The World Writ Large

Extracted from "Geopolitical Antiquities of the Seventh Age," compiled by High Scribe Elerion of Amon Lhaw

Though styled a sovereign realm, the Thanedom of Arman is in truth a loose confederation of fiercely independent city-states, unified less by law than by mutual disdain for all outsiders—and a shared appetite for raiding them. Tucked into the harsh, wind-scoured north, Arman lies ever on the threshold of peril, bordering the frostbitten wastes of the Helcaraxë. Life in Arman is short, cold, and brutally earned, and its people are forged accordingly: hardy, proud, and grim as the stones they build upon.

Each decade, the scattered cities gather in grim celebration known as the Blood Moot. Each nominates a champion, and these contenders engage in ritual combat until only one remains. That victor is crowned High Thane, a title more feared than envied, for it offers absolute authority over a land that respects strength far more than strategy. The High Thane rules until the next moot—or until slain in battle, which is often the same thing.

Though lacking in central governance, the Armanii are masters of border warfare, ambush, and mountain maneuver. Their raids upon weaker neighbors are legendary, and while their unity is fleeting, their fury is not. Few who have crossed swords with Arman return unscarred—if they return at all.

Excerpted from the same volume by High Scribe Elerion of Amon Lhaw

Once a provincial jewel of the Empire of Egladil, the Sunset Isles were formally released during the empire's age of contraction and now stand as a proud, sea-bound realm at the western edge of the known world. So named because they are the final stretch of civilized land upon which the sun sets each day, the isles are a place where horizon and myth blur. The city of Vinyamar, their shining port and greatest settlement, serves as a final haven for explorers, sailors, and dreamers bound westward into the vast and whispering sea.

The isles' lifeblood is the ocean—their economy driven by exploration, maritime trade, and the provisioning of westward expeditions. Yet the tides grow troubled. In recent years, raiders from the Lost Lands have begun to plague the outer harbors and lesser isles, their ships black-sailed and silent until it is far too late. The isles remain free, but their future lies in the balance between the pull of discovery and the threat rising from the deep unknown.

The Helcaraxë—known in the forgotten tongues as The Grinding Waste—is no mere desolation. It is a blight that breathes, a land that devours memory and hope alike. Where once Morgath ruled in monstrous silence, only ice and pain remain—and yet, that silence has teeth. The wind howls not in mourning, but in hunger. The snow falls not as blessing, but as shroud. No sun warms this place, and even the moons dare not linger long.

Twisted abominations stalk the blizzards—mockeries of men and beasts—fashioned by ancient curses and sharpened by cold hatred. Gnoll warpacks roam with madness in their eyes, feeding on more than flesh. And far below the frost, something deeper still listens.

At the heart of this living graveyard rise Dol Baran and Dol Tarlang, once bastions of resistance, now black fortresses garrisoned by those who do not forget, and do not forgive. Their walls drink starlight, and their gates are warded not by iron alone, but by ancient rites and brutal will. These are not havens—they are warnings, kept alight only so the living may watch and remember what waits in the dark.

Beyond even them lies Angband, shattered but not slain, sealed not by mortal hand, but by terror so old even the Elves no longer speak its name.

The Helcaraxë is no frontier. It is a wound with purpose. And one day, it may begin to bleed again.

Also from the notes of High Scribe Elerion of Amon Lhaw

Bound by blood, culture, and a mutual past, Arandor stands as the Empire of Egladil's closest political sibling—though its governance diverges sharply. Where the Empire is ruled by imperial mandate, Arandor is governed by a classical republican council, with each city-state sending representatives chosen by population. This system, ancient and often slow-moving, fosters fierce debate but deep civic loyalty, and has preserved the republic's independence across the tumults of three ages.

A mutual defense pact binds Arandor to the Empire, and its warriors fight side by side with legionaries upon the walls of Andrast and Narog, guarding against whatever dares the Gap of Angband. Though it lacks the fertile valleys of the Empire’s heartland, Arandor possesses rich veins of ore and vast forests, exporting mineral wealth and timber in exchange for grain and goods from the south.

Arandor’s people are proud, stoic, and deeply civic-minded. They do not bend easily, but when their votes align, they march as one.

Compiled from archival accounts and firsthand observation by High Scribe Elerion of Amon Lhaw

The Empire of Egladil stands as the last and greatest bastion of mortal order in the Seventh Age—a realm forged in the embers of the Sundering War, when the Elves withdrew behind the veil of Hithliniath, and the burden of stewardship fell to Men. Gifted with knowledge by the departing Elves—craft, enchantment, lore, and law—the Empire was seeded by the line of Húrin, a hero of old who stood unflinching before the shadow of Morgath.

Its heart is Amon Lhaw, the white-stoned city upon the Anduin’s western banks, from which the Emperor rules through mandate, merit, and legacy. Over centuries, the Empire stretched east and west, its borders secured by the indomitable Legions, and its laws enforced by institutions of unmatched discipline and precision. Wherever Egladil’s banners fly, there follow roads, aqueducts, scriptoria—and order.

Yet the Empire is not without flaw. A plague in the Fourteenth Century decimated its people and coffers alike, forcing contraction and the release of once-subjugated provinces. Still it endures, and under Emperor Trajan I, a quiet renaissance has begun: roads repaired, literacy restored, bridges raised anew. Even so, the cost is high, and the future uncertain—Trajan has no heir, and unrest simmers among the highborn.

The Empire is a paradox—wounded but mighty, weary but unyielding. It does not seek dominion for glory, but for stability. And though its edges fray, its heart still beats.

From the guarded writings of Elven scholars and the speculative accounts of emissaries

Hithliniath, the final refuge of the Elves, lies veiled behind a shroud of fog that does not drift nor part, but clings like memory and dream. None enter unbidden, and those who try find themselves lost in grey mists, walking in circles until the veil sees fit to release them. What lies beyond is whispered to be a kingdom untouched by time, where silver rivers sing and starlight flowers bloom beneath twin moons.

On rare occasions, Elven diplomats emerge, bearing news, wisdom, and warnings—always graceful, always guarded. They speak little of what lies within, and even less of how it endures. For the Elves are keepers of silence now, and Hithliniath is less a nation than a memory made sovereign.

Excerpted from the final volumes of "Geopolitical Antiquities of the Seventh Age," by High Scribe Elerion of Amon Lhaw

Once a province of Egladil, Hildorien now stands as its most volatile and vengeful rival. Rich in timber and stone, and controlling both the Firienholt and a stretch of the Anduin, Hildorien has turned geography into leverage—taxing trade, choking river commerce, and bleeding the Empire's coffers with calculated cruelty. Its upper class has grown decadently wealthy, ensconced in pleasure-palaces and gilded courts, where luxury is built upon a foundation of bonded labor and military coercion.

The state is governed by a military dictatorship—a coalition of defected legions who once served Egladil, now turned wardens and warlords. They claim to protect Hildorien from the darkness of Fos Alimar to the east, and from "imperial aggression" to the west. In truth, they serve no banner but their own, and their loyalty is bought in coin, not conviction.

Hildorien is a realm of contradiction—opulent yet brutal, independent yet embattled. Its ambitions are bold, and its memory of subjugation runs deep. Whether it will rise as a true power or collapse beneath its own ambition remains to be seen.

From the coastal observations of itinerant scholars and noble patrons alike

The Sapphire Isles are oft described as the closest thing to paradise remaining in Arda. Named for the shimmering cerulean waters that encircle them, the isles are blessed with sun-drenched shores, balmy winds, and an unhurried rhythm of life. Lacking in mineral wealth, farmland, or strategic holdings, they are rarely coveted by the great powers of the world—a forgotten corner too beautiful to conquer.

What they lack in strength they make up in serenity. The people dwell in quiet fishing villages and cosmopolitan harbors, living by the bounty of the sea and the coin of distant visitors. Their fleets are sleek and swift, serving both trade and travel, and the nobility of many nations retreat to these shores when the weight of power grows too heavy. In the Sapphire Isles, there are no crowns, only the sky—and it is always blue.

A passage compiled from reports and border entries by scribes in eastern Egladil

Delduwath is a young and scattered kingdom, forged from the ashes of collapse. Most of its people are survivors—remnants of fallen Sol Aureus, wanderers from the Wilderlands, and broken households who fled eastward in search of something better. There, in the wide, wind-blown plains, they made their home. What began in desperation has become a realm of horse and horizon.

The people of Delduwath have become master horsemen, famed for their cavalry and their exquisite breeding of steeds. Though their cities are few and far between, and their infrastructure lacks the refinement of older nations, their mobility and skill make them a formidable presence in the eastern marches. The kingdom is held together more by shared hardship and practical alliance than tradition—but sometimes that is the stronger bond.

Delduwath is not rich. It is not old. But it is swift, stubborn, and growing—like the grasses that roll endlessly beneath its sky.

Extracted from restricted archives and censored volumes

os Almir is a land cloaked in smoke and old silence, a splinter-kingdom that still swears fealty to a name the world dares not speak aloud—Morgath. Though the Dark Lord was cast into the void, his echoes endure, and Fos Almir is their most enduring resonance. From the black citadel of Sammath Naur, carved into the bones of a sundered mountain, a fell power stirs—quietly, methodically.

Outwardly, Fos Almir wages only small wars—skirmishes and border raids that bleed the will of its neighbors without ever drawing full retaliation. It has not yet shown the strength for open conquest, but its restraint feels calculated, not weak. The land brims with cruel sentience: forests that whisper in lost tongues, rivers that run too red, and skies that do not forget. Its generals are patient, and its lieutenants do not die—they wait.

Those who watch from afar speak of renewed industry—of forges rekindled, sigils unearthed, and beasts that should not be remembered walking again beneath moonless skies. The scholars of Egladil warn that something is awakening beneath Sammath Naur, something ancient and unfinished. Whether the world heeds this warning, or dismisses it as fearmongering, will shape what comes next.

Fos Almir has not yet risen. But it is remembering how.

Compiled from the fragmented records of sand-blown manuscripts and the oral accounts of desert guides

The Endless Sands stretch beyond the sight of gods or maps, a desert so vast that none in recorded history have found its far edge. Shifting dunes the height of towers consume all who dare venture deep, and jagged outcroppings tear through the dunes like the bones of a buried colossus. It is a land of mirage and memory, where time loses shape and even stars seem reluctant to linger.

In the north of the desert lie the ruins of Sol Aureus, a once-glorious empire now half-swallowed by the ever-hungering sands. Marble palaces and golden domes lie beneath drifts of dust, and their ghosts walk at dusk in wind-woven cloaks. Scholars debate whether Sol Aureus or Egladil rose first, but Sol Aureus is no more—and history, it is said, is always written by the living.

The desert holds its secrets well. And should any kingdom rise again within its golden waste, it will not be by the will of men, but by the desert's own choosing.

Translated from fragmented Tabaxi songlines and sealed naval logs from the Imperial Admiralty

The Lost Lands lie cloaked in vine and storm, an island shrouded by endless jungle, towering trees, and mists that never lift. This was once the ancestral home of the Tabaxi, before the coming of fire and fangs drove them to the sea. Fleeing their homeland, they carved from its trees mighty wooden ships—hundreds of feet long—and scattered across the waves, becoming masters of the sea and trade. They roam still, trading for what cannot be hunted or harvested from salt and tide.

But the island did not fall silent. It was claimed.

Now the Ghaarrichk'k, the lizardfolk, dwell amid its ruins and canopy, nesting in temples long forgotten and launching raids upon the shores of distant kingdoms. Explorers who approach the island speak of hundreds of gleaming eyes watching from the trees, of great scaled beasts with wings like thunderclouds soaring above the jungle. No outpost has taken root there. None remain long enough to try.

A strict quarantine guards the Lost Lands, upheld by the united powers of Arda. Not out of mercy—but fear. Should the Ghaarrichk'k seize another ship, another mind, another spark of knowledge—they will not learn. They will consume. And they will imitate.

Excerpted from regional codices and ancestral records preserved by the Temple of Elerrina

Rhudaur is remembered not for what it is, but for what it was—the cradle of humankind. Here, in the green mists and wooded vales surrounding the city of Elerrina, it is said the first of Men walked beneath the stars. Though time has worn away its power and prestige, and though greater realms have risen and fallen around it, Rhudaur endures in quiet humility.

Governed by a theocracy whose high priests claim descent from the earliest mortal bloodlines, the kingdom is more spiritual than imperial. Its exports are few, its cities modest, and its influence sparse—save for the mercenary companies it hires to foreign wars. Skirmishes with the beasts of Fos Almir trouble its eastern borders, but within, the people are content to tend their shrines, live in memory, and dream of sea and sky.

Some say Rhudaur has sent expeditions into the Western Sea—perhaps in search of forgotten truths, perhaps only to prove they still can. But if they return, they return in silence, and the world forgets them anew.

The Wilderlands are a hollow place—a land stretched thin between memory and oblivion. Once, it thrummed with the life of empires, its strongholds proud and its cities defiant. But the Sundering War swept all away, and what remains is a vast, undulating grass-sea, where endless waves of wind-tossed prairie rise and fall like the breathing of a dying world.

The grasses here grow tall—taller than a mounted rider—and whisper with every gust, as if sharing secrets meant only for the dead. They roll for leagues without break, concealing shattered stone, rusted weapons, and bones long bleached by sun and silence. No road holds, no path endures, and even the stars above seem hesitant to shine. Travelers speak of horizons that never draw closer and the sense that something watches from beneath the roots.

Here and there, ruins claw their way above the green, their edges rounded by centuries of wind. They do not welcome. They accuse. Obelisks sag beneath moss, their inscriptions worn to riddles, and blackened doorways yawn like mouths too long hungry.

There is no songbird, no hearth, no shepherd. Only the wind, the grass, and the silence.

Most who cross the Wilderlands do not return. Those who do speak little, except to say that the land itself seems to mourn—and that beneath the soil, something ancient still remembers what it meant to be broken.