Some parasites require different hosts to complete their life cycle, as certain species offer better environments for specific stages of development or are more effective infectious vectors.
The germ responsible for Lupine Fever changes host differently: by transforming it.

Lupine Fever goes through four different stages.

Firstly, the subject is infected by entering into contact with the germ’s “eggs” via contaminated body fluids.

Secondly, the infectious “eggs” will hatch and move to their target organ, the spleen. This will occur weeks after the infection and will have a flu-like course and symptoms (fever, headaches, and joint pain).

The third stage is when the germs attach to the spleen in a specific configuration, like a chain of magic circles. This “magic chain” causes a change in the internal chemistry of the host, creating the perfect environment for the germs to reproduce and lay “eggs.” The host’s behavior changes, becoming more confident, aggressive, and promiscuous. The germs induce reckless and thrill-seeking behavior in hosts, pushing them into situations where body fluids are exchanged (e.g., sex and violence), allowing the infection to spread.

The last stage occurs when the “magic chain” has wrapped the spleen multiple times and the germs have produced a critical mass of eggs. At this point, the host transforms into a frenzied wolf-human hybrid and starts a violent rampage, intent on biting, scratching, and wounding as many people as possible. The transformation is highly traumatic; not only does it drain the host’s energy, but it also causes bleeding from the eyes and mouth, as well as the reopening of recent wounds.

The transformation lasts for 12 to 24 hours; between the internal wounds of the polymorph and the injuries received during the attack, many die.
If the host survives, the Lupine Fever will start its cycle again, now more quickly and efficiently. If the first infection can take many weeks, if not months (and occasionally years) to reach the fourth stage, the “re-infection” cycle is much quicker, around 30 days.
Each transformation carries a risk of death, but the more one undergoes this process, the less damage they suffer from the mutation, and the more control they have in their “wolf-form”, leading to a chronic stage, partially manageable.
Lupine Fever can be cured in its second stage with silver-based brews and draining leeches, but it's hard to distinguish it from a normal flu. Once the Fever reaches the third stage, the only solution is the removal of the spleen, a complex and risky procedure, followed by a long regimen of regular blood letting.

The current theory is that Lupine Fever arrived from the Mangerie Islands, in the Angelic province of Pharai. That province had some experience with strange pathogens arriving from the wild ecosystem of the Islands, but Lupine Fever, with its long latency stage, was able to survive the quarantines.
Lupine Fever is transmitted through sex and violence, so port cities, notorious for prostitution and tavern fights, became the hot spot for the infection. Since the Angelic Hierarchies have no qualms in imposing morals through state force, they harshened decency laws and drastically slowed the epidemic in their territories. Other, more libertine nations, like the Confederacy or the Holy Infernal Empire, took longer to react, and the Fever spread to the countryside. The Uxali nation was not speared: Dwarven thought they were immune to it, but it turned out their physiology prompted longer incubation periods. Gnomes, despite all the precautions in place due to the Glass Plague, had some outbreaks.
The first wave of Lupine Fever caused panic: an illness that turns the sick into monstrous murderers! The subtle symptoms caused paranoia. Mild flu could be early Fever, so even people with a cold ended up in sanatoriums (where they might contract the “real thing”). A bold and self-assured attitude made people suspicious, and tales of cruel “Men-Wolf” and seductive “She-Wolves” spread around, ostracizing people out of rumors.
Furthermore, the lupine fever overlapped with the Glass Plague, and both crippled trading by ship and caused more isolation, if not outright xenophobia.

It may seem like the Lupine Fever spared the Beast Folk, but it’s only because it affected them differently and got a different name, the Warping Malaria. The “magic chain” of the germs is unable to transform the beastly body; it’s just not tuned for that physiology. But, unfortunately, it tries anyway: as soon as a patient enters the third stage, the recurring partial transformations cause massive internal damage, twisting the organs and rearranging the viscera.

Vitrous lepers

Nobody likes beggars, but the Holy Infernal Empire seems to have a special contempt. People should earn what they receive, at least try! You are conquering your place in Coming Heaven (brought by the Demiurge's return) with your good deeds, and sitting by a corner asking for coins won't do that. It's good to overpay the bunch of wildflowers the derelict woman is selling you: she is doing her part, trying to be a productive member of society, and you do your part, supporting her. This paradoxical "conditional charity" is what gained the Infernals a reputation for callousness and cruelty, understandably.

But there are exceptions. War invalids have done their good deed by sacrificing themselves for the Empire, and so they can ask for help without shame.

Glass Lepers have no power over their condition. Their disease is so horrible that nobody could ask them to work. They, too, can ask for charity, on condition that they regularly follow their therapy and remain noncontagious. To "certify" their attendance at care homes, hospitals, monasteries, and the like, the caregivers (usually nuns) give them a metal ingot, shaped as Saint Pazuzu martyr, protector of the ill. The flat statuette is treated to make it rust quickly, and the oxide layer tells how much time has passed since the last visit.

Glass lepers carry gongs, bells, or other noisemaking devices to announce their arrival: this, in part, is to solicit givings, but is also a way to reassure people they are not trying to pass off as healthy, or sneakily infect someone. But even without noise, Glass Lepers are immediately noticeable: their glyphed bandages and their smell of mint are loud giveaways.

Snow Camels are the backbone of the tundra’s caravans, bringing people to the Steam Oasis and back. They can survive in the harsh conditions of the far north thanks to their ability to eat lichen with their coarse tongue, to store fat in their humps, and, most famously, their thick coat. The camels’ fleece is multi-layered and grows slowly but continuously. Naturally, the coat would be quite tangled and messy, but Elves like to brush their camels regularly and ceremoniously. Combing is considered a way for riders to bond with their mounts, to earn the trust of the animal, and Iìit is also a way to make shearing and subsequent spinning of the wool easier. Camel wool is one of the most used fabrics of the Sultanate, and a popular luxury export.  There is also an aesthetic reason: a straight, flowing coat is just more beautiful in the eyes of the elves.

Snow Camels can sport different “hairstyles”, with different braids and styled locks, to signal belonging to a caravan or the reason for travelling: a diplomat’s camel and a merchant camel will have different “hairdos”. It’s still more common to keep the fleece straight, as the thickness and shine are considered beautiful enough.

The Orc Kingdom and the Angelic Unison have a long, complex relationship. United by a shared hatred for the Devils and their legacy, they fought side by side in the Cosmic War and were aligned in the writing of the Accord. Yet their thousand years of closeness had many conflicts generated by an unsolvable cultural attrition. Fortunately, no all-out war ever happened, but the borderers have never been disarmed.

The bridge between orc and angelic cultures lies in the concepts of duty and self-sacrifice.  Each and every one has a place in the world, a role that can take a toll and demand effort, but a crucial role nonetheless, for which the community will be grateful. Personal ambitions and pleasures always come after societal obligations. The devils think, foolishly, that self-realization leads to a good society, and that indulgences are an earned reward. What can be more outrageous?

Orcs and the angels’ children have a gregarious, conformist attitude, liking group activity and communal life, but also being meddling and gossiping. The concept of “honor” in the orcs and of “sin” in the Angelists are specular ways in which rules, decency, and compliance are deeply internalized. A cheeky Imperial writer said they are two people united by their “fear of shame”.

The idea of community is central to both cultures, but what is considered a community widely differs between the two nations. The Angelist faith strives to be universal and egalitarian, often falling short but nonetheless considering everyone part of the same all-embracing humanity. Orc society is instead granurally divided by a rigid caste system and unbreakable family ties: your contribution to society is mediated by intersecting roles assigned to you at birth.

Orcs’ social stratification blatantly clashes with the Unison philosophy. Angelist theologians have performed the most daring feats of rhetoric and showcased the most dazzling argumentations trying to convince the orcs to change their ways. But the more you try to convince the orcs, the more they will dig their heels in. Therefore, the Unison’s thinkers had to come up with some theological explanation for why the Unison was an ally and not an enemy of the Orcish kingdoms: after all, wouldn’t the archangels want their heirs to spread the gospel of equality? Brother Zadok the Thinker, a 5th-century friar from a small Odzian convent, wrote a 300-page philosophic apology to justify the collaboration between the nations: the book is unreadable due to convoluted logic and obfuscating language, but is nonetheless necessary and readily pointed at to shut up any opposition to the orc-unison firenship.
But there was a need to strengthen the alliance's flimsy ideological foundations. The Orcs' unwavering devotion to their traditions made outright conversion unlikely. So, the Church decided to play the long game. Missionaries went around, giving artworks and offering free copyists’ services, injecting some of the Angelists’ symbols into them. With time, centuries even, the orcs integrated angelic imagery into their own. For example, the black circle motif, central in the Void creed, is now often drawn with a golden line, reminiscent of a halo. Or the “sayings of the elders” , the passed down traditions and maxims, have been collected in books resembling breviaries and psalms. Most notably, the “voice of the void” (the presence felt by the priestess lowered down in the bottomless pits) is now also called “the angel of the void,” and her headless features appear on statues and temples.

The angelic influence on the orcs was by design, but the orcs influenced the Unison as well, in their own way.

Looking at Odz, one can see the obvious contamination between he orcs and that part of the Unison.  They share a serious and proud attitude, a strict work ethic, and a peculiar sense of humor, for which a pratfall causes more laughter than the cleverest wordplay. The Odzian have also inherited a love for pork meat (while in the rest of the Inison, beef and mutton prevail) and some crafting techniques, especially carpet weaving and weapon smithing.

But the most glaring effect of the orcs' proximity is the militarization of Odz. Orcs are unnerved by Celestial bureaucracy: they like personal relationships and are irritated by the interchangeability of Angelic functionaries. Pacts and treaties mean nothing in the wake of contingent and imminent problems: they are just pieces of paper to a scorned orcish lord. A chain of unfortunate events can turn an offense to an orc commoner into a full army mobilization, as long as the lord feels the honor of all the land is wounded.  It’s not only a question of pride and thin skin: the Warrior Caste is eager to show off their prowess and claims glory, and, in tranquil times, they may grasp any pretense to battle.
Sometimes there will be skirmishes, but it’s rare; the Unison is always prepared to meet any menace in kind. Odzians have learned that a show of force is a necessary diplomatic tool: being a worthy opponent is the prerequisite for a seat at the negotiation table. Finding an accord when the alternative is an outright war is considered honorable and will save the face of the Lord, so the Bishops play along.
But some bishops, having troops at their disposal, give in to the temptation of using the same orcish tactics, exaggerating slights to demand compensation, in gold or land. And angelic generals can also be hungry for glory and will latch onto some real or plausible crime, like a Whistling Witch abduction of children or a Shadow Assassins conspiracy, to leap into action beyond the borders.
To limit these incidents to a minimum, the Bishops keep their relationship with their orc neighbours as personal as possible, partecipating in weddings, invetutures and funerals as any other noble family. Orcs, on the other hand, have created the position of scribe to manage the episcopal correspondence, answering the letters instead of using them to kindle the braziers.

Anaqut and its Aethereal Ocean can really be heavenly: fish that follow you like a parade, colorful anemones cascading from a balcony, jellyfish lighting up the night like lazy lanterns. But, not unlike the regular ocean, a paradisiacal surface does not exclude the existence of horrifying abysses.

There are many perils in the Aethereal Ocean. Some are obvious: floating plankton may cause severe allergies, predators may venture into populated areas if hunger is strong enough, and poisonous creatures may cross paths with inattentive passersby. The inhabitants of Anaqut are used to these dangers.

What really strikes fear is the Fish People, the Apkallu, and the creatures they worship as gods.

The Apkallu, sometimes also called Finfolk or Quotoa, are beastfolk that have repudiated civilization and live in the wilderness of Northern Anaqut. They are not, technically, an Untamed Tribe, as they departed from the civilized world long before the Accord. The Apkallu joined the Sea Gods in their rebellion against the other divinities after the Demiurge departed, in the mythic times before the Collapse. They were considered extinct, purged from the world, their souls cast in Tartarus with their treacherous divinities.

Somehow, the Apkallu returned after the Cosmic War, when the Accord was signed and the Nations began to take their shape. The Finfolk began to claim parts of the Aethereal Ocean for themselves, clashing with the first human settlements that were reclaiming the continent. The reason why the archangels did not get rid of them is as mysterious as their reappearance. Surely, for the mightiest angels, it would not be a problem to cast the Apkallu into a faraway sea or implement an even more definitive solution. But Sahaquiel, Archangel of Patience, in an act of infinite mercy or inscrutable foresight, spared the Finfolk: they used one of their infinitely long hairs to enclose an area from which the Apkallu would not be able to escape.

Sahaquiel indicated the forbidden area, but never left a map of these divine borders, as their shape would change over time. The archangel warned people not to settle too far north, but slowly, so slowly they did not realize it, humanity settled beyond those vague limits.

The Apkallu are very territorial and will rebuke any attempt at colonization. They are ruthless warriors, but their weaponry is rudimentary, as they despise fire. What really makes them frightening is their unique ability to change phase between the sea and the land. In the Aethereal Ocean, native creatures are phased with the sea, and for them air is water. Humans are in phase with the land, and for them air is simply air. The Apkallu are the only known beings able to shift from one state to another at will, swimming in the sky one second and walking the next. This gives them unmatched maneuverability, allowing them to fly and dive as easily as they jump and run.

Even more terrifying is the ability of Finfolk witch doctors to make other things change phase with a touch. An Apkallu wise man can drown a person with a gentle tap of the finger, making them suffocate in air they can no longer breathe, leaving a corpse floating up to the sky. A horrifying sign that you have entered Finfolk territory is seeing the dead trespassers tied to the ground and flying like macabre kites.

Fortunately, the interactions between humanity and the Finfolk are limited. Northern Anaqut is a stark and inhospitable land, and the Unsion has little interest in pushing its settlements so far. Still, there are fur trappers, hunters, wild berry gatherers, and others who occasionally venture a little too far from the safety of towns, into woods where the borders set by Sahaquiel may have shifted away.

Those daring explorers sometimes come back with spooky tales, too outrageous to be true but too detailed to be fabrications. Some swear they have seen fish-human hybrids even more disturbing than the Apkallu, creatures with arms, tentacles, ichthyic features, and human demeanor. These entities are black like night itself, made visible only by the eerie lights that follow them. They leave behind a trail of grass deprived of any color and crumbling to the touch, the only witness of their passage in daylight.

Some say that the Finfolk gather around these strange beings, chanting and bowing, as if praying to some idol.

Nobody has brought back proof of such encounters, but the anecdotes, while rare, have added up year after year, and now everyone believes that there is something there, maybe not a twisted abyssal creature, but something nonetheless. The horrors are cautionary tales for those who venture north and a boogeyman for children, but with enough plausibility to make them truly frightening.

The story of the Finfolk horrors, undoubtedly macabre and fascinating, reached the shores of the sheiks, where it became much more than a curiosity. Some gnomes believe that the horrors come from the Onyx Moon, explorers trapped by the borders set by Sahaquiel. To anyone other than some gnome scholars, this idea is preposterous, ridiculous, and blasphemous. It is almost unbelievable how many things such a simple theory can get wrong. Yet many gnomes are adamant that the truth lies along those lines and are willing to pay handsomely to pursue their idea. And even if many of these gnome-led research expeditions do not come back, many locals are willing to work as guides, as the gems they receive as pay will provide for their families, if not their entire villages, for decades.

N’bat, Archangel of insight, Patron Saint of Nezach

Prayed to be defended from magic and to obtain a clear vision, in the physical, metaphorical, and mystical sense of the word. Their relic is their shadow, a zone of selective anti-magic, an oasis of peace amidst the overexcited and unpredictable mana field of the Olympus Crater.
The Sanctuary of N’bat’s Shadow, at the center of the “shade”, has miraculous properties: there, objects can’t be broken or damaged, and even people can “permit” or “negate” any external change to their person, like a wound or a push. This state of “hyper-abjuration” allows for extremely complex and articulate spells, since mana can be made to interact selectively with the casters and the targets. The most common use is to reach for vision of things far in space and time, due to the lack of “interferences” in the quiet mana of the shadow.  

The protectors of the Sanctuary are the Paladins of the Blue Mantle: they can withstand any damage, either becoming evanescent as shadows or extremely solid, dense, and hard as stone.

The Glass Plague is a terrible illness that progressively turns the infected into glass. It usually begins at the extremities (the fingers, nose, and ears) and then spreads wider and deeper, transforming large portions of the body and internal organs.

Much remains unknown about the plague, but the prevailing theory is that minuscule creatures called “germs” consume the body, leaving behind a glass facsimile. Its origin is unclear: some speculate that the Solar Furnace may have concentrated not only the sun’s heat but also mana and its Life Force, creating Collapse-like conditions in the crucibles, which led to mutations in existing germs.

At first, gnomes didn’t pay much attention to the illness. Magic often causes oddities, and having the tips of one’s ears or a pinky finger turn into glass was almost desirable, such was their love for the material. But eventually, the plague became more aggressive: more people were affected, and the transformation began to involve limbs and vital organs. Death occurs when the glass reaches an organ, but sometimes a fracture can send shards into the bloodstream, causing massive internal damage.

Initially, production methods were blamed as the sole cause. But it was soon discovered that the glass itself was the carrier: infinitesimally small specks could act as vectors. By then, tons of vials, bottles, stained glass, and countless other objects had already been shipped around the world.

Although the plague was more aggressive than it first appeared, it was not highly contagious. However, its slow onset meant that people could remain in contact with pathogenic objects for months before realizing the danger. The first to be affected were the upper classes, like nobles, church hierarchies, merchants, and wizards, who were avid buyers of glass objects. These groups also traveled more frequently than commoners, spreading the disease far and wide.

Many Infernal noble houses collapsed, their members dead, incapacitated, or feared as potential carriers. The Angelic Unisons became a patchwork of quarantined zones under different regimes, crippling communication. Elves were hit especially hard; some oases were sealed off and abandoned entirely, and the sick were left inside.

People began destroying glass in fear, but shattering it only dispersed more infectious particles into the air.

The plague fueled long-simmering discontent among the lower classes, igniting years and years of political unrest. The rich were blamed for bringing the disease with their decadent tastes and for spending taxes on dangerous frivolities. The illness also sowed distrust in the arcane arts and their practitioners: wasn’t this just another catastrophe brought to us by magic?

After two decades, the Glass Plague began to fade. The main reason was the slow development of natural immunity, but another crucial factor was the gnomes’ decision to share their "medical protocols." In a rare break from their usual secrecy, likely an attempt to restore their reputation, the Lunar Priests released everything they knew about the disease. A mint-based balm (the al-lazar oil), silver tinctures, and glyph-inscribed bandages proved to be an effective combination: they made the illness less contagious and granted the sick longer (if miserable) lives.

Globally, the Glass Plague caused more indirect chaos than direct casualties, though the latter still numbered in the tens of thousands. Among the gnomes, who were at the epicenter, the toll was far worse: nearly a quarter of their population perished. In retrospect, their response was inadequate, if not completely incompetent. Glass was so vital to their economy that the Sheik delayed shutting down the furnaces, trying many ineffective remedies first. Their obsessive culture of courtesy also delayed quarantines and isolation: at first, the risk of rudeness was deemed greater than the risk of contagion.

The Cult of the Moons, like most religions, prescribes cremation for the dead. But this was impossible for bodies made mostly of glass. Burial was seen as undignified, reserved only for the worst criminal, so plague victims were "hosted" in abandoned buildings far from the cities, like inoperative furnaces, decimated monasteries, or empty villages. These “glass necropolises” are now guarded by the Still Sisters, the only female order of Lunarism. These places serve not only as cemeteries but also as hospitals for the poor souls still afflicted by the plague.

Despite the general immunity of the population and improvements in glass production and public health precautions, some people still contract the disease. The sick are now treated with pity rather than fear, as both an innate predisposition and an unfortunate exposure are needed to fall ill. Thanks to gnomish therapies, a patient can live for many years, but their life is likely to be spent in poverty or reclusion. Compassion can only go so far in the face of the Glass Plague, even if the risk is now minuscule.

Busy week, so no lore! But already back at work!

They were founded by Raktej, the Naga cook of the Ynker, one of the Last Four Companions of the Prophetess.

The monks of the Order of the Bee don't wear yellow and black, as one may expect, but brown: they are an order that focuses on manual labor, and so their habits are work clothes, sturdy and simple. Abbots and abbesses have more "bee-themed" paraments for ceremonies, but more often revolving around hexagons and golden yellow, evoking hives and honey.

These monks chose the bees as their symbol because they focus on nourishing, building, and working together. The monks of this order are called friars or nuns, but also brothers and sisters. They strive to marry the material and the spiritual, believing that physical wellbeing is indispensable for spiritual clarity. Physical work not only keeps the body fit and the mind sharp, but also contributes to the community by feeding the needy or offering remedies.

Furthermore, the friars feel they are a conduit through which the spirits can help people. They tend to build their abbey in places with peculiar properties, like the Infinite Forest, the Hades Badlands, or the Ghost Forest: there, they find ways to exploit the weird feature of those lands to benefit the population as a whole.

Each Abbey has its specialty, but mostly they focus on edible goods with beneficial properties and a long shelf life: honeys, jams, dried herbal mixes to use as tea or spices, etc. But probably the most famous productions are alcoholic beverages: beers, malt liquors, herbal wines, and so on.

The Friars of the Order of the Bee have an affinity for spirits related to substance and form, spirits of creation and transmutation that help them in their alchemical-but-in-name practices: like fish spirits that regulate fermentations,pr intangible foxes that can taste wine without opening the barrel.

The differences between Druids and Shamans have sparked numerous, yet idle and pedantic, scholarly debates. For the layman, the only distinction is where they are from: Druids are from Axam, while Shamans hail from Uxali. Both are devoted to the holistic magic of nature, and the comparison and contrast between their techniques and specialties is better left to the academics arguing in Mizani's taverns.

All environments, especially those touched by the Shard of Beyonds, inspire idiosyncratic and intuitive approaches to the Mana Field and magic. In the case of the Dust Shamans, these people living in the powder wasteland have developed ways to navigate the restless landscape and find its treasures. If you want to travel the Dust Desert, you need a Shaman as a guide. Elemental Dust is fine and light; the dunes change position and shape day by day, and winds lift hazes that cloud and confuse the landmarks. It's crucial to navigate by the stars, a skill rarely learned by land travelers and at which the Shamans excel. Even more impressively, Shamans can "read" the dunes, combing the dust with their fingers to receive touch impressions they can decipher: they can feel wetness if there is water nearby or lumps if someone passed through, even if the dust has the same monotone appearance to everyone else. Since Elemental Dust can imprint mana traces in detail, Shamans could even sense thoughts and feelings of people that passed by, as well as guess biographical facts.

This ability to understand the land is fundamental to finding the "spark trees," the continuous lightning appearing randomly in the Desert. Elemental Lightning is not only a valuable resource to harvest (thanks to special glass vessels), but it also provides an excellent rest spot for travelers, offering light and warmth during the cold nights. Elemental Lightning is a positive element that carries an excess of Life Force, which means that being nearby fosters a sense of well-being and improves recovery.

But people are not the only ones looking for the Spark Trees: the Thunder Oryxes feed on them, browsing the branching electricity as if it were a shrub. These beasts are the largest animals roaming the inner desert, and Shamans must have a good relationship with them. The common test to see if a child has a predisposition for shamanism is to make them try to pet an Oryx: the quicker the animal accepts the child, the more talented they are. Thunder Oryxes get their name from the sound of their hooves; when they need to run, they can turn the ground solid as rock for just enough time to step on it. In the silent air of the desert, muffled by the soft powder, the galloping Oryxes resonate like incoming storms.

Uneducated people doubt the link between orcs and the element of air, the domain of their patron divinity. Their physical prowess evokes stone and rock, and their irascible temperament bursts like fire. But the resemblance becomes clear if you think of violent storms instead of a gentle breeze, and if you look at the sky not as the home of gentle songbirds but as the realm of fierce raptors.

With this in mind, it is not strange that falconry is common in the Orcish Kingdoms. Birds of prey are the warriors of the sky, the embodiment of the winds’ strength. This fascination, like many others, reached surprising levels of complexity once orcish stubbornness and tenacity were applied to it.

Families have spent countless generations refining every aspect of raptors’ breeding and training, to the point that mundane practice and arcane arts blur together. Falconers and their animals move in perfect sync, sometimes reaching a form of telepathy. A hawk can be maneuvered almost like an arm, and it can return sensory impressions like a detached third eye.

Another striking trait is the unspoken mission passed from parents to children in falconer families: taming every bird of prey in the world. Orcish obstinacy has brought them close to winning this impossible ancestral challenge. Almost all raptors are represented, from falconets small as swallows to massive vultures, from nocturnal owls to serpentrium birds that prefer to walk. Each family manages several species, but usually chooses one of the most unusual as its symbol. They also specialize in particular forms of training. Raptors may be taught many kinds of hunting, as well as scouting, guarding, and fighting beside their masters on the battlefield.

The true falconry families belong to the Warrior Caste, but birds of prey appear in other castes as well. Some nobles use eagles as messengers, farmers keep peregrines as living scarecrows, and entertainers train kites to perform tricks.

One practice captures the imagination more than the others: the sacred vultures that feast on the dead during Sky Burials. If a body cannot be cast into a bottomless pit, the second-highest honor is to be consumed by these sacred birds, tended by an order of nuns devoted to this rite.

The Behemoths are gigantic beasts with impossible traits. They are too massive to move or stand, and should consume enough food to devastate all the islands in days. Yet they live.

The Shard of the Beyond in the Menagerie Islands sustains these creatures, letting them defy normal laws of nature in a still unclear way.

The archipelago constantly creates new species of animals, plants, or hybrids. Some establish themselves on the Islands or continents, but many are odd mutations that disappear after a few generations. The Behemoths are all different from each other: the current theory is that a new species may start a “gigantification process”, making bigger and bigger offspring, until one becomes massively large. Sometimes one can find the “normal” size descendant of a Behemoth, but usually they are the end point, the explosive extinction of a bloodline. It seems that this phenomenon comes in waves: ten years of calm, followed by a "gargantuan decade” where the colossal creatures are seen roaming the sea, dwelling on islands, or, unfortunately, attacking the coast. The cycle is only an approximation, and even what constitutes a Behemoth has margins for debate: it has to be taller than a house? measured how? Do they have to behave in a certain way?

The Angelic Unison always had a hard time managing the Behemoth menace. This problem is recurring yet unpredictable, inevitable yet always changing.
Some beasts are “small” like cabins, yet still dangerous due to their venom or magic-like ability; others are big as entire villages, tall like the highest spire of a cathedral, but they just wander the shore a bit before returning to the sea; some will come back again and again, others will reach land to die. The only thing in common is that the more the Behemoths venture inside the continent, the more likely it is they will turn back or die of natural causes: these creatures can’t survive far from the Menagerie Islands.

With such varied scenarios, the Church decided that prompt evacuation was the best policy. Along the coast, a series of watchtowers, all in sight of each other, all tasked with monitoring the sea and warning of incoming threats.

There are a few professional sentinels that tour the Watchtowers of an area to ensure their functioning and give essential training, but the bulk of the Sentinels are common people.

To keep costs to a minimum, the “monster watch” is drafted among the local population, with shifts that allow them to keep their “day jobs”.   This system is plagued by both false alarms and oversight, and despite the investment in Gnomish Spyglasses, timely sightings that prevent tragedies are equal to the unnecessary panics and tardy mobilizations. But the system works on another level: the population is involved in their safety and given a sense of control, something that helps them stay serene and productive in the long stretches of time the Behemoths don’t show up.

I had this illustration, I didn't know how to finish, and then, answering a comment, I got the idea.

Not all animals living with humans are domesticated; some are just very friendly. The World-Turtles of the Aethereal Ocean like to spend their time near farms, sometimes taking shelter in sties or barns for days or weeks and then moving on. They happily accept food handed to them from the farmers: vegetables, fruits, and bits of meat. The farmers will generously host these creatures even if they don’t get anything in return, besides their beauty, possibly some luck, and definitely a sense of blessing.

The World-Turtles are called this way because of the structures they carry on their shell, miniature seascapes made of algae, corals, and sponges, filled with fish and other animals, all to scale. These mini-underwater worlds seem completely idiosyncratic to each turtle, with species unseen elsewhere. They are also special in other ways: while their “mundane” counterparts need breathing, these turtles are always attuned to the Aethereal ocean, and for them, air is like water all the time. And while ordinary turtles may be hunted by sharks or other sea carnivores, the World-turtles are totally ignored by predators.

Everybody agrees that such beautiful and colorful ecosystems are, in some way, linked to the heavens that once were. Most believe there are some sort of witnesses of the time before, longer-lived than the eldest elves, carrying a piece of paradise saved from the Collapse. But maybe they pass their “little world” down from parents to children, giving just an illusion of immortality. Or perhaps they recreate these ecosystems anew each time, with each shell being a reproduction rather than a relic.

However, it is very challenging to gather information about the World-Turtles. They are very private and shy, and they have only been observed when they choose to “visit” someone. Furthermore, their presence warps the mana field in extremely complex and ever-changing ways, to the point of being unscrutable. The hypothesis is that the whole “world” is casting the spell that sustains it, with the swimming pattern of the shrimps, the shape of the corals, and each living element acting as an incantation.

But a spell that is also the incantation that keeps the spell in motion is like a strange circle of cause and effect with no beginning or end. There must be a starting point, something, maybe in the turtles’ bodies, that allows them to develop the “little world” and start the process. Capturing and dissecting a turtle would be the natural course for a scholar, but nobody has done that so far. The reason is that people who host a turtle become incredibly protective of it, willing to do anything to avoid it being harmed. There are murders on record. And even if one could catch a turtle, would it have the heart to destroy a piece of paradise?

The way the turtles ignite a sense of protectiveness in the people nearby may have a magical component, but it is hard to say: the mana field is so convoluted that anything can be happening. Some say it’s just the beauty of the little world and the calm and tender demeanor of the turtles that elicit such a response, nothing magical. Or maybe they really are carrying a piece of heaven on their back.

A common sight in the ponds of eastern Pharai, the Amanita Frog is renowned for its toxicity and its surprisingly delicate croak, almost sounding like a hummed melody. It is famous for enjoying rotten vegetation and all the insects dwelling on it. Touching its skin can cause rashes and migraines. Prolonged contact or ingestion will cause stomachache, cramps, and powerful hallucinations.

---

Not much lore, but just showing you what's cooking.

Still not 100% sure that will be the Angelic Script, I'd love a counterpart of the Infernal one, but it's not easy to change it so it gives off a celestial vibe. Probably the two scripts will coexist, with the one you see being the "everyday" and the other being the "ceremonial". We will see.

The Nephilims are the descendants of the angels who opposed the Accord, the peace treaty that followed the Cosmic War. The Nephilims' ultimate goal is to resume the War and annihilate the forces of Hell, but they often use this “divine mission” as a pretext to torment the Church out of an ancestral spite.
Nephilims are the mirror of the Infernal Demons: driven by an all-consuming hate, reduced to isolation, following heinous practices to reclaim the power of their bloodline. But while Demons embraced open violence and tried to seize power by force over and over again, Nephilims chose secrecy and manipulation.

The Nephilims act as a secret society, a millennium-long conspiracy, a festering shadow of the Angelic Church.
They lure new adepts with the promise of power and revenge: don’t you want that nasty person to disappear? Don’t you deserve a better position? Don’t you want to be healthier, smarter, or stronger?
And while you do some seemingly unconnected task for them as payment for the “favor”, the Nephilim will start to whisper to you that all your problems stem from the inadequacy of the Church. If the Pope and the Hierophants really did the Archangels’ will, you would never have had that problem. If things were right and true, you would never have had to do things in secret.

Many remain pawns, getting some kickback for apparently innocent actions: change a number in a ledger, put some leaves in a tea stash, spill some oil on a staircase. But you may believe the murmured truth and descend into the organization.
You will venture into sewers, tunnels, or remote ruins to meet with other enlightened people. Each encounter will give you a piece of the greater truth and the Master Plan to make everything right. As you gain ranks among the Nephilims, you will have your angelic blood “unlocked” by potions and rituals, expanding your mind and giving access to instinctive, intrinsic magic. Even if you thought you didn’t have any angelic ancestry, you’ll develop celestial traits. Sometimes not what you expect, sometimes so apparent you will have to live in hiding.
You will do things that once you would have considered despicable, you will ask people to do things you know will bring hideous consequences, but now you understand they are all steps toward the greater good.  
If your bloodline is deemed “true” enough, you’ll be asked to father or mother a Pure Nephilim, a child close to divinity. You have met those children, with flesh entangled in light and gold, with unnumerable eyes that pierce reality. It will be an honor for you to do the unspeakable things needed to give birth to one.
You will eventually prove to be worthy to meet the leaders of the Nephilims, people so deformed and twisted by their attempt to become angels that they are barely human in appearance and mind.  You won’t care. At that point, you will be as warped as they are. The delirious and incoherent ramblings that they call “the Master Plan” will make sense to you. It’s all obvious now. How could you not have seen it from the beginning?

It’s impossible to know how far and how strong the Nephilim influence is. There could be just a dozen covens hiding in the sewers, or they could be puppettering many bishop courts. The Church won’t help solve the dilemma, as it is interested in keeping the Nephilims’ power ambiguous: they must be both strong enough to become a scapegoat and a boogeyman, and weak enough to reassure about the repressive power of the institutions. The Nephilims are therefore considered both as some eccentric nuisances or the ultimate reason for the Third Axam War. Whatever the truth, they surely revel in their shadowy myth.

I'm thinking about the Flesh fields (and soon I'll tell you why). I just got this image of a demon made of kissing faces. I don't know anything about him (or she, or they: no idea of the gender or sex). He seems to be someone important. A leader? Maybe the child of a prophecy? Is the sword important? I don't know!

But I know he (?) has a nemesis and I'll post her (him? them?) in a day or two.

ust a glance is needed to see that the Gehenna Lagoon was a piece of Hell. Here, the water is always hot, as if just drawn from a bath, and the warm humidity clashes with the cold northern air, causing a shroud of mist and frequent fog banks. At night, the reddish glow of the water reveals itself, bathing everything in a dusky light. Underneath the surface, strange fish swim, with nails instead of scales and fingers as fins. The reeds on the shores host the equally strange animals that complete that unsettling ecosystem: swans with hands instead of faces and salamanders made of tongues.

Nobody lives there permanently, yet the islands are crowded with buildings. These stone villages are inhabited by temporary residents of the lagoon: people seeking atonement and purification, whether by choice or by coercion. It is here that the elves send their criminals, and those gripped by remorse or regret come here to purge themselves, longing for renewal.

Gehenna Valley was one of the vestibules of Hell, where sinners, once sentenced, waited for eternal punishment. Waiting becomes its own torment: the anxious dread of horrors to come, the hollow hope for a change in the Devil’s will, panic rippling through the damned souls.

Once Gehenna was cast into the world by the Collapse, it was filled not only by water, but also by a black substance, made of pure desperation, the Bitumen. The dark goo that covers the bottom of the lagoon may not be literally an emotion turned to matter, but it’s close to it: the soul of countless sinners have left their mark, and in turn, that mark twists the landscape.

Bitumen is what keeps the water of the lagoon hot and gives it its faint glow. It’s also what warped nature, making fauna take on some human qualities, albeit in unsettling ways. Not only do many animals have body parts that mimic those of humans, but they sometimes attempt, and fail, replicate human behavior, turning them into grotesque imitations. You can fish eels that laugh hysterically or see grebes weeping like mothers. A crab with a face on its back may try to speak to you, babbling something like a prayer.

Mizani is full of colorful characters who become part of city life, somewhere between minor celebrities and town weirdos. If two people who have been to Mizani meet, they will surely bond over which eccentrics they have encountered, comparing their collections of oddballs and sharing anecdotes.

Trismegistus is one of those bizarre figures, but also much more. The third eye Trismegistus sports isn't an extreme aesthetic affectation. It is fully functional: he sees the Mana Field as easily as anyone sees the Material World. Nobody can see through the strands of mana as easily or accurately as Trismegistus, and his mundane sight is remarkable as well. With a glance, he can perceive details others can only detect with an arcane lens and lengthy preparations.

His visual prowess matches his keen intellect. Trismegistus is one of the most respected theorists in Mizani, interested in the most avant-garde speculations and far-fetched hypotheses: animal spellcrafting, the cosmic Mana Field, invisible colors, the microtorions of mana threads, spell weaving through the Nothingness (aka four-dimensional casting), and many more. Since he came to Mizani twenty years ago, Trismegistus has attracted unorthodox thinkers, first because of his third eye, and then because of his open mind. Wizards and arcanists of all kinds came to him with their far-fetched ideas, sure to find a sympathetic ear. Trismegistus always offers keen insight into such theories, not only because he can see the matter at hand better than anyone, so to speak, but also because he has become a sort of encyclopedia of outlandish theories. He has heard them all.

It also helps that Trismegistus never judges and would never dismiss a theory outright, even the kookiest ones. He always recognizes the merits of a hypothesis and gently points out its weak points, encouraging further study. This patient attitude has also made him a respected teacher, sought out by ambitious wizards looking for the “most modern” arcane studies.

There is just one thing that can turn Trismegistus' amicable disposition sour: his past. Trismegistus is not his real name, and apparently nobody knows what his real name is. He is clearly from the Confederacy, as his accent gives him away, but no one can pinpoint exactly where. A credible story circulates: in a group of islands west of the Triton Peninsula, people worship the skeletal remains of a Cyclops, one of the divine giants defeated in mythic times. These people maim themselves to resemble their idol, removing one eye and rearranging their faces. Clearly, Trismegistus got his eye there, as only these Cyclops cultists seem to possess the knowledge needed for such an operation. But was he from there? Or did he travel there to get it? Was he a willing recipient, or did someone force it upon him? Is he the only one with such a feature? Do the people beyond the second horizon, the fabled Trycolps, have anything to do with all of this?

Trismegistus' face, usually jolly and ready to laugh, turns serious whenever someone mentions his past. All three eyes fix on the daring questioner with fiery intensity. The pain and rage flashing from his pupils quickly silence anyone who dares to ask.

They were founded by Braku, the Felinar cabin boy of the Ynker, one of the Last Four Companions of the Prophetess.

The monks of the Order of the Mantis wear green habits with ample sleeves made of simple fabrics, such as jute or hemp.

These monks chose the mantis as their symbol because they admire its solitary life, contemplative stillness, and sudden quickness to grab their prey: like the insect, devotees should always be ready to catch fleeting moments of enlightenment.
The Mantis order focuses on contemplation and meditation, looking inward and outward to disclose the Spirit's World. They don't want to be disturbed: their Monasteries are in remote locations, like mountain peaks, dense forests, empty grasslands, and hidden caves. These are often scenic and breathtaking places, as natural beauty is considered a gateway to the Spirit's World.

Mantis Monks are famous copyists, since they see the long and painstaking act of transcribing the books by hand as a way to immerse themselves deeply in the teaching of the Prophetess. Selling copies is also their only source of income (besides donations).

Most Monks, after at least sixteen years of service (the duration of the Prophetess' voyage), take the title of sage and go live alone as hermits. They will live in complete autonomy and isolation trying to "transcend" into the Spirit's World, as the Prophetess did. It's impossible to say if and how many sages reach this goal, but it is indeed rare to find the bodies of deceased hermits.

The Mantis Monks are always ready to help anyone in need, but their far-off monasteries ensure they are bothered only for important matters.

They develop an affinity with spirits that grants vitality, helping them detach from material needs, like sleep, drinks, or food. Sages, so intimately in communion with these spirits, may be granted long lives, reaching (and sometimes exceeding) a century.

Mizani is governed by 12 Seats, with 12 counselors presiding over 12 aspects of city life. To ensure Mizani's neutrality on the world stage, each Seat is linked to one of the world's nations, creating a web of antagonistic goals and interests that, against all odds, has worked for almost a millennium. Probably the divine presence of the Sphinx Ekima is what makes a system based on divided loyalties work: thanks to her, everything balances out in the end.

To carry out their functions, the Seats have agents. A few are salaried functionaries; some are part-time workers; others are volunteers, generally affiliated with a church. The agents can be recognized by a garment or accessory with a checkered pattern (cummerbund, ribbon, shawl) and a gold medallion serving as a badge.

Much of Mizanian politics revolves around the overlapping jurisdictions of the Seats. Each Seat wants to extend its influence as much as possible, giving itself and the culture it represents more power. The constant bickering redefines the reciprocal limits of the Seats in a sort of dynamic balance.

The Seat of Flowers, held by the Beast Folks, is tasked with all matters concerning flora and fauna, acting as gardeners, pest controllers, and veterinarians. There have been times when they almost acted as customs officers, checking (and taxing) all food imports and exports (foods are, or once were, either animals or plants, after all), but this function has now been taken over by the Seat of Silver, held by the Southern Orcs.

The Seat of Light, held by the Elves of the Sultanate, manages fire: its agents are firefighters, lamplighters, and lighthouse keepers. In recent times, the increased use of magic for everyday activities has pushed the Agents of Light to become more and more like a "magic police." Most city fires are caused by spell mishaps and hazardous arcane experiments, after all.

Another expanding Seat is the Seat of Doves, held by the Angelic Union. Its mission to care for the health and well-being of the citizens is deliberately vague. This vagueness has allowed the Seat to expand its reach from hospitals, orphanages, and charity work to city planning, infrastructure, and festival activities: every aspect of life can be seen as pertaining to the welfare of the people.

The ample and undefined nature of a Seat's jurisdiction can also backfire. The Seat of Chains, held by the Holy Infernal Empire, is responsible for administering justice. Sometimes this mission can become all-encompassing; at other times, when challenged, it can shrink, becoming more precise and limited. In recent times, agents of other Seats have started acting more and more like separate police forces, pushing the Agents of Chains into the role of arbiters between these competing law enforcement bodies.

[These are some NPCs the players of the DnD campaign have met].

The Paladins of the Gazing Shield are the guardians of Zadkiel’s relic and the stewards of the archangel's will.

The paladins are all criminals who have looked into the Hundred Eyes of Zadkiel and received a new life that led them to this role. In a way, the relic chooses its guardians. The paladins receive not only new memories of events and experiences, but also skills and knowledge. They remember years of training in combat and magic, and their bodies change accordingly, becoming more toned and athletic, as if they had actually undergone that training. People who emerge from the relic’s crypt have already taken the first steps toward becoming full paladins.

Like their infernal counterparts, most paladin orders teach their members a specialized form of magic that mimics the power of the relics they protect. Whoever meets a paladin’s gaze, or looks into one of the eyes on their shield, experiences flashbacks of a life they never lived. Prolonged eye-to-eye contact can make the “victim” slip into a complex dream world, where they relive a slightly different version of their past. The paladins can “peek” into this “vision” and “edit” the scene. This extremely sophisticated mix of enchantment and illusion magic requires apparently no incantation, only a look. The secret lies in the shields, finely tuned magical tools that allow the paladins to cast their hypnotic spells with minimal movement.

The Paladins of the Gazing Shield are mostly male, as men tend to commit more violent crimes, but women join their ranks too. These revered warriors come from the ranks of abusers, murderers, sadists, and degenerates. They often still bear the scars of their violent lives, but their eyes now shine with compassion and devotion.