First chapter of my current project

((Scroll down for more recent version))

NOTE: This chapter is still heavily WIP and will probably be replaced by a more current one by the end of the day.

What.

TL;DR

Why would you bother responding, then?

It’s pretty nice overall, but here is something for you take with you.

Tips:

1. Put one of these “;” between, “Pen to paper; Chisel to stone.”

2. Your introduction to the entire story lacks a bit of vision – I find it difficult to capture what exactly it is that you’re trying to portray. You need to make use of visual exposition; your writing style will actually make this easy, seeing as how you had a narrator in the beginning - or, at least, an unfamiliar voice capable of elaborating the story more descriptively. Just use description-type words and explain to some small extent what I’m supposed to be imagining. I admittedly had a a rough time trying to get an image established in my head, and found myself going back over the story to make sure I wasn’t interpreting it all wrong; so adding some description won’t do any harm, but don’t force it - keep it subtle… Writers can often neglect this, making the reader feel incompetent and nervous that he/she isn’t interpreting it as they should. This creates some frustration on the readers part, and should be dealt with.

3. Your writing style is elegant and well-portrayed; just make sure it’s consistent through the rest of this novel. Use it as a compass and don’t ever try to strive away from it, unnaturally.

Past that – I really felt that your writing style was very welcoming and non-intimidating, which is a good thing, by all means. The dialogue was sown together well and didn’t feel too contrived; it had a nice flow to it…

Promising work… I enjoyed it.

Nice work, very immersive and well written overall.

Reminds me of the book that Golden Compass movie was based on, where people also had animal “companions” summoned from the soul. They couldn’t disappear and reappear but they could transform.

I agree that the intro was a bit confusing mostly due to reading a lot of unfamiliar words, fantasy books do that a lot so it’s all good.

Anyway can’t wait for Chapter II to find out how they are planning to deal with the invasion and stuff. Keep writing although in this case I wouldn’t mind if I have to buy the full book to read the rest. :smiley:

Congratulations on reading it you two, sarcasm aside.

I couldn’t get too far because I kept getting sidetracked wondering how this ended up on a Black Mesa forum.

Maybe you need to take your ritalin/adderall.

This time it was insignificant, but what if you’re reading a menu at a restaurant and next thing you know, you wake up on the other side of the globe in some cheap motel with a dead hooker lying next to you. Oh God. Maybe it’s already too late.

Quite possibly the longest thread I’ve seen, and partially read. Nice job sir :slight_smile: It didn’t really make sense to me, but that’s also because I don’t read stories or books.

((I have updated the chapter. Need to break it up into two posts. It’s very different than how it was originally.))

[i]The Thanerosni gather around. They see the world and plan the Thaneros Major has created and make the following series of events possible. Tangible. Faces enter the realm, blue burning eyes open in a sea of electric clouds to process the script.

Pen to paper; chisel to stone.

Creation is born.

At the close of the Period of Change, a divine human shall unify the fragments of our father, with aid from his winged avatar, and rescue Karamja from tyranny. What occurs after this premonition is fulfilled is clouded in the ocean of unwritten time and uncertainty. However, as the shamans of Skithix have ascertained, bird will swim in ocean, slug will dominate the sky, fire shall quench thirst, vegetation shall recess below the ground, and the role of men shall be likewise drastically altered.

As is the word of the Thaneros.[/i]

This is a tale from another place, another plane, in a time of divinities and true reverence. The divinities, the Torem’hetni, have presided over Karamja since the beginning of known history.

Humanity exists by the deities’ grace on the great continent of Shamashek and is allowed to live and flourish with the promise to fulfill their divinities’ needs and show them worship. The balance of power between man and god has been stable for a millennia…and yet something is amiss.

Vashni, the last remaining unified province besides Urtza, has been continuing a string of bloody conquest begun nearly five years ago. Now, in fear, the remaining provinces of Shamashek have all but dissolved into separate holds as a defensive effort. They all await the sure arrival of the Divine King of War and Battle and his massive army…

------------------------1----------------------

Death. It was the hand of death that brought Troliam’te Dovas into this world, and as a mortal, death would surely return to take away the life it had once offered as a gift.

Such a bleary state of affairs, Dovas thought to himself. How cruel indeed!

“Perhaps death shall return sooner than expected with the continuing conquest of the Vash’Mohrt.”

Dovas said this out loud, looking down on his older brother.

“Don’t be so grim all your life, brother,” Telemas answered. He picked up another wooden plank and lifted it to Dovas with a long arm. “Besides, perhaps some hero will shoot an arrow through the bastard’s spine before we finish this tamak hut.”

Dovas grabbed the wooden board and positioned it on the hut roof to be pegged into place.
“But the Vash’Mohrt is a Divine King. When will the frontier holds understand they would have better chances crossing the domain of Meremba than ending the life of a Divine King?”
Telemas handed the rough hammer and six pegs off the Dovas.
“But unlike crossing the sea, killing the Vash’Mohrt is far from impossible; there is a massive difference between immortality and agelessness,” he added, his voice filled with mock contempt at Dovas’ ignorance. “Divine Kings are ageless and may live for thousands of years. But they are, in the end, as mortal as you or I. They inherit all the weakness of humanity, save time. A simple dagger to the heart or a drop of poison would suffice.”

Dovas pegged the board into place. This would indeed make a good home for their new tamak.
“And so the fate of Shamashek rests on the chance of the Vash’Mohrt being defeated in battle or assassinated? A futile effort!”
“The Vash’Mohrt is a fearsome warrior,” Telemas conceded grimly. “And the combined strength of the province of Vashni knows no equal.”
“Especially when the provinces outside of our own have all but disbanded.”

This Dovas said this as he pegged the last board into place.
“The hut is finished,” he said, standing and straightening his white shendyt.
Telemas turned towards their beige mudbrick home and called his Companion.
“Shenegro! Bring over the tamak!”

Dovas jumped down from the hut roof and onto the cracked dirt.
“I hope father approves of the hut. Murlat has already begun retiring the sun, which means he shall be returning home soon.”
“If he finds issue with it, I’ll be sure to assure him it is my doing,” Telemas said, speaking over his shoulder.

And then suddenly appeared Shenegro, Telemas’ Companion. The large striped tiger sauntered forth, majestic with thick healthy fur and leading a moderately sized tamak with a long leather rope which Shenegro clamped hard upon with his powerful jaw. He stepped forth, tugging at the rope.

The six foot tall beast of burden that was the tamak followed Shenegro’s lead. Its large head, supported by a long neck, swayed back and forth as it moved, looking for nuts and berries it could crush with its hardened beak. Its vestigial forearms rested close to the chest as it moved gracefully on long muscular legs ending in cloven talons. Its thin layer of soft feathers almost glistened in the setting sun.

As Telemas’ Companion led the tamak towards its new home, Dovas spied two shimmering dots in the darkening sky, the first of Provash’s many vigilant shining eyes. Soon Murlat would completely hide the sun and make way for Navora and her endless Void.

This held a grim significance for Dovas: his father was sure to arrive any minute.

As if cued by the deities themselves, a booming voice arose.
“Telemas! Dovas! Prepare my mug of ale, for I have returned!”

The brothers’ burley father, Girogno, approached from the mudbrick house, wearing a dark thick beard which grew to cover the top of his vest. He marched with a pretentious gait, as if the world before him was his to consume and add to his girth. His face, as always, was bitter and red with suppressed anger.

Suppressed for not much longer if he were to have his way with Dovas.

But Telemas was here, and his father would not dare mistreat Dovas in front of his first-born brother, whom he would soon rely upon in old age. Nor would he trifle with Shenegro, the fearsome tiger. Furthermore, he could hardly think of being on bad terms with Telemas, the favorite son, the one who wasn’t a disappointment. In an effort to avoid a confrontation with his youngest son, Girogno addressed Telemas.

“Telemas, I see you’ve built the tamak hut!” he proclaimed with genuine pride. “All by yourself?”
Dovas remained absolutely silent as he saddled the tamak, his head hung low.
“No, father,” Telemas answered. “Dovas helped.”
Girogno suddenly eyed the structure with a critical eye, obviously looking for imperfections his miserable son might have infected the hut with.
“Not too much, I hope.”

He strolled around the wooden hut, his large arms struggling to remain clamped together behind his back, his eyes ultimately centering on Shenegro.

“I see you summoned your Companion,” he said.
“Yes, father,” Telemas answered. “He was helping to keep the tamak from running off. Besides, I felt him growing restless within me.”
Dovas noticed his father’s eyes become imbued with a wistful expression, probably while remembering a time when he wasn’t so bitter as to prevent him from conjuring his own Companion.

There was a period of silence, interrupted by the tamak making a small squeal and Shenegro growling deeply in response.

“Dovas,” Girogno finally said, with a hint of impatience. “My ale.”
“Yes, father,” Dovas said quietly as he walked back towards the house. The sky was now completely darkened, the two moon manifestations of Shaa and Naa hung softly in the sky (much assuredly to the delight of healers and soothsayers alike). Karamja had now passed fully and gracefully, as always, into Navora’s realm of the Void as the planet rested and revitalized itself.

Dovas entered the small home, smelling musk from the small strung up rodents which provided most of the family’s meat. He walked over to the table where the metal mugs were stacked, grabbed one, and moved quickly to the ale keg, constructed of the locally sacred wood of the palm tree. He stopped filling from the spigot when the froth was close to spilling over the top.

He placed the metal mug of ale on the rough wooden table adjacent to the keg, and pulled a seat out for his father. He took a deep breath as he opened the door to call to Girogno, who still stood near the tamak hut with Telemas, Shenegro already absorbed within him. Dovas could not hear much of what they said, but he could sense pride in the way his father looked while talking with his first-born son. Pride which was absolutely alien to Dovas.

“Father!” Dovas called, interrupting the envy-inspiring tender scene. “Your mug of ale has been poured.”
Girogno turned his face suddenly, an intense scowl plastered to it.
“Quit your yapping, I’m coming!”

Girogno left Telemas with the tamak as he marched towards the house, stopping in front of Dovas who held the door open.
“Well, in or out? Get out of my way.”

Dovas decided to move into the home. Girogno marched to the table, nearly shoving Dovas out of the way. He sat upon the chair, and Dovas cleared his throat. He spoke as his father started to drain the mug of its contents.
“How was the capital today?”
“Tek-Yehaf is a shithole, just like the rest of this godforsaken hold,” his father growled after he swallowed, not even bothering to look at his son. He grabbed a piece of dried meat lying on the table and took a large bite of the tough fibrous tissue. “I’d have better luck selling whores to the pious jackass monks in Monokret than to make the snobs in our capital buy our rodent meat. Gods forbid they allow rodent meat pass through their silver-dusted mouths.”

“I assume you did not sell much, then?” Dovas said, lowering his gaze.
“You will have to start eating less if I can’t bring home more money,” Girogno said as he shoveled more food into his mouth. He washed the rodent meat down with a gulp of ale.

“Well,” Dovas’ father said after a moment. “I suppose you should head to bed so you can catch me more rodents tomorrow morning.”
“Very well,” Dovas answered obediently. “May the eyes of Provash protect you in slumber.”
His father merely grunted in return.

Dovas retreated to his small room. It paled in comparison to either the bedroom of Telemas or his father. Indeed, it was little more than an afterthought to their mudbrick home. Telemas’ room was furnished. A carpet, ragged as it was, lay upon the floor. A small painting their mother had made while she was still alive hung on his wall. And his bed was soft and lined with cloth. Dovas, on the other hand, had a cold bare floor, empty walls, and nothing more than a glorified pile of hay to sleep on. His room did not even have a shrine to the deities, a crime punishable by imprisonment in most of Shamashek. Much like himself, Dovas’ room was miserable. Dovas, nevertheless, considered this room as much of a sanctuary as he would ever have in this hell of a home, and therefore was thankful with what he had. He lied down without hesitation on his makeshift bed, and quickly fell asleep.

Some time later, perhaps an hour our two, he was awoken by deep guttural singing coming from beyond his door. Assumedly, his father had drunk one too many mugs of ale, like so many times before. The singing continued intelligibly, and slowly transitioned into restrained sobbing, which then gave into complete silence. Then the shuffling of Girogno’s seat, and the stumbling of drunken steps, as he moved closer and closer to Dovas’ room. As he heard his father touch the wooden slat that was his door, his breathing intensified. The door slid open, scraping the dirty floor as Girogno stumbled in, nearly falling over in his drunken stupor.

“Why did you do it, you piece of shit?” Girogno slurred.
Dovas crawled backwards against the wall, whimpering in fear of what was about to occur.
“Why the hell did you kill your mother?”
Tears began to well in both of their eyes.
“Father…I didn’t…”
“You are a goddamn liar!” Girogno hissed.

Despite his belly and intoxicated state, Dovas’ father quickly reached his son who was still cowering on the floor. He placed a large sweaty hand on his son’s mouth to muffle his cries.
“You killed her when all she wanted was to give birth to your worthless little body. Why did you kill your mother?”
Dovas began to struggle against his father on the floor, but when the much older man put all of his weight onto the 12-year-old boy, there was little he could do. Girogno forcibly turned his son onto his belly and grabbed a switch he kept in the room.

“She was perfect! She was beautiful! She was kind! She was lovely!” Each sentence was punctuated by the sound of the switch striking Dovas’ back.

After a little less than ten minutes of this ordeal, Girogno hiccupped, sniffled, stood, and walked towards the door to his youngest son’s bedroom as Dovas continued to cry softly.
Girogno paused at the door.
“Stop your pathetic sniveling, you weak-“ Girogno’s expression of disdain was promptly interrupted by a mournful howl. It was the cry of a wolf which sounded sickly and weak. But it still prompted Girogno to slowly turn around to face Dovas, murder in his eyes.

“You dare to call your Companion? IN MY PRESENCE!?”
Dovas’ eyes widened with fear, knowing he had commited a grievous sin against his father.
“Please, it was an accident…I’m sorry.”

Dovas had always struggled to keep his Companion suppressed, as per the command of his father. Girogno forbade Dovas to summon his Companion, and thus he had barely ever seen his, but knew from a couple of occasions, such as this, that it was most likely a wolf. From the sounds of it, a lame, old, sickly wolf. His father never told him why he forbade his son from calling his Companion. But whenever he was around to witness a lapse in Dovas’ strength and an accidently summoning, however partial it always was, his father was always red with pure unbridled anger. It was one of the worst offenses Dovas could commit.

Breathing heavily, Girogno closed his son’s door again, as he stepped towards his son, prepared to teach him a lesson in Companion control.


He shook his armor of the red crimson blood which had splashed upon it in the battle.

Slaughter, actually. The poor fools had no chance to fight back against the tide of the army which he had led eastward.

Yes, there were those who stood and fought bravely (and he cherished their courage) but they fell quickly. This town he had just purged of rebellion was, after all, formerly comprised of men and women preparing to become solitary monks and priestesses. They could fight no better than they could commit sin. They fell just as fast as any other town, or even the capital, of Monokret.

Still, the battle was breathtaking. The swords clashing were a pure spectacle. The roars and screeches of Companion mauling Companion put bliss in his heart. The sound of clanging metal was music to his ears.

Clang, clash, clang, clash!

How glorious that sound was. The sound of war. The sound of struggle. He smiled, as the mere thought of the battle brought glee to his belly. He did not cherish the death, the grotesque mangling, the maiming, the carnage, or the pain. Those were pleasures enjoyed by his monstrously sadistic ally, Krallig’Alem. But here, on the battlefield…

Life against life. Body against body. Tactic against tactic. The thrill. The excitement. The indescribably ecstatic feeling in his stomach when he fought the enemy, regardless of their skill. He had lived for more than 400 years, and never tired of it.

A soldier approached him as the man brushed his long blonde hair from his eyes with a strong muscular arm.
“The survivors have all been rounded up.”
“Execute them all,” the man responded, strapping his armor back on. “As with all resisters, they must be made an example for others who oppose our occupation. Be sure to allow Krallig’Alem full control of their deaths, lest he become too bored and start torturing our own soldiers.”
“These soldiers from Goro, Krallig’Alem’s men, are terrifyingly mad,” the young soldier blurted out.
“Yes,” the man said as he placed his black horned helmet upon his head. “I suppose this is why we use them as shock troops.”

He stood from the rock he had been sitting upon and picked his large, ornate sword from the ground.
“Prepare the men for travel. After the execution of the survivors has been completed, we move eastward into Urtza.”
“To conquest!” the young soldier replied, as was customary.

Yes, further conquest eastward. Was it for personal gain? For the pedestrian feeling of pleasure he felt from relishing in battle? Or was it for his higher calling…for what he had so recently learned about his part in fate?

It made no difference. For he was the Divine King of War and Battle. Doklater’Alem.

The Vash’Mohrt. The Voracious Conqueor.

The glorious sun, hoisted in the air by Murlat, beat down upon Dovas’ bare back as he held the writhing little rodent.

“Telemas!” he called as he quickly broke the small creature’s neck. “I caught another!”

Telemas ran over, laughing. “When it comes to catching critters, you are quite the artist.”

Telemas patted his brother’s back, touching the fresh swatch marks as Dovas cringed slightly.

“Sorry,” Telemas said as he removed his hand and grabbed the small mammal. He placed it in the large white sack he carried. He helped his brother up as he spoke. “Let’s find more, father wants at least a dozen more than we already have.”

He of course did not bring up the scars on his brother’s back. Or the fresh bruises on his face. His swollen eye. Not even his new limp. Telemas knew where these injuries originated from, but he would never speak of it. Dovas’ abuse at the hands of Girogno was an open secret, and as close as the two brothers were, there was nothing Telemas could do, and all he would receive in trying to help would most likely be injuries of his own.

“I heard your wolf last night,” Telemas said. “You must be more careful when father is home.”

“I know,” Dovas agreed, as he followed his brother farther from the house looking for more rodent holes. “Why does he forbid it’s use?”

Telemas looked sullen for hearing the question. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with that.”

“Have you been studying the map I gave you?” Telemas said, changing the subject.

“Yes, I have,” Dovas answered proudly. Because he was forbidden to leave the area around their mudbrick house unless commanded to do so, Dovas knew little about the outside world, save what his brother taught him.

“Our province…” Telemas began, sticking a wooden pole into a hole in the sand.

“…Is Urtza, the province of unity,” Dovas answered, exasperated at the easy question. “Comprised of our hold, Yehaf, the hold of allegiance and loyalty, Bulno, the hold of coordination and cooperation, to the north, and Safik, the hold of love and peace, to the north of that.”

“Easy question,” Telemas said, smirking. “What province is to the west?”

“What province use to be to the west?” Dovas countered and corrected. “Directly west of us was…Jermovosni, province of the pious.”

“Very good,” Telemas complimented. “How about to the north?”

Dovas thought for a moment as he absentmindedly drew circles in the sand with a stick. “Aramekni, province of the progressive.”

“Do you remember the holds that comprise the former provinces you just mentioned?”

“No…I need to study more.”

“Alright then, tell me about Vashni.”

“Vashni, the province of conquerors, is the only province besides ours to be unified today,” Dovas said, reciting what Telemas had written for him to study. “It is located on the northwestern coast of Shamashek and is comprised of the holds of Moreti, the hold of industry and production, Goro, the hold of brutality and depravity, and Nassaq, the hold of war and battle.” Dovas paused for a moment. “…And in the end Vashni will destroy and subjugate all we know,” he added, grimly.

Telemas sighed. “Must you make everything so damn gloomy?”

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” Dovas responded simply. “If what you told me is true, the combined strength of the Vashni province cannot be stopped, and they have already shown their power by conquering half of Shamashek in four years.”

“Yes, but you don’t need to—“ Telemas stopped talking as he heard the unmistakable sound of tamaks in the distance.

The two boys stopped dead, their eyes straining against the bright divine rays of the sun to look towards the horizon.

“Tamaks…why are there tamaks coming our way? Nobody ever comes our way,” Dovas said, with fear building. “Who can that possibly be?”

“We should run,” Telemas said, stepping back. “Just to be safe.”

With that, Telemas dropped the white bag of rodents and the two boys turned on their heels and started sprinting towards their house. Dovas’ leg pained him so much, and slowed him. With Telemas in the lead, and the house visible, Dovas tripped on a rodent hole and fell head over heels, tumbling to the cracked earth beneath.

“Telemas!” he cried out.

His older brother looked back and saw Dovas lying on the ground. He stopped in his tracks to run to his brother and help him to his feet, but the time spent allowed the sound of clapping tamak feet to draw closer. Telemas, nearly carrying Dovas, managed to make it to the house, where their father stood outside.

“Telemas!” he exclaimed, obviously annoyed. “Where are the rodents!”

“Someone…is coming…I heard tamaks heading our way…” Telemas said in-between breaths.

Girogno’s eyes widened. “It can’t be…soldiers from Vashni?”

They strained to see against the bright blue sky as their pursuer approached. Shenegro, who like all Companions appeared with such lack of pomp and circumstance as to give the illusion that he was in fact always there and had not simply appeared from thin air, growled in anticipation.

But it was not a soldier, but a messenger; one of the Divine King’s messengers, to be exact, on tamakback, wearing the blue colors of their hold and dressed in leather shoes, long pants, and a small vest which covered his skinny physique. His head and face was covered in white cloth, save the eyes, for protection against the occasionally sweeping sand present in most of Urtza. Even with his face covered, it was obvious he was sent by the Divine King; only by the decree of the hold would anyone travel this far into the desert to speak with such an isolated family. Behind him were three other tamaks. One was ornate to the point of betraying it as the messenger’s Companion. It obediently led two extra saddled tamaks with reigns wrapped around its body, obedient to its master.

The messenger spoke from the back of his tamak, who squealed socially with the Troliams’ new beast of burden.

“Greetings from the Divine King of Allegiance and Loyalty, citizens of Yehaf!”

“We are citizens of the province of Urtza, not the hold of Yehaf,” Telemas responded in a sour tone. Most citizens preferred to think of their province, Urtza, as borderless, and thus saw the holds as superficial.

“All citizens of the hold of Yehaf must convene tomorrow noon,” the messenger continued without acknowledging the words of Telemas. “The Divine King shall be speaking to the people from the top of the Nyolgrash Ziggurat in Tek-Yehaf. Your attendance is mandatory.”

“We are humble at best, pauper as tamak shit at worst,” Dovas’ father countered, close to chuckling. “We only own one tamak. How are we to travel to the capital in a timely fashion?”

“The Divine King knows of your situation, and has thus supplied you with two extra tamaks.”

He gestured to his side. His Companion was already gone, absorbed into the messenger, freeing the two extra tamaks.

Dovas could tell that, for some unexplained reason, this was a troubling development. Looking up at his brother confirmed this.

“What is so vital that the Diving King would supply us with extra tamaks? Has the Vash’Mohrt invaded?”

“This is privileged information,” the messenger said as he reared his tamak up, preparing to leave. “Not even I know what he must tell the public. Arrive early to find a good spot to stand.”

As the messenger rode away towards Tek-Yehaf, the supplied tamaks troubled even Dovas, who’s prematurely pessimistic mind understood at least one undeniable truth of the world: a gift given freely most likely has dark meaning. These new tamaks were supplied so that a family of three who lived secluded and alone in the middle of the unforgiving Yehaf desert, without a fellow person living within nine miles, could attend a speech delivered in the capital of Yehaf, Tek-Yehaf. Why?

“What game is Mekmud’Alem playing?” Telemas said in reference to the Divine King of Allegiance and Loyalty, nearly reading Dovas’ thoughts.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, besides for Girogno sending his two sons to search for the bag of rodents they dropped, but before it was time to retire at night, Telemas paused but a moment to stare at the dark Void above, focusing specifically on the many bright shining eyes which dotted the darkness. The eyes of the great protector who watched over the land while Karamja slept. The eyes of Provash. The eyes of a deity.

Telemas spoke a small prayer.

“Great Provash, lover of Navora and the vigilant guardian of our realm, please ensure that our land is safe and free of invasion for tonight.”

I think you May have just Shit out the Plot for The Hangover 3,

it seems a little complex.

It’ll be a heavily lore-based story, if that’s what you mean. I have a story bible with extensive info on the history of the land, the stories of each god, the mechanics of Companions, etc. Some information will be shared with the reader, some must be surmised, and still others are just for my benefit to preserve consistency. It’ll be a tale of journey and exploration across the land, and whatever the main character discovers, so, too, will the reader.

Those are the best kinds of stories, because you can really get involved into it. But you need a character -a guide- to walk you through the world and inadvertently explain things. Get people interested – you know?

There will be multiple guides, passing off the baton as the story progresses and they go off on their own journey/are killed/the main character leaves their territory. It’s going to be a long tale, spanning a couple of books (I’m hoping) with multiple arcs and villains.

I’m waiting for the TV adaptation.

That’s funny, I always thought this would be a good visual story.

Bump for map.

Dashed lines show former Provinces. Dots separate Holds. Solid lines outline current Provinces. Provinces, past and former, are labeled with letters.

V = Vashni, Province of Conquerors
J = Jermovosni, Province of the Pious
U = Urtza, Province of Unity
A = Aramekni, Province of Progression
K = Kunnekikni, Province of the Intellectuals
G = Graldapakni, Province of Creators
N = Nyolni, Province of Rulers
D = Drunyikni, Province of the Despicable

And because it’s hard to read, the mountain range at the edge of Monokret is called Gromach Summit (the holiest place in all of Shamashek) and the islands off of the Vulpashi peninsula are the Tur Islands.