they know one thing for certain - they are the only thing that can survive the coming apocalypse. Some vampires look upon the apocalypse with horror and seek to delay it. Others look upon it with glee and seek to hasten it. One thing both factions agree upon is that they will be in no danger of running out of blood.
Most of the Tremere vampires were magicians and ritualists in life, and retain those abilities even in death. Though only the most corrupt and death-tainted wands will function for the undead, the Clan has learned to substitute the mystical energies of their blood. As a result, they are less physically potent than other vampires, but make up for it in versatility and precision.
Clan Tremere is more hierarchical than other vampire families, organizing itself as a perverted mystery cult where deeper circles of initiation grant access to ever more potent mystical secrets.
Clan Tremere is despised by most other vampire families because they tend to operate semi-openly, making deals with corrupt civic officials for sanctuary in exchange for providing their mystical services to the upper class. A city inhabited by Tremere vampires is extremely hostile to other vampires, with hunters frequently tipped off when the trespassers arrive.
The Tremere oppose the coming apocalypse and will preemptively attack rival vampires rather than risk their doomsday cults taking root.
Most vampires are ambivalent about the coming apocalypse. They identify with one faction or the other and pursue its goals in a desultory sort of way, but mostly they just exist night to night, with little thought to the future.
Not so the Morbus.They have fully embraced the end of the world. They work to disrupt human civilization and weaken the guardians of order. Their weapon of choice is indiscriminate pestilence, stored in their immortal bodies and spread through their infectious bites.
No place visited by the Morbus escapes disaster for long. The Morbus don't just spread a single disease. As immortal blood-sucking creatures who feed exclusively off of sick and dying humans, they tend to collect a wide variety of infections over the years. The older Morbus will host a greatest-hits selection of all of history's most terrifying plagues.
If mortals knew of their existence, the Morbus would be the most hunted vampires in existence. Unfortunately, few who come into contact with them survive long enough to spread the word.
Vampires are immortal. The thing no one tells you about immortality is that as time goes on, it becomes increasingly likely that you will become trapped. A building will collapse on top of you. You will be buried in a concrete tomb. You will sink to the bottom of the sea and have your bones crushed by the unbearable pressure of the depths. . .
Benthic vampires are those who have adapted to the deep sea. Down far below the surface, where the sun never shines, they have honed their innate vampire powers to withstand the terrible environment. They are stronger, swifter, and more vicious than surface vampires, but can no longer pass for even remotely human.
Warm blood is rare under the sea, especially at the depths that Benthics favor, but they have learned to listen for whale song. A single whale can feed a whole pack. The monsters swarm over them en masse, dragging them to the sea floor and draining them dry before they can drown.
The Dargonesti hunt Benthics whenever they can, but they are no match for them one-on-one and usually wind up being chased away from the choicest Benthic feeding grounds.
Less a faction of vampires than a title, an Inconnu is an elder vampire who has shunned the trappings of family and temporal power and focused entirely on exploring the vampiric condition. For the most part, "Inconnu" is a past-tense sort of title, something you say about a vampire who has disappeared, but who you dare not proclaim as dead.
Sometimes, though, an Inconnu vampire will reemerge, wielding strange powers and espousing strange philosophies. It is clear that they learned something in their extended absence, but whether such knowledge delays the apocalypse or hastens its arrival is something beyond the comprehension of lesser minds.
Magic on Ukss comes in three types - wand magic, ritual magic, and wild magic. Wand magic is faster, flashier, and more adaptable - able to be used in seconds, rather than the hours or days required for serious magical rituals - but it requires the use of a special magical item of incredible power.
There are a few thousand magic wands currently on Ukss, but new ones are rare. Historically, they were made only about once per century, by none but the greatest practitioners of the mystic arts. In recent years, the pace has picked up, as scholars come to understand the natural laws that govern magic. Now, the world will see a new wand once every 2-3 years.
It is a misconception among laymen that wands create or power spells. Rather, they act as a bridge between the magician's thoughts and the magical realm. Each wand is attuned to a rather narrow range of elemental and/or spiritual energies and thus is limited to creating spells in line with the wand. A Wand of Fire, for example, can shoot sparks or stoke bonfires, but could not summon frost or heal wounds.
Wands work through a combination of gestures and focused visualization. Some magicians use chants, poems, or keywords as part of their spells, but these are purely aids to concentration. Wand magic does not require such measures.
Most wands are patterned after one of the Great Wands, used by the Creators to make the world. Great wands have a higher ceiling for mastery than their more common imitators, but reaching those heights requires just as much study and learning as mastering a lesser wand. A magician who has not yet reached the limits of their current wand would gain no extra benefit from wielding a Great Wand (aside, perhaps, from prestige).
Ritual magic, by contrast, tends to be broader, subtler, and farther reaching. It can have long-lasting effects and may call upon multiple energy types at once. Each ritual is unique and most require exotic ingredients and elaborate ceremonies to perform. Skill in rituals does not grant one the ability to wield a wand, nor vice versa, but the two disciplines are often taught together for the sake of convenience.
Wild magic is controversial as a category. It is not entirely arbitrary. It describes a real phenomenon - creatures and people of Ukss who have some extraordinary magical ability that they can just do. Wild magic requires neither wand, nor ritual behavior, nor any sort of external aid. To those who possess it, wild magic is as natural as moving their limbs.
The controversy comes from the fact that wild magic is incredibly diverse, and not necessarily innate. Some forms, like the clock magic of the Seekers of the Hour can be studied and learned. Those who come by their wild magic through practice are called adepts, whereas those who are born with their magic are called prodigies, but many dispute that there should be categories at all.
The Tremere have learned to tame the wild magic innate to vampires, making it operate more like wand magic. This renders it vulnerable to the same sorts of detection, warding, and disruption, but since their wands are their own bodies (well, technically, the blood inside their bodies), they tend to have highly personalized and versatile skill sets.
Those who have reason to fear magic (and to be fair, that's most anybody) favor cats as pets. They can see partially into the magical realm and will notice rituals as they are being cast and the tell-tale aura that surrounds an experienced wand magician at all times. Wild magic is hit or miss. Certainly, no cat will tolerate the presence of a vampire, but they tend to be completely indifferent to the presence of gods.
A newer ritual, originally devised in the city-state of Yennin, it is gradually spreading among the elite of every land who can afford its exorbitant price. Using only a thimble-full of blood, or a similar amount of flesh, from a recently-dead body, the Clone ritual can create a perfect duplicate of the donor, complete with all of their knowledge, memories and skills. The clone is the same age as the donor was when they died, but cured of all wounds, magical afflictions and infections (certain diseases, like cancer, carry over, but scholars aren't sure why.)
A secret, known only to the ritual's inventors and a few trusted co-conspirators, is that the Clone ritual works even on the living. The age and memories of the clones are the same as the donor when the sample was taken, and while the cabal has not yet figured out a use for this information, it is working on methods of long-term flesh preservation and spells to transfer the soul from one body to another. In the future, the wealthy of Ukss may need never to die.
The ritual to create a Cloud Chariot is known only to the Wardens of the Sky and they take its protection very seriously. Most of the time, the Wardens travel incognito, hiding among normal travelers, the better to lure out aerial threats, but sometimes, they need to act openly, and when they do, the Cloud Chariot acts as a badge of office. When you see an armed warrior descend from the sky on a fluffy white cloud, wreathed in the golden light of dawn, then you know that you are dealing with a genuine Warden of the Sky.
Widely considered the most elegant of the travel rituals, the caster folds a piece of special silk-threaded paper into an elaborate origami boat. Then, speaking a specially composed poem about their hopes for reaching a particular destination, they place the boat into the water, where it grows to full size. As soon as the caster steps aboard, the Origami Vessel will start sailing itself to the destination named in the poem, traveling day and night at a constant speed and ignoring prevailing wind conditions. When the caster steps off the boat, it disintegrates into a cloud of swirling confetti, announcing to all that a sorcerer of considerable power has arrived.
The Tainted Bargain
There are some on Ukss with an urgent need for power. Not for its own sake, and not for themselves, but to accomplish some goal or defend some principle that will live on long after their death. The boldest and most desperate of those seek out The Tainted Bargain, offering their lives to a creature of the magic realm in exchange for securing a powerful champion for their most cherished ideals.
When the ritual is complete, the summoned creature takes possession of the caster's body. This is a one-way trip. For as long as the body's physical integrity endures, it will belong to the entity. In exchange, the entity is afflicted with a compulsion to work towards whatever goal the caster offered - whether as concrete as "rescue this particular prisoner from captivity" or as abstract as "work towards equality for all". The entity does not gain control until it agrees to these terms, and it has a last opportunity to back out, causing the ritual to fail, but generally having a physical body and acting in the material world is seen as desirable enough that nearly any offer is going to find an interested taker.
More powerful entities tend to be more discerning, but sometimes even they rush into ill-conceived deals that transgress against their morals and preferences. Nonetheless, once the bargain is made, it is iron-clad. For all but the most knowledgeable entities, the death of a body means they die along with it, so there are very few loopholes for a trapped and tormented creature (though the nature of the Bargain itself ensures that those who die while sincerely attempting to fulfill their end will usually be able to return to the Magic World).
The authorities are constantly trying to suppress knowledge of The Tainted Bargain, but the ritual is relatively simple to perform and widespread in the Magic World. Whenever a creature does break through, it usually makes it a priority to spread the knowledge far and wide. Such a service is worth many favors among the spirit courts.
The Clockwork Gods
It all began when the Tainted General, Measured Cube, lost a hand in the Battle of White Shores. The people of Galat were so grateful for his sacrifice that they commissioned the finest prosthetic Lowland science could create. But though Measured Cube was only a minor spirit, barely able to shape the flesh of his vessel, when the surgeons attached the hand, something extraordinary happened - the magic of the prosthetic somehow grafted itself onto his spirit. His very nature was thereafter permanently transformed so that, years later, when he finally lost his mortal body, the clockwork hand somehow followed him back into the Magic World.
The magical engineers of Galat discovered many wonderful and terrible things in the subsequent decades. That the Tainted can survive having 100% of their flesh replaced with steel, lightning, and enchanted crystal. That a divine being that is bound into a human body, grafted onto a piece of industrial machinery, and then . . . released back into the magic world will forever after retain a connection to that same machinery, not just in form, but in function, so that you might take a simple Geometrical and make it into a patron of the autoloom (and protector of the capitalists who own them).
This technology proved to be too recklessly blasphemous even for the Lowlands, and by convention it is reserved for the most desperate of military applications (no empire can consider itself a true naval power if it does not have at least one demon-bound dreadnought chained to its docks . . . just in case).
In the end, though, treaties are just paper and no nation would dare risk being the only one to not have an answer to this technology. Clockwork gods are still being built in secret, for uses both civilian and military. Some of the more foolish nations have even begun using Clockwork Gods to design newer, more powerful Clockwork Gods. These creations are invariably quite powerful, but with additional undocumented functions that human engineers can only barely understand. The paranoid (or perhaps merely sensible) believe that there is a third- or fourth- generation creation these Gods are searching for, a true Machine God that will rework the mortal world the way that humans have transformed the Magic World.
A variant of the Tainted Bargain exists that allows a sorcerer to bind a spirit into an inanimate object. Most spiritual beings find the very idea beneath their dignity, but Gafflings, the Magic World's equivalent of semi-intelligent animals (they're usually about as smart as a clever dog or ape) will jump at the opportunity.
Gafflings do not have especially potent magic, but they are eager to please and take great pride in finely crafted or well-loved vessels. If they are treated well, they come to view the object as a nest or lair, and will diligently see to its maintenance and upkeep. A Gaffling-inhabited sword never rusts or becomes dull. Gaffling clothes will subtly alter their shape to better fit their owner. In time, Gafflings can even learn to master complex technology, allowing for guns that never need reloading or engines that run without fuel.
A Gaffling who inhabits a cherished item for a century or more begins to evolve human-level intelligence. Their innate magic grows apace and a hundred-year-old Gaffling can potentially bring their object to life, protect it from fires, floods or malicious destruction, or make it profoundly more effective than a mundane item (allowing hammers to shatter stone, shoes to walk on water, etc).
Freeing the Primordial Flesh
While exploring the limits of transmutation rituals, scholars at the University of TBD made a stunning discovery - the stones of Ukss were not created as stones, but as something else. Something . . . fleshy.
It is still unclear at this time, whether the earth was transmuted from the massive body of a single being or the mingled bodies of an unimaginable charnel-pile. Different types of stone will revert to different types of . . . meat, but there is no way currently known to determine if these meats come from different donors or from different organs of the same donor or from a once-uniform primordial flesh-stone subjected to aeons of geological alchemy.
What is known is that consuming the flesh produced this way is . . . unwise. It will nourish a body, but it will also change it. It is as yet a mystery what the endpoint of this process might be, as the unfortunates subjected to this experiment have all been mercifully dispatched, but no one who knows of this lore thinks it leads anywhere good.
The more dedicated vampire scholars know the nature of the earth from another source - their ancient apocalyptic prophecies, which predict that an eternal vampire kingdom will thrive when the primordial's flesh reverts and fills the seas with blood.
The Rod of Teeth
Ranking among the most infamous of recently-created wands, the Rod of Teeth is abnormally thick for a wand, almost like a small club or baton. It needs the extra girth because it is studded with human teeth of every type - molars, bicuspids, incisors - young and old, from at least a half-dozen different "donors."
The Rod of Teeth can channel the magic of identity. With it, a magician can steal the traits that make a person unique, removing physical imperfections, stealing memories, erasing names from the skein of history. Once removed, these traits can be bestowed upon others, cast into oblivion, or manifested as half-mad wraiths with a hatred for all life.
The Wand of Dreams
The Great Wands are always a little perilous for mortal magicians to wield. Not because they are cursed or trapped, but because the minds of the Creators moved in spirals. Coming at their powers in a straight line can lead you to places you never meant to go.
It is unclear what the original purpose of the Wand of Dreams may have been. Every magician who has ever wielded it has disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Yet people are still drawn to its power, for many of its wielders created wonders.
The Wand of Dreams connects a magician directly to the portion of the magical world that corresponds to their own subconscious mind, allowing them to manifest illusions that are, to them, completely real. More disturbingly, they may edit real things out of their personal reality. These things still exist, but cannot affect the wielder in any way.
To onlookers, wielders of the Wand of Dreams look half-magic and half-mad. They will undeniably float through the air while claiming to climb a staircase only they can see or touch. They will act completely nonchalant as an enemy's blows harmlessly glance off them. Everything seems to go their way . . . until the day that it doesn't and they disappear into their own solipsistic pseudo-reality.
The Wand of Shelters
This eccentric wand targets and manipulates personal domiciles. It can raise a cottage from the ground, add or subtract rooms from a house, change the facade of a tenement building or otherwise enact any conceivable architectural change. Though it affects everything from shacks to palaces, it works only on places where people actually live. How and why it does this is a frustrating mystery for serious scholars of magic.
Buildings created or altered with the Wand of Shelters can later be repurposed for other functions, but the Wand will not work if the magician does not use it with the sincere intent to create a home. It also won't work if the magician is deceived about the purpose of the building by an employer or other proxy (though it will work if the person telling the magician about the project has themselves been deceived by some other patron, which scholars agree is just plain weird).
The Wand of Shelters can also create, destroy, or alter items within a home, provided they serve a domestic, decorative, or architectural purpose. It can add new gaslights or toilets, clean carpets, place dishes back into a cabinet or even cook a meal. It could move a piano, but it could not tune it. Nor could it do things like stock an alchemical laboratory or repair a bicycle, just because they happened to be in a home.
The Wand of Shelters can harness the massive energies necessary to turn an asteroid into a cylindrical homestead, but it really must be intended as a new home for some intelligent creature.
The Shattered Wand of Love
The Great Wand of Love has abetted many terrible deeds over the years, but in the hands of a wise and gentle wielder, it has also healed wounds and enriched lives. Its final owner was one of the good ones, the magician Poppy, who sought only to allow people to discover themselves through romantic love.
Unfortunately for Poppy, she had enemies. She wouldn't have thought of them as such, but neither did she worry over much about facilitating relationships between humans and yokai, princes and peasants, or young men and their enemies' sons. Eventually, a cabal of sour-hearted schemers took revenge for their thwarted ambitions and ended her life. In the process, they shattered the Wand of Love.
But because Poppy was a caring soul, who held no hatred, even for her murderers, the destruction of a Great Wand did not lead to cataclysm. Instead, her spirit became a bridge between the shards of the Wand, keeping it together metaphysically, even as it scattered. Now, when someone finds a piece of the Wand of Love (an exquisite gem that most are loathe to part with), the threads of destiny stir to ensure that their ideal romantic match finds a neighboring piece. Events will then conspire to bring the two potential lovers together, and when they discover that their gems fit perfectly together, that is usually enough to smooth the introductions. From there, natural chemistry takes care of the rest.
When the Wand of Love finally reassembles itself, Poppy's soul will be released to find its own ultimate reward, but it's likely that some part of her will linger on, and the reborn Wand will be ever-so-slightly harder to wield towards corrupt ends.
The Wand of Goo
Ukss has only recently begun to rigorously study the science of wand creation. In previous centuries, master magicians relied on intuition, the tutelage of the Alfar, or slavish imitation of the Great Wands to guide their craft. The results of such a haphazard process were not always something to be proud of.
The Wand of Goo is probably a failed wand. Certainly, nobody is quite sure what the intent behind its creation was. Scholars of magic regard it as an amusing curiosity, and only the most desperate of magicians would actually deign to use it. It's not . . . dignified.
It has its uses, though. If a magician can cope with its constant stickiness and the unidentifiable fluid that drips from its tip at maddeningly irregular intervals, they will find themselves armed with a potent tool of creation. A skilled wielder can cause the Wand of Goo to spew forth nearly limitless amounts of a greasy, viscous liquid that can be any color of the rainbow and either harden into a rigid polymer or evaporate into a harmless gas. The goo is totally inedible, but also non-toxic and chemically inert. It can put out fires, float items that would sink in ordinary water, and is impassible to ghosts, demons, and other spiritual beings. With sufficient artistry, a patient wielder can even create lifelike sculptures that are nearly indistiguishable from the real thing, at least until they start to stain the carpets with their perspiration.
While cannons remain Ukss' premier weapons technology, the advanced nations of the Lowlands and the more necromantically inclined city-states of the Bay of Blood (as well as anyone willing to pay any of the above a fortune in trade) have access to a more potent weapon of mass destruction.
Skullshot is made by performing certain dark rituals over a human skull and then coating it in lead. Strictly speaking, the coating is not necessary, but the items thus created are called "Spirit Skulls," and they are never fired out of a cannon - the metal merely keeps the skull from disintegrating in the barrel of the gun. Despite its limited purpose, iron or steel must never be used, as they block the magical energies.
When fired, the skull inside the skullshot breaks apart, releasing the murderous specter trapped inside. For a day and a night following its release, the spirit will rampage indiscriminately, slaying any unfortunate enough to fall beneath its claws.
The skullshot specter is not the ghost or embodied soul of the skull's former owner. Rather, it is a spiritual construct made from the lingering energies of the owner's death. Thus skullshot may be made from the remains of almost any person. Only when the skull's owner was truly at peace in the moment of death does this ritual fail.
This glowing, golden liquid is extremely precious . . . and extremely dangerous. It is a catalyst for magic. Nearly any sort magic user, be they magician, adept, or prodigy (but not ritual casters. . . usually) can use Primessence to dramatically boost the power of their spells. And if Primessence were merely a weapon, that alone would justify how tightly it's controlled by the governments of the world.
The most dangerous thing about Primessence, though, is the way it's manufactured. If a small dose of Primessence is injected into a living creature's bloodstream (and it must be a regular creature with a regular circulatory system - the process does not begin until the Primessence is pumped through a beating heart) then the serum initiates a complex alchemical transformation, turning all of the subject's blood into more Primessence.
This is not necessarily fatal, but it is highly upsetting. The victim's blood vessels become visible through their skin as a complex network of light. Any incidental bodily fluids like tears or saliva become luminescent, even if they are not true Primessence themselves. Survivors have described the physical sensation as a mix of cocaine high and being set on fire.
Usually, those injected with Primessence are quickly killed and exsanguinated before their natural magic resistance asserts itself and the Primessence reverts to blood (a process that takes about a day and leaves behind "only" psychological trauma).
Using Primessence safely involves placing small amounts on the palms, eyeballs, tongue, or genitals (depending on the particular magical application) and then immediately casting the spell. It is possible, however, to inject it into your own veins. This is exponentially more "efficient," but it is highly reckless. Each use of magic would burn up a small, but significant portion of your own blood. Magicians have dropped dead after an hour of nearly god-like power.
Most non-magical people who have experienced Primessence poisoning are quickly killed. However in the day or so where they are transformed, they may attempt to use magic. This doesn't really work except in times of extraordinary need (although, if you've been injected with Primessence, it's likely that you're in a pretty bad situation), but assuming that they don't accidentally kill themselves, there's a chance that the magic will stick around, even after the Primessence fades (the cruel calculus here is that the odds of acquiring a new permanent magic talent increases the more a particular effect is used).
The Yokai forest to the south of the Omphalos Coast has been a potent barrier to human expansion, but there are some humans the Yokai fear. These depraved hunters stalk through the woods, running down any physically manifested Yokai they can find. Any unfortunate enough to be caught are skinned alive so that their murderers might steal their visage. It can take several attempts for a form to "stick" (this mainly depends on the precision of the skinning technique and complex astrological factors of which the Skindancers are currently unaware), but once it does, the Skindancer can take that shape for the rest of their life. The most powerful Skindancers can take up to five forms, though it's unclear whether this is a hard cap or just the limits of the cult's current knowledge.
The Skindancing ritual can be used against humans just as well as Yokai (but not against any animal incapable of speech), but so far the cultists have dared not risk the wrath of human law enforcement. As they become more emboldened by success and drunk on the blood of their victims, this may change.
The precursor technology to the Dream Twister, these magically enchanted beds are potent tools of torture and indoctrination, but they also have some benign and even therapeutic uses. When a subject sleeps in a Sleepteacher, they have unusually vivid and memorable dreams. If there is no sorcerer-technician operating the Sleepteacher's controls, these dreams are semi-lucid, but otherwise normal. However with the proper rituals, an overseer may use the Sleepteacher to cause the subject to dream whatever they desire.
Ostensibly, the main use of these devices is rapid education, allowing a dreamer to cram a month's worth of training into a single night. Unofficially, governments often keep several Sleepteachers in the blackest of their black sites, for purposes best left unspoken.
The alchemists of Sheyaugh are among the best at what they do. They have managed to distill the essence of fear into a rather pleasant fragrance they call Clout perfume. Used primarily by high government officials who wish to awe their subordinates and petitioners, it is also sometimes issued to spies and diplomats.
The beauty of Clout is that it's almost impossible to pinpoint its effects. Those who smell the wearer feel a vague trepidation and paranoia, but they almost never connect it to the scent. All they really know is that there is one person in the room who seems really intimidating.
Clout. Your friends will worship you. Your enemies will stay the hell out of your way. Clout. The only terror is how fierce you'll look.
The Magic World
Magic in Ukss functions by connecting the magic wielder with a nearby shadow-realm, known to scholars as the Magic World. The rules of the magic world are not well understood. It seems to have its own forms of space, time, and matter . . . except when it doesn't. The thoughts of creatures in the realm of matter appear to affect the landscape there . . . except when they don't. It is impossible for a mortal creature to enter the magic world and survive . . . except for those that have.
It is a world without near and far. Whose landmarks are ideas and whose inhabitants are gods. It is also a source of raw energy, enough to crack mountains or hurl a traveler to the moon. Most magicians come to accept it as a mystery, but the scholars of Ukss have vowed to try and tame it.
In the magic world, the term "Alfar" does not describe a race so much as a particular set of material circumstances. There are demon-Alfar and god-Alfar and strange-things-which-have-no-human-name-Alfar. To earn the title, one must pass through a sacred gate and take a human-like form. They range in power from minor magicians to lesser gods, though unlike the Tainted, they are tied to the specific place or time that allowed them to cross over. They can only exist in places of unusual magic - ancient groves and barrow hills, seasides and salt flats, or among seasonal storms like hurricanes, blizzards, and siroccos. Being inherently ageless, they can stay in the material world for as long as their gateway endures - sometimes just a few hours, but potentially thousands of years.
Alfar are known for their incredible skill in magic. Technically, they are Prodigies of unusual versatility and power, but their way of using magic is very similar to that of wand magicians. So much so, in fact, that many wand wielders will seek out an Alfar to mentor them in the art. If the wand is sufficiently in tune with the Alfar's normal magical themes, the Alfar can master it almost instantly (the Alfar describe it as "writing poetry in a foreign language"). It is rare for an Alfar to gain new powers by wielding a magic wand, but those that do figure prominently in human legends.
The Alfar sometimes honor their best students with Alfar-crafted wands. They are invariably quite powerful, but also extremely idiosyncratic.
Most Alfar will bear strong marks of the gate they passed through to enter Ukss. This shapes their appearance, their powers, and even their attitudes. Some spirits are drawn to particular gates and will always become the same sort of Alfar every time they visit the material world. A few, especially those who are worshipped as gods, will enter through multiple gates depending on their needs, whims, or circumstances, adopting and dropping Alfar personas like masks for their central mystery.
Typically, spirits will compromise, like Jack of the Green, the fertility god who passes through century oaks, crop circles, mushroom rings, and other living gates, but never through anything that is at odds with his plant nature. He expresses different powers in each of his forms, but retains largely the same personality and goals.
The Dark Alfar have an unsavory reputation among humankind, but they are not really "evil" so much as "spooky." They cross into Ukss during the witching hour or, more rarely, during certain portentous astrological conjunctions. They are invisible in darkness and in starlight or moonlight. The touch of the sun will instantly send them back to the magic world in a puff of black smoke, but is otherwise harmless (and does not prevent them from crossing back when the time is again right).
Under artificial light, the Alfar have skin as black as the space between the stars. Hair ranges through a variety of colors, from moon-silver to aurora-green to rich purples and blues that evoke the complex palette of night.
Dark Alfar best love lonely and misunderstood things. They have a special affinity with spiders and even the intelligent predators of Gloomshire will let them pass unmolested. Their favorite season is winter, when the trees no longer hide the sky. They are especially drawn to abused and neglected children. They will whisper in the young ones' ears, inspiring them to act out, run away, or get revenge. If an abuser is strong and well-respected, or otherwise tries to punish the Dark Alfar's charge, they will lure them into the wilderness, never to be seen again.
The Dark Alfar consider themselves friends to humanity, but their ways of expressing it often bring terror and confusion. Wherever they take up residence, sleepers will begin to have vivid nightmares (that bring personal enlightenment or foretell an avoidable disaster), long-buried secrets will bubble to the surface, long-suppressed desires will find sudden and spontaneous expression, and orphans, outcasts, and hermits will receive forbidden tutelage in the arts of witchcraft.
These peculiar Alfar cross through the mystic gate that forms when a meticulously planned venture fails spectacularly due to some unforeseeable quirk of chance. They endure until an investigator discovers the particular factor that opened their gate and solves the mystery of the disaster. Some Dust Alfar are hundreds of years old, the circumstances of their arrival lost to history.
Dust Alfar are drawn to magic that manipulates probability and fate, especially if it's used to cheat at games of chance. They seem to disapprove of the use of this magic in general, though they rarely express this disapproval with anything more than a stern scolding. For truly severe cases, or when they need to defend themselves, they have potent magic that can cause any inanimate object to crumble to dust (or even curse others to destroy everything they touch) or age a living creature in the blink of an eye, but they've never been seen to use these abilities frivolously.
They are generally serious, conscientious people with a strong faith in the natural order. They get their name from the cloud of dust and grime that surrounds them at all times. It's unclear, even to the Dust Alfar themselves, whether the dust is attracted to them or whether they subconsciously create it with their powers, but it embarrasses them greatly and offends their orderly sensibilities. The eldest of them believe that their aura exists to keep them humble and focused on correcting the fault that allowed them to enter the world.
While magicians and adepts are renowned for wandering from one crisis to another, and prodigies for stumbling carelessly into dangerous situations, sorcerers are notorious for staying in one place. This is not entirely a stereotype, nor is it merely a practical consideration for those whose magic relies on having access to specific materials and tools. Skilled ritualists have a way of shaping a location to their desires. It's a slow process, usually taking decades (or even generations), and is largely subconscious, but as a sorcerer becomes acclimated to a particular location, their magic becomes easier.
It is never wise to take ritual magic for granted, but inside a dedicated Sanctum, it becomes more forgiving of minor mistakes, more accepting of substitute ingredients, and more likely to quickly take root and endure for far longer than it otherwise might. Casting times become faster (though still nothing compared to the ease of a wand) and the sorcerer's spiritual and mental energies regenerate faster.
Scholars say that a sorcerer's Sanctum is a place where the border between Ukss and the magic world is especially thin. Because it is adapted to their specific energies, a Sanctum will never harm the one one created it, but the most powerful ones can have an effect on nearby plants and animals similar (though usually much less potent) to exposure to the stellar medium. They also have a way of attracting immaterial yokai like ghosts and demons.
A Sanctum is in many ways similar to an Alfar's sacred gate, but its connection to the powerful mind of the sorcerer prevents it from being used in that way . . . while the sorcerer still lives. Wards and contingency spells are highly advised.
It is not generally possible for one sorcerer to use another's Sanctum, not unless the two possess very similar styles and attitudes. That said, the more powerful Sanctums are those that have been passed down from master to apprentice throughout the centuries. Over time, these places of power become broader and deeper, allowing their owners to work miracles with barely any effort at all.
Places where the Magic World touches Ukss are usually the product of design. A sorcerer will wear the borders of reality thin in order to create a Sanctum. A would-be Alfar will widen the cracks in the weave of possibility to open a new sacred gate. And places like this, while possessing some of the wildness of the Magic World, are nonetheless as controlled and as safe as anything magical can be.
Sometimes, though, a connection between the worlds will not be nearly so tame. Maybe the sorcerer loses their will while retaining their power. Maybe something too big or too ancient attempts to traverse the Alfar gate. Maybe the unpredictable energies of the magic world will create a connection with no intelligent intervention whatsoever. In times like these, there is a danger that a portion of the Magic World will prolapse into the physical, creating a Labyrinth - a place neither entirely spiritual nor entirely physical, where the two worlds can mingle much more thoroughly, and posing a terrible risk to both body and soul.
Labyrinths aren't purely a hazard, however. There is power in them, strange wild magics that a determined seeker might learn, were they to navigate to the Labyrinth's heart. Even for those who would abandon the quest before the end, there are often magical treasures, occult insights, and breathtaking vistas that might prove tempting even in the face of the unique and terrible beasts that often take up residence.
The Lonesome Train
Everyone on Ukss hears its call sooner or later. The Lonesome Train. The train that comes for you when it's your time to die. Some have returned from the Station of the Lonesome Train, pulled back to life from the very brink of death, usually through powerful magic. They report an abandoned train station, shrouded in mist, with no audible sound but the distant whistle of their oncoming passage.
No one has ever encountered another soul in the Station of the Lonesome Train, but its anyone's guess whether that holds true for the train itself. No one who has boarded it has ever returned.
The Great Mother
She is the source of all life, the primordial principle that drives all growth and reproduction. She is transformation and there is a mystery at the heart of her. She hungers.
The Great Mother takes the form of an undifferentiated orb of flesh. Her surface ripples as eyes, mouths, and . . . other organs emerge and recede in endless seething tides of adaptation. Size is more or less meaningless in the Magic World, but she grows. Anyone who sees her understands. She is always growing.
The Great Mother requires fathers for her numberless children, but she does not mate in any conventional sense. She consumes. She devours. Anything that touches her skin is enveloped, trapped in a cyst of flesh as it's slowly taken apart to fertilize new hybrids and stranger creations still.
It is said that the Great Mother cannot create life energy on her own, but that her divine magic can make optimal use of any she absorbs. Perhaps as many as two births for every cell in the donor's body, though sometimes she births new gods, made from the interwoven power of a thousand lives.
One need not be male to father a child on the Great Mother. Sometimes sorcerers will call an extrusion of her power into the material world, so that women may donate to her a strand of hair or a drop of blood. The children born this way have a hint of the monstrous about them, but many have created great things from the ashes of their enemies.
The Great Mother is the tutelary deity of Yennin. It is from her that they learned the art of flesh-weaving, and their great champions can all trace their lineage back to her.
The Weaver and her Astral Web
The intelligent spiders of Ukss have stories of the goddess who bestowed upon them the power of speech. They call her The Weaver and say that she has become so set in her ways that she can no longer leave her lair, and thus she spins an elaborate web of refined soul-stuff in order to bring the world to her.
The Weaver is not well-respected among spiders. She is cunning, yes, but she lacks the killing instinct that is what spiders value most about themselves. As their proverb has it, "Prey disturbs the web," and for the Weaver, that is unacceptable. Her Astral Web touches nearly every mind on Ukss, but only lightly. It cannot catch anything as powerful and as willful as a conscious thought, but it does snare dreams and nightmares, ideas that have never been realized, and knowledge stripped of all context.
It is possible, through a specially prepared ritual chamber, covered in the thin, spindly runes of The Weaver's first script, to contact the Astral Web. The sorcerer enters a fugue state and their senses depart their body, attaching themselves to a fine network of threads that rests directly on the border between Ukss and the Magic World. From there, they may travel to any other active ritual chamber or query the Web itself for information about nearly anything (it is good at answering factual questions like "how many people live in Laconia" but terribly confusing when it comes to speculative judgements like "would Laconia beat Sheyaugh in a war?")
Sorcerers may also place their thoughts directly onto the Web, allowing any who ask to hear whatever it is they have to say, even centuries later. Some particularly skilled and malicious travelers may even encode infectious spells into their thought-forms, delayed-action traps which can harm, distract, or even control less savvy visitors.
With the right knowledge, sorcerers can bind dream-stuff into the pattern of their ritual chambers, creating entire fantasy worlds for those who visit them through the Astral Web. These thought-palaces often seem like paradise, but they are no more substantial than any other dream. Some become obsessed with them nonetheless and seek to shut out the real world in its entirety, but these unfortunates are regarded with pity and disdain.
Telepaths can learn to perceive the Astral Web without the need for a chamber, but it is a delicate and difficult discipline that only really works in heavily populated cities. In the wilderness, the Web is too thinly spread for anything less than a dedicated ritual working to contact. The Astral Web does not reach into the Cosmic Sphere at all. Many of the more paranoid Homesteaders have moved there for exactly that reason.
This dark art gives all explorers of the Astral Web a bad name. The more staid sorcerers get incredibly defensive when it is brought up. They say that the threat is overblown and that there is at most one Dream Hacker for every hundred honest travelers.
That may well be true, but it mostly just means that the average person's defenses are woefully inadequate.
Normally, the flow of information on the Astral Web always goes in one direction - towards the insatiably curious spider goddess with no particular interest in any specific human being. Without the deliberate effort of a sorcerer, any particular fact or dream fragment is nearly-anonymous, stripped of all but the vaguest of identifying details.
Dream Hackers, however, are experts at collecting these fragments and painstakingly reassembling them. With enough effort, they can assemble a profile of nearly any person connected to the Astral Web (i.e. everyone who does not live in total isolation or the cosmic sphere).
If this were all they did, it would be bad enough. Dream hackers can learn any number of shocking or embarrassing secrets from their studies. But that's not all they can do. Hidden in a person's thought fragments is the key to their dreams. With such keys, they can visit a sleeping mind exactly as if it were an active connection chamber. While they are powerless against anyone who is awake and conscious, inside dreams there is almost no limit to what they can do. Many people, both innocent and guilty, have been driven mad for offending the wrong dream hacker.
Sorcerers who explore the Astral Web are usually safe from most dangers. Their senses may travel to distant places and exotic dreamworlds, but their bodies are safely ensconced in their meditation chambers. But sometimes things happen - enemies sneak in and assassinate them while they're prone, they become so enraptured that they lose track of time and starve, they are struck by rare and potent curses capable of traveling through the Web itself.
The Astral Web trembles when it is touched by death. It is the one mystery the Weaver can never understand. As the Lonesome Train rolls across the threads of the Web, they begin stretch under the weight and mutate into strange and terrible forms. Some part of the deceased remains behind, creating a sub-realm born of the chaos of their terminal thoughts. Often, these places are nightmares of illogic and grief and pain. But sometimes, when someone dies amidst clarity of purpose, the realm they leave behind is full of miracles.
Regardless of the results, the Weaver strives to isolate these sections of Corrupted Web. Her senses cannot access them, and she fears that ideas filtered through these realms will poison her mind and lead her to lose touch with reality. Unfortunately for her, it is in the nature of the Web that nothing can ever be separated from it entirely. Explorers trade rumors of obscure paths that lead to the more wondrous realms . . . and warn each other of the grim fates that await those who enter the wrong one.
Melin Daguz - The Goddess of Upset Victories
There are few warrior gods more feared in the Magic World than Melin Daguz. She does not have the strongest arm, nor the sharpest blade, nor the keenest sense of tactics and strategy. Nonetheless, she wins, on average, half the time.
That is because it's her nature to even the odds. When she fights, circumstances twist to the advantage of the weaker side. Stronger opponents find their weapons breaking, the weather turning against them, or the ground crumbling beneath their feet. Weaker ones find unexpected reinforcements or a windfall of intelligence. These quirks of fate are never decisive. They're just enough to make it fair.
When her power moves across a battlefield, the conflict inevitably changes to one of desire and will. Those who win are the ones who want it more. Because of this, she has gained an unsought-for repuation as a champion of justice and the oppressed. The victims of empire call out to her for deliverance, and while her gifts are never certain, it is rare that those who seek to keep others in chains will fight harder than those who want to escape them.
The Black Cow That Will Devour The World
The Vampires' apocalypse story is not the only tale told about the end of the world. In the Magic World there is a Black Cow that feeds on the sparks of potential that may become souls. It is a hole cut in the fabric of the universe and every day the ground grows barren under its hooves. Mostly, the Black Cow wanders without direction, roaming wherever the soul harvest is richest. If it finds Ukss, it will be entirely by chance, but scholars debate how far in the future that's likely to be. If the cosmos is not infinite, then it is only a matter of time.
Neither god nor demon, the Epoch Spirits don't have much of an agenda. They simply . . . watch. Watch and remember. Not all of history, though, or at least not all at once. Epoch Spirits come in waves. In the build-up to great events, they gather in the border regions. When the event concludes, they pass away into slumber, to make room for the next wave.
Epoch Spirits imprint strongly on the times and places they observe, and become a sort of icon (or, less generously, stereotype) of a particular era of history. Wake one from slumber and it is not merely a great source of historical knowledge, it is like a living embodiment of the hopes, fears, obsessions, and fashions of an age gone by. There is a lot to learn from Epoch spirits, but it is dangerously easy to become deceived by the past's justifications for itself.
Blank Epoch Spirits are passive, vague, and dull. Even under sorcerous duress, they seem barely capable of even noticing the acts of an individual person. They are mainly worth observing for their habit of migrating towards places that will be significant in the future.
The Well of Souls
No one is quite sure about the purpose of the Well of Souls (presumably, the gods know, but they're not telling). It could be the origin of human life, but what would it add to the numberless new souls that spawn in the Magic World's vast infinities? Some believe it is the male counterpart to the Great Mother, just an endless font of life energy that fertilizes the world even as she gives it birth.
Whatever the reason for its existence, it is undeniable that the Well of Souls is a source of great power. Sorcerers can use it to give life to bodies of clockwork or clay. Gods may use it to shape the seeds of entire worlds. Demons covet it for the infinite life it promises. All have abused it for their purposes at one point or another, but most have been undone by their hubris sooner rather than later. The souls that come from the Well are the potential of life incarnate, and whatever shape they are given, it is their nature to struggle against control.
The Cosmic Sphere
Though air travel on Ukss is increasingly common, there is a realm above the sky that has barely been explored. Actually ascending into the Cosmic Sphere is not especially difficult. Any form of magical flight that does not rely on air resistance will eventually lift its user beyond the reaches of Ukss' atmosphere. The real difficulties come when the traveler is exposed to the Stellar Medium. Not only is the Stellar Medium airless, it is full of raw magical energy, capable of roasting an unshielded traveler alive or grotesquely mutating one whose wards are only against the heat.
Pure elements will block the worst effects of the Stellar Medium, though most dedicated cosmic explorers prefer to sheathe themselves in elemental air, so that their shelter will also let them breathe.
The rituals to maintain a sufficiently strong elemental pocket are delicate and fickle. They require constant monitoring to maintain their potency. The ritualists who specialize in this work must also be powerful warriors, for there are monsters capable of surviving the Stellar Medium who like to preface their attacks by sabotaging their victims' protection.
One of the key challenges to exploring the Cosmic Sphere is the vast distances involved. Ordinary magic can take months or years to fly an explorer between even the nearest celestial bodies. Tessers are gigantic fauna native to the Stellar Medium with the power to slip in and out of the magic world at will, allowing them to traverse truly mind-boggling distances in the blink of an eye.
Tessers resemble a mix between a squid and a mollusk. They have thousands of wire-thin tentacles that can stretch for miles outside their soft, squishy bodies. These tentacles harvest energy directly from the Stellar Medium and convert it into power for the Tesser's massive brain. It's debatable how intelligent a Tesser truly is. Most psychics who have bonded with one say that they have the intelligence and demeanor of a small puppy, but those who have worked with them for extended periods often come to believe that they think deep thoughts on a scale too slow for humans to register.
Tessers will burrow into asteroids, using them as protective shells for decades or centuries until they grow too large and are forced to seek out new homes. Their teleportation abilities are more than strong enough to carry millions of tons of rock and metal with them over celestial distances. This is a fact that has not gone unnoticed among Cosmic explorers. Coaxing tessers into adopting star ships as their temporary shells (given their slow growth, a large enough ship could last a century or more) and then telepathically binding them to magical navigation thrones is the main way to build a vessel capable of traversing the Cosmic Sphere.
The Dagger Moon
Looking like nothing so much as a slate-grey arrowhead, the Dagger Moon is among the most accessible of Ukss' celestial bodies. It is a mere 19km across, but orbits so low that it looms as large as the more distant Luna.
Magicians who have visited the Dagger Moon report that it is, incredibly enough, a massive spacefaring vessel, put into orbit a long time ago, by visitors from far, far away. Deciphering its inscriptions, they have determined that the aliens called it a "Superior Star Destroyer," which seems consistent with the thousands of cannons they've found scattered about its surface.
No one has yet figured out a way to enter the interior of the vessel and explorers of the Cosmic Sphere will move rapidly to stop anyone who is appearing to try. Those who know of the Dagger Moon's true nature have nightmares that some reckless or ambitious scavengers will wake it from its quiescence and unleash destruction on a scale Ukss has never seen.
The Celestial Embassy
The greatest spirits of the Magic World, the gods, demon princes, and other primordial powers, have difficulty communicating directly with Ukss. It would be beneath their dignity to enter the Tainted Bargain or pass through a gate to become Alfar, but dreams and omens are too imprecise and too subject to interpretation.
It is for this reason that they created the Celestial Embassy atop the Ascension Tower. This vast, kilometer-tall dome takes advantage of the thinness of the border between the magic world and the Cosmic Sphere to allow greater spirits to project shadows of themselves into the human world (the massive scale of the audience chamber is to accommodate the often surprising bulk of such shadows).
Though technically, only the audience chamber is the true Celestial Embassy, the term has expanded to include the small city that has grown up on the "bottom" (Ukss-ward side) of the dome. Populated by the lesser spiritual entities who may project their entire being through the Stellar Medium, it exists to serve the gods by sorting petitions, judging their worth, and performing the rituals to call the gods to answer the worthiest requests. It is considered neutral ground in the factional conflicts of the magic world and is one of the few places where gods and demons may be found side-by-side without open warfare.
Closest to the diamond cable are the Four Direction Palaces, the only buildings in the Celestial Embassy capable of descending down to Ukss. They are the temporary home of any humans, goblins, and non-spiritual yokai who might be visiting the Embassy. By tradition, three of the Palaces remain at the Embassy, while the fourth lies on the surface of Ukss. In ancient times, when congress between humans and the gods was more common, each of the Palaces was specialized to hear a certain category of petitions, but now, the custom exists mainly to discourage too much mortal traffic at any one time.
Because the Celestial Embassy exists at a stable point over Ukss' surface, it is a major navigational hazard for would-be explorers of the Cosmic Sphere. The god-forged material of the cable and dome are impervious to any normal collision, but that is scant comfort to the sorcerers who can't move quickly enough to avoid getting splattered along their sides.
There are locations in the Cosmic Sphere that attract miniature worlds. These tiny planetoids range from a few hundred meters to dozens of kilometers across. Most are empty and unexplored, but there are hundreds which have attracted settlement from Ukss, Luna, and stranger places still.
These settlements are small villages, on average, housing two or three dozen families. However some homesteads are the isolated estates of powerful individuals, and a few are magnificent cities, every bit the equal to anything on the other celestial bodies.
Each homestead requires its own technique to protect its residents from the Stellar Medium. The easiest and most common is to hollow out the asteroid and live in air-filled caverns in the interior. The thick elemental earth serves to act as an effective shield. More sophisticated constructions will smelt the iron out of the rock and spin it into a cylinder that is often several times the length and diameter of the original world. Obscure rituals will create a gravitational pull towards the exterior of the homestead, allowing settlers to build farms, towns, and temples on its interior walls. The most extravagant homesteads eschew the inherent protection of metal and stone and build on the world's surface, relying on thrice-fold runes of binding to capture an envelope of elemental air that leaves the settlement open to the majesty of the cosmic sphere.
The culture of the Homesteads values privacy above all else. It is the one value they have in common. Most will come to the aid of a neighbor, in the event that they have a life-threatening emergency, but any issue less critical will rarely rouse their attention. Almost without exception, people homestead the cosmic sphere because they seek to do things they can't do on Ukss - like perform strange or forbidden experiments or create new societies that follow a full expression of their ideology or simply hide from hide from their enemies in a place impossible to sneak up on.
One social tradition common to the Homesteads, for the rare occasions when they wish to socialize with their neighbors, is formalized martial arts. Every asteroid has its own signature martial arts style, and it is a common ritual of greeting for guests to challenge their hosts to a friendly sparring match. Every couple of years or so (the calendar has little meaning in the Cosmic Sphere), one of the larger Homesteads will host a grand tournament. Competitors and spectators will travel as much as a month through the interplanetary void to attend. Though for most it is no more than a sport or a means of cultural expression, there are enough genuine masters to make it a spectacle worth seeing.
Every asteroid homestead was created with powerful magic, but it's not necessarily the case that anyone who calls the Cosmic Sphere home is a potent magician. Many Prodigies are born from exposure to the stellar medium, but even communities where the populace is innately magical may wind up performing their maintenance rituals by rote, without true understanding (when they even remember it all - a few have forgotten entirely that their ancestors have ever called Ukss home).
Thirty years ago, Ukss reckoning, the magician Clarin grew disgusted with terrestrial society. He came to the conclusion that the problem with life on Ukss, the reason it had so much war and poverty, was that most people were not blessed with his abundant natural gifts. If only everyone were as intelligent, dispassionate, and magically talented as himself, surely they would work together to create a paradise.
Clarin Station is his attempt to attempt to make that vision a reality. Using specially-built chambers he bought from Yennin, he is able to incubate clones of himself in batches of 50. These artificial wombs predate the Clone ritual, so each "generation" of Clarin-clones are merely infants with his genes, rather than full-fledged physical and mental duplicates, but to Clarin's thinking, this is the superior way. Of course a society made of nothing but himself would flourish, but the point of the experiment is that his powers, distributed evenly among the people, would allow them to thrive even without his specific brilliance.
After raising the first generation himself, Clarin turned the station over to them, to administer how they see fit. Clarin occasionally stops by, to both check in and to rest in the only place in the universe he feels truly at home, but by and large the clones have become accustomed to independence. There are only a half-dozen wands on the station, meaning that the bulk of their natural aptitude for magic has gone to waste, but seeing as how they are more than sufficient to maintain the population's material needs, most of the clones content themselves with exploring science or the arts.
The station as a whole is approximately 500 acres on the interior of a cylinder. It houses fewer than 200 clones, half of which are under 15 years old. Most live in a brick and ivy manor house near the entrance chamber, but a few of the older clones have cottages out in "the country" It is magically cultivated to have a temperate, pastoral atmosphere, with rolling woods-covered hills and small streams that flow in an eternal loop. The clones themselves have an air of the aristocratic natural philosopher. They lack their father's single-minded megalomania, but their upbringing and environment has deeply instilled the idea that they are the universe's most blessed form of life.
Clarin Station practices Hundred-Fist Style martial arts, which emphasizes rapid punches from unexpected directions, and synergizes extremely well with their natural inclination towards teamwork.
A full celestial body in its own right, Luna possesses a thin, but breathable atmosphere and enough warmth to support sparse native life. Because Luna has less protection from the Stellar Medium, the surface is subject to strange energies that spawn bizarre and powerful Prodigies.
Disembodied eyeballs, the size of ripe pumpkins float through the air, skimming off the psychic energies of the life down below. Sentient Lunar Kelp uses its innate telekinesis to lift its foliage into the air. Contrary to popular belief, it is not carnivorous, but it will brutally attack any animal that threatens its shallow system of roots. Other, stranger creatures live in the crags and crevices of the seemingly barren Lunar landscape, the only thing they have in common that they cannot survive in the lesser ambient magic of Ukss itself.
The self-appointed "Gateway to Luna," Victory Station is the largest and most cosmopolitan homestead within easy reach of Ukss itself. A massive construct of wood and glass, it resembles a small city built within a giant train station. It is roughly cylindrical in shape and open at both ends to allow space vessels to dock in the massive shipyards that take up the middle third of the station, but unlike a true cylindrical homestead, gravity pulls in only one direction, towards the local "ground." Victory Station is protected from the Stellar Medium by an envelope of elemental air that extends for more than a hundred meters past its exterior walls.
Victory Station is run by the consortium of Sorcerers who built it. Despite the immensely profitable trade and industry that comes with this control (more than half of all space vessels currently in service were built here), no one dares challenge them. Every day this improbable place stays in operation is an extravagant display of the level of magic that would be turned against any usurpers.
The people of Victory Station have a very stiff and formal style of boxing that draws derision from outsiders . . . until they're on the receiving end of a sledgehammer-force punch.
The Lunar College of Prophets
Located in the balmy equatorial regions of the Sea of TBD, The College of Prophets is an organization that seeks to gather all true seers under its umbrella, so that they might use their powers for the advancement of all humanity. The College accepts anyone who can magically foresee the future, regardless of whether they Prodigies, Adepts, or Magicians. Even Yokai are welcome to join, provided they are of good will and honest intentions (in fact, College doctrine declares that Yokai must be included in their definition of humanity so long as they are not inherently and irredeemably creatures of malice - and even then there's always hope).
The College helps prospective seers hone their talents, though many find their tutelage frustrating and vague. There is no formal hierarchy and no official teachers or students. Rather, everyone is both. As they are fond of saying, "you never leave the school, the universe is our classroom." This ethos of equality and humility is fostered in the College's members to try and keep them from setting themselves up as humanity's rulers. Many of the more devoted students will renounce all material wealth and national citizenship and come to live at the College full time.
Those who seek out the Prophets' help often find themselves stymied by their seeming lack of urgency and indirect way of addressing requests. Yet the College exists precisely to turn vague prophecies into real benefits for humanity, and they are experts on tugging lightly at the strings of destiny.
The only thing that really seems to rile up the notoriously imperturbable prophets is when they learn of a true seer who abuses the gift of prophecy to exploit or manipulate the unsighted. Rumor has it that the College maintains an elite squad of psychic assassins to deal with such troublemakers, though, of course, if such a group exists, no one has ever been able to find evidence of its existence.
The College is a largely pacifist organization, but they do practice Crane Style martial arts as a form of meditation.
The Cult of Ecstasy
Though they operate primarily on Ukss, the Cult of Ecstasy began as an offshoot of the Lunar College of Prophets. These renegade seers believe the College's project is not only doomed to failure, but also that it must inevitably infringe on humanity's free will. As a result, they seek chaos in all things, hoping to muddy the chains of cause and effect so much that the future becomes impossible to see.
The leaders of the College take no direct action against the Cult, saying only that "they are on their own path." The younger seers are not quite so sanguine, however. Though both organizations are avowedly non-violent, there exists something of a cold war between the two groups. The Cult is constantly trying to monkey-wrench the College as a matter of principle, and occasionally groups of young College hotheads will visit Ukss against the advice of their elders to return the favor.
The Cult uses a variety of methods (such as sex, drugs, and loud music) to overwhelm the physical sense and achieve spiritual clarity. They use the insights of their prophecies to find nexus points in destiny and then work to complicate these situations as much as possible (without violating their own oaths to respect the sanctity of human freedom).
The Cult of Ecstasy practices drunken fist style martial arts.
The Living Island
There is a small island almost perfectly centered in the middle of the Sea of TBD, at Luna's warmest, wettest point. Unlike most of the moon's surface, life thrives here, even if the magic has made it . . . strange.
Though there are many animals on The Living Island, none are predators and none are prey. They eat only fruit, and never living bark, leaves, or seeds. Similarly, the Island is lush with blue-tinted foliage, but the broad-leafed trees do not compete for sunlight. On the rare occasions when one drops a seed, it will be picked up by a bird and gently deposited on a bare spot of ground. Animals will come from all over the island to fertilize it with their leavings, not one daring to disturb its germination.
Everything on The Living Island acts with the same singular purpose. They are all connected, joined by psychic bonds carried through the magic-rich air of the Lunar surface. Explorers who've studied the island have so far been unable to locate its controlling mind. Some say it's in the plants, others in the animals, a few even say it's in the rock itself. The best guess is that it's all of the above, a collective mind, acting in perfect concert, to create a paradise for its constituent organisms.
The growth of The Living Island is limited by the boundaries of the sea. Its trees will not take root on the mainland, and any animal removed from it will sicken and die before it reaches the nearest shore. In all likelihood, they have adapted to require the Island's psychic energies as part of their normal metabolism. Moving a significant portion of the Island all in one trip might suffice to create an offspring colony, but freed of its geographic limitations, it would probably overwhelm any world it was transplanted to.
The Living Island is hostile to most visitors, though a few Lunar seafarers know a ritual that will trick the Island into thinking the caster is part of its collective. This ritual is completely safe to use . . . unless you are a rare psychic prodigy who has not yet mastered the art of mental shielding. Then the ritual will serve to open your mind to the collective in truth.
This distant gas giant is visible as a pale, yellowish-white dot in Ukss' southern hemisphere. Even with powerful travel rituals an explorer without a tesser will take at least a decade to reach it. Up close, it is a very pleasant lemon-cream color, with bands of clouds ranging from pure white to tan.
The depths of Aetheria are as hellishly wind-swept as you'd expect any gas giant to be, but in the upper layer of the atmosphere, at roughly the same altitude as its fluffy white clouds (give or take a few thousand meters), there are hundreds of magically floating continents. Born aloft by some inherent magic in the stone, they are perfectly suitable for human life. The temperature ranges from crisp to toasty, though it can get positively frigid in the higher altitude continents. Presumably, they also get sweltering down in the lower altitudes, but for some reason, any continent that sinks below a certain level can no longer maintain its lift and inevitably crashes into Aetheria's core.
Air pressure and gravity are roughly the same on the continents as they are on Ukss' sea level. There is a persistent stiff breeze almost anywhere that is not sheltered from the East, and these winds can sometimes elevate into dangerous gales, but strangely, extreme weather events like tornadoes and hurricanes are rarer than they are on Ukss.
Between the continents float pastel-colored sky whales. These gentle creatures sing haunting, tuneless songs and migrate in huge, multi-year circuits around the planet. Many cultures consider them sacred, but just as many exploit them for a variety of economic purposes - hunting them from primitive airplanes or strapping howdahs to them to use them as transports or vehicles of war. Though the sky whales posess no instinct for aggression, they can very effectively defend themselves by diving deep into Aetheria's atmosphere, to regions too hot and windy for humans to endure.
The sky whales graze on massive beanstalks that somehow take root in Aetheria's clouds and extend their stalks downward. Along well-travelled grazing routes, these stalks will be at most a few dozen meters long, but in places where the sky whales have been hunted to extinction, the beanstalks grow to a length of several kilometers. Some nations have taken to cultivating them deliberately, to serve as a bridge between continents at different altitudes.
Human civilization thrives on Aetheria, though there are deep cultural divisions between the two major "waves" of human settlement. The more recent arrivals descend from a colony established by the Republic of Mu about 100 years ago that was cut off from Ukss-side control during the height of the Prism Wars. They are stereotypically high-tech and imperious.
The "native" Aetherians are descended from various ancient expeditions and the wide range of human magicians who have visited the planet over the millennia. They are too culturally diverse to classify, but by and large they do not have the technology to resist the newcomers.
Aetheria has a dizzying variety of native flora and fauna. Between the various continents, it has almost 100 times the land area of Ukss and strange creatures have evolved in lands never before seen by human eyes.
A dangerous, but lucrative industry on Aetheria is cloud-mining. Traditionally, this is done by using tree-trunk thick ropes to lower huge baskets containing up to 30 workers from the floating continents to the alchemically rich yellow cloud layer. Needless to say, casualties on these trips are massive. In recent years, the Mu-descended peoples have taken to using increasingly-large airplanes. These are scarcely more reliable, but their mechanical harvesting tanks allow a much greater yield per worker.
The gasses harvested from Aetheria have a variety of magical and industrial uses. The most valuable is called by locals "The Seven Year Condensate," because while it has the miraculous ability to extend life, it is so dangerous to acquire that they say the workers lose seven years of life for every one gained by the user.
As the Prism Wars ravaged the Republic of Mu, the Mu colony on Aetheria came to see itself as the standard-bearer for the Republic's culture. When contact was lost, the colonists assumed the worst. After a brief, but bloody civil war, the sorcerer Stasia Grendle declared herself Empress of Mu Reborn. She was immediately assassinated.
The war continued for another five years until a young girl emerged, potent in the ways of sorcery. She claimed she was the reincarnation of Stasia Grendle, reborn with all of her knowledge and power. She became known as The Phoenix Empress and united the factions to become Aetheria' dominant power.
The people of Mu Reborn adore their Empress, seeing her as an exemplar of the glory of old Mu. That would likely all chage if they discovered that she was not who she claimed. She is, in truth, an ancient witch. She has lived on Aetheria for more than a thousand years, moving from life to life. Her power of rebirth stems from a long study of the properties of Aetheria's more esoteric gasses. The Mu Colony attracted her attention with their industrial-scale cloud mining operation and she arranged to be born into a member of the prominent Grendle family. The assassination was a minor inconvenience, but ultimately proved beneficial as the populace serves the Phoenix Empress with a devotion they'd never have shown Stasia.
Mu Reborn is governed from the fortress at Mount Dominance. A towering edifice of grey stone, it sports more than 500 cannons whose firing arcs extend all the way to edge of the continent. It is widely considered unassailable.
The Crystal Cities
The first human explorers to reach Aetheria discovered these curious, yet elegant homesteads already in orbit around the mighty gas giant. They could only speculate who built them, as the original architects had long vanished.
Since then, the Crystal Cities have become home to a thriving culture of squatters, pirates, and magicians. Some will trade with the gas miners on Aetheria, acting as transshipment ports for alchemical substances of great value throughout the Cosmic Sphere. Others are devoted to pure research, with scholars trying to learn as much as possible about their alien builders. Most, however, are havens for the stranded. People who lack the means to return to Ukss, but for whatever reason cannot or will not dare the descent to Aetheria's floating continents.
There are 12 known Crystal Cities, ranging in size from 1km to 15km and housing populations as high as 3 million souls. Thanks to the magic of their ancient creators, they are self-sustaining. There are no wards or seals that any human magic can identify, but the air remains fresh, the waste-water pools into purifying reservoirs, and there are long galleries near their exteriors where the crystal is clear enough to act as a greenhouse.
The Crystal Cities all exhibit 3-dimensional symmetry and are so uniform in their layout that most humans find them difficult to navigate. Colored paints and cloths are prized imports, both from Aetheria and Ukss itself. Not only do they allow for the marking of passages, they help offset the near-blinding luster of the walls, ceiling, and floors. The scientific outposts preserve the original white color, but even they mark passages with color-coded ropes and flags.
He Who Shudders in Outermost Night
The thin reality of the Stellar Medium allows gods to manifest physically, yet outside the Celestial Embassy, few do so. That's because the darkness between the stars contains things even the gods have learned to fear.
He Who Shudders in Outermost Night does not venture from the magic world, but he will send tendrils of his power across the barrier, sometimes to harrass an isolated spacegoing vessel, sometimes to act as a bridge for his various servants, spawn, and parasites. Encounters with these living nightmares are rare, but they are the horror stories invariably shared by explorers whenever too much alcohol has been flowing and the claustrophobia of the hungry darkness begins to feel a little too close.