The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth (Closed|Attn:M
Pazardzhik Krepost,
Yalos, Alnisia, Maredoratica,
6 days ago.
Tzar Bogdanov cupped his face in his large, burlish hands as the fireplace cackled behind him. The petals of dancing flames hissed and spat like writhing pairs of ethereal dragons in mating rituals of heat and frenzic fury. They writhed, and thrashed and cast their radiance throughout the room, their soft cackles emanating from the hollowed brick cistern--it all held together by a carefully assembled and stacked formation of delicately placed logs. And the Tzar sat in a chair that was almost comically too small for him, thinking, as all great men are wont to do, planning his next move in the great game of chess. And the logs continued to hold firm, keeping the dragon’s dance forever alive.
Nikolai Bogdanov was a powerfully built, muscular man with a proud Bulgar Handlebar Moustache, the scars of a thousand drunken fights plastered around his body like stripes on a jaguar. His wide shoulders and avid fascination with military uniforms often gave him a cruel, militant look--a look of discipline and authoritarianism; a commanding, domineering presence that towered above all others that dared stand in his immediate vicinity. He the a face of totalitarianism, an absolute monarch who would simply not accept challenge to his God-ordained authority. It infuriated him, then, that anybody would dare oppose him. It blinded him with rage, shook him trembling anger.
Recently, Marshal Spasov of the Tsarist Yalosian Army had been doing that which the Tsar most vehemently despised; Spasov dared to openly defy Tsarist authority. Spasov spoke of radicalism, of change and of ideas that we most dangerous to the Tsardom. Bogdanov wanted nothing more than to strangle the man, hang him from the rafters of the Pazardzhik Krepost, and make an example out of him, yet Bogdanov knew that the peasants adored Spasov. They followed him like lemmings, making a Christ out of him, fighting for the chance to touch his robes, pushing and shoving through seas of one another to be at the fore of the great crowds that assembled to hear him speak of the great “Socialist” ideas he had heard of in his time abroad.
Whenever Bogdanov wanted to accomplish anything, it seemed that Spasov’s filth interfered in some way; if Bogdanov wanted to raise a new division of soldiers to create security on the border with Sylva, Spasov would speak of the suffering of the people at the hands of an “unjust system of conscription,” and whined that a “professional” army would be far more effective. Whenever Bogdanov needed to raise a levy to pay for the state’s treasury, Spasov would suggest cutting spending on the maintenance of Palace Gardens instead. And when Bogdanov complained of Republican and Islamic militants in the North, Spasov would demand he give “autonomy.” Spasov always saw a way to criticize the Imperial government.
It was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Bogdanov knew that letting Spasov live would only permit him to grow more powerful. Day after day, foreigners, nobles, bourgeois and peasants alike flocked to Spasov’s Strana Selyanin Party, and Bogdanov could only watch as power slipped from his fingers perilously. He feared that Spasov’s criticisms had already gone too far, and he knew, without a doubt, to maintain the Holy Tsardom of great Yalos, he would have to get rid of the troublesome Spasov without delay. Nodding to himself in affirmation, he reached for his fountain pen, and with a trembling finger, pressed it against the forms authorizing theTaĭnata Politsiya to carry out “Operation Removal.”
He nodded to himself one more time, and signed the paper.
It was then that Bogdanov suddenly heard a crash from behind--he turned his head in alarm. He saw that the tower of logs had utterly collapsed, reposing themselves against the ash as the blades of fire continued to cackle, with less rigour, yes, but the same radiance. And as he watched the licking flames slowly starve, he felt a great sense of foreboding.
Nikolai Bogdanov was a powerfully built, muscular man with a proud Bulgar Handlebar Moustache, the scars of a thousand drunken fights plastered around his body like stripes on a jaguar. His wide shoulders and avid fascination with military uniforms often gave him a cruel, militant look--a look of discipline and authoritarianism; a commanding, domineering presence that towered above all others that dared stand in his immediate vicinity. He the a face of totalitarianism, an absolute monarch who would simply not accept challenge to his God-ordained authority. It infuriated him, then, that anybody would dare oppose him. It blinded him with rage, shook him trembling anger.
Recently, Marshal Spasov of the Tsarist Yalosian Army had been doing that which the Tsar most vehemently despised; Spasov dared to openly defy Tsarist authority. Spasov spoke of radicalism, of change and of ideas that we most dangerous to the Tsardom. Bogdanov wanted nothing more than to strangle the man, hang him from the rafters of the Pazardzhik Krepost, and make an example out of him, yet Bogdanov knew that the peasants adored Spasov. They followed him like lemmings, making a Christ out of him, fighting for the chance to touch his robes, pushing and shoving through seas of one another to be at the fore of the great crowds that assembled to hear him speak of the great “Socialist” ideas he had heard of in his time abroad.
Whenever Bogdanov wanted to accomplish anything, it seemed that Spasov’s filth interfered in some way; if Bogdanov wanted to raise a new division of soldiers to create security on the border with Sylva, Spasov would speak of the suffering of the people at the hands of an “unjust system of conscription,” and whined that a “professional” army would be far more effective. Whenever Bogdanov needed to raise a levy to pay for the state’s treasury, Spasov would suggest cutting spending on the maintenance of Palace Gardens instead. And when Bogdanov complained of Republican and Islamic militants in the North, Spasov would demand he give “autonomy.” Spasov always saw a way to criticize the Imperial government.
It was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Bogdanov knew that letting Spasov live would only permit him to grow more powerful. Day after day, foreigners, nobles, bourgeois and peasants alike flocked to Spasov’s Strana Selyanin Party, and Bogdanov could only watch as power slipped from his fingers perilously. He feared that Spasov’s criticisms had already gone too far, and he knew, without a doubt, to maintain the Holy Tsardom of great Yalos, he would have to get rid of the troublesome Spasov without delay. Nodding to himself in affirmation, he reached for his fountain pen, and with a trembling finger, pressed it against the forms authorizing theTaĭnata Politsiya to carry out “Operation Removal.”
He nodded to himself one more time, and signed the paper.
It was then that Bogdanov suddenly heard a crash from behind--he turned his head in alarm. He saw that the tower of logs had utterly collapsed, reposing themselves against the ash as the blades of fire continued to cackle, with less rigour, yes, but the same radiance. And as he watched the licking flames slowly starve, he felt a great sense of foreboding.
* * *
Preovynsk Province
Yalos, Alnisia, Maredoratica
4 days ago
“-but Obsht Spasov,” a little blonde girl raised a gentle hand, her brow furrowed in consternation. She sat upon his lap as her parents watched proudly from the side. A crowd had gathered around the barn where Spasov sat.
Spasov was a thin, lanky man with deep, trustworthy blue eyes and an unimposing figure. His charisma came not from the threat of force, but the genality and compassion that emanated from his understanding eyes. He truly was a man who believed in a rule through love; not a rule through fear. His assistant, a military lieutenant by the name of Dayman Aleksandrov, stood idly nearby for protection.
“Yes, malkata mi (my little one?)”
“If the Tsar doesn’t make all of the decisions...who can?” she scratched her head. “Didn’t God put the Tsar there to give us a wise leader?”
“Yes, malkata mi,” he affirmed, “God almighty has given us a wonderful Tsar. But the Tsar is only human, don’t you know?”
“He is?”
“But of course!” he scoffed. “Tsar Bogdanov goes to the restroom like you and me. And when he bled as a child, I saw that his blood was in fact red--not blue. The Tsar, like all men, is only prone to mistakes. That’s only natural.,” Spasov he lit a cigar, “That is why a constitution is necessary. That way, we can have a piece of writing that instructs us to God’s human law, and determines the manner in which we interact with other men.”
“Like the Bible? Is the Bible a Constitution?” the girl asked.
Spasov laughed, and shook his head. “Not exactly, my little one. It is a promise, from God, to men on Earth, but it is not a constitution, for God is not a government. Jesus is King, but he isn’t the king of states; instead, he is the king of the nation of mankind.”
And with this, the crowd hushed, stunned into awed silence as Spasov puffed on his thick, fat cigar.
Spasov returned home later that night, beaming.
"Have a nice night," Lieutenant Aleksandrov waved, with several books under his arm. "Thank you for letting me borrow these books."
"Good night, my good boy," Spasov chuckled. "It's no problem at all! Remember; I only ask that you return them."
Spasov felt absolutely marvelous, though, truth be told, he was getting rather old for this. He nodded at the doorman, who let him into the small little apartment with great military diligence. He trooped up the stairs with a pair of boiled, shaky legs, went up to his room and collapsed on his bed where his wife already lay asleep. He sighed and began to get undressed, getting ready for another long, exciting day that would greet him on the morn. He already felt sore. He lay, his arms outstretched, one of them atop his silent wife.
Spasov was a good Christian man who tried to live a simple, humble life, one devoid of elegance and pomp; especially when so many of his people toiled in the rural meadows with giant machines under the supervision of Rifle-toting Cossack Slave Drivers who pressed the Tsar’s serfs mercilessly. He didn’t view himself as an insurrectionary pundit or demagogue; he simply saw himself as an honest Christian man and a faithful servant of the Tsar. He believed that the Tsar was a good, benevolent man who needed only to see the sufferings of the masses to be moved to compassion and magnanimity.
He knew little of what was about to happen.
Spasov was a thin, lanky man with deep, trustworthy blue eyes and an unimposing figure. His charisma came not from the threat of force, but the genality and compassion that emanated from his understanding eyes. He truly was a man who believed in a rule through love; not a rule through fear. His assistant, a military lieutenant by the name of Dayman Aleksandrov, stood idly nearby for protection.
“Yes, malkata mi (my little one?)”
“If the Tsar doesn’t make all of the decisions...who can?” she scratched her head. “Didn’t God put the Tsar there to give us a wise leader?”
“Yes, malkata mi,” he affirmed, “God almighty has given us a wonderful Tsar. But the Tsar is only human, don’t you know?”
“He is?”
“But of course!” he scoffed. “Tsar Bogdanov goes to the restroom like you and me. And when he bled as a child, I saw that his blood was in fact red--not blue. The Tsar, like all men, is only prone to mistakes. That’s only natural.,” Spasov he lit a cigar, “That is why a constitution is necessary. That way, we can have a piece of writing that instructs us to God’s human law, and determines the manner in which we interact with other men.”
“Like the Bible? Is the Bible a Constitution?” the girl asked.
Spasov laughed, and shook his head. “Not exactly, my little one. It is a promise, from God, to men on Earth, but it is not a constitution, for God is not a government. Jesus is King, but he isn’t the king of states; instead, he is the king of the nation of mankind.”
And with this, the crowd hushed, stunned into awed silence as Spasov puffed on his thick, fat cigar.
Spasov returned home later that night, beaming.
"Have a nice night," Lieutenant Aleksandrov waved, with several books under his arm. "Thank you for letting me borrow these books."
"Good night, my good boy," Spasov chuckled. "It's no problem at all! Remember; I only ask that you return them."
Spasov felt absolutely marvelous, though, truth be told, he was getting rather old for this. He nodded at the doorman, who let him into the small little apartment with great military diligence. He trooped up the stairs with a pair of boiled, shaky legs, went up to his room and collapsed on his bed where his wife already lay asleep. He sighed and began to get undressed, getting ready for another long, exciting day that would greet him on the morn. He already felt sore. He lay, his arms outstretched, one of them atop his silent wife.
Spasov was a good Christian man who tried to live a simple, humble life, one devoid of elegance and pomp; especially when so many of his people toiled in the rural meadows with giant machines under the supervision of Rifle-toting Cossack Slave Drivers who pressed the Tsar’s serfs mercilessly. He didn’t view himself as an insurrectionary pundit or demagogue; he simply saw himself as an honest Christian man and a faithful servant of the Tsar. He believed that the Tsar was a good, benevolent man who needed only to see the sufferings of the masses to be moved to compassion and magnanimity.
He knew little of what was about to happen.
* * *
Pazardzhik Krepost,
Yalos, Alnisia, Maredoratica,
3 days ago.
Spasov entered the Palace today like he would any other day; the doormen would let him in, his car could navigate the royal gardens and he would get out, ready to fill out some forms and otherwise maintain the military infrastructure. What set Spasov apart, however, was his insistence upon visiting the men, getting to know what they believed, what they dreamed and feared. Mechanization would never have taken place had a pair of soldiers not revealed their fear of entering combat in a flimsy, tarp covered truck. He was truly a man for the soldiers. The rank and file affectionately referred to him as strakhotno bashta, or great father.
But today, as he approached the palace doors, he was suddenly grabbed from behind. He could feel a bag being shoved over his head, and a pair of sticks beating his head. Taken completely by surprise, Spasov cried out, perhaps in terror, as agents of the Taĭnata Politsiya forcibly threw him against a wall, where he writhed and squimed. He tried to call for help, but it was all in vain as passerby were forced to divert their gazes. The blows kept coming and muffled screams could be heard by those who passed. But none dared interfere with the feared Taĭnata.
One of the guards had with him, a rifle. As soon as Spasov stopped moving, he placed the barrel at his head, and pulled the trigger. As the red pool of mess stained the palace garden, the guards, their uniforms bloodstained, stepped away as if nothing had happened.
And a little servant boy, hanging from a palace window, paused his camera in horror, and, ran off wordlessly in terror and fear of what he had seen and documented. His little feet ran off to show his mother. By the end of the day, the video would have made its way throughout the webs.
But today, as he approached the palace doors, he was suddenly grabbed from behind. He could feel a bag being shoved over his head, and a pair of sticks beating his head. Taken completely by surprise, Spasov cried out, perhaps in terror, as agents of the Taĭnata Politsiya forcibly threw him against a wall, where he writhed and squimed. He tried to call for help, but it was all in vain as passerby were forced to divert their gazes. The blows kept coming and muffled screams could be heard by those who passed. But none dared interfere with the feared Taĭnata.
One of the guards had with him, a rifle. As soon as Spasov stopped moving, he placed the barrel at his head, and pulled the trigger. As the red pool of mess stained the palace garden, the guards, their uniforms bloodstained, stepped away as if nothing had happened.
And a little servant boy, hanging from a palace window, paused his camera in horror, and, ran off wordlessly in terror and fear of what he had seen and documented. His little feet ran off to show his mother. By the end of the day, the video would have made its way throughout the webs.
* * *
Pazardzhik Krepost,
Yalos, Alnisia, Maredoratica,
2 days ago.
“Down with the Taĭnata!” A sea of angry peasants, protesters and workers gathered before the Pazardzhik Krepost, waving vicious red banners and pictures of Spasov. Word had spread quickly through word of mouth amongst the peasantry, and almost as quickly through the internet that the great Spasov had been mercilessly murdered in cold blood. This had merely added to frustration and rage begot of years of famine, stifling taxes and suffering which now threatened to burst the jar of patience.
The Tsar sat idly at his desk, unsure of what to do. He had...miscalculated. The assassination of Spasov had been rather catastrophic, disastrous and presented him with a peasantry that was clearly hostile. But how would the Tsar have known? From his isolated life in the Palace and on massive, noble estates, he could not have seen the true pain of the people. From his position exalted on the throne, how could the Tsar have seen the humanity in the people? And yet, it was his power and privilege that were to be his undoing.
His fingers tapped nervously. For once, the mighty, powerful Tsar had no real solutions to fix this gross mistake. His powerful, piercing gaze was now glazed and dampened, and he merely listened to the chanting outside the palace gates. He could hear them from where he sat. An entire battalion of infantry had been deployed to the palace grounds, with several brigades stationed nearby to intervene, including an armored brigade, should the protests get out of hand.
“Orders, sir?” An adjutant entered the Tsar’s office, demanding an order. “The guards are growing restless and terrified. Please,” he begged, “give us an order, dearTsar!”
“Kill them all,” Tsar Bogdanov whispered to himself, almost ensnared by a demonic fervor. “Yes...shoot them all. I want them all dead.”
“Sir..?”
“I gave you a damn order,” Bogdanov snarled. “Shoot every last one of the filthy traitorous Jews!”
“My Tsar!” The official saluted, and trooped out.
The Tsar sat idly at his desk, unsure of what to do. He had...miscalculated. The assassination of Spasov had been rather catastrophic, disastrous and presented him with a peasantry that was clearly hostile. But how would the Tsar have known? From his isolated life in the Palace and on massive, noble estates, he could not have seen the true pain of the people. From his position exalted on the throne, how could the Tsar have seen the humanity in the people? And yet, it was his power and privilege that were to be his undoing.
His fingers tapped nervously. For once, the mighty, powerful Tsar had no real solutions to fix this gross mistake. His powerful, piercing gaze was now glazed and dampened, and he merely listened to the chanting outside the palace gates. He could hear them from where he sat. An entire battalion of infantry had been deployed to the palace grounds, with several brigades stationed nearby to intervene, including an armored brigade, should the protests get out of hand.
“Orders, sir?” An adjutant entered the Tsar’s office, demanding an order. “The guards are growing restless and terrified. Please,” he begged, “give us an order, dearTsar!”
“Kill them all,” Tsar Bogdanov whispered to himself, almost ensnared by a demonic fervor. “Yes...shoot them all. I want them all dead.”
“Sir..?”
“I gave you a damn order,” Bogdanov snarled. “Shoot every last one of the filthy traitorous Jews!”
“My Tsar!” The official saluted, and trooped out.
* * *
Pazardzhik Krepost,
Yalos, Alnisia, Maredoratica,
2 days ago.
Tanks began to roll towards the gathered crowd, eliciting panic and shrieks of terror, finally moving after several hours of inactive silence. Their engines fired up and they moved, slowly, as if trying to give the protestors time to run should they choose. Several squadrons of infantry paced forwards cautiously and hesitantly with their rifles raised, trapping the people in a square of soldiers, vehicles; no escape. It was to be, as the Tsar had demanded, a slaughter.
The people bunched together, knowing that they were doomed to die here. Tears and screams broke through the air as the soldiers closed in, not yet firing, not daring to believe that the Tsar would have them commit such deeds. But as the radio remained silent, the soldiers were furthered burdened with the fact that they would soon have to murder their own countrymen. Their fingers trembled with unwillingness.
The tanks continued to close in as the crowd grew thinner and denser, and as the screams became more laboured and higher pitched.
“Load!” the Brigaden General ordered. Every tank gun was fitted with a round of canister shot. Every soldier raised his rifle, and stopped approaching.
“Aim!” The General barked, and the guns focused on swatches of people.
“Fire!”
Silence. Nothing.
“Fire!” The General shouted again. But still, nothing. The tanks remained still and silent as the gunners glanced uneasily at their fellow crew men.
“Fire, Goddammit, why the hell won’t you fire?” The Commander swore from inside his command vehicle. “I gave you all a direct order! I told you to fire! Why the hell are you not shooting?” He grabbed his communications adjutant, and shook the man by the collar. “Why the fuck are these soldiers not firing?”
The hatches of the tanks opened up, and the soldiers clambered out as infantry lay down their rifles and walked towards the gathered protesters. They embraced and greeted one another as the General continued to rave and shout. He was powerless, now.
A young Leĭtenant stepped to the fore of the mob, waving one of the red flags proudly and with great fervor. Young Dayman Aleksandrov rallied the masses who then exploded in a roaring fury. With guns in their hands, tanks rumbling and a fire burning in their hearts, the people, betrayed by their Tsar who had commanded they be crushed beneath tank treads, swarmed towards the gates where the guards, knowing the futility of their exercise, swung them open and scattered.
Entire brigades of infantry surrounding the palace refused to move into action. The few that did moved to support the mob, including a battery of 155mm guns that roared into action, blasting away at prepared concrete positions in the garden where a furious firefight began between the Taĭnata and the masses. It was official; the Pazardzhik Krepost was now under siege. The palace was now locked down by the Taĭnata who swore to keep the Tsar out of the hands of such filthy undesirables. Spasov's Republican dreams were soon to come to fruition, even after his passing.
News began to spread of the events in the Capital over the next few days, and by the droves, the army, the peasants and the workers united, eagerly taking part in this new order. The Loyalist battalions, scattered, few and in between, were forced to lock down and focus their efforts on funneling local nobles and land-lords out of the nation as the majority of the military declared its loyalty to whatever Republican government would emerge from the confused, hectic melee. The military, formerly the tool of the Tsar's oppression was now just as potent a threat to the old order as it had been instrumental in the quashing of the new order. Spasov's Republican dreams were soon to come to fruition. A new movement, a new world, a new vision of the future was about to form.
Young Dayman Aleksandrov, who had rallied the masses into an assault upon the palace, overnight, became the leader of the new revolution simply by having taken up the banner at the appropriate moment; it was his face, truly, that had now become the face of the revolution. The young lieutenant, recent graduate from Pazardzhik military academy, son of impoverished country nobles in Beshkov province, had long dreamed of a new Republican order based off the ideas of the admired Spasov, been his aide; little did he anticipate that it was he that would be at the fore of Spasov's revolution. Sitting in a makeshift palace, a repurposed hotel, young Dayman suddenly found himself leading a vast movement of soldiers and men.
He glanced up at a giant portrait of a smiling Spasov.
"Please help me," Aleksandrov pleaded, "I need your help."
But the portrait simply continued to smile back.
The people bunched together, knowing that they were doomed to die here. Tears and screams broke through the air as the soldiers closed in, not yet firing, not daring to believe that the Tsar would have them commit such deeds. But as the radio remained silent, the soldiers were furthered burdened with the fact that they would soon have to murder their own countrymen. Their fingers trembled with unwillingness.
The tanks continued to close in as the crowd grew thinner and denser, and as the screams became more laboured and higher pitched.
“Load!” the Brigaden General ordered. Every tank gun was fitted with a round of canister shot. Every soldier raised his rifle, and stopped approaching.
“Aim!” The General barked, and the guns focused on swatches of people.
“Fire!”
Silence. Nothing.
“Fire!” The General shouted again. But still, nothing. The tanks remained still and silent as the gunners glanced uneasily at their fellow crew men.
“Fire, Goddammit, why the hell won’t you fire?” The Commander swore from inside his command vehicle. “I gave you all a direct order! I told you to fire! Why the hell are you not shooting?” He grabbed his communications adjutant, and shook the man by the collar. “Why the fuck are these soldiers not firing?”
The hatches of the tanks opened up, and the soldiers clambered out as infantry lay down their rifles and walked towards the gathered protesters. They embraced and greeted one another as the General continued to rave and shout. He was powerless, now.
A young Leĭtenant stepped to the fore of the mob, waving one of the red flags proudly and with great fervor. Young Dayman Aleksandrov rallied the masses who then exploded in a roaring fury. With guns in their hands, tanks rumbling and a fire burning in their hearts, the people, betrayed by their Tsar who had commanded they be crushed beneath tank treads, swarmed towards the gates where the guards, knowing the futility of their exercise, swung them open and scattered.
* * *
Entire brigades of infantry surrounding the palace refused to move into action. The few that did moved to support the mob, including a battery of 155mm guns that roared into action, blasting away at prepared concrete positions in the garden where a furious firefight began between the Taĭnata and the masses. It was official; the Pazardzhik Krepost was now under siege. The palace was now locked down by the Taĭnata who swore to keep the Tsar out of the hands of such filthy undesirables. Spasov's Republican dreams were soon to come to fruition, even after his passing.
News began to spread of the events in the Capital over the next few days, and by the droves, the army, the peasants and the workers united, eagerly taking part in this new order. The Loyalist battalions, scattered, few and in between, were forced to lock down and focus their efforts on funneling local nobles and land-lords out of the nation as the majority of the military declared its loyalty to whatever Republican government would emerge from the confused, hectic melee. The military, formerly the tool of the Tsar's oppression was now just as potent a threat to the old order as it had been instrumental in the quashing of the new order. Spasov's Republican dreams were soon to come to fruition. A new movement, a new world, a new vision of the future was about to form.
Young Dayman Aleksandrov, who had rallied the masses into an assault upon the palace, overnight, became the leader of the new revolution simply by having taken up the banner at the appropriate moment; it was his face, truly, that had now become the face of the revolution. The young lieutenant, recent graduate from Pazardzhik military academy, son of impoverished country nobles in Beshkov province, had long dreamed of a new Republican order based off the ideas of the admired Spasov, been his aide; little did he anticipate that it was he that would be at the fore of Spasov's revolution. Sitting in a makeshift palace, a repurposed hotel, young Dayman suddenly found himself leading a vast movement of soldiers and men.
He glanced up at a giant portrait of a smiling Spasov.
"Please help me," Aleksandrov pleaded, "I need your help."
But the portrait simply continued to smile back.
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