The Great Astyrian War (IC/PT - Closed to region)

by **Glisandia** » Sun Jul 13, 2014 12:08 am

This is the story of the first regional war of the 20th century to engulf Astyria. More info to be edited in soon.
OOC Thread (Includes alliances, equipment and orbats)
Gaul 3rd Squadron {Foreign} (A character recruitment thread)

SVANUR ROYAL ESTATE
RIKIJDROTTIN, GLISANDIA
7th of August, 1920

Colonel Larus Armannsson was the Regent Military Counsel, and as such it was his job to translate what the Generals needed from their royal head of state, and what the Duke demanded of them. He, along with other members of the Court, had their hands full as it became increasingly difficult to get the Duke to retain any information, let alone make simple decisions. Despite an infusion of Ecossian, Yellosian and Auroran blood in past generations, there still seemed to be an incredible lack of superior genes showing with the Glisandian Royal family.
Armannsson strode out to the paddocks on the great estate of Svanur in the capitol of Rikijdrottin. He had maps and notes tucked under his arm, and determination on his face. This meeting should take place in a room of the castle, but because of the state of the Duke, it would happen wherever he could be stopped in one spot.

Duke Staniszlaus Pierdcziensky led his mount, Snorri, up towards where the stable caretakers awaited, then seemed to change his mind, leading the horse back out to where the hedge hurdles were at the far end of the corral. The horse was a magnificent gray stallion with black speckling on the hind quarters. The Duke spent countless hours riding Snorri on any day that he could, weather permitting. The weather today was brisk, but not horrible. Winter would be harsh this year, that was certain.
Armannsson caught up and hailed the Duke, before he could get his steed up to a trot.
"Your Grace...Your Grace. A moment please?"

The Duke turned slightly in the saddle. "Ah Vitleysa! What do you want, Herald?"

"Er...no, Grace. I'm your Court Counsel. I...We were supposed to meet, with the Generals. Do you recall? You wanted to review the latest news from the border."
Larus looked over at the caretakers. Then shrugged. They would all have been vetted.
"About your cousin. Konungur Eirikur. He has sent another communique. I have it here."

"Ugh...That fat piece of svínafeiti! Who cares. I've about had it with him. He wants to keep kissing up to the Gauls and Kelonnans, he can deal with the Ecossians when they roll through Yellosia, and we will be right by their side. Now, that's a true power. Nouvel Ecosse. Did we send that tribute?"

"Um, yes, your Grace. The victrolas and the herd of cattle. I hear it was well received." In fact, it had boggled the Ecossians, but they still had accepted the odd gifts willingly. Appreciative of their alliance with the Glisandian Duchy, they tolerated the extreme eccentricity of the Duke, in order to secure the strengthening military of the Duchy to their side.
"Again, though, Sir, I wanted to talk to you about your cou-..." Not watching his step, as he had entered the corral, he tripped and landed in a mud patch, with only one hand free, he was unable to maintain his balance and was saturated in mud up to his knees.
"Agh!"

The Duke giggled. "You need to watch your step, Jester."

"Counsel, sir. I'm your Counsel." Armannsson boosted himself up slowly, "You have antagonized and berated your cousin, the Konungur, to the point where he threatens war, Your Grace. It is most serious, but since you have been itching for a fight, and our ally and benefactor to the North also desires some resources, this may be the opportunity we were looking for."

"Yes, let's get the army ready, and the flying things."

"Aeroplanes."

"Arrow pins. Yes, those. Magnificent. You know what? I'd like another show of our arrow pins tomorrow. Arrange it."
So far, he had kept the horse to a slow canter, and Larus had kept up. Snorri then decided to void his bowels, while the Duke pet his neck.

Colonel Armannsson resisted the urge to cover his nose at the rank odor that seemed to physically smack him.
"Yes, Your Grace...but let's keep in mind, they may be needed for upcoming hostilities. We don't have a lot of...arrow pins to spare. Also, we need to mobilize the Army in stages. We can't afford to keep them all standing indefinitely."

"The Rombergians...we still have them?"

"Er...Yes, Sir. The Rombergian divisions? What of them, sir?"

"Let's send them first if we do attack. Save our men for the final push into Arkjelstad."

"Eh...That's not the best idea, your Grace. Romberg has been rather...turbulent lately. They are chaffing a bit under our rule. To have their regiments in the vanguard, with the terrible casualties that these machine guns seem to cause...that might not be...prudent. That might be the spark that causes full rebellion."

"Nonsense! They would be proud to lead the attack! You think I don't know my subjects? Pick up those road apples!" The Duke pointed to the steaming, pungent chunks that were still giving off a powerful odor.

"I...I don't have..."

"PICK THEM UP, HUNTMASTER!"

"Counsel..."

"What!?"

"Your Grace." He started to tuck the maps and documents into the map case strapped to his side. Then still hesitating, he leaned down and gathered up the horse turds into his hands, wishing he'd worn gloves. He sighed as he stood with the rank turds. The Duke sat smug in his saddle, looking down.
Colonel Armannsson ventured again,
"Perhaps, the Royal Rombergian Divisions could be used for a flank attack?" He had actually put out the call for their mobilization and transport to Glisandia already, per General Vergostuor's orders, but it would take some weeks for their arrival and integration.

"Sure. Fine. Are the Gauls going to back Eirikur?" He still referred to his cousin by his proper first name, rather than as the Konungur (King) of Yellosia.

"It seems that way. They are rather unhappy with the way things are going this way, Sir. Especially with our agents being active, meddling, some might say...in Noordenstaat, near the Haguenau border. We are countering the Nikolian influence, of course. The Gauls see any interference or ill effects on Haguenau as a direct attack on them."

"What?"

"The ethnic ties."

"Oh, that...psshaww!"
The Duke waved his hand. The Colonel suspected that he didn't really understand the ethnic connections between the two nations or care.

"Well, Sir, they most certainly could be sending troops up that way, at least until Haguenau can build up more homegrown forces. We need to tread lightly. We could be fighting Gauls out of Yellosia, too...or their colonial troops. Eventually, we could see some of the other Western leaning powers come to their aid as well."

"We have friends too. And I'm not just talking about Nouvel Ecosse."

Armannsson shook his head,
"No, sir, I realize that. But you must know, that Euralon, Riysa and the Exponential Empire are all not keen to get into a conflict at this time. You heard each of their envoys yourself, sir."

"Oh, not at this time? Well...what time would be convenient for them? After those thousands of Yellosian viking scum have ridden over us? Would that work then?" While physically present at those meetings, it was not apparent he was mentally present.

The Regent Counsel stood, horse turds cradled, unable to respond with anything that flashed through his mind at that point.

The Duke suddenly looked taken aback,
"What is the matter with you? You're just carrying horse shit around? You could have at least used a shovel. Go put it in that pail over there, for Odin's sake! Then leave...I have more riding to do."

"Yes, your Grace...And the mobilizations? The Army?"

"Yes, take care of it. My cousin needs to be taught a lesson, should he try to take my land. And I want to see the arrow pins fly again. Tomorrow."

"Eh...Yes, sir."
Armannsson thankfully dropped his bundle into the pail by the fenceline. Still, his arms were covered and quite pungent.
He made up his mind. He would meet with the Generals and cover all this ground again. It was rather silly to try to get clear instruction from the Duke who would barely register half of their conversation by tomorrow, anyway. He would arrange the fly over of the 12th squadron, outfitted with the newly imported Aviatiks.

He also might have both the Duke and the Generals witness marksmen from the Army demonstrate the new sharpshooter rifles just arrived from Neu Engollon. The Geweil 16 seemed to be an incredible weapon, and in the right hands quite deadlier than anything they'd had so far, at least according to General Karowliecz, who was in charge of procurement for the infantry. The GMond was good as a standard rifle, but didn't quite have the reach or accuracy of the Geweil 16.
First things first. He needed to change out of his fouled uniform.

by **Aquitayne** » Tue Jul 22, 2014 11:13 pm

Royal Grounds
Acril, Aquitayne

A light easterly breeze swept through the tree branches surrounding the open field in which no less than fifty individuals stood. The morning sun continued rising in the cloud covered sky as its rays penetrated the branches of the tall trees, casting luminous shadows into the field. The oak trees stood strongly, firmly, not bending nor swaying but humbly allowing the wind to brush by. There were military men, clergymen, noblemen and men of the Court; all came to watch as the successor - be he the supposed pretender or the legitimate heiress to the Aquitaynian throne, be decided upon a field of grass covered in dew soon to be the dew of the body.

Princess Lisa II wore unorthodox attire for the event; though it could be argued that, seeing this was the first time a woman had engaged in or even accepted a demand to trial by combat, this was rather a more practical approach to an impractical endeavor. She stood closely to her advisers, family and friends who had come to support her rightful succession to the throne, and then there were the Loyalists, those who believed that Henry Kar'lei, Lord of the Northern Isles, was the rightful heir to the throne.

Aquitayne had been embroiled in domestic conflict since Lisa's father, Urei'on Reich, the last of the true blooded Aquitaynian Vik'Rus monarchs, died. This gathering was the sum of the fears of the lower classes, the civil conflict that was waged in the name of the throne, and the true determination of the right for a woman to truly succeed a title of such caliber. Succession Law meant nothing if armies could determine fate. And so they were here, the Monarchists and the Loyalists, their figureheads ready to die for their right to rule.

Lisa stood at five foot five inches tall, where her counterpart stood much higher, at six feet four inches. As the time came, the Nrakyu called the parties together at the center of the field, where Lisa stood in Henry's shadow; though she showed no fear, nor intimidation, nor waver. Lisa and Henry stood facing one another, waiting, drawing their final breaths.

"Lords, Ladies, Gentleman of the Court: today, on this day, the Eighth of August Year of Our Lord Nineteen-Twenty, to determine - in the eyes of Gods and Men - the true and rightful heir to the Throne of Aquitayne as seceded by death by Urei'on Reich. The victor of this duel will be named the one and true heir to the Throne of the Kingdom of Aquitayne, Her Realms and Territories, People and Provinces, Lands and Resources.

"Lisa Reich the Second, and Henry Kar'lei - face your backs to one another and take three paces to the front" Both Lisa and Henry did as instructed, their hands on the hilts of their swords. "Face!"

Both Lisa and Henry turned to one another hastily, Lisa's hand clenching the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white and palms sweating from the intense pressure. Then, "Draw!" Lisa slowly drew her sword from its sheath, as Henry quickly and vigorously pulled his from its home. The two looked at each other intensely, to them there was nothing else - only each other, only this. To die here would indeed be honorable, but to have fought for so long and so hard to fail in this final instance, that in itself would make one wish death indeed. And then, it began.

The Nrakyu gave his final command, and the two drew closer to the other, Lisa slowly and Henry hastily, one attempting to wait out the other and the other attempting to rapidly ascend to his throne. Henry raised his blade for a strike at Lisa's skull, only to be parried by a thrust of her sword and firm footing on the soft soil of the earth. Lisa scraped his blade from above her and swung it to his side, only to have Henry sweep his sword over his body to kick her strike off target.

As Lisa attempted to bring her sword back to her front, she felt her head fly to the right, as Henry's fist made contact with her jaw. Staggering, trying to maintain her footing, Lisa ran to her right, trying to gain distance and time from his next attack. Just as Lisa regained her sense of focus, Henry was on top of her, ready to strike again. As he suspected she was still disoriented, he brought his sword up above his head to deliver a deadly blow down Lisa's skull and through her neck; Lisa, seeing the danger and knowing it could not be parried, quickly pointed the tip of her sword towards the man's stomach, placed her left hand on the hilt of the blade and her right at the base, and stepped forward with purpose, driving the blade through his clothing and into his stomach.

Henry stood, almost paralyzed, his sword in the air and his eyes wide as saucers. His mouth was agape, his breathing shallow and ragged, both Lisa and he standing utterly still as his strength fell from his body and he slid further onto the blade. Lisa quickly and forcefully withdrew the blade from Henry's stomach and heard as he dropped to his knees behind her. Looking around at the spectators she could tell more than the majority were surprised at the outcome, never having suspected the girl had such strength within her. But Lisa knew this wasn't over. The duel wasn't completed until one of the parties was dead, and the easiest way to prove that fact was beheading.

Screaming a screech to be heard in the ears of those there for the rest of their lives, Lisa swung her body and sword around, feeling not even the slightest resistance as her blade cut through Henry's neck like a hot knife through butter.

by **Empire of Symphonia** » Sun Jul 27, 2014 6:28 pm

Imperial Palace of Relum
Symphony, Symphonia Propera
The Imperial Federation

Lady Murasaki, Prime Minister and Duchess of Keigo, smiled at the crowds milling about outside the gates of the imperial palace, having engineered one of the greatest political acts in the history of the Empire.

The sounds of cheering, military bands marching, and the footsteps of the annual Durbar March echoed through the wide avenues of Hamasaka district leading to St. Irene's Square. This was the era of Symphonia: the Empire, the Celestial Middle Kingdom, the Sword of the Orient. The Imperial Banner, a dark blue flag with a golden cross in the corner, fluttered along the city streets, from the soldiers marching through Rue de Republica, dropped from the windows and balconies of the people cheering them on. Symphonia was celebrating its rise in the world geopolitical order. Today, Prince Aidan Roberts of Reformed Britannia and Crown Princess Euphemia vi Kiramashi were married as the heir presumptives to the Celestial Throne, at the head of an empire that stood strong with the greatest powers in the world. The union between Reformed Britannia and Symphonia linked the rising Far East nation to great powers like the Quendi, Italia, Bladia, Osthia, and many others.

Democracy, empire, liberty, free trade.

The great pillars by which had ended the division of the NS world since the end of the Quendisphere War, bringing together perhaps the strongest coalition in the history of the world. With the old Quendisphere gone, it being replaced by the SEC (Sovereign Empires Coalition), its successor in the Coalition of Imperial Nations, the Polaris Initiative, and the more recent International Coalition for Expansion, now was the time for Symphonia to rise to the pinnacle of power.

Symphonian industry had powered the rise of the Holy Imperial Federation as a growing industrial nation ever since the opening of the country to west Astyrian trade. Xenophobia was now at an all time low; literacy, health, and standard of living were rising across the Insulae Celestis, and on the whole, industrialization was proceeding without a hitch. The few recalcitrant daimyo and aristocrats in Xinhai still resisting imperial domination were being swept away like the leaves of autumn, bound to fall in the dustbin of history as they rotted in their economic backwaters, isolated by the warships of the Imperial Symphonian Navy.

As the carriage drew closer to the square, the bells in the Cathedral of the West, across the Sakura River in Terra Imperiale, tolled, setting off a chain reaction as church bells across the city followed suit. Warships in the harbor began giving the hundred gun salute, as the palace gets opened and closed as the imperial couple entered their new home.

Lady Murasaki could only grin as the couple, clad in total white silk, stepped out of the carriage and turned to wave at the cheering crowds.

As the great marble doors into the palace opened, the prime minister could only believe that this was the rise of a new era.

by **Yellow Star Republic** » Mon Aug 04, 2014 9:26 am

Duke Staniszlaus
Dearest Errant Cousin,

I received your letter and demands.
You seem to be under the spell that I must be subservient to you and that due to our relations, you are entitled to some of the territory that belongs to the Greater Kingdom of Yellosia, as well as push around the proud Yellosian people and treat them as subjects of your own, albeit poorer, lesser subjects. I must once again dissuade you of these notions and remind you that times are not as before. Your pushing your Generals and your rumblings about reclaiming Glisandian territory will not end up in a few terrified border folk running from horsemen, but rather a war in which several thousands may die. As these modern tools of war have been around for some time now, we are more than aware of how to use them, and prepared to
use them to finally teach the backwoods, reindeer herding Glisandian rabble a final lesson.
No, you will not get the western borderlands. No, we will not guarantee your corridor to the coast through Adler. No, you will not take a tax of our citizens and we certainly will not allow a single official or soldier to cross our border unanswered. As they have these past few transgressions. May there not be more Glisandian boys coming home in coffins.

Stop this madness! Your games are crossing the line and I and my administrators have been pushed to their limits. War will do none of our people any good. You are ill and need help, cousin, which I hope you can get, possibly from one of these new head shrinker professionals I have heard tell of. In the meantime, you should instruct your military to stand down. No more flights by your planes, no more incursions or shelling. It is unbecoming of a regent that rules so many people to endanger two nations by such acts. You are giving me no recourse in that we will never acquiesce to your demands and will continue to prepare to repel any large action of your troops.

Cousin, I will directly implore you, even though you have your court advisors and Generals talk to me - No more insanity!
This is my final warning to you.

Sincerely,
Your cousin,
Konungur Eirikur I of the Kingdom of Yellosia

KONSTANZ, NEU ENGOLLON
12 SEP 1920

Vaugimir Itzek Lunyuk sat in the parlor of his rented flat, overlooking the beautiful river that fed out into Lake Constance. The buildings here were clean, and the people genuinely seemed to want to be about their business for the morning. Despite the fact that here too, as in his homeland, the lower class were exploited to make the bourgeoisie richer. Perhaps they were just at a minimum standard of living that allowed them to not look upon their plight as so dire. In Yellosia, people were being worked to death in the factories and in the fields to make the archaic Kingdom a world industrial power, and it infuriated him.

Vaugimir, since adolescence, had been a convert to the cause of world socialism and communism, upon picking up his first tract by Marx. He never looked back. Unlike the other Astyrian nations, where it was seen as a passing fancy or rumblings, it had very practical implications for Lunyuk and his fellow conspirators. They also had a very real threat of harsh imprisonment, and fates worse than death at the hands of the Athugalog, the Konungur's secret police. Repression was an easy game for them, and they had wielded the hammer down on previous incarnations of the Marxists/Engelists mercilessly. When Lunyuk and his comrades had hit the streets with their tracts and messages, it had sent people scurrying. People that he knew that were suffering, and should be receptive to the messages on the streets of Tankjel had grabbed the papers and crumpled them up, stomping on them.
One old Marxist organizer named Bjirgssen had swatted him away when Vaugimir attempted to beseech him to attend one of their organizing meetings. They needed the advice from the old guard, those that still could be found. Bjirgssen stopped finally, after trying to waddle away on his crippled leg and cane. He managed a half sneer through his disfigured face.
"Ya see that boy!" He pointed up into his visage, "That is wot happens when ya get noticed by tha...Athugalog." He whispered the last part, looking around.
"Stop tha nonsense. Things won't change and they won't let it. At least be smart about yerself. Don't be parading this claptrap around in public. You are probably already on their list now. I knew yer father, he was a good man. He didn't raise no imbecile for a son."
Vaugimir's father had died during a factory protest, put down ruthlessly by the Athugalog and hired thugs of the company.

No one saw Bjirgssen alive from that day. Lunyuk had wised up, as the man suggested. Realizing that he couldn't operate with immunity from notice, he stayed off the streets...or at least stopped waving revolutionary papers around. Five of his friends weren't so lucky to have the chance to wise up. Oddly enough, they were all of the closest of his inner circle, but even with a couple obvious opportunities, they had only roughed him up on one occasion and let him go, to stumble home with a bloody nose. He had to flee home after that, knowing that he was being closely watched and then hunted. Other revolutionaries had hid him, and it was actually safer to move him to the capital, as there were more of their ilk there. The countryside was dangerous. Tight farm communities would hand him over in a heartbeat in exchange for the chance to hang on to more of their crops, a deal often made with the authorities.
Hence it was a perilous journey for Lunyuk and some others, to escape out of a tightening noose in Tankjel to Arkjelstad, via Bjelnorg.

There, he did his time in the underground, literally, toiling to crank out papers on the old presses and move caches of arms and money, fugitives and food. As the more savy party operators did their experienced work at the street level, attrition took its toll courtesy of the Konungur's soldiers and police. As the ranks opened up, young Vaugimir rose up.

Then, disaster! May day, 1919. A peaceful protest, where several civic organizations would turn out to support them, they guaranteed. Workers collectives would strike and they would bring the bourgeoisie to a stand still. Yet it didn't happen that way. The Athugalog, alerted well beforehand by their infiltrated spies, struck while groups moved to the Central Park, moving down the Strand Katu and up Solskinkatu, the soldiers attacked. The Athugalog as well. Snipers took out leaders, sending the mobs running. Roadblocks channeled them to where they could be collected, outside the Sjoumarka. There, the massacre really began. Lunyuk was spirited to a friendly baker's cellar. Many of his comrades were not as lucky.

In the following days, he was spirited back towards Bjelnorg, where a trawler awaited. Several revolutionaries died for the cause to get him there. Then the harrowing sea journey, avoiding ships of several navies and the pirates of the Mare Ferum. Eventually, they would touch shore, where he was then funneled cross country through Vizion, then Smertolina and the Austrog Empire, to find a final temporary home in the northern cities of Neu Engollon, where they cared not so much for the politics of the north, or much of anyone around them. Early on, in his arrival in the Confederacy, during a brief stint in Schwartzgarten, he had been detained by Pine Park men in civilian clothes. He was told he would be watched, and to not get involved in local politics and try to rouse the local socialists. In return, he would be able to live, write and organize from afar in peace. Later, a local socialist who kept up the network told him. It was part of the complex, subtle politics of the Confederacy, which always came down to money, as it did everywhere.
Neu Engollon exported arms to the enemies of Yellosia, the Northern Powers, mainly Glisandia. It did them good to have a subversive element distracting the Konungur's government, while they kept the arms shipments coming in to his cousin, the Duke.

Vaugimir understood the practicality of it, and as a global socialist that saw no borders, he should have no qualms about the means justifying the ends, but a small patriotic part of him was rankled all the same. One day, they could bring the revolution to Glisandia, once his homeland was locked down. Then, all these wrongs would be put right. In the meantime, he would have to shut his mouth and work to patch up the movement back home. Those days neared.
He heard that his written words still had an effect in Yellosia, but was that just his apparatchiks placating him? He didn't fully trust Lodl Trodskur, his main man in Arkjelstad, to give him the straight truth.

Soon, by train, cart and boat, he would make his way back to lead the movement from the front, instead of feeling like a coward. He would be able to use his charisma again to rally the people, just like the early days. Until then, he bided his time. Writing, telegramming and conferring, planning and scheming, hoping and willing. Wondering...

by **Kelonna** » Tue Aug 05, 2014 12:01 am

The situation in Kelonna was a tense one. Only 18 months ago a civil war had been brought to a close by the Marines. They had been through a grinder, and after losing the Battle of Cannon Hill, it looked like the war was lost. Fortunately for the King, and unfortunately for the insurrectionist, this was not the case. You see, an Army Corps_[1] that had been training on a remote Kelonnan island had been recalled and landed right in the middle of what the Marines dubbed "Innie Country".

In the southern half of Kelonna, this Corps won several skirmishes with the insurrectionists. Because of this, the main 'army' -the one that had won the battle of Cannon Hill- of the insurrectionists marched south. The Corps was split in half, and while two Infantry Divisions remained to occupy the lands, the other two divisions and a Cavalry division moved north to meet the Insurrectionist army.

When the Second Army Group from Terre des Gauls landed on Kelonnan shores to aid the Marines_[2] they immediately marched on the Insurrectionist army from the North who realized that they were in trouble. The armies did clash, though. On the shores of Lake Callenhad, the insurrectionists were decimated. After the Insurrection was put down, the leaders were swiftly executed and order was restored.

This Civil war had brought many new things to the Military. Weapons such as the Machine Gun would be fielded, and airplanes saw their first use. New things also came from other nations: Tanks, and gas to name a few things.

The King of the Grand Kingdom was sitting at his desk in a Palace room that overlooked Shipbreaker's Bay. He was a man in the prime of his life. Already, one could see gray hairs appearing on his head though. Being King was a hard and demanding job in these turbulant times. Nations were preparing for war and Kelonna was no different.

People did enlist en-masse only because of the possibility of war. Even more so than the normal enlistment rates which were high due to the fact that it was the only way for men to earn voting rights. Kelonna was quickly rebuilding her military. The Navy was building brand new battleships. The Marine Air Corps was founded, and was training pilots for the many planes they had. And finally the Marines were training new ways to attack a country.

[1]: While the ground forces of Kelonna were already named the MArines, they did still use the designation of "Army Corps"
[2]: I have not figured out who this is yet...

by **Romberg** » Tue Aug 05, 2014 9:56 am

(Given that you used a Polish name, Ngol.

)

Königsberg, the former pride of the nation. Though still nominally independent as the Principality of Romberg, it had long faded from its former glory. Now more popularly known as Krolewiec, the capital city of the nation now served as the primary location where activities from Glisandia were conducted. It was easy for Glisandia to think of Romberg as a colony, and a subservient one. But to many Rombergians, its older past was still firmly etched in their minds, and the nominal independence was better than nothing. At least on paper they were supposed to have some autonomy over their own affairs.

Under the strict control of Glisandia, it certainly seemed like they had good control over Romberg. But conversely, budding resistance movements were already occurring. Literature glorifying Romberg's independent past was widely read, and Rombergian composers churned out patriotic works masked as military marches and songs for Glisandia. And there were even rumours that in the middle of the Central Mountains, armed bandits had begun planning for an eventual insurrection for independence. If only Glisandia had slipped up just once. And even in the most collaborationist of Rombergians, there was at least some part of their heart where they would still hope that one day, their country would rise again.

The Royal Rombergian Army, once the premier military force of the North, had now decayed to a mere recruiting tool for Glisandia, conscripting many thousands of Rombergian men every year. And though taxes were fair, it was this military forced conscription that attracted the ire of ordinary citizens. Sometimes, round-ups would find that young men had decided to escape to the central mountains and join the local bandits. Other times, bodies were found in the cold Northern tundra.

Yet it was not without irony that despite the general hatred, the Rombergian units were still some of the best fighting forces that the Glisandians had. Indeed, drawn from rich military tradition, the mountain and arctic divisions in particular were mostly Rombergian, and even the rank and file had Rombergians serving in the most decorated units. Admittedly, these decorations were a result of Rombergians being thought of as cannon fodder by those in Glisandia, but it bore real testament to the fighting skill and spirit of Rombergians.

Now, it seemed like Glisandia still had a decent hold on Romberg, and its military resources could be exploited fully. But only time would tell if that would change one day.

by **Trellin** » Thu Aug 28, 2014 5:07 pm

Sunday, September 18^th, 2204 NU

Still just 30 zharna'

Navy once again Astyria's finest

"More dreadnoughts than any comparable fleet"

Embarrassment of Fleet Review forgotten as Arimathea
exceeds its quota by nineteen warships

Arimathean dreadnoughts at the Imperial Fleet Review last year.

There is not a man in Arimathea, whether he was there or no, who will ever forget the Imperial Fleet Review off Tenedos last year. The Grand Duke's navy, which ten years ago was the most advanced in the Empire and all of Astyria, sent only seven dreadnoughts, outmatched even by the people of Kur'zhet who sent nine. The scars of the civil war seem to be fully healed in the navies of the rest of the empire, but Arimathea, which saw hardly a shot fired, had fallen far behind. The fleet of Tasarin-class battleships the Alviki commissioned, so potent and terrible, already sat rusting as His Majesty Emperor Amadar IV surveyed his subjects' fleet. The failure of the LSB Morviq's engines to start was the first embarrassment; when the LSB Parlasan began listing, that was the last. This journalist, who stood on the piers watching our fleet founder, still feels pain at any reminder of that ignominious event. But for us, the Imperial Fleet Review would have been one of the most impressive displays of military might in modern times.

To the eyes of international observers, it would seem that the disgrace suffered by Arimathea's navy last year would have us written off, no longer one of the powers of western Astyria. One writer in the Military Journal of Astyria even wrote that "no serious analyst will now or ever again give Arimathea any credit as a military power if it cannot even keep its ships afloat before their king". Yet now that journalist is eating his words as the Grand Duchy leaps ahead again to the technological forefront. Senior naval consultant Maransi Turax has said that the acclaimed Tasarin-class will no longer be in production from this year, with all existing vessels being completely refitted to keep up with and outpace modern standards. Many naval experts will be familiar with the Tasarin's success and popularity, being sold in large quantities to the Nikolian navy and exported as far afield as Nocturnalya. A new line of state-of-the-art warships will be commissioned to replace the fleet's older vessels, with production expected to begin within two years.

After the shambles of the Imperial Fleet Review - where, admittedly and to our greater discomfiture, the rest of the Empire's constituent navies excelled - the Grand Duke and the Alviki quickly made amends and began a new maritime programme. All three of Arimathea's main military shipyards have been employed in the production of new vessels of all sizes; in total, since the review, twenty five new ships have been laid down and launched, with six more still in their yards. This brings the size of our fleet to one hundred and thirty nine vessels, when what we are required to commit to the Sidereal Crown is currently just one hundred and twenty. The navy includes no fewer than seventeen dreadnoughts, of which nine are Tasarins. While the fear of a civil war erupting here no longer seem justified, we can now proudly boast to be one of Astyria's leading naval powers once again. If only the rest of the military would take its cue from the navy, Arimathea would need fear no enemy.

by **Neu Engollon** » Fri Sep 12, 2014 11:00 am

PRESIDENTIAL HOUSE
TELLEURSVILLE, GENEVA, NE
25 SEP 1920

Council President Maximillian Tell looked out the window of the seat of power in Neu Engollon. He did it often enough on his own in this office, which was the closest view overlooking the Paix de Rue in downtown Telleursville in any part of the Presidential House, but at the moment, he had company in the form of three of the Federal Council, Minister Bagatti, who headed up Foreign Affairs, Minister Hausen of Finance, and finally, Defense Minister Sauerkoff, that also begged for his attention.

He took one last glance out at the capital, wondering when his view might be obscured to the horizon. In Burgunden, which had always outpaced the Capital in growth, the most ambitious 'Cloud Tower' yet was going up. In other parts, they were calling them Sky Scrapers, but here, the press had taken to calling them Cloud Towers. It was the designs and machinations of Le Corbusier and his Corbusier Firm that enabled such a colossal undertaking. Corbusier was the pseudonym of Charles-Édouard Jeanneret-Gris, the greatest architect to ever grace the soil of the Confederacy. It would be the new EngolBanc building and when finished would easily be the tallest in the Mederano, and possibly the whole region, topping out at over 400 meters high. He mused. When he'd been a Federal Assemblymen before ascending to the Council Presidency, there had still been carriages and buggies on the streets and now look where the Confederacy found itself.

Now out on the streets of Telleursville, as on the other major cities of Neu Engollon, one would find that autos were quickly overtaking other forms of transportation, such as bikes and horses. In fact, by 1920, horses and buggies were banned from using the streets of Burgunden, Telleursville, Albertsville and Schwartzgarten, except for special dispensation for farmers bringing produce to market. Panoli, Torino and Ciavno would soon follow that lead, and had such legislation in the works. Automobiles and trucks were now firmly entrenched into the fabric of life in the Confederacy. Steedcraft Mastiffs, Rottweilers, and Canterburys, Bergen 24hp's out of Romberg, Angelbridges from the Exponential Empire, as well as Gaulic Renaults, were the transport of the well-to-do and industry mavens of the day.

There were 3 major Neu Engollon car companies - Sbartig, Rindersped, and Oteg, at the dawn of the third decade of the twentieth century. Oteg was the bastard step child compared to the other two, but they would leave their mark in their own way.

The Oteg Spaniel was a small, ugly, cheap car made for the working classes. The design rights were purchased from Steedcraft of Woodstead. It was the first non-luxury car made in Neu Engollon, with the first model debuting in 1918.
By 1920, Spaniels were popular enough that they were being exported across the Mederano to Gaul, Smertolina, the Austrog Republik, Romagna, Nikolia and other parts of Astyria. There were few Steedcraft Spaniels sold in Woodstead, most likely due to its aesthetically displeasing appearance and the fact that Steedcraft was making better cars for relatively the same value. Rindersped and Sbartig, who were known for higher end luxury cars, tried to put out their own working class models to try to capture some of the market back, but it was too little too late. Rindersped had the Razen, and Sbartig introduced the Novtak. Neither of the other Neu Engollian companies were willing to dedicate enough factory space and lines to put out the volume they would have needed to compete, as it was not expected to be a lasting trend. They never wised up.

Outside of Neu Engollon, the Spaniel was especially popular in Gaul, where it competed with Renault's higher end and more expensive models for drivers. Eventually, Renault would win out in that battle, but for a time, Oteg was the top selling auto manufacturer in Terre Des Gaules. The Diamond Star Model One trucks were also becoming increasingly common across the Mederano, with few regional competitors making equivalent vehicles that could handle such work loads and not be towed by animals. Train was still the favored way to ship goods about from the ports to the interiors, and it would be some time before doing so by air seemed practical.

Tell shook his head slightly, clearing his thoughts of modern marvels for the moment.
"Tell me again about this?"

Minister Bagatti sighed.
"Well, I have gone through some of our back channels...The Uli-Schwyz Regiment seems poised to sign a contract with Glisandia, which might put them smack in the middle of this impending war."

"The one with Yellosia? That's a small Lorecian affair. Why should we worry? The Uli-Schwyz are a private company and should be able to do as they want, which has been that way for almost a century."

"Well...That's partly true, Mr. President, but...First of all, I don't think this will be a small affair if conflict does come about. Nouvel Ecosse is sure to join, considering their close mentoring relationship with Glisandia. Gaul has already pledged support and re-confirmed their commitment to the Koningur of Yellosia. They also are highly critical of Glisandia and Ecosse's influence in Noordenstaat and the threat to both Haguenau and Nikolia. These trouble spots might bring in the whole Gaulic League, mainly Haguenau and her colonies coupled with Gaul's might. Then there's their alliances with Kelonna and Nikolia...Meanwhile, The Northern Powers, as they're calling themselves now, have good relations with Euralon, the Expos and Andamonia, as well as others. This could get out of hand fast if all these alliances are called upon to back up these threats."

"Still. So? We will maintain our neutrality, Minister. Always. We have seen our regional neighbors carry on such violence with sickening regularity, if not on this scale. For instance all those skirmishes in the Trophy Ports down there in the Jajich. What the Uli-Schwyz commander...General...?"

"General Manfred Andozio."

"...What General Andozio and his Regiment does still does not and should not reflect on us."

"Oh, but it does, Sir. Despite our efforts to distance ourselves from them, much of the world still thinks of Neu Engollon as soon as they hear mention of the Uli-Schwyz's infamous exploits...And honestly, we still have ties...You still have ties."

"I do...True. I see your point. Perhaps it would be best to advise them, through our back channels of course, not to take up that contract. We shouldn't rile our neighbors, especially the Gauls as we've done so much to patch up that relationship. We really can't be seen to take sides here, even if we officially don't have control over the mercenaries. I also intend to send a communique out, with your help of course, Minister Bagatti, to the Astyrian governments to urge calm during these troubling times right now."

Minister Hausen spoke up,
"Well...We are going to be involved to some degree in any hostilities whether we like it or not. We are selling arms to both sides...Mainly to the Northern Powers, though. I will be honest, we shouldn't be so quick to urge peace when we will profit greatly from the sidelines. The only drawback I see is that these Trellinese-Andamonian troubles could effect our shipping on the Mederano and Jajich."

They all gave cold stares to the Finance Minister.
"That first statement is a sentiment that can never be uttered outside this room. We are perpetuating the greedy stereotype, when we should be downplaying it. Plus the fact that some might consider our neutrality to be something of a joke when we line our pockets with Andamonian or Glisandian monies."

The Defense Minister interrupted,
"I think you're all forgetting something else. The Austrogs."

Bagatti retorted,
"I don't see how I could overlook the past few months of constant work to maintain that difficult relationship, Minister Sauerkoff. If you could keep your troops in line at the border, we might not have to keep apologizing for these 'incidents'. There is a danger that I will no longer be able to keep Austrog anger in check through diplomatic means and concessions."

The President agreed,
"The Austrog problem threatens to indeed overshadow everything else. I fear our military is becoming much too zealous to prove themselves, and I really am looking to you Minister Sauerkoff to reign them in. We can't have any more dead Austrog border guards."

"Then, Mr. President, I urge you to also turn your pen to convincing the Austrogs to also get their military in check. These encroachments are an affront to our integrity. We are meeting force with force, and it may get to a point when we will be thowing these new tanks and planes into a fight that will turn out badly for both sides. Then we won't have to worry about some large regional war, we will have our own right here on our doorstep."

That gave them all pause as they contemplated the Confederacy being dragged unwillingly into one war or another, for the first time in over a hundred years.

27th of September, The Year of Our Lord 1920

To the esteemed Leaders of Astyria,

It is with growing alarm that we see the fortifying of the region and the reliance on threat rather than reason in territorial issues. We would urge calm to all of you in matters that are becoming focal points for the region. The staggering amount of alliances and defense pacts suggests that should bullets start to fly in one corner, they will be obliged to be fired in the other corners of Astyria. As we sit in the middle of all these corners, we are anxious to see that these differences can come to a more peaceful resolution.

It is our belief that we could come together as a region and show a united front against extremist, radical ideologies that threaten the fabric of solid, traditional monarchies and democracies that have held sway over the many key areas of Astyria. As has been seen recently in the last decade in other regions, these new machines that can move faster then men, or take to the air, can move warfare far beyond a simple dispute settled on a battlefield, involving the innocents at home and destroying all that we hold most cherished. Let us learn from their mistakes.

Should a neutral hosting ground be desired for any of the current disputes, we would be more than happy to offer some of the burgs in the Confederacy, and help to mediate to a peaceful solution.

Sincerely,

Maximillian Tell, President of the Federal Council,
Alfonso Bagatti, Minister of Foreign Affairs,
The Confederacy of Neu Engollon

by **Andamonia** » Fri Sep 12, 2014 3:58 pm

Western Sea of Velar
October 5^th

All the world was grey, and all the men and women merely sailors.

There was nothing to be seen from the deck of the ship, nothing but a thick fog that obscured everything - the sea, the sky, the ship itself. Atanli Kimoi stood near the prow of the AMS Tizana, trying to recognise any feature at all as the small cargo vessel moved deeper into the mists. Only the faint outline of the foremast could be discerned; the sails were too far up to be visible in the swirling vapours.

He was the ship's first officer, an experienced sailor from Andamonia's east coast, but these were not conditions he was used to. Such a fog was extremely rare for the Sea of Velar, and the waters out here were totally unfamiliar to him. It was only his third sailing through the Straits - if they'd actually reached them yet. Ship speed had to be reduced through the narrow corridors enforced by the Trellinese navy. If you strayed, there would be just one warning shot.

Kimoi heard footsteps approaching long before he could make out the heavy trenchcoat worn by his captain, Zohtapan Tonauc. Tonauc was not particularly comfortable on a ship, but the size of the Tizana and the general calmness of this sea reassured him somewhat. Kimoi did not hold the same scorn for his captain as he did most non-sailors; the man had time and again shown his excellent business acumen. He was worth having around.

"See anything?" Tonauc called out as he approached.

Kimoi shook his head even as he realised the captain couldn't see him doing it yet. "Nothing, nary a fish nor rock," he replied instead.

Tonauc groaned. He hated the idea of sailing blind almost as much as he hated the idea of running into the Trellinese navy. They barely tolerated Andamonian ships in 'their' sea, even when they were making full speed for international waters. "I thought we'd be through this blasted fog by now."

"We've only been going at half speed, sir, and I reckon even that may be too fast. There are tricky currents near the Straits. We could be well off course and the first we'd know of it would be -"

He was cut off mid-sentence by an abrupt crunch exactly like that he had been about to describe. The two men staggered and nearly fell, both forced to grab onto the rail as wood scraped painfully against stone and the ship jolted forward and stopped several times, shuddering as its forward speed slowed. Then it stopped and was still and there was a moment's pause.

"What in the world was that?" Tonauc eventually gasped. He turned to look at his first officer as they both stood again and wasn't sure if the man's face had paled or if the fog was playing tricks on him.

"We've run aground. We must be at least fifty kilometres southwest of where we should be, but how we drifted so far off the shipping routes..." he sounded pained.

Tonauc had no idea what to do. "Should we use the wireless, call for help?"

Kimoi seemed to shrug. "We may as well. No one will find us here, anyway."

The two men walked back along the length of the ship towards the bridge. The whole vessel felt... angled, now, and Kimoi walked as though with a limp. Tonauc turned to him, his face full of concern. "Your leg? Are you sure you're okay to walk, Atanli?"

Kimoi seemed to consider the question for a moment. "It's probably just a sprain. Nothing we can do about it for now anyway. Come, let's get to the bridge." Tonauc accepted this and the two carried on.

When the two men reached the bridge, they found it empty. Hopefully the crew were already checking the damage and not looting the ship. It was a cargo of iron ores, anyway, bound for an Arimathean foundry, most likely; too heavy to move by hand. They'd be better off staying and getting paid.

Tonauc rushed over to the wireless and turned it on, feeling a bit more frantic than he knew he should be. He picked up the receiver. "To any vessel within range, this is the Andamonian cargo ship Tizana. We have run aground and require immediate assistance. Please respond."
There was silence except for Kimoi lowering himself into the other chair. Tonauc spun around in his. "No one's answering. The Trellinese have radios, right?"

Kimoi nodded. "They have radios. We should be rather near Durats or Tar Rethin, too."

"I'll try again," Tonauc decided and, before Kimoi could stop him, he repeated his message. The room became quiet once more.

"I suspect they're maintaining radio silence, captain," Kimoi told him to break the uncomfortable silence. "They are in isolation, after all."

This did nothing to calm the captain. "So what do we do?" he asked, feeling himself becoming more desperate. How unlike himself.

"We sink," Kimoi replied simply.

Was that panic setting in? Panic? He who had seen his first company fail catastrophically, almost ruining him; he who had served in the army when they invaded Khorvu; now he was panicking? Only now? "Surely we must have more options?" he heard himself say, and let out a high-pitched laugh.

Kimoi maintained his composure as best he could, answering in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. "One other. We wait for the Trellinese to find us."

by **Terre des Gaules** » Fri Sep 19, 2014 12:42 pm

ROCHOLET, TERRE DES GAULES
14 OCT 1920

He sat for a time looking out the dusty, shabby window as the wheat blew from the sea breezes across their homestead fields. Rocholet was not right on the coast of Gaul, but it was close enough to receive those winds that brought in the salt and smell of sea life, channeled through gulleys and low dunes.

It was a reminder of the other coast. The one that he had crossed to start that fateful day. No matter how much he tried to tune it out, it all came rushing back...daily. He reached for the brandy bottle, almost knocking it over in his fuzziness, but catching it with some residual instinctive reflex still within him. He normally wouldn't bother with a glass anymore, but he still received those ashamed looks from his mama, so he went through the motions to pour.

Lake Callenhad...

Actually, his journey had begun before that, when he and his two best friends, Miklod and Toqzur, had signed up for adventure. The young men had regretted it almost immediately as they arrived for training. They had a rough time of it, being a loathed minority, and were singled out by instructors. Known as Les Viqrois to the Gauls, the Vikret were not ethnic Gauls, but descended from Aquitaynian seafarers and merchants of millennia past. They spoke Viquaine, a dialect derived from Vik'Rus, the mother tongue of Aquitayne, and their true closest ethnic brethren lay across the sea to the Southeast, in Trellin, where the majority Ethlorek people were also Vik'Rus descended.
Rocholet, their closest hometown, lay due Northeast of Nasikt, the heart of Viqrois culture in Gaul, and also close to the outer edge of the Viqrois/Vikret area. Not all the town residents were of the Vikret minority, and several disputes happened right in the main streets over the ages due to discrimination.

Being Viqrois made life much more difficult than the average soldier and it took a toll on Miklod and some of the others that had joined with them. They watched even foreign Legionnaires be treated better than them. Miklod had cracked, lashing out and been sent to the stockade. He came out a changed man, never able to crack a joke or smile afterwards.

They had made it through and developed an esprit de corps in their new assigned unit, the 46th Régiment Fusiliers of the 9th Division. Then word came down that they would actually go to war and be able to prove themselves worthy of wearing the blue-grey of the Gaulic poilu.

At the pleading of the Kelonnan King, the Republic showed solidarity with their ally by sending the Second Army Group to rescue them from total annihilation. While troops were often sent to quell rebellions in the colonies, such as Cote d'Cuivre, Dachine and Kamalbia, this would be their first true war against a well trained army that would fight back with the same modern weapons they possessed.

The landings came as a true surprise to the Kelonnan usurpers that were ready to crush the monarchy.
The Second Army Group poured in all morning...
They pushed on after smashing the initial light resistance at the beaches to march towards the center of resistance. As the Kelonnan Loyalists marched from the south, the Gaulic Regiments moved in from the North, pinching the Kelonnan Insurrectionists in the middle between them. They trapped them at Lake Callenhad.

While they saw plenty of the enemy slain along the way, there wasn't anything to prepare them for the carnage there. The very ground itself was red. The reeds shone as if painted a shiny pink, waving in the wind off the lake, and the brackish water that ran in from the Lake's beaches to form little swamps had a crimson tint to the green. While many of the broken and dead were Insurrectionist, he could recall seeing many of their own Gaulic brethren scattered among the reeds.

The image that burned most was clear as if he still stood feet away. Two Gaulic blue knees up, like little submarines, an elbow sticking out of the water like a dinghy, from the contorted arm that tried to block and protect what could only be the face, which itself was under the water, unrecognizable in the murk. A cloud of polluted life's blood floated above the submerged torso. It could be a close comrade, it could be another poor soul of Mother Gaul's fighting 46th Fusiliers. He would not raise the head out of the muck to check, frozen solid in place at the sight as shells burst overhead. He felt his elbow tugged by Toqzur as they stumbled on, rifles bobbing with shiny spikes forward.

Then the final charge on the Insurrectionist trenches. Out in the open... racing...Poilus dropping all around from the stuttering gun or from bold Insurrectionists disregarding the cover of the trench lips to level a shot. Sounds he wasn't sure he imagined or heard, the deafening, gurgling animalistic shouts that shockingly came from his own taxed throat. They had jumped in together, swinging and sticking and screaming. He saw out of the corner of his eye as Toqzur took a bayonet to the throat and was flayed open, falling back and to the side to slump into the mud wall.

His own assailant grunted like a cornered animal, trying to do the same to him, but he batted away the thrust with the butt of his Berthier rifle, then he wheeled and shoved, feeling the crunch of his bayonet break through brief flimsy resistance of a wool coat, then tucking under a leather bandolier, then flesh, the insides pulling the poker in...Watching as the shock overtook the Kelonnan rebel, anger flickering to fear, to sadness, then fatigue within a snap of fingers. Then the flitting glint as steel missed his nose by centimeters. Toqzur's killer had turned to his next victim, which must be himself.

Axtom had fallen back, pulling the dying rebel with him as his bayonet was stuck fast. Another thrust hit the expired Kelonnan rebel, missing Axtom, as they tumbled back, the living and the dead.
A real heartwrenching panic took hold while his sense sped up but the air around slowed down.
The bayonet would not come free.

He lived, he groped, he pulled, then kicked off...
Then he was scrabbling for something, anything that lay in the mud, finding a rock and bringing it into the knee of his attacker.
A howl and the man was down. Axtom was up, pulling desperately at the Berthier once again and the sharp metal at its end. He swung up, dislodged, to slice at the new attacker...Driving him back. Then a hand on the buttstock, a slam into the gut and a simultaneous squeeze of the trigger while the barrel lay lodged, point blank in his opponent's gut. Down he went from the double onslaught. Again. Again. Squeeze the trigger. Twist, pull, yank, then thrust again. A boot on the chin to pry.
Then nothing. Stillness of the cessation of effort, of desperation, the last gasps of breath and life.

Silence. Immeasurable silence.

Then his Lieutenant, standing at the lip of the trench. Shouting and cursing. He must get back in the fight. The job was not done. His fellow poilus needed him. No medals were given out for quitting halfway through. The duty was not complete.

Was it not, though? Was the enemy not vanquished at his feet, torn asunder, his effluvia up to Axtom's shins. Had he not done his murderous duty and dispatched a brother human of the earth?

A click. A movement of neck and face to focus on the voice. A recognition that chaos still swirled around them.

He had tried climbing out, slickness covering the dug in steps. After unsuccessful tries which continued to find him in the muddy pool of blood, he could not recall how he elevated to reach the top. But he did. Up, then out, then on...

More thunder, more smoke, more screams, less movement, more stillness, more forms becoming one with the landscape...

"Axtom!"

He roused, blinking.
His mama gently smiled, the tenderness that he so desperately craved when his head floated away.
She put down a pale of fresh milk from the barn. The fragrance brought him fully back.
"Your little nephew demands your attention, cheri."

He looked down. The breeze he thought he'd felt on his work trousers was indeed little 8 month old Terxkel, bubbling and yanking for attention. Smiling the smile of the innocent. Eyes twinkling. Then another attempted gnaw on rough, dirt caked wool trouser leg. As he knelt down to pick up the lad, his mama swooped in, snagging the brandy bottle and floating away to make it disappear and carry on with her chores.

He smiled and tickled his nephew, boosting him up onto his lap. For the first time in three days of home leave, he cracked a smile. A tear also made its way down his dirty cheek, leaving a pink trail cleaned in its wake.

ÉLYSÉE PALACE
PARITTE, TERRE DES GAULES
16 OCT 1920

The President sat in his chair, a fine leather specimen made from Arimathean hides and a special dark wood that was a close cousin of ebony, only to be found in a small section of Cote d'Cuivre, the Gaulic colony on the wild continent island of Hesperidisia. He looked over the documents spread out on his desk, which included a map that had been hand drawn by members of the Bureau de Renseignements. The Bureau was their small intelligence section that was keeping tabs on their northern and eastern neighbors. They sent fine aristocratic gentlemen from well to do Paritte and Marseille families off to see the world and bring back important tidbits that would improve the picture that the Gaulic Government had of their Astyrian counterparts.

Across from him sat the Director himself, Gui Bisson, as he pointed out certain items on the map.
"...This is where the Glisandian groups were spotted, well into Noordenstaat. They had to have moved through Thomaion territory, with permission of course, in order to bring canon and such other heavy instruments of war."

The President made discerning noises,
"They might have brought them in by sea, don't you think?"

"They have that narrow corridor ceded to them by Adler via Nouvel Ecosse. Not only our own agents, but several other nations have a close watch on what passes through there to their one port out to the Caledonian Sea. We would have noticed something, for sure, Sir. No...More than likely, it was brought overland. Unless..."

"The Ecossians."

"Yes, Mr. President. I do think that might actually be possible. While Glisandia does have quite the industry to make the heavy arms, it is the Ecossians, their good friends to the North, that have the merchant ships to transport it...and the navy to escort. I am most worried about this Northern pact that they signed in Edinburgh. Nothing came of it until these past couple months, when all these...maneuverings are going on."

"Well..."

A knock at the door startled them. A head poked in,
"Excuse me, Mr. President, Director...Your other visitors are here."

He opened the door wider as both President Georges Aradou and Director Bisson stood up to greet the expected visitors.
Marshall Joffre led the way, followed by the rest of the command staff, Generals Pétain, Foch, Duchene and Nivelle. They stood to attention and led by the Marshal, they saluted their leader. President Aradou saluted back, embarrassed by the formality, but finding it easier to go along then make a deal out of it.
He waved the men to their seats, but Marshal Joffre remained standing, taking a couple steps to the window to admire the view out onto the gardens, with Avenue de Marigny further off in the background.
President Aradou glanced over at the Marshal, slightly annoyed that this might be a subtle affront, but kept his composure.
Rather than call the Marshal over, he nodded to the other Generals, and took another beat to gather his thoughts.

"I was just going to ask Director Bisson of the other attendees of the Northern Powers Pact in Edinburgh. We know that the Duchy of Glisandia and of course, Nouvel Ecosse were present, but..."

"All we can actually be sure of is that those two signed such a document. They made no bones about it and it was announced to the papers of a mutual defense treaty."

Joffre approached the group,
"Weren't there some other representatives there?"

"Yes, the Euralonians, Andamonians, Riysians, Thomaions and Exponentials with some smaller states also in attendance."

"Oh my."

"Yes, some other very big powers of the region. Inquiries to their governments by our ambassadors have been politely turned away when this subject was brought up."

General Nivelle leaned forward waving a hand,
"I don't understand, what do such powers way up north have to do with our security?"

The other Generals rolled their eyes, more up to speed on the geo-political situation.
Director Bisson smiled, tenting his hands.
"Well, General. My answer has several levels. First of all, as you may not know, we signed a similar document with the Konungur of Yellosia...That's their King. Yellosia is surrounded by Nouvel Ecosse and Glisandia to their North and West, with a small sliver of a buffer in the form of Platteisen Adler. If they are attacked, we will most certainly be expected to send aid, and possibly troops."
The room remained silent, but for a servant bringing in a cart of tea to the corner.
"This could be likely a request as their Army is in poor shape, and almost entirely conscripted. They have suffered two mutinies, one of them being attributed to rabble rousers from this new 'Bolshevik' organization, the other simply due to a complete oversight on delivering rations.
They violently looted the area to supply themselves. In war, sometimes necessary, but...in peace? upon their own people...tragic.

Now...closer to home. The Northern Powers are dabbling with Noordenstaat as we said. They seem to be very receptive to them..."
He looked at General Nivelle, who looked blankly back.
"...Which borders Haguenau. Our sister nation, and the founder of the League...The Gaulic League of Astyrian Nations. Noordenstaat has less of what could be called a true navy or merchant fleet and more a band of merry pirates. They have disrupted trade in those waters, for both Haguenau, and our other ally, Nikolia. We are almost doubly obligated to respond. This, more than Yellosia, may be what draws us into a war."

"Could we rely on GHawkins or any of our other allies?"

"If you have read what has come out of GHawkins City or Beograd lately, I think you would know...They are most vehemently against getting dragged into any approaching conflict. I think it would take a lot more to spur them on."

"Well, we should be able to bring our full might to bare. We have not had such a more built up military in some time."

"Yes...well, we also have to take into account the threat to the colonies. Prudenesia sits at the crossroads of the Exponential Empire, Euralon and the routes to the Northern Powers. Not to mention, Cote d'Cuivre, where some of our richest resources come from, is actually sharing an island with the Exponential Empire - Hesperidisea. The Expos have been looking to claim Cuivre back for quite some time. This would be their perfect excuse and their sole reason to jump in. Then there's Kamalbia..."

"A desert wasteland..."

"WITH more potential untapped resources. They also can be threatened, by the Riysians to the south. There have been incursions before, also from the Dangish, the Agrincourtians and others, but we won't get into that. The only colony not threatened by this is Dachine, far off in Asia, and we have other local worries to contend with there."

"Do we not have a good number of native troops from these colonies?"

"We do." This from Joffre, "But we count on them to bolster our regular army, along with the Foreign Legion. We now have to look at not being able to remove them so that they can stay on guard on the colonial borders. We may have built up quite the air force, but it will be spread thin with the amount of potential enemies that also have aerial power nearby." After the cataclysmic wars of the last decade, airplanes had gone from an oddity and occaisional tool, to an integral part of modern military force, "Even the Dachinois, we would not be able to pull many...But, there are the Hagenois. This situation threatens them, why shouldn't they be able to contribute some of their substantial manpower to the cause. For the League, if not for the Western Pact?"

Director Bisson nodded,
"I was thinking much the same, Marshal. More than ever, I think our mutual membership in the League is most appropriate here. The Haguenavians are threatened by what happens over the border in L'État du Nord (Noordenstaat), so surely they would want our assistance, and some of our escort ships up there.
Also...The Aquitaynians..."

"What of them?"

"Well, we are closer, as you know. Bonds are forming. They have pledged silent support. Volunteers."

"Volunteers? Would they bring their own munitions and supplies?"

"I think we could secure that. They also bring skill. Pilots, vehicle drivers, engineers...Never enough to go around, hence the recruitment drives for our Foreign Legions."

"They are joining the Legions? Or sending whole units of their own?"

"Both...Neither. Some have already signed up for the Legions, but we are talking whole units of Aquitaynians, in regular Gaulic uniform. Ours to command."

"Eccggghh! As long as they don't serve here in Gaul proper, and word does not spread. Could you imagine the impetus it would give the Viqrois for more autonomy? We don't need more of those riots."

"No, indeed. This will be kept tightly under wraps."

"First...
I would like the proper envoy to request such commitments. Perhaps you would go to Angoulême? Also some diplomatic personnel to Telora, and of course to Beograd, to confirm our commitments from and to them. Storm clouds are coming and we need to be ready to act."

"There's no way I could leave the Army at a time like this, Mr. President. Might I suggest General Pétain? Also, perhaps we could send General Duchene and a delegation to Cote d'Cuivre, to get a better picture of the situation there and what we might need to hold off an Expo take over?"

General Duchene stood up, having remained silent for so long. He knew it was political suicide, and that he might never be able to return from a far flung side show, should the expected attack come, but he would do his duty.
"I would be honored, Marshal." He saluted.

The Marshal saluted in return, then turned swiftly to face General Nivelle,
"And you, my youngest General, shall head to Kamalbia. To check on the defenses there. I would like you to at least check on the coast, if not trek the rocky interior. I want to know that the great port of Marqueville will be able to hold masses of Gaulic and Haguenois troops that may head on East and North. It has been our cornerstone staging base, and it shall continue to be so, in this feared possible conflict."

General Nivelle stood up as well, the precedent having been set. Inward he seethed, having wanted to stay close to both Marshal Joffre and the capital, but he would do his best to do his duty and rush back as soon as allowed.
"I shall be at your command, Sir."

The President sighed, bringing his hands together in a gentle soft clap.
"Bien. Then it's settled. Make these preparations. I trust Director Bisson and Marshal Joffre to continue to handle the details. In the meantime, I have a lot of letters to write. Some to potential friends...Some to potential enemies."

NANGILLES AERODROME
FORCES AÉRIENNES DES GAULES FLIGHT TRAINING CENTER
3ème ESCADRILLE CHASSEUR ÉTRANGER
SE of PARITTE
TERRE DES GAULES

19 SEPT 1920

Major Gaston Linsau stood with one leg up on the lower wing of the SPAD. He surveyed the lot before him in a loose line and spit in the dirt. It was about what he should have expected, but still he expected much more. These were pilots, the best of the best of modern man, supposedly.

It was a motley crue.
Most of the recruits didn't speak a lick of Gaulic French, and few even had English to fall back on. Arcadians, Aquitaynians, Neu Engollians, Rombergians, and more dregs who knows where from.
Some in torn plaid trousers, others not well clad for the weather with shirts that were threadbare and more holes than material. Some were on the opposite end of the scale with fine leather flying coats and dainty scarves, with faintly effeminite bearing, chattering away when they should be at attention in formation. One bumpkin had brought his damn pet chicken! It ran circles over by the Officer's Club.

There were maybe a handful that stood, having the bearing of true fighting pilots, possibly having fought in the recently past cataclysmic wars that had just rocked other regions. Too few to rely on.

He snorted and then spat again. Considering whether he should just blast them in Gaulic, he defaulted to English rather than deal with more expected dumb stares than he could handle today.

"Listen up! You lot are what I have to work with now and you will have to do. You are supposed to know your way around a cockpit and I expect you to demonstrate that today. Prove me wrong, mon dieu, because I feel they must have given me a bunch of latrine diggers! I don't give a rat's ass about your stinking carcass and what condition you end up, but I expect you to keep my flying machines intact up there. We aren't going to fly through barns here, we're eventually going up against pro-flyers: Expos, Andamonos, Ecossers, Glissies and Riyssies - that will tear up yo...Excuse me, our planes quick if you don't get your lids screwed on straight.

I don't care where you came from or what you did before now...You signed the papers, you fight for Gaul. You're our property. This is now your adopted land for the foreseeable future, which will probably be short for most of you putzy lillies! You don't eat, sleep, crap or die without my permission or that of Captain Gagnon here...IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?"

...

"I SAID IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?!? I WANT A 'OUI, MON MAJOR!'"

"Oui"
"Yes?"
"Schplarg!"
"Si, Admiral!"

Linsau punched the wing and walked off in disgust to leave Captain Gagnon in charge of dismissal and picking the first lucky candidates for failure.

by **Trellin** » Sun Sep 28, 2014 3:17 pm

Tar Rethen Naval Base, Jajich
October 5^th

The room was a confused mess of wooden crates and pieces of military hardware, all the paraphernalia needed by this key naval base and then some. Workers moved constantly in and out of it, unpacking boxes and delivering others as they rushed to meet a deadline. Much of the equipment in the room looked terrifyingly modern, all black and brass and metallic, and some were afraid to question it and disturb the incredibly focused young woman who was holding some contraption up to her ear as the other end of the piece hooked up to a thin cable which ran out through the wall.

One of the workers, a lad named Myriz, found himself drawn to the woman, her hair lighter than that of any of the local girls, her skin so pale beneath her tan. Was she Arimathean? Everyone in these parts was native Jajexan, an old Hyseran people, and this fair maiden's appearance spoke to him of the exotic north. He stared at her as he carried in another crate and collided with an outgoing errand boy.

"Watch where you're going," the other man berated at him as he walked away, disgusted. Myriz stammered out an apology and the woman span around in wrath.

"Do you mind keeping quiet? I'm extremely busy and it's impossible to work with that cacophony back here."

Myriz turned to look and was instantly entranced. He carefully put down his crate, forgetting the accident of a moment before and walked up to her.

"I'm sorry, madam, to have interrupted you. I saw you were working hard and I was doing my best not to disturb you but I was distracted by...," words, don't fail me now, "by your elegance and your... refinement."

To his delighted surprise, she blushed. "Oh," she said. "Thank you." They smiled at each other.

"What's your job here, anyway?" he asked, letting his curiosity get the better of him. "You don't look like you're from around here." He knew the navy drew its staff from all over the Empire, but to see an Arimathean girl in Jajich seemed so improbable. The Grand Duchy was so much more advanced even than the base here in Tar Rethen. "And is that a radio?" he queried, noticing the thing she had up to her ear.

"It is," she replied, looking delighted to be asked about her work, "and I'm not. I'm from Ka'azar" - second city of Arimathea, he remembered, way up north - "and I'm on loan to your navy to help set up this new equipment. This room is a listening post to monitor radio broadcasts in and around the Straits. I'm just making sure it's working for now."

The steady stream of deliveries carried on in the background but Myriz was now totally oblivious to his function. He was too thrilled to see he was a distraction to her to realise he effect was mutual. "That doesn't sound too difficult," he commented before hastily amending it to "for someone like you."

She smiled again. Brilliant. "No, it isn't. Getting it working was hard but now it's - wait," and she cut off abruptly to listen into her earpiece. Myriz was instantly beset by doubt. Was she not interested in him? Was she going to be called away back to Arimathea? Would he never - and then she was back with him but not so carefree as she had seemed a second ago. "There's an Andamonian ship radioing for help. They've run aground somewhere nearby. I'll have to let your navy know..." She looked around for a telephone and was dismayed to see it sitting still in a box, as yet unassembled. Then she remembered Myriz. "Could you run a letter over to the office across the square?" she asked entreatingly.

"I'd be honoured to," he answered.

She positively beamed and started writing the message down. "You're an angel," she told him.

He just smiled as he took the sheet. "Could I take you out to dinner tonight? I know a few good places if you're new to the area."

She smiled back again. "I'd like that."

"I never got your name," he suddenly realised.

She grabbed another sheet of paper and wrote something down, handing this sheet to him as well. He looked at it: an address, and not on base either. "Pick me up around seven. I'm Salana," she told him.

"Salana," he repeated dreamily. "I'm Myriz," and he shook her hand.

"A pleasure to meet you, mister Myriz," she giggled.

"Likewise." They kept shaking hands for a moment as he forgot what he'd been about to do. "Uh..."

"Are you going to deliver that letter?" she finally asked him.

Realisation flooded back in. "Oh, yes! Sorry," he apologised, and turned to run out the door. "I'll see you at seven then!"

She waved as he left and then went to pick up her earpiece again. Nice lad, but so very Jajexan.

SCS Ürtafik, Western Sea of Jajich

The sea fog persisted, hanging thickly in the air, seemingly immobile even though wisps of cloud kept breaking off to be dragged over land by the weak breeze which had given up trying to move the whole cloud. The sun beat down on the land and sea beyond the fog, but the cloud itself remained impenetrable. As the Ürtafik approached the mist wall, it almost felt as though the ship wouldn't so much pass into the cloud as collide with it. Nonetheless, the prow cut cleanly through the fog as the dreadnought entered the mists and was quickly lost to sight.

The warship was one of the newest in the fleet, a rare addition to the empire's arsenal in these austere times of reconstruction. It ploughed through both fog and sea, its crew confident in their knowledge of local waters as they moved northward along the coast towards Durats. Radio operators in that port had also reported hearing the mayday and this led the navy to believe it had come from somewhere between the two cities. Three uneventful hours passed as the Ürtafik navigated sandbars and reefs using the most up-to-date charts available, the fog being too treacherous to trust even to the memory and instinct of the local sailors.

Eventually they saw the silhouette of another ship through the mists, three dark spires rising up that could only be masts. It had gotten stuck on a sandbar, narrowly avoiding a more dangerous outcrop of rocks. It was obviously accidental, but there was still no way it could be permitted to remain there or its crew allowed to disembark. The dreadnought's captain, a man named Satsari, ordered his crew to heave to as they drew up near alongside the Tizana.

Satsari called a nearby crewman over to him. "Kaurazin, come with me," he said. "Let's see what can be done about our interlopers." The two men walked down to where the Ürtafik was coming closest to the Tizana. Ropes were cast onto the Andamonian ship, closely followed by Trellinese crewmen who leaped aboard to pull the ships together. Satsari and his companion stepped off the steel dreadnought onto the wooden vessel. They began looking over the ship, surveying its build and angle of repose, though the fog hampered their efforts.

"Small wonder they ran aground," Kaurazin commented, "if they couldn't see their own hands before them."

Satsari agreed with that sentiment. "Dangerous waters here for a foreigner. This fog could only have made things worse. We'll have to tow it off back along the way it came in." As he spoke, the Andamonian captain and first officer approached their Trellinese boarders.

"Paloay, tlamahaaiti!" one of them called out in Andamonian - it was Tonauc, supporting the limping Kimoi whose leg they had decided was probably broken after all. The Trellinese ignored him, so he switched languages to Ahéri - the naval men seemed to be speaking Ahéri anyway. "Greetings, gentlemen. It is good of you to come to succour us in our hour of distress." Again, no response. Instead, they themselves switched to Trellinese, not even glancing at Kimoi and Tonauc.

Kimoi took his captain's arm. "Sir, I recommend you don't get involved."

"Nonsense," replied Tonauc dismissively, "it's my ship. I'm involved whether I want to be or not. They haven't killed us yet so I doubt they will just because I talk to them."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Kimoi replied. He had no intention of antagonising the Trellinese who were so clearly doing their best to ignore them. "I think it's enough that they're helping us. Come back to the bridge and let them do their work."

Tonauc seemed torn. "But we must at least thank them," he complained almost petulantly as Satsari oversaw the tying of ropes to various points on their ship. "One good deed..."

"... is enough without you looking for trouble. They're not predisposed to shooting us, and that's more than either of us had been expecting," stated Kimoi simply. He felt like he was correcting an erring child; certainly not the captain-crew relationship Tonauc should be cultivating. He'd have to bring that up with him later. "But if it makes you happy..." and he turned to Satsari, who he presumed to be the captain, and spoke in Ahéri. "Thank you, sir."

Satsari simply ignored them, carrying on as though they didn't exist. He called over to some men on the dreadnought, gesturing at the deck of the Tizana as the two Andamonians walked back to the bridge.

"Poor fools," Kaurazin said when the two had once more disappeared into the fog. "How much longer until they can find no one to trade with them even in Arimathea and Khade?"

"Not long at all now, if the rumours about the Straits are to be believed. And I would say they are," Satsari opined. "They made no friends for themselves when they stormed Khorvu, and to have the nerve to go on and take Rha'gutza and try for Mintra... small wonder the Crown wants the Straits closed against them. I pity the men and women who have to suffer for their emperor's idiocy, like our friends on this ship. They have no idea of the hatred against them, and why should they? They had no part in it." He paused as another of his crew approached out of the mist. "Mizaq, my friend, how go the ropes?"

"All's ready now, sir. We're waiting on your order to move off."

"And move them off, as well. Excellent. I want you two to remain on board and unhitch our ropes when we're back in the main channel. I'll be on the bridge."

The two crewmen saluted as their captain climbed back aboard the Ürtafik. Any other captain, they knew, would have fired on the Andamonians without a second thought. Satsari was a charitable man and in a minority in the Trellinese Navy these days. The crew of the Tizana should be counting its blessings.

On the bridge of the Tizana, Kimoi was doing just that. "I can't believe we're alive. I just can't believe we're alive," he told Tonauc. "It just doesn't square with the stories - horror stories - I've heard of ships that strayed off course, or of the random searches in silence. Well, we got the silence but it didn't feel, you know, hostile."

"Why should it feel hostile?" asked Tonauc, the experience having buoyed his optimism back up to the levels Kimoi found unbearable. "We are, after all, simple merchants. We're not far outside the corridor and we're clearly not a threat. Why would they need to menace us or fire on us?"

Kimoi opened his mouth to respond but stopped short as a loud scraping sound began and a shudder ran through the ship. He looked at his captain and was pleasantly surprised to see his face had once more gone white.

"What's going on?" he asked, unnerved. "Have they scuttled us? Are we being rammed? Sinking?" To his irritation, Kimoi grinned as he replied.

"We're being rescued, as you hoped we would be. Your prayers have been answered, Captain Tonauc." Then he winced as the movement jolted his broken leg. "I'm alright," he said, to reassure the instantly concerned Tonauc. "Did you not stop to wonder what the ropes were for? We're being towed off this sandbar, and I must say I'm grateful."

Suspicion had finally, if belatedly, entered the captain's mind, and he looked distrustfully out the window at the thick fog. "And how do we know we'll be safe then, that they won't interrogate us and take us as hostages? They haven't exactly made their motives clear."

"Because, captain," Kimoi explained in the most straightforward way possible, "the Trellinese do not take prisoners."

by **Yellow Star Republic** » Thu Oct 09, 2014 9:01 am

YELLOSIAN-GLISANDIAN BORDER

NOVEMBER 5th, 1920

Eirikur I, the Konungur of Yellosia, sat on his horse, watching over the border into Glisandia through his field glasses. Several of the top officers of this front, and court advisers, were gathered around him, also on horseback, as they watched their troops down below in the valley digging in and setting up fields of fire for their Chauchat MGs and 9cm GR mortars. More positions were in the hills, mostly artillery, so as not to give the high ground to the enemy...or potential enemy, anyway.
This local area was one of the main, if not the primary passageway through the border hills between the two monarchies. While an attack through it would not be the most surprising or prudent strategy, it was expected of their bold, but not so cleverly regarded, Glisandian counterparts.

Eirikur scanned again further west, over the border to where glimpses could be seen of Glisandian troops moving in and out of the trees and a few scattered houses of the border town of Djelmben. A couple of the houses were pockmarked from Yellosian artillery, which had responded some weeks earlier to an opposing enemy barrage emanating from the town. Patrols had clashed with Glisandian scouts trying to map out Yellosian pits and trenches.
Mounted roving scouts had reported artillery moving up the previous day. As well, friendly sources in some of the Glisandian towns of the province had passed along sightings of tanks, confirmed by overflights by YRAF scouts flying Hrossagaukurs. Similar flights were spotted often of the GC1 scout planes from the Glisandian Royal AF. Shockingly clever for Glisandians, their infantry were not in open formations, so it was much more difficult to come up with solid numbers.

Further back from the Yellosian fortifications, just some kilometers east along the dirt road, one would find the larger Yellosian counterpart border town of Juovobærinn, which had initially been the proposed sight of talks between the parties. The Glisandians, mainly Duke Staniszlaus, Eirikur's cousin, had never showed, even though it was their side that made the initial proposition. No hostile shots had been fired in the past few days and no boots of the Duke's Army had crossed over the border in at least two weeks, so the Konungur had been willing to let the past transgressions slide as they worked towards some type of accord. Still, the Konungur had a declaration of war ready and waiting on his signature on his desk back in Arkjelstad.

"Remind us again, Sigfús, how did the reply from my cousin arrive?"

The Chief Regency Advisor, Sigfús Margeirsson, cleared his throat as he brought his mare up a couple paces level to the Konungur.
"Ahem...Um, on commode paper, Your Highness...Slightly used commode paper."

Eirikur was aware of the fact, but wanted to make a point to his officers.
"Soiled butt wipes. That is how highly my dear cousin thinks of me. That and he is most certainly insane. I would show you all what he wrote, but we burned the foul wad in order not to contaminate more of the Palace...Ass wipes!...Quite a statement. Which makes any kind of negotiation with the man futile. We don't want a war, but he is looking for any excuse for one..."

"Excuse me, Your Highness..." General Arndursson interrupted, "but didn't they approach us first to negotiate and calm these border tensions?"

The Konungur turned over his other shoulder to the General. Much unlike his cousin the Duke, he was saner, and also more amicable to open discussion.
"Yes, General, but if you'll recall, they didn't come from the Duke, but his Court adviser. To be honest, though, I think his Generals are all clamoring for a war, as well."

Sigfús nodded,
"Yes Sir, were it not for our large neighbor to the north, Nouvel Ecosse, encouraging and mentoring them, they might not be so inclined to push."

"Good point. With several divisions of Ecossians ready to jump into a potential war, they seem much more willing to push this to the brink. I wonder how quickly our ally, Gaul, could rush troops to our defense in such case?"

"We have made several inquiries over the past few weeks. They have insisted that they can not send any troops until there is a definite state of war existing between us and Glisandia, per our treaty. While they seem to be in the throes of mobilization, Your Highness, it is certainly more in response to the machinations on the Noordenstaat-Haguenau border and their commitment to the Gaulic League, than to prepare to aid us."

Eirikur sighed in agreement, moving back to the Ecossian issue, "How is our border with Plateisen Adler doing these days?"

General Uramuduor, along from the capital and the KRA (Konungur's Royal Army) High command, responded to his cue,
"It's quiet, Your Highness. Which is why we pulled some troops to help quell these riots in Puhuunstad and the Capital. Even were the Ecossians to make a move, it would take them a few days to move across Adler unhindered, Sir." Either the General didn't think of the possibility of an amphibious landing, or didn't think it of consequence or realistic.

The Konungur and officers murmured assent to the new topic of old worry of the Marxist political agitations.
The peasants seemed to be stirred again by the communist agitators and there had been wide spread workers' strikes over the last couple months. It didn't seem to take much for the workers collective strikes to move to full blown riots, and the official response didn't improve the situation. The KRA troops had acted with extreme force, upon orders, and dozens had been killed, especially during the Textile Strike in August in Arkjelstad. The organizers called themselves variously Bolsheviks and Mensheviks after their brethren in Russia, who were successfully seizing control of that nation and also Lunyukites, after their exiled leader, Vaugamir Lunyuk. To the Royal government they were all filthy Marxist scum. The workers' collectives and organizers were led by Lunyuk's right hand man, Lodl Trodskur, who was roving somewhere in the country, despite the best efforts of the Athugalog (secret police) to snuff him out. Sightings in every major city had the Athugalog scrambling. The timing could not have been worse as they feared and prepared for a possible incursion from the north and west from their externally hostile neighbors. It was almost as if the Marxists were in collusion with the Glisandians and Ecossians.

Eirikur spoke darkly through grinding teeth,
"I want this Trodskur strung up by his..."

Booms interrupted the Konungur and he trailed off, his thought wiped from his head as the worst fears were confirmed.

"Sir, we must get you to safety!"
General Arndursson grabbed the reins of Eirikur's horse to steer it back down the hill as Sigfús leaned in closer, as if the Court Adviser could protect his Regent with his horse and body.

The artillery did not impact among them on the hills, however, but it did rain over the front line KRA troops who were still working on their preparations. Within a couple minutes, as the party trotted their steeds down the hill trail, they could hear Yellosian artillery responding.
Eirikur turned solemly to General Arndursson,
"It has begun. Guð help us all!"

by **Dachine** » Mon Mar 02, 2015 9:30 am

GUON THANH PHO, GUON KAI
GAULIC TERRITORY OF DACHINE (DAO CHONH)

17 SEPTEMBRE 1920

Gyu Dok Xionh sat on the bridge watching the fish meander about in the creek below. He would sprinkle bits of crumbs he had from his breakfast treat into the water and watch them go at it fiercely. His new friends waited now, sure that there would be a never ending flow of the scrumptious 'white bugs' to snack on, dropping from the sky. Their weaving and the motion of their fins was soothing to him. His eyes got droopy as he let the laconic feeling wash over him. It was much more pleasant to while away his hours with nature than to be in class, learning arithmetic or the Gaulic language. What did he care about that, anyway? He was a simple farm boy. The fact that his father would beat him silly when it was reported that he had played hookey from school once again barely phased him. He almost didn't care, as it would pale in comparison to the pain of boredom spent in that thatch roofed hut, or the punishment the teacher handed out for the slightest infractions. Father Jean-Phillipe Rontrose was much more violent in his sudden outbursts than Gyu's father. The Gaulic monk was downright scary.

So, while he still could, Gyu enjoyed his freedom, as relative and fleeting as it was. As consciousness began to fade and comforting sleep started to rock him, he was shocked awake by the loud volume of a booming voice in his ear.
"ENJOYING OURSELVES, ARE WE? YOU FUCKING SLACKER INDIGENT DESERTER!"

It was in Dong-tah, not Gaulic French that he was lambasted, so at least he wasn't going to receive another lashing from Father Rontrose. Gyu grabbed at his pained ear, as if he could shield it from the sonic blast already delivered.
He felt the back of his robe be dragged up as he grabbed the bridge rail for dear life.
He glanced back to see two men, both native Dachinois, in the full uniform of soldiers of the Army of Gaul. To his knowledge they could have easily been policemen, though. He was just a simple farm boy after all. In fact, they were both. They wore the armbands of military policemen, not that Gyu knew of such things.

The one who had shouted into his ear from close proximity stood up from being hunched over Gyu's shoulder. He spoke again, this time in a more conversational tone.
"Well, well, well...another slacker whiling away the day. I think you failed to report to muster this morning, recruit. That's okay, we will help you get back there."

"N-n-no. You don't understand...I know I belong back in school, but I had to run an errand for my family."
He tried to crawl across the bridge the opposite way from the men, but was dragged back by the back of his robe.

The other MP laughed.
"Sure, school...Likely story, lad. This has really gone on far enough. On your feet!"

Gyu was beefy and bulky for his age, and a bit taller than most boys. He had gotten this before, from those who expected him to be at least a couple years older.
"No...Really. I belong in school...I...I'm not a criminal!"

"Where are your papers to prove it?"

"Papers? Well...I don't...In school, I guess."

"We don't have time for this. We have 4 more deserters to recover from these hills." The louder, older one addressed his companion.

Gyu, unsuccessful at standing up, instead started to work the other way, trying to slip through the bridge supports and into the creek below.
"Oh, no you don't."

Suddenly, a blinding pain rocked his head. The one policeman had brought a truncheon down on his head. He felt himself being dragged back again. Before he could cry out or protest, another blow landed, knocking him out.

Next thing he knew, Gyu was waking up in a room with someone looking over him. His simple peasant robes were gone and he was stripped to his gen-fuazhang, the strip of wrapped cloth that Dachinois wore as undergarments. Similar to the fundoshi worn by some Symphonian men. A young man, not too much older than himself, stepped back. He pointed to a stack of blue-grey clothes. He smiled.
"That is your new uniform. Put it on...You know, most recruits try to run away the first week. I did. It's not worth the pain. Trust me. I am the company medical man..."

Gyu turned the phrase over in his head. Mehd-eek-al?
"Magical?"

"Medical. Like a doctor but with less training. Shut up and get in the uniform. You're trying my patience. The Captain won't be happy with you, better get back in time before it becomes worse."

"Back to where? I have never been here."

"That's no excuse to them. You shouldn't have missed out on the morning brief."

"Brief?"

"Introduction. You sure are a farm newbie, aren't you?"
Gyu didn't answer, deciding it best to finally slip on the uniform. There was a pair of boots on the floor and he put those on too.
"These are very tight shoes..."

"Boots."

"These are very tight boots. I don't think they fit me."
He wished for his sandals back.

"Yeah, we all have that problem. The Gauls don't make boots for our flatter, wider feet. You'll get used to them."

"I don't think so. My feet are throbbing." Gyu rubbed at his head,

"A few blisters and your feet will adapt. You can't fight in sandals, you know?"

"Thank you for the...Un fong?...But I would like my robe back now. I will be good and get to school."

"School?"

"Fight? Fight who?"

"The enemies of Gaul, and Dachine...Glisandia, Nouvel Ecosse, Riysa...The Northern Powers."

"Did you just make those names up? I have never heard of that. Glishma and Nuva eksha!? Ree-sah? Northern power? I don't get it."

The medical man eyed him closely.
"You really are not faking it. You really are a big dumb farm boy! That or they hit your head too hard with their clubs. This is not how young men should get their first introduction to service in the Army."

"Army!? I'm too young to be in the Army. I'm only sixteen! Don't my parents have to approve?"

"Not really. They'll just say that you lost your papers, cook you up some new papers with the 'appropriate age' and there you go...You are now a soldier. Your family won't hear from you for a while."

"You have to let me go now. Before they return."

"Sure. Go where? You are on the base now. You won't make it past the gates. But if you must, have a go..." The 'mahdeek-ul' shook his head,
"There are easier ways to bring immense pain onto yourself, but I can't think of anything more rapid than pissing off the guards. Good luck there."

Gyu started to tear up in spite of himself, as the reality broke through his denseness and he became more aware of the situation he was in. "I just want to go home. Please let me go home, Mr. Meed-akh-il Man!"

"It's not up to me, boy. It's too late, anyway. I'm sorry it had to happen this way for you, but there is going to be a war and Gaul needs soldiers. So, if Gaul needs soldiers, Dachine needs men to give them to train...or boys...You belong to the Army now, not your family. Get dressed please. The Sergeant Major is going to rattle my ears if you aren't ready for the day's training soon."

He left the boy to sob in the room, pushing aside a bamboo curtain and stepping into the next room of the building. Curious faces peered through the briefly open curtain at the sound of the sobbing.

FENG GUO, GRANDE GOUTTE
CAPITAL OF THE
GAULIC TERRITORY OF DACHINE

The commander of the 7ème Corps Territoriale Dachinois, General Herbert Principe, sat at his desk looking over reports and maps. The 7ème Corps Territoriale consisted of two divisions of troops, made up of three native combat Tirailleur regiments, one Gaul Colonial regiment and one support regiment. When joined with the 6ème Corps Territoriale, their Kamal colonial brothers, they made up the 4th Army Group. In reality, Dachine was twice the distance from Kamalbia, as that nation was from the motherland of Gaul. Dachine was not even in Astyria proper. To get the whole of 4th Army Group together would be quite a feat in reality, and so it was all an exercise on paper.

Major Ran Zho knocked, was granted access, and stood, saluting in front of the General.
"At ease, Major. So, you have news of the recruitment drive? Paritte is breathing down my neck about the regiments being ready for deployment off the islands."

"Yes, sir. The news is very good. We are nearly there. Volunteers have been pouring in. We should have the 2nd and 3rd Tirailleurs Regiments up to full strength within the month." He didn't bother with explaining that their recruitment methods had often been a bit heavy handed and forceful at times. The Gaul Army had in effect, enforced a draft without actually calling it an official draft, here in the islands. The General wanted results, not the details of the methods that got them there.

"That is good. In the meantime, we must step up the training and prepare our equipment for shipping overseas. There is likely to be a war in Astyria and we will be a big part of it. We may see our colonial brothers in Kamalbia or Cote d'Cuivre after all."

"Oui, mon General!"

The Dachinois would once again serve their Gaul masters, and serve them well.

by **Terre des Gaules** » Sun Jul 12, 2015 11:02 pm

TANKJEL, YELLOSIA

They had a rough journey all the way around the Mederano, through the Vizion straits, and up the Mare Ferum in order to finally reach the shores of this barren, frigid land. Corporal Conrad Aulem hadn’t been bothered so much by the horrid rations, or the cooped up space of their berth compartments. He had been in the Gaul army long enough to be used to such conditions. It was the aggravating boredom of the voyage itself. Many had brought cards, but even with real Francs, they grew tired of rounds of poker and other such diversions. They had heard each other’s stories, shared all the dreams, the tales of families and school chums. Then it had turned to fisticuffs. There were weak excuses for starting the fights, then eventually, no excuses at all. A look. A wrong question. It didn’t matter what the trigger was, it passed the time. More bets were made and more Francs changed hands. Where were the NCOs and officers during all of this one may ask? They were joining in.

During morning muster on the deck, by the last month, they all had black eyes and bruises on most every bit of their bodies.
The last couple weeks they took a break, dismantled the ring, recovering from the fighting and tried to make up more stories. Then it was time to dock at their Northern Lorecian port.

The mass exodus of Gaulic troops from the transports was astounding. They were loaded up on Yellosian trains for the long trip West to the front. Artillery, trucks, tanks, horses, crates and a massive amount of other supplies were also offloaded.

The train started to slowly clatter over the tracks as it began to make its way out through the industrial dock area of the second largest city of Yellosia.
Conrad watched out the window as a Battalion of Tirailleurs lined up at the docks. Their skin was dark as night, their eyes with slight epicanthic folds, their noses were wide and flat, with flared nostrils. Still they wore the same blue-gray wool overcoats and center ridged poilu helmets that his own 52nd Curaissier Regiment wore. They had at arms the same Berthier rifles that he and his comrades all had tucked by their seat or between their legs. Still, the fascination was there, despite all the similarities. Conrad heard the slap of palms on the train windows around him, as his comrades mashed up against the windows to watch the black troops. They were most certainly Kamals or Cuivrans. One couldn’t tell which as their unit flag wasn’t in sight.

His thoughts went to his brother, Jean, who had done what he could to get a commision in the Army. A difficult thing to do during these past years of relative peace. In order to get his Captains tabs, he had taken a command in one of the native Cuivran regiments. All officers were white Gauls. The family hadn’t seen him in over a year, but it was possible that he was out there now, getting them in line down there. So close to Jean, but he might as well be on the other side of the world, still.

These Gaul country boys had barely, if ever, laid their sights on such denizens of the far flung colonies. Some of those in the cities maybe had seen such folk, as there were plenty of immigrants of all stripes from both former and present territories and colonies of the former empire. Yet, to see them in full Gaulic poilu dress and kit, and actually armed, was spellbinding, apparently.

Conrad shook his head. While things weren’t as cold back home as here, he and his mates, most hailing from the countryside around Dijoinnaix, would be able to handle it much better than these poor black souls, who were either used to arid desert or humid jungle. Another bright idea from Paritte to send them. As brilliant as it was to get involved in this far flung conflict between a bunch of Nordic savages due to an obscure treaty. Most of his fellow soldiers were ignorant as to the politics of it all, only knowing that they had been in store for a long journey up north to viking country.
Again, they weren’t questions meant for his paygrade, but they cycled through his mind just the same.

He settled in for the train journey, not making a peep to his neighbors. He had a deck of cards in his pocket, but he didn’t want to bring them out now. He knew that they would quickly be appropriated by the rest in the car, rough handled and then not survive the journey, as one poor private had found out an hour earlier. He hoped to sleep a lot, as he was sure there would be little sleep when they arrived at their destination on the frontlines. They would be fighting Glisandians, Ecossians and Rombergians, even. People that he personally had no issues with, but if they were enemies of Gaul’s Yellosian friends, then they deserved to be blasted, run through and over, apparently. It would not disturb his sleep, as he pulled the one corner of coat up to use as a pillow.

CHATEAU DE VINCENNES
HQ DE L'ARMÉE DE GAULOIS
PARITTE, GAUL

They were in the main war room, of what was the military headquarters for Gaulic forces for centuries, the ancient yellow brick of the castle was mostly covered in maps and charts, but could still be visible. Chateau de Vincennes had suffered some damage during the Siege of Paritte during the last days of Napoleon’s regime, more than a hundred years prior, but was still a very serviceable residence for one of the most powerful Astyrian militaries of the age.

Currently, the top cabal of officers of the Gaul Army sat around the large table that held a beige, green and blue map of Astyria. Unit markers were all across the parchment, in all colors, but the most numerous were blue.

“Marshal, the reinforcements for the Koningur’s Army should have arrived now in two ports, Tankjel and Bjelnorg. So far as we know, there has not been any interference on the seas with our operations from the Euralonians, Exponents or Riysians.”

Marshal Joffre nodded.
“Thank you, General Foch. I am worried about the colonies. Especially Cote d’Cuivre and Prudenesia.”

General Pétain spoke up.
“Yes, sir. We have held all but a regiment back in Cuivre. General Duchene has reported back that fortifications were woefully inadequate, but that with the new infusion of troops, he was correcting the situation. As for Prudene, it is safe. As far as we can tell, the Exponentials will not attack there and the Aquitaynians, we know are on our side. They will remain in the Cape.”

I would like…”

“Marshal, I don’t understand.”

“General Pétain? Understand what now?” Marshal Joffre tried to hide his annoyance.

“We are making these movements as if we are preparing for war. Like we are already committed.”

“We are committed. This is war, dear General. The war has been launched and we have allies to stand by.”

“A small war in Northern Lorecia. One that shouldn’t concern us, treaties be damned...Excuse my bluntness, Sir...but, we are not being attacked yet, we have not felt the pinch on our colonies. No hordes of Riysians, Exponentials, or Glisandians are landing at our shores.”

The Marshal nodded, not ruffled by the borderline insubordination. It was discussions he had had with the President and Council before many times.
“Get to your point, General.”

“Sir, my point is...isn’t it possible that all this shuffling of troops off to the colonies, to allies and fortifications and fleet movements could do the exact opposite of what we desire. That it might rouse the Northern Powers to follow suit and try to counter us?”

“You are so certain that they aren’t already? We cannot afford to wait on the Northern Powers. As we speak, the Noordenstaatian pirates are raiding our shipping with Haguenau, and Nikolia too. With the full support of the Northern Powers. When they start attacking Nikolia proper, it’s not a far cry from us. If we can hold them up in Lorecia, that’s less troops down here.”
Marshal Joffre shook his head again, wondering if Petain took in the whole political situation.

“Marshal, I am aware of this. I am and I understand, sir, but I still think we may be escalating the situation beyond what we are ready for, and our allies.”

General Foch spoke up,
“Sir, I understand what General Pétain is saying. I myself have wondered if we are showing too much of our hand.”

“What would you have us do? We must step up preparations. We have an obligation, as your President has said to us. We must hold up agreements, both to our allies and to the peoples under the Gaul flag, whether they be here, in Dachine, Kamalbia or Cote d’ Cuivre. If we only wait to react, it will be too late.”

Both Generals nodded. Pétain looked at Foch.
“Yes, sir, we understand.”

“Good. Let’s talk about mobilizing the rest of the 3rd Army.”

“One other thing, Sir, before I forget.” General Foch continued, “The special laboratory we have set up reports great success with the sulfur mustard and the chlorine production.”

Petain shook his head, “Mustard as in the seasoning plants? Why do we care about such weeds? What does that have to do with military operations?”

Joffre looked around, noting if there were aides in the room still. He motioned them out.
“It has everything to do with military operations. Sulfur mustard is a bit misleading, it doesn’t actually come from mustard plants, but it has a smell similar to it, apparently...hence the name. No plants are being used, rather chemical compounds. When mixed right, they are deadly.”

“Are we supposed to throw this at the enemy?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes.” Foch broke back in. “By means of artillery most likely, or rockets, until we find a better method. Maybe these new planes, or possibly masked men with canisters. Anyway, the artillery will hurl these gas canister shells far into enemy lines, which will explode and spread the gas contents over a wide area.”

“Won’t this endanger our own troops? What happens if we take that same territory after driving them off, how can our men traverse through it?”

“Well, the effects are temporary, and we will be stepping up the production of gas masks, to be worn over the face. They filter out the bad gases and pull only clean oxygen out of the air. Plus the men will wear protective gloves and other such things, I assume. As long as they don’t sit down in it, they’ll be fine.”

“It sounds monstrous.”

Marshall Joffre didn’t want to go down this path, and worked to bring finality to the discussion,
“Yes, it will be...on them. We may not even need to use it, but with all the modern weapons that our enemies have now, to match what we have, we will need some kind of edge. This may be that edge. We are not the first to use it. Other powers have used in other regional wars.” He didn’t want to get into the disastrous trench fighting that he’d heard about in those regions, and how the gas lingered in the trenches. It was the nastiest part of the new warfare, and the less their civilian leaders knew about it, the better for the decision making process.
“We would just be the first to employ it in Astyria. War is inhumane, Dear General, by its very nature. The burden does not fall on us. We must win by any means necessary given to us, so we work on these means, including the gases.”

The statement was meant to be final, and so the Generals only nodded to Marshal Joffre in agreement. The point of disagreement and discussion was over, and they were respectful of that, even if there were still deep questions about the depths of war they were heading in to.

OVER NANGILLES, GAUL

They were hitting their marks, flinging sewing machines and other cast iron bits down on to the fields to the West of Nangilles from their SPADs. The trash had red blankets tied to them to show their passage through the wind. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what they had to train with. Other squadrons got the full training dummy bombs and other equipment

To be fair, most of the flyers were experienced to some level. Either with their own national aviation service, or domestic enterprises. Some had been barnstormers, some had delivered mail and some had dusted crops. Some had shredded native villages and enemy trenches in other conflicts outside of the region. All were coming together as a unit after some weeks of training. With a little cajoling and mild whipping into shape, Major Linsau was confident now that this squadron could match any of the best that Gaul had to offer, and any that the Eurlanonians, Riysians, Glisandians or Exponentials, for that matter, could throw up in the air.

The fact that very few, if barely any were of Gaul blood would matter not when they went up against the enemies of the Republic. Neu Engollians, Aquitaynians, Nikolians, Marcherians, Woodsteasians and even Rombergians opposed to their Glisandian colonial masters, along with so many other nationalities. They had all filled out the paper work to fly for the Le 3ème Escadrille Chasseur Étranger. They would triumph, or they would litter the landscape with their shattered craft and bodies. He had to bet that most should and would triumph. He was more worried about surviving these jokesters once they landed their planes and began their assault on him again to drive him to a murderous rage. While in the air, they were the most graceful, well oiled machine. When on land, they were the biggest group of misfit miscreants ever to roam central Gaul.

by **Blackhelm Confederacy** » Tue Jul 28, 2015 8:42 am

Imperial Naval Base
Castineos, Exponential Aquitayne

Praefecti Marius Armincellus looked out over the fleet he had arrayed around him, one of the proudest in the entire Imperial navy. The force he represented one of the last outposts of a once glorious empire, one that had spanned every continent of the region and was unrivaled for centuries in power and prestige. Plague and war and changed that course, however, and to most in the Empire the real collapse started just across the strait from this very base, in the nation of Aquitayne. Their war for independence had triggered a series of events that no one at the time could have ever foreseen, and resulted in the catastrophic end to an empire that at one time was considered to be one on which the sun never set.

But now, Armincellus stood aboard his vessel, the mighty but aging battleship Divinitas, and looked out into the haze that surrounded him. Nearby the armored cruised Imperator Crispinus VI bobbed idly on the waves, most of its crew already off somewhere getting drunk on the large amounts of wine that were found all over the base. The Imperial High Command were always conscious to make sure that there was plenty of wine and tobacco at all of its overseas bases, a bit of a perk to keep the spirits of the men lifted while they were stationed so far from home. Just beyond her sat the sister destroyers, Vigilia and Labina, followed by the smaller pair of Novacula class Cordium and Prieska. Out by the mouth of the harbor, a number of smaller torpedo boats prowled about, out on some maneuver or another but also keeping a vigilant eye for any potential enemy submarines, particularly from that nation so very close that once shatter the Empire's dreams of hegemony. And finally, out somewhere beneath the rapidly darkening waters, the submarine S-27 lurked, wargaming by itself against unsuspecting shipping as it passed in and out of the area. The merchant crews would never know that just meters below them, one of the navy's most technologically advanced piece of equipment ran drills, using their vessels as practice. Of course, the S-27 never actually fired its weapons, but the crew was kept sharp and ready for any possible incursions.

And then there were the shore guns, those massive batteries that watched over the bay, protecting the ships while they rested and keeping a vigilant eye out for any possible saboteurs or infiltrators that somehow slunk past the torpedo boats. Most of the batteries sat in the ancient Castrum Marcus Antonius, built far back in the 1650's when the Exponential presence on the island was still new. The fortress had, off course, been upgraded over the years, but architecturally it looked much the same as it once had, albeit with much of its old brick replaced with newer concrete and steel and the old cannons replaced by Whitehead torpedoes and heavy artillery. A pair of brand new 14'' guns also sat in their own batteries, as did several smaller pieces scattered about the facility, helping to ensure that the base here would hold against even the most determined of enemy assaults.

Paradisa
Empire of Exponent

The aging Empire was not only losing its empire abroad, but right here on Hesperidesia as well. Polarus had broken itself free from the Empire's grasp only a few decades ago, and while Egypttiansstan had been held, the damage to the Imperial military's morale was irreparable. In the East as well, the despicable Gauls had stolen the area now known as Cote d'Cuivre from Imperial hands in the 1700's, something which remained a sore spot in Imperial foreign policy for the last century and a half. Imperial forces paraded daily along the Cuivran-Exponential border, letting their adversaries know their distaste for the decision that allowed a foreign power a position of strength on the continent for the first time in nearly two millenia.

Within the halls of the Chancellery, Imperial commanders talked and smoked amongst themselves, debating where the next great war would break out. A good many had been quite convinced that such a thing would never happen, as technology and the current overlapping system of alliances would be sure to keep even the most insane nations from firing upon one another, while others disagreed. Indeed, there was even a small but growing party within the Chancellery that advocated the Empire declaring war on its neighbors, though most saw these men as a fringe element and dismissed their positions. Despite the dismissals, however, the men of that group wielded considerable influence, and because of them there was a significant Imperial presence along the borders of both Polarus and Cote d'Cuivre as well as on Castineos. The one saving fact for the rest of the officer corps was that the war hawks could never agree who they wanted to strike first, with some swearing vengeance against the rebellious Berbers, others dreaming of throwing the Gauls back into the sea, and the most ambitious amongst them talking of lofty dreams of reclaiming Aquitayne for the Empire.

For now though, it was all just talk as officers enjoyed their wine and cigars, oblivious to the dramatically mounting tensions rising all around them. History would soon find them unprepared, and before long these very men would be scrambling to make decisions that would shape the fate of the Empire, and the very region itself, for the rest of the century.

by **Romberg** » Thu Jul 30, 2015 10:58 am

Chapter 1: The Brotherhood
1893, Królewiec Port, Grand Principality of Romberg, Kingdom of Glisandia (Now Königsberg, Romberg)

The young cadet stepped off his ship home onto the bustling port, still slightly seasick. He had been away for a whole year in cadet school. Breathing the soot-filled sea air of what used to be the capital of Romberg - now a major Glisandian port, he was relieved to be home. A native Rombergian, he was one of the few they trusted to be an officer, to serve among their ranks. Because he was Rombergian, not Glisandian. And though his grasp of the Glisandian language was adequate at best, and even then with a strong Russian accent, somehow the instructors in the college had singled out this cadet as being one of their brightest. Even though he was Rombergian.

His name: Ulrich von Hohenstein, considered a Duke (Herzog) by Rombergians, but only an Imperial Count (Reichsgraf) by Glisandians. And perhaps it was because of this that the Glisandians begrudgingly allowed him to enroll in the college in the first place - a tradition of his house. After all, they had sided with the Glisandian side during the civil war, and became loyal citizens thereafter - if only they were pure Glisandians, they would have risen to one of the most powerful families in the Kingdom. But no. Despite their affiliation, they were just another noble family. Sure, they were already noble for over 800 years, and indeed, they were Imperial counts, but still, they were of all things Rombergian - supporting the right side, but belonging to the wrong country. Yet this treatment was already much better than that of the common folk, who were widely looked onto as second-class citizens, even colonial subjects, even though they were legally equal members of the Crown. All because of one lost war. And a couple of badly planned and executed rebellions. And at the same time, because of their stance in the War, the Hohenstein family was not well regarded by their own people either, seeing them as long-time Glisandian figureheads. Still, as magnates and formerly one of the most powerful families in the nation prior to the loss of independence, they had the greatest legitimacy to rule the country. And this was the bittersweet relationship between the Hohensteins and the rest of Romberg.

"Ulryk z Wysokamień?"

His name. In Glisandian.

Just as he turned his head, a hood was placed on his head, and his world turned to black. Another hit from what seems like a club, and he was knocked out cold.

Head still throbbing, he finally came to - to the sound of thundering hooves. Wood creaked, telling him he was in a horse-drawn carriage. But he still could not see. The hood was still on. Moving his hands around, he could tell they were bound. His legs were too. But he wasn't muffled.

"Where the hell are we? Where are we going?" he questioned, equal parts anger and fear.

"You'll know. Get some sleep." the stage driver replied in a stoic tone.

The carriage continued to rock as he slowly eased back out of consciousness. He could tell he was far away from the port, and probably far from his family's castle as well.

"Got him."

Violent shaking caused him to wake again, in what seemed like several hours away. Slowly moving his arms and legs, he could tell they were loosened. Opening his eyes, he could tell his hood was removed as well. But right in front of him was a curved sword blade, leading to a hilt held by an outdoorsman - built like a tree, and probably not someone one should get into a fight with.

"What's that Glissy uniform doing on you, young man? And who the hell are you?" the man demanded.

"Ulrich. Ulrich Reichsgraf von Hohenstein." he quickly answered, eyes darting around. Several shadows could be seen surrounding the area.

"We've got our guy." the man noted, sheathing his sword.

Taking a breath of relief at his life being spared, Ulrich looked around his surroundings. Snow-capped mountains as far as the eye could see. Trees, reaching several dozen metres into the air. This could only tell him one thing. He was way far away. In Reichtenberg, to be precise. And he had been knocked out for more than a day.

Shortly after, the man returned, bringing a small piece of paper. "Read it. It'll tell you everything."

Dear beloved son,

It pains me greatly that by the time you are reading this, I will no longer be around, but instead be among the angels in heaven. The doctors said I have consumption and have a couple of weeks to live. I would never make it until you return home from study, when I can tell you the whole truth.

First of all, you must know that you are not only an Imperial Count, but also a Duke. And this you should call yourself regardless of what the Gs think. Secondly, you are Rombergian. Thirdly, and more importantly, you have always been Rombergian. Not Glisandian. Remember this.

I couldn't have been more proud when you managed to get into cadet school, son, and fulfilling our Family tradition. But it is about time you learned. You see, Romberg was once independent. We used to control our lands. And Glisandia. Then there was a civil war - and what a war it was! Families broken apart by split affiliations. Brother fighting brother, father fighting son. Eventually the Glisandians won. We were lucky to be on their side. Others weren't. The family of Zitov, all massacred in a single night. So were the Oberlanders. I could name more than fifty families purged for supporting the wrong side. But I digress.

Have you noticed how they treated Glisandians compare to yourself? How they treated our commoners? What they do to our peasants? Women? Children? This wasn't what we fought for. It was supposed to be a simple dynastic dispute. We were supposed to be Rombergian-Glisandians, not with one side dominating. But steadily, and accelerated through failed uprisings, they eroded our status to second-class citizens. Then colonial subjects. If we do not act, I can only fear that even our freedom - whatever is left, may be gone.

It was clear that we alone, our family, helped to make Romberg what it is now, because of the fateful decision to take sides in the war. The Rombergians would have won otherwise. And for this the people have to pay dearly. For what? It is all needless suffering. Son, I exhort you. Keep this flame alive. If you get kidnapped at the port when you return home, then I will have done my final contribution to the Rombergian National Committee, which I helped set up in 1886. Do it for the nation. If not, at least for yourself. And if you fail, at least you will have tried. Heaven, or as the Pagans say, Valhalla, will welcome you. Then I'll look forward to seeing my dear son again.

Yours truly,

your father.

"Wait...how?" Ulrich blurted out. Never in his life did he expect his father to be plotting anything behind the scenes, let alone the fall of Glisandian rule in Romberg itself. To him, he had always known his father as a conservative bureaucrat, who tried to obey Glisandian demands yet trying to balance the needs of the locals. It simply never occurred to him that this was all acted out - or at least done out of necessity.

"Your father, he was a greater man than I thought - than we ALL thought." the outdoorsman replied. "Bjorn Thorvaldsson. I've hunted in these woods for years."

"Pavel von Vyshkovich. Originally Glisandian, our family. But we'd rather be Rombergian."

"Nikolai von Högel. Baron."

"Bishop Vasiliy Maksimov."

"Father, what are you doing here?" Ulrich, a devout Lutheran, asked mockingly.

"The nation called, son. It is God's will. And so his servants should carry out his Will."

Perhaps it was. Stood there, apart from him, were two nobles who still commanded some respect, a priest whom the Orthodox population definitely looked up to, and someone who probably knew the terrain well.
"Maybe it is destiny."

by **Romberg** » Mon Aug 03, 2015 7:39 am

Chapter 2: Subterfuge and Intrigue
1918, Burg Hohenstein, Grand Principality of Romberg, Kingdom of Glisandia (Now overlooking Holmgard, Romberg)

"I, Ulryk z Wysokamień, swear to serve..."

Ulrich hesitated. The next words were difficult, but in the end they too were forced out of his mouth.

"...Wojwode Stanisław z Pierdcziensky, Duke of Glisandia and Grand Prince of Gorom'ya..."

He let out a breath. This was it. He had managed to finish the Oath. Even considering his family's history, Ulrich could feel the hopes of his people burdened on him. Back in the army, he had already shown remarkable talent, and was already promoted to pułkownik (Colonel), the highest ranked Rombergian in Glisandian service by 1914. Then, following a secret meeting with the Rombergian National Committee on yet another trip home, he'd made the fateful suggestion to his superiors that would change the course of Rombergian history - if only he knew it by then.

The proposal was simple. Given that despite formally owning Romberg, the Glisandians much prefer their lands to the South and rarely ventured North, perhaps having a viceroy or any sort of person helping to administer the Northern lands on behalf of the Rombergian crown would be a good idea. It would help cement Glisandian rule in the area - perhaps even get rid of the pesky guerrillas once and for all - and help alleviate one of the major internal worries of Glisandia after all. And somehow, despite his obvious interests in Romberg above the entire Nation, Ulrich's ideas were actually considered, and through some stroke of luck, was implemented. It would take years of course, typical of Glisandian bureaucracy, but eventually it was decided that this person would be known as the Chief Governor of Romberg.

Somehow too, he himself was made the first person to take up the post - he, Rombergian sympathiser; he, Rombergian magnate; he, Rombergian mole in Glisandia. Ulrich, Duke and Imperial Count of Hohenstein.
Dressed in his Glisandian military uniform, Ulrich now stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the city of Holmgard - once the capital of Romberg. And here would his governorship begin. In his ancestral castle, overlooking the very symbol of his nation - his people. And in his position, he hoped to slowly undermine Glisandian authority. It was going to be a draconian task of course, but by now, he was determined. It was either success, or he would die as a Martyr's death to the nation - to hell if the Glisandians thought of him as a traitor!

And yet, he was well aware of the cost. Bjorn was long dead. He'd tried to lead his guerrilla band to blow up an arms depot North of the mountains, but got caught. His body was publicly displayed until the flesh rotted from its bones. Bishop Maksimov could not stand the persecution of his congregation and the Orthodox faith, and decided to go into exile in Nikolia, joining a Monastery where he still prayed for the Rombergian nation. Vyshkovich was almost exposed, and had to flee to the Glisandia where he could lay low. And Högel was now elderly and bedridden, with no male issue and thus would have his title inherited by a distant cousin, one whom Ulrich did not feel he could quite trust. Now Ulrich was well and truly alone. He would not have the wisdom of the Committee to help him plan the road ahead. It was now down to him, and him only.

Retreating to his study, Ulrich soon became engrossed in books of military and political theory, desperately thinking and plotting. If he was to do it alone, then so be it. There was still time - that was on his side.

A Glisandian attendant tried to enter the study.
"Not now."
The attendant slunked back out.
A small act of defiance. A tiny victory. But it was enough to make Ulrich smile, and temporarily stop worrying. If it only lasted a fraction of a second.

by **Romberg** » Fri Aug 21, 2015 10:05 am

Chapter 3: Prelude
May 1920, Burg Hohenstein, Grand Principality of Romberg, Kingdom of Glisandia

Almost two years had passed since Ulrich von Hohenstein became the High Commissioner of Glisandia to Romberg. Things were steadily improving for the ordinary folk, who though still regarded him as a traitor to the independence cause, nonetheless agreed that life was infinitely better under his rule than under full Glisandian control. Högel was dead, of old age, although some say of a broken heart. Vyshkovich too - of the pox. But soldiering on, he had indeed managed to reverse some of the discriminatory policies surrounding Rombergians. Orthodoxy was legalized, then paganism shortly after. The Rombergian language was now also tolerated - and even though still few spoke it, it was seen as a sign of resistance. And when the Glisandians asked, he'd always blame it on the bureaucracy, or that somehow the order was lost from the long shipping period - excuses that actually made sense. In such a move, he'd manage to reverse almost fifty years of Glisadian rule - just by some feigned acts of ignorance. On the military end too, he was also given command of a full army with respect to his rank, although they were noticeably not Rombergian to prevent him gaining too much power. Unfortunately though, the Resistance was already well infiltrated within, and by then, many Rombergian units had sympathetic officers, if not general staff. Indeed, some would rather swear fealty to Ulrich than the King, but as it was a time of peace so far, none of that quite mattered. And in any case, among the ruling council of the Duke, known Rombergian sympathisers or resistance members were already well established within, while Glisandian appointed members were often deprived of real powers through masterful political manipulation. Again, it was the messy state of affairs in Glisandian government that let such maneuvers take place.

<OOC: It's slightly young, but I suppose with incompetency and strict aristocratic traditions, it's possible.>

Now, with the domestic front stabilized, Ulrich turned to his personal problems. He was almost forty years old by now, well on his way to middle age, but was still unmarried. Military service had robbed him of the right. He'd had flings with several people of course, but none managed to last due to the distance. Yet on the other hand, despite not owning much land and having his title of Duke unrecognized by Glisandia, he was ultimately one of the highest-ranked unmarried nobles present, and that ultimately boosted his chances - it did not hurt that he had a military unit under his command in any case. And thus, drawing on telegram and newspaper reports, he decided to start seeking a wife.

The search did not take long. He'd manage to find a prospective bride in Nikolia, a Duchess called Jelisaveta Bogdanovic. She was unmarried at 24 - and not widowed, having been only dissuaded from a monastic career not long ago. Travelling to Nikolia to see her, it seemed like it was love at first sight. Yet all the problems he'd predicted did arise. Her parents were not impressed by his credentials - a Duke alright, but legally only an Imperial Count, and without too many lands to his name. Moreover, as a staunch Lutheran, he did not provide a good impression for the devoutly orthodox family. Yet somehow, their attraction was real - and eventually, with a few well-timed places of emphasis on his Rombergian heritage as opposed to Glisandian nobility and a guarantee that she could keep her religion, they began to waver. And indeed, she claimed that she would marry no one else but him. Considering she was the youngest child and that they had sons to carry the family name, and still she was unmarried at that age, eventually they too reluctantly assented.

The ceremony itself was simple, choosing a Ruthenian priest to conduct the ceremony - an uneasy compromise between both Christian traditions, and with national matters being of foremost importance, there was no honeymoon - not that they needed it. The couple were happy as they were - even if Elisabeth had to move to more modest circumstances. Taking the name Yelizaveta Bogdanova in Rombergian Slavonic, they then returned home to Romberg by steamer, where they enjoyed a great month of married life. But things were about to change, very soon. War was on the horizon, and they were about to be caught in the middle of it.

by **Andamonia** » Thu Dec 31, 2015 3:36 pm

Zadé Axochizin, Andamonia
October 11^th

These were the glory days for the fledgling Second Andamonian Empire, prospering under the firm guidance of Turaehoc III Tlacapilzi. Seven years he had sat on the throne. Seven short years of plenty after the tumultuous Second Republic, a government which had endlessly provoked its people and neighbours in its twenty-year tenure. Nobody wept when it collapsed and the Tlacapila dynasty returned from exile, seventy long years absent from their rightful throne.

Turaehoc was not so young as his republican predecessors had been, nor so insecure that he felt compelled to plot a dramatic war that would capture national fervour - like, for example, the seizure of Rahagusa and Cohorvu from Trellin twenty-five years ago was meant to be. Not only had it not legitimised the republic to its public, the two rebellious cities had proved a perpetual thorn in Andamonia's side right down to the present day. If the Khalitans, as they called themselves, weren't withholding taxes they were rioting in the streets.

In the newspapers of a distant country, a younger Turaehoc had read all the tribulations of the empire while he dwelt in exile. He had no desire to repeat its mistakes in some vainglorious and self-aggrandising quest for prestige and power. Andamonia was better off staying at peace, reaping the rewards of domestic stability and tranquility.

That was Turaehoc, at least. Not all of those who served him were of like mind.

Compared to the rest of the War Department's senior staff, Hanrel Mata was a military genius. He had spent his days in Castra Batavan in intensive study of strategy and leadership and when, in 1914, as a new graduate of the Kobolis Military Academy, his boat had pulled into harbour at Cevrazu, there had been a small welcoming committee from the War Department with an offer of employment. In no time at all he had caught even the emperor's eye, and in just six years he was now in an inner circle of the empire's most important commanders. It was clear that he was not short on ambition, nor did he lack the drive to see it through. In fact, all he lacked was the opportunity to prove his unmatched skills. If the opportunity was not going to arise, he would create it.

It had been forty years since Andamonia had found itself at war with the Principality of Txekrikar - a war which had won them nothing and cost them thousands of lives. There were many in the empire who wished to avenge that bitter memory; many more dreaded a repetition of the events of the 1870s. It seemed impossible to break the inevitable stalemate that combat in the Baira marshes always produced. It would take a military genius to make any headway, for either side.

A military genius. Hanrel Mata had found his calling.

It had not been easy, manipulating the foreign office to secure contacts in Ecosse, Glisandia, Riysa and Exponent; and even Hanrel Mata's friends in Intelligence had struggled at first to get his messages through to the rebel sects in the Nikolian colonies. Perseverance was the key. Andamonia had many old treaties but few friends. Few who would condone a war in this - to them - remote corner of the world. Southwest Teudallum; who cared if one of Astyria's most ancient empires went to war with one of the most venerable monarchies? Who really cared if a strip of marshland and the territory to the west changed hands? No one. Life would not change in Paradise City. Diplomats in Paritte wouldn't even blink. Only the Trellinese crown would take notice, but they would be the last people to react. But that was precisely the problem: if they did not care, they would not praise Andamonia for starting a war, unprovoked. If they made any response at all it would be a standard condemnation. Better silence than that. Turaehoc's armies would return home, chastened, and his generals would be chastised.

Quite simply, that would not do.

If Andamonia was to achieve the glory it deserved - if Hanrel Mata was to achieve the glory he was capable of - it could not depend on silence. It needed support, praise, acclamation. It needed the old agreements to be honoured. It needed friends who stood something to gain from backing this little power on the Sea of Velar. It needed to prove to them that it was worth their while to endorse a war. It needed to create an opportunity for them as much as for itself.

Hanrel Mata needed a greater war. A great war. Turaehoc would have none of it.

It was too late for that.

Telegrams had gone out only yesterday, encrypted and bound for many of Andamonia's embassies abroad, thence to be delivered to those governments Hanrel Mata had deemed most receptive. Exponent, which had hosted the emperor's family for so long, was perhaps most likely to support Andamonia's Txekri pretensions. Glisandia and Nouvel Ecosse, locked in conflict with the Yellosians, could be convinced in exchange for support of their own efforts. Perhaps the Fyngarian communists would be opposed at first, but Andamonia would be generous, and several shipments of weapons would earn their sympathy once they held control in their homelands. Teudallic support - objectively the most important - was more dubious; half the continent was in various forms of isolation, and to the north they all aligned with Trellin, whose terrible civil war had earned a generation of sympathy. The Riysian Empire had its own worries, but held little enough interest in Velaran politics that they might be persuaded to support Andamonia on paper. That was all they needed, after all: support and a signature.

A signature. Turaehoc's was attached to those telegrams. He would be far from pleased when he found that out. It was only a matter of time, Hanrel Mata knew, as he stood here in the War Department's cartographic archive, poring over maps of the Baira Valley. He hoped it would be later, rather than sooner, but that was far too optimistic.

"General Mata, sir, the emperor has requested your presence in his office."

Damn and blast it. That was much sooner than he could have anticipated. He turned to face the orderly who had summoned him, weighing up his options. To his frustration, there were none. He could hardly make the emperor wait.

"Tell him," Hanrel Mata said, maintaining his composure, "I shall be with him momentarily." And that was that.

"What," demanded Turaehoc III Tlacapilzi, Emperor of Andamonia, "in the name of every power under Heaven is this?" He held in his hand a copy of one of the telegrams Hanrel Mata had sent out the day before, and he held it in his raised hand as he stood behind his desk, his general seated in front of it.

"Sir, if you would permit me but a moment to explain my intentions —"

"I fail to see why I should. You have gone behind my back - mine, your emperor's! - to engage our allies and even some potential enemies in a breed of underhanded diplomacy that I detest. Your callous disregard for protocol could easily see my empire embroiled in a debacle for which it is entirely unprepared. This telegram," he said, raising it again for emphasis, "and those others like it could bring this monarchy crashing down. At the very least it could see you unemployed and unemployable on the streets of Zadé Axochizin, or with an imperial bounty on your head! What on earth did you hope to accomplish by this, or do I dare ask?"

There was a brief silence as Hanrel Mata gathered his thoughts and Turaehoc stood impatiently. "Majesty," he began, "I am endeavouring to make Andamonia great." He would have said more but he was cut off as Turaehoc laughed at him.

"Ha! General, I am making Andamonia great, with peaceful prosperity. What you aspire toward would see us despised in the eyes of the world. My empire, its whole navy a privateer fleet! That is, in effect, your proposal, or am I mistaken? Again, I must ask what your aim is, Hanrel. This is so utterly uncharacteristic that I can only hope you have some justification, yet something tells me I will not like how you vindicate yourself."

"You might find my plan too audacious, or my methods too crude, majesty, but I assure you they are necessary to cement the gains I intend on making in the coming months. Not for myself, I assure you, but for you, and for the whole empire."

Turaehoc was nonplussed, and his reply was more measured. "You couch your meaning in rhetoric, general. What are these gains? You tell me I should be no better than a pirate and you do not even tell me why. What are you asking in return for this, Hanrel?"

"For now? A promise. A promise and silence. I ask that our friends guarantee their future support, and that when I set my plan in motion they say nothing. You see, sire, I aspire to the annexation of Txekrikar."

It took a moment for Turaehoc to reply. He made no effort to compose himself, and Hanrel Mata watched as his emperor's face passed through a variety of emotions. Surprise, confusion and anger all flitted across the emperor's face before he erupted, apoplectic. "What?" he bellowed. "I have sat on this throne for seven years, Hanrel Mata, and everything I have done, every breath I have taken has been for the betterment of my empire. I have steered us firmly down the path of peace. I have denounced war, even made overtures to an unreceptive Trellinese Empire, and now my best general comes to tell me he wishes to invade my neighbour! A neighbour who has proven time again they will resist us to the death, and has one of Astyria's greatest powers as its guarantor. Do you see why I am astounded? Not only can we not win such a war, even if we were to make any progress we would be so resoundingly condemned in the halls of the great that we would become the laughing stock of Astyria. You said you wished to make Andamonia great? Let me tell you, general, nothing would humble us more than what you are suggesting."

"That is why we ask for their silence. We count some of Astyria's leading powers among our friends —"

"Until they read your telegrams, you mean."

"— and if we can convince them to keep their peace while we make our move on Txekrikar then perhaps other, lesser nations will likewise say nothing. Once we have won our little war they will come out and say 'War has proven the victor's right to rule', and we shall hold the Usmalím, perhaps even Onostada. Do you not see how this will work? We buy their loyalty now and in three months, six at most, we hold the land west of the Baira and Andamonia once again takes its place on the world stage as a serious power."

"Sustained economic growth —" Turaehoc began, but Hanrel Mata was in his element as he described his grandiose schemes.

"Far too slow. With all due respect, sire, it has been seven years and we're still considered a third-rate backwater who can't even sail our own waters with impunity. No, I have thought this through. Exponent, Ecosse, Glisandia; they will pledge their support, and we will pledge ours, and while our ground troops sweep across the border into Txekrikar and seize the bridges our submarines will sally forth, undetected, through the Straits of Jajich. From bases across Astyria - Romberg, Ecosse, maybe even Noordenstaat - they will strike down our allies' enemies and we will be immune here. Do you not see? No one can touch us, sire. Trellin is too closed and close-minded to act against us, no matter what you may think. Even your offers to return their ports fell on deaf ears."

"That is true," Turaehoc conceded, "though I would give them up oh so gladly. They bring us nothing but trouble, although the Dangish are content to trade with them. Yet, if I am trying to return territories seized from Trellin under the republic, why should I then turn around and acquire more which I might not hold? Even if you are right, and Trellin will not even protest, why should these others even come to hear your offer?"

"Your offer, sire. Your signature was affixed to each," was Hanrel Mata's correction, and the point irked Turaehoc. "They will come. They will come in part because it is simple diplomatic etiquette to come, and in a greater part because they are tempted. They will act incredulous, and will say you defy all the conventions of war, but in their hearts they will hope you are sincere. A secret ally? What greater advantage could there be?"

However frustrating it was, Turaehoc had to accept his general's point was valid. If the invitation was at his personal request, however odd the subject may be, diplomats would be there. He thought for a moment and then remembered a thought he had had before Hanrel Mata had walked through the door. "Could I not simply disavow these telegrams? They were authorised by one of my officers without my consent and he shall be disciplined accordingly. That much is true, regardless of what else may come."

The warning was not lost on Hanrel Mata, though he was sure that once Turaehoc had been convinced that that threat would diminish. "They would believe it, too, though they would wonder what plan that officer had that was so ambitious it needed to break with every established principle, and so audacious that the emperor had to deny all knowledge of it. They would be dismayed at having lost the opportunity of support, for they know war already looms on their borders - if it isn't already there."

"So they accept that the telegram is legitimate, and they accept that we intend on following through. What then? They come here and listen to the plan. From whom, you? You're no statesman, general."

"No, sire, I am not. You are, however."

Turaehoc's face showed his surprise all too clearly. "Me? You can't be serious."

"Would you rather I address them with my proposal, sire? If I have convinced you then surely I must be able to convince they who actually want a war, whether or not they realise it."

The emperor's tone was scornful, but his stance had changed substantially in the last few minutes. "I am hardly convinced, general. Nevertheless, I cannot permit you to take charge of such a conference, not now that I know how unreliable you are." He sighed an exasperated sigh. "Why have I let you talk me into this? I shall have to bring you with me to explain it all again in more detail. If there is even one hole in this scheme, Hanrel," he warned, a stern finger raised, "it will be your undoing. You will handle all further communication on the topic, so long as all missives are run by me first, and you may sign yourself Field Marshal. Your pay will not increase and you will only wear the adornment at the conference. I will have the last word at all times, and we will commit to nothing without my approval. Have I made myself clear?"

Hanrel Mata felt himself smiling ever so slightly as he replied. "Perfectly clear, your majesty." The first and greatest obstacle was overcome. His Great War would soon be reality.

by **Yellow Star Republic** » Wed May 11, 2016 11:11 am

THE FRONTLINE TRENCHES

NOVEMBER 27 1920

SOUTHWEST OF PUUHUNSTAD
YELLOWSIA

He sat askew, curled and hugging his knees without registering the ooze of the trench mud that was permeating his backside and seeping down to his thighs.
He had more crucial concerns at the moment. He couldn't take his eyes off of Ivor's gaze. Ivor for his part, never wavered. Ivor's eyes, to the point of drying out, stayed focused just a little above the point where Sverd's felt and wool hat probably protruded the air.
That he was suspended, leg twisted and caught behind a trench support post, the other bent at an odd angle tucked into the small divot where Sverd had usually lined up his grenades, and hanging inverted with his hands out and fingers dangling, bothered Ivor not at all. He was so determined, even in death, to demand the full attention of Sverd.

Gaping holes, where machine gun bullets had torn open Ivor's wool over coat and funneled into the core of his torso had stopped ejecting blood some time ago.
That was vaguely how Private Sverd Goranssen had been keeping time, even though he couldn't be sure if he'd been tucked into this position for hours or days.

It had to be hours, otherwise the Ecossians would have attacked by now. He hadn't heard a sound, a shot, a mumble or even a shuffling from this side of the trench network for some time now. Everyone in his view had been snuffed out, either by the artillery barrage, the solid blanket of lead from the enemy machine guns in range, or from earlier sharpshooter's chipping away at the platoon. Lieutenant Vodjuor's booted legs jutted out from around the bend at the juncture of two trench lines, just off in Sverd's leftside peripheral vision.

The platoon leader had taken a shot right through the eye socket as he had attempted to suss the situation. All of their periscopes had been cracked or scratched up, so he'd taken a chance. He lost. Over to his right, two more of his comrades were in view, Gjuduor and Timossen. Their rumps and awkwardly crooked legs dangled from the lip of the trench where they'd also received guts full of lead, likely from the same gun that took down Ivor Johansson. No one had come to find him. No one had shouted and no one said a prayer or sung a folk song to bolster their nerves. He was the last one left alive, surrounded by a morbid show. The slowly creeping odor of death was beginning to permeate his nose.

As far as Sverd knew, not just his whole platoon was dead, but even most of the others to their east and west had been nearly wiped out by the Ecossian onslaught, which had come pouring down the length of little Adler to slice deep into the Yellowsian lines that were supposed to cover the flank of their brethren units, fighting off the Glisandians. For the Glisandians, the support of their allies had come at a crucial time, breaking the deadlock on the border front.

What Sverd could not know was that the Yellowsian Command had not expected the Adlerites to give an open door to the Ecossians to stream through so quickly. And the Nouvel Ecossians had been well prepared for opening up this front after their rapid dash through Platteisen Adler; with artillery, air raids, naval bombardments and substantial infantry groups well armed with a surplus of the new devastating machine guns that laid waste to frontal charges.

They had bypassed Hawkerhreidour in order to hit at the Yellowsian supply lines and support trenches, only half finished in defense of the major northern city. As morale was shredded by the multi layered enemy attack, so too was the defenses of the city, which fell in less than a two day siege.

They didn't stop there and the so-called 'Walrus People' continued to drive south, cleaving and cutting off the support for the Yellowsian divisions fighting off the Glisandians encroaching the border to the northwest. Those 5 divisions were in danger of being trapped in a bubble if Command was unable to reinforce the faltering line.

The Yellowsian fleet was being mustered off the waters near the capital, Arkjelstad, in order to hit back at the Ecossian mass of ships off their northern shores. Reserve divisions were being called up and the small, fledgling air arm of the Yellowsian military was being flown north, up from the Falkasian border where they had originally expected trouble. Most thought it was too little, too late. A panicked riot had broken out in Steinbrudden, and a mutiny in a naval infantry unit in Tankjel, led by communists, had been bloodily put down after four days of bitter fighting.

Some of the Koningur's advisers were beginning to whisper the dreaded 'S' word into his ear. Surrender. Or at least to make peace at any terms. Even though their saviors had begun to the trek from the eastern docks up and to the west, by train and truck. It was felt this might be too late to stave off complete collapse.

None of this was known or shared with a lowly private like Sverd Goranssen, but the feeling of being on the edge of being overwhelmed was just the same, without the overall picture adding to the effect. Sverd was all alone, as far as one could tell. Every one of his friends and platoon mates lay dead either in the trench, or up and over, in the no man's land that separated the Ecossian and Yellowsian lines. He had watched most of them die, mystified that he had remained alive despite the amount of rounds whipping past him like a dozen hornets' nests vying for attention.

Now, he imagined that he could hear voices, foreign voices...Ecossian voices, coming closer to where he sat. It was something he'd expected for what felt like an eternity. The remaining lines of the 14th division appeared to be theirs for the taking.
The lonely sound of the wind began to be replaced by boots scraping on rocks and the twang! of stretched barbed wire being cut and springing back.

Another sound, like a faint buzzing, but more comforting and steady than the angry machine gun bullet buzzing; was starting to steadily grow louder. Suddenly, he felt a shadow cross above him and he looked up, but it was already gone.

Wait! There was another, and it flashed into his view as he had finally peeled his eyes from poor Ivor. A SPAD fighter plane with blue fleur-de-lis on the wings, outlined in gold, (Not that Sverd could identify a type of plane, especially a Gaul model, having only seen a handful in his brief lifetime.) dipped closer as he could hear it's machine guns chatter, strafing the Ecossians he was certain were creeping up on him.

Across the front, more Gaulic planes flashed above, all dove up and down, strafing at and sometimes whipping grenades and small bombs down to rain upon the Ecossian troops. Some even had netting rigged on their bottoms to give way, releasing barbed fleshettes to tear into the hapless Ecossians below.

The paralysis that had gripped Sverd seemed to melt away and he grabbed up his Moisin Nagant, feeling the familiar heft. A few deep breaths and he leapt for the ladder that would boost him up. A small prayer and he popped his head up, knowing that an Ecossian sharpshooter's bullet could end it all. He needn't worry. He could see them all on the run, not far away, as the explosives and aircraft rounds landed among them, their pickelhauben bobbing and sometimes vanishing, as well as the little twigs that represented their Gewehr 98 rifles. He saw their backs, and only an occasional glimpse of faces as they glanced back in terror.

He took a chance and looked behind him. Men in gray bluish coats were in full sprint all in line abreast of each other, bayonets glistening as they charged on. Besides not sporting the usual butternut trench coats and uniforms, they didn't wear the felt and fur hats of the Yellowsians either, but rather the dull metal poilu helmet, the round pot with the middle ridge running like a mohawk from front to back. The Gauls were now in the fight and had saved him from certain death. Sverd pumped his fist in the air, then held his Moisin Nagant rifle aloft. He scanned left and right and saw that a few other scattered Yellowsian soldiers had also survived and were also letting out relieved shouts as they braved above the trenchline. The day was saved for the good guys.

by **Romberg** » Thu May 12, 2016 4:08 pm

Chapter 4: Torn Apart
8 Aug 1920

The declaration of war came through the night, and Ulrich was awoken by a frantic buzzing of the telegram boy, following by the the gentle rustle as the paper was slid under the door. He'd had a bad nights' sleep in any case. Switching on the electric light, he strained as he made out the words of the telegram, written in slightly archaic Glisandian characteristic of the Crown. "Why couldn't it be in any other language?" he thought. Wearily, he turned back to see his wife still fast asleep. In a sigh, he dressed himself, picked up the telegram and walked to his study, still very much groggy and half-awake.

"What was this... a declaration... of war?"

The words were difficult to comprehend, especially with the awkward phrasing.

"For what?"

To Ulrich, the reasons for war seemed an excuse at best. He'd never been one interested in the intrigues of the Glisandians. Still, it was an order directly from the Grand Duke, and one which he as High Commissioner of Romberg could not ignore. Whether he liked it or not, a Glisandian war was a Rombergian one. It would be costly of course to the Rombergians - his people themselves already do not trust him, and him obeying the Glisandians would only add fuel to the fire. Yet like it or not, he was convinced that he was their best shot at independence. No, this was not the right time. Innocent blood would have to be spilled. Martyrs. Heroes. Sacrifices for the cause. Were these empty titles worth it? Then again, when has struggle been without loss? Even then, it was still a price to pay. Perhaps one which could not be avoided.

Then, his thoughts trailed off into the implications of war. On the bright side, perhaps Glisandia would be weakened enough for the Rombergians to compel them to grant independence. If that was the case, then perhaps the ends could be used to justify the means. What if it failed though? He'd be derided as a true successor of Judas. Not wanted in Glisandia and hated in Romberg, even death would not save his honour then. But still, without taking risks where would success come from? His conscience was clear in any case. And yet, he knew the war would not be a bilateral affair. He knew there was a complex web of alliances all over Astyria, and this declaration of war could well be the trigger for the unravelling it all. And then what would happen to his beloved wife? He knew the Nikolians were most likely opposed to the Glisandians. What would become to her? It had been love at first sight, and they were still deeply attracted to one another. Apart from his country, she was the one he cared about most. His gaze wandered out of the room towards the general vicinity of the bedroom. Could he protect her from all of this? Surely she wasn't "the enemy"? At the very least, being on the front meant he would not have to bear the pain. And what if she was pregnant? He could tell that she may have had a small bulge developing in her abdomen - their unborn child. Maybe house arrest? It would at least place less stress on her. He couldn't bear to see her behind bars in any case. It was still heartbreaking to have to come to this. He could only hope that she would understand. Maybe after the war was over they could be together again - to raise their child together and slowly grow old.

Wishful thinking, probably. He'd most likely be hanged in the centre of Rikijdrottin for treason or shot on the front. A sobering thought, but one more realistic. Pondering over his words carefully, he drafted a response to the Grand Duke, promising "support" and "solidarity". He knew that most likely he'd have to draft his own countrymen, but at the very least it was without explicit orders, and buying a days' worth of time was another extra day some of them could live for.

Returning to his room, he gave one more longing glance to his wife, still fast asleep. Yes, she was definitely pregnant. Maybe they will understand. Hopefully he would at the very least be able to see this child at all. He reached over to give her one last kiss. She didn't stir.

Changing into his military uniform, he tried to hold back tears as he prepared himself for the meeting with the Crown representative in the city. He knew that then he would know what the Glisandians wanted out of him.

by **Andamonia** » Sun Sep 25, 2016 6:31 pm

Cevrazu, Andamonia
October 25^th

"Tick," intoned the grandfather clock, its short comment enhanced tenfold by the reverberations in its varnished wood. The clock was as much a relic of the past as this palace was, built some time before the fall of the First Dynasty specifically for this chamber of the palace. Its accuracy had declined somewhat in the intervening century and a half, and its monosyllables had become unpredictable and infrequent. Sometimes, you could sit in the room for half an hour and hear - Tock - nothing.

Was it speeding up again? Ahaylina put her ear to the wood but inside there was only a slight scratching sound. She straightened up and stood in pensive quiet for perhaps five minutes before deciding the clock was a lost cause. Either the mechanism was running down a woodmoth had established itself inside; either way, the ornamental timepiece would have to go. Its haphazard moments of lucidity effectively guaranteed that it would disturb the meeting that was to take place here, in the council hall of the Green Palace in Cevrazu.

She turned around to address the other person in the room, who had been standing patiently in the corner. "Chiuca, dear, help me shift this clock outside the door?" The maid nodded silently and took the base while Ahaylina tipped it and held the top. Together they navigated their way out the door and abandoned it just outside. Ahaylina now examined the empty space where the clock had been. The grandfather clock, it turned out, had not merely tied the room together, it been the room's foundation. That space, directly opposite the end of the long mahogany table, loudly proclaimed its emptiness. The vacuum became the focal point.

"This won't do," she said, half to herself. There was only limited time before the ambassadors and emissaries began to arrive. "Fetch a pair of those tasseled spears from upstairs and fix a wicker shield between them. Stand the thing up where the clock was."

"Yes, ma'am," Chiuca nodded, and hurried away.

The Glisandians were the first to arrive; surprising, as the Exponential consulate in Cevrazu was hardly five minutes' walk from the palace. A naval officer led them past the pool in the atrium and one by one their procession disappeared through a door into a chamber dominated by the base of a wide, carpeted stairway. Four uniformed bellboys manoeuvred past them in the opposite direction, wielding a massive grandfather clock among them. The officer resisted the urge to stare; the Glisandians made no such effort, all three fascinated as the clock disappeared through the same door they had just used.

The officer did not lead them up the stairs but passed instead through a small doorway in the back right corner. A long corridor stretched away to their left. He led them perhaps a third of the way along its length and then led them into a sizeable conference chamber. On the facing wall was a long French window overlooking the palace's gardens; the other walls sported painting upon painting of assorted, miscellaneous Andamonians, all in the same colour scheme. To the right two ceremonial spears supported a painted wicker shield. Somehow, that particular ornament didn't quite fit in, but the Glisandians mentally supposed it was just a quirk of Andamonian interior decor.

"I'm afraid I must leave you here, gentlemen," the officer apologised contritely. "I have other duties to which I must attend, but you are invited to make yourselves comfortable as the other emissaries are yet to arrive. Your host will be with you shortly," he promised, and bowed slightly before backing out of the room.

The chairs were not comfortable. The Glisandian delegation remained mystified as they awaited an explanation for their summons.

It seemed to take a painfully long time for the Exponential delegation to arrive. The other emissaries were led in group by group. Some time halfway through the arrivals, Turaehoc himself arrived, accompanied by two men in martial uniforms. No one was quite sure when they arrived - not because they did so stealthily but because there was an absence of timekeeping devices in the room. At last, however, they were all ready to begin.

Glisandia, Riysa, Heideland, Exponent, Turaehoc tallied internally as he surveyed the room, Ecosse - yes, they are all here. So begins Mata's great game. "Friends of Andamonia," the emperor began, a comforting smile on his face, "I thank you for your attendance. These are troubled times for Astyria. It is comforting to see that Andamonia has so many reliable friends still ready to listen when its emperor wishes to speak. I assure you that you may expect that friendship to be repaid.

"Yes, these are troubled times. Peace is a precious commodity, one which we all jealously guard. Permit me to introduce those who guard Andamonia's peace." He turned slightly to his left, gesturing at the most senior official to survive the purges of the Restoration. "Field Marshal Hichairaz Niltlantl," he said, as Niltlantl bowed, and turned back to the right, "and Hanrel Mata." Mata also bowed, but he was well aware of the snub. The emperor had chosen not to identify his rank, lumping him in with Niltlantl but without even specifying Field Marshals. No matter. This was not the battlefield on which Hanrel Mata would make his name; that was yet to come.

"These two commanders are, if you permit me to indulge myself, the finest military minds of their generations." Niltlantl was three decades Mata's senior, easily, and had led armies during the Cassonnaise war, before the younger commander was even born. What had this fresh-faced general to show for himself? Nothing but paper qualifications. "Perhaps you are wondering why it is these two men who I have accompanying me. Perhaps it gives away something of the purpose of this conference. I suppose now is the time to reveal all. I leave that duty in the very capable hands of Hanrel Mata. Please excuse me."

Turaehoc glided serenely to the back of the room and disappeared out the door. No eyes but Mata's were on his departure. This wasn't the arrangement. What was going on now?

"Sire, I did not expect you to conclude so quickly," Ahaylina said, startled. "We are not ready -"

"Ahaylina, what have you done with the clock?" The emperor seemed agitated and distressed by its absence. She had not expected this at all.

Usually the indomitable imperial housekeeper, Ahaylina found herself momentarily mute. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to stammer out a response. "Ah, sire, it was wearing down - the mechanism was going, I thought it would be more of a distraction, really, so I took it away."

"Our rehearsals centred on having timepiece and now you tell me I have none? Do you hold removal in higher esteem than repair? I need a clock, Ahay," he fretted.

"There was no time to -" she began, but was cut off.

"There were seven years! Your function in the imperial court is to ensure the imperial court functions. If something must be fixed, fix it. That is your duty; do it!" He took a deep breath and composed himself. "I have given that fiend free rein over everyone Andamonia still counts among its friends. I must get back in there." A stern finger was pointed at Ahaylina's face. "Ensure that clock is in its rightful place by the end of the day and have it repaired first thing in the morning." Without waiting for a response, he pivoted on one heel and returned to the conference with his customary grace and serenity.

"War. It is the word you all fear," Hanrel Mata had begun, immediately capturing his audience's attention, "the whisper you all dread. How many of us are forced to speak about war as an impending reality and not merely a possibility? There is already conflict in the north, on the brink of turning into war itself. Some of us still have the luxury of deciding when and where a war begins. Others have no options but to hope they are prepared.

"We all fear defeat. We know war to be inevitable, and we linger in uncertainty while war continues. Will our allies come through? Will popular support survive until we triumph? If we are defeated, will the terms be lenient? Gentlemen, war looms on your borders. It is now inescapable. The question you ask yourselves is now when."

"To some of us, war is already a reality. To others, conflict is knocking on the door. Everyone, whether they are already at war or yet girding themselves for battle, is searching for anything at all that will give him an edge, that will give him some surety of victory. I trust it will not sound arrogant if I tell you Andamonia -" he paused for half a second "- is that guarantee."

Several of the diplomats and their support staff shifted in their chairs; some uncomfortably, others in curiosity. Clandestine offers and secret treaties were nothing new, but this presentation was different to anything before it. Half a dozen nations rarely met in secret, and few would consider pitching an idea to so many at once unless they were certain of their pitch. Where was this going?

Turaehoc's elegant stride carried him indiscernibly to the top of the room, where he took an empty seat to one side at the head of the table. To his right, Hanrel Mata continued reciting the lines he had prepared for his emperor, inwardly confused but outwardly keeping up his persuasion.

"There are those who say the battlefield is the last refuge of the honourable. The wars fought in the last half century prove otherwise. There is no longer any sense in clinging to idyllic fantasies. Your enemy no longer acts with honour. To pretend he does, and to fight as though he will, is to waste the lives of your soldiers, to waste the lives of your citizenry, to lay waste your own lands. If your enemy will not-"

Turaehoc rose suddenly, silencing Mata with a wave. "I can tell that you understand the theme, esteemed ambassadors. The way in which we fight wars has changed, irrevocably altered. That is why I offer you Andamonian assistance." Several of the seated emissaries made to speak at once but Turaehoc silenced them all by continuing. "I know, you wonder how it is Andamonia is in any position to assist. Only Heideland could possibly expect our soldiery to march across their frontier to aid them in battle."

The Exponential ambassador, Manius Dicentius, a somewhat paunchy diplomat heavily bedecked in medals, interrupted the emperor in a gruff voice. "You can barely even sail ships out Trellin's straits. How do you propose to fight our battles, or undermine our enemies, while sealed away at the far end of a blockaded sea?"

The emperor smiled ever so slightly. "Submarines," he said, and then was silent. Eyes around the table widened. Hanrel Mata fumed.

So that was the emperor's plan. In their rehearsals, that bombshell had been Hanrel Mata's line. By leaving and delegating the introduction, the emperor had in fact deprived Mata of his moment. Well, if that was the punishment for his ambition, so be it. The war to come would be his test, not some old diplomats in a reliquary of a palace.

Dicentius remained unimpressed. "We all have submarines, Turaehoc. Not that they do a lot of good rusting at anchor, but they're there. Waiting."

"Well, ambassador, I can assure you that Andamonia's submarines are not rusting at anchor. As we speak, many of our craft are thousands of miles away, well beyond the Straits of Jajich. Andamonian submarines are positioned to engage enemy craft wherever there are enemy craft, and who those might be is really for you to say.

"We could couch this in deliberate ambiguity all day, but when it comes down to it we all want to be clear where we stand. I imagine you are all sufficiently interested that I'm not making a mistake in laying all my cards on the table at this juncture. Andamonia has its own aspirations, as do the states you all represent. Like your governments, I seek certainty that when we act on those aspirations we will have support. This is how we attain that."

Dicentius opened his mouth but now it was the Riysian head diplomat who spoke first. "If you want clarity, give us clarity. What is your offer and what do you expect in return?"

Turaehoc finally gestured to Hanrel Mata, who stepped forward with a slight bow. "Andamonia aims to wage a war with Txekrikar. When that is concluded, we hope for your governments' support. We will purchase that support, if necessary, by using our considerable submarine fleet to hamper the shipping - both military and commercial - of your rivals."

The Glisandians balked, as did the Ecossian delegation. The others merely nodded. Dicentius had more to say, however. "Exponent has no enemies, general. Certainly none whom we cannot address on our own."

Niltlantl had been silent throughout the meeting until now. He had not been privy to the emperor's and Mata's rehearsals, and only knew the barest sketches of the plan. He was, however, well versed in the current Astyrian situation, and took that moment to chime in in response to Dicentius' remarks. "We all know that's no longer true, ambassador. Nobody doubts Exponent's foremost position in the east, but even you have concerns lying to your north and west. In any case, this offer will not come off the table after this meeting. We do not intend to invade Txekrikar in the morning, nor do we expect you to rush headlong into a war simply so that you can enjoy some support."

"Indeed," offered Mata, "war does not always find us prepared when it comes unbidden. This little meeting is to reassure you that you will have somewhere to turn."

"And naturally," Turaehoc reminded them, returning to the salient point of the conference, "we hope that our generosity will not go unreciprocated. So, gentlemen, do I have your interest?"

The Great Astyrian War (IC/PT - Closed to region)

The Great Astyrian War (IC/PT - Closed to region)

Finding A Safe Spot to Sit

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