Realms of Oriund (Round 1)

Industrial Technocracy of Arcaster

Like a new-born beast of iron, smoke, and steam, the Industrial Technocracy of Arcaster is a hungry realm, full of promise, but fraught with peril. Forged by intellect and industry, Arcaster began as a colony of Vinceri, but became its own master. Chasing reports of unclaimed lands and riches, intrepid explorers and entrepreneurs from the City of Masters settled the southern shores of the Floodplains. Though initial interactions between the newcomers and natives were amiable, relations eventually soured as the settlers encroached on sacred lands and began exploiting the region's natural resources. As tensions turned to outright hostilities, the conflict climaxed when the colonists killed one of Wenua's archfey -an act which enveloped their fledgling settlements and surrounding lands in a field of dead magic. Cut off from their homeland, these settlers embraced the might of coal-belching machines and cunning, clock-work devices. Since that time, Arcaster's cities have filled with soot-covered factories, ravenous furnaces, and fume-spewing smokestacks. Cannon-decked clippers sail the open seas while steamboats run the mighty riverways, their iron-clad hulls heavy with coin-worthy cargo. Though some maintain the time-tested traditions of swordplay and archery, Arcaster's soldiers are better known -and feared- for their arquebuses, pistols, and muskets. Garnering even greater fame and infamy, however, are the Technocracy's gear-spinning constructs and automata. Guarding the secrets of such incredible creations as well as Arcaster's citizenry as a whole, a council of engineers and experts rule the Industrial Technocracy with capable, if coldly-calculating, skill. Known as the Iron Lords, these technocrats are assisted by a bureaucracy of apprentices and locally-elected burgomasters. Delegating much of their duties to these groups, the Iron Lords are free to focus on their private inventions and research. Fueling such experiments as well as the rest of Arcaster's bustling economy, miners, loggers, and excavators scour the countryside for coal, copper, and other precious commodities. Trying to curb this insatiable appetite for raw materials, Wenua's natives fight against Arcaster's confounding technology with nothing but primitive bows, spears, and slings. In this battle between savagery and science, the worst conflict centers around the exceedingly rare mineral known as Esperite. Called Godstone by the natives who consider it sacred, Esperite is highly coveted by the Iron Lords, as the fluorescent substance powers much of the country's greatest inventions and spell-barren infrastructure. Also interested in this amazing mineral as well as the rest of Arcaster's artifice, more than one Vincerci citizens seeks to reclaim the 'lost colony'. And as other nations hear of the science-wrought wonders of the Industrial Technocracy of Arcaster, only time will tell whether its innovations will ensure its independence -or spell its doom.

Empyreal Prelatries of Arelon

In a world beset by sin, the Empyreal Prelatries of Arelon shine as bastions of virtue. Founded upon Heaven's precepts, the Empyreal Prelatries are sustained by the devotion of their people and the wisdom of their ruling priests. Born in the wake of the Drala’s deaths, Arelon grew from a fledgling faith into a mighty theocracy whose power is felt throughout the World of Broken Dreams. Humble missionaries and proud crusaders win hearts, lands, and wealth, expanding the Prelatries' borders and enriching its altars. Overseeing such conquests is the nation's holy pontiff, the Papess of Arelon. Ruling by virtue of revelation and righteousness, the Papess tends to her flock with the selfless love of a watchful matriarch. Inside Arelon’s alabaster capital, the silver-haired prophetess reigns from the hallowed Throne of Transfiguration. There, illuminated by the holy light of Mount Sion, the beloved pontiff is assisted by a vast hierarchy of zealous servants. Beyond the forty-nine vicars who serve as the papess' eyes, ears, and mouth, a conclave of prelates govern Arelon's provinces as both secular and spiritual authorities. Collectively known as the Synod, the seven prelates skillfully govern Arelon’s laity as well as its subordinate clergy of bishops, deacons, curates, and lesser acolytes. Working with the lord-prelates, but ultimately reporting to the papess, are the Golden Lions of Empyrea. Twelve paladins of legendary power and piety, the Golden Lions are the generals of Arelon’s renowned military. Guided by these holy warriors, the Shinning Legions defend Arelon's templed cities and gilded fields. Marching to distant lands, they bring battle to any who blaspheme Heaven's name. Nevertheless, the cost of such crusades is mounting. Enemies and rivals are beginning to unite against the threat of Heaven's ‘tyranny’. Merchants from Vinceri seek to stymie Arelon's advance with godless creeds, coveted commodities, and coin-bought mercenaries. Necromantic plagues spill from Ras-Morthu as its undead lords try to outright destroy the holy realm. Scelerian diabolists dream of crushing the Prelatries' domes and dominating its penitent citizens. Meanwhile, Sha’al's overlords attempt to subvert Arelon's defenses, defile its consecrated churches, and corrupt its allies with shadowy promises. Surrounded by such evils, Heaven cries out to its champions. Sworn oaths and sacred duty rouse old and young alike from warm, soft beds. Answering the call, they don gleaming armor, unsheathe polished blades, and ride out with banners snapping smartly behind them. Angels, both sculpted and living, stand vigil over the land. Greatest of Arelon's guardians, however, are its fabled saints. Having already sealed their testimonies with their blood, these risen-martyrs mysteriously appear during Arelon’s times of greatest need, working mighty miracles, bestowing visions, and calling wayward souls to repentance. Dark may be the night which threatens Oriund, but the Empyreal Prelatries of Arelon shine as a beacon of hope, promising by prayer and steel that salvation is at hand.

Windswept Steppes of Kurzakhan

Across the Windswept Steppes of Kurzakhan, arid plains stretch beneath an unbroken sky. Rising from the northern coastlands and rushing down the spire-like mountains to the south, tempestuous winds race across the land. Violently wavering between bare whispers to roaring gales, Kurzukhan's winds are home to wild-hearted elementals, zephyrs, djinn, and demons. From ice-wracked winters to sun-parched summers, the Windswept Steppes are a land of harsh extremes. Drawn to this untamed land, and somehow managing to weather it, are the horse-nomads known as the Kurzakh. With white-hot fire in their bellies and the wind at their backs, the Kurzakh are masters of both man and beast. To the horselords, their dominion is as far as their beloved mounts carry them, and their home is the blanket of stars under which they sleep. Infamous for raiding the settled lands of Roslev and beyond, the Kurzakh are akin to the storms of their homeland: swift, sudden, and sure to leave destruction in their wake. Yet, despite their reputation as heartless bandits driven only by wanton bloodlust and greed, the black-haired nomads are not without culture or civilization. Among their clans, honor and freedom are prized as surely as their matchless steeds. Elaborate blood-ties bind the restless, roaming villages of wool and timber tents, as does reverence for the endless sky. Breathing life into ancient traditions, shamans perform mystic rituals, tea-reading divinations, and sacrifices of milk and sapphire-hued silk at sacred cairns. Despite these superstitions and shared-belief-system, the Kurzakh are generally a divided, scattered people. Nevertheless, legends speak of leaders who occasionally succeed in uniting the fractious clans. While such khans and their massive warbands are rare occurrences, their shadow looms over the western nations as surely as a winter hurricane. Even the giants of mountainous Gorjna lock their gates during these times, having painfully learned that the horselords' hordes are not to be trifled with. Yet, like the mighty gales of the Windswept Steppes of Kurzakhan, the fury of the hordes inevitably gives way to the calm breeze of peace, till once again the horselords' spirits are roused by the call of wealth and war.

Eternal Icelands of Navuk

In the Eternal Icelands of Navuk, nature remains pristine, timeless, and ever-dangerous. Colliding icebergs, ravenous winter winds, and unrelenting blizzards are but a few of the many perils Navuk's inhabitants must endure. Imprisoned within the towering peaks of the Icespines, the Great Basin of Navuk is a trackless tundra where permafrost and polar seas are sheathed in grinding ice. Time creeps at a glacial pace in the Icelands, where the seasons seem perpetually frozen in winter, save for the slightest thawing of spring along the northern borders. It is a land of midnight suns, where sundogs mark nightless summer skies, and winter's dark horizons are set afire by hypnotic auroras and otherworldly spirits. Inside this frigid realm forgotten by the rest of the world, rare patches of lichen, moss, and snow-clad sedges feed the caribou, musk ox, hares, and other grazers that claim Navuk as their home. Such creatures are in turn hunted by the region's polar bears, winter wolves, and remorhaz. Warring over these resources, as well as the rich wealth of walrus, seal, and whale that swim beneath the ice, white and silver wyrms vie for dominance even as they stave off the incursions of Gorjna's frost giants. Meanwhile, ancient ice linnorms ally with cold-hearted fey, intent on keeping their hoarded secrets and gems. Treading the deadly line between so many predators and prey, the native humens of Navuk live a nomadic life, following their food in their never-ending struggle against starvation. Known as the Nanuit, these polar nomads live in loosely-affiliated tribes bound together by mask-wearing shamans and a common belief in animism. While several of these tribes, such as the Kalaaluit and the Koryak occasionally trade with the natives of Tavastia and Roslev, the Nanuit stay far away from the fierce warriors of Valhan and Kurzakhan. Yet, even more feared are the denizens of the Quaramuq, the Frozen Wound. A massive scar in the northwest portion of Navuk, the Frozen Wound is a colossal chasm in the ice. Riddled with treacherous tunnels and caves, the Quaramuq hisses and moans with malice born by more than the bone-biting wind. Monsters and madness lurk within its depths, from the cannibals of the Saqqaq tribe to the demented derro who endlessly delve for terrors best left locked in the ice. Avoiding the insanity and horror of the Frozen Wound, the majority of the land's inhabitants keeps to themselves, all-too aware that the greatest danger in the Eternal Icelandsof Navuk is nature itself.

Imperial Principalities of Roslev

Like diamonds drawn from dark cradles of stone, the Imperial Principalities of Roslev burn with fires both bewitching and bitter-cold. Confined by the Icespines, the Imperial Principalities awkwardly crowd the lands between Kurzakhan's steppes and Tavastia's sheltered lakes. To the north, Roslev sinks into the sea, its shores as thin and tattered as winter-worn sails. There, blizzard-blown brine and rime-touched rivers continually carve away the fraying coastline. From sea to icy summits, winter cloaks the land, covering both cities and countryside beneath thick blankets of snow. Smothered under this bone-white shroud, autumn's fires awaken as spring seedlings in a world flooded with melting snow and cold, clinging mud. Surviving off summer's fleeting bounty, Roslev's inhabitants stubbornly fend off the ever-present threat of famine and starvation. Slaves to such merciless seasons, sly-tongued ravens, ill-tempered elk, and iron-brushed bears fill Roslev's boreal forests and frozen badlands. Likewise inside the trackless taiga and tundra, majestic firebirds, fox-like unicorns, and shape-changing veela hide from malevolent dragons, massive worgs, and other monsters. Hardened by the harsh elements, hungry predators, and hordes from Gorjna and Kurzakhan, Roslev's humens are a severe and suspicious people. Yet, to kin, comrades, and strangers who thaw their otherwise-frozen hearts, the natives can be surprisingly warm and selfless to a fault. Sadly, the majority of Roslev's inhabitants endure lives of luckless hardship, where honest labor, loyalty, and hope are rarely rewarded. Nevertheless, the local sapiens, dwarves, and kin toil away their lives inside glittering cities of stone, timber, and steel. Palaces and temples gild the skylines with golden, tear-shaped domes and tented roofs. Along the coasts, urban tradesmen transform frigid lumber into fleets of fishing, trade, and whale-hunting ships. Miners brave lightless, lithic realms in search of bloodstones, silver, and other precious minerals. Luxurious furs provide not only warmth but wealth for the famed trappers and furriers of the Imperial Principalities. Managing -or manipulating- these activities are Roslev's noble-born bureaucrats, the boyars. Varying in loyalty, power, and ambition, these aristocrats range from almost-peers to mere puppets of Roslev's princes -princes who in turn war over the coveted title of tsar. Outside the cities, countless serfs tend to their masters' sprawling manors, scattered settlements, and fields of barley, wheat, and chamomile. Meanwhile, ghosts and grey-bearded domovoi haunt the rural homesteads, acting as gentle guardians or unseen terrors. Placating -or sometimes inciting- these spirits, witches and wizened crones lead midnight sabbats and summon beings from the netherworld. Warlocks and werewolves stalk the countryside, preying upon unsuspecting travelers and villagers alike. Within Roslev's ubiquitous bogs, lakes, and rivers, green-skinned vodyanoi and water-slick rusalka cheat and charm passersby of their possessions, with the lucky ones only losing their purses. Beset by such dangers and more, Roslev's citizens increasingly forsake their old faiths, abandoning their time-worn traditions for priests and philosophies both virtuous and vain. Yet, for all their peril, the Imperial Principalities of Roslev shine like gemstones in the night -their gleam attracting the gaze of both man and monster.

Infernal Imperium of Scelerus

Hell's yoke hangs heavy upon the Infernal Imperium of Scelerus. Blood stains its history, damnation its destiny. Since its brutal beginnings, Scelerus has endured countless wars, assassinations, and uprisings. Wrought by such violence, the nation has withstood numerous incarnations, ranging from fledgling city-states to feudal empires. Yet, with each shift in power, Scelerus' servitude to Perdition has only increased. As the shackles of Hell tighten, hearts abandon hope, convinced that enslavement is inescapable -or for those beyond Scelerus' borders, inevitable. Such fears have only grown in the wake of the most recent revolution. Overthrowing the previous plutocracy, Scelerus' current ruler, Imperator Caderus Thrax, reshaped the country into a military dictatorship worthy of dread, if not devotion. Once a Golden Lion of Arelon, Caderus distinguished himself as an unparalleled general during Haziran's crusades and Ma'arath's war with the Abyss. Tragically, Caderus' fame darkened as the paladin forsook Heaven's embrace for the wanton arms of Hell. While his apostasy stunned many within Arelon and beyond, his deeds as Imperator have shaken all of Oriund -for when Caderus marches to war, victory is as sure as a devil's pact. Armed with the unwavering support of Scelerus' legions, the emperor rules the Imperium without remorse or rival. Appointed by the legendary tyrant, a host of procurators, consuls, and local prefects govern the provinces, collecting tribute and enforcing order. Unsleeping lictors and heartless inquisitors guard Scelerus' basilicas and brimstone-carved palaces. Diabolists offer sacrifices of gold, flesh, and souls while fanatical priests watch their flocks for the faintest sign of heresy or sedition. Overseeing these orders and their zealous clergy is the Infernus Sacrorum, a council of nine pontiffs. Serving at the emperor's pleasure, each pontifex, or Dark Apostle, is sworn to a distinct Lord of Perdition, a fact that causes considerable contention among their ranks. Manipulating much of this intrigue to her own gain is Pontifex Cassia, the Dark Apostle of Nessus. Adding to the arch-priests’ machinations, deposed plutarchs and disinherited nobles conspire, seeking past thrones and future riches. Beneath them, the common citizens toil, paying lip service to Perdition even as they curse their fates. Nevertheless, Scelerus' countless slaves and crucifix-lined roads remind plebeians and patricians alike that their lots could always worsen. Aqueducts and other architectural masterpieces allow the cajoled citizenry to live in wicked pleasure, if not peace. Massive baths, brothels, and bloody amphitheaters testify to Scelerian prosperity, carnality, and decadence. At the heart of this unholy empire lies Horax, the City of Nine Circles. Built atop an ancient caldera, the Imperium's capitol is cut into nine descending tiers surrounding a lake of fire. While the entire city glows with the magma's hellish light, the lower levels' lead-paved streets and bronze towers smolder and hiss with unbearable heat, creating a climate where only devils and their descendants can safely dwell. From this haven of smoke and scalding steel, Horax' leaders guide the Imperium as it increases Perdition’s ledger of damned souls. For in the Infernal Imperium of Scelerus, Hell rules with an iron fist, its grip ever-tightening on the World of Broken Dreams.

Grand Duchies of Tavastia

Set between the snow-swept Icespines and wave-tossed Sea of White Stallions, the Grand Duchies of Tavastia are ruled by water -and the blood of those who claim it. Rivers, both frozen and fast-flowing, continually carve the face of this cold, yet captivating land. Ghosts of ancient glaciers manifest as gigantic gorges, sheer-cut canyons, and ubiquitous lakes. With winter's passing, the mountains shed their snowy cloaks, flooding Tavastia's thundering falls, low river-valleys, and peat-laden bogs. Filling these icy waterways, rainbow-hued trout and rapid-leaping salmon nourish cave bears, white-furred worgs, and giant eagles. Supplementing the diet of such voracious predators -or challenging them for their prey, ghostly lynx, giant owls, and gluttonous wolverines dine on marten, vole, and geese. Sheltering these beasts as well as devious hags, reclusive elves, and winsome fey are boreal forests of incredible beauty and age. Inside the taiga, lance-like pines, candle spruces, and silvery birch burst from blankets of blueberry shrubs and carpets of chest-high toadstools. Outside the lumber-rich woodlands, lingonberries, heather, lichens, and crowberries give color and life to Tavastia's southern tundra. Seeking to master this rugged wilderness and its rich resources, the citizens of the Grand Duchies are a calm, but confident, lot. Industrious, if still savoring a good sauna and well-told tale, the village-dwelling sapiens, dwarves, half-elves, and kin labor as lumberjacks, fishermen, miners, farmers, and reindeer-drovers. Within the walled cities and their cobbled streets, brightly-colored buildings, and massive castles, a middle-class of craftsmen and merchants skillfully improve the nation's reputation and riches. Reaping the largest share of such fortunes is the local nobility. Venerable and fledgling bloodlines rule the various fiefdoms as knights, barons, and counts. Receiving the fealty and tribute of these lesser lords, the most powerful, established houses govern the Grand Duchies of Savonia, Ostrov, and Varm. Chosen and crowned by the Grand Dukes is the Prince of Tavastia. While some princes have wielded exceptional authority and power, the monarch's sovereignty is far from absolute -a tradition reinforced by the suspicious deaths of upstart princes. Managing this delicate balance of power -as well as protecting the citizenry against foreign and monstrous attacks- are the Royal Magistrates of Tavastia. Also known as the Spelgaard, the Magistrates are an elite order of mages invested with the authority of judge, jury, and as necessary, executioner. Despite the infamy such power begets, the Spelgaard -and their leader, the High Spelgaard and Royal Mage- are generally fair and just, a fact that does much to explain Tavastia's relative peace and prosperity. Sadly, wealth often invites war -and over the years, the Grand Duchies have seen much battle and bloodshed. Beyond curbing Roslev's ambitions and the occasional flight of white dragons, Tavastia greatest threat comes from Gorjna and its host of giants. Goaded by humen treasure and the loss of their once-great empire, Gorjna's Jarls brood, knowing that Tavastia was once theirs -and could be again, if they united their bickering tribes. Likewise reminded of these facts by the ancient and more recent ruins that riddle the Grand Duchies of Tavastia, the locals look to the twilight-crowned mountains with a combination of dread and icy resolve, knowing that it is only a matter of when, not if, the next incursion comes.

Wild Runelands of Valhan

Fierce hearts roam the Wild Runelands of Valhan. Reaching from Wenua's fey-touched woods to Navuk's frozen wastelands, the Runelands are vast as they are varied. On its western edge, where land rushes heedlessly into tumultuous sea, mighty fjords and ship-rending skerries mark Valhan's glacier and gale-hewn shores. Held by towering mountains to the east and south, icy tundra and rime-blasted taiga give way to rolling fields and falling foothills. To the north, the landscape melts into mist-wreathed moors, starlit lochs, and trackless bogs. Across the countryside, spring weeps without restraint, rousing summer and its fields of blushing heather and emerald clover. With the passing of autumn's golden pyre, winter returns to Valhan with a vengeance, ravaging the land with its icy claws. Reveling in the unforgiving beauty of such climes, mythical creatures, both fair and foul, claim the country as their own. Within the Runelands' rocky shoals, shape-shifting selkie hide from sahuagin and man-eating sharks. Huldra, glaistig, and other fey haunt the thistled woods and verdant glens, beguiling mortals with beauty and sorcery. Sprites steal from dim-witted ogres while ravenous trolls scout the countryside for cattle, sheep, and unlucky shepherds. Atop the cloud-swathed summits, wise and benevolent giants war against cruel linnorms and their loveless kin. Across the wild frontier, ancient monoliths and towering menhirs give testament to the antiquity of these conflicts and the civilizations they have destroyed. Living among such battling behemoths and their rune-scribed ruins, the humens of Valhan seek to leave their own mark upon the land. Dwarves, both goodly and grey, delve beneath the soil, searching for gold and gems. From such precious finds, the stout folk fashion works of timeless glory and undying greed. Equally inspiring envy and awe, elves defend their moonlit forests, revealing themselves and their secrets of mithril and magic to a fortunate few. Learning from such races, or outright raiding their treasures, are Valhan's sapiens. Ruled by kings, the local clans are known for their fearsome tempers and untamed spirits. Slaking their thirst for battle and blood, the barbaric southerners war amongst themselves, the wilds, and the herd-rich settlements to the north. Heeding the banshee-like wail of warpipes and horns, armies clash across the Runelands, filling the fens and moorlands with the sound of clashing blades and the bodies of the fallen. In the wake of such wars, cairns litter the land. Wights and wergild beckon from dark barrows, while shieldmaidens serve their lords as death-dealing valkyries. Within the meadhalls of jarls and thanes, skalds sing kennings and epic tales both false and true. Druids gather in dolmens as norn-touched seers spin prophecy like golden flax. Overshadowing each of these forces, however, are the Mists of Valhan. Mysterious as they are magical, the fabled fogbanks drift across the Runelands, appearing and disappearing without reason or warning. In their wake, settlements are swallowed whole or spit out transformed, heroes return from the grave, and monsters emerge like nightmares given flesh. Fed by such legends, the Wild Runelands of Valhan beckon the bold, goading some to greatness while driving others to their doom.

Vinceri, City of Masters

Endless wonders fill Vinceri, City of Masters. From its cloud-touched towers, Vinceri overlooks the World of Broken Dreams with an all-appraising eye. Grudgingly accounted as Oriund's most powerful nation, the massive city-state considers itself the pinnacle of civilization. Here, brilliant craftsmen blend spell and science, pushing their arts ever closer to perfection. Genius and madness goad men like ghostly muses, driving minds to despair and discovery alike. Alchemists unravel the elements while astronomers cull secrets from the stars. Steam and sorcery create gear-toothed docks, clockwork carriages, and magnetic lifts. Menageries breed beasts whose bizarre bloodlines shame even chimera. Exotic gardens and intricate water-wheels adorn piazza and city-spanning portals. Drawn to such spectacles and splendors, visitors pour into the City of Masters. Sheikhs from Nar-Qadam haggle with sailors from Roslev over flying carpets, narwhal horns, and phoenix-feathers. Slavers incite bidding wars between Scelerian diabolists and Kheptic architects. Arnfolk barter for Athican wine, Valhan mead, and Shengu sake. Even more fantastic are the ghosts promising crowns for flesh, genies granting immortality for eternal servitude, and night hags trading dreams for dying breaths. While most of these foreigners return home with tale-laden tongues, many remain, ensnared by the kaleidoscope of sights and sounds. Vying for the hearts and purses of the eclectic mob, guilds and nation-spanning consortia rival kings in wealth, power, and arrogance. Academies and apprenticeships beckon the brightest minds like moths to flame. Within stained-glass halls and granite laboratories, these institutions splay life, death. and other mysteries on their tables, exhuming enlightenment from ignorance. Though all faiths are tolerated in the City of Masters, knowledge, money, and might are Vinceri's only gods. Similarly, no monarch or noble rules here, nor do bloodlines matter a whit. Instead, only the most capable, creative, and committed rise to the top. Fortune, however, is fickle, as riches return to rags all-too easily in Vinceri's ever-changing economy. Nevertheless, ambitious citizens continue climbing the ladder of coins, eager to join the city's elite. Chief among this vaunted echelon are the Signoria, the city's ruling body. Elected by the local guildmasters, the Signoria, also known as the Council of Five, protect their nation's prosperity, guided by the invisible hand of Vinceri's true master -Aemmoral the Principle, Oriund's greatest archmage, past and present. Under such august, if generally unseen, direction, the Signoria defend the city and its markets with a host of mercenaries, constructs, and the largely disenfranchised Chanticleers. Once the city's elite guardians, the cockerel-plumed Chanticleers currently act as foppish stewards of culture and customs, their old role taken over by the living constructs called Corazza. Forged with brass, gears, and piping, but imbued with intelligence, if not souls, the Corazza have become citizens of their city in every sense, serving not only as steel-skinned soldiers, but also as resilient workers unconcerned by thirst, hunger, and fatigue. Carrying these unique natives -as well as the rest of Vinceri's countless commodities- to distant lands, galleys, caravans, and incredible airships traverse land, sea, and sky, bringing ever-increasing fortune and fame to their homeland. Despite these profits and prestige, poverty abounds in Vinceri's bowels. Beneath the glittering markets and opulent mansions, massive factories clang and clatter with the labor of the indigent. Slinking off to their shanties below, Vinceri's unskilled and unlucky dwell amid dross, living off the scraps of the rich and powerful. Underground, furnaces roar with ringing hammers and smelting ore. Giant forges belch smoke, steam, and ash above, while poisonous waste seeps into the Slagpits below. There, in the forgotten belly of the city, the refuse of an entire nation gathers. Unseen by the world above, outcasts sift through the junk, turning discarded treasures into makeshift shelter, sustenance, and strange devices. Meanwhile, beasts both magical and mechanical live, hunt, and breed among the titanic trash-heaps. Turning a blind eye to such dangers, Vinceri, City of Masters, gazes upon the World of Broken Dreams with unabashed greed and pride, confident that its coffers -and wonders- will continue to overflow.

Verdant Floodplains of Wenua

Across the Verdant Floodplains of Wenua, nature wars against the insatiable demands of civilization. Once a vast wilderness untouched by selfish hands, Wenua was a fertile paradise whose life-giving bounty was only rivaled by its breath-taking beauty. During this timeless age, the Verdant Floodplains was home and haven to Ursug, goddess of swamps and sloth. Uninterested in the petty squabbling of her siblings, Ursug allowed the land to develop as nature desired, content to wallow in the plentiful mires and marshes of the Floodplains. In the absence of divine domination, Wenua fell under the sway of Oriund's all-but-unseen archfey. Guiding the endless roll of seasons from their otherworldly realms beyond the World of Broken Dreams, these paragons of nature transformed the region into an unbroken land where the susurrus of ever-shifting tides mingled with the rustling of arboreal giants and seas of swaying rushes. Flora and fauna filled the Verdant Floodplains; the never-ending cycle of predator and prey, life and death, continually monitored by Annwn's unsleeping eye. Dwelling in harmony with this delicate balance, the first humens of Wenua were primitive hunter-gatherers, subsisting on nature's bounty without overtaxing her generosity. Spurned as simple-minded savages by the rest of the world, the shamans of these aboriginal tribes of sapiens, elves, and kin were nevertheless wise in the ways of communicating with and placating Wenua's protective, if fickle, fey. Leaving little to no footprint upon the land, these societies and nature spirits coexisted in peace for uncounted centuries. However, this verdant reverie was irrevocably shattered with the arrival of settlers from Scelerus and Vinceri. Inspired by imperial decree and infernal ambitions, the first wave of Scelerians would sweep across the northern grasslands, devastating entire habitats and the helpless creatures that called them home. Unprepared for this plague of diabolical conquerors, the fey of the northern Floodplains were slaughtered while the local tribes were enslaved and forced to toil beneath the lash of infernal taskmasters. Scelerus' expansion eventually checked by Wenua's enraged survivors, the borders between the two populaces remain perennially painted in blood. To the south, further turmoil came with the appearance of colonists from Vinceri -turmoil that continues as the resource-hungry citizens of Arcaster encroach on native lands. Defending their home against such incursions and more, the native tribes, treants, and enraged fey of the Floodplains strike back with sorcery, seduction, and swarms of owlbears, griffons, and other fearsome beasts. By such measures and more, the Verdant Floodplains of Wenua remind the world that, while its purity and peace may be lost, its power remains.