👑 The Kingdom of Rosenhall
“One Crown. One King. One Future.”
Cultural Identity
Rosenhall is not yet an empire, but it wants to be.
Once a loose collection of petty duchies, trade baronies, and hill clans, it is now held together by the ambition and charisma of King Rose, a warlord-turned-monarch who preaches unity, discipline, and strength through conquest. Though his banner flies high over a quarter the Vale, the identity of Rosenhall remains in flux. For every native son who sings patriotic hymns, there is a displaced villager muttering in a conquered dialect, unsure if they belong.
The kingdom pushes the myth of a “Humanist Utopia,” a strong, peaceful world led by humans under one glorious crown, but in reality, the streets tell a more complicated tale. Tieflings, Dragonborn, Half-Orcs and other non-human peoples often face systemic discrimination, exclusion from noble titles, and forced relocation. Whole neighborhoods are gentrified to make way for “new loyal citizens.” Despite this, some join the war machine willingly, believing it better to be part of something powerful than cast aside.
Many commoners live on government-issued rations. Propaganda posters cover every city gate and tavern wall: “Do your part.” “The Crown Endures.” “One People, One Purpose.”
Rosenhall is a nation driven by the glory of the mission, and many citizens believe, fervently, that their suffering will one day mean something.
Religion
The official and only sanctioned religion is the Church of Varus, god of Humanity, Discipline, and Purpose. Temples are built like fortresses: squat, unadorned, and filled with sermons about duty, sacrifice, and the divine right of humanity to lead the world.
Clergy act as both spiritual guides and civic enforcers. Sermons are mandatory in some cities. “Blasphemy” now includes spreading worship of non-human deities or speaking openly against the war effort.
Some radicals in the Church argue that Varus has no place for other races, though this position is politically dangerous even for loyalists. Others interpret his doctrine as a call to “uplift” non-humans through service to the Crown, another form of imperial assimilation.
Economy
The economy of Rosenhall is built entirely on the back of war.
- War bonds and ration stamps are the lifeblood of the state.
- Weapon manufacturing and conscription industries dominate most major cities.
- Mercenary work is formalized, regulated, and taxed, almost like a guild system.
- Foreign aid from the Taimavar banks of Eldamar is required to keep the state operating.
This wealth disparity is visible everywhere. Nobles dine on imported fruit and silver wine, while commoners queue for dry bread and powdered broth.
Yet morale remains strangely high. People believe in the dream, Rose’s speeches stir something ancient and hopeful. There is suffering, yes, but also purpose. And to many, that is worth more than comfort.
Leadership
King Rose is not simply a monarch—he is a legend made flesh.
Born in the crumbling ruins of the Shattered Dwarven Empire, he came of age in the soot-streaked shadows of cold stone cities, where order had collapsed and hope was rationed. To him, the dwarves had once been symbols of strength, unity, and safety, but now they represented failure.
He enlisted young, just another orphan of the Shattering, scraping by in the soot-choked alleys of Jovenshire. The Dwarven Princes, eager to reclaim their lost glory, were preparing a campaign against their ancient rivals in Vlorfa, and Rose saw the army as an escape from the cold city he had come to hate. Service promised warmth, food, and purpose, even if it meant dying in someone else’s war.
Then came the Siege of Moressley.
It was supposed to be the end. The gates were broken. The defenders routed. And Rose, then just a frontline soldier stood alone on the outer wall with nothing but a bloodied banner and a broken sword. According to surviving witnesses, in the height of the chaos, Rose was struck down, and rose again, suffused with divine radiance, calling upon Varus not as a god to be worshipped, but as a purpose to be fulfilled.
It was in that moment he became something more than mortal: a fighter-turned-paladin, a chosen vessel of Humanity’s divine destiny.
Rallied by this miracle, the defenders pushed back, routing their attackers in one of the bloodiest countercharges in recent history. The Siege of Moressley became legend, and Rose became unstoppable.
In the days that followed, he marched on Jovenshire, the last dwarven-ruled human city. There, with fire and steel, he executed the faltering Dwarven governors, ending centuries of dwarven dominion in the Vale. Before a stunned crowd of citizens and refugees, he declared himself Sovereign of All Humanity, a man of the people, crowned not by lineage but by flame and faith.
Even the people of Moressley, freshly conquered and beaten, flocked to his banner, preferring Rose’s order and vision to the slow, cold grip of dwarven overlords.
From orphan to paladin. From war hero to divine king. From survivor to sovereign.
His right to rule is unquestioned by those who serve him, not because of law or tradition, but because of what he did that day on the wall, and what came after.
Behind him stands a growing court of warlords, knights, merchant-princes, and foreign lenders—all eager to feast on the spoils of conquest.
Ruling Factions
1. The Knights of The Rose
These are the nobles, generals, and paladins closest to the throne, those who stood with Rose at Moressley, or clawed their way into his favor in the years since. They oversee Rosenhall’s vast and growing army, enforce loyalty across the heartland, and suppress threats to the kingdom from within. Devout, disciplined, and deadly, they speak with the King’s authority and strike with his full wrath.
But proximity to power breeds ambition.
Within the gilded war halls of Caer Jovenshire, a perilous game unfolds. Commanders and stewards maneuver behind closed doors, forging alliances, sabotaging rivals, and trying to outperform one another on and off the battlefield. Every platoon needs a leader. Every newly conquered vassal state needs a governor. Every keep, a steward. And Rose rewards results, not loyalty.
To ascend in the Inner Circle is to rise on the backs of others. To fall is to disappear quietly, replaced without ceremony.
They are the sword and spine of the Crown, but many dream of wearing one themselves.
2. The Taimavar of Eldamar
Elven bankers and bureaucrats are funding Rose’s expansion. They do not share his ideology, but they see opportunity in a unified human empire. In return for their gold, they are granted exclusive access to Rosenhall’s mineral rights, seized Dwarven vaults, and prime land.
Many suspect the Taimavar are playing a long game, to put Rose under their boot and eventually turn his army toward Elkmire, the last major rival of the High Elves.
3. The Church of Varus
The Church of Varus is more than a religion, it is the ideological foundation of the state, a unified faith bound in lockstep with King Rose’s vision of Humanist destiny. Temples double as courthouses, ration offices, and archives. Clerics serve as bureaucrats, census-takers, judges, and propagandists, spreading sermons not just about piety, but productivity, discipline, and national unity.
Those who rise high enough in the Church’s hierarchy are inducted into the Order of the Flame, a secretive division of inquisitors who root out heresy, defeatism, and cultural defiance. Their agents move quietly, identifying individuals or entire communities who resist Rose’s authority, and overseeing their re-education through isolation, ritual, or labor.
In conquered territories, the Church plays a central role in rewriting local records, invalidating native titles, and producing forged bloodlines or divine visions that support Rose’s claims of sovereignty. “It was always his.” “He has the blood of their founders.” “The land was promised to Varus.” These justifications are echoed in temples, schools, and official histories until they are accepted as truth.
Some whisper that the Church keeps lists, of unbelievers, half-bloods, and those deemed ideologically unstable. Others claim that missing persons reappear months later, changed, grateful, flames branded into their shoulders.
To the faithful, the Church is a shining beacon.
To the wary, it is the Crown’s shadow, burning from within.
Character Hooks
- A noble from a newly elevated house, you were raised to worship Rose like a god, and now you must prove your worth to earn his favor.
- A former town guard who deserted after witnessing the execution of non-human children during a “cleansing,” you now carry forged documents and a stolen sword, and a price on your head.
- A half-elf born in a gentrified zone, trying to navigate both privilege and persecution.
- An acolyte who once led sermons glorifying the Humanist dream, but after witnessing a re-education, your faith in Varus, and in yourself, has begun to crack.
- A spy from Elkmire, embedded in the Taimavar plot, gathering intelligence on Rosenhall’s next move.
⛰️ The Principality of Khim Khalduhr
“The Empire is not dead. We are simply waiting.”
Cultural Identity
The dwarves of Khim Khalduhr live like they are still part of something greater, a principality within the fallen empire of Nor Thordrimm, dutifully managing their territory as if the empire will send orders any day now. They have built down, not out, carving their homes deep into the volcanic mountains of the Sapest State, well beneath the Tiefling cities that claim the surface.
At the heart of their domain lies Father’s Forge, an ancient and arcane marvel powered by the heart of the volcano itself. Said to be touched by the Forgelord in ages past, it is one of the great wonders of the known world, a divine-grade forge capable of crafting legendary magical items. Though few outside Khim Khalduhr ever witness it, its rhythmic hammering echoes through the stone halls like the heartbeat of a god.
Khim Khalduhr is governed by a system that has outlived the empire it was built to serve. Each Clan sends its Elder to represent it in the Stone Council, which serves as the legislative body of the Principality. From among their own ranks, these Elders elect two lifelong officials: the Prince, who handles all executive decisions, and the Lord Sheriff, who oversees law, justice, and judgment. This structure was originally intended to support an empire with a vast bureaucracy, but with Nor Thordrimm long gone, the dwarves now pretend that the Forgelord still resides above them, quietly approving every decree. Seals are forged in his name, dates backdated to match his “reign,” and dissent is drowned in ritual and tradition. The illusion of imperial order is sacred.
Each dwarf belongs to a Clan, a multigenerational, household tied to a specific trade. Homes are built vertically, with children digging their chambers atop or beneath their parents’, expanding over generations like subterranean trees. When a parent dies, their living space is absorbed and reworked, ensuring nothing is wasted, not even grief. To be clanless is to be functionless, and most dwarves will not trade, eat, or speak with one who has no clan. Clanless dwarves often leave or are quietly expelled.
The dwarves of Khim Khalduhr are also deeply isolationist. The rise of Human imperialism, particularly in Jovenshire, and the quiet ambitions of the Elves of Eldamar, have not gone unnoticed. Dwarves remember well how empires fall, and how outsiders loot what’s left. As a result, Khim Khalduhr has sealed most of its mountain paths, keeping its forges and archives hidden from those above. They maintain a single surface-facing fortress, known as Forge Lord’s Watch, a brutalist military outpost that doubles as a controlled trade point with the Tieflings of the Sapest. Only authorized merchants and diplomats may pass through, and even then, they are watched by the Clan of Ledgerstone and the Battle Ragers of the Red Gate.
In Khim Khalduhr, paranoia is tradition, and tradition is survival.
Since the fall of Nor Thordrimm, the dwarves of Khim Khalduhr have developed a deep cultural fear of finality. They believe that completing a perfect work, be it a home, a song, a sword, invites ruin. To prevent this, every project is left slightly unfinished: a mural left unsigned, a book with the final line unwritten, a masterwork blade with one rune left blank.
In truth, Khim Khalduhr is a city of ghosts, not literal, but historical. Its people live not for themselves, but for the memory of an empire that is gone, and a Forgelord who has not lived in centuries. And yet, they endure. They forge. They wait.
Religion
The faith of Khim Khalduhr is ancient, stone-bound, and deeply spiritual, shaped not only by worship of Moradin, but by a reverence for the Forgelord and the fallen empire of Nor Thordrimm itself.
Dwarves here believe that Moradin molded their ancestors from clay, the first of the golems to be gifted true will. Because of this, life is not just sacred, it is crafted, shaped by tools and tradition. The Clans are viewed as divine instruments, and each Elder is more than a leader, they are a living chisel, sculpting their kin into worthy heirs of the forge-god’s legacy. To serve one’s clan is to submit to shaping. To become an Elder is to take up the hammer.
Temples to Moradin are simple but reverent, anvils surrounded by unfinished statues, incense burned in memory of those still becoming. Prayers are quiet things, whispered over stone and steel rather than shouted from pulpits. Even the act of forging is a form of devotion; each strike of the hammer is said to echo Moradin’s breath.
Alongside this living religion exists a powerful spiritual reverence for the Forgelord, the mythical, semi-divine ruler of Nor Thordrimm, who many claim was either an avatar of Moradin or the last dwarf to be truly touched by him. Though the Forgelord has not spoken in generations, his seal is still stamped on official documents, his name still spoken in blessings, and his return still quietly awaited, not unlike a messiah entombed in gold and fire.
There are no missionaries. No converts. Faith in Khim Khalduhr is not spread, it is inherited, passed down with surname, trade, and blood. It is etched into the walls of homes and whispered between parent and child as they kneel at the forge.
To be Dwarf is to be clay, and to live is to be shaped.
Economy
Khim Khalduhr is one of the wealthiest regions in the known world through control of the earth itself. Buried deep within the mountains of the Sapest State, the dwarves possess vast veins of mithril, adamantine, residuum, and chardalyn, resources that the surface kingdoms consider rare beyond reckoning. These are exported through a single, tightly monitored trade point: Forge Lord’s Watch, their only sanctioned gateway to the world above.
Each resource is managed by a Clan, and thus, wealth in Khim Khalduhr is communal, not personal. Even if a dwarf brokers a lucrative deal, the profit belongs to the Clan, not the individual. It is their name, their mine, their legacy, you are merely the tool they sent. This structure maintains a rigid caste system, where even a highly skilled artisan is nothing without a clan, and a clanless dwarf is barely more than a beggar. By contrast, even the youngest stonecutter in a wealthy Clan might live in luxury far beyond the reach of a human noble.
Some dwarves venture beyond the mountains, seeking employment as smiths, masons, or arcane engineers in the Sapest States. These rare expatriates are viewed with suspicion at home but respected abroad, particularly for their skill in constructing magical infrastructure and military-grade fortifications.
Domestically, life underground is a balance of scarcity and indulgence. Grain is nearly impossible to grow in the deep caverns, making alcohol a rare and treasured commodity, often imported at high cost. Meat and poultry are luxuries reserved for holy days and major celebrations, while the common dwarven diet consists largely of mushrooms, root vegetables, and cave-farmed insects. As a result, food culture is minimalist but deeply ceremonial, with every shared meal symbolizing lineage and unity.
One of the few upward paths for a clanless dwarf is through gladiatorial combat in the Dwarven Wrestling Foundation, a state-sponsored arena that blends athleticism, brutality, and honor in equal measure. Competitors face off in stylized pit fights that draw enormous crowds, with the annual champion given the opportunity to be re-inducted into their former Clan or, in rare cases, to be named the Elder of a newly founded Clan, complete with a stipend and land grant. For many, it is the only way back into dwarven society, and for a few, a path to legend.
But not all trade flows through official channels. Beneath the polished stone and gilded ledgers lies a thriving black market, fueled by desperation, greed, and the hunger for forbidden luxuries. Clanless dwarves, and even disgruntled members of lesser Clans, secretly peddle raw resources, enchanted relics, and powerful magic items forged within Father’s Forge itself, not through Forge Lord’s Watch, but through hidden tunnels, corrupt surface intermediaries, and black-market porters. Rare meats, foreign cheeses, exotic spirits, and mountains of gold pass hands in secret. Some smugglers even run a tourism racket, forging documents that allow surface nobles and adventurers to illegally enter the city and attend Dwarven Wrestling Foundation matches live, an experience not meant for foreign eyes.
The punishment for such crimes is severe and absolute. If a smuggler is caught selling outside the state-controlled system, their entire Clan is dissolved. Every relative, no matter how distant, is declared clanless, and all property is seized by the state. The offending dwarf is then sentenced to Korvikuum, an infamous gulag carved into the coldest, deepest reaches of the underdark, where the worst of society: traitors, oathbreakers, murderers, and smugglers, are left to rot in eternal shame. The law behind this punishment is an ancient draconican edict, first written to deter piracy in the coastal cities of the Old Empire, but the dwarves of Khim Khalduhr have never abandoned it. In their eyes, it is not outdated, it is tradition, and tradition is law.
Their unwavering loyalty to such rigid codes of justice is both a strength and a prison, and perhaps the strongest evidence of why Khim Khalduhr remains proudly isolationist to this day.
Leadership & Factions
Khim Khalduhr is ruled not by monarchs but by clan consensus and appointed tradition. The governing body is a council of Clan Elders, whose collective decisions shape domestic law, trade policy, and diplomatic relations. From among their number, two lifelong appointments are made: the Prince, who acts as the executive head of state, and the Lord Sheriff, who serves as the supreme arbiter of justice and internal affairs.
Prince Bronzebottom, current ruler of Khim Khalduhr, hails from the oldest and most influential of the Banking Clans. His ancestors invented the Trade Bar, a dwarven innovation that unified the conversion rate of currency across the known world, and his early years were spent managing foreign accounts in the surface banks of the Sapest States. Though he honors tradition, Bronzebottom has pushed the Principality toward economic diplomacy, advocating for measured modernization and limited foreign outreach. He is well-liked, pragmatic, and seen by many as the face of a new generation of dwarves.
Opposing him at every turn is Lord Sheriff Mithrilham, a harsh traditionalist whose rulings are as unyielding as the metal in his name. He is infamous for having disinherited his own son, Bustomi, for a minor infraction, condemning him to the Dwarven Wrestling Foundation as a warning to others. Mithrilham believes leniency breeds corruption and has no patience for what he calls “bronzed-gloved politics.” His frequent, public disagreements with the Prince have turned council meetings into battlegrounds of ideology: progress versus preservation.
Three major factions shape the internal power balance of Khim Khalduhr:
- The Battle Ragers: Veteran warriors and tunnel scouts, tasked with exploring the haunted ruins of the old Empire and protecting the Prince and Clan Elders. Loyal, grim, and utterly fearless, they serve both as vanguard and honor guard. They still seek traces of the lost Forgelord, believing him to be alive beneath the stone.
- The Invisible Hand: A vast underground smuggling network operated by rogue dwarves and disillusioned clans. Their black-market goods, from enchanted runes to stolen mithril, can be found in shady taverns across the continent. Many suspect they’ve infiltrated some noble-tier Clans, but no one dares name names.
- The Free Masons: A monastic order of Moradin’s clerics exempt from the laws of Clan allegiance. They maintain Father’s Forge, forging magical relics believed to channel divine purpose. More than artisans, they are keepers of dwarven spiritual truth, viewing creation itself as worship. Though apolitical, their favor can make or break a Prince’s legacy.
Character Hooks:
- A wide-eyed young dwarf, born into a respected stonemason clan, who left the mountain against their family’s wishes to see the surface world, armed with only a travel journal, a collapsible chisel set, and a quiet hope that when they return, they’ll still be welcomed back beneath the stone.
- A young Free Mason acolyte, obsessed with ancient forge techniques lost in the Shattering, who believes they were chosen by Moradin to recreate a legendary artifact said to bring unity to the fractured Clans.
- A former smuggler for the Invisible Hand, pardoned under mysterious circumstances, who now acts as a double agent for the Prince, pretending to still be in the fold while secretly feeding information to dismantle the black market from within.
- A clanless wrestling pit champion, known only by their ring name, who now wanders the world bearing a new clan title… and the wrath of the Lord Sheriff who refuses to acknowledge it.
- A Battle Rager tunnel scout who uncovered evidence that the Forgelord may not be dead after all and now seeks trusted allies to mount a secret expedition, desperate to claim the honor for their own Clan before a rival steals the glory.
🦂 The Fuedal Sapest State
“Let them call us cursed. Let them call us monsters. They will still kneel when they see what beauty our blood can birth.”
Cultural Identity
The Sapest State is a vibrant desert confederation composed of sun-scorched city-states, wind-swept trade towns, and gleaming oasis outposts, each governed by noble Tiefling houses descended from infernal, abyssal, or hag bloodlines. United under an elected High King, the noble houses form a ruling council that governs by debate, compromise, and, more often than not, whispered threats and midnight bribes.
Though technically young on the world stage, the Sapest burns with a passion that sets it apart. Unlike the rigid, insular cultures of other realms, it is defined by movement of ideas, of people, of trade, and of belief. Artistry is not just expression here, it is currency, status, and legacy. Music, fashion, storytelling, and invention thrive in the humid midnight bazaars and public squares of its cities. Most Sapestans live nocturnally, working and celebrating under the stars when the heat of the day has passed and the desert air cools to a breeze.
But the Sapest is not just romanticism and revelry. To be Tiefling is to feel the pull of something deeper, of sharp instincts, impish habits, and an inner chaos that the culture refuses to suppress. Impulses are embraced, not buried. Children are often given “Virtue Names” by family or community based on their earliest behavior, names like Euphoria, Trickery, Valor, or Malice. These names are more than symbolic; they shape expectations, relationships, and often, fate. A child named Trickery may begin to believe that deception is their path to success. A bard named Euphoria may find themselves constantly pressured to entertain and please, until they no longer know whether their talent is real, or simply inherited charm from their infernal blood.
This embrace of chaotic potential leads to a culture of flamboyant personalities and emotionally driven leadership. Backstabbing, dramatic flair, romantic entanglements, and public rivalries are common, even expected, in the highest courts. For many outside of Sapest, this makes them a joke. To kingdoms like Rosenhall and Bradford, the desert confederation is seen as a flashy, unstable nation destined for collapse, too emotional and “young” to hold real power.
But the Dwarves of Khim Khalduhr know better. For generations, the two nations have shared trade and mutual respect. Sapest’s workshops hum with dwarven-forged residuum and mithril. And now, their desert sands yield diamonds, stockpiled in vaults by priests of Asmodeus, Io, and Pelor as war draws near. With King Rose marching closer and declaring that the Tieflings must be enslaved for their “tainted blood,” the nobility of Sapest sharpen their blades behind veils of silk and ceremony.
Government:
The Sapest State is the largest kingdom in the known realm by landmass, a confederacy of independently governed city-states, towns, and desert hamlets. Though united under a single banner, its power structure is decentralized, maintained through a web of trade agreements, mutual defense pacts, and shared criminal laws. Local governance remains fully autonomous, with each noble Tiefling house wielding full authority within their domain, setting taxes, enforcing justice, and enacting regulations as they see fit.
Every ten years, the nobles of Sapest elect a High Lord, a ceremonial figurehead whose duties include leading joint military campaigns, controlling the shared keeps and fortresses, maintaining roads, and disbursing communal tax revenue toward fortifications and infrastructure in vulnerable settlements. However, this role comes with little legislative authority, as the power to alter or amend shared laws remains firmly in the hands of the individual nobles, and only consensus can enact change.
As a result, very few nobles desire the position of High Lord, preferring to remain focused on their own cities and personal ambitions. It has become customary, and something of a running joke, that whoever leaves the council chamber first (even to fetch a drink or visit the privy) is promptly elected High Lord by the remaining lords, often to their horror upon return.
This localized autonomy is beloved by the people of the Sapest, who see their noble houses not as distant aristocrats, but as intimate stewards of their communities. City festivals, artisan guilds, and civic improvements often flourish under this system, as nobles are free to compete through culture, innovation, and public works, rather than being restrained by imperial mandates. In many Sapestan towns, citizens know their lords by name, and their lords, in turn, view success not in expansion, but in the beauty and renown of their home.
But while this system creates strong local pride and prosperity, it is disastrous for national unity. The Sapest struggles to present a unified front to the outside world. Foreign diplomats often find themselves negotiating with ten nobles at once, each with conflicting goals and priorities. Treaties are hard to ratify, military campaigns are bogged down by indecision, and when enemies approach, it can take weeks just to decide who commands what troops.
A few months ago, King Rose conquered the Sapestan town of Wolford, a small but economically vital settlement known for housing the largest collection of diamond mines in the confederation. The fall of Wolford was not attributed to a military failure, but to a complete lack of coordinated response. When local scouts reported Rosenhall banners approaching, nobles fell into arguments over strategy, jurisdiction, and troop deployment. By the time a consensus was reached, it was too late. Wolford, having received little in the way of communal fortifications due to the Sapest’s minimalist tax policy, fell swiftly.
It was a bloodless conquest, but a national humiliation. Worse still, Rose enslaved the Tiefling population, forcing them to mine diamonds for his own resurrection campaign. The event has sent shockwaves through the noble courts, who now fear that the Sapest will fall piece by piece unless they set aside their rivalries and unite. But old grudges die hard, and some nobles still see Wolford’s fall as someone else’s fault, or someone else’s problem.
To kingdoms like Rosenhall, the Sapest’s structure is seen as laughably inefficient, a kingdom in name only, more akin to a merchant league held together by tradition and shared geography. Yet within that chaos lies its resilience. No one ruler can collapse the state, no tyrant can seize control of all, and when threatened, the city-states often find a way to pull together, albeit at the last possible moment.
Religion:
In the Sapest, faith is not centralized, but it is everywhere. While no single church rules, three major deities dominate the spiritual landscape: Asmodeus, Io, and Pelor. Their temples are vast, diverse, and politically influential, often doubling as banks, courts, and guildhalls, places where blessing and business intertwine beneath a canopy of incense and gold.
The Church of Asmodeus
The oldest and most politically powerful of the Sapest’s faiths, the Church of Asmodeus offers order, ambition, and control, three things many Tieflings, born of chaos, crave deep down. Asmodeus is not worshiped as a devil here, but as a divine contract-keeper, the one who gives structure to wild instinct and strength to noble houses. His clergy act as advisors to nobles, contract arbiters, and masters of law. Many nobles swear oaths of power in his temples, binding their words and heirs in infernal pacts with surprising legitimacy. While foreign powers often view this with suspicion, in Sapest, it is simply tradition.
Among the common folk, Asmodeus’s worship is more complicated. His sermons emphasize self-mastery, ambition, and the divine right to rule through strength and vision. To the disenfranchised or the desperate, the idea of earning greatness through will alone is seductive. To critics, it makes the poor blame themselves for their weakness and adore the strong who crush them. Regardless, his temples grow ever grander.
The Speakers of Io
Io, the ancient dragon god of balance and divinity, finds fertile ground in the Sapest’s philosophical circles. He is not worshiped in great temples, but in scattered shrines, debating salons, and introspective art halls. His followers are scholars, philosophers, mystics, and artists who believe that divine power flows through all things, and that true wisdom comes from understanding the world’s contradictions, life and death, fire and water, passion and restraint.
Io’s worship encourages the reconciliation of one’s ancestry, pushing Tieflings to seek balance between their infernal past and their mortal present. Many diamond merchants and gem artisans secretly dedicate their work to Io, believing his divine flame dwells within the purity of gemstones. His followers tend to be soft-spoken, educated, and quietly influential, and they often act as mediators between noble houses, preferring dialogue over violence.
The Radiant Faith of Pelor
Pelor’s sun may be unwelcome in the desert’s heat, but his message of healing, community, and righteous action resonates deeply in the Sapest’s scattered oases and poorer regions. His priests offer medical aid, food, and hope, often acting as emissaries of peace when nobles feud too hotly. Pelor is worshipped most devoutly by farmers, traveling merchants, and Tieflings from less fortunate bloodlines, who see in him a god that does not judge, but uplifts.
Many see the spread of Pelor’s worship as a rising tide, especially among those disillusioned with Asmodeus’s hierarchy and Io’s ambiguity. However, some nobles view Pelor’s growing popularity with concern, fearing he might inspire rebellious unity among the lower castes. Regardless, his temples are full, his sermons well-attended, and his paladins among the few trusted neutral arbiters in times of inter-city conflict.
Economy:
The Sapest is rich, but dangerously so.
The lifeblood of the Sapest State flows through commerce, craft, and gem-laden caravans. Its bazaars are legendary: nocturnal mazes of color, perfume, firelight, and negotiation, where a bard might trade a song for a silk robe, or a noble’s contract could be inked in wine rather than blood. While other kingdoms raise wealth through conquest or taxation, Sapest thrives on raw trade and creative output, a network of merchants, performers, smiths, and enchanters forming the beating heart of its economy.
Diamonds & Danger:
The diamond mines of the Sapest are its greatest treasure and its greatest curse. Located primarily in the now-lost Wolford region, they once produced a third of the continent’s raw gem supply. These diamonds aren’t just currency, they’re used in spellcasting, resurrection rituals, arcane batteries, and, increasingly, war preparations.
For decades, the Sapest traded them freely with the Dwarves of Khim Khalduhr and the arcane college of Ioun, funneling residuum-rich diamonds into magic item production. Now, with King Rose having conquered Wolford, much of that wealth has been cut off, redirected into Rosenhall’s war machine. This has left the Sapest economy reeling, its nobles hoarding their private gem caches and raising prices on all enchanted goods, resurrection services, and magical luxuries.
In response, underground markets have surged. Smuggled diamonds, counterfeit resurrection gems, and cursed jewelry have become common. The loss of Wolford was not just strategic, it was an economic catastrophe, and the nobles are still fighting over who to blame.
Artistry as Currency:
In the Sapest, craft is coin. A finely embroidered cloak can buy a house. A song performed well enough in the right plaza can win a patronage worth more than gold. Guilds of jewelers, potion-brewers, sculptors, dancers, and architects control local economies, especially in the oasis cities where nobles compete to out-patron one another with grand commissions.
But with each noble city-state functioning semi-independently, guild laws and trade agreements vary wildly. A trade visa in one city might be worthless in another. Import tariffs are often changed overnight if two nobles feud. Ambitious merchants learn to play the game fast, or disappear. Art forgery, spell-sabotage, and murder are not uncommon in the upper echelons of the Sapest’s economic scene.
Despite the chaos, this system creates opportunity. Almost anyone can rise from nothing, so long as they can sell something beautiful, useful, or scandalous enough to be remembered.
The same individuality that gives the Sapest its flavor makes macroeconomic stability a nightmare. Communal taxes are low. Intercity tariffs are high. Most nobles focus on beautifying their city and advancing their name, rather than investing in long-term infrastructure or united defense.
As seen with the fall of Wolford, economic vulnerability often comes not from poverty, but disunity. the Sapest could be the richest kingdom on the continent, yet fall to conquest simply because no one can agree on who should pay for the walls and roads.
Leadership & Factions
The Sapest is ruled by a confederation of independently governed city-states, each led by a Tiefling noble house descended from infernal, abyssal, or hag bloodlines. These houses are bound by a shared legal code, military obligation, and trade pact, but maintain independent laws, customs, and leadership within their own territories. Every ten years, the noble houses elect a High Lord, a largely ceremonial position tasked with managing communal projects such as road maintenance, military fortifications, and defense of outlying settlements. The High Lord commands the shared armies and fortresses but holds no legislative power over the noble houses themselves, which often leads to political stalemates and gridlock in times of crisis.
In truth, no noble wants the job, as it requires funding and managing joint interests without the authority to enforce policy. As a result, the “absent vote” tradition has taken root: whichever noble fails to attend the council meeting (or even briefly leaves for a drink) is usually “honored” with the title of High Lord. The role does, however, come with a large estate in the Charmed Cove and a lovely vineyard, though if you aren’t already Lord of the Charmed Cove, you’ll often feel like the last King of China, trapped behind your own walls, a prisoner to local laws invented purely to inconvenience you. Many High Lords simply leave the castle empty, but not before raiding the estate’s wine cellars after the coronation.
To assist, or more often, wrangle, the noble houses, the High Lord presides over the Council of Horns, a royal court and debating chamber composed of appointed emissaries, junior nobles, and politically savvy courtiers from each of the major houses. The Council of Horns was originally envisioned as a symbol of Tiefling unity and cooperative governance, but today it functions more like a high-drama senate floor, full of rhetorical sparring, backroom deals, and scandal. While it cannot overrule local lords, the Council can issue joint declarations, organize inter-state military responses, and levy coordinated economic sanctions, though only when consensus can be reached, which is increasingly rare. In times of true crisis, the Council becomes a barometer for how fractured, or united, the Sapest really is.
Three major factions control the “keys to power” of the Sapest:
The College of Ioun
Perched on floating towers off the coast of the Charmed Cove, the College of Ioun stands as the most powerful arcane institution in the world, an independent, apolitical bastion of magical scholarship and oversight. It serves as the neutral meeting ground for the Archmages of all major kingdoms, who gather under the leadership of the ancient and inscrutable Grand Mage Wilbur Wregi. Their mission is to prevent arcane catastrophe through the monthly Conclave of Magi, where magical escalation, divine interference, and forbidden rituals are debated. The College’s vast library includes not only the Open Stacks for all trained mages, but the Accursed Archives, a locked repository of world-ending knowledge accessible only to the Conclave and Wregi’s chosen. Despite its location within Sapest territory, the College is fully autonomous, immune to political control, and granted leeway in exchange for magically supporting the desert state with disaster mitigation and public wards.
To study at the College is to claim unmatched prestige, Tiefling nobles, dwarven heirs, and Rosenhall elites all send their gifted children here, though few leave unchanged. Its halls are filled with automata, ghosts of knowledge, and cursed grimoires that whisper in the night. Some students vanish entirely; others ascend to power and influence. Despite being mocked by outsiders as “nerd college,” the College has quiet influence over global diplomacy, espionage, and magical equilibrium.
The Sentinels of House Sev
House Sev is an ancient human bloodline known for producing elite bodyguards, knights, and military commanders, many of whom bear the legendary Dragonmark of the Sentinel, granting them uncanny senses and the ability to protect others with supernatural speed. The Sentinels are more than a mercenary company, they are a shadow aristocracy. Though technically servants to the noble families they protect, many suspect that the Sentinels have grown too powerful to be mere retainers. Nowhere is this more evident than in the Barony of Azmar, where the current Lord is rarely seen without his Sentinel entourage and signs no edict without their approval. Some believe the Baron is little more than a puppet, with House Sev pulling the strings from behind a wall of honor, tradition, and well-dressed blades. Within the Sapest, no one’s secrets are safe when the Sentinels take an interest.
The Guild of Silk and Smoke
More than a guild, the Guild of Silk and Smoke is a cultural institution in the Sapest. Dominating trade in perfumes, enchanted fabrics, jewelry, and luxury charms, the guild’s influence reaches every noble house, theatre troupe, and temple in the confederation. But beneath the silk gloves lies a velvet dagger, the Guild is rumored to house one of the largest networks of spies, blackmailers, and rumor merchants in the realm. Their weavers are said to stitch whispers into thread; their perfumers can compel confessions with a breath. They fund artists and assassins with equal ease, and many nobles find themselves wearing outfits or attending events secretly sponsored by the Guild without realizing it. Despite their dangerous reach, their contributions to the arts and economy make them indispensable, and untouchable.
Character Hooks
- A Tiefling born with the Virtue Name Trickery is trying to outrun the fate their culture assigned them, eager to prove they’re more than the sins of their blood or the name etched into their soul.
- A wandering scholar from the College of Ioun travels the world collecting rare knowledge and spellcraft, always reporting back, unless the truth they find is too dangerous to share.
- A displaced scion of a minor noble house, once content to enjoy the luxuries of Sapestan life, now seeks fortune and fame to reclaim their family’s relevance in the Council of Horns.
- A miner’s child from Wolford, once raised among glittering diamonds and desert heat, now seeks revenge against King Rose for enslaving their kin.
- A courier and spy for the Guild of Silk and Smoke, sent abroad with enchanted silks and shadowed whispers, struggles to separate their cover identity from who they really are.
🐦 The Petty Kingdom of Bradford
“Let the other kingdoms sharpen swords, we’ll sharpen our minds, mend our boots, and be home in time for supper.”
Cultural Identity
Bradford is a kingdom of comfort, cleverness, and quiet pride. Unlike the fevered expansionism of Rosenhall or the passionate artistry of Sapest, Bradford’s people find strength in moderation, collaboration, and long-term thinking. Their identity is tied not to conquest or divine mandate, but to community. Whether in the misty mountains of the Cliffs, the humble halfling lanes of Hollyhead, or the enchanted shores of the Mage Coast, the people of Bradford wake up every morning with one shared goal: build something that lasts.
Each region of Bradford is fiercely proud of its local customs, and these differences are celebrated rather than suppressed. In the capital, the markets overflow with seasonal crops, artisan crafts, and specialty goods brought in from across the kingdom. Goliath lumberjacks from the Cliffs trade stories with halfling vintners from Hollyhead. Gnomes from the Mage Coast barter magical curiosities to tourists from the Falls, while ravens from Wyvern Castle deliver messages with breathtaking punctuality. There’s no single “Bradford accent,” dress, or religion, only a shared sense that life is better when lived together.
The people are famously polite, sometimes to a fault. Arguments often begin and end with gentle passive-aggression and an offer of tea. The Bradish concept of “graceful disagreement” is a proud cultural pillar. It’s said that a Bradford debate can last a full month, but still end with both parties celebrating the loser’s birthday. This doesn’t mean they are weak, only that their strength comes from cooperation, not domination.
Music, invention, and hospitality are cornerstones of Bradish life. Children are taught basic carpentry, gardening, and at least one musical instrument before they’re ten. College is widely encouraged, whether magical, academic, or artistic. And while the kingdom has no national anthem, it boasts over a hundred regional ballads, each more beloved than the last.
Bradford is the oldest of the known kingdoms, and it shows in every cobbled street, every stone bridge, and every well-worn tradition. Before the Age of Fire and long before the Shattering of Nor Thordrimm, Bradford’s people were laying roads, plotting farms, and crafting the foundation of civilized society. While other realms boast soaring castles or arcane wonders, Bradford prides itself on things that last: bridges that have carried generations of carts, aqueducts that still flow clean and steady, and family-run inns older than most monarchies. In a world of rising empires and sudden falls, Bradford endures, not by dominance, but by good planning.
Socially, Bradford is the most integrated and upwardly mobile realm in the world. It is not uncommon to find a Goliath serving as a magistrate, a halfling running a trade fleet, or a drow professor teaching at the Bard College of Doss. While nobility exists, its power is largely ceremonial, wealth, reputation, and education matter far more than birth. Laws are clear and consistently enforced, and local councils hold real power in determining policy. There is a strong civic culture; citizens take pride in participating in town meetings, supporting local guilds, and voting in regional assemblies. Even its knightly order, the Ravenknights of Nera, are selected not by blood, but by merit and deed.
Bradfordians may not hunger for empire, but they know their role: the world’s calm, beating heart. And when trouble comes knocking, they’re the first to offer shelter… and the last to let you leave hungry.
Government
Bradford is a constitutional monarchy ruled by the venerable House Sarradrassford, the oldest continuous royal bloodline in the known world. Petty King Sarradrassford XI, often called “The Gentle King,” presides over a realm that has gradually embraced decentralized governance without diminishing the symbolic weight of its crown. Over centuries, through treaties, constitutional amendments, and cultural evolution, true civic authority has been vested in elected mayors and town councils, who manage the daily affairs of their respective towns, cities, and hamlets with a surprising degree of autonomy.
The monarch retains executive control over the military, serves as the final arbiter in judicial matters, and represents Bradford in foreign diplomacy. While the role of the Petty King is often ceremonial, it is not powerless. He is still the only one who can declare national holidays, issue royal pardons, and appoint magistrates or military commanders. As the symbolic heart of the nation, the Petty King also presides as the highest mortal authority of the Church of Erathis, the state religion that venerates law, civilization, and communal unity.
Unlike the self-proclaimed divine mandates of Rosenhall or the archaic rituals of the Dwarves, Bradford does not believe in “Divine Right.” The monarchy of House Sarradrassford endures not by heavenly decree, but by legal precedent and popular utility. While Erathis is revered as the goddess of law and civilization, she is not cited as the source of royal authority, the Constitution is. It is this secular foundation that has allowed Bradford to evolve gracefully with the times, frequently amending its core laws to reflect modern values, changing demographics, and new challenges.
The King is respected, not worshipped. And while the monarchy holds cultural and ceremonial significance, it is widely understood that it continues to exist because it works, not because it must. The notion of becoming a Republic is debated in bard colleges and taverns alike, but the political capital required to unseat a beloved dynasty with centuries of stability behind it is staggering.
In practice, this means the Constitution of Bradford is a living document, amended by majority vote of the regional councils and ratified through a public referendum. Over the past two centuries, the powers of the Petty King have been slowly but steadily curtailed, ensuring no ruler can act unilaterally without public accountability. In turn, this restraint has shielded House Sarradrassford from public backlash, allowing it to endure as a cultural cornerstone of Bradford rather than a political lightning rod.
This governance model, firmly rooted in tradition but softened by pragmatic reform, has become Bradford’s greatest strength. It empowers communities to flourish on their own terms while maintaining national cohesion through mutual respect and legal precedent. Every local charter, tax ordinance, and civic festival is grounded in a common constitution, interpreted and enforced by the Royal Court of Gnoss, where judges trained in both scripture and law convene to resolve disputes and uphold the values of Erathis.
Other nations often marvel at Bradford’s apparent harmony, mistaking it for simplicity. In truth, its strength lies in its complexity, a delicate dance between ancient authority and modern cooperation. Where empires crumble under the weight of centralized control, Bradford thrives by trusting its people. That trust, ritualized, legislated, and celebrated, is what has allowed it to remain prosperous while others have descended into civil war or conquest. It is not a perfect kingdom, but it is a rare one: strong not because of the power of its king, but because of the strength of its communities.
Religion
Bradford is home to one of the most religiously tolerant societies in the world, where faith is woven into everyday life but rarely wielded as a weapon. The kingdom’s long history of peaceful governance and civil discourse extends to spiritual matters, where multiple pantheons coexist and thrive without persecution or state interference, save for the official recognition of Erathis as the state religion of the monarchy.
The Church of Erathis, goddess of law, civilization, and structure, serves as the spiritual pillar of the capital and a symbolic link between divine order and mortal governance. Though the Petty King is technically head of the Church, he rarely intervenes in theological matters, allowing the church to function more as a cultural institution than a political one. Services are open to all, and its temples double as town halls, libraries, and centers of learning across the kingdom.
In the Misty Cliffs, the Goliath population venerates Melora, goddess of nature and the wilds. Shrines to her are built into cliffsides and forests, decorated with wind chimes, feathers, and offerings of carved wood. Goliath shamans are treated with the same respect as any mayor or magistrate, and Melora’s rituals are often performed in tandem with seasonal festivals or moments of transition—birth, death, travel, or the turning of seasons.
In Hollyhead and among the halfling diaspora, Avandra is celebrated as the goddess of change, luck, and joyful freedom. Her worship is marked by laughter, dancing, and the sharing of stories and food, rather than rigid dogma. Her shrines are often disguised as inns, gardens, or open-air market stalls, and her priests tend to be traveling performers or wandering philosophers rather than cloistered clergy.
What unites Bradford’s faiths is not uniformity, but respect. Worshippers of different gods often attend each other’s ceremonies, and holy days are recognized across the kingdom regardless of which deity they honor. This has led to a deep interfaith dialogue, and even the occasional blended holiday, like the autumn “Harvest Accord,” where Erathians give thanks for Melora’s bounty and Avandra’s luck in trade.
In Bradford, belief is personal, faith is communal, and the gods walk alongside the people, not above them.
Economy
Bradford’s economy is rooted in the earth, plowed, planted, and passed down through generations. The kingdom remains one of the world’s primary agricultural powerhouses, with sprawling rural farmlands supplying food to kingdoms near and far. Its idyllic pastures, healthy crop yields, and slow, reliable rhythms have earned it a reputation as the breadbasket of the realm.
The City of Bradford, positioned on the mesmerizing depths, serves as the kingdom’s chief port and trade hub, connecting local goods with international markets. Here, the flow of produce meets fine lumber from the Misty Cliffs, gnomish curiosities from the Mage Coast, halfling preserves and handcrafts from Hollyhead, and the occasional relic or artifact from Wyvern Castle. While not a major exporter of industrial goods or arcane wonders, Bradford’s emphasis on quality, dependability, and hospitality makes it a desirable trade partner for every major power.
Tourism has increasingly become a cornerstone of Bradford’s economy, especially in the halfling-run hamlets of Hollyhead and the picturesque Hallowed Falls. Visitors from across the realm come to sip cider under the autumn trees, tour the centuries-old Sarradrassford Keeps, or attend seasonal festivals that blend rural charm with historical reenactments. Luxury cabins, guided hikes, and folklore tours have made Bradford a top destination for urban dwellers looking to “touch the old world.”
But despite this bucolic success, Bradford faces a quiet crisis. Its way of life, peaceful, slow-paced, and deeply rural, is losing appeal to younger generations. With few high-skill jobs outside the port, limited access to magical or academic institutions, and little political excitement, ambitious commoners, scholars, and artisans are drawn to the fast-moving city of Elkmire or even the economic opportunities in the Sapest. The result is an aging population and stagnating innovation.
Bradford’s bureaucrats have begun to respond, offering land grants, tax incentives, and artistic commissions to attract new settlers. But until the kingdom can provide the allure of upward mobility or cultural prestige, its economy will continue to lean on history, hospitality, and harvests.
Factions
The College of Doss is one of the most celebrated bardic institutions in the world, nestled in the Misty Cliffs amidst towering pines and roaring waterfalls. Known for producing bards of unshakable honor and stirring charisma, the College’s Lore and Valor bards are beloved across Bradford for their heroism, oration, and dedication to truth. These bards serve as advisors, diplomats, and public champions, often holding sway over the court of public opinion more than local nobility.
Yet beneath its music halls and sculpture gardens, whispers echo in the caverns below. Rumors persist of a secret sect of Whisper Bards, practitioners of a darker art, singers of secrets, keepers of lies, and sculptors of public memory. It is said they manipulate truth in the name of peace and legacy, erasing inconvenient truths or sowing subtle discord when necessary. Though the College denies their existence, those who dig too deeply into old songs often find themselves… forgotten.
The Ravenknights of Nera, meanwhile, are the living mythos of Bradford, a mounted order of spell-sword champions who serve under Nera, the Sorcerer-Queen of the Mage Coast. Their black wyvern-crested cloaks and enchanted armor are recognized across all the domains. The Ravenknights are a beacon of hope and valor, often venturing beyond Bradford’s borders to defeat monsters, aid allies, and answer ancient calls for justice.
Nera herself, a reclusive sorcerer of immense power, rarely leaves her castle, but her Knights are everywhere, judging contests, settling disputes, or investigating dark rumors with righteous purpose. To join the Ravenknights is to forsake personal ambition for public service, and their membership includes Orcs, Tieflings, Elves, Halflings, and Humans alike, a rare symbol of unity in a fractured world.
Character Hooks
- An archivist from Wyvern Castle, entrusted with a lost Ravenknight artifact you must deliver safely.
- A wide-eyed halfling innkeeper’s child, secretly dreaming of becoming a hero sung about in bardic ballads.
- An undercover Whisper Bard, collecting dangerous secrets behind the mask of a harmless performer.
- A promising graduate of the College of Doss, sent abroad to gather inspiration for a masterpiece that will define your career.
- An amateur historian from Bradford’s port city, chasing a rumor that the Sarradrassford family is not as benevolent or gentle as they proclaim.
🌩️ The Tribal Confederation of Vlorfa
“We are storm and soil. We do not kneel.”
Vlorfa is a land untamed by stone walls or gilded crowns. Its people are wanderers, herders, warriors, and mystics, descendants of the beastfolk who roamed the world before the rise of empires. Orcs, Minotaurs, and other primal bloodlines make up the majority of its populace, each tribe claiming ancestry that stretches back to the mythical Days of Thunder, when beasts and gods walked side by side.
There is no singular Vlorfan culture—only a common bond in freedom, strength, and survival. Each tribe lives according to its own rites and traditions, passed down through epic poetry, ritual combat, and bone-carved runes. Some live by the spear and chase storms across the grasslands; others seek visions in the fog-thick jungles of the south. What unites them is a spiritual reverence for the land and their ancestors, and a shared contempt for foreign rule.
Vlorfa’s people wear their independence as a badge of honor. They do not build cities, they raise camps, rootless as the winds that shape their destiny. They sing to the moons, tattoo their skins with clan stories, and view outsiders with suspicion at best, open hostility at worst.
Government (Or the Refusal of It)
Vlorfa is not a nation. It is a coalition of fiercely independent tribes, each ruled by their own chieftains, shamans, or warbands. There is no High King, no central authority, and certainly no council where words matter more than blood. Power is earned through strength, vision, and the will to protect one’s people, not by birthright or written law.
Historically, the tribes have operated in loose harmony or heated rivalry, with seasonal gatherings to trade, share omens, or settle disputes through contests of skill and battle. But with the fall of Moressely to King Rose, and the rise of human expansionism, things are beginning to change.
In the face of potential conquest, some tribes have begun to unite, reluctantly and imperfectly. The Raging Thunder orcs of Gruumsh’s line, the reclusive Wild Elves of Ylthander, and even Minotaur matriarchs from the Blood Swamp have started holding councils under moonlight and fire. They don’t trust each other, but they trust foreign kings even less.
This newfound cooperation is not a government, but it is a movement. A Great Moot is whispered about, where warbands will gather at the foot of the Dragon Bridge to decide whether to stand together or fall tribe by tribe.
Religion
Religion in Vlorfa is lived, not preached. It is raw, wild, and deeply personal, shaped by the primal forces of nature, war, and ancestral memory. There are no temples, only sacred groves, standing stones, blood-marked totems, and the whisper of spirits on the wind.
- Gruumsh, the One-Eyed God, is revered by many Orc clans as the embodiment of strength, fury, and survival. His worship is a battle cry, his temples the open field. Warriors offer broken blades, spilled blood, and war chants in his name, believing that only those who defy fate with strength are worthy of his favor.
- Sehanine Moonbow is honored in secret among the Wild Elves of Ylthader, a goddess of moonlight, dreams, and hidden paths. Her worship is quiet and elusive, carried in moonlit dances, carved into trees, or hidden in half-remembered songs. Outsiders who speak her name in the forest often disappear, returned only as pale-eyed husks or not at all.
- Erathis, goddess of civilization and law, is paradoxically one of the most controversial but influential deities in Vlorfa. While many tribes revile her as the patron of Rosenhall and its conquest, she is venerated by many Minotaur clans, who believe in the potential for civilization to rise from the wilderness. For these Minotaurs, Erathis represents a code of honor, unity, and advancement without surrendering strength. Her shrines are rare and fiercely protected—symbols of hope that Vlorfa can forge its own order, without foreign chains.
Among all tribes, religion is less about doctrine and more about ritual, legacy, and connection to the land. Shamans, witches, and druids hold more sway than priests, and the spirits of ancestors or beasts are just as revered as any god. In Vlorfa, faith is not obedience, it is struggle, survival, and the belief that even the wild has wisdom.
Economy
Vlorfa has no mint, no central bank, and no standardized currency, wealth is measured in goods, deeds, and reputation. Each tribe maintains its own internal system of barter and honor-based exchange, valuing what they can use: pelts, bone tools, crafted weapons, enchanted trinkets, rare herbs, and monster trophies. A skilled hunter, a seasoned shaman, or a tamer of beasts may hold more value in trade than any bag of foreign coin.
Despite this, Vlorfa is not cut off from the world. The massive Dragon Bridge, a colossal 100-mile marvel of stone and ancient magic, connects Vlorfa to the rest of the civilized world, and it serves as the only consistent point of foreign trade. At its center lies a neutral trading post and tavern, known simply as The Midway Point, where merchants, diplomats, adventurers, and outcasts from every kingdom gather. Here, tribes send envoys to trade exotic goods like:
- Wyvern bone and blood
- Beast-hide armor and enchanted fetishes
- Rare poisons from the Blood Swamp
- Elven soulwine or Minotaur stormbread
…in exchange for tools, medicines, weapons, alcohol, and sometimes even books or magical scrolls.
This limited contact has seeded tension among the tribes, some see the growing interaction with foreign powers as an opportunity for strength and modernization, while others see it as the first crack in their independence. Still, no foreign crown is permitted beyond the Spine without risk of open conflict, and attempts to establish permanent embassies or roads into the interior are met with hostility or silence.
To the world, Vlorfa may seem poor, but to its people, they are rich in freedom, wildness, and ancestral legacy, and they would not trade that for all the gold in Rosenhall.
Factions
Though Vlorfa is a land without central governance, its strength lies in its tribes and factions, each carrying its own legacy, purpose, and view of the outside world. Whether warrior clans or mercenary bands, each wields influence in its own domain, and conflict between them is not uncommon.
Hunters of Vlorfa
Deep within the sacred forests of Ylthander, this elusive coalition of Wild Elves and Beastfolk rangers operates like shadows in the wild. They are more than hunters, they are guardians of balance, tasked with slaying the ancient monsters that roam the untamed heart of Vlorfa. While most never leave their territory, some are sent across the Dragon Bridge, bound by vision-quests or tribal omens to hunt threats abroad.
They accept no coin, only oaths, trophies, and stories that add to their myth.
Holden, the Salt-Blooded Roost
Nestled in the cliffs along Vlorfa’s jagged coastline lies Holden, a hidden bandit port ruled by pirates, smugglers, and sea-witches. Once just a cluster of wreckage and driftwood, it has become a haven for those exiled from their tribes or fleeing justice in other lands.
Holden flies no banner but the black flag, and its taverns echo with songs of mutiny, dark deals, and cursed treasure.
The Red Wasps
Feared and despised in equal measure, the Red Wasps are a Hobgoblin mercenary band who once fought alongside the tribes of Vlorfa, but have since taken coin from King Rose himself. Clad in crimson armor and wielding ruthless discipline, they played a key role in the fall of Moressely. Many now call them traitors, and some believe they will one day return to “finish what they started.”
Still, in the war camps of Rosenhall, their reputation grows.
To Vlorfa, they are the broken horn, the ones who chose chains over blood.
Character Hooks:
1. You were raised in a nomadic tribe that believes strength is the only law, but your spirit craves more than survival, and you’re seeking a purpose beyond battle.
2. You remember when the bells of Moressely rang with song and laughter; now you roam the world trying to find hope in places that haven’t been conquered.
3. Your people believe the old gods speak through the wilds, and you’ve set out on a spirit-quest to follow their signs wherever they lead.
4. You carry a bone totem carved from your ancestor’s remains, said to guide you toward a great destiny, or a violent end.
5. Your last smuggling run brought something cursed into Holden, and you’re haunted by what you left behind in that coastal cave.
🪄 The Elkmire Magocracy
“Let the High Elves build cathedrals to memory. We grow living sanctuaries to truth.”
Elkmire is a realm where arcane power defines status, and culture blossoms under the careful stewardship of the Wood Elves, its ancient native people. Raised in towering spire-cities carved into living trees and floating stone citadels, the Wood Elves of Elkmire view magic as both an inheritance and a responsibility. Their traditions, druidic rites, illusion plays, and poetic spellcraft, are deeply tied to the land, passed from master to apprentice like sacred heirlooms. To master the arcane is to master one’s fate.
But that fate is increasingly under threat. Across the sea, the High Elves of Eldamar, wealthy, refined, and cruel in their precision, have begun exerting economic pressure on Elkmire’s neighbors. Backing Rosenhall’s conquests with loans and military contracts, they seek to destabilize Elkmire and absorb it into their growing evil empire. To the Wood Elves, this is not just conquest, it is erasure. Eldamar’s rigid structures and abhorant views would shatter the delicate, living balance Elkmire has nurtured for centuries.
Standing in defense of this balance is Caelivyn, the Verdant Masque, an enigmatic Archfey patron of theater, beauty, and protection. Cloaked in ever-shifting masks and moods, Caelivyn empowers a scattered network of champions who travel the world answering desperate pleas sent to the Archfey’s domain. These champions are less soldiers and more performers of justice, solving problems with cleverness, drama, and emotional resonance rather than brute force.
In Elkmire, appearance and magic are inseparable. Every robe is embroidered with spell-script. Every poem is also a ward. Even political debates in the Spire Halls are as much displays of magical artistry as they are arguments. Status is earned not just through might or heritage, but through mastery of expression, whether in spell, story, or strategy.
Government
Elkmire is ruled by a singular figure known only as the Archmage, elected once per century in a dazzling competition of arcane prowess, political cunning, and public theatricality known as the Crowning of the Spire. While the position holds great power, ruling over law, defense, and magical research, the Archmage must navigate a court of ambitious spellcasters, powerful guilds, and regional magical enclaves, each vying for influence through artistry, invention, and performance.
But behind the shimmering curtain of Elkmire’s floating courts lies a deeper power: Caelivyn the Verdant Masque, the Archfey protector of Elkmire. A chaotic good force of wit, drama, and deep empathy, Caelivyn is not a monarch, but a mythic patron, an ever-present whisper in the politics of the Spires. Champions touched by the Masque serve as impartial agents of justice, appearing when least expected to resolve disputes, disrupt tyranny, or add a bit of flair to a stagnating society. It is not uncommon for a noble to find their secrets exposed in a dramatic ballad performed on stage the very next day.
Caelivyn’s Court is said to exist partially within the Feywild and partially within the floating heart of Elkmire’s capital, accessible only by invitation or through the desperate hopes written into pleas and poems sent by the oppressed. While the Archmage governs the day-to-day with an eye for balance and arcane discipline, it is Caelivyn’s chaotic influence that ensures Elkmire never forgets the human (or elven) cost of law.
Laws in Elkmire are ever-shifting, interpreted by magical courts that value poetic argument and narrative structure as much as evidence. Justice is a story, and those who tell it best often win.
Religion
Faith in Elkmire is as fluid and arcane as its floating towers, where belief intertwines with magic, culture, and art. There is no singular state religion, but three divine forces dominate spiritual life: Corellon, Sehanine, and the Archfey, each revered in temples that resemble theaters, libraries, or moonlit gardens more than churches.
Corellon, the god of magic, beauty, and elvenkind, is worshipped as the font of creativity and arcane inspiration. Their temples serve as academies, concert halls, and places of communion for mages and artists alike. To revere Corellon is to seek perfection in craft, whether spellwork, swordplay, or sculpture, and to embrace change as divine.
Sehanine Moonbow, goddess of dreams, illusions, and hidden truths, is the patron of wanderers, lovers, and those who walk between worlds. Her faith flourishes in quiet alcoves and starlit domes where secrets are shared in whispers and prayers take the form of riddles. Her clerics often serve as counselors and spies, blurring the line between religion and mysticism.
Finally, the Archfey, particularly Caelivyn the Verdant Masque, are worshipped not through doctrine, but through devotion, performance, and transformation. Elkmire’s people offer oaths, poems, or masked rituals to the Fey in exchange for protection, insight, or favor. Among the common folk, it is often Caelivyn, not Corellon, who is credited with protecting Elkmire from conquest or decay.
In this land, faith is not dictated from a pulpit, it is danced, sung, and etched into the stars. And though temples exist, it is often the stage, the duel, or the dream that becomes sacred ground.
Economy
Elkmire’s economy is built upon the arcane. Gold may still change hands, but here, true wealth lies in spells, secrets, and sorcery. Markets buzz not with livestock and grain, but with rare spell components, bottled enchantments, scrolls penned in glowing ink, and potions that shift color depending on mood or moon phase. Floating kiosks sell whispered cantrips, and alchemical boutiques line the streets like candy shops.
The Magocracy thrives on magical services, spellcasting for hire, curse removal, divination commissions, and flying carriage charters for nobles and merchants too important to walk. Prices fluctuate daily, not by demand, but by the shifting winds of magical ley lines or the favor of the Archmage’s court.
Spell gems and residuum, used to fuel rituals or replace material components, serve as a second currency, often more valuable than coin. Contracts are frequently sealed not with wax, but with binding glyphs, and the wealthiest households secure their fortunes in arcane vaults that phase in and out of the material plane.
For the elite, teleportation circles and astral ships offer breathtakingly fast travel. Maintained by Elven High Magic and fueled by rare magical resources, these methods of transport connect the spire-cities of Elkmire with distant kingdoms, planes, and even pocket dimensions. Teleportation permits are jealously guarded, and access to the Astral Armada, a fleet of glittering, magically propelled vessels capable of planar and intercontinental travel, is reserved for the wealthiest merchants, political envoys, and adventurers of near-legendary reputation. Booking a passage can cost more than founding a town.
Even the lowest castes of Elkmire’s society are entangled in its economy of magic. Mundane laborers may work crafting scroll cases, alchemy jars, or enchanted ink, while bureaucrats oversee licensing boards, ritual regulation, and leyline taxation. Still, true advancement is tied to arcane prowess, for in Elkmire, wealth is fleeting, but magic endures.
Factions
The Astral Armada
A fleet of majestic, spell-forged ships that sail not only the skies of Elkmire but the Astral Sea itself. Crewed by archmages, navigators of planar currents, and magical engineers, the Armada is Elkmire’s pride and primary means of fast diplomatic and trade travel. Only the most elite are granted passage aboard these shimmering vessels, each one a fortress, a home, and a work of art in motion. The Armada also serves a martial purpose when needed, with their flagship The Pinnacle of Intent once razing a demonic incursion in the skies above Azmar in a single afternoon. To command an Armada vessel is to be counted among the most powerful arcane minds in the realm.
The Verdant Masque
Part adventuring guild, part performance troupe, and entirely devoted to their Archfey patron, Caelivyn the Verdant Masque, this flamboyant and daring organization sends agents across the world to answer pleas for aid delivered as fan mail. The Masque is known for dramatic entrances, overly poetic monologues, and for solving even the direst of crises with flair, cunning, and unexpected generosity. In Elkmire, they are folk heroes, and across the realms, their arrival is often a sign that something marvelous, or utterly absurd, is about to happen.
The Daughters of Corellon
A gentle but devout organization of young Elven scholars, scouts, and spellcrafters, the Daughters are a coming-of-age institution for many noble and middle-class children across Elkmire. Combining reverence for art, nature, and magic, they are taught to master cantrips, identify flora, track stars, and understand Corellon’s tenets of beauty and balance. While their image is charming, embroidered robes, painted faces, and butterfly sigils, they are not without bite. The Daughters maintain a formidable network of alumni who now serve as diplomats, battlemages, and planar ambassadors, quietly shaping the direction of the Magocracy behind painted smiles and flower-petal sashes.
Character Hooks:
- You were part of a failed teleportation experiment, now you see flickers of alternate realities, and someone from one of them wants you dead.
- You joined the Daughters of Corellon as a child, but after an initiation rite turned deadly, you’ve begun to suspect the group is hiding ancient secrets.
- You’ve always felt magic speak to you in strange ways, and your tutors warned you: your power might not be arcane, but something older.
- You served aboard an Astral Armada vessel and were discharged under mysterious circumstances you can’t fully remember.
- Your family fell from grace in Elkmire’s political courts, and you’ve vowed to restore their name… or erase it forever.
🌍 Beyond the Vale
These Kingdoms, Rosenhall, Khim Khalduhr, the Sapest, Bradford, Vlorfa, and Elkmire, make up The Vale, the continent where this campaign takes place. While vast and full of wonder, The Vale is only one corner of a greater world, and powerful nations beyond its shores, such as Eldamar, continue to exert influence through diplomacy, banking, and veiled threats of war. Though distant, their shadows stretch long.
For more information about the wider world beyond The Vale, Click Here.
Please note: the content there reflects the modern state of the setting, not the alternate historical period in which this game takes place.