Valusian Empire: Sprawling across the heart of the continent of Thuria like a colossus. Ancient, rotting, yet still imposing in its death throes. Once the crown jewel of civilization, now it festers with intrigue as noble factions gnaw at its bones like carrion crows. The Landsraat's granite halls echo with poisoned whispers, while behind the ruby-studded doors of the Imperial Palace, the Emperor plays his vassals against each other in a lethal game of shifting allegiances. Only in Valusia, that primordial city of wonders, where cyclopean towers pierce the sky, does the illusion of unity hold, and even there the cracks show.
Kingdom of Aquilonia: Honor is their religion, and oaths are unbreakable chains. Nestled against the Empire’s western frontier, Aquilonia is a land of golden wheat fields and silver-armored knights, where a man’s word is worth more than his life. To break a promise is to invite war, and its King would sooner see his kingdom burn than suffer dishonor. Their capital, Pars, gleams like a jewel, orderly, proud, and unyielding, a stark contrast to the Empire’s decadent chaos.
Seraphine Theocracy: The Angels of the High Heavens may have departed this world, but their zealots remain. To the south, the Theocracy stands as a bastion of puritanical fury, its Inquisitors ever-watchful for the faintest whiff of heresy. Their Paladins, living weapons clad in sanctified steel, are the most feared warriors on the continent, marching under the banner of a faith that would rather drown the world in fire than tolerate corruption. Their holy city, Eldergate, is a fortress of devotion, where the Seraphine Patriarch wields divine magic with the force of a divine storm.
Clans of Vanaheim: Across the Narrow Sea to the north, the ancient forests of Vanaheim shelter the last remnants of the Vanir elves, keepers of the old world’s dying magic. Their spells, woven from ice and whispering trees, are not taught, only bartered, and always at a price. Beside them, the Aesir tribes, hardened humans of the north, raid the Empire’s coasts when not warring amongst themselves. Though fractured, they elect a single Warchief in times of crisis. Once an Aesir gives their word, they keep it,even unto death. To flee battle is to forsake Valhalla, and their mercenaries are worth their weight in gold.
Khanate of Hyrkania: To the east, the Khanate of Hyrkania stretches across the endless steppes, a realm of horse lords and shifting alliances. For centuries, they were divided... until now. A single Khan has united them, and their hordes eye the Empire’s borders like wolves circling a wounded stag. The Hyrkanians respect strength in any form, martial, character, even sorcerous. But they despise hesitation. Show weakness, and they will ride over your corpse. Show power, and they may just join you.
Magic: A dying art, a bloodline curse, a whispered heresy. The Theocracy hoards the last legal sorceries, holy blessings, radiant smitings, miracles wrapped in scripture. The Seraphine Patriarch stands as the most formidable mage alive, his power unchallenged even by Imperial decrees. But the Vanir still remember the old ways: ice that bends to their will, roots that answer their call. And deeper still, in locked chests and buried ruins, lie the grimoires of the long fallen Infernal Empire, tomes of blood magic, necromancy, and worse. To touch them is punishable by death. To master them… is power.
