The mainland

The mainland is not a place where people live—it’s where they end up. It’s a landmass overrun, a necrotic grave crawling with horrors both fungal and forgotten. Settlements are transient. Stability is delusion. The trees here don’t creak—they groan. The swamp itself is hostile, pulsing with residual Infection, radiation, and the ambient presence of something watching. Something that remembers.

There are no true towns, only mobile communities, roving bands, and temporary outposts that vanish as fast as they appear. The Rovers, Tainted, and Saltwise each claim parts of the mainland, but their claims are built more on survival than dominion. Diesel Jocks carve through the underbrush on two-wheeled death machines, waging their own strange wars of speed and ritual along root-choked trails. Among the trees, some of the Unstable still operate—surgeons and scientists who traded licenses for secrecy and now stitch flesh and Infection together in forgotten structures that rot into the canopy.

Mainland visuals are stark: heavy leather, patch-welded armor, mud-soaked fabrics, and occult-wild masks. The aesthetic is “cryptid war cult meets rusted Americana,” a brutalist rejection of style in favor of utility. This is hellbilly country, where belief is instinctual and unspoken, and family is a bond formed at the end of a machete.