This section is currently under construction. 

TThe Rukliv, an ancient dwarven people from the distant western mountains, migrated to the Obsidian Mountains during the First Era, drawn by the region’s unparalleled mineral wealth. There, vast veins of jade, silver, sapphire, copper, iron, gold, and the exceedingly rare Aurite fueled the rise of the first city-states, built directly atop these immense deposits. Brolvik, founded in 533 FA, was the first Rukliv city-state in the Obsidian Mountains. 

These cities flourished amid splendor and opulence, where the Rukliv dwarves lived like demigods within walls of precious stone and halls adorned with gleaming metals. Yet behind the growing wealth lurked a structural problem: a chronic shortage of labor. As production in the mines and farms declined, a silent crisis took hold, threatening to erode the very foundations of Rukliv power.

Faced with the need to maintain the productive machinery and an insatiable hunger for more riches, the city-states — already well consolidated by 887 FA — decided to unite in an unstable and militarized confederation, born as much from convenience as from necessity. Before a definitive union was achieved, local rivalries still sparked conflicts among the cities themselves, but these confrontations proved to be valuable lessons. From them emerged military innovations and tireless forges that operated day and night, crafting swords, axes, and armor for future campaigns. War had become not only a means of expansion but the very essence of Rukliv survival.

The first victims of this expansionist offensive were the many orc tribes that inhabited the slopes and valleys surrounding the Obsidian Mountains. The conquests extended eastward, westward, and southward, where fertile lands hosted numerous orc groups that were subdued one by one. Captured prisoners were sent en masse to sustain the engines of Rukliv civilization: in the bottomless mines, in subterranean mushroom farms, and in the sawmills that fed monumental furnaces. The labor was inhuman, the conditions brutal, and death became routine — dozens perished daily under the relentless yoke of an empire built on the sweat and blood of the defeated.

These wars of expansion and conquest forced many orc tribes to migrate from the Red Steppes to the tropical regions of the south, in what is now Svendar, and the Rukliv troops, ever in search of new slaves, followed the orc migratory flows southward.

In 1344 FA, at the height of their expansion, the Rukliv crossed the mountainous southeastern borders and encountered the Vertskli, another dwarven people who had also founded their own city-states. Coexistence was brief. With strategic coldness, the Rukliv launched a devastating campaign that resulted in the systematic conquest of the Vertskli citadels. The resistance was fierce but ineffective against the Rukliv war machine, and one by one the strongholds fell under relentless siege, with the last Vertskli fortress falling in 1491 FA.

However, the greatness of the Rukliv Empire also became its burden. As the centuries passed, the expanded territory exceeded the limits of central administration. Internal disputes and rivalries between citadels became frequent, threatening to dissolve the confederation into chaos. To avoid an open civil war, the eastern and western regions began drifting apart politically and culturally by 1979 FA. The eastern portion, in particular, began to display increasing autonomy and hostility toward foreigners and even its own allies. 

From this division, supported by wealthy slave merchants, emerged the Rukliv Supremacy — a militarist and supremacist faction that would mark the empire’s final centuries with its authoritarian rigor and slaveholding ambitions. In the thirty-second year of the Second Era, the eastern portion of the declining Rukliv Confederation, shaped by growing differences in culture, government, and ambition, broke definitively from central authority, triggering a long and exhausting fratricidal war. 

The conflict took the form of a war of attrition and prolonged skirmishes, where the silence of the caverns and the darkness of the underground tunnels concealed ceaseless fighting between armies that had once marched side by side. On the mountain surfaces, the war took on even more brutal contours, with columns of soldiers and battalions of slaves hurled as cannon fodder against the walls of fortified citadels, in suicidal offensives that seemed to defy even the limits of strategic reason.

For nearly ninety years, marked by long periods of truce interrupted only by a few major pitched battles or prolonged sieges, the Obsidian Mountains became a graveyard of ambitions. The sacred soil of the Rukliv dwarves was torn apart by battles and skirmishes, and the war only ended with the signing of a fragile and tense peace treaty, in which the independence of the Rukliv Supremacy was finally recognized in 118 SA. 

However, the separation left deep scars: their armies were decimated, their once-glittering mines had been exhausted to the limit, and the people — once proud and fierce — now staggered under the weight of a conflict that had promised freedom but delivered ruin. The ideals of a new era of sovereignty and progress were quickly shaken by internal disputes, resource shortages, and the constant threat of external interventions.

In the remaining Confederation, the situation was no less desolate. The capital, Brolvik, once the ultimate symbol of Rukliv power, had lost its luster and influence, reduced to a common citadel among many others. Amid the political and economic ruins of the war, a new power began to emerge. The citadel of Teuku, nestled beneath the central mountains, took advantage of the general disorganization to discreetly amass military strength and wealth. By 338 SA, when it finally revealed its power, it was already years ahead of its rivals. The other citadels, still weakened by past conflicts, were unable to organize an effective resistance in time.

The citadel of Teuku, led by the relentless General Drovak, launched the Second Obsidian War. Although his troops were formidable, Drovak knew that the rival citadels, even weakened, were still nearly impregnable fortresses. Anticipating long sieges, he spread saboteurs and spies throughout the neighboring cities, seeking to take them by surprise and turn their forces and resources into instruments of conquest. 

However, the plan did not unfold as quickly as expected. The enemy reacted, strengthened itself, and the war that was meant to be brief dragged on for years. The defenses of the citadels resisted bravely, but one by one, under the weight of Teuku’s numerical and strategic superiority, they eventually fell.

Decades passed since the beginning of the conflict. Drovak died before seeing his ambition realized, but his legacy was inherited by his youngest son, Turvak, who concluded the war and sealed the fate of the Confederation. In 483 SA, with the conquest of the last rebellious citadel, Turvak declared himself the Great Emperor of the Rukliv, bringing an end to an era of fragmentation and ushering in a new chapter in Rukliv history.

The Rukliv Empire, from its very foundation, was ruled with an iron fist by a succession of emperors whose brutality and authoritarianism seemed to grow with each generation. Centralized power tolerated no dissent, and absolute discipline became the foundation of the regime. Yet, despite relentless repression and rigid hierarchy, this imperial period witnessed significant advancements that would forever shape Rukliv civilization. 

For the first time, a network of infrastructure was built to connect all the empire’s citadels, facilitating trade, mobility, and the flow of resources through underground and elevated routes. Imperial engineers also created containment channels to divert lava flows during the region’s frequent volcanic eruptions, protecting cities and vital routes. Regular trade routes with the elves to the north were also established, strengthening diplomatic relations and enriching the empire’s coffers. In the military sphere, an ambitious reform abolished the old citadel-based armies and instituted a unified, professional army — an unprecedented achievement for the Rukliv, but one that, at some point in the future, would ultimately seal the empire’s tragic fate.

Furthermore, universal codes of law were instituted throughout the empire’s territory, conceived not only as instruments of order and discipline but above all as a foundation of collective identity. The uniform application of these laws sought to dissolve regional differences and align disparate traditions under a single cultural and political axis. 

By imposing a cohesive set of legal principles, Rukliv lawmakers aimed not only to regulate social and commercial relations but also to shape the very notion of belonging, reinforcing the idea that all citizens, regardless of origin, were subject to the same rules and shared a common heritage. Thus, the law became more than an administrative tool: it was transformed into a vehicle of cultural integration, a symbol of unity, and a pillar of the empire’s endurance.

During the War of the Ninth Gate, hordes of mutants from distant lands invaded a human nation vassal to the Rukliv Empire. When pleas for aid reached the capital, the emperor mobilized his army and marched immediately to the front. Upon learning of the dwarven military movement, Pytã’Zia sent a communiqué requesting that the Rukliv wait until the elven armies were ready to join the offensive. 

However, convinced that the campaign would be brief and easy, the emperor ignored the warnings. The first skirmishes reinforced his arrogance: the initial hordes were easily crushed under the weight of the living walls of dwarven shields. But that illusion of victory would be short-lived.

Without waiting for his allies, the emperor abandoned the defensive lines and split his forces into multiple detachments to pursue and annihilate the enemy in open terrain. It was his undoing. The hordes knew the deserts and canyons of the region intimately and employed guerrilla tactics with devastating precision — ambushes, lightning strikes, and the isolation of smaller units. One by one, the dwarven detachments were surrounded and destroyed. 

When the encirclement finally closed in on the main army, the emperor, in desperation, ordered one last attempt to break through. The remaining troops fought fiercely to open an escape route, and the emperor fled with a reduced guard, leaving thousands of soldiers behind. He was saved from total annihilation only by the late arrival of the elven armies, which managed to rescue what remained of the Rukliv forces and establish defensive positions they would hold until the end of the war in 1183 SA.

The emperor’s return to the capital in 1195 SA was marked not by recognition but by shame. Determined to conceal his failure, he censored reports of the campaign and marginalized the surviving veterans, who came to be seen as symbols of dishonor and uncomfortable silence. This attempt to erase the memory of defeat became the spark for a new internal upheaval.

In 1267 SA, the political fracture within the Rukliv Empire became irreparable. In the lofty citadels atop the peaks, the emperor gathered the garrisons that remained loyal, relying on the allegiance of ancient military lineages and the power of nearly impregnable fortifications. On the plateaus, however, a coalition of civilians, veterans, and discontented officers was forming, fueled by indignation over imperial censorship and contempt. This opposition, initially scattered, soon consolidated into a unified movement whose banner was not merely revenge, but the promise of restoring a more just and participatory order.

The conflict that followed — later known as the Third Obsidian War — dragged on for years of exhausting sieges, sporadic battles, and brief periods of forced truces, a fragile equilibrium that slowly drained the empire’s resources and vitality.

In 1288, the war reached a turning point when the Vertskli dwarves, traditionally cautious about involving themselves in external disputes, decided to openly support the rebel coalition. Believing that the emperor had become a tyrant incapable of ruling justly, they sent supplies, siege engineers, and elite detachments whose discipline and expertise in fortifications decisively shifted the strategic balance. The weapons and siege engines brought by the Vertskli made possible what had once seemed impossible: exerting military pressure on the imperial citadels within their own bastions.

The emperor, however, did not remain isolated. Through exclusive trade agreements established with Pytã’Zia — which provided essential resources and consolidated the Rukliv throne’s economic position — he secured external support that proved vital in prolonging his resistance. In 1292, Pytã’Zia, fearing the instability that a change of government could bring and the potential loss of its privileges, mobilized troops, military advisors, and supply lines in favor of the sovereign. This balance of forces prevented a swift victory for either side and transformed the war into a protracted stalemate, in which gains made by one camp were quickly neutralized by the intervention of the other.

The result was a military and political deadlock that dragged on for decades, slowly eroding the empire’s structure and perpetuating a state of collective exhaustion, where each siege, each winter, and each new wave of casualties added layers to the memory of a seemingly endless war.

It was only in 1344 SA, after the emperor’s death under circumstances never fully clarified, that the throne passed to his nephew Bravak — a figure known for both his diplomatic skill and military cunning. Unlike his predecessor, Bravak understood from the outset that the prolonged stalemate had drained the empire’s internal resources and that only new external alliances could alter the balance of power. In this sense, his first major political move was the signing of new treaties with the northern elves, granting territorial and commercial concessions that stirred unrest within the empire but secured substantial military advantages.

Among the agreed terms were the deployment of a contingent of elite archers — feared for their precision and discipline in battle — and a sizable naval fleet, whose presence significantly expanded the imperial forces’ maritime reach.

Under Bravak’s direct command, this elven fleet was mobilized to patrol the strategic bays of Clover and Nizami, with explicit orders to intercept and sink any vessel attempting to supply the rebels from Vertskli. The measure, executed efficiently, resulted in the progressive strangulation of the insurgent coalition’s supply lines, weakening its ability to sustain prolonged sieges and gradually reducing its stockpiles of provisions and armaments.

By 1349 SA, faced with the rebels’ growing weakness, Bravak decided to personally lead the campaign operations. Employing mobile tactics of swift strikes and strategic withdrawals, he wore down the enemy through successive battles of attrition, forcing them to fight under disadvantageous conditions. The combined action of the elven archers — used decisively to break through rebel defenses — enabled several of the coalition’s key strongholds to fall after meticulously organized sieges.

Two years later, in 1351 SA, the rebel leadership — weakened and isolated — was captured after a series of coordinated operations, and the last insurgent garrisons laid down their arms. The Third Obsidian War, which for decades had consumed the Empire and reduced it to a state of paralysis, reached its conclusion under Bravak’s victory. Imperial order was restored, but the new era that unfolded required the sovereign not only to rebuild the ruined infrastructure and restore national unity, but also to confront the heavy debt incurred with the elves — a political and economic burden whose true cost would begin to unfold in the decades and centuries to come.

In the decades following the end of the Third Obsidian War, the Rukliv Empire focused its efforts on internal reconstruction, the integration of devastated regions, and the consolidation of central authority. The traumatic experience of the civil war had exposed the structural weaknesses of the state, prompting Emperor Bravak to implement the first major bureaucratic reforms of the postwar period. 

Visionary and pragmatic, he understood that the survival of the empire depended not only on military strength but also on the creation of institutions capable of cushioning future crises. In this context, he established a Senate composed of military leaders and generals representing each citadel, thereby deliberately reducing the absolute power of the throne and creating a collegial decision-making body — a measure that contributed to political stability and strengthened the sense of national unity.

In foreign affairs, Bravak pursued an active and ambitious diplomatic policy, seeking to extend Rukliv’s reach beyond East Ciradon. The greatest challenge, however, lay in navigating the southern reaches of the Veiled Ocean, where violent monsoons and unpredictable currents made crossing nearly impossible without adequate logistical support. This limitation led to a strategic partnership with the northern elves, resulting in the establishment of trading posts along the coast of the Liv’ura Gulf. The first of these outposts, founded jointly with the elves in 1382 SA, was located in Stormgard Bay and became a crucial hub for resupply, storage, and trade.

In the years that followed, a network of trading posts was consolidated along the Veiled Ocean and later at key points across the Grand Ocean. These outposts functioned as markets, warehouses, customs stations, and naval support bases, granting Rukliv’s navy and merchant caravans greater autonomy on their long-range routes. 

This expansion allowed the empire to establish diplomatic and commercial relations of unprecedented significance: in 1399 SA, the first treaties were signed with the Elruth Empire and with Hvel’Luthnor, marking Rukliv’s entry into the broader political and economic sphere of West Ciradon. In the ensuing decades, new agreements with other Elderkin nations cemented Rukliv’s position as an emerging power in intercontinental trade and diplomacy.

However, not all relations developed on positive terms. Since the civil war, hostility toward the Vertskli dwarves had deepened, marked by the memory of their decisive support for the rebel forces. Added to this rivalry were growing suspicions against the dwarves of Urd-Ferdurun, accused of having provided indirect assistance to the same insurgent factions. The result was the gradual diplomatic isolation of these two nations within Rukliv’s alliance network, culminating in 1421 SA with the complete severing of all commercial and political relations — a measure that formalized the split between their peoples and reinforced the continent’s strategic division.

Over the next three centuries, the Rukliv Empire experienced a period of rare political stability and sustained economic prosperity. Maritime routes flourished, and the ports of the Tupan Sea became some of the busiest on the continent, welcoming ships from all known regions. Naval trade expanded rapidly, supported by a network of trading posts strategically positioned along the coast of the Veiled Ocean, which over time evolved into centers of colonization and regionally significant commercial outposts. 

Some of these trading posts grew to become sizable cities, playing key roles as customs stations, warehouses, and redistribution markets for goods flowing between Ciradon and other continents. The constant flow of settlers and enslaved laborers to these regions ensured their expansion and consolidated Ruklivite control over strategic points of oceanic trade.

Prosperity seemed unshakable, but, as the northern elves would say, "Fate is a severe and sometimes even cruel lover." The fateful year 1773 SA marked the abrupt end of this era of stability when an earthquake of colossal magnitude shook vast portions of East Ciradon. Soon after the tremors, a succession of eruptions struck the region, culminating in the simultaneous explosion of the Seventeen Volcanoes of the Obsidian Mountains, along with numerous secondary and isolated cones across the continent. The devastation was immediate.

At the heart of the empire, the artificial channels that for centuries had diverted lava flows were destroyed by the quake, allowing fiery currents to surge unchecked across entire districts of nearby citadels. The capital, Teuku, suffered the worst tragedy: the royal palace was struck by a rain of incandescent rocks hurled from a neighboring volcano, collapsing under the impact. 

The emperor, his consort, and nearly the entire royal family perished in the event. From the ruins, however, a single survivor emerged — a newborn child, the emperor’s youngest daughter — whose survival was deemed a divine miracle. The “miracle child of Teuku” would come to be remembered as a symbol of resilience amid the devastation.

Elsewhere in East Ciradon, the situation was no less catastrophic. Entire nations, both Elderkin and Lesserkin, were struck by the direct effects of the quakes and eruptions. In the western deserts, immense tribes of minotaurs were forced to migrate en masse eastward, pressuring already fragile borders. To the north, coastal elven communities suffered irreparable losses, with ports destroyed and villages swallowed by the sea following the tremors. In the Tupan Sea, waves generated by the upheavals crippled vessels, destroyed port facilities, and altered marine ecosystems.

Yet the most devastating impact was not immediate but prolonged. The successive eruptions expelled colossal quantities of toxic gases, ash, and volcanic particles into the atmosphere. A thick layer of suspended debris obscured East Ciradon’s skies for consecutive years, creating a volcanic winter. Sunlight no longer reached the surface fully, causing an abrupt and prolonged cooling. The soil, blanketed in ash, became infertile across vast areas; entire crops failed, and food reserves were quickly exhausted.

Driven by hunger, cold, and the ruin of their ancestral lands, entire peoples began unprecedented migratory movements across East Ciradon. Elves abandoned once-verdant forests now scorched to cinders, dwarves left fortresses buried in ash and rubble, and tribes of minotaurs, orcs, and Kottur journeyed to distant lands in search of food and shelter. 

Even traditionally sedentary races such as Humans and Yarku formed columns of refugees, crossing plains and mountains in search of fertile regions untouched by the Great Catastrophe. These massive movements radically transformed the political and cultural geography of the continent, overburdening neighboring territories and sparking violent conflicts over resources, where local communities and newcomers clashed directly for survival itself.

In the Tupan Sea, water contamination and the absence of sunlight ravaged marine flora, causing the mass death of fish stocks that had sustained entire coastal populations of fishermen and traders. Both agriculture and fishing collapsed, impacting not only the Rukliv Empire but also powers like Pytã’Zia and numerous neighboring nations. Trade, once thriving, entered a steep decline; ships grew scarce, routes were abandoned, and local economies plunged into crisis.

The result was a series of mass migrations by Lesserkin peoples seeking less affected regions, generating tensions and border conflicts across nearly the entire continent. The toxic cloud, persistent and relentless, turned East Ciradon into a land marked by isolation, forcing kingdoms once open to trade and diplomacy to turn inward, focusing on internal challenges and strategies for survival. For many peoples of that era, these natural catastrophes were not seen merely as a passing disaster, but as a harbinger of the end of times.

Empress Dhurivanna, remembered in the chronicles as the Miracle Child, grew up amid a ruined empire, shaped from an early age by the need to resist a fate that would have crushed most. As the last surviving member of the Imperial House after the devastation of the Great Catastrophe, she was raised to the throne while still a child, burdened with the task of rebuilding not only the shattered palaces and crumbling walls but also the dignity of her people. Elders used to say she carried the weight of a mountain on her shoulders — a Rukliv dwarf whose childhood had been replaced by the toil of power, survival, and the preservation of national identity.

Under her rule, the empire began a slow yet remarkable process of recovery. By 1832 SA, much of the essential infrastructure had been restored. Cities partially buried by the collapse of the Obsidian Mountains were excavated and rebuilt, internal trade routes were reestablished with new roads paved in volcanic basalt, and underground aqueducts were reopened to restore water supplies to the main fortresses. 

Foundry workshops were rebuilt in the old galleries and resumed the production of weapons and tools, albeit on a limited scale. The walls of Teuku, once reduced to rubble, were reconstructed with advanced engineering techniques, reinforced with metallic alloys to withstand both time and future tremors.

This era of material reconstruction was accompanied by a brief cultural flowering. The so-called Renaissance of Survival brought about a resurgence of Rukliv philosophy, whose thinkers sought to interpret the disaster as an existential trial of the people’s destiny. In the arts, monumental sculptures no longer depicted military glory but resilience after ruin, showing miners raising broken pillars and families rebuilding their homes. 

In architecture, temples were built with dual underground corridors — symbols of survival in two worlds, the devastated surface and the secure depths. Metallurgy too was transformed: forced by scarcity, blacksmiths developed new alloy recycling techniques and experimented with less noble metals, creating lighter weapons and tools adapted to the harsh post-disaster conditions. This flourishing, however, coexisted with severe practical limitations.

Subterranean agriculture, the main food base of the Rukliv, had been gravely compromised. Fungus farms, devastated by the tremors and the collapse of irrigation systems, took decades to reestablish. The result was a prolonged period of food rationing, during which the empire had to rely on imported provisions. Most supplies came from the Durkkur region, a fertile southern territory in the southeast specializing in grains and surface fungi. However, dependence on this region would soon become a critical vulnerability.

The problem lay in the old debts the empire owed to the northern elves. Even before the Great Catastrophe, the Rukliv government had taken out large loans to finance its armies during the civil war. In times of prosperity, such payments were manageable and easily absorbed by the growing economy. After the disaster, however, repayment had become unsustainable. 

The elves, even aware of the empire’s fragility, shortened the intervals between installments and increased demands for silver and aurite — metals already scarce due to the collapse of the mines. The Rukliv government attempted to negotiate the shipment of food as partial compensation, but the elven courts disdainfully refused. The diplomatic climate deteriorated rapidly.

In 1887 SA, military observers reported significant elven troop movements south of their borders, not far from the northern frontier of the Rukliv Empire. When questioned, elven diplomats claimed it was a defensive measure against increasing minotaur migrations, which were pressuring other local peoples and creating regional instability. In Teuku, however, few believed this explanation. The Military Senate assessed that the minotaurs posed no real threat and interpreted the troop movements as a veiled act of intimidation. In response, garrisons were redeployed northward, further weakening the already fragile military presence in the southern territories.

In 1929 SA, the unthinkable occurred. Unable to meet the debt demands, the Rukliv Empire found itself betrayed by the elves, who launched a surprise offensive against Durkkur, seizing its fertile agricultural lands under the pretext of “legitimate compensation” for overdue payments. The local garrisons, weakened by the redeployment of troops to the north, offered little resistance, and the territory was lost within weeks. 

The impact was devastating: the food crisis reached alarming levels, the already fragile economy plunged into collapse, and a wave of outrage swept across the empire. Generals called for immediate retaliation, the starving population demanded answers, and the Senate pressed for decisive measures. Yet Empress Dhurivanna sought to calm tempers, still attempting to resolve the crisis through diplomatic channels, even as distrust and hostility between the two peoples deepened.

In a desperate search for external support, Empress Dhurivanna dispatched diplomats to various foreign courts, including Urd-Ferdurun and even the mighty Empire of Elruth. The negotiations, however, ended in disappointment: Elruth was far too absorbed in its own internal affairs to intervene in external disputes, and in Urd-Ferdurun, only one of the Guildholds — Traken — showed willingness to offer aid. That acceptance, however, did not come without conditions. 

The Traken Council imposed as a prerequisite a marriage between the heir of its ruling lineage and the empress herself, thereby sealing an alliance that, in the eyes of many, resembled subordination more than partnership. With no alternatives left in the face of impending ruin, Dhurivanna agreed to the terms, and by the following year, in 1933 SA, convoys laden with resources, supplies, and specialists began crossing the borders toward the heart of the empire, while sumptuous preparations for the wedding were set in motion.

The rapprochement with an old rival, however, provoked a deep internal rift. Among the generals of the Senate, who already distrusted Traken’s intentions, the union was seen as an act of weakness and even betrayal, rekindling memories of centuries of hostility. Military factions openly expressed their opposition, and rumors of a possible coup began to circulate through the halls of the capital. 

Even so, such conspiracies lacked practical viability. Dhurivanna’s figure remained cloaked in unshakable charisma: the last representative of her dynasty, revered as the “miracle empress,” she was adored by the masses and recognized for her unquestionable legitimacy. Any attempt to depose her would be seen not only as an affront to the throne but also as a suicidal act of political folly in the face of the popular fervor surrounding her.

Having managed to alleviate the food crisis ravaging the empire — sustaining numerous strongholds thanks to the steady influx of resources from Traken — Empress Dhurivanna now faced only one major obstacle: the consolidation of her marriage, whose opposition in the Senate still persisted through intrigue and clandestine maneuvering. 

As the famine receded and the population regained its strength, a moderate faction of generals began to accept the union or, at the very least, ceased to oppose it openly. Yet a hardline core of dissenters remained, viewing the marriage as an act of surrender and an affront to the memory of past disputes against Urd-Ferdurun.

In 1937 SA, the great procession departed from Traken, located in the Red Mountains, carrying the groom toward imperial territory, bound for the Obsidian Mountains. The journey through the desert was long, arid, and treacherous — a corridor of shifting sands where entire caravans had vanished in sudden storms or fallen prey to bandit ambushes. It was in this setting that the oppositionist Senate’s plot unfolded: secret contracts were signed with orc mercenary groups, minotaur war companies, and even human nomadic bands, all paid to prevent the procession from reaching its destination.

The attacks began intermittently, in calculated waves meant to slowly wear down the column of guards. Poisoned arrows sliced through the hot afternoon winds, herds of brutal mounts burst forth from the dunes, and each ambush further reduced the ranks of the imperial soldiers. At night, when the desert turned cold and silent, small skirmishes eroded the troops’ discipline even more, forcing them to maintain constant vigilance. The convoy pressed on, but with each passing day, the cost in lives grew heavier, and the hope of reaching the Obsidian Mountains intact became increasingly faint.

The climax came at the end of that same year, when a detachment of minotaur mercenaries, hired by the most radical wing of the conspirators, launched a full-scale assault. Mounted on massive, ring-horned beasts and clad in heavy hardened leather armor, the warriors advanced in a semicircular formation, driving the procession into a narrow canyon where retreat was impossible. The battle was ferocious: the imperial guards, exhausted and outnumbered, raised shield walls as the minotaur beasts charged with devastating force. Spear after spear shattered against the mass of muscle and horns, while swords clashed against blood- and dust-stained armor. The air was filled with roars, war cries, and the metallic stench of carnage.

One by one, the defenders fell, until the final circle of warriors succumbed beneath the fury of the mercenaries’ heavy blades. The desert floor was carpeted with bodies, and the silence that followed seemed to herald the conspirators’ total victory. However, when the raiders opened the main tents in search of Traken’s heir, they discovered, to their utter bewilderment, that the groom was neither among the dead nor anywhere within the convoy. The procession, once a symbol of alliance, revealed itself in its bloody end to be part of an even greater stratagem — one whose implications the conspirators had not foreseen.

Having anticipated the treacherous intentions of the most radical conspirators, Empress Dhurivanna acted with her characteristic prudence and cunning. She secretly communicated with the Guildhold of Traken and, through trusted emissaries, arranged a secure maritime route for the groom’s arrival, while a false convoy crossed the desert, serving as bait for the inevitable attacks. Thus, while the mercenaries hired by her enemies exhausted themselves in successive ambushes against the illusory procession, the true heir of Traken — protected by naval detachments and discreet vessels — landed safely at the ports of East Ciradon. In early 1938 SA, the young heir arrived in Teuku unharmed, welcomed with honors by the court and by the empress herself.

Preparations for the wedding ceremony advanced swiftly, for Dhurivanna wished to immediately consolidate the alliance that had cost so many sacrifices. The palace was gripped by feverish activity: artisans from across the empire worked tirelessly, weaving tapestries, shaping gilded columns, and adorning halls with silk and cut crystal, so as to bestow upon the union not only its political weight but also the symbolic grandeur that would mark history.

In the face of the empress’s successful strategy and the groom’s physical presence in Teuku, many of the conspirators abandoned their cause, deeming continued resistance futile and suicidal. Yet a small faction, driven by fanaticism and blind obstinacy, refused to yield, still gambling on some desperate stroke that might prevent the consummation of the alliance. Thus, even as discontent seemed to dissipate, the shadow of one final threat still loomed over the fate of the miracle empress and her people.

The Grand Ceremonial Hall in the palace of Teuku, prepared for the wedding of Empress Dhurivanna, had been adorned with a level of splendor never before witnessed in the empire’s recent history. The high arches of polished obsidian reflected the light of thousands of enchanted lanterns floating in the air, suspended by invisible threads of magic. Curtains of purple and crimson silk, embroidered with golden threads, descended from the upper balconies and intertwined into imperial symbols. Across the black marble floor, a long scarlet carpet led to the ceremonial altar, where columns carved into the shapes of dragons flanked the throne. 

Representatives from nearly every nation of Ciradon and beyond had gathered there: lords of Urd-Ferdurun, emissaries of the Elruth Empire, diplomats from the distant Empire of Tassendrel, Elderkin delegations from Parthus, and guests from many other lands. It was an assembly that symbolized not just a wedding, but a pact of prosperity and survival.

In the final moments before the union was to be consecrated, as the master of ceremonies raised the ceremonial crown, the great doors of the hall burst open amid flames and screams. A dense mass of orc and human slaves stormed violently into the chamber, armed with broad swords and steel spears still marked with crude runes torn from plundered stockpiles. They wore ill-fitted armor, but their sheer numbers and unrestrained fury made them a brutal army. 

They advanced roaring, trampling guests, tearing apart guards, and hurling themselves at anyone in their path. The massacre was immediate. Foreign nobles fell alongside renowned mages, whose spells of fire and ice barely managed to carve fleeting gaps in the tide of insurgent bodies before being swallowed by the frenzied horde.

The Royal Guard, composed of the empress’s most loyal warriors, formed a circle around Dhurivanna and the prince of Traken. Black steel shields rose, spears pointed forward, and protective spells shimmered like walls of light. For several minutes they held their ground, cutting down dozens of foes and retreating step by step toward the throne, turning the hall into a battlefield awash with blood and the echoes of steel against steel. But the tide was too great. The passages were blocked by makeshift barricades erected by the slaves as part of their meticulously prepared offensive, and the enemy came in relentless waves, indifferent to their losses.

The decisive moment came when the invaders managed to break through one of the guard’s lines, opening a fatal breach. Frenzied orcs hurled themselves at the defenders, while chained humans, freed for this act of vengeance, attacked like rabid beasts. One by one, the empress’s protectors fell. Stolen dwarven blades tore through armor, spears shattered shields, and cries of agony echoed beneath the shattered stained glass. 

The prince of Traken fought alongside the last guards, cutting down enemies until his body was pierced by multiple blades. Dhurivanna, surrounded, still raised her voice in a spell of light that momentarily blinded the attackers and opened space for her warriors — but the effort was in vain. The tide of enemies reached her, and her guard was slaughtered around her, dying to the last man in defense of their sovereign.

When the external security forces, alerted by the chaos, finally broke down the doors and stormed into the hall, they found a nightmarish scene. The floor was littered with corpses, blood streamed down the steps of the altar, and the few surviving slaves were butchering defenseless guests or devouring, in macabre ecstasy, the bodies of fallen warriors in a scene of ritual horror. Vengeance had transcended revolt: it had become a feast of fury and despair. The imperial troops surged forward en masse and, with discipline and superior numbers, swiftly cut down the remaining insurgents. But the victory was hollow.

The throne lay overturned, the altar shattered, and at the center, amid the bodies of fallen guards, lay Empress Dhurivanna, wrapped in her white mantle now stained red. In a single blow, the people had lost their miraculous sovereign, the last of her lineage — and with her, all hope for the stability her figure had embodied.

The Senate plunged into chaos, consumed by heated debates and mutual accusations, unable to comprehend how a group of slaves could have escaped from the depths of the Seventh Layer, plundered entire military depots, and reached the First Layer — where the Ceremonial Hall stood — without any of the main garrisons or surveillance detachments detecting their movements. The incident, unprecedented in both scale and severity, led to the immediate formation of an emergency investigative commission, tasked with uncovering not only the security failures but also the possible masterminds behind such a daring assault.

In the following days, the atmosphere in Teuku and throughout the empire’s citadels grew increasingly tense. The Senate, already divided, debated amid shouts and veiled threats, while the streets became the stage for social convulsions without precedent. When news of Empress Dhurivanna’s death finally reached the people, the uproar assumed catastrophic proportions. 

Crowds gathered not only in mourning demonstrations but also in violent protests against the institutions’ inability to protect their sovereign. Others, inflamed by radical rhetoric, demanded immediate reprisals against the slaves, accusing them of conspiring against the very heart of the empire.

Exploiting public outrage and seeking to preserve their own influence, certain senators and generals pointed to the human and orc slaves as those responsible for the tragedy. Within days, emergency military decrees were issued, ordering the summary execution of all slaves of these ethnicities within the imperial borders. Troops were mobilized in mass, sweeping from citadel to citadel, rounding up thousands of captives who were either executed publicly or driven in marches to mass graves. 

Sporadic uprisings erupted, desperate rebellions in peripheral districts and escape attempts in border regions, but only small groups managed to flee beyond imperial lands. The vast majority was forced to leave the empire in one of the most brutal campaigns of forced relocation in the nation’s history.

Weeks later, as the brutality still echoed through the citadels, the crisis took an even darker turn with the unexpected disappearance of the lead investigator assigned to the case of the empress’s assassination. The absence of his findings fueled a wave of suspicion: some believed he had uncovered a truth too dangerous to reveal, while others claimed he had been silenced by the very hands that orchestrated Dhurivanna’s death. Within the Senate, instability reached unsustainable levels, with each faction accusing the other of conspiracy.

Meanwhile, the economy began to show clear signs of decline. The elimination of human and orc slaves, who for centuries had sustained the empire’s productive base, resulted in abrupt collapses in agriculture, mining, and the supply of essential goods. The senators, instead of seeking solutions, plunged into even fiercer disputes over who should assume leadership, as there was no legitimate heir to claim the throne.

The absence of a clear central authority transformed the crisis into an irreversible rupture. More cautious and calculating generals abandoned the Senate and returned to their home citadels, taking loyal troops with them and amassing resources to secure military autonomy. Within weeks, local militias appeared throughout virtually every layer of the empire, composed of veterans and armed civilians, formed to defend each territory amid the looming dissolution. What had once been one of the greatest empires of the age now teetered on the brink of total collapse, fracturing under the weight of anarchy, famine, and impending war.

In the months and years that followed, as the economic and political crises deepened, various regions of the once-mighty Rukliv Empire unilaterally declared their independence. With no central leadership capable of responding, the imperial forces — disorganized and divided by local loyalties — proved powerless in the face of the fragmentation wave. 

One by one, the dominions severed their ties until, in 1941 SA, even the capital region of Teuku itself, along with several adjacent citadels, officially announced the dissolution of what remained of the central authority and declared itself an independent kingdom. Thus ended the history of a dwarven empire that had endured for nearly fifteen centuries, reduced to a constellation of small realms that regarded one another as illegitimate rivals.

Relations between these new kingdoms were fragile and steeped in mutual distrust. Each claimed for itself the title of legitimate heir to the Rukliv Empire, yet none dared openly challenge the others, aware of their shared weakness and the economic collapse that afflicted them all equally. The coffers were empty, mining had been halted in several regions, trade routes were severed, and famine spread through some of the more isolated citadels. 

The immediate priority of the rulers was not conquest, but survival: reopening abandoned mines, reorganizing artisans and blacksmith guilds, restoring the flow of grain, and above all, regaining the trust of populations traumatized by hunger and the fall of central authority.

In the decades that followed, a slow recovery began to take shape. Independent merchants once again traveled the old imperial roads, caravans protected by mercenary companies established new markets and internal trade routes, and little by little the markets were once again filled with forged metals, polished gemstones, and artisanal beers — once the pride of Rukliv tradition. The economy, though still fragmented, found a new balance through fragile bilateral agreements sustained by the need for survival. 

Some regions regained their former specializations: Teuku maintained its supremacy as the administrative center and minting hub; the western citadels resumed large-scale mineral extraction; and the southern citadels flourished with the trade of weapons and armor. Prosperity began to grow once more — but always under a shadow of suspicion.

Borders were permanently garrisoned, ancient fortifications were restored, and new walls were raised. Spies and informants moved from one kingdom to another, fueling rumors of imminent invasions. Everyone knew that sooner or later, one of the kingdoms would attempt to assert itself as the empire’s successor — and war seemed only a matter of time.

It was in this tense climate that an event occurred which would drastically alter the situation. As the years passed and distrust among the kingdoms deepened, something unexpected began to unfold in the north. In 2013 SA, the traditional trade routes with the elves of Pytã’Zia — vital for the supply of silk, rare spices, and enchanted artifacts — were abruptly severed. Caravans ceased returning, merchant ships failed to come back to port, and letters sent to elven courts went unanswered. Troops once stationed along the borders were seen suddenly withdrawing inland, only to vanish entirely. Silence descended — absolute and inexplicable.

Alarmed, several Rukliv citadels deeply dependent on this trade sent scouts, messengers, and eventually small diplomatic missions. None returned. The north was swallowed by a shroud of mystery, and in the void left by this sudden disappearance, unease grew. Rumors of calamities, curses, or even the movement of hostile forces began circulating in taverns and war councils. The Rukliv, divided and mistrustful of one another, now understood that a new danger of uncertain origin was approaching.

Then, in 2015 SA, a vast orcish horde suddenly emerged from the northern reaches, advancing in tight formation toward the gates of the Rukliv frontier citadels. At first, it was believed that the solidity of the subterranean walls and the dwarves’ disciplined military tradition would be enough to repel them, as had been the case in all previous incursions. However, for the first time in recorded history, the orcs brought with them weaponry that surpassed anything ever seen on the battlefield. 

Survivor accounts describe volleys of incendiary projectiles launched en masse — hollow arrows filled with combustible compounds that, upon striking the walls, unleashed ravenous flames. Soon after came reinforced spears tipped with primitive explosive mixtures, hurled by warriors advancing in waves; they detonated on contact with gates and barricades, opening breaches once thought unimaginable in dwarven fortifications.

The greatest shock, however, came from the forged iron engines the orcs pushed to the front lines: crude yet functional tubes capable of hurling massive projectiles propelled by explosive force. These early cannons, though rudimentary, inflicted devastating damage upon walls and defensive towers, collapsing entire sections of stone that had previously proven indestructible. Even more fearsome were the so-called bombardeiros — mobile structures made of poorly cast iron plates, drawn by oxen or chained prisoners, which unleashed volleys of incandescent metal spheres in short arcs, spreading panic among the garrisons.

The introduction of these rudimentary firearms marked a profound rupture in the region’s balance of war. What once seemed inconceivable — the breaching of Rukliv’s walls — became reality within weeks. Peripheral citadels, once considered impregnable, were razed one by one under the impact of improvised artillery. Iron gates fell, towers were shattered, and faced with such destruction, the garrisons collapsed, unable to reorganize an effective defense against an enemy that multiplied like a swarm.

Even more severe was the fact that, upon capturing the first outer fortifications, the orcs seized control of the subterranean transport tunnels — vital for communication and rapid movement between Rukliv citadels. Control of these routes became an even more fearsome weapon than the cannons themselves: the horde could now infiltrate deep into the heart of dwarven territory, bypassing main walls and appearing unexpectedly in places once considered safe. Convoys were ambushed in the corridors, warehouses were looted and set aflame, entire fortresses were besieged from within, and thousands perished in swift and brutal massacres.

Thus, the horde not only broke through the physical barrier of the walls but also shattered the sense of invulnerability that had upheld Rukliv’s order for centuries. The psychological collapse of the garrisons was as devastating as the impact of the orcish projectiles, and in little time the subterranean network — once a symbol of imperial cohesion — had become a labyrinth of terror and ruin.

In the months following the orcish onslaught, each Rukliv citadel remained isolated in its own resistance, refusing mutual defense pacts and ignoring pleas for aid, even as losses mounted on all sides. Ancestral pride and the belief that each fragmented kingdom could defend itself alone sealed the fate of many, as the scattered forces proved incapable of resisting the unified threat advancing from the Red Steppes. 

The decisive turning point came when an orc coalition — larger than any ever seen — rallied under the banner of a single commander: Grashnak Kar’Mor, a direct descendant of a slave who had escaped the massacre ordered by the Rukliv seventy years earlier. The memory of his clan, preserved in songs of mourning and hatred, fueled his thirst for vengeance. Transformed into a warlord, Grashnak united dozens of scattered warbands under the promise of gold, blood, and retribution.

His objective was not merely territorial conquest, but the symbolic destruction of dwarven former glory. Thus, in 2017 SA, he led his horde in an inexorable march toward Teuku — the former imperial capital and spiritual heart of the Rukliv. The orcs’ approach was heralded by columns of smoke on the horizon and the metallic thunder of the primitive cannons they dragged with them. Unlike previous assaults, the siege of Teuku was meticulously planned. 

For days, the walls — once deemed indestructible — were pounded by heavy, red-hot forged-iron projectiles launched from crude but numerous bombards. Arrows soaked in flammable oil rained continuously upon the rooftops, setting barns, workshops, and storehouses ablaze. Specialized groups wielded spears with hollow heads filled with black powder, which exploded into shards upon striking the battlements, carving bloody breaches among the defenders.

As the bombardment intensified, massive sections of the walls began to give way with deafening crashes. When the first significant breach formed, Grashnak ordered a full-scale assault. Hordes of orcish warriors stormed into the citadel’s interior, advancing street by street with unrestrained ferocity. The dwarves, caught off guard by the speed of the defensive collapse, fought to the last man in narrow alleys and fortified squares, but the overwhelming number of enemies and the effectiveness of their new weapons reduced every attempt at resistance to isolated pockets of martyrdom.

The massacre was absolute. Houses were looted and set ablaze, workshops destroyed, temples desecrated. Women and children were dragged from the inner caverns and slaughtered mercilessly, a cruel repetition of the fate the orcs themselves had once suffered in the same city decades earlier. 

Teuku — which for centuries had embodied the unity and splendor of the Rukliv Empire — was reduced to smoldering ruins, blanketed with corpses and ashes. The vengeance of Grashnak Kar’Mor was fulfilled with chilling symbolism: where once stood palaces and imperial halls, there remained only the silence of death and the echo of orcish drums celebrating their victory.

When the news of Teuku’s destruction echoed through the Obsidian Mountains and spread across Rukliv territory, it triggered an unprecedented upheaval. The massacre committed by the orcs in one of the oldest and most revered citadels awakened a profound sense of nationalism and vengeance, shattering the walls of pride that had until then isolated each kingdom and fortress in their individual struggles. 

The realization that no citadel could survive alone against the rising tide of devastation forced former rivals to unite, forging the first cooperative pacts in centuries. Fragmented realms, independent warlords, and elders of traditional houses agreed to form a joint military alliance, aware that only unity could confront the orcish threat.

This combined effort achieved its first triumph in 2018 SA, at the famed Battle of the Dead Wind Vale. There, a vast coalition of Rukliv armies gathered to break the siege of a citadel on the brink of collapse under enemy assault. The battle was fought with ferocity, but the discipline of the Rukliv legions, combined with the unprecedented cooperation among forces from various regions, prevailed. 

The massacre of Teuku, once an open wound, became the war banner of the Rukliv, who now fought not only for survival but for the restoration of their people's honor. The victory at Dead Wind Vale marked a turning point in the course of the war and ushered in a new phase of the conflict, in which the Rukliv ceased merely resisting and began counterattacking with vigor.

From that moment on, the unified forces launched coordinated campaigns across the length of the Obsidian Mountains. Previously besieged citadels were liberated, abandoned fortresses were retaken, and scattered orc bands hiding in caverns and passages were systematically hunted down and annihilated. 

Dwarven war engineering was put at the service of reconquest: reinforced siege engines, armor adapted to withstand the orcs’ new gunpowder weapons, and strengthened shield systems enabled the Rukliv to face more effectively the threat that had once terrified them. The combined forces, now disciplined and unified under a rotating command shared among the great clans, transformed a war of desperation into a war of reclamation.

Over years of combat, the tide of victory gradually pushed the orcs back, until only Grashnak’s warband remained, entrenched in the blood-soaked ruins of Teuku. The former warlord, who had once led the massacre in vengeance for his ancestors, now found himself cornered in the very place where his warriors’ fury had taken thousands of lives. The final siege was one of the bloodiest of the entire war. 

The orcs, well-armed with crude cannons and explosive projectile launchers, inflicted heavy casualties on the advancing Rukliv lines, which pressed forward under constant bombardment. Even so, the rapid invention of reinforced-alloy personal shields allowed the dwarves to withstand the impacts and advance toward the shattered walls.

The battle for the ruins of Teuku lasted for days, marked by brutal hand-to-hand fighting in collapsed tunnels, entire battalions being annihilated by orc explosions, and desperate last stands in the halls of the ruined citadel. Yet the Rukliv’s determination prevailed. Little by little, Grashnak’s improvised defenses gave way before dwarven discipline and ingenuity. In a final confrontation at Teuku’s ancient gates, Grashnak was defeated and slain after a fierce battle against the captains of the unified legions.

Thus, in 2021 SA, the last remnants of the horde were wiped out, and Teuku, though in ruins, was reclaimed. The fall of Grashnak and the final victory of the Rukliv marked the end of the reconquest campaign, cementing the unity of the dwarven realms and restoring — at the cost of countless lives — Rukliv supremacy in the Obsidian Mountains.

After the end of the conflicts within the Obsidian Mountains, the Rukliv were able, for the first time in years, to pause and assess the devastating effects of the war. Much of the mountainous region had been reduced to rubble, looted and plundered by the orcs, leaving a trail of destruction stretching from the southern citadels to the gates of the central fortresses. 

Many smaller citadels were abandoned or simply razed, while the central ones, though spared from total ruin, were overwhelmed by the relentless influx of starving, homeless, and desperate refugees. The economy teetered on the brink of total collapse: emptied storehouses, disrupted trade routes, artisans dead or displaced, and once-prosperous mines now buried or occupied by scattered bands of enemies.

The troops, though still organized, were exhausted after years of relentless marches and bloody battles, unable to return to normal life. And despite the victory over Grashnak and the destruction of his warband in the ruins of Teuku, the threat had not been fully contained. Across the vast plains surrounding the Obsidian Mountains, numerous surviving orc groups continued to roam, raiding villages, attacking convoys, and terrorizing the borders. Each of these bands, lacking central command, proved even more brutal in its savagery.

Faced with this reality, a provisional government was formed among the remaining clans and citadels, which established emergency measures to ensure the people’s survival. The first step was to reinforce the borders militarily, dispatching detachments to garrison peripheral citadels and immediately begin rebuilding destroyed walls and fortresses. Simultaneously, new, robust fortifications were constructed along the mountain passes, built not only as a defense against future attacks but also as a symbol of the Rukliv determination never again to allow enemy hordes to breach their territory.

The population issue soon became critical. The influx of refugees, combined with the collapse of agriculture and the loss of subterranean livestock, triggered an unprecedented food crisis. To avert catastrophe, the government organized the surplus population into agricultural colonization brigades, sending them to the Plateaus, where vast subterranean mushroom-farming complexes were being built at an accelerated pace. 

These enterprises, though rudimentary in their early stages, soon proved essential in restoring a minimum level of food stability. In parallel, a strict rationing system was implemented: each citizen received limited daily rations, precisely calculated to avoid waste, while most resources were redirected to sustain the military and maintain the pace of defensive construction.

TIn the years that followed, the first signs of recovery began to emerge. The new subterranean farms expanded, gradually allowing for a reduction in food restrictions. Vital infrastructure — such as underground roads, transport tunnels, and supply depots — was restored. The most devastated citadels began to be rebuilt, now in more fortified designs, and military discipline, strengthened by the collective trauma of war, became a fundamental pillar of Rukliv society.

Yet all these efforts were directed toward a single goal: preparing for a second invasion. Those who had survived the conflict carried the conviction that the orcs would return, and every stone raised in the walls, every soldier trained, every fortified tunnel was built with the inevitability of another clash in mind. However, as the decades passed and the expected offensive failed to materialize, the shadow of the threat gradually gave way to a pragmatic balance. Vigilance never diminished, but the long-anticipated war remained suspended on the horizon — like a storm that never came.

Many years later, sometime in the 2040s, what appeared before the gates of the Rukliv citadels was not a new orcish horde, but elven military detachments advancing across the plains, pursuing the last scattered orc bands and carrying out a systematic pacification of the region. This external intervention, combined with local defensive efforts, resulted in the definitive securing of the northern plains. With the threat extinguished, ancient trade routes could finally be reopened after decades of abandonment, reestablishing the flow of goods, food, and metals between the citadels and the neighboring territories.

In the years that followed, the resumption of trade ushered in a cycle of gradual prosperity. The economy, once crippled by war and famine, regained its balance, allowing granaries to be replenished and markets to return to full activity. The population, no longer threatened by misery or scarcity, found in these new conditions of stability fertile ground for demographic growth and for the rebuilding of communities that had been destroyed during the worst periods of conflict. At the same time, the borders were reorganized and reinforced with permanent garrisons, ensuring not only internal security but also more efficient control over the strategic passes that connected the region to other political and economic centers of the continent.

It was in this context of resurgence and strengthening that the Rukliv leadership began to recognize that the continuation of a provisional government no longer met the new demands of society. Economic stability, the disappearance of the immediate threat, and the need to establish lasting institutions inevitably led to discussions about creating a political system capable of unifying diverse interests and ensuring that the nation — reborn after so much suffering — would not fragment again in the face of future crises. 

Thus, war veterans, civil commissioners, leaders of traditional clans, and representatives of the powerful artisan and mercantile guilds gathered in a great council at the heart of the Obsidian Mountains to deliberate on the nation’s future.

The result of this gathering was the founding of the Rukliv Federation in 2077 SA, a political arrangement designed to balance two seemingly opposing principles: the preservation of the autonomy of the citadels — now elevated to the status of member states — and the creation of a unified central government capable of projecting strength, stability, and cohesion. 

The federal pact guaranteed each citadel the right to maintain part of its traditions, local customs, and a significant portion of its internal administration, while at the same time establishing the supremacy of federal law, drafted by the newly created Senate, aimed at standardizing the most vital aspects of national life — such as defense, trade, taxation, and diplomacy.

The Federal Senate became the principal governing institution, composed of generals and regional leaders chosen in local assemblies to represent each region of the Federation. This deliberative body served as the arena where regional interests were negotiated, political alliances forged, and decisions of national scope made. To prevent excessive centralization and the risk of tyranny, the founders of the Federation instituted a unique mechanism: every fifty years, the Senate was required to elect from among its members a High Marshal. 

This figure did not wield the absolute powers of a monarch nor the arbitrary authority of a dictator but was vested with executive prerogatives to coordinate the Federation’s affairs, especially in times of war or crisis. Regarded as the “first among equals,” the High Marshal embodied the continuity of Rukliv’s military traditions, serving as a symbol of national unity and collective leadership.

In the legal sphere, the Federal Code was promulgated to harmonize the rights and duties of Rukliv citizens across the entire territory. This code set clear limits on the autonomy of the citadels, prohibiting, for example, the creation of laws that conflicted with the fundamental principles of the Federation. Federal institutions were also established to oversee the enforcement of these norms, including high courts to adjudicate disputes between member states and a body of federal inspectors responsible for ensuring compliance with the law.

Thus, from the necessity of survival in times of war and the cooperation forged in the blood of battle, a new federal structure emerged — conceived not only to preserve the memory of the resistance against the orcs but also to ensure that never again would an external threat or internal fragmentation bring the Rukliv people to the brink of ruin.

The unification of the Rukliv could not have occurred at a more pivotal moment — just as a new geopolitical order around the Tupan Sea was about to emerge. From the events of the Great Catastrophe to the orc invasions, the Tupan Sea region had been plunged into chaos: nations collapsed or fragmented, others rose from fire and turmoil, peoples starved or fought to the death. But now, with the orc invasions over and the region partially stabilized thanks to elven forces, the fate of many Lesserkin peoples lay in the hands of the Elderkin — and the Rukliv would not miss the chance to shape the future.

By the early 22nd century, the young Rukliv Federation was playing an active role in regional geopolitics — sometimes clashing with the interests of the southern or northern elves, sometimes cooperating, and at other times simply pursuing its own ambitions. The Federation even played a decisive role by leading a major expedition against a final orc horde, driving them back into the Red Steppes in 2113 SA.

The Federation increasingly stood out as one of the leading anti-orc nations in East Ciradon and made use of numerous orcs captured in battle as slaves. It also inaugurated and expanded the orc slave trade across the Tupan Sea, launching military expeditions into the Red Steppes to capture orcs and sell them throughout East Ciradon and beyond.

From the 22nd to the 24th century, the Federation found itself wedged between two great elven empires. Although relations were not openly hostile, the Rukliv felt compelled to expand their influence among the Lesserkin nations of the region. They offered financial and military support to prevent these nations from submitting to elven rule. Unfortunately, this diplomatic contest blinded the Elderkin to the rapid rise of malevolent sects among the Lesserkin states starting in the second half of the 24th century.

In the first half of the 25th century, the great Bloodthorn Rebellion erupted when one of these cults succeeded in seizing control of a nation under Rukliv influence. The first forces to mobilize were private armies belonging to emerging clans and guilds seeking influence and prestige.

During the siege of the insurgent kingdom’s capital, coalition troops faced a grueling challenge breaking through the walls — structures that had been built by the Rukliv themselves. Fearing a siege that could last months, a small Rukliv blacksmith clan, inspired by designs from the Elruth Empire, constructed massive cannons. Though heavy, costly, and rudimentary, they played a decisive role in breaching the walls and bringing the revolt to an end. Rukliv troops then occupied the human nation — or what was left of it — with the aim of maintaining peace.

In the second half of the 25th century, fearing further instability and future uprisings among their Lesserkin vassals — and seeking to end diplomatic disputes with neighboring elven states — Rukliv and other Elderkin formalized new strategies to keep the Lesserkin peoples “on a leash.” Chief among these were the grand Tupan Sea tournaments, which also served to divide tribute among the Elderkin in a fairer way.

Due to major trade and technological agreements signed with the Elruth Empire in the 27th century, the Rukliv were able to keep pace technologically with other dwarven nations of West Ciradon. By the early 28th century, the Federation already fielded several experimental regiments equipped with Magelock muskets. The Senate saw these new weapons as a potential means to challenge the power of the formidable elven magi. However, their first true practical use arose during a rebellion of orc slaves — driven by religious motives — that erupted across several mines in the western part of the Federation.

Armed with handmade muskets and others stolen from the guards, the orcs seized control of key mines and tunnel networks in the region. Because of the subterranean fighting and the inefficiency of muskets at the time — due to the dense smoke produced with each shot — one of the local mining guilds struck agreements with security and forge guilds to manufacture new and improved shields and axes to counter the orc firearms. 

Yet it was a young Rukliv apprentice named Valsic, from one of these guilds, who made a breakthrough. While studying gunpowder composition and attempting to build his own musket, he accidentally mixed aurite dust with the powder, thereby creating Aurite Powder. Valsic died in an explosion while testing his discovery, but his notes were found, tested, and refined by other guild members months after his death.

A few dozen of these new muskets — called Valsic Muskets — were produced, and some were even tested in battle. However, by then the rebellion was already nearing its end. The newly improved shields, pikes, and crossbows proved far more decisive in combat, and the new muskets using Aurite Powder were set aside. Decades later, around the 2760s, the guild responsible for the discovery of Aurite Powder signed a contract with the Elruth Empire and began manufacturing and selling these new Valsic Muskets to them. It was only in the early 29th century that the Federation began adopting Valsic Muskets into its armies.

After the end of the orc slave revolt in the 2730s, it became clear to the major mining guilds that orc slaves had become economically unsustainable. Due to the increasing difficulty of capturing new slaves from the Red Steppes, and their great stubbornness and disobedience, the guilds preferred acquiring humans under indentured servitude — or even Rukliv laborers — since the cost of labor had dropped significantly in the previous decades. 

Thus, throughout the 28th century, the influx of new orc slaves declined steadily, and the few thousand who still resided within the Federation were expelled in a forced march to the western deserts. Among these exiled orcs were many who had fought in and survived the rebellion and possessed knowledge of gunpowder production — knowledge that would later allow these refugees to found an empire that would return to strike the Federation.

The 29th century passed swiftly, like a strange calm before a violent storm. Thanks to strong cooperative ties with other dwarven nations — not only in West Ciradon but across the world — Rukliv guilds and clans managed to expand their global trade network, selling their muskets to numerous nations, including the elves. 

In 2855, they established branches in the Kyrzgal Dynasty and imported several new models of balloons and airships from the Elruth Empire. By the 2870s, an emerging clan succeeded in reverse-engineering Elruth airships and began producing them for civilian and commercial use, inaugurating what would eventually become an extensive new aerial trade route across East Ciradon.

As the great Tupanorian Tournaments approached, rumors spread about a small Rukliv clan — together with human nobles — having built workshops in some Lesserkin nations to produce non-traditional muskets, weapons inspired by models from certain human nations of West Ciradon. 

These rumors proved true when, during the Tupanoria of 2888, troops from several Lesserkin nations competed using new types of muskets based on western designs. During the competitions, these troops, equipped with the new weaponry, performed significantly better than other Lesserkin nations that were still operating archaic musket models or using muskets manufactured by the dwarves.

In the year 2991, on the walls of Pip’oka, what was meant to be just another ordinary night turned into one of the most disastrous events in recent military history, when an orc horde attacked the wall armed with flintlock muskets and smoothbore cannons. Using weapons far more advanced than in previous probing raids and displaying an unnatural level of organization and discipline for orcs, it was an unprecedented assault. The forces on the wall were composed of inexperienced and young dwarves and elves, along with a few Lesserkin. 

The brutal attack forced the troops to retreat, and the orcs managed to breach the wall and penetrate the perimeter, advancing several kilometers inland. They were only stopped when they encountered human detachments encamped in the rear. Although their weaponry was nearly equivalent, the discipline and tactics of the humans proved more effective against the orc hordes and managed to halt their advance. Later, when private troops belonging to the Rukliv clans quickly arrived as reinforcements, they were able to expel the invading force. This event became known as the Night of the Silent Pavilions.

Faced with the “humiliation” that the orc attack had inflicted on the Elderkin forces at the Pip’oka walls, it became clear that neglecting defenses against the orcs had been naïve and irresponsible. This wounded Rukliv pride, and in the same year, a military expedition was called against the orc empire that threatened their borders. Several powerful and influential clans seized the opportunity to secure contracts with the Federation government for the production of armor, swords, axes, muskets, cannons, and reconnaissance balloons. Some clans even sent small contingents to reinforce the Federation’s army.

From 2991 to 2993, a war was waged against this orc empire. From Elderkin to Lesserkin, troops from various places participated — even Oustala sent a few battalions. But the main objective was not only to defeat the orcs, but also to show the Lesserkin that their weapons were useless before magic, and to compete with the elves by proving that Rukliv’s new armaments were the future of magic. 

In 2994, after the devastating joint victory of elves and dwarves over the orc hordes, the message that echoed among the peoples of the Tupan Sea was clear: “Magic still reigns supreme.” However, among the elven and dwarven elites, uncomfortable whispers of a bitter truth spread through their halls — they had only won because of their swift and surgical strategy, such as when they quickly destroyed the orc empire’s high command and threw the Lesserkin troops against the massive, disorganized orc hordes, only to arrive at the last moment to stage their spectacle, thus avoiding Elderkin casualties. 

Would they have achieved a quick victory without precise tactics and surgical strategies, or would the war have dragged on? Subtly, new military reforms began to take place within the Federation. For the Lesserkin and many others, the displays of magical power were so spectacular that some Lesserkin nations concluded that industrialization was a risky and perhaps unnecessary investment. The pace of industrialization fell to a historic low between 2890 and 2912, marked by isolated experiments in agricultural technological improvements, artillery, and handcrafted muskets, but without major structural transformations.

When the Tupanorian Tournaments of 2912 took place, there was another standoff between the Elderkin and the few Lesserkin troops that continued investing in technological progress. Although they ranked below the Elderkin troops in the final classification, they performed far better than the other Lesserkin who had remained stagnant. Even though this event only reignited a small spark in the hearts and minds of the Lesserkin peoples of the Tupan Sea, it was the WOD that set everything ablaze.

When the War of the Dawn began in the distant lands of West Ciradon and news reached them, the Rukliv initially viewed reports of Tassendrel’s army losing successive battles against humans with skepticism. But when word arrived that Voskgardia’s troops had launched an invasion deep into Tassendrel territory, the gravity of the situation became evident. Some clans petitioned the Senate to send volunteers to fight in the War of the Dawn, and these requests were only granted when the Elruth Empire entered the war. 

Thus, Federation troops and clan forces sent expeditionary forces to fight in the War of the Dawn. When Elruth’s civil war broke out, the expeditionary forces quickly positioned themselves to support the Zuriss. When the conflicts ended and the remaining expeditionary force returned to Rukliv, only one-third had survived and made it home. But the ships docking at the ports of the Tupan Sea brought not only veterans of the War of the Dawn but also refugees from Elruth — people of all kinds, many of whom no longer had a home to return to and agreed to cross the oceans and go to the Obsidian Mountains, where they hoped to build a new home.

The fall of the Elruth Empire deeply shook the Federation Senate; they had seen them almost as brothers and admired them greatly. But now, it was up to them to carry forward Elruth’s progress and legacy. One could already feel the Field weakening somewhere in the Red Steppes — small and subtle, but present — among the sands, within one of the remaining states of the fragmented orc empire. The orcs were stirring once again. The Federation began its rearmament and preparations; it was only a matter of time before the storm that had swept through West Ciradon reached East Ciradon.

Throughout its history, the Rukliv Federation has undergone various forms of political organization, ranging from a decentralized confederation of armed clans to a militaristic empire with strict central control. Today, its system of government is defined as a stratocratic federation, in which the member states maintain significant internal autonomy under the coordination of a centralized federal government. Each member state has the right to appoint a general to represent it in the Federal Senate, the highest body of deliberative and executive authority in the Federation. The Senate is composed exclusively of active-duty generals, reflecting the deeply militarized nature of the Ruklivian political system. Among these generals, a High Marshal is elected, regarded as the “first among equals,” whose duties include mediating the Senate’s proceedings, officially representing the Federation abroad, and exercising, when authorized, exceptional powers in situations of national security emergencies.

The internal governance of each member state is entrusted to a regional commissioner, a civil-military authority whose method of selection varies widely among the federal units. National legislation guarantees freedom of method, resulting in a notable diversity of processes: some states elect a military council that appoints the commissioner by internal vote; others hold physical combat tournaments as a symbolic demonstration of merit; there are those that apply rigorous administrative and military examinations; and it is not uncommon for states to hold direct or indirect elections among the trained population. This lack of uniformity reflects both the value placed on local autonomy and the pragmatic nature of Ruklivian culture, which prioritizes effectiveness and contextual legitimacy over external standardization.

Rukliv society is entirely structured around stratocratic principles. Full citizenship is conditioned upon the completion of a mandatory period of military service and martial training. All governmental institutions — from courts to infrastructure agencies — are composed predominantly of individuals with military backgrounds, and career civil servants are also required to undergo tactical and disciplinary training modules. The distinction between civilian and soldier is blurred, and a public career is, in essence, an extension of service to the homeland. This structure has consolidated a national ethos of discipline, readiness, and loyalty, elements considered non-negotiable pillars of contemporary Ruklivian identity.

Although the current degree of political cohesion among the Rukliv is considered by many scholars to be the highest in their recorded history, the internal reality remains permeated by interest groups and factions that operate to secure their own goals. Recent events, marked by the Night of the Silent Pavilions and the subsequent War of the Dawn, caused a structural shock across all powers of East Cirandon, and Rukliv was no exception. The impact of these crises generated intense debate within its political and military elite, and although they united the nation around a common objective, distinct schools of thought emerged regarding the stance to be adopted in the new geopolitical landscape.

The moderate faction, with a more cautious profile, advocates maintaining a position of strategic observation, waiting for the “White Mammoth” to make the first move before committing to any definitive action. In contrast, the traditionalists call for the immediate strengthening of borders, coupled with intensified production and stockpiling of armaments, aiming to prepare the nation for a potential conflict. The hardliners, taking a more radical stance, propose imposing severe industrial restrictions on the Lesserkin nations of the Tupan region, seeking to neutralize any potential for adversarial military development. The artificers, meanwhile, view the situation as both a challenge and an opportunity for profit: they intend to supply Rukliv-manufactured weapons to the Lesserkin nations, turning them into intermediary — and expendable — forces against potential future threats.

A political coalition formed between the artificers and the traditionalists forced the High Marshal to order a partial mobilization, aiming at a gradual transition toward a war economy. This coalition, through a network of diplomats and intelligence agents, works to foment an arms race across the Tupan Sea among the Elderkin nations, simultaneously expanding its economic power and political influence by exploiting the brief power vacuum left by the White Mammoth. Unofficially, there is strong suspicion that this coalition is, in fact, financed and sustained by the most powerful Rukliv clans, in collaboration with Tupan Sea city-states that likewise benefit from an environment of controlled instability.

Despite the substantial profits generated by this process, the ultimate objectives of these great clans remain uncertain. Even the solidity of their alliance is questionable, given the fierce competition they maintain among themselves. Both internally and externally, the great clans wield profound influence over Rukliv’s politics. Historically, they have been at the forefront of the dwarven people’s technical and arcane innovation, holding vast secrets of runic magic and advanced metallurgical techniques refined through its use. However, over the past century, the smaller clans have gradually gained ground and accumulated wealth by adopting less conventional strategies. While the great houses maintained traditional alliances with major Elderkin powers such as the Elruth Empire, Urd-Ferdurun, and Pharakaatus, many of the smaller clans turned to other centers of power around the world, such as Shawna, Kyrzgal, Lytheria, and the Great Holds, where they established manufactories, secured trade agreements, and developed joint research partnerships.

The influence of these clans has also extended beyond the Elderkin nations. Some have forged productive relationships with Lesserkin powers located around the Sea of Tupan, exporting goods and collaborating on the development of new technologies and equipment. Driven by the ambition to match — or even surpass — the influence of the ancient bloodlines, the smaller clans have become increasingly significant actors in Rukliv’s political and economic landscape. Amid the shifting geopolitical balance brought about by the WOD, the federal government itself has come to recognize this new reality, gradually entering into contracts and strategic agreements with several of these emerging dwarven houses.

The Rukliv Federation also began secretly funding neighboring allied nations, taking advantage of the brief power vacuum left by Pytã’Zia after it turned inward to focus on the upcoming competition to choose the new High Archmage. The Rukliv did not stay on the sidelines of this major event; knowing how influential Pytã’Zia is, having its leader aligned with Rukliv’s interests was of utmost importance. Thus, they also covertly supported and influenced several potential candidates within the elven nation who shared their vision of the future and their ideals, holding their breath as the great competition for High Archmage approached — and with it, the question of who would become the new ruler to guide the White Mammoth.

This section is currently under construction.

The technological level currently under the control of the Federation government is on par with that of the Red Mountains and slightly behind Elruth at its peak. Areas such as metallurgy, logistics, and runic engineering stand out among the Elderkin of East Ciradon and even from other parts of the world, benefiting from centuries of experience in prolonged conflicts and a highly disciplined, centralized chain of command. 

However, the most advanced core of technical knowledge remains outside the direct control of the state, concentrated within the various clans, whose influence has been amplified through extensive agreements with distant Elderkin powers, particularly the Elruth Empire, granting them a significant strategic advantage. In recent decades, however, the smaller clans have sought to reduce this disparity by engaging in reverse engineering of highly sophisticated projects from the Elruth Empire and other nations, such as Kyrzgal, with whom they have collaborated on the development of various joint technological initiatives.

The Federation’s military apparatus is recognized as the most professional and cohesive in all of East Ciradon. Troops trained over generations have developed flexible and adaptive doctrines capable of balancing discipline, mobility, and the use of heavy weaponry. Despite the persistence of traditionalist currents that prioritize blades and older combat formations, the dominant trend, especially in frontline units, is the adoption of muskets and firearms, supported by siege engines and enhanced artillery pieces. 

In parallel, there are the private armies of the clans, officially dedicated to the security of manufacturing centers, convoys, and trade routes, but whose combat capabilities match or even surpass those of regular forces in certain aspects. These forces are composed of rigorously trained mercenaries, equipped with the most advanced weaponry available, including finely crafted runic flintlock rifles and experimental repeating weapon prototypes. Persistent rumors, never officially confirmed, suggest that several clans have secretly expanded their armed contingents in recent decades, possibly preparing for scenarios that go beyond mere regional defense.

When asked about his origins, a Rukliv dwarf will lift his chest and, with a firm voice, proclaim: “I come from the mountains guarded by seventeen eternally active volcanoes, spewing fire and smoke without rest. I come from the ten thousand citadels built with iron, lava, and blood around those untamable flames. I come from a barren, perilous, mountainous, and scorching land. I am a Rukliv from the Obsidian Mountains.” Such a declaration is not mere pride but an expression of an identity forged through centuries of coexistence with a harsh and magnificent land.

The Rukliv citadels, each with its own customs, dialects, and traditions, form a cultural mosaic that, despite its differences, shares deep roots in stone and fire. For ages, the Rukliv identified themselves solely by the name of their native citadel, and this fragmentation fueled rivalries and conflicts that culminated in prolonged internal wars. Only after the Third Obsidian War did a collective consciousness emerge that transcended local loyalties, forging an incipient sense of national unity without abolishing the cultural autonomy of each citadel.

The history of this people is marked by cycles of prosperity and misery, of expansion and retreat, shaped as much by their own ambition as by the relentless forces of nature and war. From prosperous miners to starving survivors, and once again to masters of trade and metallurgy, the Rukliv have learned that true strength lies in adaptation. Forged in the heat of forges and shaped by the hardness of stone, they have become resilient and cautious, mindful that arrogance has brought them to ruin in ages past. Like the unpredictable flow of lava that forces the digging of new tunnels to preserve life, the Rukliv spirit constantly seeks new paths, recognizing that in a world of shifting dangers, survival belongs to those who reinvent themselves without losing their essence.

Since the earliest days of their history, the Rukliv have conceived their citadels as bastions of defense and centers of communal life, built to withstand prolonged sieges and hostile conditions. On the surface, each citadel presents itself as an impregnable military fortress, formed by massive walls of black basalt stone, erected with precisely carved and interlocked blocks, without reliance on mortar. These walls are wide enough to house internal corridors that allow for rapid troop movement, projectile storage, and protected firing points. Octagonal watchtowers rise at regular intervals, offering wide visibility for detecting approaching enemies. The main gates consist of reinforced steel double doors, protected by vertical grates that can be lowered quickly, while dry moats lined with hardened wooden stakes and mechanical traps complete the defensive system. At the base of the outer walls, steep slopes and the absence of blind spots make any attempt at climbing or demolition exceedingly difficult.

Beneath this imposing structure lies the true body of the citadel. The first subterranean layer, immediately below the surface, houses the administrative rings and strategic warehouses. Wide corridors, well lit by oil lamps and metal reflectors, connect halls lined with polished stone, where quartermaster offices, registries, hearing chambers, and council rooms operate. The warehouses, built with massive arches and columns to support extreme weight, store grain, beer, cured meats, salt, coal, treated timber, and weapon reserves, all organized into cataloged compartments for rapid access in times of crisis.

The second layer is home to the residences of the upper class and master artisans. Its galleries are wide and adorned with relief sculptures depicting historical deeds. The houses are built from carved stone, with doors and windows protected by wrought iron grilles, featuring spacious interior halls, carefully polished flagstone floors, and diffuse lighting from copper reflectors. This layer also hosts specialized workshops in jewelry, goldsmithing, and clockmaking, where the finest masters craft items of exceptional value.

The third layer contains the middle-class districts, common workshops, and large markets and fairs. Corridors here are wider to accommodate carts and stalls, and the constant sound of hammers, saws, and voices echoes throughout. The markets occupy vast halls supported by rough stone pillars, where merchants display everything from tools and fabrics to food and small animals. Blacksmithing, carpentry, and woodworking shops operate side by side, contributing to the local economic diversity.

The fourth layer consists of the working-class districts and laborer quarters, where population density is highest. The dwellings are compact, built with less refined stone and reinforced wood, aligned along narrow, irregular streets. Taverns and small canteens offer quick meals for workers, while makeshift tool and raw material depots are scattered throughout the neighborhood. The atmosphere is noisy, with the constant smell of coal and burnt oil.

The fifth layer houses the mega forges and heavy metallurgical complexes. This is an environment of intense heat and constant red illumination, where rivers of molten metal flow through reinforced stone channels and massive steam hammers operate day and night. The air is thick with soot, and the sound of metal being shaped is deafening. The facilities are equipped with forced ventilation systems to prevent air saturation with harmful gases, and large chain cranes move ore blocks and cast pieces.

The sixth layer, known as the Deep Slums, originated from abandoned mines later occupied by the surplus population during periods of abrupt growth. The makeshift structures are built from scrap wood, metal, and loose stone, creating a chaotic labyrinth of narrow passages and unstable dwellings. Lighting is scarce and uneven, and a vast black market thrives in secrecy, trading everything from stolen weapons and tools to goods of dubious origin.

Starting from the seventh layer are the active tunnels and mines, where Rukliv miners extract iron, copper, silver, gold, Aurite, coal, and gemstones daily. These tunnels are reinforced with wooden or steel beams and stone arches to prevent collapses, and transportation is done via rail tracks with carts pulled manually by mages or by steam-powered runic engines, which are becoming increasingly better and more popular each year. The work is arduous, and the constant sound of pickaxes, drills, and controlled explosions echoes over great distances.

Interconnecting all layers are the great freight and passenger elevators. These mechanisms are built within vertical shafts carved from stone, equipped with platforms suspended by high-tensile steel cables connected to large pulley systems. Once operated by mages day and night, their driving force now comes from large furnaces located on intermediate platforms, whose heat powers steam mechanisms responsible for operating pulleys and winches. Each elevator can carry massive loads, from ore blocks to dozens of passengers, and their operation is monitored by trained operators. As a contingency measure, spiral staircases carved directly into the rock surround the shaft, allowing foot traffic in cases of mechanical failure or elevator blockage.

Although composed of a complex network of independent citadels, Rukliv culture is traditionally classified into three major sociocultural macro-regions: the Peripheral Region, the Plateau Region, and the Peaks Region.

The Peripheral Region, being the most recently colonized, is characterized by more intense cultural dynamism, marked by innovation, openness to external influences, and strong communal enthusiasm. The local economy is heavily supported by agriculture, fishing, livestock, and other agrarian activities, which shape both daily life and the population’s festivities. Among the most emblematic celebrations is the Festival of the Seven Harvests, an event held at the end of the productive season, during which different rural communities parade through the streets with decorated wagons, showcasing the finest products of their fields and holding communal banquets.

Peripheral citadels located near rivers and seas have developed a strong tradition of fishing and shipbuilding, becoming strategic hubs for foreign trade. They host the main ports through which goods imported and exported by the federation pass, serving as diplomatic and economic interfaces with distant peoples. In the citadels of this region, the influence of trade routes has shaped a vibrant visual aesthetic, characterized by light linen tunics dyed in bright colors, often adorned with embroidery depicting family crests or merchant guild symbols.

Open-air markets form the heart of community life, where everything from crafted metals to imported spices is traded, and festivals often feature processions with colorful banners and music led by drums and wind instruments. The cuisine is rich in marinated dishes, cured meats, and grilled vegetables, often served with spicy sauces made from dried chili peppers and herb-infused oils, reflecting both the milder climate and the diversity of goods arriving from distant lands.

The citadels of the Plateau Region — the historical core of Rukliv civilization — represent this people’s earliest organized settlements and remain bastions of their military and manufacturing might. This region concentrates most of the great forges and workshops supplied by magma channels, a circumstance that has shaped a society of blacksmiths and warriors whose identity is rooted in discipline, martial tradition, and the metallurgical craft.

The reputation of the Highland Rukliv as makers of legendary weapons is reinforced by events such as the Great Forge Tournament, held every decade. In this competition, master artisans compete across various categories, crafting everything from ceremonial swords and heavy shields to firearms and artillery. The winning pieces are awarded to gladiators selected by each citadel, who wield them in formal combats against representatives from other settlements.

Cultural rigidity runs so deep that a Rukliv unable to forge even a simple blade is considered dishonored; in the past, such inability was punished with exile, and historical records even mention death sentences by exposure to volcanoes. Over time, those individuals migrated to the peripheral regions in search of other occupations. Although labor shortages in the past led to extensive use of enslaved workers for tunnel and mine excavation, technical advancements and population growth eventually replaced this practice with teams of specialists equipped with state-of-the-art machinery and refined techniques for underground mining.

In this region, clothing favors wool tunics and long leather-reinforced coats designed to withstand constant winds, with geometric patterns on sashes and belts indicating both social status and city of origin. Daily life revolves around enclosed markets protected by stone arcades, where robust grains, cured cheeses, and locally brewed beers are sold, alongside tools and handcrafted wooden goods. Customs include strength and endurance competitions, tournaments, and traditional games held in central squares, while religious celebrations blend ancient rituals with civic ceremonies, reinforcing the deep connection between mining and political identity.

The Peaks region is home to the most imposing and elevated citadels ever built by the Rukliv, perched along the slopes and summits of some of the most active and dangerous volcanoes in the Obsidian Mountains. The constant threat of eruptions and earthquakes forced the development of unparalleled architectural solutions, with foundational structures entirely reinforced with steel to ensure resistance against tremors and the elements. The steep and inaccessible terrain led engineers and craftsmen to design new models of bridges and roads to adapt to the landscape, though in recent decades there has been a strong predominance of aerial transport by airships, which is far more efficient than the region’s limited road network.

This geographical context fostered the rise of a culture strongly oriented toward engineering and architectural innovation, whose professionals are renowned as visionary builders who challenge technical traditions. Many of the innovations adopted by the federation — from structural systems to runic construction magic — originated in the laboratories and workshops of this region, including the controversial practice of mixing coal with Aurite to boost the efficiency of furnaces and airship engines. This pragmatic and experimental attitude, combined with the resilience required to survive in the mountains’ most hostile environments, makes the Peaks Rukliv a driving force for change and adaptation throughout the federation.

In the citadels of the Peaks region, the intense cold and rugged terrain have shaped customs and attire defined by thick fur cloaks, hardened felt hats, and boots lined with pelts, often dyed black or red to indicate military affiliation. Daily life is austere, with hearty, hot meals such as stews of game meat, roots, and mushrooms seasoned with strongly flavored local herbs, accompanied by potent drinks that help withstand the harsh climate. Social customs include nightly gatherings around large communal hearths, where stories of military exploits and ancestral songs are shared, and personal honor is often measured by the creation of new magical engineering projects — fostering a culture of constant innovation and adaptation.

This section is currently under construction.

• The Rukliv Federation was created by Entropico on the World of Tyrrell discord.