No Hands but My Own

It was bound to happen.

When the tribes in the South conglomerated into the Southern Union, they thought that they could rewrite their past. They thought that their Unification could bring about a new age – an age of new intellectual thought where primitive heathen concepts would be squashed underfoot and peace and equality would reign.

It has been ten years since the Unification. And the South has returned from a democratic state to a vicious monarchy where only the most ancient laws of the land are being followed; death to those that oppose the King.

But this is not a story of the South. This is a story about the Midlands, gateway to the wild Northern reaches, where traditions are still crucial to survival. Where every day is a struggle and only the strongest can survive. This is the story of the rebellion of the Midland Woods under the command of the Canium, leader of the most primitive, brutal, and wild clan on the continent.

THIS IS NOT A WEREWOLF STORY IN ANY WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM.

[Any suggestions for editing would be greatly appreciated!
I will get around to them eventually. I promise.]

Special thanks to the amazing badacid_ for the lovely cover.