By Magister Calvret of Valyssia, in the 3rd Year of High Regent Altheira’s Rule
That isle-bound kingdom, linked by a fetid swamp-bridge to our continent, commands the seas with unmatched fleets. Cezoran admirals prize independence and brook no rivals, yet their merchants hunger for conquest in Tzintava and Oranyth. Their envy of Doroskan riches and their suspicion of Valyssian ambition ensure they are never long without quarrel.
What words may suffice for the blighted scar? Once fair and fertile, now blasted by calamity. Its foul mists creep into Skjoldar’s fjords and taint our western marches. Few dwell there but exiles, mad cults, and carrion lords. All nations agree it is a wound — yet some whisper of hidden powers to be seized within.
North beyond the ice seas lies Skjoldar, land of fjords and hardy clans. Their shield-walls are as strong as their ships are swift. While they trade — and raid — with Cezorus, they sell their swords to Valyssia when coffers run dry. Their resentment toward the creeping Desolation is deep and bitter.
Our own realm, heart of the continent, cradle of learning and war alike. We are beset by the Desolation’s encroachments, yet stand resolute. Kastovia covets our primacy, Doroska entangles us in its endless commerce, and Cezorus eyes our shores. Yet still, Valyssia remains the pillar upon which civilization rests.
A nation not of fields or mountains, but of endless city-states bound in guild-law. Kastovia’s spires rise in smoke and stone, its streets teem with coin and corruption. They see themselves as our rivals in culture and law, though their strength lies in bureaucracy and trade. They hire Cezoran captains and Skjoldaran raiders when diplomacy fails.
The crossroads of the world. Every caravan, every ship, every ledger runs through Doroska. Their oligarchs are merchants cloaked as princes. They play Cezorus and Kastovia against each other, grow fat upon Sundaraal’s wealth, and now cast covetous glances toward the jungles of Tzintava.
A land of choking jungle, gilded temples, and beasts as ancient as time. Its native lords still rule within, yet face the endless grasp of foreign sails. Cezorus and Doroska send expeditions to plunder gold and relics; yet whispers say Tzintava forges an alliance with Sundaraal to resist such exploitation.
Across fertile rivers and monsoon coasts thrives Sundaraal, kingdom of dynasties and philosophers. Their scholars chart the stars, their temples rise above jeweled waters. They are the great trading partner of Doroska, yet their spiritual reach touches Oranyth itself. With Tzintava, they may form a bulwark against the foreign hunger of fleets.
In the far mountains, veiled by storm and stone, lies Kharados. Few know its true ways, for its people shun contact with outsiders. Old rites endure there, and some whisper of bloodlines that reach back to the dawn. Their silence is unnerving, their watchfulness troubling.
Amid endless sands, Neferkara endures. Its great river cradles its people, its kings raise monuments to the gods, its armies march at the will of pharaohs divine. Though trade flows with Doroska and Sundaraal, Neferkara wars with Oranyth along its southern marches, their conflict as old as stone.
No map may hold Oranyth steady. Its lands shift, its ruins float, its magic seethes. Adventurers, zealots, and exiles flock there, lured by promise of treasure or death. Neferkara clashes upon its borders, while Sundaraal’s mystics find kinship with its wild spirituality. To most, Oranyth is both danger and opportunity made flesh.