Trodansk

“We all rise together, lest we all fall apart.”

Each fallen father was buried for a lie told by holy knights, that each soul was a step closer to deliverance. The Lycan order worshipping the god of survival, Nonskis, stepped onto the frozen land of Toletiva with a single aim: conquest. Even as their subjects, the native Ciurbellans, fractured like sheets of ice beneath their boot - they continued to press harder. They convinced the hungry tribes that they were the chosen of the wolf god, bestowed lycan rule to finally rise against their neighbours and deliver just vengeance for centuries of perceived wrongdoings.

Armies poured through the twin castles of Tola and Tiva, swarming into the Ascorni woodland and Venia deltas with a fervor to reclaim the wealth that their masters preached lost and deserved. Settlements burned. Populations were slaughtered.

The enemies of Toletiva would repent or face the smite. Mere herds of sheep were they, after all, thus meant to be subservient to their lupine overlords.

It was when the war began to turn against them that the old chieftains of Toletiva finally understood just how low they had fallen. How many souls the Lycan order had funneled into the furnace that was preached to keep them warm, the way that their veins were bled to fill the cups they evangelized would have them sated. All of this was reinforced once they witnessed the abominable pact the Lycan grand master, Aurora Godshate, made with the world’s oldest foe. The final ember had burst, and a shower of sparks had lit the taiga ablaze. The people split into hunters and wolves, local warlords vying for power and allying solely to claim the heads of the Lycan remnants that had led them into an utterly fruitless war. This slaughter extended to Pelagekin that shared in the likeness of the wolf, alienating the significant minority and pressing the land into even deeper, depraved savagery.

In the distant north, where pines gave way to tundra, a man arose. Huszar Prosstesz. It was he that led a force unified not by race or creed, but an idea. The notion of a Toletiva unified once more under a truly fair system. A council which would abandon the old ways of worship by cruelty to others, instead standing to spite their cruel god - just as Nonskis intends it. The movement swiftly gained steam, much in part due to an independent ranger from an isolated hamlet in the frozen fjords who helped their message pierce far toward the south. It took years, but Huszar had finally formed a council which could pressure the local tribes to cease with the bloodshed and acquiesce to law. At last, the blaze of clashing steel had been replaced by the warmth of lit hearths, its piercing ring silenced in favour of discussion.

Now flying the banner and name of Trodansk, the new republic got to work. Huszar took over as Minister of Arms, Stormi Dotter as Minister of Inner Function, Saargoss Cepheus as Minister of Faith, and lastly the position of Minister of Resources was taken by one Motzer Cornaliusz. Each serves a crucial function in maintaining the state, always maintaining delicate webs of informants to monitor the fragile government’s resources and people. Arguments are not a rarity, and Huszar often describes meetings as a “battle worse than the actual war”, but the members are kept in line by the will of a citizen-appointed parliament and their oath: We all rise together, lest we all fall apart. Cursed be the traitor to his homeland.

The scattered levies, each previously loyal to their tribe above all, had been completely transformed. Large settlements were rapidly filled with workshops, a number of ruined villages entirely relocated to sound the forges and weave the cloaks. A doctrine of mobile fortification was established, with teams of engineers forming the backbone of any company. For those not carrying heavy axes and picks, the bardiche and light musket were adopted as standard issue. Charms, totems and personal mementos gleam and chime with every step, for only a fool would demand that a Ciurbellan abandon his heritage. Whoever is unfortunate enough to meet this new force, dubbed the Howling Hunters, are in for an intimidating sight. A column of massive men whose lamellar sings in tune with their march. In chains, they guide their disgraced overlords as slaves of war. As they march into a hail of fire, they only bellow their howling songs - lyrics prophesying your doom.

Trodansk has achieved in a decade with an outreaching hand what the Lycan Order could not force in just as many years of a clenched, iron fist. Ciurbellans are no longer seen as raiders and reclusive savages, but as a people looking to join the world and stand together against the storm. Numerous times has the republic sent their Hunters southward in aid to the Ascorni Federation, to aid in their struggle for survival against the Forest Spirits that lashed out against those usurping their wilderness. But, as a cult stands at their doorstep and their armies stretch to control their borders, can Trodansk withstand the pressures of ethnic diversity while reaching out for the broader world - or will they be crushed from within?