It is said the sun learned to set as it bowed before the gilded glory of Ephes. Bright, sprawling, serene, the citadel stretches as a pristine pale collection of temples, political and gladiatorial stages — encircled by trade markets, private villas, and the riffraff of crammed plebeian districts. Magic and necromancy are permitted, but widely regarded as the uncouth work of the lower class. At all times, Ephes bustles: observe incoming merchants, artists and teachers. Exiting morals. Flocks of rising politicians, or once-upon favourites, dead at the gates. Priests and opiate sellers, calling their faithful. The ruthless marches of the ever-present, ever-growing city army of the Hand. And the growls of the arenas, thundering for blood.
In Ephes, only the main river waterway is pure. The people all come tarnished: publicly virtuous, but privately obscene and fiercely ambitious, the upper patrician echelons have never met one of their own they wouldn’t have for dinner. Debt and nightly revelry are paramount: only boors don’t have five creditors. Those born without means now have a rare ticket to attain them: talent and skill are currently in demand, as, under the prosperous rule of Senate leader Caius, Ephes sets sights on imperial expansion.
Notable locations:
■ The High Senate:Ephes’ expansive political arena and court of justice, closely guarded.
■ Temples of the Chained: now home to multiple religions, Ephes first honoured the world-making and eating god who was chained to avoid the end of humanity. The oldest and largest such temple, containing the citadel’s Beacon, is currently closed off to host the Senate leader during his meditation.
■ The Patrician district: no one wears wealth as well as Ephes, with its string of villas, pools and nearly nightly fetes. Hosts compete in providing the grandest and most exotic entertainments and keep their homes constantly open to the fellow 1%.
■ Numerous tea, wine, opiate and pleasure houses.
■ The Fishmongers’ Square: seat of day-to-day trade and stage of news shouters or orators looking to advertise the politics of their masters or inject their new ideas for public debate. Anyone can speak out their thoughts to rouse support — or incite rebellion. This is also where new bounty and assassination contracts are made or announced.
■ The Fields: widely attended gladiator arena that holds performances at least once a week and every day of festivity or triumph. Moderately-sized, with exorbitant fees.
■ Barracks of the Hand: located at the very outskirts, with numerous such settlements doubling as the defence walls of Ephes. Compact but impossibly clean and barring civilian access.
■ Creditor markets: where there is a will, gangs of highly questionable individuals find the coin to pave your way — for a price of gold or services repaid at the appropriate time.
Nominally, Ephes thrives under the democratic rule of 40 senators, each leading organised gangs within the citadel. The law openly favours the rich: bribes and nepotism are frequent, killings and sabotage abound. A man who has not had an assassination contract issued on his name is hardly worth his salt. Lawmakers, nobles, merchants and orators, only a handful of Senators have military experience, barring the leader Caius — leaving them intrigued by the conquest proposal of undead lady Mesallina. Senate gatherings take place each midday, to discuss anything from high politics to acceptable civilian robe dyes and the price of wheat.
THE ARENAS
Captives or willing professionals, the gladiators of Ephes are highly skilled martial showmen as much as warriors, who know to throw a fight with gusto as long as the public is entertained. Championed as gods in the marketplaces and invited for private performances at highbred homes, they hold considerable sway over the common man and the vote of the public opinion.
THE HAND
What intrigues of conquest the minds of the Senate sow, the military Hand of Ephes reaps. Highly regimented, efficient and ruthless, the Hand earned its name for the unusual discipline of the 50,000 soldiers it comprises. They act as one, each of its five contingents — or Fingers — united in perfect and unflinching synchrony. Members are conscripts, former slaves or career soldiers, who sleep in isolated barracks and camps, seldom engaging civilians. They are recognisable for their red capes and silver armors. Largely listless, they practise a cult of brutality, frequently consume stimulant opiates and communicate in code.
THE HIVES
Clusters of peaceful — manually, mechanically or magically attended — agricultural settlements bundled at the outskirts of Ephes and tasked with raising the citadel’s prized crops and animals. Agricultural goods are the foremost export assets of Ephes and diligently guarded by the Hand. Access is nearly impossible (?).
MESSALINA
Two months before the group’s arrival, undead mistress Messalina arrived with an opulent convoy to Ephes under a banner of peace. She speaks of a man Matthias who wakes, empowers and enslaves the undead — asking for the Hand of Ephes to join her forces in defeating him and his undead Brotherhood. In exchange, she promises the territories of the Brotherhood as provinces of Ephes. She keeps her forces of undead peacefully encamped outside the walls of Ephes, while the squabbling Senate judges her plea.
” We met with moonlight in Hatthevar Like children, we chased in the bazaar Your cheek so pale, no flush could mar Your mother wept you’d died at war. ”
All roads lead to death and Hatthevar — a citadel like a crossroads of labyrinths, passageways and bazaars, surrounded by formidable fortress walls. Half folktale, half gelid wasteland, the citadel survived at the largesse of rich patrons who chased oracles to materialise their ambitions and necromancers to retrieve their beloveds.
There is little industry in Hatthevar and less cohesive rule: governed by clusters of magical castes and underground groups, the citadel thrives off trade in supernatural artefacts and favours, divination and boons. Coin is often unnecessary — exchanges of favours or memories can suffice. Covenants are king, and pledges are often blood-bound. It is forbidden to ask a name that is not volunteered or seek out a hooded face that does not reveal itself first.
Less than a year ago, Hatthevar was freely travelled by the living: now, spirits and the revived dead make the lion’s share of the citadel’s roaming population, drifting aimlessly in silent, eerie peace across the streets. Some beg aid as they search for their memories, or learn how to live again in flesh forms; others, crafty, resume the vicious passions that governed their existence, preying on innocent onlookers to satisfy their cruelty, vanity, greed, lust or bloodthirst. More still, too long dead, have fallen into apathy and crowd in gambling dens, chasing easy thrills. Silvered fox spirits saunter in packs, oft interceding to remove newcomers from harm’s way.
Here and there, you might see spirits wearing gilded shackle-chains and attending storm-eyed merchants who coaxed them off the streets with promised to give back their memories after a few years of service. The spirits who foolishly offered out their true names to devious necromancer-slavers face a worse fate, trapped in eternal service.
Tepid rain drip-drip-drips on Hatthevar at all hours, turning bloody for fifteen minutes at sunset. It lingers in your footsteps, if you’ve ever claimed a life. You cannot buy an umbrella: you must always receive it from a local, in exchange for a boon — a bow, a boon, a kiss, a tale — and return it by nightfall. Stay more than 20 minutes in the rain, and you begin to slowly lose your appetite, energy and enthusiasm, only for them to return once you have dried.
Few residential homes survive within Hatthevar: many, rain-trodden, have been repurposed as homes for spirits and the convalescing revived. Some serve as taverns and inns for exorbitant prices. Someone always watches through holes in the wall.
Following the arrival of undead creator Matthias, the living may enter the citadel for one hour after sunrise. The dead — those who were killed, revived, practise necromancy or are otherwise death-touched — may come freely. The rest will need to consume potions that absorb their shadows and partly mute their powers to pass for dead and gain passage. They must never reveal themselves as living and should create false identities — including death stories.
Sprawling, rowdy, incessantly cluttered: the bazaars reunite the dead and the living, strange or exotic magical artefacts, sales of curses and curse-breaking, necromancy and healing. In the crowds, amid desperate sale pitches and artistic performances, you might encounter the droves of newly revived dead, brought in from all corners of Akhuras — and beyond.
THE GAMBLING DENS
Twelve lavish, repurposed teahouses, strewn on each side of the river Liu — foremost is the gilded Sanctuary. Constantly busy, loud and frequented by both patrons of the games — bone dice, cards, riddles, demonic chicken races — and courtesans, dancers and performers. Opiates, cloying incense and eccentric food abound. Freshly revived spirits risk their few remaining memories, their supernatural powers, years of servitude or even their new lives. Each night, the passcode to enter a gambling den changes and must be coaxed from shady gamblers in the bazaars.
THE WHISPERING HOUSES
Long removed from human existence, spirits now pay handsomely for any scraps of memories that can connect them to mortal life. In the Whispering Houses of northern Hatthevar, some memory sellers even offer the opportunity to repackage one of your existing memories as incense that you may burn in the company of someone else you’d like to experience it.
Not all memory trade is kind: beware dark alleys where shy urchins beg your help to light their lanterns, only to capture threads of your memories are you are inexplicably unable to look away from moths dancing in the lamp. Recover your recollections by breaking the lantern before it’s sold off in a shady shop.
Wish makers charge steep prices to materialise wishes, break curses or improve your fortune. People are sometimes sold as good luck charms.
THE ORACLE HALL
One the main attraction of Hatthevar, the temple of the Oracle asks supplicants to walk up its 10,000 steps with a lit candle that incoming ravens try to put out. Spirits begging succour attempt distractions. Stop or gutter your candle and you must start again. Reach the topmost dais of the temple, and you must wait until sunset on your knees while increasingly intensifying phantom pains assail you — before the Oracle receives you.
THE WASTELANDS
Descended from the wastelands, three key areas surround Hatthevar: half-sunken, knotted ships that house a decayed flooded temple, a deserted underpass home to scorpions and the so-called path-of-blood walked by holy pilgrims and shadows.
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PREVIOUS ARC LOCATIONS
Check the welcome & ease of access status of each location in its respective blurb...!
ARC I: SA-HARETH
ARC II: TARAVAST
ARC III: HOUSE OF RAVENS
ARC IV: SERTHICA
ARC V: ALEM
ARC VI: YANCAI
ARC VII: EPHES
Image source.
It is said the sun learned to set as it bowed before the gilded glory of Ephes. Bright, sprawling, serene, the citadel stretches as a pristine pale collection of temples, political and gladiatorial stages — encircled by trade markets, private villas, and the riffraff of crammed plebeian districts. Magic and necromancy are permitted, but widely regarded as the uncouth work of the lower class. At all times, Ephes bustles: observe incoming merchants, artists and teachers. Exiting morals. Flocks of rising politicians, or once-upon favourites, dead at the gates. Priests and opiate sellers, calling their faithful. The ruthless marches of the ever-present, ever-growing city army of the Hand. And the growls of the arenas, thundering for blood.
In Ephes, only the main river waterway is pure. The people all come tarnished: publicly virtuous, but privately obscene and fiercely ambitious, the upper patrician echelons have never met one of their own they wouldn’t have for dinner. Debt and nightly revelry are paramount: only boors don’t have five creditors. Those born without means now have a rare ticket to attain them: talent and skill are currently in demand, as, under the prosperous rule of Senate leader Caius, Ephes sets sights on imperial expansion.
Notable locations:
■ Temples of the Chained: now home to multiple religions, Ephes first honoured the world-making and eating god who was chained to avoid the end of humanity. The oldest and largest such temple, containing the citadel’s Beacon, is currently closed off to host the Senate leader during his meditation.
■ The Patrician district: no one wears wealth as well as Ephes, with its string of villas, pools and nearly nightly fetes. Hosts compete in providing the grandest and most exotic entertainments and keep their homes constantly open to the fellow 1%.
■ Numerous tea, wine, opiate and pleasure houses.
■ The Fishmongers’ Square: seat of day-to-day trade and stage of news shouters or orators looking to advertise the politics of their masters or inject their new ideas for public debate. Anyone can speak out their thoughts to rouse support — or incite rebellion. This is also where new bounty and assassination contracts are made or announced.
■ The Fields: widely attended gladiator arena that holds performances at least once a week and every day of festivity or triumph. Moderately-sized, with exorbitant fees.
■ Barracks of the Hand: located at the very outskirts, with numerous such settlements doubling as the defence walls of Ephes. Compact but impossibly clean and barring civilian access.
■ Creditor markets: where there is a will, gangs of highly questionable individuals find the coin to pave your way — for a price of gold or services repaid at the appropriate time.
Image source.
THE SENATE
Nominally, Ephes thrives under the democratic rule of 40 senators, each leading organised gangs within the citadel. The law openly favours the rich: bribes and nepotism are frequent, killings and sabotage abound. A man who has not had an assassination contract issued on his name is hardly worth his salt. Lawmakers, nobles, merchants and orators, only a handful of Senators have military experience, barring the leader Caius — leaving them intrigued by the conquest proposal of undead lady Mesallina. Senate gatherings take place each midday, to discuss anything from high politics to acceptable civilian robe dyes and the price of wheat.
THE ARENAS
Captives or willing professionals, the gladiators of Ephes are highly skilled martial showmen as much as warriors, who know to throw a fight with gusto as long as the public is entertained. Championed as gods in the marketplaces and invited for private performances at highbred homes, they hold considerable sway over the common man and the vote of the public opinion.
THE HAND
What intrigues of conquest the minds of the Senate sow, the military Hand of Ephes reaps. Highly regimented, efficient and ruthless, the Hand earned its name for the unusual discipline of the 50,000 soldiers it comprises. They act as one, each of its five contingents — or Fingers — united in perfect and unflinching synchrony. Members are conscripts, former slaves or career soldiers, who sleep in isolated barracks and camps, seldom engaging civilians. They are recognisable for their red capes and silver armors. Largely listless, they practise a cult of brutality, frequently consume stimulant opiates and communicate in code.
THE HIVES
Clusters of peaceful — manually, mechanically or magically attended — agricultural settlements bundled at the outskirts of Ephes and tasked with raising the citadel’s prized crops and animals. Agricultural goods are the foremost export assets of Ephes and diligently guarded by the Hand. Access is nearly impossible (?).
MESSALINA
Two months before the group’s arrival, undead mistress Messalina arrived with an opulent convoy to Ephes under a banner of peace. She speaks of a man Matthias who wakes, empowers and enslaves the undead — asking for the Hand of Ephes to join her forces in defeating him and his undead Brotherhood. In exchange, she promises the territories of the Brotherhood as provinces of Ephes. She keeps her forces of undead peacefully encamped outside the walls of Ephes, while the squabbling Senate judges her plea.
ARC VIII / FINALE: HATTHEVAR
Image source.
” We met with moonlight in Hatthevar
Like children, we chased in the bazaar
Your cheek so pale, no flush could mar
Your mother wept you’d died at war. ”
All roads lead to death and Hatthevar — a citadel like a crossroads of labyrinths, passageways and bazaars, surrounded by formidable fortress walls. Half folktale, half gelid wasteland, the citadel survived at the largesse of rich patrons who chased oracles to materialise their ambitions and necromancers to retrieve their beloveds.
There is little industry in Hatthevar and less cohesive rule: governed by clusters of magical castes and underground groups, the citadel thrives off trade in supernatural artefacts and favours, divination and boons. Coin is often unnecessary — exchanges of favours or memories can suffice. Covenants are king, and pledges are often blood-bound. It is forbidden to ask a name that is not volunteered or seek out a hooded face that does not reveal itself first.
Less than a year ago, Hatthevar was freely travelled by the living: now, spirits and the revived dead make the lion’s share of the citadel’s roaming population, drifting aimlessly in silent, eerie peace across the streets. Some beg aid as they search for their memories, or learn how to live again in flesh forms; others, crafty, resume the vicious passions that governed their existence, preying on innocent onlookers to satisfy their cruelty, vanity, greed, lust or bloodthirst. More still, too long dead, have fallen into apathy and crowd in gambling dens, chasing easy thrills. Silvered fox spirits saunter in packs, oft interceding to remove newcomers from harm’s way.
Here and there, you might see spirits wearing gilded shackle-chains and attending storm-eyed merchants who coaxed them off the streets with promised to give back their memories after a few years of service. The spirits who foolishly offered out their true names to devious necromancer-slavers face a worse fate, trapped in eternal service.
Tepid rain drip-drip-drips on Hatthevar at all hours, turning bloody for fifteen minutes at sunset. It lingers in your footsteps, if you’ve ever claimed a life. You cannot buy an umbrella: you must always receive it from a local, in exchange for a boon — a bow, a boon, a kiss, a tale — and return it by nightfall. Stay more than 20 minutes in the rain, and you begin to slowly lose your appetite, energy and enthusiasm, only for them to return once you have dried.
Few residential homes survive within Hatthevar: many, rain-trodden, have been repurposed as homes for spirits and the convalescing revived. Some serve as taverns and inns for exorbitant prices. Someone always watches through holes in the wall.
Following the arrival of undead creator Matthias, the living may enter the citadel for one hour after sunrise. The dead — those who were killed, revived, practise necromancy or are otherwise death-touched — may come freely. The rest will need to consume potions that absorb their shadows and partly mute their powers to pass for dead and gain passage. They must never reveal themselves as living and should create false identities — including death stories.
Image source.
THE BAZAARS
Sprawling, rowdy, incessantly cluttered: the bazaars reunite the dead and the living, strange or exotic magical artefacts, sales of curses and curse-breaking, necromancy and healing. In the crowds, amid desperate sale pitches and artistic performances, you might encounter the droves of newly revived dead, brought in from all corners of Akhuras — and beyond.
THE GAMBLING DENS
Twelve lavish, repurposed teahouses, strewn on each side of the river Liu — foremost is the gilded Sanctuary. Constantly busy, loud and frequented by both patrons of the games — bone dice, cards, riddles, demonic chicken races — and courtesans, dancers and performers. Opiates, cloying incense and eccentric food abound. Freshly revived spirits risk their few remaining memories, their supernatural powers, years of servitude or even their new lives. Each night, the passcode to enter a gambling den changes and must be coaxed from shady gamblers in the bazaars.
THE WHISPERING HOUSES
Long removed from human existence, spirits now pay handsomely for any scraps of memories that can connect them to mortal life. In the Whispering Houses of northern Hatthevar, some memory sellers even offer the opportunity to repackage one of your existing memories as incense that you may burn in the company of someone else you’d like to experience it.
Not all memory trade is kind: beware dark alleys where shy urchins beg your help to light their lanterns, only to capture threads of your memories are you are inexplicably unable to look away from moths dancing in the lamp. Recover your recollections by breaking the lantern before it’s sold off in a shady shop.
Wish makers charge steep prices to materialise wishes, break curses or improve your fortune. People are sometimes sold as good luck charms.
THE ORACLE HALL
One the main attraction of Hatthevar, the temple of the Oracle asks supplicants to walk up its 10,000 steps with a lit candle that incoming ravens try to put out. Spirits begging succour attempt distractions. Stop or gutter your candle and you must start again. Reach the topmost dais of the temple, and you must wait until sunset on your knees while increasingly intensifying phantom pains assail you — before the Oracle receives you.
THE WASTELANDS
Descended from the wastelands, three key areas surround Hatthevar: half-sunken, knotted ships that house a decayed flooded temple, a deserted underpass home to scorpions and the so-called path-of-blood walked by holy pilgrims and shadows.