In the wastes of Evil Land, where corruption gnaws at every body and ruin swallows every hope, there are still voices that cross the silence. They drift on broken airwaves, carried by transmitters that survived the old wars or were jury-rigged from relics of the Anunnaki. These are the radio stations of Evil Land: strange, crackling lifelines that inform, deceive, entertain, and seduce.
No one agrees how many stations exist—some fade in and out with the weather, others seem to come from nowhere, and a few may not be mortal at all. But everyone, from scavengers to sorcerers, from Qin patrols to tavern drinkers, has a story of tuning into a frequency that was never there before.
Style: Blues, folk, survivor ballads.
Host: Old Mama Griggs, a toothless scavenger with a raspy laugh and a memory like a library of sorrow.
Content: Broadcasts from a shack built atop a ruined broadcast tower. She plays harmonica, reads survivor letters, and retells old stories of lost loves and battles. Many say listening to her songs makes your heart ache, but also makes the night less lonely.
Catchphrase: “If you can still hear me, sugar, you ain’t lost yet.”
Style: Seditious news, coded assassination contracts, and violent propaganda.
Host: Whisperknife, never heard without a mask muffling his voice.
Content: Officially denied by every power, but everyone knows it’s run by the Guild of Assassins. They give updates on bounties, secretly pass kill orders through songs, and sometimes mock the Qin Dynasty with gruesome satire. Scavengers say listening too long paints a target on your back.
Catchphrase: “A shadow speaks louder than a trumpet.”
Style: Orchestral marches, solemn readings, mythic tales of knights.
Host: Sir Relvin Tor, a polished voice claiming to be a Baronial herald.
Content: The Kingdom of Baron’s official propaganda channel, broadcasting calls to service, loyalty oaths, and tales of “glorious conquest.” Their marching music echoes across the wastes, bolstering Baron troops and grinding down the morale of enemies. Many believe their transmitters are powered by relics looted from ancient ruins.
Catchphrase: “Stand proud, stand firm, stand Baron.”
Style: Rigid news bulletins, martial music, recitations of ancient Chinese poetry.
Host: Voice of Heaven, a collective persona voiced by many state-trained orators.
Content: Broadcast from fortified Qin towers. Every word is propaganda: victories exaggerated, losses ignored, corruption hidden. Between announcements are readings from the Analects, but warped to fit the Emperor’s decrees. Their presence on the dial is strong, crushing weaker signals nearby.
Catchphrase: “The Emperor speaks, the world obeys.”
Style: Not music, not speech, but whispers layered over static. Sometimes chanting, sometimes singing, sometimes laughter.
Host: None known—some say it’s the Anunnaki themselves.
Content: Listeners report hearing messages personalized to them: lost relatives calling, bargains offered, or strange instructions. Those who follow the Choir’s guidance often vanish, or turn up days later changed beyond recognition. Others dismiss it as mass hallucination, but the fear remains.
Catchphrase: None—just the whisper of your name.
Style: Heavy drumming, improvised instruments, raw shouting.
Host: Rivet, a manic junker who pounds his desk between songs.
Content: Broadcasting from the gutted shell of an armored tank, Rivet plays music made from banging pipes, screaming into megaphones, and recorded howls of beasts. It’s the anthem of scavengers and young raiders, chaotic but unifying. He often cuts in with crude “news” about which ruins are hot for salvage.
Catchphrase: “If it ain’t loud, it ain’t alive!”
Style: Classical strings, soft gongs, meditative chants.
Host: Sister Hanmei, a calm and gentle monk.
Content: A station devoted to peace, reflection, and philosophy. She speaks on suffering, corruption, and endurance, often quoting Laozi and Zhuangzi, blending them with strange card-metaphors. Many accuse her of secretly aiding resistance movements by embedding coded messages in her parables.
Catchphrase: “To fold a card is to fold the world into yourself.”
Style: Market jingles, upbeat tunes, news bulletins.
Host: Master Jorus Finn, a cheerful merchant with a silver tongue.
Content: Official channel of the Guild of Merchants. Advertises trade caravans, announces new goods, and delivers warnings about raiders. Every broadcast includes a cheerful “sponsored message” that hides sly political manipulation. It is widely listened to, but rarely trusted.
Catchphrase: “Buy low, sell high, live long.”
Style: Mournful chanting, eerie ambient tones, fragments of ancient hymns.
Host: The Archivist, a monotone figure who recites forgotten histories.
Content: Thought to originate from deep within an Anunnaki ruin. Plays recordings of old voices, distorted to the point of unease. Some scavengers claim it predicts deaths; others believe it’s the collective memory of the land bleeding into the air.
Catchphrase: “Remember, for forgetting is the true death.”
Style: Lively folk songs, children’s rhymes, tavern shanties.
Host: Uncle Brann, a gregarious farmer-turned-storyteller.
Content: Voice of the Guild of Commoners. Shares practical advice, folk wisdom, and local gossip. Their “Call of the Day” segment lets villagers send messages to lost family or advertise services. For many in remote settlements, this is the only trusted channel.
Catchphrase: “Your neighbor’s voice, across the wire.”
Music itself is tainted by corruption. Songs warble when played too long near ruins. Instruments sometimes “learn” their own tunes, refusing to play anything else. Radio magnifies this strangeness:
Folk ballads tell of lost loves and endless wars.
Marches instill discipline but often fray into static, sounding like screams.
Improvised junk-metal beats echo the chaos of scavenger life.
Chants and meditations strive to cleanse corruption, though many argue they spread it instead.
Every station filters reality differently, but together they form the soundtrack of survival.
Old Mama Griggs – grandmother of the airwaves, honest and heartfelt.
Whisperknife – assassin turned propagandist, voice like a blade in the dark.
Sir Relvin Tor – noble herald of Baron, pompous yet compelling.
Voice of Heaven – faceless chorus of Qin-approved voices.
Rivet – manic junker, beloved of raiders and scavengers alike.
Sister Hanmei – calm philosopher whose words conceal daggers.
Master Jorus Finn – slick salesman, master of half-truths.
The Archivist – monotone shadow from nowhere, delivering doom.
Uncle Brann – warm-hearted farmer, uniting villages with laughter.
These hosts become myths themselves. Children mimic them, raiders swear by them, rulers curse them. In a world without trust, the voice on the radio is often the only companion you have in the night.
The radio stations of Evil Land are more than entertainment—they are the nervous system of a shattered world. Each signal is a pulse of culture, politics, or madness, threading across the static like lifelines. They carry music that steadies trembling hands, propaganda that drives armies forward, and whispers that may not be human at all.
Tuning in is always a gamble. But in Evil Land, gambling is how you survive.