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Three Thousand Club
Notes and collected setting discussion.
The Achaea river valley and its tributaries in Locura are an artificial jewel of life in the midst of the sun-bleached desolation of the Burning Sands. Fertile floodplains feed towering cities ruled by sorcerer-lords in sky palaces; urged on by their gods they strive for nothing less than heavenly perfection of their people in mind, soul, and body. Long dead legions buried in the sands march again in serried ranks, shields bearing forgotten heraldry gleaming in an unfamiliar sun. Ships buoyed on sandstorms with sails filled by the breath of Djinn and holds filled with precious metals brandish flame and bronze as they crest the dunes. Warrior heroes harvest rare reagents from terrifying jungle beasts; refining them through esoteric techniques into puissant alchemical cocktails to cultivate their power.
The Realm has long coveted it all, yet it remained eternally out of their grasp; now more than ever as the Imperial Legions retreat to the Blessed Isle to prepare for the coming succession war. Rare, then, is it in this Age of Sorrows to see a Legion marching into the depths of the Threshold. The shining scion of House Sesus, supply lines harried and enemies on all sides, is counting on doing what none of her predecessors could: Secure a stable source of supply along the Diamond Road to fuel her suicidal march South. House Ragara has found a vein of jade so rich it could arm a legion of terrestrial heroes, and should she seize it for Sesus she may just secure herself the Scarlet Throne. She has dispatched the Seven Depthless Sorrows as her van with the aim of bringing Achaea to heel by any means necessary before her legions arrive. Still, many onlookers quietly question whether any amount of Jade would be sufficient to motivate such seemingly suicidal determination from one whose star seemed so bright, and mutter darkly about what else Ragara may have found in the deep and the dark.
The Lady of the Forest has worn many faces and many names over the millenia, in any one of which she has thwarted designs on her domain more ambitious than this. From her school at the House of Form Sublime and Variegated deep in the Locuran jungle she has dispatched her students to thwart the Depthless Sorrows, and to make what mark they will on the peoples of the valley. She may have resigned herself to the failure of her grand experiment, but she will see it reduced to ashes before she permits it to fall into the grasping claws of the Dragons, and some small part of her still hopes her students may rekindle her dream.
The polities of the Achaean river valley are hardly helpless sheep to be toppled at will by foreign powers. The blood of Djinn runs through the veins of the Faqari clans, and each great family has generations-long pacts with these spirits of fire and wind to drive their sandships across the dunes. They need every bit of divine swiftness they can get to outrun the leonine faeries of the Court of Bleached Bone. The holds of their ships are laden with copper, tin, and gold from distant mines, firedust, and artifacts recovered from beneath the shifting sands. Lumbering Townships render the corpses of harpooned behemoths for firedust and rare reagents, and to supply more ambitious scavenging expeditions deep into the ruins before the shifting sands bury them again. They stop at the oasis settlements that dot the desert for resupply - but never for long; a canny hunter knows the watering hole is the best place to find prey, and the Faeries of the Court of Bleached Bone are nothing if not canny.
Long have the Faqari paid tribute and sworn fealty to the mighty sorcerer-princes of the Sassarin Principate, but no longer. Three years ago an exiled prince of the Hetshepsite clan returned from certain death amongst the sands crowned in flaming glory. Riding a war sphinx at the head of long dead legions they proclaimed themselves Ur-Pharaoh. Dead legionnaires silently scaled sheer walls on a moonless night and swept over the ill-prepared city garrisons of the northern fork of the Achaea. In the ritually prepared living vessels of their cultists the great pharaohs of old walk beside the young Ur-Pharaoh, whispering centuries old wisdom and offering their sorcerous and martial might. For all this, the Ur-Pharoah’s army retreated from the cataclysmic Battle of the Silesian Gate before the bright burning might of the Sassarin Exigence, but it was such a pyrrhic victory for the sorcerer-princes peace terms soon followed. Claiming victory, the Ur-Pharaoh donned the Thrice-Blessed Crown of Eternity and seeks to restore the lost glory of Ea-Abzu.
All is not well for the young ruler. Though legions of the dead work the floodplain fields to fill the coffers of the newly raised Hetshepsite nobility, the Elementals of the Court of Seven Reeds are enraged at the lack of easily-drowned slaves in their waters and conspire with the Sassarin Harvest Goddess Merecheas to make the annual inundation weak. Once overflowing granaries are running low. The court of the Ur-Pharaoh seeks far and wide for high priests and spirit mediums who can propitiate the Court of Seven Reeds, or sorcerers and savants capable of restoring the fertility of the soil.
From high in their towers, salons, and colleges, Sassarin sorcerers are engaged in nothing less than a project to perfect human life in all its facets. They harvest the final dreams and nightmares of the dying and distill them into panaceas for the sick and injured. They concoct elixirs and serums from the humours and viscera of rare and potent beasts on their quest to perfect the mortal cultivation of essence. They forge beings of living bronze powered by ever-burning flames to aid in the construction of their great towers, then join together in intricate rituals to lift these towers into the sky and link them with bridges of shining light.
All of this knowledge and more is freely available in the libraries and lecture halls of the great academy of Ain Soph Aur, an institute of sorcerous learning to rival Ysyr - so long as prospective students can pass the penultimate stage of the ancient Indisputable Assay of Celestial Wisdom, the great multi-stage examination through which all Sassarin must earn their place in society. Failure to pass the lowest tier of the exam sees one cast down as a helot to work the floodplain fields. The examination is annually administered through dreams to all adherents of the Goddess Hanama. The great scholastic houses tightly regulate the dissemination of knowledge and literacy to ensure the population of helots remains sufficient to produce the agricultural goods required to sustain the Principate, while pointing to examples like the recent admission of a foreign Outcaste Terrestrial Sorcerer to the rolls of citizenship as proof of perfect meritocracy in action. The final stage of the examination determines ultimate worthiness to sit in the highest positions of government, scoring well on which is almost hopeless without initiation into Sorcery. From amongst these select few the Divine Tetrarchy, the patron divinities of Sassarin, choose the worthiest to become Princeps - First amongst equals.
In addition to their legions, sorcerer-generals, bound demons, alchemically enhanced Immortals, and animate bronze warriors, Sassarin has one final weapon of last resort to call upon. Each of the Divine Tetrarchy received a piece of the flame of Exigence when it was young and still burned too bright with terrible power. When called upon they can bestow it upon a worthy candidate willing to lay down their life for their people. A mortal soul cannot withstand being bonded to such immense power regulated so crudely, and invariably burns up within scant weeks, but in this time they can work wonders the mortal sorcerers of Sassarin can only dream of.
In the wake of the victory at the Silesian Gate revanchism burns bright in the hearts of many of the princes and councillors of Sassarin. Many resent the decision of the Princeps to make peace and cede the cities of the north fork, and dream of their recapture. In their salons and high towers many great houses sharpen their knives and plot his downfall so that someone more qualified might avenge Sassarin’s wounded pride. Others see the strategic situation as hopeless and fear of annihilation grips their hearts - a fear that breeds desperation. Perhaps more terrifying still is the decision of the Ur-Pharoah to promote the helots of their territory to citizens and replace them in the fields with dead legionnaires. Word of this spreads like wildfire, and gives the helots dangerous ideas.
Upriver, prayer-wheels spin day and night in temples across the eternally mist-bound city of Tiama to power great stone titans. The stone titans endlessly turn the immense cranks that wind the white jade chains of an ages old elevator to lift goods and vessels up and down the kilometre high Tiama Falls to the jungle of Locura, the source of the life giving waters of the Achaea. In the canopies of the dense rainforest between its winding tributaries are arboreal city-orchards with branches thick enough to support neighbourhoods. Beneath them their gnarled roots wind around ancient temples and long lost cities. Prayers and suitably generous offerings to the elemental spirit of these immense trees can cause a branch to grow any of an incredible cornucopia of fruits, herbs, and spices, including the miraculous Monkeyfruit and Skyfruit.
Martial artists of the great schools of Locura petition the Lady of the Forest for a sacred hunt of the guardian beasts of the jungle. Should they succeed they not only earn the right to use the alchemical reagents extracted from their bodies to cultivate their own essence - or sell them for a hefty price, but also earn a ward against the guardian beasts for themselves and their clan, allowing them to safely harvest the bounties of the forest. Training or adopting heroes for a great hunt every season is a necessity of life for every great family in Locura, and as such martial artists are held in the highest esteem.
(etc, etc, there are more ideas but this is already long)
Lunars were once worshipped, but long has it been since they walked openly.
The Lady of the Forest hates Solars and will dispatch her students to force them to leave the valley - and kill them if they refuse - if they're revealed to her. The nations of the valley, however, are desperate for power and it's been so long since the ancient laws against Solars have been enforced that it will be easy to persuade them to look the other way.
One too many invasions has led Dynasts to be looked upon with suspicion, but the valley has been at peace with the Realm for long enough that they are currently accepted as foreign dignitaries. Outcastes are welcomed, so long as they do not challenge the existing order of things.
The Realm has long coveted it all, yet it remained eternally out of their grasp; now more than ever as the Imperial Legions retreat to the Blessed Isle to prepare for the coming succession war. Rare, then, is it in this Age of Sorrows to see a Legion marching into the depths of the Threshold. The shining scion of House Sesus, supply lines harried and enemies on all sides, is counting on doing what none of her predecessors could: Secure a stable source of supply along the Diamond Road to fuel her suicidal march South. House Ragara has found a vein of jade so rich it could arm a legion of terrestrial heroes, and should she seize it for Sesus she may just secure herself the Scarlet Throne. She has dispatched the Seven Depthless Sorrows as her van with the aim of bringing Achaea to heel by any means necessary before her legions arrive. Still, many onlookers quietly question whether any amount of Jade would be sufficient to motivate such seemingly suicidal determination from one whose star seemed so bright, and mutter darkly about what else Ragara may have found in the deep and the dark.
The Lady of the Forest has worn many faces and many names over the millenia, in any one of which she has thwarted designs on her domain more ambitious than this. From her school at the House of Form Sublime and Variegated deep in the Locuran jungle she has dispatched her students to thwart the Depthless Sorrows, and to make what mark they will on the peoples of the valley. She may have resigned herself to the failure of her grand experiment, but she will see it reduced to ashes before she permits it to fall into the grasping claws of the Dragons, and some small part of her still hopes her students may rekindle her dream.
The polities of the Achaean river valley are hardly helpless sheep to be toppled at will by foreign powers. The blood of Djinn runs through the veins of the Faqari clans, and each great family has generations-long pacts with these spirits of fire and wind to drive their sandships across the dunes. They need every bit of divine swiftness they can get to outrun the leonine faeries of the Court of Bleached Bone. The holds of their ships are laden with copper, tin, and gold from distant mines, firedust, and artifacts recovered from beneath the shifting sands. Lumbering Townships render the corpses of harpooned behemoths for firedust and rare reagents, and to supply more ambitious scavenging expeditions deep into the ruins before the shifting sands bury them again. They stop at the oasis settlements that dot the desert for resupply - but never for long; a canny hunter knows the watering hole is the best place to find prey, and the Faeries of the Court of Bleached Bone are nothing if not canny.
Long have the Faqari paid tribute and sworn fealty to the mighty sorcerer-princes of the Sassarin Principate, but no longer. Three years ago an exiled prince of the Hetshepsite clan returned from certain death amongst the sands crowned in flaming glory. Riding a war sphinx at the head of long dead legions they proclaimed themselves Ur-Pharaoh. Dead legionnaires silently scaled sheer walls on a moonless night and swept over the ill-prepared city garrisons of the northern fork of the Achaea. In the ritually prepared living vessels of their cultists the great pharaohs of old walk beside the young Ur-Pharaoh, whispering centuries old wisdom and offering their sorcerous and martial might. For all this, the Ur-Pharoah’s army retreated from the cataclysmic Battle of the Silesian Gate before the bright burning might of the Sassarin Exigence, but it was such a pyrrhic victory for the sorcerer-princes peace terms soon followed. Claiming victory, the Ur-Pharaoh donned the Thrice-Blessed Crown of Eternity and seeks to restore the lost glory of Ea-Abzu.
All is not well for the young ruler. Though legions of the dead work the floodplain fields to fill the coffers of the newly raised Hetshepsite nobility, the Elementals of the Court of Seven Reeds are enraged at the lack of easily-drowned slaves in their waters and conspire with the Sassarin Harvest Goddess Merecheas to make the annual inundation weak. Once overflowing granaries are running low. The court of the Ur-Pharaoh seeks far and wide for high priests and spirit mediums who can propitiate the Court of Seven Reeds, or sorcerers and savants capable of restoring the fertility of the soil.
From high in their towers, salons, and colleges, Sassarin sorcerers are engaged in nothing less than a project to perfect human life in all its facets. They harvest the final dreams and nightmares of the dying and distill them into panaceas for the sick and injured. They concoct elixirs and serums from the humours and viscera of rare and potent beasts on their quest to perfect the mortal cultivation of essence. They forge beings of living bronze powered by ever-burning flames to aid in the construction of their great towers, then join together in intricate rituals to lift these towers into the sky and link them with bridges of shining light.
All of this knowledge and more is freely available in the libraries and lecture halls of the great academy of Ain Soph Aur, an institute of sorcerous learning to rival Ysyr - so long as prospective students can pass the penultimate stage of the ancient Indisputable Assay of Celestial Wisdom, the great multi-stage examination through which all Sassarin must earn their place in society. Failure to pass the lowest tier of the exam sees one cast down as a helot to work the floodplain fields. The examination is annually administered through dreams to all adherents of the Goddess Hanama. The great scholastic houses tightly regulate the dissemination of knowledge and literacy to ensure the population of helots remains sufficient to produce the agricultural goods required to sustain the Principate, while pointing to examples like the recent admission of a foreign Outcaste Terrestrial Sorcerer to the rolls of citizenship as proof of perfect meritocracy in action. The final stage of the examination determines ultimate worthiness to sit in the highest positions of government, scoring well on which is almost hopeless without initiation into Sorcery. From amongst these select few the Divine Tetrarchy, the patron divinities of Sassarin, choose the worthiest to become Princeps - First amongst equals.
In addition to their legions, sorcerer-generals, bound demons, alchemically enhanced Immortals, and animate bronze warriors, Sassarin has one final weapon of last resort to call upon. Each of the Divine Tetrarchy received a piece of the flame of Exigence when it was young and still burned too bright with terrible power. When called upon they can bestow it upon a worthy candidate willing to lay down their life for their people. A mortal soul cannot withstand being bonded to such immense power regulated so crudely, and invariably burns up within scant weeks, but in this time they can work wonders the mortal sorcerers of Sassarin can only dream of.
In the wake of the victory at the Silesian Gate revanchism burns bright in the hearts of many of the princes and councillors of Sassarin. Many resent the decision of the Princeps to make peace and cede the cities of the north fork, and dream of their recapture. In their salons and high towers many great houses sharpen their knives and plot his downfall so that someone more qualified might avenge Sassarin’s wounded pride. Others see the strategic situation as hopeless and fear of annihilation grips their hearts - a fear that breeds desperation. Perhaps more terrifying still is the decision of the Ur-Pharoah to promote the helots of their territory to citizens and replace them in the fields with dead legionnaires. Word of this spreads like wildfire, and gives the helots dangerous ideas.
Upriver, prayer-wheels spin day and night in temples across the eternally mist-bound city of Tiama to power great stone titans. The stone titans endlessly turn the immense cranks that wind the white jade chains of an ages old elevator to lift goods and vessels up and down the kilometre high Tiama Falls to the jungle of Locura, the source of the life giving waters of the Achaea. In the canopies of the dense rainforest between its winding tributaries are arboreal city-orchards with branches thick enough to support neighbourhoods. Beneath them their gnarled roots wind around ancient temples and long lost cities. Prayers and suitably generous offerings to the elemental spirit of these immense trees can cause a branch to grow any of an incredible cornucopia of fruits, herbs, and spices, including the miraculous Monkeyfruit and Skyfruit.
Martial artists of the great schools of Locura petition the Lady of the Forest for a sacred hunt of the guardian beasts of the jungle. Should they succeed they not only earn the right to use the alchemical reagents extracted from their bodies to cultivate their own essence - or sell them for a hefty price, but also earn a ward against the guardian beasts for themselves and their clan, allowing them to safely harvest the bounties of the forest. Training or adopting heroes for a great hunt every season is a necessity of life for every great family in Locura, and as such martial artists are held in the highest esteem.
(etc, etc, there are more ideas but this is already long)
Lunars were once worshipped, but long has it been since they walked openly.
The Lady of the Forest hates Solars and will dispatch her students to force them to leave the valley - and kill them if they refuse - if they're revealed to her. The nations of the valley, however, are desperate for power and it's been so long since the ancient laws against Solars have been enforced that it will be easy to persuade them to look the other way.
One too many invasions has led Dynasts to be looked upon with suspicion, but the valley has been at peace with the Realm for long enough that they are currently accepted as foreign dignitaries. Outcastes are welcomed, so long as they do not challenge the existing order of things.
TBD
The Lady of the Forest (Neith to her friends - she's largely dispensed with titles and epithets in her old age) has a... complex relationship with Raksi. If you're hanging around Silver Pact members you would know: They were once very close but a gulf a millenium (or maybe two) wide separates them today. There's a core of deep and abiding professional respect somewhere buried under a mountain of personal antipathy. Neith is widely rumoured to be the finest necromancer in the Silver Pact, but unlike Raksi students don't often come to her for tutelage. She hasn't practiced nor taken a student in necromancy in almost five hundred years, despite the attempts of countless supplicants to change her mind. People in the know tend to change the subject when asked why, but rumours abound: A horrific research accident, one zombie apocalypse too many, really bad breakup with the ghost of her Solar mate, pitted her necromancy against Raksi's sorcery in a fight and lost (you heard this from one of Raksi's students, so you take it with a grain of salt), etc. Whatever it was, it was somehow linked to the collapse of the utopian social project she was working on, and everyone agrees Raksi was unusually smug for the next decade.
Currently she's devoting her efforts to creating a superior form of life, something less liable to fail her than humans. For the last century or so she's been preoccupied with breeding sentient plants in a spectacular Manse deep in the Locuran jungle. She teaches students who seek her out the arts of genesis, philosophy, ethics, social engineering, sorcerous engineering, the workings and manipulation of Heaven and the Divinities, and, most importantly, the proper brewing of tea.
Many of her wonders still persist to this day. For example, the network of Soulsteel obelisks that completely cuts off the Achaea river valley from the Underworld. Hungry Ghosts simply do not manifest here. Spirits do not linger beyond their appointed time. Presumably she built them for the obvious health and security benefits, but the extremely canny observer might note that of the hundreds of Old Realm inscriptions on each obelisk at least one spells out one of the more colourful Old Realm equivalents of 'FUCK YOU' in the acrostic. The thankless task of maintaining this system falls to one of her students, Two-Suns Sephira, who endlessly attempts what so many have tried and failed before her: Convincing Neith to teach her necromancy.
Currently she's devoting her efforts to creating a superior form of life, something less liable to fail her than humans. For the last century or so she's been preoccupied with breeding sentient plants in a spectacular Manse deep in the Locuran jungle. She teaches students who seek her out the arts of genesis, philosophy, ethics, social engineering, sorcerous engineering, the workings and manipulation of Heaven and the Divinities, and, most importantly, the proper brewing of tea.
Many of her wonders still persist to this day. For example, the network of Soulsteel obelisks that completely cuts off the Achaea river valley from the Underworld. Hungry Ghosts simply do not manifest here. Spirits do not linger beyond their appointed time. Presumably she built them for the obvious health and security benefits, but the extremely canny observer might note that of the hundreds of Old Realm inscriptions on each obelisk at least one spells out one of the more colourful Old Realm equivalents of 'FUCK YOU' in the acrostic. The thankless task of maintaining this system falls to one of her students, Two-Suns Sephira, who endlessly attempts what so many have tried and failed before her: Convincing Neith to teach her necromancy.
