Gathering Clouds (Omnibellum, GD, Closed)

[United Gordonopia]

Breath. Breath. Close. So close. Final push. Push. Kick. Kick it in. Lean. Lean. LEAN!

Marc knew the race was his as the tape slapped his chest. He took several long strides into the finisher's shoot, momentum carrying him for some time. He finally came to a stop only to find a powerful arm wrap itself around his shoulder.

"Looks like your Army ass is good for somethin', Lieutenant."

Marc turned into the grinning face of man he had just clipped at the line. The word 'NAVY' emblazoned onto the front of the runner's loose singlet gave him all the greater satisfaction.

"You better believe it. We don' hump our way around this damn island for nothing. You think I'm going to let you row over here take it without a fight? Wouldn' be doin' my job!"

The other man laughed. In truth, it had been a hell of a race. Marc's kick at the end had won the day, but until that finishing tape broke it was anyone's day. That point was only underscored as other finishers continued to stream in. Marc had claimed the individual title, yes, but by no means was the day won.

The race wrapping had turned out to be, in all honesty, a perfect way to blow off steam. In the past six months, several hundred thousand men had arrived at the small rocks between lining the straight between Theohaunacu, Holy Panooly, and Adaptus Astratus. This archipelago, the Thacu Islands, represented the northernmost projection of Gordonopian power within Greater Dienstad. Long a bold middle finger to The Golden Throne, the most recent deployment was in preparation for the retaliation that had been an ever-present possibility for years.

Two new carrier groups and a sizable number of fresh subs now prowled the sea around the three islands to maintain the port in the storm for Gordonopian merchant ships seeking the quickest route to Lyras and elsewhere to the North. The joined the powerful fleets already there. On the islands themselves, several Air Force squadrons had filled the hangers to capacity while the arrival of the LV Corps complimented the already significant ground forces, composed of the 4th Marine Army and X Corps.

No declarations of was had been signed, nor had either side fired a shot, but at the moment the Thacu Islands sat precariously in the middle of perhaps the hottest region of Greater Dienstad. Off their eastern coast, UWO was slowly occupying Holy Panooly. To the north, war still raged between Stevid and the Golden Throne. To the west lay the massive Dienstadi holding of Theohaunacu. With fighting all around, it was not at all inconceivable that Gordonopia could be dragged in.

Today, though, was a day to put those dark clouds out of mind. For a brief moment, at least. For all the international acclaim Gordonopia had won for football, running was truly the nation's spirit. In a stroke of genius, one of the staff officers for the naval detachment on northernost Thenau had proposed an inter-service race. An open 10k, run through some of the muddy, rolling hills that made up the island's center would proceed a good-spirited competition. Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine, meanwhile, would select seven from amongst their ranks to throw into the now chewed up course. Just about every man and women not on duty had shown up to at least watch, while some, like Marc, had been given leave from his shift that day by virtue of his speed.

With a very respectable time of 29:40, Marc had in fact led the entire 28 man affair, besting his Navy rival by a mere lean. A minute later and the entire pack, save one Air Force straggler, was in. The official results would take some time to calculate, but even the most casual observer could tell it had been an Army-Navy affair from the start. To Marc, watching the other runners cross the line, it seemed that his fellow Landies had carried the day, though he was always hesitant to say without a written count.

As he anticipated the final results, another finisher came over to where he was eagerly downing water.

"Yo LT, damn fine finish!" The man, tall and dripping in sweat, yelled. "I could see you from a hundred mete's back nab that Fish!"

"Damn near held his lead too, Woltz. Though, if I may ask, where were you today?"

His friend gave out a sly chuckle. Frank Woltz, Marc's Platoon Sergeant, had once been a member of the '1st Foot Cavalry Batallion', the Army's sole competitive running team. Steeped in history, though now mostly eclipsed by civilian clubs, it drew many of the fastest men throughout the branch. Today the 40 year old had finished fourth, even breaking 30 minutes.

"Today? Aww, LT, you know I was bringin' it. You want faster, turn back the clock five years and toss on 80 more klicks a week. The 60 they got us running 'aint shit."

"Well, at least I know I'll be faster than you when they finally attack. Not that runnin'll do much good, being on a damn island and all."

At that Woltz gave out a deep-bellied laugh. "You presumin' they goin' to attack again, sir? Yeah, runnin' 'aint goin' help much. At least I can swim, not like you forest boy."

"Presuming, and praying that day won't come."

Marc's grim smile did little to mask the deep anxiety. Just about everyone on the island had it somewhere inside of them; those who said they didn't were probably lying. The throne had to believe something would happen for them to pour so many men into three small pieces of earth; the sheer cost of would have deterred mere fancy. To many, it seemed it would take something, outside force or higher power, to keep the powder keg from blowing sky high.

[Mokastana]

Fort Mokan
Outside Silvertol,
Wellovia, PUF

The soft mountain air rolled down the valley towards the military base, keeping the lower lands cool as it always did. The humidity was high in this land of rivers, but the lower temperatures kept it as dew and allowed the livestock to have plenty of feeding ground. Beyond the plains at the base of the mountains rolling fields of wheat and grains grew. It was Wellovia.

Wellovia had always been a prosperous nation, and by joining the Federation all those years ago it had only grown. The military might of the Mokans gave then protection, and in exchange, the precious metals mined from the mountain ranges had markets to export to. Elsewhere in the country numerous port cities carried the refined ore to the tropical north, bringing back exotic goods to be sold in stores across Wellovia.

Other ships would merely stop in port on one of the many trade routes between Nova and Greater Dienstad. Any ship with a destination father east than Lamoni would probably pass through these ports. Given the low costs associated, and the cheap price of Mokan oil from the North, Wellovia had plenty to spare for these long distance travelers.

It was in this uneventful but rich land that Sergeant Major Acatl Topec was stationed. Like most of the surviving indigenous peoples of Mokastana, his people were the warriors the Modern Mokan Army based their warrior societies on. And much like the Genchi of Morrdh, they had, over time, become part of the new nation ruling over their lands. Still independent culturally, but able to support their foreign leaders as required.

Acatl looked over the fresh batch of young Wellovian conscripts. Graduates sent for their two years service before moving on with life(Not including their two years in the primary reserves). Blonde and red hair was far more prevalent here than the dark shades in his homeland. Their skin was easily more pale than his dark red. Even their faces, young and determined, but untested, were so vastly different than the deep ridges and scars a lifetime of war had left on his own.

High Command had done well assigning him here, for conscription was often times a citizen's first taste of just how multicultural the Federation truly was. And it was Acatl's job to break that down and create a uniform fighting unit that could overcome all cultural differences. Knowing the hard path in front of these pale youths, Acatl smiled for the first time to them. They would soon learn to fear that smile.