The Flaming Torch Forever

[Nova Sylva]

Freeport, Northern Collectives

To Captain Stephen Cyr’s relief, the waterfront tavern offered a haven from the billowing rainstorm that had engulfed Freeport over the last few hours. It wasn’t like the lukewarm monsoons that the New Sylvan Republic received every season from the warm waters of the Strachan Sea; the torrential downpour’s origins were instead from the cold, northern expanse of the Sidius Ocean, and as such the precipitation felt more like a ice storm than anything else. Inside the bar, Stephen was not greeted. The Northerners kept to themselves, even eyeing the Sylvan with suspicion. It wasn’t often the uncharted frontier of Meridia got visitors; minus, of course, a fresh contingent of Erquinian peacekeepers, a few petroleum prospectors, and now and again the occasional convict looking to start anew. Soon, however, the attention drawn to the newcomer faded, and the bar’s patrons went back to their booze and pool games.

Cyr took off his soaked fedora and set it on the table as he took a seat in the stool. He left his heavy trench coat on, and reassuringly felt the bulge of the 9 MM pistol holstered on his hip. A bartender approached the lone Sylvan, and the lady asked what he wanted to eat. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, and while rather petite, had a cute freckled face and sharp red hair.

“I’ll take a bowl of potato soup,” he said, “And a Honeybrew, if you have it.”

Honeybrew was Sylva’s most famous export – a roast coffee with a pinch of honey added for sweetness – and it sold valiantly both home and abroad. But the Northern Collectives were an Erquinian protectorate, and the embargo on Sylvan goods had reached all across the Commonwealth, even to a place as remote as Freeport. Nevertheless, their was a thriving black market – one that, the best efforts of local Erquinian peacekeepers notwithstanding, continued to be the center of commerce in the icy port.

“Yeah, but it’ll cost you,” the pretty redhead replied. “Fifty dollars. Or twelve kosos.”

Nathan whistled and withdrew the appropriate amount. The Collectives hadn’t yet embraced a unilateral currency, and instead embraced any and every sort of foreign money. The inflation rate of the Erquinian dollar had continued to skyrocket – even after the war with the New Sylvan Republic – as the sanctions imposed by the Sovereign International had nearly halved the Commonwealth’s gross domestic product. The war had been much more costly to Erquin than it had to the NSR. Erquin’s navy had been crippled, and while the Sylvans had lost almost twice as many men in the brief but savage conflict, they had seemingly inexhaustible reserves of manpower and manufacturing capacity, which had eventually forced the two nations to sign a truce and agree to a status ante bellum.

“So just for you today, or are you planning on meeting someone?” the redhead asked.

“One more,” Cyr replied. “Just any sort of beer for her. A Highlander would be best.”

“Alright, sounds good. We’ll have it right out.” She cracked a smile at the Sylvan, the same smile she probably gave everyone. It was cute, sly, but underneath meaningless. And Cyr understood that.

A few minutes later a friendly face entered the bar, taking a seat in the stool across from Cyr. She wore jeans and layers upon layers of clothing, which failed to conceal her beautiful curves. Wet blond hair fell down from underneath a beanie, which she took off as she tied her hair into a welder’s knot and sat down. “Cyr,” she said, greeting her colleague, followed by the introduction password. “The skies was violent today.”

“But the oceans were calm,” he replied. “Hello, Emily.”

Lieutenant Emily Rush smiled. The two had worked together for only a few weeks, employed in the Department of Sylvan Intelligence. They had grown to trust one another over anything else, and had provided DIS with successful results so far. Both had extensive combat and espionage experience – Rush had been a Mozrian spy at first, before becoming a double agent and providing DIS with crucial information about the Manticore-IV design that eventually led to the creation of the Sylvan’s most advanced armored platform yet, the Trojan-III main battle tank. That was before she was caught red handed and tortured relentlessly until DIS diplomatically extracted her. She was determined to have that be her record’s only black mark. Cyr on the other hand had played a major part in the Jacinto resistance movement during the Second Sylvan War. He had led the uprising that eventually liberated Jacinto from it’s occupiers, providing the NSR Army with crucial information about the Coalition State’s plans during the war. He was married, with one child, and though it had seen better days he was married nonetheless, and resolved to be faithful to his wife – even if she was sleeping with other men.

“So,” Stephen asked. “Did you meet him?”

“Right to the point, I see,” Emily replied, nodding to the waitress as she took her beer and took a sip. “Yes, I did. And to say he is interested in getting DIS’ – and the NSR’s – support in his little rebellion would be an understatement. In fact, the Commodore asked if he could meet with the higher ups, to secure a deal.”

“Sure it’s not ploy? Some sort of Commonwealth trap?” Cyr asked, savoring a sip of his Honeybrew as he listened to the rain patter on the windows. The bell on the door rung again, and this time a group of six dock workers came in, joking among themselves before sitting at a table across the bar. Cyr eyed them for anything suspicious, and, satisfied, returned to the conversation at hand.

“Yeah,” Emily said. “This guy is the real deal.”

DIS’ mission in the Northern Collectives was ambitious and a rather ambiguous one – nothing short of starting a revolution that would overthrow the protectorate’s Erquinian overlords and create either a Sylvan state or a new, independent republic made in the NSR’s image and likeness, surrounding Erquin from the north and south – and making it all the easier to invade the Commonwealth proper when the time came.

“Then I’ll talk to Silus,” Cyr said, fidgeting in the uncomfortable stool. “I’ll see if I can I can get an advance shipment, and we’ll throw in some toys that will blow their minds away.”

“Not to mention a couple hundred Ercoms,” Emily replied, smiling.

Cyr laughed quietly, before focusing up. “Oh,” he said. “I almost forgot - new word from DIS this morning. A destroyer, the NSRS Corbinsburg, is heading up towards the coast. They’ll be about a hundred miles offshore, but still within cruise missile range if we need any heavy assistance.”

“Damn…yeah, if we hit those fuckers with a couple Arrowheads, we could change the whole dynamic.”

“It’s a last resort, though,” Cyr corrected her. “Only if this whole thing goes to shit are we gonna get to use her. Because doing so would directly involve the NSR with this revolution, which we don’t want. Not yet, anyway.”

Another eight men walked into the bar, this group taking a seat next to the back exit near the pool tables. These men were much more suspicious than the previous group – they were of heavy build, covered in tattoos, and didn’t order anything from the cute waitress. Not typical of dock workers.

“I think we’ve got company,” Cyr said, not turning around to face the men. “That newest group. Could be trouble.”

Rush laughed out loud after downing a swig of her beer, trying to stay in character. Emily and Stephen made a cute couple, even if they weren’t actually a thing – purely professional, or at least that’s what they told themselves. “I agree,” she said with a big smile, playing the part to the bitter end. “There’s a car outside. A red pickup. Two of the resistance guys are inside.”

“They’ve got eight, maybe more.”

“Than do you want to run for it?”

“Yeah,” Cyr said. “Meet back up at the safehouse on 23rd and Main,”

“I’m game,” Emily said. “I’ll go first. Follow me out after a couple minutes.”

Her expression changed to one of shock, then anger. She cursed at Cyr, making a scene that captivated the whole bar, before slapping him hard on the cheek and storming out, as if he Fucking hell, he thought, grasping his reddened cheek and stretching his jaw.. That actually hurt…

Cyr used his peripheral vision and saw the men at the far table stand, eyeing him. Cyr put on his fedora again and kept his sidearm handy as they approached him. Stephen’s heart beat crazily until one of the men reached for something inside his coat – and then the adrenaline kicked in.

Cyr drew the handgun, spinning to face the targets before firing three times. His weapon was suppressed, and the sound silenced, but the action drew everyone’s attention in the bar. Two of the shots hit the man reaching inside his coat, and the third pinged off the far wall. He cursed as the man simply fell on his back – even at this close of range, his 9 MM didn’t have the stopping power to penetrate whatever military-grade body armor the Ercoms were wearing underneath their regular clothes. His targets drew automatic pistols and micro-SMGs, firing at Cyr with mixed results, as he ran fro the door. He felt six rounds slam into his back, and thanked God for his trench coat – he didn’t wear it as a fashion statement, after all. It weighed no less than thirty pounds, and was made of reinforced carbon fiber over a small layer of Kevlar – enough to stop most forms of small arms fire, to a degree. In this particular case, it had saved his life.

Stephen stumbled out the door and back into the rainy night, as the screams and gunshots from inside the bar drew the pedestrian’s attention. Cyr spotted the red pickup across the street that Emily had informed him of, and ran to it, waving down the passenger. “Hey!” He screamed. “Ercoms, coming out of the bar!”

The passenger got out of the car, wielding a Kalashnikov assault rifle. He wore a red armband over mostly black, or maybe a dark brown outfit; Cry couldn’t tell in the billowing rain. But the man immediately fired, spraying the area with inaccurate but effective fire. Cyr felt another round hit him in the back, and this miss his coat’s armor, lodging in his right calf. “Fuck!” he screamed, before climbing into the car. “Drive!” He yelled at the driver, who like his compatriot had a red armband around his bicep. Bullets pinged off the car and the vehicle shook as the passenger threw himself in the pickup’s truck bed. The heavy sound of AK-47 rounds faded as the driver gunned it, taking a cursing Cyr down the road.

“What the fuck was that?!” The resistance man driving asked, pulling down his scarf from his face as he booked it down the street and taking a wide right turn, despite the honks of many of his countrymen. Although in his heavy accent it sounded more like “What ze fuk was zat?”

“How the hell should I know?” Cyr shot back, cursing his bleeding wound. “Those Ercoms got the jump on us. I just hope Emily made it out alright,” he said.

“She’s fine,” he replied. “She got in one of our other vehicles and is en route to the safehouse.”

“Are you sure we won’t be followed?” Cyr asked.

The driver laughed at loud. “This is the most generic car on the road,” he said. “Not to mention the storm setting in. We’ll be fine; just keep your panties on, Sylvan.”

Cyr didn’t appreciate the rudeness, but the man had saved his life. And that, he reckoned, was worth a minor pardon in decorum. As the car stormed down the road before sliding to a halt in front of an average apartment complex, Cyr wondered just how the Erquinians had known. A spy? Obviously. Someone must have leaked the information regarding his and Emily’s meeting - but who? And why?

But the pain in his leg was getting the best of him, and the lack of rest (and abundance of stress) in the last few days was taking it’s toll. As he was led inside to a guest room in a small apartment Stephen collapsed on the bed, and let his mind slip into sleep.

[Northern Collectives]

Vervun, Northern Collectives

A man in white fatigues, with thin metal plates along the outside was staring out of the window as the sound of dripping water came from outside. The same storm that was hitting Freeport, near the Flagis Straights had come through Vervun two hours previous. The man had a hard face, and pale blue eyes, his voice was as cold as the biting wind was outside. “Rhodaan, we should not stay here. We should move farther north, we have no reason to be in this city.” The man said, looking back across the second floor room of a hotel. The man across the room had an angular face and looked overall kinder, although he had odd red eyes, from an odd genetic that had only appeared in history books until the man named Andraz Rhodaan had appeared. He was in black fatigues with black plates, with a red emblem of a skull with angle wings.

His voice had grimness to it as he spoke in the native language of the NorthCol. “I would rather we didn’t go were the damned Erquin would think to look for us, Keshun.” He was in his late twenties, and had earned a reputation for being quick to pull a trigger if he thought someone was a threat. Which he had done many times in the past month. His face had a thin goatee, and snow white hair. He had a deep scar running from his forehead, across in nose, and ending at the middle of his cheek, which he had earned hunting when a he a leopard had caught him in her territory. He still had the talon that had gone across his face, and the creature had become his companion, which made it difficult to hide. He had formed the cursed claw in a blade under the muzzles of his SCAR-H which he kept hidden in his closet. There were four other armored men in his room, each with a different emblem on their left shoulder, which was the emblem of their family. They were Rhodaan’s personal body guard, known as the Gargoyles. There were only fifteen of them, five with him, five to guard his sweet heart in St.Matthew, and five at the safe house that the Slyvans were headed to, where his brother waited for them.

“Sir, suspicious men just pulled up.” One of the Gargoyles said, looking down from a second window. A jet black SUV was parked outside, as five men left it, followed be a second SUV, arriving the other entrance on that side of the street. They could only suspect that a third had pulled up the rear. “I count ten.”
“Coats, now. Get our weapons in backpacks, and make it look like we are heading for a hiking trip.” Andraz replied. His guards did as they were told, and put on thick jackets and rain pants, and put fully loaded weapons in hiking packs.

The left the room, leaving nothing but a note that said; So close, yet so far. With no emblem on it or signature. They bypassed the black clad men, with only a brief series of words, ending when one of the black clad men pushed over Keshun and cursed him for bumping into him. “Good day to you now!” Rhodaan called to them, trying to act friendly before moving off. He checked out of the hotel and left before the black clad men even got to the room and found the note, and was gone before the men could even think that the men in normal hiking gear had been the rebels they were searching for. Rhodaan packed the men into a jeep, which was a fairly common car, and drove down Lawk Avenue before turning onto the congested main road leading from the city.

“That was too close. We are heading to Freeport to talk to these foreigners, regardless of the fact I barely trust anyone outside of our home for longer than a blink.” They slowly made their way down the city, and he pulled up his sleeves, revealing two tattoos, one being a long sword wrapped in a yellow cloth and a rosary around the hilt, the other being a cross, his family emblem beneath it, and small portrait of St. Joan above it.

“Where do we move after that?” One of the gargoyles, a man called Vallax asked him, taking his hood from his head.
“St. Matthew, or St. John. Some of my imperialist friends are in that area, and I if I die I want to see Diana one more time.” Vallax seemed pleased, and nodded. Andraz had an odd ideological view. He was a known imperialist, believing that the strong should help the weak, but in return receive their support, and he was known for believing republics being corrupted most of the time, or too slow in making decisions. One of the things few knew about him was that he was a man who was militarist, and also conservative, although he thought that each city should have a representative. He would never accept a full democracy however, hating the fact that people gained popular support by making false promises, and then getting almost nothing done.

He had grown up in a religious environment, but he had learned quickly that the world was not a kind place, and he put his full faith in that God would protect those he thought would bring a brighter future for the world. Rhodaan had learned how to fight at any early age, his red eyes getting the wrong kind of attention, and people deciding that he was some sort of demon, he had been lonely through most of his school years.

He had a fervor and determination that few could even wish to match. He was not a man that anyone wanted to be on the wrong side of, and in the warrior and religious culture of the Northern Collectives, many had similar traits. To be an enemy of a person of NorthCol was to be the enemy of a person who would do anything to regain the honor that had been taken from them and someone who would stop at nothing to see things for in their favor. Duels in the Northern Collectives had been common before the occupation by Erquin, and when their form of justice became evident, many had resentment that had to put their trust in a new justice system to see that honor was regained.

Crimes in the Collectives were commonly things regarded as riding yourself of your honor, and in the old world you were imprisoned for, such as theft, cold blooded murder, and in some areas disrespecting women, which was commonly cause for someone to come after you.

To many who had joined Rhodaan’s movement, this was about regaining the honor of the country back and seeing justice done upon their occupiers. This was something that many would die for. Honor was important to the NorthCol, and a slight of honor was a serious thing, and when they felt that a nation had taken their region’s honor away, they would try to regain it, in brutal warfare.

They slowly made their way out the city, and into the plains around Vervun, heading north-east towards Freeport. In grim silence they moved, and eventually Andraz laughed before turning on a Skillet album, and they began to mutter the words to themselves.

This was not a time for joking and laughing. That would come after they saw their victory through….

[Nova Sylva]

The Acropolis, Chandler, New Sylvan Republic

President Michael Delacroix had decided to walk to work this morning, enjoying the crisp autumn air as the season changed. The city’s abundant trees, overhanging on artificial canals and riverwalks, were beginning to change color, from their shades of deep green to various hues of red, orange, and yellow, giving the city a completely different aura around it. But beautiful as it was, Chandler still bore the wounds of the Second Sylvan War – bombed out buildings still lay ruined along many of the city’s wide avenues, and most notably the Acropolis itself was still under repair from the small but chaotic battle that had taken place in the city, not to mention the Coalition’s strategic bombing campaign. But that was over now – Sylva was finally united, and at peace – for the time being.

The President wore a half suit, with a grey designer sweater replacing the blazer. His salt-pepper hair matched perfectly with the outfit, as if it had been chosen for him by a secretary, which many suspected – in truth, Delacroix was living proof that a 49 year old man could have an acute sense of style.

Five agents followed him close behind, one dressed as a runner, another a simple commuter, while the last three were in a black SUV following far but close enough behind. They wanted to give the President freedom to frolic with the many pedestrians on the sidewalk at this hour, but security was still paramount. The President laughed as a pair of twenty-something girls asked to take a selfie with him – though it would probably be used by his political opponents sometime as negative propaganda in the future, that didn’t seem to matter to the New Sylvan Republic’s president. He gladly obliged to his citizens’ request, smiling wide for one of their smartphones before continuing on his merry way.

He stopped at a coffee stand at Northgate and Main, called Black Bean. It was a chain franchise that had started up a few years back, and had thrived in the coffee-loving country of Sylva. The cashier offered to give the drink free of charge, required that Delacroix come back some time in the near future – he refused, paying the charge and leaving a generous tip, though promised to stop by some time. The Republic was in a golden age, it seemed; Sylva was united once more, the post-war economy was booming, and a unilateral sense of fierce patriotic nationalism gripped the country as a whole.

After downing his latte, Delacroix walked up the marble steps towards the Acropolis. Sporadic bullet holes still littered the walls, and while most of the serious damage had been repaired, restoration of the ancient castle-turned capital was far from complete. Delacroix strolled casually through the building’s hallowed halls, greeted by an influx of MPs and military personnel, mostly esteemed NSR Rangers in their iconic trench coat armor.

He passed a duo of these warriors before entering an elevator that required a retina scan to activate. The large freight elevator had been renovated for comfort but was clearly still industrial in nature – it rumbled as it lowered deep the mountain that the Acropolis stood atop, into the nerve center of the NSR’s military. More NSR MP officers and Rangers stood guard down here, but alongside them were hundreds of strategic analysts, logistics officers, and military commanders, all huddled at individual or group work stations. The eerie blue glow of computer screens illuminated the room alongside the LED lights on the ceiling.

“Mr. President,” the NSR’s army chief of staff said, calling the room to attention.

“Please, at ease,” Delacroix said, and the room’s occupants got back to work. The Chief of Staff approached him, hand outstretched. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

“C’mon, John, you know me better than that,” Delacroix said, shaking his friend’s hand. “Enough of that ‘Mr. President’ shit, alright?”

General John Carpenter smiled and relaxed. “Alright, Mike. But we do have a situation at hand, one that requires your attention.” He led him over to a table with a large map spread across it. After a second of scrutiny Michael recognized it as a map of Erquin’s vast northern frontier, the Northern Collectives. They were, according to the few reports they had of the region, extremely rich in untapped resources, vastly unpopulated, and harsh in climate.

“The Commonwealth is not really on top of things,” Carpenter began. “Their economy has been hit hard by the Sovintern embargo, and domestic support for the current administration is fleeting at best. Erquin is a Socialist nation – their a democracy, but a broken one – their certainly not a republic. Their big on wealth redistribution, welfare, and taxing the private sector – not exactly the progressive collegiate republic we have in Sylva. Most of their population is somehow reliant on the welfare system in one way or another, and the Commonwealth is too cash-strapped too keep it running for much longer. They tried printing more money, which inflated the Bit to all hell, but their still too proud to come to the negotiating table with the Sovereign International, so the Bit is going to keep lowering in value and the soon, when their castle of glass comes crashing down and the government is forced to defualt on it’s debt, I could say that civil war would be a possibility. The problem is that the government is changing, it is adapting. It’s appointed a new Finance Minister that may be able to curb the Bit’s inflation, and therefore save the Commonwealth. Obviously, we cannot let this happen.

“We have begun an arms race with Erquin, in hopes of bankrupting their government. Since the beginning of the Second Sylvan War, our military has almost tripled in strength and size. We have the largest standing army in the region, save Mozria, and we have rapidly mechanized our previously infantry-based divisions. In addition the Navy is expecting the delivery of nearly a dozen new ships this year, and the Air Force has modernized considerably. The new Sif-21, for example – the most advanced joint strike fighter on this side of Meridia. But it’s not just for show,”

Carpenter shuffled through his papers and brought out a map that centered on the NorCol-Sylvan border. Dozens of divisional emblems sat on the Sylvan side, while only about ten or so Erquinian formations were identified, and not deployed well at that – they were mainly clustered around the major cities in the country, not spread out – as if they were playing more of an internal security role than a border defense one.

“We have sixty divisions ready for action, spread out along the border. In addition, hundreds of aircraft have been deployed to the area, and a considerable naval presence, ready to formally blockade the Commonwealth once the war begins, and further destroy the Erquinian economy. Finally, the logistics corps are bringing up huge amounts of material for the invasion. We are, in every sense of the word, ready for war.”



“Our objective, however, must remain the same,” Delacroix said. “This invasion is a liberation, not a conquest. The purpose of this war is to set forth a new era of republicanism and freedom for the people of the Northern Collectives, and hopefully destroy the Erquinian socialist regime in the process.”

“We will destroy them,” Carpenter assured him. “And not only from our invasion. DIS has implanted a number of operatives inside of the Collectives, working with the local resistance group to start a revolution. Once the rebels formally declare independence, we can legally invade in accordance with Sovintern charter, if our objective is to assist the spread of liberty.”

“But the Erquinians are technically democratic,” Delacroix said. “We cannot go to war with a representative government.”

“This is true – but our war with Erquin never ended. Though we signed a cease-fire, no formal agreement to end the conflict was brought about. Therefore, we are technically already at war with the Commonwealth – and have been for some time. While violating a cease-fire is a reproachable offense according to the charter, it is much less an issue than blatantly invading.”

“Than when can we begin?” Delacroix asked.

“As soon as the revolt begins,” Carpenter said. “Until then, we must wait.”

Freeport, Northern Collectives

The storm had passed, thank god, though the sky remained overcast, it was no longer raining. Cyr, Rush, and a half dozen rebels walked along the waterfront, where a massive container ship, the CSSMS Strachan Conveyor, lay in port. It had arrived a mere half hour before. The Conveyor had Mozrian markings, because Mozria was a neutralist nation, but in truth belonged to the Department of Sylvan Intelligence. It’s cargo, food, fish, and other basic commodities – was also a lie. In truth the Conveyor was stuffed to the brim with weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, military equipment…everything one would need to start a full scale revolution. The dockyard workers, who, Cyr had found, were sympathetic to the cause of Northern independence, cast a blind eye to the unloading procedures. Those that had spoken up had been bribed, or if that didn’t work, silenced.

Cyr jogged up the gangplank, followed by Rush and their entourage. His leg still hurt from the Erquinian 5.56 round, but he could mostly ignore it, as the Med-X was still rushing through his system. At the top stood the operation’s chief director, Silus. He had no last name, or maybe no first name – Cyr didn’t know, and really didn’t care. Silus was their link to DIS, and had arranged for the Strachan Conveyor to dock and unload, as well as coordinated most of Rush and Cyr’s missions inside of the country.

This was actually the first time they had met face to face – Silus in a silk suit with a large, expensive overcoat, looking more the part of business executive than spymaster. He wore expensive Raybands, had his hair slicked back with gel, and like Cyr was completely clean-shaven. Cyr was wearing the same thing from the day before, save that he had sewn up the back of his Ranger trench coat. He still sported the fedora, though had been forced to change out of his pants during the medical procedure. Now he wore a pair of black cargo pants with reinforced knee and butt pads provided by one of the rebels, the same thing that all of them wore.

“Cyr. Rush. Nice to finally meet you in person. I’m Silus,” he said, offering a hand, which Cyr accepted. “The pleasure is mine,” Cyr said. “However as much as I love the pleasantries we have some work to do.”

Silus waved over a man who was standing a bit nearby, conversing with another rebel. The man’s face had a thin goatee, and snow white hair, offset with had a deep scar running from his forehead, across in nose, and ending at the middle of his opposite cheek. “General Andraz Rhoddan,” Silus said. “Commander of the Army of the North.”

So, they have a name, then. Cyr thought. The AON. Certainly had a nice ring to it.

“It is encouraging to know that a superpower such as Sylva supports our endeavors – I can assure you that these weapons will go to good use. As Silus said, I am General Rhoddan – but you may call me Andraz. And you are?”

“Stephen Cyr. Captain, DIS.”

“Emily Rush. First Lieutenant, DIS.”

“So..what do we have here?” Andraz asked.

“Two hundred fifty thousand assault rifles,” Silus replied. “R91s, top of the line infantry service rifle. Semi-automatic, great range, extremely accurate, and most importantly reliable as a mule. She’ll never jam.” Silus handed one to Andraz, who inspected the weapon, admiring it. “You’ll notice that it has a carbon fiber stock instead of the classic wood one used by the Sylvan Army. This is because we don’t want these weapons traced back to the Republic, not yet anyway. Oh! That reminds me,” Silus said, and turned the weapon over. “No serial number, manufacturer stamp, or anything like that,” he said. “Untraceable, unless they take the weapon apart and inspect the actual materials’ origins.”

“In addition we have over two million rounds of 7.62 ammunition onboard, and another million of 5.56 ammunition, and five hundred thousand rounds of 9 MM bullets. That way you can arm most all weapons in use by the Erquinians, and the weapons we are supplying you.”

He snapped his fingers and two men brought over a large trunk. Silus snapped the locks and removed, to Andraz’s glee, a rocket launcher.

“The Portable Anti-Vehicle Rocket, or PAVR,” Silus said, smiling as he mounted it on one shoulder. “Simple but effective lock system, cheap to build and disposable, and fires a 20 mm missile that will annihilate in everything short of a main battle tank.”

“These will be most helpful,” Andraz said, nodding his head as he inspected the weapon.

“We also brought tons of medical supplies,” Rush added. “As well as a thousand Kevlar bulletproof vests and ballistic helmets, to equip your troops. And the NSR will be bringing in more of everything – this is the first shipment.”

Silus’ expression changed. “But it comes with a gentleman’s agreement,” he said. “We’ll help you overthrow the Commonwealth, but when this is all over, the Collectives must become a republic. We know about your love of imperialism, Andraz. I’ve read your college thesis essay. The Benefits of a Benevolent Autocracy, I believe? Their will be none of that – the people of the Collective will not be trading Socialism for Militarism, understand?”

[Erquin]

Amadar,Erquinian Socialist Commonwealth
9:23 AM Local Time

The news was astounding and enraging, not to mention saddening. The telegram from the Northern Collectives intelligence garrison revealed a secret that helped Franko connect two and two together. "Sylvan agents spotted in Freeport, mission being start a revolution?" a stammered President Franko Hillary asks to his Minister of Defense, Rebecca Impim, being answered promptly "This is sad but true, Mr.President, we're dealing with a possible resistance war and a bloodthirsty Sylvan country, only doing this just for the purpose of making us into their kind of corrupt democracy". She continued as she slid down a document from her hand onto the table, the light illuminating the dark black ink, "Other reports are coming in from the border that an increase of troops also proves an invasion, and considering the Apple Ridge incident before the entire war, this might have been planned in the first place by the Sylvans. They took out a 900 man strong border regiment, keep it hidden for 25 days away from public and us, we found out and you call plans and war on the NSR, truce, Erquinian Bit inflation, and then a resistance war from the NorthCol and war with the NSR and then boom, the NSR takes us over without right and its all considered a lie that the NSR planned this, according to the Sovintern.". Franko looked at Rebecca with a distraught face, his mind in a frenzy, his stomach cramping, and his skin hot and sweaty. "Delacroix is a good man, I think I remember us being good friends back in the 90's, and he wouldn't do this, surely enough, he would understand my mistake.." Franko finally says, swiping his face down with his 2 hands, and straightening his tie, while Rebecca re-ignites the conversation. "I know about your relationship with Mr.Delacroix, but now, you two are involved in a war, and like you, he's probably being forced into agreeing to this plan of action. However, we can still put up a fighting chance, as we have the resources and if we can, the people." says Rebecca, as she slips down another set of documents down, one with a map of the Northern Collectives and the other one the border. " Our Propaganda Department has a way to motivate some of the Northern Collectives people to stay to the Erquinian government, as to continue finding resources in that tundra, as well as provide weathered and environmentally adapted troops, who are strong, hard-working, and quite dedicated when their hooked. We also have a 10% Sylvan population in our common population, with about 8% of them aged 20-24 and willing to serve when needed, the other 2% are either retirees living in the country or mountains, or just people here for a better life and in the workforce." Rebecca in-unanimously continues her orchestra of words with her strong Mozrian accent, having been 78% Mozrian and 24% Erquinian, "We have also made plans for reinforcing the border, just in case the Sylvan's do make an unwelcome entry. We have already ordered the 2nd Armoured Border corps to move up and form a first line of defense, and considering that more then 3,500 OC-134's have been produced and distributed, we'll have more of a chance against the infamous Trojan-II's and their shiny new Trojan-III's.". The minister finishs abruptly, turning to face the president with a still nervous but smug face on him. She takes up the documents she handed Hillary and looks at him one last time to ask a crucial question, one that would determine fate."Do you, Franko Hugo Hillary, accept to put these plans into action immediately?". They both stand there for 1 minute, until Hillary breaks the silence that is of the almost soundproof room and sparsely populated building, with an agreement...

"I agree to allow these actions to take place and for us to wait for the first strike."

[Northern Collectives]

Rhodaan looked at the spymaster and to those who could read his red eyes there was a hint of anger. He knew he needed support, no nation would give up its taxes without a fight, and no one would give their territory easily. He was silent, staring at each of the DIS operatives individually for several seconds. “I am up for holding elections.” He replied simply, briefly moving away to his backpack. He retrieved his SCAR, and unloaded the weapon to make sure that the Sylvans knew he wasn’t producing the weapon to do them harm. He slowly put his finger along the side of the claw blade beneath his muzzle.

The biting wind came up, his white hair blowing into his eyes. “You have my word of honor that I will hold elections.” He made sure to not say for what positions the elections would be held, only that they would be. He picked up on the assault rifles again, and began examining it again, leaning his claw-bladed assault rifle on the side of the trunk that the launcher sat in. “Any other terms?” He asked, trying to keep the kindness in his voice, even then the terms had killed most of his friendliness off.

St. Matthew

Snow was falling, even though it was barely even autumn. The city almost always had a thin layer of snow in it, and the almost constant fast, and cold winds that were almost constant in the country didn’t help the temperature. People walked outside in full winter gear, and would be in even more of it by the time it was December. Diana’s crimson hair was short and slowly angled upwards as it went towards the back. Her skin was pale, and her bright green eyes were very noticeable. She was tall, lean, and muscular, but her black button up shirt and jeans barely showed off her looks. She had oval-like face and just around her face, and in smooth streaks her hair was died black. She was sipping at a coffee-hot cocoa mix, as her personal guards looked out of the windows at random intervals. Her Gargoyle guards wore furs, and all but one of them was masked.

The unmasked one was sitting across the counter for Diana Shardex, drinking heated sacra; NorthCol liquor that had a combination of wine-like qualities and tartness. Diana moved to the where the thermostat was in her house after setting down her mug that Lord of the Rings characters on it, turning it much higher.

She moved back to her drink and the guard smirked. “I thought you would never turn that up, madam.”
“Stop treating me like some noble, Nero. I am not some queen or lady, they were boring people.” She laughed. The man smiled. His name was Vladek Nerovar, but literally everyone who knew him called him Nero.
“Of course Diana.” He replied. Only two the guards had their weapons out, and one of them called Nero over.
“What is it?” Nero looks confused; he looked outside as the falling flakes of snow came down like sprinkles. Then he noticed. A horde of humanity was rioting; police officers who got in the mob’s way were trampled. “Oh… Everyone, weapons ready! This mob may not be friendly to Rhodaan or his interests!” Nero yelled at the top of his lungs.

The Gargoyles quickly drew automatic pistols, Nero being armed with a SCAR-H which he retrieved from under the counter. There was a knocking at the door. One of the guards closed in on the door and looked through the eyes hole. The guard signaled for Diana to hide. The sounds of the oncoming mob were heard from inside the building. “Open this door!” A thick Erquin accent yelled. The guards took cover, as Diana ran for the second floor of the building. Riot police were outside, attempting to stop the horde. “Have it your way.” A bullet ripped through the locked, and the door was plowed through, revealing seven armed Erquin soldiers. Two of them never got the chance to see what they were facing, automatic pistol fire, ripped into them, followed by a third falling by a single shot from Nero.

One of the Gargoyles fell, bullets ripping into his upper chest from his armor becoming worn by the hail of lead. A second gargoyle fell, but not before a fourth of the Erquins fell. Nero set his weapon to full auto, yelling profanities at the Erquin soldiers, before finishing them off with a hail of assault rifle shots, but it was only him and a guard named Gemorie left. The brief and bloody fire fight had not gone unnoticed. Gemorie picked up one of the Erquin sub machine guns, and Diana came back down as the riot police began coming for the house. Diana ran for one of the sub machine guns, as rubber bullets hit her in the back. Though it was painful she ran out of the hail, her feet trailing blood.\

They ran from the house, exiting through the back, and going deeper into the city, putting the rebellious mob and themselves. St. Matthew was going into chaos, as Erquin police stations were sacked, weapons taken, and the capital building was set ablaze….

[Nova Sylva]

NSR 1st Maneuver Group, Sylvan-Norcol Border

Rows and rows of armored vehicles lay in perfect formation in the motor pool, the thousands of MBTs, MUTTs, IFVs, APCs, SPAVs that made up the NSR’s First Maneuver Group’s armored corps. The First Maneuver was the NSR’s left jab – it’s sole purpose was for offensive warfare, and had been designed specifically for the blitzkrieg-style strategy being embraced by NSR High Command. It’s commander, General George Freeman, had seen plenty of action in the Second Sylvan War, and in the aftermath was largely responsible for rebuilding the NSR army to the modern military machine it was today. The 1st Maneuver Group’s local HQ was in an medieval castle-turned mansion, and while originally the owner of said mansion wasn’t too happy about vacating his property, a $500,000 check from the Sylvan government had calmed his nerves. Besides, he would be able to return once the army was on the move.

Freeman and his general staff sat in the mansion’s library, analyzing the newest of MilSat reports over a cup of early morning coffee. Everyone held electronic tablets on which they reviewed the images. “As you can see,” Freeman said, “the Commonwealth is mobilizing their 2nd Border Guard Corps, and moving them to comfort our deployments.”

“Do we have an ORBAT yet?” Major General Casey asked. Casey had been rebuked by Chandler for almost loosing the Northern Front against the Erquinians in the last war – but Freeman had saved his ass, knowing that he was still a genius military commander and was now out for revenge.

“An approximation. We estimate that they have four armored divisions and six infantry, as well as some sort of airborne QRF. They’re using the OC-134s, mostly, which are about equal to the Trojan-IIs. However the Trojan-IIIs are, atleast on paper, superior.”

“Ten divisions?” Lt. General Fargo asked. “That’s a pretty big Corps. But how do they expect to combat the entire First Maneuver?”

“The Erquinian designations for a division, a battalion, and a corps are different from the Anglosphere’s. Nonetheless, the Erquinians are calling up reserves and mobilizing their entire army, and shuffling divisions around. We can see their setting up a sword/shield defense, much like Casey did in the Northern Front, and outnumbered as they are, is the only logical strategy.”

“Except Casey’s strategy didn’t work,” Fargo said, looking directly at the Major General, who bowed his head. “The Erquinians smashed his defense, and almost took Nolivar!”

“It would have,” Casey replied, “If I had any sort of reinforcements-“

“Stop it, both of you!” Freeman said, banging his fist onto the table. “This is no time for childish bickering. And Casey is correct. Furthermore, considering that he was outnumbered nearly five to one, it’s frankly a miracle that he was able to keep them at bay for as long as he did. But the Second Sylvan War is over, and has been for months. We need to focus on the conflict at hand. Moving on, the Erquinians have a double lined defense. They are going to use one of two strategies,” he said, pulling over a wheeled whiteboard and drawing it out.

“The first, and most likely, is the Sword/Shield. The first line of defense is set up, and is in place not to hold us, but to simply delay us. As we attack, they rush forward the second line, counterattacking immediately and with everything they have in hopes of driving us back before we advance into their territory. The problem with this strategy is that if they do not hold us back, their entire defense plan has to be scrapped, and like in Major General Casey’s case, forced to trade territory for time as they reorganize their defenses.

“The second is a simple but effective tactic that has been around since warfare itself. The first line of defense executes a fighting retreat until they reach the second line, from which they make a stand. This is the more plausible option for the Erquinians. Since we outnumber them considerably, a head-to-head, offensive-versus-offensive, while resulting in a rather epic clash, would most likely end in a victory for us.”

“We cannot make the same mistakes that the Coalition State made,” the general’s newest compatriot, Major General Fredrick Frasier, said. After the war, and the collapse of the Coalition, he had changed sides, and was now in charge in an armored storm division. He was one of the few Coalition State High Command officials to do this – most followed James LeBlanc, as he sought haven in Capernia. But after his loss at Capistrano, Frasier had returned to the Coalition, only to be arrested by Internal Security. It was only because of the chaos from the Republic’s counter-invasion that he was able to escape to the NSR’s lines.

“Once we achieve the first objective, breaking through their first lines and taking the city of St. Matthew, we cannot stop. We must continue the advance until the Erquinians are destroyed.”

“I agree,” Freeman said. “There is no doubt in my mind we will be able to take St. Matthew. According to DIS the population is fiercely anti-Commonwealth, and will no doubt rise up against their occupiers as we approach, much like what happened at Jacinto.”

“Except the Erquinian Army is no Internal Security,” Frasier said. “InSec was outnumbered when the Jacinto County Militia rose up against them, and already disorganized due to the unilateral retreat I ordered. The Erquinains will no doubt put it down with extreme prejudice.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Freeman asked, all ears.

“Airdrop a division directly into the city, after we shut down the Erquinain IADS. We could help the rebels directly, and hopefully by fighting alongside them forge a bond for future cooperation.”

“I would like to volunteer the 7th Airborne,” Major General Lyons said, standing. The 7th Airborne, or as it was affectionately known, Lyon’s Legion, was the most elite paratrooper force Sylva had – and had proved worthy of this title multiple times during the Second Sylvan War, the First Sylvan War, and the Sidonian War. Now, it was going to do it again.

“I can assure you, the 7th can and will secure St. Matthew.”

“Very well,” Freeman said. “The 7th will go in.”

The phone rang once, before Freeman picked it up. “Yes, this is General Freeport…what? Your sure? Very well. Does the government have the declaration of war yet? Fantastic. Yes, we will move immediately. Erquin delanda est!”

Freeman stood, his face unable to contain his smiling expression.“St. Matthew broke into rebellion three hours ago. The rioters, or revolutionaries, have stormed the provincial capital, as well as many National Guard and police stations. Erquin has responded by executing hundreds of the protesters, and of ten minutes ago, the New Sylvan Republic declared war upon the Commonwealth, our casum belli being for violating the basic human rights of the Norcol population.”

He turned and looked out the window, upon the rows of tanks and vehicles and marching infantry. Picking up a bottle of 1932 Pinot Grigio, the year the monarchy was nullified, he poured a small glass for each of the generals. “A toast,” he declared, raising his glass.

“May the flaming torch of liberty forever burn!”

The joyous reply came a second later. “The flaming torch forever!”

OOC: Follow up post coming shortly...Please wait for my next post before starting our war, though feel free to RP the rebellion in St. Matthew.

[Nova Sylva]

NSR First Maneuver Group, Northern Collectives
8 Hours Later (After my last post)

Sylvan Sif-21 joint-strike fighters had launched minutes after war was declared. The first thing to be hit was the already weak Erquinian Air Force. The strikes lasted three hours, and by the time it was over some four-hundred aircraft had been destroyed. Erquinain defensive infrastructure had been extremely poor and only two airfields had been equipped with hardened aircraft shelters capable of protecting the grounded aircraft. The Sylvan warplanes had swooped over the border, and though the Commonwealth’s air-defense systems took out more than twenty Sylvan aircraft, the attack had still been a decisive NSR victory. The Sylvans had flown below Erquinian radar cover and well below the lowest point at which their SA-2 SAMs could bring down an aircraft – the NSR’s losses were mainly due to 35 mm AHEAD guns, Erquinian aircraft already in the air, and one due to a mechanical problem mid-flight. The first wave had assaulted 11 bases, catching much of the Erquinian Air Force by surprise and their planes on the ground. As this first wave was returning, a second wave was launched, attacking another 14 ErCom airbases and effectively achieving air superiority over the Northern Collectives. At this point the 7th Airborne Division’s U-225s, C-17s, C-5s, and C-130s took to the skies, ready to paradrop their contents (over 5,000 men and women ready for combat) into the city.

150 km south of St. Matthew the Sylvan tank divisions of the NSR First Maneuver Group were pouring over the border, headlong into the Erquinian defenses. Much of this territory was uncharted wilderness, and so the tanks had only one guiding point – their northern-facing compasses. Inside a MUTT, Staff Sergeant Caleb Ambrose sat, smoking a cigar as he held onto his R91 assault rifle between his legs. He sat in the passenger seat, and looked back into the backseat where some more of his men sat. They were, like most all of the NSR Army, veterans of either of the Sylvan Wars or the Sidonian War – or, in Ambrose’s case – all three. He had been wounded twice, once by shrapnel, another by a grazing wound along his shoulder. Nothing serious, thank God, but still enough to make him a bit worried about going back into combat. He had never fought an Erquinian before – during the Second Sylvan War he was in Capistrano – but wasn’t to scared. His company commander had fought with the 29th Armored, and assured him that the Erquinians were not seven foot tall super-soldiers, which was reassuring.

He cursed as his unprotected head hit the ceiling of the vehicle. The weather being what it was, he had vouched for a thick beanie instead of the standard-issue trooper helmet. The MUTT was reliable, durable, and tough, but had no suspension comfort system. It was a bouncy ride, especially across this dirt path – calling it a road would be like calling the Republic pacifist. Ambrose could here gunfire in the distance – they had reached the first line of Erquinian defenses. The MUTT pulled to a stop, and everyone but the driver and gunner piled out of the vehicle, crouching at an overlook as they examined the battle raging below.

A small creek divided the two armies, and on the Erquinian side at least a battalion of soldiers fired from fortified breastworks. They were calling in artillery to stop the NSR armor that were approaching their lines, and it was working. Three Honeybadger IFVs and a single Trojan-II had been reduced to burning hulks. Ambrose looked behind him, and found his platoon formed up, assuming a similar crouch as him, R91s drawn and ready.

“Platoon 301,” he ordered, leading the way. “Forward march!”

He led the way down the hill, joining the other companies as they began crossing the creek. More Commonwealth artillery was firing, as well as well hidden machine gun nests and sniper positions. Ambrose jumped into the knee-deep creek first, ignoring the freezing water and wading to the other side as bullets impacted all around him. He stayed in the creek, firing at the Erquinian positions as his comrades tried to climb out, only to be cut down by machine gun fire. The artillery was coming down in droves, blowing the Sylvans to kingdom come. He stood in the same place for what seemed like hours, taking only opportune shots at the entrenched Commonwealth forces.

“Take cover” a Major finnaly screamed, and the NSR infantry and vehicles stopped their advance momentarily. “Danger close!”

The carpet bombing was effective, to say the least. The trio of Sif-21s came from the east, droppng their ground-shaking ordanance, before tilting their wings to salute the ground troops as they turned north, presumably to silence the Erquinian artillery. The Sylvans cheered, and took up a battle cry as they charged the weakened Commonwealth fortification with renewed enthusiasm. This time Ambrose joined the charge, going prone as he neared the trench and tossing a grenade. The resulting explosion was accompanied by a scream, and the machine gun stopped firing. Bayonet affixed, Ambrose yelled valiantly and jumped into an enemy foxhole, firing at point blank range into one soldier and stabbing another through the gut. Seeing an angry trooper charging at him with nothing but combat knife, and unable to remove the rifle from the impaled solider, he drew his pistol, killing yet another Erquinian, before his men rushed forwards and finished up. He placed his boot on the profusely bleeding Erquinian that he had stabbed, he placed his boot on the still alive man’s upper chest and forced out his rifle, which further agonized the dying man. “Poor bastard,” he said, before ending his misery with a round in the skull.

He reloaded his R91, bringing back the charging handle before rushing back into the battle as it quickly disintegrated into a melee. The Commonwealth was fighting hard – he hoped that these wore men of a superior caliber, and that not every ErCom was this fierce. But the enemy artillery had been silenced by airstrikes, and it was clear that the Erquinians could not hold out forever without their big guns in support. The Sylvans had brought up flamethrowers to clear out the enemy pillboxes as the tanks fired their HE rounds at near point blank into the Erquinian bunkers. Three flaming ErComs rushed out of one bunker, screaming in pain as the flame engulfed their bodies. They were quickly cut down by the ever growing number of NSR forces coming into the area. The remaining Erquinians finally surrendered, dropping their weapons and giving up. The NSR had taken thirty-eight prisoners, most of which were wounded, and counted up the dead. It had taken the NSR nearly five-hundred casualties to dislodge the Erquinian defenders, which had lost just about the same, perhaps a little less. But more importantly it had taken the NSR nearly the entire afternoon to dislodge them; and in the blitzkrieg-style invasion the Sylvans were embracing, the entire afternoon was too long to waste.

But they had accomplished their mission – all across the of border, the NSR’s overwhelming numbers was taking it’s toll, and the Commonwealth’s lines were breaking. Soon, the Republic would smash the Erquinians, and be able to march on St. Matthew in the north and Freeport in the northeast.

Sovereign International HQ, Maracaibo, Meinkraft

Of the four nations that had signed the Sovereign International charter, two were present – the Allied Nations and the New Sylvan Republic. This was in the NSR’s favor – the third and fourth nations, Aleckandor and Sania, would most likely be opposed to the bill that they were proposing – the Sovintern’s first official declaration of war. The meeting itself was superfluous, but not frivolous – it had already been decided beforehand that the Allied Nations would join the war, but the Sovintern bill would give it an aura of righteousness behind the whole thing.

“The evidence is clear,” the Republic’s ambassador to the Sovintern, the (retired) Lt. General Stephen Longshore said, “The Commonwealth as a whole is guilty of three charges – the first being their inability to keep the peace and retain order.”

The Sovintern didn’t like anarchy very much; in previous declarations it had stated that a country or territory without a stable government (“stable” being purposely vague) wasn’t really a country at all; and therefore not subject to the normal rules applying to military invasions, occupations, or annexations.

“The second being the execution of protesters.”

This was a more serious offense – free speech was a tenet held dear by the entire collective, and violating it, especially through force of arms, would get you sanctioned, or in this case, ‘liberated.’

“Objection!” the familiar sound of the Erquinian ambassador roared. Even though not part of the Sovintern, the alliance invited other nations to participate – this also meant the Commonwealth. He stood from his seat and pointed directly at Longshore.

“The protests in St. Matthew were not protests, but riots. The rioters had begun looting stores and public buildings in an effort to obtain weapons for a revolution! Our police was forced to quell the rebellion the hard way.”

“Yes, but that does not explain the raiding of a bar in Freeport, which left some dozen civilians dead.”

“We were pursuing spies – Sylvan spies, nonetheless!”

Longshore smiled. “And do you have evidence of this? Perhaps, have these so-called spies in custody?”

“Well no, but…”

“Than what proof do you have of their existence? Or maybe, this spy-hunt was another excuse to silence protesters wanting independence?”

“That’s absurd!”

This time Longshore addressed the Sovintern’s chairman. “Without any verifiable evidence to support his audacious and ridiculous claim, this delegation asks for the Erquinian ambassador to be removed from this meeting!”

“You - you can’t do that!” He protested. “You can’t just kick us out of the meeting!”

The gavel smashed into the wood multiple times, silencing the Erquinian’s protests. “Overruled. Security, please extricate the Commonwealth delegation from this hearing.”

A quartet of armed Allied Nations soldiers marched over, weapons ready. They all carried MP5 sub-machine guns and wore the armor of Allied Nations Military Police officers. “You’ll pay for this!” the ambassador screamed. “I’ll see you all in hell!”

And then, things happened very fast. The explosion came from a military grade thermobaric explosive hidden underneath the Erquinain delegation’s table. CSI reports would later question the Sovintern’s official report, that the Erquinian ambassador had a briefcase bomb, because of the sheer enormity of the blast. But these findings would be hushed up to ensure that all the blame, all the anger, and all the retribution went – rather falsely – on the Commonwealth of Erquin.

The explosion itself reached nearly forty feet in diameter and killed everyone in the room. The blast was remarkably well placed, and in a startling coincidence six of the building’s twelve support pillars were obliterated. As a result the bottom of the building imploded on itself, and the eight-six story skyscraper groaned as it fell to the east, colliding with the jam-packed World Bank Building and collapsing both structures like dominos. The WBB fell to the east as well, falling straight into the Amazona River with a crash that shook the earth for miles around. Below the Sovintern building, in the metro, the subway tunnels collapsed, derailing four trains and adding to the already enormous death toll. Finally, flames from the thermobaric ravaged the building’s debris, and only after nearly six hours were they finally contained at the cost of the lives of two dozen firefighters. It would be weeks before the death toll was finalized, but estimates placed it at nearly six thousand. The entire event had been live streamed by state media, and recorded the explosion as it happened – and to the millions of Sylvans and Meinkraftians glued to their televisions, it was easy to see what to everyone had happened – that on October 14th, 2014, at 7:58 AM, the Erquinains had bombed the Sovereign International building, and sent the latest addition to Maracaibo’s swelling skyline crashing down, killing six thousand Allied citizens in the process.

An act of war, if the Allied Nations had ever known one.

OOC: So, Clint. How’s that for a casus belli?

[Erquin]

Northern Collections, Sylvan-NorthCol front
4th Armoured Brigade, 5th Armoured Regiment, 1st Battalion, 5th Company
2:34 AM Local Time

The night's chill is evident in the air, it stings his nose funny and it makes him feel more comfortable in his commanders uniform. James's column is charging the sleeping Mechanized Sylvan army, their engines making an electric sounding hum. 1 mile away from their camp thought James, going back into the heated tank and closing the hatch, to look through the laser sight. He did identify 10 Trojan-II's neatly packed, as well as 1 Trojan-III passing by on the road behind the Trojan-II's. The Trojan-III looked more like a Mozrian Manticore-IV, like the kind of one's he saw at those Mozrian tank shows before the Sylvans came along. The OC-134, though, was deemed as a direct match to the Trojan-II, but nothing on the Trojan-III performance ratings were made. Suddenly, a loud sound erupted through the air, through the tank, and the Trojan-III peculiarly takes a hit, and stops moving.

James opens the hatch to see that he passes a smoking Trojan-III. He couldn't believe it, the OC-134 was not supposed to be killing that thing, but merely the Trojan-III kill the OC-134 in a single hit. His tank screeches to a halt, and the turret turns to a crowd of terrified Sylvan's running around the camp. They may be smart in assaulting our breastworks, but their not so keen on night warfare as we are thought an excited James, as his tank lets off a round into a tent, apparently a fuel depot, making it go up into flames, now illuminating the confusion for the Sylvan's. However, another Trojan-III pulls up and starts aiming to take a shot at his OC-134. The turrets hydraulics hiss and moan, and the turret faces the Trojan-III, adjusting the gun. The gun fires another round, this time bouncing off from having hit a slope plate. The Trojan-III lets off a powerful shot, and it hits the side of the OC-134, piercing the engine and creating a fire.

"FIRE IN THE ENGINE COMPARTMENT!" yells the driver, as the Trojan-III plants another shell through the head of said driver, and into the interior of the tank, where it stays in the wall. James and the gunner jump out their compartments, where they see Sylvan infantry holding out from the insides of the camp, where Erquinian infantry are assaulting. They start running towards a tattered Sylvan tent, only to find 3 Erquinians and one dying Sylvan. The scene was brutal, as 2 of the Erquinians were medics trying to stabilize the Sylvan condition, and the third one had 2 small boxes with IOL-8's and 2's. He started shooting out of the tent while the 2 crewman dug into the crates to get 2 IOL-8 assualt rifles, running into the battle.

As James and the gunner parted, James kept on running through the thick mud and the dried up dirt that kept on reappearing in a pattern. It was until he runs into a 6-foot high Sylvan trooper. The man push's James with his strength, and points his gun at him. He rolls away from the Sylvan's gaze as he fires where he was and he pulls out the Erquinian standard issue machete. He digs the blade into the mans neck, to see a pool of blood boil over the side of his mouth, then pulling it out to reveal a partially clean cut, with only a bit of blood on the outer-most edges. The man falls into the mud, dropping an R-91 assualt rifle. James picks it up, looking at the IOL-8 and the R-91. The IOL-8 was very wieldy and light, while the R-91 was presumably more reliable. He decided to take both and retreat before he gets killed, skipping through the mud towards the now set up Mobile HQ..

[Nova Sylva]

St. Matthew, Northern Collectives

St. Matthew burned.

The inferno that engulfed the ancient city had been started by the rioters; and with the city in rebellion no firefighters came to put out the flames. When the NSR bombed the city in an attempt to lighten resistance for the 7th Airborne, the problem had only worsened. Furthermore, Lyon’s Legion was now seen as an enemy by both the protesters and the protested – and now a hectic and chaotic three-way battle ensued.

Captain Carlos Trevino moved forward cautiously, taking cover behind an IFV as it inched it’s way forward the narrow street. Gunfire pinged off the armored front end, and the vehicle returned fire with it’s massive 35 mm autocannon, obliterating a small barricade set up by protesters, but was now occupied by a squad of Commonwealth Military Police officers. It was made of a few cars, a toppled tree, and furniture – but after the explosive ammunition tore it apart, the road was open. One of the paratroopers under Trevino’s command stood to fire at the retreating protesters, only to take a sniper bullet from a building on the left. He fell, gripping his shoulder in pain. “Medic!” he screamed.

Trevino and his men laid down covering fire before the IFV turned it’s main gun and annihilated the building’s entire second floor. “Put him in the vehicle,” Trevino ordered, and his men threw open the IFV’s rear hatch and laid the wounded man inside. “We have to keep moving. The objective is only two blocks away.”

His objective was St. Matthew’s radio station, which in times of peace was a state newsreel. But when the riot begun, protesters seized it, and was now on every channel warning their brethren that the Sylvans were here in force to invade their country. This was partly true, but only partly – the objective was to make the Collectives an NSR puppet republic, with a Sylvan-friendly government but nonetheless autonomous. But once the Sylvans had the radio station, he had orders to either silence it or make it broadcast NSR-friendly messages.

Ahead of them was a four way intersection. On the perpendicular side to Trevino’s force, an Erquinian SWAT team, armed with assault weapons and an armored police vehicle, was forcing back dozens of protesters which tossed molotov cocktails and fired small-arms. “Fire on the ErComs,” Trevino ordered. “Hopefully the protesters will come to their senses and realize that we’re here to help.”

Trevino’s men took a phalanx formation around the IFV and waited for the Erquinians to move forward into the intersection. When they were about five feet past the crosswalk, the Sylvans opened fire. A PAVR was launched and hit the armored vehicle square on, tearing a gaping hole in the side of the truck and destroying it. The police vehicles could take a lot of damage from the light weapons used by protesters, but not a military-grade rocket launcher. The NSR paras opened fire with their carbines, and with well placed shots took down the SWAT team with extreme prejudice. They took down half a dozen of Trevino’s men, but at a cost of nearly three times that – and then there were the protesters.

Incredibly, they seemed to be enraged at the Sylvan’s interference, and charged Trevino’s men. Quickly, he ordered the phalanx to be made again – but it was too late. The mob crashed into his men, beating them with clubs and shooting them, in the case of those who had weapons. Trevino climbed on top of the IFV with two more of his men and fired into the crowd, hitting dozens with his automatic carbine. The IFV moved forwards regardless, crushing anything that got in it’s way, including people. It didn’t use it’s main gun, and instead the top hatch opened and the vehicle commander got on the topside .50 caliber machine gun. “No!” Trevino screamed over the noise of the mob. “Get back in!”

But it was too late. The molotov was thrown perfectly, dropping into the vehicle’s hatch and exploding inside the cabin. The commander, on the gun, screamed as he caught fire, falling back into the confined cabin accidentally. The IFV immediately stopped moving, smoke pouring out of the hatch. This only encouraged the mob, which now tried to climb on top of the vehicle and get to the three Sylvans on top, which fired short bursts into the crowd. But they were running out of ammo. One of Trevino’s comrades tossed flashbangs and concussion grenades into the street, which worked, but only for a short time. And they only carried one each. Trevino emptied his clip and switched to his sidearm, as behind him one of the Sylvans was pulled by his boot into the bloodhungry mob, screaming. Trevino was out of options as the second man fell a minute later, and decided to execute his last option.

He put his hands atop his head, dropping the pistol and sitting indian-style, staring into the sky, as he mumbled a prayer.

The protesters, at least the ones nearest him, stopped for a moment, then got on top of the burned out IFV. “Parlay!” he said, the Anglo word for surrender. Sylvans spoke Anglo, not English – though the two had many similarities, they were still distinctly different languages. The man stood near the Sylvan and looked at him as one would look at an alien. He picked up the 9MM pistol and admired the wooden hilt. Sylvans always made their guns with wooden stocks – it was a tradition, even if they were heavier, to make every weapon a work of ornate art. As a result, Sylvan weapons were favorites among gun collectors and foreigners alike.

Another man who had climbed on the tank held a bloody aluminum baseball bat. He was about to smash Trevino’s face in when the man with the pistol stopped him. The crowd was getting riled up. They wanted blood.

“You can trade me,” Trevino said, in Anglo. “The NSR will give you money and guns for my life. I’m more useful to you alive than dead.”

He realized that these Northerners/NorCols/Norcolites probably couldn’t understand what he was saying, but felt the need to atleast attempt communication.

The two men were arguing loudly now, evidently over what to do with Trevino. Finally, after some bickering, they agreed on something.

Trevino was hit in the chest with the bat, and fell on his back, gasping for air. The first man ripped off his tac vest, and slung it on himself, than preceded to rip apart his uniform, leaving him stark naked in the freezing cold. This was smart – Sylvan paras and pilots had GPS trackers in all their clothes, down to their underwear. They took a belt and tied his hands, then threw him on the street. Oh shit… he thought. Their gonna kill me!

The mob kicked and punched and hit him, bruising his body. He curled up in a ball to absorb the blows, but to his surprise the two men dragged him by the belt across the snowy street, as the mob continued their beatdown, a trail of blood marking his path.

NSR-Erquinain Border

Corporal Linda Parsons looked through his binoculars over the border and to her delight the Erquinian fellow was looking at her, too.

After the Second Sylvan War, the Republic invested in a massive network of border defenses along the DMZ. Most of these bunker complexes were still unfinished, but the NSR still had eight fully-operational divisions in the area, compared to the four reserve divisions it had to fight off the Erquinians during the first war.

Parsons stood on top of a watchtower, outfitted with two machine guns and a spotlight. Farther than the line of Dragon’s Teeth tank stoppers laced with barbed wire, past a minefield labeled by a small Death Head sign, an across a valley that served as the, more or less, de-militarized zone between the two warring nations, Parsons could see into Erquin. On top of a watchtower of similar (but not identical) design, a soldier in a different uniform stood smiling, though his eyes were covered by the infrared binoculars. They both worked the border station’s late night shift, and today the moon was particularly bright.

Parsons didn’t know anything about this friend, if she could even call him that. But from what Linda could tell he seemed friendly enough, bringing up coffee (ironically enough, usually a Sylvan blend) for his comrades and even once a birthday cake with white frosting. She had named the guy Edward, for no real reason whatsoever, and though had never met the man felt they would get along just fine, regardless of what was happening between the two nations a thousand miles west along the Republic’s border with the Northern Collectives, in what had been the Coalition State.

It was a strange phenomena indeed. While at war with one another, neither side had yet made any offensive deployments against either side’s homeland. Nolivar was less than a fifty miles south of the border, and in the last war the Erquinians had come close to taking the city – close enough to make the population evacuate – while the Sylvans had stormed an almost identical distance north into Erquin. But it was as if the two countries had a pact of no bellum, atleast here. Not so much as an airstrike or artillery barrage had been sent, both sides seemingly comfortable where they were.

The war, it seemed, didn’t apply the Chagan Highlands. Parsons waved back at Edward, who raised a blue dixie cup of something in a toasting gesture before downing whatever was inside.

But then Edward did something Linda didn’t expect. He reached into his pack, and pulled out a spiral notebook. Then he took a sharpie, opened the spiral, and jotted down some words on the first page. Curious, Linda adjusted the night-vision binoculars to read the message held up by her Erquinian counterpart.

377+(567)-939-2318

A phone number, Linda realized immediately, and recognized the country code 377 – ERQ. He got the number in seconds (perks of a photographic memory) and motioned for the Erquinain to lower the notebook. If anyone saw what they were doing, there was sure to be a court martial. He could be hung for collaborating with the enemy – but his curiosity had the best of him. He took out his smartphone and texted the number.

Hey. It’s me.

Picking up his binoculars he watched as the Erquinian’s phone, a Blackberry from the early 2000s, buzzed. The guy saw it, gave Linda a thumbs-up, and then wrote something down on the page again, and on the reverse side.

GOT TO TALK IN CODE, the front side read.

ERCOM GVMT MONITORS PHONE, on the back.

So this obviously wasn’t just too make conversation, Parsons realized. She nodded her head, and picked up her smartphone. New text message, from 377+(567)-939-2318.

Hey honey babe. How’s the weather?

Stunned, and feeling a bit violated, Linda looked through the binoculars again, and the Erquinian was holding up another page.

CODE. YOU’RE THE GF, IM THE BF.

He flipped it.

COLLEGE STUDENTS, LDR.

She knew enough about text shortcuts to know what LDR stood for : Long Distance Relationship. Fitting, considering their current predicament. She nodded when he held up his binoculars to see and pointed at her phone. She typed fast on the touchscreen.

Pretty good. Wbu?

Eh. It’s cold as crap up here. But It’ll be warmer once I get to share a bed with you again <3. I miss you, hon. I dreamt I had carved Andres + you into a tree with a heart around it...

Linda laughed at the innuendo, but realized it’s purpose. She now had his name.

Yeah, I miss you too. Although everyone is asking about you. All my friends are like, ‘Linda, how’s that sexy Erquinian you met on your foreign exchange trip doing?’ And I’ll say, ‘He’s good, but I haven’t seen him since Regis last year.’

She imagined him smiling as he read that, and felt her heart pound. She hadn’t been this excited about anything since her first date back in highschool. Knowing she was doing something illegal (talking to a person in an enemy state)…it was exhilarating. But why did Andres suddenly want to talk to her? It obviously could not be for meager conversation. Or could it be? She didn’t know – but she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to find out.

NSR First Maneuver Group, Northern Collectives

Colonel Samantha Palmer closed the hatch on her Trojan-III main battle tank, retreating to the protected interior of her vehicle and blowing into her gloved hands. It was cold outside. Very, very cold. The IWAMS [International Weather And Monitoring Service] report claimed it to be a chilly 3 degrees Fahrenheit; but at least the snow had stopped. Luckily for the First Maneuver, they had caught a break in the weather - for now. However the Commonwealth, it seemed, were relentless.

Early that morning, the 29th Armored had been caught with it’s pants down. An Erquinian armored regiment had attacked and destroyed the 9th Battalion’s camp, killing, capturing, or scattering nearly the entire contingent. Now, Palmer and the 16th Tank Battalion were out for revenge.

“Got eyes on thirty-eight Erquinian tanks. About seven klicks north of us, hidden in these woods.” She showed her gunner on a MilSat display. “I’m guessing their shiny new Ocelots.”

The Sylvan tankers had taken it upon themselves to christen the unnamed Erquinian vehicle. The Commonwealth’s official designation, the OC-134, wasn’t much of a name; so someone somewhere at sometime had come up with calling them Ocelots, presumably from the first two letters of the manufacture number.

“I haven’t seen one of those in action yet,” Her gunner said. “Should we be worried?”

“From a technical standpoint, maybe…but from a experience standpoint I think not. Look at how their positioned,” she said, looking on the long-range scope. “Scattered. Dug in. Covered in branches. Their using them as stationary gun platforms, not tanks. It might have worked if they had turned off their engines, but we can see the heat signatures from all the way back here.”

“So…sitting ducks.”

“Exactly.”

“So what’s the plan, then? Direct assualt? Lure them out?” Flank the bastards?”

“No…” Palmer said. “We can get them into the open from right here. We’ll lay down a barrage, get them to move out of the woods, then charge them directly.”

“Are you sure? They outnumber us two to one,” the driver pointed out.

“Their commander is obviously fresh out of OCS and not experienced. If he was concerned about stopping our advance, he would have his tanks looking for us. Instead, he’s dug in – in other words, he doesn’t want to risk a confrontation where we might have the jump on him. He wants to save his units, consolidate them, count his cards. But he doesn’t want to play for risk of loosing them. Deducing from that, I’d say this is his first command, and that he’s looking for glory more than blood. I don’t think he’d be able to think on his feet very well – and we’ll use that to our advantage. We have twenty tanks. We’ll put ten of them on that ridge about half a klick north, and I’ll take the other eight and swing northeast, than cut back west, north of the Erquinian positions. The first group will lay down a barrage on the woods, and when the Erquinians come rolling out of the forest, Bam!” -she emphasized this by smashing her fist into her hand – “we’ll catch them in a crossfire.”

Palmer’s command, the 16th Tank Battalion of the 29th Armored Division, were exclusively Trojan-III tanks – the latest edition to the NSR’s arsenal. They had an entirely new armor system, the Dragonskin VII, which was the Republic’s identical adaptation of the Mozrian tank armor used on the Manticore-IV. It was lighter than the composite used in the Trojan-II, and thanks to this the III was generally faster than it’s predecessor. It used a 155 mm gun, the same caliber as the II, but was rifled instead of smoothbore, giving the rounds a bit of extra oomph.

It took roughly an hour to get the plan relayed to her command, and another twenty minutes to stealthily get the tanks into position. But this went off without a hitch, and it seemed they had the jump on the ErComs.

In order to remain stealthed they were using radio silence – but they had agreed that the barrage would begin at 18:00 local time. Her watch was a second late when the first group of Trojan-IIIs began firing. She cursed the device and her tank fired as well. Twenty high-explosive shells flew like bullets into the woods, throwing up huge clouds of snow and dirt. These wouldn’t actually destroy the Commonwealth tanks – they were purposely trying more to blow away the trees and such that hid the vehicles, more than the targets themselves. “Keep firing,” she ordered, and her gunner slammed another round into the receiver, pulled the pin, and covered his ears as the tank shook. The Erquinians were firing back, but wildly – to her delight it seemed they had no clue where the Sylvans were. The tanks began rolling from the woods into the open, and saw the first group of her tanks. The new Ocelots were really, really fast – they closed the distance at a remarkable speed – but they took hits too. AP rounds simply dented off their armor. The Erquinian tanks, down only two from their original number, began shelling her first group of tanks.

“Load KEP rounds,” she ordered. “Fire!”

The tank shook once more, and this time it was a successful hit – the round sliced clean through their side armor, and detonated the vehicle’s magazine, sending the entire Ocelot up in a massive explosion that she heard from even inside the tank. It’s massive turret flew up in the air before landing som fifty meters away. Certainly her tank’s best kill to date.

The second group of Sylvan armor fired at will, taking down a score of Commonwealth tanks. The Erquinians realized that they were in a crossfire, and to her surprise the commander seemed competent enough to order a charge – towards Samantha’s position. In an instant she did the calculations in her head. The NSR had a dozen tanks still in the fight – the Erquinians had eighteen. She broke the radio silence. “All units,” she said, “You are ordered to charge forwards and engage the enemy at the closest possible distance. Over!”

The tank twenty or so meters to Samantha’s right exploded as it took three direct hits all at once. The rest of her group followed her orders, shifted gear, and charged at the oncoming Erquinian tanks. Her crew worked tirelessly, loading and firing a round every three and a half seconds. Her tank shook as it took a hit to it’s densley-protected front armor, and another too it’s side, but not before another Erquinian tank fell to her fire, this one taking an AP round that screwed it’s tracks before the second round, an HE, finished it off. She glanced quickly at the ‘scoreboard’ (her name for the Friend-or-Foe tally system) and noticed they had but eight tanks left – and the Erquinians…had only ten – the Sylvans could, perhaps, win this!

The remaining tanks charged at one another like medieval knights, and the Erquinains were caught in the middle. Samantha’s tank was the one of only two left from the second group, the other six being from Group 1. But the Erquinians took the lead again as the last tank on Samantha’s side exploded in a ball of fire. Another round hit Palmer’s tank, this one smashing her treads. “Fuck!” she said. Without their treads, they couldn’t move. If they couldn’t move, they were as good as dead. “Get out, get out!”

Her crew scrambled for the exits, and Samantha went first, throwing up the hatch and jumping into the snow. Her tank had caught fire, and the previously unscathed outer hull had been blown to pieces. Her gunner climbed out and followed Samantha as she ran from the dying tank. Their driver was just climbing out when the tank took it’s final hit, exploding in a similar fashion to her first kill of the day. “No!” she screamed. “Richard!”

But it was too late – her tank was nothing more than a burning hulk, like more than fifty other vehicles that had been destroyed in the savage fighting. Destroyed tanks littered the field, and the columns of thick black smoke curled up into the sky. The gentle cracking of flames was interrupted by the sporadic explosion, from whenever one of the destroyed tank’s magazines would go off with a bang. The Commonwealth had won, it seemed – but not by much. Twenty Trojan-IIIs had decimated nearly forty Erquinian OC-134s. Their were three tanks left, and one of them was on it’s last legs. But the important thing was that they had proved it could be done – they could destroy these new Ocelots. Samantha and her gunner, for their part, would fast track it south before calling for evac via chopper. She had lost her entire battalion, and her own driver – to her, this wasn’t a day for celebration.

[Northern Collectives]

Road from St. Matthew to Freeport

A large man was standing behind a tree as a group of rebels moved on the road. He was wearing crimson plates, and a high caliber pistol in one hand, and a one handed battle ax in the other. His face was hidden behind the freighting visage of mask formed from metal, outlined around his cheeks with animal bone. There were twenty such armed men hiding in the area around him, and the regular NorthCol rebel column of fifty moved along the narrow road. The man would have felt bad for the wretches if they didn’t fight like cowards.

He flashed a light three times, the signal was given. The heavy set and massive man sprung their trap, followed by smaller men armed with AK-47s. The man’s name was Khaine, and was known by no other name. Khaine brought his gun to bear as the surprised men, blowing the head clean off one, and chopping the better half of a head off on the next unfortunate rebel of Rhodaan came close, trying to raise his recently given assault rifle.

He fired two more shots as his own followers fell, and those of Rhodaan’s movement. Khaine had always been a militarist, similar to Rhodaan, and they had been friends growing up, but Khaine had seen the fires of militarism and imperialism burn too many nations, having served as a mercenary for many years, serving on both the defender’s side, and the aggressor’s. He remembered the stories on the imperial south, and the economic north, and the bloody battles that had forced a river to run red with blood for many days.

Khaine’s hair was black, and his eyes were like an abyss to darkness, and his features were angular and unforgiving, but he fought for what he believed the people needed, they needed to ruled be someone else, the war-like nature of his people could have it no other way, or they needed to be ruled by a man with an even hand, and more peaceful, and not by himself.

He acted as the fist of a kindhearted, genial, and caring woman named Alexandra Demotra, he acted as the hammer, the anvil, and the might of her power. She was in her mid-twenties, anyone much older heaving simply accepted their domination. The weak looked to the strong for leadership; it is the way of human nature. They were less support internationally, but appealed to more of the civilians of the Northern territory.

One of his warriors fell, a shot gun blast at point blank range, followed soon after, by a second, bullets ripping into his armored torso as his armor fractured. He would avenge his followers, avenge the fallen. He yelled his war cry. “Only in death does my battle end!” The war cry was picked up by his men, those fighting in the melee, and those at range. His blade crushed into the sternum of one of his enemies, followed by the blast of his pistol, making one of Andraz’s rebels gut shot.

The road was crimson, as the life blood of men and women filled the streets. He finished his last opponent, his blade driving into the rebel officer’s neck. He had lost four of his warriors, their bodies all but destroyed, and thirty four of his rifleman’s, for forty seven of his adversaries. Then he heard a war cry, Andraz’s brother and five Gargoyles charged him.

He could not help but to laugh as a second formation of rebels rushed to their fallen comrades. “Death to those who stand against us!” He called, charging the line of rebels. The clash was brutal, swords in the hands of the gargoyles, axes in that of Khaine’s men, AK-47s in the arms of his followers, and the Sylvan armaments in his opponents.

Andraz’s brother had the same snow white hair, but it would be dyed red by his own blood, as an axe impaled itself on his side, but he finished the berserk warrior that had been his adversary, but it was too late for him. One of his lungs punctured by a broken rib, his stomach turned into an mush by the blade of his armored enemy.

Khaine laughed to himself in the midst of his battle. Let them think they were putting a fight, let them think their deaths are worth something, it will make their defeat all the more satisfying. The rebels retreated, leaving much needed equipment to be scavenged. He would have found it amusing if it had mattered.

Khaine’s eyes had a cruel and hateful glee when a gargoyle charged him, a dirk in his hands. He kicked the man in the chest, the man’s armor doing little to make the force of his kick less powerful. The man ran into a tree, the force of the kick driving his back, he let his pistol hang from the chain the kept it on his armor, and threw his elbow into the mains throat, breaking his neck. The last gargoyle in the area who was fighting, the last one orchestrating the withdrawal.

The Gargoyle and him paced, his warriors encouraging the retreat. Khaine made the first move, bring his ax up towards the man armpit. The Gargoyles blocked the blade with his dagger, but there was a noticeable notch out of the blade. The gargoyles never got the chance to do anything else, his blade arm being grabbed, and as he reacted a foot smashed into his chest and pinned him to forest floor before Khaine’s ax finished him with a chop through his heart. Leaves bristled in the wind, the blood covered leaves flying to the fall air, towards Freeport, although they would most likely never reach the city to act as a message; that the rebels of Andraz had an enemy other than the Erquins….

[Meinkraft]

Admiralty House, North Maracaibo, Meinkraft, 9:34 am

President Kerman stared out his office window to the parade grounds, where, at that moment, over one hundred people were crowded behind a wall of MPs in riot gear. Kerman was extremely uncomfortable in his freshly starched, black pinstripe, but it was necessary to appease the public. The economy tanked yesterday, due to the destruction of the World Bank Building, and political diplomacy was in disarray with the annihilation of the Sovereign International Headquarters. He wiped his forehead off with a small white handkerchief he had retrieved from his breast pocket. On it, in fancy silver lettering, was embroidered "Lorraine".

"Mr. President, it's time." came a gruff voice from behind him. Kerman wheeled around to spot his aide, Colonel Garrett, flanked by two armed Mariners, beckoning to him.

"Of course, Samuel." said the President, as he replaced the 'chief and moved towards the Colonel. Garrett did an aboutface and formed a vanguard for the President, the two Mariners marching at the rear. The House was quiet, except for four sets of footsteps, and the sound of light fabric impacting the hardwood stairs. Outside, the crowd's noise dropped to a whimper as President Kerman marched outside, his bodyguard standing off to the side. As he took his stand at the podium, he looked the people over. The majority of those in the complex were reporters, although a few were family of those deceased. A few flashes and shutter snaps later, Kerman was ready to deliver his speech.

"People of the Allied provinces. As you may know, at 7:58 am yesterday morning, the Soverintern Headquarters was struck by a heavy explosion, destroying it, as well as the World Bank Building, and killing all those inside. Soverintern Intelligence now believes that those responsible for this heinous crime were the Erquinians."
He paused to let that sink into the minds of the people.
"Yes, while we must grieve, it is also a time for retribution. At 6:00 am, a state of war has been declared with the full backing of the Parliament. As I speak, our men and women are preparing to avenge our losses, and create a better world."
Kerman adjusted his tie, and prepared for his finale.
"Our enemies are many, our equals are none. In the shade of leafy trees, they said Gerencer could never be conquered. In the realm of forest and snow, they said Mozria could never be humbled. In the lands of jungle and vine, they said the Amazonas could never be tamed. Now they say nothing. They fear us, as a dealer of justice and revenge. I say, we are the Allied Nations, empire!"
On that last word, he pounded the podium, and the crowd roared.
"So, Erquin, prepare to pay in kind." he uttered, the gallows overlooking the Strachan in clear view over his shoulder.

Solace Airbase, Allied Province of Gerencer, Same Time

The electric chain-link fence hummed in the early morning sun as the roar of jet engines came to life. The compound was small as airbases go, and it didn't even have a tarmac runway; just heavily packed dirt with deep sand pits at either end. The base was located in one of the most remote parts of Gerencer, and was designed as a temporary base for policing the countryside. Now, it was embroiled in preparations for war, the bomber flight on the ground, ready for launch at any given moment. And their time was soon. The Global Satellite Reporting Network had broadcast it's message across the region, and it would only be a matter of time before it was received by both allies and enemies alike.

[Erquin]

Northern Collectives,Southern Border
7th Mechanized Guard Corps,3rd ME.G Division, 5th Battalion, Breastwork Section 7
5:34PM Local Time

The fighting was to be fierce, brutal, and unforgiving. The NSR's own had broken through the frontal defenses of the 2nd Armoured Border Guards, and what was to hold the second line of defence was the hardened 7th ME.G Corps. The initial corps itself was formed as an infantry corps in 1934. It had hardened training standards and was always one of the first corps to go into action in every conflict Erquin had gotten into. They are armed with some of the best weapons affordable, and even have an 11th division in the corps that was devoted completely to general labor, maintenence, and logistics, while all the rest were just for firepower. Anyhow, the air temperature is punishing for the NSR troops, but the cold is merely daily life to the Commonwealth. In a separate artillery hole owned by the 3rd Arty Battalion, there was a little spa, with the 5 arty handlers trying to make their time as cheerful and memorable as possible. However, the order to get ready for a blitzkrieg was screech over by intercoms and whispered into built in helmet radios threw them out of the spa.

Over by the horizon, in the thick snow, were Trojan-III's, about 10 of them. George was part of a platoon defending the breastworks, all finely done by the corps labor division. There were built in bunkers, concrete machine gun "pipes", and well made trenchs with tunnel networks going back to a heavy artillery bunker. Soon, the heavy artillery started pounding the Trojan-III's, who kept plowing through the snow. Soon, the Trojan-IIs broke the horizon, and almost immediately, one of them explode from a direct hit from a 180mm GHD-23 AT gun, apparently using a depleted uranium shell. As George made his way to his MG nest, APC's broke the horizon, and immediately, rockets started pelting the breastworks. "INCOMING!" yelled a soldier as he jumps back into a foxhole, and another exclaims "JAVELINS SPOTTED!THEY GOT CRAWLING INFANTRY IN THE SNOW!". The man was right, as Georges concrete haven started getting hit with 5.56 rounds, as well as the occasional 50. calibre round. He pulled back the cocking handle of the IOL-23 HMG, a 14.7mm master piece, made only for emplacements and some armoured vehicles.

He starts firing the gun and he scores about 5 Sylvan soldiers as they jump into the first line of trenches. A sixth one taken out by George is one that loses his right leg in midair as he jumps into the trench. However, the almost fearless resistance of the first trench's break, and a line of Sylvan soldiers make their way up to the 2nd trench line, which is closed by a barbed wire gate. George immediately starts mowing down the Sylvan troopers as they scramble up the trenchs. Finally, an APC fires a rocket near the MG nest, only to send fragments into Georges spine through the concrete. His body slumps onto the surface his HMG resides on, plagued with abominable pain and agony, numbing his senses. Another rocket makes its way into his trench, knocking him out of his nest and into the a trench of an entire Sylvan medical detail, to start blacking out. The only people he sees is the Sylvans putting him back up on a stretcher, then...he completely blacks out...

[Northern Collectives]

Deep in the Woods, Thirty Four Miles South of St. Matthew

Khaine was sharpening his axe, as if it wasn’t sharp enough. He had been polishing it, and sharpening almost obsessively for the past three hours. The women he supported was across the cabin was sitting at a chrome laptop, briefly getting up to feed a fire that was burning in a stone hearth.

The cabin was large, and hardly noticeable from the air, with it being built around trees instead of through them. Alexandra was preparing an offer to the Erquins, and offer that she hoped would keep the majority of the Northern Collectives from turning to ruins, and still giving them their independence. “You sure this is a good idea, offering support to those who took away our honor?” Khaine asked, his voice calm and somewhat condescending.
Alxendra Demorta smiled, it was graceful, and only added to her already gorgeous appearance. Her eyes were a bright, almost genial blue and she had long brown hair, put in a ponytail with a red ribbon. She was wearing a form fitting brown leather vest, with a green long sleeve wool shirt underneath, with light grey jeans. “I would rather we were under the control of the Erquins then Rhodaan’s mob, like you, but we cannot stand alone against them. We need equipment, training, and supplies. Even if we have the support of the nation, you think that the damned Sylvans will care?”
“True, but can we trust them? How do we know they won’t just kill us after this rebellion is over?”
“Only time will tell. Would you rather we let ANdraz and his rabble took over the country and turned us into the imperialist nation, something you know the fires of. I know you remember that, hell we both fought there!”
“We cannot forget the fire that Deneager spread. We cannot allow ourselves to be turned into the very thing we fought against so many years ago.” The memory of the war he had fought brought a tear to Khaine’s eye. He had watched friends die; civilian families get wiped out in the explosions of artillery. He swore to himself the day he had fought that he would not allow an imperialist nation to take over his homeland, and he was fighting for that oath now.

Alexandra and Khaine had made a Blood Oath to rise against anyone who thought that a nation should use imperialism, and their vow was put to the test now. Khaine stopped sharpening his weapon; his face was giving an expression that made him look ready to kill someone.

“Is the message ready?” He inquired.
“Yes, I am sending it now.”

To: The Officals of the Commonwealth of Erquin
From: Alexandra Demorta; NorthCol Counter Resistance Force

Dear whom it may Concern Within the Grand Nation of Erquin,

I am Alexandra Demorta, and I know that the pressing concern of control of the Northern Collectives is more prominent on your mind then this as the scum of Sylva have come in force against your great nation. I have a deal for you, and whether you choose to accept, or decline and hunt us down, now that we will stand down once Andraz Rhodaan’s forces are wiped out. We will not fight you; we have nothing against you, only a will to regain our honor.

My offer is this; we support against all other factions attempting to gain control, not just Rhodaan’s rabble, and in return you help train us, give my movement supplies, and allow us independence, but please note, that there are those among my movement who want the blood of every faction involved. Some of us believe there is a slight of honor between us and your grand nation and will fight to redeem the honor they claim you have taken, but I assure you, that if you give us independence, we will support you as much as possible.

Please consider this offer, we will not betray you, our Honor must be preserved, and fighting a nation that had attempted to support us, is not in my interests.
Sincerely,
God Bless,
Alexandra Demorta

The message was in the form on an email, in an attempt to keep it from any eyes that they would not want to see it.

Khaine moved to the door. People from their rebellion, mostly armed with captured weapons or some sort of AK platform were patrolling the area. Several times that day several people from Rhodaan’s movement had stopped responding to their hails from Freeport or St. Matthew, having strayed too close and removed.
He adorned himself in his crimson armor and clamped his pistol to his chain. “I will be outside.” He told her, putting on his helmet, he marched out, soon followed by two of his own warriors, and ten fighters. He hadn’t even needed to command them. People looked for the strong and followed them and responded to them. Strength didn’t have to be physical, it could be intelligence, or really anything, if you were good at something, people followed you.

He felt like something was going to happen, and soon. He couldn’t have been more right.

They came across the body of one of their fighters, a small knife in his jugular. Two of his fighters had collapsed a moment later, a throwing dagger in one of them, and bullet through one of their necks. One of his warriors figured out where the man was hiding, a thicket not ten feet away. The warrior laughed as one of the pistol shots from the suppressed weapon made dinking noise when it hit his armor. A massive bullet killed the man a moment later, the larger caliber pistol of the warrior.

Five heavily armored men with Sylvan weapons and long swords on their backs killed the warrior a moment later, along with four more of the fighters. “TO WAR!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, hitting the flank of them while his other warrior hit the line form the other. The reaming fighters found what cover they could and returned fire. Now, this was a true battle, he thought to himself. One of the hostile rebels had kicked the pistol from his hand, and he was fine with leaving the weapon hanging on its chain, wielding his axe with two hands. Two of the hostile rebels fell, one to Khaine and one to his warrior, but not before three more of the fighters had been silenced permanently. The last fighter disengaged to get back to the cabin while the armored men duked it out.

Khaine parried the blow from one of their long swords, and caught the blade in the space between the shaft and blade of the axe. He pulled the sword, forcing the rebel into his armored elbow, knocking the air out of him. The next moment his pistol was in his hand, and killed the man with a massive shot in his chest, punching through his armor at the close range. His warrior was locked in a brutal melee fight rolling the ground with one of Andraz’s rebels, and the other armored man tried to get a shot off on Khaine, which he managed to do, near his wrist, but it was glancing shot, although it did take asmall hunk of meat with it. In a frenzied rage he decapitated the man, and watched his warrior head butt the last rebel, but he hadn’t noticed the rebel’s dirk which went into his throat. The rebel retrieved his long sword and approached Khaine, but before he could get to him he fell to the ground, a bullet hole in his back. The rebel fighter who he though had disengaged was kneeling. He nodded his thanks, and looted the bodies. It had been more costly than he had expected to go on that patrol, but at least that had secured more armaments, but Rhodaan’s movement would win a war of attrition, his force being made of more people simply armed, while Demorta’s only accepted those they could train and arm…

[Nova Sylva]

Freeport, Northern Collectives

The two blades clashed together with a loud screech as steel hit steel. Cyr thrust upwards, hoping to break Khaine’s grip on the longsword, but to no avail – the Norcolite was an advanced swordfighter and countered it perfectly, cutting into Cyr’s abdomen with a deep wound. Cyr managed to stop him from cutting him in half off outright and spun, slicing wildly as blood leaked from his wound and forcing Khaine to retreat.

“You are mortally wounded,” Khaine said, watching as Cyr limped towards him, machete in hand. Too add to a list of his injuries, he now had a bullet in his leg, a sword gash along his chest, and what he was pretty sure was a concussion.

He went from slicing a fencing thrust which caught Khaine along his side torso, but it was only a fleshwound. Cyr yelled as he charged, planting a kick in Khaine’s chest, where a bullet had lodged itself minutes before. Khaine grunted in pain and fell back, and Stephen went for the kill, putting his full weight into the next swing, but Khaine sidestepped him – and brought down his sword, hard. It sliced into Stephen’s back, and the DIS operative fell, screaming in pain as he hit the cold warehouse floor hard. He was bleeding profusely. The only sounds now were Cyr’s heavy breathing and the ever closer rumble of artillery.

“I admire your tenacity, Sylvan.” Khaine said, picking up Stephen’s weapon. “You have fight in you. I wish we could have fought as brothers, not enemies. But it cannot be so. You come here, try and change our country? We have been like this for hundreds of years. Honor above all else, even liberty.”

Cyr mumbled something as his face lost color. He was bleeding out, and fast. Khaine leaned closer, to hear what he had to say.

“Dulce et decorum, est pro patri mari.”

Khaine nodded at the Latin phrase’s significance. It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. Cyr, struggling, turned himself face up. A wide gash had cut his shirt from the front, and he was having trouble breathing. Blood had soaked his white undershirt a dark red. “I see. To the end, you are faithful. I wish you best of luck in the afterlife.”

“Heavenly father,” Khaine said, standing over the dying Sylvan and preparing to finish him. “Forgive me.”

*Six Hours Earlier*

The Norcol flag flew from Freeport City Hall. The small Erquinian garrison in the city didn’t even try and fight – they retreated into the countryside, leaving in such a hurry that they left their barracks and arsenal completely intact. They wanted no part of the revolution, for or against it. They simply wanted to leave the wretched town.

But their was a problem – a dozen or so of Andraz’s men, and the rebel leader’s brother, had been killed outside the city, mostly impaled and missing limbs. They had been stripped of all their clothing and weapons, and given a sort of burial – typical, for these Norcolites. They valued honor, faith and respect over everything else. They had only known of the ambush after searching the countryside for the missing patrol, and finding a marked grave, made from a large log inscribed with phrase:

HERE LIE TRAITORS TO THE TRUE ORDER, WHO IN THEIR IGNORANCE DEFIED ME

It had make Cyr shiver. The leaves on the autumn ground were stained with the blood of those killed, and the graves of each man were labeled with a sword, axe, or machete sticking out of the ground, with some sort of personal relic attached. A watch, necklace, engagement ring...even a ballistic helmet with the name RHODAAN stenciled on the front. Andraz was kneeled beside this grave, praying.

Cyr was watching the buzzy feed from an overhead MilSat which had captured the ambush. A large bulky man with black hair, swinging a battle axe, smashing a man’s head in. That looked like it hurt, Stephen thought, shivering. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like against such a beast in single combat.

He waited for Andraz to finish his prayer before showing the picture to him. “Does this guy look familiar?” he asked. You couldn’t make out any of his more recognizable features, but Cyr figured asking was worth a shot.

Andraz’s face went pale.

“His name is Khaine,” Andraz said. “A fellow militarist, back in the day. He was mercenary for a few years, before forming a separatist group devoted to forming an absolute monarchy, called the True Order.”

A single gunshot rang out, followed by a scream. What the hell? Cyr thought. He pointed to a nearby jeep. “You, you, and you,” he said, pointing to three other “DIS agents, “Come with me.”

“Andraz,” He said. “If we’re not back in two hours come look for us.”

He slid into the driver’s seat and floored it. It was a bumpy ride, and he was going fast. He reached a small hillock where a dead body lay, a bullet having blown the man’s head almost clean off. A set of skid marks, presumably from tires, led east, towards St. Matthew. Cyr followed them.

They crossed a stone bridge that must have been hundreds of years old, and onto an actual dirt road. It was a beautiful country. Massive pine trees columned into the air, and small pockets of snow lay on the ground as the seasons changed into the winter months. He was admiring the beauty of it when the missile was fired.

It missed, luckily, but still accomplished it’s task. The left front tire fell off entirely, and the jeep was sent off the road. Cyr’s head smashed into the steering wheel, and the vehicle lost control, crashing loudly with a large pine tree, knocking Cyr out cold…

...He awoke some time later in a small room. He moaned as he sat up, reflecting on previous events before a wave of pain washed over him. His head heart like a bitch, and the leg pain from the bullet he had taken days ago was still aching in his leg. He inspected his surroundings closer and realized he wasn’t in a room at all – instead Cyr was located in what seemed to be a large container. Was he on a ship? No, there was no swaying sensation. A truck? If he was, it wasn’t moving. So he must be in a warehouse of some sort. He tried the door. Locked, unsurprisingly. His trench coat was gone, as was his top shirt – all he wore now were his cargo pants, boots, and his white undershirt. Wait. His boots.

He reached in his left boot and thanked God when he found a kebar knife still there. Whoever had locked him in here hadn’t been very judicious in searching him. He took the knife and began sawing the barlock. The sharpened kebar cut through it rather easily, and Cyr eased the door open, praying it wouldn’t squeak. To his luck it did not, and Stephen slipped out, hugging the shadows as he moved. He was in a large warehouse, and in the distance he could hear the pounding of artillery. So he was close to the frontline. He slipped through a door, into a small office, and found a rebel guard dozing in a chair. Slitting his throat, Cyr took his weapon, which was a simple .45 caliber pistol with no extra ammo, and only six rounds in the clip. He also found a flashbang and a machete, which he slid into his belt. He took the man’s overcoat and put it on, sighing as it warmed him up. He was about to leave the small office when the door opened behind him.

Two other guards, preoccupied with their coffee, walked into the office. Cyr spun and fired five shots – one went wide, two hit the first guard in the chest, and a final round was a perfect, though lucky, headshot. Stephen cursed as the gunfire echoed across the entire building, and decided to run. He stepped out and jogged towards the other end of the building, and through himself into another office, though this one much larger. He tried the door, it was heavy, a metal one, and he threw it open after finding it unlocked. He slammed it shut behind him, and clicked the lock, breathing heavily before turning around.

The room was almost empty, save a desk along one wall where a laptop computer sat, illuminating the room with an eerie blue glow. But in the center of the room were candles, spread out with a small rug in the center. On the wall, a massive crucifix with Jesus Christ. On the rug, a man was kneeling in prayer; upon Cyr’s intrusion he turned, eyeing up a longsword laying next to him.

“You dare intrude upon my meditation with Our Lord?!” the man screamed at him, moving for the sword. Cyr raised the pistol and fired, hitting the man in the chest. He pulled the trigger again, only to realize he was out of ammunition. “Fucking hell,” he said, and drew the machete.

The man had recovered his stance, and held the longsword with both hands. “Of course it was a Sylvan,” he spat. “You fools think you can come into our country unopposed? Make us a republic? You Sylvan scum are gravely mistaking.”

“The Erquinians are in retreat,” Cyr replied, as the two circled eachother, blades ready. “The NSR comes closer to victory every day.”

“You will never have victory, as long as I am alive,” he said. “For I am Khaine, leader of the True Order!”

The two blades clashed together with a loud screech as steel hit steel. Cyr thrust upwards, hoping to break Khaine’s grip on the longsword, but to no avail – the Norcolite was an advanced swordfighter and countered it perfectly, cutting into Cyr’s abdomen with a deep wound. Cyr managed to stop him from cutting him in half off outright and spun, slicing wildly as blood leaked from his wound and forcing Khaine to retreat.

“You are mortally wounded,” Khaine said, watching as Cyr limped towards him, machete in hand. Too add to a list of his injuries, he now had a bullet in his leg, a sword gash along his chest, and what he was pretty sure was a concussion.

He went from slicing a fencing thrust which caught Khaine along his side torso, but it was only a fleshwound. Cyr yelled as he charged, planting a kick in Khaine’s chest, where a bullet had lodged itself minutes before. Khaine grunted in pain and fell back, and Stephen went for the kill, putting his full weight into the next swing, but Khaine sidestepped him – and brought down his sword, hard. It sliced into Stephen’s back, and the DIS operative fell, screaming in pain as he hit the cold warehouse floor hard. He was bleeding profusely. The only sounds now were Cyr’s heavy breathing and the ever closer rumble of artillery.

“I admire your tenacity, Sylvan.” Khaine said, picking up Stephen’s weapon. “You have fight in you. I wish we could have fought as brothers, not enemies. But it cannot be so. You come here, try and change our country? We have been like this for hundreds of years. Honor above all else, even liberty.”

Cyr mumbled something as his face lost color. He was bleeding out, and fast. Khaine leaned closer, to hear what he had to say.

“Dulce et decorum, est pro patri mari.”

Khaine nodded at the Latin phrase’s significance. It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. Cyr, struggling, turned himself face up. A wide gash had cut his shirt from the front, and he was having trouble breathing. Blood had soaked his white undershirt a dark red. “I see. To the end, you are faithful. I wish you best of luck in the afterlife.”

“Heavenly father,” Khaine said, standing over the dying Sylvan and preparing to finish him. “Forgive me.”

What happened next could only be described as a godsend.

The explosion was not a direct hit. The shell fell just outside the building, shattering windows and shaking the ground hard enough to knock Khaine off his feet. He was about to get up when the second round hit, blowing the wall next to the laptop to smithereens. Outside, a pitched battle was beginning to rage – to Cyr’s delight, he saw that the advancing force were Andraz’s troops!

Khaine looked at Cyr, then outside, where his outnumbered rebels were being fighting with Andraz’s men. He picked up his sword again, and ran out the wall’s gaping hole into the fray, leaving Cyr to bleed out, by himself. He could feel his blood draining, and was fading in and out of consciousness. His eyelids grew heavy, and struggling to keep them open soon became a chore he couldn’t accomplish. Stephen thought of his wife, Felicity, and wished for a long second he could have said goodbye. Then he remembered his son, and wondered if he would remember his father’s sacrifice before letting the blackness consume him.

The Acropolis, New Sylvan Republic

President Michael Delacroix subconsciously chewed on the end of his pen as General Freeman presented his report via sattelite. Around the large briefing table sat all important members of both the Sylvan and Allied high commands – Delacroix, of course, NSR Army Chief of Staff General Carpenter, Allied President Kerman, his assistant Colonel Garret, as well as various admirals and air force marshals. The meeting was to discuss a joint strategy against the Commonwealth, under the Sovereign International flag.

“Our bombers should be launching any minute,” Kerman said, straightening his tie. “Twenty four B-22 Barringers – your design – are going to hit major military targets across the Erquinian homeland. Atleast, that’s what Garret said,”

Colonel Garret nodded. “Yes. We’re mainly targeting infrastructure. Bridges, trainyards, docks, et cetera. This will hopefully slow the deployment of reinforcements from Erquin into the Northern Collectives. A second wave, launched by the Sylvans, will target major military installations across the country, particularly near the Sylvan-Erquinian border, as to soften it up for Operation : Cerberus. A third and final wave will hit Commonwealth targets in the Northern Collectives not already destroyed. We have near complete air dominance across the Collectives, and as General Freeman will explain this is a big reason of why the First Maneuver is steamrolling.”

“Yes,” Freeman said, over sattelite video chat. “We have removed the Erquinian Air Force as a cohesive unit, mainly because of the success of our initial strikes. The First Maneuver has advanced nearly a hundred and fifty miles into the Collectives and are at the gates of St. Matthew as we speak.”

“How long will it take to secure the city?” Delacroix asked.

“Not sure. The 7th has done a tremendous job as of yet, having secured St. Matthew International Airport and making considerable progress seizing territory in the Industrial sector of the city. Unfortunately, the entire city is, or rather was, in chaos. The population was rebelling against, well, everyone. Then the Commonwealth brought in the tanks, and the protesters had the common sense to go home. They’ll still kill any foreigner, Erquinian or Sylvan, but not as conspicuously as before. The Commonwealth is preparing for a sort of last stand in the city, and we estimate that they have atleast a hundred thousand soldiers garrisoned inside, ready to defend it to the last man. We also have this…”

“We received this video yesterday,” General Carpenter said, and played it.
It showed a man, naked, tied to a chair, with a sack over his head. The camera was of low quality, and kind of fuzzy – but you could easily make out three men surrounding the captive, holding a variety of weapons, and all with balclavas as to conceal their identity. A set of dogtags was hung over the camera, allowing the viewer to read :

CAPTAIN JOHN TREVINO. NSR ARMY, SERIAL # 239824567235


A man spoke in broken Anglo, from behind the camera. “Death to the profligates!”

One of them removed the sack from Trevino’s head, and another cocked a pistol. He was beaten and his eye was swollen considerably – he had obviously been tortured, “No, no…please!” Trevino begged, but to no avail. The man with the .45 splattered his brains across the wall, and the video ended.

“It’s definitely authentic,” Carpenter said. “As far as we know he is the first Sylvan prisoner taken by the protesters. We intend to make him the last.”

“Has this video been leaked to the media?” Delacroix asked.

“Yes. Fortunately for us, it has enraged our population even more. Most are already pissed about the Erquinians bombing the Sovintern building. This has pushed them over the top – the popular consensus is that the war is a righteous democratic crusade against the Norcolites and Commonwealth. The recruiting stations are swamped.”

“Fantastic. We need to keep the image of Trevino alive. Hopefully the Erquinians will come to terms after we take St. Matthew, but if not, we will need a face that the public can rally behind, if this war drags on.”

“Speaking of which,” Kerman asked, “What will our terms be?”

“The dismantling of the Commonwealth. Erquin will have to relinquish all her foreign claims, agree to abolish Socialism, pay reparations to Sylva and the Allies, and allow Sylvan troops to occupy the entire Chagan Highlands, including Apple Ridge.”

Kerman whistled. “Those are pretty harsh,” he said.

“Well, its that or we forcibly occupy their entire country, which will most likely result in Sylva annexing Erquin in it’s entirety. Anyway, what’s the word from Gerencer?”

“Allied Nations forces are massing along the border. Several Erquinian divisions have countered our deployments, however we should be able to push through fairly easily. We are also moving two fleets, one in the Sidius Ocean, and one in the Strachan Sea. The latter is tasked with taking Freeport and the former with assisting with Operation: Cerberus.”

“Operation: Cerberus is a last resort,” Carpenter reminded him. “A direct invasion of Erquin…would cost the NSR dearly. We would win, but the price would be too high.”

“You say now. But when St. Matthew falls, the Erquinians will be in full retreat. Their remnants will retreat either north, towards the Mozrian border, or east, towards their homeland. We’ll have the Sylvan Northern Corps smashing them at the border, the Allies landing on their beaches, and the First Maneuver sweeping in from the east, perhaps even the Mozrians from the west and north. It’ll be like crushing them between a hammer, anvil, rock, and sword.”

[Nova Sylva]

Oops.

[Northern Collectives]

Freeport

He was sitting in an apartment complex in room he had paid generously for by choice. Honor, duty, loyalty. Liberty was nice, but not needed, and for him a luxury. He regretted killing the Sylvan, but he hadn’t had a choice. It was that or let hi =m get all the information he wanted back to the NSR. He turned on the television and could not believe what he saw. It was unmoral, dishonorable, and above else the killing of a man that was trying to do what his country asked of him. It brought bile into his throat and fury to his face.

St. Matthew, the city that had been a peaceful quiet place was now the home to insane rioters, who were out for blood. He knew he was going to have to do something about the situation there, but he had been able to force Andraz’s rabble out of Freeport, and was now in the process of making sure he had enough fighters, with their triple horn Odin symbol on a metal plate on their shoulder would be ready to take the fight else ware.

The amount of arms that had been the in the city was astounding, assault rifles, rocket launchers, ammunition for them to last over a month of combat operations, but as impressive as it was, he had to worry about the training of them.

Khaine’s rage was similar to what his name meant in the ancient language within the Northern Collectives. He had to remind himself sometimes that his real name was Kharn Dreda, although his regular name translated directly to Eternal Wrath. Wrath, rage, and the feeling of being with one’s family were the purest emotions to him, namely rage.

He lived by the mantra; Rage, honor, loyalty. He lived and breathed those words, and it is also he knew why he had to put his trust in someone else to lead. He was too quick to a blade, too quick to use rage, that he did not have the tact required for politics. It would have been easy to take advantage of the honest, honor bound man away from the arena of war.

While he was freighting foe on the battle field, he was little more than a honest, kind man away from battle. It made his men laugh; the most fearsome worry any of them had ever heard of, calling him the reincarnation of some god of war, and then off the battle field being a devout, kind, and generous man, as if all the wars he had fought came off his shoulders in an instant once they entered a time of leave.

But now was not one of those times. He got a meager glass of red wine, and looked at a tactical map. This war was his to command. Alexandra’s job was to take over once this war was over, once the time for orchestrating battles was finished.

He was looking at one city in particular; a city known as Ainle, it was in the far north, it was where he had grown up, and also where he knew Andraz’s rebels would gravitate towards, being where Andraz knew best, and many of his Gargoyles had come from, but he also knew that Rhodaan would dedicate forces to help his sweetheart escape St. Matthew, so it would be extremely easy to get there before he could, and he would leave Freeport under the command of a man known as Grimaldus who was one of the most charismatic and powerful leaders Khaine had ever met. Grimaldus always wore no helmet, and wore lamellar style plates, and armed himself with an HK-417, and a long sword which was kept to his back.

Khaine would have to move quickly, and organize the forces he would take with him to the northernmost region.

He would have to be decisive, and keep his hard hidden until the last minute, when Rhodaan’s card were already played on the table. Khaine laughed to himself when the memory of them playing games like Risk, and Warhammer 40,000 came to his mind. Nothing could compare to real battle, and Kharn had beaten Andraz most of the time, but that was table top strategy, not the streets of cities, and the forests of the Northern Collectives.

He would have made the best bluff possible if they were playing cards, and Andraz would fall right into it….

[Erquin]

Unknown Location near Sylvan lines, Northern Collectives
2:34AM Local Time, 2nd EEA H&R (Hit and Run) Regiment

The night was chilly, as always, and only the warmth of the insides ( with his legs ) of the OC-134 did Eric feel the need to stay outside. His unit was steaming full speed through the forest, as nimble and quick attackers to destroy a particular NSR unit camping out in a thicket. St. Matthew was only a few miles away, and judging that was the fact that Eric could see the ever-burning flames from the bombarded city. As his tank sped through the forest and the thick snow, the trees were becoming a haze, then they got into an open field covered with snow and bushes. Then he could see a large battalion sized encampment next to a broken down train bridge. There was a Z-5788 diesel engine with a few wagons derailed off the track, as well as an abandoned AAA bunker near the tracks. Considering that the encampment surrounded the box cars and the noise of portable engines, the train was probably a food train and it recently got hit, only surviving on probably 48 hours of power from the possibly running intact engine. 2 miles out and the camp didn't notice the column, but Eric noticed something. The camp was arranged differently compared to regular infantry encampments, and they seemed to be arranged in a special style that was iconic of.... NSR Rangers.

He had been always so interested in Meridia's special forces, and one of the most interesting ones to him was the NSR Rangers. He knew the Rangers would have encampments and bases under their control set up in a special fashion, as a sign of dignity and recognition. It was all the tents facing an NSR flag pole, unlike the regular infantry style of just rows and columns. 1 mile in and soon, he saw the soldiers gathering around the center, apparently trying to make out what was coming over the hill. It was until one man, apparently with infrared binoculars, literally jumped and started yelling, scattering the entire camp while soldiers were desperately trying to get to their tents and get their weapons to make an defense. Almost immediately, 7-8 rockets started coming to the column, and 5 of them made their marks on 3 OC-134s, one right in front of Eric's eyes. The armoured vehicle exploded, and out came a turbine propeller jumping over to Erics OC-134. He dove back inside the tank, only for it to barely scrape the tanks turret. He popped right back out, to only see that the tanks treads were still intact, despite the flaming wreck that was the top, and it was crawling through the snow with only its remaining kinetic energy it had already had from when it was still breathing. Suddenly, his tanks gun flared with an almost purple muzzle flash, and a MUTT made its grave in the side of a tent.

R-12, the tank beside Eric's, fired an HE shell apparently, and it hit squarely on the flag pole of the NSR flag. The pole hit the ground with a satisfying plume of snow. Yet again, 6-7 missiles made their way to the column, and only then did none of them do any real damage. R-15 had a missile hit right beside it, and a flurry of some scraped off plates and tools flew off to make a metal rain. They then start drifting to a stop and then Eric takes up the IOL-18 MG and started peppering the tents. He was returned the favor with about 34 kilograms of lead coming with his head on their lists of deeds. He dove back into the safety of the roomy turret, and he activated the CROWS system for the IOL-18. He started pelting the tents with the MG, only seeing about 12 kills from his MG. But then, steps were heard on the surface of the tank, and he exited the tank turret only to be wrestled out by a Ranger. His elite status was clear by his apparel, and he was a first lieutenant. He was then wrestled down to the ground and he was lucky to have his knife with him to push off the Ranger with the knife itself. He recoiled back and Eric got back up, only to be charged again by the gruff looking Sylvan. He was cut in the face and his sharp looking service cap was knocked off, only to reveal headphones and wires from the head phones leading to the OX-145 tank radio. He charged the Sylvan and he made an effort to wrestle out his pistol, with little success. He did manage to stab him in the leg, and he snatched out his gun from the holster. He pointed it at the Sylvan, only to make him say in Erquinian "Whoa! Don't pull the trigger,dude!". It made Eric look at him funny, only to respond sternly "Promise to let me go on my way, and you go yours?". The Sylvan though about it, even scratching a well defined goatee of his, then saying "Yes". "Good man, now go get some of your Ranger buddies and make your way to freedom, and Im only doing this because I know a lot of you Rangers have lives too, now shoo!" said Eric, as he handed the Sylvan the handgun and ran off to his tank, to see the Ranger speed off. As he climbed in, he was greeted silently, and after those eventful 20 minutes, the column made its getaway, back towards HQ...

[Nova Sylva]

NSR First Recon Encampment
(What’s left of it, anyway…)

OOC: There’s hell to pay for that little raid…heh he.

The camp was in shambles. The midnight raid, had, once again, caught the NSR with it’s pants down. This was the second time an Erquinian force had slipped behind the Republic’s lines and attacked a position. Thirty Rangers had been killed and nearly a hundred wounded in the raid – not a large sum, but to the Rangers, a force only six-hundred strong, it hurt. More so, their reputation had been damaged considerably. But they were going to set the record straight.

“Tank tracks,” Major Knight said, pointing at the ground. He had assembled two companies of Rangers to lead in a counterattack, leaving two more to help with the reconstruction effort. “Whady’a bet they lead to the Erquinian HQ?”

“If so, it’s our lucky day,” the new battalion XO, Captain William Oliver, said. The Company’s CO, Colonel Carson, had been killed during the raid; Major Knight had assumed command, and so one of the company commanders had been promoted to battalion XO.

Oliver and Knight followed the tank’s treads. A light snow had fallen the morning before the raid, so the tracks were easy to see, and fresh. The Rangers assumed a double phalanx formation, behind Knight and Oliver, who walked through the forest. The distant but omnipresent sound of artillery occasionally broke the silence as the force of Rangers treaded their way through the snow, along with the more frequent roar of jet engines as Sif-21s and Sif-19s as they hit targets in and around the city.

They followed the treaded snow for five hours before reaching the outskirts of a large but abandoned mining complex. The sign was worn, clearly atleast fifty years old, and the paint had faded considerably – though Knight could make out that it was an old iron ore mine. A massive hole in the side of the mountain led deeper underground. It was clearly large enough to fit a main-battle tank, or two MUTTs side by side. Knight wondered why their were no guards outside – then realized that if the Commonwealth had deployed troops outside, the MilSats and UAVs would find them – by not having guards, the mountain looked abandoned, and empty. Genius.

“Okay,” Knight said to his men as they huddled around him. “We sprint for the entrance, and clear this place out. We have no idea what’s in their – they could have a full battalion defending the place. Stay in you fireteams, check your corners, and let’s kick some ass. Hoo-ah?”

“Hoo-ah!”

The Rangers sprinted for the mine’s entrance, and hugged the walls as they entered the mine. It had been reinforced – steel pylons held up the stone walls. The place had probably been fortified to resist bunker-buster munitions. The base was illuminated by massive fluorescent lights, probably high-pressure sodium, atleast that was his guess from the yellow hue they gave off. The first detour they came across was a massive blast door built into the side of the wall. Another one just like stood across the way, directly opposite eachother. “Oliver,” Knight said, “Take Able company and get to the motor pool, find those tanks.”

Oliver nodded and did as he was told; Knight took the rest of the men and swung open the blast door–

-When it was opened from the inside. The Erquinian male wore an officer’s uniform adorned with campaign ribbons and epitaphs, and behind him stood two men dressed in an identical fashion. The surprise was so sudden to both men that they stood their staring at one another for a full second before Knight snapped out of it and drew his handgun lightning fast, hovering it an inch from the Ercom officer’s forehead. His men, behind Knight, raised their silenced service rifles. The other Erquinians drew sidearms and were disposed of before they could bring them to bear. The first Commonwealth officer’s eyes widened. He said something in Erk that Knight couldn’t understand.

“You speak Anglo?” He asked, through the Mk XI Integrated Combat Helmet.

“No shoot, no shoot!” He put his hands up, in a surrender pose. So he did understand Anglo. Just had some trouble speaking it – which was strange, considering how easy of a language it was to master. It used an English alphabet, the only difference being it’s strong Italian/Spanish influence.

“Hablas Castiliano?” He asked, in Sylva’s other widely spoken language, Castilian. Castilian was the reverse of Anglo – a lot of Spanish/Italian with a small English influence. It was mainly spoken in southern Sylva, in the Carmi area. The two languages used many identical words, and were very alike, sort of like Spain’s Spanish and Mexico’s Spanish. Almost identical, but not quite. Furthermore, it wasn’t as widely spoken as Anglo – only about a fourth of the population could speak it.

“Si!” The Erquinian said, hands still in the air. “Hablo Castiliano. Y tu?”

Yes, I speak Castilian. And you?

“Si. Que es plase?” (‘plase’ pronounced pla-say)

What is this place?

“Armae forcasa. Poco. No importante.”

An army base. Small. Not important.

He smiled after saying this, as if trying to convince the Sylvan to leave. Knight wasn’t flattered. He pressed the gun up to the man’s forehead, hard enough to cause some pain.

“Oi! Oi!” The Erquinian said, before issuing a line of profanities at the Sylvan. “Stop with the gun already, goddamn!”

Knight frowned, not removing the weapon. “So you do speak Anglo, you socialist scum?”

“Of course. I’m a fucking intelligence officer, for christ’s sake!”

“You still haven’t answered my question, Ercom piece of shit.”

“Okay! Yes! This is not a small base. It’s Commonwealth Theatre Command!”

Knight blinked. Theatre command? That meant…the entire Erquinian general staff was here. In this mountain. Commanding all Erquinian forces in NorCol. He turned to a Ranger behind him. “Get on COMS,” he said. “Tell the NSR High Command. I want some air support here, ASAP!”

The Ranger nodded and sprinted for the exit, in order to contact some CAS. Radio reception down in the mine was poor, to say the least.

“How many men do you have here?”

“Uh, about a thousand. But their EEA. Elite, ya know? Kind of like you Rangers, minus the trench coats and helmets. Plus about another hundred staffers. We’ve also got a motor pool down the ways a bit with a battalion’s worth of armored vehicles.”

“Your very…forthcoming with information.”

He laughed. “Well, you do have the gun.”

Knight smiled, and brought it down from the man’s head. A perfect circle was in his forehead where the barrel had been. The Erquinian relaxed, rubbing his face. “Just do me a favor, and don’t blow my brains out, okay?”

“I’m still thinking about it,” Knight said. “Let’s go.” He pushed the man up, and the Rangers walked out of the mine, and back into the woods. Oliver’s unit followed shortly thereafter. They took cover a ways away from the mountain. The radioman came up to Knight. “We’ve got a B-22 Barringer on station,” he said. “ETA thirty seconds!”

“Hold on to your teeth, people!”

The bunker buster missile slammed into the mountain, shaking it with a violent explosion inside of the stone hill. The dissonance was defeaning, and the earth-shaking rumble absolutely terrifying. But as the dust cleared, the ponderous bunker seemed to remain intact, save that the entrance had crumbled, trapping it’s inhabitants inside.

“Fuck!” Knight said aloud. The radioman reported in to the Barringer bomber. “Angel 3-4, no good on hit…target still intact, over.”

“We need a nuke,” Knight cursed. “A nuclear bunker buster!”

“We stopped making EPWs back in the 90’s,” Oliver said. “I don’t think Sylva has any of those laying around.”

“No,” he said. “But I know someone who might.” Kinght picked up his cell phone, and dialed a number.

“Hey,” he said, into the phone. “Colonel Garret, Allied Nations Army? Been a long time, buddy! Hey, I’ve got a small favor to ask…”

St. Matthew, Northern Collectives

Artillery pounded what was left of the Northern Collectives capital building. It was a stone structure, that looked more like a castle than anything else, and was being used as one by it’s Erquinian defenders. The NSR had attacked the city from all sides save the rear, purposely leaving a line of retreat open for the Commonwealth troops trapped in the city. This was unusual, yes, but it was decided that they NSR would rather hunt down these disorganized units in open country than fight them, entrenched, in a city-turned fortress. As such, nearly half the Erquinian divisions stationed in the city had escaped, and then the NSR had closed the gap, pressing the city’s center. And after five days of bitter fighting, that had cost the NSR nearly half their casualties in the war so far, they were ready for the final, deciding assault.

“For God and Country!” Srgt. Caleb Ambrose screamed, and battle-cry that was taken up by his men as they charged the building. Tanks had blown a hole in the main wall, and now it was up to the infantry to cross the ruined city square into the structure, as Erquinian machine guns peppered them with fire.

The square was full of makeshift breastworks and foxholes the Erquinians had built to defend it as well as potholes and bombshells that the NSR had added in trying to dislodge them. Bullets flew by his head and hit soldiers directly behind him. It was their third time attacking the structure – in the fights Ambrose had gained a lot of respect for his Erquinian counterparts, who were fighting to the tooth and nail – though to no avail.

Ambrose tripped, and thought he’d been shot – but discovered it was merely a discarded ballistic helmet that had faltered his sprint. Nonetheless he was nearly trampled by his own men, before one of them helped the Sergent to his feet. He managed to get up, and saw where he would have been if he hadn’t tripped get blown up by a grenade. He thanked God as he sprinted the last fifty meters into the stronghold’s destroyed outer wall, screaming at the top of his lungs. He had an Erquinian SMG instead of his standard issue R91, because he thought it would be better suited for this kind of combat. He was right. He fired at the first ErCom soldier he saw, which was behind an overturned table using an emplaced machine gun. His bullets went wide, but someone behind him tossed a grenade and blew the table, gun, and Erquinian to kingdom come. The Sylvans pressed on, spilling into the fortress by the boatload.

The atrium was alive with Commonwealth troops, firing down on the exposed Sylvans. The NSR infantrymen attempted to return fire, with some success, but the high ground got the best of them – atleast two dozen lay dead or dying before they were pushed back, again, by a rush of Erquinians from an adjacent staircase.

But today, the NSR was not going to loose. An IFV made it’s way through the hole in the wall, firing it’s main cannon at anything that moved. Ambrose was astounded at the sight, but nonetheless joyous – the NSR pushed forwards again. The IFV’s heavy 35 mm cannon annihilated the atrium, and the main hall that they had broken in too; but within thirty seconds a well-placed rocket from a thoughtful Erquinian disabled the vehicle’s treads. It’s cannon was still operable, however, and it continued firing as the NSR infantry spilled into side rooms, looking for blood. Meanwhile, the structure’s main gate broke, and a fresh wave of Sylvans rushed in from another direction.

Ambrose charged up a spiral staircase and ran headlong into an Erquinian coming down, who he bombarded with bullets, emptying the gun before it jammed. “Erquinian piece of shit!” he yelled, and switched to his machete and continued his way up, wishing he had a weapon of reliable Mozrian or Sylvan build.

Kicking in a wooden door, and tossing in a grenade, he killed another five; and by now his men were following him up. One of them held a massive Sylvan flag, and he took the lead as the group continued upwards. The roof wasn’t really a roof – the actual roof had been destroyed in the preliminary artillery bombardments – but it was the highest point of the structure that remained intact. Atop it sat half a dozen Erquinians, as far as Ambrose was concerned the last defenders of St. Matthew. At the edge of the building, attached to a broken water pipe, flew the Commonwealth emblem, peppered with bullet holes and slightly burned on one edge, but still flying in defiance of the inevetable Sylvan victory. The flag-bearer and Ambrose, as well as two other men, charged at the Erquinians. Steel hit steel as his machete hit the Erquinian’s ceremonial sword. His opposite was an officer, and one of high rank – his uniform, though tattered and dirty, gave proof to that. Ambrose made a side swipe with his machete and implanted his machete in the man’s torso, before pushing him off the edge of the building into the square below. The Erquinian screamed as he fell, hitting the ground with a thud. Ambrose drew his sidearm and turned, facing another target. Helping out one of his men, he fired - but a second to late. A bullet had blown his compatriot’s brains out. The rest of the Erquinians on the roof were easy pickings, however, and were dispatched within a few seconds.

The flag-bearer held the Sylvan flag high as he walked towards the edge. But before he could make it, an Erquinian solider who they thought dead, holding an automatic pistol, fired, killing the flag bearer in a last act of defiance. Ambrose lunged to pick up the flag before it hit the ground and was peppered with bullets as well. He fired his pistol with his off hand and killed the man, and dropped his sidearm. He looked down at his torso and saw blood leaking from his thigh and multiple wounds in his chest. His vision narrowed as he limped to the edge, and tore down the Erquinian standard. He drove the spiked Sylvan flagpole into the ground, and fell to his knees. Seconds later a massive cheer was taken up by the whole of the Sylvan Army.

The cheer disintegrated into shouts of joy, victory, and triumph, as word of the official recognition that Sylva had taken St. Matthew reached the men at arms scattered around the square. Slowly, but surely, a song was taken up, it’s chorus vocalized by the bulk of the Army. The Sylvan National Anthem, which in his mind fit the occasion perfectly. As Srgt. Caleb Ambrose bled out on the stone, he looked at the Sylvan standard, now flying proudly over Northern Collective’s capital, and thought of home.

At Spreck and Jacinto town,
Our brave fathers, side by side,
For freedom, homes and loved ones dear,
Firmly stood and nobly died;
And those dear rights maintained,
We swear to yield them never!
Our watchword evermore shall be
The Flaming Torch forever!

There'll always be a Sylva,
And Sylva shall be free
If Sylva means as much to you
As Sylva means to me.

There'll always be a Sylva
While there's a settlement hall,
Wherever there's a wide plantation,
Beside a mountain tall.
There'll always be a Sylva
While there's a busy street,
Wherever there's an olive tree,
There’s a Flaming Torch of Liberty!

There'll always be a Sylva,
And Sylva shall be free
If Sylva means as much to you
As Sylva means to me.

On merry Carmi's far famed land
May kind heaven sweetly smile,
God bless old Sylva evermore
and the Republic, every mile!
And swell the song both loud and long
Till rocks and forest quiver!
God save our Queen and Heaven bless
The Flaming Torch forever!

[Northern Collectives]

St. Matthew

The Sylvans had no idea what was coming from their backs, had no idea the menace that sat, waiting in the shadows. That shadow was about to disappear, and the NSR soldiers would be made aware of the warlike nature of the people they were attempting to ‘liberate.’

The citizens armed with whatever they could find, and had taken control of three factories, one of them a factory for armored vehicles. Some of them armed with weapons from the factories, others with simple hunting rifles. They launched an attack; like a storm was being unleashed in a torrent of blood, and the uncontrollable tide would never break.

Captain Trevino would be the first of many, the first to die in a war against the zealous and fanatic people of the Northern Collectives. Their war-like nature kept order to a minimum if control was attempted, it had always been best to let the people sort out their own problems, and this was their way of showing their rage at being controlled, and people interfering with their matters. They were out for blood, the blood of Erquins and Sylvans.

Nothing else would please their blood lust, nothing else would sate the hunger of their rage, and nothing would please their fury. Even Khaine would have given the fury of their attack his respect. Their attack came at the very moment the Sylvans though victory was theirs, the very moment it would cause the most damage to their morale; having victory ripped from their hands, being able to taste their triumph, just before the meal of victory was taken from them.

The amount of death that was coming to the already ruined city was making it more and more like a castle ruin you would expect to find in the Middle East.

Luckily for Andraz Rhodaan, his love Diana Shardex, had made it to the outskirts of the city with her guards of Nerovar and Gemorie, to leave the city, and just as predicted he headed north, towards Ainle.

Ainle, Far North of the Collectives

The entire town was made from rock and stone, so of the houses bearing scars from battles of old, before the Occupation. The city was calm, and miraculously only had a few centimeters of snow. The town was rather large, and was only not called a city due to the fact that it almost completely lacked sky scrapers.

The town had been a peaceful place, considered by many to be prosperous for that reason, but it was almost always caught in the middle of wars, and many stories told of odd creatures that lived in the area surrounding the town, and with common fog in the area, and people randomly disappearing on hunting trips, they were believed to be true, in addition to reported screeching noises, but those stories are for a later time.

Khaine was taking position on top of a tall, stone wall, which was little more than a good observation post, and defendable location now, but with tanks on the battle field, it was more for show than anything else. He had replaced his heavy caliber pistol for a SCAR – H, looted from the body of a liberation rebel(Those of Rhodaan’s movement), and had his axe hanging from his waste, and his bone mask looking out, although his eyes did little to pierce the dense fog that was almost always in the area. He could see the lights down the wall, and in the city, and those of approaching red jeeps, which he only knew ere red due to the radio, he had built into his helmet. He knew they were allies, and he knew among them would be Alexandra Demorta. He was working on getting night vision on his helmet, but it would be a long time before he was able to do that.

He made sure his weapon was loaded and knelt at his position, and over the radio he heard reports of black cars, and white vans coming up the road about fifteen minutes behind his reinforcements. “Battle positions. Everyone to your battle stations. No time for goofing around right now, there is now time for being silly in war unless you are in need of a moral boost. This is Khaine, the Rage of the Northern Collectives, get to your positions before I throw you into the damned forest.”

He didn’t listen to the responses. He knew the threat of throwing them into the accursed forests outside the city of Ainle was threat enough, especially since four people had gone missing, their cell phones randomly stopping receiving, so he knew no one wanted to go near that place. He was annoyed enough with the fact that his soldiers were already nervous from legends, and this on top of it, did not help.

He knew his soldiers would follow him to hell and back, but when he had to worry about them being distracted from fighting because of damn myths, he was not eager to start a battle, but such was war. As the person orchestrating a battle you could not decide when a battle would start, only how it would happen. A plan was only as good until it reached battle, it was normal war knowledge.

“Sir, enemies within firing range of heavy weapons.” A woman’s voice came over the radio.
“Hold your fire. Let them think they will be able to enter the city, then send them to the heavens not knowing what happened.” The gates to the city slowly opened to allow their allies to enter, closing them shortly after. He hoped that the Erquins had gotten his message.
“Understood, sir.” The voice came back, more staticy than before.

The first of the headlights of the enemies came into view, just as the clunk of the gates closed echoed through the streets of the town, the people having headed to their basements after seeing Kharn’s deathmask soldiers enter the city, knowing that Khaine’s men would not come unless a chance to regain their honor was at hand. That honor was regained in battle.

“Fire at will.” He ordered, right when he could see the colors of the jeep that was first in line. Bullets ripped into the narrow street entering the city which forced a single file column. “Only in death does my battle end!” He heard one of his men shout, and he knew that the men he personally trained were charging the front of the column as they tried to maneuver out of the deadly cross fire they were encased in. Only the rear automobiles were able to get out of the trap.

Khaine had his weapon set to semi-automatic as he fired precise bullets into the fog, as the fires of cars and jeeps began to illuminate the fog that had spread throughout the area. The liberation rebels were in full retreat, heading for what cover they could. His men and women went among the wounded, and those who had no chance of living were given peace, and those who were wounded but could be taken care of were brought to the medical clinics and hospitals inside of Ainle.

Khaine looked among the dead, in vain, searching the body of Andraz. He had been at the rear of the column, probably kissing his damn sweet heart, he thought to himself. That would teach him not to do the obvious, and teach Rhodaan to be cautious.

Khaine dealt the cards a second time. He liked his hand. His next move would be to secure the factories of St. John, and then he would deal the killing blow to Andraz if he could, kill the head and the body dies. Kill Rhodaan, and the rebellion fades. Kill Andraz, and the threat of imperialist rule was gone. He had dealt damage to only Andraz’s retinue, and he knew he would have to deal with St. Matthew before the end. Andraz still had plenty of soldiers, but training and discipline were more valuable than numbers. You did not need numbers when you had superior equipment. You did not need numbers when your soldiers could outfight three of the enemy at once.

He heard one of the damn screeching noises and shook his head. The legends are not true, and even if they were they are no threat to me, he said to himself, and moved on. He thought nothing of it, and neither did anyone else, the people in the city had become used to it, an dthey would leave without problems.

No fake myths would scare me away, they all thought to themselves.


(No these will not become part of the story line, just something to have if we ever do a peaceful RP. Rather you know about part of the NorthCol myth if I ever mention it.)

[Erquin]

AAA Position, Northern Collectives mountains
12:23 AM ( As in noon! ), 4rth SPAAG Battalion

The 4 missiles on the tank gleamed in their red and white glory, the hatches were open and were hubs of activity, and our positions dog was sitting next to me, a German Shepherd wagging her tale around. I, myself, call her "Snoopy", while the others call her "Hot Potato", an unofficial name for her. Regardless, she responds to that hellish nickname. I was supposed to walk her through the mountains this morning so she can do her business, while not in the AAA pit. Its been only 2 weeks since we have set up with our GHAA-67 MLRS AA System and GHAA-66 Low-Altitude Multiple gun system, and we haven't seen the shine or grey of an Sif-19 or 21. Usually, back when we held out near St. Matthew, we would shoot down atleast 3 of them everyday, but since we retreated and are forming up, we cant let any aircraft get past and apparently, they are not interested in the arctics over here. I start walking Snoopy over to the mountain's woods, where I can see a mixture of tree breeds and even a moose. We then pass through a clearing, where I take off Snoopy's leash so she can go around freely in the clearing while I look over its cliff.

The view was astounding, beautiful, and a great place for a house you could say. A town down there had its houses topped with a beautiful red tile, and the body of the houses were painted a homely tone of tan and white. The fields surrounding the humble village were merely servicing corn and wheat, even a bit of lettuce. While Snoopy took a dump, I was still looking all over the mountain, and as soon as Snoopy comes up to me, a sudden roar of a jet engine pierced the air, and its noise was that of an Sif-19's engine. I quickly put the leash of Snoopy and we ran through the woods as fast as we can, all the while a thick sound of 4 20mm's were shooting into the air in an attempt to at least hit the aircraft while the rocket system prepped up. Then, the rip of a single 20mm auto cannon echoed through the woods and we ducked, only for our previous position to be torn up and a rotten log explode into pieces. I start running with Snoopy right behind me, and we came into the position clearing, where I piled Snoopy into our TYU-145 jeep tucked under a large tree. I sprang into action as the gunner of the GHAA-67 and I immediately looked at the screen of my targets. Two Sif-19s were going around and they were hunting for AA Positions, probably paving the way for something bigger and more important. I started rolling a little roller on the side of the screen, and the screen had an empty box with a yellow outline go up, all until I stopped at a target. It started tracking the target, and outside, the radar installation started working. A small electronic text box revealed words, Jukilbo . That meant the radar had found the target, and we had locked on!

The thing started beeping, until a third blip on the screen was seen. It was a Sif-21, armed with bombs and ground missiles apparently! He disregarded it, and he ordered the launch of the missile. The missile started off with a whistle of gas going out its constrictive pipe in the rocket engine, and soon, the rocket went off with a roar of a hunter, and it quickly found its target extremely close to the Sif-21. The missile explodes, and the two are caught in the large blast. The fuselage of the Sif-19 comes barreling down, almost completely stripped of its grey skin, while the Sif-21 survives only to die very soon. It had one wing lost and it was barreling down in a ball of flame, and oh! How satisfying to see that fireball going down into the fields below. The remaining aircraft was apparently very cocky though, that is to us. We thought he was going to be foolish and try taking us all out with his 20'. But he did something an honorable man would do. Admit defeat, and honor the victor, which was what many Erquinians would do if they were very close to the old way in some ways. He came at us straight on, and then showed his aircraft underside to us, probably a sign of that. Whatever it was, we had saved ourselves, and we were proud of it. I jump out of the vehicle over to where Snoopy is, and her tail wags all over the place, welcoming my entrance to her little domain.

[Nova Sylva]

Chandler, New Sylvan Republic

“Hap-py birth-day to you,” the entire Acropolis staff sung in unanimous (but certainley not immaculate) chorus. “Hap-py birth-day dear Car-pen-ter, hap-py birth-day to you!”

“And many more!” someone yelled, and the room burst into laughter. It was an odd scene indeed – generals and marshals and admirals in full uniform except for the party hats on their heads. The War Room, for it’s part, had traded it’s usual seriousness for a party appeal, with streamers and such flung out for General John Carpenter’s fiftieth birthday.

John, for his part, stood not with his usual dispassionate expression, but instead a wide flung smile and blushing cheeks as he cut into the chocolate cake laid out for his birthday. There were multiple cakes (so that everyone in the room could enjoy a piece) but only one with the words GEN. CARPENTER – 50 YEARS CELEBRATION.
But aside from the cake there was also plenty of booze being spilled forth, and plenty of young secretaries and lonely logistics officers willing to drink it.

It was strange, yes, especially during wartime – but there was really no war to be fought any longer. The Erquinian army was in shambles, it’s theatre command literally destroyed, it’s air force obliterated, and it’s people in uprising. Meanwhile Sylvans watched on their televisions an NSR flag flying over St. Matthew, short panoramas of prison camps where tens of thousands of Erquinian soldiers sat disarmed and disheartened. This was mixed in with domestic images of massive nationwide celebrations in most major cities. The war, it seemed, for all intents and purposes was over, Sylva victorious.

And the Republic had achieved what she wanted from the conflict – adding the southern third of the Northern Collectives to Sylva. Of course, it would be established as an independent government, but in reality would be nothing more than a Sylvan puppet republic, with Sylvan troops serving as it’s military and a Sylvan constitution and, eventually, a Sylvan culture and language.

The truth was, Sylva could finish the war, and no doubt win it – but from this point on any more warfare against the Commonwealth would be superfluous. The NSR had made it’s point. From a diplomatic standpoint it had humbled the Erquinians considerably, achieving revenge for the Second Sylvan War, and absorbed nearly a hundred million new citizens into the Republic. Furthermore, strategically it had gained access to the lucrative harbor of Freeport, captured the Northern Collectives’ industrial heartland, as well as the virtually untouched crude and shale oil reserves, not to mention the precious aluminum, gold, and uranium mines hidden in the hills. So President Delacroix had sent a telegram to the Erquinian government hours before, inviting them to a peace conference to be held in Regis in a few days.

OFFICIAL COMMUNIQUÉ OF THE NEW SYLVAN REPUBLIC
FROM THE OFFICE OF MICHAEL DELACROIX

TO: WHOM IT MAY CONCERN, COMMONWEALTH OF ERQUIN

The New Sylvan Republic Government wishes to invite whoever it may concern to a peace conference in Regis, capital of the Combined Sovereign States of Mozria. All NSR troop movements have been suspended save for internal security purposes; this is an act of goodwill we hope the Erquinian Commonwealth will appreciate and replicate this. The conference will be held on November 1st, 2014. This is gesture of civility will not be given twice. Should the Erquinian government make any offensive military deployments or operations, the offer will be revoked, and the NSR Army will continue pushing northern relentlessly, until every mile between the Capernian River and the Sidius Ocean is liberated and bearing the Sylvan standard.

The Republic’s terms are gracious and simple:

1. The Commonwealth must be dismantled. Erquin is required to abandon all her foreign claims and overseas colonies within five years of the Treaty of Regis’ ratification. This includes it’s occupation of the Northern Collectives.

2. Erquin agrees to cede the entire Chagan Highlands expanse, including Apple Ridge, and withdraw all claims to any territory held or coveted by the New Sylvan Republic.

3. The NSR promises to lift the Sovintern embargo on Erquin.


God Save the Republic,
President M. Delacroix

But at the same time it had not all been gains. Sylva had a new continental border with the Combined Sovereign States of Mozria. This opened new trade opportunities, yes, but with the border currently undefined between the two nations a conflict was in the making (Hint hint). Furthermore, the NSR had started a violent revolution in the Northern Collectives, where two groups of rebels were at each other’s throats over what remained of the country, which threatened to spill over into Sylva itself. Many of the nearly hundred million people now living in NSR-occupied Norcol were not exactly happy to be Sylvans, and while the war had cost the NSR almost fifty thousand lives, it had even more so added a trillion dollars to the national debt, which was at six trillion already due to the costs of the Second Sylvan War. And finally, it had awoken a sleeping giant in the Allied Nations, which was prepared to launch a genocidal war against the Commonwealth, regardless of Sylva’s stance in the matter (another hint, guys).

Well, guys, thanks for another great thread. I congratulate all of you, especially Northern Collectives. This I believe is your first real roleplay, and you did a stellar job. Also, Erquin, Sylva no longer hates your guts. Maybe sometime we fight on the same side, eh?

[b]@Meridia This war has drastically changed the map – Erquin no longer has a border with the Northern Collectives, I now have a border with Mozria, and Sylva’s annexed about a third of Norcol.

@Mozria I know I said we would have that border skirmish – I still think we should, but we’ll do it in another thread. I think I’ll give you another chance and let you do the OP. After, of course, we discuss just what it will be about…

@Meinkraft We still haven’t resolved this whole 9/11 thing against Maracaibo. I think you and Erquin should have a civilized discussion in the form of all out war. Once again, discussion pending. Although that would be AN v. Erquin – Sylva wouldn’t get involved.

@Northern Collectives We still need to finish your revolution. If you start a thread about it, I’d be happy to join in.

@ Any other nation reading this If you liked this roleplay, and maybe want to join one like it, give Meridia a try. If you like your current region that’s fine – just shoot me (or us) a telegram, and we’ll make it work.