![[Harbasch.png]] > [!INFO] The World > **Harbasch is a land of old grudges and sharpened smiles, where blades are drawn more often in council chambers than on battlefields.** Magic is a flickering ember - rare, distrusted, and buried beneath centuries of blood-soaked history. Nobles trade secrets like coin, and alliances shift with the wind, held together by lies, marriages, and the threat of ruin. The common folk speak in hushed tones of vanished dynasties and cursed bloodlines, while behind velvet curtains, the powerful pull strings that reach across continents. In Harbasch, truth is a luxury, loyalty is a wager, and every throne is built atop bones. # Kingdom of Albrecht **A land of ash-grey castles, towering windmills and ancestral oaths, Albrecht clings to tradition like a drowning man to driftwood.** The land and the Royal Court shattered by over two centuries of tyranny under [[The Crimson King]], its nobles are proud and fractious, tracing their bloodlines to mythic heroes and martyr-saints. Now, under the reign of [[Mytioch The Unifier|Mytioch the Crownless]], the kingdom finds itself in limbo: he refuses to wear the ancestral crown, refuses to sire heirs, and refuses to explain why. His restraint has kept the peace - but as his beard turns silver, the old families sharpen their ambitions. Behind closed doors, plots coil like snakes: some whisper of republics, others of divine claimants or lost royal bloodlines. The [[The Royal Court of Albrecht]] and its noble Houses simmers with veiled threats and forced smiles. Albrecht is a nation on the brink - still proud, still fierce, but unsure of what it will become when the king is gone. true power lies with the great houses and their whispering retainers. Albrecht’s courts are mazes of protocol and poisoned praise, where every bow hides a blade. The kingdom stands on the edge of decline, but its people - stern, stubborn, and unshakably devout - still believe themselves the rightful heart of the world. # Empire of Torvask **Torvask is the sound of iron boots in snow, the burn of spirits on the tongue, and the cold certainty of conquest.** Bound by a brutal winter and an even harsher doctrine, the empire values strength above all: strength of arm, will, and blood. At its heart is His Eminence, [[Emperor Lukasimir Sebastalex III]], ruler of Torvask, a brilliant tactician who has reforged his nobility like a sword: most of the great houses are bound to him by blood - through strategic marriages, legitimized bastards, and oath-sworn kinships. Loyalty in Torvask is not a choice; it is inheritance, and betrayal is a sin against the family as well as the crown. The empire's nobility may squabble, but their roots are tangled in imperial soil. The Emperor’s grip is cold and calculated, and his [[Zimovoi Guard]] - silent, masked enforcers - are said to carry out his will before it's even spoken. Magic is regarded with caution, its practitioners registered, monitored, or quietly disappeared. Torvask hungers outward, its expansion masked as “stabilization,” its diplomacy a frostbitten smile over a drawn blade. No one doubts the Empire’s strength - only whether it is content to rule what it has. # Khanate of Sar Al Kabas **In the wind-swept reaches of the south, where the desert kisses the mountains, the banners of Sar Al Kabas dance like firelight on sand.** The Khanate is a mosaic of proud tribes, ancient cities, and whispered sorcery, held together by a brittle web of treaties and marriages. The [[Khanessa Farimaya Malhatrom|Khanessa]] rules not by divine right alone, but through careful manipulation of the Divans - two interwoven councils made up of the **Greater and Lesser Gutah**, noble houses whose allegiance must be continually earned and bartered. Together the two Divans form [[The Panjandrum]]. The Gutah are proud, fractious, and steeped in tradition, each guarding their own regional power bases, often at odds with one another. Magic here is not common, but it is present - in sacred texts, family relics, and whispered invocations, often mediated by the **Qadis** of the [[Sage Schools]] and spiritual orders that serve as both legal interpreters and keepers of ancient secrets. Power is rarely overt in Sar Al Kabas; it flows like water - shaped by channels of custom, reputation, and religious nuance. Intrigue is an art, and hospitality a weapon. Outsiders see it as exotic or chaotic; insiders know it is _delicate_, and balance is everything. Sar Al Kabas is a realm of veiled truths and fierce hospitality, where a guest is sacred - until they are not. # Realm of Galarn **Galarn is a realm of mist and masks, where nothing is ever quite what it seems.** Nestled in forested vales and fog-choked highlands, it is a realm ruled by the flowing bloodlines of the Clans of the [[Realm of Galarn]] and tempered by a strict adherence to seasonal migrations. Galarn’s people are deeply superstitious, their rituals arcane, their allegiances as shifting as the weather. Outsiders call it barbarous and godless, beautiful and mad. But Galarn’s madness has method, and its smiles hide sharpened teeth. Galarn is a **shaky fellowship of Clans**, each a law unto themselves. Unity is a ritual, not a rule - enacted when the **High Circle** of clan chieftains meets to forge consensus in the face of war, famine, or worse. Bloodline and story carry the weight of law here, and kinship ties often mean more than treaties ever could. Along its north-eastern coast lies **the [[Brechthold]]**, a salt-wracked stretch of land that has been claimed, fortified, and bled over by **Albrechtian colonisers** for centuries. It was once a vital foothold for their ambition, a place to “civilize” and extract tribute from the "lesser" clans. Fortresses rose like teeth, and governors ruled with cold detachment. Resistance was constant, but brutal reprisals kept the clans fractured - until the fall of the **Crimson King**, the mad tyrant of Albrecht. His death shattered the will to keep the Brechthold, and the last few decades have seen a quiet withdrawal, leaving the land more and more in Galarn hands once more - though scars and mixed blood remain. Some clans still remember Albrecht’s yoke with a fury passed down like heirlooms, while others were changed by it - learning their language, marrying into their bloodlines, or growing rich from trade. Galarn today is neither whole nor broken; it is **intertwined with its past**, ever wary of outside power, ever ready to close ranks when the winds turn foul. The land is lawless to those who don’t know its ways, but for those who do, it is a realm of fierce honour, living memory, and unity waiting to be summoned like a storm. # Mandate of Zhong **[[Zhong]] is the rhythm of ordered footsteps, the hum of prayer wheels, and the weight of ten thousand scrolls of law.** It is not a nation, but an idea - order born from chaos, unity carved from rebellion. The Mandate claims divine purpose, its magistrates and warrior-scribes spreading doctrine as surely as swords. Bureaucracy is sacred; knowledge is power; dissent is heresy. Yet beneath the lacquered surface, the old spirits stir - mountain gods, river voices, and ancestral wrath. The people of Zhong walk a narrow path: between progress and tradition, between reverence and fear. Power is earned through examination, discipline, and years of service - and once held, it is jealously guarded. Every town has its magistrate, every road its watchtower, every temple its set of prescribed prayers. But beneath this elegant facade, tension brews: **rural warlords**, **forgotten temples**, and **restless spirits** all test the limits of the Mandate’s reach. While the capital sings of progress and order, the frontier murmurs of rebellion and buried truths. Zhong believes itself a light against chaos - but sometimes, that light casts the longest shadow.