Hello Dr. Zann,     I hope that this missive reaches you in good health in these trying times. It has come to my attention that you still fully intend to commit to your planned procedure regarding certain properties of physical translocationality, despite our spirited conversation held previously in happier times.      I implore to once again: reconsider .     As was covered in that conversation, and repeated again here for emphasis, what you plan to do will react poorly with at least several other goings-on, which will in turn affect certain aspects of material resonance of our vaunted Stone Hall. As such, we cannot know or even pretend to know what would come of your sundering of the local environs, no matter how "mitigated " or " contained ".  To put in even more stark terms; should you do this, we would have no idea where you would even go, and there would be no rescue. Just as well, this is to say nothing of the suspected social repercussions of our nei

      Port Astor State University is the premier higher education facility in the State of Jefferson, and every year, tens of thousands flock to the City of Secrets to "begin their futures". Most prestigious of all is the post-graduate program, the Doctorate of Applied Metaphysics & Philosophy, which is by invitation only. While many openly desire to enter the program, few could even begin to explain what the exact criteria of admittance are, let alone what is actually taught within.     The program itself traces its lineage back to the university founders, who ran a small college out of the original university building, The Old Stone Hall. It began as an almost chapel-like structure of rustic cobble, but over its life grew into a bizarre and sprawling web of eclectic neo-gothic stonework, contemporary wood and cement, and other, harder to describe styles not seen before by any of its students.     This was the heart of Port Astor Academia, until the December of 1931. Dur

                      A flash, a scream, and just the moldering steam that hung in the cold Winter morning air as the arcane flame died down upon the rapidly-charred remains of the regular soldier. Lieutenant Matthew Regin had stood atop his barricade all night, the day before, and now was looking at another sunset and rise. After the retreat of the Colchis, it all went to shit . It fell apart when royal orders came down for the regular and drafted forces to pursue the “fleeing” invaders, which were at best ignored, or at worst, the messenger was attacked and murdered in outrage. What remained of the regulars, and many draftees, then revolted, and the Royal Knights were sent in to “restore loyalty and order”. For their part, the Parliamentary forces, namely the Arcane and the Engineering & Grenadier Corps, fell back to defend parts of the city from the fighting factions. For this, the other camps labelled them as an enemy; as traitors.                 That was weeks ago now. Since

      All thunder and manic fervor, the scrawny, filthy man fell upon Cornet Laurent, the terrified boy. In the trench, hastily half-dug and now equally a river of muddy blood, the filthy man pressed his weight upon the broken spear, attempting to end Laurent with the jagged and splintered wooden end. Screaming and crying, the cornet with hands so already slickened, tried to press back against his enemy. And just as suddenly as this scene began, a shell blasted just above the two, and the scrawny filthy man from Colchis was now as much shredded ribbon as he had been a soldier.     But, truly, he was no soldier; no more than Cornet Laurent was. What had he been? A farmer? A serf? A brother? Lover? A teller of tales or jokes? Now only shot and roaring silence could be the answer; he was dead. And the "cornet"? A boy of 16, who, tragically, was literate and had been in school. Enough for King Alphonse IV to have him commissioned, as a cavalry officer no less. In the following se

    In the eastern part of the land once called the United Kingdom of Alleghany, a dry grassland stretches as far as the eye can see, and as everyone knows, anything you can see over but not the other side of may as well be infinite. These old rolling hills have seen the dawn of the Old Kingdoms, the wars of unification, with their knights and lords, as well as the recent modern conflicts with mechanized tanks and orderly regiments of an industrialized nation. Few people have ever called this land home, but for those who do, they know that their proximity to the borderlands lend to their generally precarious life.     It is here that lies the township of Munro Ford, upon the humble banks of an eponymous river, which permitted such a town existing in the first place. The folks here live a simple country life in their town and surrounding hills, where the sea of amber grass hits the mighty walls of ancient craggy brown stone that marks the edges of the old dominion of the Marcher Lords t

     Merric tied down the last line, cinching the tarp tightly with his right hand. This had taken longer than it otherwise would have, but what could be done when working with only one arm? The winds had been furious the last few days he had been on the road, constantly disturbing and loosening the line securing his "stock", and frightening Holly, his ever-loyal donkey.     He had fled the Central Kingdoms, Whiteton specifically. He had ran a small arcane supply store, but after several bad seasons, his debts were called in, which he could not pay. So, he liquidated everything as fast as he could, loaded all he owned into a small two-wheeled rickshaw, and promptly left without a word.      Merric had set off to the east, where he heard a war was brewing, and war meant soldiers , and soldiers needed to buy things . His grand plan was to peddle enough items, at wildly inflated prices, to hopefully start again. Another shop, somewhere. He had zero stakes in whatever nonsense w

 "Hello caller, you're on the air..." "They are out there, you know. They've been here for years, longer than us to be sure." "Now, among the red towers of brick and neon, concrete and glass, they emerge from the deep-dark. Hundreds, thousands, maybe more, come forth as legion. They come, however disjointed, they remain unified in spirit." "What are their goals? Nightly, they move from neighborhood to neighborhood, victim to victim, engaging in ten-thousand guerilla actions. Clad in their domino masks and black gloves, none know whom specifically, but there is little doubt in general." "And what happens when you confront them? Dead eyes shine in the dark, reflecting only that light they steal from the world. No emotion, but equally no peace." "Today, the naïve are unaware of the danger that pervades this city, their families, their own lives. Do they not think that the ambitions of these thieves does not rise higher? Higher

      The rain pounded down thick and sharp, like the volley of an enemy force. Lady Matilda Bathurst of Selburne rode atop her armored steed, which moved at the head of the marching column. Her forces were supposed to have set out for the Dunbari camp over a fortnight ago, and she wore her displeasure openly upon her face.     This was hardly her first time leading her forces, and had in fact done so many times in war, but this time felt different. For most of her life she had led soldiers in the civil war that had consumed her family lands, fighting her own kin and countrymen for years, and always effectively, efficiently. This, however, was the first time she led her army on behalf of another realm, and the managing of logistics and supply proved hectic and sprawling.     And, now, here they were; travelling well past the end of travelling season, laden with supplies. There had already been minor battles with the Anlari, and many skirmishes beside those. With it all in full swing, s

      The smallest island in the Duchy, Ios was long ago promised to the Triton by Poleon himself as part of the peace struck long ago.     Today, a Triton serves as Baron of Ios, but as part of a long tradition, does not taking a voting role upon the Despot Council. Instead, they serve as a liaison between the Naxians and the Triton Kings beneath the waves.     Ios, itself is off-limits to any visitors, is vigorously patrolled and guarded by Triton warriors who only ever warn once before attacking any that attempt to land. No non-Triton knows why they protect Ios so fervently, but stories say that it is integral to the eldritch rites of the Triton priests. As far as what can be gleaned from ships passing perhaps too closely, Ios is covered by the same kind of jungles that can be found across the islands, and a small mountain protruding from the center.

      The smallest of the Baronies, the Donusians are actually a set of smaller islands in the extreme southeast of the Duchy, farthest from Naxos. Much of these islands are dominated by forests consisting of perhaps the greatest strategic material in all of Naxos; Naxian Oak. This wood is twice as sturdy as any other lumber, and does not rot in seawater once treated in a certain way, which is a closely guarded state secret. For this, by ancient Royal decree and modern Ducal orders, these trees may only be used to make Naxian warships for the Navy.     The only official permanent settlement, Makria, is dominated by vast lumber yards, smaller shipyards and drydocks, and the equipment needed to load large amounts of lumber onto ships headed to Avgi or Kythnos. The population in Makria is unique, in that it is one of two settlements in the Duchy that satyr make a majority of the population-- the other being Oneiro, a baronet on the Isle of Naxos. This has long led to suspicion of the Baro

      The second largest island in the Duchy, Ieraklea is perhaps the most specialized of any territory found across the islands in that a majority of the land is used for farming, as it has the only largescale portions of arable land found anywhere in the Duchy. Outside of Dino, the capitol, rice paddies and fields of barley stretch as far as the eye sees.     Agriculture is the dominant industry in Ieraklea, and a majority of harvests are sent directly to Poleons' City. There is a history of maltreatment on the island; with everything dedicated to farming, finding suitable workers has always been an issue. So, the former Despots, now Barons, have relied on slave labor in the forms of prisoners or indentured minorities to meet demands.     Farther away from Dino, similar to Mykonos, enormous fields roll on; some portions of the island are left intentionally un-farmed, as to provide an area of land to rotate to as to not completely exhaust the soil. Further southwest, the plains ar

      Once the site of the first human habitation in the islands, Keros was blasted into a craggy wasteland at the start of the Tauromachy. Today, the only people who live here all year is the garrison and staff of Alasiofos, the training fortress and headquarters of the Naxian Marines & Navy.     Alasiofos' main citadel lies atop the seaward cliffs, fortified with magic to prevent collapse. The citadel itself is divided between the two forces, and both have been tailored to the needs of each. The complex itself is labyrinthian in size and complexity of navigation.     Beyond the walls, Keros supports next to nothing that would be called life. Indeed, the terrain is so unforgiving that as part of final testing, Naxian marines must survive a fortnight as a unit out in the wastes, living being the only standard of success.     The "Baron" of Keros is the title given to who ever is assigned as the master of Alasiofos, and does not have voting powers on the Despot Council

      The ancestral homelands of the Leoi, the island of Mykonos is a dramatic landscape of expansive rolling grasslands, lush jungle, and sharp grey peaks overlooking the sea.     The only permanent settlement, O Protos, lies on the north shore, where the plains meet the sea. This "city" exists as a complex to house the Baron of Mykonos, and to host the visiting bands when they visit, or at the annual meeting when the various leaina decide matters for all Leoi.     The plains of Mykonos, ironically, are some of the most fertile farmland anywhere in the Duchy, which for strict carnivores such as the Leoi who subsist off of hunting, fishing, and very limited herding, does little good. As such, these rich grasslands remain largely undisturbed.      To the western portions of the island is a track of jungle; unlike other islands, these trees hold religious significance to the Leoi, as only leaina may enter as part of their coming-of-age rituals, or during certain lunar events. 

      South of Naxos lies the Island of Thera; a ring of land that surrounds a large deep-water lagoon. Like Kythnos, the island is divided into grassy hills and jungle. Unlike Kythnos, both sections are thoroughly populated by Naxians.      The northern parts are entirely consumed by the town of Ormos, but that does not mean it is a hive of activity. Ormos is a well-spread out town, with entire fields between single houses in some areas. Closer to the lagoon shore, it becomes tighter, but still nowhere near as hectic and crowded as other Naxian cities.     The southern jungle is also well settled, with well-worn foot paths connecting various homes and villas.     The major place of interest in Thera is the lagoon, which is the nearest deep-water port to Naxos, and is often the first or second stop for foreign traders, who often seek to unload and sell whatever did not sell in Poleons' City. Other than economics, the deep lagoon is also of interest to the Triton, who can sometimes

      The island immediately to the east of Naxos, Kythnos is separated by a narrow, shallow channel that can sometimes be entirely exposed during extreme tidal events.  The island itself is divided into two distinct regions; the rolling grassland of the north, and the dense jungle of the lower.     Most of the population, like in its counterpart of Poleons' own city, reside in the major city of Avgi, on its northernmost shore. Most of the people here are directly tied to the vast shipyards there, which is where a large portion of Naxian vessels are built, as well as a major port for the Naxian Navy.      Outside of Avgi, the grasslands are unsettled, with the exception of a small number of goat-herding families that claim historical rights to roam the plains in their nomadic life. Like most of the Duchy, the soil here is largely unsuitable for farming.     To the south, the jungle claims much of the land. Unlike Naxos, these forests are avoided, as they have a strong connection to

      Separate from its namesake, the Isle of Naxos is the largest across the archipelago that makes up the Duchy, with a majority of non-urban Naxians living upon it.      The northern section of Naxos is dry and craggy, baked under the hot dry air that flows south. Few towns can be found here, with all of them on the coast. What is prominent here are the legendary  vineyards that grow the grapes for fine and potent Naxian Wine.     The southern portion of Naxos is dominated by dense jungles, covering the land from the Talos Mountains to the gentle sandy shores. Lumber is a key industry here, but you won't find the famous Naxian Oak, which only grows in The Donusians, but you will find a variety of robust hardwood used in construction across the islands. There are a fair number of fishing villages, which like in the north part of the island, are depended upon for providing the basis of Naxian diet.     Lastly, in the center of the island forming the spine running from east to west

 Authors Note: Welcome to part one of the Naxian Geography module! We'll be doing this as a sort of weekly primer, with each entry covering a specific island/area.     Before the Tauromachy, the island of Aegos was the center of Minotaur civilization, and was heavily cultivated. It was said that the whole island was a patchwork of beautiful gardens, filling in spaces between pre-historic temples and shrines with lush verdant life. After the war, however, the plant life had became darkened and warped; alien flora had replaced the native plant life. When Poleon took Aegos, he ordered the whole of the island salted and burned.     Even over a thousand years later, the island that modern Naxos sits upon has not recovered. The soil is dry, sandy, and often flies away when a strong breeze blows. Absolutely nothing will grow naturally on the island. Any garden in the city will have to rely on imported soil, intense management, and absolutely avoiding contact with the local soil.     That

      The two Anlari soldiers ran through the dark brush, too scared to look back. Guided only by what scattered moonlight made its fraught journey through the canopy. One acted as support for the other, who bled blackened ooze from a fetid wound, a gaping hole in his mail and tabard.     Only what seemed like moments before, their entire squad of comrades were patrolling for soldiers from the ever-approaching Dunbar host, which their liege had been fighting. Suddenly, in a blur of frightening speed, a tower of steel, a warrior in fearsome steel armor, and clad in a red and green surcoat. The had immediately shouted at the figure to identify themselves, when a curious thing happened. A small blue light came from beneath the great helm of the Red & Green Warrior, and then a much brighter blue light came from the bush just off to their side. Spectral hounds then leapt into the squad, their spears and swords striking more air than mark. The jaws of the hounds savaged those they found.

     Author's Note: Hey everyone! Just a heads up that I'll be dropping a couple fiction pieces before the next module on Naxos! Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!      In from the orange-lit sunset, the drifter in a long jacket and longer shadow walked like a shade into the saloon. He moved through the nearly-barren space, with only a few other souls than his own; a tender that looked so far removed from his environment as to be part of the furniture, and an old-timer, rattan hat and overalls. The drifter sat down.     "Whatever's cheap" came from his mouth. With the apparent command words uttered, the bartender slowly began pouring a stringent-smelling brown liquid into a small glass. Neither said anything more.     "Where're you from, young'un?" the old timer finally asked.     "Down south ways, near The Marshes" the drifter replied after a moment.     "What brings you here north ways?"     Gunfire, a chattering staccato, echoes ou

 This is part three, and the finale, of this year's mini series! You can read part two here .                Anton dropped his bag down the shaft. After jimmying the outside doors, evading city employees and security, and going in a general downward direction, he had found it; the Plague Tunnels of Port Astor. He then dropped down himself, kicking up dust that hasn’t seen the light of day in nearly a century. Anton turned on his headlamp, which only stubbornly obliged. It revealed where he was; in the alley way between two buildings. As he stepped out into the forgotten street, he could make out one of the ancient signs; “ARTHUR’S IMPORTS & RARE BOOKS”. He cleared some of the dust from the window, which hung in the heavy air.                 He shined a light into the store, and as he did, an immense clamor was heard from within. Anton jumped back, and would have screamed if he hadn’t stifled it. He was, after all, trespassing. The shop door was still in place, and secured wi