Straya

“Neutrality is not peace. It is sweaty palms and long nights.”

Straya is a nation built on adaptability rather than ambition. Where other powers fractured under war, faith, or excess, Straya survived by staying open, stubborn, and useful. Once the southern reaches of the old world, the continent was cleaved by The Meteor into frozen wastelands and fertile northern steppes. What remained was not an empire, but a people who learned quickly that survival meant cooperation, trade, and a refusal to kneel to distant rulers.

The land itself reflects this pragmatism. The northern steppes are productive and well-settled, their wealth drawn from agriculture, mining, and manufacturing rather than conquest. The southern reaches remain frozen, sparsely inhabited, and largely ignored. Straya does not waste effort reclaiming what cannot be sustained. It invests where life endures.

Straya’s prosperity is honest and uncomfortable. It forges weapons and sells them freely. It brokers contracts without moral theater. It hosts embassies, exiles, and enemies in the same districts and expects them to behave. Critics accuse Straya of profiting from global bloodshed. Strayans answer simply: the wars would happen regardless.

Straya is a parliamentary monarchy, its crown deliberately restrained by law. The king serves as head of state and symbol of unity, but governance rests with parliament and provincial councils. Debate is loud, public, and often bitter. That friction is considered healthy. Strayans trust argument more than decree.

The greatest strength of this nation is its location. If you need to cross any one of its three surrounding seas, you must go through Gibson. As such it finds itself playing host to armies, supply chains, pilgrims, and pirates. All trying to get somewhere else. Friendships in Straya are temporary unless otherwise stated.

Straya’s greatest danger is not invasion, but imbalance. When one power grows too dominant within its borders, parliament acts. Licenses are revoked. Dock access is delayed. Contracts are quietly redirected elsewhere. Neutrality here is not passive. It is enforced. Foreign spies are common. So are counter-spies. Straya tolerates both so long as the streets remain intact. The moment foreign conflicts threaten the city itself, Straya closes ranks with startling speed.

Straya does not rule the southern world. It hosts it. Its capital, Gibson, has grown outward into a sprawling port-city where borders blur and banners overlap. Foreign soldiers walk its streets openly. Mercenaries sign contracts beside diplomats. Airships from every continent crowd its skyharbors. Straya allows this not out of weakness, but calculation. A city made indispensable is a city no one dares burn.

Gibson is not beautiful in the way imperial capitals are. It is wide, noisy, and crowded. Entire districts belong to foreign powers, each maintaining embassies, barracks, and trade halls under strict Strayan oversight. No nation may fortify beyond agreed limits. No banners fly higher than the city’s own.

Markets sell everything from refined Shardisite components to illegal maps of forbidden seas. Foundries operate day and night, their output destined for wars Straya will never officially fight. Taverns host soldiers who may be enemies by dawn. Violence is contained swiftly. Incidents are buried quietly. Gibson survives because it cannot afford chaos.

Religion exists freely in Straya, but it holds no obvious political sway. Cathedrals and shrines stand beside taverns and council halls. Priests speak, but they do not command. The Choir is respected as protector and witness. The Legion is acknowledged as a force of endurance and conflict. Neither governs. Strayans believe faith is personal. Governance is not.