Atlandias

Atlandias is what happens when a continent decides it would like to be a hymn.

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Even drowned, it will not stop singing.

The Lyceum files speak of marble avenues now buried in silt, of orichalcum spires still pulsing softly under leagues of water, of harmonic towers whose dead chords sometimes shiver through the Thalassian Expanse and make instruments ring in coastal taverns half a world away.

What follows is the Lyceum’s consolidated entry on Atlandias, adapted for Myth Keepers as a living sourcebook. Use it to anchor voyages, conspiracies, and revelations that touch every other continent—and the hidden realm of the Fae.

The Shape of Atlandias:

On the great globe of Gaea, Atlandias lay beyond the Gates of Heracles, west of Haeslios and Krioslos, north of Trikoya, and east of Jaiphora and older stars. In the Flame Epochs, it was the fulcrum of the western oceans; in the present age, it is a drowned diamond beneath the Thalassian Expanse.

Diviners and Orichal reconstructions agree: the continent’s outline was an elongated diamond four thousand miles from the mist-wreathed North Shoals to the fiery Horn of the South. Its four points were not mere accidents of geology. Each anchored a major node of the Harmonic Grid, the Atlantean re-implementation of Gaea’s native ley web.

Three great bands defined its surface.

Closest to the central plateau lay the Inner Heartlands: gently rolling plains and terraced valleys warmed by volcanic vents, irrigated by crystal springs, and braided with canals that gleamed by starlight. Here the soil was dark and slightly luminescent, its fertility enhanced by powdered orichalcum ash. The air smelled of salt, jasmine, and hot metal. The capital rings of Atlassa, the Hill of Cleitos, and most of the Ten Thrones sat within this golden band.

Beyond that stretched the Middle Belt: deltas, orchards, and terraces descending toward the sea. Silver-leafed groves followed irrigation channels; aqueducts walked across the landscape on marble legs. Smaller ring-cities and satellite estates clustered around regional Heartwells where local strands of the Grid surfaced.

Outermost was the Outer Fracture: a rim of broken highlands and island chains, where the land thinned and splintered into storm-haunted archipelagos. Even before the Fall these were harsh places of jagged basalt, lightning-struck cliffs, and black sand beaches. After the cataclysm they became the Sister Isles, the shattered crown of Atlandias.

Beneath all this ran orichalcum veins: metallic rivers of “divine blood” that hummed faintly when touched, and which Atlantean hydrosophs used as both power conduits and memory banks. In places the veins breached the surface as glowing seams; in others they pooled into vast subsurface reservoirs, the fabled Fire-Lakes that fed Atlantean forges and Heart-Engines.

Three features shaped the continent’s personality as strongly as any king.

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• The Thalassian Current spiralled counter-clockwise around Atlandias, a permanent ocean wind and gyre that kept its coasts temperate and its harbours busy. Even now, long after the drowning, the Current still spirals in empty devotion around the absence where the continent once rose.
   

• The Fire-Horns, twin volcanoes at the southern point, threw flame high enough to paint auroras across the sea. The Atlanteans harnessed their eruptions as ritual engines: when the Fire-Horns roared, the Grid brightened, and the continent sang in chords visible from the decks of ships hundreds of leagues away.
   

• The Thalassic Trench, a wound plunging down beneath the western shelf, swallowed light and sound alike. Reports from the Lyceum’s bravest bathysphere pilots mention choirs heard where no lungs could breathe, and pulses of harmonic pressure that feel like a god tapping the hull to see if anyone is home.
   

When the Fall came, the Shattered Coast tore away like glass. Portions of the Middle Belt collapsed into the sea; entire sections of the Outer Fracture broke loose and became the Sister Isles. Yet even in ruin, Atlandias retains its pattern: a drowned diamond of whispering stone, humming metal, and stubborn memory.

Realms of the Ten Rings:

The Atlanteans did not divide their land into provinces first and then crown kings. They did the opposite: ten divine virtues, ten bloodlines, ten ring-realms radiating out from Cleitos Ridge like harmonics around a base note.

Collectively these realms formed the Empire of Atlantis, or the continent of Atlandias, and the ten ruling bloodlines were called simply the Ten Thrones. Around Cleitos Ridge, concentric canals and causeways carved the capital into literal rings; across the rest of the continent, each king’s realm echoed that geometry through law, architecture, and resonance.

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Atlassa — The Heart-Kingdom of Atlas

At the centre sat Atlassa, sovereign realm of Atlas, first among equals and bearer of the Central Throne.

Atlassa encompassed Cleitos Ridge, the Hill of First Breath where Poseidon raised his palace for Cleito, and the innermost ring-harbour. Marble quays embraced a lagoon whose waters were kept perpetually calm by subtle Grid-tuning; molten-light channels ran beneath the streets, allowing barges and trams alike to float on magnetic tides.

Atlas’ emblem was the trident over concentric rings, the symbol of sovereignty harmonised with duty. His Hall of Echoes crowned Cleitos Ridge, an amphitheatre-palace whose walls were lined with memory-stone. Decrees spoken here were automatically etched into the stone, replayable centuries later by anyone who knew the activation phrase.

Atlassa’s people were administrators, arbiters, and architects of empire. They designed the treaties by which Atlantean outposts embedded themselves across Krioslos, Jaiphora, Zesadar, and beyond. They also designed the redundant safeguards meant to prevent any single Throne from turning the Grid to tyranny. Those safeguards failed—yet their remnants still complicate attempts to reactivate Atlantean artifacts.

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The Azaen Dominion — Law Made Marble

Radiating east from the heart, the Azaen Dominion was the realm of Azaes, lord of Law. Where Atlas embodied sovereignty in motion, Azaes embodied structure.

The land here rose into low plateaus carved into terraces of white and blue stone. Courthouses doubled as harmonic resonators: domes and colonnades shaped so that spoken testimony vibrated the walls in specific patterns, recording not words but emotional tone. Later jurists consulted these resonances as evidence, arguing from the “shape” of a trial as much as from its content.

The Hall of Judgment in Azaes’ capital, Heliokrateia, functioned as both supreme court and magical laboratory. Here, Voice-Binders and chronoseers tested new compacts before inscribing them into the Scales of Orichalcum, a set of living metal balances that could feel the imbalance in any oath.

The Azaen Dominion provided magistrates and legal engineers to other continents: arbitrators in Vorynthian disputes, treaty-crafters in Eagren, charter-writers for Zesadari city-states. Atlantean law still lingers in those lands as fossilised phrases and oddly balanced contracts.

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Ampheria — The Tidal Markets

South-east along the Middle Belt lay Ampheria, domain of Ampheres, king of commerce and current.

Its coastline was a necklace of deepwater harbours and layered docks. Cities like Thalassarion and Pelagos-Heptis thrummed with cranes moved by harmonic engines, ships whose keels sang to the Grid, and a babel of tongues from every known continent. Merchant families lived in tower-houses whose foundations extended down into submerged vaults where pearl ledgers—spheres of encased memory—recorded every transaction.

The Hall of Tides stood on an artificial island at the junction of several major currents. Its floors were inlaid with living orichalcum charts that shifted with real-time information: currents, weather, exchange rates, rumours. Ampherian captains learned to “read the floor” as well as the sky.

Through Ampheria, Atlandias extended merchant nets to the river ports of Jaiphora, the coastal kingdoms of Zesadar, and the archipelagos of Uatora. Their caravels and flying Sea-Seraph arks were a common sight in every major harbor until the day they all vanished beneath walls of water.

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Mnesea — The Archive Coasts

North–east of Atlassa stretched Mnesea, realm of Mneseus, whose dominion was Memory.

If Atlassa kept law and Ampheria counted coin, Mnesea hoarded experience. The coastline here was riddled with sea caves turned into Hall-Archives, their walls coated with crystalline coral and attuned to the Harmonic Grid. Mnesean archivists hung spheres of liquid crystal in these spaces: each sphere a captured memory, a conversation, a dream.

The capital, Anamnestis, climbed a ridge above a bay where the sea often lay as still as polished glass. At its crest, the Hall of Archives opened onto a balcony with no railing. Mnesean adepts stood there, eyes closed, listening to the surf. Each wave that broke carried remembered echoes from across the empire, translated through the Grid.

Mnesean echo-voyagers travelled as far as Eagren’s Temple of the Elements, Zesadar’s Prism Basilica, and the Orichal Vault of Aural Memory. Agreements between the Lyceum and surviving Mnesean lineages form the backbone of the modern-world practice of Memory Riders in Jaiphora.

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Autochthon’s Forge-Marches

To the south of Atlassa, the land clenched around fire. Here lay the realm of Autochthon, master of forge and fault line.

The Forge-Marches were a quilt of volcanic calderas, obsidian fields, and stepped foundry-cities built into the sides of still-warm flows. Rivers of orichalcum ran in open channels alongside molten lava, and the air thrummed with heat mirages and the ring of hammers.

In the capital, Pyraustis, the Hall of Flame contained the Heart-Forge Anvil, an artifact whose surface never cooled and never warped. Autochthon’s Artisans of Flame used it to smelt orichalcum, shape pelagite (living stone that “remembered” footsteps), and bind fire elementals into constrained service. Many of the Heart-Engines that would later power Atlantean ships, towers, and outposts were born here.

Through Autochthon’s networks, technical and magical knowledge flowed outward: cryopyra astheorems were traded with Vludrian Forgeseers; resonance-metallurgy was delayed but eventually shared with the Iron Marches of Krioslos; schematics for safe geothermal tapping went to Eagren’s Ember Court. “Safe” proved a relative term.

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Elasippus’ War-Hosts

Along the south-western arc of Atlandias stretched the Elasippan Marches, martial realm of Elasippus, king of chariots, steeds, and war.

The terrain here was a mix of scrub plains and low ridges, perfect for training cavalry and war-machines. Barracks turned into small cities; manoeuvre grounds doubled as ritual arenas where warriors practised not just formations but harmonic battle-chants. Crimson banners woven with orichalcum thread fluttered day and night, absorbing the oaths and fear of those who marched beneath them.

The capital, Hippothoa, overlooked cliffs studded with stables carved directly into rock. The Hall of Valor served as both war council and shrine—its inner dome painted with scenes of battles both won and wisely avoided. Elasippus’ generals campaigned on every continent: suppressing rebellions in far-flung Atlantean colonies, serving as “advisors” to Krioslan kings, and conducting punitive expeditions when tribute faltered.

Their famed war-tridents could split lightning; their Abyssal Golems, birthed in Autochthon’s forges but commanded by Elasippan war-priests, still stand silent in some ocean trenches, awaiting a recall signal that has not sounded in millennia.

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The Mestrian Lyric Cantons

North-west of Atlassa lay a gentler realm: rolling hills, acoustically perfect valleys, and cities built like instruments. This was Mestria, domain of Mestor, king of song.

The people here were Lyric Priests, choristers, and echo-wrights. Houses were grown or carved to produce specific resonant tones when wind moved through their eaves. Streets curved not for topography but for sound; any given plaza could, with the right chant, become an amplifier capable of affecting Grid-tuned devices across the continent.

The capital, Eurynome, surrounded the Hall of Harmony, whose central chamber was a double-helix auditorium. Here, Mestrian choirs trained in the art of Voice-Binding: using melody and precise intervals to forge pacts, heal trauma, or shatter lesser enchantments. From this culture came many of the lullabies and battle-songs later adapted by Jaiphora’s Wind Speakers and the Dreamkin of Uatora.

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Euaemon’s Phoenix Coast

To the west, where the Inner Heartlands leaned toward the stormy seas of the Outer Fracture, lay Euaemonia, realm of Euaemon, lord of flame and renewal.

Wildfires were not feared here; they were curated. Forests of fire-resistant trees stood in mosaic blocks, rotated through burn and regrowth cycles overseen by druids and hydrosophs. Ash from these cycles fed unique crops and rare herbs, many later sought by Zesadari Solar Choirs and Eagrean Ember Dancers.

The capital, Phoenikaion, rose above a series of terraced hot springs coloured by mineral deposits. The Hall of Renewal contained the Eternal Censer, a suspended orb in which incense and orichalcum powder burned constantly, exuding vapours used in rites of reincarnation, memory-reweaving, and psychological healing.

Euaemon’s people became specialists in post-cataclysm care. When an Atlantean outpost in Zesadar was nearly obliterated by a solar storm, it was Euaemonian adepts who supervised the ritual healing of the traumatized survivors. After the Fall, many of those adepts returned to the sea as merfolk shamans.

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Evaemon’s Skystep Isles

Near the northern point of the diamond rose the Skystep Isles, a cluster of tall, narrow islands and levitating mesas under the aegis of Evaemon, king of sky and navigation.

Here Atlantean aether-ships were born. Floating drydocks clung to cliffs while air-currents hummed under the influence of local Harmonic Towers. The capital, Anemos, straddled both land and sky: its lower streets hugging the island’s base, its upper ring of towers and platforms hanging from invisible tethers of Grid-force.

In the Hall of Wind, navigators studied star-charts etched into crystal globes, watched cloud movements in scrying bowls, and consulted the Compass of Dawn, an artifact that aligned not to north but to the greatest nearby source of unbalanced magic. Evaemon’s captains plotted the first reliable cross-oceanic routes to Uatora, Jaiphora, and the western coasts of Eagren; some scholars argue that it was their curiosity that first drew Atlantean attention to the fae anomalies of Tir na nOg.

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Diaprepes’ Veiled Dominion

Finally, folding like a hood around the north-western arc of the Outer Fracture, lay the Veiled Dominion of Diaprepes, whose virtue was Silence.

From outside, Diaprepan villas and observation towers looked like any other Atlantean architecture. From within, their corridors bent sound away; their windows looked out on illusory vistas. The realm specialised in shadow-craft, secrecy, and absences.

The capital, simply called Noctis, held the Hall of Shadows, whose central chamber, the Mirror of Stillness, contained a sheet of orichalcum-glass so perfect it reflected not light but intent. Those judged here faced their own inward bent—seeing, in the mirror, what they were about to do rather than what they had just done.

Diaprepes’ agents ran Atlantean intelligence operations across the world: listening posts in Vludria, silence-chapels in Zesadar, and discreet “listening stones” in the courts of Shen-Lai and the Tjarruna Confederation. Their records, those that survive in Mnesean caches, contain the first sustained mortal descriptions of Tir na nOg and its Seelie and Unseelie Courts.

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Faith and the Harmonic Gods:

Atlantean religion bound sea, sky, and memory together into a single choir.

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The Poseidonic Triad

At its heart stood the Poseidonic Triad: Poseidon, Cleito, and Atlas.

Poseidon was worshipped not just as god of sea and storm, but as architect of equilibrium. His trident appeared on maps, verdicts, and engine housings alike. Cleito embodied the mortal bridge to the divine—her palace on Cleitos Ridge reminding Atlanteans that the gods had once found a single human worth raising above the tides. Atlas, the Central Throne, was more than a king: he was the living representative of the Triad’s third aspect, Law in Motion.

Devotions were as much engineering as prayer. Offerings of polished shell and moonwater were poured over small orichalcum shrines; if the metal sang back in clear thirds, Poseidon was pleased.

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Oceanids, Helions, and Abyssal Mothers

Around the Triad clustered host upon host of lesser deities.

The Oceanid Synod comprised storm-spirits, current-guardians, and abyssal powers. Sailors in Ampheria or Elasippus’ hosts carried coral charms etched with the rune of Nereith, goddess of safe passage, and poured libations to Dhomaios, lord of shipwrecks, to appease him into indifference.

Above the sea, the Helions of the Sky—solar and star deities—spoke to navigators and philosophers. Below, the Abyssal Mothers represented the primordial womb, the depths from which both life and orichalcum had arisen. Atlantean mystics saw them not as rivals, but as different registers of the same cosmic song.

Maintaining balance between these was the work of the Veiled Chorus, an order of monks who practised underwater meditation until they entered the Still Deep, a state where sound lost pitch and thought dissolved into pure intention. Their chants shaped the Grid; their mistakes left subtle scars still visible in Krioslos’ auroras and Subrora’s echo patterns.

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Other Pantheons as Refractions

Atlantean philosophers, especially those trained in the Lyceum of Waves, regarded the gods of other continents as regional expressions of a unified cosmic structure. Ra’s sun-disc, Shin’Ra’s sky-dragon, Wandjari’s Great Songmaker—each was, in this view, a local face of the same underlying principle.

This did not prevent the Atlanteans from being patronising about it.

Their missionaries—more often scholars than priests—built Harmonic Shrines in Krioslan, Zesadari, and Eagrean cities, aligning local sacred spaces with Atlantean Gridpoints. This brought blessings and stability… and also made those regions frighteningly vulnerable when the Grid in Atlandias inverted.

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The People of Atlandias:

Atlanteans were not a race so much as a tuning. Their bodies and minds were trained from birth to resonate with Gaea’s veins and with the Harmonic Grid layered atop them.

In physical terms, they tended toward bronze or deep olive skin, hair that took and held light, and eyes flecked with metallic hues. At night, those eyes reflected constellations with unnerving clarity, a side-effect of subtle orichalcum traces in the iris.

More telling than their appearance was their presence. Atlanteans often seemed to “arrive” in a room a heartbeat before their bodies did: conversations fell into rhythm around them; ambient sound softened or sharpened by unconscious resonance control.

Their homes floated on magnetised pelagite, living stone tuned to the Grid. Neighbourhoods shifted gently with the tides, turning a storm into a slow choreography of movement. Street lamps were crystal corals grown to glow in patterns that reflected the emotional mood of the district.

Festivals synchronized with celestial and oceanic cycles, particularly the equinox tides when Lunara’s reflection appeared in the sea like a third sun. On those nights, the entire capital seemed to chant under its breath.

Social structure was complex. Thalassarchs—nobles from the Ten Lines—occupied the highest tiers, but prestige also attached to hydrosophs (mage-engineers), Lyric Priests, master Mariners, and the Artisans of Flame. The lowest strata were not slaves but untuned—those who, by illness or temperament, could not safely harmonise with the Grid. Atlantean arrogance toward other cultures sat uneasily beside an ethos of internal stewardship; the untuned were protected and pitied, never exploited.

Language reflected this layering. Everyday speech flowed like water, full of sibilants and long vowels designed to sit comfortably within background harmonic hum. Ritual speech was more formal, constructed as audible geometry: chant-phrases whose intervals mapped onto sacred ratios. Beyond both lay the Harmonic Language itself: not words but patterns of pitch, rhythm, and mental intent transmitted through resonance. Two Atlantean hydrosophs could “speak” across a crowded dockyard without moving their lips, using the Grid as their conduit.

Education began with lullabies. Infants learned meter and call-and-response before vocabulary. In the Lyceum of Waves, students slept in slowly rotating dormitories whose windows tracked star paths; they learned history in echo chambers that replayed scenes from Mnesean memory spheres; they practised focusing emotion into single pure tones until they could calm a crying child or disrupt a minor spell with a hum.

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Harmonic Technology and Atlantean Magic:

To speak of “technology” and “magic” as separate disciplines in Atlandias is to misunderstand the place. Everything that functioned, functioned because it fit into the song.

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Orichalcum and Living Materials

Orichalcum was the empire’s signature medium: a golden-red crystal-metal that responded to thought, stored emotional traces, and conducted ley-energy more efficiently than any known substance. It was smelted in Autochthon’s forges, tempered under Euaemon’s flame, and tuned in Mestrian chambers until it learned the purpose it would serve.

Weapons forged from orichalcum developed personalities: a spear that had tasted cowardice might resist being lifted by its wielder the next time fear took him; a war-trident that had struck down a betrayer might hum angrily in the presence of similar treachery.

Pelagite, living stone infused with Grid resonance, lined streets and ship decks. Over time it reshaped itself subtly under familiar feet, creating a physical record of traffic patterns. Pilgrimages in Mestria often involved walking ancient pelagite paths and listening—literally feeling in knee and sole—the journeys of those who came before.

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Aether-Engines and Sea-Seraph Arks

Power in Atlandias came from aether-engines: complex Heart-Engines that linked the Harmonic Grid, orichalcum cores, and local geologic features. Each engine sang its own three-note chord; together, they built the Chord of Poseidon that stabilised weather and tides.

The most spectacular use of these engines were the Sea-Seraph Arks: flying ships shaped like whales of light, their hulls a lattice of orichalcum and pelagite. Hydrosophs and Evaemonian sky-captains steered them along invisible mana-currents, crossing oceans in hours. In wartime, their underslung weapon-pods could project harmonic shockwaves strong enough to shatter fortifications or silence enemy spellcasters.

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The Harmonic Network

The greatest and most dangerous Atlantean achievement was the Harmonic Network itself: a continent-spanning web of towers, shrines, and undersea pylons that linked not only Atlandias but outposts on every other continent.

Each Harmonic Tower resonated at a specific pitch associated with one of the Ten Virtues. Together, they created a planetary chord mapped against Gaea’s native leylines and even, in some speculative designs, the Orichalcum Core of Subrora.

In its benevolent mode, the Network smoothed storms, dampened seismic spikes, and allowed instantaneous long-distance communication for those trained in the Harmonic Language. In its malignant mode—triggered when broken oaths and overreach warped its calibration—it amplified faults, inverted beneficial resonances, and transformed the entire continent into a weapon aimed at itself.

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Schools of Magic

Atlantean spellcasting was as specialized as its politics.

Hydromancers shaped water into semi-living constructs, manipulated salinity to lift or drop ships, and carved paths through storms. Some maintained permanent “roadways” of calm water between major ports, subtle as glass on an otherwise choppy sea.

Chronoseers used the reflective surfaces of still ponds and silver mirrors to view patterns of possibility. They did not see fixed futures, but interference patterns showing how likely certain outcomes were if specific notes were played in the present.

Geomantic Architects tuned stone and soil. With a chorus and a grid-linked design, they could raise entire citadels in days, each block falling into place with the inevitability of a chord resolving.

Voice-Binders in Mestria forged oaths in song. Breaking such a pact reverberated painfully along the bound parties’ nervous systems, and—more importantly—echoed into the Grid as a distortion. It was these distortions, building up over years of imperial compromise and quiet cruelty, that primed the Network to collapse catastrophically.

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Atlandias and the Wider World (and the Hidden One):

Atlantis never existed in isolation. It is stitched into the bones of every other continent—and into the border-realm of the Fae.

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Krioslos and Haeslios: The First Bridges

Early in the Age of the Ten Kings, Atlantean ships made landfall on the coasts of Haeslios and Krioslos. There they found cultures already under the tutelage of Olympian and other pantheons, yet hungry for trade and knowledge.

In Thalassia on Krioslos’ southwestern shore, they built the first Harmonic Beacon outside Atlandias: a tower that coupled Atlantean chords to local leylines. Over time, this beacon influenced Krioslan approaches to law, geometry, and aqueduct construction. The Lyceum of the Ancients owes some of its earliest structural sigils to Atlantean lecturers who wintered in Draecathios and argued with Archivist Vayne’s predecessors over wine and glowing charts.

On Haeslios, Atlantean outposts along the coasts exchanged agricultural lore for ore and timber. Moonfury Barracks in Vludria maintain sealed vaults of Atlantean equipment, some still too dangerous to uncrate.

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Jaiphora and the Art of Resonance

To Jaiphora, Atlantis brought crystal, and Jaiphora returned song.

Atlantean merchants and Lyric Priests worked alongside Jaiphoran Wind Speakers and Riverkin to craft echoes that could store not just sound but emotion. The echo-stones of Namarra and the memory-crystals of Mnesea share a direct lineage. The idea that sound, once made, is never truly lost—central to Jaiphoran philosophy—was first articulated jointly by Mnesean archivists and Echoran Dawn Scribes sitting around a shared fire.

Later, when the Harmonic Network collapsed, Jaiphoran Resonance Craft developed partly in reaction: a promise never again to weaponize song at such a scale.

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Trikoya and the Blooded Circle

In Trikoya, Atlantean hydrosophs found a continent already saturated with Hematurgy—blood as medium and power. They tread very carefully.

Atlantean embassies in Quirashal traded orichalcum tools for access to oracular rites and an understanding of the Circle of Breath. Some scholars argue that Euaemon’s techniques of renewal and certain Atlantean reincarnation theories were refined here, in dialogue with Yochan’s Death Singers and Chual’s Gentle Monks.

In turn, Trikoyan Serpent Engines and blood-crystal aethertech fascinated Atlantean engineers, who recognised a parallel to their own Orichalmantic engines. Uncomfortable parallels between Atlantean Grid-sacrifice and Trikoyan Hematurgy were seldom discussed aloud.

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Eagren and the Elemental Accord

In Eagren, Atlantean envoys bowed to the Temple of the Elements in Auralis and meant it… mostly.

Atlantean aether-ships took part in early mapping of the Gaea’s Veins alongside Eagrean monks. The Order of the Jade Steps travelled aboard Evaemonian Sky-arks to record natural harmonies across oceans. In turn, Atlantean geomantic architects imported Eagrean notions of balance between Fire, Earth, Air, and Water into their Grid calculations, ultimately incorporating a proto-concept of Gaenai, the Fifth Element, into late-stage Network designs.

Those designs failed to account for Pride as a sixth element.

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Uatora and the Dreaming Lines

With Uatora, contact was stranger.

Atlantean pilots reported that Harmonic Towers built on Uatoran soil behaved unpredictably. Songlines twisted around them; Wandjari’s dream-songs seeped into the Grid, blurring distinctions between memory and possibility. The Tjarruna Confederation tolerated Atlantean presence only under strict conditions: no large-scale Orichalmancy, no attempts to “rationalise” the Dreaming into Atlantean terms.

Some Mestrian Lyric Priests stayed anyway, fascinated. The modern Uatoran arts of Dreamcraft carry faint Atlantean undertones: geometric -shaped sand gardens, echo phrases in Wandjara that map suspiciously well onto Atlantean ritual speech.

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Zesadar and the Solar Mirrors

In Zesadar, Atlandias met equals in radiance.

Atlantean mirror-craft inspired, and was inspired by, the glass geometries of the Prism Basilica in Ith’Kara. Zesadari Solar Choirs discerned Atlantean chords in sunlight; Atlantean hydrosophs recalibrated their engines after seeing how Zesharic priests shaped heat into weapon and medicine.

Atlantean Mirror Vaults in Ith’Kara acted as relay stations in the Harmonic Network. When the Grid inverted, those vaults flared, and portions of the Sunspire Desert glassed under cascading resonance. Zesadari myths of the Age of Blood and Glass remember Atlantean participation only as “sky-voices that cracked.”

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Vludria and the Frozen Crown

With Vludria, Atlantis had a more cautious relationship. Both recognised the other as stewards of dangerous planetary engines: Kryathor’s heartfire in Vludria, the Harmonic Grid in Atlandias.

Autochthonic emissaries and Vludrian Forgeseers traded theories of heat and cold. At least one Atlantean envoy, the Lyric-Smith Helion of the White Forge, spent decades at the Monastery of the Silent Flame learning Cryopyra. His later work on failsafes in the Grid may be one reason Gaea survived the Fall as well as she did.

Moonfury Barracks still watch the drowned plateau from Vludrian vantage points, wary of any sign that Atlantean engines might restart uncontrolled.

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Subrora and the Orichal

Finally, there is Subrora.

Atlantean Orichalmancy is a derivative art. The Orichal of Nirakar were using orichalcum to think reality into being long before Poseidon ever raised a staircase of water. Atlantean records admit this, though rarely in public speeches.

In the Age of Expansion, a handful of Atlantean expeditions reached Subrora’s ice shelves and, through terrible luck or providence, found ways down to the outer galleries of Nirakar. There, human mages stood in halls carved by beings of light and listened to lectures on the principles “All Matter Remembers,” “All Thought Shapes,” and “All Energy Returns.”

Everything Atlanteans later did with the Grid was shaped by those principles—and by the Orichal’s stark warnings about what happens when you forget them.

When the Grid failed, the shockwave reverberated down into the Orichalcum Core. Custodians there altered their own protocols. Some Orichal blame Atlanteans for forcing Nirakar into its Age of Silence earlier than it might otherwise have come.

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Tir na nOg and the Fae Compact

Beyond mortal continents lies Tir na nOg, realm of the Fae. Atlanteans were among the first humans to catalogue it as a real geography, not just omen and dream.

Ampherian mariners and Evaemonian sky-captains, chasing anomalies in cloud and current, stumbled upon islands that should not exist on any map—and sometimes did not exist there on the same day twice. Mestrian Lyric Priests listened to the music of those places and realised that the key was wrong: the harmonies were sideways to Gaea’s.

Diaprepan emissaries eventually negotiated a series of Crossroad Compacts with the Seelie Court. Atlantean Tir-Anchors—standing stones braided with orichalcum and fae crystal—were raised on Atlandias and in hidden groves on Haeslios, Jaiphora, and Uatora. Through these, select individuals could pass between Gaea and Tir na nOg along controlled paths.

The Fae taught Atlanteans about glamour and untime; Atlanteans taught Fae about structures of obligation more complex than a simple name bargain. For a time, this worked.

When the Grid inverted, most Tir-Anchors shattered or went dark. Some imploded, sucking small regions of Gaea into fae mists; others tore gashes in Tir na nOg, letting mortal logic leak into places it was never meant to go. The Seelie remember this as one of the first great betrayals by “the Stone-Singers below the Sea.”

Remnant Anchors still exist. A Myth Keeper can use them to send players into a version of Tir na nOg that is already partially contaminated by Atlantean rationality—and vice versa.

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Epochs of Atlandias:

Atlantean scholars loved to divide time into epochs, each associated with a particular tuning of the Grid.

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First Epoch — The Gift of Poseidon

In this myth-historical age, Poseidon’s trident rose from the ocean floor, drawing up a plateau of gleaming stone and nascent orichalcum. He crafted Cleito’s palace on the hill that would bear her name and, with her, fathered ten sons. Each received a ring-realm, a virtue, and a portion of the Grid’s authority.

The Harmonic Network in this age was local, matching Gaea’s native leys but not yet overlaying them. Atlanteans were few; gods walked their streets in person.

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Second Epoch — The Age of the Ten Kings

Population grew, and with it complexity. The Ten Thrones convened in the Temple of Poseidon on the Lake of Mirrors, swearing the Accord of Ten Rings every five and six years alternately. In those rituals, their reflections merged on the lake’s surface—a literal test of unity, for any discordant thought would disrupt the illusion.

Atlantean technology blossomed. The Lyceum of Waves formalised its curriculum; the first Sea-Seraph Arks took flight. Outposts sprouted abroad, but Atlanteans still thought of themselves as stewards, not conquerors. The Grid was tuned to protect, not exploit.

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Third Epoch — The Great Expansion

Curiosity sharpened into ambition.

Atlantean colonies on other continents ceased to be humble embassies and became Pillar Domains: territories anchored to Atlandias by Harmonic Towers, feeding resources and information back home. The War of the Pillars began when one such domain in Zesadar refused to cede control of its own Mirrorcraft.

Elasippan war-hosts and Diaprepan saboteurs crushed the rebellion, but not without cost. For the first time, Atlantean weapons devastated non-Atlantean sacred sites on a large scale. The resulting echo of rage and grief in the leys left scars Mnesean chronoseers could not easily model.

Meanwhile, Grid expansion continued. By the end of this epoch, Atlandias sat at the centre of a planet-wide resonant lattice. Many of the great feats attributed to “Atlantean magic”—weather control, long-distance healing, suppressing entire plagues—date from this overconfident age.

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Fourth Epoch — Moral Fall and the Flood

Hubris has a pitch. The Lyceum did not hear it in time.

As generations passed, the Ten Thrones grew more concerned with prestige, rivalry, and subtle dominion than with stewardship. Azaen jurists rewrote compacts to favour Atlantean advantage; Ampherian merchant-lords pushed debtor realms into dependent cycles; Elasippan generals tested new weapons not because they were needed but because they were possible.

Each broken promise, each exploitative treaty, each quiet atrocity in a far-off colony registered as a discordance in the Grid. The Chord of Poseidon, once stabilising, began to accumulate unexpected harmonics. Evaemonian Navigators noticed air currents behaving oddly. Eagren’s Temple of Elements reported unexplained “noise” in their own bells. Orichal Custodians in Subrora detected troubling feedback.

The final break is remembered differently in different cultures. In Atlantean tradition, one unnamed king broke the oath of the Accord in a moment of fear or greed, using the Network to crush a rival Throne. In others, the Grid itself reached a tipping point, inverting the benevolent mode it had been straining to maintain.

Whatever the trigger, the effect was the same: the chord flipped.

Harmonic Towers began pouring energy into faults instead of dampening them. Tidal forces twisted; the Fire-Horns roared uncontrollably; the Thalassic Trench yawned wider; shockwaves raced along mana-currents to colonies worldwide. In “a single day and night of misfortune,”—as the old phrase has it—the diamond continent cracked, tilted, and slid beneath waves that glowed with orichalcum lightning.

The Grid collapsed with it, tearing loose from Gaea’s natural leys in screaming disharmony. Many of the Great Freeze’s worst climate anomalies trace back, in Lyceum models, to this moment.

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Fifth Epoch — Silent Millennia

Atlantis drowned—but did not entirely die.

Survivors clung to floating pelagite districts, fled along mana-currents in crippled Sea-Seraph Arks, or sank into the sea by choice, trusting in hydromantic adaptation. Over generations, some lines became merfolk and deepwater tribes, their bodies changed by Hematurgy, Grid residue, and Trikoyan whispers. Their songs became myths in coastal oral traditions, especially in Jaiphora and Uatora.

On land, Atlantean refugees and descendants scattered: sailor lineages in Thalassia, artisan-families in Eagren’s port cities, mysterious “sea-blooded” mages in Zesadar whose eyes glowed faintly when storms rolled in. Their knowledge degraded but never vanished. Echoes of the Lyceum’s methods appear in Jaiphoran Memory Rider practices, in Uatoran stone-song carving, in Eagrean aether-gliders.

Beneath the sea, Atlantean structures went dark but remained. Orichalcum does not corrode easily; pelagite holds shape. In pockets where Grid fragments still align with Gaea’s leys, towers hum; in others they lie dormant, their last thoughts frozen in metal and waiting for someone reckless enough to touch them.

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Sixth Epoch — The Reawakening

In 1975 AGF, the Lyceum formally confirmed what sailors and dreamers had whispered for generations: Atlantis stirs.

Lower ocean levels in some regions, subtle shifts in local currents, and faint harmonic pulses detected by Echoran and Orichal instruments all converged. Explorers found submerged arches that sang when waves struck them, glyphs that pulsed under moonlight, and harmonic crystals that lit up when brought near modern ley-conduits.

The Atlantean Codex—this very document—was compiled from fragments recovered by Lyceum divers, Jaiphoran Memory Riders, and Subrora’s reluctant Orichal consultants. Mnesean descendants emerged from hiding with spheres and songs. Trikoyan Hematurgists reported dreams of whales of light circling dead cities.

The drowned continent is not about to rise whole from the deeps… but neither is it silent. Individual towers and Heart-Engines are waking. Each activation risks repeating the same mistakes on a smaller but still ruinous scale.

For Myth Keepers, this is the live wire: Atlandias as a half-remembered god-machine slowly coming back online.

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Bringing Atlandias to Your Table:

In your campaign, Atlandias is many things at once: a lost homeland, a cautionary tale, a treasure-hoard, a backstage control room for the entire world.

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You can present it as:

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• Mythic-High: PCs descend into shining, air-filled domes where Atlantean descendants still maintain small sections of the Grid, torn between using it to heal the world and fearing it will break again.
   

• Techno-Arcane: Adventurers salvage Heart-Engines from drowned towers, jury-rigging ancient aether-tech into airships, weapons, or city-shields—earning the wary attention of Orichal Custodians and Fae alike.
   

• Post-Cataclysmic: Survivors of a new disaster seek answers in old ruins; players walk through a drowned library whose stacks are made of coral and glass, each shelf still whispering in Atrantic.
   

The Empire of Atlantis, including all ten rings of Atlandias, gives you ready-made factions:

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• Atlas-line stewards obsessed with restoring “rightful order.”
   

• Azaen juris-mages trying to bind new global compacts so the Grid (or its successor) can return safely.
   

• Ampherian merchant-prince syndicates rebuilding trade with an eye toward never being subject to a central Throne again.
   

• Mnesean archivists desperate to recover enough of the past to avoid repeating it.
   

• Autochthonic forge-clans hoarding orichalcum as if it were both sacred relic and strategic resource.
   

• Elasippan war-veterans bound to ancient Crimson Banners that still remember the taste of conquest.
   

• Mestrian Lyric Circles caught between their history as Voice-Binders and Jaiphoran vows never to weaponize song.
   

• Euaemonian phoenix-orders who see the Fall as purgation and the present age as a chance to rise better.
   

• Evaemonian sky-navigators who know where the remaining Tir-Anchors are and are not telling.
   

• Diaprepan shadow-families who have never stopped working—quietly modulating what is known, where, and by whom.
   

Beyond them stand other worlds: Orichal watching from Subrora, Elemental Thrones in Eagren, Dreamkin in Uatora, Seelie and Unseelie in Tir na nOg who still hold grudges and favours.

Archivist Vayne closes the expanded Codex with a line the Lyceum now prints in red ink:

“Atlantis did not fall because it was great.
It fell because it forgot that greatness is a relationship, not a right.
If it rises in your story, remember: the sea does not punish—it remembers.
And in that remembrance, so do we.”