I’m sort of mapping Godsbarrow the least efficient way possible . . . but stitching together my big map is proof that, for me, the dumb way that creates extra work in the future is the key to my success.
Why not start by mapping the continents?
I see gorgeous continent-level maps all the time on r/Wonderdraft. And it makes sense: Look how many things in the map below I will need to fix in order to turn X regional maps (the “tiles”) into a unified pan-regional map that spans a large chunk of Godsbarrow, none of which I’d have to fix if I’d started with a larger canvas.
Hell, even if I’d stayed at the regional scale (rather than continent scale) but started with a six-tile blank map in Wonderdraft, filled it with ocean texture, and then added landmasses one region at a time, I’d wind up with a finished map that had none of the technical issues present in the map I currently have. But I know me: That blank space would have overwhelmed me, made this feel like work, and probably torpedoed the whole venture.
Every boundary, every thing I develop, is a constraint. Starting with continents establishes a whole bunch of boundaries right off the bat. Starting without even thinking about continents leaves all that stuff where it belongs, for now: nonexistent or purely notional.
Why? Three reasons.
Because WWN says so
Worlds Without Number [paid link] advocates strongly for not building stuff you don’t need, and I agree. More than three decades of gaming, including several abortive attempts at creating campaign settings which began, full of excitement, with me creating world maps, has taught me that I virtually never need to know about continents at the gaming table.
Is it nice to know what the Forgotten Realms looks like at a world map level? Absolutely. And maybe in a published setting with the scope of the Realms, I’d expect that. (Here, as a WIP on a blog, I absolutely don’t expect that.)
But in actual play, have I ever needed to know what the continents look like, or what the whole of Faerûn looks like? Nope. Not even once.
Which flows into…
Conversation of time and creative energy
I’m one guy, doing this for fun, not getting paid for it, with a finite amount of free time and creative energy, and spending those resources worldbuilding means I have less time and energy to spend on other things — including the more gameable aspects of worldbuilding.
If I spend a bunch of time and creative energy on a world map of Godsbarrow that I don’t even need, I might burn out. Even if I don’t burn out, I will have spent those resources making something I don’t actually need and placing constraints on my future worldbuilding.
Which flows into…
Because whimsical, improvisational worldbuilding is more fun for me
I’m not here to police anyone’s “lonely fun.” I upvote those gorgeous continent maps on r/Wonderdraft, and I love that folks are making cool shit even — especially — if it’s not how I might have made it. As my wife often says, with genuine affection, “You do you, Boo-Boo.“
But personally I find it much more freeing, and more fun, to develop a Godsbarrow region without any real idea what’s next door. When I step back for a minute, as I did when stitching together that large map above, I see a developing setting that I never would have come up with this way if I’d sketched out all the coastlines for the large map at once.
Toriyama Akira and the art of improvisational creation
This connects nicely to having just finished watching Dragon Ball and started Dragon Ball Z. I was curious how much of Z Toriyama Akira had planned when he was working on Dragon Ball, and apparently the answer is “none of it, or at least not much of it, especially early on.” He was just doing what interested him, following his heart and seeing where it led him, and the end product — Dragon Ball — is full of whimsy and surprises and strange turns it likely never would have been full of if he’d mapped it out from the beginning.
Circling back to Godsbarrow, if I’d written up the Unlucky Isles knowing that a slug-god-kaiju was crushing mountains to the west (in Kurthunar) and the region to the south was locked in perpetual winter and populated by, among others, courtly werewolves and mushroom pirates, I would have written it differently. For one thing, I’d have had to hold a lot more ideas in my head while writing it. For another, I’d have worried about conceptually mapping out all of the nations’ relationships with places further away, which likely would have made me lose interest.
If I synthesize all of my regional write-ups into a unified document, will I need to add and tweak some things? You bet. Just like my stitched-up map, what came later would necessarily prompt a gentle rearrangement of what came before.
But as a price to pay for capturing the original raw spirit of Godsbarrow, channeling that into the Unlucky Isles, stoking the fires of creation and diving in while they burned brightly, and creating something that I still want to continue developing eight months later, that is a vanishingly small price indeed.
TL;DR: Start small. Which is, like, the oldest RPG worldbuilding advice ever. This post explains why I started small, and why, eight months after starting work on Godsbarrow, I still love this approach despite the imperfections it introduces into the process and the WIP version of Godsbarrow.
See also: Yore
A lot of what I’ve said here also goes for Yore itself. This blog will be celebrating its 10th anniversary later this year, on August 28th.
I’ve been blogging since 2005, and Yore is my third RPG blog. I ran Treasure Tables (still archived on Gnome Stew) from 2005-2007, and ran and contributed to Gnome Stew from 2008-2016. I may have my math off a bit, but I believe I wrote 871 posts on TT and 453 on GS.
So not only does my post count here — 463 as of this one — exceed my count on the Stew, even prior to the actual 10th anniversary I’ve already posted on Yore for longer than either of my previous blogs. Yore is the one where I just do whatever I want to do, whenever I want to do it, whether or not that’s an efficient way to build an audience (it’s not), get pageviews (it’s not), create a brand (it’s not), make money (it’s not), or stay relevant in the RPG hobby as a whole (it’s not).
In other words, philosophically Yore is pretty similar to Godsbarrow. I loved blogging on Treasure Tables and Gnome Stew, and look back fondly on those years. But part of the reason I’m still blogging here, nearly 10 years on (and well past the heyday of blogs’ relevance in the hobby), is because here is the place I just do my thing. Or don’t do it. Or shift gears and do new things.
I know folks out there have gotten good mileage out of stuff I’ve posted here, and that brings me joy. I hope it continues to be the case. In the meantime, I’ll just keep puttering away and doing my thing.
I never get the roads, rivers, etc. on the “tile” boundaries quite right, but nonetheless I get a thrill out of seeing Godsbarrow start to come together as each region is added to the larger map.
Here’s a (clumsily) stitched-together map showing the first four regions: the Unlucky Isles (where I started, top center), the Gilded Lands (top right, my second region), Kurthunar (top left, third), and the Ice Courts (bottom, number four).
Despite all the details that would need to be tidied up as part of turning this into a finished map (mainly boundaries, but also finalizing scales and adjusting labels to suit the zoomed-out format), this map makes me happy. Godsbarrow feels like My Place in a way it wouldn’t without this map, and if you decide to play a game there I hope it will also feel like Your Place.
This is where I started, around March 2021 (in Worldographer):
I’ll go where my muse and mood take me, but the logical next stop after finishing my regional write-up for the Ice Courts would be to fill in the bottom leftmost map section. Six of my tiles, arranged thusly, is not coincidentally about the same shape as a map from the old Forgotten Realms boxed set.
I adore that set and to this day hold it up as one of, if not the, best examples of a published campaign setting designed for actual play (rather than GM wankery). Capturing some of the feel, the energy, the excitement I got (and still get) from opening that box, unfurling the maps, reading the marvelously concise and flavorful books, and playing in that version of the Realms is a core design goal for Godsbarrow.
After that, I’ve been thinking of another double-width map above the Isles and Gilded Lands, or maybe even a triple that also includes Kuruni.
Visually, that would center the Unlucky Isles as the heart of the developed portion of Godsbarrow (which, from a campaign setting creation standpoint, it is). With three tiles across the top and the ninth in the bottom left filled in, I’d also have mapped out all/most of the Arkestran Dominion, all of Kadavis, and all (probably?) of Ahlsheyan, and I’d have around a dozen countries developed at the regional level.
I like leaving unfinished nations on the map, places that need another tile to complete them. It helps the setting feel real and gives me an easy hook for future mapmaking and development.
Philosophical navel-gazing and hobby streaks
There are lots of things about worldbuilding that are philosophical in nature (like leaving countries half-unmapped). I’ve slowed way down on worldbuilding in the past few months, as I have with painting miniatures (though for somewhat different reasons), but I write at least a sentence, or make progress on a map, every day. And that snail’s pace is still producing more worldbuilding than I’ve done in decades, including much, much more cartography than I’ve ever done before.
I sum this approach up as “Something > nothing” or “Any progress beats no progress.” My interests and hobbies are like little fires, each in its own little hearth. Sometimes one fire is raging, and the others die down. In the past, I’ve let fires die out rather than banking them so that they stay alive; using hobby streaks as a motivational tool is as deliberate departure from that approach. I bank some of the fires, ensuring they don’t go out and that they’re on my radar (man am I mixing metaphors here), and let others go out entirely.
Right now I’m banking my worldbuilding fire, making a little forward progress every day, and tending to other fires that are burning hotter: watching more anime, reading more manga, and playing more Halo Infinite and Jedi: Fallen Order. And that’s okay! When those tail off, another interest or two will flare up.
My fourth region in Godsbarrow is two map “tiles” wide, sitting south of the Unlucky Isles and the Gilded Lands. It’s the map where most of Ahlsheyan sits, plus the rest of Lonþyr and most of the rest of Yrfeđe — and new nations, of course.
As you can see above, I finished the map before the write-ups (and I’m actually still working on the tail end of the written material). But for this post I’m jumping in with the first step from Worlds Without Number [paid link]. As always, this is more or less straight from my notes in Notepad, not fully polished (etc.).
Name the region.
The Ice Courts, so called because this region is a hotbed of courtly intrigue locked in perpetual winter. Though climate and geography have always made this a cold region, the unnatural winter stems from the death of a god: Abäschern, the Wolf of Summer (“ah-bay-SHURN”). Abäschern once blessed the land, ensuring that despite its climate and geography the region was arable and full of game to hunt, and blessed its people by making them werewolves. But in time he became bored with the world, and his petty streak turned to outright cruelty. He reveled in the thrill of twisting the land to his ends and hurting his followers, and the entire region became a dark place.
A few centuries ago, the people of what is now the Ice Courts rose up, threw off their shackles, and assassinated Abäschern — and with his dying breath, the wolf-god cursed them unto a thousand generations, casting the land into winter. The curse, plus the warped energy of his magically-active corpse, keeps the Ice Courts frozen to this day.
Valkenschirm (“VAL-kenn-shurm,” linguistic touchstone: Old High German) is the heart of the Ice Courts. What Valkenschirm lacks in size and martial power it more than makes up for in magical power: The majority of Valken are werewolves, and Abäschern’s still-potent corpse is entombed here. Years of intermarriage and close ties between the nations of the Ice Courts mean that many outside Valkenschirm are also at least part werewolf (considered a noble blessing), perhaps manifesting only minor signs of their condition.
Part of the reason the Ice Courts are so full of courtly rules, fancy balls, intrigue, and polite skullduggery is that it’s too fucking cold to spent time outside. Since Abäschern’s fall, what was once one nation has split into several, and the region’s focus has turned inwards, socially and literally, with lots of infighting, political maneuvering, and posturing. Alongside centuries of refinement of this culture of intrigue, each nation has also developed its own approaches to surviving in a place where winter is the only season (magic combined with burrows or structures, digging down to geothermal vents, underground mushroom farms, peculiar trees that bear food — not just fruit — all year long, etc.).
Choose about six major geographical features.
The Abvärwinter (“abb-FAIR-win-tur”), the local name for the area cast into perpetual winter by Abäschern’s curse, which comprises most of the Ice Courts region
Kyögüŕ Sound (“KYU-goorh”), windy and partially iced-over, which separates most of Ahlsheyan from the rest of the Ice Courts
The Tadlungwort (“TADD-loong-vort”), the only forest that survived the coming of the Abvärwinter, a strange evergreen wood full of even stranger animals
The Zull Pyrendi archipelago, largely unaffected by the Abvärwinter despite being close enough that it too should be snowed under
Vulkanöl Mountains (“VULL-kann-ole”), the massive range that covers a large portion of the Ice Courts region
Webegezeug Mountain (“veh-BEGG-uh-zoyg”), the tallest peak in the Vulkanöl Mountains — and one of the highest in all of Dormiir, well over 8,000 meters
The next step, nations of importance, is long enough for a post of its own. Onwards!
I’ve been more in the mood for cartography than writing, so I’ve finished — at least in draft form — the map for the Ice Courts before the region write-up is done. The Ice Courts sit just south of the Unlucky Isles and the Gilded Lands, and this region occupies two map “tiles.” (You can read about all the parts of Dormiir I’ve created so far in the Godsbarrow handbook.)
This is a land of perpetual winter, dwarves, aristocratic werewolves, and mushroom pirates. I love all of those things, so I decided it’d be fun to combine them in a single region.
I’m about halfway done with the written portion. I wanted to see what a double-size region would feel like, giving countries a bit more real estate and adding a significant body of water — since my countries so far have been fairly small, and oceans haven’t yet been seen in their entirety.
It takes longer, no surprise there, but so far it’s been a fun approach. I might do the same thing for the region north of the Unlucky Isles, basically mirroring this approach but two tiles northwards. We shall see!
At 2:30 this morning I woke up from a dream about the dwarves in Godsbarrow and the Snarl, realized it was an idea I’d never seen anywhere before, and knew this was a chance to contribute to the collective lore of my favorite fantasy species. So I grabbed my tablet and wrote it down, couldn’t get back to sleep, and got up to turn my notes into this post.
You know those tragic instances where a huge crowd (in a sports arena, lets say) panics, and the weight of all those bodies exerts a terrible, crushing, fatal pressure on anyone trapped against a barrier? That sometimes happens when dwarves assault an underground fastness.
In a warren of tunnels, all it takes is an unexpected dead end or a wave of reinforcements on either side of the fight and the two opposing forces can literally get jammed together, immobile, with nowhere to go, as more bodies pile into the same too-small space.
This is called the Snarl.
Left unchecked, a Snarl is an awful thing. Pressure and lack of air can kill everyone involved, and the sensation of being trapped in a press of flesh, with one’s mortal foes, unable to escape, is simply dreadful. (That haunting image is what struck me when I first awoke.)
Shouting and other signals can’t be heard over the din, or seen through the press of fighting bodies, so dwarves rely on smell to avoid a Snarl. Underground-dwelling dwarves in Dormiir carry tiny ampoules of scented liquid. Each unit, clan, or other group has their own unique concoction, but they all carry a powerful, overwhelming scent. When crushed, either by the force of a Snarl or actively, by a dwarf trapped in one, the vial shatters and releases its potent stink.
Especially in snug spaces already tight on air, one vial’s scent might not travel far — but the scents from several of them will. That smell signals a Snarl, and it tells every dwarf within range to halt, retreat, and then work undo the Snarl.
Some foes know of this practice, and will also work with the dwarves to untangle a Snarl when they catch a strong scent. Historically, a Snarl successfully undone often leads to a peace treaty between the dwarves and their snarl-mates, making it an oddly effective, if accidental, form of diplomacy.
I didn’t dream about poignards, but while I was lying bed, half-awake, thinking about Snarls, my brain started pondering effective weapons for medieval tunnel-fighting — and out popped poignards.
The stereotypical dwarven weapon, the axe, isn’t actually a practical choice for fighting in confined spaces. You need room to swing an axe, especially a two-hander, and tunnels and snugs and crawlways don’t tend to allow that kind of maneuvering room. (The same goes for picks, mauls, longer swords, etc.).
Dwarves who fight in tunnels prefer short thrusting weapons, especially poignards, and it’s rare to meet a dwarf underground who doesn’t have a poignard or two. Warriors often carry several, each set up to be drawn in a different position (boot, belt, upper arm sheath, etc.). Some will also carry a longer, heavier weapon — like an axe or pick — that they can unlimber when fighting in caverns and other larger spaces.
Daggers and crossbows are also popular choices. A two-edged dagger can be a good alternative to a poignard, and a crossbow offers a compact ranged option that can be fired — once — even in a narrow tunnel. And dwarves girding for battle often don spiked armor and spiked gauntlets, which work as deterrents and effective weapons in their own right.
This region is a twofold experiment. One, it diverges from Worlds Without Number‘s (paid link) directive to “make about six nations/groups,” as I’m making two new ones and using two existing ones. And two, it’s the first region that features gods as physical presences, just out there in the world doing god stuff.
And those gods absolutely define their respective nations — as it should be. At first my concept for Kuruni seemed kind of simplistic, but then I thought about it a bit more. If your god rolls up, twenty feet tall, glowing like the noonday sun, casually hefting the Diamond Hammer of the Ages — a single blow from which can knock the peak off a mountain — and says, “I like fighting,” you’d say, “Me too! Who should we fight?” And when Kura says, “IDGAF, let’s fight each other,” that’s what you do.
Kuruni is that, multiplied by an entire nation. It’s not a monoculture, but it is a culture more tightly defined and less varied than most of the others I’ve sketched out to date. Kura isn’t someone your ancestors knew, or that the church talks about, or that no one’s seen in centuries; she’s that huge woman over there, drinking ale by the barrel, and boy does she love cracking skulls.
Aaust wasn’t that, to start with. It was a largely secular nation, a peaceful place isolated by its geography and dedicated to scholarship and building stilt houses taller than your neighbors. And then The God That Eats boiled up out of the earth and started. Eating. Everything.
Choose about six major geographical features.
The Godblight, the miles-wide — and growing — region of devastation left behind by The God That Eats
The Bacberand, the massive expanse of swampland at the center of Aaust (where many of the Thefaine are found)
The Salt Coast, the extended swath of salt marsh that forms much of Aaust’s coastline
Qaburzani Sound, the many-branched body of water that forms the eastern boundary of the Aaun Peninsula
The Great Library of the Cliffs (“Faial Thaneseie” in Aaunish), a network of canyons in Aaust carved from lip to floor with millions of linear feet of runes, accessible via scaffolds, cranes, and tunnels, and organized in a system known only to the army of sages who maintain it
Forge of Huradi, a holy mountain in Kuruni (and its tallest peak); Kura flattened its top, infused it with her power, and now uses it as a forge to craft weapons for her favored champions
The Thefaine, vast, strange obelisks that dot Aaust, attracting and warping wildlife into huge monsters
Create six nations or groups of importance.
Aaust (“OW-oost,” linguistic touchstone is Old French), which occupies the Aaun Peninsula (“OW-oon”), is a peaceful, insular place that was, until recently, best known for its vast marshes (with some settlements only reachable by flat-bottomed skiffs and barges), stilt-dwellings, scholars, the great Library of the Cliffs (millions of linear feet of Aaun runes engraved into cliffs to form a permanent library that collects works from all over Dormiir; nothing less permanent lasts long in the marshes), and the mysterious Thefaine pillars (“THEH-fayne”). Jutting high into the air, the Thefaine attract and warp wildlife, giving rise to massive — and weird — creatures. But the Aausti aren’t frail scholars who roll over and die when faced with danger; they possess centuries of knowledge and prize resourcefulness, craftiness, and survival.
Aausti culture places importance on the height of one’s dwelling. This began as a practical matter: Aaust is low-lying, barely above sea level in most places, so it’s particularly susceptible to Dormiir’s extreme tides. It’s generally regarded as worse to build high and suffer a collapse than to build slightly lower, but soundly. Drummers, signal torches, pigeons, and lanterns with signal mirrors are used to communicate between towers — and throughout Aaust, as these are all methods that work equally well in the bogs and marshes (and some are subtle enough to avoid monsters’ attention).
The Aausti ability to coexist with monsters is going to come in handy, because two years ago Aaust became best known for one thing: The God That Eats, a kaiju-sized giant slug which awoke from millennia of slumber. This monster exists solely to slither slowly across Aaust and eat anything in its way: people, towns, cities, mountains — and even several of Auust’s small gods. As it eats, it grows. It is a slow-moving apocalypse, ceaseless and inevitable.
In just two years, it has devastated a wide swath of Aaust, killing thousands as it devoured entire towns — and threatening the very existence of the nation. Nothing wounds it, nothing the wizard-sages of Faial Thaneseie (“FYE-ell thanh-ESS-ee-yay”) have tried has worked, and it’s beginning to look like only Kura — the god of neighboring Kuruni, who literally walks the earth — might have a chance of stopping it. The God That Eats can’t digest precious metals and gems, so those get forced out through its skin and left behind. This makes the devastated areas in its wake lucrative for those foolhardy enough to risk getting that close to the worm.
Kuruni (“koor-OO-nee,” linguistic touchstone is Urartian), often called the Land of Kura, is a warlike place defined by its warlike god, Kura — a glowing, muscular woman twenty feet tall, and a constant, physical presence who takes part in battles, performs great works, and walks among the Kurun. Kuruni is a place of gladiatorial combat (not in the Roman vein with slaves fighting lions, but as a highly-valued profession and the ultimate expression of Kurun values: strength, cunning, will, and fearlessness), ritual dueling, trials by combat, and other martial pursuits. The Kurun mostly fight each other, but once every generation or so they unify, turn their attention outwards, and engage in fearsome campaigns of pillage and expansion.
Ever since The God That Eats awoke in neighboring Aaust, Kuruni has been marshalling its strength — physical, magical, and spiritual — to seal the border between the two nations, establishing a bulwark against the worm should it turn to the northwest. Kuruni mercenary companies — part religious group, part family creche — have long been seeking glory in the marshes of Aaust, testing their mettle in ritual combat against the many monsters of the swamps. These days, the few that have returned have come back as wealthy people, but 99% of them don’t come back at all.
Ahlsheyan is part of this region, but I’ve already written it up. I’ve added relationships, wants, and one historical event specific to Kurthunar.
The Arkestran Dominion is also part of this region, but I’ve already written it up. I’ve added relationships, wants, and one historical event specific to Kurthunar.
Identify regionally-significant gods.
Kura (“KOO-ruh”), the cheerful but fearsome warrior-god who defines the nation of Kuruni. She stands twenty feet tall, glows like the noonday sun, wields the Diamond Hammer of the Ages — a single blow from which can knock the peak off a mountain — and loves to fight. Her existence places Kuruni on a constant war footing; war is a way of life. But it’s mostly internal war, and the conflict isn’t driven by hatred but rather by the cultural need to prove oneself in battle.
Here’s how I sum up Kura: If your god rolls up, twenty feet tall, glowing like the noonday sun, casually hefting the Diamond Hammer of the Ages — a single blow from which can knock the peak off a mountain — and says, “I like fighting,” you’d say, “Me too! Who should we fight?” And Kura says, “IDGAF, let’s fight each other.” And then you all fight each other, and drink, and boast about it, and then do it all again the next day.
The God That Eats, a kaiju-sized giant slug which recently awoke from millennia of slumber. This monster exists solely to slither slowly across Aaust and eat anything in its way: people, towns, cities, mountains — and even several of Auust’s small gods. As it eats, it grows. It is a slow-moving apocalypse, ceaseless and inevitable. Before its arrival, Aaust was largely a secular nation, devoted to study and survival, with a handful of small gods related to scholarship, the marshes, and resourcefulness.
I did this alongside the written worldbuilding, just as I did with the Gilded Lands. The Kurthunar map appears at the top of this post.
Here’s Kurthunar in context, alongside the two other regions I’ve developed so far:
Assign two important historical events to each group or nation.
Kurthunar is mainly about Aaust and Kuruni, so I’m only doing one event apiece for Ahlsheyan and the Dominion. (They both already have two apiece in my Unlucky Isles write-up.)
Economic Boom: Wouldn’t have picked this on my own; that’s awesome. Centuries ago, Kura took an interest in Kuruni’s iron mines — a rich resource that had provided the raw materials for weapons and tools that had helped Kuruni become a powerful nation. On a whim, Kura blessed the entire mountain range, infusing it with a portion of her power. Now those mines produce the purest, strongest, easiest to forge iron in the world. Kuruni ironwork is world-renowned and always in demand, and the weapons wielded by its massive (if fractious and disorganized) army and mercenary families are always of the highest quality. As a result of this boom, smiths and blacksmithing play an outsized role in Kuruni society, and Kuruni religion is largely based on blacksmithing and fighting.
Weak Throne: Although the Great Library in Aaust records legends of a time before Kura, in Kuruni itself there is no “before Kura” — but there was a time, centuries ago, before Kura was a constant, earthly presence. And with Kura’s constant presence came a steady erosion of Kuruni’s government. Who needs a mortal ruler when your god walks among you? Kuruni’s government collapsed, and for many years it essentially ceased to exist. But Kura herself revitalized it, creating a loose political structure based on trial by combat, feats of strength and bravery, gladiatorial prowess, and knowledge of the arts and sciences related to these things. This structure persists today, with most of Kuruni’s traditional “political class” inhabiting the least visible portion of it — “knowledge of arts and sciences.” The most visible portion is exemplified by gladiator-governors, dozens of tribal and clan-based factions fighting each other, and a culture of “if you’re fit to rule, fight me and prove it.”
Immigrants: A century ago, the largest group of refugees ever to leave the Arkestran Dominion pulled off their exodus almost undetected — and they fled to Aaust. This was a purely practical choice: Aaust is close, and wild enough that the refugees believed they could hide forever. They didn’t reckon on the sheer number of giant, dangerous creatures with which they’d have to contend — nor with the Aausti’s comprehensive oversight of their own realm, even in its wildest reaches. Fortunately, Aaust welcomed them with open arms. In addition to simply being people who needed help the Aausti were happy to provide, these refugees knew things about one of the most secretive and dangerous countries in Dormiir that no one else did. Their additions to the Great Library have been numerous — and the Aausti have hidden the refugees for a hundred years. Some elves have simply become Aausti, or disguise their true nature, while others hide in the wild places; many work in and around the library. All are still hunted by the Dominion.
Terrain Change: Aaust wasn’t always such a marshy place. But over time a combination of its low-lying land, Dormiir’s powerful tides, and seasonal flooding turned vast swaths of Aaust into bogs, salt marshes, and mires. These swallowed and rotted many of Aaust’s forests, making timber scarce. Marshes also consumed much of Aaust’s coastline, and a combination of timber scarcity and lack of coastal ports mean that Aaust has no navy (nor even any ships to speak of). Wood and iron still exist here, but those resources are concentrated in just a couple of places. Hides, leather, and textiles are more common in Aaust than one might expect in a medieval fantasy world.
Freakish Magic: While the Bloodsong Isles are nominally part of Aaust, the lone Aausti settlement, Silotre, is that nation’s only real claim to them (and Silotre is a weird, isolated place). With four Thefaine pillars concentrated in a small area (the only other place where four appear so close together is the spot that birthed The God That Eats…), the main island is essentially Monster Island from the Godzilla movies. Long ago, a Kasdinar from the Dominion tasked with exploring the Wraithsea around this peculiar island discovered that they could guide the spawning of monsters here and shunt creatures into the Wraithsea at birth. The Kasdinar went rogue and has lived here ever since, birthing monsters into the dreams of sleeping gods. What could go wrong?
Plague: Not long ago, one of the Thefaine on Aaust’s Salt Coast warped a school of venomous octopi — which then became mired in the marshland at low tide and died. The Thefaine’s magic continued to warp their corpses, and by the next high tide — the one that washed them into the Strait of Gēp Jār — they were bloated, toxic balloons. This mass of plague-filled weirdness drifted to Ahlsheyan and spread throughout its coastal communities, sickening hundreds of people. The plague eventually burned itself out when the Ahl quarantined those affected aboard a hastily assembled fleet of ships and burned all of the octopus corpses. Consequently, the Ahl living in this region tend to keep a wide berth of the Salt Coast in particular, and of Aaust in general.
Define the relationships between the groups.
I don’t need to know more about what the Dominion and Ahlsheyan’s relationships with, or wants from, each other; I’ve skipped those here.
Aaust: Previously, Aaust was seen as a playground for Kurun warriors out to prove their mettle against its giant beasts, and otherwise just thought of as a peaceful neighbor. (The Aausti don’t value martial prowess and don’t have much of a military, and there’s not much there to pillage.) But now, with The God That Eats roaming free? Aaust is a truly dangerous place where even greater glory can be won, but also one that needs to be barricaded off from Kuruni because fuck that noise.
Want: For Aaust to wall off the entire Aaun Peninsula at its natural choke point, preventing The God That Eats from entering Kuruni (and points beyond). This is not a popular wish within Aaust, as one might imagine.
Arkestran Dominion: Deceitful foes who would otherwise be the perfect opponents: ruthless, effective, and constantly on a war footing. The Kurun want to fight them toe to toe, but they only fight in the Wraithsea and through their catspaws.
Want: To goad the Dominion into a “good” fight, soldiers facing soldiers on the field of battle. To this end, a small cadre of Kuruni’s Egurhu Sūūt (“eh-GOOR-hoo suit”) — a spy organization dedicated to keeping Kuruni safe and strong, so secretive that it remains a secret even from Kura, whose towering rage at learning of this “cowardly” organization would end in its utter destruction — plans to infiltrate the Dominion’s navy and guide a fleet into Kuruni waters to be destroyed by Kurun ships, thereby by provoking a war.
Ahlsheyan: A strange, mercurial nation with vague, inconstant gods. Neutral.
Want: Kuruni has shipyards and sailors, but its culture does not emphasize either. Kura wants Ahlsheyan to build a shipyard in Kuruni — most likely on Langfeure Isle (formerly a part of Aaust, but taken by Kuruni long ago and turned into a military training area and embarkation point for ventures into Aaust). This would be part embassy, part Vatican, and in exchange for this territorial carve-out the Ahl would provide Kuruni with ships and naval expertise.
Kuruni: Neutral to friendly. Kuruni routinely violating Aaust’s borders to come in and hunt monsters isn’t great — but given that Kuruni could easily wipe Aaust out militarily, and given that their incursions reduce the population of giant beasts, there’s an upside to the whole situation. Kuruni also provides soldiers to defend the Great Library of the Cliffs, and has protected the library several times over the years.
Want: For Kura to come to Aaust and kill The God That Eats. Aaust has sent ambassadors to simply ask; they were rejected for “showing weakness.” They’ve tried subtle diplomacy, gifts, and talking up how much glory would be won by slaying the worm; nothing has worked. The Aausti are starting to wonder if Kura even can kill The God That Eats…
Arkestran Dominion: A dark and dangerous place, but one that has — thus far — been easy to keep at bay. Aaust is naturally inhospitable to most non-Aausti, and the swamps, giant monsters, and Aausti cunning have kept the Dominion from troubling them.
Want: If anyone other than Kura can kill The God That Eats, or at least force it back into hibernation, it’s the Dominion — and a rogue faction of the Aausti government is now desperate enough to pursue the very bad idea of asking the Dominion for help.
Ahlsheyan: A fascinating place full of knowledge that needs to be added to the Great Library, and the source of much of Aaust’s imports (by way of oceangoing trade).
Want: The water border between Aaust and Kuruni, Qaburzani Sound, is a constant source of trouble for the Aausti. With little wood in Aaust, the Aausti have few ships; their coastline is always vulnerable to Kuruni raiding parties, adventuring expeditions, etc. They want the Ahl to sell them a fleet to patrol their coastline.
Kuruni: A threat to be managed, and less pressing than its enemies to the north. As long as Kura stays there, and the Kurun are largely content to fight each other, Kuruni can be ignored.
Want: The Dominion wants Kuruni-forged weapons for its vast army, and they’ve heard rumors of a vast secret armory deep within the Tiru Mountains (“TEE-roo”). Those obviously won’t be for sale, and the Dominion would rather not piss off Kura while trying to take them — so a large, diverse Kasdinar has been formed to find the armory, steal the weapons, and get away without implicating the Dominion.
Aaust: A stinking, salty swamp full of annoyingly resilient people and dangerous monsters. Aaust is largely a “dead” zone in the Wraithsea, and has no significant gods the Dominion could put to sleep in order to expand its Wraithsea capabilities — so this has become a place to avoid, for the most part.
Want: The Dominion wants The God That Eats. If its path, appetites, or both can be controlled (a big if), whoever wields that power can alter the course of nations — or simply wipe them out. This is a full-court press, with Wraithsea-based spy operations, agents flooding into Aaust in secret, mercenaries brought in for brute-force efforts (and to distract from the subtler, more important efforts), etc. Six Kasdinar have formed to achieve this goal, or portions thereof.
Kuruni: The notion of letting one deity guide the entire nation is alien to the Ahl, as is the idea of basing an entire country on fighting itself. As Ahlsheyan has plenty to occupy it in the Unlucky Isles, and as Kuruni is not a naval power, the Ahl keep an eye on Kuruni but don’t generally pay it much regard.
Want: To know Kura is to know Kuruni, and with the arrival of The God That Eats next door Ahlsheyan needs to know Kura’s plans. To that end, they have dispatched a cadre of spies and other rogues to infiltrate Kuruni, get close to Kura, and report on all of her activities. If caught, they would have to fight a pissed-off god.
Aaust: A fascinating but dangerous place to visit. Aaust is full of opportunities, but since the rise of The God That Eats those opportunities have been more than balanced out by significant risks.
Want: To convince Aaust to allow Ahlsheyan to copy the entire Great Library of the Cliffs (by a combination of rubbings, wax casting, and extraction of slabs of cliff face) and recreate it in Ahlsheyan. Before the arrival of The God That Eats this would have been a non-starter for the Aausti, but now…
And that’s it — the whole region in one post! Next up is a double-width region that sits just south of the Unlucky Isles and the Gilded Lands: the Ice Courts.
The next step in Worlds Without Number‘s region-creation process is…
Identify regionally-significant gods.
Kadavis — Iskuldra, the Golden Mask (“iss-KUHL-druh,” wealth, glory, recognition), principal deity in a pantheon that includes over 200 “small gods” (other aspects of prosperity, commerce, fashion, etc.) who are venerated in its many fiefdoms.
Yrfeđe — Cniht-Cild (“KUH-neet kild”), They Who Drive Out the Shadows, was a minor deity in Yrfeđe until the đargnr came. Now they are almost universally worshipped, with the rest of the pantheon relegated to minor roles. Given the nature of gods in Dormiir, however, the continued existence of the đargnr begs a question: Why does fervently worshipping a god of light not fix that problem? The answer is that Cniht-Cild is fickle, bored, and petty; they remember how little the Yr cared about them for centuries, and now they’re exacting their revenge.
As a result, Yr society is split between the ultra-devout (who think they’re just not praying hard enough) and the self-reliant, who look less to Cniht-Cild and more to their own torches, wits, and neighbors.
Lonþyr — Feórþa (“fey-OHR-fuh”), the Spiked Hammer, sits atop Lonþyr’s pantheon. Feórþa encapsulates three aspects of Lonþyran culture: the hammer represents building and strength; the spike, taking what you need by force; and the whole as a mining tool, the source of Lonþyr’s wealth. The Church of Feór is the state religion in all but name, and deeply woven into every aspect of Lonþyr.
Yrfeđe and Lonþyr worship the same gods, just in different ways and degrees. Cniht-Cild is a minor figure in Lonþyr; apart from miners, almost no one in Yrfeđe worships Feórþa.
Garshán — The Garsháni hold that efficiency — their culture’s defining trait, alongside trade — is not the result of any one thing, but rather of many small things in combination. (“The best horse won’t get you far if it’s hitched to the worst wagon” is a common Garsháni proverb.) Garshán also has a long, intertwined history with the Sou gnomes, who worship no gods. As a result, religion is not a major force in Garsháni society, although there is a pantheon of trade-related small gods, the Uhr Theg (“oor thegg”), who are politely and convivially appreciated by many Garsháni. Garshán has also absorbed the customs of the surrounding nations where it suits them, casually acknowledging small gods and spirits from Kadavis, Lonþyr and Yrfeđe, and other lands throughout Godsbarrow alongside the Uhr Theg. (Their dour neighbors to the south, in Kostivolsk, have a saying about Garshán: “They have many gods, but little reverence for any of them.“)
Kostivolsk — Xlě̀-Ceth (“SHLEH-keth”), who offers power and favors in exchange for personal sacrifice, is the sole deity of Kostivolsk and permits no others. The Cethinzalk Church (“KETH-inn-zalkh”) rules Kostivolsk, largely because it has proven so adept at managing — and weaponizing — what Xlě̀-Ceth can offer. Draining half of your own blood, or taking a vow of permanent silence, or repeating Xlě̀-Ceth’s name until you faint is all well and good — but true power comes from convincing thousands of others to do a little bit of that on your behalf.
Mormú — Long ago, Nújag-Húarn (“NOO-jagg hwarn”), often called the Half-Dead, grew the Grshniki gnomes from veins of precious metals and gems deep beneath the Mormú-Hús Mountains. Every gnome it grew diminished its power slightly, but the lightless vaults of Dormiir were lonely and it craved companionship — so it continued to grow gnome after gnome until the caverns were teeming with them. When surface-dwellers began tunnel under the mountains to steal their wealth and invade the Grshniki homeland, Nújag-Húarn was too weak to stop them. It retreated deeper into the earth, and has not been seen for centuries; the Grshniki know only that it is still alive, as they would have felt its death. Some seek it out, hoping to restore Mormú that way; others have abandoned Nújag-Húarn, just as it abandoned them; and most acknowledge their half-dead god as their near-mythical maker, long lost to them.
Make a sketch map of the region.
As with the Unlucky Isles, I started with a map. This time, though, I fleshed it out down to the town/road level of detail as I went, rolling with my ideas and mapping in more detail early on, zooming in and out and switching from writing to mapping freely along the way.
By the time I was working on historical events 2+, I had a finished draft map with 100% of the names in place.
Assign two important historical events to each group or nation.
Consequences + Internal War: Long ago, what is now Kadavis was claimed by dozens of different warlords, warpriests, and wealthy traders, each worshipping its own pantheon of gods, and all of them — people and gods — often fighting one another. Eventually, this boiled over into open warfare, and the Gilded Lands were consumed by it. The Oracle of Iskuldra, High Warpriest of the Golden Mask, emerged as the victor. The Oracle demonstrated the power of Iskuldra, and wielded that power to consolidate the disparate kingdoms into fiefdoms. She popularized the wearing of masks, both to venerate Iskuldra and to ensure that the first thing people from different fiefdoms saw was not the face of a former foe, but the mask of a shared faith. In time, the Oracle united all of these lands into the nation of Kadavis.
Magical Disaster: As soon as I’d created Nus Palavar, I knew I wanted a classic magical disaster to give Kadavis a proper sword-and-sorcery feel. So: Long ago, when the nation was young, Nus Palavar was where Kadavans buried their dead gods. Over time, the energy of those corpses — always unpredictable, often cursed, and made more so by proximity to other dead gods — accumulated, until eventually it boiled over. Waves of chaotic magic roiled Nus Palavar, spreading out across the neighboring region. In one village, every villager dropped dead; in a nearby town, the ground turned to liquid; dozens of miles away, animals were turned inside-out.
Now the Bloodspire, monument to the dead god Ykvida (“ikk-VEE-dah”), Sealer of Wounds, dominates the landscape of Nus Palavar, presiding over a haunted, fell place full of ruins, half-buried dead gods, magical monstrosities, and the ne’er-do-wells who seek out such places. For miles around it, Kadavis is empty — civilization having wisely abandoned, or simply never taken root, in this cursed place. Nus Palavar is practically right outside the gates of Kul Tyrar, the capital of Kadavis, and decadent Kadavans do their best to simply pretend it doesn’t exist.
Evil Wizard: One of the options for this one is “powerful magical entity,” so this event is the appearance of the đargnr. People had lived in Yrfeđe for generations before the đargnr first began emerging from the Wyrdanwod. Why did the đargnr come? Despite decades of exploration, research, magic, and divination, no one knows. Why can’t Cniht-Cild simply banish the đargnr? No one knows (although a large segment of the population believes it’s because they aren’t praying hard enough). Why can’t they be reasoned with? No one knows. Why are they always hungry? No one knows. The đargnr simply are, and they simply do what they do. That’s what makes them so terrifying. Their predations have completely transformed Yrfeđe and Yr society; they are why this is a haunted, desperate place.
Praetorian Coups: In the years after the đargnr first appeared, the Dýgan (“DYE-gann,” the First Axe and ruler of Yrfeđe, chosen by the Dýfeón, “DYE-fay-ohn,” the Many Axes; they’re the ruling council) fought hard against them — but also resisted the growing power of the nascent church of Cniht-Cild. By tradition, each of the Dýfeón sent 20 of their finest warriors to serve as the Dýgan’s retinue, the Fætan (“FEH-tahn,” the Sharp Blades), representing the collective loyalty of the council to their chosen leader. The Fætan saw the Dýgan leading their land to ruin and darkness (in their view), and rose up in a bloody single-night coup, slaying the Dýgan and any of the Dýfeón who stood against them. They then installed a new Dýgan from their own ranks.
Ever since the Night of the Sharp Blades, the Fætan have been an independent force, with no loyalty to specific Dýfeón or to the Dýgan; they are loyal to the land, and will give every drop of blood to the fight against the đargnr. The system whereby the Dýfeón choose the Dýgan remains, but it’s essentially theater: The Dýgan is chosen by the Fætan, and their choice is rubber-stamped by the Dýfeón in deference to tradition.
Freakish Magic: Just a year or two after the first appearance of the đargnr in Yrfeđe, miners in Lonþyr pulled something dark and strange from the deeps beneath the Mormú-Hús Mountains, and this artifact — the country’s most closely-guarded secret — has protected the country from the đargnr ever since. While it is rarely far from the capital and Lonþyr’s leader, a secretive group of assassins, sinister priests, and twisted wizards moves the artifact regularly to ensure that its location is difficult to pinpoint. It changes them, and over generations it has changed the ruling class in Lonþyr, as well. It warps them in body and spirit, often in unpredictable ways. Some have chafed under this strange yoke, but even they acknowledge that without this fell thing Lonþyr would likely suffer the same fate as its neighbor to the east.
Internal War: The two halves of Lonþyr — the east, which is now Yrfeđe, and the west — were always divided by cultural distinctions, but never especially sharply. Resources formed another division, with the west having more coastline (and therefore trade) and the east having more timber, wildlife, and other natural resources. But it was dealings with the Grshniki gnomes of the Mormú-Hús Mountains that broke Lonþyr in two — and the emergence of the đargnr that made reconciliation impossible.
The west took what it wanted from the mountains, mercilessly slaughtering gnomes as they pushed further into their territory. The east, after some uneasy skirmishes in the early days, made peace with the gnomes, trading with them and binding their two peoples together quite strongly. “Who started the civil war?” is an unwise question to ask in either nation (as is “Who ended it?”), but the end result is inarguable: Yrfeđe seceded, or was excised, and one country became two. During the aftermath, the đargnr came; generations of bad blood between the two countries have coalesced into a simmering feud that continues today.
Xenophilia: This second region features a lot more baked-in history up front, so this is another one I’ve already got more or less done before hitting this step. The Garsháni have been marrying Sou gnomes since the two cultures first encountered one another. Garshán is populated primarily by a mix of humans, half-gnomes, and (on the water, especially in the bays along the Lachyan Sea and on Lake Valkayan) by Sou gnomes. This is a two-way street, with the Sou picking up Garsháni cultural traits and practices — though not, for obvious reasons, religion — and carrying them around the world. There’s also a healthy blending of both cultures that exists throughout Garshán, such as great moots which take place here. Normally a Sou-only affair, moots in Garshán welcome Sou, Garsháni, and blended families.
Class Struggle: There has always been some contention in Garsháni society between traders who prefer to ply the seas and rivers, traders who prefer to travel on land, and traders who prefer to do both. These days, it’s mostly a light-hearted rivalry — a tradition, more than an actual division. But long ago, the Wavefolk claimed superiority over the Landfolk, and both groups thought they were better than the Wayfolk (those who favored neither mode of travel). Guilds grew up around these divisions, many of which persist today, and the drive for greater efficiency and higher profits festered, leading to a long period of cutthroat conflict, skirmishes, and bad blood between the factions.
Twist of Fate + Freakish Magic: Freakish Magic reads as good, so Twist of Fate says to make it bad instead. The Cethinzalk Church has always played a role in Kosti society, but the first priest to discover that many small sacrifices to Xlě̀-Ceth could be harnessed just as a single large sacrifice could, Àgnęte (“egg-NEW-teh”), set Kostivolsk on its path to becoming the brutal, oppressive theocracy it is today. Àgnęte, Warden of the Sacred Blood, strengthened the church, took over the government, and bled — literally and figuratively — the Kosti in service of his own twisted aims. Those aims became synonymous with the church itself, and in time the church became synonymous with Kostivolsk.
Noble Function: Kostivolsk’s nobility lost much of its power when the church took over. They retained some of it by ensuring that noble birth was viewed as the most important factor in producing the best Bloodfolk and Chanters, and that tradition continues today. Kostivolsk’s noble families intermarry, maintain lineages, and contribute their children to the holiest of causes: dying for Xlě̀-Ceth. These families are interconnected with the church hierarchy, some of which is also hereditary.
Urbanization: When Mormú’s neighbors began encroaching into its territory on all sides, the Grshniki were forced to retreat, then retreat again, consolidating more gnomes into fewer places. The capital city, Ilmú Feyn, became the default rallying point for displaced Grshniki. The tunnel network linking the city to various points throughout the mountains was expanded, and the capital itself grew in every direction: upward, by further hollowing out its home mountain; downward, by opening up shafts into caves below; and outward, sprawling into nearby caverns and sub-caverns. It is now one of the largest cities in the Gilded Lands — despite being all but invisible from the surface.
Great Builders: When the first Mor created by Nújag-Húarn began to build, they built ornate, jewel-encrusted stalagmites and stalactites to honor their maker — the God Spires. When Nújag-Húarn receded from the world — deeper underground, most Mor believed — they began to bore deep vertical shafts, the God Tunnels, in hopes of reaching Nújag-Húarn. Graven with runes, studded with gems, and built to be traversed with ropes, handholds, and climbing skills, many Mor go on pilgrimages down the God Tunnels. Not all of them come back.
I’m currently working on my third region of Godsbarrow, Kurthunar, so this post and those that follow are me catching up on moving my Gilded Lands material from my PC to Yore.
Name the region.
The Gilded Lands, so named because most of its nations are wealthy, and most of that wealth comes in the form of precious metals and gems extracted from the mountain range that sits in the middle of the region. Gilding also implies decadence, and in a sword and sorcery context maybe even rot and decay. The largest nation here, Kadavis, is both decadent and, in places, rotten; and most of its neighbors are rotten in their own ways.
Choose about six major geographical features.
Mormú-Hús Mountains (“MOHR-moo HOOSS”), rich in gems and precious metals, and the source of much of the wealth in this region (and its name)
Cæfester Woods (“KAI-fess-tur”), deep and teeming with wildlife
The Wyrdanwod (“WEER-dan-waud”), which surrounds Lake Be-Hédan, providing Yrfeđe with timber and fish; its eastern half is dark and full of terrors
Seat of Iskuldra, the sacred mountains where Kadavis’ primary deity, Iskuldra, rules her Court of Masks and oversees a squabbling pantheon of hundreds of small gods
Lake Valkayan (“VAHL-kye-ann”), so large it’s practically an inland sea, which links Kadavis, Garshán, and Kostivolsk
The Black Lakes, silty, mineral-rich lakes with geothermically heated warm water
Many Sorrows Pass, the only easy overland link between the northern and southern nations of the Gilded Lands
Nus Palavar, the haunted graveyard of Kadavis’ small gods
Create six nations or groups of importance.
Kadavis (“kuh-DAVV-iss”), the heart of the Gilded Lands. (A signifanct portion of Kadavis — notably, the island of Rasu Miar — extends west into the Unlucky Isles.) Kadavis is a prosperous, decadent kingdom composed of dozens of squabbling fiefdoms. Kadavan culture places great value on ostentatious displays of wealth and glory. Masks are a key part of Kadavan society, the fancier the better.
Yrfeđe (“EHR-feth”), in the southeast, is a superstitious land of dense forests, high winds, and harsh weather. Closely connected to Lonþyr by ancestry and culture, the two nations have been at odds for centuries. Yrfeđe is a rough-and-tumble place known for its timber, fish, and fortified towns, but infamous for the Wyrdanwod. The Wyrdanwod, particularly its eastern half, is home to the much-feared đargnr (“THAR-ghnir,” which means “sleeping shadows” in Emnian), who slumber inside ancient trees, or beneath the earth, and travel the Wraithsea at night to feed.
Their existence — and predations — have kept Yrfeđe from becoming as wealthy as the other nations of the Gilded Lands. Everyone in this bedeviled place carries a torch, candle, lantern, or other light source — as bright light is one of the few things that can harm a đargnr. Unlike the other countries in the Gilded Lands, Yrfeđe has a good relationship with the Grshniki gnomes of Mormú, trading timber, fish, and other goods for mining rights, gems, and precious metals — and working together to keep the đargnr at bay, as they also stalk the tunnels of eastern Mormú.
Lonþyr (“LONN-theer”), along the coast of the Greatwater Āŕ, is a small country rich in gold, silver, and gems — the mineral wealth of the Mormú-Hús Mountains, which Lonþyr has pillaged for centuries. Always seeking to encroach further into Mormú, Lonþyr is constantly fighting Grshniki guerrilas in the foothills — and struggling to retain its foothold on the southern end of Many Sorrows Pass, the only overland trade route connecting it to the northern Gilded Lands.
Lonþyr and Yrfeđe were once a single country; now, they’re feuding neighbors bound by bloodlines that span their shared border. The đargnr that plague Yrfeđe don’t trouble Lonþyr, which provokes much bitterness among the Yr. Long ago, Lonþyr pulled something dark and strange from the deeps beneath the Mormú-Hús Mountains, and this artifact — the country’s most closely-guarded secret — is what protects them from the đargnr.
Garshán (“GAHR-shahn”), in the northeast, is the only country in the Gilded Lands whose wealth does not come primarily from the Mormú-Hús Mountains; instead, it all comes from trade. Garshán is the “gateway to the east” for the Gilded Lands, bringing goods overland and across the Lachyan Sea. Garshán has excellent roads, and ships, and their traders are well-known throughout the Gilded Lands.
The Garsháni have been marrying Sou gnomes since the two cultures first encountered one another. Garshán is populated primarily by a mix of humans, half-gnomes, and (on the water, especially in the bays along the Lachyan Sea and on Lake Valkayan) by Sou gnomes. Garsháni society tends to be focused on efficiency, and the Garsháni believe that every journey which is both swift and smooth honors the Uhr Theg (“oor thegg”), the celestial family of trade-related small gods who make up their pantheon.
Kostivolsk (“KOSS-tih-vollsk”), is a sinister halfling theocracy that stands in stark contrast to its western neighbor, decadent Kadavis. Kosti culture was shaped by their strange, oppressive deity, Xlě̀-Ceth (“SHLEH-keth”), who offers power and favors in exchange for personal sacrifice. The bigger the sacrifice, the greater the reward. The Cethinzalk Church (“KETH-inn-zalkh”) rules Kostivolsk, largely because it has proven so adept at managing — and weaponizing — what Xlě̀-Ceth can offer. Draining half of your own blood, or taking a vow of permanent silence, or repeating Xlě̀-Ceth’s name until you faint is all well and good — but true power comes from convincing thousands of others to do a little bit of that on your behalf.
When the đargnr first emerged from the Wyrdanwod, just south of the border with Yrfeđe, the church began a ritual which has continued unbroken for centuries. Every major church started a chant to Xlě̀-Ceth, accompanied by ritual bloodletting and ceaseless dancing, which has never ceased. Some families are born to become Chanters, Deathdancers, or Bloodfolk, and will die in those roles; particularly devout worshippers will intone the Ceaseless Chant for days on end, stopping only when they drop dead (and someone else picks up the Chant). The ritual is still working to this day; the đargnr do not trouble Kostivolsk.
Mormú (“MOHR-moo”), a narrow strip of mountains smack in the middle of the Gilded Lands, is the home of the Grshniki (“gurr-SHNEE-kee”) gnomes, who originally claimed the entire Mormú-Hús mountain range as their homeland. Their deity grew them from veins of precious metals and gems deep in the earth, and Grshniki have a sheen to their skin, hair, and/or eyes, evocative of gemstones, veins of silver, crystalline mineral deposits, etc.
Mormú has been assailed from all sides for centuries, with Kadavis and Kostivolsk pushing into their territory from the north, and Lonþyr and Yrfeđe doing the same from the south. (The underground portion of Mormú is considerably larger than the territory on the surface.) Some Grshniki have cooperated with their neighbors — capitulated to their oppressors, other Grshniki would say — or even become citizens of those nations. Others have rebelled, waging a centuries-long guerilla campaign to to reclaim the whole mountain range. One thing almost all Mor agree on, however, is that they’re not giving up another inch of ground.
Linguistically, Kadavis, Garshán, and Kostivolsk are supposed to feel vaguely similar. My linguistic touchstone for Kostivolsk is Proto Slavic; I riff on that for the other two. Yrfeđe and Lonþyr share a common tongue, Emnian (“EMM-nee-unn”), for which the linguistic touchstone is Old English. Garsháni has evolved to incorporate Tamosi, and in its present state it’s a hybrid of the two languages; almost all Garsháni speak Tamosi, as well.
With two regions done, my Godsbarrow material needs some organization — so I created the Godsbarrow handbook, a page of links and notes that attempts to organize all of it in a meaningful way.
Still very much a WIP, but as ever I’m wary of making the page — and this worldbuilding venture — too much of A Thing, because when I do that it tends to start feeling like work . . . and then collapse in on itself.
As I’ve done with miniatures, a little bit at a time is the way to go here.
Today I wrapped up my second region of Godsbarrow, the fantasy campaign setting I started working on earlier this year: the Gilded Lands, situated just to the east of my first region, the Unlucky Isles.
The Gilded Lands are anchored by Kadavis, the largest and wealthiest of the six nations that comprise this region. With its obsession with ostentatious displays of wealth and status, the near-universal cultural practice of wearing elaborate masks, and the magic-rich blight of Nus Palavar, the haunted graveyard of Kadavis’ small gods, decadent Kadavis has a swords and sorcery vibe to it.
The other nations of the Gilded Lands are quite different. Garshán is a land of gnomish traders who prize efficiency in all things. Many Sou gnomes also make their home here (albeit temporarily). In the south, expansionist Lonþyr plunders the Mormú-Hús Mountains and fights with its neighbor, Yrfeđe — once part of the same country. Yrfeđe is a dark place with a bit of a Norse vibe, defined by the predations of the seemingly unstoppable đargnr — the “sleeping shadows,” who emerge from the woods at night to feast.
Kostivolsk, a sinister halfling theocracy, keeps the đargnr on the other side of the border by sacrificing their own people to their oppressive deity, Xlě̀-Ceth. Centuries ago, the church began a ritual that has continued, unbroken, to the present day: Kosti dance or chant without cessation, until they drop dead. That endless sacrifice pays their god to shield Kostivolsk from the đargnr.
And at the center of it all is Mormú, the greatly diminished homeland of the Grshniki gnomes, and the source of much of the region’s wealth — most of which has been plundered by its neighbors. A pale shadow of its former glory, Mormú is divided over whether to give up and be absorbed by another nation, or continue their ceaseless guerilla war against the larger powers that they’ve waged for centuries.
Mapping and developing the Gilded Lands
This time around, I played a little looser with the Worlds Without Number steps — and having already done a whole series of step-by-step blog posts about creating the Unlucky Isles, I didn’t repeat that part of the process.
For the Gilded Lands, I started with the map. At any given stage of the WWN development process, my map was typically a step or two ahead. This was a fun approach, and it felt more organic. Whenever I was in the mood to draw, I worked on the map; when I wanted to write, I wrote.
I still consider the Unlucky Isles to be the default starting location for a Godsbarrow campaign (if there were ever to be a Godsbarrow campaign!), so I won’t be zooming in to detail out a smaller section of the Gilded Lands map just now. (For the Isles, I zoomed in on Sanχu, a province in Brundir.)
Here are the Gilded Lands and the Unlucky Isles together on one map (sorry about the seam!).
I did my best to get my two maps to line up, but from Wonderdraft’s perspective I’m doing this all backwards; I should be creating a continent-level map and then using the software to zoom in on regions. But I prefer this approach, where I’m letting my ideas flow and not hemming anything in about what’s outside my immediate area of focus.
For example, wanting to know more about Kadavis — which is on the eastern edge of the Unlucky Isles map — is what prompted me to work on the Gilded Lands. Feeling like there should be a big east-west “spray” of mountains in the Gilded Lands, and just going for it, is what gave rise to my favorite nation in that region: Mormú, the besieged, greatly diminished, fractious kingdom of the Grshniki gnomes, beset on all sides by hostile powers.
I’ve got a full region worth of write-ups to proofread and turn into blog posts — and while I work on that, I also need to get rolling on a third region! As with the Isles, the Gilded Lands feature multiple countries that extend off the regional map. These serve as anchors for adjacent maps, like Kadavis did for this one, and “seed the ground” for future development.
I don’t know where I’m headed next. After writing about the Gilded Lands a little bit every day for the past 10 weeks or so, my instinct is to shift my focus elsewhere — maybe explore Ahlsheyan and points south, or go north and figure out what’s going on around (and on) the Lachyan Sea.