To the inhabitants of the so-called Northern Realms, the world ends in a wall of permafrost and madness. They tell tales of a "Far North" that is nothing but a graveyard of ice and monsters, a place where no sane soul ventures. They are only half-right.
The snow and the beasts are not the end of the world; they are merely a buffer zone.
Beyond the frozen wastes lies the Dhu Ddraig Imperio. Under a brown flag marked by a golden dragon, a different kind of humanity thrives. These are not the superstitious peasants or warring kings of the south. These humans, brought by the Conjunction to the furthest reaches of the globe, are hyper-intelligent beings of superior physiology—taller, stronger, and immune to the common plagues of the mud-streaked lands below.
Where others saw monsters, the Imperio saw biological variables. Where others saw a frozen hell, they saw a canvas for technologia (technology).
Their existence is untouched by the influence of chaotic energies. They have never known magic, for they had no need of it. Instead, they mastered the natural world through a geometrical rate of learning. Their cities, built with an accidental elven elegance they have never seen elsewhere, run on gears, steel, and harnessed lightning. They speak Elder Speech as their official language, though they also know the common speech. To them, the ancient tongue is not one of spells, but one of cold logic, used to communicate the complexities of their advanced natural science.
Through this mastery, they craft extraordinary non-magical artifacts and elixirs, seeing the world through the lens of pure physics. The citizens of Dhu Ddraig Imperio believe they are the sole masters of reason, the only civilized beings in a world shared only with animals and monsters. They look toward the southern horizon and see only a wilderness of ice and teeth. They do not know that further south, the world is loud with the sound of spells, the clinking of Witcher medals, and a civilization they never knew existed.
The logic of the North is about to meet the madness of the South.
******
The Great Buffer was no longer a wall; it was a resource.
Three Diesel Engineers led the way through the jagged permafrost of the far northern wastes, their heavy leather coats snapping in the sub-zero wind. Each coat was a masterpiece of utility, bulging with dozens of pockets and reinforced belts holding specialized wrenches, pressure gauges, and firing pins. As they marched, the rhythmic clink of their gear provided a mechanical heartbeat to the silent tundra. These men were as much marksmen as they were tinkerers, their long-barreled firearms slung over their shoulders, ready to apply the laws of ballistics to any "biological anomaly" that dared emerge from the snow.
"Pressure levels holding," one engineer grunted, tapping a brass dial on his wrist. "If the terrain gets any steeper, we prime the Jetpacks. I'd rather burn fuel than muscle."
Following closely behind were the Chemical Doctors, their stark white coats a sharp contrast against the brown and gold of the Imperial banners. They moved with a clinical detachment, goggles pushed down over their eyes to scan the environment for the subtle shimmer of rare mineral deposits or the specific hue of frozen herbs. Their utility belts were lined with rows of glass vials—chemical grenades and stimulants that could turn a man into a giant or a patch of ice into an inferno in seconds.
"Hold," the lead Doctor commanded, his voice muffled by a high collar. He knelt, his scalpel flashing as he shaved a sample of a strange, bioluminescent moss from a frozen rock. "This contains a high concentration of alkaloids. The labs in Caer Draig will want a crate of this for the new endurance elixirs."
This was the mission: an expedition into the unknown to fuel the Empire's insatiable hunger for progress. The Emperor's mandate was clear—find the minerals to feed the gears, the oil to quench the engines, and the monster parts needed to refine their chemical sciences.
To the Dhu Ddraig expedition, this land was a storeroom. They did not see the "monstrous" nature of the beasts that watched them from the crags; they saw leather, bone-marrow, and chemical compounds waiting to be harvested.
"Wait," an Engineer called out, raising a hand. He adjusted the telescopic sight on his rifle, aiming toward a cluster of ruins half-buried in the ice—ruins that did not follow the geometric perfection of the Imperio. "Anomaly detected. Structural remains. They... they look like dwellings. But they aren't ours."
The Doctor adjusted his goggles, zooming in on the site. "Impossible. Physics dictates nothing of complexity could survive this far south of the capital without our technology."
The Expedition moved forward, the hiss of diesel and the clinking of scalpels entering a world where logic was about to fail them.
******
The expedition team moved with clinical caution as they entered the cluster of stone ruins. The Diesel Engineers held their firearms at the low-ready, boots crunching over frost-shattered masonry that lacked the geometric precision of the Imperio. These were organic, flowing structures—now broken and leaning—that seemed to grow out of the earth rather than conquer it.
"Movement," a lead Engineer hissed, his hand flying to a dial on his utility belt. He didn't reach for his gun, but for the ignition switch of his Jetpack, ready to reposition at a moment's notice.
Behind a collapsed archway, they found them. A small group of people huddled together, shivering despite their thick furs. As the Chemical Doctors adjusted their goggles, the zoom-lenses revealed the truth: their ears were elongated and pointed. They were bleeding from jagged wounds that defied immediate physical explanation—the cuts were clean, yet the flesh around them seemed strangely scorched.
One of the wounded, a male with silver-streaked hair, looked up at the towering, muscular Imperial men. His voice was a rasp, but the words were unmistakable.
"Céadmil? (Who's there?)" he gasped, speaking in fluent Elder Speech.
The Engineers and Doctors froze, literally scratching their heads in genuine confusion. They weren't confused by the language itself—they were confused by who was speaking it. In the Dhu Ddraig Imperio, Elder Speech was the official language of the government, the intellectual powerhouses in the factories, and the scientists in the labs. The common speech was for the masses, the civilians. To hear a wounded stranger in a wasteland speak the language of high technology was a total anomaly.
"Why is this... 'biological specimen' speaking the language of the High Artificers?" an Engineer muttered, his grip tightening on his rifle.
"More importantly," a Chemical Doctor added, his goggles clicking as he scanned the wounded, "how does it know the grammar of the Imperial Administration?"
The Lead Doctor stepped forward, his white coat stark against the blood-stained snow. He didn't use common tongue. He answered in the same precise, cold Elder Speech used in the Caer Draig laboratories.
"Dhu Ddraig Imperio, (Dhu Ddraig Imperio,)" the Doctor stated firmly. "Aen deireadh aep essn'eid, (This is an imperial expedition.) Va'en caen n'va, (We are here to find new deposits for minerals and oils, and to gather herbs and monster parts for our chemicals.) Céadmil n'ess? (Explain your presence in this zone.)"
The pointed-eared people exchanged looks of pure terror. To them, the Elder Speech was a tongue of magic and ancient heritage; to hear it barked with the rhythmic, mechanical coldness of a scientist was a horror they couldn't comprehend.
The Lead Doctor knelt, his medical training taking over. He reached into his utility belt, not for a weapon, but for a medicine—a pressurized vial of concentrated disinfectant and a numbing elixir.
"Lower your guard, Engineer," the Doctor commanded. "This specimen is losing vital fluids. If we want answers in the official tongue, we must stabilize its physiology."
He applied the medicine to the elf's wound. The elf hissed as the chemical worked with a cold, stinging efficiency that no southern mage's spell could match.