Uzan

Froskaal

Froskaal lies in the northernmost reaches of Uzan, a realm of glacier-fed fjords, ice-choked rivers, and wind-carved highlands. The land is shaped by cold and water, with great cliffs plunging into the frozen sea and valleys that vanish beneath snow for much of the year. This is the ancestral heart of Uzan, where the sea is sacred and the old gods are said to sleep beneath stone and frost. The people of Froskaal are hardened by endless winter and long darks, their lives bound to the tides and the hunt. It is from here that many of the oldest Drengrholds launch their raiding fleets, their hulls painted with sigils of storm and beast. Songs from Froskaal are slow and heavy, like the ice they rise from, and speak of trials, omens, and the final silence beneath the sea.

Grevhaldt

To the south of Froskaal lies Grevhaldt, a land of storm-swept moors, basalt cliffs, and black pine forests twisted by salt and wind. The earth here is split by deep ravines and hidden lakes, and the weather shifts with violent suddenness. Grevhaldt is a land of old blood and older grudges, home to warrior-clans known for their brutality and proud isolation. The Drengrholds here are fewer but fiercely independent, with Rimejarls that do not bow even to their northern kin. Magic lingers heavier in Grevhaldt’s air, stranger rites, darker gods, and tales of seers who drink from still pools to speak with drowned spirits. Many believe that when the end comes, it will rise from the cliffs of Grevhaldt, where the land has always felt just slightly wrong beneath one’s feet.

The people of Uzan are not ruled by laws or lineages, but by strength, fear, and the will to endure. Their society is forged in ice and fire, held together by the clash of blade and the weight of reputation. Loyalty is earned in the storm, and power belongs to those bold enough to take it. Titles mean nothing if they cannot be defended.

“Only the strong are remembered. Only the feared are named.”

— Uzan saying

Below are the core pillars of Uzan social order:

Drengrholds

The core of Uzan society is the Drengrhold, a clan built on bloodlines, battle-oaths, and the weight of strength. A Drengrhold is not a place of quiet hearths, but of stone-walled halls, firelit feasts, and sharpened steel. Life within is shaped by loyalty and survival, and every voice is measured by the scars it carries.

These holds are carved into the cliffs, raised above storm-swept coasts, or hidden in frost-bitten valleys. Each follows its own rites and boasts its own colors, totems, and songs of glory. Some trace their blood to ancient warlords, others to beasts or spirits born in fire and ice. The longhall is sacred, the elder seat earned, and the name of the hold is bound to its strength.

Drengrholds take what they need from sea and stone. They do not farm much and rarely trade. They raid, forge, fish, and remember. For all their violence, there is pride and unity in the firelight of the hall. To the outside world they may seem harsh. To the Uzan, they are the only home worth keeping.

Rimejarls

At the head of each Drengrhold stands a Rimejarl, a chieftain whose power is claimed through blood, trial, or the will of storm and steel. A Rimejarl is never born into the role. They seize it by challenge, prove it in war, or are named through signs that none dare ignore. No council chooses them. The strong rise, and the unworthy fall.

A Rimejarl leads in battle, speaks judgment, calls the oaths of the hold, and marks the start of every raid. Some rule with cold silence, others with flame and fury, but all are watched closely. The moment they falter, challengers gather.

To carry the title is to carry its burden. Their strength must be seen. Their will must be felt. And their legend must outlive their bones.

Blade Bearers

The Blade Bearers are the chosen few who stand closest to the Rimejarl. They are captains, wardens, and the first into the fight. Named for the weapons they carry, each one holds a sacred blade or war tool blessed by fire or storm. That weapon is both title and test, and to drop it in fear is to lose all honor.

Blade Bearers lead warbands, enforce the Rimejarl’s law, and guard the longhall’s rites and relics. When far from the hold, their word carries the weight of command. In war, they are a rallying point. In peace, they are the threat that keeps peace intact.

Most earn the title through years of loyalty, daring feats, or blood-sworn oaths. To become a Blade Bearer is not to gain privilege, but to become a living symbol of the hold’s strength. They do not rest easy. They do not die quietly.

Gravecallers (Divine Casters)

Gravecallers are the blood-priests of Uzan, servants of the Old Tide and speakers for the gods of death, storm, and hunger. They do not offer comfort or hope. They speak of endings, omens, and the price that must be paid in blood. Their rituals demand sacrifice, whether of animals, prisoners, or kin. Their altars are stained with ash and memory.

A Gravecaller does not wear robes or holy symbols. They wear bone, soot, and silence. Their eyes are clouded from smoke, and their hands are never clean. Each speaks for a god that does not forgive. Their presence stills the hall, and even Rimejarls give way to their judgment.

Gravecallers are not chosen by people. They are taken by the gods. Some are dream-walked. Some are blood-marked. Others are simply broken open by something that should not speak. They walk where storms break and speak when death listens.

Deepbinders (Arcane Casters)

Deepbinders are feared even among the Uzan. They are wielders of arcane power, not drawn from gods but from the cold marrow of the world. Their magic is slow, heavy, and cruel. It comes from runes carved in flesh, winds held in jars, and secrets buried in stone. No one teaches a Deepbinder. They awaken to what they are.

They speak in strange tones and wear symbols that no one remembers carving. Some live in exile. Others whisper to Rimejarls and curse those who cross their masters. They are tools and threats, and never truly welcome.

To speak with a Deepbinder is to risk knowing something you cannot forget. To see one work is to understand that the world is darker than you believed. They do not serve gods. They serve what waits beneath them.

Skravenhet 

To the Uzan, Skravenhet also known as the Wound Above is a scar left by the gods, during the great wars that shaped the world before time was kept. Its shimmering colors are not threads of fate, but reflections of blood spilled and power unbound. It is most often seen in times of war, death, or rising prophecy.

Gravecallers claim it is the veil thinning between life and death, when the gods can watch more closely, or when something older watches back.

Deepbinders sometimes fall into trances beneath it, waking with knowledge they cannot explain and runes no one taught them.

For most, the Wound Above is a time of silence, watchfulness, and offering. Warriors make blood-oaths. Children are kept inside. The fires are stoked higher.

To be born beneath its light is to be marked by the unknown. Some say those born in its glow walk closer to the edge of the world than others ever will.

Magic in Uzan

Magic in Uzan is not studied. It is endured. There are no scrolls, no mentors, no halls of learning. Those who wield it, like the Deepbinders, are feared more than they are followed. Their power is not guided by omen or prayer, it burns from within, like salt in a wound or ice beneath the skin.

To the people of Uzan, magic is a wound in the world that never heals. It is not trusted, not welcomed, and never spoken of lightly. Some say it seeps from the Wound Above, others believe it is the whisper of something that should have stayed buried. In this land of stone and storm, magic is not a gift. It is a shadow that clings, and sometimes devours.

The Salt Hearth Rite

Among the Uzan, every home, no matter how small or broken, must keep a bowl of salt beside the hearth. This is not for seasoning, but for warding. It is said that salt remembers the sea, and the sea remembers the dead. When a new fire is lit in a longhall or a family izgar, salt is cast into the flames and a few words of blessing are spoken, never aloud, always under the breath.

The salt is stirred with a blackened iron knife, passed down from the hearth mother or hearth father of the hold. No one outside the bloodline is allowed to touch the bowl. To let it run empty is to invite the Drowned, spirits said to claw their way in through the cold cracks of unwatched walls.

If misfortune falls on a home, sickness, madness, or dreams too long and deep, the salt is burned on the coals until it hisses. If it screams, the Deepbinders are sent for.

"A fire without salt is not a fire that guards. It is a fire that calls."

— Uzan saying

The Old Tide

The people of Uzan do not follow a pantheon of many gods. They follow three. Three shapes that form the world, demand its blood, and take it back when the time comes. This faith is not written in books or carved into temples. It is etched in bone, whispered into the sea, and burned into offerings beneath stormy skies.

The Uzan call their faith The Old Tide, for like the tide, it rises, it pulls, and it drowns.