Kantaka

For centuries, Kantaka was the beating heart of Bhavarta, a city that drew caravans from deserts, jungles, and mountain passes alike. Built on the fertile banks of the Sarastha River, its wealth flowed not only from its rich soil but from its artisans and merchants. Kantaka was famed for its guilds—the weavers of the Lotus Quarter, whose silks shimmered like water; the bronzeworkers of the Elephant Gate, who could cast bells that rang for miles; the jewellers of Shukra Street, whose gems were said to shine with blessings from the heavens.

It was a city of colour and sound. Each season was marked with great festivals: the Festival of Lamps, when thousands of clay diyas floated down the river in glimmering processions; the Spring Games, when elephants were painted in bright dyes and paraded through the streets; the Feast of Sarastha, when the goddess of the river was honoured with music and offerings. In these days, Kantaka was not only wealthy but alive—its people proud of their city’s soul.

The Arrival of Varkul

Then came Varkul Dreadhill, a half orc of Imperium. Unlike the conquerors of old, he did not march through the gates with steel. He came with words, contracts, and promises. He presented himself as a friend, a partner to trade with. The merchants of Kantaka, eager for new markets, welcomed him. They signed deals that seemed generous: he would buy their goods at fair prices, ensure their transport, and sell them to distant lands.

But hidden in the fine print was a chain: the merchants were bound to sell only to him. At first, they did not notice. The guilds grew rich quickly, but Varkul grew richer still. He sold their goods abroad at staggering profit, his coffers swelling while theirs slowly drained. By the time they realised the noose, it was too late. His Svéta soldiers, pale-armoured mercenaries from the north, were already stationed in the city to “protect trade routes.” In truth, they protected him.

The Collapse of the Guilds

Once his grip was firm, Varkul revealed his true aim. The artisans of Kantaka, who had for generations created works of splendour, found their crafts dismantled. No longer were they allowed to make goods for themselves or their own markets. Instead, they were forced into raw labour: harvesting timber, quarrying stone, mining iron and gems. These resources were shipped north to the Imperium, where foreign hands crafted the goods, stamped them with Imperial seals, and sold them back to Bhavarta at highly extortionate prices.

A weaver who once spun silks for emperors now hauled bales of cotton to the river. A jeweller whose family had set gems for temple idols now mined rough stones, never allowed to cut them. The pride of Kantaka—the skill of its guilds—was broken. Its people became cogs in Varkul’s machine of profit. Anyone who dared to continue their craft faced dire consequences, loom workers had their thumbs broken, jewellers were made blind, etc.

The Pact with the Yuan-Ti

Varkul’s power did not stand on trade alone. To secure his rule, he struck an alliance with the Yuan-Ti, serpentfolk from the jungles to the south. The pact was uneasy, for neither side trusted the other, but they shared a hunger for dominion. The Yuan-Ti despised humankind as weak and corrupt; Varkul saw Bhavarta as a land ripe for plunder. Together they found common cause.

The Svétas brought steel and discipline, while the Yuan-Ti offered their sorcery—illusions, poisons, and spells that could unmake the will of men. It is said that in the palace halls, Varkul sits flanked not only by his captains but by serpent priests whose tongues drip with venom and prophecy.

Daily Life Under Occupation

Today, Kantaka is a city of splendour and sorrow. Its palaces still glitter, its markets still bustle, but the wealth flows not to its people but to Varkul’s coffers. The Sarastha still runs, but its waters are burdened with logs from razed forests and minerals dredged from the hills.

The Svétas patrol the streets in their pale armour, their presence constant and suffocating. They are merciless in quelling dissent. Those who speak too loudly against the occupiers vanish in the night. Entire families have been erased, their names struck from records, their houses claimed by the Svétas. The people whisper of “the disappeared”—sons, daughters, fathers who are seen no more.

Festivals are outlawed or twisted. The Festival of Lamps is now permitted only as a military parade, with oil lamps arranged not in prayer but in patterns spelling out Varkul’s sigils. Temples, once sanctuaries, have been desecrated. Some serve as garrisons, their idols toppled or locked away. The great Temple of Sarastha, where priests once blessed the river, now houses Svéta barracks; its inner sanctum is said to be filled with weapons, not incense.

Resistance and Rebellion

Yet Kantaka’s spirit is not entirely broken. In the shadows of ruined shrines and the cellars of deserted guildhalls, resistance stirs. Secret societies pass messages hidden in poetry, coded chants carried by wandering bards. Some Svéta soldiers themselves, weary of Varkul’s cruelty, have begun to whisper treason, secretly meeting with rebels.

These groups are fragmented, always hunted, often betrayed. Many leaders have been killed or captured, but for every one that falls, another rises. Small acts of defiance persist—spilled ink across Varkul’s decrees, sudden fires in his warehouses, blades in the dark. Kantaka breathes, though its breaths are ragged.

The Court of Bhavarta

From the imperial court, Bhavarta watches and fumes. They despise Varkul, but distance and corruption make them powerless. Officials argue and posture, but no army marches. The emperor himself rails at the injustice, yet his words fall into silence. To act against Varkul would mean war with the Imperium, a war Bhavarta is not ready to fight.

The Jewel in Chains

And so Kantaka endures. Its people live under chains, yet they remember. They remember the colour of their festivals, the pride of their guilds, the songs sung on the banks of the Sarastha. Varkul has stolen their wealth and broken their hands, but not their memory.

The jewel still gleams, though in chains. And in the darkness beneath its palaces and markets, fires smoulder. The people whisper that one day the chains will break, and Kantaka will rise again—not as a hollow servant of the Imperium, but as the heart of Bhavarta once more.