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Religious reasons (e.g. heretics, heathens, nonbelievers, witches, &c.)

1 (25%)

Political reasons (e.g. an unpopular noble family, betrayal/treason by a faction, a faction was too strong, &c.)

0 (0%)

Economic/Guild reasons (e.g. a group in a guild was not conforming to the guild, a merchant family was outshining the rest, a merchant bought out the slums for a new warehouse(exiling the current residents), &c.)

1 (25%)

Racial reasons (e.g. ancient Bonnleans didn't believe in dwarf-human hybrids, or there were elves.)

0 (0%)

Rebellion reasons (e.g. the rebels lost and were exiled, or won and the rulers were exiled.)

2 (50%)

Other- Post more if you think of them, and I can add them to the list!

0 (0%)

Total Members Voted: 3

[NJW2000]

PTW, or at least see the finished story.

Also:Grunberg University

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

  In the Grand Capital City of Bonnlean, low in the newbuilt, tall Northern slums, a crumbling building stands, worm eaten over and over, held up by so many struts and supports and pillars hastily constructed and intertwined by so many ivies and mosses grown old and vicious that they form a venerable yet freshly expansive woodland somehow expanding inwards anachronistically in the shining urban tenements - but more on that, the Tomewood, later.

  Over the Tomewood, the university proper looms, dead and newly growing struts unwillingly reliquishing their grip on the cracked masonry, as mighty monkstone and bizarrely cogniscent enthanolimonite firmly supporting and drunkenly, twistingly decorating the eccentric and mighty Construction that is - Grunberg University Proper.

  Grunberg University squirrels away as many awkward and ailing secrets as the Tomewood hugs quaint and curious volumes to its leafy bosom. The most complex of these is largely considered, by the alehouse wits and dandies that debate such matters while watching their profits from the tuber-mine slaver companies grow, is the question of the goodly University's age. The building, and indeed institution, as of around fifty years back, quite simply did not exist. It was originally founded by one Marcus Grunberg, a man steeped in artifice alchemical and political, who recognised the absence of any major intellectual fellowship or power in the expanding and innovating nation of Bonnlean. Nature abhors a vacuum, and Marcus felt himself quite the man to oblige it. Thus, with a not inexcessive grant from their majesty, he proceeded to set up a centre for the arts and learning as quite unseen before in that country, with an attached organisation for the accquiring and renting of patents, research facilities medical and magical, and a library collection, housed in the direct centre of the university shaped in that most magical of shapes: the pentagon, the last of which attacted a curious new breed of scholar of yet unfound: the librarian.

  Said Grunbarg librarians were not only well acquitted in healing, pyromancy, moon-watching and all the other numerous disciplines of the professors Grunberg hired to teach the flocks of monied and willing students from all corners of Bonnlean, but were also expert fighters, as they were sworn to protect the paramilitary wealth of knowledge stored in the first common Bonnlean library, bought, seized or copied from private vaults. For in the first ten years of the University's existence, when it stood grand and untouched by time or leafy tendril, the library began to matter more as a military resource for the royals and people of Bonnlean, and the development of new technologies and concepts was watched over jealously by the generals and empire-builders of the court. Though forbidden from squabbling over, and thus endangering this precious resource, with indeed a swift and hefty punishment from the martial and unforgiving librarians for those that did so, these men and women soon fretted over the accquisition of designs and scrolls from the Threigan Caverns and the other floating island-states.

  Soon, when the danger of being left behind on the ever-more-indispensable techno-military level was felt too great, a strange machine was commissioned by the state, for construction by the scholars under the hopeful spires of Grunberg. Watched over by the ever-vigilant librarians, the many artificiers and academics began to make a giant machine, closer to a living being than any before it, yet stranger and further from the earthy professions of the clockmaker and mechanic than any other, blending arcane arts such as geomancy, calculus, electronomy and even metallo-thaumaturgy to this one strange purpose. For the machine was to prevent the furtherment of any nation save Bonnlean in intellectual matters, by realising any major idea or theory as it came into being, using a glowing amethyst of observation dug from a place startlingly near the geometric heart of the ring of civilised nations, surrounded by many whirring pistons, bubbling vials and computational mechanisms. The major ideas would be printed out in a secret sanctum of the library, reputedly a place where not even Grunberg himself dared to ask to venture, then carried off to the public eye by the sombrest and tightest lipped librarians.

  Upon the completion of this grand project, in around the twentieth year of the University's existence, Professor Marcus received a major boon from the King, to the tune of a month of Kingdom taxes, in return for securing the safety of Bonnlean. It was this, however, that proved to be the root of the warping of the University and the growth of the Tomewood, as it inspired Marcus to begin his most ambitious alchemical project yet: the trapping of a single moment in time.

  While many artificiers had easily managed to preserve a short and repeating finite space of time, in a bottle or snow-globe as adorned the homes of the wealthy and frivolous, it was unheard of to trap the smallest possible amount. This was partially because to do so would be to get ahold of a causal yet stillborn universe, the totality of all things, with all that could come from them implied. No mere section of the world would suffice, as that would merely be a collection of objects, the transmutation of energy into which being a simple matter. To this end, Marcus obtained, at greatest expense, this time from the highest solid matter found by observation ballons above the floating islands themselves, a crystal that flowed when touched around the fingers, yet retained its shape of a perfect sphere, and could only be held up without changing shape by powerful magnets. This was believed to be because it was formed from atoms of indescribably small stature, containing as many as the rest of the universe did in total, and thus an acceptable starting point for the rendering of said universe. Through sepulchre incantations and irreversible summonings, Marcus managed to get ahold of said moment, though not without swapping much of his treasured human warmth and compassion for cold calculation and insight with the unspeakable demons of the ego, that which torments us in the late hours before the witching one, becoming what may be the greatest alchemist to have ever lived in the process.

  Marcus, having proclaimed his success to all and sundry, and freely organised a national festival with the innumerable funds of his personal vault and the university treasury, then stole throught the shady courtyards and embossed balconies of Grunberg university, to the machine itself, the thinker, the fisherman of ideas and dreams. Replacing the amethyst of observation with the sphere, now containing a complete and profound moment in time, itself implying all other moments, at the heart of the machine, he unwittingly wrought a great and terrible change in the nature of the university.
 
  For rather than drift around the current cosmos sniffing out the really good thinkers, this semi-sentient device was left to search one and all moments in an unchanging, self contained model universe. Alone the two devices were thaumaturgical baubles, playthings.

  But together, they spelled madness.

  Strange scripts were vomited out of the protesting innards of the machine, as it sifted through every moment possible, as every idea was concieved, and none were, the terrible neither-nor void of possiblity imprinting itself on the circuits and beakers. Great diagrams of the minds of plankton were sketched, in the start, as the machine had not yet fully fallen to insanity, plays were written about mudflats that lived and coupled passionately on stars, designs for extracting time from emeralds were created, sonnets written in colours of ink that did not exist, while essays were printed about the creatures that inhabit the northern regions of the human conception of loneliness.

  This sudden and terrible influx of ideas that should not have been into the world had an immediate effect. While many rushed to burn the scrolls, parchments tortured by their own understanding screaming with release in the flames, the passage of time and growth in the university grew warped and fickle, as courtyards crumbled in days, food spoiled in minutes and students, perhaps the only ones who really benefitted, finished essays in seconds. While it was pretended that all was well by the scholars, and the library machine was concealed permenantly, all it made destroyed, though the librarians refused to let such a unique device be smashed, conditions inside the university worsened. Twenty-five years after it was built, it seemed two hundred years old, moss, ivy and rot creeping up from it's foundations faster than some living creatures could move. A man might age fifty years, love, lose and master an ancient art there, then leave to meet a childhood friend fifty years younger than him.

  This was how much of Tomewood, though the still fairly organised collection of growing struts and wood was not called that then, was built, by working men to preserve the habitation of the thinkers from decay, those felt useless and expendable to time's ravages by their employers, many collapsed shelves of books being used as foundations and struts by the ignorant and uncaring, having fallen through the floors into the cellars below, groaning sympathetically with the weight of unpermitted knowlegde the machine still churned out, nobody able to bear the madman's knowledge long enough to change the gem at the centre. Thus Tomewood grew to be filled with tomes, even as a forest grew around them, and the ecology adapted to academia in new and frightening manners.

  The nadir of the crumbling university came thirty-five years after it was built, as a revolution spread among the librarians. Long despised for their attachment to the satanic writing machine, they grew bitter, and a humble yet intelligent shelf-stacker named Silas Mariner asked why they should not save some of the less despicable volumes from the flames, as knowledge coming from every and no portion of the universe might prove useful in the speedy development of wondrous and arcane artifacts. When this was made known, however, the librarians, soon labelled as "Mariner's Heretics" were forced to take refuge in the barricaded library, where their martial prowess and superior knowledge made them impossible to dislodge.

  These revolutionaries soon began to read the less instantly repulsive scrolls, maybe one in every thousand made, and to upon occassion carry out the ideas therein. This was a frustrating and dangerous process, and many works the schizophrenic machine produced were now fully unintelligible, while certain others sent the librarians that read them mad, one in fact exploding. However, a goodly quantity of manaical weapons, trinkets, devices and arts were recovered from the void of madness and saved by these Mariner's Heretics, with one slipping out every so often to secure the profane knowledge in the world beyond. Finally, with their numbers falling slower and slower as they came to know the machine, and their power growing as their artifacts of madness were produced, Marcus himself, the greatest of all alchemists, was called upon to take action. Stepping though now archaic-seeming lanes over crumbled bits of masonry and thick Poppyfield vines, he raised his arms as he came to the sealed library. Drawing power from the two alchemical marvels working as one that he had wrought, exposing his mind to that pathological energy, he performed an act of brutal telekinesis, increasing gravity massively with the power of the objects, and driving the library, killing any unescaped Heretics, deep into the reverberating heart of Tomewood and the ground beneath, lifting most of the temporal effects of the device from the library, and weakening but not destroying it. He then retired to the highest room of Grunberg, far from his monstrosities as he could get, and has not been seen since in public.

  Grunberg has a new, less puissant, saner chancellor now, and droves of students still enter and leave it. For fifteen years it has stood untoubled... yet Tomewood, driven upward by the malignant energy of the Allwriter of Bonnlean, still waits hungrily beneath it, while Mariner's heretics and their otherworldly artifacts lie scattered and hidden throughout the cosmos.

So there's a nice bit of background to what you hinted might be an important location, I hope. Does it make canon, do you think? Maybe me or somebody else could make some of the characters mentioned? Edit: not sure if I understand the specifics on this.
Christ, it was good just to let off some steam and just WRITE for a bit, with exams and all... hope it's not too long!

[XXXXYYYY]

I'll write up a description of a couple of the many general types and uses of magic, because I can't sleep and have ideas. I hope this is OK.

Spoiler: General Type (click to show/hide)

a) 'Method A'
        Description
b) 'Method B'
        Description

The Arts of Life and Death

Spoiler: Necromancy (click to show/hide)

Necromancy deals with the manipulation of the remains of living beings or spirits, and has two major methods of use.
a) 'Minor Necromancy'
        Minor necromancy is the safer of the two necromantic arts. Revolving around pacts with the dead and the temporary insertion of basic life essence into a dead body to stimulate the pre-existing channels, it carries few risks, but offers few rewards. A city such as Viverex will use this nigh exclusively, as the drawbacks of Major necromancy are far too crippling to be applied at the city scale. It is what result in the undying guards of Viverex, which are bodies in which the previously departed spirit has agreed to be bound in order to protect the city, as is tradition. The undead that toil in the city are far more often just a ball of life essence that pulses energy in the right way to do a monotonous task, such as turning a mill or carting goods back and forth, though more complex tasks, such as . This is how the champions control their armor, for example. They direct energy through the channels of bone, using it to flex or extend the bones in the joints, granting them slightly increased speed and strength at the cost of requiring active necromancy to use.
b) 'Major Necromancy'
        Major necromancy is the far more dangerous branch of necromancy, offering a quick route to power, with an equally great danger. It revolves around using the remnants of energy bound in the corpses of once-living beings. A necromancer from this branch drains this energy and substitutes a synthetic form in order to control and power the body. The absorption of life energy results in an almost drug-like amazing feeling of life and vitality for a short period. This comes with a drawback, however. When the body has to cope with a sudden influx of such energy, it metabolizes it at a heightened rate, but more importantly, it continues to burn it at this rate until the user's death. What this typically results in in mortals is a form of quickened aging, aging in the later stages many times faster than a healthy human, perhaps years in the span of months. This constant pull between reward and withdrawal causes this branch to be literally addictive. Even if a fledgling necromancer starts with small things, such as a mouse or rat that don't give much vitality, they will soon be forced to go after bigger and bigger sources, such as a dog and then, eventually, a person. It is this that causes the vast undead armies of legend, with a single necromancer leading a horde of humanoid undead. There is one small difference between the folktale and reality, though. In the stories, the necromancer wants to enslave and rule for the sake of doing so, or perhaps for a misguided cause. In reality, they are tortured wrecks, enslaved to their will to live and the cruel taskmaster of their body, rapidly burning through the little life they have left, and having to steal it from evergrowing piles of bodies.

Spoiler: Vitamancy (click to show/hide)

Vitamancy deals with the manipulation of living beings, and has three major methods of use.
a) 'Regenerative Vitamancy'
        A boon to healers the world over, Regenerative vitamancy works by forming a 'bridge' so to speak of vitality in a wound, prompting rapid flesh regrowth in the affected area. It allows for combat healing to take place, as minor wounds can be healed quickly, though bones need to be set first and organs need to be treated separately. It is one of the simplest forms of vitamancy to use, as it doesn't require much finesse or control: Apply energy to area to regrow flesh. It is rarely used to get/give a power 'boost' in combat or work, though this runs into the same problems as Major necromancy.
b) 'Deleterious Vitamancy'
        Slightly more difficult is Deleterious vitamancy, the art of wounding through vitamancy. It works by creating a short-term blockage of the channels in one region of the target, causing the flesh to quickly shrivel or undergo necrosis. It takes quite a bit more effort than Regenerative vitamancy, as it requires the caster to be able to block vitality from entering a region, which is made difficult due to vitality's nature. It is sometimes used to rid infection by starving it of vitality, but the far more common use is just to wield it as a weapon.
c) 'Manipulative Vitamancy'
        Perhaps the most interesting and versatile form, manipulative vitamancy is also the slowest and most complex. It works by fundamentally changing the routes of vitality flow throughout the body, which then prompts the body to change in form and function. It allows nearly complete redesigns of living organisms without overly risking them the way mechanical or golemetical implantation sometimes does. The downside to this, however, is that the process is typically incredibly painful and slow. It is for this reason that it is extremely rare for self-modification to occur. It is impossible in near any case for this branch to have direct effects in combat due to the rate at which the flesh reformation occurs, though specially designed bodyparts are certainly capable of doing so. This is the primary way that Glasaigne functions - it custom-makes anything that it might need or want to trade, though this takes time and plenty of energy and effort. It is also one of the few ways of mending long-standing scars or injuries that healed incorrectly.

I'll work some more on this and do the Arts of the Unliving World after I try and sleep again.

EDIT: Ok, my ideas have deserted me while I slept. Sorry.

[NJW2000]

Delioth? Can I bump, and also ask what else we should be doing, where to focus any creative energies that are granted to us? i.e. what do we do next?

[Delioth]

NOTE: This is my train of thought through the issue. If you just want a list of suggestions, refer to the bottom.
OTHER NOTE: Feel free to do whatever you want!!!!! If you've got ideas or want to focus your creativity somewhere else, go ahead! Anything is accepted and embraced here.

Well, we're pretty short on kingdoms and cities in the world- there are all the 'typical' fantasy races in the world if we so choose (dwarves, orcs, goblins, humans, elves, &c.), and they should have cities/kingdoms (at least some basic knowledge of them, like: "X people live in Y region, flourishing in E, suffering in F, and have an ancient feud with K. Their capital is VVV." Not everything needs huge detail- if it comes up we can put it in, but if we never take the story there it might just need an offhand reference.) If we want the world to be a little more unique, more cultures/races/creatures are one method (detailed unique city-states are another). We can always continue where XXXXYYYY left off with 'systemizing' the magic (/recording how it happens). Since we have some cultures, histories between them will make the world richer and deeper. Also, we still have some characters/plot elements that aren't fleshed out... at all really. Namely our unnamed magic boy with an artifact sword from Ragvous, the village where the plot starts, the forest/man in the forest who replaces parts with clockwork bits, and the sentient crystal baker. Oh and Bonnlean doesn't have a specified race to it either.


The tl;dr list:

• Kingdoms/cities (at least general details about them)
• Races/Creatures to add to the unique factor of the world
• Magic systems
• Histories/stories
• Fleshing out undone parts (Unnamed magic boy with artifact sword, Starter village, forest with clockwork bit man, crystal baker, Bonnlean has no race... or traits other than its bad aristocracy)

[micelus]

Spoiler: Daskios' Union (click to show/hide)

Government Type: Despotate
Leader: Daskios I
Succession: To The Strongest
Capitol: Brythsol-by-the-Sea
Banner: A navy blue field divided into a party per cross, a golden symbol meaning Rebirth in an ancient Querach language is emblazoned in the middle. In the centre of each quarter are four carracks, each faced towards the rune.
Population: ~1,400,000 at last census. Varied species and cultures.
Exports: Agricultural goods, Fish, Oysters, Tin, Marble.
Imports: Weaponry, Armour, Skilled Artisans, Mariners
Geography:  Founded less than a decade ago, it is made up of the small isles of Ilwyth, coastal regions along the eastern edge of [Continent], the great islands of Yth and Cosath and the westerly coast of Retteth. For the most part, these highly spread lands are of tropical climate.
History: The Union of Daskios is not a nation or even a collection of fiefs, but the regions that have sworn themselves to the Querarch Daskios. Who Daskios was before his conquests is unknown to most, with most rumours having been affected by Daskios' own grandiose tales or lies that naturally emerge from years of conversation. Regardless, it is known that Daskios arrived at Cosath, swearing service to the king of Cosath. Cosath had been busy subjugating its neighbours at the time and Daskios offered to swiftly capture Yth. Seeing no reason to reject the querach, the king accepted. In the span of a month, the whole island had been conquered with little to no support from Cosath's own troops. Instead, as our spies soon discovered, Daskios had recruited a small army of buccaneers and mercenaries. What began was a 5-year game of intrigue involving minor raids, speeches and laws that eventually made Daskios undisputed despot of Yth and Cosath. With his combined naval forces and troops, he invaded the coasts of surrounding regions. While so far Daskios poses no threats to our own operations in the Mevyyan Straits, it is advised that the states of Yovos and Akarim are supplied with armaments. Should they fall, we will be unable to carry out our research at Mevya or Delkos. -A letter found on a Synod of Dogs spy, captured by Captain Alverros of Daskio's Union

Spoiler:  Principality of Bonnlean (WIP) (click to show/hide)

Government Type: Hereditary Monarchy
Leader: The Eighteen and Forty; Prince Rileg and Princess Altra
Succession: Primogeniture
Capitol: Bonnlean
Banner: Divided into a party per pale, a grey dovetailed line is the only feature of the Bonnlean banner. It is also the symbol of House Oftburg, save the golden lion which lies in the upper left quarter.
Population: ~2.5 million based of recent census. Mostly dwarven-human hybrids. Pure dwarven populations found in more mountainous regions.
Exports: Jewelry, Iron, Precious Metals, Lumber, Armaments, Ships   
Imports: Food, textiles, other necessities
Geography: Made up of Bonnlean and twenty-six smaller towns and several tributary cities, the principality rules over the a mountainous coast region in the north of [Continent]. A few trade Bonnlean enclaves are found further along the coast as well as nearby islands. The land on which Bonnlean is built is marshy and not good farming land.
History: Bonnlean has a long glorious history as a maritime republic, rich with democratic tradition and tales of intrigue between its merchant and aristocrat houses. The land surrounding Bonnlean forces its populace to look abroad to survive. Merchants ply the trade routes looking for food while the lords who control the Bonnlean countryside try to expand their meager farming operations or expand deeper inland. This fight for survival in time made the Bonnlean a regional power, subjugating its neighbours and establishing a great trade network. In this age of empire, the Eighteen (politicians chosen based off seniority and service) and the Forty (councilors elected by public Notables) ruled. A century however, the Blue Revolution took place. At the time, Bonnlean was suffering recession and starvation, due to costly failed expeditions and losing a long war with the Vantae Confederation. Using the public anger, Councillor Yaven Oftburg organised a coup, turning Bonnlean into a monarchy. Though the Eighteen and Forty still existed, they were now puppets of newly-declared Prince Yaven.

Through tyranny and brutality, Bonnlean soon regained its wealth, sacking the capital cities of the Confederation and enslaving their inhabitants. Ever since, Bonnlean has steadily expanded into its neigbhours as well as funding a small renaissance. Although a brilliant ruler, like all men, Yaven eventually died. His heir, Rileg, was weak of heart and mind and seeing this opportunity, Republican Loyalists attempted a coup. As Bonnlean is still a principality, it is quite obvious the coup failed.   

[XXXXYYYY]

Got a few more ideas. Thanks for reminding me of the guy in the forest, BTW. It gave me the idea for convenmancy- the first compound Art that I've written so far. Compound arts from multiple sections (TAoLaD and TAotUW, for example) will be listed under the 'main' art that they are composed of.
The Arts of Life and Death
Compound:

Spoiler: Convenmancy (click to show/hide)

Convenmancy primarily deals with the combination of preexisting life (or unlife) and non-life, and is a mix between vitamancy and another art, based on the base and attachment. It has three typical paths of use. A practitioner, rather than just being called a 'Convenmancer' is typically called by the main art that they combine vitamancy with. For example, a convenmancer who specializes in mixing living creatures with undead 'parts' would be called a "Necromantic Convenmancer", while the figure of the woods would likely be a "Mechanic Convenmancer"

a) 'Smooth Convenmancy'
        Smooth convenmancy has the closest ties to manipulative vitamancy, attempting to smoothly change the channels of vitamancy to flow through the attachment, be it an arm or a tool. It is seen as one of the finer forms, primarily due to the rather high survival rate compared with rough convenmancy. It rarely kills, and the cases where it does are due to the addition taking too much vitality as power, and thus killing the subject. It is a great boon in places where there is not the time or expertise to use manipulative vitamancy to regrow a lost limb or other such major injury, or where the subject wishes for something a bit more durable to replace a part of themselves. An example is the partially clockwork animals, where they are smoothly melded between the two distinct parts.

b) 'Rough Convenmancy'
        Smooth convenmancy's dangerous sibling, rough convenmancy is much more closely related to the 'base' vitamantic arts- regenerative and deleterious. Rather than attempting to meld the parts into a coherent whole, it holds the two parts together, removes a bit of flesh with deleterious vitamancy, then regrows it around the part with regenerative vitamancy. Thus, the new part is not actually a part of the creature for all intents and purposes, though they might link it into fingers or limbs, where small movements on the subject's part would be used as inputs. The upside to this is that devices that draw large amounts of energy can be used - in smooth convenmancy, the parts draw power from the subject's vitality, which is disastrous if the draw is too strong. By not having a bond between the two parts, an external power source can be used instead. It's also far more simple to learn and use, as the process is typically 'delete old flesh+bone, insert part, grow new flesh+bone around new part', rather than shaping and branching the natural paths of vitality.

c) 'Complete Convenmancy'
        While smooth and rough convenmancy attempt to merge a distinct part onto a living creature, complete uses a mix of both in an attempt to change a creature wholly. Stone skin, fire for blood, silver bones - all changes so drastic and complete that either smooth or rough used exclusively would surely kill the subject. Those are the aims of complete convenmancers. Complete convenmancers are often masters of vitamancy and another art, using the two to form a bond even more whole than that of smooth convenmancy, which sometimes runs into problems with the additive section not properly holding channels as flesh or bone might. They use the second art to weave channels for vitality in usually inert materials, using years of experience in vitamancy to know how vitality flows, how the channels are shaped, the places where it should eddy or flow quickly, all in order to perfectly shape the paths in the new 'flesh'. The new parts will typically almost completely emulate the old ones' critical functions and characteristics due to these channels- the stone flesh will still move like skin, even though it will block blows like stone; the fire blood will still carry oxygen, though it will keep its heat; and the silver bones will still support and bend a bit, though they will still function like silver for magic and magical creature's purposes. This is by far the most difficult branch to learn and apply, requiring mastery of both arts and immense amounts of effort. It also requires either very quick work or slow, chunk-by-chunk work, as it is extremely dangerous to the subject if any given operation takes too long.

Have I said that I love the idea of this thread? Because I do.

[Delioth]

*neat stuff*

Spoiler:  Principality of Bonnlean (WIP) (click to show/hide)

Government Type: Noble Republic
Leader: The Eighteen and Forty; Prince Alfred von Saxeburg
Succession: Election (every 4 years)
Capitol: Bonnlean
Banner: A navy blue field divided into a party per cross, a golden symbol meaning Rebirth in an ancient Querach language is emblazoned in the middle. In the centre of each quarter are four carracks, each faced towards the rune.
Population: ~2.5 million based of recent census
Exports: Jewelry, Iron, Precious Metals, Lumber, Armaments,   
Imports:
Geography:

It is of note that Bonnlean already has a little bit of stuff surrounding it- namely its rulers and hints of its ruling style, quote from OP Collection (I'll be editing this into the better formatting):

Spoiler: Bonnlean (click to show/hide)

Bonnlean is an [race] city-state ruled by Rileg and Altra, a weak king and his strong-willed, compassionate queen. Their daughter, Puipea, takes after her mother. However, the Royal advisor Fheall, wishes power for himself and his colleagues on the Council- and is attempting to indoctrinate Puipea into granting power to the Council and Fheall when she rises to the throne.
Deep under Bonnlean rests the Caverns of Threig- where lie the factions banished after the [insert event here]. Their power is, however, growing in the deep- they are nearly ready to reclaim their rightful place as the rulers of the surface.

So namely, they are a city-state (Or it could be a principality, that's cooler sounding and gives more opportunity for expansion of their space. They're a principality now.) They have an advising Council (found by unknown means) and a monarchy (however, both spouses are in charge).


Also of note, the Deoterrum is technically the land 'down under'- the caverns below the continent. The continent doesn't actually have a name yet... It's just kinda the continent... We'll name it sometime.

[micelus]

Changed accordingly.

[micelus]

((Doublepost!))

Spoiler:  Followers of the Voice/Aveism (click to show/hide)

Alternative Names: Aveists, Listeners
Leadership: Autocephalous patriarchs; Wui and First Apostle treated as firsts amongst equals
Priesthood: Anyone who has been taught the basic articles of the Aveist faith may apply for priesthood. The applicant, if accepted, is placed in a monastery to be given deeper understanding of the faith's teachings as well as how the priesthood of the faith functions. Non-querach laymen are also taught the workings of querach society. After a period that can vary from 1-5 years, the new clergyman or woman is inducted into the formal priesthood. The duties of a priest involve preaching, church administration or adivising the courts of pious followers. They may also elect to continue a life of contemplation at a monastery or hermitage.

Above the priests are bishops. Each controls a parish that can vary in size, although is most cases secular power is in the hands of local rulers. Bishops are in theory elected by their constituents, with the clergy vote being worth twice that of laymen. In practice, many bishops are appointed by the local Patriarch, with the advice of the parishes under the bishop's supervision. Most bishops gain their position through a combination of hard work, piety and connections; some are elected with less holy means. Bishops administer their Spiritual Neme and often have a significant influence on local rulers. Above a bishop is the Patriarch, who is usually the highest religious authority in a state. Patriarchs are elected by Bishops, although there have been cases where he/she has been elected by general acclamation or secular appointment. Each Patriarch has equal authority with others of his/her rank, although a certain respect is reserved for the First Apostle and the Wui. The former due to retaining the seat of First Apostle Gerema and the latter for being a direct descendant of Prophet Etraja.

Days of Observance: Various feast days, The Season of Fasts (A 50-day event commemorating Etraja's enlightenment), the Week of Thanks (commemorating the rise of the 500 Holy Colonies), the Day of Welcome (A mid-year holiday commemorating the decision to allow non-querach into the faith), the Time of New Life (A festival commemorating the harvest season), other regional holidays.

Teachings: Aveism preaches duty, mercy, temperance and love for all thinking life. The primary tenants of the religion are written in three holy sets of texts: The Whispers (the direct commandments passed down from the Voice to Etraja), the Sayings (stories and records of Etraja and her 500 Apostles) and the Grievings (a commentary on the old querach civilisation and why it was so sinful). Regular church councils add to the laws of the church, although regional practices and customs may also be in place in certain areas.

Some Tenants:

• Breed as needed, not like locusts who scour the earth of all life.
• Though Father and Mother brought you life, they do not command it; do what is good despite your parents' wishes.
• Control your urges lest you fall.
• Welcome the stranger and friend alike.
• Worship not the gods for they are false or wrong.
• Treasure the servant for while they are simple creatures, they are living all the same.

Spoiler: On Dragons (click to show/hide)

You know those old stories you hear? About giant snakes or lizards who ooze poisons, unleash storms, breath fire or just run amok capturing princesses? They never existed.

I know because I've spent decades travelling this world, trying to record every piece of draconic lore in every culture that exists. Even went up to those floating continents we see every now and then; even they have something similar. Feathered serpents the size of clouds. Funnily enough, smaller variants of those actually exist up there. Nothing I would call dragons though.

Without a doubt, those things mentioned in the stories are just myths or other creatures mistaken that have been exaggerated; they are stories after all. I thought I'd be able to publish my discoveries without a single counterpoint and officially tell the world that dragons never at all existed. Then I journeyed inland.

I had gone for completely unrelated reasons; track a rare species of cheetah that had could supposedly tunnel through rock. An interesting enough species, I ventured deeper into the sands with the rest of my motley crew. We eventually found a specimen after a few weeks, although at that point we didn't care. We found the ruins of some old civilisation. At first I thought it was Querachi or Sevian, but upon inspecting the masonry, I soon discovered that the structures were not ruins at all; they were being maintained with alarmingly excellent craftsmanship. Up till then, we had thought we were the only people for miles; even the local nomads stayed clear of the region. Afraid that we had been trespassing, we attempted to leave quickly. That's when it appeared. The dragon.

I couldn't believe it at first; dragons didn't exist. My research had shown time and time again that dragons were little more than a fairy tale. But it seemed very much to be a dragon; a bulky serpentine form, three pairs of limbs and two great leathery wings that were far longer than the creature itself. Suffice to say, most of us failed to survive the expedition. The story of our escape is far too long for this already lengthy tome; I would recommend Albert Hertig's The Great Escape for further reading.

While many of my fellow researchers were unfortunately killed, we did retrieve a great deal of information, as attested by the length of this book. For one things, dragons are real creatures. They are however, not natural creatures like a snake or tree. Even the crystalline or mineral lifeforms in the Deoterrum are more natural than what dragons truly are. In truth, dragons are the result of hideous rituals that this tome will not describe for the safety of our world. By performing these rituals, men transform themselves into dragons, becoming creatures of what I can only call pure evil....

-An excerpt from Rolf Haggron's On Dragons

Spoiler: The Empire Under Heaven (click to show/hide)

Other Names: The Demonic Hordes, the Steppe Barbarians, Tianshi, Shevars, The Shevaro Horde.
Government Type: Absolute Monarchy/Tribal Confederation
Leader: Blue Khan Esak
Succession: Elective; All nobles elect a leader after the death of the Khan
Capitol: Karvan (technically; the court follows Esak)
Banner: Divided horizontally down the middle, A green field is on the bottom while a blue sky is depicted on the top. The Shevar rune for Rule is depicted descending from the clouds.
Population: ~Unknown; no census taken. Horde composed of various elven and human tribes. Conquered states vary in ethnicity and race.

History:

He rose from the Steppes
Adorned in Blue and Gold
Esak of Clans Low and Spirits Weak

By Battle and Fate
Esak he took what was his
Wives and Vassals
Slaves and Horses

By Heaven, he rides
From Winter's passage
To Spring's purview

Death and Fire
Are Gifts of the Steppes
Bend now or perish
Is all the advice I give
For now I lie with the worms

-A roughly translated inscription on King Oshan's tomb, ruler of the Ossenese Kingdoms.

[NJW2000]

Great! Is the Grunhelm university going to be added into Stories/histories?

[Delioth]

Oh, damn. I had read that piece about Grunberg when it was in its infancy- it didn't have that huge, awesome story on there. Yeah, it's in the 'stories' section now. Thanks for mentioning it; I must have missed it when I was updating the last time. Also.... it's Grunberg- you switched from one to the other halfway through the writing. It was kinda funny when I noticed it.


Also here is where I'm keeping some extras that don't fit in the OP until we get to a new page. Stories are being outsourced due to the problem with character limit.

Stories/Histories

Spoiler: A Tale of the Querach (click to show/hide)

When I was a child, an elderly Querach came to our village one day, asking for shelter for the night. All the neighbours shut their doors, save for my dear father. He was a good man. I was scared at first when I saw him; an ant the size of the tool shed, who could imagine such things existed? I still remember it's head; mangled and throttled as if he had been through a slaughterhouse or a great battle.

The creature stayed with us for a few days and I soon became quite fond of his stories, which he told me in that raspy garbled voice that I strained to understand. He told me of long dead cities and colonies the Querach once ruled throughout the Continent and how during that time, us humans were still animals. I didn't believe him at the time and to this day I wish I had asked more. Still, my ignorant youthful self eventually asked what happened to the cities of his people, why they were so few and those that people heard about were monsters or killers. Although his face was unreadable, even then I could tell that he felt great sadness when I asked him.

This is what he told me, from what I remember.

"Young child, I have told before of our great civilisations, of monuments made in the sky and our very names enscribed on the oceans of the world. It was a time when the world was perfect, when all could enjoy without suffering. It was a Paradise on earth. Or so it seemed.

The lords of the time were rich, loved and proud; who could not be when they had made the world perfect? And yet, they thirsted for more. They fought, sending the servants and scholars to war simply to gain yet more sandy lands or useless sea. For the people of that time, it came to be known as the End Times. Lords fought, emptying the cities of their peoples, ending generations of perfection for yet more power. And each one accepted their fate for it was in their blood; the Querach followed their lords from cradle to grave without one hint of disagreement, so very unlike your people.

Centuries of battle without end saw the world sundered beyond comprehension; the earth was changed and blasted far into the sky, the seas boiled and the skies hidden by eternal clouds. In time, the last battle was fought with one prince left amongst the ruins of our great cities. Maddened with the glory and pride, he did not see what he had caused. He did not see the destruction, the apocalypse he and his peers had wrought. Without enemy to compare, he settled to watch over his armies fight amongst themselves to determine those who would rule the world under him. These savages would in time lose mind and soul, becoming the murderous beasts we know today. For that Prince's sin, my people have forgotten his name.

But even as the world died, there was still good amongst our people, those who had thought better. Lost in the deserts that had been created by the End Times, Queracham Etraja asked the heavens for guidance, asking the gods why they had let the world die.

We worshiped thousands of gods in those times, and none answered her call. She beckoned each day, offering sacrifice after sacrifice, but no aid came. We had been abandoned by the gods.

And yet, just as her brood was dying, Etraja heard the Voice. A voice like that was light incarnate; a stern father and gentle mother in one. It was nothing our people had ever known. The Voice spoke to Etraja for 50 days and 50 nights, memorising all the Voice told her. She knew now that the ways in which my people had lived was sinful and that the End Times were their reward. As such, while the Princes warred, Etraja journied the world looking for those she could persuade to join her cause. 500 in total, these Apostles would found the first holy colonies, ruled in the way of the Voice of the Sands.

To this day we still abide by the Voice, its mysteries and its rules for without them we would fall into the same fate as our ancestors. It is for this reason true Querach are in so few number; the Voice commanded us not to spread in great multitudes or dispose the Qeerav without thought. It is because of the Voice that we honour but are not obedient to our Mothers and Fathers and why many of us leave our colonies in search of a home elsewhere. That, my child, is why I am traveling through your village and why my face is as damaged as it is."

The day after he told me that story, the creature had left, for parts unknown. I never knew if his tale was in any way true for who was there to tell me it was? Other Querach I have had the pleasure of speaking to are silent on the matter, as if I did not need to know. Whatever the case, adventurers returning from the deserts of the south occasionally bring me ancient artifacts or sketches of ruins they find and they often seem to resemble the stories that elderly Querach told me all those years ago...

-Heinrich Volderg, Chancellor of Grunberg University.

Spoiler: Grunberg University (click to show/hide)

  In the Grand Capital City of Bonnlean, low in the new-built, tall Northern slums, a crumbling building stands, worm eaten over and over, held up by so many struts and supports and pillars hastily constructed and intertwined by so many ivies and mosses grown old and vicious that they form a venerable yet freshly expansive woodland somehow expanding inwards anachronistically in the shining urban tenements - but more on that, the Tomewood, later.

  Over the Tomewood, the university proper looms, dead and newly growing struts unwillingly relinquishing their grip on the cracked masonry, as mighty monkstone and bizarrely cogniscent enthanolimonite firmly supporting and drunkenly, twistingly decorating the eccentric and mighty Construction that is - Grunberg University Proper.

  Grunberg University squirrels away as many awkward and ailing secrets as the Tomewood hugs quaint and curious volumes to its leafy bosom. The most complex of these is largely considered, by the alehouse wits and dandies that debate such matters while watching their profits from the tuber-mine slaver companies grow, is the question of the goodly University's age. The building, and indeed institution, as of around fifty years back, quite simply did not exist. It was originally founded by one Marcus Grunberg, a man steeped in artifice alchemical and political, who recognized the absence of any major intellectual fellowship or power in the expanding and innovating nation of Bonnlean. Nature abhors a vacuum, and Marcus felt himself quite the man to oblige it. Thus, with a not inexcessive grant from their majesty, he proceeded to set up a centre for the arts and learning as quite unseen before in that country, with an attached organisation for the acquiring and renting of patents, research facilities medical and magical, and a library collection, housed in the direct centre of the university shaped in that most magical of shapes: the pentagon, the last of which attracted a curious new breed of scholar of yet unfound: the librarian.

  Said Grunberg librarians were not only well acquitted in healing, pyromancy, moon-watching and all the other numerous disciplines of the professors Grunberg hired to teach the flocks of monied and willing students from all corners of Bonnlean, but were also expert fighters, as they were sworn to protect the paramilitary wealth of knowledge stored in the first common Bonnlean library, bought, seized or copied from private vaults. For in the first ten years of the University's existence, when it stood grand and untouched by time or leafy tendril, the library began to matter more as a military resource for the royals and people of Bonnlean, and the development of new technologies and concepts was watched over jealously by the generals and empire-builders of the court. Though forbidden from squabbling over, and thus endangering this precious resource, with indeed a swift and hefty punishment from the martial and unforgiving librarians for those that did so, these men and women soon fretted over the acquisition of designs and scrolls from the Threigan Caverns and the other floating island-states.

  Soon, when the danger of being left behind on the ever-more-indispensable techno-military level was felt too great, a strange machine was commissioned by the state, for construction by the scholars under the hopeful spires of Grunberg. Watched over by the ever-vigilant librarians, the many artificers and academics began to make a giant machine, closer to a living being than any before it, yet stranger and further from the earthy professions of the clock-maker and mechanic than any other, blending arcane arts such as geomancy, calculus, electronomy and even metallo-thaumaturgy to this one strange purpose. For the machine was to prevent the furtherment of any nation save Bonnlean in intellectual matters, by realizing any major idea or theory as it came into being, using a glowing amethyst of observation dug from a place startlingly near the geometric heart of the ring of civilized nations, surrounded by many whirring pistons, bubbling vials and computational mechanisms. The major ideas would be printed out in a secret sanctum of the library, reputedly a place where not even Grunberg himself dared to ask to venture, then carried off to the public eye by the sombrest and tightest lipped librarians.

  Upon the completion of this grand project, in around the twentieth year of the University's existence, Professor Marcus received a major boon from the King, to the tune of a month of Kingdom taxes, in return for securing the safety of Bonnlean. It was this, however, that proved to be the root of the warping of the University and the growth of the Tomewood, as it inspired Marcus to begin his most ambitious alchemical project yet: the trapping of a single moment in time.

  While many artificers had easily managed to preserve a short and repeating finite space of time, in a bottle or snow-globe as adorned the homes of the wealthy and frivolous, it was unheard of to trap the smallest possible amount. This was partially because to do so would be to get a hold of a causal yet stillborn universe, the totality of all things, with all that could come from them implied. No mere section of the world would suffice, as that would merely be a collection of objects, the transmutation of energy into which being a simple matter. To this end, Marcus obtained, at greatest expense, this time from the highest solid matter found by observation balloons above the floating islands themselves, a crystal that flowed when touched around the fingers, yet retained its shape of a perfect sphere, and could only be held up without changing shape by powerful magnets. This was believed to be because it was formed from atoms of indescribably small stature, containing as many as the rest of the universe did in total, and thus an acceptable starting point for the rendering of said universe. Through sepulcher incantations and irreversible summonings, Marcus managed to get a hold of said moment, though not without swapping much of his treasured human warmth and compassion for cold calculation and insight with the unspeakable demons of the ego, that which torments us in the late hours before the witching one, becoming what may be the greatest alchemist to have ever lived in the process.

  Marcus, having proclaimed his success to all and sundry, and freely organised a national festival with the innumerable funds of his personal vault and the university treasury, then stole throughout the shady courtyards and embossed balconies of Grunberg university, to the machine itself, the thinker, the fisherman of ideas and dreams. Replacing the amethyst of observation with the sphere, now containing a complete and profound moment in time, itself implying all other moments, at the heart of the machine, he unwittingly wrought a great and terrible change in the nature of the university.
 
  For rather than drift around the current cosmos sniffing out the really good thinkers, this semi-sentient device was left to search one and all moments in an unchanging, self contained model universe. Alone the two devices were thaumaturgical baubles, playthings.

  But together, they spelled madness.

  Strange scripts were vomited out of the protesting innards of the machine, as it sifted through every moment possible, as every idea was conceived, and none were, the terrible neither-nor void of possibility imprinting itself on the circuits and beakers. Great diagrams of the minds of plankton were sketched, in the start, as the machine had not yet fully fallen to insanity, plays were written about mudflats that lived and coupled passionately on stars, designs for extracting time from emeralds were created, sonnets written in colours of ink that did not exist, while essays were printed about the creatures that inhabit the northern regions of the human conception of loneliness.

  This sudden and terrible influx of ideas that should not have been into the world had an immediate effect. While many rushed to burn the scrolls, parchments tortured by their own understanding screaming with release in the flames, the passage of time and growth in the university grew warped and fickle, as courtyards crumbled in days, food spoiled in minutes and students, perhaps the only ones who really benefited, finished essays in seconds. While it was pretended that all was well by the scholars, and the library machine was concealed permanently, all it made destroyed, though the librarians refused to let such a unique device be smashed, conditions inside the university worsened. Twenty-five years after it was built, it seemed two hundred years old, moss, ivy and rot creeping up from it's foundations faster than some living creatures could move. A man might age fifty years, love, lose and master an ancient art there, then leave to meet a childhood friend fifty years younger than him.

  This was how much of Tomewood, though the still fairly organised collection of growing struts and wood was not called that then, was built, by working men to preserve the habitation of the thinkers from decay, those felt useless and expendable to time's ravages by their employers, many collapsed shelves of books being used as foundations and struts by the ignorant and uncaring, having fallen through the floors into the cellars below, groaning sympathetically with the weight of unpermitted knowledge the machine still churned out, nobody able to bear the madman's knowledge long enough to change the gem at the centre. Thus Tomewood grew to be filled with tomes, even as a forest grew around them, and the ecology adapted to academia in new and frightening manners.

  The nadir of the crumbling university came thirty-five years after it was built, as a revolution spread among the librarians. Long despised for their attachment to the satanic writing machine, they grew bitter, and a humble yet intelligent shelf-stacker named Silas Mariner asked why they should not save some of the less despicable volumes from the flames, as knowledge coming from every and no portion of the universe might prove useful in the speedy development of wondrous and arcane artifacts. When this was made known, however, the librarians, soon labelled as "Mariner's Heretics" were forced to take refuge in the barricaded library, where their martial prowess and superior knowledge made them impossible to dislodge.

  These revolutionaries soon began to read the less instantly repulsive scrolls, maybe one in every thousand made, and to upon occasion carry out the ideas therein. This was a frustrating and dangerous process, and many works the schizophrenic machine produced were now fully unintelligible, while certain others sent the librarians that read them mad, one in fact exploding. However, a goodly quantity of maniacal weapons, trinkets, devices and arts were recovered from the void of madness and saved by these Mariner's Heretics, with one slipping out every so often to secure the profane knowledge in the world beyond. Finally, with their numbers falling slower and slower as they came to know the machine, and their power growing as their artifacts of madness were produced, Marcus himself, the greatest of all alchemists, was called upon to take action. Stepping though now archaic-seeming lanes over crumbled bits of masonry and thick Poppyfield vines, he raised his arms as he came to the sealed library. Drawing power from the two alchemical marvels working as one that he had wrought, exposing his mind to that pathological energy, he performed an act of brutal telekinesis, increasing gravity massively with the power of the objects, and driving the library, killing any unescaped Heretics, deep into the reverberating heart of Tomewood and the ground beneath, lifting most of the temporal effects of the device from the library, and weakening but not destroying it. He then retired to the highest room of Grunberg, far from his monstrosities as he could get, and has not been seen since in public.

  Grunberg has a new, less puissant, saner chancellor now, and droves of students still enter and leave it. For fifteen years it has stood untroubled... yet Tomewood, driven upward by the malignant energy of the Allwriter of Bonnlean, still waits hungrily beneath it, while Mariner's heretics and their otherworldly artifacts lie scattered and hidden throughout the cosmos.

Spoiler: On Dragons (click to show/hide)

You know those old stories you hear? About giant snakes or lizards who ooze poisons, unleash storms, breath fire or just run amok capturing princesses? They never existed.

I know because I've spent decades travelling this world, trying to record every piece of draconic lore in every culture that exists. Even went up to those floating continents we see every now and then; even they have something similar. Feathered serpents the size of clouds. Funnily enough, smaller variants of those actually exist up there. Nothing I would call dragons though.

Without a doubt, those things mentioned in the stories are just myths or other creatures mistaken that have been exaggerated; they are stories after all. I thought I'd be able to publish my discoveries without a single counterpoint and officially tell the world that dragons never at all existed. Then I journeyed inland.

I had gone for completely unrelated reasons; track a rare species of cheetah that had could supposedly tunnel through rock. An interesting enough species, I ventured deeper into the sands with the rest of my motley crew. We eventually found a specimen after a few weeks, although at that point we didn't care. We found the ruins of some old civilisation. At first I thought it was Querachi or Sevian, but upon inspecting the masonry, I soon discovered that the structures were not ruins at all; they were being maintained with alarmingly excellent craftsmanship. Up till then, we had thought we were the only people for miles; even the local nomads stayed clear of the region. Afraid that we had been trespassing, we attempted to leave quickly. That's when it appeared. The dragon.

I couldn't believe it at first; dragons didn't exist. My research had shown time and time again that dragons were little more than a fairy tale. But it seemed very much to be a dragon; a bulky serpentine form, three pairs of limbs and two great leathery wings that were far longer than the creature itself. Suffice to say, most of us failed to survive the expedition. The story of our escape is far too long for this already lengthy tome; I would recommend Albert Hertig's The Great Escape for further reading.

While many of my fellow researchers were unfortunately killed, we did retrieve a great deal of information, as attested by the length of this book. For one things, dragons are real creatures. They are however, not natural creatures like a snake or tree. Even the crystalline or mineral lifeforms in the Deoterrum are more natural than what dragons truly are. In truth, dragons are the result of hideous rituals that this tome will not describe for the safety of our world. By performing these rituals, men transform themselves into dragons, becoming creatures of what I can only call pure evil....

-An excerpt from Rolf Haggron's On Dragons

Spoiler: The Fall and Rise of Vivirex (click to show/hide)

"Ah, the fall of this once-grand city? Yeh, I remember. Who could forget that atrocity?

Mind you, this was long before that Principality of Bonnlean were founded- it was just a little while 'afore they exiled the bad ones to them caves, maybe a few decades? A century at most.

But anyways, the city had fielded a grand army- and they were of a mind to take over everyone nearby. We were just here in the mountains, mindin' our business- farming what we could in the few fertile valleys nearby, mining what little pure ore we could get before we figured out how to smelt good iron from the other ores around here. Figures, we just needed a bigger fire.

Well, when that army got here, we weren't wishing for any bigger fires. They burned the valleys. Threw burning oil into the mines- miners inside. Flaming bundles of straw left and right- our homes were fireproof with our heavy stones, mind you- but the food wasn't.

The people were starving- personal gardens were a little to keep 'em going for a while, but we hadn't expected Bonnlean to attack- we didn' have the stores we should have to weather a storm like tha'. That's when the King got his title; the Grieving King. Every night the people could see him on his personal balcony- watching the flames, seeing his people wither away in their dreaded clutches, and weeping.

Always weeping.

As his city was crumpling under the stress, a young man clad in scorched steel came to talk to the Grieving King- said he had a fix for our problem. That day- that boy- would change this city forever.

He proposed that we use minor necromancy to bring back those wasting away- give 'em new life with nothing to lose, repel those Bonnlean Bastards!

Well, the king- he didn't see any choice. He let the kid go through with the plan- most of the citizens took tha pact, they wanted to kill some of those who took their lives rather than die wasting away to starvation. Oh, boy, you should've seen the looks on those Bastards' faces when we opened the gates and a horde of not-quite-alive people came storming out, bound there with a little magic and a lot of hate. Only took an hour or so for the army to run screaming.

Think that incident scarred enough of 'em deep enough to pretty well cause the exile a few decades later. Good. They can rot where the sun don't shine. If you find any of 'em undead, bring 'em to me. I'll kill 'em again with gladness.

After they were gone, most of the city just went back to their previous lives. When someone was about to pass, they usually got in touch with one of the deathsingers, and got themselves a plan to die and come back to serve. Warriors went to man the walls, especially after the few that were left living realized that there's a whole ton of iron in this here mountain, and coal just below- just had to figure out that a hotter fire got it out.

After that, every warrior was given another life on the walls, steel in hand and bow at the ready- those ones even got special treatment- better magic, some Vitamancy 'f they want it, chat with the living to keep us sane, that's the good unlife. That's how I ended up here- centuries of good stuff. And we'll keep on until we're not needed."
-as told by Old Bones, the most ancient of the Defenders of Vivirex

Spoiler: Mountainsbreath's Rise (click to show/hide)

Hail! Mountainsbreath is King! Long live Mountainsbreath!
For centuries, the Adamant Crown laid in wait- until an orphan boy, claimed by no Clan, celebrated his coming of age- alone, with no brethren save himself.
And on that night from the still-guarded throne room came a thunderous crack- the guards rushed in to see what was the matter- and lo! The Adamant Crown lay where it had for centuries upon the seat of the Dwarves' Stone Throne, but in the center of the throne room lay a longsword of purest crystal- beautiful, glowing with a light from deep inside shining jet black in the dim torchlight, its silver guard and pommel contrasting the shining black blade with elegance and the dark leather grip mirroring it. A silvered, shining inscription on the blade in ancient runes- For King Mountainsbreath, Son of No Clan and Ruler of All.
One of the guards bent to pick it up- before he could touch it the stone itself curled up, protecting the blade from hands that did not own it. The guards sent for the boy- most knew of him, the only boy without a clan... ever, as far as the records went.
As the young dwarf reached for the blade, eyes wide at its partially concealed beauty, the partial shell of earth guarding it fell away, back into the floor of the throne room. He picked up the blade, felt its balance, and the Adamant Crown moved. All knew that the Crown never moves except under the power of the Rightful King... Since the blade said so, Mountainsbreath strode up the stairs, blade in hand, and grabbed the crown- picked it up and placed it on his head!
So was Fjall Mountainsbreath, King of No Clan ordained King of Jarnheim.
-From Clan Lykta's Records

[NJW2000]

Fixed. Stylistic error due to in-depth use of beat structure and definitely not taking a shower halfway through.

[Delioth]

More on the city of the Dead:

Spoiler: Vivirex, City of Mingling Necromancy (click to show/hide)

Other Names: Damned City, Bone Mountain
Government Type: Loose Constitutional Monarchy- the prince- or princess-dux technically holds power to make decisions, but anything important is brought before council of other esteemed princes and princesses.
Leader: Princess-dux Mivira
Succession: Chosen from the available princes and princesses by the nobles and living or recently-dead heroes (NOTE: Most living folks are nobles. Exceptions include those who weave the necromantic magics, champion-crusaders, and skilled professionals, like weapon/armorsmiths and alchemists.)
Banner: Verdant tree sprouting from scarlet fortress centered on saffron field
Population: Nine thousand living, but countless undead workers
Population Distribution:

• 7000(ish) Nobles, divided into 100 Noble Houses
• 800(ish) Errant Knights/Crusader-Champions
• 200(exactly) Bound Champions (2 for each Noble House)
• 500(ish) Necromancers of varying skill
• 300(ish) Makers-of-things (NOT smiths)- alchemists, jewelers, trinketmakers, cartographers, high-end furnituremakers, &c.
• 100(ish) Necromancers who work with the smiths
• 100(ish) Smiths, specializing in armor or weaponsmithing (Menial smithing is left to undead)

Politics: The 100 noble houses each elect one of their own-their prince or princess- to be their voice in the Council, and as a candidate for Rulership. Since none of the nobles worry about the regular goings-on of the city as it is staffed by largely unthinking undead and the fact that the city is very isolated from the rest of the world, most care little about the ruler of the city-state. However, should any conflicts between houses arise, each house has two bound champions- one to fight for their rights and one to crusade in the world. Otherwise, the nobles of Vivirex simply live their lives in luxury in their mountain city, many picking up one or more of the Arts- magical or otherwise.
Imports: few, mostly pilgrims sent or brought by the crusading champions and luxury goods from faraway lands
Exports: Weapons and armor of very high quality (often including living bone, blood gems, or other oddities forged of necromantic influence)
'Life': While all the menial work is done by the long-undead that think relatively little as most of their soul has passed beyond, those who man the walls are kept in great shape- extra bindings to keep their souls around, Vitamancy to keep them whole, and reasonable shifts along with talk to keep them sane. The eldest, 'Old Bones,' (the living are too young to remember his name, and he stopped caring about it centuries ago) actually remembers the time when Vivirex was a city full of life- some think he may have even been the Grieving King, the one who had to make the decision to keep only some of the city alive and bind the rest in undeath to preserve his people- who had to watch his people starve, wither, die... and then ask them to serve the rest in undeath.
Crusading Champions: These are the warriors of Vivirex, however they are never called to war- no living king or ruler wishes to go against the generations of warriors of legend from Vivirex. Instead, most either instruct the youth who will become champions or go on quests- some to bring back pilgrims to the city, some to bring legendary artifacts, others to bring glory to themselves and Vivirex. Most are Errant- unbound, simply crusading for the City; but 100 of them are bound- they crusade for the glory and purpose of their bound noble house, and under their direction.

Spoiler: The Fall and Rise of Vivirex (click to show/hide)

"Ah, the fall of this once-grand city? Yeh, I remember. Who could forget that atrocity?

Mind you, this was long before that Principality of Bonnlean were founded- it was just a little while 'afore they exiled the bad ones to them caves, maybe a few decades? A century at most.

But anyways, the city had fielded a grand army- and they were of a mind to take over everyone nearby. We were just here in the mountains, mindin' our business- farming what we could in the few fertile valleys nearby, mining what little pure ore we could get before we figured out how to smelt good iron from the other ores around here. Figures, we just needed a bigger fire.

Well, when that army got here, we weren't wishing for any bigger fires. They burned the valleys. Threw burning oil into the mines- miners inside. Flaming bundles of straw left and right- our homes were fireproof with our heavy stones, mind you- but the food wasn't.

The people were starving- personal gardens were a little to keep 'em going for a while, but we hadn't expected Bonnlean to attack- we didn' have the stores we should have to weather a storm like tha'. That's when the King got his title; the Grieving King. Every night the people could see him on his personal balcony- watching the flames, seeing his people wither away in their dreaded clutches, and weeping.

Always weeping.

As his city was crumpling under the stress, a young man clad in scorched steel came to talk to the Grieving King- said he had a fix for our problem. That day- that boy- would change this city forever.

He proposed that we use minor necromancy to bring back those wasting away- give 'em new life with nothing to lose, repel those Bonnlean Bastards!

Well, the king- he didn't see any choice. He let the kid go through with the plan- most of the citizens took tha pact, they wanted to kill some of those who took their lives rather than die wasting away to starvation. Oh, boy, you should've seen the looks on those Bastards' faces when we opened the gates and a horde of not-quite-alive people came storming out, bound there with a little magic and a lot of hate. Only took an hour or so for the army to run screaming.

Think that incident scarred enough of 'em deep enough to pretty well cause the exile a few decades later. Good. They can rot where the sun don't shine. If you find any of 'em undead, bring 'em to me. I'll kill 'em again with gladness.

After they were gone, most of the city just went back to their previous lives. When someone was about to pass, they usually got in touch with one of the deathsingers, and got themselves a plan to die and come back to serve. Warriors went to man the walls, especially after the few that were left living realized that there's a whole ton of iron in this here mountain, and coal just below- just had to figure out that a hotter fire got it out.

After that, every warrior was given another life on the walls, steel in hand and bow at the ready- those ones even got special treatment- better magic, some Vitamancy 'f they want it, chat with the living to keep us sane, that's the good unlife. That's how I ended up here- centuries of good stuff. And we'll keep on until we're not needed."
-as told by Old Bones, the most ancient of the Defenders of Vivirex

[NJW2000]

Spoiler: The Fall and Rise of Vivirex (click to show/hide)

"Ah, the fall of this once-grand city? Yeh, I remember. Who could forget that atrocity?

Mind you, this was long before that Principality of Bonnlean were founded- it was just a little while 'afore they exiled the bad ones to them caves, maybe a few decades? A century at most.

But anyways, the city had fielded a grand army- and they were of a mind to take over everyone nearby. We were just here in the mountains, mindin' our business- farming what we could in the few fertile valleys nearby, mining what little pure ore we could get before we figured out how to smelt good iron from the other ores around here. Figures, we just needed a bigger fire.

Well, when that army got here, we weren't wishing for any bigger fires. They burned the valleys. Threw burning oil into the mines- miners inside. Flaming bundles of straw left and right- our homes were fireproof with our heavy stones, mind you- but the food wasn't.

The people were starving- personal gardens were a little to keep 'em going for a while, but we hadn't expected Bonnlean to attack- we didn' have the stores we should have to weather a storm like tha'. That's when the King got his title; the Grieving King. Every night the people could see him on his personal balcony- watching the flames, seeing his people wither away in their dreaded clutches, and weeping.

Always weeping.

As his city was crumpling under the stress, a young man clad in scorched steel came to talk to the Grieving King- said he had a fix for our problem. That day- that boy- would change this city forever.

He proposed that we use minor necromancy to bring back those wasting away- give 'em new life with nothing to lose, repel those Bonnlean Bastards!

Well, the king- he didn't see any choice. He let the kid go through with the plan- most of the citizens took tha pact, they wanted to kill some of those who took their lives rather than die wasting away to starvation. Oh, boy, you should've seen the looks on those Bastards' faces when we opened the gates and a horde of not-quite-alive people came storming out, bound there with a little magic and a lot of hate. Only took an hour or so for the army to run screaming.

Think that incident scarred enough of 'em deep enough to pretty well cause the exile a few decades later. Good. They can rot where the sun don't shine. If you find any of 'em undead, bring 'em to me. I'll kill 'em again with gladness.

After they were gone, most of the city just went back to their previous lives. When someone was about to pass, they usually got in touch with one of the deathsingers, and got themselves a plan to die and come back to serve. Warriors went to man the walls, especially after the few that were left living realized that there's a whole ton of iron in this here mountain, and coal just below- just had to figure out that a hotter fire got it out.

After that, every warrior was given another life on the walls, steel in hand and bow at the ready- those ones even got special treatment- better magic, some Vitamancy 'f they want it, chat with the living to keep us sane, that's the good unlife. That's how I ended up here- centuries of good stuff. And we'll keep on until we're not needed.
-as told by Old Bones, the most ancient of the Defenders of Vivirex

[micelus]

I have an idea, but yeah, go ahead.