AkropaDalariFal NarnGabbardanRak al HinaJavennaLenoriMountainbornNavariaNornOrmazOuqurPeople of the PlainsRakkhariRiverfolkSerdanosUlavnodYak TrokZaga Mora

The Ghual-DunThe KrioraThe Kseshi



Warriors, trailblazers and cannibals. The Akropa are often written off as savage degenerates, but they cast a long shadow. While it is true that theirs is an existence where violence is a given, their cause is nothing but noble. They alone make up a thin line that battles a never-ending stream of abominations trying to escape the southern wildlands. It is not only a necessary war, but a sacred one laid on their shoulders by their Goddess. This war not only affects the Akropa, it defines them from birth to death.

Horror stories tell of how the Akropa eat human flesh, even from their own - and it is true. But they aren't cannibals because they enjoy it. It is rather a ritualistic way of honoring the dead and using everything they can to survive. But it is also a way to sense the corruption that is plaguing the wildlands, and a way to grow more resistant to it.

When you add to this their tradition of growing horns and bone patterns using body sorcery, and it is easy to see why the Akropa have the reputation that they do.

The women of the Akropa easily stand a head taller than anyone else, if not taller. The men, however are sickly and misshapen, deformed from birth. As one can imagine, this makes for a very skewed balance in a culture founded on tough choices and and a history of blood.

The southern wildlands inhabited by the Akropa are among the most hostile places on Menidi'ath. Not only is the land dangerous to traverse with its ravines, cliffs and treacherous reaches, but it is filled with all manner of creatures and diseases that will end you.


Fierce manipulators, callous rulers and exotic performers. The Dalari are often seen as manyfaced and unpredictable, a people that look out for themselves more than anything else. Though it may be an unfair stereotype, it is true that their society is strongly focused on status and image. How your peers and, more importantly, your betters see you is extremely important, because if you come off as undeserving, you will never rise in status.
It is no surprise then that the Dalari hold many high positions in the Rakkhari Commonwealth. Indeed, without the active support of the Dalari the Commonwealth could never have come to be in the first place. As the Dalari and the Rakkhari can have drastically different opinions on what is considered moral and right, there is more than a little friction.

To the Dalari, the end justify the means. Results are what matter, and the biggest sin is lacking ambition. Like their neighbors they have a fascination for the weird, macabre and sometimes even grotesque. The higher up in society you get, the more common strange masks and outfits become, used both as cultural expressions and as weapons to unsettle. Unpredictability is both a shield and a sword.

The land they inhabit is a rolling sea of meadows, hills and forests. The coastline is a patchwork of cracked canyons and rifts, housing many of their cities, built into the cliffsides. The southern parts are far less picturesque, however. Deep, dark valleys sink into caverns where foul things hide. Things some say have escaped the southern wildlands through hidden pathways and now are trying to make a new home.


Secretive conspirators, decadent experimenters and keepers of old traditions. The Fal Narni are an enigma, and not a harmless one. The beautiful but poisonous flower which their province is named after is symbolic not only of the nation but its people as well. Secrecy and deception are woven into the very fabric of society, teaching that your true motives must never be fully apparent.

Though they are part of the Rakkhari Commonwealth, it is by no means a stable situation and one that is growing ever more complicated. An obedient facade hides a seething contempt and more than a few conspiracies. Old traditions are kept alive in secret, far from prying eyes that would seek to stomp them out.

They have a fascination for beauty in all its different shapes, though the Fal Narni concept of beauty can seem very strange if not outright alien to outsiders. But the strange and unexplored is the very essence of Fal Narni beauty. Real beauty, just like the truth, is unsettling. Sometimes terrifying. The people that dwell deep down in the mists have less time to think about beauty, though the same secrecy and fascination with the unknown is still there.

The land itself is fraught with beauty and danger. The high peaks of the mountains are reserved for the highest-ranking families, while others toil in valleys below. Due to the province being made up of deep, plunging valleys, much of it is covered in a near-eternal fog. A fog that will likely never be fully explored.


Philosophical thinkers, skilled craftsmen and political troublemakers. The Gabbardani do not shy away from problems or conflicts. One might even say that they are more than happy to create new ones where none exist. As part of the Rakkhari Commonwealth, they supply more than their share of thinkers and scholars that challenge the old ways. Education and discussion – especially political discussion – is valued highly. It is hardly surprising then, that Gabbardan has seen more than a little political turmoil as social movements and ideologies have clashed.
But most know Gabbardan for their masterful craftsmen, especially when it comes to stonework. Not only the rare masters that can use sorcery to shape stone, but the craftmen that learned the art the hard way are all widely known and commissioned for the grandest constructions on the continent.

It is also here that the largest criminal organisation in this part of the world has risen. The House of Carvers. Part organised crime, part political resistance group, their influence is growing with a frightening pace. But exactly how far, or more importantly, how high in the ranks their reach has grown is unknown.

The land of Gabbardan is something of a marvel. The center of a province is made up of a massive crater which plunges deep down, resulting a unique climate. At the bottom of this crater lies the capital, Vanshiyr-Doriyath, amid emerald pools and blossoming gardens. Plunging cliffsides are littered with strange structures that still remain from the time when gods ruled the land, and the very crater seems to be built deliberately by some unknown hand.


Daring travelers, mindful diplomats and keen merchants. The Hineans are in many ways a stabilising force to those around them. As a part of the Rakkhari Commonwealth they have proven themselves time and time again to be a moral backbone and a sobering voice in trying times. More then any other culture, they value the virtues of honesty and dignity. No success is worth achieving trough dishonest means, be it through lying, cheating or deceiving. Nor is any goal worth robbing others or yourself of dignity. Beyond these personal virtues, family is everything. For good and for bad. You and your deeds are a reflection upon your family, and vice versa. And no deed ruins that reflection as bad as dishonesty. Together you grow strong and prosperous, but a family divided sows only discontent and misery in society.

The Hineans are also among the most well-traveled people in the Commonwealth. After all, if you don't venture forth into new places, how do you find new opportunities? Little by little, this attitude has built a far-reaching trade infrastructure which is spreading ever further.

Rak al Hina, the province they inhabit, is a warm, sunny flatland. Wide, open flats give way to plateus and canyons cut by rivers. Though a lot of the province is rather dry, lakes and rivers provide lush and fertile spots. Especially the great river Zinova, which cuts all the way through the province, providing both passage and and water for a great length of cities and towns along its reach.


Hedonists, fanatics and true-blood sorcerors. The Javenians are both a dream and a nightmare. They, like their fantastic cities, seem dazzling and vibrant, shining with the light of sorcery. But under that surface lurks a dark and twisted reality. What on the surface is a paradise of abundance and pleasures is actually a strict theocracy where bizarre gods are worshipped with fanatical fervor. The faith is never questioned, never challenged.

All javenians are born with sorcery and their society is completely based upon it as a result. Though you have a set place in society which you are required to fulfill, you will never lack anything in your life. Food, drink, music, intoxicants and all other pleasures exist in abundance. Every night can be a theatre of indulgence, a dream where you can live as if it was your last night. And since Javenian lives burn out quickly due to their powerful sorcery, one can understand why.

But due to this sorcery, everything comes easy. They will never know hardship. They will never be challenged, never truly tested. Instead they remain childlike in a garden of pleasure, wielding a power they can never truly respect.

Beyond their grand cities lies only wastelands. Glass deserts, thundras, and plains, one more hostile than the other. Much of this is of the Javenians' own making, having ruined the land in their fight to either bring new people into their fold or eradicate them. Only the most extreme fanatics venture out there, searching for hidden relics among the ruins.


Voyagers, explorers and colonisers. Though the Lenorians make up a small nation, but their drive and stubbornness more than makes up for it. Their nation came into existence as the result of a revolution, which has colored both the people and their society ever since. There is very little in the way of nobility or a wealthy class, as the Lenorians are very quick to discourage anyone trying to take more than their fair share. Though this makes for a rather tumultuous political climate, it also makes sure the people never forget their own power.

While they can seem like a scruffy, disorganised people the Lenorians hide a fiercly clever side. Their ships carry them across waters other wouldn't even dare think of crossing and their knowhow of mechanics far surpass their neighbors'. Their harbors are filled with awe-inspiring mechanical structures, creaking and groaning as massive wheels turn to give them life.

The land they inhabit is a harsh, deep wilderness where deep, almost impenetrable forests cover plunging valleys and heights. Traversing it is no easy task, and the fact that they've managed to not only settle but develop it is a testament to their stubbornness.

But though they are very focused on equality and pulling together, there is a darker history of slavery. It is, no doubt, a large part of how they built not only their nation, but their three colonies as well. As time passes, this culture of exploitation is being worn down, but its stain might well last forever.


Worshippers of the living mountain, singers of the soulsong and seekers of harmony. The Moutainborn may seem like a rather small and simple people, but that's far from the truth. A long time ago, they came upon a living mountain, which granted them the gift of the soulsong and a new home inside its dwindling, everchanging halls. The mountain also taught them to value and always seek harmony with the world around them. Where many others value strength, honor and courage, the mountainborn place value on cooperation, community, loyalty and patience. No one is left to fend for themselves, and family extends far beyond simple blood. Although the mountainborn keep mostly to themselves, they extend courteous hospitality to everyone who needs it - as long as they do not seem to be dangerous or violent.

Though most of them live in and around the living mountain, many of them also travel out into the world in small camps, living nomadic lives. But no matter how far away they stray, everyone ventures back to the mountain sooner or later.

The soulsong, for many the defining trait of the Mountainborn, is a small melody tied to the very essence of their being. Humming or signing this wordless melody is like a soothing balm not only for the singer, but for those who hear it as well. Humming this song underground will also give the singer an innate knowledge of the surroundings, even if there is no light.


Devout worshippers, rememberers of the lost Goddess and reclusive remnants of a past age. The Navarians are a people who the world left behind. About 400 years ago, they were a united people with those who make up the Serans and the Javenians in modern times.
They lived under the rule of their holy Goddess, a benevolent queen who saw to it that her people lacked nothing. It was a reclusive paradise, in a world that was spinning out of order. But one day, the Goddess disappeared, leaving her people behind. Navaria quickly crumbled without her, and soon divided into three nations as those who became the Javenians and the Serans left. Disasters led to Navaria declaring the outside world lost and forbidden, and little by little, wonders became only memories that they desperately kept alive. That is, until a Seran expedition ventured into Navaria and made contact - causing the first contact with the outside world in centuries.

The first thing an outsider notices is their unnaturally white skin, pale as starlight, with dark purple veins visible underneath. Their hair is jet black, just like their eyes which are like black pools of shadows. In their almost colorless tattered robes and wraps they may seem sinister. But in truth, they are a wary people, oppressed by centuries of melancholic memories and legends. Those few who have met a Navarian on the roads quickly find that they are far more friendly than their appearance might suggest, though they may be a bit of a drag with their stories of their lost Goddess.

The land in Navaria is just as grim-looking as its people. Rippling valleys are cut by craggy clefts and mountains. Hillsides are peppered with abandoned temples and mausoleum sites, as age-old monuments and statues are being eaten by moss and lichen. But there is a harsh beauty in it, and if you squint, the lost glory of Navaria can almost be seen still today.


Strict traditionalists, secretive occultists and scheming conspirators. The Norni have faced countless challenges and foes through the ages, both from inside and the outside. Their history runs back countless generations with traditions that have endured centuries. But with those centuries come a heavy burden. The nation is made up of great families whose lineage trace back further than anyone remembers . These families refuse to let go of feuds and rivalries that have no hope of ever being settled. After fighting off its southern neighbor - the Rakkhari Commonwealth - for centuries, it was these feuds that finally brought Norn to its knees. Traitors took the throne as they allowed the Rakkhari to occupy the nation and the ruling families were thrown into the mud.

When the Javenians obliterated the capital of the Rakkhari Commonwealth, the Rakkhari grip on Norn loosened. And that was all that was needed to throw Norn into chaos. What used to be a hostile but stable standstill has now been turned into a lethal free-for-all. Everyone feels that they are entitled to the crown and if they can't have it, no one can. Though most try to cling to the old ways, little remains in Norn these days besides the lust for revenge. Only history will tell if anything of the ancient culture will survive, or if violence will conquer all as the streets run red with blood.

The land the Norni inhabit is a grey, rocky region where a near-eternal rain falls. Cliffy beaches, thick forests and stormy peaks give Norn a somber, yet dignified air. Large monuments left behind by some unknown people defy the winds, towering over the horizon. Ruined fortresses and walls litter the landscape after countless battles, slowly being reclaimed by nature. Uncountable graves are strewn across the country, and the number grows every day.


Tribals, survivors and bloodline mystics. The Ormáz are a handful of tribes stretched out over a handful of islands. A people in hiding from another tribe, the cannibalistic “Orthós” who are more numerous and many times more vicious. Now also assailed by the Lenorians who capture them and put them in large ships, never to be seen again.

The tribes are run by the eldest matriarch who takes care of all day-to-day business, and her partner; the Chieftain who takes care of the defense against the Orthós and wild beasts. Younglings are taught the ways of the jungle from a young age and watched for signs of what type of bloodline(s) they will get, afterwards they will be groomed for certain positions within the tribe.

The people of Ormáz all inhibit certain abilities, which help them survive in the unforgiving jungles. Four such bloodlines can be derived, but most of the people inhibit slight signs of at least three. The elder matriarchs sometimes see to it that two certain young people which inhibit one strong bloodline to get together, so the line does not die out.

The islands of Ormáz could be described as a perfect island paradise at first glance, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. Sandy beaches, colourful flowers and animals are everywhere, at night phosphorescent plants and fungi light up deep inside the jungles. For all its beauty, nothing can be trusted. Poisonous plants, venomous creatures and carnivorous plants and animals as far as the eye can see. Now with the seafarer incursion the lands of the Ormáz are shrinking, the beaches can barely be dared for fear of capture, but neither can the deep jungles where the Lenorians cannot find them.


Children of the soil, Bearers of the Great Burden and Tenders of the flower wall. The Ouqur are an enigmatic people. Amongst the few outsiders who even know of the Ouqur’s existence they are known for three things. Their tendency to steal things in an almost absent minded way as they don’t believe that things can be owned, their unparalleled ability to heal and mend anything that has been broken or damaged and their misshapen or twisted appearance. As for theirs origins the Ouqur tell a story of how they long ago awoke in the ground as seeds would in spring. They were fair and unburdened as they stepped in to the light and begun what they call the Undertaking.

Everything in Ouqur society revolves around this Undertaking - to rid the world of wrongness and that which has been corrupted. This is why the Ouqur now are misshapen, they possess the ability to absorb corruption into themselves and neutralize it, but at a cost, what they call the Great Burden. The Burden however also gives them the ability to heal, mend and inspire things to grow. Their society is divided into three distinct parts. Those of the Winds who travel the world to find corruption and gather stories. Those of the Waters who are healers and soothers and brew of the soup of tears from the bodies of the dead. And lastly those of the Weald who tend the plants and the flower wall which protects them from the dangers of the wildlands beyond.

The lands of the Ouqur, the Weald, can only be described as a great jungle, wild and beautiful. Ouqur life is simple and almost innocent. They approach the world with a child like curiosity, they are not violent in any way and have great respect for all life. They have little need to produce things as the jungle they tend and grow provides them with food and shelter.


Worshippers of earth and flame, rugged nomads and eternal seekers. The people of the plains walk a path of their own, a path of eternal searching. They honor beings they refer to only as Brother Earth and Sister Flame. Though an outsider might assume that they mean this metaphorically, the people of the plains are quite assuring that no, these are quite real beings with which they commune. These beings do, however, correspond to the body and the essence, the two halves that make a whole. Life is everything that exists between the two, and throughout life they explore this balance, trying to understand what it means to be a being from two worlds.

They also adhere to a cyclical existence, where every year is a new beginning where one must shed what one used to be. The cycle repeats eternal, but the being is constantly changing.

To outsiders, they may come off as very perplexing and cryptic. But they are more than happy to invite outsiders to share warmth and food, without lecturing or preaching. That's not to say that they are total pacifists or pushovers however. Should they ever be threatened, they do not hesitate to take up arms. Though they have sometimes assisted the Rakkhari Commonwealth from time to time, it has never been in aggression.

The northern and eastern plains are vast stretches of open sky, only occasionally broken by rivers and small groves. Great altars to Brother Earth and Sister Flame are raised, where monoliths stand surrounded by sacred fires. Few venture out to find the nomads of these plains, but those that do seldom return unaffected.


Crusaders, scholars and conquerors. The Rakkhari are a people on a mission: to slay all gods, and free the world. This crusade is based upon the deeds of Rakkath the Godslayer, a man who stole divine weapons to murder the high God of a pantheon that had enslaved humanity. He then set out on a crusade to hunt down all the other gods in their realm of shadows, and instructed his people to carry on the fight in their own world. This is the very foundation of the Rakkhari culture, a culture with a strict division between the military and the civilian life.

They are a people that value strength, bravery and intelligence. Those who contribute to society and the crusade should be celebrated. Those who cannot or choose not to must be corrected. Or rejected. While they can be a warm and welcoming people, they have little tolerance for weakness or laziness. In many ways, the individual stands alone.

During the course of their crusade they have occupied many lands and many peoples, and this has resulted in what is called the Rakkhari Commonwealth. But though they may seem like a powerhungry and dominant people, the crusade comes from a want to prevent the gods from returning to enslave humanity again. Freedom must be fought for, even when people do not understand that the Gods they worship are nothing but liars and tyrants.

Though the Rakkhari Commonwealth is vast and varied, the true homelands of the Rakkhari is a sea of warm, sunny fields and hills. Fertile groves heavy with fruits and crops, calm rivers and brooks, rustling trees among windswept beaches. This placid, peacful land is a stark contrast to its fervent, restless people.


Travelers, seekers and keeepers of secrets. The Riverfolk are a varied and colorful people, slowly spreading across the continent. To most they are simply nomads, strangers that harbor outcasts and criminals. Few would guess that these riverfaring wanderers are actually collectors of knowledge, keepers of secrets and carriers of the secret ember. But that they are, and so much more.

Their roots trace back to old Javenna, when a group of Yadeshi fled into the wilderness. Pressured to destroy all their old knowledge and stories, they chose instead to flee southwards. After a long trek they settled down again, putting down the foundations of a city. They vowed to never allow their heritage to be destroyed. Knowledge must be held sacred. And the secret ember - the javenian sorcery they still carried - must be kept hidden.

They are a people that have grown largely due to accepting anyone that wishes to travel alongside them. There are a lot of lost strays in the world, and they all have something to share. This sharing is also how they deal with outsiders. Anyone is welcome to their camps and will be treated to food and drink. As long as they share some rumors or other knowledge, that is. If this knowledge seems important enough, it is written down and sent with bats far, far away. Back home.

Though they've spread far and wide, the Riverfolk all have their common home in the labyrinth swamps, far in the southwest of Ambra. As it name suggests, it is a maze of rivers and passages impossible to navigate for everyone except those initiated into its secrets. Deep inside this swamp lies the great tree, around which lies the secret city, where everything the Riverfolk have ever collected is gathered.


Calculating scientists, cold politicians and discerning mystics. The Serans are a force to be reckoned with. What on the surface may seem like a stiff and boring bunch of dullards, is in reality a collection of some of the sharpest, most cunning minds on the planet. The nation is made up of a number of families, the remnants of the highest-ranking families of an old, decrepit nation that they left a long time ago. Though a senate unites them to keep their nation organised, they struggle for power and influence not only in politics, but in science, sorcery and mysticism as well. But do not mistake this competition for fractures - when there is an outside threat, the Serans hold the line, united. But as they live in a society built on feuds and struggles the Serans have built a culture that is formal to the point of mechanical, and a natural paranoia where nothing can be completely trusted.

Seeing their scientific prowess, it may seem strange that the Serans then put their faith in truths divined from the stars. But the Dragomen - oracles, astronomers and diviners - rely on far more than guesswork. But in all of Serdanos, nothing is kept as secret as their methods and designs.

Like its people, the land in Serdanos is cold and rather uninviting. Thick forests, jagged mountains and desolate heights make up this cold, windswept land where winters cut deeper than any blade. And little by little, the Serans expand their reach into the arctic waters in the north, establishing outposts among the small, frozen islands.


Patient laborers, proficient metalworkers and dedicated historians. The people of Ulav Nod are one of the pillars of the Rakkhari Commonwealth. Their humble, work-centered way of life means that they may not grab much attention, but their work is no less vital for it. Much like their neighbors, the Ulavi place a lot of weight on responsibility and honor, but in a much more personal way. Everyone pulls together and does their part. If you do not do your part, or do it in a shoddy way, you are given a chance to better yourself. If you still do not better yourself, you will be replaced somewhere where you do not ruin the work of honest, diligent people. Everyone is given a second chance, but if that second chance is wasted, there will be no third chance. They also value history, their own as well as the world around them. Without giving events their proper context, it would be impossible to learn from them.

It is their calm, reliable work ethic that has built the infrastructure and transport system of the Commonwealth. Without their roads, their caravans, their diligent mining and all the other often forgotten work, the whole Commonwealth would come to a standstill. They know this. But they do not ask to be given power in exchange. To use your work as leverage politically would be to taint it. The work is done because it needs doing. For the common good.
But the songsmiths, the smiths that work their metal using sorcery are not only known all over the Commonwealth, they are acknowledged as being an irreplaceable part of keeping the Rakkhari Crusade going.

Their land may first seem like a dry, hot wasteland. Where flat plains are broken only by blue mountainranges on the horizon. But as soon as you get closer to settlements you find that complex water carrying systems create lush gardens covering the stone architecture dug into the rock. Mines, workshops and warehouses litter the mountainsides, leading to roads stretching all across the Commonwealth. Ever present is the gargantuan ruins of the citadel of the gods. Once a tower of unfathomable proportions, reduced now to a mere skeleton by the Godslayer Rakkath.


Unshakable rebels, defenders of ancestral knowledge and interpreters of the divine scripts. The Yak Troki are a people desperate to keep their history and legacy alive. For generations they have been attacked and oppressed by the Rakkhari Commonwealth, which has tried to occupy their land and eradicate their way of worship, even though they have been losing little by little. Their old stories tell of how the Yak Troki used to be the held in high regard by the gods, chosen as their right hands to aid them in their work. None but the gods and the Yak Troki could read the divine scripts or command the machines being built. This bred jealousy among the other peoples, a bitter resentment that lasts to this day.

They call the Yak Troki barbarians and brutes, uncultured savages who cling to old ways. But they were the ones who forced a bright and noble people to adopt the way of violence, simply to survive. They were the ones who sided with foreign conquerors and greedy schemers. To give in would be to surrender your honor and your dignity. And if there is one thing that is true of all the Yak Troki tribes it is this: they would rather fail and die than give up willingly.

Their land has suffered greatly as battles and war has raged. Open fields and sandy plains hide uncountable graves. But there is still a proud beauty to be found, with strange, massive rock formation spiring towards the clouds and great cliffs housing the different camps and tribes. It is, no doubt, a dry and harsh land in many places, but among the hills and mountains fall soft rains. Maze-like canyons serve as the final refuge for many when the fight for their homeland cuts too deep.


Disciplined hermits, wielders of the living thunder and tamers of the stormbolts. The Zaga Mora is the eye of the storm and the booming force of the thunder united in harmony. Long ago, while fleeing a great disaster they came upon an eternal storm, a living thunder which spoke to them, tested them and ultimately took them as its disciples. They follow strict ascetic traditions which emphasize mastery of the body, mind and force, so that they can be worthy of the gift of thunder. Because that gift is no easy thing to wield. It is a force unmatched by any sorcery in the world, and as such is must be used with utmost respect. This gift also allow them to tame the stormbolts, massive titasects that swarm among the lightning cascades.

And so, the Zaga Mora temper and forge themselves as close to perfection as they can. To outsiders, they could easily seem like cold, unfriendly and quiet people. But the Zaga Mora communicate less with words and more with actions and self-expression through athletics, music and dance. Thundering drums accompanied by earthshaking thunder while dancers exchange bolts of lightning express things no words could ever hope to communicate.

Their land is a craggy, jagged forest of mountains seldom touched by sunshine. Clefts and canyons cut the land apart with only sparse vegetation. The jagged peaks of the mountains stand in sharp contrast to the straight, gleaming obelisks that the Zaga Mora have erected to gather the storm's force. High above towers the blazing spire, a mountain taller than any cloud, unsurmountable by any living being.