Arctica

“The land does not resist conquest. It devours it.”

Once a frozen void at the bottom of the world, Arctica now straddles the equator and is a continent reborn into magically fueled excess. Its jungles choke the horizon, its rivers vanish beneath roots wider than city streets, and beasts of impossible scale roam freely beyond the reach of walls and guns. Nothing here follows the old natural order. Growth is unchecked, life is colossal, and the land itself feels alive in a way no other place on Earth dares to be.

Arctica’s fertility is unmatched. Fields planted in its soil yield harvests capable of feeding nations, and its seas teem with fish and leviathans alike. Yet this bounty is held behind walls and artillery, claimed only along a narrow coastal fringe. Beyond that razor-thin belt of civilization lies an interior that has never been conquered. Expeditions vanish. Colonies fall silent. The jungle advances, reclaiming steel and stone with equal indifference.

Arctica survives through vigilance and sacrifice. Farmers till fields under watchtowers. Patrols march day and night. Every meal carries the weight of the line holding. To outsiders, the Union appears brutal and joyless. To its citizens, it is the only thing standing between them and being overrun by a brutal continent.

Adventurers can find work easily here, but most die just as easily. Some serve as soldiers along the March. Others escort caravans, hunt beasts, or attempt reclamation of lost colonies. A few push deeper, chasing legends of limitless arcana, living crystal forests, or an unnamed power buried at Arctica’s heart.

Arctica is governed not as a state, but as a fortress stretched along a hostile shore. The Republic of the Union of Arctica is ruled by a High Council of Generals, a permanent military junta born from repeated civilian collapse. Martial law is not an emergency measure here; it is daily life.

Every port is a garrison. Every farming settlement is fortified. Citizens rotate between fieldwork and patrol duty, rifles slung beside harvesting tools. Order is absolute, discipline ruthless, and dissent treated as a luxury Arctica cannot afford.

The capital, Rothchild, stands as both command center and choke point. From its docks flow grain convoys, hunting fleets, and ironclads that keep the sea lanes open. From its foundries come the weapons that hold the jungle at bay for another season. Arctica does not seek expansion. It seeks endurance.

Beyond the coastal bastions, Arctica becomes something else entirely.

The jungle interior is a living nightmare of colossal bramble forests, sunless canopies, and ecosystems that dwarf human scale. Predators the size of galleons stalk herds of armored herbivores. Insect swarms glitter like storms of broken glass. No army has ever held ground here for long.

Scattered through the green are the scars of failed ambition. Ruined colonies, silent shard-reactors, and abandoned rail lines lie tangled in vines and bloom with unnatural color. Some sites have become lairs of monstrous power. Others are simply avoided, marked on maps only as warnings.

At the continent’s heart lies something entirely unknown. Survivors swear the land itself rises and falls like a breathing thing. Scholars argue that something older than The Meteor sleeps beneath the jungle. No expedition has ever returned from deep Arctica with answers. Some return with fragments, battered journals, and bodies.

Arctica is infamous for its excess.

• Colossal Beasts: Serpent-necked grazers that blot the horizon, apes taller than siege towers, and armored predators whose hides turn bullets.
• Shard-Bleeding Flora: Plants infused with raw shardisite ooze glowing sap. Some heal. Others warp flesh and mind beyond recognition.
• The Beat: Explorers report deep, rhythmic sounds echoing through the jungle. Some claim they are giant footsteps. Others say it is the land’s heartbeat.
• Wrecks of Empire: Outposts and encampments lie shattered in the wilds, still loaded with supplies — and still guarded by whatever destroyed them.