Let me tell you of a time that is long since past, of what once was, of kings, of conflict and of unity. This is the tale of Dracondra.

Our story begins far from the homeland of our people, far before the present day, in the distant Principality of Persesi. Here, the fertile soil gave rise to a fountain of life, abounding harvests and nourishing pastures that had made the land rich and plentiful. The elected monarch had ruled with supreme power benevolently for decades; Persesi was described as a paradise on earth. And yet, not all were untroubled. There were stirrings in the remote backwaters of the country, and rumours spread of a challenger to the throne. Peace had been known in the country for an age: many claimed that the cruel hands of destiny were now primed to return with an evil intent - to spread turmoil and chaos without mercy.

The laws and legislation of Persesi were deep and beautiful to behold - the very nature of the people who lived there encouraged consistency and fairness in their leaders - but the foundation of their government was in no way devoid of flaws. It was through these democratic loopholes that a new power came to preside in Persesi, beloved by the majority, distrusting of the rest. Fractures began to appear, a social chasm emerged that severed the nation along lines of ancestry. Spurred on by this dissent amongst the populace, the authorities of the realm proclaimed even more drastic measures of discrimination, segregation and hate. Slowly at first, but now accelerating as the pugnacious attitudes reached a boiling point, the very fabric of the community in the Principality began to fall apart, at every level of society. Before long, minor conflicts broke out between those who would proudly display a family tree of pure, unfiltered Persesan blood and the disowned, dishonoured descendants of the northern provinces, collectively known as Lacerta.

Such terrible events as these, and many acts yet more ghastly, were still to come. I will not subject your ears to such torture, but let it be known that by autumn, far too great a number of orphaned Lacertans had fled from their homes, alone, into the wilderness. Many would never return.

Ahead of the impending winter, those that were left of the once proud race gathered beneath the banner of Demithros, the elder of the north. They would attempt what had never been done: a crossing of the great Cygnid mountains. Ambitious and fearless explorers had quailed at the prospect, but now it was their only chance to survive. Their destiny was uncertain. Not only this, but they would bring their families, their herds, their tools and what was left of their meagre belongings on this most arduous of expeditions. For miles the caravan of refugees stretched from the dangerous lowlands of their persecution, up into the inhospitable peaks of the mountains. Any pessimists (who claimed simply to be realists) were ignored, and, hearts brimming with faith, the men, women and children of Lacerta followed their bold leader into peaks.

The heart of Demithros the elder himself, though, was less unwavering. With the burden of his people’s future weighing down on his neck, he became more and more aware of the precarious nature of their journey. Food supplies began to run short, the biting cold slowed progress and the strength of will of the travellers began slowly to falter. To the left, the imposing peak of Deneb seemed to lean menacingly over them, rolling clouds of snow betraying the deadly avalanches that ravaged its slopes. Further to the right, the crooked pinnacle of Albireo appeared to threaten their every step, its crest like the hand of an ancient giant, warning travellers of their fate. The ascent was arduous, the weather relentless and the vigour running dry as the last threads of hope were abandoned. Winter was closing in, and each step became more and more gruelling.

Then the mighty leader Demithros the elder clambered up onto an overhanging cliff and raised his arms to the heavens. At once every Lacertan in the train ceased to move, their eyes drawn to the ageing man at the head of the column. His frail body did not fail him, as he had feared, but inspired belief in the souls of all those that followed. “We are survivors!” he proclaimed.

But a storm was brewing, and as he spoke out to his people with words of rallying encouragement, a streak of lightning leapt down from above and struck the very protrusion on which he stood. As one, the body of Lacertans gasped in unison, the very figurehead of their plight smitten down by the deities on high.

All, however, was not lost. For a miracle had happened on that day, and one never to be forgotten by those who witnessed it. Demithros the elder rose up onto his feet, his knees still trembling from the shock, and raised one fist into the air with triumph. Not only was he unharmed, but it was as if he had become younger, stronger and healthier than he had been before. This providential phenomenon sent cheers peeling through the weary Lacertans, their strength renewed. What is more, the next morning scouts reported that green fields and trees and a plethora of life could be seen in the distance: before the week was out every member of the community had descended safely from the heights. A new life began for the Lacertans on the far side of the Cygnid mountains, in the densely forested land of Lyris.

At first, they were greeted warmly by the native Herakleians. It was not to last.

For one hundred years, peace reigned in the woods of Lyris, a harmonious existence joined the two societies who now found themselves inhabiting the same space. Semi-nomadic tribes of the Herakleians wandered past the farms of Lacertans, who greeted each other as fellows, as equals. Four generations had passed since the great crossing, as it had come to be known, when the great-grandson of Demithros found himself lying on the tranquil earth and gazing up into the heavens. Demethrites was still a young man, revered among the Lacertans for both his strength of leadership and the beauty of his lyre-playing. Little did he know that as he lay in that idyllic land, admiring the heavens, the true test of his leadership was drawing ever closer.

The Herakleians lived for their herds, vast collections of elephant-like beasts called neblana which travelled far and wide through the forests of Herculea. Their sporadic presence in any one place allowed for regeneration and regrowth, before the herds would come again and devour much of the vegetation in their path. Peculiarly, this formed a perfectly balanced ecosystem, fine tuned to the conditions of the time which maintained a steady population of the creatures. The neblana, though, grew apprehensive around settlements, and were wary of the villages and towns that had sprouted up wherever the intruding Lacertans arrived. The Herakleians were forced to retreat further from the Cygnid mountains, further towards the humid and sweltering lands to the south and east - which were entirely unsuitable for their herds. The leaders of Herakleian tribes had sought help from their neighbours, only to be presented with apologetic shrugs and hollow promises. Resentment was growing; discontent between the populations was rising; conflict was brewing.

It was a calm winter’s morning in Lyris, the sun was just beginning to peer above the shivering horizon like a tentative shrew that emerges from its burrow: eager to leave the sky and plunge the land back into darkness. A thin mist slowly advanced across the woods toward the Lacertan’s walled capital of Vega. In the distance, blue sky could be seen, but overhead dark grey clouds loomed menacingly. The city slept; the guards chatted absent-mindedly, softened by an extended period of serenity and the hope of an everlasting peace.

The blast of a horn resounded across the woodlands, as a mass of warriors poured out of the forest and surged towards the city. Like a stampede of wildebeest which arises ahead on the horizon, the Herakleians charged with a deafening cry and the mass of their feet made the very ground shake. Then suddenly they burst through the gate of the city, bringing murder and death to the Lacertans. The streets were discordant with violence and began to fill with blood. The plague of attackers swarmed through the capital. The Herakleians brandished savage scythes, the whetted blades of death himself struck terror into the inhabitants; fear filled their once sturdy hearts.

As all seemed lost, the lyre-playing Demethrites, having replaced his instrument with a sword, rode through the main thoroughfare of Vega on a gallant steed, followed by his faithful companions. With a final charge of desperation they broke through the lines of Herakleians, scattering their enemy. The glittering shield and sparkling armour of Demethrites cast an angelic light upon his face; the bravery of their leader and his rousing words spurred many to action once again. With immense difficulty, the Lacertans pushed back their foe, and by nightfall the city was saved. Demethrites was heralded as the second saviour of the Lacertans. Another threat had passed, and this hardy race had suffered yet again. Many hoped that this would be the end, that no more hardship would be endured. Only time would tell.

Few of the Lacertans would label themselves an ‘explorer’, indeed the word did not exist in their native tongue. However, while most preferred to stay within the relative safety of their farms and towns, one among them, named Scyras, had wandered far and wide since his youth. One year after the successful defence of Vega by the lyre-playing Demethrites (though many winters had passed since Scyras was last there), the adventurer found himself emerging from the overgrown marshes he had crossed in distant Surpensus. Ahead, rising out of the earth like a great black peak, a giant of yore, Arcturus appeared before him. This colossal mountain, a rival even to the Cygnids of Lacertan lore, held a dark secret. As Scyras neared the peak, a searing heat began to take hold of him, and steam rose from the mountaintop. He leaned over the rim, balancing precariously: his fears were confirmed. Arcturus was a volcano, and one brimming to erupt. A week? A month? A year? Scyras did not know, but at once he descended from the summit, and hurried back the land to Lyris. He could only pray that he would arrive in time.

Upon Scyras’ return to Vega, the eruption was imminent. Panic seized the inhabitants and pandemonium ensued. Some refused to believe that a far off mountain could possibly disrupt their lives and threaten their survival, but most were persuaded by Scryas’ description of the mighty volcano. Many prepared to flee from the city: they gathered their belongings and led their families away from danger. But none seemed to have a destination in mind. Some headed west, back towards the Cygnid mountains; but every Lacertan knew well what life awaited them that way. To the north lay the ocean, a vast expanse of unexplored waters with no certainty of terra firma to be reached. What is more, the Lacertans did not get on with the sea and sought to remain on dry land at all costs.

The Herakleians too were not unaware of this danger, and they worried for the safety of themselves and their herds. Though every season had passed since their failed assault upon Vega, the herds were no less agitated, and their herders remained resentful. With their defeat, the lush woodlands available to graze their neblana were shrinking and their population was declining. And although they did not share the Lacertans’ dread of the ocean, they severely lacked the supplies and the cohesion for a voyage to take their race across the waters.

Such was the hopelessness that faced both nations that many turned to desperation. Smoke began to appear on the horizon. At first thin wisps were explained away as low clouds, but before long the unmistakable vapours of an impending eruption clawed their way into the sky from the east. The unease and trepidation of the inhabitants of Lyris and Herculea was plain to see, from the apprehension etched on every countenance to the hushed and anxious tones of a forlorn people, searching for any salvation.

Faith in the elders was at an all time low: the wise and revered leaders seemed unable to find any path forward for their people. But there was one among them who commanded the respect of the citizenry, and her name was Althania. Two bright, golden eyes adorned her face, while an aura of confidence and dependability accompanied her presence. She was the youngest of the elders, scarcely thirty years of age, yet she had proven her authority throughout the realm. Althania had spent years with the Herakleians before the conflict, trying to negotiate peace for the benefit of both sides, but was truly of Lacertan blood. She appeared before the people of Vega to present her plan.

“Unity”, she declared, “outlives conflict.” A pause, in which she surveyed her captivated audience, then she continued: “It is for us to decide whether unity is the way forward, or if we wish to exist in isolation, unhindered but unaided by the outside world. In this most dire of times, however, the two options are marked by a stark difference. We can become secluded and alone, patiently awaiting the end of our days at the hands of Arcturus. Or, we can seek to expand our horizons, enable cooperation and establish a future for our descendants. We and the Herakleians may have our differences-” To this, a wave of dissent flowed through the crowd: the very recent conflict had not been forgotten. Unabated, Althania spoke on, “We may have our differences, but I believe - I know - that if we collaborate now we may have a chance of survival.”

Initially, few were convinced. But Althania’s determination was endless and her words so compelling that eventually she had garnered the support of many Lacertans. To persuade their enemy to join the venture was even less achievable, yet achieve it she did. Soon, her project began, and the two warring races laid down their arms and worked together to construct a mighty fleet, capable of crossing the vast expanse of the sea. At the will of the Herakleians, twenty neblana were brought aboard to establish a new herd at their destination - if any such destination existed beyond the shimmering horizon. Without delay, the vast flotilla of ships set sail from Lyris, to discover what lay beyond the ocean.

The rhythmic pounding of the oars and the billowing of the sails formed the soundtrack for this momentous journey. The waves lashed against every hull, like some malicious force which sought to smash the timbers of the ships into dust. Perhaps some god of the sea wished to send the crews hurtling into the depths below, submerged beneath the waves and never to breathe again. Despite these hardships, the fleet did not give in. Althania did not give up. From her vessel at the head of the formation, she led the ships across miles of ocean, never once faltering in her command and strength of will. And all the while, the smoke from the east grew ever denser; all knew that they were not yet safe.

Days passed. By now, fish dominated the meagre diets of the migrants. Hope fled and despair set in. Even the encouraging words of Althania were met by inconsolable melancholy. The situation was dire.

Then, Arcturus erupted. A mighty roar filled the ears of the travellers, and the shock wave sent a tremendous torrent of water crashing over their ships. Many vessels were torn apart by the force of the impact, plunging crews to their deaths. In the east, a colossal column of ash billowed into the sky, obscuring the sun and casting a premature twilight on the earth below. Within days, powerful winds had smothered the lands of Herculea and Lyris with a thick blanket of dust. These volcanic embers fell to the ground: starting fires in the dry forests; stifling the plants which wilted up and died; suffocating any creature unfortunate enough to still be there. So too was the sea subjected to the asphyxiating wrath of Arcturus, for a fine layer of ash now lay floating upon the surface, spreading ever further as more volcanic debris fell from above. From this advancing suffocation fled the fleet of Althania, rowing at full speed to outrace death. Only through the greatest exertion were they able to evade the most severe effects of the eruption, though many choked for days on inhaled ash which burnt at their throats.

Althania ensured that all those affected were treated by the physicians whom they had aboard. Her leadership shone through in those arduous times, and the impact which it had on her followers has meant she is still remembered today.
The worst was now behind, but that did nothing to relieve the travellers’ hardship. Life aboard the fleet was melancholy and depressed, none knew if their struggle had been in vain. One morning, before most had risen from their slumber and when the ships were carried forth by the wind in the sails alone, Althania climbed the mast to peer ahead, as she did every day. It was over a week since their departure, and four days since Arcturus had bellowed out its fiery rage. Squinting her eyes against the glare of the sunrise, she saw it. Undeniable and clear, there, upon the horizon, was the coastline of a new land.

At long last, the fleet came ashore on the beaches. First down from her vessel was Althania herself, who ran fine grains of sand through her fingers and triumphantly proclaimed the beginning of a new age for her people. Not far inland, they found a wide and calm river strolling through the fertile country towards the sea, and here they raised their banner. Before long a small town grew up around the river banks, and flourished with a prosperity unseen since ancient times. Walls and towers rose; swift technological progress and cultural advances led to a spectacle of grand architecture which ornamented the skyline. This settlement on the banks of the river Draco became Eltanin, our glorious capital. Over many years, the people of Lacerta and those of Herculea ceased to be separate tribes, and they merged into one harmonious race of humans. In honour of the land that had brought them together, they became Dracondrans.

I am sure you already know much of our past since this historic epoch: how Althania’s son established our much loved democracy, and of general Kerlak’s victories in Ursamia. You mean to say you haven’t heard? Well, you have much to look forward to, but these are tales for another day.

We were part of Hive, and then we broke off. We were just a floating island. Suddenly, we bumped into Europeia. We got excepted into Europeia.

Stefoland joined Europeia on the 8th of October 2021, being a nation of around 5 million people. But the way Stefoland joined Europeia was never covered, So here is how.

The first time Stefoland joined Europeia

Back in early 2021, investors from a unknown nation came to Stefoland, which Stefoland didn't know how since the nation was completely isolated from the rest of the world. The investors were asked where they came from, which they said they didn't couldn't disclose that information. Which made the government a little suspicious, so Stefoland which was supervising its citizens a lot at that time, they decided to supervise the investors. Later, the government discovered that these "investors" were actually trying to use Stefoland as a tax haven. The government got angry and threatened to deport them if they didn't disclose their origins. These "investors" eventually complied and told the government that they came from the Crazy empire of gold. The CEOG was immediately informed about this and pardoned the government of Stefoland and these tax evaders were sent back to the Crazy Empire of Gold. After this, Stefoland started communicating and abandoning their isolationist policy. And one of the countries they met up with was the The Seaside Republic of Primorye Oblast. Which offered Stefoland to join the Republic of Europeia, coincidentally, the Crazy Empire of Gold at the time was a nation within Europeia and since Stefoland had already been talking and building up relations with them, the government was interested in joining. And on the 8th of October 2021, Stefoland became an official nation in the Region of Europeia. Despite only being a small nation, Stefoland started interacting rather quickly in the talks between Europeian nations, also receiving advice from long lasting members of Europeia like Vatinland, and of course, the Crazy Empire of Gold. Stefoland also was part of the peace talks after war between Biania, and the Crazy Empire of Gold. But only a few weeks after that, the Crazy Empire of Gold began testing Weapons of Mass Destruction of the size and the sheer amount of destruction never seen before. The region of Europeia began getting worried and gave warnings to the CEOG which made them leave with other nations such as Arstotzra and Tsiamuns velleniouss. Stefoland eventually joined them in the Land of Free Nations.

The SECOND time Stefoland joined Europeia

Only around 4 weeks after Stefoland joined the Land of Free Nations it had already become absolute chaos. The Crazy Empire of Gold declared war on Habon for unknown reasons. During the war, a Stefolandese division that went rogue (with around 70 soldiers and a commander) was in the Crazy Empire of Gold and shot two soldiers of the CEOG. The Crazy Empire of Gold got incredibly angry and demanded that the Stefolandese government kill the division. First of all, Stefoland couldn't control a rogue division, second of all, killing them in the eyes of the Stefolandese government was a bit of a stretch. Stefoland suggested firing the entire division and the commander instead of killing them. The Crazy Empire of Gold wouldn't back down and demanded the hanging of the entire division. The CEOG claimed the families of the 2 soldiers hanged themselves and burnt their houses down. Since bringing back the dead wasn't an option, Stefoland decided to fire the division. The CEOG became enraged and claimed Stefoland joined the war that the CEOG was fighting against Habon. The nation of Ducklingville believed the CEOG and declared war on Stefoland. While Tsiamuns Velleniouss embargoed the CEOG backing Stefoland saying Stefoland never declared war, and that Stefoland would never do it due to Stefoland's barley existent army. Stefoland ended up paying the CEOG 600 Trillion Crazy dollars of Gold, and war had been stopped. Well, not fully. The CEOG got a coalition formed against them because of their actions, which included ARSTOTZRA, Ducklingville and Tsiamuns Velleniouss. Stefoland supplied the coalition, but this was a mistake. The nation began having countless anti-war protests, where the protesters began flying Europeian flags, wanting to get out of all this chaos and rejoin Europeia, which had been peaceful for a super long time ever since the Biania and CEOG war. And after 28 days of being in the Land of Free Nations, the government had been convinced and rejoined Europeia with welcome arms.

So yeah! That was the story of Stefoland and Europeia. Thanks for reading! :D

Dawn of an empire, a revolution. Squidtopia was born. It all started millions of years ago when the first squids were born. The evolution took years but finally in the deepest and darkest part of the sea the first squidtopian was born. Half human half squid their population grew. First by tens than hundred and then thousands. They started migrating towards the surface trying to find a new home. At 2 thousand feet when the light first started appearing. A submarine came out looking at the thousands of squid people. They alerted the earth and they thought aliens have arrived. After hearing this. The leader of this nation decided they should transform in human so they wouldn’t get completely wiped out. We founded our own nation above the ocean in the great region of Europeia(See what I did Lol). To this day we have been protecting our brethren and been plotting a plan. A plan which would make squids the superior kind. [Evil laughter starts to play]. And its already to late.
Do you think is good?