Nixion

Nixion: The Wounded and Scarred

Once, the people of Nixion were masters of the deep earth, their society flourishing in magnificent subterranean holds carved from the very roots of the mountains. The air in these cavern-cities hummed not with the silent energy of spell gems, but with the thunderous symphony of steam-powered engines, the thrum of pistons, and the sharp crack of gunpowder. For centuries, Nixion stood as a peer rival to Edenvalia, locked in a great technological race to define the future of the Hegemony—their pragmatic, industrial power a stark contrast to their elegant magitech.

This golden age of innovation came to an abrupt and horrific end nearly two decades ago. From a schism in reality deep within their lowest mines, an unexpected and unholy legion of demons clawed its way into Haven. The invasion was a cataclysm from which Nixion has never recovered. Over the years, two-thirds of their great underground holds were lost to the demonic tide, their halls of industry transformed into pits of slaughter. The survivors were forced into a desperate retreat, spilling onto the barren, windswept surface of the mountains to eke out a harsh new existence in hastily built settlements, while many more fled the commandery entirely. Some, however, took to the skies, constructing advanced skyforts—grim, ironclad bastions of steam and steel that now patrol the desolate peaks, ever-ready to rain cannon fire upon any demonic incursion.

This cataclysm left a deep and festering wound not only on their geography, but on their very soul. The culture of intellectual pursuit and craft perfection was burned away, replaced by the cold, unyielding pragmatism of a people under constant siege. Nixion is now a state under perpetual martial law, its society governed by an absolute military rule that makes even the disciplined order of Ulgartha seem lax. In the ashes of their fallen holds, a new doctrine was forged: That it was the hubris of meddling with magic that tore open the veil to the demonic planes.

Now, a profound and virulent suspicion of the arcane permeates their culture. The practice of the occult is considered heretical, its practitioners segregated in guarded enclaves at best, and at worst, summarily executed by military tribunals. This deep-seated arcanophobia has rendered them tragically isolated, a commandery that stubbornly refuses outside aid, even from their own brethren within the Hegemony. They have chosen to face their demons alone, their pride a formidable, yet perhaps fatal, shield against a darkness they may no longer have the strength to contain.