TheWorld Lore

An Introduction to the Prairie

Author Unknown

They say the Prairie is too big to understand, too wild to tame, and always changing faster than you can keep up. They’re not wrong—but that’s no reason not to try.

What you’re holding isn’t just a guidebook. It’s a patchwork quilt of stories, advice, warnings, customs, and notes from all over this strange and beautiful land. I didn’t write everything in it—how could I? But I did gather it. I walked the roads, floated down the rivers, talked to scholars and hunters, farmers and guards, mask-makers and senators. I sat around fires and in city halls and I listened. And when I heard something worth remembering, I wrote it down.

Inside these pages, you’ll meet saints and smugglers, watchmen and wanderers. You’ll learn how folks talk in each corner of the land, what they eat, what they fear, and what they celebrate. You’ll find advice that might save your life—or at least keep you from looking like a fool.

You’ll also see signs that something’s shifting. The peace we’ve had for a long time is starting to feel thin, like a blanket that doesn’t quite reach your feet. Some say it’s nothing. Others say it’s already begun.

I didn’t try to make sense of it all. I just tried to get it right. Some folks in Ashveil gave me the time and tools to collect these pieces, and that’s exactly what I did. This book is a gift—from the people who told their stories to the ones willing to read them.

The Prairie, They Call It

“The whole land we live on is known as the Prairie. Don’t let the name fool you—it ain’t all grass and sunshine. It's forest, swamp, stone, city, sea.

Magic moves through it like wind through leaves. The stories and the land shape each other, and both change faster than a crow in flight.

To the south of here lies what most folk call home—a handful of nations, each with their own way of clinging to order. Each with rules, cities, and roads.

But North, the North is different!

They call it The Great Wilderness, but that don’t quite capture it. It’s not just wild. It’s alive in a way that words can’t catch. Pines that scrape the sky.

Plains so wide they blur into the horizon. Lakes that reflect the stars too well. And size, well I ain’t reached far enough north where the land don’t continue to sprawl as far as the eye can see.

And things live here—beautiful things. Dangerous things. Some you see with your eyes. Others only with your breath held and your heart still.”

Elias Thorn - Woodland Republic Ridgewalker

The Gates of Ashveil Open

“They used to say we were a myth.

Whispers in scholars' halls, half-songs from bard’s lips, wild tales traded around campfires. A city wrapped in secrecy, beyond the nations’ northern borders—a place called Ashveil.

You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? Streets that gleam like gold under moonlight. Vaults crammed with knowledge, not just coin. For generations, we let the world wonder. Let them search, speculate, argue in their towers and taverns. Every few years, some wide-eyed adventurer would stumble close, yet never close enough. We watched. We waited. Knowing that when the time came, we would open the gates.

That time is now. Golden-sealed invitations, each bearing the Magnate’s mark, fly hither and thither—to The Orders of Wynter, The Woodland Republic, The Darkmire Quarters, The Liberated Cities. Not a summons, no. An invitation. Gracious and generous, an invitation bidding all to Come and witness Ashveil. To sign this momentous Alliance upon our hallowed grounds!

And now, we prepare.

The Faire is near—every silk selected, every torch lit, every contest set. The scent of feasts and spiced wine fill the air already, and laughter and joy flows freely in anticipation.

Ashveil holds its breath, in expectation. The nations are coming. We believe that, we know it.

Soon, the world will arrive.

And when it does, it will see what we have always known, Ashveil was never a myth.”

Selen Varrow- Steward of Ashveil

An Omen on the Wind

“Something is pressing down.

The sky feels heavier than it did last year—thicker, somehow. The heat lingers longer after sunset, and the air tastes like it’s holding its breath. I tell myself it’s the season. I tell myself it’s always like this come late summer.

But it isn’t!

There is peace, that much remains true. For a hundred years, we've known quiet. Not stillness, not bliss—but balance. The kind of peace you build with work and full bellies, not treaties and parades. Trade flows without escort. Borders stay in place. Children grow without war songs braided into their lullabies. Fields are full, cities are bright, and roads are mostly safe.

And maybe that’s what has everyone looking over their shoulder now. Maybe we've grown too used to calm.

The wind from the north has changed. Not in temperature—there’s no chill—but it carries a strange pressure. Thick, wet, heavy. The kind that settles behind your eyes and makes you dream sideways. The birds are quieter now. And my dreams they are tangled.

Something’s shifting. Not loudly. Not yet. But I feel it. A pulse beneath the noise of the world.

I wasn’t the first to notice. The drifters felt it first—the ridgewalkers, the dust-runners, those who go into the wild looking for fortune and adventure. They returned broken, all gaunt and rambling. Or they didn’t return at all.

And now, the refugees. Not many. Not enough to alarm the cityfolk. But I’ve seen them. People who don’t know what they’re running from. Faces sunburned and blank. Words scrambled and stammered.

They speak of odd symbols in places no hand should’ve reached. Of ruins that call to them in the night. Of footsteps behind them when they sleep, and foul songs beneath the dirt. Some of them don’t even make sense—but it’s not nonsense. It’s more like fractured truth. As if something got in and turned all their stories upside down.

What haunts me most: they all seem to forget something. A name. A path. A face. They reach for a memory, and it falls apart in their mouths.

People are changing. Their words don’t sit right. Their eyes track shadows that aren’t there. Something is moving, not across land but through us. Through thought, through memory, through want.

Something is stirring.

I’ve seen the letters. I carry them. Sealed missives bearing the sigils of the Liberated Cities—bound for the Orders of Wynter, the Woodland Republic, and the Darkmire Quarters. Powers with old grudges, now turned friend. I’m to bring word of alliance, of mutual concern, of a unity we haven't dared speak of in decades.

Old alliances are being dusted off. Wards redrawn. Secret pacts reviewed beneath torchlight.

They don’t say what they’re afraid of. They don’t have to.

I feel it too. That pressure before a fever. That breath held before a scream. Something northward. Something old.”

Toby Ashford - Diplomat of the Liberated Cities

Excerpt taken from the Wayfarers Ledger

“Ah, look at you—wide eyes, dry boots, and not a drop of river-stink on you yet. You must be new. Don’t fret. The Mire don’t bite unless you point at the water. I’m Madame Roseline—song-stitcher, story-teller, keeper of masks and memory. Born under the floodlight of the Bourbon Quarter, raised on Pa Dlo river shrimp and Heartside lullabies. I’ve danced every Danse and seen things that’d twist your mind sideways.

Which is why the Benefactor asked me (ever so politely) to give newcomers a proper welcome. So sit yourself down, keep your hands out of your pockets, and listen close. The Quarters don’t care where you came from—only what you carry in your soul.

THE FOUR QUARTERS

Its not a city, it’s a rhythm, a song with four verses—each one sung different, but all part of the same beat.

Pa Dlo – “By the Water”

That’s where the riverfolk live. Net-throwers. Saltwives. People who know when the tide’s about to turn because their bones creak with it. They believe the river listens—and they’re right.

Born in Pa Dlo? You’ve likely got hands rough with rope and a necklace strung with an old drilled coin. And you know better than to walk the tide barefoot after dusk. That’s how spirits hitch a ride.

Lavni – “The Future”

High and dry, Lavni sits on stilts and hums with magic you can measure. Scholars, technomancers, and young fools who think they can bottle death and label it neatly. If Lavni made you, you’ve probably got ink stains on your fingers and a theory about why none of this is real. That’s fine. Just don’t laugh at the crabs crawling inland. They’re not wrong.

Bourbon – “The Beat”

Ah, sweet Bourbon, where music spills like wine and the Grand Canal sings back if you play the right tune. Dancers, cooks, barkeeps, and brokenhearted poets all call it home. If you grew up there, you’ve got rhythm in your bones and stories on your tongue. You know the taste of a Last Kiss and how to toast the flame without weeping.

The Heart – “The Pulse”

Now that’s where the stories live. The shrines, the bones, the old names carved into driftwood and kept under lock and spell. The Heart remembers when the Mire was just mud and promises.

Heartfolk? They don’t speak often, but when they do, you listen. And when the Pulse chamber hums louder than usual? You don’t ask why.

HOW THE QUARTERS MOVE

The Grand Canal is our main road, main market, main gossip line, and main escape route if things go sideways. You’ll ride boats more than you’ll walk. Gondoliers know everything—tip them well, and they might tell you what’s coming.

WHAT WE EAT, WHAT WE TOAST

Beignets, fried dough dusted with sugar. Eaten morning, noon, and night.

Gloamwater, Blackcurrant liquor tinged with silver. Don’t drink too deep, dreams drown in that bottle.

La Danse des Derniers Jours! Our grand celebration of joy! Dancers representing the dead who danced rather than wept when their time came! Cloaked in burning red cloaks and bleached bone corsets, they parade through the canals atop ornate barges scattering lantern ash.

Masked revelers dancing to slow waltzes that crescendo into frantic tambourine lead dances. The seven toasts to the body, the voice, the tongue, the heart, the soul, the dead… and finally, the flame. Your mask at the Danse says who you really are, who you fear you are, or who you want to be so choose wisely. You never know the dead might be watching.

SUPERSTITIONS AND STREET-SENSE

We don’t all believe the old ways, but we don’t test them, either, that’s just wisdom!

Never point at water, not with your hand. Use your chin!

Cross tidelines barefoot after dusk? You’re asking for a spirit hitcher.

Crabs crawling inland? Someone’s ghost got stuck, light a candle, and wish it well.

Wear a coin around your neck, make sure it’s got a hole drilled through.

And for the love of salt, never mock the Gloam.

Common Sayings:

“The Gloam”- Twilight, when the spirits stir

“Milk the gloam” Work with twilight magic or liminal luck.

“Slopshade” The shady, muddy understreets where shadowed deals happen

“Pinch the hush” be quiet.

“Break the wishbone” Good luck!

“Feed the hush jar” Spill the gossip.

“Live like you’re being watched by ghosts” Because you probably are.

WHAT WE TRADE

We send the world fish, gator leather, healing plants, magical good, and rituals they don’t understand.

THE CENTURY PAST

This past century the Quarters have flourished. Not just loud and proud, but also clever and cautious. Each flood brought renewal, each dry spell made us leaner and wiser. And through it all we grew stronger, deeper, richer.

THE BENEFACTOR

Just one now. There used to be twelve, or so the stories say— some say the other eleven drowned in a flood, some a fire, and some that it was the remaining benefactor's blade. They do not speak often, they do not need to! Their words arrive sealed and absolute, usually already obeyed by the time they’re read. Cloaked in silk blacker than canal silt, and always unseen save their shadow crossing the high gallery of the Chateau, the Benefactor is law, myth, and mirror all at once. Some say they never sleep. Others say they keep a ledger of every broken oath. But all agree, the Benefactor sees all. And when they act, it’s not to punish, it’s to balance.

THE DANCING MASK

Every city needs its shadow, ours dances.

The Dancing Mask has been spotted for generations—on rooftops, in alleyways, standing on water when the Gloam is deep. No one knows who they are, or what they want. Sometimes they save you, sometimes they just watch.

Crooked merchants vanish?

Mask.

Corrupt guards suddenly silent?

Mask.

A missing child returned, clutching a bone-carved flute?

You guessed it.

Folk say they don’t age, they say their mask changes with each generation, they say they’re one of the old Benefactors gone rogue.

Me?

I say dance polite, and you’ll never find out.

Excerpt taken from the Wayfarers Ledger

Ah. You’re not from here.

Don’t fret—I won’t hold it against you. I can smell the forge-smoke and city-salt still clinging to your boots. But you’re standing under branch and leaf now, and out here? The wind carries more than weather, and the trees are older than your grandmam’s grandmam. Best mind your voice, walk with care, and take care when talking to the trees after dusk.

They call this the Woodland Republic, well those that weren’t born to it, anyway. We don’t name the forest. You name something when you think it’s yours, and the woods don’t answer to us. Out here, we measure place by memory: the bend where the sycamore splits like a trident, the bluff where the wind sings high, the hollow where the Gravepaw watches.

A CENTURY OF STILLNESS

You’ll hear folks say that we’ve stood unchanged for a hundred years. That ain’t quite true. Stillness isn’t the same as silence, and a tree don’t stop growing just because its roots are deep.

A century back, we were split down the grain. Half wanted to wall the forest in, build palisades, set watches, close the canopy trail to all but kin. The other half, usually those who lived where the trees grew less thick, those that spoke with river-traders, said the world was moving and we’d be fools to get left behind.

There was no open war, that's never been our way. Just season after season of stubborn silence. Neighbors passed without greeting. Trade slowed to a trickle. Meetings at the Rock turned cold as creekwater. Some feared it would snap and splinter us for good.

Then came the Ash-Year.

No warning. No smoke on the wind. Just a sickness in the soil. Trees we’d known since our grandparents' time dropped leaves like tears. Mushrooms bloomed black on the roots. Sap ran bitter. The forest was dying.

We stopped bickering, and built great fire-circles to burn out the rot. For the first time in a generation we shared water and grain. Together we dug deep until the clean loam came back. The Rock was full again, and no one spoke loud—but everyone listened.

That was when the quiet changed. Not peace born of hiding. Peace made deliberate like. Every decision since then’s been weighed like grain on a harvest scale. We speak slow. We act slower. And when outsiders scoff at that? We just let the wind answer them.

HOW WE GOVERN

We’ve no need for kings, thrones or titles carved into stone. Each stead names its own Greybark, usually a trusted elder who listens well and only speaks from knowledge. When matters grow too large for one stead, they send a Weight Bearer to the Rock.

The Rock isn’t just a place, it’s the heart of how we choose. There, once a season, each Weight Bearer lays down a token carved from their home tree and speaks for their kin. Out here your word if your bond, break it, and you won’t be punished, you’ll be forgotten. And in these woods, that’s worse than being cast out.

THE CANOPY ROAD

Stone streets or cobbled alleys? If you’re looking for those you should head east to the Azimar! Out here we have the canopy trail, a walkway through the trees, a lattice of living branch and vine, a true beauty to behold.

WHAT WE CELEBRATE

When the harvest comes in and the jars are sealed, when the last sheaf is tied and the first frost hasn’t yet bitten the vine, the steads gather. All of them. From the high hollows to the river flats, folk arrive with carts full of preserves and stories, carrying flasks, loaves, and the last of the cider apples.

The Harvest Table runs for miles through clearing and branch, beneath the canopy trail. It’s laid low to the ground, with moss-woven stools, hollowed logs, and cushions passed down through kin. The air smells of smoke and spice—bread fresh from clay ovens, honey-roasted roots, slow-brewed stews carried in stone pots from stead to stead. Fiddles and flutes thread through the leaves, along with the soft thump of boots in time to old songs. Children chase ribbons; elders pass ladles and laughter in equal measure.

WHAT WE TRADE

We send furs, pelts, and carved tools down to Wynter and back again. Hides, antler charms, winter-thick beaver cloaks—all caught and crafted with care. To the Liberated Cities, we send untreated wood, river reeds, and oils pressed from seed and nut. The Darkmire Quarters favor our herbs, fung—things that need shade, patience, and hands that know when to cut and when to leave be.

OUR WAYS

We don’t write laws. We gather at the Rock—a hall of grey stone half-sunk into the earth, moss-slick and silent as the mountains it came from. That’s where decisions are weighed. Rock doesn’t favor the flowering vine or the creeping fern, it just stands

Out here, the old sayings hold:

“I’d tap a tree before I’d do that.” - Something you will not do “High as six birds in a tree.” - When someones forgotten good sense “Mizzled.” Means confused. Or cursed. Or maybe both.

“Useless as tits on a boar hog.” I like to think this ones self explanatory

THINGS NOT TO DO

Don’t leave food out. Not for the birds, not for the wind. Something else’ll come. We call it the Gravepaw—a beast, a spirit, or maybe just hunger with claws. Parents name it to keep children close. But some of us have seen the claw-marks in the bark. If your porch steps are wet and the sky's been dry, best not go looking.

Don’t sew after sundown, neither. If you prick your finger, the blood don’t stop proper. Folk say its because the thread tangles with the dead if you pull it under moonlight.

If you hear your name called from the woods—don’t answer. No matter if it’s kin, or friend, or even your own voice echoed back. If it needs you that bad, it can knock proper.

Leave a coin on your windowsill at the turning of the season. Just one. Doesn’t matter the mint. It’s not for luck—it’s for the ones who walk the mists and trade in memory. You’ll know if they’ve taken it. The night’ll feel lighter.

And if you pass a crossroads where all four paths are overgrown and you hear no birdsong? Turn around. That’s not a place made for your feet.

THE MOSSGROVES

A generation ago, a blight took the roots, and the winter came early. The pantries emptied, the deer fled, and the roots withered.

Trent and Natalya Mossgrove—brother and sister—vanished into the snow, said they’d come back with meat or not at all. A week later, they returned at dawn, dragging a sled heavy with haunch and hide. Their faces were scratched raw, their clothes stiff with frost. They made it to the clearing of their stead, laid the sled down at the foot of the longwood table—and died standing.

We tell their story not to glorify death, but to remember: out here, survival ain’t about strength. It’s about sacrifice.

Excerpt taken from the Wayfarers Ledger

They say the cold keeps memory clearer. Could be. I don’t know. But I remember more than I forget, and most of what I remember? Has teeth.

Vinland ain’t kind, but she’s honest. Mountains, tundra, sea—if it’s not trying to freeze you, it’s testing whether you deserve to stay. Trees don’t grow tall, the dirt’s stingy, and even the wind bites. But what makes it here? Makes it true.

I was born in Skjanholt—some folks call it Brighthill, though that name only fits when the sun’s out and the frost hangs like ghosts in the air. My Ma was a Knight, my Pa worked the mines. I could swing a pick before I knew how to write, and I took my first oath before I learned how to lie.

HOW WE LIVE

You’ve maybe heard of the Orders of Wynter? There’s five of ’em—The Stewards, The Miners, The Farmers, The Warriors, and The Scholars. Don’t let the names fool ya. They’ve all got steel in their bones. Even the book-folk wear mail and carry blades.

We don’t crown kings up here. Every three years we hold a moot at Einrathal—that’s our big hall, dug right into the stone under Skjanholt—and we vote. Whichever Order wins the vote runs the land till next time. No one’s allowed more than six years in a row. Keeps the stew from settling, y’know?

Miners held the seat for a good stretch—dug deep, built cisterns, filled the coffers. Now it’s the Scholars. Quiet bunch. But when they talk? Folks listen.

WHAT WE SAY

We don’t waste words. Hard to chit-chat when your face is half-frozen.

You’ll hear things like: “That path’s rusted.” – Useless. No good. “Carry frost.” – To endure “Wyrm-touched.” – Bit off, maybe lost the plot. “Oath-bound.” – Could mean loyal, could mean dangerous. Sometimes both.

THE DRAGUR

We lay our dead in stone and salt, but some of ’em don’t stay buried.

The Dragur, yeah, you’ve heard the stories. Knights who broke their oaths. Went to their graves gnashin’ regrets and unfinished business. They come back wrong. Silent. Cold. Hollow. No memory, no mercy—just this hunger to finish something they don’t even remember starting.

Some say you can settle their bones if you find the broken promise and mend it. Maybe. I saw one fall when an old priest whispered a name. But I also watched one tear through four guards ‘cause one of ’em wore a ring it used to own.

Truth is? Dragur are us—just colder.

THE RAM

The Ram’s not just a beast up here. It’s a way of being. It is a lesson. Surefooted on shale, unflinching in storm, it climbs where others fall, and when cornered, it charges, we try to live similar.

They say the first oath was sworn to the great White Ram, way up some mountain no map remembers. Folks claim it’s still walkin’ that ridge, waitin’ for someone with the guts to make a new one.

The soul of Vinland can be summed up like the Ram—not pretty, not gentle. But stubborn and steady on the ice.

THE WILD HUNT

We don’t fear the Wild Hunt. Not like outsiders do. To us, it’s a sign—that the old ways still walk, and that the land still remembers.

They say the Hunt rides when the sky is clear as glass and the moon hangs heavy, casting frost like silver lace over the hills. It’s not a thing you see head-on. More something that brushes the edge of your senses: the sound of hooves where none should be, a wind that carries music you feel in your chest more than your ears. The dogs fall quiet. The fire leans, but does not die.

The riders? No one agrees who they are. Some say they’re the honored dead—warriors, oath-keepers, hunters lost to time, riding in glory. Others claim they’re spirits of the land itself, taking form when the world needs reminding of its strength.

WHAT WE EAT

Salt’s always on the table—even at funerals. Keeps the rot off. Adds bite to bland things. Readies you for the cold ahead. Some folks wear a pouch of it ‘round their neck. Just in case a Dragur shows up.

As for food? We eat what sticks to your ribs and doesn’t mind the snow.

Fried potatoes, thick-cut and drowned in gravy and curds. Root stews, slow-boiled with whatever herbs and meats made it through the winter.

And the ale? One mug’ll melt the icicles off your chin.

WHAT WE TRADE

We trade what the rock gives us—salt, gems, iron. Pulled from the tunnels by torchlight and grit. The metal we send out’s tough, shaped more for work than for show. Our seal’s stamped on every piece, and that still means something.

We’re not big on haggling. We name a fair price, and that’s the end of it. A deal’s a deal.

WHAT WE CELEBRATE

The best night of the year? That’s Wyndturn. Wildest night too. It’s when we shout at the dark and dare it to shout back.

Fires leap from ridge to ridge. Folks come from every hollow and high hold, cloaked in furs, masked in bone, haulin’ jugs of ale and telling stories better. We stomp and dance and holler the old tales—ice-trolls, frost lions, and long dead knights who still sit frozen beneath the stone.

And then the Wyndhorn comes.

No one says their name—not yet. They step out of the trees, wearin’ a ram’s skull blackened with last year’s ash, cloak trailin’ like smoke. They carry the lantern with the blue flame. And until the feast, they don’t speak. That’s part of it.

They lead the whole lot of us through the woods to the feast-hall, open to the sky.

When the lantern’s hung and the mask comes off, they speak their first words of the night—a toast, a blessing, a dare. Then their name’s spoken, and they sit the high seat.

We eat. We drink. We toast ‘til our throats are sore.

And when the last horn goes ‘round, the hall hushes. The Wyndhorn stands, sets down their arms, takes off every mark of their Order, and walks—barefoot—into the woods.

Gone a year and a day.

They go smiling.

Those who come back? Changed. Touched. Remembered forever on the Threads of Wynter.

A CENTURY OF ICE

Folk say the world’s been quiet these last hundred years. No great wars. No banners burning. Folks say it’s been quiet. Hundred years without war. That’s true enough—but we haven’t been sittin’ around.

We turned our blades to monsters instead. Foul things. Too smart for cages. Too mean for songs.

We built new holds—carved from cliffs, nestled in glacier cracks. We watched a sea-wyrm fall to a hundred harpoons. Tracked ice-born giants with avalanche voices and eyes like the sea under glass.

With no war to wage, we built. We hunted. We proved ourselves in ways that didn’t bleed our kin.

And we stayed ready. ‘Cause quiet ain’t peace. Not really.

Excerpt taken from the Wayfarers Ledger

Now hear me, neighbor, and lend an honest ear, for I shall speak plain and let the truth stand tall.

We of the Liberated Cities are not a people born of ease, nor raised in the lap of empire. We are the children of good soil, salt water, and stubborn dreams. Once, we bowed beneath the yoke of a tyrant—his seal stamped on our wheat, his boots thick in our fields, his ships fat with our labor. But no more.

When the bells rang out in Port Liberty, we rose. With pitchfork and musket, with ink and iron, we cast off our chains and lit the beacons. That was the first Liberation Day, and we’ve marked it every year since with cannon shot, rum cups high, and a full table.

OUR CITIES

From the golden plains to the storm-bit coast, our cities stand proud, each as independent as a cat and twice as difficult to herd. At their heart lies Port Liberty, seat of the Senate, where every city sends a voice and every voice is heard—though heard through shouting, dueling wit, and, occasionally, thrown inkpots.

We do not kneel to kings. We do not ask permission to be free. Each senator holds their post by the will of their people, and their cloak bears the crest of their city, not their own name. The law, when it is just, is obeyed. When it is not, it is rewritten.

The Cities bicker like siblings, but when danger comes to the coast or the fields, we stand as one.

HOW WE SPEAK

We prize sharp tongues and sharper minds. In the Liberated Cities, your wit is your sword and your handshake your bond.

You might hear a few turns of phrase:

“They’ve got badger blood.” – They are independent, can’t be cornered, and will bite if pushed. “Sowed thin, reaped thinner.” – You made your bed, now lie in it. “The harvest remembers.” – Good or ill, the consequences always come. “Vote, build, or get out the way.” – Less a saying, more a civic warning.

OUR FOLK HEROES

You’ve heard of Bertie Wheatsheaf, I’ll wager? Seed-sower and fiddler, wandered from coast to field during the long occupation. Where the soldiers salted the earth, they healed the soil with their tears, they planted seeds, fed rebels from empty sacks, and vanished from jails like a ghost with good manners. It’s said their shepherd's pie was so renowned that they once convinced an entire garrison to defect to the rebellion for a single bite.

True or not, their story sticks. And that’s what makes a legend worth its salt.

WHAT WE EAT

Inland, it’s shepherd’s pie—rooted in the earth, heavy with lamb and onions, covered in a thick layer of golden potatoes. On the coast, it’s clam chowder thick enough to caulk a ship. There’s cornbread on the side, and always rum on the table.

Sweet or spiced, mixed or neat—rum is our national drink and our social glue. Toasts are made often, loudly, and sometimes before noon.

WHAT WE TRADE

We trade what we grow and what we weave.

Wheat, corn, rye—grains that keep the world fed. Wool from our hills, flax from our fields, and silks from looms run by free hands and fair coin. Our ships sail heavy and return heavier. Our cloth is known across the continent for its color, its cut, and the politics stitched into every hem.

OUR BEAST AND OUR BLESSING

The badger is our emblem—not for its beauty, but for its nature. It does not surrender. It digs, it defends, and if pressed—oh, it’ll make a memory of your ankle.

We wear its spirit well. Ask any merchant, magistrate, or mercenary who tried to tame us.

OUR FEAST DAY

Liberation Day is the jewel of our year—the anniversary of the day the tyrant’s banner was pulled down, stomped flat, and tossed into the harbor.

The day begins with ceremony: bells rung, declarations read aloud, and the names of the fallen spoken with reverence. But once the sun begins to drop behind the rooftops? Then the true revel begins.

The boulevards bloom with lanterns. Musicians tune their fiddles, quartets strike up in the salons, and the scent of roasted fowl and spiced pudding fills the squares. The great families host balls, while the taverns spill into the streets with dancing, debate, and perhaps the odd duel of honor.

Senators appear in velvet and lace, ships captains in polished boots, farmers in their finest coats. All walk together beneath the bunting. The air is thick with joy!

And at midnight, when the final toast is raised, it is not to any monarch, but to the people.

“Here we are —and here we’ll stay.”

OUR WAYS

We’re not ones for superstition. In the Cities, you rise by your merit, not by moon phase or mirror crack. We believe in the ledger, the letter, the vote, and the contract.

The farmer watches the weather—not the stars. The merchant tracks the markets—not omens. And the senator? Well, if they fear anything, it’s public scorn.

That’s not to say we lack charm or ritual. We believe in good manners, strong arguments, and keeping your boots polished. A sharp coat opens doors. A sharper mind opens more.

We are Enlightened folk, or so we like to think—rational, optimistic, and proud every hour of the day.

Ashveil sits on a lake you won’t find on any map.

Even if you knew where to look, you wouldn’t see much for it was designed to be hidden. The city is modest in size, and hums with a quiet busyness, it is not chaotic like the Quarters, nor rigid like the Holds. It moves at a pace of its own.

I received the invitation with little ceremony—just a folded letter sealed in blue wax, delivered without return address. The message was brief: an offer of residence, research privileges, and lifelong accommodation. It came with no command, but it might as well have. Everyone knows the rules: if you accept Ashveil’s offer, you go. And you stay.

I won’t say it was a hard choice. The Orders have their duties, but truth be told, I was already on the edge of being forgotten. They needed someone to chronicle a shift they don’t fully believe is coming. I suppose I needed something to believe in again.

Ashveil is a place of thinkers, builders, and odd minds. In my first week alone I met an alchemist who speaks only in numbers, a gardener who grafts memory into trees, and a bard who claims to be writing the city’s future in reverse. They come from everywhere—The Darkmire Bayou, the far coast of Azimar, and the deep woods of Sablethorn. Some were invited. A few claim to have always been here.

But all of them stay.

Every promise made to me was honored: my lodgings were ready, my research unrestricted. Food, tools, ink—nothing was denied. But there is no leaving. Not without the Magnate’s leave. And the Magnate does not grant leave.

I met them once, on my third day—not in a throne room or office, but in the conservatory, wrestling a stubborn vine back into its pot while humming a tune I couldn’t place.

“Ah! You must be the chronicler! Marvelous. Do you prefer ink or charcoal? Or memory? Some of them do it all from memory. Terrible for accuracy, brilliant for flair.”

They offered me lemon biscuits and several conflicting accounts of Ashveil’s founding. They spoke of astronomy, trade routes, forgotten gods, and once paused mid-sentence to marvel at the way light refracted through their teacup. And yet… they remembered everything I said. Recalled details I hadn’t realized I’d mentioned. Asked questions I hadn’t thought to ask myself.

That’s the Magnate for you.

Jovial. Eccentric. Endlessly distracted.

—Brother Maeron Vale

Resident Chronicler of Ashveil

By Junia Greenbough - Naturalist of the Woodland Republic A Note to the Reader

If you’re holding this guide, chances are you’re new to the wilds or finally tired of being the last one to learn what tracks not to follow.

Either way—welcome. My name’s Junia Greenbough, and I’ve been tracking and tagging the creatures of our beloved Prairie since I was knee-high to a crawdad.

What follows is not complete, it never will be. The land changes too fast for that.

But it’s honest, it’s field-tested, and every page was earned with cold boots, bug bites, and no small number of bruises. Mind the margins—I’ve left room for your own notes.

You’ll need them.

Known Natural Beasts of the Prairie

These are the creatures you’ll see with your own two eyes, if you know where to look and how to stay still.

Bison – Massive, noble, and not to be trifled with. If they charge, it’s already too late.

Moose – Larger than you expect and twice as dangerous. They’re extremely territorial. I’ve seen them break a wagon axle clean in half.

Wolves – Intelligent, elusive. Listen for their howls in the twilight; if they stop, you’ve been noticed.

Pronghorn – Fast and flighty. Common in the northern flats. Good eating, if you can catch one.

Beavers – Masters and guardians of the waterways. Upset one, and you might find your camp flooded out by morning.

Bears – Varied by region. If it stands and sniffs, back away slow. If it growls, you’re already in trouble.

Eagles – Sacred to some, studied by others. Powerful symbols. Do not shoot one unless you're ready for bad luck.

Orca – Rare sightings along the coasts. Apex predators. Respect them.

Fantastical Beasts

You may not see them often, you may never see them at all. But they are out there, and they are very real. These aren’t campfire tales, they’re just elusive.

Snallygaster – Winged terror with a beak full of razors. Sightings near high bluffs and lonely camps. Sounds like a forge fallin’ apart when it screams.

Mothman – Seen before tragedy. Tall, winged, red-eyed. Some say they warn. Others say they wait.

Prairie Demon - Also called Fork-Tailed Jack. Fast. Mean. Hooves that burn, eyes like stove-coals. Mimics a child’s cry, which is crueler than most creatures I know.

Squonk – Sad little thing. Cries itself into a puddle if spotted. Usually harmless, but heartbreaking.

Night Crawlers – Legs and little else. Glide more than walk. Usually seen just out of the corner of one’s eye.

Chupacabra – Found around livestock kills. Hairless, hunched, with glowing eyes. Not a coyote. Don’t mistake it for one.

Skunk Ape – Swamp-dweller. Stinks like rotting stew and rage. Loud, hairy, unpleasant. Don’t approach.

Dire Wolves – Towering wolves as big as a moose, they stalk the moonlit wilds. Often mistaken for shadows until it’s too late.

Ice Lion – The great cats of Vinland, said to move like fog over snow. Its roar freezes the marrow and its pelt gleams like hoarfrost under moonlight.

Not-Deer – Looks like a deer ‘til you really look. Eyes too forward. Knees bend wrong. If it watches you too long, walk—don’t run—back the way you came.

Hidebehind – Tall and lean. Always just outta sight. Folks that wander alone into thick woods sometimes don’t wander back.

Animals of Myth

Now, here’s where things get strange.

There are creatures so tangled in rumor that they’ve become the stuff of tall tales—spoken of in hushed tones, often with laughter to hide the nerves.

Horses – Tall beasts with hooves and manes that run like thunder across the plains. Myth says they were once partners of great heroes. You’ll hear a friend of a friend saw one up north, or glimpsed a skeleton washed up on the shore. But no serious scholar claims they’re real.

Raccoons – Trickster spirits, most say. Clever hands, masked faces. Some claim to have seen them ransacking camps or unlocking boxes left too long in the night. But we all know that’s just stories… right?

Foxes – Whisper-beasts. Carriers of stories and omens. There are a dozen folktales for every so-called sighting, but none with proof. If someone swears they saw a fox, folks nod politely and move three steps away.

A Final Word

This land gives and takes in equal measure.

The beasts here both flesh and phantom, are not evil, they’re just doin’ what they’re designed t’do.

Meet something you don’t recognize? write it down. Share it at the Rock.

And for spirits’ sake, never travel alone without a good blade and better boots. May your fire stay lit, your stories stay true, and your tracks lead you home.

As proclaimed by Watchmaster, under the benevolent oversight of the Magnate - Filed within the Ashveil Institute, enforced at the discretion of the City Watch

1. Theft Taking what isn’t yours is a fineable offense. Repeat offenders will spend a stretch in the pillory, accompanied by jeers and overripe fruit.

2. Assault Violence is prohibited unless part of a sanctioned duel. All duels must be registered with the Guard and carried out with proper ceremony.

3. Duels Must Be Entertaining Duels without flair, fanfare, or a decent announcer are subject to fines. If you’re going to fight, give us a show.

4. Poison The brewing or sale of poison is illegal. First-timers are fined. Second-timers are pilloried, and third-timers usually don’t make it to a fourth.

5. Littering Leaving refuse or unsightly clutter in public spaces is forbidden. Offenders will be fined and, if persistent, displayed in the pillory beside their mess.

6. Disturbing the Peace Speaking of far-off worlds in public spaces is frowned upon. Do it too loudly or too often and expect a fine. Save your ramblings for private quarters.

7. Three Lies a Day If you’re caught lying three times in a day, you must report to the Guard, don the Fool’s Crown, and wear it until dawn. No exceptions, not even for the charming.

8. Recommended no Dark and Mysterious Rituals Before Sundown Not for safety—just for style. Early rites will be met with a slow, disappointed head shake by the nearest guard.

9. Public Declarations Require Elevation Any proclamation made in a public square must be done from a soapbox, crate, barrel, or suitably dramatic platform. Ground-level shouting is just noise.

10. CBH (Cheesilous Bodily Harm) The wasting or willful destruction of cheese is a civic offense. Those caught will be fined, pilloried, and publicly shamed with cheese-themed limericks.

11. The Feather Hour Pink feathers in hats are strictly forbidden from 6pm to 7pm on Saturdays. It’s not about fashion—it’s about tradition.

12. Sunday Sock Statute

Only left socks are to be worn on Sundays. Wearing a right sock on this day is unlawful. Wearing two lefts is eccentric but legal.

Whispers and Waders Publication

Your Year Ahead—As Told by Beasts, Bone-Dust, and Bourbon Back-Alley Rumours

Darling, if you’re not reading the signs, how do you plan to survive the Danse?

Every year we turn beneath the watchful eye of the stars—from the bold to the bizarre, each one marks a shift in luck, love, and what you absolutely shouldn’t say at your next masquerade toast.

Whether you were born under the brawling Bear or the flighty Firefly, these signs aren’t just calendar fluff—they’re how the Grand Canal flows, how your crush will kiss you, and how many coins you'll lose at cards.

So grab a beignet, top off your Last Kiss, and let's see what your year says about you.

—As compiled by Madame Laveau of the Lavni Tea Rooms

As compiled by Professor Emeritus Auro Belwythe, Chair of Conflict History - Lavni Academy of Civic Memory (retired, reluctantly).

It would be naïve, and frankly unfit for print, to claim that peace means the absence of struggle. Though the past century has seen no great war between the nations, conflict has never truly ceased—it has only grown quieter, more cunning, and vastly more ideological.

Below, I’ve recorded the chief enemies faced by each of the four major powers in recent years. These groups are not foreign invaders, but internal threats—proof that even amidst peace, there are those who plot, splinter, and smolder.

Within the Orders of Wynter, the Challenge of the Order of Spryng A bitter schism in belief gave rise to the Order of Spryng, a rebellious sect who rejected the binding oaths of the old Orders. While the Orders of Wynter prize discipline, duty, and eternal vigilance. Spryng, champions unchecked growth, emotion, and freedom from ancestral burdens. Their banners bloom with flowers and fire alike, and though often dismissed as seasonal fools, their attacks have grown more strategic of late. The most troubling whispers suggest they seek to melt the very foundations of the Orders' ancient oaths.

Among the Liberated Cities, the Rise of the Urban Cohort Once fractured by tyranny, the Cities now face a new threat: unity by force. The Urban Cohort, well-funded and well-armed, seeking to restore single rule under a figure they call simply the Dictator. Their propaganda speaks of “necessary structure” and “efficient vision,” but what they offer is little more than gilded chains. Counter-revolutionaries to their core, they plant seeds of fear among free peoples, hoping panic will pave the way to power.

Among the Woodland Republic, the Surge of the Isolationists Even among the deep-rooted and moss-minded, discord finds soil. The Isolationists are a faction of purists who claim that the Republic has grown too open, too trusting, too impure. They call for the severing of trade routes, the expulsion of outsiders, and a return to forgotten laws and bloodlines. Their rhetoric is laced with heritage, but their actions have led to cold camps and colder hearts. In the name of preservation, they would strangle the forest until it forgets how to breathe.

Within the Darkmire Quarters, the Encroachment of the Cypress Company Gold speaks in the Mire—and the Cypress Company has found too many ears. What began as a rogue trade outfit has grown into a vast network of smugglers, black marketeers, and would-be merchant kings. Their aim is no less than the toppling of the Benefactor and the installation of a corporate regime. They call it “economic reform.” I call it a velvet noose. Their agents smile with clean ledgers and poisoned ink, and their reach grows longer with every unchecked deal struck.

Upon the Prairie, there is but one deity, known as the Archive—the eternal source, the creator of all that was, is, and ever shall be.

It must be said, however, that “the Archive” is not a true name, but rather a title—one of many given by those who seek to understand the divine. Across the wide world, the peoples of many nations and kindreds know this being by other names: the First Flame, the Great Scribe, the Wind-Walker, the Gentle Root, the Watcher of Threads. Each name is shaped by the culture that speaks it, each a reflection of truth as seen through different eyes.

The Archive is not bound by a single form or doctrine, nor does it wear one face; instead, it reveals itself in countless ways to the peoples of the world. To some, it is a wise scribe recording the great truths of existence; to others, a radiant flame, a whispering wind, or a nurturing spirit. The Archive understands the diversity of its creation and allows each culture, each heart, to see and worship it in the manner most meaningful to them.

In this way, unity is found not through uniformity, but through shared reverence for the divine truth at the heart of all things.

From the Teachings of Brother Caldus of Thornehall - Fourth Scribe of the Outer Cloister

"If you want to understand magic here on the Prairie, start with this: magic rides the wind.

It’s not just a saying. Magic actually moves on the wind itself. You’ve felt it before—those strange breezes that stir your hair when there’s no storm, the sudden gust that makes your lantern flicker blue, or that hush right before something impossible happens. That’s not weather. That’s the wind carrying magic.

But where does it come from? Not from us—not originally.

That’s why magic is unpredictable. It doesn’t live in stones or scrolls—it lives in movement. It’s wild, like weather. It listens, but it doesn’t always obey.

Working magic means learning to read the wind. Some folk learn to speak back to it. Others shape what the wind brings. But no one controls it. Not really.

So if you ever feel something strange in the air—like a word caught in your throat, or a tug behind your ribs—pause. Breathe. Listen close. That’s the wind trying to tell you something. That’s magic, passing through."

The Words of Elowen Threadmar

Report from Guard-Captain Orla Vance - 3rd Watch of Hayward’s Stand

A year ago, the Withered Hand were little more than cattle thieves and roadside scum. Now? Their name carries weight. Folk don’t chuckle when you mention them—they glance over their shoulder and lower their voice.

What began as scattered trouble—livestock gone missing, carts burned in the night, strangers loitering too long at the edge of town—has grown into something far more dangerous. They’re organized now. Disciplined. Whoever’s leading them isn’t some drunk with a grudge; they hit hard, vanish faster, and they’re not after coin.

They call their leader the Hollow Witness. No face to the name. Just rumors. Some say she walks barefoot across the frost, leaving no prints. Others claim he was once a preacher who wandered too deep into the wilderness and came back... wrong. I say it doesn’t matter who—or what—they are. What matters is what walks beside them.

The Feral Dead, they call them. Not the Grave-kin who live among us with names and as neighbors, nor the Draughr of the western marches who still carry purpose. These ones are different—quiet, rotted, half-swallowed by roots. I haven’t seen them myself, and it’s possible the tale’s grown legs, but the fear it spreads is real enough.

As for what the Withered Hand wants? Dominion, redemption, revenge—maybe even they don’t know. But I do know this: they’re not a nuisance anymore. They’re a force. And if the Senate wants to keep the borderlands from slipping into nightmare, we’ll need more than patrols and good intentions.

We’ll need steel. We’ll need a plan. And we’d best stop pretending they’ll fade away on their own.

They won’t.