17-06-2026, 09:44 PM
At the footsteps of the Hanzen Shield, to Gsergyi Chubo and the lingering echoes of the Bargas Chenpo in Metz-Leonid
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July 30th, 5734
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I was stopped at the airport for a thorough check. They were polite. But the air of caution remained in the terminal halls. All pristine. Pride. My Seleyan passport triggered it. Not out of national identity, but of ancestry. I am, after all, a child of the Yeudi Diaspora.
A child of the echoing Yeudi silence.
It followed me as I backpacked my way out of Metz-Leonid. The sacred city would have to wait, for I had to take in the peaks of the country's northern lands.
A trip through the mighty mountain range the locals call the "Hanzen Shield", the country stands separated, yet united, across the ages of peace and turmoil alike. Roads are pristine, but rural, winding, mountainous. The pride of a Dovanian peoples, follows me. A quick spiritual stop in a village sitting at the edge of a massive cliff overlooking a brownish scenery, untouched, preserved; it reminds me of simpler times and of simplicity itself. Of harmony. Of history's neglect of the Dovanian continent.
![[Image: 800px-Landscape_of_Northern_Xsampa.jpg]](https://static.wikitide.net/classicrpwiki/thumb/1/1c/Landscape_of_Northern_Xsampa.jpg/800px-Landscape_of_Northern_Xsampa.jpg)
Several nights later and I find myself in a multicultural blend of peoples in the far north, seemingly detached from the rest of the nation, yet still, inexplicably beating the same heart of unity.
No plan. I staff myself with the local cuisine. Siloed internationalism, at its finest.
Day 11 and I head back south, with one of those pesky little paper planes. Tourist traps, though heavily controlled, are still convenient, when you need them to. When you allow them to.
The landscape takes my breath away. The mighty Gsergyi Chubo river makes you feel you are in an entirely different part of the world. Civilisation meets rural communities, sometimes peacefully, sometimes violently, with overpasses breaking the ambience of cows, donkeys and leaves in the wind.
I stood in farmland, unmoving, on the last day, before heading back. A friendly couple graciously hosted me for a night. A simple, plain living, yet technological. A rural edge at the edge of rurality.
And on the final day, Metz-Leonid. I wept at the Bargas Chenpo memorials.
History may be continuous.
But it's marked heavily, here and there.
Sometimes in shame.
Sometimes in pride.
And Xsampans had chosen the latter.
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In Other News;
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Error loading
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Today's Quote of The Day; Error loading
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Glory to the Xsampan Revolution! Glory to the Xsampan Proletariat!
The People's Committee for Information is a Peoples Committee dedicated to the regulation of media and information within Xsampa, ensuring that Xsampans hear news, both foreign and domestic from a safely socialist lens, the PCI ensures a strong, stable, socialist society for Xsampa.
གྲལ་རིམ་ལ་གཟི་བརྗིད་ཤོག
Gloire à la Révolution ! Gloire au prolétariat!
-----------------------------
July 30th, 5734
-----------------------------
I was stopped at the airport for a thorough check. They were polite. But the air of caution remained in the terminal halls. All pristine. Pride. My Seleyan passport triggered it. Not out of national identity, but of ancestry. I am, after all, a child of the Yeudi Diaspora.
A child of the echoing Yeudi silence.
It followed me as I backpacked my way out of Metz-Leonid. The sacred city would have to wait, for I had to take in the peaks of the country's northern lands.
A trip through the mighty mountain range the locals call the "Hanzen Shield", the country stands separated, yet united, across the ages of peace and turmoil alike. Roads are pristine, but rural, winding, mountainous. The pride of a Dovanian peoples, follows me. A quick spiritual stop in a village sitting at the edge of a massive cliff overlooking a brownish scenery, untouched, preserved; it reminds me of simpler times and of simplicity itself. Of harmony. Of history's neglect of the Dovanian continent.
Several nights later and I find myself in a multicultural blend of peoples in the far north, seemingly detached from the rest of the nation, yet still, inexplicably beating the same heart of unity.
No plan. I staff myself with the local cuisine. Siloed internationalism, at its finest.
Day 11 and I head back south, with one of those pesky little paper planes. Tourist traps, though heavily controlled, are still convenient, when you need them to. When you allow them to.
The landscape takes my breath away. The mighty Gsergyi Chubo river makes you feel you are in an entirely different part of the world. Civilisation meets rural communities, sometimes peacefully, sometimes violently, with overpasses breaking the ambience of cows, donkeys and leaves in the wind.
I stood in farmland, unmoving, on the last day, before heading back. A friendly couple graciously hosted me for a night. A simple, plain living, yet technological. A rural edge at the edge of rurality.
And on the final day, Metz-Leonid. I wept at the Bargas Chenpo memorials.
History may be continuous.
But it's marked heavily, here and there.
Sometimes in shame.
Sometimes in pride.
And Xsampans had chosen the latter.
-----------------------------
In Other News;
-----------------------------
Error loading
-----------------------------
Today's Quote of The Day; Error loading
-----------------------------
Glory to the Xsampan Revolution! Glory to the Xsampan Proletariat!
The People's Committee for Information is a Peoples Committee dedicated to the regulation of media and information within Xsampa, ensuring that Xsampans hear news, both foreign and domestic from a safely socialist lens, the PCI ensures a strong, stable, socialist society for Xsampa.
གྲལ་རིམ་ལ་གཟི་བརྗིད་ཤོག
Gloire à la Révolution ! Gloire au prolétariat!
The Banana