Atlas of Bassopolis

entries about the world of Bassopolis, ranging from people and places to creatures and magic

[atlasofbassopolis]

For a wikipedia-style exploration of the world of Bassopolis, check out our wiki! It's updated every so often by the members, so there's always something new to dig your teeth into.

There are four members of this account at present: strainnsear, @jarofcake, @diary-of-a-teenage-girl24, @rusalka-in-bassencraft and @eneaserage

Bassencraft Wiki

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[atlasofbassopolis]

"You'll surrender if it comes to it, won't you?"

Priam looked up from his desk, and the roll of parchment that held the list of necessary supplies for the front lines. Pherenike sat on the floor beside the hearth, as she had done since she was twelve. A grown woman now, and still so much like the girl she had been, even when, at other times, she seemed older than their lord parents. He wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the charcoal pencil he held, "Of course not. To die for one's country is a great honour. The ultimate service."

His sister scowled – or, at least, he thought she did, before her face blanked, "Be serious."

"I am being serious, Nika–"

"Then don't be stupid."

Priam raised his eyebrows, the stun of her sharp words outweighing the hurt. The shock of hearing his soft-spoken sister snap at him made him pause, while she continued after a shaky breath. "If you surrender, they have to take you as a prisoner, don't they? They can't kill you if you surrender. They have to ransom you back."

So that was it. She was worried. Why she couldn't simply say so, he didn't know. For the same reason he didn't know why she still insisted on calling him and Bellerophon her foster brothers, and for the same reason he didn't know why she never let their lord parents adopt her. Priam looked at the floor, his sharp face furrowing into a frown. He also didn't know how he was supposed to explain war to her. Yes, were he to surrender then he ought to be ransomed back. But would that happen? He seemed to be in the dark about many, many things – and that did not befit the heir to House Astalis at all. Standing up with a weary sigh, Priam came to sit beside Pherenike, wrenching his socks off to warm his feet by the fire and throwing them at her, which earned him a groan of disgust and a smack on his shoulder that smarted, even through the thick winter cowl.

He didn't bother to catch them. One landed on the hearthguard, the other flopped onto her knee. Pherenike jolted it off her and stared into the fire as if it had personally offended her, "I don't know why I bother," she kicked the sock sullenly, watching as it crumpled like a dead fish a few week away, "You're just like Bell. Stupid fucking hardhead. You never take anything seriously. You do know you've been an adult for nigh on ten years now? You should act like it."

"Well, that's not fair. I'm much more mature than Bell, for one thing. And you, for another."

"Bell just got married, I have two degrees, and you're going off to get skewered. Oh, yes, the height of maturity. You'll be so mature with your skull bashed in. Save some fucking maturity for the rest of us when the Varäßlatíans have pulled your spine out your ass."

Priam barked a laugh despite himself, sharp and startled, and immediately regretted it when Pherenike shot him a look that could have peeled paint. He tugged her hair at that. He wouldn't have, except she was really asking for it. It proved her point, perhaps, but it satisfied him deeply, "Now listen here–" There was a knock at the door then, just one, and they knew it was Gaddam. Priam dropped Pherenike's hair at once and pulled back sheepishly, "Come in, Gaddam."

The door swung open, and then closed. Gaddam was likely an imposing man to others, but after seeing him laughing jovially after all the Astalis children fell flat on their back countless times when he taught them to horseride, neither Priam nor Bellerophon, nor even Pherenike were scared of him. And Pherenike was easily frightened, so this was some feat. He took in the pair on the floor with a professionally still face, his hand resting easily on the sword at his belt, "Having fun, young lord Priam?"

Priam opened his mouth, then closed it again, glancing sideways at Pherenike. She had drawn her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, chin tucked down, eyes flicking to Gaddam and away again like a skittish bird. The sight made him remember the first few months of her life in the keep, spent mostly trying to be a servant or hiding under her bed. They never talked about her origins – it was simply past tragedies. Bell didn't even know, she shut down that possibility years ago. He forced a grin back onto his face, “Always,” he said lightly. “You should see us when you’re not around. Utter anarchy.”

Gaddam’s mouth twitched, just barely. “I’m sure.” His gaze lingered on the discarded socks, the parchment abandoned on the desk, the way Priam sat far too casually for someone whose name was already inked on three different muster rolls. “Your lord father sent me. He says dinner’s nearly ready, and asks that you eat as a family.”

Priam nodded. “We’ll be there.”

Gaddam hesitated. He shifted his weight, the leather of his armour creaking softly. “Miss Pherenike,” he added, inclining his head to her with the same courtesy he showed Eabha herself, “The kitchens have honeybread tonight. And dates. Fresh.”

Pherenike hummed noncommittally, still staring at the fire, “I’ll come in a minute, Gaddam, thank you. I have no appetite.”

Priam glanced at Gaddam and mimed slitting his throat, which made his old tutor chuckle. The swordsman nodded respectfully and turned back to the door, likely on his way to more important errands, "I'll leave you to your cat herding, young lord. Good evening, Miss."

The door shut with a soft, solid click that seemed to seal the room behind Gaddam. The fire crackled. Priam watched her for a moment longer than he meant to. Then he reached out and nudged her knee with his toes, “Honeybread,” he said, “Dates. You love dates.”

“I like dates,” she muttered, “I love not having my brother die.”

He sighed and leaned back on his hands, staring up at the age-darkened beams. He was quiet for a very long time, his words heavy in his mouth. Eventually, he shifted, drew one knee up and rested his forearm across it, the reflection of flames dancing across the polished leather of his bracer, "You asked me to be serious. So I will be, about surrender."

It was a chance to opt out. Priam rather hoped she'd take it, but he knew otherwise when she started fussing with her hair.

“If it comes to that,” Priam said, choosing each word with care, “I’ll do what keeps my men alive. And if that means laying down arms, then I will. Honour doesn’t mean throwing yourself onto a spear just because it’s pointed at you.”

“That’s not what you said earlier.”

“I was posturing,” he waved a hand in a vague fashion, "It's what happens when my nutjob sister starts needling me. But I also mean to tell her that I'm not trying to get myself killed. I want to come back. Be head of the house one day, win a few more tourneys, get married, have some kids. Watch you get married and have some kids. I don't want war to be where my life ends."

Pherenike started braiding a small strand of her hair. She worried at the dry edges with her fingertips, "I just... Your parents–"

"Our parents, Pherenike."

"Your parents." she replied quietly, "Your parents won't live forever. And Bell is... I can't rely on him to protect me, he's..."

He waited patiently. Sometimes the language failed her. She was so fluent he often forgot it wasn't her native one. All things considered, she had assimilated well. That had been a priority of their lord parents, when she came off the ship. To civilise her.

Pherenike sighed deeply and rubbed at the sockets of her eyes, smearing some of the experimental kohl she'd been trying out, "Bell writes that people are going missing in the capital. People like me."

Priam’s breath caught, shallow and sharp, before he could stop it. He rolled onto his side to face her fully, the levity gone from him so thoroughly it was as if someone had snuffed a candle. “What do you mean, people like you?”

Pherenike didn’t answer at once. She tugged the braid loose again, fingers trembling now that she’d started. The firelight caught the kohl beneath her eyes, making it look like bruising. “Foreigners. Converts. Anyone who doesn’t have a name that fits neatly into a ledger,” Her mouth twisted. “They're going after people with magic again, even after these DoSA drafts. Alchemists and apothecaries and the immaterial sciences come next."

He swore under his breath. He pushed himself upright, back against the bench, and scrubbed a hand over his face, “Bell shouldn’t be writing you things like that.”

"He didn't mean to scare me. I don't think he thought much of it at all. Just work stress for his husband."

Priam let out a long, slow breath through his nose. “Of course he didn’t,” he said, a touch bitter. “Bell never thinks the sky is falling until it’s already landed on his head.”

“That’s not fair,” Pherenike murmured automatically, though there was no heat in it. Her eyes stayed on the fire. “He’s just… optimistic.”

“He’s reckless,” he countered, softer now. He shifted closer without quite touching her, the way he’d learned to do when she was younger—close enough to be there, far enough not to startle. “And Orin’s no fool. If something ugly is happening in the capital, it won’t stay contained.”

“They don’t like uncertainty,” she said after a moment, “People like me are uncertainty. I don’t belong cleanly to anything. Not here, not there. Not legally. Not spiritually.” She swallowed, “If you die, there’s no one left who can afford to be indulgent about that.”

Priam’s jaw tightened. He stared at the fire until the shapes in it blurred. “I don’t intend to die,” he said again, more firmly this time, as if repetition could turn intent into law, “And you’re not as alone as you think.”

She gave a short, humourless huff. “You’re going to tell me the House will protect me.”

“I’m going to tell you that I will,” he corrected, “Which is not the same thing.”

Pherenike glanced over. She believed him, he thought, she really trusted that.

“If I’m captured, I’ll endure it,” he said. “If I’m ransomed, I’ll come home poorer and angrier. If I’m not—” He stopped himself, lips pressing thin. “Then you will have letters. Seals. Promises written in my hand. Gaddam knows where they are. So does Mother.”

Her face went pale. “You’ve already planned for that.”

“I plan for everything,” he said quietly. “That’s my job. It’s been my job for a while now. Mother and Father like to pretend everyone sees you how we see you, but we know otherwise. I'm your older brother. It's my job to make sure you're safe. It's, like, an actual law, or something. Even if you're nuts."

The fire popped, sending a brief shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, somewhere in the keep, a horn sounded—shift change, perhaps, or a rider arriving late. The world went on, inexorable and indifferent.

“I should go with you,” Pherenike said suddenly.

Priam turned to her sharply. “No.”

“I could help,” she pressed, words tumbling now that the dam had cracked, “I know field medicine. I can brew under pressure, with limited supplies. I've dealt with the Plague. I’ve done it before. I could—”

“No,” he repeated, more force in it this time. He caught her wrist when she tried to pull away, then immediately loosened his grip, mindful, “You will not be safer on a battlefield. And you know it.”

Her lips thinned. “At least I’d be where I can see you.”

“At least you’d be where anyone with a grievance and a knife could see you,” he shot back, “You think Varäßlatíans are the only danger? Armies attract worse things than enemy banners.”

She went quiet at that, anger cooling into something heavier. Fear, perhaps. Or calculation, “You’re asking me to stay here,” she said slowly, “and wait.”

“I’m asking you to live,” Priam said, “Here, with our parents. Far away from Bassenville. With guards. With people that know you and will notice if something happens.”

Silence stretched between them again, taut but not hostile. At last, Pherenike reached out and retrieved one of his discarded socks, turning it over in her hands. She picked at a loose thread with meticulous focus.

“When you come back,” she said, very carefully, “you’re going to help me.”

He blinked. “With what?”

“With papers,” she said, “Registries. Licenses. I don’t care if they’re ugly or incomplete or technically provisional. I want something that makes it harder to make me disappear.”

Priam nodded once, solemn. “Done.”

[atlasofbassopolis]

On Blood (dubiously canon)

"You don't wish for community? You are alone in a strange, cold land, with a pittance of coin to sustain yourself. I am family, I may be a friend to you," Ordphestus gestured to the library shelves and the books strewn across the table by some poor, overworked intern. His arrogance oozed from every pore, confident in the privacy of his subterranean research center where surely even Inquisitorium ears and eyes did not reach. "You'd need only allow me to teach you some sorcery, allow me to test your abilities. I swear, the Inquisitorium has granted me full permission to have mages roam freely."

"I do not want to be a mage. And I had a community," Pherenike snapped. Ordphestus did not flinch, but his pacing stopped. He looked at her, really looked at her. Past the green-blue hair that marked her as kin to his bloody red, to a woman utterly foreign to him underneath. Pherenike sat back with tension in her shoulders as though to stop herself, but the bitter worlds flew out her mouth like spittle. "I had friends; and family. They are gone now. I care no longer."

Ordphestus nodded deliberately and sat down at the black marble table. He moved a thick tome out of the way to see how tightly she gripped the goose-feather quill. So tightly the blood fled from her tan knuckles. There was less of Solas' light in the Bassenlands and it showed on the faint dustiness of her skin. He took a deep breath - being gentle had never come easy to him. "I only mean that—"

"I have Theodosia," said Pherenike tersely. In her mind, she knew that Theo was no safety net. Theo is as soft as petals, she thought, and twice as precious, but petals cannot break a fall.

Ordphestus raised an eyebrow at the conviction that gilded the name. The warmth that emanated from Pherenike's lips that rang coldly at the end of each syllable. He knew of Theodosia - Theodosia Crazinski, there was only one Theodosia worth knowing - the new Vice-President. A foreigner to these lands, like him. Like Pherenike. The apothecary was lonely, perhaps. "Our blood sings the same tinny song, that is undeniable. Rodcynes have never been… common folk — we have been rulers, consorts, sorcerers, seers, divine beings. I can trace our line back a thousand years and more, much more. I can recite the names of our ancestors like hymns and you—" He paused, his eyes narrowing and hope waning in the dim library. "You say you know nothing. I am inclined to agree."

Ordphestus leaned forward, elbows on the black marble table, fingers steepled as though prayer could wrestle a truth from silence. The dark library swallowed the sound of their breathing. The smell of vellum, ink, and dust was heavy, nearly sacred, but neither bowed to it.

Pherenike’s grip on the quill tightened until her hand trembled. She would not give him the satisfaction of unclenching. She looked down at her lap and the vibrant potion stains on her kirtle skirt. She controlled herself. Blanched her features of all unpleasantness. A skill from youth — she had been spared the whip for her lack of spirit, and later dismissed as decoration during Bassish balls and galas, which she decided long ago had been better than the mocking. "I don't need names to recite. I've lived finely without them."

“Without them?” Ordphestus repeated, voice rumbling low, incredulous but not unkind. “Then you have lived in exile. A Rodcyne without roots is like a fire without fuel. Flickering, small, destined to die at the first gust of wind. I will not watch that happen. You are a Rodcyne," He declared with utmost certainty, "Our bloods runs warmer than others, our blood is blessed."

Pherenike’s lips curled into a smile, sharp but humorless. She was suddenly ten years old again, being told by a master that to toil was holy, each sentence punctuated with a drop of red streaking the sand. The first word was blood, the whip whispered, and unless you bleed out, you are not free. “You will not watch it happen? I did not invite you to watch. You intrude, unasked, unneeded.”

He let the words pierce him but did not recoil. Instead, he shifted, resting his forearms on the table, leaning closer still. His voice dropped. “And yet I am here. Because I know what you are, even if you would ignore it. Because our blood calls to itself. You cannot silence it forever, my lady Pherenike.”

Pherenike's smile vanished, replaced with something brittle. She set the quill down so carefully it seemed a ceremony. "I don't believe in blood debt, as it happens. Nothing calls and nothing answers. What… nonsense."

"You mistake me. I do not demand, I offer. What I know is no chained burden, I promise, it is a crown. A great mantle! Pherenike, we could be great. You could be great. The blood burns in your veins — you have talent and skill, your shop is infamous on these streets — better to master the latent power than become a slave to it, no?"

Pherenike felt the half of her right ring finger twitch violently. Her face did not change, sculpted from sandstone. He did not know. He had not known the name of her mother, nor her grandmother. They were strangers. He did not know. And she would not tell him. She had always kept a policy of secrecy about this… misfortune of birth. To tell this man, this swaggering warlord, of all people — a man with a hundred slaves of his own, no doubt, who died in his battles and drew his baths and painted his gold eyeliner onto his sharp features — would be to hand him a blade against her. The silence stretched too long.

"I am chained by nothing more than these high import taxes, Commander. I refuse your offer, with deep, deep gratitude for your consideration." Perhaps her tone betrayed her irritation, but she masked it quickly with a cough.

Ordphestus exhaled through his nose, spinning a loose jewel on his bracer. “My offer stands, even so. You would make a fine sorcerer, I believe. I will not abandon you to flicker out. Our line has endured too long for that. You can hate me, scorn me, deny me — but you cannot erase me. Nor yourself. I want only the best for our legacy."

[atlasofbassopolis]

Modern Hercinia

Hercinia is an autonomous region of the Bassenlands, and one of the two major subdivisions of the Vestforet Canton. Hercinia was originally an independent state, home to the titular and fiercely independent Estian people - the Hercinians, who settled the region long before the formation of the Old Estian Empire. Some of its area extended into the now-Blue Mountains and Grönvag Cantons before its annexation. Hercinia, despite bordering modern Caerulea, had little contact with it prior to 900, when Caerulea coalesced, absorbing the neighbouring Dragodan, West Ethertonians, and Dsumioni peoples. This isolation has contributed to their independence and rich, distinctly Hercinian culture and identity, separated by the vast spinemountains and centuries of independence from East and South Estian development. The native Estians speak the Younger Hercinian language in their daily life, but use the Elder Hercinian tongue (E-Hercinian is a sister language of Old Estian, effectively an aunt to Y-Hercinian) in the liturgy of their denounced sect of Ceolism, Fulvurism. As the only 'West' Estian language, -forming its own branch of the Estian language family- Hercinian is notoriously difficult for speakers of other Estian languages to learn and parse, having low mutual intelligibility. The Hercinians possessed their own independent state, which had a mostly peaceful existence, (excluding the Clan Wars in 326 and the state adoption of Ceolism in 1199) for just over one thousand years, before it was conquered by the Laorid Empire after the Hercinian war. The remaining scraps of land voted by plebiscite to join with the neighbouring Forred, forming the precursor state to the modern Vestforet canton. Over the 48 year long Laorid Crisis, the Hercinian population and culture declined catastrophically, with modern Hercinians referring to the period as 'The Storm' (Iġ Pokreġa), after the Laorid National Census Law (Iġ Lex Kėssȯ Najonal) banned their language and many traditional rituals. The Hercinians are still subject to xenophobia and snobbery from several nations. The Basses consider them aloof and superior, and Lisarians think of them as hillbillies. At the end of the war, Forred-Hercinia, drowned in conflict, was occupied by the Kingdom of the Bassenlands, and later absorbed as the Vestforet Canton, the storm replaced by the shadow of the Inquisitorium. Today, Hercinians represent a small, but growing and vocal minority in the South of the Bassenlands, and their calls for greater autonomy and the end of the Bassimilation law cannot be ignored for much longer.

[atlasofbassopolis]

From the diary of Silvija Armando.

These are troubling times for the Bassenlands. Though that is not new, the misfortunes have piled up since the plague but we live with hope still burning in our hearts.

For now we have delicate stability, I am vice president til I hand over the government to Blaize at the festival.

[atlasofbassopolis]

A note on sensitive themes in Bassopolis

The world in which the story of Bassopolis is not a direct analogue of ours, but certain concepts, events, and story choices have taken inspiration from the real world, and mature themes do feature prominently.

These choices have been made as we have a desire to reflect the situations we see every day in an escapist form, using our characters and world to explore them.

Anything that takes place in the story is not meant to be offensive in any way, and resemblances of characters to real life figures, unless explicitly stated by this or affiliated accounts, is purely coincidental.

Nevertheless, our writing does contain mature themes, such as abuse, misogyny, racism, xenophobia, homophobia, war, torture, religious trauma, assault, violence against religious/cultural/racial minorities, pollution, mental illness, suicide, genocide, ecocide, and mutilation.

Potentially offensive/triggering posts will be tagged and contain content warnings.

Thank you.

[atlasofbassopolis]

The current situation in Bassopolis

So, Bassopolis is in shambles. Why? Some necessary context is that it's the capital city of a country called the Bassenlands, and that the Bassenlands have just come out of a war (The War), and are still dealing with the aftermath of The Plague. The previous capital, Bassenville, was bombed towards the end of the war, and so the previously fairly median merchant town of Bassopolis had a sudden influx of refugees. The current population is around 400, 000 people, most of whom live in poverty, or just above it.

Bassopolis is on the west coast of the Bassenlands, at the mouth of the River Bas. Historically, it has been a fishing village. It is now the seat of the Basslandic Parliament. It was also subject to the bombing, but didn't suffer nearly as much as Bassenville.

But that's not all! It is also the home base of everyone's favourite evil government department, The Inquisitorium. And that means that the whole city is on the verge of being a surveillance state. this means that freedom of speech is unofficially limited and nothing is really private. They are always present in the background of the narrative, more of a force of nature than a faction or group of characters. Their influence over the Parliament is slowly growing, and their team of spies and informers is spread in every area of life.

The biggest obstacle in the Inquisitorium's way is DoSA, the Department of Supernatural Affairs. Their rivalry stems from a fumdamental idealogical difference about magic -- DoSA wants to utilise magic for progression, to defend against natural disasters and some of the various more dangerous magical phenomena in the world. The Inquisitorium wants to stamp out people who are born with innate magical abilities, seeing them as a dangerous force. The divide between the departments only deepened with the Purge of the Enterwiven, an attempted genocide of an eco-spiritual group indigenious to the banks and forests around the River Bas. Although DoSA attempted to legally fight the Purge, the Inquisitorium simply refused to play by the rules, finding other ways to root out their opponents.

Bassopolis, the city as a whole, is dealing with overcrowding, poverty, a corrupt government, a failing economy and widespread trauma for recent events. Though there are a few optimists trying to find diamonds amongst the ashes, the tensions of the city serve as the backdrop for the vast majority of the main cast, almost a character in itself.