The Ganzun Farm

Looking down her nose at the older man kneeling before her, she watched with morbid curiosity as he began the ritual. Six small, nearly identical birds were produced. Each bore a slit from the beak downward - recently slaughtered, she noted. Carefully, he placed these around him in a semicircle.

Wasting no time, he ran a finger caked with the blood of his latest sacrifice along the feathered remains, coating it anew. Dripping, the old man wrote the first command, blood becoming words that covered most of the cracked parchment. Then, dipping his lesser fingers, additional spells were written; a few simple, yet complementary commands surrounding the first. Frost nipped at her fingertips, her cloak stiffening and flaking with a sudden snow with every shiver, breath billowing. Something stirred.

Magic has faltered across Xùyì; the flames of what once were are now dying, leaving smoldering embers in hidden communities. What was once found within, achieved through self-realization, harmony, and discipline, has been corrupted. The Wheel is broken, cast to the ground. Empires trample over it, forbidding the common folk from seeking that enlightened state. Yet, fragments remain. Creatures beyond understanding gather, accepting outward sacrifices, feeding on blood and moral decay in exchange for their assistance within the spheres of magic and the falsehoods only offered by the pseudo-divinities. A life exchanged for a taste of magic.

Magic is slowly becoming nothing more than a series of sacrifices, gifts of blood offered to unnatural creatures. Often, though not always, the sacrifice needed for these creatures to appear is very minute, for the intended spell is almost forgettable. A handful of ants for a sudden flame, a bird exchanged for a mystic hand. Few are satisfied with so little. Due to complications of human sacrifices, the need for mass production of animals has arisen.

The Ganzun Farms are massive, all-consuming. Entire villages exist solely to grow crops, working year-round to ensure bountiful harvests. The fruit of their labor goes to the many animals within, which in turn feed the war machine. Dozens of species are specially bred and sold to prolific magi and wizards of nearly every cloth; indiscriminately sold for maximum profits. Three dozen pigs can offer a greater deal of magic than many could imagine, and he who rules Ganzun is beyond reproach.