What is Mercasor? What is this thing that is “Mercasian?”
It is a desert island in the middle of a wrathful sea, where the people never want for food, rain, or navigable waters. It is a land of red tape and bureaucracy, even in the places that have no government to speak of. It is a loose association of washed-up refugees and itinerant wayfinders who have almost nothing in common, but they live together as if they do. It has never known violence, but many of its people have. It is the home to exiles, a woundless land of deep wounds, an Absent North—a thing that should not be.
Again, I ask you: What is Mercasor? What is this thing that is “Mercasian?” Ma`ai, ma`ai. Nobody will give you a straight answer, and I would argue that this itself is the great spirit of the island. It is like a natural law that seems simple, even obvious at first, but bleeds absurd the more you try to understand it.