Heroica, A Visitor’s Guide

The Known World

When folk speak of the world, they mean the lands that cradle the central seas: Maris Cora, the Albireth Straits, Myrrhwater and the Opal Sea. Beyond them, maps grow vague and sailors grow quiet. Some whisper of Lumekhet, known to us only through the wandering Tazulmar and their desert tales, but such places might as well be dreams. Exotic spices and strange silks arrive from somewhere, but ask no merchant to name the coast, for they will not.

The Great Powers

The Great Empire is the oldest lion still alive, but its mane is thinning. It has ruled longer than any of us remember, yet it stumbles now, bleeding from within. Its colonies keep it fed and rich, though one might wonder how long that leash will hold.

Albirica feeds the Empire and keeps its soldiers marching. Should it break away, the Emperor’s granaries would be bare within a year.
Estoria is where the world meets. Merchants, spies, priests, kings, everyone comes to Estoria. Anything can be bought there, for a price.
Montosho is a steaming jungle, rich in gems, spices and rebellions. Many a soldier has gone there and never come back.

The Empire’s legions are unmatched on land, but their fleets, while fearsome, do not rule the seas.

Others contest the board:

Mataraaj bleeds from a civil war, though it is a force to be reckoned with.
Zanakwe is mighty, yet seeks no expansion. They are content to guard what is theirs.
Olydrian Isles rule Maris Cora’s waters. Their galleys dart like hawks.

The Lesser Powers

Many more nations cling to the coasts of the central seas, each proud in their own way.

Desert Rim is barren, ruled by warlords, and a hunting ground for slavers.
Zarhalem is small, yet its mines glitter with wealth enough to tempt conquest.
Twin Cities are iron itself, harsh, unyielding, and rich from the forges.
Grashkaar is the strangest sight: orcs who farm. Peaceful, yes, but their fields spread wider every year.
The Steppe Orcs bow to no one. Many fools have tried to tame them. None return.
Draknir are fewer in number than the tales claim, but every tale agrees they fight like wolves and trade like ravens.
Ardenvale is a quiet land of farms and rivers, yet without it, the Empire starves.
Morvelyn was once the heart of beauty and wisdom. Now it is but a scar.
Amazireth is fierce womanhood, spear in hand, ever at the Empire’s throat.
Freevalor rose against the Empire. Its rebellion burns hot, and the outcome is uncertain.
Para Omros is a zealot’s dream. Best keep your gods to yourself there.
Caerduin fights a bitter war with Albirica, their high fjords echoing with old songs and fresh blood.
Elarune hides in the forests, yet is never safe from chains and raiders.
Zverilov offers jungle goods for those bothering to approach.
Tazulmar alone cross the Great Desert, astride giant centipedes.
Srel Colony is the Empire’s cruel edge, a land taken by fire and slaughter.
Pirates, well, pirates are everywhere. If you travel, you will meet them.

Distant Lands

Farther still are names spoken in taverns after too much wine. Ozukari, Ashkar, Lumekhet, Ss’ar’et, Murkwater, Ngazama, Sylvarinith. Most folk know them only as whispers and myths.

And then there are the truly fanciful names: Borealia, Itzalcoa, Yelthari, Eclipse, Nazhira, Solanthar, Coralwyn, Khazryn, Tideforest. Perhaps they are real. Perhaps they are prayers. Perhaps they are just drunk fairytales.

Wonders and Terrors

The world has no shortage of marvels and horrors, and often they are the same.

The Necropolis, whose secrets made the Empire rich.
The Waterwall, a fall so high no man has climbed it and returned.
The Rift of Fire, a burning wound in the Badlands, said to open into another world.
The volcanoes of Itzalcoa, forever spitting fire and smoke.
The Sapphire Isles, where paradise meets piracy.
The Glass Fjords of Caerduin, mountains mirrored in still waters.
The Tiralia Mountains, a wall of stone shielding Freevalor.
The Great Desert, endless and cruel, save to the Tazulmar.
The Mountains of Birth and Death in Lumekhet, where, in the valley between them, life itself is said to show its span.
The pirate cities, where law is the knife at your throat.
The temples of Mataraaj, each grander than the last.
The Spine of the World, mountains that claw the sky.
The markets of Estorio Ventura, where nothing is too sacred to sell.
The Emperor's Arena of Alborum, where the Empire slakes its thirst for blood. There are many arenas, but only one Emperor's Arena.
The Olydrian Games, where pride is won without swords.
The frozen wastes of Borealia, where only madness thrives.
The ruins of Tekrissal, sometimes spoken of, never returned from.
The Vale of Shuraz, holy ground of the Tazulmar.
The ziggurats of Itzalcoa, dripping with centuries of blood.
The tree-ships of the Sea Elves, living vessels that cross the oceans.
The floating cities of the Lake of Life, forever shifting, never fixed.
Te Rua Tikele, the deep blue hole of Coralwyn, said to be a gateway to the gods.

Religion

Religion in Heroica is a vast and tangled web, as old as the first myths spoken around the fire. Countless gods are worshipped across the lands, some tied to great and mighty temples while others linger only in the prayers of a single village. While each people holds their own pantheon closest to the heart, most acknowledge the existence of foreign gods. Pilgrims and traders carry stories of them, and sailors swear oaths to strange sea-spirits when storms rise. A farmer in Estoria may never offer sacrifice to the dragon gods of the Draknir, but he will not deny their power, and he may even whisper a prayer if fate places him under their shadow. Yet in every land, it is common to believe that one’s own gods are older, stronger, or truer than the deities of neighbors.

In Heroica the divine cannot be dismissed as mere superstition. The gods walk among mortals, sometimes openly, sometimes cloaked in disguise. They grant visions to their priests, answer prayers in battle, and demand tribute with terrifying wrath if slighted. Their presence is written in the turning of seasons, the sudden rise of storms, and the miracles and horrors that defy natural order. To deny the gods outright is to defy what all eyes can see, and few dare such blasphemy.

There are, however, exceptions. Among them none are more feared and hated than the followers of Omros. This faith claims absolute truth, declaring all other gods to be false idols and their worshippers deceived. They see tolerance as weakness and reverence for foreign deities as outright heresy. To a devotee of Omros, the world is not a tapestry of many divine powers but a battlefield of truth against falsehood. Their mission is not coexistence but conquest. Shrines are torn down, temples burned, and whole peoples branded as heretics to be converted or destroyed.

Thus, while most of Heroica lives in a shifting balance of rival but acknowledged faiths, the firebrand zeal of Para Omros burns as a dangerous exception. Where they to spread, war would follow, for their god leaves no room for any other voice in the heavens.

Trade

Trade thrives across Maris Cora, the Albireth Straits, and the Myrrhwaters. Countless ships move along the coasts, their sails dotting the horizon like white birds. They carry every imaginable good, metal, spices, silks, gems, grain, slaves, art, lamp oil, anything that can be bought or sold finds its way to sea. If someone desires it, and someone else possesses it, there will be a vessel hauling it across the waves.

This commerce ties together the great powers of the age: the Great Empire, Zanakwe, Mataraaj, Zarhalem, the Olydrian Isles, and Draknir. At the heart of it all lies Estoria, the great maritime hub where fortunes are made and lost daily amid shouting merchants, creaking docks, and the salt stink of the sea.

But where there is trade, there is also prey. Pirates haunt the shipping routes, swift and merciless, striking from hidden coves and storm-shrouded reefs. They fall upon unguarded ships or isolated convoys, leaving behind smoldering wrecks and vanished crews. Entire towns in the borderlands survive on plundered wealth, their taverns filled with gold teeth and bloodstained silver.

Sailing beyond the known lanes is another matter. A few daring captains still make the run to Ozukari and Morvelyn, their holds filled with exotic cargo and their eyes always on the horizon. Beyond that, the charts grow uncertain and the sea grows strange. No sane mariner ventures farther, but then, not all captains are sane.

For the traveler, passage around Maris Cora and its neighboring waters is easy to find. Ships depart daily, their decks crowded with traders, pilgrims, and wanderers. But venture beyond the familiar ports, and ships become scarce, the lands stranger, and the sea uncharted.

Affinity

Affinity is the slow binding of spirit to matter. It is not magic, though many mistake it for such. It is the quiet echo of presence, the mark that time and will leave upon the world. Every hand that holds, every foot that treads, every voice that speaks in a place leaves something behind. The world listens, and in listening, it changes.

A sword remembers. A cloak that has known years of fear will seem heavy on a brave man’s shoulders, while a banner that led armies will tremble in the grip of a coward. A weapon forged in hatred will bite more eagerly when wielded for vengeance than for mercy. This is affinity, the shaping of the world by the weight of what has been done with it. When an object changes hands, it resists, for the old spirit lingers. Only time, and the steady pulse of new intent, can make it yield.

So too with the land. A people dwelling long enough in a place leave more than buildings and graves. Their songs seep into the rivers, their struggles into the soil. A harsh folk breeds harsh earth. A faithful people may find their prayers answered more easily on their own ground, for even the stones know their voices. When they vanish, the land forgets slowly, just as a sword forgets its owner.

Affinity is memory without thought, will without reason. It cannot be commanded, only lived into. Those who understand it move carefully, for to dwell anywhere, to wield anything, is to shape it forever, and to be shaped in return.

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