Yyyoooooo so I'm doing a Thing for a Friend and like a good little GM I'm fretting over setting and worldbuilding and shit. Figured I might as well harvest some ratings/feedback off of it since, y'know, thread's here and all.
Keeping it in this doc:
In the Land of Red Trees: a Guide to Tiangou Satrapy and its Environs
Tiangou, Suneater Satrapy
What is there to be said of Tiangou that has not already been put forth by sages and scholars? It is an old land, an antique land, ancient even in the day of the First Shogun. Cities of supercrete and jadesteel lay buried beneath its frozen tundras, immaculate stone eroding into earth and loam. Yeddim walk grey grey boulevards of smooth-fit slabs even as great metal ribbons slither over the hills, reaching for the horizons. It is a harsh land, a hostile land, home to long nights and short days. Bordered on two sides by heaving, roiling seas and harrowed by howling winds, snow-covered boughs crashing in the gale. Titanic forests of scarlet-stained trees spill down the mountain slopes and roll through its heart, so lovely, so dark and so deep. It is, above all, a strange land, an alien land, a land contaminated by eldritch energies. Host to the divine, the dead, the damned and other, otherworldly, monsters that defy conventional description. A confluence of spheres at almost the absolute edge of the civilized world, a shining jewel barely grasped by a red-gloved hand.
But these are things long put forth by sages and scholars in the Imperial Seat. Texts slowly gathering dust somewhere in the bowels of the Thousand Scales. To truly understand Tiangou one must stand on the peaks, on the plains, among the roots, on the banks of the might rivers and the shores of that savage coast. One must close their eyes and...listen. Tiangou's name is derived from an Old Realm classification, a Deliberative-era designation. It means Suneater. Moondrinker. It means dying stars and sundered earth and a juggernaut maw sized to swallow heaven whole.
Can you hear it?
Something died in Tiangou. It died a long, long time ago in a war so immense and old a sage's little words can't even begin to capture the grandeur, the glory, the unyielding horror. The silence here is scarred with its screams. Its death rattle whispering through the softly falling snow. Now and then a farmer finds a sliver of razored crystal clearing his fields. A child playing by a stream sees a small golden claw sparkling in the riverbed. Above the skies ripple, omen-glitches playing across the face of the Loom. Below something dreamily stirs, twitching in its endless nightmare sleep.
Climate: Bad Moon Rising
There is no denying that the Land of Red Trees has a fierce, almost feral beauty to it. In the months of Wood and Fire the air is cold, yet crisp and clear and with a revitalizing, energizing quality. The days are pleasant as the Unconquered Sun warms the North's aching bones, his wrath softened by the gentle, silken clouds that curl across the sky. Dusk here is nearly as bright as the dawn as the heavens come alive. A thousand, thousand stars glowing in a grand coil across the face of Fate. The Maidens gleaming like a fistful of gems while Luna shines like a silver coin. Snow drips from the forest canopy and mountain streams swell, bloated with meltwater and flush with fish. Tiangou sits at a tangle of natural trade routes: the White Sea to the North, the Gulf of Malice to the West, the River of Tears running South. Captains ply the calmer waters as caravans roll past fields of rustling grain, colossal airships drift over the mountains and cast shadows on the forests below. This is when Suneater Satrapy is alive. This is when it is -perhaps not
safe for the roads are alive with bandits and pirates- but sane. Secure and stable.
After Calibration the temperature falls sharply. In the South, on the great, golden plains it is milder. The ground cracks and plants die to be sure, lethal frost climbing their stalks; but the underground reservoirs do not freeze and thermal vents endlessly churn, veins of fire racing beneath the soil. It is a bitter time, a lean time, and people cluster about their hot baths and huddle in their settlements. Awaiting Icewalker raids and desperate outlaws, tentatively venturing forth to harvest the odd anomalies that Winter brings to the fore. Yet move further inland, move to the coasts, and one may see the true extent of the desolation: see the heaving, iron-grey waves that
rise, tall as towers. See the roaring blizzards that shroud the land in darkness. Blotting out the light and dying the blackness itself with a haunted bluish-tinge. Cities and settlements here seal their gates. The only thing that moves between them are the armored fortress-trains that ride the remnants of the Shogunate rails; dragged by teams of bound earth elementals and manned by hardened mercenaries. Now, Rakshasa slip through tears in the skein of Creation and do their fell work. Now demons rise and the dead walk, moving through the snow-shrouded emptiness.
This is the dying time. The broken time. When the days twist and shatter and the Sun turns his face from the world. This is the Dark Season.
Populace: Do the Monster Mash
The infinite malleability of mankind is one of its greatest virtues. When fragile human forms are exposed to alien blood and unearthly energies more often than not they simply adapt. Incorporate it into their being and struggle to make the best of it. Such is much the case in the Land of Red Trees: administrators shipped in from the Inner Threshold or, worse, the Blessed Isle often find themselves bewildered and overwhelmed at the sheer cosmopolitan
scope. Beastmen remnants from the Raksha armies, imperious dead with ties to distant Sijan, the offspring of the divine and (it is rumored in a hush toned) demons below. In Tiangou leopard-seal mercenaries kneel to hear the words of Immaculate Monks while stag-headed tribesmen bind themselves with the bones of dead ancestors. River serpents that bear the blood of the Ophidian Tree play bandit and tolltaker as it suits them while children of the red-tree gods carefully carve their faces of living wood into exquisite masks for the coming season. Such is life in Tiangou: mutation and deviation may run rampant but there are still fields to sow, timber to cut, and bread to bake.
Most pressingly for the Blessed Isle the Land of Red Trees was once the site of a great Shogunate-era domain. A central metropolis and colossal wards stretching across the land. Here Gens Adamhach held sway, the current capital -Stone Hydra Steeped in Scarlet- built into the ruins of their seat. The blood of the Dragons runs thick in Tiangou, many mortals bear patterned scales and claws denoting strong traces of Immaculate heritage, and the past generation has seen no fewer than six Lost Eggs band together to usurp the previous, Realm-defiant ruler. Cadet House Ozifrage, operating under the auspices of House Cathak, represents both a beachhead and long-term investment in the region's genealogical future.
Economy: A Little Party Never Killed Nobody
Officially speaking there are three major sources of wealth within Tiangou. There are the vast forests and carefully cultivated nurseries of crimson-dyed trees; veins of green and red jade run thick beneath the earth and their juxtaposition has promoted the growth of these distinctive giants, their wood perpetually high demand in the Blessed Isle. Indeed it is oft rumored that no fewer than five of the great antechambers of the Imperial Palace are paneled in Tiangouan timber. There are the routes of trade themselves obviously: airship lines run through the jagged Cinder Cascades tying Tiangou to the Haslanti league and the colossal long-distance carriers of the Realm are a familiar sight in the South. Ships on the White Sea regularly stop at the well defended ports of Suneater Satrapy to buy and sell and resupply. Overland trade through the tundra and plains is spotty at best and rarely embarked upon, rather the principle artery is Tiangou's near unparalleled control of the Gulf of Malice and the entryway to the River of Tears. One of the dozen North-East splinters of the Guild, the Munificent Magistrates of Sweet-Jackal, have embedded themselves here and done a fine business. Then, of course, there is the jade itself. Rich deposits of every color may be found but particularly the shades of Fire. Around and around they curl, altering the land and framing some, long-vanished shape. The negative space of some unspeakably vast fossil.
Unofficially Tiangou's proximity to other worlds is a rich market for the brave, the wise, and the lucky. Dead domains sponsor expeditions into the ruins of Shogunate cities to chart unknown reaches and recover lost grave goods. Malfean-kin trade infernal contracts and hellish wonders for mundane materials, artifacts, and slaves. Here and there the Wyld bleeds through ancient First-Age infrastructure, dripping and pooling, and some have learned to tame the raw, mutagenic, energies into useful substances. In the depths of the Dark Season stranger things appear: pearls of Luna's swirling power fallen to earth like meteors, frozen corpses of ancient creatures, and fractured ruins that vanish upon summer's return. Naturally House Cathak, ever pious, condemns and forbids all interactions with the denizens of these planes beyond the proscribed purview of the Immaculate Order. And, just as naturally, customs inspectors pocket small bundles of paper and the dockworkers load it on anyway.
Culture and Religion: What Keeps Mankind Alive?
The Immaculate Order has taken badly to the Land of Red Trees. Their established infrastructure is undoubtedly impressive. The citizens are glad for the warrior-monks and the alms dispersed among the poor and the teachings prizing strength and honor and clarity of thought find welcome ears. But then talk turns to the limits of the divine and the due diligence of the dead and their faces harden and the crowds begin to melt away. It is no exaggeration to say that Tiangou would perish were it not for their heretical violations. When the weather turns it is the lands of the dead that turn away the worst of the horrors. When the gates are sealed it is the children of the gods who ensure that any survive come spring. Additionally it is only this most recent generation who has any recollection of what it was like to live under the absolute auspices of the Dragonblooded, and while some take to it readily their fathers and mothers chafe.
While the Underworld maintains its own lands and demon-cults proliferate in the shadows there are two Gods who openly hold the greatest sway: Red-Headed Crawler, Centipede God of the Mukade and Hushen, Fox Goddess of the Jiuweihu. While terrestrial spirits in station, the raw amount of worship they derive has seen them disdain the dictates of Heaven and their children maintain the two most critical organs of the whole satrapy. The vast, sprawling, fox-eared Jieuweihu Clan holds dominance in Tiangou's southern breadbasket and secures its exposed border from raids and incursions; while the steel-clad Mukade lords control the rail-bound fortresses. All are acutely aware that the actions of either could utterly cripple the territory.
More generally: culture in the Land of Red Trees is heavily bounded by city, the largest of which often affect the seeming of military bastions; the smallest, armed encampments. Cooperation during the warmer months is crucial to enable the prosperity that allows Tiangou to flourish but come the Dark Season there is no one you can rely on but yourself. Even your nearest neighbor may as well be cupped in Luna's palm. Divisions, then, emerge principally not between different clades of man but different cities. Self-sacrifice, mutual inter-reliance, and endurance are greatly prized. Vainglory and personal ambition are suspect, while the selfish hoarding of resources and assets is utterly abhorred. The ticking clock looms large in everyone's mind, counting down the remaining days of prosperous Summer and then the remaining horror of Winter.
History: Do The Evolution
"I will not be like my father," a man says, hands balled at his hips, "I will be different, I will be better". "I will not be like my father," his son says, hands balled at his hips "I will be different, I will be better". Time is a line but history is a wheel. The progression of the world marches ever on, the past begets the present and the present sires the future. But events repeat: familiar mistakes made with clean hands, fair tongues find themselves dispensing the same foul lies, and the great wheel grinds exceedingly fine. To understand this is to understand Tiangou.
The wheel turns: now it's the Ochre Fountain and the era of the Host. Champions of the Sun map the bowels of Creation. Charting that eternal maze beneath the wide, staring eyes of defiled Titans. They drag forth the crippled minotaur from the center and spear its back with spars of noonday light. It screams piteously, choking on its pain. The pitch and tenor are noted in a thousand crystalline tones. Preserved with immaculate precision for posterity.
The wheel turns: now it's Shogunate and the era of the Daimyos. Adamhach Eadan plumbs deep beneath the earth, heart filled with dreams of empire and a hunger the North alone cannot sate. She builds her second state atop the quivering flesh of fear-wracked Makers. From here she will mount her assault against the corrupted bureaucrats and fat generals of the Isle. She gathers broken chains in her fist and hauls the beast to heel. Soon its hunger consumes her too.
The wheel turns: now it's the Scarlet, the era of Sorrows. Voivode Adamhach Aidan attempts to wrest the secrets of Exaltation from the slick mud of the dead, desperately attempting to boost his failing blood and feeble flesh. Desperate to stave off the hungry Dragonblooded that have come to the door. Desperate to force away the red-stained colossus behind them. He cuts into the chest of a not-quite-dead thing and eats its heart. Now he's not-quite-dead either.
The wheel turns: twenty five years ago the Sworn Brotherhood of the Resplendent Raptor sets forth to liberate their land from its shadow-wreathed tyrant. The atrocities he perpetuated upon his own people the stuff of legend. The grand displays of grotesqueries, the fields of dead and dying impaled upon stakes, the feast of butchered gods, were enough to shake the hearts of even the most hardened Realm legions. But in the end he was not Exalted, not peer to such fine warriors as they, only a tick bloated on the necrotic Essence of an inhuman carcass. They slay his half-changed son in the boulevards of his capital and fight the thing itself in the very throne room. He falls. They win and claim his kingdom in the name of the Immaculate Realm and Heaven. The wheel turns: the time is now and something not-quite-dead stirs in the deep. Looking up at the light of a land no longer his with jealous eyes. The Brotherhood has settled down, enjoyed the fruits of their labor and reared the next generation. Living in luxury and comfort, feasting even as the Dark Season stretches long rather than liberate the lands they have simply...replaced one boot with another, nestling themselves in the niches the Voivode blasted in the land. Fattening themselves on slow-fading fame and adulation. In the end Tiangou has only swapped one tyrant for a set of six.
The wheel turns.
