Honest Hearts | ATTN: Meridia

by **Nova Sylva** » Fri Dec 05, 2014 11:18 am

PRESIDENT DELACROIX ORDERS GENERAL MOBILIZATION OF NSR ARMY
An editorial by “The Watchdog”, Acropolis Journal, 12/3/2014

CLOYSTER PROVINCE, NEW SYLVAN REPUBLIC – President Delacroix has ordered the NSR First Maneuver Group to reinforce the Sylvan’s positions along the Aemenian border. Despite the warning of Meridian Pact officials, the situation along the border is further escalating. This is undoubtedly a bellicose move, however the President insists a first strike against Aemen “is not the objective.” However in the same public statement, the State Department said “We are considering all options, including offensive deployments.”

The move comes after officials from Murovanka and Aemen signed the Meridian Pact in Erus, two weeks ago. King Reginald II made a rare public appearance with the Volksrepublic’s Aussenminister, Heinrich von Preisen, to condemn the action. The Volksrepublic, also known as Murovanka, has been silent in foreign affairs for some time now, but made a dramatic entrance back onto the world stage by voicing their support for Aemen. The two nations once again voiced their commitment to the mutual defense, and explicitly called on President Delacroix to “demobilize immediately, or risk war with the Meridian Pact.”

King Reginald II stated in a speech that the object of the pact was to defend both nations from “the evils of the north,” which obviously referred to the New Sylvan Republic, and what Reginald called “Tyranny masked by a façade of liberty.” The King’s Foreign Minister has declined for comment, however the NSR’s ambassador to Aemen, George Carson, had this to say: “The signing of the Meridian Pact will have consequences for every nation in the region. By dividing the continent into bloc states, they [The Aemenians] have set the stage for another war. Our deployments are not bellicose in nature. They are defensive precautions to ensure the safety of our people and the territorial integrity of Sylva, and every other nation in the Sovereign International.”

However, there is much debate over the true meaning of deploying the First Maneuver, which is historically Sylva’s offensive army group. It led the push into the Coalition State after the Battle of Capistrano in the Second Sylvan War, as well as the invasion of the Northern Collectives during the October War. Senator Joseph Alcudia, on tour for his presidential bid, had this to say:

“The NSR is threatened, but only because of our own domestic politicians. Only because of the actions of our incumbent, Michael Delacroix. Him and the Nationalists, and their bellicose policy towards Erquin and the Northern Collectives, have directly influenced this.” The developing situation presents a new dynamic to the brewing presidential race in Sylva as Delacroix’s term comes to an end. His party, the Nationalists, have endorsed Delacroix’s secretary of state Elizabeth Quinn to take his place. The Social Democrats have selected Senator Joseph Alcudia, while the Federalists have selected the ex-general Daniel Morales as their candidate.

President Delacroix could not be reached for comment, but in an official statement from the State Department, the NSR “Was looking at all avenues, and all consequences,” that the Pact might have. “While the Republic seeks to spread it’s philosophy of liberty and freedom, and will consider all options for doing so, the signing of MERPAC clearly illustrates the Volksrepublic and the Kingdom’s belligerency and towards Sylva as a whole. The deployment of the First Maneuver group is a necessary step to ensure Sylva’s territorial integrity in the face of MERPAC’s aggressive action.”

The common consensus is that war is inevitable between the two blocs. Some say the uneasy peace will last less than a week, while others give it a month. But along the conflict areas, millions of civilians are attempting to flee border regions for safety deeper in their respective countries. The NSR has forcefully evacuated some hundred thousand in the Cloyster province, while entire boatloads of refugees from Esalonia are en route to Mozrian and Erquinian ports.

Meanwhile, in Erus, capital of Aemen, talks about admitting both Wrystrum and [-] into MERPAC are ongoing, as well as discussion about a joint world strategy about repulsing Sovintern forces across the region. At the same time, the Mozrian, Sylvan, and Erquinian general staffs, national executives, and their political entourages are meeting in Chandler for a similar forum. The main topic of the Sovintern conference will be the admission of Esalonia into the alliance in the face of a possible AN invasion of that nation. While the AN has publicly stated it’s desire to expand it’s influence across the entire Southern Meridian continent, it has not commented on it’s course of action if Esalonia is admitted to the Sovintern, which would result in the entire coalition declaring war.

The Sovintern upgraded it’s defense condition to 3 on Saturday, and authorized the deployment of military forces across the region. In addition to the mobilization of the First Maneuver Group, Mozria has begun shuffling multiple army corps to deploy alongside their Sylvan allies, in addition to a naval battlegroup sailing to regroup with the NSR’s Strachan and Crimson Sea Fleets. Furthermore, the Mozrians have levied National Guard forces for what many see as a possible invasion of the Northern Collectives. In addition, Erquinian divisions are moving south towards Sylva’s southern province of South Carmi. According to an independent strategic analyst at the Festung Akadamie military college, “the stage is set…the pieces are on the board, now the only question is who will move first.”

The Acropolis
Chandler, New Sylvan Republic
1300 Hours Chandler Mean Time (UCT+0)

Mozrian President Howard Jaxon and his four generals were treated as guests of honor as soon as their plane touched down at Chandler Air Force Base. They had been immediately taxied to the Acropolis, the hilltop citadel that served as the center of Sylva’s government. Usually, their would be time for tours of the beautiful city, with it’s hundreds of canals and parks and monuments, but their was an aura of purpose among the generals and their commander-and-chief. They were not tourists, after all – they were the commanding officers of the Mozrian Expeditionary Force – Sylva, or MEFS. Sixteen mechanized divisions with air, artillery, and logistical assets, deployed or in the process of being deployed along the border with Aemen alongside NSR troops in the First Maneuver Group. Their mission was the liberation of Aemen, or as it was known by the general staff, Operation : Honest Hearts.

After entering the Acropolis, the President and his entourage were moved down into a briefing room with a nice view of the city and harbor below through tinted and bulletproof windows. It was rather aesthetically pleasing, with bookcases lining one wall, filled with varying volumes about Sylvan history dating back to Caliphus Westgate and his original campaigns against Sidonia back in 346 A.D. On another wall, facing one head of the rectangular mahogany table, was a oil portrait of an 18th century naval warship, it’s decks bristling with cannon and it’s sails with full wind. On the opposite wall from the painting hung a LED TV, displaying a screensaver with the Sylvan flag, bouncing off the corners of the screen. In the center of the table sat six empty glasses and a pitcher of ice water, which was left untouched by the visitors. The Mozrians sat and reclined in the comfortable rolling chairs as they waited for their Sylvan counterparts to arrive. Already sitting were three men whispering in hushed voices that looked up when the Mozrians walked in, escorted by a secretary that showed them in. “President Delacroix and the NSR General Staff will be with you shortly,” she said, before closing the door, leaving the two parties to introduce themselves to one another.

Of the three men already present, one wore a plain western style suit. The other two wore spotless dark blue uniforms, with numerous medals and such pinned to their chests. On the table sat an officer’s cap with four stars affixed just above the brim. So he was a lieutenant general, if the insignia was to be understood.

“You must be the Erquinian delegation,” Jaxon said, extending his hand. The man accepted. In a language Jaxon could not comprehend, he spoke to the man on his left, who’s uniform bore a silver maple leaf - a major. The major, evidently a translator, spoke for him. “Hilary Franco is pleased to meet you. He is the President of the Republic of Erquin.”

Jaxon straightened his blazer and took a seat across the table, flanked by his two generals. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person. I hope this meeting will lead to a closer cooperation between all of us.”

The translator spoke these words to Hilary, who bowed his head with a small smile. He didn’t have time to respond, as the door they had came in opened once more. “Gentlemen,” the secretary that had escorted them in said, “President Delacroix of the New Sylvan Republic.”

The five men in the room stood, as was the custom in most Western nations. Delacroix was close to forty-five, and looked his age rather well. His face was wrinkled, and his hair salt-and-pepper, but the former was hard to notice and the latter neatly combed. He wore a silver silk suit that matched his hair, with a fedora in one hand and a large coat in the other. He hung up his coat and set his fedora on the table as his entourage entered behind him. Two officers, all in the distinct khaki from which Sylva’s soldiers were most closely identified, sat next to Delacroix, who was at the head of the table, the oil painting behind him.

Once everyone was seated, introductions were made. Delacroix introduced his two generals as General John Carpenter, chief of staff, and Lt. General Freeman, official commander of Sylva’s Western Army Forces. The Mozrians returned in kind, as did the Erquinians, through their translator.

“Now,” Delacroix said. “To business.” He retrieved a small remote from the center of the table, next to the water. He clicked a button, cursed, and pressed another one. The screen on the far wall, previously displaying the NSR standard, changed to present a drone’s feed. The timestamp marked that the footage was taken less than three hours earlier.

“The Allied Nations is moving troops into the Esalonian demilitarized zone,” General Carpenter said. “We have identified the Allied Tenth Mountain Division at it’s head, with supporting battalions from the Fifth Armored Division and Sixty-Ninth Infantry Regiment. This is happening as the Allied Nations Western Corps amasses sixty kilometers north, as well as the First Air Fleet. That puts two hundred fifty thousand Allied soldiers prone to invade Esalonia any day.”

Delacroix handed the remote to Carpenter, who continued his presentation by switching the slide. “The Esalonians, and the NSR’s standing force in Esalonia, have mobolized in response. But we are terribely outnumbered and outgunned. The Esalonians are using surplus technology, and our forces in Esalonia tend to be more of a military police variant than a fighting unit. Nonetheless, the Fifty Fifth Infantry Division is taking up positions along the border, alongside three Esalonian divisions. The Fifty Fifth is a subpar unit, by regular NSR Army standards. They are not exactly mechanized, and have the highest desertion rate among any NSR unit, ever. Nonetheless, the Fifty Fifth is also one of the largest divisions we have. Ussualy NSR divisions are between ten and fifteen thousand strong – the Fifty Fifth has nearly twenty thousand. Not sure what logistics went wrong to cause this, but we’re grateful for it now. Their best efforts notwithstanding, however, that still is almost ninety thousand soldiers…up against a quarter of a million.”

“So what do you propose?” Hilary said, through his translator.

“Well, first we will need to bring Esalonia officially into the Sovintern. Meanwhile, I am proposing deploying an Erquinian-led coalition force into Esalonia. Erquin already has five divisions sitting in South Carmi, deployed when this whole MERPAC thing started. So I suggest we move them to Camp McCarren, and, from there, we can airlift them to Esalonia.”

Hilary’s eyes widened as he heard this from his translator. He spoke rapid Erquinian in response.

“How do you expect to airlift five divisions?!”

Carpenter smiled. “Mr. President,” he asked. “Have you ever heard of the Civil Air Reserve Fleet?”

Camp McCarren
South Carmi Province, New Sylvan Republic
1800 Hours Chandler Mean Time (UCT+0)

All major airlines that operate in Sylva contractually pledge aircraft to the various segments of Civil Reserve Air Fleet, ready for activation when needed. To provide incentives for civil carriers to commit aircraft to the Civil Reserve Air Fleet program and to assure the NSR of adequate airlift reserves, the government makes peacetime airlift business available to civilain airlines that offer aircraft to the Civil Reserve Air Fleet. The Sylvan War Office offers business through the International Airlift Services.

To join Civil Reserve Air Fleet, carriers must maintain a minimum commitment of 30 percent of its Civil Reserve Air Fleet capable passenger fleet and 15 percent of its Civil Reserve Air Fleet capable cargo fleet. Aircraft committed must be NSR registered and carriers must also commit and maintain at least four complete crews for each aircraft. Carriers with aircraft whose performance does not meet minimum Civil Reserve Air Fleet requirements are issued a certificate of technical ineligibility so they can still compete for government airlift business.

Aviation safety is the paramount concern, and numerous procedures are in effect to ensure that the air carriers with which AMC contracts afford the highest level of safety to War Office passengers. Prior to receiving a contract, all carriers must demonstrate that they have provided substantially equivalent and comparable commercial service for one year before submitting their offer to fly for the War Office. All carriers must be fully certified Federal Aviation Administration carriers and meet the stringent standards of Federal Aviation Regulations pertaining to commercial airlines.

A survey team, composed of experienced AMC pilots and skilled aircraft maintenance personnel, performs an on-site inspection of the carriers. This team conducts a comprehensive inspection that includes carrier's aircraft, training facilities, crew qualifications, maintenance procedures, quality control practices and financial status to maximize the likelihood that the carrier would safely perform for War Office. After passing this survey, the carrier is certified by the Commercial Airlift Review Board as War Office-approved before receiving a contract.
AMC analysts then continue to monitor the carrier's safety record, operations and maintenance status, contract performance, financial condition and management initiatives, summarizing significant trends in a comprehensive review every six months. In addition to this in-depth review, there are several other surveillance initiatives. These include safety preflight inspections of commercial aircraft by Department of Defense designated inspectors, periodic cockpit observations on operational flights by highly experienced pilots from AMC's War Office Commercial Airlift Division, and an increase in the frequency of on-site surveys.

^thanks wikipedia

Now, thousands of Erquinian soldiers and all their equipment was being loaded onto aircraft for what was to be the largest air operation in Meridian history. The immediate concern was the Aemen and AN air forces, which could easily shoot down the bulky C-5s and C-130s. But the aircraft were registered under civilian contractors – therefore, by shooting down the planes, they would be violating the rules of war by targeting noncombatants.

As the first of the massive planes began taking to the air, Esalonia’s entrance into the Sovereign International was finalized. Now, any act of war on Esalonia by the Allied Nations would be an act of war on the Sovintern – just yet another piece on the rather large Meridian chessboard.

Now, the only question was how the Allies would respond…

by **Wyrnsturm** » Fri Dec 05, 2014 2:06 pm

Great Emperor NightGrim Initiates Preparation for War!

Imperial Reports #58803 penned by Imperial People's Informational Administrative

AELBURG CITY, WYRNSTYRM EMPIRE ~ Attention to all loyal subjects of the proud Wyrnsturm Empire! Our most divine and honorable Great Emperor has foreseen the threats of democratic dogs attempting to spread their disgusting fleas all over our blessed and glorious empire thus he asks every single one of you, to take arms and prepare to defend our glorious home from the aforesaid invaders! Furthermore, we will also lead a glorious campaign to expand the blessing of our Great Emperor through out Meridia. There is nothing more honorable and glorious but to fight and die in the name of our Great Emperor of our proud Empire. Those who could not offer their abilities to fight would receive the mercy of our Imperial Commissary by given overtime works in the factories with lower pays.

All able-bodied males from the age of 17 to 45 are required to report to the nearest recruiting stations or outposts for enlistments, those that fails to report to the recruiting stations within 24 hours will be sent to the penal regiments while those who refuses to enlist will be hanged and die in shame for refusing to fight for our Great Emperor.

Meanwhile, the 24th Wilkenbrough Volunteers Fusilier Regiment and the 11th Wyrnsturm Imperial Fleet would have the honor to defend and fight for our new ally - The People Republic of Murovanka and will be dispatched to Wanka within the next few days.

Remember,
Unity, Strength and Faith in the Emperor and our Gods!

The Overseer Parliamentary Palace
Aelburg City, Wyrnsturm Empire
1100 Hours Local Time

The Overseer Parliamentary Palace's architecture is truly admirable, with its large columns carefully standing side by side of the main twin entrances that stands at least 15 ft tall with a guard kiosk standing in the middle - the guards around it would carefully eyes at each attendees attending the Imperial National Political Conference. Above the building is a glass dome surrounded by statues of Wilkenman mythological Gods of Justice, Strength, Wise and Peace and between each two of them are the well known historical figures through out the Wyrnstian history ever since they step foot on Meridia.

Travelling through the eyes of an overseer being escorted by his secretaries and nobles into the palace, one can see the red silky curtains beautifully draped all along the walls of the palace's corridors, sheltering the frail romantic paintings of historical heroes and regiments in the Welthren War and also important politician that forms today Wyrnsturm before walking up to a several large doors that leads to the same room guarded by both Imperial Civil Guards and extremely polite ushers that would open doors and bows for the incoming politicians whom would then enter the dome filled with hundreds and thousands of red velvet chairs in a tiered circular formations and at one specific angle of the circle, is a throne for you-know-who.

Outside the palace, a luxuriously golden plated wooden hull blimp with red envelopes slowly descends along with the others though this one specifically is where High Commissar Fernz Heldus would step out with his shiny Hessian boots being visible first before the rest of him emerges draped in his favorite ceremonial great coat with red shoulder straps, collars and cuffs. In his hand he holds a golden cane with a diamond top. He looks around for a bit, savoring the morning afternoon atmosphere near the great lake before moving on towards the palace accompanied by his personal secretary and butler.

An usher sees him and immediately recognizes him as do the guards near him, "Right this way, High Commissar Heldus!" bowed the usher nervously and the guards offers him a sharp salute. No one could forget the commissar that also led the final assault on Bavrock Republic armed with nothing more but a cutlass and a Gondle Heavy pistol though succeed by maintaining the morale of his line through executing those who even turn their heads back.

The crowded dome filled with politicians, overseers and commissaries in fancy dress echoes with the sound of chatters, coughing and faint laughter meanwhile Heldus and his escorts carefully slides through the seated ones towards their reserved seats.

"Your attention please ! The Great Emperor is here !", High Court Overseer Jodel announces in the middle of the circle within a circular podium and within seconds, the entire room becomes quiet. The marching sounds of boots echoes all around the dome as twin lines of Palace Guards forms a double line ceremonially faces each other, forming a path in which the Great Emperor walks through in his ceremonial parade tunic with gold shoulder plates, cuffs and medals pinned to his tunic escorted by the Imperial High Overseers.

The entire attendees stands firm with their chest and chins up before raising a fist and place it at their heart then simultaneously chants, "Unity, Strength and faith in the Emperor and our Gods, hail the Great Emperor, the savior and divine leader of Wyrnsturm!"

The Great Emperor eyes around the dome dominantly and walks up to his throne while his High Overseers follow with their noses up with pride.
A page approaches the Great Emperor nervously and carefully place a microphone near his mouth. The Great Emperor remains quiet and stares at the High Court Overseer still standing in the middle of the circle.

The High Court Overseer clears his throat before starting, "It has been known, that the New Republic of Sylvia might have begun mobilizing their forces on a conquest to bring democracy to the whole Meridia and to end the reign of sole leader nations like our Empire and our Great Emperor. Though this morning, initial actions has been taken to mass mobilize our armed forces as well to preserve the reign of our Great Emperor." the High Court Overseer pauses for a while before continuing. "And undeniably we are under armed and outnumbered compared to the New Republic of Sylvia which makes it extremely risky to straight out fighting the republic and we would require more resources and manpower. So after a through out discussions between the Great Emperor and the High Overseers, plans has been made that we will launch a conquest on the empty untamed land to the south of our nation to acquire both the native populace and their resources to aid in our war effort."

Suddenly, one of the politicians interjects. "No! Wait! This is foolish, we can't just pull in an un-involved group into our conflict. This is just wrong." He expresses, in which the High Court Overseer responds with a huffs before turning to look at the Great Emperor who does the same, the Emperor stares at the suddenly liberal politician blabbering about human's right then gazes at High Commissar Heldus who glances at the emperor and nodded. He stands up and calmly approaches the still-blabbering liberal politician and un-holsters his pistol before firing it at the man point-blank, killing him immediately. The High Commissar wipes some of the sprayed bloods off his face before facing the rest, "The Great Emperor's decree is final and any objections to it is considered treason." he reminded everyone before walking back to his seat, leaving behind shaken politicians, secretaries and butlers looking at the lifeless body of the liberal politician.

The High Court Overseer waits for the High Commissar to be-seated before continuing on, "So, we will assimilate the land to our South meanwhile in the case of highly possible invasions, Coastal Defense Network has been reinforced with Coastal Batteries, Radars and Stinger Anti-Air Platforms lining up over 70% of our coastlines and currently preparation has been made for Operation Red Claw as conscripts are sent to special training camps for 4 months courses for to form new regiments. The 24th Wilkenbrough Volunteers Fusilier Regiment and the 11th Wyrnsturm Imperial Fleet would be sent to Wanka to help them out."

"Furthermore, mass productions has begun as factory workers were ordered to work overtime especially military factories and our productivity has increased by 45%, increasing our chance for Operation Red Claw. The Great Emperor and the High Overseers seek to resist and vanquish the Sovereign International alliance and expand our lands so we will need to utilize everything that we have to offer."

And finally, the High Court Overseer ends the speech with, "Glory to Wyrnsturm and stay faithful to our Great Emperor and Gods." he'd then step down from the circular podium as everyone stands up and applause heavily including the Great Emperor himself. He who would then stands up and holds a hand up, ceasing the applause. He then speaks into the microphone in front of him, "And so they will be reminded of the costs of pummeling our supremacy, grandfathers will tell tales to grandchildren of our might that we will show them through my sword that I shall use to point forth to your battle and my torch to light up the path of future Meridia where our supremacy will lasts for eternity."

The Great Emperor's speech were met with an even louder applause as flashes of cameras begin to emerge from the masses.

Fort Orkov
Dhofron City, Wyrnsturm Empire
1500 Hours Local Time

"NEXT!" yelled one of the recruitment sergeant in the line of recruiters behind wooden desks seated outside of the fort as lines of teenagers and middle aged men reports themselves for drafting as decreed by their Great Emperor. A young boy somewhere between 17-18 steps forward to the sergeant. "NAME?!" yelled the Sergeant.

"Pe-Pete." he mouthed.

"Louder son! I don't speak ants!" growled the sergeant. And the boy repeated his name even louder before being interrogated further for his basic information.
Not far from the lines, trucks can be seen moving in and out of the fort in an endless traffic, some are carrying new uniforms and weapons for the new recruits, some are transferring the recruits elsewhere, while some brings in cowardly young men hiding from the conscription that were caught by the local Imperial Civil Guards and are sentenced to serve in the Penal Regiments. Mothers, daughters and sisters pleads with tears and cries at the Civil Guards and Fusiliers to let their sons, husbands and brothers go and avoid conscription and the guards only reaction is to push them back with batons.

A baker in a nearby bakery were dragged out by the local Civil Guards while his wife cries loudly for the guards to stop.

"Refusin' to serve the Great Emperor eh?" snarled the civil guard.

A nearby commissar overseeing the drafting simply orders, "Hang him with the rest."

Without hesitation, the Civil Guards complies and quickly form a noose around the baker's neck as he struggles weakly, his wife pulling on one of the soldier as her cries turns into coughing and stifled gagging. The Civil Guards pulls the rope together and voila, one more hanging corpses added to the collection along the entire streetlamps of the city.

Meanwhile, there's Kirk McKane looking at the commotion going on the line next to him as a man has no other choice but to take a dump at where he stands in the line because leaving the line means desertion which is punishable by death or penal regiment.

He looks at the darken grey skies which is about to rain soon and cold winds begin to comb the air around him. He turns around to look at Susan, who clutches at the railing tightly and staring at him as her eyes swell with tears. They've been together for since high school and they were supposed to get married next month. . .but of course, things wouldn't always goes as planned in the Empire. All he could do now is to watch helplessly as he begins to wander further and further away from his love.

At the other side, Colonel Lewis Kovak emerges from his office bunker to approach the waiting ,lieutenant who then salutes him sharply, "Comrade Colonel Kovak! The 6th Dhofron Wyrnstian Fusiliers has been established comrade."

The Colonel nodded and walks up to the fort's observation tower, the lieutenant follows. From there, they can see millions of conscripts being drilled as rains begin to pour down on them, forming mud puddles around the training field, making things a lot harder and dirtier.

"Everything is going as planned, Comrade Lieutenant." the Colonel smirks. The Lieutenant glances to him as he continues, "And soon, Operation Red Claw shall commence."

by **Erquin** » Fri Dec 05, 2014 4:03 pm

The Acropolis
Chandler, New Sylvan Republic
After the briefing

Hillary tucked his tie, making it stiff, as he exits out of the room with the major, quite confident about Erquin's proposed rule in the operation. "Quite a meeting, isn't it Major Russo?" asked Hillary, being answered by the major stiffly "Yes it is, definitely, any other plans though?". The president looked at the major as they walked down the hallway towards the outside leading door. "I do, and Im going to discuss that with the general, as soon as we get out of here." answered Hillary, passing the front desk and going outside to his vehicle, parked on the curb with four Erquinian military police motorcycles parked behind the long sedan. They go inside the sedan, specially fitted with backseats that have a space in between them, as a discussion table, making the vehicle albeit bigger. The top general and his aides welcome the president, and as they get comfortable, the convoy sets off to the airport. The general starts speaking, "So, how did the meeting go, Mr. President? Anything?". The president looked up, and nodded yes, to begin speaking. "The meeting went great, general Grevard, but we have a job to do. Apparently, we are going to get the 4th Foreign Troop Group in South Carmi airlifted by the Syl--". The president was cut off, as one of the aides of General Grevard burst out "How do you airlift 5 divisions?!". "Koff, be quiet! This is the president speaking! You dont do this kind of shit when he's speaking!" snapped Grevard, as the aide complied, apologizing for his bad manners. The president evidently continued, "They are to be airlifted by the Sylvan Civil Air Reserve Fleet, I know it sounds crazy, but apparently, they have enough aircraft to transport our 5 divisions. However, I feel that may not be enough, just to have them airlifted and put down someplace alone. I've been thinking as we got out, that the ENS fleet be brought back out, and ready it up at a Sylvan port near the St. Michael Strait. Going from Jarik's port, the fleet should bring the 6th Maneuver Force to get ready for an invasion.". The president took a breather, and the general piped up, "Though, I don't get why we're even cooperating with the Sylvans anyway, they took away our precious commonwealth and the Northern Collectives, now we're just a tiny kidney bean just because of the Sylvans! Why not let them suffer is my question.". The president looked up at Grevard, only to say "Remember Erquinian chivalry code, Grevard. Those who defeat you deserve your respect and assistance, that is if they spare you.". The general backed down.

The president thusly continued, as they were halfway to the airport (For some reason, heh.), "Now, the Sylvans did mention the invasion of the monarchy ruled country of Aemen, and for that, I plan to deploy the 5th Maneuver Force at the Aemenian border, as well as the 2nd Aviation Group to provide some support and make air superiority at 120%. Knowing the Sylvan Air Force, the Sylvans would already have it covered, but no matter, we should kick in our airforce to taste in some experience and glory for the little-spoken branch.". A pause fills the Sedan, then the president continues again, "I've also planned that we have SH-5 (Non-nuclear missiles) silo's ready in case the Meridian Pact starts to get an upper hand, that is if we actually do fight them.". The general and his aides raise their eyebrows in complete agreement of whats supposed to happen. Then the president finishes off as the vehicle gets onto the grounds of the airport. "Finally, I hope to speak with Delacroix on this one, Im hoping that for our service, we could reestablish our socialist commonwealth and get a bit of land from Aemen or Esalonia as our allowance of protectorates, as far as that is concerned.". Suddenly, the sedan stops, and the group walk out of the vehicle onto the awaiting jet.

by **Northern Collectives** » Fri Dec 05, 2014 5:37 pm

Cohlen, the Northern Collectives

The city which had once been an ignored city in the western forest lands had become the epicenter of change and progress in the months that had followed the October War and the destruction of Rhodaan’s rebellion, although Andraz and his now wife lived in a golden prison in the mountains near Rocheste. The nation had entered under new leadership under Alexandra Demorta, who claimed no title, but was known as Jarl by the wider population, and was recognized mainly by the soldier who acted as her bodyguard.

The pair was inside a conference room with the Domestic Council and the War Council who acted more so as checkpoints for the decisions of the Collectives. The room was painted a dark red, with light grey streaks going horizontally. At the center of the room there was a U shaped table, and at the two entrances of the room there were two guards in red, dark grey, and white camouflage uniforms of trench coats, trousers and black jack boots, each with a recently mited NorthCol rifle known as the ZSS Heavy Carbine, a small axe-like weapon on their right hip, a four inch ceremonial dagger with an iron skull, which marked them as Royal Army guards, and a five inch bayonet, many also had metal platelets layering the outside of their armor, in cohesion with bullet proof vests underneath. They were by no means anything but heavy infantry. They all wore expressionless, demonic visages over their faces which came down from the lip of their bowl helmets, as all of the raised forces of the federal government had.

The soldier behind Alexandra had long black air that covered part of an angular, intimidating face. He had a high caliber pistol in a shoulder holster which has angled downward; his eyes were bleak and black, unforgiving, but also honest. He had his helmet strapped to the side of right leg, animal bones added to the mask. He had a SCAR-H on his back, inlayed with the teeth of wolves. He wore a dark uniform with crimson shoulder plates, and crest of the Demorta family on the left plate. A five inch, single edged knife was strapped to his waste, in deep contrast to the dark fur he wore as a half skirt, which carried ammunition for his favored weapon, and he had an axe, the handle pointed upward, always within his grasp. His name was Kharn “Khaine” Dreda stood at his leaders side, unwavering, and resolute.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Alexandra began. She wore a black, strapless dress, and he hair was kept in long French braid by crimson ribbon. Her voice needed no amplification, as the council members drank ginger ale, joliq, or water from glasses that were filled by pitchers, each council member having their own. “We have a crisis on our hands. War is imminent, and I fear that Mozria may attempt to occupy us. The south of Meridia is close to chaos, but we will remain neutral in this war. We must look to our own borders. I know that this does not affect you’re the domestic council to a large extent, but I ask you aid in the evacuation of our border towns and cities, to more defensible locations.” She paused, and let the information she had given sink in. The Domestic Council knew that they were almost useless in the war area, and took her words as a dismissal, knowing what her words had meant. The domestic council picked up their things and left, knowing their duties without having to be told.

The marhsalls and generals of the war council looked at her, five in total. Marshall Vilton, Marshall Welsh, Commandant General Zeal, Grand Admiral Wright, and Veteran Grimaldus. They were all experienced veterans of the war against Rhodaan’s faction during the uprising, but Wright, who had earned his rank from being an experienced mercenary, having fought with the Deneager Navy on several occasions, outside Meridia.

“I know of the risk we have in this war, but I need your suggestions in this.” She said, knowing that the commanders would have plenty.
“Madam,” Grimaldus began, failing in his attempt to sound soft due to the soldier’s immense bulk. “I suggest we move ten regiments of the Iron Warriors to the border. The Iron Warriors are experts of defensive warfare, but we only have one hundred regiments of soldiers total. It is a heavy commitment to the border, but I know they will fight well.”
Vilton grunted. “The Iron Warriors are siege warfare experts, not experts of defending open ground. I would send five regiments of Raven Guard, and seven regiments of the Vayne Rifles.”
“I would send the Third through Ninth Hecarim armored to that area as well.” Welsh added. Zeal was silent, he had control over the deployment of any Royal Army forces, and considering there were only five regiments of the Royal Army, they would be used sparingly. Grimaldus was the overall commander of the Iron Warriors, and had been aching for a fight ever since Mozria had moved soldiers to the border.

“Put the Navy on high alert. Get both of the Sea Drakes mobolizied and out of the ports. I will see that we will unleash hell on them for daring to attack us if they will.

Khaine was silent, he had control over the Royal Guards, but they were the defense force of Cohlen, and even though he had a lust for battle, like most NorthCol, he had a Blood Oath with Alexandra to follow her commands. Alexandra ended the conversation. “I will have the first naval fleet mobilized, and send two Iron Warrior Regiments in coherence with Welsh’s and Vilton’s force suggestions. We need defenses erected along the most likely invasion areas, and have all City Defense forces put on alert. The city leaders must know the risk we are facing. Dismissed.”

She made a public comment later that day.

The Northern Collectives will stand firm against any invader who may come against us. We fought long and hard for freedom, and now we fight for the honor of the country. Those of Mozria may seek to invade us, and make us their vassal, but they will be met with the soldiers of the Dynasty, and the brave men and women who fight for us.

I bid you all, prepare to take arms up. If we are invaded the enemy will break upon our fortifications like water on rock, our soldiers will put their best to the blade, and we will be victorious. They cannot beat us, we will send any attacker back to their homes, cowering before the might of the Collectives Military.

For honor and glory my friends. Good evening, and good night.
God Bless.

by **Murovanka** » Sat Dec 06, 2014 2:34 am

”We would like to welcome the Empire of Wyrnsturm to the Meridian Pact. We hope that this will contribute to stabilizing the region and deter any aggressors who wish to forcefully spread their ideas and way of life.”

- Heinrich von Preisen
Wankischer Aussenminister

To the nations of the Meridian Pact, the Empire of Wyrnsturm and the Kingdom of Aemen
From: Heinrich von Preisen, Foreign-Minister of Murovanka
Encryption: Extremely High

Sehr geehrte Alliierten, dear friends of the People’s Republic,
Unfortunately, as you very well know, Meridia is on the verge of war. The imperialist aggressors of the Sovereign International are bent on wreaking havoc on our lands. As such, I would like to propose the following:

[*] The establishment of a joint command center within Kronstadt, the Murovankan capital, to coordinate actions between our armed forces
[*] Secondary joint command centers in Wyrnsturm and Aemen
[*] The immediate commencement of training exercises between land, sea and air forces of our nations to improve coordination and cooperation
[*] The immediate deployment of troops to the possible war fronts. This includes Wyrnsturm and Aemen. However, they should be stationed in defensive positions and should refrain from provoking an invasion

Once again, on the behalf of the People’s Republic, we would like to thank you for assisting us in rebuilding our nation after those terrible years of chaos and civil war. The People’s Republic is willing to do everything in its power to protect the lands of Aemen and Wyrnsturm as it protects its own. The Murovankan 8th Army is ready and can be moved to the Aemen front within a week by rail once permission is given by the Aemen government. Murovanka is organizing a partial mobilization of the Volksstreitkräfte and Volkssturm, and will be able to soon move more forces to the Aemen front if required. It is imperative that we quickly develop a strategy in case hostilities break out and our very existence is threatened.

Sincerely,
Heinrich von Preisen
Foreign-Minister of Murovanka

Kronstadt, capital city of the Wankische Volksrepublic

It had been thirty years since the disastrous attempt at something called Kommunismus. The times when the Party, saying all along that they represented the people, terrorized and murdered them systematically on a scale which was somewhere between Mao’s China and Pol Pot’s Cambodia. The death toll was estimated at 10 million (claimed to be 200,000 by the government), but it could easily have gone up into the 50s. The economy had collapsed, and only when several rebellions had been crushed did the communist government realize their mistake. What had followed was a bloody power struggle which finally came to an end circa 2000, when Ulrike Meinhof and her associates usurped power in a planned and bloody coup.

And all the time, Murovanka (or known just as Wanka in German, the native tongue), was largely ignored by other nations who left the Wankan people to their fate. That slowly began to change when Meinhof opened the doors of the populous country, getting rid of its long-held isolationist policy. Relations with neighboring nations, primarily Aemen and Wyrnsturm, began to develop, favoring both other nations, of course, but slowly and surely, she rebuilt the nation. The people became a little richer and could access a heavily-restricted internet, could complain to the government to a certain degree, although numerous Staatssicherheitsdienst (State Security)- agents still roamed the streets. It had been 14 long years, Meinhof reflected, and it had gone all too well. And it looked like hell would come crashing down on them, once again.

Meinhof also did her best to ensure that their troops would not fail the nation. The military had undergone several significant modernization programs, although they still lagged behind technologically-wise to most others. The Volksstreitkräfte (VSK) was massive, with around 400,000 professional troops altogether and, when counting reservists and Volkssturm, went up into the millions. It had always been quantity over quality. The massive, lumbering Landstreitkräfte, the ground-forces arm, still possessed thousands of P-54’s (RL T-54s) with several divisions beginning to receive the far better P-72’s (RL T-72s). The Luftstreitkräfte’s main combat aircraft was the ZiG-23 (RL MiG-23) with several squadrons of ZiG-29’s. The navy was barely worth mentioning. The Wankan Seestreitkräfte had a few outdated corvettes, frigates and even several destroyers to protect its waters, but that was it.

With a war impending, Meinhof had ordered partial mobilization of the Volksstreitkräfte. Military convoys and trains filled with grim-looking troops became a common sight as reservists assembled at their respective divisions. The sound of tank guns and artillery training their gunnery skills were heard in the cities and towns as the divisional commanders competed in increasing the readiness of their troops. In the Volkssturm camps, men and women both volunteered in droves. With the most powerful position in the country held by a woman, it was no surprise that the female presence in the military is at a stunning 35%, a presence that could not be ignored- officers could not refer to their troops as “men”.

On the home front, the government prepared for the transition to a war economy. Food shortages were to be expected with large portions of peasants and the workforce joining the military, and as such, the administration worked hard to perfect the expected food rationing system, which was expected to be implemented. Meinhof had, in a rousing speech, warned of incoming hardships- ”Doch die werden wir überleben, wie wir es schon mehrmals gemacht haben. Ob du ein Soldat an der Front bist, ob du in den Waffenfabriken arbeitest- jeder wird seinen Teil tun, um diese Barbaren in den Krimsee zu verjagen!” “(But we shall survive them, as we have done many times before. Whether you are a soldier on the front, or a worker in a weapon factory- everyone will do his part to chase these barbarians into the Crimson sea!)”.

Bavrok, Empire of Wyrnsturm

Now officially part of the Meridian Pact, the Volksrepublik quickly agreed to assist the Wyrnsturm nation in regards to their currently near-nonexistant aerial capabilities. The Luftstreitkräfte had already established a command center in an underground bunker several kilometers away from their primary air base in Bavrok, which was protected by several SAM batteries. The vast aircraft contingent dispatched to Wyrnsturm was called Luftflotte Wyrnsturm, or “Airfleet Wyrnsturm”. It consisted of several wings of ZiG 23 and 29 multirole aircraft, along with accompanying support aircraft, a strategic bomber wing, and a several-thousand strong ground crew. In anticipation of having to face attacks directly on the airfields, the aircraft were carefully concealed wherever they could be concealed, covered by camouflage nets. A flight of ZiG-29s flew combat air patrol near Esalonian airspace, sometimes intruding provocatively. They were assisted by radar installations built near the border with Esalonia to monitor all air activity. The Luftstreitkräfte hadn’t managed to get its hand on (never mind grasp the necessity) of airborne warning and control aircraft yet, so they had to rely on their own nose-mounted radars and those from the ground.

by **Aemen** » Sat Dec 06, 2014 1:43 pm

Sarrington Manor, Erus
One week before

Sun shone through the windows, gently caressing the face of Prince Tavish as he sat upright on a battered stool and weaved a paintbrush in marvellous patterns on a blank canvas, depicting the look of Erus from His Royal Highness's bedroom view. Despite the tense political situation with the NSR and the rest of Sovereign International, Tavish had found time to commemorate Aemen in various artistic ways. As he continued to add shades and splashes of colour to his latest masterpiece, a knock came at the door. Tavish stopped, keeping his brush hand in mid-air. “Yes?”

An elderly man opened the door, appropriately dressed and clean-shaven, as any good butler should be. “Terribly sorry to disturb you sir, but His Royal Highness The Heir Apparent has arrived. He wants to speak with you.”

“Ah,” Tavish set his brush down into a nearby pot of water and stood up, tidying the area slightly. “Send him in, Gordon. Oh, and bring up a bottle of red from the private reserve in the cellar, will you?”

“Very good sir.” The butler closed the doors and Tavish removed his paint-splattered apron and buttoned up into a spotless white shirt. A few moments later, the butler again opened the doors and walked through them, declaring the Heir Apparent's arrival. “His Royal Highness The Heir Apparent, Prince Alexander.”

The butler stood aside and Alexander walked in, dressed in full formal military uniform and accompanied by two Crown Guardsmen. Alexander waved the butler away and signalled for his guards to wait outside. “Leave us.”

The guards marched out, leaving the butler to close the doors behind him. The Olbridge Twins, as they were often known, were now the only two people in the room. Tavish smiled at his brother, pointing at his uniform in jest. “You wear that bloody thing everywhere.”

Alexander's face was stern, just like his father's. Of all of King Reginald's children, Alexander was the most like him in both appearance and manner. “As I should. These are uncertain times, Tavish. The people need to see us as leaders.”

Tavish rolled his eyes, he knew of the importance of the uniform, and was happy to wear it when required, but not in his spare time and certainly not on a visit to family. “Times wouldn't be so uncertain if father hadn't signed that forsaken Pact with Murovanka. Do you know how many nations on the continent would line up behind the Sylvan Republic to rip power from our family's hands if the conditions were right? The mere thought of it makes my stomach turn. It's times like these I could use a drink.”

Almost on cue, the butler opened the doors and walked in with a bottle of unlabelled wine from the Manor's cellar. Tavish gestured to a nearby drinks cabinet and the butler proceeded to place the bottle down on its wooden top, pulled out two glasses and filled them halfway before departing, leaving the bottle open and ready should more than a few drops be needed. Tavish strolled over to the cabinet and picked up his drink, sipping from the glass and keeping his eyes locked on his twin brother. “So why are you here?”

Alexander moved over to join him, picking up his glass but refusing to drink from it. “You're aware of the Meridian Pact, which puts me at ease. It shows your absence in parliament hasn't affected your perception of current events.”

Tavish smirked. “Yes, you'll excuse me if I follow Ivan's example and play truant for now. I find the First Minister and his henchmen to be so dreadfully dull and depressing during these pre-war periods. Have I missed anything specific?”

Alexander raised an eyebrow, finally taking a sip from his glass. “Nevertheless, you're a Prince of Aemen and unlike Ivan, it is expected of you. Father's ordered mobilisation of the military along the border with the NSR and he's commissioned the Margrave's Citadel on Sarston to act as a joint command centre for the Meridian Pact, should the Sylvans invade. Yesterday he dispatched the Thirty First Royal Crown Guard to King's Lance to protect Greerton. The northern cities have mostly been evacuated, such as Bremen, Ulbrecht, Reurgen and Goss. I expect, now with the Great Emperor of Wyrnsturm on our side and the Allied Nations threatening Esalonia, that the tensions along our borders will simmer down given proper time. No nation wants to risk a long and drawn out war with us.”

Tavish chuckled at Alexander's response before composing himself to suppress a hiccup. “Yes, yes, I'm sure you, the Heir Apparent, in your infinite wisdom of international relations are correct.”

“Excuse me? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, nothing Alexander. Come on, finish your drink.” Tavish requested of his brother, sipping from his own glass.

“Tavish, tell me. What are you afraid of?”

Tavish stood silent for a few seconds, searching for the right words. “What am I afraid of? It's simply too much! Father sending the Crown Guard, the Crown Guard who only exist to protect the Royal Family and take orders from the King, to Greerton to look after that blasted mountain artillery platform? Why not just reinforce it with ordinary military personnel like he has with the other cities in the north? Why sign the Meridian Pact and spit in the face of Sovereign International? It's like he's spoiling for a fight Alexander, like he's looking for a reason to show off our nation's military, and I bet you five acres of Sarrington's grounds that he'll find a way to light the fuse to this pile of powder kegs we find ourselves buried under...”

Olbridge Castle, Erus
Present day

“No more! No more! No more!” were the chants that echoed outside of the castle's walls, which stretched for miles around the King's personal estate. An enormous mob of people had clogged the streets of Erus that skimmed the front of His Majesty's residence, angered over the King's actions concerning Sovereign International. They mostly came from the lower and working classes that serviced many of Erus' elite families, though a keen eye could spot one or two offspring of well-to-do aristocrats among the crowd who were sympathetic to the protesters and their cause.

Some of the braver protesters tried to scale the high wall that protected the King's land, but the structure was too smooth and too well maintained to even climb a few feet off of the ground, so they resorted to making their own way; hitting at the wall with anything sturdy enough to create holes for their feet and hands, so they could successfully clamber over. This went on for a few hours and, eventually, a small contingent were able to hoist themselves up high enough to lay eyes on the marvellous grounds of Olbridge Castle.

Suddenly, the sound of gun shots tore through the air, passing clean through the skulls of two of the climbers and sending them hurtling back to the street pavement. The chanting ceased, the protesters were silent and the sound of rumbling diesel engines was approaching from the other side of the wall. The estate gates opened, pouring out a group of masked Crown Guardsmen and a gun-mounted jeep. The Guardsman in the jeep's passenger seat activated the vehicle's radio system and held the receiver to his face.

“His Majesty, your King, has decided in his most gracious wisdom to forgive this transgression, now that those who vandalised state property have been thoroughly dealt with. Return to your homes and your routines, do not test the King's patience further.”

The crowd of civilians backed away from the Crown Guard, some began leaving the protest altogether and sprinting into alleyways and darting down residential roads. The bulk of the crowd facing the Guard soon stopped, staring at their potential executioners.

“I repeat, return to your homes. The King has-”

A rock from an unknown assailant came flying over the heads of the civilians, landing square on the windshield of the jeep and bouncing off onto the vehicle's bonnet, leaving a small scratch. Immediately, the Crown Guardsmen raised their rifles, pointing them at different sections of the crowd. Again, the Guardsman in the passenger seat spoke up, agitated.

“This is your last warning. Disperse, or we will open fire.”

There was an uneasy air of silence. The crowd continued to stare. Until...

“Fuck the King!”

The protest suddenly erupted again, armed with a new chant. “Fuck the King! Fuck the King! Fuck the King!”

The Guardsman in the passenger seat leaned over to the driver's side and punched the wheel, letting the horn blare out. Upon hearing it, the Guard on the outside squeezed their triggers and bullets struck the first line of protesters. At that point, half of the crowd became overwhelmed with fear and broke, fleeing into Erus, whilst the other half, either through bravery, stupidity or sheer frustration, charged at the Guard. The people were immeasurably outgunned and many were cut down before they even came within touching distance of the King's personal soldiers whilst the jeep's engine roared, the Guardsman that was in the passenger seat now taking up a position on the turret and firing into the charging citizens.

In an effort to physically push the riot back from the gate, the jeep began moving forward, getting steadily faster and knocking some of the crowd to the ground. Unable to move or crawl away in time, they were crushed as the jeep rolled over their bodies and the civilian charge was ultimately blunted and broken.

What followed in the next few hours was the King's wrath in action. All over Erus, the Crown Guard chased down the people that fled the scene. Those who spoke out against their monarch were detained and beaten, whilst those who resisted were dragged out of view before gun shots rang out between the back alleys of the city.

Standing in the splendid Master Bedroom of Olbridge Castle, King Reginald II gazed out of his grand windows over Erus as his soldiers carried out his will, stern as he'd become infamous for in his old age and uncompromising in the face of what he knew was now coming.

by **Nova Sylva** » Mon Dec 08, 2014 11:23 am

Church of the Immaculate Conception
Chandler, New Sylvan Republic
0300 Hours Chandler Mean Time (UCT+0)

The Church of the Immaculate Conception was one of the largest and most beautiful cathedrals in all of Meridia. It had been built alongside with Chandler itself, back in the early 2000s, but had been severely damaged during the Coalition State firebombing of the city during the Second Sylvan War. Though still undergoing repairs, it remained an integral part of Sylva's traditional Catholic identity. Sure, the population was mostly agnostic anyways, but nonetheless every Sunday the place would be packed. But it was a Monday morning. No one was in the church except for a lone man and a single Father, who stood behind a confessional. The lone man, who's face was hidden, moved strangely, as if he was suddenly burdened with a great heavenly weight. He wore a long trench coat which was soaked from the winter rain pouring outside. He found the confessional, however, and took to his knees.

"Good morning, my child. Are you here to confess in the eyes of our Lord?"

"Good morning, Father. And yes, I think so."

"You think so? Child, you must be fully honest with Him if you desire the grace of forgiveness."

"Yes. I am ready."

"Very well, my child. What are your sins?"

"Well, I guess I'll start with the big one...I have just indirectly ordered the deaths of over a million people."

***Two Hours Earlier***

Mhmmmh... Michael Delacroix grumbled, rolling over in bed as the phone rang. As a President, he was accustomed to not getting much sleep. But there was a difference between getting no sleep, and getting it so rudely interrupted. Make it stop!

Delacroix finally rubbed his eyes and picked up the phone. "Yes?"

General Carpenter was on the other line, which wasn't much of a surprise. Carpenter, it seemed, never slept. At all. "Mr. President, their is urgent news from Aemen. King Reginald ordered the execution of protesters a few hours ago. Reports are not cohesive, but the general picture is bad. We're looking at two hundred dead, roughly, and about a thousand wounded. Among them was an independent journalist of Sylvan nationality and his film crew."

"Oh shit."

"Yessir. Simon Parker is the name. Part of the whistleblower.org website. It's no real consequence to us - he leaked a couple State Department last year - before going abroad before we could arrest him. Now he just serves as a freelance reporter, with an editorial spin. Or rather, he did."

Delacroix was silent. he rubbed his chin, and stroked a goatee that wasn't there.

"Sir? Are you there?"

"Yes, sorry." Delacroix said. He sighed. "I'm not sure how we respond to this. It's an act of war, yes, but..."

"Sir, Operation Honest Hearts is ready to go. We need simply your word, and we can start this thing."

"I...I don't know. It's not a clear casus belli..." Delacorix was awake now, getting dressed. The phone was on speaker.

"Sir, they have killed three Sylvan citizens in cold blood. If it's not an act of war, I'm not sure what is!" Carpenter sounded angry, and Delacroix didn't blame him. It was definetlty deservent of some retaliation. But war? Full out war with MERPAC could not be the answer.

"Have the Erquinian and Mozrian delegations left yet?"

"Yessir...They actually left two days ago." Evidently Delacroix was not as awake as he had thought.

"Call them back. I need an emergency meeting at the Acropolis in three hours. Video chat, if their already back in their respective countries."

"Yessir. In the meantime, should we do anything along the border?"

"Put our troops on standby," he said. "Be ready to storm into Aemen. I'll see if I can solve this diplomatically at first...but to be honest I don't see a way." Delacroix switched to his mobile phone as he ran outside and jumped into a waiting SUV that began driving him, without a word, in the direction of the Acropolis. Even at night, the massive hilltop structure could be seen silhouetted against the sky, a grand token of Sylvan architecture. The SUV swerved around corners as it's driver rushed it's passenger to his destination.

"Sir, we are also getting initial reports of Wankan forces moving into Aemen. Multiple divisions in strength. Furthermore the Wyrnstrumites, or Wyrnstrumians, Wyrnstumi...we're not really sure what to call them, we'll stick with Imperial have began mobilizing reservists for an invasion of Esalonia, and the southern region."

"If Wyrnstrum is invading Esalonia as well...that compromises our entire defensive strategy."

"It does, sir. Currently all forces are deployed along the AN border...We will need to pull back or risk being encircled."

"Tell our theater command down there to pull back along a defensive line well within Esalonia's borders. I'll leave the strategy of that action up to you."

"Sir, pulling our forces away from the AN border will present an identical problem. I say, instead, we modify the original plan. We can move some of our Erquinian reinforcements that way, and fight a retreat until they link up with the rest of our Esalonian force, which will be doing the same thing."

The SUV pulled into the parking lot, and Delacroix rushed out towards the elevator. "I'm in the Acropolis now," he said. "I'll be downstairs in a few minutes. Are Jaxon and Hilary on the horn?"

"Yessir. Angry about it, but their on. We have a secure landline connection, so don't worry about anyone listening in."

"Fantastic. I'll be down in a jiffy," he said, and hung up. A few minutes later, he was in the same conference room he had met the two leaders in three days prior. The video chat was rolling. He then explained the situation.

"So we're left with two options," Michael said. "We declare war, or we let this slide. I don't agree with either."

"There is going to be a war anyway," Jaxon said. "We're all ready to go. Any delay just gives the enemy time to prepare, and bring up more forces."

"But we may be able to work this out," Hilary (through a translator) said. "And that would give us time to secure Esalonia."

"The Imperials won't be invading right off the bat," Carpenter said, who sat next to his President. "They still need to mobilize their army. This would, as of now, only concern the Aemenian front."

"Yes, but the Aemenians could easily dispatch aircraft and disrupt the Sky Train," Hilary countered. The Sky-train was the unofficial name given to the hundreds of planes flying Erquinian men and equipment from Sylva into Esalonia."

"Operation Honest Hearts will starve the Aemenians of aircraft," Carpenter said. "They will barely have enough to keep us at bay. I doubt they'll spare jets on a front that really doesn't concern them."

"I agree," Jaxon said. "War."

"No war," Hilary said. "It's your vote, Delacroix."

Mike looked at the TV, then at Carpenter. He sighed.

"I'll draft a declaration," he said. "And pray for forgiveness."

OFFICIAL COMMUNIQUE OF THE NEW SYLVAN REPUBLIC GOVERNMENT

In regards to the cold-blooded killings of Simon Parker and his entourage, who were in no violation of civic law, the NSR Government and it's allies, the Combined Sovereign States of Mozria, and the Republic of Erquin, hereby inform the members of the Meridian Pact that a state of war exists between the Kingdom of Aemen and the Sovereign International.

The following actions will be taken;

[x] All overseas assets belonging to any citizen of these nations will be frozen;
[x] All foreign citizens (excluding diplomats) will be detained until further notice;
[x] All aid programs, civil or federal, to any of the nations will also cease henceforth.

GOD SAVE THE REPUBLIC,
NSR President M. Delacroix

Note that I've only declared war on Aemen. The AN and the rest of MERPAC can save themselves if they so desire.

by **Meinkraft** » Tue Dec 09, 2014 10:28 am

The Sherman Building, Piedmont, AN, 8:30 am

The crowd surrounded the rotunda of the museum, which stood as a testament to the great empire. Inside were relics from an age long past, of war and of politics. Built in 1955, the name of the museum itself was in honor of the first President of Meinkraft, Hal Sherman. Today, in particular, the current President, George Robert Kerman, was giving a speech in the auditorium of the bricked building. GSRN cameras were rolling as he approached the final minutes of his lecture.

"--and we will always be united in our efforts for liberty. The Allies have always been the forebearers of the torch of freedom, and will continue to be in the future. Naturally, we must share our good fortune to the rest of the region. That is our Destiny. Our Manifest Destiny."

Kerman walked off the stage to a shower of applause and praise, and, rather than have his security team carry him off, he walked freely through the crowd, which parted at his approach. Hands reached out at him, and graced his immaculate blue pinstripe. The cult of personality that had surrounded him since 2006 had only inflated his huge ego, and, with the power in his hands, he was about to make a move that would make history. Heck, the very suit he was wearing could end up back here in fifty years.

Maracaibo ANAF Base, 10:30 am

"Sir, we had radar contact about fifteen minutes ago. We expect an offensive if nothing is done now." ran on a out-of-breath Ensign to ANAF RC General-at-arms Thomas Sims.
"Radio contact has been inconclusive, and men are on the ground waiting for orders to scramble on your word, General."

"Right then, scramble the jets. However, I want no hostilities just yet. I want to know everything about these planes. That's why they haven't been blown out the sky yet. Go and relay that message to the men, got it?"

"Yessir!" responded the Ensign before dashing back down the dimly lit hallway into the wash of sunlight. On the tarmac sat thirteen F-35A multirole fighters, pilots standing near them idly in their bomber jackets.

***

As the sun became used to the daytime, the last of the planes took off, and flew in a delta formation towards the disturbance.

Admiralty House, ANHQ

Kerman threw his jacket and slick black leather fedora off in the general direction of the hatstand and sat at his desk promptly. As he opened up Notepad on his computer, he began to type.

"We, the Allied Nations and all of her Satellite States and Territories, officially do declare war on the New Sylvan Republic...."

In time, it would be done, but now was not that time. He had more pressing interior issues on his mind.

by **Aemen** » Tue Dec 09, 2014 2:41 pm

Olbridge Castle, Erus
8:30AM

The violent mood that the Crown Guard enforced upon Erus during the protests had quietened down somewhat. People no longer publicly gathered and there was a relative calm upon the city, though the increased numbers of Guardsmen patrolling the streets beset the atmosphere with a slight tension and a hidden fear.

In the castle's Hyrian Room, King Reginald's personal study and the smallest (but by no means, small) room in the building, sat His Majesty, the First Minister Nathaniel Capp and Elector-Margrave Ridley Folcwalding. King Reginald and the Elector-Margrave were sat on a dark green leather sofa facing the First Minister, who was sat on an identical couch opposite and separated by a smooth meticulously polished wooden table.

“And what does parliament think? Would the ministers support a war?” Reginald asked Capp, that commanding authoritarian glare shooting out of his eyes. The First Minister nodded, he was in charge of making sure the government ministries and organisations fell in line with the King's vision. Essentially, Capp was the monarchy's political cheerleader.

“Absolutely, sir. I've already called and chaired a meeting between all top government officials. They've supported the mobilisation of the military to the Aemen-Sylvan border as well as your signing of the Meridian Pact, they wholeheartedly agree this is the right course of action to take.” The First Minister added.

“Good.” The King turned to his cousin, Ridley, the Elector-Margrave and the head of Aemen's strongest and oldest of aristocratic families: The Folcwaldings. Ridley was able to add 'Margrave of Sarston' to his list of titles when Reginald was crowned King, placing him in command of the navy and giving him reign over Sarston, Aemen's collection of militarised islands. Were it not for the King's great grandfather changing his surname and that of his children's to Olbridge, then Folcwalding would still be the bloodline that held the throne. Despite this, Ridley and his family hold no animosity towards Reginald and remain a driving and powerful force in Aemen politics.

“What do our allies think we should do?”

Ridley stroked his chin in thought. “Delegations from Murovanka and Wyrnsturm are working with our own tacticians on the best suitable course of action, though no long-term plan has been drafted yet. The Royal Ocean Defence Force has been deployed along our southern maritime territory. We're set to take the full force of the Sylvan navy should it charge our way. We've-” There was suddenly a flurry of knocks on the door and, before Reginald could allow whoever it was to enter, one of the castle's butlers opened the door, looking slightly flustered.

“Apologies Your Majesty, we have tried to stop her but-” The butler was pushed out of the way by a young woman who rushed into the room, staring at Reginald with a fiery gaze and pointing at him furiously. “What have you done!?”

Reginald was silent, staring at the irate woman the way a father would disapprovingly look at his child. The Elector-Margrave and the First Minister didn't need to be told; they rose from their seats and walked hurriedly to the door, the butler letting them out before closing the door himself, leaving the King and his daughter, Princess Roseanna, to their argument.

“Roseanna, I was having an important briefing on our military opti-” Reginald was about to explain, only to be cut off by the anger welling up inside his daughter.

“You shot them! You killed them just for speaking their minds and then you dragged whoever was left off to imprisonment! Do you know how hard I am working to turn them to our side, despite everything you put them through!?”

Reginald knew he wouldn't be able to stop her, so he prepared himself for Roseanna's verbal onslaught.

“They put some holes in your walls and they screamed out curse words because you're strangling them! You're suffocating them with your laws and your rules! They see everything else the other nations of Meridia have to offer and they want the same! But you... you won't give it to them, not for what they did to grandfather.”

The King nodded slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on his daughter. “You know my reasons for treating them as I do better than anyone else, Roseanna. Better than Ivan, better than Tavish, even better than the Elector-Margrave and Alexander. What I do is for the good of our nation and our family.”

The Princess smiled briefly and sarcastically, rubbing her forehead. “Good? Good!? You're taking us to war! And why? Because you're too proud to stop, because you've twisted and warped Alexander into King Reginald the Third, because you're so disappointed in Ivan that the only reason you let him buy up all those businesses in Port Prince is to keep him as far away from yourself and your crown as possible!”

Reginald, feeling his temper fray, rose from the sofa and stared his daughter down, before asking her the one question he always resorts to when this happens. “What is more important? The people, or our family?”

Roseanna stopped, her expression softening ever so slightly as she took large breaths in and out, thinking on her answer before sighing loudly and looking down at the floor. “Our family.”

“You may help the people, Roseanna. You may aid them with your charity and your kindness, that is your decision and I will not stop you from doing it. But the reason I shun Ivan, the reason I mentor Alexander, it's all to ensure our family lives on and that our strength is protected. And it is times like these my dear, that the strength I strive to protect and preserve, will prevail over all of our enemies.”

by **Murovanka** » Wed Dec 10, 2014 5:31 am

“The People’s Republic of Murovanka would like to condemn the pointless, barbaric and unprovoked aggression toward the Aemen Kingdom by the New Sylvan Republic, and hope for the sake of peace that they reconsider their decision and withdraw their declaration of war.”

- Heinrich von Preisen, Wankischer Aussenminister

Meridian Pact Joint Command Center Wanka
Kronstadt
1430 hours Wankan Time

Near a table filled with maps filled with all sorts of markings, Generalfeldmarschall Gotthard Skorzeny, commander of the Fallshirmjägerkorps (Paratroop Corps) spoke agitatedly with the first female leader of the nation, Ulrike Meinhof.

“The declaration of war has gone out, nothing will hold them back now. We have nothing to lose by going forward with Unternehmen Hagelsturm (Operation Hailstorm). If we are to maintain tactical surprise we must strike now. The Wyrnsturm navy officers have confirmed that they will be supporting the assault with their navy along with the Seestreitkräfte.”

“I suppose we have no choice in the matter. What’s the plan?”

“The required troops have already assembled at their starting points and the warships of the Seestreitkräfte are moving into position. We will commence the operation immediately after your go-ahead.”

“You expected no resistance from me, huh?” interrupted Meinhof. The General just smiled, and continued as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Intelligence shows us that the Sylvans have probably a regiment-sized force, no more than two thousand troops, on the island. Several destroyers are also stationed, along with a small insignificant aircraft contingent. The plan is simple. We will have Luftstreitkräfte aircraft first destroy the air defenses, primarily the radars, and any Sylvan Air Force aircraft which make it into the air. At the same time, the Wyrnsturm Navy and the Seestreitkräfte will blockade the island and destroy the docked destroyers. Once air superiority has been secured, we will begin airdropping the First, Second and Third Fallshirmjäger Divisions (Paratroops). The First will land here, the Second and Third will land roughly here. The First is tasked with capturing a nearby port and airfield, while the Second and Third are to take towns, military installations and other strategic objectives. Once the airfield is captured, we airlift heavy weaponry and vehicles of the 19th Panzergrenadierdivision to support the assault. Our estimates is that the island will fall, provided that the weather suits the operation, within 5 days, at most a week.”

“Also gut, Herr Generalfeldmarschall. Commence Unternehmen Hagelsturm.”

Helma Luftstreitkräfte Basis H312
16 hours Wankan Time

The roar of jet engines filled the air as the first flight of I./JB 58’s ZiG-23s rose into the air. Soon after, they were accompanied by II./JB 58 and III./JB 58, all of which were armed with two Alamos anti-radiation missiles, two Archer air-to-airs and two air-to-ground missiles. Placed on standby on one of the wings two airfields was the final squadron of Jäger-Bomber Geschwader 58, with the same loadout. The three squadrons assembled, and flew in formation toward Grisham island, using their radars to listen in to enemy search radars. Their mission was simple- to eliminate every single radar that was detected, at any cost. They had to have complete air superiority over Grisham Isle to be able to carry out the Fallshirmjäger assault.

Leading the way ahead were thirty-two ZiG-29s of 3. Jagdgeschwader flying their combat air patrol aggressively, constantly intruding into Grisham Isles airspace in an attempt to provoke any Sylvan Air Force aircraft to get up and attack them. Eight tanker aircraft were also in the air, in case any jet needed to refuel. Several more Luftstreitkräfte wings were placed on standby, ready to lift off and support the jets over Grisham. At the same time, 30,000 shivering paratroopers, all professional soldiers with the highest level of readiness amongst the Landstreitkräfte (Ground Forces) were forced to wait in the airports, next to the transport aircraft they were soon to jump off from, once given the appropriate signal from the Luftstreitkräfte.

It would also be the first time the Seestreitkräfte (Navy) was to see action against a hostile enemy. 1. Zerstörergeschwader, containing the nations four only Hamburg-class destroyers, along with the 3. and 4. Fregattengeschwader, containing 12 Bremen-class frigates formed the primary bulk of the participating Wankan warships, accompanied by dozens of corvettes and patrol boats with their puny 76mm guns. Their role was to assist in the destruction of the Sylvan destroyers, and then to assist the better-equipped Wyrnsturm navy in the bombardment of coastal fortifications and defenses.

~30 kilometers from Aemen-Sylvan Front
Aemen
451 Infanterieregiment, 45. Panzergrenadierdivision

It just happened to be so that the 45. Panzergrenadier had been on a training exercise in the Murovankan countryside when the order for mobilization had gone up; therefore, of all Landstreitkräfte divisions, 45. Pzgr. was in the highest readiness state. Which was why the unit, consisting of mostly active troops, was sent to the looming crisis area first. The 8. Armee’s 13th Artilleriedivision, with its hundreds of 155mm artillery pieces and rockets, had just begun to filter in to Greerton, where they would remain. The 8th’s three infantry divisions, comprising entirely of reservists and Volkssturm, were undergoing some last-minute training as they waited for space on the nations now-chaotic railway system.

Gefreiter Johann Schultz stared absent-mindedly out of the train window, staring at Aemens mountainous countryside. He was 25, old enough to remember the horrors of the civil war which shook the nation a decade earlier. Life, he reflected, could really be cruel. Had the Wankans not suffered enough? Still, a decade of peace was nearly unheard of in the past century, and for that, and just like his entire family, he was grateful to Ulrike Meinhof and the wealth and prosperity she had brought into the nation. Next to him, also staring out of the window, was a good friend of his, Obergefreiter Albrecht Janssen. Absent-mindedly, Janssen started humming a tune. Almost unconsciously, Schultz joined in.

”Und das heisst… Ee-rika. Heiss, von hunderttausend kleinen Bienelein…”

Memories flooded into Schultz head. When did he learn the song? At 15, when his father had brought him to one of Meinhof’s secret military training camps. Where he first learned how to shoot, how to fight, how to kill…

One by one, the troops in the cabin, men (and women) of the B Kompanie, 452 Infanterieregiment, joined in spontaneously, their boots stamping the rhythm on the ground. The cabin vibrated as the officers joined in, the military song spreading to other cabins as more and more joined in. Within minutes, the grim atmosphere had vanished…

”Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein
und das heißt: Erika.
Heiß von hunderttausend kleinen Bienelein
wird umschwärmt Erika
denn ihr Herz ist voller Süßigkeit,
zarter Duft entströmt dem Blütenkleid.
Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein
und das heißt: Erika.

In der Heimat wohnt ein kleines Mägdelein
und das heißt: Erika.
Dieses Mädel ist mein treues Schätzelein
und mein Glück, Erika.
Wenn das Heidekraut rot-lila blüht,
singe ich zum Gruß ihr dieses Lied.
Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein
und das heißt: Erika.

In mein'm Kämmerlein blüht auch ein Blümelein
und das heißt: Erika.
Schon beim Morgengrau'n sowie beim Dämmerschein
schaut's mich an, Erika.
Und dann ist es mir, als spräch' es laut:
"Denkst du auch an deine kleine Braut?"
In der Heimat weint um dich ein Mägdelein
und das heißt: Erika.”

by **Erquin** » Wed Dec 10, 2014 5:50 am

ENS Hammerhead,Aemenian Coast
Capital segment of the fleet
5:45PM Local Time, 67 degrees Fahrenheit

The planes pass by in a flurry, going through masses after masses of fiery embers, while losing missiles off their tails. I watched from my place on the ENS Hammerhead super carrier, and even though we were almost a kilometer away with the Gargantua guarding us from fatal attack, I could see the TBH-2's, 3's, and 8's fighting valiantly against the Aemenian Air Force. I was watching all of this on the under deck, on the edges of the ship, under the strip. We had launched all of our aircraft, a large amount of 98 fixed wing aircraft and helicopters. With that, we stayed there to act as resupply, already having a link to the floating warehouse that is of RU-341, with supply cables (Carts ride along the cables up and down in a zipline like fashion). Apart from that, I got back to my work, which was simply bringing a cart of ammunition to an AAA emplacement on the upper deck after it found an intruder attempting to score a shot at the command bridge. I quickly got onto the deck, and my steel toed boots clacked against the 1 inch of asphalt, while my red overalls raffled around as I ran to it. I took out one case of ammunition, and almost instantly, a "handy helper", some assistance guys who know a bit of everything and help around the strip, ran over to me in his purple overalls. We didn't talk, but merely loaded the remote operated turret with 2 cases of 30mm rounds. He runs off to across the airstrip, and I go back to the ammunition bay. In the distance, a tower of orange and black go up where the city's oil refinery lies (They probably have oil in the sea). I keep running down, while my PDA tells me that I am requested to be ready on the airstrip for the rearming and refueling of at least 5 TBH-3's, light precise attack aircraft. I start sprinting with my cart to return it to the munition's bay, and as I do, I hear a distant boom in the direction of the city, a more distinct, precise, cannon like boom. I return to the munitions bay, and I run out for a distinct whistling to pierce my ears, prompting me to put on my ear phones at an almost light speed fashion. But it was not an aircraft.

A large explosion rocked the ship as a 155mm shell, presumably from a light cruiser of the Aemenian Coast Guard, and it blew a hole in the runway. Alarms and red lights went off, and I ran to find the crater red hot, smoking up. Then, I saw the culprit, a light cruiser that had come in range of a few thousand meters from us, using its main gun as a mortar to disable our runway. Immediately, the Gargantua opened fire with its rapid fire naval 75mm gun, while it prepped its missile farm to start launching towards the city and partly onto any approaching visitors. I ran to cover, and saw the fight between the smaller light cruiser and the larger ENS missile cruiser. The Aemenian fires a 155 shell, in the matter of being like a low velocity mortar, just to hit the missile farm, but its shell is caught in the air by fast CIWS. However, the gun on the Aemenian fires again, not like a mortar but merely like a real naval gun, and punches a hole in the Gargantua's superstructure. However, the 75mm on the Gargantua opens fire again in a soprano of fire, and decapitates the 155mm completely. By then, the lighter cousin of the Gargantua is retreating, but he is killed when a TBH-2 comes in for rearm with only one torpedo left (Some of these multi-role's were purposed as anti coast guard aircraft), and the plane runs its torpedo into the magazine, the large payload destroying a section of the hull. Soon enough, Im ordered by my PDA to change my overall's to a mixture of black and grey, and to help the damage control group patch up the runway.

by **Nova Sylva** » Wed Dec 10, 2014 7:38 am

NSR First Maneuver Group
Near Ulbrecht, The Kingdom of Aemen
1400 Hours Sylvan Western Time (UCT+2)

Fredrick Braun spent the first three days of Operation: Honest Hearts in a traffic jam.

Fredrick and his friend Daniel Salvatori were part of a medical unit attached to the Twenty Ninth Armored Division. They saw no action as they passed through the northeastern most part of Aemen, in a region covered in thickly wooded and rocky hills. They were in the Cloysteric Highlands or maybe the lower forests of the Peck Mountains, they reckoned. They traveled on narrow roads, many not even paved, where a broken down vehicle could cause a fifty-mile tailback in no time. The winter rains were beginning to fall as well, making the NSR’s progress all the slower. They were stationary, stuck in queues, more than they were moving. It was nothing short of a miracle they hadn’t been blown to pieces by enemy ground-attack aircraft, but Braun guessed they had the Sylvan Air Force to thank for that.

Daniel’s freckled face was set in a grimace of anxiety, and he muttered to Fredrick in a voice no one else could hear: “This is stupid!”

“Maybe,” Fredrick replied. “But I’m sure our commanders have a good reason for sending us down this godforsaken trail. I hope.”

When they did move, it was painfully uncomfortable. They sat on the hard floor of an army truck as it bounced over tree roots and swerved around potholes. Fredrick longed for battle just so they could get out of the damn truck.

Daniel said louder: “Why are we here?!”

Their boss, Dr. Mason Mansfield, was sitting on a real seat beside the driver. “We are following orders,” he said. He said it straight faced, but the frustration was clear in his voice as well. Mansfield always spoke this way about the military – he had been drafted, as a surgeon, during the Second Sylvan War. His hospital and home had been flattened during the Battle of Chandler, and so the man had decided to stay in the military. That being said, he didn’t necessarily enjoy his work. But Mansfield needed the Army, and the Army needed Mansfield.

There were two other medical orderlies in the truck, both older than Daniel and Fredrick. One of them, Christopher, had a better answer to Daniel’s question. “Perhaps the Aemenians aren’t expecting us to attack here, because the terrain is so difficult.”

His friend David chimed in. “Yeah! We’ll have the advantage of surprise, and encounter light resistance.”

Mansfield, annoyed, turned to face his orderlies: “Thanks for the lesson in tactics, you two – most enlightening.” But he did not say they were wrong.

Fredrick and Daniel had wanted to join infantry units. Their idea of battle was to run at the enemy firing a rifle, and kill or be killed for the Republic and all it stood for. But they were not going to be killing anyone. Both had two years of medical school, and such training was not to be wasted; so they were made medical orderlies.

The fourth day in Aemen was like the first three until the afternoon. Above the roar and snarl of hundreds of tank and truck engines, they began to hear another, louder sound. Aircraft were flying low over their heads, and not too far away, dropping their ordinance on someone. Fredrick’s noise twitched with the smell of high explosives and napalm.

They stopped for their mid-afternoon break on high ground overlooking a meandering river valley. Mansfield said they were about to cross one of the Pananglo River’s many tributaries, and the small city across it was called Ulbrecht. So this was Aemen. The planes of the Sylvan Air Force roared overhead, one after another, bombing the many small villages on the far side of the river, where, presumably, there were Aemenian defensive positions. Smoke rose from countless fires among the many ruined buildings. The barrage was relentless, and Fredrick almost felt pity for anyone caught in the inferno.

This was the first action the young man had ever seen. Before long he would be in it, and perhaps some young Aemenian soldier would look from a safe vantage point and feel sorry for the Sylvans being maimed and killed. The thought made his heart beat like a drum from excitement.

Looking to the southwest, where the details of the landscape were obscured by distance, he could nonetheless see aircraft like specks, and columns of smoke rising through the air, and realized this battle had been joined along several miles of the river as the entirety of the Sylvan First Maneuver Group – three hundred thousand men strong - attempted to cross it.

As he watched, the air bombardment came to an end, the planes turning and heading back north, waggling their wings as if to say “Good luck,” as they passed overhead. Nearer to where Fredrick stood, on the flat plain leading to the river, the Sylvan tanks were going into action. They were two miles from the enemy, but already the Aemenian artillery was shelling them from the town. Fredrick was surprised so many of the enemy gunners survived the air bombardment. But momentary bursts of fire flashed in the ruins, the boom of cannon echoed across the rolling hills, and fountains of soil sprouted up where the shells landed. He saw a tank explode with a direct hit, smoke and metal and body parts spewing out of the volcano’s mouth, and he felt sick.

But the Aemenian shelling did not stop the advance. The tanks crawled on relentlessly toward a stretch of river a bit east of the town. Behind them, infantry followed in trucks, APCs, and on foot.

Daniel, watching the battle, remarked, “The air attack wasn’t enough. Where’s our artillery? We need them to take out the big guns in the town, and give our tanks and infantry a chance to cross the river and secure a bridgehead.”

Fredrick wanted to punch him to shut his wining mouth. They were about to go into action – they had to be positive now!

But Mansfield replied. “Your right, Salvatori. But our artillery ammunition is gridlocked in the forest. We’ve only got forty-eight shells.”

A red faced major came running past. “Move out! Move out!”

Mansfield pointed to a nearby farmhouse. “We’ll set up our medical station over there.” Fredrick could see the low gray roof about a hundred yards from the river. “All right, get moving!”

They jumped back in the truck and roared down the hill. When they reached level ground they swerved left onto the small path leading up to the house. Fredrick wondered what had become of the family who’s home was being requisitioned as an army hospital. Throw them out of their home, he guessed, and shoot them if they made trouble. But where would they go? They were, after all, in the middle of a battlefield. He need not have worried : they had already left, presumably fleeing before the war had begun. News reports had said as much – northern Aemen had, for the most part, been evacuated in preparation for the conflict. But in defending their citizens, the Aemenians were now presented with a crippling logistical problem - millions of hungry and homeless refugees.

The building was half a mile from the worst of the fighting, Fredrick observed. He guessed their was no point setting up a dressing station within the range of the enemy guns. “Stretcher bearers, get going,” Mansfield shouted. “By the time you get back, we’ll be ready.”

Fredrick and Daniel too a rolled up stretcher and first aid kit from the medical supply truck and headed towards the battle. Christopher and David were just ahead of them, and a dozen of their comrades followed. This is it, Fredrick thought. This is our chance to be heroes. Who would keep his nerve under fire, and who would lose control, and crawl away to hide?

They ran across the fields to the river. It was a long jog, and it was going to be longer on the way back, carrying a wounded man. They passed burned out tanks with no survivors. Fredrick averted his eyes from the scorched remains of human flesh smeared across the twisted metal. Shells fell around them, but not many – the bulk of the enemy artillery was focused on preventing the Twenty Ninth from crossing the river. All the same, it was the first time Braun had ever been shot at.

Then a shell landed right in front of them.

There was a terrific thud, and the earth shook as if God himself had stomped his foot. Christopher and David were hit directly, and Braun grimaced as he watched their bodies fly up in the air, as if weightless. The blast threw Fredrick off his feet and on his back. As he lay on the ground, faceup, he was showered with hot dirt from the explosion, but unhurt. Right in front of him were the mangled bodies of Christopher and David. Christopher lay like a broken doll, as if all his limbs were disjointed. David’s head had somehow been severed from his body and lay next to his booted feet.

Fredrick was paralyzed with horror. In med school he had never had to deal with broken bodies such as these. He was used to corpses in anatomy class – they had one between two students, and him and Daniel had shared the cadaver of a shriveled old woman – and he had watched living people being cut open on the operating table, but nothing prepared him for this.

He wanted nothing but to run away.

He turned around. His mind was blank of every thought but fear. He started to walk back the way they had came, as foot-soldiers continued to rush by, ignoring the stunned medic. Salvatori saved him. “Where are you going? Don’t be a fool!” Braun tried to walk past him, but was stopped by a heavy punch to the stomach. Fredrick fell to his knees.

“Don’t run away!” Daniel pleaded, for his sake as well as Fredrick’s. “You’ll be shot for desertion! Pull yourself together, man!”

Fredrick took a deep breath and his senses returned to him. Daniel was right. He couldn’t run. Well, he could, but he wouldn’t. He had a job to do, and people counting on him to do it. His willpower slowly overcame his terror, and got to his feet. “Sorry,” he said. “I panicked. I’m good now.”

“Then pick up the goddamn stretcher,” Salvatori said, wiping his brow of the dirt and soot. “And let’s go.”

Fredrick did as he was told, balancing it on one shoulder, turned around, and continued onwards. Closer to the river, they found themselves surrounded by infantry. Some were manhandling inflatable rubber dinghies out of the back of trucks and going to the cold water’s edge, while the tanks tried to cover them by shelling Ulbrecht’s defenses. But it was a loosing battle – the Aemenians were inside buildings and behind walls, while the Sylvans were exposed on the far side of the river. Upstream, the river turned right a ways, so they couldn’t simply relocate the bridgehead without retreating a long ways. There were already scores of dead and dying on the ground, as well as a dozen destroyed vehicles.

“Let’s get this one,” Daniel said, taking charge and loading the wounded man on the stretcher. Fredrick gave him some water from his canteen. The man had many superficial wounds on his chest, and one limp arm. He had been hit from shrapnel, most likely from the damned artillery, but he would live. Luckily, his vital areas seemed to be unscathed.

“What’s your name, soldier?” Braun asked, as Salvatori applied quick field dressings.

“Pri-private McCord. Private Henry McCord!”

“Private, your going to be alright. We’re going to take you back to the medical station.”

McCord cried out in pain as they ran back towards the dressing station. Carrying a man on a stretcher was not as easy as it might seem. Braun thought his arms would fall off when they were only halfway. But he could see that their patient was in far greater pain, so he ignored his grievance and pressed onwards.

At last the two reached the farmhouse and dropped their burden. Mansfield had organized the place, the rooms cleared of furniture, places marked on the floor for patients, and the kitchen table ready for operations. He showed his two orderlies where to set the patient and sent them back for another.

Shells were no longer targeting the Sylvan’s rear, thankfully. The Aemenians were concentrating all their fire on the riverbank, where the Sylvans had deployed a bridgelayer and was trying to deploy troops to the far side. Then the important piece of machinery took an artillery hit, and collapsed into the tributary, to the despondency of the NSR forces involved. The battle was going badly. He noted with trepidation the several deflated vessels in the river, and the bodies being carried by the swift current, joined by the remains of the bridgelayer.

“This is a disaster,” Salvatori said. “We should have waited for our artillery!” His voice was shrill.

Braun straightened up. “We would have lost the element of surprise, and then the Aemenians would have had time to bring up reinforcements. And that whole treck through the Highlands would have been for nothing!”

“Well, this isn’t working,” Salvatori said. Deep in his heart Braun wondered if the plan really was a failure, and if Sylva’s latest offensive would be it’s last. Luckily their was no more time for reflection as they approached the river once more. They stopped beside a screaming man who had a leg blown off, who had been silenced only with a motherload of painkillers.

He couldn’t help thinking, though. He had expected a walkover victory, like in the October War, from these Aemenians, especially with their crossing of the Cloysteric Highlands. But Aemen was not Erquin, and this wasn’t the Northern Collectives. Even so, the defenses here were light – the enemy was just fighting much harder than expected. Then he noticed his patient’s eyes were closed.

Dr. Mansfield felt for a pulse as they returned to the now-crowded hospital. “Put him in the barn – and for fuck’s sake don’t waste my time bringing me corpses!”

Fredrick could have cried with frustration, and with the pain in his arms, which was beginning to afflict his legs, too. They put the body in the barn, and saw that there were already a dozen dead men there, and the flies were already swirling around the stench of burned flesh and dried blood.

They went again back to the river.

The sun was low in the sky now, and the silhouettes of passing fighter planes could be seen more clearly. Ulbrecht was being shelled from farther downstream, where the Twenty Seventh Armored Division was crossing. Evidently they had not lost their artillery in the forest. With Ulbrecht’s defenders caught trying to defend from two sides, as well as a renewed Sylvan Air Force presence in the area, the Twenty Ninth had been able to establish a bridgehead. Fredrick noted with glee friendly troops on the far side of the river, pushing forwards towards the besieged town. But the casualties were immense. He guessed by a quick glance at least three hundred bodies strewn about the battlefield, alongside dozens of burning or disabled vehicles.

By the time Braun and Salvatori reached the river once more, the fighting was drawing to a close. The two pincers of Sylvan formations had forced the remainder of Ulbrecht’s defenders to retreat, or risk encirclement. The few that had stayed behind, defiant, had finally surrendered, realizing the hopelessness in continuing the fight. The twenty divisions of the NSR First Maneuver Group had broken through the first line of Aemenian defenses, and crossed the river. Ulbrecht had been reduced to rubble, pounded continually by artillery and air strikes, but they had won. The battle, at least.

“Look, over there,” Salvatori said, pointing.

The highest point left in the city, the ruins of a church steeple. But through the thin clouds of smoke, he could make out the NSR flag, in all it’s beauty. The inverted equilibrium, in it’s bright cerulean, offset against a grey background.

“So we’ve taken it! We’ve won!”

“The battle, yes,” Salvatori said. “But the war is a different story entirely.”

by **Wyrnsturm** » Wed Dec 10, 2014 9:20 am

((Okay guys, so a new law has been passed by the Empire of Wyrnsturm to encrypt their messages and to promote nationalism, the people of the empire are allowed to only speak Wilken gaelic to each other and english to foreigners, Wilken gaelic dialog will be in green.))

Foraitheanta impiriúil Nua (New Imperial Decree)

Impiriúil Tuarascálacha # 58,804 scríofa ag Daoine Impiriúil ar Eolais Riaracháin

Attention to all proud Wilken men,

Our Great Emperor have decrees that from now on, we will only speak, write and read in the Wilken Gaelic a language that all Wilkenmen would have known since birth next to English and Mandarin.

Non-Wilken Gaelic language can only be spoken under the permission of an commissioner, commissar, internal defense officer and the higher imperial administration including the Great Emperor himself.

Gold-tier citizens who fails to abide by this decree shall be punished by four months imprisonment.

Red-tier citizens who fails to abide by this decree shall be punished by two and a half months imprisonment and deduction of commission.

Royalties who fails to abide by this decree shall be personally punished by the Great Emperor himself.

Wilkenmen civilian who can't speak in Wilken gaelic shall be sent to exile except for those of the royalties.

Soldiers who fails to abide by this decree shall be punished by their regimental commissar accordingly.

Unity, Strength and Faith in the Emperor and our Gods!

Coinscríobh Stop (Conscription Halted)

Impiriúil Tuarascálacha # 58,805 scríofa ag Daoine Impiriúil ar Eolais Riaracháin

Attention to all proud Wilken men,

The Great Emperor and the Imperial Military Administration is satisfied with the amount of brave men willing to fight and die in the name of the empire. However he regrets to inform you that the glorious opportunity to be the empire's hero has ended to conserve supplies and also to maintain industrial productivity within the empire.

Fortunately, the Imperial Economic Administrative offers another path of heroism for the empire, to work at least 10 hours per day in the factories that will serve the empire as meaningful as the fusiliers.

Conscription will once again be enforced once the Imperial Military Administration sees fit and the maximum age lowered to 38.

Unity, Strength and Faith in the Emperor and our Gods!

Unspecified
Isle Bendulf, Wyrnsturm Empire
1300 Hour Local Time

It was a beautiful afternoon in Wyrnsturm, the sun shines brightly upon the lush forest of pines and oaks with several pointy roofs of several buildings shooting outward and higher than the trees, decorated with imperial banners and flags to remind the wilds of the imperial glory. Birds, doves and Wyrns can be seen lurking around minding their natural businesses when suddenly the sound of gunshots were heard, chasing the wildlife back to their burrows and nests.

Following the source of the echo to a large hidden field within the woods surrounded by man made hills with several military trucks and cars being parked within it, High Commissar Heldus can be seen sipping quietly on a cup of tea while sitting comfortably on a fancy red folding chair still accompanied by his secretary and sub-overseer, in front of him with reasonable distance is a long shallow trench filled with lines of corpses covered with gunshot wounds, above the trench is a line of Fusiliers that is responsible for the death of those people. They are reloading their Mk-7 Semi-automatic rifles slowly with guilt hidden behind their Caspian gasmasks.

"[color=#80BF00]Next." Heldus muttered before taking another sip. Following the high commissar's order, a few assigned field medics leads the next batch of political liberal protesters arrested all over Wyrnsturm to the front of the trench before ordering them to face the fusiliers.

A few sobbing and whimpers could be heard from the lines of protesters being led to their unspoken execution, some even break down and cried loudly, begging for mercy and forgiveness only to either be forcefully dragged along to the line or given a swift death by a nearby commissar with their pistol. Though despite that, many of the protesters just remain quiet and face their executions bravely, staring either at their feet or gaze into the eyes of their executioners.

"Present arms!" shouted Heldus, folding his legs and putting his tea away.

The fusiliers present their rifles with the muzzle facing towards their victims.

"Aim!" Heldus shouted again, the fusiliers raises their rifles and aim down their iron sights.

However, sadistic Heldus wishes to prolong their fear and anticipation by standing up and slowly walking along the line of fusiliers while mockingly holding down the first alphabet of his command, "Ffffffffffffffffffffffff.............."

After a minute and a half, he looked at the last protester in the row and smirked before finally muttering, "Fire.". The high commissar didn't even flinch at the sound of gunfire a few meters away from him as the fusiliers mercilessly gun down the last batch of protesters for the day and sending their bullet shredded corpses to fall backward and into the trench to join the rest of the corpses. A formation of bulldozers enters the killing field armed with soils in their blade, making their way to cover the trench, erasing the name of the protesters forever.

The High Commissar chuckles, "That should teach them to never try and speak against our mighty Great Emperor.". Ruthless executions as such happens as a monthly basis within the empire though the worst part of it is that it is carried out secretly and those being murdered would be buried in killing field as the one the high commissar is in, leaving many unmarked mass graves all across Wyrnsturm.

"Our job here is done for today, lads. Never forget, you are punishing those who defies our Great Emperor and should be proud of it!" the High Commissar lectures the fusiliers that had just carried out the execution. "Glory to the Great Emperor, now return to your post.", he waved them off before walking to his blimp parked within the killing field.

His secretary rushes towards him with a folder in her hand, "High Commissar! High Commissar!" she panted slightly as Heldus stops to look at her. "I beg you for a moment, my High Commissar. But orders from the Imperial Military Administration, you will be assigned to the 13th Wilkenbrough Fusiliers Regiment that will depart to help reinforce Aeman along with the 24th Regiment by tomorrow."

"What? I am a High Commissar, I am not supposed to do dirty works in the front line!" He growled before snatching the folder from the secretary and flips through it himself and frowns later on. He sighs for a moment as his sub-overseer approaches him and asks, "Something wrong, High Commissar Heldus?"

Heldus ponders for a moment before shaking his head no. "Prepare my baggage and a few Maxwell Heavy Pistols. I will be departing to Aeman by tomorrow night." he ordered all of his nearby staffs before retreating into his blimp.\

150km off the coasts of Isle Grisham
11th Imperial Wyrnstian Fleet, Crimson Sea
1500 Wankan-Wyrnsturm Local Time

The 11th Imperial Wyrnstian Fleet received the honor to help reinforce Aemen's naval defense and also specially tasked to administrate Wyrnsturm naval supremacy in the Crimson Sea. The fleet consists of 8 Egnar Class Frigates, 2 Siren Class Battleships, 4 Leaper Class Amphibious Assault Cruisers and one Leviathan Class Battleship to serve as the fleet's capital ship; the IWV-Kazakov captained by Lord Admiral Retznov Trakovitch born in Vettya of Wyrnsturm.

Today however, the Imperial Naval Administrative issues new order for the 11th Imperial Wyrnstian Fleet which is to assist the Wanka's assault on Grisham Isle. The tides from the ocean tilts the fleet front and back, left and right, though with elite experience from anti-piracy operations, most of the Wyrnstian 11th fleet crewmen remains immune to seasickness.

Standing in the operation deck of the capital ship, the Lord Admiral stares into the radar screen from the shoulder of one of his crewman, looking at the UAV scan that they had just launched earlier, making sure that no patrols sees them sneaking into the waters of the Grisham Isle. A crewman descends to the deck and approaches the Lord Admiral before offering him a sharp salute and reporting, "Lord Admiral Trakovitch! This chief petty officer wishes to report that the scout team have confirmed that no Sylvian Republican naval patrol is around from the latest UAV scan report and that all of their destroyers are idle and mostly unmanned, my Lord Admiral."

The Lord Admiral facial expressions did not change a single muscle even. He then turns to look at his crewmen whom stares back at him quietly and nervously, sharing his anxiousness. He stroke his grey beard as he ponders for a moment before speaking into the fleet wide intercom. "11th Fleet Fire Controls, initiate the assault."

Without any objection or hesitation, the crewmen quickly swivel their chairs around, turning back to their computers and keying in several commands and locking into the lines of idle blips on their radar map.

"Dragonhead Cruise missiles is ready, Lord Admiral." the chief petty officer reported and each captains of each frigates in the fleet begins to report the readiness of their ordnance through the intercom.

The lord admiral walks out of the deck and climbs up the observation deck accompanied by his chief petty officer, looking out into the horizon with the isle vividly visible from their sight. He stands firm and fold his hands behind his lower back before looking over to his chief petty officer who is nearby an intercom and mutters, "Fire."

"Fire!" the chief petty officer's voice crackles through the intercom and within seconds. Missiles after missiles rockets out of their launcher pods filling the sky with the sparks and trails from their jet propellant. Moments later, a few explosions sparked on a specific part of Grisham Isle visible from the observation deck of IMV-Kazakov at the 11th fleet.

Looking back down at the operation deck, the UAV radar map shows the the line of idle blips fading away. One could wonder how much havoc have they unleashed upon those docked idle ships of the NSR navy.

by **Northern Collectives** » Wed Dec 10, 2014 5:27 pm

Staging Ground, Five Miles South East of Vayne

There was snow falling as the infantry stood in ordered ranks, their right shoulder bearing an iron pate marked with the emblem of the Fifteenth Vayne Rifles, better known as the “Crimson Blades”. They were considered an elite section of the Rifles, much like a US Ranger, although heavy infantry. Their bayonets and blades of choice all were a stainless steel made into the color of human blood. They were in teams of five, farther into squads of ten, then platoons of forty with an accompaniment of five Platoon Commanders, who were commonly Veteran Sergeants or NCOs, followed by companies of two platoons with a Company Command Squad, commonly under the command of Lieutenants, or a Captain. Battalions consisted of three companies totaling three hundred men or women commanded by a Veteran Captain, who stand where a Major normally would, and a regiment consisted of four to eight battalions, depending on the number of volunteers from a Founding of a regiment from a city, varying regiment size from 1,200 to 2,400. Each regiment was commanded by Colonel and two to four subordinate officers of his or her choosing, promoting them to Commandants.

The Fifteenth were notable for their large number of female recruits. The Northern Collectives had always seen men and women on equal terms, accepting both into their militaries, but commonly women joined politics over the military, and so there had never been a large percentage of females in the army, but now forty, to forty five percent of the military was made up of women-at-arms.

The commanding officer of the Third Company of the Vayne Rifles was Captain Azandrix Vladek. He had black hair cut severely short, with piercing blue eyes. He always look like was assessing, analyzing, and most of all calculating. He was hard to read, but he was kind and generous off the battle field, intimidating and commanding on. He was charismatic and caring, and knew every one of his soldiers by name, and the soldiers knew they could go to him when they needed assistance. Vladek could read a situation before people had regained their senses, and during the Uprising it had earned him a leadership position in Khaine and Demorta’s counter-rebellion.

The four others in his command staff were Trooper(Replaces a private) Venessa Cora, Veteran Sergeant Christopher Zalin(Who had a pathetic beard), Trooper Ulrich Mevon, and Corporal Ashe Ursa. They were dependable, and he had been serving with most of them since the beginning of his fighting for Alexandra. The rank he sought after was Veteran, which was the equal of a General among the elite divisions of the military, but he doubted he would ever get it.

They had been the second forces mobilized for front-line battle by the Dynasty, second to the Third Iron Warriors, commanded by Colonel Kylie Cerosa.

The Colonel was making his rounds about the squads and companies of his regiment, the Veteran Captain already having made hers. The Colonel was a career soldier, who led by example, unlike several notorious commanders who seemed more like Commissars or Tyrants to their men and women. The Colonel’s father had served with the Erquin forces as a Sergeant in the small number of soldiers that were allowed by the puppet government. The Colonel was Derrick Almaza.

Almaza had a scruffy beard and a scar that ran across the bottom of his throat up to his forehead from a close call with shrapnel. He was a powerful man, tall and built like a bull, he was loved by his soldiers. He had shown his valor to his soldiers more than anyone could tell.

“Present!” He ordered. The Third Company raised their weapon at a ninety degree angle in marching fashion. “Team arrangement!” The company broke into the five man fire-teams led by a corporal. “Good. Well disciplined!” He yelled. He could not see the smiles on the faces of his soldiers behind the snarling visages of their helmets.

He walked to a microphone and paused. “At ease!” He yelled. His Commandants were liked bodyguards to the commander as he stared at the metal faces as if he could pierce the iron, ad no one doubted he could, his grey eyes seemingly able to read anyone.

“I will not pretend this task will be easy.” He began, his voice echoing across the steppes, seeming to resonate off of the fifty four modern halftracks that sat in idle waiting for their cargo of soldiers and weapons, with their new Collective made weapons.

“We have all seen the demons that come from fanatics, all seen the flames of imperialism burn cities like Agnaros, the ruins of which are only a mile and a half to your west. If the Mozrians invade us, let them know your hatred of imperials, let them know the blood lust you have contained these many months. We stand on the brink of a new era, one that threatens to be eclipsed by the hellish fires of an Imperialist regime.” The soldiers hung on his every word.

“We are honorable men and women. All of us. We defend the innocent, and protect our friends and family with undying passion. We stand resolute, and defiant of all those who would seek to take our great lands away from us. We are a people built upon the Frozen lands of the North, upon the snow and ice of the Northern Collectives. We NorthCol are few in number, but we will be remembered, even if we die where we stand, even if we fall, we will earn our place in history. The victor decides what is written, and by God we will make sure that is we are overrun that the enemy will know us by the blood we split of their country.” He paused, his face grim after his last words.

“If we show them the valor I know each of us carries, I know they will fear us. We will show them our wrath and our determination, and the run back to their homes with a tail between their legs. We will earn our place in the halls of glory, and earn our place with our ancestors. For honor and glory, may Saint Joan and Saint Michael be with us! Mount up! We move!”

The regiment moved for the Halftracks, and for the NorthCol-Mozrian border.

I hope everything looks good.

by **Murovanka** » Thu Dec 11, 2014 7:00 am

”Unternehmen Hagelsturm”
Above Grisham Isle
1700 hours Wankan Time
I./JG 3, II./JG 3

Things went badly right from the beginning. The Murovankans had managed to surprise their enemy; however, unluckily for them, the enemy certainly wasn’t sleeping. A furious air battle erupted as the Luftstreitkräfte’s jets, numbering in the hundreds, intruded into Sylvan air space. Although horrifically outnumbered, the lone Sylvan Air Force squadron, with their superior pilot training and experience, along with their technologically superior fighters, wasted no time in downing aircraft after aircraft from the sky until all their missiles were expended.

It was only when the Sylvan jets had run out of ammunition or fuel that the Luftstreitkräfte manage to do some damage. The ZiG-23s, now free of the constant harassment of the seemingly endless numbers of Sylvan aircraft (which in total didn’t number over twenty) finally got to do their job. Anti-radiation missiles continuously arched to the ground, sending their targeted radar installations into balls of fire. Fleeing Sylvan aircraft were intercepted by more squadrons of ZiG-29s, while any jet attempting to land was hunted on the ground. The second wave of ZiG-23s were equipped for ground-attack role; they flew lower to the ground now, the SAM threat neutralized due to the destruction of most radars, attacking anything of military value with their air-to-ground missiles and machine guns.

By the time the massive AN-130 transports, filled with paratroopers, was in the air, the battle had already produced 12 ZiG-29’s destroyed and 2 damaged, nearly a quarter of the total strength of 3. Jagdgeschwader in addition to 30 ZiG-23’s, nearly two squadrons worth of jets, with two horrific friendly-fire incidents. On the Sylvan side, casualties were estimated to be as low as eight aircraft lost, with two more destroyed on the ground and others possibly managing to flee. Nevertheless, the operation continued. At least there was good news at sea: The Wyrnsturm Imperial Navy had managed to blow the small Sylvan destroyer flotilla sky-high.

The third wave was to be the actual invasion. Soldier after soldier, assault rifles strapped tightly to their bodies, dropped out of the sky, followed by boxes filled with heavy equipment and supplies. 1. Fallshirmjägerdivision landed rather uneventfully on the eastern, more remote tip of the island, 2. and 3. Fallshirmjägerdivisions landed on the western tip under light gunfire. As with every paratrooper drop, there was bound to be wounded, whether it be due to enemy fire, trees, stray branches, fences, houses.. the list went on. Luckily for the Fallshirmkorps, the weather was in their favor and the troops dropped more or less where they’d planned to drop with light casualties. 1. Fallshirmjägerdivision quickly assembled, split as planned into two Kampfgruppen, or battle groups, the larger of both marching onto a quiet, nearby port while the smaller captured an old airfield after a short but intense firefight. The other two divisions, however, were quickly spotted; one did not have to look hard to see the thousands of large umbrellas unfolding in the sky. Machine-gunfire cut down quite a few unlucky men (and women) in the sky. Once on the ground, the action continued. Each soldier that landed unhurt had to immediately whip out his Wankan-made Gewehr-74 assault-rifle and brace against incoming bullets. Heavy casualties were initially taken as the panicking officers attempted to organize an effective resistance, and as more and more paratroopers landed, the defenders were slowly overwhelmed. 2. Fallshirmjäger achieved its initial objectives with several hours delay, as with 3. Fallshirmjäger. The first landings had produced fifty dead and nearly 200 wounded as the as of now inexperienced officer corps struggled to maintain the rigid organization within their companies. 1. Fallshirmjäger, on the eastern tip, already had supplies, troops and armored vehicles and light artillery landing on their captured airfield as they advanced westward, while 2. and 3. Fallshirmjäger consolidated their positions around a strategic village several kilometers from their landing zone and took their time to regroup, reorganize and have the wounded and dead airlifted out of Grisham Isle.

The assault resumed several hours later as 2. and 3. Fallshirmjäger, now reinforced with a mechanized brigade of the 19th Panzergrenadierdivision. P-72 tanks interspersed with BTR armored personnel carriers lead the advance from both sides, encountering light resistance from the Sylvan battalions. These were retreating to the “capital” of the little island, a town-port which was alive with flames after constant and relentless bombardment of the Seestreitkräfte’s and Imperial Navy warships. However, the bombardment only served to create wonderful defensive positions from which the seemingly still strong Sylvan soldiers expertly took advantage of. From above, the Luftstreitkräfte assaulted Sylvan positions to little avail.

This bombardment abruptly ceased as an advance company of troops from the 1. Fallschirmjäger, coming from the north, entered the outskirts of the town, accompanied by P-72’s— where they were promptly and expertly ambushed and forced into a bloody retreat. More uncoordinated assaults were beaten back by the Sylvans with heavy casualties on the Fallschirmkorps and 19th Panzergrenadierdivision. Finally ordering a general halt in the senseless attacks from the command center in Kronstadt, Generalfeldmarschall Skorzeny had artillery, tanks and other armored vehicles amass around the city. Artillery shells interspersed with propaganda leaflets telling the Sylvans to surrender due to their hopeless situation rained down on the town. Dozens of kilometers out, nearly 20,000 troops prepared for one last and possibly bloody, considering the Sylvans expertise in war fighting and their seemingly still massively high morale, push to finally put the strategically important island under Wankan control. It had cost the Volksstreitkräfte already over 40 jets, 65 armored vehicles damaged beyond repair and nearly 1500 casualties (dead and wounded) up to now; a number which could and would continue to rise…

by **Nova Sylva** » Thu Dec 11, 2014 9:20 am

Grisham Island Naval Station
Grisham Island, New Sylvan Republic
12 Hours Before

The harbor was in chaos. The first strike had come from Wankan anti-radiation missiles, which had done their job all to well. Every Sylvan ground radar on the island had been hit and either destroyed or disabled; as a result the island's complex, expensive, and integral Integrated Air Defense System (IADS) proved to be useless. The millions spent on the development and employment of said technology had, sadly, all been for nothing. A few minutes later, as if in perfect tandem, the island's naval station was hit by cruise missiles which reduced the NSR's destroyer flotilla to an array of half-sunken steel hulks, most of which poured smoke and flames in the air and leaked thousands of barrels' worth of fuel into the harbor's pristine turquoise water. The NSR fleet destroyed, the Western Maritime Forces Headquarters in ruins, and with it, the island's entire command structure, everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong.

Rear Admiral Slateon Havard ran along the waterfront as fire control crews attempted to quell the inferno. Havard was domestically famous after his exploits during the Battle of Catalina, where he was a captain of a cruiser that had singlehandidly held off an Erquinian task force until an NSR battlegroup could be organized to assist. He was known to his men as "Slate," a pun on his first name, Slateon. He passed the NSRS Corbinsburg, which was dangerously close to capsizing on it's starboard side. He also saw the NSRS Jacinto - or rather, what was left of it. The destroyer was completely engulfed in a blazing flame that stretched a hundred feet into the air. Water rained down on the vessel, to no avail. The Western Maritime Force HQ was in a similar state - smoke poured out of every window, and the damage control crews had all but given up hope the structure could be saved.

The SABR base, however, was luckily unscathed and it's inhabitants were forming up the regiment. SABR, the Strategic Assistance Brigade, was Sylva's foreign legion. It's job was to defend the Republic's foreign claims - from Grisham Island in the Crimson Sea to Catalina and Argyle in the Strachan. Though officially a brigade, logistically it's manpower numbered that of a small division. A third of SABR was based here on Grisham, as Command had saw fit to be bring reinforcements to the island base after the Volksrpebulic joined MERPAC.

A massive blast rocked the entire harbor, and Slate turned to see the Jacinto explode in ball of flame as it's fuel reserves, or ammunition storage, or both, caught fire and ignited in a massive blast. Burning debris began to rain down on the harbor as what was left of the destroyer fell back to the earth.

"Holy fuck!" A SABR Captain screamed, as he approached Slate. "I hope no one was in there."

"Me too," Slate replied. "But it's irrelevant now. I need you to mobilze your troops. We need to take up defensive positions, now! I have a feeling they wanted more from this strike than just to give us a bloody nose."

"Right away, sir," he said. "We've got three thousand SABRs ready to go, plus about two thousand naval personnel if we can arm them."

"Do it. And send a runner to the airfield. Get our planes in the air!"

He ran into the communications room, and began urgently tapping the morse code message as a second barrage rocked his island garrison. It read:

To : NSR High Command
From : R. Adm. Havard, CO, Grisham Island Garrison

The enemy have the island completely surrounded. Heavy bombardment from the air and sea, expecting the enemy to make landfall soon. Base destroyed, civilians killed. Destroyer flotilla is destroyed. Initial casualties range from five hundred to five thousand. Request immediate reinforcement and resupply. Issue in doubt. If no reinforcements come, we will resolve to fight to until the end, like Sylvans.

GOD SAVE THE REPUBLIC

“Sir,” a lieutenant said, bursting into the one-room command bunker. “Enemy amphibious assault ships and multiple airborne transports are approaching the shore. What are your orders?”

Havard grabbed a rifle from the wall, and pulled back the charging handle.

“Kill the bastards.”

Grisham Naval Station
Grisham Island, new Sylvan Republic
0100 Hours

The night sky was ablaze with flames as the Battle for Grisham drew to a close. The Wankers had overwhelmed the NSR defenders with sheer numbers, and what remained of the NSR garrison had retreated to the naval base, which couldn’t really be called a base any longer – it was more so a collection of rubble and burned-out buildings.

“Sir,” Slate’s second in command, Colonel Ferguson, said. “Another Wanker assault is incoming. Several division strength, with armored elements.”

The NSR garrison had been reduced to about a battalion of SABR and seven hundred midshipmen and air force pilots whom had picked up rifles, which were short of everything from ammunition to fresh water.

“This is it,” Slate said. “The last stand.”

“Sir, we don’t have to die…the Wankers…we could…surrender.”

“And be the laughing stock of the NSR? No. We fight to the last man. This is our duty, soldier. Our country. Victory or death!”

“Rear Admiral!” Ferguson said. You no longer have an organized force. Hell, we've got pilots and civilians with anti-tank guns! These men have families. Kids. Wives. Girlfriends. Lives. Don’t take that away from them, just because you want to be written down in some goddamn history book. Sir!”

Slate thought about this. “I guess your right,” he conceded. “Tell the Wankers we will lay down our arms.”

“Yes, sir.” Ferguson said. “Thank you, sir.”

Slate walked out of his makeshift command center and into the rubble-littered street. A week of heavy fighting had left the base destroyed, and corpses – mostly Wankers – lay strewn everywhere. The Sylvans had fought street by street, house by house, and in some cases, room by room. Slate took solace in the fact that they had killed many more Muros than they had killed Sylvans.

About half an hour later, a group of Volksrepublic generals walked up to Slate. Their uniforms were perfect, spotless, and their medals gleamed even the moonlight. Havard’s uniform, on the other hand, was barely distinguishable from that of a Private – all Sylvan Army personnel wore the same khaki color, and after the heavy fighting on Grisham, for much of which he had been on the front line, his uniform was stained with mud and blood. The only thing that made him recognizable was the field officer’s cap atop his head, where a single gold star signified his rank.

“The infamous Slate Havard,” one of them said, clasping his hands together and unable to contain his euphoria for accepting Slate’s surrender. “How many men do you have to surrender to us today? Three thousand? Ten thousand?”

“Less than a thousand,” he replied. “And most of them wounded.”

The wide smile on the man's face vanished, and it turned pale. “Your lying,” he said.

“Count ‘em.” Slate replied, giving a consolatory half smile.

“Put this dog with the rest of the prisoners,” he spat at a nearby soldier, who roughly grabbed Slate and bounded his hands. “For you, Slateon, the war is over!”

“And for you, General, it has just begun!”

by **Wyrnsturm** » Thu Dec 11, 2014 11:14 am

8th Wilkenbrough Conscript Fusilier Regiment
Outskirts of Greerston, Aemen
1700 local time

The roads outside of Greerston are filled with both Wyrnstian and Aemen military vehicles and soldiers, over thousands of Wyrnstian engineers and even mere fusiliers can be seen shoveling dirt out of their foxholes and forming trenches. General Conor Lorrant studies the map of Greerston laid down on the table before him, around him are the two head field engineers from the two Wyrnstian Fusilier regiments stationed to reinforce Aemen and his second-in-command. "I think..." he ponders and takes a drag from his pipe before exhaling a trail of smokes and points to a spot around the map. "The machine-gun nests could be placed here and here, some hidden inside hollowed out hills and some between artillery bunkers."

Meanwhile outside of the command tent, Kirk stabs his spade into the soil and leaves it standing there as he wipes the warm sweats off his face and sighs tiredly, he then proceeds to walk into his platoon's barrack quarter inside a foxhole within his regiment's trenches. "Kirk, laddie! Come, you're just in time to taste Walter's new recipe of ration crackers plus mustards!" chuckled Oglie McHendle, the chubbiest loud spoken lad in his platoon. "I bet ya 10 Wyrm Keep that he's going to love it!" Corporal Walter wiggles a finger towards his chuckling platoon as he walks over to Kirk and offers him a bowl of crackers nastily covered with mustard sauces. "Go on, McKane. Have a bite and save me 10 keeps, aye?" insisted the corporal with a grin decorated with his selleck mustache.

Kirk stares at him promptly, shrugs and pick a cracker from the bowl before taking a bite from it, everyone in the platoon stares at him as he chews....- Kirk suddenly furrow his brows and coughs violently before spitting bits of the crackers out "Bwaaagh!". The entire platoon break into laughter, laughing at both Kirk and the disappointed Walter. "Ya owe us ten keeps now, ya sod." snarled Oglie at Walter as he walks over to Kirk. "Ya and yar damned 'recipe' damn near poisoned the lad." Oglie commented further as he pats Kirk's back, the platoon laughs again.

"Oh shut it." growled Walter as he storms out of the barrack foxhole, shortly after, Lieutenant Thomas Elrich enters, his coat is covered in soils and grasses.

"Listen up, platoon." he yelled, trying to get their attention in which he succeeded. "Words have come that a High Commissar will be arrivin' from the empire soon to serve with the 11th, though he is authorized to administrate the 8th regiment's morale too. So be at your best behavior, I don't want to see any of my men getting shot dead by those pesky commissars before we even enter combat."

"It won't make much differences, aye? We already have Commissar Holmes in company, bastard had Alpheus Squad on sanitary duty for sneezing at his presence. Fuckin' twat." argued Sergeant Vince from his bunk.

"Aye, I disagrees as much as you do, sergeant. But I'm not the one with the authority to shoot his own men to maintain orders..." sighed the Lieutenant as he turns around and walks towards the exit, he pauses a few steps away. "Oh and I almost forgot, The captain wants you and your little band to perform for him tonight, the commissar also wanted this since it helps with morale." he looked at Oglie.

"Aye, no problem, sir." the chubby man salutes the lieutenant as he leaves. He then turns around to Kirk, "Well, fuck. Our bagpipes got a wee bit more popular within only a week here now eh?" he snickers. "Tell Walter about it eh? He's our lead piper after all."

Kirk nodded. "Aye." And sits down at his bunk before pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Aren't you worried about the war, Oglie?" he looks back at Oglie while taking a gulp.

"Ah, no worries! I doubted that it's as bad as it seems, beside I heard that the 11th will be our vanguard." shrugged Oglie confidently as he drag his bagpipe out under his bunk and tests a few tunes. "So that means that chances are, we don't even have to go to battle at all since we're just basically fuckin' Plan B."

"Aye, have you forgotten? NSR just pummeled the shitter out of the Aemen forces defending Ulbrecht. I don't think it'd be a problem for them to do the same for the 11th and us even." sighed Kirk as he dusts some soils off his jackboots and putting it back on.

Back outside, a jeep escorted by four military motorcycles slowly navigate themselves to the defensive lines under construction. It's High Commissar Heldus, well rested in his blimp in the eight hours journey from Wyrnsturm to Aemen, he steps out of the jeep after the door was opened by a nearby fusilier.

Captain Kyle of the 11th Regiment greets him with a nod, "High Commissar, glad to have you with us." he offers a handshake in which the High Commissar shakes half-heartedly.

"Hmm, yes...yes. Captain......" he furrow his brows and stares at the captain.

"Captain Kyle Bennetson." the captain replies sharply. "High Commissar Heldus, I presumed?"

"The one and only, captain. Where is the general?"

"In the command tent with the colonels and head engineers, High Commissar."

The colonel of the 8th regiment stands beside the general who is listening to some plan proposed by one of the head engineers regarding the defensive line, "General, Heldus is here."

The general turns around just in time when the High Commissar walks into the tent, both of them exchanges salutes. "Could I get a briefing regarding current situation, general?" asked the High Commissar.

"Of course." nodded the general before starting. "The NSR have taken Ulbrecht and their next move is unpredictable, however under the request of the Aemen military, we have begun digging in here, the outskirts of Greerston since they believed that this is where the enemy might attack next, as of now, we have constructed twin 15 km trenches supported by a line of 16 machinegun nests and 8 bunkers with artillery nests being set up at the most back of the lines, we're expecting more trenches and a dozen more bunkers by the end of this week." the general finishes.

"Very well, general. Thank you." nodded Heldus. "Now, if you don't mind. Could you assemble every single men of your to the center of camp?"

"The 11th regiment?"

"Both, 11th and 8th."

The intercom blares with the order to assemble and within the next few minutes, swarms of men in untidy soil covered uniforms race towards the center of the camp and garrisons in many boxed formations as ordered. All COs and commissars of both regiments stands outside of the garrisons with High Commissar Heldus in the middle.

The High Commissar begins to pace slowly infront of the garrison with his hands tucked behind his back, his breath visible from the cold air. "Now, the Great Emperor himself have sent me to administrate you soil covered dogs. You can all relax, play around and remain idle all you want if you do not fear the wrath of my commissary authority, from now on, disciplines here will be enforced. Failing to salute your officers will result in flogging, insulting an officer or ME will have you shot, gambling will have you flogged then shot, and most importantly, during battle, if you ever step back, you WILL be SHOT." the High Commissar made himself clear. "We are fighting here not only to protect our ally, but to remind those Sovntern pigs of our imperial supremacy, fail this battle, and you will fail the entire empire. And for that, I spare no room for forgiveness. There are over 14,000 of you, and I have more than enough bullets and nooses to punish any cowards or undisciplined rats in your pathetic regiments. Now, disperse." the High Commissar waved off, chasing the shaken men back to their duty silently.

Kirk who is making his way back to the barrack is accompanied by Oglie, Walter and Vince.

"Motherfucker, I did not sign up for this!" squealed Oglie.

"None of us did, Oglie. In fact, most of us here never really wanted to come here in the first place." Vince commented.

"We're nothin' more but a bunch of sorry arse cannon fodder ready to be fed to the hungry NSR cannons." agreed Walter.

[hr]

by **Aemen** » Thu Dec 11, 2014 2:01 pm

The Hyrian Line, Greerton, Aemen

The distant boom of fighting echoed around the city, trucks carrying soldiers and supplies rumbled through the streets and out towards the remaining towns that were standing firm against the Sylvan attackers, full of soldiers determined to keep them at bay. Greerton itself was in the process of being armoured as Aemen and reinforcing Wyrnsturm soldiers prepared the city borders for what was inevitably going to strike.

The Hyrian Line stood near the centre of the city and ran to the major settlements of Aemen; Port Prince, Marresburg and, of course, Erus. Its purpose was one of luxury transportation for the nobility and gentry, allowing them to bypass the smaller stations that catered for all social classes. Today however, the Line was open to the refugees evacuated from the front, ferrying them to a vast Temporary Relocation Camp in the southwest of the country.

The dishevelled masses were lining up along the platforms, being slowly admitted into the waiting trains as soldiers paced up and down the queues, keeping watch for any potential troublemakers. Elector Darius Folcwalding, the Ministry of Technology's Secretary of Applications and his nephew, Captain Leopold Folcwalding, stood apart from the refugees alongside Major Harald Furst, the commander of the 31st Royal Crown Guard that had commandeered King's Lance a couple of dozen miles away in the Plem Mountains. The trio strolled out of the station and into the street, where the refugee line's length persisted further down the road and Wyrnsturm soldiers were moving towards their designated positions. The three climbed into a waiting military jeep, which soon started and slowly moved towards the Ministry of Technology's HQ at Restoration Square.

Darius rubbed his hands together, anxious at the prospect that the war could soon be brought to his doorstep. “I hope this works Furst, your goons best keep that platform operational or Greerton is finished and the King will not be happy.”

Furst didn't even look at the Elector. “Don't worry sir, the King's entrusted us. It's a great honour to be sent on a mission coming personally from His Majesty. We Crown Guard don't tend to fail the monarchy.”

“Don't worry uncle,” Leopold interjected. “The Wyrnsturm military assisting with the city's defence and King's Lance is ready to target any approaching enemy forces. Greerton will repel whatever the Sylvans send our way.”

“I hope you're right, your father wouldn't want to see the city fall under his son's watch.” Darius claimed. Leopold was taken aback by his uncle's statement. As one of the Elector-Margrave's four sons, Leopold was under immense pressure to perform well from his superiors as well as Ridley, who, much like Reginald, was expecting at least one of his children to live up to the legacy he had carved out for the Folcwalding name in modern times.

The jeep pulled up outside the Ministry's HQ and the two Folcwaldings climbed out. Darius turned to say some parting words to the Major before he left for King's Lance. “Don't disappoint me Major, you shell this damn city if you have to but you stop the Sylvans from taking Greerton.”

The Major simply looked blankly back at the Elector. “I answer only to the King, Elector. You are entitled to think you can give me orders, but I am not obligated to take them seriously. Captain, we'll do our job up the mountain. Radio in positions with the greatest concentration of enemy forces. We'll see what havoc we can rain down upon them.”

With that, Furst's jeep sped off, turning a corner down the street towards the Plem Mountains. Darius turned around, agitated, and strolled up the Ministry's steps, muttering to himself in annoyance. Leopold rubbed his cheek, following his uncle up into the building as more supply trucks carrying soldiers and ammunition rolled by. The trucks were going out along secure supply lines leading to the last bastions of Aemen resistance before Greerton of Goss, Reurgen and Bremen and propping up the garrisons stationed there whilst the air force, anxious after their initial loss, watched the supply convoys from the skies before returning to patrolling around Greerton's perimeter, constantly on the lookout for the inevitable assault the city would soon be facing and the bloodbath that would ensue.

by **Murovanka** » Fri Dec 12, 2014 5:56 am

Die Wahrheit

Grishinsel Erobert!

GRISHINSEL- Nach insgesamt fünf Tagen ist Schlacht für die strategisch wichtige Insel zu Ende. Nach erbitternde Kämpfe um die letzte Sylvische Festung akzeptierte Generalfeldmarschall Skorzeny, Kommandeur des Fallschirmkorps, die kapitulation der Sylvischen Streitkräfte. Die Sylvisch-besetzte Insel wurde von der Ersten, Zweiten und Dritten Fallschirmjägerdivisionen durch ein Luftlandeangriff erfolgreich überfallen. Generalfeldmarschall Skorzeny, der Führer des Unternehmens, hat dies zu sagen: “Es ist ein wichtiger Sieg für die Volksstreitkräfte, ein wichtiger Sieg für Wanka und der erste Sieg des MERPAKTes. Wir haben die Sylvische Imperialisten gezeigt, dass sie nicht unbesiegbar sind. Dennoch ist mein Herz mit Obergefreiter Hannes Uhlbrecht, der jetzt in kritischer Zustand im Krankenhaus liegt. Seine Einheit war damit beschäftigt, Sylvische Soldaten von den Tunneln auszulöschen als sie in einen Hinterhalt gerieten. Obergefreiter Uhlbrecht, laut seinen Kommandanten, warf sich auf einer Granate, und rettete damit mindestens fünf Soldaten seines Zuges…”

After five days, the battle for the strategically important island has ended. Field Marshal Skorzeny, commander of the Fallshirmkorps, accepted the surrender of the remaining Sylvan forces after intense fighting for the last Sylvan positions. The Sylvan-occupied island was invaded by an airborne assault of the First, Second and Third Paratrooper Divisions. Field Marshal Skorzeny, leader of the operation, had this to say: “It is an important victory for die Volksstreitkräfte, an important victory for Wanka and the first victory for the Meridian Pact. We have shown the Sylvan imperialists that they aren’t invincible. Still, my heart is with Obergefreiter Hannes Uhlbrecht, who is now lying in critical condition in a hospital. His unit was tasked with clearing the tunnels of Sylvan soldiers as they ran into an ambush. Obergefreiter Uhlbrecht threw himself onto the grenade, and saved with that action at least 5 soldiers from this squad…”

Near Bremen (or whatever town/city lies between the First Maneuver and Greerton)
45. Panzergrenadierdivision
0800 Hours

Messy and chaotic communication between the Meridian Joint Command Center in Aemen and the commanders of the 8. Armee resulted in the 45. Panzergrenadier arriving late at their positions. Their mission was to primarily fight a delaying action against the Sylvan First Maneuver to buy time for the defenses around Greerton to be built up, along with incoming reinforcements. Greerton was now further reinforced by a further two infantry divisions and an artillery division of the 8. Armee, totally 55,000 men, mostly reservists and volunteers from the Volkssturm. In the air, Wankan ZiG-29s and 23’s were finally attempting to retake control of the air. Even more confusion amongst the Luftstreitkräfte’s High Command about allocation of fighter wings, fuel distribution and missing personnel had resulted in huge delays in planned operations.

But it was here, in the hilly countryside, where the Wankan troops were about to make contact with the steamrolling formations of the Sylvan armies. The contingent contained barely a handful of troops and vehicles. Two companies of tanks, totaling 30 P-72s, had dug themselves in hull-down positions on high ground, with only their turret and barrel protruding out. Occupying a line of trenches in front of them was “Anton” Kompanie of 452. Infanterieregiment, totaling 200 men. Hidden behind the hills, out of sight, were 15 BTR armored personnel carriers, ready to pick up retreating men from Anton Kompanie and whisking them off to the next line of trenches which lay two kilometers away in front of a small town, where “Berta” and “Cäsar” Kompanie were waiting. Also dug in in hull-down positions behind them was another P-72 tank company and even further behind were two 155mm artillery batteries. Reconnaissance troopers stationed in forward positions stayed on high alert, ready to immediately report an incoming assault and direct artillery fire on the invaders.

It wasn’t as though they were planning to stay, though. The message was clear. Kill as many enemies as possible, and then get the hell out. Live to fight another day. “Anton” Kompanie was instructed to fall back immediately when in danger of overrun, as with the two forward-stationed tank companies. Dug-in positions were quickly being formed for the retreating tanks where they would continue covering the retreat of the mechanized infantry. And once the second line of defense was badly threatened, they too were to make a run for it. The Sylvans were bound to take the small town soon, which lay on an important logistical supply route from Greerton to the other front cities.

by **Wyrnsturm** » Fri Dec 12, 2014 9:08 am

8th Wilkenbrough Fusilier Regiment
Outskirks of Greerston City along the Wyrnstian Defense Lines, Aemen
1000 hours local time

Meanwhile in the Wyrnstian side...To their ally soldiers, the Wyrnstian regiments is full of either mad or stupid men as they are literally having a concert when reports stated the enemy invaders could be striking anytime soon. Fusiliers with their coats either being thrown around the earth or just left in the barrack dances around the makeshift stage made of huge weapon crates as Kirk, Oglie and Walter blares with their bagpipes to the traditional Wyrnstian song 'Gravel Walk' while skipping their legs in the fashion like those of the Irish river dance.

Gravel Walk

The dancing fusiliers below the stage showers each other with whiskey, laughs and cheers or just exchanging the photo of their lovers back home while smoking away their cigarettes. The lads from the 11th also joins in upon seeing this. The fusiliers cherish the concert as this would probably be the last time they would hear the sweet sound of bagpipes and Gravel Walk music which almost all Wyrnstian would hear from their grandparents or fathers since they were young, building the sense of nostalgia through out the two regiments.

Leaving their posts unguarded with only a few floodlights, oil lamps and spotlights from bunkers illuminating the front of the first trench.

Even the captains of the two regiment can be seen sitting on folding chairs with canteens in their hands as they exchange jokes and laughs, then some over-excited blokes begin to empty their side arms into the air as though the war is over for them already.

"Careful lads, don't want to get drunk or intoxicated now, or those pesky commissars gon' flog ya for that." yelled one of the captain, bringing some laughter from the partying fusiliers.

"Oh, it might be more than just flogging." a familiar bloating tone echoes from behind the party, causing everyone to pause and the bagpipe tunes shrinks into a flat pathetic tune.

High Commissar Heldus stands near the scene and his face is mighty red with anger, beside him are the two commissars from each regiment, even their facial expression shows the mixture of fear of the High Commissar and disappointment to the regiments.

"The enemy might as well be hiding behind those trees or probably sneaking towards us under the blanket of nights and you buffoons thinks that it is a good idea to celebrate as though we won the war already?!" he raises his tone and takes a few steps forward, causing a few fusiliers near him to retreats a few steps back too.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just have you ALL under arrest and court marshaled now?" he glares at the fusiliers then the two captains who awkwardly still be seated on the folding chairs...

One nearly intoxicated fusilier blurted, "But High Commissar, tis' is a morale boostin-" *blam!* The fusilier's statement was interrupted by a direct gunshot to his head, killing him instantly.

The High Commissar raises his heavy pistol with its smoking barrel, "I give you all THREE minutes to disperse and return to your post! Three fuckin' minutes! Or I will hang each one of you with your own guts!"

Without wasting another second, the ocean of fusiliers quickly defuses as they hurries back to their respective post while dragging their equipment along hastily, the three pipers hops down from their makeshift stage and jogs back to their trench with their bagpipes dangling from their shoulders.

Suddenly the intercom crackles with the voice of the 8th Regiment colonel, "8th Regiment, assemble at the garrison for re-stationing! Prepare the trucks and tanks, we're moving out in ten!"

"Fock sake!" grunts Walter as he looks up to the intercom in their trench's barrack and puts his helmet on. "What now?"

Kirk checks his equipment and straps his sleeping bag tightly behind his bag. "I heard from the sergeant that we're gettin' posted in the city instead."

"At these times?! Bloody wankers knows that the enemy is near and we're still marching away to a new post formally?" whined Walter further.

"That's enough, orders are orders, lads." Sergeant Vince walks into the barrack fully equipped and prepared to move out. "Are you all ready?"

The barrack's water closet bursts open with Oglie running out of it, letting a toilet roll hanging down from his pants, "Wait wait! I'm almost ready!". The chubby mean hastily buttons up his coat and the other squads can be seen leaving the barrack already.

A few minutes later, clearly illuminated by vehicles's headlights and officers' flashlights. The entire regiment is assembled into many columns separating each division.

A Wulflech tank rumbles pass and pauses right infront of the soldier, the 8th regiment colonel stands on top of it with a megaphone. "Listen up, regiment! The general wants us positioned in the city instead in case of aerial invasions dropping behind this defense line!" he catches a breath before speaking again. "You will not sleep tonight as you will all be tasked for quick entrenchment, once we reach there, immediately help the field engineers to set up emplacements, sandbags and defensive mounts! Now move! Glory to the empire!" and with that, the colonel retreats back into the tank as it begins to resume to its destination only to be followed by countless trucks and tanks plus armored troop transports.

For hours, transports after transports next to tank columns rushes down the road away from the defensive position, heading to Greerston. Some fusiliers takes the opportunity to sleep in their transport so they won't get too tired later.

"This doesn't look good, lads." confessed the Sergeant while his body sways back and forth from the vehicles' motion. "The general subtly tries to tell us that we might get our arse torn apart by the NSR soon."

"Aye." everyone in the squad agrees.

Kirk turns to his left and sees Oglie scribbling something into his journal. "What ya doin' there? Writin' up what to eat for tomorrow?" Kirk joked and a laughter echoes from the squad.

"Nay." Oglie shakes his head, his eyes completely focused onto what he is writing. "I thought of some tunes yesterday night that would go good with ma' new song, thought I should chart it down before me brain is a gonner."

"What. Ya dedicated yerself to be the regiment's musician star?" Walter sneered.

"Oh fuck you, ya potato peeler." Oglie look up at him a little, chuckling as he returns to his scribbling. "Thought that after this war, I should open a band. Classical band y'know like me pa's, playin' bagpipes across the country."

"Heh, good luck with that, Og. Post war empire is probably goin' to be a shitter for musicians." Kirk commented.

Oglie just shrugs as he flips the journal close and pockets it. "Doesn't matter, I just loved makin' music, passion mate, not money."

"Thought of a name for yer band?" the sergeant asked with a cloak over his body to serve as his blanket.

"Nay...hmm..." Oglie ponders for awhile before smirking. "Oglie's Pipe."

"What's that? Ugly's pipe? Sounds like a fitting name, Og." Walter laughs, so do the rest of the squad. Oglie just laughs along, "Aye, and I'll make sure to pull ya in to the band too, ya fuckin' pubic mustache."

"Fuck you, this is called unique fashion." Walter strokes his selleck mustache and so the joking and laughing echoes on for the rest of the journey for the 8th regiments as each bonding moment is happening in each transport.

by **Aemen** » Fri Dec 12, 2014 3:06 pm

R12, Aemen

As supply convoys went out to reinforce other positions around the country's northeast close to Greerton, some roads catered to soldiers heading in the opposite direction. Remnants from the 26th Mechanised Infantry, one of the divisions deployed to protect Ulbrecht, moved at a steady pace along the R12 motorway. Despite the loss of Ulbrecht, which had now lost all resemblance of being a city, the 26th had managed to capture some Sylvan troops that had become separated from their units. As the convoy passed by the age-old trees on the road's sides, as of yet untouched by the destructive hands of the war, the lead APC began rumbling in a manner that would sound unhealthy to any seasoned engineer and came to a slow stop, forcing the others behind it to grind to a halt on an open and empty stretch of road.

As the back of the lead APC opened, Lieutenant-Technician Larson Welk jumped out and began surveying the vehicle's wheels and, upon completing his inspection, let out a sigh of frustration. “Ah, shit.”

He was quickly followed out of the APC by Sergeant Hennrick Pitter, who joined Welk at the side of the vehicle and looked between it and the engineer. “What's the problem LT?”

Welk pointed at the vehicle's lower half. “See the gaps and the inconsistency between wheels? The suspension has been murdered. It's a wonder we've managed to get this far at all without the wheels just falling out of the track.”

“So what'd you recommend? We can't stop here.”

Welk waved his hand, dismissing the notion of a long repair time. “I know, I know... give me some space and let me get my tools together, I won't be able to get the thing fully working but I could buy us enough time to make the last few miles to Greerton.”

Pitter nodded, undoing the velcro on his jacket's outside breast pocket and pulling out a radio. “Lead's broken down, LT's repairs are in progress. ETC of...” Pitter looked at Welk for an answer.

“Twenty five minutes.”

“Twenty five minutes. Unload personnel and prisoners.”

The other four APCs behind the lead one opened their doors and groups of Aemen soldiers and captured Sylvans stepped out, the Sylvans' arms zip tied behind their backs. The Aemen were renowned for not being kind to their prisoners, and the government tended to encourage this action. The Sylvans were shoved unceremoniously to the side of the road where they were lined up, with some Aemen soldiers taunting them.

“A bit far from home, aren't you? You got a wife, Sylvie?” 'Sylvie' had become popular slang amongst the Aemen military for the Sylvan soldiers and had originated during the first few dogfights between the Sylvan and Aemen airforces. The ground troops had become quite taken with the word.

“Guess what? The King's authorised a counter-invasion once we push you scum out of our land. I've got a friend in the Ministry, he'll give me all the information I need to find your pretty little partner, and when I do, I'll-”

There was a rambunctious cheer as the soldiers cheered each other on, their taunts going from violent threats of force to the Sylvans' family members to vile and vivid descriptions of the aftermath. Welk looked back from his repairs at the group of soldiers before returning to his work. “Why don't we just shoot the bastards? These wheels could use a lot less weight above them.”

Pitter leaned against the APC's side and lit up a cigarette, taking a deep breath in, able to relax for the moment. “Orders from the Margrave's Citadel. The joint command with the Wankans and Wyrnstians has come up with an idea from what I've been told. We're to take these poor saps to the Ministry of Initiative in Erus and hand them over for... something about psychometric and ideological adjustment.”

Welk raised an eyebrow at the potential reason for the Sylvans' capture, continuing to tweak the wheels. “And what're we doing once we get there? We'll need to stop off in Greerton if we're going the extra distance to Erus for proper repairs.”

“From there our objective is to remain in Erus, buff up the six divisions of Crown Guardsmen the King's got prowling the streets. From what a friend of mine has told me, there's so many troops stationed in Greerton that we're free to divert troops to other areas of the country, all thanks to the Murovankan and Wyrnsturm militaries sending a hell of a lot of support to the front for defensive purposes.”

Welk chuckled to himself. “Sounds like Greerton is the safest unsafe place in the world at the moment.”

Pitter smirked, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, I have a feeling it'll all come down to this. We beat whatever comes at us at Greerton, we'll blunt their offensive good and proper. If we don't... well, I don't think we'll be getting paid as much if that happens.”

As Pitter finished his sentence, another convoy coming from the direction the 26th were heading began to pass by, bearing Murovankan colours and rolling towards the front. Wankan soldiers sat on top of the vehicles, waving and smiling enthusiastically at the Aemen troops, shouting encouragement in their native language. The Aemen grabbed the tired Sylvan hostages harshly, dragging them up to the Murovankan vehicles and making them run alongside the column as it passed by, hitting their captives repeatedly over the head before deliberately tripping them up, to which both Aemen and Murovankan soldiers laughed and cheered.

As the last of the Murovankans continued along the R12, Welk smiled triumphantly, standing up and wiping his hands free of the black muck that ingratiated itself on his palms. “Right, that should get us to Greerton.”

Pitter radioed the other APCs, climbing back inside his own. “Repairs are complete, prepare to mobilise, prepare to mobilise.”

Welk joined him, packing up his tools and ducking down into the carrier's small interior, whilst the other Aemen soldiers picked their captives up off of the ground and shoved them back into the APCs. The lead vehicle's engine fired up again and the 26th resumed its course towards Erus, and the Sylvan captives' sinister ambiguous fate.

by **Esalonia** » Sat Dec 13, 2014 8:30 am

11:00 PM, 12/13/14
Somewhere in the borders of the DMZ

The Eye Company of the 5th Recon Corps had been stationed on the border of the DMZ ever since the AN put troops in the DMZ. The troops stationed at the border of the DMZ numbered 10,000, while along the borders of Esalonia, about 100,000 soldiers are scattered along the perimeter of Esalonia. They wore coats over their body armor, protecting them from the Meridian winter.
"Hey mate, want some tea?" says a soldier
"Thanks, comrade." says another soldier while sipping the tea.
"Sir, I just got some more intel about the AN." says a Recon Corps operator, while handing over an envelope with pictures. "Sir, I guess they are SRBM emplacements and mobile cruise missiles, sir. They might be preparing for an attack."
"I'll telegram the command about this. This is particularly interesting."

8:00 AM, 12/14/14
Sunrise City
Riots break out as the people are mad at the government for not repelling the AN from the DMZ, nor even making a word about it or even condemning the AN. Riot police have a hard time pushing away at the crowd while the crowd was throwing bottles, tennis balls, baseballs, even rocks.
"Hey, President Lance, we elected you from the ashes of the Great Esalonian War. We thought you were more competent than Pres. Andrew Kirby, but we were wrong! Prove to us that we were right in voting you all along by doing us a favor of driving the AN out! The DMZ should no longer be a DMZ!!!!!" a protester cries out. Meanwhile, the volume of people going to police headquarters gun licensing agencies have increased 10-fold as the Esalonians are preparing for an Allied Nations invasion at any moment. The Esalonians were ready to fight the invaders. "They shall not pass!!!" "Taste Esalonian might, invaders!!!!!" were the battle cries of newly-gun-licensed self-formed "crack corps", numbering up to 12 million citizens. Meanwhile, at the Overtake...
"Sir, we have lots of riots going off the streets! The men are armed, and we even have lots of armed citizens at the gates of the military bases, screaming of being trained for war! That's bad news, now here's good news: recruitment offices are overflowing with new recruits and fresh muscle." says the Sec. Gen. of the Armed Forces.
"Well, if the citizens want training, then give them training so that we can fight the AN if ever they push through the border defenses. However, our training camps are not sizable enough..."says the President.
"I suggest we increase the size of the training camps and do propaganda to increase the amount of people going inside recruitment offices. We then shift the industrial attention to warfare. That's what I suggest is the best course of action."
"That's it then. I'm gonna issue an executive order for that."

EXECUTIVE ORDER #556-090-476
Whereas, an invasion is imminent

Whereas, the military is not sufficiently equipped

Whereas, people want to go into war and the training facilities are not enough to accommodate them all

So issues forth the Executive Order #556-090-476. Provisions are as follows:
1. Some of the factories are to be used for production of military machines and paraphernalia
2. Increasing the size of training camps
3. A propaganda movement to boost manpower gains
4. More funds are to be allocated to the Ministry of the Armed Forces
5. A nationwide crackdown on foreign spies is declared

by **Nova Sylva** » Thu Dec 18, 2014 9:50 am

NSR First Maneuver Group Mobil Headquarters
Near Ulbrecht, Kingdom of Aemen
1200 Hours Local

It was rather serene considering a bloody battle had been fought here mere days before. Major General Cosgrove, commander of the Fourth Infantry Division, sipped his Honeybrew coffee alongside Lt. General Freeman, commander of XVII Corps, and his adjacent, Major General Casey. Also present was Major General Samantha Clarke, and Lt. General Daniel Lyons. Cosgrove had been with the Fourth Infantry since it's infamous stand at the Battle of Jacinto, where he had held off the Coalition Fifth Army for a full day before being forced to withdraw. Freeman had been a brigadier general during that conflict, and rose up the ranks after a string of victories during the NSR's counter-invasion of the Coalition State. Clarke was by far the most colorful character in the lot. As CO of the NSR First Recon Regiment, she had personally led dozens of high-risk guerrilla operations with her Rangers, and had earned a place in the hallowed halls of Meridian special forces units. She had been wounded during the Battle of Remagen, the Ranger's finest hour. Casey was the commander of the Northern Front during the war, battling against the Erquinians. He had then spearheaded the invasion of the Northern Collectives during the October War. Lyons was the CO of the 7th Airborne Division, or as it was affectionately known, Lyon's Legion - the toughest paratroopers in the Sylvan military. Currently, Lyons served as a liaison of sorts between the Mozrian and Sylvan high commands. For all intents and purposes, these were the brightest and most experienced strategic minds in all of Meridia. No other nation had the experience that the NSR had - and that had come in handy, numerous times.

Behind the generals, a few miles east, lay the city of Ulbrecht - or rather, what was left of it. Relentless airstrikes and artillery duels had reduced the industrial coal mining town to a mere shell of what it once was. In addition, the town was almost completely empty of denizens - those who hadn't fled before the conflict began had either been killed in the city's defense or left afterwords. With everything they knew reduced to rubble, the NSR could hardly blame them. Refugee camps had been established, however the local populace wasnt warming up to the idea of handouts just yet. These were a hardworking people, who took pride on self-reliance. Handouts, nonetheless handouts from the Sylvans, was out of the question.

The generals sat under a large oak tree that looked to be hundreds of years old. A small folding picnic table was the centerpiece of the meeting - from afar it looked like any other picnic table - however upon closer inspection it was much, much more. It's top was a massive touchscreen, on which information from ORBATS, MILSAT relays, AWACS radar scans, GPS, and FOF...the precise location of every Sovintern formation at the company level, as well as known enemy deployments. It showed this on a theater wide scale; however currently the map was focused on one spot - Greerton.

Greerton was the industrial foundation of Aemen. Greerton was the metaphorical heart, pumping blood across the country in the form of rifles, ammunition, tanks, refined oil, even basic necessities like compounded steel and synthetic rubber. Anything that was produced in Aemen likely came from this massive factory district. Erus, on the other hand, was the brain. The center of nearly everything Aemen, the massive sprawling metropolis, with it's magnificent castles and palaces, was the home of the Aemen High Command, the Royal Citadel, and was the logistical hub of the country. Any train line or freeway that ran across the nation most likely intersected at Erus. Capturing either of these targets would spell disaster for MERPAC forces in the country, and as such they were the highest priority of both coalitions.

"We should attack Greerton," Lyons said. "The Mozrians have ten divisions fresh and itching for a fight. The Aemen border guard was steamrolled, and the Mozrians are within striking distance of the city. If we move the First Maneuver north, while the Mozrians crash south, we could catch the city between two pincers. MERPAC wouldn't stand a chance. Afterwords, as one cohesive force, we can march on Erus."

"I disagree," Freeman said. He pointed at two lines surrounding the city, and a large red square on top of a mountain - the FOF system, labeling targets. "The mountaintop fortification, here, is defended by 1300 Crown Guardsmen - Aemen's finest in uniform. They are extremely fantatical and among the most well trained, disciplined, and equipped forces Aemen has to offer. The King's Lance will present a serious obstacle to any northward push we make due to it's IADS and artillery positions. Furthermore, two division sized formations from Wyrnstrum have taken up positions outside the cities, in these trenches. They've constructed two lines, 15 km long each, laced with minefields, artillery, pillboxes, and machine gun nests. They are turning the entire city into a fortress. As such, any Sovintern operation to take it will result in massive casualties."

"Meanwhile, down south a ways..." he scrolled the map down to Erus. "Erus is defended by what we estimate is six enemy Army divisions, a division of Crowns Guradsmen, and a full twenty thousand local militia conscripts. The Aemen are forming new battalions every day, throwing new, fresh units along the defensive line but at the cost of training, equipment, and morale. While Greerton is surrounded by rocky hills that favor a defense, Erus is built alongside a river plain - perfect for the kind of fast-paced mechanized warfare that the First Maneuver was built for. If we can take Erus, and capture Reggie - the Aemen Theater may as well be won. We may have to mop up resistance along the southern coast, and deal with the Murovankans, but they will be easy pickings without a high command to direct them, or a logistical center to supply them."

Now it was Cosgrove's turn to speak up. "I agree with Freeman," he said. "Focus on taking Erus, capture Reginald, and end this war. From a strategic perspective, if the King escapes with his High Command, he could drag on the war for months. We need to move our forces to surround Erus, cut it off from the rest of Aemen, and capture the King."

"To the Aemen, much like the NorthCol, honor is paramount," Clarke said, speaking up for the first time. "I doubt Reggie will leave Erus. If he did, he would look weak - and he can't have that - he'll loose whatever thread of legitimacy he has left with his people. So we don't have to worry about a time crunch when it comes to taking the capital. But at the same time, and by the same logic, if we move the First Manuever towards Greerton, the Aemen will do the same with their army. The Mozrians have enough divisions to take the city - and if the Aemen move reinforcements there, that might change. So if we can bog down the Aemen army, we give the Mozrians a clear shot. And any good bet has money on our allies - the Wenie's tactics are outdated, their morale low, and their training and equipment subpar - without any shred of a doubt our freinds from the Combined Sovereign States will steamroll them. That is, if the Aemen don't reinforce their position."

"So let me get this straight," Casey said, "Your proposing we do nothing?"

"Far from it. We need to resupply as it is. Secure our rear guard, and give our reserves some time to catch up. We make it clear our target is Erus - and with any luck, the Aemen will fall for it. We can mobilize for a massive operation, and perhaps in late January, strike at the city. Meanwhile, the Sylvan Air Force can wreck havoc on the defenses around Greerton, and as for the King's Lance, a few cruise missiles should suffice."

"Of course, we would have to clear this by Carpenter and the Mozrian High Command," Lyons said. "But I see no fault in your plan. Effective immediately, on NSR forces in Aemen are to converge...here," he pointed to the far bank of a river about twenty miles from Erus. "We will prepare for an offensive to come in mid January. Anyone got an idea for the name?"

"Operation....Frozen Thunder."

by **Murovanka** » Fri Dec 19, 2014 1:14 am

Aemen-Wankan Railway Line
0430 hours

Albrecht Janssen groaned in pain, clutching the spot on his stomach where the bullet had gone in. A kind-faced nurse, dozing in the corner of the train cabin, got up and came over to check on him. The 45. Panzergrenadierdivisions plan had been met with total failure. The Sylvan forces had pushed with such speed and ferocity that had stumped the Wankan High Command. It was only now that they realized how badly prepared they were for a modern conflict. The P-72 tanks were horribly ineffective against the Sylvan ones; most were destroyed before the enemy tanks came in range of the 72’s cannon (if they weren’t destroyed first by an air-launched anti-tank missile). And even then the rounds simply scratched the paintwork of the armored beasts. Small-scale fighting resulted in horrific casualties on the 45. Panzergrenadier. At one point, utter disorganization and inefficiency amongst the officers had resulted in the commanders pouring more and more reinforcements at a location where they thought their forces were holding out. In reality, they’d been steamrolled and the regiment had been in retreat.

Around 700 men captured, a known number of 685 dead and over two thousand men (and women) wounded, amongst them Obergefreiter Janssen. In addition, nearly a third of the 45. Pzgrs P-72s had been damaged-beyong-repair and another third damaged or had broken down due to mechanical failures- a seemingly very common occurrence amongst the unreliable P-72s. Along with that over a hundred other Wankan armored vehicles were scattered on the countryside, victim to the relentless advance of imperialist forces. The division was quickly pulled back to the Aemen capital to receive reinforcements mainly in the form of Volkssturm volunteers. But the problem for the division, and for the Volksstreitkräfte, wouldn’t end here…

“Danke.” Janssen nodded gratefully at the nurse as she passed him a cup of water, along with sleeping pills. She smiled back. “Schlaf jetzt, du wirst deine Kräfte-“

All of a sudden, the world fell upside-down. The train had derailed and all the cabins began to roll with devastating effect on the passengers (in this case several hundred wounded soldiers). Sick and wounded men were hurled across the cabins as glass shattered. And as quickly as it had started, everything came to a standstill.

When it started again. Dark figures rose up from the bushes and trees around the train as small, round ball-shaped objects bounced onto the train and into the cabins. Explosions tore through the night as grenades detonated, followed by the chattering of dozens of different assault rifles which drowned out the cries and screams of wounded men and women. Shortly later, the sound of G-74s firing joined the orchestra as guards on the train returned fire. A machine gun barked as one of the guards began firing blindly into the darkness.

The battle raged on until the sound of helicopter rotors filled the air. Connection was established to one of the guards stuck inside the trains; quickly, both small Kleiner Vogel attack helicopters rotated to point their miniguns toward the source of the gunfire. However, by the time the hailstorms of bullets were released from above, the insurgents were gone.

A dozen such hit-and-run assaults were carried out near simultaneously on trains and railway lines, striking deep into the heart of the Wankan logistical network. This was accompanied by well-coordinated attacks on several vital bridges across the river Elbe, one that was crossed by thousands of men and material every day. As a result, the entire logistics system had been temporarily put out of action. While the railway lines could be repaired within a few weeks, the bridges would take months. Supplies and reinforcements would have to be airlifted toward Aemen, an outrageously expensive and dangerous task considering that the Sylvan Air Force nearly had achieved air superiority over Aemen. The air war was certainly not going well- Luftstreitkräfte casualties now exceeded a hundred aircraft downed. There was no shortage of aircraft; however, if this was to continue, there would be a severe shortage of pilots.

High up in the Mördar mountains, a man listened calmly as the Wankan state-run media reported on the vicious attacks. He looked at his men, grinning coldly.

”Dellia wird sich wieder erheben.”

Dellia will rise again.

Outskirts of Zuckerburg
1420 hours

The pale-skinned Germanic Wankans were certainly not the first to arrive on the earth which is now Murovanka. Many indigenous tribes had lived for thousands of years on this land, calling themselves the “Delles”. The occasional fighting between the tribes was then abruptly halted around 200 years ago when the first Wankans landed on their shores, gold-plated jewelry and all sorts of expensive gifts in their hands. In return, the Delles happily rained arrows on the pale-faced foreigners, driving them back into the see. Their ships were set on fire and captives were brutally impaled and hung up on the beaches as a welcoming sign to anyone else who came to visit.

Needless to say, the Wankans were thoroughly angered by the incident. An invasion followed, in which many Delles fell to the guns and cannons of the Wankan inventory. The indigenous population was quickly enslaved, and the Wankans, liking the newly discovered and conquered lands, decided to settle and multiply, much to the horrors of the Delles.

While the last Dellic slaves had been freed just over a hundred years ago and Delles were slowly given more rights, they were still oppressed and regarded by most Wankans as inferior. Zuckerburg and its surrounding regions was where many Delles were forced into. Governments, communist or not, had little love for the indigenous people and so much of the 6-million strong Dellic population in and around Zuckerburg live in extreme poverty. A perfect recruiting ground for the Dellische Freiheitsfront (Dellian Freedom Front) which was growing day-by-day and had just dealt a devastating blow to the Wankan military.

As a result, the 103. Infanteriedivision had been rapidly deployed to Zuckerberg, and the entire city had been placed under martial law. Houses had been systematically searched and already 250 suspected DFF members publicly executed. The commander of the 103rd, Generalmajor Hemmel, had promised more- and was such on his way out of the city toward a Stasi safe house where a list of suspects was being prepared for him. Leading the way of his personal convoy was a heavily armored humvee; and at the back another humvee. Escorted by four policemen on motorcycles. Behind them drove two army trucks filled with troops

“I have everything under control, Herr General. The Delles are behaving themselves on my side.”

“Gut. One other thing. I need to have every aircraft that you can spare to be flown to Kronstadt. The strikes by the DFF have been worse than initially thought. The Oberkommando is mobilizing every single aircraft in the nation to ensure that the 8. Armee in Aemen is still able to… Herr Generalmajor, was war das? Herr Generalmajor, answer me!”

From the bridge in front of the convoy, a streak of smoke. The RPG smashed straight into the first humvee, completely obliterating it. The driver of Hemmels’ armored car reacted with amazing speed, deploying the breaks as the car skidded to a stop a meter away from the flaming wreck of the first humvee. An RPG exploded near the side of the car, causing the left side to lift into the air before coming back down. More explosions erupted from behind as one of the military trucks were hit.

“RRRRRRAAUS!” screamed Hemmels head bodyguard, dragging the dazed Major-General out of the car. He stared, shocked, at the chaos around them. The soldier on the rear humvee was blasting away with the roof-mounted machine gun towards bright muzzle flashes from forest. One of the military trucks was lying on its side, blood-soaked survivors clambering out of the burning truck. Troops, their assault rifles held ready, were piling out of the second truck. Hemmel suddenly felt a hand grabbing him, throwing him powerfully to the ground. The bodyguard threw himself onto Hemmel just as his armored car exploded. The body on top of Hemmel stopped moving as he looked up with horror. A piece of shrapnel was sticking out of his head. The driver and another bodyguard pulled him out, one of them screaming into his ear.

“We have to get to safety- there!” he shouted, pointing at a row of houses on the opposite side of the forest. Hemmel nodded weakly, and began to run, head held low, toward the target buildings. A bullet whizzed by his head.

“Verdammt! Achtung- Scharfschützenfeuer!” A sniper. The driver pulled Hemmel to him and began zig-zagging across the street. The next bullet struck the driver in the head. The bodyguard whipped up his GP-10, firing the compact submachine gun in the direction of the sniper. To no effect, of course; at such ranges it was useless. In addition, he didn’t even know where the sniper actually was. A small object arched through the air, landing in front of the pair. Instinctively, the bodyguard threw Hemmel sideways, using his body to cover him. The grenade exploded, instantly killing the guard and knocking the commander of the 103rd unconscious…

Meanwhile, violence exploded on the streets. Organized attacks by Dellen DFF militants were carried out on the 103rd’s bases and patrols. Rioters looted shops; civilian Wankans were dragged out on the streets and murdered in cold blood. A large driverless truck rammed down the gates of the police headquarters, detonating and taking down much of the building with it. With the 103rd’s second-in-command in Kronstadt, there was no clear leader and as such the military’s response was near nonexistent. It would take the military nearly 48 hours to assemble enough Volkssturm forces to reestablish control of the city.

by **Nova Sylva** » Fri Dec 19, 2014 9:43 am

Honest Hearts | ATTN: Meridia

Honest Hearts | ATTN: Meridia

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