Welcome to the Broken Coast

Dark Gods of Rock and Stone

When travelers first arrive along the clouded Eastern shores of the Broken Coast and look westward towards the Revanwall, most are impressed by what they see. 

An enormous palisade of sheer rock jutting out from the earth, stretching up thousands of feet into the sky and reaching out for miles across the horizon. If you could look closely, you might be able to see the sides of the giant barricade littered with tiny cave openings; great earthen maws that look like small termite holes from such a distance. Many believe they are looking at the mountain. The unlucky ones move on before they realize their error.

At night, the cloud cover breaks open and the occasional newcomer, sleepless from their long voyage, will gaze up at the Revanwall and see, bathed in moonlight, the shadow of the true mountain towering over the thousand foot cliffs and ringed by Nimbus cities, nearly blotting out all light in the lowlands. Many find living here unnerving, as if the shadows cast under the Mountain could stroke the soft skin on the back of your neck while you sleep.

They are right; there is nothing the Mountain wants more than to drink your blood. 

Revaydra is quite possibly the largest mountain on the planet. While most mountain ranges are composed of multiple mountains, the Revanwall is simply composed of one looming, jagged, figure. 

War feeds the mountain. During the Age of Heresy, her gluttonous stone swelled up from below the crust and overflowed the pungent Nightmare upon the waking world; choking liquid shadow upon the Break, lidless pale beasts in the woods. Countless were eaten by their own dreams.

Nothic scholars tend to avoid the Broken Coast. The more they've studied their own mountains, the more superstitious; too many angry earth elementals nearby for their taste. Revaydra is bad enough even when she keeps to herself, not to mention the tribes who descend the Break to wage war in her name. Gloxagon is a whole different problem. A letter to the Nothic division of Geo-occult studies from renowned scholar Aimil Grollson reads thus:

"It is with no shame that I must decline this offer of study. There is no grant in existence that would convince me to travel to the Gloxatic faultline and I am, frankly, fucking insulted by this obvious attempt at assassination. I would advise the projects committee to choose another for this prestigious award, perhaps one of those oh so useful ethnographical students from the division of cultural studies would be more appropriate."

Brynthians

Vegetarian lawyers and warriors from the nation of Brynth. Arnold's writing about them should give you a pretty good sense of their culture.

The Lassican empire, predecessor to Brynth, used to rule these lands. Time has not been kind to them. The Lassicans who survived the Age of Heresy were either colonized by their Brynthic descendents, turned to the pagan ways of the natives, or shelled themselves off in their ancient fortresses.

Their greatest creations are still in use: the Panoptical Cities. Near-megalithic prison colonies heaving with parapets and iron bars. Brynth prides itself in how well they have maintained this particular cultural heritage.

Vaslorians

Cousins to Brynth, the two nations have nonetheless come into conflict over their cultural and political differences.

Brynth despises priests and kings. Vasloria is congested with both. Imagine a Camelotoid fantasy kingdom. Now mix that with the Holy Roman Empire with it's messy tangle of noble families and minor kings. THEN add in a dash of Edo period Shogunate culture. This is how you make the bones of Vaslorian politics and culture.

Occasionally, noble families have sailed across the Sea of Kaskala to the Broken Coast. There they find land ripe for the taking, as well as settlements left over by the Lassicans who came and crumbled before them. Though it pesters the Brynthians, it is enormously difficult to remove a Vaslorian noble family once they have an understanding of the local land. Analogies of city sized parasites are not uncommon.

The Break

This is where the Revanwall gets its name from. For as long as anyone can remember, a few dozen miles inland the surface of the Broken Coast suddenly and sharply elevates as if the entire region was punched up from the earth by a gigantic hammer. 

The Break curves around the Broken Coast and peters off just as it curves towards the Langan Peninsula, forming the gigantic shelf upon which the colossal Mountain sits on.

The Break is, on a massive geological scale, extremely smooth. There are only a few jagged outcrops; most of the massive cliff edge is textured with noticeable vertical striations (in addition to horizontal strata along the cliff's edge).

It is also extremely tall. Over 3000 feet tall on average, but most likely not much more than that. The Burj Khalifa is about 2700 feet tall for reference (also around 300 feet over two NYC world trade center towers stacked on top of each other). From the Break you can see all the way past the Broken Coast to the Halcyon Sea. Some even claim that the lands beyond are visible.

It is perilously difficult to ascend or descend The Break. Occasional megalithic structures are suspected to assist in this purpose, but no one is sure of their exact function or if they will ever be reusable. 

One could also traverse the spidering network of cave systems buried within The Break, which has resulted in an extremely high rate of disappearances over these expeditions.

Other options include rappelling/climbing up the Break, a suicidal feat which is rumored to have been accomplished but difficult to verify, and using giant cyclopean steps carved into the cliff face. Neither are considered very safe options, and certainly both are quite inefficient.

It is rumored that there have been other ways to go through the Break. While true, none are considered terribly useful for the purposes of moving large numbers of people, particularly colonists or armies.

Anvils of Ice

Glaciers ring the Mountain upon the Break. There are forests and lands that are possibly suitable for agricultural living, but the vast majority of this place is a harsh tundra of snowbleeched desert. 

The only people living here are the native Xan'dun Nikali tribes. They are the children of the Mountain. 

Mother Mountain gives and takes life. She nurtures you and your children in her belly, away from the freezing winds and icy rocks. She provides glory, secrets, and enlightenment. But like any mother, she expects great things from her children.

Hunger made the tribes strong. Made them clever and brutal. Ruthless enough to survive the snow but not so much that they lost their social circles. The first children learned from Mother Mountain, learned not to die. In turn, the Mountain hungered for blood that no longer dripped into her maw. She learned to speak to tribes; like the first children, hunger made her clever.

Mother Mountain provides well for her children, but only enough to make sure you are hungry. The tribes consider this a blessing; a reminder of the sharpest state of human experience. As they say, "You cannot know your enemy unless you are forced to eat him". Lowlanders usually have a hard time understanding this idiom, but when they've run out of food and fire and savagely attack one another for their warmth and supplies, suddenly they begin to get the gist of it.

To live near the edge of death, near the edge of Nightmare, reminds the Xan'dun of what it means to be alive. The lowlanders are soft and gluttonous. While Mother Mountain cannot stretch her hands to crush them and devour their quivering bodies, her children have strong limbs and hungry gullets. 

Satiation of hunger always comes at a blood price. This is always true, no matter the form. Your uncle died during the hunt, but now the tribe may eat. Your grandfather died from the frost, but his body may feed Mother Mountain. Your sons died in the caves and dungeons of Mother Mountain, but you have learned how the Beast hunts and thinks. Next time, it is your hunger which will be satiated.

Your history is written in blood. Food, for both the mind and body, is priceless because it carries with it the memories of the ones we have lost. Outsiders, ESPECIALLY lowlanders, have not paid their blood price. The lowlanders want what you have and they want what you know. They do not care about Mother Mountain. They do not care about the enlightenment of hunger. They do not care to sacrifice their own children and are happy to let you and your loved ones die for their satiation.

Fuck them. They do not deserve our food, our light, our stories. Let it be known: the lowlanders WILL pay their fair share of blood. One way or another.

DM note for players: This last section was mostly to give an impression of how most of the tribes think, generally speaking. Do not let it completely dictate how you interact with lowlanders and other NPCs. After all, they may come to understand the philosophy of the Mountain, or perhaps your PCs will have grown a soft spot for their silly beliefs.