The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

[Zwangzug]

(OOC: Good idea...I've had this idea buzzing around for a while now as a short glimpse of Zwangzugian political thought without a good place to go, just thought of it again today. Must be a sign.

Part of Marcus' ideology I'm vaguely plagiarizing from some people's actual ideology.)

[ MT ]

The Average Voter

The wall was bright green. Marcus took another step. The wall was suddenly bright orange. The property line, just one of several hundred in the apartment building, happened on the fifth floor.

Marcus knocked on the door.

"Hello?"

"Hi! My name's Marcus Rearreman, I'm running for Parliament, do you have a minute?"

"Oh...well, sure."

"Glad to hear it." Marcus broke into a broad smile. "You know, you hear a lot of people talk about "nationstates", as if the world is subdivided into these neat little puzzle pieces." He shook his head sadly. "It's just not true."

"Oh, I agree."

"Do you? That's wonderful."

Nod. "Borders are arbitrary, there's really no such thing as a national identity underlying it all."

"Exactly! Too much focus on "nations" is just a form of stereotyping."

"I think so, too. If part of some other country were to wind up in Zwangzug tomorrow morning, that wouldn't really be a problem."

"And if part of Zwangzug were to wind up in some other country tomorrow morning, it wouldn't really be a problem either?"

"Well..." At this, the prospective voter squinted. "I don't know, it would depend on the country."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"If the people there wound up in a dictatorship, maybe, that oppressed its people...that would be bad."

"But aren't all governments equally bad, when you think about it?"

"Um..." The "you" addressed thought about it. "No?"

"Think about what kind of society you live in. What happens if you don't pay your taxes?"

"I do pay my taxes!"

"But what if you didn't?"

"Then...I'd go to a reeducation camp, I guess."

"Where the state will try to brainwash you into letting them take all your money? That doesn't sound very "democratic" to me..." Marcus made the quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

"Well..."

"After the police come after you with their Tasers, that is."

"Well, okay...but other countries are worse, they have their, their "armies", and their, uh, what's it called. "Capital punishment" and..."guns"..."

"Just because other "countries"" (air fingers again) "are worse doesn't mean this system is good."

"So if you don't like the government, why are you running for Parliament?"

"In the hopes that thirty of my fellows will join me, whenupon we will dissolve the state through peaceable means."

"I like peaceable means!"

"That's good."

"But I don't want to dissolve the state."

"Why not?"

"Well...if we didn't have the state, who would build schools?"

"Private groups, whoever wanted to."

"Who would stop people from polluting?"

"Market forces."

"What about welfare?"

"There would be charities."

"Yeah, but what if they didn't get enough money?"

"Would you donate to them?"

"Yeah."

"So what are you worrying about?"

"There might not be enough."

"But other people would donate, too."

"You don't know that."

"I've started on the ground floor today and knocked on every door. And that's just today. I think I have a pretty good idea what people think."

"Yeah, but you can't assume people would give money."

"Hmm...Are you an "immigrant", by chance?"

"Um, no. No, I'm not. Nothing against my newest compatriots, but...no, I was born in this country."

"This country," said Marcus, with just a hint of sarcasm. "I take it that your ancestors were utopians trying to set up an egalitarian community?"

"Why...yes! Yes they were!"

"And more recent ancestors have instilled moral values in you, leading you to think that helping those in need is a good idea?"

"Yes! Yes they have!"

"And do you think the other people in this apartment building have the same upbringing as you, in that sense, roughly speaking?"

"Why...yes, I think most of them do!"

"But you don't think anyone else would donate to charity, if the state were to disappear?"

A look of intent, focused, concentration. "Are you asking me," finally came the reply, "to make assumptions about other people on the basis of where they were born?"

"Yes..."

"That would be nationalism," was the smug retort, "and as we have just agreed, would be a silly fallacy."

Marcus sighed. "Okay. Hey, I'm gonna be in the debate Saturday night, seven pm on AM a thousand."

"Okay, cool."

A minute later, there was the sound of knocking against a bright blue wall with red polka-dots on it.

[Jenrak]

[ FT ]

[ Mature ]

Clay-Caked Hands

“What is this?” He asked her, looking at the spindling and twisting clay that stood on the board. Deep rays of golden light poured in from the high windows, with the smell of vanilla prickling my nose. “It looks weird, no offense.” He said, as she looks at me with a scoff on her face.

“Auh, what? Screw you.” She said, turning back to the statue as she looked at it with clay-caked hands locked across her chest. “You don’t understand my genius.”

He chuckled. “Hah, you fuckin’ goof.”

“Yeah, well, try and get by on dinner without me.” She replied back, as he elicited a frown on his face with a stab of concern. “Okay, wait, sorry. Yo, it’s okay – I mean, it’s good. It’s just – “

She shook her head, the long bangs covering her face as she brushed them off. “No, it’s fine. Actually, I have to do something as well. I’m really pressed for time.” She admitted, pointing at a sheet covered mound by the corner, the small pockets and folds blackening the shadows that veiled a deep dark shape. “I gotta finish that for someone.”

“Who?” He asked, curious as he stared at its elongated shape.

She sighed, looking tired at it all. “Just...somebody. He’s a weird person, but I have no choice. He’s paying quite a bit for it, and I don’t know why me, but hey.” She groaned, before adjusting the jingling bracelet on her wrist.

“This is the first time I’ve heard of it. Who is he?”

"His name's Rufus Ermeriel, I think? He's a tycoon of sorts." She shrugged, as he nodded.

"Sounds familiar." He said, chuckling. "Anyhow, want to get something to eat after this?"

She looked up at him, kissing him on the cheeks as she got back to her clay sculpture. “Sorry, another time. I gotta get this done.” He touched his cheek, feeling a coldness where his warmth should have been.

“Alright.” With that, he left.

***

He arrives a bit earlier this time, opening the creaking steel doors to the deep and large studio. Again, there she was. “This place is absolutely secluded – are you fine with working in a place like this?”

She continued to look at the clay statue, slowly refining its shape into something more discernible as the deep grooves cast strong shadows and t he ray of morning sunlight kissed its dirty surfaces. “You’ve been coming here once a week. Any reason why?” She kept her eyes on the slowly contorting clay sculpture before her.

“Ouch,” he chuckles, “you hurt me. Any reason? Because we’re dating?”

“Oh yeah.” She says, smiling widely, though she didn’t turn her face away. “Sorry, but I gotta finish up that sculpture.” She pointed to the blanket again, as he frowned at it.

“Weren’t you working on that last week?”

“Yeah. But Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“Yeah, well, enh. Alright. I’ll buy that.” He said, shooting once glance back at the sheet. “Anyhow, I’ll see you later. Do you want me to pick you up? There’s been a killer prowling about that we’ve heard of, and maybe you want some escorting? He’s already killed a young girl. Didn’t she go to your school?”

“No thanks.” She said, her eyes back at the statue. “And, to be frank, she was in my class. Same program.”

“That sucks. Anyhow, okay, sure.” He made a mocking sigh, then picked up his bag and left. “I’ll see you later.”

***

His yawns ring along the opening of Blue Jays in their choir, trickled by the chirps of Robins. The door creaks as the steel hinges slowly cry a haunting scream. She was there again, looking at the same model and its twisted phalanges as her eyes run along its slowly smoothing surface.

“How long you been working on that?” He asked her, as she kept her eyes on the project in front of her. “It’s been, what, a month?”

“At least.” She admitted, her fingers still touching its increasingly cold surface. “How’s your head so far? I hear you got some pretty bad nosebleeds, and I’m wondering maybe you might be anemic.” She shook her head, pulling the jingling bracelet on her wrist back to her forearms in annoyance.

“I’m thinking that too, what a coincidence.” He joked, leaning back on the table. “Currently they’re having me take...uh,” he pulled out a small black bottle, moving its cold surface in his hands as he read the tiny print, “Olanzapine, I think? I don’t know how to pronounce that. It’s essentially the same as Tylenol, but a bit stronger.”

“Sounds like it.” She said, her stare still on the statue as it slowly began to become more and more defined and the shadows becoming deeper and darker, even in the growing light.

He leaned back on the desk, almost slipping as made a shocked noise, turning to see a cleaver on the desk. “What’s that for?” He asked, pointing at the cleaver.

She looked away from her statue, staring at the cleaver. “Oh, I didn’t have an axe, so I’ve been substitute it for that to chop wood to put into the kiln.”

“Huh. Thought something like that.” He agreed, his eye darting to the veiled work again. “Still not finished?”

“Yeah.”

***

He walked in that morning, looking at the pans and pots filled with red paint along the tables. Again, she was there, wearing the same old clothes and same old apron and working on the same old project. “Geez, don’t you ever rest?”

“Don’t you?” She asks back, still keeping her eye on her project, as she sighed and pulled the jingling bracelet back.

“Of course I do.” He popped a pill into his mouth, swallowing it as he made a slight coughing noise. “Eugh, 98 more to go.”

“That how many Tylenols you have left?” She asked, as he nodded.

“Not technically Tylenol, but yeah. I gotta take two a day, my doctor told me.” He mentioned. “Otherwise I’d be in big trouble, I am told. I only took one for the past two days, so it didn’t seem that off. Nothing happened so far, so I guess I’m fortunate I didn’t get another nosebleed or something ridiculous like that. I think I’m anemic.”

“Do you know what anemia is caused from?”

“Not really.”

“Neither do I.” She smiled, as he did so in tandem. “How many bottles so far?”

“About four, give or take. I’m feeling really sick from all this, but it’s so far kept nosebleeds at bay.” He admitted, as she nodded in return. “But yeah, how’s the statue going so far? And the project?”

“Almost done.” She said, looking at the clay statue in front of her, her hands dipping in red paint as she lathered it all over her hands and pressed it onto the statue in small taps. The edges were intertwined into a messy array of writhing arms, grasping forwards into a long and pale body that stretched nimbly across the table. It was grafted together with a loving attention to detail, and drenched in the red paint to a nimble shape of a woman’s body, wrestled into the form of a clay corpse.

“What about the commission over there?” He pointed to the veiled statue. “When is the guy going to pick it up?”

“He said soon. He’ll be coming within a couple months, so I should be ready then.”

“Alright. Are you coming home tonight?”

“Don’t know.” She admitted.

***

The door was open today, amidst the patter of light rainfall. The humid factory-studio was strong with the stench of a pungent an acrid smell, almost coppery to the nose. There she was, drenched in red paint as her face seemed to bleed as she had some on her face and apron. She was slowly finished the fine details on her clay statue – a life like womanly figure laid down on the wooden table before her, drenched and skinless in a detailed array that seemed to rival God’s own creations.

“Are you alright?” She asked, still looking at the work. He shook his head.

“I ran out on Friday, and now I gotta wait for Monday for my doctor to prescribe me another. Already I got a nosebleed.” He said, looking at his blood covered arm as she shook her head.

“Unfortunate.” She said, as he looked back at the veiled work.

“Yeah, it is.” He admitted. “Going anywhere tomorrow?” He looked around nervously, awaiting a reply as he looked at the studio. More pans and pots drenched in red paint were everywhere, as soon the number of cleavers multiplied. The dangling of chains around the steel supports were slowly becoming noticeable, clanging and mocking the air with a shudder and a smashing metallic scream. He felt uneasy around it all, almost as if it were a butchershop.

“Nope.” She said. “I can’t anyways, my client’s coming here tomorrow to pick it up.”

“Did he say?” He asked, as she shook her head.

“No, just a feeling.”

“You’re running it on a feeling?”

“Feelings are everything in this line of work. It’s a passion people can’t understand, nor want to.” She spoke, almost with her own unique sense of passion in her very voice. He nodded.

“I think I understand.” He admitted.

“Thought so.” She sighed loudly, pulling her loose jingling bracelet back up her forearm.

***

The next day was a bright day, shining with a bright ray as he walked into the studio-factory. He had a tussle of tissue paper up his nostril and a headache to boot. He was tired and weary and his mind was asunder, but regardless he felt the need to come. He just did.

She wasn’t there, and the empty factory seemed infinitely larger, stretching the pots and pans all along the area in a deep red paint. It was acrid and pungent to the nose, and he realised that it smelled no different from the blood that seeped from his nostrils.

He looked at her work on the table, staring at the finely carved and structured body painted in deep red where not even a single thing was overlooked. It was a beauty that matched God’s, and it was so life-like, this skinless woman, that he dared not to run his fingers over her corpse-like form in the fear that she would become real.

On her, wrapped lovingly around her waist, was an apron, drenched in red paint with frantic handprints, much larger than her own hands. A man’s hands.

He waited, waiting for her, for the client, but it seemed neither had arrived, and in his own curiosity, he walked over to the veiled work and pulled it off, looking at the piece in all its form.

The veil tugged at a single nook, causing a jingling noise.

[Abruzi]

[PMT]

[ Mature ]

Coming Home

And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.-Friedrich Nietzsche


He swallowed. The cool sea air burning his scorched throat as it worked it’s way into his abused lungs. The sea was calm, ironic that it was so calm and docile when carrying warriors of the most foul kind to their doom. The sleek Abruzian troop ship chugged along, it’s body slicing through the waves as it crawled closer to the fight, closer to the hell that it would simply drop it’s unwanted cargo into.

The Shamed. Penal Legions made up of criminals and unwanted degenerates they were destined for the shores of Brewdomia where even now battle raged. The Industrial Imperium had silently picked a side, they would go forth to die alongside their comrades in the Nexus while the Imperial Legions mustered in Abruzi. A single Legion of Shamed was all the Imperium would grant her allies for now, the only sacrifice she would make to delay the enemy’s progress before she was ready for total war.

They were trained well of course, armed well too. RFB rifles and the occasional anti tank weapon. Many of the men carried their own personal weapons though, he was one of those few who carried the aging Kalashnikov. His AK-47 was of special stock, modified to fire the heavier 7.62x54 R cartridge, with a new lighter worked body and collapsible stock it was a formidable weapon for any soldier. Hindered by it’s accuracy and lack of attachments however it was only fit for close quarters bloodshed.

The man who carried it. He was inhuman yet the most basic human being in existence. Veteran of a hundred wars, of a thousand and one battles he was a wanderer. A combat junkie. He was death. Horribly burned decades ago when he was young, during the great Turgovian civil war. Neuwolf, the islands campaign, the second coming war, the war of Principalities, the list got larger and larger year by year. He was looking for something, something that was remarkably hard to find. He was looking for a good death.

He had nothing to live for. His family was gone, ages ago when he was young. His homeland was gone, finally falling victim to God King Zeta’s genocidal purges and the tainted soil. His very mind was gone as the Ambrose isles had driven him insane with their torture. All he had left was his desire to meet his end in a fitting manner. He was rich by many standards, a lifetime as a mercenary had ensured that he more money than most men could want. He was never in it for the money. He wanted the byproduct of such work, he wanted to die, but he had to die in the proper manner.

At his side hung an almost ridiculous weapon. A small sword, a gladius such as an ancient warrior might’ve possessed. It was a stabbing weapon that was as outdated as any other sword, but still he carried it. Razor sharp it had over the years killed unknown hundreds of enemy soldiers and was caked with blood. Perhaps not physically but to his weathered and insane eyes it dripped constantly, leaving a red trail wherever it went.

No one knew how or why he had come to the Imperium. He had simply arrived one day and the next he had been in the Shamed. Records showed he was not guilty of any crimes or even monitored by the Inquisition, he had just signed on with those who were sure to die. Outside of the chain of command he was like a pariah. A loner in the midst of an entire Legion of others. He was a shadow, when he walked fire spread and stepped where no man dared to tread.

As the ship cut another wave in twain and the sun became visible to their port side, their destination was in view. The enemy navy had of course encircled the island, but the lone Abruzian craft would get through. It always seemed to when he was aboard no matter how large the enemy fleet. A cheer went up from many of the Shamed. They would rather serve their combat time quickly and perhaps return home soon enough to pick up their lives. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. The Industrial Imperium was not a kind and loving mother to those of her children that worked to further her, those she did not want would die far from her, that was their station. They didn’t know that though, the foolhardy lust for life still throbbed within their veins. He knew, he always had known.

The ship slid up onto the shore. The massive metallic beast leaving a deep trench in the sand as it’s bow pushed through. Men unloaded quickly, the ten thousand Shamed being only light infantry had no vehicles or heavy supplies. They would fight man to man, eye to eye like men had fought and died for centuries. The men were frantic as they unloaded and then marched a kilometer in to establish a perimeter for the night and to contact their hosts.

He was alone in the forest. Before him was his rifle and sword, laid out almost religiously. He drew a smaller knife, one that was older than himself, older than the Imperium. Holding the ceremonial knife high he placed it against his neck and dragged it across his skin and down his arm, first left and then right. His blood leaked out slowly, lethargically almost as if it was as old and tired as a normal man his age should be.

As he bled he slowly lifted his armor. Heavy body armor manufactured in exotic lands far from here it was almost useless now. Designed to stop bullets a fraction of the size the enemy would probably be shooting he might as well not wear it. Dropping is he instead reached into his pack and produced another much older set of body armor. Light and almost assuredly ineffective it was a molded Turgovian Police Kevlar Vest and limb armor. He drew his knife across his chest, tracing his ribs with the small blade.

Pressing the light body armor to it he felt the wounds slowly heal with the Kevlar. Fusing himself and the uniform of his past life together. Softly muttering he then produced his helm. A snarling Daemon faced gasmask in matt black, it was a gift from the Shamed to reflect his history for even in Abruzi he had been known immediately. He placed it in it’s container and slung it across hi chest. Upending his pack he stuffed his combat webbing with as much ammunition he could carry before dropping the pack. Grabbing his rifle and blade he rose to rejoin the Shamed.

Several hours later they were marching. He walked alone, separated from the others. His seemingly decrepit body was kept healthy and strong by the constant combat and stress placed upon it. He wore his gasmask now, hiding his charred face and insanity tinged eyes from the other men who gazed upon him with poorly contained looks of horror or morbid curiosity.


It was night of far off rumbles as Artillery and Air Power Decimated the enemy held city. Fire and explosions illuminated the horizon but he slept through it. He was sleeping more and more these days, his tired body needing more and more rest. It was not his time yet, he still had so far to go before Death would release him, that he knew. The hour was late but the sun still had yet to set.


The battle was over before it had began. Artillery had blown Haven to hell and back, rubble and the ruins that once were people’s lives were all that was left. The Shamed rallied before a breach in the wounded city’s walls and prepared to attack. Zealots shouted speeches and religious hymns as the condemned soldiers made ready. As the final rockets arched in from the artillery Regiment deployed behind the front a great cry echoed from the throats of the ten thousand Shamed.

Surging forward like a human wave they charged through the breach firing at the enemy who milled about in confusion. Concealed machine gun pits opened up and hosed the front rank which fell like dried wheat to a farmer’s scythe. Men fought and died in droves as the human wave forced itself into then through the enemy lines. The shattered bodies were left behind, they were alone in death. The organic fluids within us all began to flow onto the battlefield, drenching everything in a thick film that seemed to be drawn to fellow organic matter.

He could see soldiers who couldn't take it, they lay on the ground and cried. A few tried to retreat only to be shot down by Zealots, their comrades showing them that retreat was not tolerated by killing off those that did. Bits of shattered skull and bone lay all around both in the trench and the no man's land. Yet as the smoke cleared and the assault ended he knew that now was the time. As the Shamed grouped up for a triumphant push into the city he produced a small green vial.

An ancient vial it was impossibly hot to the touch, his skin had long ago ceased to project feeling though. He was dead, for all intents and purposes he was dead. His body and his heart cold and almost silent despite his actions. raising the Green Liquid filled vial high he felt his multiple selves tug at his mind, the strain almost to great to bear again. Silently he fought them off, using the techniques he had learned ages ago upon his brief return home.

With his other hand he produced a small doll. A rag doll that was torn and faded. Tear and blood stains ruined any image it could ocncur and it was obviously only kept around for sentimental reasons. Cradling the doll in his left arm he held the vial with his burned arm. He threw it, the vial arching high into the air before impacting on the ground directly before him. A green haze filled the air as the Life Eater was unleashed. He felt his organs liquefying as he breathed it in, there would be no escape from it this time.

Lowering his weapons to the ground he laid back and held the doll in front of his face. As he felt his arms start to give out he softly whispered,

"I'm coming home Katya."


The Life Eater spread quickly, killing off all within the city before burning itself out as it's organic prey was gone. Dried husks remained behind, dried husks that were more alike in death than living beings could ever be. They never found him. His body likely collapsed on itself and was blown away like some are prone to do, they did however find his doll. The small rag construct was badly damaged and scratched into it's stomach was one word, a name.

“Petrov"

[Atlantean Peoples]

Ghosts

[FT]

“Where IS he?”

Xolin looked at the time on the holographic display on her phone, noting that he was late. Again. Like he always was.

“This is just like him!” she said, annoyed, “You give him a deadline, and he misses it by like, six hours!”

The white-haired woman looked to be in her mid-to-late twenties, though Atlantean aging was far slower then Terran, and so she was more likely in her sixties or seventies. She was clothed in a somewhat ceremonial dress, a long violet multi-layered tunic dress with blue accents and a cloth belt. A man (also white-haired, due to the lack of natural hair pigment in Atlantean genes) wearing a violet tunic with blue accents and tight wrist bands, and matching loose pants and boots, stood some ways behind her as she ranted, getting something to eat at a stand. He paid the vendor with a few coins and grabbed a slice of what looked to be some sort of brownish mush frozen in pie form.

“…What is that?” Xolin asked him, calming down but with a slightly grossed out expression.

“Pumpkin pie” the man, Trok, said, “Some kind of Terran dessert designed for this time of year. I figured I should expand my tastes a bit. Navy rations wear thin on you after awhile”

“It looks disgusting” Xolin replied, “Why would you eat a pumpkin?”

Trok took a bite, “…Actually, it’s quite good. Sort of a tangy bite to it”

“If you say so” Xolin said, glancing at her phone again, “…Where IS he?”

“Saying that every two minutes isn’t going to make him spontaneously appear, Xolin” Trok said with his mouth full, “He’s only like, fifteen minutes late anyway”

The two stood in the middle of a tightly-winding pedestrian street, which curved uphill behind a row of buildings. The buildings of the town were true to their Atlantean origins in design, with a very monolithic feel to them. Many were made of stone, though as this was a smaller town, wood was a common site as well, creating buildings that some would describe as a homogonous blend of Meso-American and Indonesian architecture, with many runic designs carved across the various geometric ad angled buildings, with blue glowing lines that represented the Orichalic power output running through the city. In fact, at first glance one wouldn’t even be able to tell that it didn’t belong to a bronze-age society. The town itself was situated at the back of a small bay, sitting on top of a steep hill incline that gave the town a very twisty ‘terraced’ feel, keeping in line with Atlantean desire to blend communities with surrounding terrain rather than supersede them.

It was fall by now, definitely. The colder nights that had settled in had begun to change the colors of the leaves, leaving the town with a very golden aura to it in addition to the standard blue color that the Orichalic power sources and lights gave to the community. The golden color was only helped along by the setting sun, which Trok estimated only had another fifteen or so minutes left over the horizon. It was a beautiful evening, with a cool breeze that fluttered through the streets and through the cloudless sky.

The town was decked out in all sorts of decorations for the celebration. According to the old Lemurian calendar, tonight was a special night. Tonight, according to old folklore, was the night that the spirit world and the real world were at their closest in sync, much like the Terran ‘Halloween’, though the timing of these two holidays were merely a coincidence as the Lemurian calendar would move across the Gregorian one over the years due to the difference in Earth’s orbit and the late Lemuria’s orbit. Fire-lit lamps were strung across the tops of buildings and over the street, as various skulls and other ‘frightening’ decorations littered the front of buildings. In times past this had been a time to reflect on those lost by individuals, and to be careful of angry spirits, though in modern times the holiday had become more of a lighthearted party—a celebration of life, in some respects. This has especially become true in the aftermath of The War, when the last thing people wanted to do was put even more focus on everyone and everything they had lost.

“You guys been waiting long?” asked a voice. A man in similar clothing to Trok and around the same age walked down the street towards them, waving.

“Gods, finally. What took you, Sid?!” Xolin replied, exasperated.

“Well, you know the light rail; delays, delays, delays” he said casually, but noting Xolin’s attitude, “I didn’t know you guys missed me that much” he smiled, knowing it would irk Xolin somewhat.

“We don’t get to hang out as much like in the old days” Trok replied sadly, “What with all of us stationed on different ships now”

Sid smiled, nodding, “Yeah. It’s too bad. But then, that’s what shore leave is for, right?” he asked, putting his arms around both of his old teammates.

A flare went off down near the docks, exploding into a burst of light overhead. All three looked in its direction as a number of other fireworks went off, all in varying sizes and shapes and colors.

“The festival’s already started” Xolin said, “We should get down there before the temple officially opens to the public. We don’t want to be swarmed, do we?”

Sid let go of his friends, “I suppose not. Come on, let’s go. And afterwards, we can go see what the festival has to offer this year” he glanced at what Trok was eating, “…What in the hell is that?”

Trok replied with his mouth full again, “…Pumpkin Pie. Want some?”

Sid gave a revolted expression, “No thanks”

---

The trio made their way through the crowded docks where the town festival was being held. By now the sun had set, leaving behind a dark blue sky that was gradually growing darker. Torches lined the edges of the docks, providing light for the festivities. More stands lay scattered up the hill into the town, as well as down here on the docks, ranging from various food and trinket vendors to games and fireworks. Kids ran from stand to stand, as their parents tried to control them in a futile effort.

Each vendor was different and varied. One would sell various good luck trinkets to protect against spirits (or rather, noisemakers for children to annoy parents), while the next one over would sell face paint and masks for the kids, and yet another would sell crabs from the local fishing business, though decorated to fit the occasion. One particular booth had a number of large candied skulls for eating.

“Hmm” Trok said, looking at one of the skulls, “…You know, I can’t help but think that this is actually kind of disrespectful, you know?”

“Then don’t buy it” said a large old man behind the counter with a grizzled voice, “I’m not here to be mocked”

Trok blinked, surprised. He really hadn’t put the man selling the skull into the equation before putting his foot into his mouth, “I, er…my bad” he said, backing off back towards Xolin and Sid.

“Oh hey! A Uria!” said Xolin, pointing at a figure a few stands down. Someone had dressed themselves up as some sort of black humanoid spider creature with eight arms and hands, and a gaping hole for a face. It stood at about eight feet tall.

It was Sid’s turn to blink in surprise, “…A what?”

“You know, an Urian!” Xolin replied, “It’s a type of creature parents use to scare their kids into acting right. An Urian hunts those who wander alone into the forest at night. It stalks you and then boxes you in with giant webs it creates. Then when it has you where it wants you…it eats your face”

Trok’s eyes widened in uncomfortable fear, gulping. Sid rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“You really believe in those sorts of things?” asked Sid.

Xolin shrugged, “Not really. But you never know what’s out there. It might”

“Even if it DID, which I doubt” Sid said, “There’s no way it still does. This colony is only fifteen years old” Sid glanced at Trok, who was doing his best to pretend not to be put on edge by the story, “It’s just a fairy tale, dude”

“Of…of course it is” Trok said, nodding and smiling in an attempt to look reassured.

Xolin sighed, “Yes Sid, we know. There’s no wonder or mystery in the universe. It’s all cold, hard facts”

Sid shrugged, “Pardon me if I need a little proof before I start taking ancient folklore as undisputed truth” he glanced at the time on his phone; “…We’d better get to the temple. They’ll be opening to public service in another fifteen minutes”

Suddenly, a kid ran past, grabbing Sid’s phone out of his hand and speeding off into the crowd, laughing as he did.

“…What the” Sid’s eyes widened as his brain worked through what had just happened, “That sneaky little sunva...get back here you little runt!” Sid charged after the kid.

“Sid, we’ll meet you at the temple!” Xolin called after him as he vanished in the sea of people.

“…They don’t exist, right?” asked Trok, still staring at the large creature.

Xolin smirked, “You’re kinda freaked out about this, aren’t you?”

“No, not at all” Trok replied, though his tone of voice betrayed him, “Let’s uh…let’s go to the temple”

---

It was almost completely dark now, just a hint of blue light left. Sid had followed the child into a forested area somewhere adjunct to the temple, a short ways from the town and the docks. The area was densely forested in pine trees, with a thin mist obscuring what little view Sid could get in this place. He almost stepped on his phone, which was laying on the ground. He quickly picked it up and put it back in his pocket.

“Damned kids…” Sid muttered to himself, “Don’t parents teach manners anymore? Y’know, like how not to up and steal shit out of people’s hands while laughing?”

SMACK.

Sid walked right into a large spider web.

“…Oh come ON” he shouted to no one in particular as he struggled to get the sticky substance off of him, “This is…” he trailed off, as he looked up, realizing suddenly that this was a BIG spider web, stretching up to the tops of the trees. It was thick too, much thicker then a normal web.

“What the…” he asked, his eyebrow arching in mild confusion. Sid stepped back, brushing himself off as he took a different path.

SMACK. Another huge spider web.

Sid stood back, now a little unsettled. He brushed away the story about the Urian Xolin had muttered earlier, despite the eerie coincidence. “Pfft. Spiders. Like there are really giant-ass eight-foot-tall face-stealing spider people”

Something moved in the corner of his eye. Hearing a sound, Sid spun around, only to see nothing. Now unnerved, Sid grabbed a small pistol off the side of his belt, and spun around to make sure his coast was clear. A slight hissing noise (so faint he might have imagined it) caused him to spin around behind him and fire his weapon. A burst of red energy slammed into a tree.

Sid backed away, his gun in hand.

A twig snapped behind him. Sid spun back around---and almost knocked himself right into an extremely old lady in ceremonial priestess robes.

“AH!” he screamed, falling down and back into a pile of leaves.

“You have disrupted this holy ground!” the old woman snapped, “The spirits are not to be disturbed!”

“What?” asked Sid, catching his breath, “…Oh the gun? Yeah, sorry about that. I thought I saw a bear or something. Lost my nerve, and well, you know…”

The woman continued to stare at him.

Sid coughed, and stood up, “Uh…you don’t really believe in that stuff, right?”

The woman continued to stare at him.

Sid scratched his head, “Look, we got off on the wrong foot, miss. I’m Admiral Sid, and—”

“I know who you are. You should not be here” the woman said, cutting Sid off. She turned and motioned for Sid to come “Come with me. You must leave”

Sid shrugged in mild frustration, “I…er, ok…”

Sid followed the priestess through the dense forest for a short walk, until they reached the side of the temple. Sid and the old woman rounded the building until they reached the front. It was a rectangular building at the base, with slanted walls halfway up, which ended in a large diamond-shaped structure protruding out of the top.

“Sid!” Xolin shouted, waving. She and Trok were down the walkway from the building, a bit down the hill. They were with another priestess, somewhat younger then the old woman Sid was with.

“Hi!” Sid replied, as the two groups met up, “Sorry, I got a bit lost. Then she found me” Sid pointed at the woman next to him.

…Except there was no woman present.

“…Who?” asked Xolin, confused.

Sid glanced around, “Huh…she must have gone elsewhere. She was pretty adamant me not going into the woods” he looked at the other priestess”

“Who?” Xolin repeated.

Sid looked back at his friend, “The other priestess here. We met in the woods”

The priestess that had come with Xolin and Trok spoke up, “Um…Admiral…there are no other priestesses on duty tonight”

“Wait, what?” asked Sid, “But...then who did I see?”

The priestess shrugged, “I cannot say, I did not see any woman with you”

Xolin put on a spooky smile, “Maybe it was a ghoooost!”

“It was not!” Sid shot back, “…Was it?”

The priestess shrugged again, “Truth be told, child, I don’t believe in ghosts. Now come. If you wish to pay respects, I suggest you do so before the crowds start coming”

The priestess led the three into the small temple. The room inside was covered in lit candles, with a small alter directly opposite the door. On each side of it stood two more doors leading into the inner sanctum, as well as a number of offices and such. The alter had a small waterfall falling from it that ended in a small pond in the center of the room.

Trok pulled out three small wooden tablets. He kneeled in front of the alter, followed by Sid and Xolin. Gently, Trok placed the three tablets in the water, and watched them float way, behind the alter and down a second waterfall into the ground.

“To fallen friends” Trok said quietly.

“Sel” Xolin said.

“Coros” said Trok.

“…Seth” Sid said, at last, “May you find peace”

“I thought you didn’t believe in spirits” Xolin said with a coy smile.

“I don’t” Sid replied, “It’s just an expression”

Truth be told however, Sid was a tad unnerved. What had that all been about? Did he hallucinate the entire thing? Or…was there really something out there?

---

The massive spiderweb that bound the trees together sparkled in the bright moonlight, shaking in the occasional breeze. Its shadows moved across the thin mist that covered the forest, as though a mysterious creature could be seen moving through the forest. A cry from an unknown animal echoed through the woods. A haunting cry, indicating that something was out there.

Prowling…

Stalking…

[Those Who Hate Others]

-tag-

[Ustio North]

[ P/MT ]

[ Satire ]

For The Lulz

The Cabinet room was an old, ornate room of the Governmental building. Inside, many men, old and young, all smartly dressed for the occasion, chatted quietly. The atmousphere was tense, and there was an air of impatiance between the people as they awaited the empty seat to be filled. Slowly, the sound of voices were drowned out as the low rumble of an engine drew ever closer. Finally the roar became deafening, as the door into the cabinet room was shattered, sending splinters showering over the assembled politicians, who cowered in fear slightly, awaiting the dust to settle.

From admist the devastation, a massive Harley-Davidson, emblazoned with the nation's flag all over the body, was parked in the room. Sat on the back, lighting a long hand-rolled cigar with a lighter shaped like a gun, was the current Prime Minister. The 19 year old took a moment to inhale a large amount of cigar smoke, before exhaling it again in the shape of an SR-71, which floated gently across the room, before it dissapated.

Finally, he took a seat at the head of the table, leaning his feet upon it and continuing to smoke the cigar.

"You'd better have a good reason for calling this meeting, Godwin" he said, a hint of annoyance "I've got my 10:30 with Cherise before Grimdark need me on lead guitar."

"I...uh...Yes sire." possibly the most weedy politician in the room answered, looking at his papers, splinters strewn across them as they were, before replying "We recently declared our intent to make a giant space catapult, at your request. It seems one of our neighbours has declared that such a project is unethical, as it will be hazardous to the evironment, and have demanded we cease our plan."

"Insolent bastards!" the PM roared, slamming a clenched fist down upon the table, splitting it in half. The paparazzi outside chose this moment to take a picture, so he took a moment to smile for the cameras, before returning to the matter at hand "We must make a measured and proportionate response, yes?"

"Absolutely Prime Minister." Godwin replied, "How we handle this trivial matter could determine how the rest of the world sees us and whe-"

"NUKE THE BASTARDS!" the Prime Minister interjected, standing up and hammering a fist down on the shattered table. There was a moment of silence as everyone stared at him, before one of the other ministers spoke up

"Can't let you do that, Prime Minister." he said, recieving a piercing stare from the 19 year old chain-smoker

"Why not?!" he asked angrily

"We need to build additional silos. All the current defence budget was pumped into building the acme space cata-" he aide began, although with a sharp crack, his brains painted the walls behind him, and he slumped forward, his blood pooling upon the floor.

"Get rid of him. And launch the nukes." the Prime Minister ordered, blowing the smoke away from the pistol's barrel, before tucking it into the back of his pants as he climbed back atop the motorbike "You will do this, or I shall staple your mouth shut so that I cannot hear you. Do you understand?"

Godwin nodded plainitvely, his glasses quivering.

"Good." The motorbike engine revved, and in a cloud of tiresmoke, the PM was gone.

[Lemonius]

[ FT ]

[ Mature ]

Wetwork
Wet work or wetwork is a euphemism for murder or assassination, alluding to spilling blood

Darkness engulfed the city. Rain spat down from the black cover above, bouncing off of his head. It swelled around his boots, and dripped off of his hands. He waited. He had been waiting for no more than 3 minutes prior. He spoke softly into a microphone on his collar.

"Dark - Ready"

"Understood dark, proceed with objective"

He removed the microphone and let it fall to the ground, he placed his boot above it before crushing the small electronic communicator. There was a sound of metal screeching and his eyes met with the steel door, no more than a few metres ahead. He froze as the door opened, and he threw himself against the wall - parrallel to the door. A figure stepped out, raincoat pulled up around his neck. Face obscured. Perfect. He had considered that not seeing their faces was better. He took several steps behind the person. His boots squelching in the puddles of rainwater under his feet. He had given himself away...

The figure turned and gazed fearfully into the eyes of his killer - he screamed and fumbled in his coat pocket before brandishing a weapon. He pointed it straight at the attempted assassin, hands shaking from the biting night air, and from ever growing fear. Dark made his move. He pushed the gun aside with his left hand and thrusted his forehead into the figure. Grabbing the gunman's arm, he swung him into the wall. He felt in the darkness until his hand met with the victim's face, he clenched his fingers around it, before pulling it back and forcing it to collide with the grey brick building.

The victim yelped, and snapped his jaws on one of the gripping fingers by his lips, a viscus liquid seeped between his teeth and danced on his tounge. Dark wrenched his finger free and placed his hand under the elbow of the gunman, he smiled as he pushed it up and a faint crack indicated he had done it well. A scream of anguish echoed down the alley and the weapon hit the floor. Dark stood back as the wounded figure fell to his knees. A kick to the ribs brought his body to the floor. His face soaked in water and blood.

Dark surveyed the damage to his hand in the blue hue of the moonlight, he sucked at the gash until the bleeding stopped. Then, moving his gaze from his hand to the person, now huddled over in the foetal position, he reached into his waistband. And tugged at the handle of his blade. He knelt next to the victim, whom was beggining to drown in the pool of blood in the imperfected roadway.

"Run" He whispered, the moonlight glinting off of a silver knife edge protrouding from his belt.

The figure gotto his feet, resting his back against the wall and pushing with his legs. Tears were streaming down his face, mixing with the red ooze from his split skin upon his brow, He began to run, running as fast as his legs would carry him - All the while clutching to his arm which swayed, sickeningly, the wrong way. He knew the assassin was closing, heavy footfalls followed his steps in the rain-soaked puddles. He knew it was over...

Dark reached around the figure's head with his left hand and held the mouth closed. His right hand, clutching the blade moved ever closer to his victim's throat. Stabbing the chest may not work, the figure could be wearing clothes in which the blade could get tangled. Nor would he make a small incision in the throat, as the gurgling would be loud enough to be heard in the street - and the blood flow would be slow, in which time the victim could crawl into the street and beg for help. Only one way would ensure his death.

The blade met with the victim's neck, just below the left ear. He pushed the blade in, and punctured the skin. A muffled, heart-wrenching scream billowed from between his fingers. He curved the knife around, slicing the jugular as non-oxidised blood flowed over his hand, it was warm and sticky and it clung to the knife handle. It trickled down the person's chest, soaking his jacket and shirt, staining it a very dark red. And continued to curve the blade around, finally meeting with the right ear. Dark removed the blade from the neck, blood still flowing from the massive gash. A very faint gurgling sound could be heard, and a small trickle of blood ran over his fingers covering the victim's mouth. He pulled his hand away and the head slumped unaturally backward, revealing the severed throat and veins.

Dark grimaced and turned away, the body falling to the ground. He looked back at the almost severed head, the eyes of his kill were glazed... staring right into him, and a feeling of fear grew and grew inside. A must more sick feeling emerged, and he turned to face the wall - bracing himself with his hands upon it. He vomited into the puddles below, a thin trickle of saliva followed into the pink coloured water. He wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve and walked away. A tear falling down his cheek, before dropping - and hitting the many drops like it on the floor.

A commercial ship was waiting at the end of the alley. The door opened with a hiss, and Dark stepped inside. He sat on a crate, opposite another Lemonian - wearing government robes.

"The Jerechatist is dead?" He quizzed

"Yes, the religious old man didn't stand a chance" Dark replied, a faint quiver of sorrow in his voice.

"Good. We do not want the religious community getting too full of itsef again, do we?" The official asked

"No... No, of course not. What they did before was unspeakable, but why must we silence the innocent?"

"It was the innocent that started the civil war in the first place!" The official was not pleased with the question. "And, we must make sure it doesn't happen again"

"Yes. I understand"

"Your next target" The official handed Dark a briefcase. Dark opened it to find several packets of photographs and communicator numbers, addresses, and other information.

"When?" Dark asked, while avoiding looking at the pictures of the target's face

"Tommorow, he is at a Jerechatist banquet. Make it look like an accident." The official motioned to the blood stains on Dark's clothes "And clean yourself up"

"That's what you get with wetwork"

[Fumos]

[ FT ]

For Whom The Bell Tolls

Clang

She heard it now. Deafening in her mind as she dropped to all fours, her porcelein skin sizzling and steaming with the effort she had put in. He breathing was heavy and laboured, her vision somewhat blurred and every now and then, a resounding thump echoed through the whine that now filled her ears, making her head throb. She took a moment, taking in massive lungfulls of air, attempting to regain what energy she had lost moments ago. After a moment, wiping back a single tear, she managed to regain her footing.

Looking ahead, the sillouette of a person loomed through her double vision. As the images began to clear, and she returned to normal, she recalled it was not a person, but a dummy. And despite the fact that she had mustered all her energy in her last attempt to destroy it, it remained slightly scorched, but otherwise unharmed. She gritted her teeth in frustration and anger, still trying to regain her breath and energy.

"Not good enough." A voice cut into her anger, drawing her gaze away from the dummy and towards the voice's owner. Clad in the black-purple power armour of the Astartes, identifying him as a member of the Knights Of Avalon Chapter, the man stepped towards her. Like all Astartes, this one was much taller than the average human, especially when wearing their armour. This one, his armour ornate and adorned with symbols and icons, some of which resembling open books, was unmasked, allowing the nineteen year old to look right into his eyes, although it was easier to gauge his age and experience from the pock marked scars and craters that dotted his face. "The traitor legions will not afford you the time for a second shot, nor will any capable foe. You must steel yourself. Focus upon the target. Block out all other distractions. This you must learn, for it must be second nature to do so. Again."

The Librarian stepped away, allowing the girl the chance to target the dummy again with an uninteruppted firing line. Still somewhat fatigued, she took a moment to calm her nerves, working up the psychic power that they seemed sure she could handle. Feeling her hands begin to warm, she begain to block out everything. Only the target mattered now. A crackle of lightning leapt from her fingertips, burning a hole onto the training ground floor as it hit.

"Only the target matters." she whispered to herself, raising a hand, aiming it directly at the manequin's head "Only the target"

'Surrender yourself, mortal!'

Releasing the electrical charge she had built up, it speared violently off course, leaving a blackened burn mark upon the rear wall, some distance from her intended target. Unbothered by the fact she had missed, she turned, expecting to see who had whispered in her ear. But the room was empty, barring her, the mannequin and the Astartes, who surveyed the burn mark with a mix of curiosity and exasperation.

"You were distracted again." the Astartes mused, returning from the burn mark on the wall "You allowed yourself to become aware of things you did not need to be aware of. To muster all your power, you must be focused entirely upon your target."

"I thought I heard..." she muttered, glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see a man, even another astartes, who had spoken to her a moment ago. The Astartes cut across her thoughts.

"Ignore it." the Astartes told her sternly. She glanced at him, puzzled as to the fact that he seemed aware of the voice too. Seeing the look on her face, he repeated "Ignore. It.", indicating the mannequin again.

Still somewhat irritated now, as well as fatigued, that the Astartes 'tutoring' her seemed aware of the voice in her head, she began to refocus upon the mannequin. This time, she summoned even more energy into her palms, the words 'Only the target matters' echoing in her head as she re-aimed, the lighting dancing off her fingers, which caused the Astartes to take a cautionary step back.

'Only the target matters'

'Your life is forfeit mortal!'

'Only the target matters'

'You will die screaming!'

'Only the target matters!'

'DIE!''

A monumental blast of electrical energy erupted from her fingertips, lighting the darkness and crossing the length of the room in no time. It was sustained for a few moments, numerous bolts branching off, leaving blackened burn marks all across the room. A moment later, she collapsed to all fours upon the metal floor again, her body screaming with agony, her vision black. Every part of her body ached with pain, yet through it, she felt something touch her arm, pulling her. The darkness receeded, and as her vision returned to normal, she saw the Astartes' gauntleted hand pulling her up off of the floor.

"Not bad." she heard him say. She noticed his armour was suddenly scratched and burnt in places, before putting some effort in, and getting back to her feet. Glancing down the range, she saw the target was not destroyed, but entirely decimated. Wiping away a bloodied nose, she looked up into the Astartes face again. This time, a mixture of pride and concern covered his face. The door to the room opened, an another Astartes, this one in mainly white power armour, albeit with a purple pauldron, afforded his superior a salute of respect, which the Librarian returned.

"You called for me, Brother-Librarian?" the Apothecary asked, glancing at the young girl at his side

"Brother Cassius." the Librarian introduced the Apothecary by name, a smile crossing his face, one that did not suite his face "Would you take our guest down to the Infirmary, she requires medical attention."

"Of course, Brother." Cassius replied, indicating the girl to follow him. They stepped out of the room, leaving the Librarian to survey the extent of the damage to the back wall. He ran a gauntleted finger along the burn, ash sticking to his finger.

"So, you think she's the One, Merlin?" a voice, across the room, asked. The Librarian did not turn upon hearing it, almost as if he was aware of the presence beforehand. He dusted the ash off, before turing to see a third Astartes, this one in similar black-purple power armour. His was also ornate, much more so than the Librarians' own, with a helmet somewhat more knightly-esque than the one worn by Cassius clutched under his arm.

"Indeed I do, Gawain. Everything fits." Merlin replied, joining him to survey the damage on a greater scale "She has potential, but her fright gets the better of her at times."

"She is only human, Merlin. Remember that." Gawain cautioned the Chief Librarian, concerned that he may have pushed her too hard during this training session "Her power is great, but she is frail and the power of the Warp strong. Be careful that you do not push her down that path."

"I would do no such thing, Gawain." Merlin retorted back at the Chapter Master. "I am well aware of our stance. But the prophecy brought her to us. We cannot ignore that."

Gawain continued to look concerned, silently surveying the burns upon Merlin's armour. He turned to leave, concerns still swirling in his head.

"I trust your judgement, my brother." Gawain noted, looking back at him from the door "Just be careful. We've waited a long time for this."

[Mikedor]

[PT]

Into The Flames

The following was discovered on a drunkards body, found early one January morning in 1876 in a gutter outside the Admiralty. It was the first explanation of the loss of HMRS Warrior, which had been lost 11 years earlier in an unexplained explosion.

"It was 1865, and I, Christopher Janssen had had enough. Enough of the constant belittling, enough of the taunts and jeers of my so-called comrades. It wasn't my fault I'd slipped on the oil and sweat that covered the boiler-room floor, just as it wasn't my fault I'd knocked the chief stoker towards the furnace. I hadn't meant to, and how could they blame me if the man was ashore in hospital missing an arm and with horrific burns? I rubbed the bruises on my ribs. The gangway in the hold had been dark, and though I hadn't seen my assailants, I'd heard their voices and felt the stinging blows.

I lay in my hammock, hearing those same voices laughing over a game of cards. I'd get them back, I'd sworn to it. It wasn't just the stokers, the tale had spread throughout the ship, and I wasn't welcome anywhere. The ships wooden beams groaned. She was an ironclad, the first of her type, approaching 10 years old, and in need of a refit. The hold was cold and damp, but I'd been beaten out of the stokers mess, and the looks I received from the other sailors hadn't encouraged me to find another.

I groaned as the ships bell rang the second watch. Now I had to get up and go from the cold hold into the colder night air and stand sentry. I rolled out of the hammock and signed for a carbine at the armoury. I walked up the steps onto deck, ignoring the filthy looks and occasional missiles that were sent my way. I stood at my position on the bow, huddled into my pea-coat, miserable as ever. It wasn't like I could just leave. I had another three years service to do. I wondered if applying for transfer would help. Probably not, I reckoned. That chief stoker had been popular throughout the First Fleet. An idea came into my head. I was currently slinging my hammock near the magazine. I had sentry duty there the next night. I worked his plan out, barely noticing the footsteps behind me. Then I recognised the voice of one of my tormentors. I swung round, frantically working the lever of the carbine and thumbing home a .45/577 cartridge. I'd seen what one of those could do to human flesh, even at long range, and knew that the others had too. It was enough to check them, and when I slowly thumbed the teardrop-shaped safety to 'ready', they stopped and lifted their hands.

'We'll get you, just you wait!'
My response was to raise the carbine to my shoulder. The group of men looked at the muzzle of the Martini-Black, taking in the implicit threat, and backed away. I relaxed, but didn't dare make the weapon safe or remove the cartridge until I heard the clang of the hatchway.

I had just three days until the fleet left for the Royal Review down in Jorvik. I calculated that one would be enough. I was wrong in that respect. The next night, I stood outside the magazine. Waiting until I was sure no-one was coming, I picked the lock, thankful of the lax security procedures. I stepped in and grabbed a black waxed cotton bag with the markings RBL200LR on it. I slipped it into his pocket and moved to go outside. Horror! My boot caught the door and a spark flew off it. I held my breath, but luckily for me, it died out before reaching a powder bag. If it had reached one, I wouldn't have known anything about it. I'd been lucky. I'd have to hope this would continue. I closed the door and readjusted the lock.

It wasn't until the next day I found my chance. I was ordered to go and prepare a ready pile of coal, to be used once the ship was underway. It would use it's sails until it was out of harbour. I slipped the black bag into the pile, using coal dust to cover up the markings. Now the powder charge for the 200mm gun, with the large long-range loading, was hidden in the pile, looking almost identical to the coal.
Now for the hard bit, I thought. I stood at the top of the steps, steeling myself, and, when no-one was looking, hurled myself down. I fell awkwardly, and my leg flamed in the worst agony I'd ever felt. Men came running towards my screams and when I came around, a Lieutenant and Doctor soon stood over me.
'We'll have to send you ashore, that break'll take a while to heal.'
The Lieutenant said
'I shan't be sorry on one account, you're not healthy to the atmosphere onboard. It's not your fault, but I've requested you be transferred after recovery, as otherwise your life will be hell. You're a good man, Janssen, and I'd be happy send for you when I get my own ship.'

I was appalled. Here were men treating me decently, and I'd just signed their death warrants. I couldn't let them die.
'Sir, there's something I have to tell you. I've...'
I can't remember anymore, and suppose I must have blacked out.


I woke up two days later in the Naval Hospital ashore, to see shocked, blood-drained faces. I croaked, 'What? What is it?'
The Nurse held up a newspaper before me. The headline read: HMRS Warrior sunk after explosion, lost with all hands.

I'd had my revenge, but all I felt was numbness. I've lived with it for years, but the cold and the emptiness have never left me.

Forgive me,
Christopher Janssen, ex-Able-Seaman, 74583W"

Able-Seaman Janssen had, it transpired, been invalided out with his leg beyond repair, and had turned to drink, living in a small flat above a tavern, selling his military skills for less than salubrious customers. At the autopsy, it was found that he died of an overdose of alcohol mixed with laudanum, and a verdict of suicide was recorded.

[Sierra Apathia]

Tagged!

[Khandosia]

FT | Mature

None Shall Lack For Valour

+++Archival Data; Security Clearance Vermillion+++
+++Belicose Campaign+++
+++Imperial Date M42.177.29+++
+++Subject: Brother-Sergeant Darius, 4th Company, Knights of Sanguinius+++


[First three minutes of recording is too filled with static to make out clearly]...and we are being forced to withdraw into the Carmine Pass. I've been informed by the local Imperial Guard commander that his men are cut off and are beyond saving. Colonel Alaric Morendein, of the 438th Beres Praetorians, shall be honored by my brother Astartes for his sacrifice. His men distract the horde while my squad shepherds the last of the refugees through the mountain pass.

Everything has been mishandled by the addled idiosyncrasy of the planetary governor. The inbred pig even tried to...[More static discharges. Bolter fire and screams are heard in the background at times.]...the loss of life was staggering. Only a few of the Planetary Defense Forces commanders would listen to my call when I informed them that my brethren and I would be moving those civilians willing to the protection of the Agamemnon Mountains.

They can find safety there behind the giant doors that lead to the underground labyrinths made by the Mechanicus. I had to force Adept Johannes with...[the roar of thrusters and more bolter fire interrupt all recording feeds]...but he finally relented. My tactical squad will guard the doors until the last citizen is safely within. I send this message to you Lord Dante, because I believe the task for retaking this world is one that only the Knights of Sangunius can handle. For the Emperor and Sanguinius!



Darius shut down the long-range vox communicator. The message would reach the Imperial Navy frigate, the Argost, or it would not. It was all in the Emperor's hands now. Darius turned his head and looked at what remained of his tactical squad. Out of the original ten, only four now remained: Nikeas, Zanatos, Octavian, and Cassius.

A steady steam of huddle, dirty-looking men, women, and children pass between the battered and giant forms of the Astartes. The mountain pass is narrow, to the point where only three Astartes could manage to stand shoulder to shoulder and walk abreast. The path only opens up when one reaches the mighty iron gates that lead to the under-hive, a place originally created by the Adeptus Mechanicus to experiment in secret. Now it is all but a mausoleum. Darius can see it on the drawn and resigned faces of the normal human beings that walk past him.

They look at him. Some with hope, others with fear, and even one or two with loathing. He had heard all their protests, cries, and screams. Why have you not protected us? Why did you let my son die on the Dragost Fields? Why have you not summoned more of your mighty Space Marines? Darius feels the anguish that they are experiencing, the overriding sense of hopelessness that they must experience to see even the Emperor's finest and strongest warriors pushed back to the brink. They cannot know that Darius would have summoned his brothers, except that a greater threat lies elsewhere. They cannot know that their own planetary governor tried to sacrifice them all just to save his own life and personal wealth.

“Here Brother-Sergeant.”

The voice brings Darius up from his thoughts and he turns to see Brother Cassius standing next to him, a canteen of water held out. Darius nods and takes the canteen, drinking a heavy drought from it. The dust and ache that had plagued him for ten days is slightly abated.

“A sad business,” commented Cassius. Cassius is nearly as old as Darius. Both of them were neophytes within the Chapter together, were in the same Scout Squad, and later the same tactical squad upon being raised to full Astartes. He was Darius' oldest friend and confidant.

“Our duty,” replied Darius. “The Emperor, in his perfect wisdom, made us to protect his realm and people. That is our duty this day Cassius.”

“Would be nice if they cheered us then,” grinned Cassius sardonically.

“You shouldn't expect any such acclaim Cassius,” added a third voice. The two turned to see Octavian walking closer, carefully polishing his bolt pistol. Octavian was a rising star in the Chapter. Quick to learn every lesson taught him, and surpass every expectation when put to the test. It had given him a small bit of hubris that had seen him delegated to Darius, who was renown for his dour nature. Octavian had taken to Darius like a young brother idolizing his elder brother.

“That's rich coming from you, young whelp,” jeered Cassius good-naturedly.

“I have to keep you old senile men in line somehow,” Octavian grinned back.

Nikeas and Zanatos both turned to watch this exchange, shaking their heads while doing so. It was old-hat for them, the exchanges between Octavian and Cassius. Like their sergeant, Nikeas and Zanatos were dour and even morose in personality. Both were dedicated and skilled Astartes however, and could be gripped with a righteous fury when the God-Emperor laid his hand upon them in battle.

Darius was about to chastise the both of them when a disheveled PDF trooper came running and collapsed in front of them. The line of refugees was drying up, with only hands-full more still coming. The trooper was gasping and Darius could see blood flecking his uniform, not all of it his own.

“M-My lords,” he managed between gulps of air. “The line is broken. The orks are beginning to come through.”

“Is this the last of the refugees?” asked Darius, rising up and putting his helm back on.

“It is lord,” said the trooper. “We held them back for...as long as we...could.” Darius' enhanced hearing enabled him to listen to the trooper's pounding heart come to a thundering halt. His exertions had seen the end of him. It gave Darius pause for thought, that humans were so frail next to his giant frame.

Darius knelt and closed the man's eyes while whispering the Emperor's Benediction. It was the least he could do for a man who had given everything for his people and his service to the God-Emperor.

The vox suddenly came alive with a voice that sounded far more machine than man.

“Brother-Sergeant Darius, are you receiving my signal?” came the voice of Tech Adept Johannes.

“I am Adept,” replied Darius. “What is it? We're about to be in combat.”

“That is just it, Brother-Sergeant,” replied Adept Johannes. “You must hold back the enemy for one hour and twenty-three minutes and nineteen seconds.”

Darius actually turned his head towards the mountain, as if he could see Adept Johannes through the rock. “What do you mean, hold for an hour?”

“And twenty-two minutes,” added the Adept. “That is the amount of time it will take for the machine-spirits to fully close and lock the doors to the under-hive. If the orks are allowed to gain entrance or somehow damage the locking mechanism of the gate, this entire endeavor will have been fruitless.”

Darius ground his teeth together. “I wish you had informed me of this earlier, Adept.”

“It was not entirely pertinent at that time. Now it is.”

“Very well. We will hold them back. Get that door shut as fast as possible. Darius out.”

Darius cut the link and turned to his men. They had all heard the conversation as well, with the Adept transmitting over a broad-band signal. Cassius shrugged.

“I didn't feel like going down into the under-hive anyway,” he said. “I hate dark, musty places.”

“We could have put you on cleaning duties,” pitched Octavian.

“More like the both of you,” said Nikeas, breaking his stoic silence for once.

A loud wave of noise washed over them. Darius turned and used his helmet's telescope ability to zero-in on the approaching orks. Even hemmed in like rats, they were advancing like a solid green block of destruction. They were less than a hundred meters away when the front leaders paused, seeing five red-gold armored Astartes standing in their path. Cries of delight echoed out in their guttural language upon seeing worthy opponents, targets upon which they could test their mettle.

“Bolters then blades,” ordered Darius. “We need to hold them off for an hour and more.”

“Executing,” murmured Zanatos. The hulking Space Marine stepped forward and leveled the large heavy bolter gun that he carried with consummate ease. The orks howled and charged. Zanatos pressed the firing stud of his weapon, and a torrent of mass-reactive shells rained down upon the advancing orks.

It was pure butchery; no finesse or fanciful combat form. When Zanatos had to reload, he would step back and Darius and the other three would step forward with their bolters and bolt pistols. To conserve ammunition Darius ordered them to make every shot count.

Darius whipped another clip into his gun and swung it up in time to send a bolt flying along an arrow-straight trajectory. His heightened Astartes senses could almost just watch in slow motion as the round entered the ork's skull right between his glowing red eyes. The body fall forwards as the small explosive package inside each bolter round explode once the spirit within it sensed tissue around it and exploded. Bits of blood, viscera, and bone splattered across the rocks.

The orks came on, heedless of their losses. Within the first ten minutes, the floor of the narrow pass was covered knee-deep in dead orks. Behind them even more ork warriors pressed forward, crawling and scrambling over their fallen brethren like the wild savages that they were. A wall of compressed ork carcasses was being built, and Darius and his half-squad were the masons.

Zanatos cursed and threw down his heavy bolter.

“I'm out of ammunition,” he growled. He pulled out a large chain-axe and hefted it in his hands, glaring hatefully at the orks as they suddenly realized the small respite from the constant hail of heavy bolter shells.

“Nikeas, Cassius, Octavian; how much do you have left?” asked Darius.

“One full clip.”

“Half a clip.”

“Two clips.”

“And I have two for my bolt pistol,” growled Darius, which he raised and shot an enterprising ork through the head that had tried to peak over the mound of bodies, which had grown to near chest-height.

“Alright, tight fire discipline. One shot, one kill. Nikeas and Octavian, form a firing line. Cassius you are with me,” ordered Darius. “Once you run dry, fall back behind us.”

Nikeas and Octavian stepped forward and raised their bolters. The orks began swarming forward again in even greater numbers it seemed like. Both of the Knights took careful aim and, as ordered, one ork fell for every bolt round they fired.

In what seemed like mere seconds, the pair of them were falling back and Cassius raised his bolter. “Ready when you are brother!” Cassius said, his helmet hiding the smile that Darius knew was beneath it.

He raised his bolt pistol. A howling ork with bits of metal bolted to its very body came howling over the mound of bodies, a giant cleaver raised in its right hand. The choppa gun in its left hand was apparently forgotten in its berserk desire to reach the Astartes and fight in hand-to-hand combat. Darius shot it through its right eye, watching as brain matter exploded out the back of its ruptured head.

Again, in what seemed like mere seconds, their last rounds of ammunition ran dry.

“Swords!” cried Darius, drawing his power sword. It was a large weapon, two-handed. Lightning crackled along the length of the blade as he activated its power stud. Eldritch runes from ancient Gothic ran the length of the blade. It was a gift from his Chapter Master, for heroic deeds that Darius had performed as a youth, and it was said to have been forged on Holy Terra itself under the watchful eyes of the God-Emperor.

“I'm first!” cried Zanatos.

Easily the largest of them there, Zanatos stepped forward and raised his chain-axe threateningly. “Come on you worthless apes! Come and meet your doom before a servant of the God-Emperor of Mankind!”

Orks charged, bellowing in response to so obvious a challenge. They charged forward, swinging their cleavers and axes.

They were like paper dolls before Zanatos. He dipped, turned, and lunged. Every strike would kill two orks. The walls of the pass were so close that it was near impossible to get around the towering Astartes warrior. He was a blur as he moved, killing with every stroke.

Zanatos killed thirty of them before his luck ran out. His chain-axe got caught inside the ribcage of a large ork twice the size of himself. Another ork appeared next to his fallen kin and thrust a large, iron spike forward and through Zanatos' throat, just barely passing between his armored helmet and throat gorget.

“No!” yelled Nikeas.

Before Darius could stop him, Nikeas rushed forward. With a fury fueled by fiery vengeance Nikeas fell upon the victorious ork like a thunder clap. He swung his chain-sword around in a slashing arc and cut the orc in two, from the collar bone to the hip. With green ork blood covering his red armor, Nikeas walked forward, spinning and diving. His sword struck out like a snake, cutting necks open, lopping off limbs, and decapitating unwary orks.

Octavian stepped up behind him, and warded off any attacks that came close to flanking the anger-charged Nikeas. The two of them wove a pattern of death. More and more orks continued to climb forward, only to be met by the pair and die.

Nikeas fell next. An ork that he had thought dead, gripped his ankle and managed to make the Space Marine fall to his knees. Before Octavian could come to his aid a large, burly ork with two massive cleavers charged forward and in a powerful swipe of its arms, cut Nikeas' head from his body. Octavian cut down three more orks in front of him, ran up the mound of the dead, jumped off the side of the rock wall and came crashing down atop Nikeas' killer, plunging his chain-sword through the beasts neck and into its heart.

“Can't let the young pup have all the fun,” muttered Cassius.

“Indeed,” agreed Darius. He raised his sword. “For the Emperor and Sanguinius!”

The older Astartes charged forward and together with Octavian they formed a sword line. They were forced to step backwards, foot by foot, because of the number of dead and dying orks. None of them wanted to suffer Nikeas' fate by being fouled by a dying ork.

Octavian was stabbed through the armpit and lost his grip on his sword. Cursing he grabbed the ork by his collar and smashed his helmeted head straight into the ork's nose several times, battering it to death. Cassius handed him his sword, which Octavian gripped with his other hand.

“Come now lad, I can't have you slowing us down,” mocked Cassius.

“What do you mean? I'm having to do all the work for you, since I don't want a frail old man like you to get hurt,” riposted Octavian.

Cassius turns his head to reply to the whelp when a cleaver smashes aside his chain-sword and cuts his throat.

“NO! CASSIUS!” Octavian roars. The wounded, marine slices two orks into gibbets to reach Cassius, who has fallen to his knees. Octavian catches his just as his body falls backwards.

Darius watches on his helmet display as the life signs from Cassius go blank.

“Watch your back! You are still in battle Space Marine!” Darius yells. He side-swipes an ork and grips Octavian, standing him up. “Use your fury! Use your anger! In the name of the Golden Throne, use your Emperor-made arms to kill more orks!”

Octavian screams like a mad-man. Darius watched as he ran forwards and head-butts an ork in the face before slicing its stomach open. An ork cleaver slices into his already wounded arm. Octavian kills the attacking ork with a contemptuous back-slash. Red blood mixes with the color of his armor as he charges forward. Darius charges with him, trying to keep up with the berserk rage-fueled monster that Octavian had become.

Suddenly a giant ork appears over the lip of the wall of the dead. Its easily the largest ork that Darius has ever seen, and it is surrounded by dozens of near equally sized behemoths. Without a moments pause Octavian charges them wildly. One of the warboss's guards brings a giant axe crashing down and cuts through the ceramite of Octavian's armor with primal strength, spinning the young Astartes around to where Darius can see the light fade from behind his helmet.

“I am alone...,” thought Darius. He quickly shook himself. “No! I am never alone!”

Darius begins uttering the prayer of devotion, vows which every Space Marine learns when they are a novice.

“O, Emperor, in wrath rejoicing at bloody wars: fierce and untamed.”

Darius ducked a swing by one of the guards and cuts off its hands with an upward cut.

“Whose mighty power doth the strongest walls from their foundations shake.”

Another ork guard smacks the wounded ork aside and tries to stab Darius through the neck. The brother-sergeant turns on his heel, watching as if in slow motion as the blade passes his head by half an inch. One quick counter-stroke, and the orks arm falls to the ground.

“O, Emperor, Lord of War, hear this my warrior's oath!”

Another riposte and the ork falls dead without a head.

“You who are mightiest of all men, the Paragon, the Exemplar, the All-Conquering Master of Mankind. Make these coming hours of your servant's life full of valour and value.”

Two more guards move in, trying to flank him. Darius ducks and spins, picking up Cassius' fallen chain-sword. Using them like a pair of scissors Darius traps one of the orks blades between them, and snaps it in half with a quick jerk. The befuddled ork growls in anger, only to have its throat opened and start gurgling as its life blood is spilled upon the rock. The second ork's strike hits Darius on the pauldron. Only by twisting away from the impact does Darius keep his arm from being taken off. With a quick spin, Darius ducks inside the ork's defenses and cuts him nearly in half.

For what seemed like aeons but what most likely only took minutes, Darius is left standing amidst the dead warboss' guards. The warboss himself is standing defiantly before Darius, growling at him. Thick rivulets of slobber and blood run down from the warboss' gaping mouth.

“My sword shall not waver. Nor my heart weaken. I shall drown the Xeno in his own blood. I shall smite glorious ruin upon him. This I swear!”

Bellowing a battle-cry of his fore-bearers and proclaiming the glory of the God-Emperor of Mankind Darius charged straight at the warboss without hesitation, sword held high and shining in the last rays of the setting sun.



+++Data Entry Note+++
+++Recovery Mission+++
+++Imperial Date M42.180.52+++

--Remains of six Knights of Sanguinius found at entry-point of Adeptus Mechanicus facility, named the Under-Hive.

--Recorded count of ork bodies: 2,541.

--Confirmed targets of Importance: Ork Warboss Gorarg Narzod. Body found. Head decapitated.

+++End of Entry Note+++

[Tiurabo]

Arrhapan

[ FT ]
Possibly unsuitable for some readers.

Recorder's on?

[Yes.]

Okay, shiny. Sorry, I'm a little nervous, never been interviewed before...

[Take your time, Proctor.]

Alright. So, there I was. I had just come in off my beat, and I was settling down to a round of ion suckers in the Jaeger's Backhand taproom, all by my lonesome. I'd been there five minutes, tops, and as many ion suckers were just memories. Don't look at me like that, it was a hard day!

[I assure you, Proctor, I am not 'looking at you' in the manner you mean.]

Humph. Anyway... So, five minutes, and this lady comes in. Not a 'lady' lady like yourself, just your average fem by the gear. But Lord, she was smokin' hot, like something out of the Furor Celtica! Long red hair, all done up in braids, pale skin, freckles, purrrfect... look, she was a goddess, alright? Anyway, I'd never seen her before. The Odineye's a big mother, so you never really met everyone.

[Yes, I've heard it's the third largest transport in Third Fleet.]

Just so. Well, right off, I knew something was up with her; I can't explain it, but she didn't move like a lower deck fem, she was just all wrong. Some guys, eight of 'em started bugging her straight off, and it started out pretty nice, so I didn't pay any attention. Nothing to worry about, I thought. Then things started getting mean. But I shook it off, y'know? No reason not to. You don't mess with fems in the Fleet, and you never start shit in Jaeger's. First I noticed it, she was sayin'...

"And I said I don't want any of your 'fun', choomer. Break off and swing wide, before I show these good folk the color of your guts."

[You do impressions very well, Proctor. Especially for a man approximating a woman.]

Comes with the territory. I could listen to that voice for hours. Like a damned angel, know what I mean? Nah, I guess not. Anyway, this one guy who's doing the talking says...

"Na', izzat ay way fer a lady ta' talk, boys?"

Like I say eight men, hefty types, all wearing some sort of flashy landsider uniform. Not launchees like I thought at first, just cargo, probably some bigwig's houshold troops.

[Sounds like a bad crew.]

They were obviously idiots, as well as fer'ners, didn't know a shuttle bay from a watercloset. All the talking was bein' done by two guys, a big ugly bastard with yellow teeth and a Kaizer moustache, and a weasel-faced runt who looked like he'd spent too much time around Warp engines to be good for him. So what she said was...

"Look, ship-out, take your friends and leave before I make a mess outta you."

They still just weren't getting it. How braindead can you be, right? She wasn't interested, and you're sitting in a bar full of chummer's who'd cut your throat for a crack at your wife, much less this kinda girl.

[What do you mean? I wasn't aware the population was that... slanted.]

Hm? Oh, Jaeger's is nearly all bachelors, the kinda guys who just can't get any, at any price. Mean types, real mean. Those guys probably would'a wished they'd been caught by those lot, rather than... well, lemme finish. So, umm... Yeah, they still weren't getting it....

"Ooh, feisty bitch, aincha? We'll see how feisty ya're when we get you back to our place, eh boys?"

I've heard about enough by now. I finish off my sucker, get one hand on my shock maul, and I'm just. About. To get up. When this idiot, this jackass, this complete fuckin' voidbrain, 'scuse my Sirian, ma'am...

[That's quite alright, Proctor. This is a navy.]

"If you press me, I'm going to--"

One of the big, stupid chooms went to lay his meaty fobber on the fem's shoulder. Time slowed down. You could feel the air get cold, and not just a little; I mean my breath started fogging, seemed like. The lady's eyes flashed this sickening, bowel-twisting yellow, I can't even describe it. And that's when I knew I was gonna die, me and everyone else in the room.

[What about it made you think you were going to die? Color changing eyes aren't that uncommon, and they're especially noticeable during mood changes.]

You mean you don't know? How long have you been with the Fleet, honey?

[Just three weeks.]

Just-- Lords of the Sky, save me from new chooms... No offence. Just wait.

"Yer gonna what, li'l b--"

That was as far as the poor bastard got; then his arm came out at the shoulder socket, and it was all over but for the screaming, for him anyway. I swear by all the gods and spirits you like, I have never seen someone move that fast, then or since. It was insane!

[I... don't think I can imagine, Proctor]

Too right you can't. She wasn't even a fucking blur, 'scuse my Sirian, she was just gone! Blood was everywhere, not just that one guys, but two more. She pulled the honcho's head clean off, just twist, rip. Won't even go into the rest, I don't want to have nightmares tonight.

[This account has to be as complete as possible. Is there any more you can tell me?]

Okay, I'll tell you about the last one. He was the last, because I just couldn't move quickly enough to get there before she got all his buddies. Call me stupid, call me voidbrained, call me brave if you like. Fact is, all I was is lucky.

[Yes? How were you lucky?]

I knocked him outta her hands. She was going for his eyes, pressing them out with this big ass crazy grin, like she was getting a bick kick out of it.

[Very disturbing, Proctor.]

So I got between her and him, and she had just enough sense in her to realize I wasn't one of them. I have never been so scared in my life, and I just about shit myself, 'scuse my Sirian, when she started talking to me. She seemed normal for a moment, almost calm, talking to me like I'd just bumped into her in the corridor.

"Who are you, to get between me and my victim?"

[Victim? Oh, I... Oh. What did you say?]

I couldn't even get the words out, I was so damned scared. Then she got mad again. I mean Mad, with a capital M! She screamed at me...

"WHO ARE YOU, DOG?

I told her I was a Proctor, Vedim O'Niall, Lower Deck Branch, just started pouring words out, babbling. So she said...

"AND WHO AM I, YOU GROVELING CUR?"

I did the only thing I could think to. I sank down on my haunches, stuck out my hand to her... and I said, 'You're an Officer, ma'am. God-born.' You can see what she she did then, evidence is right here. Then she left.

[That's an interesting response. Yours, I mean. I was led to believe that Proctors hold the Lord Captain's authority.]

Nah, you don't understand. You don't stand up to Officers, you don't look them in the eye or talk to them face to face. You grovel, especially when they've gone Arrhapan.

[Arrhapan? I assume that's the fleet word for... what happened to this officer?]

It means... it means berserk. Kill-crazy. You've got to understand, I'm lucky to be alive and talking right now. getting between an Officer and their... prey... it's a death sentence. Usually, if you stop 'em from killing someone, you take their place.

[I understand that Arrhapan means, yes, but what is it actually? How did she do what she did?]

You'd do better to look it up in the Biblioteca, but I know a little. Way back, when the Fleet was still part of the Old Domination, they tried to make better soldiers, faster, stronger, more aggressive. Well, they did their job too well. So, we get the Fifty Families which make up the Officers. Sturmvers, Wulfen, Dyne, and so on. Tempestra, our Lady Archon, is of House Dyne, but I won't bore you with the Houses and their bloodlines.

The point is, you've got fifty Houses, and every one is full of crazies, folk that'd kill you as soon as look at you.

[You don't seem at all bitter, given your experience.]

They can't help it, ma'am. They can't change what they are any more than you or I could. If one of them tried, the others would stop them, because whatever it is that makes the Officers go Arrhapan, it also makes them great leaders.

[How so?]

If there were ever any scienctific reason for it, it's lost now; all us common folk know is, when you get around Officers, you do what they say. You follow them, fight and die for them, anything. I've seen it happen before, had it happen to me.

[I imagine that wasn't pleasant.]

That's where you're wrong. It was the most exhilerating experience of my life, both times. There's just something good and right about it. Not like the Titans, when they took us over. After they pried the one that got me off, I felt dirty, like I'd been raped or something. When I got out of that taproom, I felt more alive than I'd ever been. Dangerous, lethal, full of vim and vigor. And I thought to myself, this must be how the Jaegerkin feel all the time.

[Jaegerkin? Is that some sort of lodge.]

No, they're... hoo boy. That's way too long of a story. Maybe some other time, ma'am. Right now, I'm tired, I'm beat, and I need some sleep. Thanks for hearing me out.



[Three days after this conversation was recorded, Proctor Vedim O'Niall was taken out of the psychiatric observation quarter, colloquially known as 'the Ward'. He is still housebound by his injuries at the hands of Commander Illiria of House Sturmvers, but is expected to make a full recovery if his body does not reject the artificial eye grafts. Commander Illiria has made lavish reperations to the O'Niall family, but was not available for interview on the incident.]

[United Districts of 1]

[PMT]
The battle of Kiason
"The great civil war begun forty-five years ago it lasted three years three long years". The seventy year old man sat in a large grey recliner his wrinkled face in an expression of deep thought remembering his days as a marine. "Gwanpa why did the big fight start?" his six year old granddaughter asked. He lifted her up onto his lap "A group of very mean men wanted to hurt a lot of people" she looked scared. "Gwanpa would they hurt me" he starred off into the fireplace "I wouldn't let them touch you" he said with a smile. "Grandpa were you in any battles" his older grandson asked. "Yes I was it was the battle of Kiason" his grandson thought for a moment. "Ya we're learning about that in history class tell me what happened"

Kiason,October 3rd, 2037
"MOVE!" the lieutenant screamed fifty soldiers charged out of a trench. They and three hundred other soldiers were charging a enemy line not fifty yards away. Pvt. Jikana and Srgt. Unkoi were ducked down in a shallow foxhole the dirt was dark grey it reminded them of a battle that had taken place almost a hundred years ago. "Hey sarg what was the name of the battle where they charged the beach" the srgt. looked over at him. "D-day I thi" he was cut off by a massive explosion a hundred feet away. "WE NEED TO MOVE!" the two soldiers sprinted out of the trench one hand holding on their helmets the other holding their gun. About ten feet away four soldiers were running in a tight group a single shot from one of the city's massive defense guns blew all four marines away. The pvt. and srgt. leeped behind a downed helicopter "SARG WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?!" jikana yelled over the deafening explosions and screams of dying comrades. "WE.."
he was cut off by a distinct buzzing. "RPG GET DOWN" the rocket slammed into the helicopter it flipped over and crushed the two marines. Fifteen minutes later Pvt. Jikana woke up he was rocking back and forth. He saw that he was on a green mesh stretcher "where's the sarge?" he asked in a weak voice. "You're the only one we got out kid" the medic said sadly "no no no no it can't be true" the pvt. passed out again.

Present Day
"Wow grandpa did you keep fighting after that" his grandfather looked at him soberly "no". "I got put in a shock trauma hospital for the rest of the fight" he started to cry. Tears ran down his face "I never did find the sarg" his grandson looked at the ground. "I'm sorry grandpa" the man stopped crying as his granddaughter entered the room. "Gwanpa can you tuck me in" she had a glass of milk and a distinct white mustache. "Of course" he got up out of his chair and picked her up and took her to bed.

Epilogue
The battle of Kiason was eventually won by loyalist forces. After two months of fighting both sides had suffered immense casualties. The battle was won when loyalist forces pushed into the west part of the city and divided the rebel army in half. The overall casualties are estimated to be in the hundreds of thousands.

[The Nuclear Fist]

[PT(1942)]

[ Mature ]

OOC: Rustonia was the name of The Nuclear Fist before it was called The Nuclear Fist

In 1937, the Rustonian Social-Fascismo Republic had reached the breaking point of it's steady decline. Over the 30 years leading to that point, the RSFR's goverment had steadily become more corrupt and oppressive, while at the same time the economy had imploded, making the USD worth several hundred thoudand Rustonian leus(national currency). Which officially made it one of the top 5 most worthless currencies on Earth. Across Rustonia, people starved to death from the goverment hording food. Most homes(and indeed most cities) lay in ruin with no running water, electricity, or heat. People burned their money for warmth.

Then, in 1939, things had taken a turn for the worst. In desperation, massive food riots began breaking out across southern Rustonia. Fearing the worst, Chancellor Stefan Haidal sent a force of 10,000 heavily armed soldiers to southern Rustonia to neutralize the rioters. They came in with tanks, more supplies, and better training. Over the course of the next few months, nearly 27,000 riotors had been killed. However, this would soon change.

The Rustonian People's Liberation Army soon formed. Using whatever it could to fight the fascists. Although severely outclassed and undersupplied, the RPLA prevailed. And most of the Fascists were killed off. The rest were forced into slave camps, making supplies for the fascist army. And thus, the civil war had begun. Using effective methods of capture, the RPLA had captured alot of supplies from raided enemy positions, including tanks and artillery.

However, it seemed as if the RPLA would lose. They were being killed off left and right, avenues of resistance being cut off at both ends. However, things were not going well for the fascists either. Food was in increasingly short supply, and supplies were running out fast. This rebellion had to end quickly. Chancellor Haidal predicted that if Unsk, which was the HQ for the RPLA, could be taken, then the RPLA would be forced to surrender. And in order to crush them in one blow, a massive force of 150,000 men marched on Unsk, hoping to take the city.

Unsk, Southwestern Rustonia
11:15 pm
January 19th, 1942

[translated to English]

"Get your fucking head down!" Yelled Major Petrov over the sound of heavy machinegun fire, grabbing a yound conscript and shoving his head down into the trench that had been dug into the street. The young man had peered over it, and had almost had his head taken off by a sniper's bullet. Major Petrov crouched over the conscript, his eyes bloodshot and his hair frazzled, his officer's cap worn and dirty.

"Boy, what the fuck were you thinking? Are you fucking stupid?" He yelled hoarsely, shaking the young soldier by the shoulders. Petrov's face was beat red, veins pulsating in his nech, sweat dripping from his dirt covered face.

"No sir! My gun is out of ammunition, and I was looking to see if there was more." The soldier said, scooting out from under Petrov and leaning his back against the wall of the trench. He picked his Orita from off of the ground and showed the major, as if trying to prove a point.

"Muzkazjat!" Siad Petrov, fishing around in the pockets of his officer trench coat for ammunition. Upon finding some, he thrust it into the conscript's hands. Who in turn graciously accepted it. The soldier quickly reloaded, and turned around, taking aim.

After several seconds, he fired at his target: a fascist soldier who had popped up from cover to in turn shoot at an RPLA soldier. With all of his attention focused elsewhere, the fascist never saw the several rounds in his chest coming. He hit the ground hard, dark blood oozing from his chest wound and staining the snow and ice below him. Within seconds, the fascist's eyes glazed over, and he was dead.

"Boy! What is your name?" Asked Major Petrov, curiously.

"My name is Konstantin. Konstanitn Tiranul." He replied, turning to look at Petrov.

But before the conversation could continue, a soldier posted up on the upper floor of a burnt out 2 story building yelled "Panzer!" Unfortunately, this was all he was able to say as a tank shell smashed into that side of the building. The soldier had been instantly killed, but worse yet; the building slowly rocked to the left and collapsed, concrete debris falling into the trench and crushing nearly a dozen unlucky RPLA soldiers, the sickening sound of bones being crushed instantly, and of flesh ripping. Followed by the anguished cries of men unlucky enough to not have been killed, but who were now trapped under debris. Where they would die eventually.

Petrov and Konstantin had managed to hightail out of the trench do to their proximity to the edge of it. As they ran, the whipping sound of bullets whizzing by them only fueled their running, making them run far faster than otherwise possible. Sneaking a peak behind him, Petrov saw the panzer, and his eyes widened. Suddenly, a bullet from the panzer's machinegun ripped through the back Konstantin's leg, dropping him to his knee like he was being pulled to the ground by a demon.

"Shit!" Yelled Petrov as he dropped down to scoop up Konstantin. As he reached for him, a bullet slammed into the side of the young man's head, splattering a good sized portion of it onto Petrov's chest and face. Konstantin's corpse slumped to the ground, and Petrov(still shocked) fell flat on his ass. He desperately grabbed Konstantin's orita, realizing his was now buried under several tons of rubble.

Petrov managed to think for a second, and quickly scrambled around the corner of a burntout building, slipping on Konstantin's brain, blood, and skull fragments that now painted the sidewalk. His eyes widened considerably however when he realized just how fucked he was.

15 meters in front of him was an entire platoon of Fascists, armed with MP-38s, MKb.42s, MG-30s, and another panzer. Knowing he wouldn't be able to run, and he'd be shot to death if he even flinched, Petrov slowly put down his orita. Afterwards, he put his hands high above his head, making sure they could see them.

They walked up to him, almost sauntering. Some of the bastards even lowered their weapons. Oh fucking well. It's not like I could do anything anyway. Petrov thought bitterly. However, this thought changed rapidly when a panzerfust flew down from the roof of a building across the street, hitting the panzer directly in it's weakspot.

The thing lit up like fireworks, and the boom rattled Petrov's bones. The nearest fascist troops were killed by the blast and shrapnel, with the survivors dazed and stunned, with their ears ringing. A hailstorm of sub machinegun fire flew down from the roof, mopping up the survivors pretty easily. One of the soldiers waved down at Petrov, who warily waved back.

He couldn't believe it. He was the luckiest man on Earth. He picked up his orita quickly, and jogged up to the bodies. After rifling around their pockets, he found a few spare magazines of ammo. As he searched through another soldier's pockets, he felt a pocketwatch. But when he pulled it out of the soldier's pocket, said soldier grabbed his arm weakly. The guy had been hit pretty bad, and blood oozed from his mouth as well as the wounds in his abdomen in chest. In a voice barily above a hoarse whisper, he begged Petrov not to take it. Snarling, Petrov stomped on the side of the man's face, snapping his neck. When the soldier's hand went limp, he pocketed the watch and walked away.

As he walked to the building, several of his fellow RPLA soldiers were already there to meet him.

"What the fuck took you so long?" Asked Petrov angrily.

"What do you mean? We save your life and you complain? Maybe we should have let you rot you bastard." Said one of the men, dressed in a captain's uniform.

Petrov laughed, and shook the captain's hand. "So what now?" Petrov asked, confused. The gunfire had died down in the area, so the battle must had ended. Hopefully, it meant the RPLA had won.

"When the trench 'round the block got buried under debris, we took it as the signal. We had forces creeping up behind the bastards. We had a couple T-34s, and some heavy machine guns set up, so were able to put a boot up their ass and twist it when they weren't looking. Chatter comin' in over the radio says the fascists are hitting the castle up on the hill pretty hard. They think it's our HQ." Explained the squad captain, laughing at the last bit.

"So whats the plan?" Petrov asked simply

"We set that castle up on the hill to look like it's headquarters. The fascists still haven't guessed that it isn't. The castle's built pretty damn sturdy, and we've got it secured with a ton of defenses. While they're trying to take our 'HQ,' we're gonna hit 'em from behind again." Further explained the squad captain.

"So when?"

"Give it an hour. We've got to make this count, and that means being as prepared as possible."

Northeastern Unsk, Rustonia
12:34 am
January 19th, 1942

The castle itself was more of a fortress. The thing served as the housing for Rustonia's king back in the 1100s. It's got 20 feet thick stone walls, with reinforced concrete that was put in a few years before civil war broke out. The thing also has massive walls surrounding it which are attached to the castle, topped with guard towers. Over the past 6 months, the RPLA had loaded defenses on it. To add to that, it was on top of a hill. And the RPLA had tug a serious of reinforced tunnels under it, making getting to and fro easier. The hill itself was covered in tanktraps and landmines. And where there wasnt a tanktrap or a landmine, there was a pile of sandbags and a concrete block giving a machine gunner some cover. Needless to say, it was well defended.

Petrov and several platoons of men skulked through the burnt out streets of the city. Several T-34s retrofitted with hauling equipment hauled artillery pieces, so as to reduce the amount of vehicles needed. Petrov and his men had looted the corpses of the dead fascists in the area, and had come upon plenty of ammunition and ordinance for the artillery pieces. Which in turn would make this much easier.

The fascists were attacking the castle with everything they had, waves of them being cut down in the process. Panzer tanks and fascist artillery pounded the castle, doing mild damage. Slowly, they were wearing it down. Very slowly.

Dumb bastards. Thought Petrov as he signalled for the platoons to stop. From what had been hastily planned out, each major had been assigned a couple platoons of men, a couple tanks, and a few artillery pieces. Once it was time, the barrage would begin. And then, the Fascists would suffer true hell.

OOC: Will finish tomorrow.

[Soviet Siberian Union]

Reserved

[Ustio North]

[ PT ]

[ Mature ]

Homecoming

1957. A shitty year, by anyone's standards. The weather had been piss poor and the news almost as abysmal. Ustio was hitting a massive recession. Sales were plummeting, prices skyrocketing and jobs being cut left, right and center. Even the illegal enterprises were reportedly suffering. Yet, from first glance, it owuld be hard to tell. Enormous glittering skyscrapers towered over the smaller buildings. People didn't seem to be affected by it, and although they knew that there were problems, none of them seemed to show it. The mood, despite the crap that was mounting up this year, was somewhat jovial.

Not for Dwight Eastwood. Grabbing his battered old suitcase, he shuffled down the aisle of the de Havilland Comet that had not long since come to a halt in the dark night. Following all the other passengers, he donned his fedora hat upon reaching the door and discovering that it was raining.

"Ruddy weather." he muttered, heading down the steps. He'd already spotted the black Ford 300 parked a little distance from the stairs he was now descending. Upon approaching closer, he recognised the man leaning on it too. Dumping his suitcase on the back seat, he sank heavily into the leather seats. "Drive." he said simply. Without a reply, the driver shoved the Ford into gear, and they drove out of the gate.

Silence hung in the air as they crossed town. Dwight knew why he was back here. He assumed his former compatriot knew too. It wasn't until they crossed into the financial district that the driver, Detective Inspector Martin Berkely. A man in his late thirties, he'd been a Detective Sergeant for Dwight for a good few years. A strong and dependable man, he had obviously made himself useful for the replacement DCI when Dwight took the Brooks case and all but dissapeared for six months. From the tension in the air, Dwight figured that Berkely was a bit irritated that he'd just taken off like he had.

"You know where we found the body?" Berkely asked suddenly, using one hand to retrieve a cigarette from a pack in his coat pocket. After a moment, he lit it, opening the window slightly to flick the ash away. A cold breeze swiftly entered the car, although neither of them were noticably affected by it.

"Alleyway on the corner of 69^th street." Dwight replied, matter-of-factly. He waved the wafting cigarette smoke away from him; he was an anomaly. Most police officers smoked, and the higher up the chain you were, the more you smoked. Superintendants were either chain smokers or adepts at keeping a single cigar going for weeks on end. Since he'd taken the Brooks case, however, he'd seen enough smoke and burns to put him off smoking for life. "The MO the same as the other one?"

"Aye guv." Berkely replied, indicating the reflection of red lights upon the walls of buildings. They rounded a corner and carefully pulled up behind the two Ford police cars parked outside the alley. Stepping back out into the pouring rain, they flashed their badges at the two beat cops stood guard by the alley entrance. Dwight took note of the pair; both clutching sodden Lanchester Submachine guns. Unusual to see them out on the street. Most firearms, beyond the police issue .38 special, were reserved for the most serious of crimes, generally involving other firearms. Feeling inside his coat, Dwight felt the cold metal of his own Colt 1911. Like smoking, firearms were another symbol of police power. Once you hit DC in rank, you no longer had to keep the .38 special, and could branch out into something a bit more personal.

The alley, even with a few officers with torches standing around in it, was still somewhat dark. Dwight quickly nabbed a torch off one of the assembled officers, shining it upon the reason they were all here. A body, crumpled, blackened and burnt lay amidst the pooling rain. Although noticably still intact enough to identify as female, but beyond that, it was impossible.

Dwight looked down on it. A mixture of emotions came to mind; pity for the death, anger for the killer and a little pang of fear as to what sort of sick murderer would do such a thing. This was nothing new though. He'd had these emotions last time they found a body, up in Solis Ortis. M.O was exactly the same there.

"Get it out of here." Dwight ordered them through gritted teeth "I've seen all I need to see."

***

"September 26^th, nineteen-fifty-seven. A Thursday. The Brooks case remains open and new leads have come to light. The body found in an alley in Directus is-was, rather, that of eighteen year old Kayla Smith. A local to the area. No evidence upon the body as to who killed her, or how. Initial speculation suggests that the killer set her on fire. Method used is currently unknown. Murder site lacks the smell of petroleum one would expect, much like the Brooks Site."

Dwight took a moment to pause, scanning the report he had just read aloud. He was sat in his old office in the Directus Police Department. The clock said it was past one in the morning, but despite this, gratuitous amounts of coffee were keeping him going. Sipping a mug of said coffee, he added;

"This investigation is indeed perplexing. Many avenues of investigation are open, but none point to a rational explanation, nor to an identity of the killer. It seems as though whenever I am close, they slip away."

Filing the report into a brown folder, he grabbed his coat and his gun, and went for a walk to clear his head.

Stepping back out, the rain had eased off considerably, but a strong cold wind was still blowing, so he deined it neccessary to keep his raincoat on for now. In fact, he had not walked more than a few meters, crossing the river when something caught his eye. Across from the side he was walking on, a hunched figure, sat atop one of the stone pillars holding the bridge up, sobbing gently. Checking the roads to make sure he wouldn't be run over, Dwight crossed, walking up next to the figure. Upon closer inspection, it was a young girl, her face reddened from the crying.

"Uh, are you okay?" he asked, leaning on the bridge next to the girl. At first, the sobs just continued, but after a moment, she controlled herself, and managed to speak through the tears

"My friend is dead." she said, choking back tears.

"Did you know Kayla Smith?" Dwight asked immediately. The girl nodded silently, staring down at the murky depths below. Realising the he must have sounded callous, he quickly backtracked a bit. "I'm sorry." he said "But i'm a police officer. Do you know of anyone that would could have done this to her?"

Through a fresh bout of tears, Dwight could have sworn he heard something. It sounded like a name; "Aidid". A foreign name. He made a mental note of it, although it was hardly suprising. He had seen plenty of cases of foreign murderers in his time working the force. One more wouldn't be anything new.

In fact, more of a surprise were the men who seemingly appeared from nowhere, one bludgeoning Dwight over the back of the head with a long, wood-stocked assault rifle whilst the other grabbed the young girl, shoving her into a black van that had come to a screeching halt by them. By the time Dwight was on his feet again, the men were gone, along with the only lead he had.

***

After retuning to the station and borrwing a bag of ice for his head, he relayed the story to Berkely, whilst he wrote up the report of the night. After that was done, Berkely went to see if they could trace the van, leaving Dwight to his headache. Something was bugging him, and it wasn't just his head. Something about what the girl had said, and the way she was taken. None of it added up.

"The kidnapping was proffessional." Dwight informed Berkely when he returned "Almost military like. There was no shouting at each other. It was clinical and calculated."

"What about this 'Aidid' chap?" Berkely asked, setting the report down on the desk.

"That's what's bugging me the most. It sounded like Aidid. But i'm not sure that's what she said" Dwight admitted, adjusting his ice pack. Repeating the word in his head, the penny dropped, making Dwight sick to his gut.

[Vocenae]

[FT]

Broken Monsters

"You're wrong!" She screamed as the two guards grabbed hold of her, "You're wrong about the colonies! You're wrong about the people! The corporations are evil! The monster you want me to be is evil! Let me go!"

The guards dragged her into the observation room that the executives often used towatch our progress, to see that their money was well spent, but the two-way mirror didn't darken as they entered, and I saw her thrown to the floor and the first of several rapid kicks to her stomach. I saw the shock and pain alight in her blue eyes and she screamed, a loud horrible wail that pierced through the walls, and I knew I remember that sound for the rest of my life.

They had spent a fortune trying to rebuild us, reshape us into the people we used to be. They had suceeded with me, but only fragments of her personality had returned to her new rejuvenated body. Her drive, her incredible intelligence, but the ruthlessness they desire, the cold heartedness, had been replaced with something they thought was horrible: kindness, innocence, a love for complete strangers and expeting nothing in return. Complete and total selflessness. In their desperation they had used me to try to change her on a more personal level, to use a strong bond of friendship and trust to rebuild the woman that had been lost.

And now, she was paying the price for my failures.

[Aquilinia]

[ PMT ]

Only Five Days

These are the events of five days that changed a young girl's life forever, told in the words of her diary.

Monday, June 24

What a stupid day...university was boring as hell, but has it ever been different? Not for me, at least. Well, I went out for lunch with Nate, that's got to count for something. But it may be the last time in a while that I see him. Something about a crisis in some country far away, that our president thinks bad enough to send a few of our forces in, including my beloved lieutenant...I guess I'll hear the details tomorrow, when I can finally attend the Senate again..it sure seems that I missed a lot! It's bad enough being the youngest Senator ever to be elected in Aquilinia, I can't even attend important votes because of university! That definitely has to change. I know I shouldn't be, but I am actually happy that the prof's wife died...at least that there won't be any lectures anymore this week, meaning I can concentrate on fun and, well, politics. How I hate my life sometimes....

Tuesday, June 25

Well, now it's official. The Aquiline Guard of the Most Serene Republic is being sent to some place on the other side of the world, because some nutjob terrorists decided to blow up a city or two. Why that is our concern, I don't know. President Jackson and her lackeys rarely explain their decisions. I obviously joined the wrong party. But it seems I am not the only one unhappy with that business. I actually saw some rioters in the streets near the Senate when I was on my way to the MetroWay. I think it was the communists. These people take everything as a reason for a riot. Yet, I have the feeling that sending our forces away was a mistake. There's a bad mood over the city tonight, as if something big is about to happen, something that will change the face of our nation forever. I guess this would be a good moment to leave Fort Aquilaine, but where should I go? I have no family, no friends, outside the city. This is my home. Yeah, this is also where a Nazi mob slaughtered my mother, just because she was a Neko...but still, this is my home, and I'm not leaving. And if I get caught in some mob, well, as an Assassin I guess I could help myself. That reminds me, there's that Order meeting on tomorrow. The master's message seemed urgent...better not miss it.

Wednesday, June 26

Has everybody gone mad? This day was crazy! The president fired the Ion Cannon on a terrorist camp, and one hour later she tried to kill herself. And the people are in open riot all over the place. And that Order meeting didn't help much either...for some weird reason they want to make me Grand Master...me, a 20 year old, poor, orphaned girl? What the hell is going on? I guess Nate could explain it to me, but he's en route to that faraway place to fight some terrorists, defending the freedom of our nation on the other side of the world. I ran across no less than five mobs today, all armed, and all marching towards the Senate...Communists, Nazis, Anarchists...hell, even the pacifists have armed themselves! Somebody needs to get some order into this, or by the end of the week everybody's going to be dead. Well, it's not as if there hadn't been any warnings, with all those assassinations and demonstrations this year...the people have had enough of the so-called democratic government, that much is clear. I just hope that Aquilinia survives this....

Thursday, June 27

It's getting worse and worse. Now they've burnt the Senate down! Within an hour, the revolutionaries proclaimed three new "governments"! What was it, the Democratic People's Republic, communists, of course. Then the Free State of Aquilinia, that's got to be the Nazis. And the anarchists simply said that Aquilinia is now freed from the oppression of government. Those three factions are now fighting an open war in the streets! And our military is doing nothing. Well, almost nothing. They all swore an oath to serve the government that wins this bloody mess. And adding to that, I've really been proclaimed Grand Masteress of the Sovereign Order of the Assassins of Aquilinia. What a lengthy title. But then they told me that it was exactly that - a title. I have nothing to say. Well, duh. I don't understand how the brotherhood works anyway. No clue why they made me their leader. But apparently they have something planned for tomorrow. I hope it's not another proclaimed state, and more bloodshed. So many people have died already...if I could only do something to stop this! Anything! This revolution is destroying my entire life! This is definitely not what I signed up for when I joined the Assassins, and their political party....

Friday, June 28

Wow. I can't believe what happened today. Well, at least our soldiers finally marched in and ended the rebellions and revolutions. It's strangely quiet in the city tonight. There's still a handful of fires, but everybody is starting to calm down. I'm so glad this is over. Ah, well, for me, it's only just begun. I found out why the Assassins made me Grand Masteress. They told me this morning. I could not believe my ears when they told me. I thought they were mad. But a few hours later the riots stopped. The army was there, chasing the worst rioters across the city. And now I can do what I want. The Assassins think I'll be their puppet, but I have my own ideas. It seems I joined the right party after all. I still can't belive what happened in these five days. Has it really only been five days since the Senate voted to send our troops into action? Has it really been only five days since the Republic indirectly voted for its own death? Well, the times of corruption are over. The people will have the ruler they deserve. So many things to be done...but they will be done. In time. I think history will remember me after this. The Assassins definitely will. They are wrong in believing I'll do what they want...no, they will definitely remember my name. They shouted it out loud enough this afternoon. It does feel quite good, though. "Grand Empress Felicia"....I think I can get used to that...

[Trivval]

Tags for later post.
Oh, Also, do you have any restrictions on this? I want to do something about my country's religion.

[Daircoill]

[ PT ]

[ Mature ]

A Nation Is Born

The Last War of Daircoill

The Second Era Of Daircoill - 1800 BCE
The War Begins

Féasóg Crann stood with his back to the army. Before them stretched the Great Plains, a place they rarely dare venture. Behind him his son, Liondell, was standing with the other noblemen. It was desperation that drove them on, nothing else. The famine had ruined the crops for the last two years and they were forced to migrate, entire towns moving to more fertile ground. Féasóg took one last look at the trees around him and raised his vicious curved blade, the Scian. His army, his people stood and began marching out onto the plains. They were the Mhuintir na Coillearnaí, the People of the Woods, one of the two tribes of Daircoill. The second tribe, the Duine Cóir lived on the plains in grand farming villages and cities. The famine had forced the two tribes apart, turning what was once a friendly alliance into a bitter war. Féasóg sent a silent prayer to the All Goddess Nádúr, to protect his people and bring a peace back to the land.

* * *

In the great city of Baile Loch, the king of the Duine Cóir listened to the report his tribesmen gave. A army of Woodsmen, driven on by hunger and madness driving forwards through the plains.
King Libh summoned his messengers and dictated his message to be delivered to all the cities of the Plains.
"The Woodsmen come howling from the forest, the wolves shadow them like the Spirits of Death. I call on your aid, my countrymen or we shall all perish."
The messengers left swiftly, most riding on horses, some travelling overland on foot. Soon an army of thousands was assembled to meet the threat.

The March of Wolves & Men

The small village burnt around them, glowing embers swirling up into the night sky. Féasóg watched with a mix of guilt and regret for the slaying of his fellow countrymen. Though they may be from seperate tribes, the peaceful years preceeding the war had seen him make many good friends from the Northern Tribes. Nearby lay the bodies of the men who'd taken up arms to defend their homes. They were only young, and they were fewer than a hundred. Féasógs army had slaughtered them in an instant and moved on to the town. His only order was to spare the children.
The next morning the army moved further north, following the farms and the food. Behind them the wolves, famished as much as man, moved in and feasted on the dead.
It was after three days of march and plunder before the two armies met. By midmorning of the fifth day of marching the horns rang out and the men formed into battle formations. There, on the shores of Lake Dhiaga the two armies prepared for battle.

The Two Kings

At noon a party from the Plains approached under a flag of peace. Féasóg and Liondell rode out to greet them.
"I am King Libh, lord of the Northern Plains." Came the booming voice of the King.
Féasóg sttod forwards, looking up into the face of the king on his steed.
"And I am Féasóg, Lord of the Southern Woodlands."
King Libh looked down upon Féasóg with contempt.
"You may be lord of the woods, but what business do you have on the plains? What business have you, to come here and kill my people and burn my towns?" The King demanded.
"The great famine has caused hundreds of deaths." Féasóg replied venomously. "Yet our pleas for help were ignored by our Northern allies."
King Libh let out a harsh bark of laughter.
"You ask us to share food we do not have! What sense is there in that?"
"If not share your food, at least share your hunger." Féasóg hissed back. King Libh shook his head in disgust and turned his horse.
"We shall meet on the battlefield." He said over his shoulder. "Only then can I put you and your tribesmen in their rightful place."

The two kings mde their way back to their armies. Féasóg relayed the words of King Libh to his men. King Libh relayed how the barbarians could barely walk upright. Only one of the armies stood with pride, the 'barbarians' would show the Plainsmen true barbarianism.

The Battle of Lake Dhiaga

The two armies joined battle late in the afternoon. Each soldier carried a Oak Bow - the Fada, and a short sword - the Scian. As they came into range each army sent volleys of arrows high into the air. The Plainsmen, whilst skilled in the use of a Fada could never hope to match the skill of the Woodsmen who spent their lives hunting and killing. As each volley fell, the cries of the dead and dying filled the air. Soon the two armies met and began hand to hand combat. The Scian is a vicous blade best used for slashing, or thrusting deep into the soft parts on the stomach to eviscerate your enemy. The battle was brutal and fast paced, each man fighting an individual battle as the discipline collapsed and the formations broke. Féasóg watched from the rear as the two armies waged their bloody conflict.
"Liondell!" He roared. His son raced over to him.
"Yes father?" Liondell asked.
"The Right flank. Go there and break it." Féasóg replied. Liondell looked to the right and seen it begin to buckle as the Woodsmen hacked down their enemies. Liondell nodded and called his bodyguard. They raced over to break the flank.

* * *

King Libh watched with horror as his right flank collapsed and the Woodsmen broke through. He called over his bodyguard, each man riding a horse, and formed them into a wedge. Roaring a battlecry he led the charge into the now exposed side of Liondells personal guard. The horses whinnied as the Woodsmen were cut down around them, and soon the right flank had been re-established. Liondell yelled in frustration as his men were forced back. Rallying them one more time they charged the Flank again. The fought like wolves, going into a bloodrage and killing a great many men. The melee was brutal, often you would not be able to tell what you were stabbing or if it was dead or not, and that is how Liondell, the son of Féasóg Lord of the Woods was cut down. Pierced by many blades he collapsed dead to the ground in the midst of the battle. His men let out a roar of anger and surged forwards, finally shattering the right flank. Turning in they smashed against the exposed side of the Plainsmen and let out howls of rage.

* * *

Féasóg let out a cry when he saw his son go down. His bitter eyes sough out King Libh, and when they fell upon him many say they burned as bright as coals. Roaring to his men he led the charge into enemy lines. Swinging his Scian, aiming for the throat he cut his way through the armies until he was at last upon King Libh.
"King Libh!" He shouted over the din of battle. "You will die this day!"
Seeing the fury in his eyes and the rage in his heart King Libhs nerve broke, and he turned and fled for the city gates. Looking around Féasóg spotted a Fada lying on the grass at his feet. Raising it and aiming he fired at the fleeing King Libh.
As King Libh galloped his mind raced, his kingdom was destroyed, his army destroyed. He began to plan his escape. The arrow struck him in the lower back, knocking him off his horse and knocking him out as he landed with a thud.

* * *

King Libh woke with rain upon his face. He smelled blood and death and misery all around. As he slowly opened his eyes he saw the shadowy figure of Féasóg standing over him.
"We lost then?" King Libh asked.
"As soon as you fled your men broke and ran. When you were hit they scattered to all corners of the country."
King Libh closed his eyes. "And what of me?" He asked.
Féasóg pointed over to men and women clad in green. "The priests are deciding that now."
One of the priests walked over.
"I am Pabh Dhonlidir, High Priest of The Cult of Nádúr. We have determined it is the wish of Nádúr for King Libh to be sacrificed at midnight tonight. We believe The All Mother wishes peace on our people, and we are in the process of divining Her wishes further."
Féasóg nodded. "Thank you Pabh. If the All Mother wants peace then we shall bring Her peace."
"We also, however have one further decision." Pabh said solemnly. "You too are to be sacrificed this night."
Féasóg nodded his head in sadness. "If it is Her wish I will gladly comply. I may meet my son again in the underworld."
King Libh sobbed silent tears as he contemplated his fate. Féasóg stood proudly as he contemplated his.

Peace

At midnight King Libh was brought before the people in disgrace. The Priests held no alliegance to either tribe, and their word was law. Upon hearing of his sentence, and that the Woodsman would take no further action against them the citizens of Baile Loch emerged to watch the sacrifice of the two kings. Upon an alter dedicated to Nádúr, Pabh and the other priests sung hymns and chanted prayers. Then at midnight Pabh raised a golden sickle and stood over the sobbing body of King Libh. With a quick jerk he cut the kings throat.
"Nádúr, recieve this sacrifice and grant us peace and prosperity." Pabh chanted. He moved behind Féasóg and paused. Quickly he pulled the sickle back and repeated his prayer.
After a while he addressed the crowd.
"A new town shall be built, on the spot where the plains meet the woods." Pabh spoke. "It will be the symbol of a new country. No longer are we the Two Tribes, on this night, with the sacrifice of King Libh and Lord Féasóg we become a Unified Nation. We are now blood brothers for all time." The solemn crowd yelled their agreement.

The sombre howling of the wolves rode the winds across the plains, and the thunder overhead rumbled as if the heavens themselves were taking note in the proceedings. Pabh stepped back from the two bodies and let out a long breath.
"Peace." He whispered to no one in particular. "Peace at last."

[Trivval]

Warning:
Contains reference to Awesomeness, Incest, Genocide, Cannibalism, Torture and Murder.
Recommended for All Ages!
[No, but seriously, MATURE Audiences]

=[+PT+]=

=+= “Initiation of the Brethren” =+=
=+= The Trivvalian Chronicles =+=

The Initiation Ceremony,
City of the Temple,
Northern Holy Alps, Trivval

He knelt, plain white robe of the Serjant. He knelt, eyes closed, meditating. He was ready...

His knees were sore – he pressed on against the pain. His stomach alerted him that he was starving – He pressed on, gathering his last reserves of energy to get him through the night. Darkness pressed against him, willing him to topple, to fall – he squeezed his eyes tighter and ignored it, willing himself to complete the task before him. Through his mind he saw voices, pleading with him, telling him to stop – he banished them, defeating them. Light came, and assaulted him, attempting to finish what Darkness had started – he.. he could not continue.

Yes you can! a part of him roared. I can’t.. he whimpered. You Can! You Will! it roared again. I.. I..
Leave him! He is weak, we don’t need the weak! came another voice.
Yes! chorused more, The weak do not deserve to be here!
Silence! one part yelled, as the other whimpered in a corner.
NEVER! cried the rest, surging forward, clubs and knives in hand, approaching one. YOU! You will not keep us away!

His mind screamed as daggers and clubs beat him. Part of him watched from the corner.
Help!
How?
There was a sigh as another, hooded figure stepped into play and crouched next to the whimpering sad mess. Use your training boy! it commanded. What have you been doing? Nothing! The new man pushed his hood back to expose an old face, white hair falling across his face. He looked wise, the years scarring him. have you been training for nothing?!
But, I have no weapons! he cried.
You’re the one that’s dying... said the old man, fading away again.

He watched as he was beaten. Beaten by the own part of him that wanted to give up. Watched as 6 years faded away.. 6 years of training to become what he wanted. Six years.. Wasted.
No! he yelled, slapping himself. Not wasted! Earned! I earned the right to be here! He stood, suddenly strong, sword appearing in his hand. This! Ends! Here!
He charged.
The rest of him didn’t know what hit him.

---

There was a hand... A light shake upon his shoulder. He was brought back.. back to the world of living. “Son,” came the voice, “Awake. It is morning.”
He stayed himself from crying with joy. Is this a trick? His eyelids fluttered, announcing to the hooded man standing in front of him that the boy was alive.. he was awake.
“Boy.. I know you are awake, now open your eyes,” commanded the Hooded Man.

The boy conceded. If it was a trick, he was sick of it. His eyes flew open – open into the light of morning flooding the Church windows and he squinted against the glare. He was about to grunt when he remembered that he was under silence. He scanned the room, and saw several other hooded men standing around. His peripheral told him that several others had fallen – collapsed in the effort to complete the ritual. He wished to turn to see who was left, but he did not. Discipline to the end.

“Boy,” said the Hooded Man in a hushed tone. The boy’s eyes snapped him. “Good,” he continued, “Now that I have your attention. First off, congratulations for completing the trial, it was difficult and even I barely made it through...” So he is a member, the Boy thought, as the Hooded Man continued, “But, it continues. I give you permission to move if you are ordered, but remember your vow of silence.” The Hooded Man reached out and made the sign of Erhal on the boy’s right shoulder, before stepping back two paces, bowing. He then turned, and moved up the steps to behind the altar.
The boy watched him go, and scanned the hooded shadows that he stood with. They all wore the long flowing black robes with the red Symbol upon them. They all carried the Quarew attached to a chain around their waist. They all carried the shortblade on their back.

One of them stepped forward, and all eyes were upon him. He had the standard robes, but with a gold band across the center, surrounding the Symbol, and trimming the sides.
The Master! remembered the Boy. He had seen these robes several times during his training.

He spoke,
“Today! Today we are welcoming these boys - these men - into our Temple. We are welcoming them as Brothers, as Knights. Men, who will uphold Tradition; uphold the Church; uphold the Science - Men who are now our Kin, our neighbours, our sons. Today! Today we induct them into the brotherhood....

---

.... “‘₂₅And as the Mother saw those, those who refused to take her embrace, she called forth the Sanctuary. ₂₆The Sanctuary, founded by the Daughter of the Mother – Sarha Erhal, Daughter of the Mother and a Human Man – Children of the Earth, they set forth to bring the word – the word of the Mother.
“₂₇One day in their travels they came across the town of Kzr’ii, a town along the edge of the Great Forest. There they found Horror, the Despicable. There they found good and loyal followers of the Church turn against it and build idols to Pagan Gods. ₂₈There, the Daughters were captured, tortured and eaten by the Heretics.
“₂₉The Mother went into a rage causing the earth to fracture and split. She sent her son down to recruit men to remove these Heathens. ₃₀Her Son, Mikhael Frus’Hal - Son of the Erhal, Mother Earth, and the man Mreli Frushr, son of her son Frushr, the Lord of the Fire and War – ₃₁he set forth to the village of El’fuzo and did his Mother’s bidding. ₃₂He recruited men and gave them the Fire of War, and Earthly Strength, bound the men to him with the Symbol and lead them on a quest to defeat the heretics.
“₃₃Marching, day and night, night and day, stopping only for food and water, only thing important was the quest. ₃₄Eventually, they came upon the Heretic Village, ₃₅and there they rested – rested for war. ₃₆The next day, the combined forces of Earth and Fire came down upon the Heathens... ₃₇none of them survived.
“₃₈The men who were with Mikhael buried their dead, and returned to their city as victors...’”

---

“‘... and there they built the Temple’ – Books of Earth, by the Blind Watcher, Chapter 7, Verses 25-28. Long Liveth the Gods. Su’mah”
Around the small Church, the words bounced as many voices behind the boys repeated Holy Word. They were shocked, not knowing who was behind them, but none of them moved, obeying the Vow of Statue.
As soon as the Word was spoken, again it was silent.

“Now!” continued the Master, “Serjants! Bare your left arm, remove the sleeve.”
The boy was confused, but obeyed, tearing off the left sleeve. The boy watched as the man who awoke him goes out of his vision with four others. Only four out of seven made it? he asked himself, he would have to find out what had happened. Over the six years of training he had made some very good friends among his peers.
Again, the Master spoke, “Serjants! The Initiation is almost over. It is time to be Marked.”
Again, the boy was confused, he had never heard of this before. This Marking was unknown. He scanned the room, not moving his head. There was a slight orange glow from the fire in the corner, most of it being masked by the Hooded Ones.
“Serjants!” the boys attention snapped to the Master. The Hooded Ones moved as the Master spoke, taking advantage of the enraptured boys. “Now, you will feel pain, but it will be a prick against what you have felt tonight. You will be full Knights, you will be Brothers.”

Pain – Immense Pain! A Prick was an understatement. He didn’t move – he was still bound. He didn’t cry out – he was under the vow. He spelt burning flesh, as the pain moved deeper inside his arm. It burnt, it screamed at him to yell. He was silent. It was over as soon as it began, and he exhaled...

And it was back, different yet the same. The Pain, the pressure, it was the same amount of hurt... just different way it was being put on. The smell returned, and he almost yelped. It was horrid, worse than anything he had smelt before, and then twofold that.
It left as soon as it came.

“Serjants! You have been Marked!” there was a long pause, before he lent forward and said: “Welcome to the Brotherhood, fellow Knights.”
I’ve made it! he thought, hearing the cheer from the assembled Brothers behind him. He was itching to turn around.
“New Knights! Your Vows and Bonds are over!”
It was as if planned, the new Knights tried to stand, and immediately fell back. They had lost the use of their legs over 31 hours ago, when the ritual started. The Boy reached over to touch his arm, and yelped when he did. It had been burnt – branded... branded with the Symbol. He smiled, finally realising what this meant. He was a Brother for life, no matter where he was, what he was doing.
He looked around the room and noticed how many Knights had packed the small Church. If there was a space, it was filled. He tried to find his voice, and croaked “Help...” reaching out with his hand.
The knights understood, themselves going through this many years ago. Several of them rushed over to assist him, to help their new Brother stand. Voices were all around him, “You did good –”, “Amazing job, son!”, “I thought –”... it just continued, and he fell into it, into the cheering, into the embraces. He was like a child again, the Knights laughing and cheering when he could take his first steps. But the ceremony was not over...
“Knights!” the Boy turned at the command, “Collect your Set!”
The boy walked, disjointedly, towards the Master. He was stiff, oh so ever stiff. His knees begged him to sit, to lie down, he denied them that – he must keep moving. He wanted his Set – his robe, his Quarew, his scabbard and shortblade and his Sachet - The tools of the Knight. Climbing the small stairs, one at a time, he stood infront of the Master.
“Samal,” he said quietly, The Boy had almost forgotten his name, “Go to your waker.”
Samal looked around, and saw the Hooded Man standing with his Set. Smiling, he stumbled towards him on legs that begged to rest. “Boy,” said the Hooded One, “Stand in front of me!”
Samal stood still, swaying slightly.
“That’s no discipline for a Knight! ... Parade Stance, Attention!”
He stopped swaying, and obeyed to the voice. It was all commanding, all powerful. A voice he responded to over his six years training. Could it be? Could it be his worst nightmare, his most hated master?

“Good,” said the Hooded One, nodding in that oh-so-familiar way. He took the robe from a waiting Knight holding his set. “Here I bestow upon you the Robe, your symbol of power.” He placed it over Samal’s head, sliding it on him. The Hooded One turned, and grabbed another item. “Here I give you the Quarew, the Holy Book. Let this guide you in your Darkest Hour.” He Hooded one clipped the Holy Book onto a chain around his waist, before turning and grabbing the shortblade and scabbard. “Here you have your shortblade, your symbol of strength, and here, here you have your scabbard, your symbol of wisdom.” The Hooded One placed the shortblade – sheathed in the scabbard – on to his back, tightening the straps which held it on. Then the Hooded Man grabbed the last item, “And now I give you your Sachet, your lifeline.” The Hooded Man laid the Sachet, a small bag-like item, on the chain around his waist, next to the Quarew. “You are now a Knight, with these you will carry out your duty.”

Samal had never felt better. He was a Knight - a Brother-Knight of the Temple of Erhal.

[Nosgotham]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

It's coming!

When lies forge reality

It was close to the New Year's Eve of 2012, and all had their ways of celebrating. The powerful left-hand path occultists inside the Black House, seat of Nosgotham government, partied in unspeakable sodomy and orgies of human blood, and some of the courtesans who were invited for their feast would not leave the somber building alive. Together with his lapdogs, Andrei Mikhail savoured the tainted viscous wine of a young communist woman recently sacrificed for gods so ancient their names were forgotten by all but those deep within the ranks of the circles of necromancy. They believed that such was the formula of eternal youth. Despite greying hairs, increasing wrinkles, they persisted in blind faith to the rejuvenating properties of human blood. The ignorant and barely literate population of Nosgotham was fooled into believing they were vampires.

As a sign of respect, absolute silence was kept while the chalices of blood were slowly drank in that chamber of the dungeons beneath the Black House, under the light of candelabras with black candles. All of them were enjoying the moment, most already drunk, and there was a twisted echo among their feelings, an awareness of invisible spectators inside the room, dark ghosts drinking with them, or perhaps inventions of their deranged minds. Minutes later, like always, Andrei took the last sip of blood, and immediately left the chalice over the table. Being the most sober individual in the room, he considered trying to talk a little about serious matters with his advisors, and arose from the comfortable chair:

"I understand the festivities, however, problems and enemies won't be respectful to wait for the end of holidays before acting. And I have been informed of a growing problem this year," he placed his hand over the table, "a few months ago it was simply a nuisance that posed no threat to the stability of Nosgotham, a madman raving on his lunatic prophecies about the end of the world. Most have simply ignored this beggar, but a few hours before the party, the spymaster informed me that this doomsayer just became a serious threat."

"Mister President, how did a penniless doomsayer become a threat?" one of the advisors wondered while he stared at the bloodless but fresh corpse of their victim chained to one of the walls, breeding more twisted and vile thoughts, for the defilement of the remnants of such poor woman was not over yet.

"Let me start with the basics, advisor George. This madman believes that the minority of blacks in Romania will be pivotal for an apocalyptic breakdown of everything and form gangs that will cause unspeakable horrors against the loyal citizens of Nosgotham, and then vampires will slaughter the few survivors in a frenzy of perpetual starvation for blood."

"What is this insanity? Is this madman an old Nazi?"

"Possibly, that would explain the focus of his prophecies on negroes. The problem is that, at eight hours of night, an attack happened against a small unnamed settlement near Vlaca. It would not be a problem at all, were it not for the fact that the witnesses claim the attackers were undead."

"Mister President, it seems someone else copied your ideas. I understand, better for actions to happen soon. This madman could do something stupid and unmask the living dead hoax."

"Don't interrupt me unless you are sure I'm finished," he answered calmly, ignoring the sudden drive of all other advisors to play with the corpse, "getting rid of the madman would be trivial for our 'undead legions', but the investigation team has found several corpses in advanced stages of decay in the scene of the massacre, and this," Andrei took a mobile phone from his pocket and opened it, typing a few of its keys, until it opened a video:

"Does it look like a man in a very well elaborated zombie costume?" the president said in his typically neutral and calm tone.

"No! President, forgive me for doubting, but is this a prank?" the video showed one of the corpses shambling. It was seriously decayed, and it continued moving and groaning while policemen shot against its head. The scene was frightening, it was perhaps a form of poetic justice, for the lie they have kept for so long to turn against them as a truth. The video continued with the decently trained cops retreating, until one of them took a sword and decided to attempt hacking away the abomination. The slow creature, alone, was not a serious threat, and eventually, the blade began to chop it into pieces. Used to all possible forms of acts the majority of society would consider vile and disgusting, the advisor did not puke at the video, but still was scared.

"Is there any special effects studio in Nosgotham that could be that convincing, advisor?" Andrei asked, "no, and yes, this means that, somehow, this doomsayer is a real necromancer. It is doubtful that he would ever teach anyone how he can do it, and thus, we will never discover his secrets, but if we don't act, this man could bring ruin and make his prophecies of doomsday become real to Nosgotham with the power he bears."

Meanwhile, all accross the world, people waited the countdown for 2012.

"Happy 2012, mister President."

"Equally, advisor." he nodded, "let us leave the other advisors to have their fun in privacy, it is doubtful they could provide any useful advice at their current state." he watched their debauchery unfazed, like if such act was completely normal and undisturbing, and left the room with his only sober advisor, going back to the ground floor. They partied further in their views of what a party was. There was murder, there were acts of depravity that would make even the most radical and open-minded libertarian puke, and eventually, they were exhausted and went to their beds when morning began.

The dungeon keepers, as usual, would check all rooms and all those unfortunate enough to be chained inside, left in waiting, constantly tortured and barely fed, when fed, to be used in horrible ways for the delight of the inner circle of the government. It was not a simple prison, for it was designed first and foremost to please the sick tastes of Andrei and his higher echelon cronies rather than to punish those inside, which was why only young and reasonably beautiful women involved with guerrillas and other dissidents were kept there. They opened door after door, only to see lines of agonizing faces, sometimes seriously bruised, others mutilated, to which their inhuman gazes left no sympathy or pity.

Their dehumanized routine procceeded, until they finally reached the room where Andrei and his advisors once drank blood. Being informed that some of the advisors could still be there, heavily drunk, the two keepers rapped the door before entering. Once, twice, thrice, increasingly louder, and calling for the advisor names loudly, they had no answers. Being very strict followers of protocol, they continued for about half a hour to knock and call for the three advisors, when one of them finally lost his patience and opened the door.

Even such men, conditioned to be desensitisized monsters, nearly puked when they witnessed the gruesome scenery of carnage inside the room. The spots on the wall where the shackles that once held a victim lied were brutally torn, like if a very strong force yanked the chains out of the wall. A carnival of pieces, eyeballs, mutilated fingers, flesh and viscera splattered over the floor was everything left from the three advisors. It was like if something deliberatedly chopped them into pieces. The dead woman once chained to those walls was missing.

[Red Zone 1]

[ MT ]

"The Final Moment of Serene Sora"

Dying.

She never thought about it before, but like what the rest of the people before her had taught her she knew her own demise is coming. Valkyrie Lieutenant General Serene Sora contemplated on her situation while she was sitting alone in the bright lighted holding cell, with both her hand cuffed.
Defeated and humiliated, she accepted her fate and today she will be executed.

Defeated? She thought out loud, with a weak smile, Not at all. I’d served my purpose. All is well. Suddenly another female figure stood in front of the bar, a figure of authority which is showed by the dark uniform of the New Order of The Valkyrie Guard.

It was Lieutenant Colonel Elisha Estella. Her once former mentee and lover.

“Hey. How are you?” Estella smiled, strangely the former enemy showed no trace of animosity at all, but of pity instead. Serene Sora could not hide her shock but immediately realize it would be a mistake, she stood up and moved to the corner of the wall facing on the mirror, where the reflection of the woman behind her was seen leaning to the bar.

“Did you not hear? They’re executing me in the afternoon.” Serene Sora finally spoke, almost in sarcasm but only to see the fair beautiful woman outside the door turn gloomy.

“You should have listen to me Serene. You should have.”

“And what? Sacrifice everything that we had done. The Alcendina cannot be trusted. You and I both know this but what did you do? What have you done?! Instead of fighting side by side with me you left!”

“It seems you never change. I did my duty, for this country. And you? You merely acted for your own greed. All the life that was lost. You lost your self. What was that all about?”

"Do not lecture me Colonel! I don't deserve this...let me go! Let me go!!!" She was getting even more furious, hitting the bar in front of her, everything that she had ever suppressed inside of her suddenly seems to be bursting out, the woman out side the bar just starred at her as Sora fell to her knee - which then turn sobbing at first before the tears flowed like crystal.

"Look at you. You're pathetic. I won't miss you Master. I won't even keep our memories...all the things we'd done together before. I'll forget you. Goodbye Sora." Estella said again, this time coldly almost devoid of emotions. Serene Sora look up, but the younger woman had already left...slowly disappearing. She noted that the is a small enveloped placed between the lock.

She picked it up, and what she saw only made her burst even more.

It was a photograph. An old one looking by the quality of the paper, and inside of it were pictures taken some 10 years ago when both Sora and Estella were still in the Academy. She was three years her senior back then, but that never stop the sisterly bond to be forged even closer and any real sister could be. Inside Sora and Estella were hugging each other, while the rest of their batch casually posed for the striek. Both of the woman had been young, and the long forgotten cheery face seem to have faded away. Memories that had finally caught up with time and simply fade away... it was a sorrowful evanescence.

She looked at the back of the photograph.

"I love you. Wait for me. EE"

Serene Sora finally smiled, but it was time...

"Master Sora, have you prepared." The jail warden appeared. The Valkyrie look up with eyes that, looks determined and contend...

"I am ready. Let's end this."

*****

Valkyrie Lieutenant General Serene Sora was executed for treason on 23rd September 2021 AD at 2 PM. She was captured after leading a failed nation wide Revolution against the former Quendisphere Republic of Redzon. This is part of the Chronicles of Redzon.

[Abruzi]

[ PMT ]

Change

The Forge Queen was dead. The mere utterance of this phrase was a guaranteed death sentence to any of the mourners as her casket passed, borne upon the shoulders of her Praetorian Guards. The entire Industrial Imperium wept as Forge Queen Athena was laid to rest in the Machine Crypt, surrounded by her ancestors. Surrounded by the dead. Yet even as his wife was being laid to rest newly crowned Forge Lord David worked.

He worked to secure his fragile power as suddenly commoners everywhere realized their ruler was a foreigner. Being the heir of Scandinvan and a native of that land he had to work fast to stop any revolutionary thought from fermenting in the vile darkness that was Southern Abruzi. The gas mask clad hordes of peasants would not understand talk and reason, that he knew. The Working Class understood only one thing, violence.

Quickly the Forge Lord’s effects were secured and he moved the Great Forge officially to Forgeheim in the north. The pure northern air allowed him to take off his Gas Mask but to preserve Abruzian heritage and to promote a kind of nationalism he kept it on. The Nobles that were at court kept it on. The commoners and soldiers who worked and died in the city and in the Bread Basket kept theirs on.

His first act was to officially move the capital to Forgeheim. The Great Forge was here but the government was still seated in Forgeburg itself. Quickly thousands of documents were altered to state the capital was Forgeheim. The articles of formation, official copies of the history of Abruzi, and any other texts or media that even referenced Forgeburg as the capital were altered. Forgeburg had never been the capital, it would never be the capital. The capital had always been in the north, always and no one would question it.

Any books that referenced the south were deemed defective and collected. Then they were burned in great piles that lit even the Industrially Scarred and Clouded skies of Abruzi. The commoners were too fearful of punishment and the nobles too afraid of assassination to question. The concept of doublespeak had come to Abruzi.

The Forge Lord was pleased with his successful transition north. He was pleased that most nobles that weren’t ancient relics had moved north with him and that a larger number of Scandinvan nobles had emigrated to Abruzi to live as Abruzian nobles. He was not pleased however that some commoners still saw him as a foreigner, an outsider. Some even dared to call him David the Murderer. Never mind that his wife had died in childbirth giving him his only son Forge Prince Gustav.

The only advocate of this dangerously rebellious thinking and speech was Forge Prince Atlas, Athena’s brother. Swiftly he was silenced and all mention of him in all documents was altered much like the capital referencing texts. What followed is known as “The fall of blood” because for three months starting in September great purges were carried out in all walks of life. Whispers of those that were taken were silenced the following winter when it was made illegal to reference the great purges.

With his power base secured Forge Lord David rapidly began to expand the Abruzian Military. Though not in any official way, instead a new branch was created that answered only to him. Known only as the Shadows this secretive branch was connected with the Praetorians and many said that they were Praetorians who specialized in infiltration and covert warfare. The creation of the Imperial Foreign Legion was also an early decree of David’s long reign.

The Industrial Imperium had changed and the reforms of Forge Queen Athena had instead become reforms towards a more sinister state. The saying,

“Tomorrow will be better” was abandoned, to be replaced with, “Tomorrow I will be dead.”

[Sierra Apathia]

Butter Fingers
[MT]

Hiddink squinted his eyes, hoping to get a better view of the field this way. Noticing something off with the other club's members, he tried to see what was going on as he imagined how their striker would break through their defence. If only they could, Hiddink thought. He is, after all, the most inexperienced player in the whole team. If his defence is up to it, then he is confident nothing can ever get through. His mentality remained unchanged until today, that is.

Hiddink is a second-choice goalkeeper for his football team, occasionally filling in for Lukas, who, occasionally takes a vacation. He had always wanted to play for his team, but just as often as he goes down to practice, is how often he plays with the team. His team of course, never really care about who's the goalkeeper until the critical moment of the game where they corrupt him just to make sure he does his job well. In any case, Hiddink was never sensitive to any pressure, so that quality only made him a goalkeeper. He had zero experience, and known little about the laws of the game. All he knew was, he played.

It was 76 minutes into the game, Lukas is badly injured after the opposing team's striker apparently broke his nose, the crowd began to grow restless as the referee wasted time, and Hiddink had not warmed up at all. That's what substitutes were for, clean up the crap the team makes. Wasting no further time, Hiddink insisted on making the goal kick and continuing the game, amidst a sea of supporters who had little trust in him. The referee nodded and blew the whistle; Hiddink made a short jog and swung his body.

The ball flew several feet above the ground before landing in a sea of persistent players. Thank god i'm a goalkeeper. I get all the space in the world, he thought. There was not much to do, actually. The ball did come close, but never into the penalty box. Hiddink did some clean easy saves, but never anything that made any part of his body stretch out. However, he had his hopes too high.

The ball managed to slowly get past a sea of defenders and attackers, and landed in the penalty box. The ball grounded, and began approaching Hiddink. Confident on the save, he did not put the bigger part of his body behind the ball - instead putting his hands and legs to stop the ball. This is where disaster struck. His hands grasped the ball momentarily before slipping, finding it's way through the gap in between his legs.

The whistle blowed, and it was a goal.