Some landings were so severe the colonists barely survived, with little hope of saving their supplies or technology. Fires broke out from shattered fuel cells, smoke choking the air as survivors clawed out of broken pods. Supplies meant to last years lay scattered, charred, or lost in the chaos. Those who staggered onto alien worlds wore grim determination mixed with fear—survival was far from certain. Among the wreckage, people scrambled for anything salvageable. A man with soot-streaked cheeks raised an intact water purifier, his voice trembling. “This might keep us alive,” he whispered, though few heard him over the cries and distant roars of unknown creatures.
They gathered what little they could: metal scraps for tools, unbroken food packs, seeds from gene banks that survived. “We’ll make it,” said Elira, clutching a bundle of seeds to her chest. Her hands trembled, but her eyes burned with determination. “We have to.” This resolve helped the survivors form shared-resource communities. They pooled everything, rationing every morsel and drop as their lives depended on it.
Over time, these alliances hardened into tribal structures. Leadership arose from necessity, not consensus. The strongest, those able to wield weapons or command respect, became chieftains. Their orders left no room for dissent. Shamans emerged—mysterious figures claiming to commune with the spirits of this new world. They spoke in riddles and painted their faces with alien dyes, chanting eerily by night. Some said they could summon rain or ward off sickness with rituals.
Torv glared at Sael across the fire. "You think your tricks keep us alive?" he growled, hand on his blade. "It's my warriors who hunt and defend."
Sael smiled thinly. "And who do your warriors seek when they're wounded—or haunted by spirits?" The words hung between them. Torv broke eye contact.
As time passed and the tribes grew larger, the focus shifted from the fireside tensions to a broader struggle: survival amid dwindling resources. Arguments over hunting grounds or access to water would escalate into shouting matches or even violence. When a tribe reached an area’s resource limits—a river choked dry or game animals too thin to sustain them—they faced a choice: split apart or starve together.
Edrik’s eyes blazed. “Your plan is madness! Out there, there’s nothing! We should wait for the land to recover!”
Kaela’s voice cut through. “And die waiting? Land never recovers for fools too blind to move.”
At times, it was not only resources that pulled people apart. The narrative moves now to divisions rooted in beliefs and customs. Disagreements over how best to live in this harsh new world fractured alliances that once seemed unbreakable. One tribe might revere their shamans as sacred leaders, while another might dismiss them as frauds, choosing instead to follow only their warriors.
As these splintered groups spread across the land, the story turns to adaptation. Tribes began responding to their environments in ways that profoundly shaped their identities. Those who settled on the vast Plains of Morag became nomads, following herds of alien creatures that resembled Earth’s great beasts yet moved with an unsettling grace all their own. The genetic material salvaged from crashed ships influenced these tribes profoundly.
The Tribe of Capall revered horses, crafting saddles from alien leather and painting their faces with symbols honoring their mounts’ speed and endurance. At campfires, elders told stories of how horses once carried humanity across Earth.
In contrast, the Tribe of Eallach built their lives around creatures resembling great bulls with spiraling horns and hides tougher than steel. Their songs rose deep and rhythmic under starlit skies—a homage to strength and resilience.
Other tribes took inspiration from elk (Eilc), cats (Cat), or dogs (Madra), each shaping their societies around traits they admired in these creatures: agility, cunning, loyalty.
The landscapes left marks on their inhabitants. Tribes in dense forests became quasi-nomadic out of necessity, moving when resources dwindled—not out of greed but respect for nature’s balance.
“Leave this place better than you found it,” said Marek quietly one morning as his tribe packed up camp beneath towering trees draped in moss. He knelt to scatter seeds into freshly turned soil where their fires had burned low the night before. A younger member hesitated nearby, watching him curiously.
"Why bother?" she asked. Skeptical, arms crossed.
Marek smiled. "Because maybe one day we’ll return—and I’d rather find life than ash."
Hill tribes developed seasonal patterns like ancient pastoral traditions on Earth. They moved between summer highland meadows and winter valleys for shelter.
In spring, as snowmelt filled rivers and wildflowers blanketed hillsides, these tribes sang songs of survival and renewal.
Each tribe carved its identity from necessity and imagination—each step marked by stories told long after fires burned low.
Formation of the Confederation
The scene shifts now to the rise of new political structures. The Seleucid Empire was one of the first confederations to be formed on Nugh Taalow, a vast and untamed land where the winds howled across endless plains and the skies stretched unbroken to the horizon. This federation, a remarkable union of once-warring tribes, did not spring into existence overnight. It was forged in fire and blood, evolving from the nomadic tribes that roamed the Plains of Morgh, an expanse so vast it seemed to swallow travelers whole, where the grasses whispered secrets to those who listened and the earth bore scars of countless battles.
The Tribe of Capall dominated the Plains of Morgh through unmatched speed. Their lean horses were bred for endurance, hooves barely touching the ground. Capall riders, faces painted with ochre and ash, moved like the wind—unpredictable and unstoppable.
"Faster!" Dairmuid shouted, urging his horse ahead. "We strike before they know we’re coming!"
Their speed let them raid rival tribes with ruthless efficiency. Villages could be in ashes before defenders rallied. Yet, confronted by stronger forces, they vanished over the horizon, leaving only dust and despair. Capall dominance grew, their wealth swelling after each raid.
But this dominance had a cost. War spoils brought prosperity, but also people—and problems. The tribe's population swelled, straining resources and sparking disputes over grazing, water, and leadership. Around campfires once filled with victory songs, arguments flared into violence.
Cormac’s voice thundered. "We are Capall, one herd! And you squabble like crows over scraps!"
His words fell on deaf ears. The tribe splintered under its own success, breaking into smaller bands roaming the plains—hungry, aggressive, and distrustful of one another.
While other tribes also fragmented, their divisions arose from necessity and mutual agreement. The Madra elders met beneath an ancient oak, a tree steeped in tribal history, to discuss their future.
"It is time," said Bran Madra Barr, his voice calm but firm as he addressed the circle of elders. His piercing green eyes swept across their weathered faces. "Our numbers grow too great for these lands to sustain us all. Let us part ways not as enemies but as kin."
There was silence for a moment as his words sank in. Then an elder woman named Eithne spoke up, her voice trembling with age but steady in conviction. "Aye," she said softly. "Let our children carry our name to new horizons."
And so they did. Unlike the Capall’s violent fragmentation, which left a trail of blood and bitterness across the plains, tribes like the Madra split peacefully into smaller groups that maintained strong familial bonds and alliances.
The difference in how these tribes splintered shaped the destiny of the Plains of Morgh. The Capall’s relentless raids turned them into outcasts, a common enemy that united their former victims. Slowly but surely, a loose coalition began to form among the other tribes. Smoke signals rose into the sky as messengers rode from one encampment to another, carrying urgent pleas for unity.
"We cannot let them destroy us piecemeal," declared Bran Madra Barr during a tense council meeting beneath the open sky. He stood tall among his peers, his wolfskin cloak billowing in the wind. "If we do not stand together now, if we do not fight as one, they will pick us off one by one until nothing remains but ash and bone."
The gathered chieftains murmured among themselves before an old warrior named Torin stepped forward. His face was lined with scars from countless battles; his voice carried both authority and weariness. "You speak true," he said slowly. "But can we trust each other enough to make it so?"
Bran met his gaze without flinching. "We have no choice."
Years of brutal conflict followed as this fragile alliance waged war against the Capall remnants. The plains became a battlefield where each blade of grass seemed stained with blood. Yet through sheer determination, and under Bran’s inspired leadership, the coalition triumphed.
When at last the Capall were brought low, broken in spirit if not in body, it was Bran who accepted their final surrender. He stood before their defeated chieftain on a windswept hilltop while warriors from every tribe looked on.
"You fought well," Bran said solemnly as he received a ceremonial dagger, a symbol of surrender among the Capall. The Capall chieftain released the dagger with trembling hands but said nothing; shame weighed heavily upon him like an invisible chain.
With peace finally within reach, Bran called for an unprecedented gathering, a meeting where every chieftain would have an equal voice regardless of their tribe's size or power.
"This hall," Bran announced during its construction months later, a grand structure built from timber hauled from distant forests, "will stand as neutral ground for all tribes. Here we will settle disputes not with swords but with words."
When the hall was complete and its doors swung open for the first time beneath a golden sunrise, Bran was elected Chieftain of Chieftains by unanimous vote, a moment that marked both his greatest triumph and the birth of what would become known as the Seleucid Empire.
As he stood atop its steps addressing his people for the first time as their leader, not just as Bran Madra Barr but as Bran Seleucid, the hope shining in his eyes mirrored that which now burned in every heart assembled before him: hope for unity; hope for peace; hope that together they could build something greater than any single tribe could achieve alone.
The City of M\U000000f8teplass
Over time, what began as a modest meeting point, a place where travelers paused to rest and barter goods, transformed into something far greater. The small clearing along the river, once marked by little more than a few wooden stalls and the hum of quiet trade, grew restless with activity. Merchants began to linger longer, their tents expanding into sturdier wooden structures. Farmers from surrounding lands brought more than just surplus grain; they brought their families, their hopes, and their dreams of something permanent. The air, once filled with the scent of fresh pine and damp earth, now carried the robust aroma of baking bread and sizzling meats, mingled with the briny tang of goods arriving from distant shores.
The first market square rose as a rough-hewn patch of dirt outlined by uneven stones. By the end of that first decade, however, it had transformed into a bustling hub paved with smooth, sun-warmed cobblestones. Children darted between stalls displaying vibrant fabrics dyed in indigos and crimsons, their laughter mixing with the sharp cries of merchants hawking their wares. A blacksmith’s hammer rang out in steady rhythm from one corner, while in another, an herbalist’s table overflowed with fragrant bundles of thyme and lavender. People didn’t just stop here anymore, they stayed.
One summer evening, under a sky streaked with fiery orange and dusky purple, two travelers stood at the edge of what was no longer just a meeting point but something resembling a town. The elder of the two, a grizzled trader with a sun-baked face and eyes sharp as flint, let out a low whistle. “You see this?” he said, gesturing toward the lively streets before him. His voice carried both awe and amusement. “Last time I passed through here, there were maybe five tents and a mule.”
His companion, younger and wide-eyed with wonder, took it all in, the throng of people, the vibrant colors of the market stalls fluttering in the evening breeze, and the faint strains of music drifting from somewhere deeper within the town. “It feels alive,” she murmured, her voice tinged with something like reverence.
“Alive doesn’t even begin to cover it,” the older man replied, scratching at his stubbly chin. “Mark my words, girl—this place is going to be something big someday.”
And it was.
As decades passed like the turning pages of a book, that town grew, and not just in size but in stature. They named it M\U000000f8teplass, which meant “meeting place” in an ancient tongue, though few now remembered its humble beginnings. Its streets stretched wider; its boundaries pushed further out into the surrounding hills and forests. Stone buildings replaced wooden huts, their facades carved with intricate designs that spoke of both artistry and ambition. The river that once simply quenched travelers’ thirst now bore ships laden with goods, silks from the East, spices from lands bathed in perpetual sun.
In the heart of M\U000000f8teplass stood its grand forum: an open square framed by towering marble columns that gleamed white under the midday sun. Here, debates raged among scholars draped in flowing robes; here, too, soldiers paraded in gleaming armor while children gawked at their shining swords. A statue stood at its center, a depiction of a woman holding a torch aloft. Locals said she symbolized unity and hope.
One crisp autumn morning, as golden leaves swirled around his boots, a wiry young man wearing a messenger’s sash burst into the council chamber where elders gathered to discuss trade routes and laws. His cheeks were flushed from running up M\U000000f8teplass’s steep streets.
“My lords!” he exclaimed breathlessly, clutching a scroll to his chest as though it might vanish if he loosened his grip. “Word has come from beyond the mountains! They speak of an empire—a great Seleucid dominion—and they seek allies.”
The room fell silent save for the crackle of firewood in the hearth. Elder Thorvaldsson, a man whose beard seemed as ancient as the town itself, rose slowly from his chair. His voice was gravelly yet commanding when he spoke. “An empire seeks us?” His eyes narrowed as he scanned the faces around him. “What does that tell you?”
“That we’ve become something worth seeking,” murmured one council member.
Another nodded grimly. “And something worth fearing.”
Thorvaldsson’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile or merely a grimace. He turned toward the messenger. “Tell me then, what do these Seleucids want?”
“They wish for allegiance,” said the young man. “They see us not just as a town or even a city—but as a gateway to lands richer still.”
Whispers rippled through the room like wind through tall grass until Thorvaldsson raised his hand for silence. He gazed out one of the chamber’s high windows toward M\U000000f8teplass below—, ts bustling streets alive with traders shouting deals and children chasing hoops through alleyways—and beyond that to the rolling hills that cradled their city like protective arms.
“Then we must decide,” he said at last, his voice heavy with both pride and caution. “Do we remain merely M\U000000f8teplass? Or do we become part of something far greater?”
Years later—after treaties were signed on parchment sealed with wax bearing royal crests—the Empire of the Seleucid stretched its influence over M\U000000f8teplass and its surrounding lands like ivy creeping across stone walls. Yet even as banners bearing imperial insignias fluttered above its gates, locals still whispered stories about how it all began: with nothing more than a clearing by a river where strangers once stopped to meet.
And so M\U000000f8teplass endured—not just as part of an empire but as a testament to what could grow from even the smallest seeds when nurtured by those bold enough to dream beyond their horizons.
The Fall of the Empire
The Seleucid Empire, a sprawling dominion that once cast its shadow over vast swathes of the ancient world, crumbled nearly four centuries after its meteoric rise. Yet, even as empires fell and power shifted like sand in an hourglass, the city of M\U000000f8teplass endured. It did not thrive as it once had, no longer the bustling jewel of trade and culture it had been in its prime, but it survived, its bones weathered, its spirit quieter yet unbroken.
Beneath a sky streaked with the muted golds and dusky pinks of twilight, the streets of M\U000000f8teplass whispered their stories to those who cared to listen. The air carried the faint tang of salt from the distant sea, mingled with the earthy aroma of sunbaked stone. The grand colonnades that had once lined the city's main thoroughfare now stood as fractured relics, their marble columns chipped and eroded by time. Ivy crept along their surfaces, defiant and verdant, as if nature itself sought to reclaim what humanity had left behind.
A young stonemason, Eirik, lingered near one such column, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings that remained from a bygone era. Though worn, he could still make out the faint outlines of mythological figures entwined in battle, a testament to the artistry that had once flourished here. His brow furrowed as he turned to his companion, a woman named Leira who stood a few paces away, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun dipped low.
“Do you think they ever imagined this?” Eirik asked, his voice low but edged with wonder. “The ones who built this city? That it would all… fade like this?”
Leira tore her eyes from the view and looked at him, her expression pensive. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose braid, strands escaping to frame her face in soft curls. “Maybe,” she replied after a moment. Her voice was steady but carried a note of melancholy. “Or maybe they thought it would last forever. People always do.”
Eirik nodded slowly, his hand dropping to his side. He glanced up at the nearest column again, taking in the cracks that snaked along its surface like veins. “It’s strange,” he said. “Even broken like this… it’s beautiful.”
Leira stepped closer, her sandals scuffing softly against the cobblestones. “That’s because it tells a story,” she said. Her gaze swept over the ruins around them—the remnants of temples and marketplaces, homes and gathering spaces. “Every crack, every missing piece... it’s proof that it endured something.” She paused, her voice softening as if she were speaking more to herself than to him now. “And it’s still here.”
The two fell into a contemplative silence, broken only by the distant murmur of waves crashing against the rocky shoreline beyond the city walls. Somewhere in the distance, a child’s laughter rang out, a fleeting sound that brought an unexpected warmth to the cool evening air.
Eirik broke the silence first, his tone lighter this time. “You sound like my grandmother,” he teased gently. “She always said scars made things stronger.”
Leira smiled faintly but didn’t respond right away. Instead, she crouched down beside a fragment of carved stone lying half-buried in the dirt. She brushed away the layer of dust and soil with careful hands, revealing a piece of what had once been part of an elaborate mosaic floor. The colors had faded but were still discernible, deep blues and vibrant golds forming part of a geometric pattern.
“Look at this,” she said, motioning for Eirik to join her.
He knelt beside her, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the fragment. “It must’ve been incredible when it was whole,” he remarked.
“It still is,” Leira countered softly. She touched the edge of the stone with reverence. “Even in pieces.”
Eirik studied her for a moment before nodding again. “You’re right,” he admitted quietly.
As they rose to their feet once more, Leira tilted her head toward him with an almost playful smile. “I usually am.”
Eirik chuckled under his breath but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned his attention back to their surroundings, the shadows growing longer as night crept closer, and let out a slow breath.
“We should head back,” he said reluctantly. “The others will be waiting.”
Leira glanced toward the fading light one last time before nodding in agreement. Together they began making their way back through what remained of M\U000000f8teplass’s winding streets, streets that had once echoed with the vibrant voices of merchants and philosophers but now lay quiet save for their footsteps.
And yet there was still life here: in the wildflowers sprouting between cracks in the pavement; in the laughter of children playing among ruins; in people like Eirik and Leira who saw beauty even in what was broken.
M\U000000f8teplass might have been diminished by time and history’s relentless march forward, but it remained, a city not defeated but transformed. And as long as there were those who walked its streets with open eyes and open hearts, its story would continue to be told.