The Visiwa vya Shungwe la Hasira Pwani, or the "Islands of Shungwe of the Furious Coast," are a remote and politically charged archipelago located some 800 miles northwest of Il-Wāāt ul'Ihāt Kathira. Comprising three primary islands—Sangwe, Temboa, and Nduya—this island group rises from the easternmost reaches of the Kalij ul'Almach Lahr, forming the outer edge of the Mchanga Hasira coastline. While technically part of the greater Hasira Pwani maritime region, the Shungwe Islands are culturally distinct, fiercely independent, and geographically isolated.
The archipelago takes its name from a legendary Qāāzami sea-watcher named Shungwe, whose bones, it is said, were carried by the tides to every shore in the region before being swallowed whole by the reefs. The name "Hasira Pwani"—the Furious Coast—refers to the violent tidal surges that plague the region, particularly around the Shungwe islands where sudden tidal waves and unseen reefs have claimed countless vessels over the centuries. To this day, the phrase "kumezwa na Hasira Pwani" ("swallowed by the Furious Coast") is a common epitaph for sailors lost at sea.
Despite—or perhaps because of—their dangerous waters, the Shungwe Islands are deeply entwined with the broader culture of the Mchanga Pwanii. They serve as both a sanctuary and a proving ground: a place where corsairs, Seaborn hunters, and outcasts find refuge and challenge in equal measure. Their proximity to Il-Wāāt ul'Ihāt Kathira, and the city-state’s thinly veiled attempts at control, make the archipelago a focal point of regional tension, smuggling, and whispered legends.
The Shungwe Archipelago is as perilous as it is breathtaking. Rising steeply from the Kalij ul'Almach Lahr, the islands are marked by jagged basalt cliffs, hidden inlets, and dense coastal scrub that quickly gives way to rocky interior highlands. The three islands—Sangwe, Temboa, and Nduya—are geologically young and volcanically forged, creating unpredictable terrain and razor-sharp reefs that extend well beyond visible shorelines.
Each island is subject to the violent temperament of Hasira Pwani’s legendary tides. Sudden tidal surges—reaching heights of up to twelve meters—can occur with little warning, and have destroyed countless vessels against the labyrinth of coral and obsidian reefs lying just beneath the waves. These waters are considered some of the most treacherous in the known world, giving rise to the region’s epithet: "the place where the sea punishes hubris."
At night, the ocean glows with an eerie, bioluminescent shimmer—the effect of a magical plankton unique to these waters. This phenomenon, known as Mwanga wa Majini, illuminates the reefs in ghostly light and disorients unfamiliar sailors. It also plays a vital ecological role: the plankton is the primary food source for the samaki ndoto, or dream fish. These elusive, silvery creatures are both revered and exploited, forming the cornerstone of one of the region’s most iconic exports—Garum.
Garum, a fermented fish sauce, is not only central to the region’s cuisine but also prized throughout Sayarii for its unique properties. Its regular consumption is believed to promote health and vitality. While the magical plankton in the samaki ndoto imparts mild psychoactive qualities, the effects are typically softened through fermentation. The result is a culinary staple with a vivid taste and an occasional spark of vision or euphoric clarity.
The strongest vintages—rich with seasonal plankton—are celebrated. Some are blended or refined by culinary thaumaturges who specialize in preserving and enhancing their properties, while others are sold as-is to elite restaurants and specialist chefs. Dishes infused with high-vintage Garum command tremendous prices and draw curious gourmands and risk-taking nobles alike. Gastronomic competitions and seasonal Garum festivals are common in Il-Wāāt ul'Ihāt Kathira, where the sauce is a cultural obsession and major export.
These same reefs also make the region a prized hunting ground. Seaborn corsairs and licensed hunters from both Mji Mkongwe and Il-Wāāt ul'Ihāt Kathira navigate the ever-shifting tides in search of rare game and exotic reef creatures. This has led to escalating territorial disputes. While the people of Mji Mkongwe claim ancestral rights to the archipelago’s waters, commercial fishing vessels from Il-Wāāt ul'Ihāt Kathira continue to operate across the chain, backed by heavily armed naval patrols. Though officially justified as anti-piracy efforts, these regular incursions are widely seen as political muscle-flexing—an act of occupation in all but name.
Despite its volatility, the archipelago remains a place of strange beauty and deep cultural gravity. The tides that kill also sustain, and the dangerous reefs hide not only ruin, but riches.
The relationship between Il-Wāāt ul'Ihāt Kathira and the Free City of Mji Mkongwe is as complex as the tides that churn around the Shungwe islands themselves. While Mji Mkongwe maintains its political independence as a free city, it does so under constant pressure from its larger and more powerful neighbor to the southeast. The Kathira’an navy patrols the region frequently, enforcing its claim to control over shipping lanes and fisheries. Although these actions are framed as anti-piracy efforts, they are widely viewed by locals as calculated displays of dominance.
Despite these pressures, Mji Mkongwe is far from without allies. The floating city-state of Lautara—an influential Seaborn power and a strong political and trade partner to both cities—serves as Mji Mkongwe’s primary shield against outright annexation. Lautaran warships have intervened in the past when Kathira’an forces grew too aggressive, and their naval superiority acts as a powerful deterrent to open conflict.
This triangular alliance is delicate. Il-Wāāt ul'Ihāt Kathira holds Lautara in high regard and hesitates to provoke a confrontation that might endanger the broader political balance. Still, pressure on Mji Mkongwe continues in the form of trade restrictions, naval intimidation, and the insinuation—spoken or unspoken—that the city is a haven for smugglers, fugitives, and pirates. “We know Mji Mkongwe isn’t all smugglers. It’s just mostly gone to rot.” ("Tunajua Mji Mkongwe si wote ni magendo. Lakini karibu yote imegeuka fangasi.")
Yet the city's resilience persists. Rooted in cultural pride, backed by Lautaran alliance, and held together by tight-knit maritime clans and economic ingenuity, Mji Mkongwe remains both a thorn in Kathira’s side and a living monument to defiant autonomy.
The cultural fabric of the Shungwe Archipelago is tightly woven with threads from both the Mchanga Pwanii and the Seaborn peoples. As a crossroads between desert trade winds and oceanic currents, the islands have absorbed centuries of movement, conflict, and myth. Music and oral storytelling are central to life here, especially in Mji Mkongwe, where elders and street performers alike recite poetic histories of storms survived, monsters escaped, and lovers lost to the tide.
Language in the archipelago is fluid and polyglot, with Kawaida serving as the lingua franca, laced with Chumvi slang and ceremonial loanwords from Qāāzana'i Kalima. Many families trace their ancestry to coastal lineages but speak in the rolling cadence of Lautaran dialects. Words for the sea, storm, and sorrow are particularly abundant, and used in both daily speech and ritual invocations.
The people of the islands maintain a deep reverence for the sea, which they call "Mama Fangasi" in folk tales—a name that plays both on the pirate identity and the creeping, fungal inevitability of death by water. Every sailor from Shungwe carries charms against being claimed by the Mto wa Mifupa Iliyomezwa, and ghost stories of drowned ships surfacing under blood moons are common lore. Local superstitions dictate that one must offer a pinch of Garum into the tide before a voyage, or risk being forgotten by the sea spirits.
Seasonal festivals honor not only the harvests of the sea but also commemorate those who have vanished without a trace. The most somber of these, Usiku wa Waliomezwa ("The Night of the Swallowed"), sees lanterns set adrift into the tides while names of the lost are sung into the saltwind.
Though Kathira’an culture may view the region as chaotic or rotted, within the archipelago these customs are considered sacred: a testament to resilience, fluid identity, and a people who have learned to live not despite the sea, but because of it.
The easternmost and largest of the Shungwe Archipelago, Sangwe is the beating heart of the islands and the only one with a permanent settlement: the free city of Mji Mkongwe. Defined by jagged cliffs, stepped cliffs and tiered stone neighborhoods built one above the next along the river’s course, tiered settlements, and the deep-cut course of the Mto wa Mifupa Iliyomezwa, Sangwe’s geography is as volatile as its history. The island stretches nearly 450 kilometers in length but narrows to between 60 and 125 kilometers in width, forming a long, scythe-like curve of stone, brush, and salt.
Outside of Mji Mkongwe, there are no true settlements—only seasonal camps, waystations, and hideouts used by hunters, smugglers, or those seeking to disappear. The name of the river, translated as The River of the Swallowed Bones, is no metaphor. The interaction between the ocean’s relentless tides and the river’s brackish channel creates a tidal backflow of astonishing force. Each high tide pushes seawater—and with it, reef fish, sea mammals, and unwary sailors—upriver, where they meet a lurking danger unique to Sangwe.
The river is home to a species of aggressive, carnivorous shoal fish known locally as mkume wa damu (blood runners). These sleek, silver predators dwell in the deep mud channels near the river mouth, but rise in frenzy when tides reverse. With rows of translucent, serrated teeth and a feeding style best described as swarming attrition, they attack anything caught between the sea and the narrowing upper river. Reef fish, seals, even sharks are shredded in moments. Locals speak grimly of tide-lost fisherfolk and travelers whose remains were never recovered—"mezwa na mkume" (swallowed by the blood runners).
Mji Mkongwe, a dense and labyrinthine free city shaped by Fangasi heritage, where desert caravans offload salt beside storm-beaten hulls, and pirate clans drink with merchant princes beneath cloth-strung alleys, perched along the lower terraces of the river and protected by breakwaters and high stone walls, has learned to live with this rhythm. Its tide-lock gates are engineering marvels of coralcrete and ancient basalt, designed to seal the city’s harbor from both storm surges and the upriver frenzies of the mkume. Despite the danger, or perhaps because of it, life in Sangwe is vibrant, chaotic, and full of salt-weathered resilience. It is here that Garum is processed and exported, pirates are pardoned and commissioned, and rival clans both marry and murder with ceremony. The entire island carries the aura of a city-state in balance with disaster, built where no sane empire would plant its flag.
Temboa measures approximately 150 kilometers across in both length and width, making it the most geographically symmetrical of the three islands.
Temboa is the most ecologically unique of the three islands, known for its vast, flooded lowlands that disappear and reemerge with the tides. During high tide, much of the island’s center is completely engulfed by seawater, transforming the jungle basin into a shimmering archipelago of mangrove islets, brine lagoons, and tide-swept tree canopies. As the water recedes, the landscape reveals a surreal tapestry of exposed tidepools, glistening stone flats, and rich mudbanks crawling with amphibious life.
This ever-shifting cycle has produced a rare and violent ecosystem—one that is as beautiful as it is hostile. The thick jungle canopy towers over flooded basins crisscrossed with salt-slick branches and submerged root networks, while kelp strands and coral growths rise between mangrove roots and fallen trunks, forming tangled, glimmering barricades that are as hazardous to footing as they are to navigation. The flooded jungle teems with creatures adapted to both saltwater and land, many of which are found nowhere else in Sayarii. Iridescent amphibians, stilt-legged predators, and barnacle-scaled serpents inhabit its submerged roots and sun-warmed shallows. Temboa is a favorite haunt of Seaborn hunters and naturalists seeking the rare, the alchemical, and the lucrative—though many never return.
The island is also infamous for its unsettling stillness. The winds shift erratically above Temboa, pushing sails in circles and sowing distrust among sailors. Some speak of lights that hover above the jungle when the tide is highest, or of whispers heard in the shallows. While most such tales are dismissed as superstition, few deny that Temboa is a place where the line between the living and the drowned grows thin.
Mooring at Temboa can be extremely dangerous on the southern side of the island, where the sunken jungles meet the sea. Kelp-choked estuaries, unseen coral ridges, and drifting debris from the flooded basin make navigation hazardous even to experienced sailors. However, safe moorage can be found along the island’s northern coast. A long, rugged ridge of highland rises nearly 800 meters and arcs along the northern spine of the island, separating the treacherous saltwater jungle from the island’s calmer, forested uplands. Here, long beaches and high cliffed shores offer rare respite—though few stay long. No permanent settlement has ever survived, only temporary camps left to rot in the humid air, their bones swallowed by vines and salt.
Nduya is what most imagine when they picture a tropical island: lush, sunlit, and bordered by coral-kissed shores. It measures roughly 160 kilometers by 200 at low tide, though this illusion of size shifts dramatically with the water. At high tide, the island appears to split in two. A long, shallow sand spit vanishes beneath the waves, dividing the main island from a smaller offshoot known as Dada Mdogo—Little Sister. When the tide recedes, the spit reemerges, allowing it to be crossed like a sun-baked highway of soft shell and pink sand.
Though the terrain is far more forgiving than the other islands, Nduya remains uninhabited. It is prized above all as a hunting ground by the Seaborn, who use it seasonally for tracking rare fauna and foraging alchemical ingredients. A few sun-bleached beach camps dot the coasts, but no permanent settlement has ever taken root. Locals agree that the value of Nduya as a wild preserve outweighs any attempt to tame it.
The interior is thick with tropical forest, and though it lacks the tidal violence of Temboa or the shoal-fringed cliffs of Sangwe, Nduya holds secrets of its own. Deep within the underbrush lie the crumbled ruins of pre-Fall structures—half-buried vaults, shattered plazas, and vine-choked towers swallowed by centuries of jungle. Few know of them, fewer still seek them out. For most, Nduya is a place to hunt, to disappear, or to whisper about around driftwood fires and blackened iron pots of boiling Garum.
The Visiwa vya Shungwe la Hasira Pwani are more than a chain of volatile islands—they are a cultural flashpoint, a contested frontier, and a symbol of both decay and defiance in the southern seas. Though technically unclaimed by any single power, the islands sit at the convergence of several competing interests, each vying for control, influence, or simply access.
Il-Wāāt ul'Ihāt Kathira continues to assert itself as the de facto guardian of the region, with naval patrols a frequent and resented presence in the surrounding waters. These operations are officially framed as anti-piracy efforts and environmental protections, but most locals and Seaborn hunters recognize them as an extension of Kathira’s ambition to dominate regional trade and sea-lane authority. Disputes over Garum rights, reef harvesting, and coastal access remain unresolved—and often volatile.
Opposing this slow encroachment is the strategic alliance between Mji Mkongwe and Lautara, whose relationship keeps Kathira’s ambitions in check. Lautara’s diplomatic channels and naval strength prevent outright conflict, but tensions remain high, particularly during the biannual Garum festivals, which see a flood of smugglers, corsairs, and licensed hunters into the region.
Beneath these surface-level disputes lies a murkier power dynamic. The Il'iyo Shambuliwa, agents of the Wapenzi hive-minds that rule Kathira, are known to have informants and quiet footholds on Sangwe—often operating through mercantile fronts or spiritual cults. Their presence in the archipelago is whispered about more than seen, but those who track strange shipments, hushed rites, or mysterious disappearances have reason to believe the Wapenzi's influence may run deeper than the city-state publicly admits.
Meanwhile, the archipelago itself teeters between preservation and plunder. As hunting, smuggling, and relic-seeking grow more frequent, so too does the strain on its ecosystems and ancient sites. Rival pirate factions—some with long-standing Fangasi lineage—compete for access, dominance, and survival. Their conflicts are subtle but escalating, fought through sabotage, double-crosses, and bitter maritime duels far from the eyes of official powers.
Despite these undercurrents of threat, life in the Shungwe Islands continues in its salt-weathered rhythm. Mji Mkongwe thrives in its contradiction—half den of rogues, half haven of independence—and the surrounding islands remain dangerous, wild, and deeply alive. To outsiders, the archipelago is a place of lawlessness. To those who live by its tides, it is home.
Shungwe – The namesake of the archipelago, a legendary Qāāzami sea-watcher whose bones were said to have been scattered by the tides.
Hasira Pwani – "Furious Coast" in Kawaida; refers to the violent tidal surges along this stretch of coastline.
Mto wa Mifupa Iliyomezwa – "The River of the Swallowed Bones"; a tidal river on Sangwe known for carnivorous shoal fish and deadly backflow surges.
Samaki ndoto – "Dream fish"; magical reef fish that feed on hallucination-inducing plankton and are used to make Garum.
Garum – A fermented fish sauce central to regional cuisine and economy; prized for its psychoactive and health-promoting properties.
Mwanga wa Majini – "Light of the Spirits"; refers to the magical bioluminescent plankton that glows in the tides at night.
Fangasi – A Kawaida word meaning both "pirate" and "fungus"; used with layered meaning and cultural weight.
Magendo – Contraband or smuggling; used in reference to Mji Mkongwe’s perception by Kathiran officials.
Usiku wa Waliomezwa – "The Night of the Swallowed"; a somber festival honoring those lost at sea.
Dada Mdogo – "Little Sister"; the smaller of two tidal islands forming Nduya.
Mkume wa damu – "Blood runners"; predatory shoal fish in the river near Mji Mkongwe.
Mama Fangasi – A folkloric name for the sea; both nurturing and destructive, linking pirates to myth and death.