Swiggety swag, it's time to frag [IC - Attn. ACS]

[Brytene]

Castle Cimarron
The French Garden, evening
Theme

Jarl Aoife had to admit that Tancred of Cimarron was a man of taste. As the lazy summer sun began to dip beneath the horizon behind them, they lounged on the western tip of the castle's craggy peninsula in a well-tended garden that smelled of roses, box hedge, and a dozen other rich fragrances carried on the warm evening air.

They were sprawled in deckchairs, in a semi-circle facing west. A cooler full of coolers and a half-empty bottle of smooth Dyflin whiskey were wedged in the gravel at their feet, but the pace was sedate and Aoife was pretty sure Tancred was asleep. Alongside the big landowner in his plaid shirt were the chic Connor and Alice "Teorellsman", though Aoife and the former royal couple had known each other for years and Aoife had simply burst out laughing the first time she had been ushered in to the sea-swept castle to learn of this 'great state secret'. The last guest was, to Aoife's continuing surprise, Celeste Canillac, the golden-haired beauty of the austere Canillac great house, a clan of conservative nobles and shipping magnates from the south. Quite what such a proper Catholic heiress would be doing with such a haphazard character as Tancred she was not quite sure, but they appeared to enjoy one anothers' company. As for Tancred himself, she was at a loss. The man claimed to 'own stocks abroad', but Cimarron and its village had both been built from scratch at huge expense less than a year before. Tancred did not look or behave like a financier, and so the hunt for the source of his money was still an itch she wanted to scratch.

All that aside, they had formed an informal club of sorts, finding a kind of peace in the normalcy that was often denied people in their echelon of society. This afternoon was much like many others, spent talking about nothing, laughing or dozing in the fresh air. Connor was telling a joke, to which Aoife had only been half-listening.

"...and so then the man asks, 'Wotan, I had faith in you, why didn't you save me?' and Wotan frowns at him and says 'What are you talking about, you idiot? I sent a farmer, a priest and the jarl himself!" he finished, grinning proudly at the punchline. Alice, who had obviously heard it before, just rolled her eyes with a smile, whilst Celeste laughed aloud, pleased. Aoife chuckled dutifully, but even that felt like an effort, so peaceful was the afternoon and so comfortable were the deckchairs.

Cimarron village
A hedgerow, evening

"They will not be expecting this," insisted Lazlo Broadchurch. "A landward attack almost certainly, and perhaps a daring seaborne raid, but a helicopter? No way. You are overthinking this. They won't have snipers, they will be desperate just to hide from our shots."

The others nodded. It was well-known that 'loony' liberal lefties were all weaklings, and that it was your political views, rather than your lifestyle or personal characteristics, that determined your mental and physical fortitude. That was why this band of hardy warriors, who styled themselves as the 'Ultraconservative Crusaders', had gathered here: to wipe out the notorious coward Aoife Brighteye, and her cabal of bohemian benefit-scrounging hippies. They were either too bourgeois or too communist, the Crusaders couldn't quite figure out which yet, but one way or the other they were enemies of The People and so had to go.

There was still a little time to go before the helicopter arrived, so Lazlo pushed forwards through the hedge, sighting down the scope at the walls of the castle. There was no ground high enough to give them a shot into the French garden to the west, which was bordered by a low wall, but he could see a guard lounging by the front gates and had a good view of many of the north-facing windows, which was enough for the night's purposes. Almost on cue, a black speck appeared in the skies to the south, but he almost missed it himself, dazzled as he was by the sun. Breathing halfway out, he settled the sights on the guard's torso and squeezed the trigger. There was a tiny pause before dust and blood erupted from the man's chest and he collapsed, dead before he hit the ground. There was a moment before a blaring alarm went off, and in those moments Lazlo fired a couple more shots to shatter windows, adding to the mayhem and keeping the guards' attention firmly on the northern face of the property. Quicker than he expected, someone got a rifle up and had obviously zeroed in on their rough position, firing a wild shot that nevertheless tore up a huge chunk of earth and hedge only a few feet from him. A RAM Mjolnir, of all things. He backtracked hastily, but he was pretty sure that none of the defenders had noticed the light seacopter closing in on them from behind...

[Allied Connurist States]

Castle Cimarron
The French Garden, evening

Doing nothing was the best thing either of the Teorellsman’s had done for a long time. Connor had been quick to proudly adopt the ways and mannerisms of the Brytisc, which if truth were to be told, were already rather similar to how things had been done in the place he had once been at the head of. It was definitely very fair to say that he far preferred doing his bit contributing to work here than any other role he’d had, and culture wasn't the only thing he was considering adopting.

Some things naturally stayed the same, or at least similar. The awkward way he believed that most people he dealt with were better than he was had persisted for several years ; so much so that the prophecy fulfilled itself and he then had his justification for his way of thinking. Here he was, lying around in the company of people such as Jarl Aoife, who like him had once been royal, but had accomplishments in baseball, military, and her latest pastime of dueling reactionaries. Miss Canillac could beautifully play music, a thing that the ex-Emperor had became incredibly fond of in this new life. Tancred had built this place out of nothing. And for himself, what? Inheriting something? Marriage to two people who were infinitely more capable than he’d ever been even in the beginning? Running away from responsibility and duty to here?

There was, however, not enough time to wallow in self-loathing as the quiet skies were rudely interrupted with a loud bang. At first, he was more concerned that he had spilt the remainder of his whisky glass down his front, but as they continued and brought the sound of shattering glass with it, it was clearly something more serious than a rogue firework. He looked from the now well awake Tancred across to Alice, and then to Aoife as a sole bang, louder than all previous, echoed everywhere. It was unmistakably gunfire, they had to be under attack. And if they were under attack, Aoife would be the first to have a plan of what to do immediately next. Aoife would be the most competent in dangerous situations under threat. And if it wasn’t his political enemies in Castarcia coming to murder him and his wife, Aoife would be the target, having made a long list of adversaries - namely anyone who fell into the right wing of politics.

[Brytene]

Castle Cimarron
The French Garden, evening

Aoife was, as a veteran, quickest off the mark. She rolled out of her deckchair and lay still in the gravel for a moment as she narrowed down where the gunfire was coming from. The fire wasn't directed at them just yet, but it would still be a stupid idea to stand up and expose themselves and so she began crawling towards the door, sheltered by the foliage and the walls, Tancred and Celeste following her, Tancred snatching at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the way. He wasn't planning to drink it there and then, but it was expensive stuff and he wasn't going to leave it behind to the tender mercies of fate...

They made it into the house just as one of the two remaining guards rushed up to them, breathless. She was not heavily armoured, wearing a rich red uniform with a peaked cap and Tancred's crest of a ram's head over the heart, but she clutched a KA ULC carbine and was carrying a pistol which she handed to Tancred. He promptly passed it on to Aoife, then led the way to the castle's small armoury as the guard reported to him. The corridors they passed through were tastefully decorated, with rich carpets and oak floors, panelled wooden walls hung with tapestries of mythical scenes and oil paintings which largely depicted cows, farm scenes of charming peasants near haystacks, sailing ships, men in uniforms pointing at things and the occasional knight. One or two of these artworks, on closer inspection, proved to be a little more contemporary; there was a tapestry depicting a battle scene from the Halo: Combat Evolved franchise, and an oil painting of what appeared to be the cast of Parks and Rec playing poker on a barge in Thailand.

As they passed a pair of crossed spears behind a shield bearing Tancred's badge of a ram's head, the guard began to speak. "Jendrik's dead. A sniper took him by the gate, they're over at the eastern edge of the village in the low ground there. Harrison has them suppressed now, but there has to be something else coming." the woman, a middle-aged veteran, explained in a rapid, breathless voice. She was an experienced soldier, fit and trim and familiar with battle, but it had been a few years since she had been on the wrong end of hot lead. Her instincts were still spot on though, as the thump of helicopter blades announced the surprise arrival of the second attack.

Inside the armoury, a small stone chamber with a modest stock of firearms and equipment, Aoife reached for a Drake marksman rifle, staring up at the ceiling as the helicopter's sound steadied, becoming one constant blur of noise.

"Fuckers are dropping onto the roof," she grunted, checking the action and grabbing a spare magazine or two. Tancred slung a shotgun over his shoulder and then passed a pair of handguns to Connor and Alice - as far as he knew, they had no extensive combat training, but he wasn't going to leave them unarmed. To his faint surprise, Celeste reached up and took down an old Kuribayashi Arms Battle Rifle. Dating from the 60s, the wooden-stocked semi-automatic was still highly prized for its historical value, its reliability and its power and accuracy, despite a small clip size. She raised an eyebrow and her lips curled in a smile as she hefted the rifle.

"Rich family from the country. I've shot a buck or two in my time." she explained as Aoife ducked out of the door and headed upstairs. The guard, Hannah Fjelbrooke, led them quickly upstairs - if they were on the roof, there were only two ways down into the building that didn't involve smashing through windows, and Aoife was already holding one of them. Thudding retorts from somewhere else in the building announced that Harrison was still keeping the landward approach clear, and so the impromptu squad made their way to an upstairs corridor where Fjelbrooke directed them to get down behind furniture or walls and pillars and train their weapons on the door.

There was a flurry of shots from somewhere behind them, automatic weapons mixed with the sharp crack of a sharpshooter rifle, as the helicopter's whir grew louder and quieter as it moved. Suddenly the sound changed, to a whining pitch that grew louder and higher, and then an ear-shattering boom shook the corridor, toppling a candle from its holder. Fjelbrooke grinned wolfishly. She had been in enough firefights to know the sound of a helicopter going down. Before she could say anything, however, the door at the end of the corridor burst open - a breaching charge, heavier duty equipment than she had expected, filling the corridor with noise and smoke. Shots instantly began whipping through the dusty air, one lucky shot catching Fjelbrooke in the forehead and pitching her back without a sound.

[Allied Connurist States]

Castle Cimarron
Nortymba, Brytene

Connor and Alice copied the actions of the others, not in the mood to either snigger or roll their eyes at Tancred’s actions. Depending on how this situation developed, it was a fitting bottle to either finish off as one’s last, to toast the fallen, or to start some sort of celebration if they all pulled through this.

It, much like the decorous artworks that lined the corridors they walked through, was not yet worth theorising about. It was certainly the true that the presence of the guard was reassuring, though, even if neither of the two knew on what basis they were hired and employed. The fact that she appeared older than the two of them was a good start, not because it promised that she could have been a seasoned veteran, but rather because it practically guaranteed that she wasn’t some green recruit. Not that any in the group were in a position to complain and be picky and fussy about their current friendly company ; it was always better to have someone on your side than whoever was against you. These little details offered hope that could be clung to if necessary, but the fact that Jendrik, whoever they were, was unfortunate enough to have been killed alluded to the true seriousness of the situation. And that was before either half of the once royal couple realised that a helicopter was against them. It meant this was far from the acts of one or two extremists, but some genuinely credible and likely professional force.

At least, thought Connor, remembering the joke he had told only so very recently, they were fortunate enough that Wotan had given them the Jarl from the start, and saw fit to bestow upon them this guard, who was taking them to the armoury, a damn good reason why they shouldn’t count their chickens before they had hatched. There was no justification for despairing whilst their chances had not been extinguished, even if they were weakly and unsteadily flickering.

Connor and Alice both took mere seconds to familiarise themselves with the way the handguns worked. It was not a model they were familiar with, but once you knew one handgun, you more or less knew most of them. The reloading mechanism was self explanatory as Connor counted how many rounds he had in a magazine. Fifteen was not bad at all, he remarked. In fact, quite the contrary, it was rather fucking good. He could infer from this it was likely a lower caliber weapon than what he was used to, but it probably meant the lightweight firearm, most likely of Kuribayashi origin as he noted the Drake and the battle rifle that Celeste had taken a fancy to, was as simple as a point and shoot affair as you could hope for.

Aoife, without a doubt, needed not to explain her choice to the rest of them, nor did Tancred. There was a grain of truth to every stereotype (well, most of them) and foreigners didn’t think that your average Brytisc bloke was a broad-chested country man with a shotgun for nothing. But as Celeste had surprised all of them with her selection and had taken to quickly clarifying it, the ex-Emperor decided there was no better time to share a little secret he had neglected to tell any of them except Alice. He may not have too much time left to share stories, and besides, a little competitive streak within him desired to outdo Miss Canillac. “The war, eight years ago this year, the palace, two people.” he casually told them. And here he was in such a very similar situation. Eerily so, almost. Because this castle was his home now, and his home was under attack again.

By the time he’d gone and divulged that particular piece of information, Alice was about to ready to use the polymer pistol in her hands, a wink and a nod confirming that she was as confident with it as she would get. She’d been shown her way around holding and firing plenty of times in the past, but had never been called on to actually use one in anger as she exchanged nervous glances with Celeste. Alice had no clue about Tancred’s history, but he seamlessly gave off the impression that he knew exactly what he was doing. Whether he did was unknown, but it really didn’t bother the woman, who was the youngest of the lot. If she made it past today just a few days until the first of August came around, she was twenty four.

As Fjelbrooke, not that Alice nor Connor knew her name, directed them all to take cover, it would have seemed to a stranger’s eye like this was a scene from one of those brilliant, poorly written but regardless thoroughly entertaining movies, chock-full of mindless action and violence complete with an all star cast, Jarl Aoife naturally being the main star of the show who would get all the best cheesy one liners.

Alice, at the insistence of her husband, had taken a position ever so slightly back which offered fuller cover behind a pillar that could better take a few hits than other things like furniture. To the rear she would expect to find Celeste with her, looking to employ her rifle at range. Funny to find a Canillac working together with a Castarcian, it was, if you thought about the hundred years war, and funnier still if you remembered her father was more likely to have more in common politically with the people who had forced her and Connor into exile than them. Tancred would surely wish to be closer to the action where his shot would undoubtedly be more effective, whilst Connor sat back tightly against a chest of drawers, oversized to hide himself fully but in a position which offered a great angle on the door. And in this smoke following the explosion, he would be just as obscured as the attackers were to him, as he returned fire blindly to where the doorway once was, emptying half his clip in the space of seconds, holding the rest in reserve in case he needed to clean up once his line of sight was cleared.

[Brytene]

Castle Cimarron
Interior, evening

Connor was rewarded almost instantly with a cry of pain. After a split-second pause, Tancred fired off two blasts from his shotgun, a weapon made by Wernham-Hogg. The fact that its designers were normally engaged in the business of making vehicles and heavy machinery was evident in the simplistic, brutal action of the fully-automatic murdertube. A mist of blood was visible even through the dust, and for a second the attackers went silent, the hallway echoing with the fading retort of the shotgun blasts. There was a click and a tinkling sound, like a bronze spoon falling down a brass waterfall, before the entire corridor illuminated with a blazing white light as well as a shockwave that threw the defenders off their feet. Tancred fell back behind the side table he was using for cover, reaching out for support, as several figures in ratty camo emerged from the smoke.

There was a sharp snap and the leading figure jerked backwards, his right shoulder twisting back and his arm flying out before his knees crumpled and he rolled to a halt just short of Tancred. Celeste had taken a step backwards to check the staircase behind them, in case anyone had tried to break into the front of the mansion, and so had been shielded from both the concussive and blinding effects of the grenade. Now the barrel of the battle rifle smoked as she paused, shocked at herself. She had never taken a human life before, and whilst it had been made easy by the fact that it was just a silhouette in the smoke, much like hunting a deer in a morning fog, when the bloodied and broken body had tumbled down in front of her a sickened feeling spread through her gut. She had taken a life, she had broken the Fifth Commandment, and now the rifle wavered in her hands as more of the attackers appeared through the maelstrom.

Luckily for her, the moments purchased by gunning down the leading attacker allowed Tancred to recover from the blinding effects of the flashbang. Although still disoriented, he was carrying a weapon which did not demand much by way of accuracy, especially not in such an enclosed space. He shoved one strong arm over the surface of the table, clutching the shotgun, and squeezed the trigger. In a series of sickening booms accompanied by the sound of tearing flesh and desperate cries, he emptied the magazine and the hallway simultaneously. There was a clicking sound as the shotgun ran dry, and the barrage of noise was replaced by silence.

There were footsteps from the staircase up to the roof through which the attackers had entered. The footsteps paused just before they reached the doorway. Aoife's voice called out and then she came out, past the carnage, and approached the surviving Brytons.

"No need to ask if you're okay, I guess," she said, her voice a little shaky, and then she glanced around and grinned. "Your cleaning bill is going to be fucking biblical, Tanc."

Tancred, who had been a little white-faced upon seeing the charnel-house that had once been his corridor, could not help but laugh, but his breath caught as he spotted Fjelbrooke. She had been a good employee and a friendly face, and now she was dead for no fault of her own. He glanced around at the shaken faces of his guests.

"Is everyone alright?" he asked, his voice earnest for once.

[Allied Connurist States]

Castle Cimarron, Nortymba, Brytene
Interior, evening

The cry of pain really got the adrenaline pumping, if adrenaline was the kind of thing that pumped instead of flowed, who knew? No matter which verb suited it better, the rush that resulted from it really was galvanizing him into taking further action. This further action came in the form of temporarily taking over the role of being what was in effect a terminator from Tancred as the tactical grenade came in, as he hadn’t been blinded for he had been looking away elsewhere. And his current deafness affected not his ability to place his shots into the chests of these, an action - nay, a duty - he carried out with a sense of pride bordering on twisted, scoring hits in the centre mass of one man and bagging a headshot on another before their corpses, and other alive bodies too, were filled with hot lead spewing from Tancred’s own instrument of death dealing. Even Celeste had joined in the fun, although Connor was absolutely sure that by the pale look of her face, it was the last thing she’d call it, if she wasn’t liable to faint.

As the corridor went silent, footsteps belonging to a sole person could be heard. They were light, not the thunderous running one might have expected. Connor was empty and in the process of rectifying that and Tancred was doing the same. It fell to Alice to be the one having their sights trained on the doorway, finger itching to pull the trigger. Don’t even think twice, she told herself. Everyone else in their little clique had blown away targets now and she wasn’t the kind of woman that enjoyed being left out. Still, she was far from bloodthirsty. She’d witnessed death before ; before even their little operation with Avery. But she’d never been the active participant in that situation, instead always passively watching on from the sidelines. But as Aoife’s pleasant voice (which was better to hear now than it ever had been) rang out identifying herself she let out a breath of relief before she felt on the verge of regurgitating the contents of her last meal observing the scene before her.

Connor’s reply to Tancred’s question was a nigh on euphoric ”Never better.” that came across as sarcastic. Whether it was or not that was the case remained a mystery. Everyone in this group knew him well enough to get that he was a man of many different moods, but none, not even himself, knew whether murderous existed as one of them. And the opportunity to investigate further was lacking, even if any had wished to probe and dive down that particular rabbit hole, because the grin was wiped off his face when he noticed the fate of Fjelbrooke. The fact it didn’t stay there or transform into a smirk probably showcased enough that they'd feel at ease coming to the conclusion he wasn’t insane in the membrane.

“Didn’t even know her name.” muttered Alice remorsefully, fully aware that there was nothing that could be done for the wound in her forehead as she gently and softly waved her hand over the guards eyes, closing them as a sign of respect. She picked up the carbine Fjelbrooke had wielded, silently offering it to the others. It was no use to them leaving it here. In fact, if there was anything from the attackers that could help them, it would be worth taking that too for the time being, would it not?

[Brytene]

Castle Cimarron, Nortymba, Brytene
Interior, evening

The two former royals had done well, rising to the danger without faltering, although Alice in particular looked a little shellshocked even as she began looting the dead for weapons. Celeste, on the other hand, turned away and was elegantly sick in a corner. For all that many believed that, once lead started flying or fists started swinging they would discover their inner warrior, the truth was that most people found it soul-wrenching to kill another person. It was only the lucky few, or unlucky depending on your viewpoint, who were able to suppress that kind of trauma or let it wash over them.

As they began to recover from the carnage, George Harrison, the last surviving guard of Castle Cimarron, arrived, his face and hands sweaty. He had been manning the huge RAM Mjolnir anti-materiel rifle, but he had left that at its post on the eastern end of the castle, and had only a pistol at his hip.

"Sir, the intruders at the front gate are retreating from the hedge at Long Farm. I don't believe I killed any of them, I'd estimate only three of them were there making a lot of noise."

Tancred nodded curtly. "Look after Lady Canillac. Everyone follow me." Pausing a moment to squeeze Celeste's shoulder, he thundered down the stairs with the others in tow. Turning down a flight of winding stairs, they came out into the underground garage, the air chilly and damp. At one far end, the gentle roar of water hinted at the hidden dock, just large enough for a private yacht, but it was to a dark red pickup that Tancred led them.

Aoife had to laugh. "Of course. A Ram 1500, what else?". Tancred flashed a grin back as he yanked open the front seat. "Connor, up front with me, you're my spotter."

Aoife climbed into the bed of the truck, wanting free range with her long marksman rifle, and even before Alice could shut the rear door behind her the engine roared and the truck leaped forwards. They even gained air as they came up out of the entrance, screeching out across the causeway and ploughing off into the fields. Tancred steered them closer to the intruders' last reported location, cutting through an open gate which he was sure should have been left shut. Almost immediately he spotted the twin ruts left in the mud by another vehicle, and so he span the wheel around, slewing the truck to power in the tracks of the intruders. The huge engine roared and it took less than a minute for them to catch their first glimpse of the enemy, cresting one of the long moorland roads in the distance.

To the passengers it felt like the truck leaped from the muddy low ground onto the road, the rear end flailing wildly before the vehicle straightened and accelerated in pursuit of the white pickup ahead. More familiar with the twists and turns of the road, and with a better truck at his disposal, Tancred closed the gap in a matter of a couple of minutes, until they were within long shooting range. Aoife began firing, picking her shots even as a figure pushed open the rear cab window ahead of them and returned fire. One shot slammed into the front of the ram, putting out a headlight, and another scored along the roof, throwing Aoife back. She steadied herself in the bed and then tapped on window, holding up a shattered rifle.

Tancred glanced in the rear view mirror and then nodded, before putting his foot down. The truck surged forwards, and he shouted over the roar of the engine and the scream of the wind.
"Connor, Alice, it's on you. Blast their tyres out and I can run them down. I'll try to keep us steady!"

He bought the truck up to the rear right hand side of their target, spoiling the aim of the man shooting out of the rear window a little. He knew that the driver would be unable to fire, but Connor would be able to shoot through the sunroof and Alice had the best shot from her rear-left passenger seat. Even so, shots began hammering them as they approached.

[Allied Connurist States]

Somewhere near Castle Cimarron
Nortymba, Brytene

Connor placed the handgun he’d been using into a pocket of his, using it as a makeshift holster. It was lucky for him that he did in fact have large pockets else it would not have been within the realms of possibility, for in his hands he held the carbine. It was extra firepower ; something automatic that in the words of a sweaty teenager playing video games, one could spray and pray with. It was not going to be employed with precision.

Celeste’s plight was not going on ignored or unnoticed. Most people, when faced with either someone distraught or someone who had just puked, lacked the slightest clue what they could do to help, let alone a combination of both. The vast majority of words offered no consolation in these circumstances, and as the proverb went, actions spoke much louder. Alice endeavoured to be of some value by comforting her friend ; gently embracing her and offering to help clean herself up, before Harrison took over. The former Empress wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of taking off in pursuit of their attackers, who were now on the back foot, and a selfish little bit of her within wondered why they just didn’t leave things with the relevant authorities and didn’t tempt fate by keenly seeking out more opportunities to be riddled with bullets. Could they not identify who was responsible for this with the bodies left in the Castle, or with surveillance camera footage?

Alice wasn’t going to raise her voice and say it, but she believed it would be a better system if she stayed here with Celeste whilst the last guard went in her place - if further combat was possibly going to take place, he would be more useful. However, she found herself temporarily distracted as the powerful truck launched before she had the door fully closed and on a day where she had worse luck, she could have fallen out entirely. But several swearwords later she had it shut and had her seatbelt done, as the ride was rough as a badger’s arse. It allowed her to think once more, and then it hit her. If her and Connor’s identities hadn’t been compromised yet, then how would they move on from this day without that becoming the case?

She had been looking back and forth between Aoife in the back and the men (if she was going to commit the heinous thought crime of assuming gender) that they were hunting and briefly matching the pace of, and had genuinely recoiled in fear as Aoife had, for a split-second, given the impression that she’d been hit. Panic was prevented as she showed off her broken weapon, with a look that portrayed her as disappointed that she couldn’t keep up her fusillade.

Now it was their turn to take over, and hesitation could cost not only cost them their chance, but their lives. The couple knew from the expression of one another that they both had the same initial plan - draw fire away from the other and on to their self. “We do it together!” she shouted, above the howl of the audibly hefty powerplant of the vehicle. It was a compromise that needed to be taken, the only agreeable middle ground. She couldn’t let them target her husband first, if only because anything directed towards him ran the risk of killing or maiming Tancred, and at this speed, the subsequent crash resulting from such a hypothetical would yield dire consequences for them all, especially the Jarl of Dyflin.

She took a deep breath before counting up from one, taking command of co-ordinating when they would go and unload on the tyres. She held the better angle for completing such a task, but the carbine Connor clutched was arguably more suited to punching holes in the tread of the truck. As she yelled two, she was optimistic. An old saying was that you couldn’t kill what was already dead, and the occupants who they were going to pepper with bullets mustn’t have heard the official news over the past months.

”Three!”

Alice didn’t know what was kicking the sights of her gun upwards as she unleashed what she had, at what one hoped was a distance too close to miss. Was it the turbulent wind at this speed? Was it recoil? Was she instinctively unable to focus on handling the pistol properly as a hail of gunfire whizzed past her, so much so that she could promise that she could feel it skim her hair?

[Brytene]

Cimarron Road
Nortymba, Brytene

Sparks danced across the body of the truck as Connor and Alice opened fire. Tancred was struggling to keep the Ram steady as the two blazed away, when suddenly a figure emerged at the rear right window. Tancred had a split-second impression of a gun muzzle being shoved in his direction when one of the two Castarcians scored a lucky hit, puncturing the tyre of their target. The rubber quickly tore itself to pieces and the truck veered wildly as Tancred pumped his own brakes, dropping back a few metres as the enemy pickup swerved first right and then left, the nervous driver trying too hard to correct. With a clashing of metal, the truck toppled over, rolling along the hard surface of the road before crashing down the embankment into thick purple heather.

Tancred pulled the Ram up alongside smoothly and tumbled from the driver's seat, shotgun in hand as both he and Aoife pushed through the heather to the crumped car, which lay on its roof, wheels still spinning as smoke poured from either side of the bonnet. As Aoife leaned down to check for survivors, the snap of a pistol shot sent her springing back with a curse. Tancred stepped back and fired a single blast into the rear of the cab, producing a scream which ended in a sobbing gurgle. As Connor and Alice arrived to cover them, Tancred and Aoife yanked open the doors. Aoife's fist lashed out as one of the men in the car struggled against her, and then they were each dragging out a battered, limp form, tugging them up the embankment and away from the wreckage.

"Third fucker's dead," grunted Tancred by way of explanation. "You two need to get back to the village now. Head to the Ram's Horn, they'll set you up in a room for the moment. Keep out of sight of the regular police. Fuck, keep out of sight of everyone for now."

He slung them the keys to the Ram. In the distance, they could already hear sirens; the Gendarmerie were no doubt underway, as frightened residents of Cimarron had most likely put in calls reporting that someone was attacking the castle and that a helicopter had been shot down over the coast.

[Allied Connurist States]

Area of Cimarron
Nortymba, Brytene

Connor had just been about to switch his fire to the passenger who he could see in his peripheral vision preparing to return the favour he and Alice were doing to their truck, when their tyre was ruptured and burst spectacularly, the driver fighting a losing battle to counter-steer and retake control of his spinning vehicle which ultimately flipped, colliding off-road as bodywork snapped and twisted like a toy.

The two Castarcians covered Tancred and Aoife as they each pulled out a fucker each from the mangled remains of the pickup. There were questions stirring that yearned to be asked that hadn’t been when they had so been so blindly intent on following what they were told and not losing sight during their chase. Perhaps if they’d followed and tailed them, they would have been led to where they had came from in the first place, although equally they could have been taken into a trap crawling with more gun-toting fanatics. They kind of wanted to shove the barrels of their respective firearms down the throats of the survivors and learn who and what they had targeted and why. And then came the question of whether these people did or didn’t know who the Teorellsman’s really were, not that they could ask that.

Alice deftly caught the keys tossed in their direction, earning the right to drive by doing so. Tancred’s advice seemed contradictory but at least if they did things that way, he would know in what kind of situation they were in. Returning to the village and the Ram’s Horn in a muddy, bullet-scratched truck that was a headlight down was far from an incognito action and getting a room from there whilst simultaneously not letting anyone see them was a challenging task by the sound of it. What if the Gendarmerie saw fit to question the whole village?

They couldn’t wait around to ask their friend any of that, Alice turning the truck around and opening up the throttle on the empty roads as sirens were heard approaching. They were, at least, alive and uninjured and could not complain in the slightest about that. Connor flirted with the idea of briefly returning to the Castle if only to take a couple of their bits and pieces and half-seriously suggested ‘borrowing’ the not-so private yacht, but was content to accept his wife’s adamant point of view that they would do what they were told by the man who had been kind enough to host them so far. Worst case scenario, they would have to rely on the hope that the rural peoples of Nortymba weren’t quite brilliant at keeping up with foreign affairs nor noticing resemblances.

The effects of the fight or flight response they’d had in reaction to the threat to their survival was wearing off as they parked inconspicuously. The dirty paintwork was not going to be out of character in this part of the world, and when off, one would have to pay particular attention to see that one light was disabled and that the scratches weren’t originating from the odd bit of rough treatment or a set of keys. Getting a room proved to be far easier in practice and it went without a hitch - warm showers and a bottle of something stiff in part helping to nullify the sensations of shock that were setting in - but neither of the pair expected to sleep much, if it all tonight, passing the time until they either heard from Tancred or breakfast time came (whichever happened first) by quietly watching what felt like an entire series of Friends cuddled up on the end of the bed with pillows, cushions and blankets.

[Brytene]

BBC ONLINE

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BBC HOMEPAGE

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07.08.2016 | Pam Terpahl | Lundene


Following the reports of a failed Ultraconservative Crusaders terror attack on Castle Cimarron in the south of Nortymba, reports have surfaced that one of the intended victims of the attack was the supposedly-dead Emperor Connor of Castarcia. Photographs have emerged of individuals that some claim are in fact the deceased royal couple, who reportedly both died in a Pearsonville hospital last year. Conspiracy theorists are claiming that, contrary to the official story in which Alice died of anaphylactic shock and Connor committed suicide in response, the two were whisked away by Brytisc 'G-Men' and secreted in the seaside estate of Tancred of Cimarron, a reclusive but wealthy Brytisc landowner.

Is this Emperor Connor, back from the dead?

Neither the Brytisc nor Castarcian governments have yet to offer an official statement, but in the wake of the bloodshed that saw two private guards and eight terrorists killed late last week, a state inquest has been launched to discover the facts and find out just how and why such a heavily armed force of terrorists was able to descend on a seemingly unimportant little town which just happened to be hosting Jarl Aoife of Dyflin, Celeste Canillac and these two mystery guests.

If it turns out that the Emperor and Empress are in fact alive and well in Brytene, this could have a serious impact on the Castarican government, which is currently being ruled by an interrim emergency council following the supposed death of the head of state. It could also damage Brytisc-Castarcian relations, and raises serious questions about the involvement of the Brytisc government in the events of this spring.

Author: Pam Terpahl

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Comments 2456 | E-mail

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Comments:

By bluebastard - Just now

mfw r-dark have done it again

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77 Likes | 16 Dislikes

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By saucipearsonvillebbe - 1 mins Ago

wait what the hell the emperor is still alive why would he even fake his own death what the fuck idk if i'm happy or sad rite now

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110 Likes | 214 Dislikes

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By caneflutemanfanreloaded - 2 mins Ago

shine a darklight on that castle interior i swear 2 peppur you'd go blind

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502 Likes | 210 Dislikes

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Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytene

"Well what the tits, Arminius" snapped Cenwulf. "I thought you said they were safe?"
Arminius, head of R-DARK, ran a hand over his bald pate, his expression blank. "They were" he said in his gravelly voice, "but spending time in the company of our illustrious Jarl of Dyflin is apparently bad for your health."
Aoife leaned back, spreading her arms wide. "Well what the hell! How did those ultrafascist whatevers manage to land a damn chopper on Tancred's roof? Don't we have, I don't know, a fleet or something?"
Arminius shrugged. "That's unclear. It looks...as though the helicopter launched from the ocean. That obviously makes no sense, so as of now our thinking is probably a highly-funded foreign backer used some kind of stealth vessel to slip in unnoticed and deploy them. Which means some very rich, very nasty foreigners are out for your blood."
Aoife laughed. "Not the first time, not the last. But what's done is done. Our problem now is Castarcia. What the hell do we do about them?"
They all turned to Cenwulf, who glanced briefly at his Castarcian-born wife before taking a swig of mead from a huge horn, wiping his beard with the back of his hand before grimacing and staring into the middle distance.
"Piss all. We wait for them to make a statement."
He glanced at Arminius, his dark eyes full of thunder or something. Menacing, to say the least - are you quaking in your boots, reader?
"Hide the royal couple for now. Keep them safe, keep them healthy, keep them updated on the news and give them a direct line to me. The Castarcians will have to make a move soon, one way or another."

[Allied Connurist States]

Imperial Castarcian Palace
Pearsonville, Allied Castarcian States

The whole world was in a state of confusion. Few more so than those who had been in on this little game for well over a year. A select handful of people were at a loss as to how they had let the Imperial Couple slip through the net into Brytene. A man by the name of Reynolds, a one-time former Captain in the Imperial Guard, wondered how it had gone awry. Was it a random stroke of poor luck ; or had someone in Brytene sold them out and allowed the Crusaders to slip into Cimarron with their hardware?

However, in confusion there was profit ; in the midst of chaos, opportunity also arose. The particular kinds of opportunities available was the topic of discussion for several people here in this private room of the Palace, used as the seat of government. Mr Adam Whitfield was truthfully the ringleader of any and all plots that had ever existed against the Castarcian Monarchy, and held the second most powerful and influential position in this provisional government, behind the minister of foreign affairs, Alexander Winter, not here with him, for he was a loyalist. A loyalist who happened to be ahead of him in the preliminary polls.

Around the table with Whitfield, who was the leader of the opposition party in the Imperial Council, were the Minister of Homeland Security, a Mr Hans Schneiders, and several other key names in Castarcian politics, such as Miss Lansbury and Mr Odell, the latter of whom was more of a businessman, involved with the media and journalism.

“Have we managed to confirm whether there is any truth to the rumours?” questioned the ringleader. The answer was not quite yet. It was a work in progress, but it was a gut feeling that they’d been fucked over. Even now if the two really were dead, it was a shock to the system that it would be called into question and take time to truly confirm.

Whitfield was preparing to dole out instructions, most of which would echo the courses of action that had already likely been taken and set in motion before they had all been summoned. There was nothing wrong with reinforcing the right idea when one had to patiently wait. There were people working on exhumations and intelligence agents being assigned to everyone the last monarchs of Castarcia had spoken to or looked at, with a particular focus on the personnel who they had spent time with on the last day - the hospital, and the coroner, and the guard, as well as the Brytisc higher ups who had been mentioned in the news and those who would be aware of what was happening in their country if anything really was. He got this out of the way first, so that the orders were not held up from being distributed whilst they shifted their topic of discussion - there was an idea he wished to put forward, to see whether firstly it seemed workable or whether there was a better way of achieving the same goal, and secondly to see whether it had support amongst his closest inner circle.

They talked for a couple of hours, the only thing initially being agreed upon by the table was that the events of the past day had intensified the need to guarantee that they held every conceivable advantage in the upcoming election at the expense of the favourite, the loyalist Winter. It came down to whether they would try and beat him the legal way, or would risk being subversive against the established system. The latter was more likely to really minimise the risk of not winning, but was as a result also more likely to bring negative consequences if any single thing went wrong. Rigging votes ; threats and backing them up with various means, even straight-up murder. A plan to have a false flag bombing in which both their closest rival and a couple of their own expendable members could be taken care of proved popular, as it would be harder to pin on them if they suffered casualties to their cause. Instead it could be pinned on someone else - say the Brytisc if they were harbouring a not-so dead Emperor and Empress - which would even generate legitimate support for a right-wing party such as their own, providing the opportunity to promise security and swift justice for the ‘enemies of the state’. They had got to this position by abusing every rule, both in terms of legality and morality, so why should they stop here?

Equally though, why continue on? They did not wish to raise unwarranted suspicion and if they could walk a safe path from this point onwards, they would. It was a path they could veer from and escalate action from in the future, whereas it would become progressively more difficult to convince everyone you were on that path the longer you spent off of it.

There was already scandal enough. Enough people ready to question the motives of the Brytisc should the worst come to the worst - that was Connor and Alice being alive and well - and it was on distrust that larger things could be built from. From distrust, opposition and full-on dislike could grow and be nurtured, constructed into something that would help Whitfield become an attractive candidate, the man to fix the problem they would have. He scratched his chin, happy to settle with his fellow politicians, giving him the time and freedom to now start writing speeches for his campaign, ready to be unleashed before crowds, before newspapers, and inevitably broadcasted across the airwaves.

[Allied Connurist States]

Castarcian Broadcasting Corporation Newsroom
Pearsonville, Allied Castarcian States

The newsroom was in literal chaos. For barely over an hour now, breaking news had been broadcast to every screen in the country and beyond, of the revelation that their former monarchs weren’t actually dead. Now it was time for Adam Whitfield to deliver a dose of mostly pre-prepared rhetoric to the people, but he wished for it to be seen far and wide. Brytene especially. A stoical young lady alongside a rattled yet charming fellow were about to go live ; preparing notes and scripts and such as they sat together behind the presenter’s desk.

“Going live in ten…five…three, two, one…”

“Good Morning and welcome to a special CBC News broadcast with me, Anna Parkinson…”

“… And me, Henry Gibson. Live from here in the studio here in Castaris, we have none other than our own Conservative Party leader, Adam Whitfield, to add to our coverage concerning the earlier breaking news.” Despite his professional tone - not cheery like it would usually be on a morning on TV - there was a subtle lack of any positive description of the man that royalty (or anyone half decent, really) may have gotten in the past.

They were already cameras fixed on the form of Mr Whitfield, an upper middle aged man with neatly kempt hair. He was clean shaven, tall and stood in a fashion that seemed to exude authority, power and control. He would speak loud and clear, thinly disguising a faux layer of fury that could reveal itself once at the appropriate time in his talk. His serpentine eyes were fixated upon meeting the camera, staring with a mixture of contempt for his enemies yet also a lighter form of regret almost that this had ever happened ; being upset that things had devolved this far.

Now, a generous application of the truth was something he didn’t plan on administering to the electorate all that often, but most of what he had to say today, right here, right now, wouldn’t be made up. In fact, in a way that could be considered ironic, a reasonable man who lacked the extra knowledge that came from personal involvement in the clandestine backstabbings and such over the past year, would have much the same to say and reach the same conclusions, albeit via a much different route.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow citizens, and my fellow Atlassians.” he began, after getting the nod off-camera from Henry. “I, like many of you, have been surprised to learn of the true fate of our former leaders. The fact that the bodies this nation buried were not theirs would be shocking enough for most of us. But what is more shocking however, is that there are some people amongst us who are not surprised that our Emperor and Empress are indeed alive and well.”

He paused to take breath and re-straighten an already perfectly straight tie.

“Now, following confirmation from a classified intelligence source, I finally dare to say that it is not just a select few such as Jarl Aoife who knew of this so-called secret all along, but rather that the fact they were in Brytene is no coincidence at all. The Brytisc State must answer why it has been seriously involved in such subversion against their supposed ally, and for that purpose, Ambassador Freeman of the Castarcian Embassy in Lundene is arranging discussion with the Foreign Minister as I speak, and he knows as well as you or I do that one of two things has occurred. What I hope is that we have a misunderstanding which can be resolved amicably with the return of Connor and Alice to us. Because the alternative is that we are dealing with treason and betrayal on a scale that could destroy a friendship that has stood firm for over four centuries, since a treaty was drawn up on a drumhead on the battlefield…”

[Brytene]

Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytene

Ambassador Freeman had been invited to Castle Oakhall for a meeting with Ambassador-General Accrington, head of the Brytsic Foreign Office. The offices they met in were off to one side in the Pale Keep. Led through the ancient cobbled gateways and towering limestone walls of the castle, high above the city itself, the Ambassador had passed squads of silent Lantern Guards, their Chilokverian features impassive and yet hostile at the same time, their ornate armour and curious curved blades no less a threat than the wooden-stocked rifles and pistols held tightly in their grip.

Over the castle the flag of Brytene snapped in the wind, a chill autumn breeze arriving early to herald the onset of the changing seasons, as Freeman was led inside through winding corridors to a wood-panelled room with aging brown leather armchairs and a table topped with faded green leather. The walls were crowded with bookcases and on the table were a few binders and documents, as well as an ornate globe and a model of a ship in a bottle. Ambassador-General Accrington was a burly man, tending towards fat, with a red-blonde beard streaked with grey and lank hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore a pale brown suit jacket over a dark waistcoat and white shirt, with a tie to match, and he stood as Ambassador Freeman entered. "Welcome Ambassador, please sit."

An aide laid a tray of water, some fresh coffee and biscuits on the table before leaving, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. The window looked out into some inner courtyard, the sky already beginning to cloud over with the first hints of rain as the wind picked up, rattling the thick old windowpanes.

"So we have your Imperials," Accrington began, the moment the door was shut "and Whitfield wants them back. The problem is, they don't want to go back; they're here of their own free will. In his words, we could 'resolve this misunderstanding amicably' by returning the royal couple to Castarcia, but what happens if they refuse?'

Despite his tone, he knew he had laid a trap for Whitfield's ambassador. Either Castarcia had to declare Connor and Alice guilty of something which would thus justify rendition against their will, or Whitfield had to accept that the Imperials were simply 'holidaying' abroad of their own free will, leaving them beyond his grasp.

Elsewhere in the Castle
Cenwulf Teorell

Emperor Connor and Empress Alice were no doubt a little distressed by the state of their erstwhile host, but Cenwulf Teorell was well underway with his daily mead consumption and so his voice was booming a little louder, his gestures more expansive, his face a little flushed.

"And they want us to 'return' you! So I'll just have you packed up in crates and posted back to Whitfield so that he can lock you up or have you killed, eh? Not bloody likely!"

He took another swig of ale. The rest of the Witenagmot looked on, their expressions hard to read. Isolde and Elwyne looked a little concerned, whilst Aoife seemed supremely indifferent. Wulfrun One-Eye had a faint smile on his face, as though he wanted the Bretwalda to let his inhibitions slip, whilst Sir Arthur wore a thinly concealed look of exasperation. None interrupted though.

"The time has come, Emperor Connor of Castarcia. Whitfield knows he can't leave you roaming around like a loose bullock, so one way or another he'll try to get you back. Are you ready to spill blood for your throne?"

[Allied Connurist States]

Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytene

Ambassador Freeman was a man so familiar with the Brytisc capital city that the once implacable high walls of what could only be rightfully considered a governmental fortress made no impression on him. Most ambassadors in the foreign service had terms of only three or four years before returning to Castarcia or serving elsewhere, but Freeman had found himself here for what was rapidly approaching two decades. The opportunity had kept being repeatedly offered, and he wished not to needlessly uproot his wife and two daughters ; who had spent all of their educated lives in this country. The only thing that prevented them all from being naturalised citizens of Brytene itself was that being an employee of the Castarcian state would be complicated if his allegiance did not lie with Castarcia first and foremost. Regardless, the point was that the presence of the Lantern Guard and meeting Accrington was so familiar that it came close to crossing the border between ‘it’s an alright enough job’ and ‘this is so mundane I’m losing the will to live’.

He added milk and sugar to the coffee, giving it a test sip gingerly. Not the greatest cuppa of all time, but fine nonetheless. Ambassador Freeman was no crony of Whitfield, but there was only really one way this could go. Both the high-profile politician and Freeman knew it. He reached over to sample the biscuit, hoping they were the same lovely little things as last time and held it in his hand.

”I have been informed that upon flat-out refusal, we will have to take matters into our own hands. A ‘if you won’t give, we’ll take’ deal, more likely than not. The issue we have in Castarcia if the couple are here of their own free will is obvious to see, we think. Now, please do tell if the thought process is stupid, but I do not think you nor I, nor anyone else begins a harmless trip or visit by faking our deaths.”

He took a bite out of the biscuit, pleased to find it to his personal liking, whilst he waited for his counterpart to respond by either explaining why his superiors were foolish idiots or talk more about potential repercussions.

Elsewhere in Castle Oakhall
Perspective of the royal couple

Connor and Alice were touched by the sentiments and generosity of people like Cenwulf and Aoife. They had been grateful enough that they had been helped to escape their shitty situation and be hidden away in Nortymba, but there was a massive difference between that and be still willing to assist in a fight when the stakes were much higher, when they could get in so much trouble for it. It was no surprise that these people were good-natured at heart, but the Bretwalda to outright refuse to hand them over at this point was in a different league. Maybe it was the inebriation ; or maybe the Brytisc head of state really did plan on giving the greater good the longbowman salute. In theory, the best leaders should always put the benefit of their country before other things. It was unquestionably a much more sensible move for the Confederacy to give back two people so that they could have no (or at least much reduced) drama and no blood spilled.

If he simply were not a ruthless man, he might have thought about for several days before swinging one way or the other. This was different. Then again, this act need not to be completely inconceivable and astonishing. This was the epitome of why the Emperor and Empress had been glad to be rid of their duties ; it was bloody stressful and hard to separate what worked well for Castarcia and what worked for their own conscience. To see Cenwulf Teorell in the same light rammed it home that it was not a problem that had faced them exclusively.

”Only if the Witenagmot and the Thegn Rede sanction it.” he said loud and clear, trying to gauge the facial expressions and the body language of all those he could see. ”I refuse to drag the Confederacy of Brytene into our own mess unless they wish to voluntarily help us clean it up.” What he meant by mess was the man making demands for his return. He did not for a second wish to give ruling Castarcia another shot, but he had to at least commit to the removal of certain elements if the coming to blows was going to happen anyway.

You see, if Brytene didn’t send over Connor and Alice, the two were going to be labeled as treasonous no matter the truth. They might as well actually earn that description, as meaningless as it was if it were given by the men and women who had driven the sovereigns out in the first place.

[Brytene]

Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytene

”I have been informed that upon flat-out refusal, we will have to take matters into our own hands. A ‘if you won’t give, we’ll take’ deal, more likely than not. The issue we have in Castarcia if the couple are here of their own free will is obvious to see, we think. Now, please do tell if the thought process is stupid, but I do not think you nor I, nor anyone else begins a harmless trip or visit by faking our deaths.” replied the Castarcian ambassador, straight to the point. Accrington suppressed a smile; for all the man was a servant of a foreign government, his prolonged exposure to the Brytisc culture had obviously left its mark, although to be fair the Castarcians and Brytons were distant cousins in any case. Such similar cultures made excellent allies and terrible enemies.

Outwardly, he kept his expression neutral. "Mr Ambassador, I hardly think Castarcia is in a position to 'take' anything. What you are suggesting would be an act of blatant aggression against an age-old ally, and even if that were a sane course of action, you and I both know that it would devastate political support for Mr Whitfield's...government, whose political standing could already be described as tenuous."

What Accrington left unsaid was his fear of the more radical elements in his own government. A war was not something anyone on either side should want, but with the rise of the hard-left and the SocNat party in the last two years, he could foresee disaster were Castarcia to start making blatant demands or threats. The pride and, dare he say it, arrogance of the new nationalist bloc in Brytene could see harsh words lead to hasty action, and though he had a suspicion that the divided loyalties of the Castarcian population, combined with Brytene's martial experience and shameful bloodlust, would most likely lead to a victory for Emperor Connor and his supporters, the amount the two brother nations would bleed was far too high a price to pay. Besides, the vagaries of war were ever unpredictable - Brytene may have a slight edge now, but all it would take would be one clever Castarcian commander, one incompetent Brytisc blunderer, or a simple bad roll of the dice for things to go terribly, terribly wrong...

Elsewhere in Castle Oakhall
Perspective of the royal couple

”Only if the Witenagmot and the Thegn Rede sanction it.” replied the Emperor loud and clear, his voice still that of an Emperor despite his circumstances and despite the self-doubt his closest confidantes knew plagued him. ”I refuse to drag the Confederacy of Brytene into our own mess unless they wish to voluntarily help us clean it up.”

Aoife found herself once again impressed by the man's fortitude. Willing to march himself and his wife into the lion's den, unarmed and doomed, for the sake of a bunch of foreigners, when the drunken Bretwalda and rabid Eorl were ready to plunge the nation into war without a second thought. But Cenwulf shook his shaggy head even as Connor spoke. The scene struck Aoife as almost surreal; Cenwulf looked like a creature of a bygone era, tangled beard and thick furs, coarse skin lined by the sun and rain and wind, sat in his oaken throne like a chieftain of antiquity, whilst Connor stood in his sharp suit, bearing regal and grooming impeccable, a modern man of modern values. Truly, she thought, only those reluctant to rule were fitted to it.

"Your Majesty, I think you will find the Witenagmot are behind you. Castarcia is one of our firmest allies, and to have it ruled by the kind of reactionary filth who have replaced you is no good thing for my country. And I'll be damned if I let a little stain like Whitfield issue orders to the Confederacy!"

To everyone's surprise, Sir Arthur spoke, his voice clipped and precise, ringing in the large chamber.
"Unfortunately, the Bretwalda is correct. To bow to Whitfield's demands, and hand over two innocent people at gunpoint, is not a viable option. For the good of the state and its citizens, we cannot hand you over."

Cenwulf gestured at Arthur silently, his gaze seeking out the others as his expression said 'see, what did I say?'

Elwyne choked out a protest, but that was hardly surprising. Isolde paused a moment, then shrugged and nodded. One-Eye simply smiled a wolfish smile, and they all turned to Aoife, waiting for the final voice in the chamber. She was also the only veteran, the only one who had witnessed the horrors of combat, and visions of disaster and misery flickered across her mind even as she spoke, the figures of her two friends looming large beside her.

"Brytene cannot abandon her allies. We must back Connor and Alice, and if that means taking on Whitfield so be it."

[Allied Connurist States]

Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytene

It took a lot of Ambassador Freeman’s willpower to avoid what would have came across as a mildly exasperated sigh. He’d been dealing with people for far too long to let that kind of thing happened. It was rude, whether it showed nonchalance, irritation, or was even an innocent unintended way of punctuating the tangible silence in conversation. It was painfully apparent that differences were already irreconcilable even now, neither man representing their country looking like budging their position in the slightest, but government work called for dragging it out as long as humanly possible.

“Castarcia sees this differently to Brytene, perhaps. No matter how they got here, there was subversion on either the part of them or your part, maybe both. It is not my business to discuss that kind of thing. Your state wishes to support them, and they for whatever reason have neglected to follow proper procedure. As former heads of state, you can imagine the amount of classified information and secrets they could be aware of, which we would not wish to remain in seditious hands. Should Brytene be unwilling to return them, it is demonstrative of the fact that you value these two and what they know more than you value peace itself.”

The Ambassador was a little confused why Accrington called the Castarcian government as belonging to Whitfield. Yes, he had written and delivered the speech asking for their return. But if Brytene believed he had issued an ultimatum without the approval of the rest of the interim council or equally Mr Winter, then they were mistaken. It was an innocent mistake, he supposed. Not worthy of bringing up when the atmosphere was strained for starters.

“I do not think I suggest blatant aggression. It might be the first move made out of the shadows and in the public eye, but it is a measured and adequate response to all the things the Brytisc have done behind our backs first over the past months.”

Elsewhere in Castle Oakhall
Perspective of the royal couple

It looked as if the room was in complete unison, well except for Elwyne Hardrada, who found unsavoury looks cast towards him. Some clearly believed the man held his position out of protest voting against ‘the establishment’, the political equivalent of flipping the bird to ‘the man’, put in place to bring down and exploit ordinary working people. But here in the Castle, at least he had the ability to go against the status quo. That very right was one of the reasons all who surrounded him were ready to fight for in Castarcia.

Connor and Alice were feeling uneasy, but that was how they had been since that night in Cimarron and nothing was changing it, whatever decision the Witenagmot had come to, it would have been the same worry. They both held strong dislike for either course of action - they had to fight because it was right, they had to fight so that they were allowed to continue to love each other, they had to fight because they did not wish to be remembered as spineless, they had to fight because they had started doing so the moment a Crusader went down in a hail of bullets, but they couldn’t fight because they had already seen a Castarcian civil war once and no-one wished for it, they couldn’t fight because they themselves had given up any right to make any decision concerning the future of Castarcia the moment Captain Reynolds had made contact with R-DARK, they couldn’t fight because it would surely see all the good people they knew in Castarcia - friends, family, colleagues - dead or worse if they opposed Whitfield further. All this insecurity and fear hidden poorly behind constructed personas of well-dressed members of high society.

Connor’s eyes danced around the room, settling finally on Cenwulf, as if imploring him to explain what they all did now whilst envying his sufficiency of mead. Would a discussion be held in more private settings where the agenda consisted of planning the fighting itself? Would Fleet Command be left to convene in their own way and summon them or pass word on when the time came? Would the couple sit down and write a little (well, probably not) speech of their own for the ears of Brytene and Castarcia?

”Thank you… all of you.” he said quietly, which was more to do with polite formality as opposed to sincerity than he’d willingly let on.

Ancestral Home of House Powell
Barony of Castaris, Allied Castarcian States

“House Powell fought for the Castarcian Throne centuries ago, in the Whaler’s War and in 1703. House Powell will do so again once more in a heartbeat.” - Baron Sebastien Powell of Castaris, Allied Castarcian Civil War, 2008.

These words struck a chord with Baroness Lily Powell for a very good reason. In fact, she would be a massive liar if she told you it was not the defining memory she had of her late father, a man who of his own doing had personally organised the militia of the small city, a man who had been devastated to see it bear the brunt of an offensive, a man who never got to partake in the glorious recapture.

It was a tumultuous time where a decision between action and inaction could tip the scales at any time. The Baroness could tell the symptoms and diagnose that similar days were approaching, and she wished to be prepared. Those who would be at the top of her militia were already assembling - for if there was going to be armed clashes between ‘democracy’ as they called it, and the monarchist forces, the whole country assumed they knew where the allegiance of her House lay. And they were right, but even if she wished to say otherwise, they wouldn’t have let her have the opportunity.

Lily fiddled nervously with the little medal she had from years back in the last Castarcian conflict. The trick to this was only to let the opposition make the first move, and to prepare a response. That way, she had a moral high ground to fall back upon. Sooner or later, she expected a force of some description to try and apprehend her and her mother, and her two brothers, or worse, kill them, it was why she had a half a mind to have a rifle ready pointed out of each and every last window, covering all angles. In the end, the Baroness had elected to simply mount the head of a horse upon a spear, facing downwards towards where their front drive lay.

The weather acted as if it could sense the unrest gripping the island neighbours, the clouds becoming sullen, those who believed it to be animate guessing whether it too had worry or was merely an observer. Many a man and woman didn’t care for what they might have regarded in their own heads as superstitious codswallop, but to some it really was foreshadowing, a superficially minor happening or coincidence that was worthy prompt to say a little something to Thior or Schathi. It gave Lily uncanny confidence that now was far from her time to make a trip to Valholl, that she would see her friend Alice in the flesh in a time and place that was not so distant.

And on cue, a convoy began to encroach up the fine gravel roadway, not of black executive saloons and SUVs, but instead composed of a van, surely intended for the transport of expected arrested passengers, sandwiched between squad cars from the local police department. Should they not be let in willingly, they had their battering ram (affectionately known as the Big Red Key) and all manner of tools to force entry with their sham warrant.

Now, the Baroness had done some close reading of the law in her time. If the police had no reasonable suspicion that you were harbouring a criminal and no reason to believe that they needed to force entry to rescue life and limb, or that a crime was taking place, then they had no right to demand to be let in. Not that she planned on actually going through the justice system and challenging their authority in that fashion anyway, but from a moral standpoint, she reasoned that she had the right to defend herself from so-called lawmen and women if they broke the big door on her old expensive house and waltzed in with guns.

[Brytene]

Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytene

Accrington was about to reply, relieved beyond words that his counterpart seemed every bit as intent on playing the diplomatic game as he, when there was a hammering at the door. He caught his breath and closed his eyes, time seeming to stretch out as he understood instinctively what was about to happen, even if his waking mind did not.

Without waiting for a reply, the door was shoved open and figures crowded the doorway. Clad in modern armour but with ragged fur pelisses at their shoulders and strange talismans on their person, they were clearly minions of Wulfrun One-Eye, the religious fanatic who now governed all Anglaland as Eorl. From behind an impassive visor, one man spoke.

"Ambassador Freeman, by order of the Witenagmot you are commanded to leave this place immediately, and to leave Brytene by nightfall tomorrow."

Accrington stood, spluttering. "Hold on a minute, you can't j-"

The soldier turned, the visor staring eerily at the Brytisc diplomat, and his words trailed off. "These orders come from the Witenagmot direct. There is to be no talk with the government of traitors."

Accrington sucked his breath between his teeth, flustered at the damage the soldier was doing to any negotiations simply by the words he was saying, let alone the eviction order, but then it struck him. This was Wulfrun's doing - he wanted negotiations to fail.

"Ambassador, I er...I think it's best you leave." he said, before summoning some of his permanent security detail to make sure Freeman made it safely back to the Castarcian embassy. He had no idea how far Wulfrun would go in his quest to spark a conflict, but he was damned if he would let Freeman be the lit match that started it all. Foreigner though he may be, he was a good man.

CLASSIFIED
CLASSIFIED, Brytene

Centurion James "Truck" Salary was not impressed. Orders had filtered through that his team of Rangers, known as the 'Red Banner', were to be on 12-hour standby for foreign operations, but they had not been given any further information. Being halfway competent at their chosen profession, however, his team had quickly put the pieces together and realised this probably had something to do with the sudden reappearance of Emperor Connor and Empress Alice.

Beamfleot, whose ability in hand-to-hand combat was terrifying even to the other members of the squad, was waxing lyrical about the dangers that Whitfield's government posed to Castarcia. From his point of view, it was a conflict between Adfyr values and modern neoliberalism. Beamfleot was a deeply religious man and an enthusiastic convert of the Socialist Nationalist party. Truck was a far more reserved man, a career soldier who lived by the adage 'don't go being a twat now' and left it at about that, but he knew that Lutyanka, the best shot in the squad and a veteran of Stasnovan descent, was a Christian, and though she wasn't loud about it, the fiery nationalist and anti-Abrahamic attitudes espoused by some of the more extreme of the SocNat movement could hardly do anything except grate at her.

She kept her composure, however, seemingly absorbed in the baseball game on the big screen TV in the rec room, as Beamfleot sat at the table and chattered between mouthfuls of egg.

"I mean, the Castarcians are half Brytisc anyway. They worship the same Gods, and with Adfyr such a minority religion in the wider world it is our duty to help them. We need to bring the axe down on anyone who threatens our comrades across the waters, no matter who or what they are." he continued. Truck simply grunted in response, then pointedly turned up the volume on the TV. Beamfleot took the hint and stopped talking, concentrating on his dinner, but Lutyanka caught Truck's eye and slid him a grateful wink in the half darkness.

[Allied Connurist States]

Imperial Castarcian Palace
Pearsonville, Allied Castarcian States

The whole world was in a state of confusion. Few more so than those who had been in on this little game for well over a year. A select handful of people were at a loss as to how they had let the Imperial Couple slip through the net into Brytene. A man by the name of Reynolds, a one-time former Captain in the Imperial Guard, wondered how it had gone awry. Was it a random stroke of poor luck ; or had someone in Brytene sold them out and allowed the Crusaders to slip into Cimarron with their hardware?

However, in confusion there was profit ; in the midst of chaos, opportunity also arose. The particular kinds of opportunities available was the topic of discussion for several people here in this private room of the Palace, used as the seat of government. Mr Adam Whitfield was truthfully the ringleader of any and all plots that had ever existed against the Castarcian Monarchy, and held the second most powerful and influential position in this provisional government, behind the minister of foreign affairs, Alexander Winter, not here with him, for he was a loyalist. A loyalist who happened to be ahead of him in the preliminary polls.

Around the table with Whitfield, who was the leader of the opposition party in the Imperial Council, were the Minister of Homeland Security, a Mr Hans Schneiders, and several other key names in Castarcian politics, such as Miss Lansbury and Mr Odell, the latter of whom was more of a businessman, involved with the media and journalism.

“Have we managed to confirm whether there is any truth to the rumours?” questioned the ringleader. The answer was not quite yet. It was a work in progress, but it was a gut feeling that they’d been fucked over. Even now if the two really were dead, it was a shock to the system that it would be called into question and take time to truly confirm.

Whitfield was preparing to dole out instructions, most of which would echo the courses of action that had already likely been taken and set in motion before they had all been summoned. There was nothing wrong with reinforcing the right idea when one had to patiently wait. There were people working on exhumations and intelligence agents being assigned to everyone the last monarchs of Castarcia had spoken to or looked at, with a particular focus on the personnel who they had spent time with on the last day - the hospital, and the coroner, and the guard, as well as the Brytisc higher ups who had been mentioned in the news and those who would be aware of what was happening in their country if anything really was. He got this out of the way first, so that the orders were not held up from being distributed whilst they shifted their topic of discussion - there was an idea he wished to put forward, to see whether firstly it seemed workable or whether there was a better way of achieving the same goal, and secondly to see whether it had support amongst his closest inner circle.

They talked for a couple of hours, the only thing initially being agreed upon by the table was that the events of the past day had intensified the need to guarantee that they held every conceivable advantage in the upcoming election at the expense of the favourite, the loyalist Winter. It came down to whether they would try and beat him the legal way, or would risk being subversive against the established system. The latter was more likely to really minimise the risk of not winning, but was as a result also more likely to bring negative consequences if any single thing went wrong. Rigging votes ; threats and backing them up with various means, even straight-up murder. A plan to have a false flag bombing in which both their closest rival and a couple of their own expendable members could be taken care of proved popular, as it would be harder to pin on them if they suffered casualties to their cause. Instead it could be pinned on someone else - say the Brytisc if they were harbouring a not-so dead Emperor and Empress - which would even generate legitimate support for a right-wing party such as their own, providing the opportunity to promise security and swift justice for the ‘enemies of the state’. They had got to this position by abusing every rule, both in terms of legality and morality, so why should they stop here?

Equally though, why continue on? They did not wish to raise unwarranted suspicion and if they could walk a safe path from this point onwards, they would. It was a path they could veer from and escalate action from in the future, whereas it would become progressively more difficult to convince everyone you were on that path the longer you spent off of it.

There was already scandal enough. Enough people ready to question the motives of the Brytisc should the worst come to the worst - that was Connor and Alice being alive and well - and it was on distrust that larger things could be built from. From distrust, opposition and full-on dislike could grow and be nurtured, constructed into something that would help Whitfield become an attractive candidate, the man to fix the problem they would have. He scratched his chin, happy to settle with his fellow politicians, giving him the time and freedom to now start writing speeches for his campaign, ready to be unleashed before crowds, before newspapers, and inevitably broadcasted across the airwaves.

How much would these plans change, however, when (if?) Ambassador Freeman updated his superiors about the state of so-called negotiations? How would the other Castarcian notables make plans. The Emperor and Empress (who, still, to the entire world over, were not proven alive yet) were virtually assured to be making some broadcast of their own. And the High Command of the Castarcian military - well, it was a whole different kettle of fish.

[Brytene]

An apartment, opposite the Imperial Castarcian Palace
Pearsonville, Allied Castarcian States

Skeppare Rosa Beatriz leaned back in her chair and sipped a cup of French Vanilla which was already tepid. Grimacing, she set it down and squinted through the camera lens again. As a member of R-DARK, her work had taken her across the globe, but she had never expected to end up working out of the Brytisc embassy in Pearsonville. Well, not technically; the situation was so odd, and so extreme, that the CoS for Castarcia refused to even have staff operate out of the embassy for fear of detection. She, and the agents surreptitiously moved to Castarcia over the last few months, were using real old-school tactics, 70s and 80s level shit, because as a close ally Castarcia would have enough of an idea about modern Brytisc intelligence tactics to make them a threat.

So here she was, like some regular street detective, watching two of the entrances to the Imperial Palace from a chair set back in the shadows of a half-drawn window. A goddamn stakeout, of all things. The Chief of Station had received word that Whitfield would be having a gathering of advisers, and sure enough over the course of the day a handful of individuals had slipped in to the ornate building, one way or another. Some they had know about, but one or two were a surprise. Mr Odell, for example, was a known traitor, but Hans Schneider of Homeland Security? 'Holy fuckin' shit' was the phrase Beatriz had used as she spotted him quitting a blacked-out jeep to stroll nonchalantly in through the main gates.

She stretched, wincing at the pain in her shoulders after hunching for so long, before jotting a note down in her surprisingly elegant handwriting and then settled back in the chair. For a moment she let her eyes wander across the skyline of Pearsonville. Nice city, but she still had two days before she was due a break. Long time to go without a beer...

Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytisc Confederacy

Cenwulf and the royal couple were sat in the Bretwalda's solar, a tray with steaming hot drinks and biscuits having just been laid down on the table by a staff member who shut the door with a quiet click behind him as he left. For once Cenwulf was stone-cold sober, and his eyes sparkled with something almost like excitement as he took a sip of some strong Pepper coffee.

"Cat's out of the bag, I'm afraid. The media are already wild with speculation, but soon the Castarcian government is going to start making demands. Especially now that our charming One-Eye expelled your diplomat at the point of a bayonet, helpful as that was. If you're going to make a move, overt or covert, it has to be now."

He paused to help himself to a biscuit - a ginger snap - and then continued.

"Now we do have intelligence assets in the country. Not a lot, and not with huge amounts of firepower - we're not going to be able to stage a raid and kidnap Whitman, or anything like that, but Arminius tells me we've got a lot of sway in terms of targeted attacks, black flag, surveillance, espionage and the like. Surgical, I think is how he termed it. And since this coup is primarily motivated by greed, not by any kind of political or nationalist fanaticism, the military and intelligence services still have plenty of members mouthing off with openly loyalist sentiment. The bad news is that we've had confirmation that Hans Schneider is best of chums with your Mr Whitman. That means Homeland Security might well be compromised, or openly working for Whitman and his traitors."

Again he paused, before seemingly thinking better of a second biscuit and instead blowing on his coffee as he glanced out of the window. It was raining, but outside a platoon of Lantern Guard were drilling in the courtyard, yelling and flailing with an undeniable degree of martial fervour.

"So how would you like to proceed, Your Majesties?"

[Allied Connurist States]

Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytisc Confederacy

Whilst Alice quietly almost gave in to the temptation to curse out Hans under her breath, inwardly seething at the abusal of her trust that had taken place, Connor leant backwards and then forwards (but not over the deep blue sea). He hadn't gone to sleep for a couple of days, but he was not tired in the slightest - in fact, quite the opposite, full of energy, his mind processing information at supercomputer speeds, weighing up all possibilities and probabilities of consequences for whatever their side did. Whilst Cenwulf was in fact not under the influence of anything alcoholic, the Bretwalda's eyes sparkled similarly to those of the once-Emperor, and maybe, just maybe, Connor thought, he wasn't the only man in the room who was just a line short of having his pupils blown to the size of the moon and give away the fact that he was completely fucking wired. But that didn't matter. Castarcia was what mattered, and the fact that even two substance abusing, alcoholic young-ish adults who were overworked and had several screws loose were slightly more fit and competent to rule and quite a bit more nice and popular than current unelected politicians...

"If I can just quickly dispute something with you, my friend." he began. "Whilst I would agree with you that the primary motivator at the core of those who actually led such a coup would indeed be greed, the secondary motivator for them and what is in fact the main point of importance for their supporters is surely ideology. These people have seen a Castarcia that has suffered through much in recent years, and in their hearts and minds one that has suffered more than it has gained, in the name of liberalism and progressive values, one that has been active on the international stage. There is without a shadow of a doubt, a certain and notably sized demographic where discontent has potential to be exploited to great effect, who see the road to national recovery as one that is isolationist underneath an unyielding and strict regime that commands people to embrace the idea of collective good and collective strength in place of individual freedoms and personal hopes and dreams."

He paused to glance over the tray of biscuits, evaluating the merits of each individual one. Had he been holding an appropriate drink, the malted milk would have certainly triumphed, and after making the decision that he couldn't be bothered to try and choose between the custard cream and the Viennese sandwich, he took both and took the time to enjoy the taste of them whilst he let Cenwulf form his opinions on what he had said and take it in. The scene was enough to draw Alice out of reflecting on the Minister of Homeland Security and make her roll her eyes in that attractive way she did when she smiled wide and bright and suppressed a chuckle. Her husband looked back at her as if to question 'What?', as if he didn't care that he might not supposed to take more than one at a time in the high society of elites that they both masqueraded as naturally belonging to, that he was confident that in the presence of a friend like Cenwulf, that there was not even the slightest hint of being a bit naughty or deviant in such an act and that there should be no shame in it. He had a point, she supposed, the way that the Brytisc leader could messily gulp down mead like he was doing it at a competitive level - which in fact, if it did not exist, would be a good source of entertainment if it were to. It sounded so right and so quintessentially Brytisc if the national sport was to be about grown men with imposing beards and booming voices attempting to out-drink one another. A proper tradition of the part of the world that Castarcia and Brytene inhabited.

How to proceed and how exactly those words were intended to be interpreted to give a specific meaning was still something looming over the couple like a raincloud. There were two plausible ways to look at it and both of them made just as much sense as the other, seemed just as possible and as in-character for their friends and allies to put across. It was classic politeness that they had come to expect either way, firstly where they truly did wish to give such responsibility and freedom to them on the future of how both nations went forward on the topic, or secondly where it was an illusion where what he or she had to say actually wouldn't change how they approached the grand scheme of things but it was nice to feel like they were being included. Semantics was metaphorically a muddy bog where the two could be stuck for hours, both of them lovers of linguistics and all about how communications and interactions were constructed between parties, and it was a subject matter that the two had learned many years ago to automatically bypass lest it cause too much worry or indecision.

As far as the cultural history of Castarcia (and the history of their marriage) was concerned, it was fitting and typical that Alice held more sway when it came to being decisive and making a final choice. "Get the two of us live on air and let us address Brytene and Castarcia. Then we should hit them with everything we have, both covert and overt."

[Brytene]

Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytisc Confederacy

Sara Silva, BBC journalist and talkshow host, was incredibly nervous. Her participation in the upcoming event was to be limited, effectively, to a brief introductory speech, but still it was quite the monumental event.

One of the studies had been prepared with a Castarcian flag hung over the stone walls, wrought-iron lamps glowing either side of it. Lighting had been set up and a full camera crew with boom mike was ready and waiting for the royal couple. Everything was in place for the grand reveal, and they went live in five.

Sara smoothed down her blouse and almost jumped as the royal couple entered. They were young, and just as nonchalant as their reputation suggested, though their nerves were almost visible beneath a calm exterior.

She shook both their hands. "Your Highnesses, good morning and thank you for being here. May I say, I think I speak for all of us when I say we are excited to hear what you have to say, and we are all behind you."

A few moments later she moved in front of the camera, whilst the royals took their place by the flag. Her cameraman counted her in...

"Good morning Brytene. I am Sara Silva and this is a special broadcast by the BBC. Today we discuss Castarcia, our close allies. It is my great honour to introduce Emperor Connor of Castarcia, and his wife Empress Alice."

With that, the camera panned across to the royal couple for their address. Across Brytene and the free world, gasps were followed by a sudden silence....