Name of Nation: People's Glorious Republic of Gionti
Color on Map: RedSummary in 50 words or fewer: Rump state, former rulership over the lands of cyan and orange. Ruled by a succession of dumber and dumber rulers until finally collapsing. Recently taken over by a bright young fisherman who looks to re-unite the empire.
Three solid paragraphs: "The death of dear Emperor Julien was a blow to us all, and it is due to that blow that I refuse to take the position of emperor. My fellow revolutionaries and I have decided that the empire is broken, and only a republic can fix it. We have prepared a new government, with myself as the Given Leader." The air was soft and cool as the new leader of Gionti made his speech to the massive crowd, they waved flags, shouted and screamed until their throats went dry, thoroughly indoctrinated into the new government's way of thinking. The emperor had been brutalized by the crowds when they had found him, dragged along the stones like a paint-brush, leaving red slicks wherever they took him. Like a toy, he was thrown around, savaged, torn to bits, until there was no emperor, everyone saw his for what he was, a man, not a god made flesh, his blood was red, his breaths haggard, his screams loud. When he was decapitated, no gold flew from the stump, blessing and cursing all who stood nearby. A man died that day, not a god, and with him went his empire.
This new man, his posture relaxed and confident, his brows a story of their own, hell, even his fingertips spoke to the crowd, he was less a man, more a golem formed out of the people's hopes and dreams, a brilliant future and a golden age. His head was bald and his face was buried in hair and yet it didn't matter, for they could have thrown a chimpanzee at his face and he still would have been loved, they could have set him on fire and he would have still been loved. This new "Given Leader" was a force, not a man, he had taken the emperor's godhood and drank his fill, becoming just as much a deity as the man before him, with even more power among the people. He made a show of pandering to the emperor's loyalists, but drying blood still rested under his fingernails, his hands cut to bits from the bit of glass he had stabbed a man with, but that was his manhood, the past, this was a leader, and a leader is more than any man could ever hope to be.
The people lapped up every sweet and precious word like it was their last fuel, they jumped and flapped their arms just to be noticed. It was a cult, a big, hideous, bloody mess of a cult. Every night the man at the head of it practiced his dark magic, learning how best to create love and harvest it like wheat. He was a king in all but name, forsaking that title to harvest his crop. He had no plans of sharing his power, with anyone under his rule or anyone outside it. He would own it all, if it did go his way, and he would be king among dukes, a power all to his own. The country was his old steed, perhaps holding a year or two left in it, gasping and panting. A year was all he needed.
