Vessos

Land of Endless Heat, Endless Trade, and Unrelenting Shadows

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  A land of searing light and stranger faiths, Vessos lies far to the West—a continent carved from stone, salt, and fire. It is an ancient and enigmatic place, host to esoteric customs, shifting political pacts, and whispers of gods who still walk among men. While smaller in size than Kalladonia, it has been spared the full wrath of the terrors that plague the world of Acarus. The reason is debated—divine providence, arcane insulation, or something darker.   Most agree it is because the Shaitan never sleeps.   The Sun, it is said, favors Vessos—though few would call its attention a blessing. Blasted by heat disproportionate to the rest of the world, Vessos endures punishing climate cycles where days stretch endlessly and nights blink by like candleflame—followed by seasons where this polarity reverses. The result is an unnatural rhythm that has twisted the very shape of the land: salt plains that cut the sky with blinding white, glass dunes sharpened by wind, badlands choked by petrified roots, and rainforests thick with steam and ancient rot.   Though a sizable portion of Vessos is barren, its southern reaches—the bamboo floodplains of Xhao—yield great bounty. It is here that most of Vessos' food is grown. Towering jungles soaked in humid rainfall support vast farms that export exotic crops to the rest of the continent—and even, when fortune smiles, across the sea to Kalladonia and Jotunfir. The farmers of Xhao are the lifeline of the continent, though many live in spiritual or political exile from the aristocrats of the northern cities.  

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Survival Against the Dark Tide

  Vessos was the second continent to feel the breath of the calamity. Long after the monsters clawed their way up the shores of Kalladonia, the Vessese believed they had been spared—protected by their distance, their traditions, their God. But protection proved temporary.   The horrors came.   Unlike the unified waves of darkness in the east, Vessos suffers from fractured incursions. Monstrous forces bleed through the deserts and coasts in patchwork patterns, testing the resolve of each city-state, Imamdom, or Free Emirate on its own terms. The horrors are fewer in number—but they are cunning. They move not like beasts, but like generals.   None embody this better than the Basilisk of Kashiran.   A creature of vast intellect and unknowable power, the Basilisk is said to rule from within a Ziggurat of Polished Glass that rises from the eastern dunes like a cursed monolith. It speaks no words, but commands legions of Chimerae—ghastly, stitched-together amalgams of man and beast, prisoners and livestock. These aberrations pour from the ziggurat in irregular raids, striking far-flung corners of the continent in waves of silent, surgical terror.   Reports from Zagraza to Xhao speak of disappearing caravans, black-sailed sandships, and screaming wind that cuts the tongue from the throat. Some say the Basilisk is not merely a beast—but a prophet of ruin, one who glimpsed the Weave beyond the veil and returned changed.  

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The Heat That Binds

  Despite these threats, Vessos remains—pragmatic, thriving, and proud. Its people, seasoned by centuries of harsh sun and harsher truths, do not yield easily. Their strength is not born of walls or battalions, but of tradition, transaction, and spiritual clarity.   Here, under a sun that never rests, the faithful still listen. And sometimes, the Shaitan answers.  

Zagraza

Where Fortune and Damnation Share a Dagger   The name Zagraza is reviled across the kingdoms of mortals. From the fetid crags of the Isle of Man to the icy reaches of Jotunfir, all know—by whispers or wounds—that to speak the name is to invite trouble.   Zagraza is not a kingdom in the traditional sense, nor a vassal of any crown. It is a refuge of the unwanted, a pirate-ruled province governed by a loose and volatile confederation of six warlords known as the Sea Princes. Each controls an independent barony with its own laws, tariffs, and moral thresholds—or lack thereof.   To be a fugitive in one barony is no obstacle; one simply flees across the bay. Crimes are not prosecuted here—they're negotiated. The result is a tangled network of opportunism, betrayal, and backroom deals that make Smuggler’s Bay the most dangerous harbor in all of Vessos.   And yet, it thrives.   Zagraza is the last bastion for enemies of the Castillian Crown, the favored haven of criminals, outlaws, heretics, mercenaries, witches, and worse. It does not ask who you are—but what you offer. Coin, blood, secrets—anything with value is enough to buy a new life, or a short one.  

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Culture of Cutthroats

  Life in Zagraza is short, cruel, and—if you're lucky—profitable.   Here, a crooked soul can earn his weight in gold with a toss of dice or the slash of a blade. Gladiator pits run as common as bakeries, and sorcerers duel in alleyways for artifacts of dubious origin. Fortunes are made overnight and lost by morning. Honor is a liability.   The Sea Princes themselves are ruthless oligarchs, each with their own customs and colors. Rivalries between them are legendary—but rarely civil. Naval skirmishes, sabotage, and assassination are all part of the game. Yet for all their backstabbing, the Princes maintain a fragile peace among themselves, knowing that open war would invite annihilation from without.   Zagraza endures because it is useful. To Vessos, it is a pressure valve. To Castillia, a target too slippery to crush. To the exiled and damned, it is paradise through perdition.   If you're lucky, you'll die rich. If you're smart, you'll die quietly. If you're both?   You might just live long enough to become a legend.  

Kashiran

Faith, Fury, and the Fire Beneath the Sands   Kashiran refers not to a single nation, but to the scorching heart of the Vessese continent—a central expanse dominated by the Great Salt Desert and marked by its fierce climate, proud warriors, and unyielding faith. As with all provinces in Vessos, the name describes a geographic region, not a unified state. Within its harsh bounds lie scattered caliphates, city-states, and fortress-clans, each with its own customs and banners.   And yet, to be Kashirani is more than a matter of birthplace—it is an identity forged by sun, salt, and struggle.   Those who hail from this land of wind-flayed stone and endless horizon speak the name with reverence. It is a title earned—not given.  

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The Desert Between Worlds

  The Great Salt Desert defines Kashiran both physically and spiritually. It is a searing crucible that separates the fertile floodplains of Xhao from the dread realm of The Glass Dunes, where the Basilisk holds dominion. This arid expanse fractures all trade, all travel, all certainty.   The capital city of Izaa rises from its shimmering white heart like a mirage made real—a golden sanctuary of domes, towers, and sacrificial pyres. From here, Kashirani pilgrims travel the shifting dunes, and from here, the first hymns of the Shaitan were raised to the blistering sky.   But faith alone is not enough to safeguard the land.  

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War Without End

  For centuries, the people of Kashiran have bled in the fight against the Basilisk. Though scattered and autonomous, the caliphates of the region are bound by a shared hatred of the monster that emerges from the Glass Ziggurat to the east, marching tides of sewn-together aberrations across the sand.   Despite generations of resistance, the Basilisk’s power grows. It now threatens to seize control of the main trade route linking Xhao, Zagraza, and central Vessos. Caravans vanish. Sandships do not return. Each passing year, the war becomes not just a battle for survival—but for relevance.   Still, the Kashirani do not relent.  

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A People Carved from Faith

  To be Kashirani is to be unbreakable. From youth, children are trained not only to endure the desert’s wrath, but to thrive within it. Combat, tactics, fasting, and faith are taught side-by-side. Whether born slave, merchant, or noble, a Kashirani is expected to carry their weight in steel or scripture.   They are not merely warriors—they are zealots of survival.   Worship of the Shaitan is the cultural and spiritual cornerstone of Kashiran. In Izaa, his temples rise with gilded spires that catch the wrath of the sun. It is said that the Shaitan never sleeps, and so neither shall the faithful. His name is invoked in every battle cry, every marriage rite, every death wail whispered into the dust.   They believe that one day—whether in ten years or ten thousand—the Basilisk will fall.   And when it does, the last strike will come from a Kashirani blade.  

Xhao

The Lush Engine That Feeds a Starving Empire

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  Overshadowed by the grandeur of Izaa and the notoriety of Zagraza, the people of Xhao are the silent backbone of the Vessese continent. Often uncelebrated—yet absolutely indispensable—they are the proverbial workhorses upon whom the entirety of Vessos survives.   It is by the calloused hands of Xhaoan farmers, fishers, and foresters that the imam-kings eat and the Sea Princes feast. Where the rest of the continent is arid, salted, or scorched beyond utility, Xhao alone offers abundant agricultural fertility—at the cost of terrible danger.  

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Land of Marsh, Rain, and Monster

  Xhao spans a region of bamboo rainforests, tropical marshes, and flooded river plains—a terrain both fecund and perilous. It is one of the few places on Acarus where crops grow in mass, where rice terraces mirror the sky and root-vegetables are pulled from loam soft as flesh.   Yet this verdant bounty hides unspeakable dangers.   In Lujo-Turang—the vast rainforest stretching across southmost Xhao—the very ecosystem is hostile to man. Insects swell to the size of cattle. Predators lurk in canopy and mire alike. Ancient ruins crumble beneath vines, holding secrets best left buried. It is said the jungle watches—and it does not blink.   To survive here is an act of grit, skill, or madness. Often all three.  

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Lujos: Slayers of the Mire

  Among the most famed of Xhao’s inhabitants are the Lujos—a caste of monster-hunters, beast-slayers, and folklore legends who make their coin by felling things too great, too old, or too monstrous for any common sellsword. In the flooded wilds of Xhao, where blades rust and guns jam, a Lujo does not hunt—they prove themselves.   Wielding alchemical toxinblades, tamed beasts, and trapwork engineering, Lujos are as much tacticians as warriors. Tales of their exploits have traveled as far as Kalladonia, where their names are sometimes used in bedtime stories to frighten children into bravery.   To be a Lujo is to walk into a god’s mouth and come back with its teeth.  

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Undervalued, But Never Broken

  Despite their immense contributions, the Xhaoan people are often viewed as provincial or lesser by the arid-dwellers of the north. Such dismissiveness is tolerated, not accepted. While polite in public and gracious in trade, the people of Xhao remember the debts owed to them. They know that when the crops fail and the water dries up, it is they who will save the empire.   And when the monsters rise too high, or the jungle creeps too far into the light, the Lujos will be waiting.