First Vestmarkic Hvalìr Class Fleet
Lazarene Sea
~35 nautical miles off the coast of Lyannesia
Somewhere in the Lazarene Sea, the combined fleets of several nations moved in tangent to each other. At the rear end, behind Vjaarland but also merging with them, the Vestmarkic fleet, compromised of seven warships and three submarines followed the rest of the fleets southward. The blue, white, and black cross flag flew valiantly over the starboard side of the warships, as strongly built, pale men with buff and brown colored hair did various physical tasks, like releasing pressure valves or lowering hooks. Despite being modern, steel plated ships, their bodies somewhat represented whales, and were almost unnaturally bloated in sized. Every so often one ship would bellow like a whale, letting out smoke in the process as if it were a blowhole. These whale-ships – Hvalìrs, in Vestmarkic – were created that way specifically for war, as the size of the ship could make for an excellent battering ram and they could even “beach” like a whale if needed, eliminating the need for landing craft.
One man on the starboard side of the leading ship, an older gentlemen with a mass of blond hair and a greying beard, chewed on a piece of rolled up tobacco, and squinted his eyes. Òlef couldn’t get used to the bright sun, as he was used to sailing in the Sunless Sea, not the sunny Lazarene Sea. It was past noon, and he was making sure that those under him had done their duties. He chewed the tip of his tobacco stick, and yelled, “all hands on deck!” Despite being many years at sea, he had only gotten so far as Lieutenant Commander, and despite (or because of) the pay he received, put up each day with young, undisciplined recruits who constantly insulted him behind his back.
The lieutenants lined up in formation, saluting him with respect. “You all have done admirably.” Òlef said with the slightest twinge of sarcasm. “But today you must push your skills to the ultimate test. War dawns upon us, the Eastern scum have attacked our allies during what was supposed to be a holy moment, blessed by God himself! Furthermore, they have not only refused to apologize, but imposed orders upon us to pay the damages that THEY have caused.” Olèf wasn’t sure if that was true or not, as he only heard it from rumor and his superiors, but it seemed plausible by itself. Still, it didn’t seem enough to him to go to war over.
The lieutenants disperse after a brief lecture and inspection, save one, which mulled around eyeballing the Commander, daring to speak. “What is it,” Òlef said, more of a declaration than a question. “I’ve been wondering, sir, I know that this is not bootcamp, but I didn’t expect to be in an actual *gulp* war. Do you know why we are here, is it to fight socialists or fascists?”
Òlef pursed as he struggled to give an answer. Why were they there again? Sure, Vestmark is in the Northern Sea Defense Organization, but only Vestmark and a couple others were following Nevanmaa and Vjaarland into what would be a suicide mission for them all! At that moment he had great anger, how dare the government masquerading as a “business” send him to his doom out in the land where many Vestmarkers would vacation! They have allied with totalitarian, warmongering powers just to secure a bit of security, something to him that must never be traded for freedom. He shook his head and sent the boy away without an answer.
A few hours went past, yet the knowledge of the doom that potentially awaited him grew through research and his own anxiety. Òlef decided that he would abandon ship when the shore was within swimming distance. He didn’t feel loyal to the government that set about following what used to be their enemies (at least the Vjaars) into a conflict of which they were not involved in. There was a window of opportunity for him, he knew how to speak some foreign languages, and could easily adopt a new life in Michillies or some other nation. He could escape alive, and then perhaps organize a way to get his family and kin there before news of his “betrayal” spread.
Òlef paused. Still, he swore an oath to his country – for the Vestmarker, oaths were unbreakable contracts. Citizenship was an oath, so was joining the military and being a captain of a ship. No matter what, he couldn’t fail his country. Failure meant exile, where no men under the law could ever speak to him, not even his own family. If he ever returned back to Vestmark, he’d have to live the rest of his life as a hermit, and no amount of rugged individualism could ever prepare him for the harshness of the desolate Vestmarkic landscape. If he didn't, then he'd be eternally cut off, alone. If he did survive, then he would vow to get his voice of his struggles out and help reform the country back to it’s liberal roots, but for now he swore an oath to his country, his people, and most of all the rowdy yet inexperienced bunch of lieutenants that he swore to protect.
In the distance, beyond the blue haze, several rows of large, ironclad battleships manifested, blocking off the shore that could be ever so faintly seen behind them, lost in the fog of war. A shot - possibly a warning shot - had rattled the ships and shattered the atmosphere. Òlef couldn't tell if they were friend or foe, but he suspected that nobody was there to play. While war was still officially tentative, conflict had already begun.
