literate roleplay
literate roleplay
literate roleplay
Will you answer the call?
WSE | The White Sand Empire
Answer the call of a sunlit realm where marble cities rise from white dunes, caravans cross crystal-lit nights, and the Lord of Light guides all.
What you get
A Mongolian and Middle Eastern fantasy setting of white sands, palaces, caravans, and sacred magic
OC friendly. Any fantasy species welcome. Non-native visitors are Outlanders and NPCs will treat them as such
Story first. Long arcs or quick one-shots. Solo journals or group campaigns
One of a kind lore and helpful staff
Factions, mounts, caster guns, alchemy, and desert survival hooks
Events, missions, and player-driven consequences
18+ only
A long-running community that's been going for over two decades. Small, niche yet welcoming to those who wish to join.
What we value
Reading the lore so your story shines.
Character growth over power fantasy
Respectful partners and consistent replies
If you want a living world of white dunes, lantern light, and hard-won legends, step into WSE. Write freely. Build your story. The desert is waiting. Join us now. We offer an RP literate Discord and an RP social platform. Pick whichever you prefer.
Current Plot
Summary for our literate roleplay space.
The Pillar Scorned
It is the dawning of the fifth ember. For one hundred and forty seasons, I have ruled these sands, guided by virtue and shaped by duty. Yet duty is a chain that binds even kings. I have served faithfully, but the horizon darkens. The wind carries omens, and the earth trembles beneath the weight of something vast and waking.
The great pillars of the Empire bicker still, blind to the assemblage of shadow. Their hearts are set upon their rivalries, the Verdant courts to the north and the necrotic empress of Hextor to the south, while the true enemy stirs beneath their feet. I've seen it in my dreams: the sands rising like a sea, swallowing citadel and caravan alike. The silence before the scream. The world is turning its gaze away as fire falls from the firmament.
The ash storms grow thicker, their roar like an ensemble of the doggoned. The Nokhoi drifters speak of figures moving through the haze, neither living nor dead. They call to the desert as if answering a memory long buried.
In the temples, the priests speak of calm and meditation, yet I swear I've heard their prayers falter. Even Samara, our radiant Arch Djinn, has withdrawn behind veils of flame. They say she contemplates. I say she trembles. Heresy, I know, but the truth is not dictated by scholars or theologians.
Beyond the Obsidian Canyon, the necrotic gates of Hextor stand ajar. The dead wait in silence as though mustered by a command yet unspoken. The Verdant Dynasty fortifies its borders, its armies poised, its fires stoked, but all their gold and glory will mean nothing when the sky itself turns to cinder.
I do not know if I will be remembered as a tyrant or a prophet. But I know this: the age of peace is ending. The ember wanes and the storm hangs.
And when the silence invariably breaks, it will not come with rain, but with ash and fire…