The Cacophony of Clashing Steel (MT Closed|Attn Greysteel)
A Roleplay by Members of the Greysteel Community
A Roleplay by Members of the Greysteel Community
Three Miles Off the Shore of Yalosii National Waters
18:25 Hours
The dark blue skies hung above, over the clouds like a lifeless shroud of shadow, seeming to be suspended by the hand of a divine being, removed from the mortal world. There was a single source of red, dimming light just over the horizon, a single, paling, red and dying light that cast its radiant beams defiantly, for these last few moments. This setting sun slowly made its arduous journey, inexorably, but slowly, out of the sights of men, and over the deep unknown, seeming to disappear off the sides of the Earth, cascading off land’s end with the endless flood waters, into the great unknown, off the sides of the Earth, a final tinge of red in a black night.
Pokuii sat, watching, in awe. Each and every time he saw the sunset, he was further reminded of the great beauty of the world in which he lived. In school, he had been taught that the sun was the embodied spirit of great Prophet, Thasal’Tha, may his name ever be revered, and that the moon was the diminished spirit of the Eyuka herself. She had come, descended from her heavenly Throne amidst the clouds on high, to lead the Yalosii people in glory, and for a moment, Pokuii was overcome with emotion. To think that a Goddess might, from the deepest compassion in her heart, leave her heavenly abounds to save the Chosen people…it filled the young soldier with gratitude and awe. Tears of love began to patter down his shirt.
Taking a knee, Pokuii patted the steel hull of his surfaced torpedo boat, and, with great force, thrust the hatch open. The gentle waves splashed inside as Pokuii grabbed the first ladder rungs, and lowered himself down, inside. Reaching up for the hatch door, he smashed it shut with a satisfying clang, and continued his descent into the cramped interior of the tiny, five men vessel. Indeed, Pokuii’s boat was merely a patrol vessel, armed with naught but a single torpedo and enough fuel to last a few days at most. This was not a submarine to embark on long ranged assaults. It was a vessel characteristic of Yalos’ needs to defend herself.
“Hatch closed,” he yelled out, “Let’s submerge again. We’re approaching the ends of National waters, so we have to be wary for invaders and capitalists.”
He had had his break, but now it was time for him to resume his duty to the motherland. Inside, Pokuii took his seat the commander’s box, jamming his legs in the crammed, uncomfortable compartment, bringing the periscope down to his eyes, pressing his legs and butt against the sharp, steel structure of the boat. He sighed, and smacked his lips twice. He needed water…
What was that?
In the distance, Pokuii could see, what appeared to be a ship. It was rather large, larger than anything he had ever seen in his life. Whatever it was, it was definitely not Yalosii, larger than most Zammoran ships, and it most certainly did not bear the distinctive markings of a Vakolicci or Delmontese naval vessel. It didn’t even seem to bear conventional weapons. Pokuii was puzzled, frightened and uncertain. There was, indeed, no reason for a ship to be this large, without having some sort of military application, right? Pokuii could feel his fingers trembling as he zoomed the periscope in to get a better look.
“Yupik, Mkkihbhi,” he muttered, “Load the torpedo. We might have a hostile vessel, so try to establish radio connection with the Motherland.”
“Torpedo loaded, sir!” Mikkhibhi confirmed. Yupik bore news that was less pleasing.
“The radio seems to not be working. We seem to have travelled about an hour’s distance outside of communications range, sir! If we travelled back, we might be able to ask for further instructions, sir!”
Pokuii cursed internally. They didn’t have an hour. One hour could see this monstrous ship get that much closer to the sacred soil. One hour close to imposing imperialism and slavery upon the Yalosii peoples again. A risk that could not be taken. Usually, the High command would inform him of foreign vessels to enter. They almost always cleared exceptions for certain commercial vessels. But there had been no such clearance. Did that mean…that the motherland was under attack? Beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and back, Pokuii gritted his teeth, and turned to face the expectant gunner.
“Shall I fire, sir?” the gunner asked.
“Fire.”
Time froze for the few crucial moments that the torpedo took to spiral through the water, inexorably towards the luxury liner, seemingly pressing forward with great purpose and tenacity. The torpedo hurled itself at the hull, and for a few moments, it seemed like nothing had happened. Then, the ship, in a massive eruption of flame and shrapnel, began to groan, water belching into the incision like the mighty forces of hydraulic cannon, as massive chunks of metal and people went flying, burning men and women writhing and leaping off the liner’s side railings in agony and desperation.
The submarine came closer, and rose, like so much as a beast pulling itself from the flow of an icy cold river. Pokuii threw the hatch open, climbed out strenuously, and fit his rifle with a fresh clip. These foreign soldiers, these strangely dressed soldiers in their shining robes and black, sharp uniforms, were his enemy. And he did one thing with enemies. He killed them. The thrashing survivors and gasping children were silenced by the cacophony of his Kazzakka Model-2 Standard Issue rifle. And the water turned red, red like the setting sun.
It was beautiful.
Pokuii sat, watching, in awe. Each and every time he saw the sunset, he was further reminded of the great beauty of the world in which he lived. In school, he had been taught that the sun was the embodied spirit of great Prophet, Thasal’Tha, may his name ever be revered, and that the moon was the diminished spirit of the Eyuka herself. She had come, descended from her heavenly Throne amidst the clouds on high, to lead the Yalosii people in glory, and for a moment, Pokuii was overcome with emotion. To think that a Goddess might, from the deepest compassion in her heart, leave her heavenly abounds to save the Chosen people…it filled the young soldier with gratitude and awe. Tears of love began to patter down his shirt.
Taking a knee, Pokuii patted the steel hull of his surfaced torpedo boat, and, with great force, thrust the hatch open. The gentle waves splashed inside as Pokuii grabbed the first ladder rungs, and lowered himself down, inside. Reaching up for the hatch door, he smashed it shut with a satisfying clang, and continued his descent into the cramped interior of the tiny, five men vessel. Indeed, Pokuii’s boat was merely a patrol vessel, armed with naught but a single torpedo and enough fuel to last a few days at most. This was not a submarine to embark on long ranged assaults. It was a vessel characteristic of Yalos’ needs to defend herself.
“Hatch closed,” he yelled out, “Let’s submerge again. We’re approaching the ends of National waters, so we have to be wary for invaders and capitalists.”
He had had his break, but now it was time for him to resume his duty to the motherland. Inside, Pokuii took his seat the commander’s box, jamming his legs in the crammed, uncomfortable compartment, bringing the periscope down to his eyes, pressing his legs and butt against the sharp, steel structure of the boat. He sighed, and smacked his lips twice. He needed water…
What was that?
In the distance, Pokuii could see, what appeared to be a ship. It was rather large, larger than anything he had ever seen in his life. Whatever it was, it was definitely not Yalosii, larger than most Zammoran ships, and it most certainly did not bear the distinctive markings of a Vakolicci or Delmontese naval vessel. It didn’t even seem to bear conventional weapons. Pokuii was puzzled, frightened and uncertain. There was, indeed, no reason for a ship to be this large, without having some sort of military application, right? Pokuii could feel his fingers trembling as he zoomed the periscope in to get a better look.
“Yupik, Mkkihbhi,” he muttered, “Load the torpedo. We might have a hostile vessel, so try to establish radio connection with the Motherland.”
“Torpedo loaded, sir!” Mikkhibhi confirmed. Yupik bore news that was less pleasing.
“The radio seems to not be working. We seem to have travelled about an hour’s distance outside of communications range, sir! If we travelled back, we might be able to ask for further instructions, sir!”
Pokuii cursed internally. They didn’t have an hour. One hour could see this monstrous ship get that much closer to the sacred soil. One hour close to imposing imperialism and slavery upon the Yalosii peoples again. A risk that could not be taken. Usually, the High command would inform him of foreign vessels to enter. They almost always cleared exceptions for certain commercial vessels. But there had been no such clearance. Did that mean…that the motherland was under attack? Beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and back, Pokuii gritted his teeth, and turned to face the expectant gunner.
“Shall I fire, sir?” the gunner asked.
“Fire.”
Time froze for the few crucial moments that the torpedo took to spiral through the water, inexorably towards the luxury liner, seemingly pressing forward with great purpose and tenacity. The torpedo hurled itself at the hull, and for a few moments, it seemed like nothing had happened. Then, the ship, in a massive eruption of flame and shrapnel, began to groan, water belching into the incision like the mighty forces of hydraulic cannon, as massive chunks of metal and people went flying, burning men and women writhing and leaping off the liner’s side railings in agony and desperation.
The submarine came closer, and rose, like so much as a beast pulling itself from the flow of an icy cold river. Pokuii threw the hatch open, climbed out strenuously, and fit his rifle with a fresh clip. These foreign soldiers, these strangely dressed soldiers in their shining robes and black, sharp uniforms, were his enemy. And he did one thing with enemies. He killed them. The thrashing survivors and gasping children were silenced by the cacophony of his Kazzakka Model-2 Standard Issue rifle. And the water turned red, red like the setting sun.
It was beautiful.
