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Daily life of Alithea [IC][Alithea members only]

A place to put national factbooks, embassy exchanges, and other information regarding the nations of the world. [In character]

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Empire of Donner land
Negotiator
 
Posts: 6355
Founded: Jun 28, 2015
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Empire of Donner land » Sun Jan 07, 2018 3:25 am

Waterport Bar, Soraught, Donner Land
12/25/2018



The Bar, or Tavern, or whatever one would call such a drinking hole full of merry contentment, was jam-packed full of Servicemembers on passes on both sides of the war that had abruptly ended only a few months ago. While neither side could barely and mostly not at all understand the other's language there was an unspoken understanding in the enlisted and officer alike between the Donnish and Coalition. The war was over, they weren't enemies anymore, it was time to party and be thankful they didn't die or remember those that did over a shot of whatever there was to drink (which to Coalition troopers, usually meant getting the aid of a Donnish Soldier or Civilian for whatever was the delicacy through broken English). They shared the establishment with each other and even drank with each other, some were lucky enough to get an Officer who could speak English or Donnish fluently and share a few war stories.

Not all on the Donnish side were content with this easy-going peace, especially in units with the most casualties from the conflict in Soraught and those who had family members taken by "collateral damage" in the initial invasion, and those who lost homes or other possessions that couldn't be replaced by money or insurance. Then the news came in that the Urranese had claimed Victory over a war that was barely fought between them. While the Coalition may have batted an eye on it or cheered a bit, those Donnish Soldiers that had lost much from the conflict were decidedly irked by the continued but slowly diminishing the presence of Coalition Troops in Soraught. Those that didn't care enough handwaved it away as a propaganda stunt and continued drinking with their peacetime army pals.

Those that didn't handwave it, felt a growing anger and frustration every time they saw an Esgonian waltzing down their street. And they clenched their fists when they saw a Portean Officer clumsily talking up a Donnish woman. Felt for rifles and pistols they no longer carried when they caught a glance of a Rattean flag patch on a uniform. Though most with anger didn't go straight to the want of murder, the thought did grab their attention. This was amplified by the fact that once the Civil War started, the coalition didn't help Keenes, they packed up and started leaving just as soon as they came and said they won.

The bar was in contrast to these negative thoughts. It was warm, filled with laughter and talking, in every seat, stool and table there were people talking, drinking and eating. There were photos on the walls of famous places in Soraught to go to, jerseys of Soccer teams that played in the city stadium and the pictures of leaders who had visited the bar. 2 were missing, Voy (reportedly "arrested" by a drunk Coalition Soldier) and Keenes (who had not yet gotten the chance to visit the bar). 2 Rangers from the 14th Ranger Light Cavalry Division, a Division that had received the brunt of the artillery bombardment on the westernmost Hill, sat in the corner in a booth. Between them was a newspaper, one of the headlines, "Urranese claim Victory in the War".

"A war that was barely started, they sat in this city for weeks during the war and they call that a fuckin' victory?" one of them exclaimed, a corporal. "I'd rather fight them all again than see that be published in a paper," he continued in Donnish. "Now they're sitting in our bar patting each other on the backs for a job well done... Bastards."

The other, a Private, eyed around as the Corporal spoke. They were on a pass given by their CO for a night in the town. They could drink, but not get drunk. His eye fell on the Esgonian flag belonging to what he assumed was a Seargent or something talking to a group of other Coalition members whom he couldn't nationally identify. He knew a little Esgonian (and knew it very poorly), mostly from the internet, he could hear a glimpse of their conversation. Whatever it was, it had agitated him enough to throw a glass over their head in a near miss.
Last edited by Empire of Donner land on Sun Jan 07, 2018 3:40 am, edited 1 time in total.
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The Collected Entries Of Me In A Nutshell
"Donner: A chill guy who has no chill" - Esgonia
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Second Helghan Empire
Minister
 
Posts: 3077
Founded: Jul 17, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby Second Helghan Empire » Sun Jan 07, 2018 4:00 am

Her elder brother slept, slumped over his desk. The man simply didn't know when to call it a night, so that was how she usually found him. Notes and results from tests scribbled neatly onto papers from the floor to the ceiling. His lab coat was draped over chair beside him and his tie hang from a desk lamp. In the cages to either side of his desk, animals stirred awake as Cesia entered the room. Most curled back up but Borri the chimpanzee cooed at her and stuck his hand out for breakfast. He was Cesia's favorite and she and Ronald had worked with him longer than any of the other animals. He was an amazing creature, so happy and cheerful, he could almost be a household pet. Ronald had warned her against growing too attached to the animals in his lab, but Borri seemed different from the rest, not just a test chimp.

After fishing an orange out of the box at the doorway and handing it over to Borri, Cesia carefully tapped Ronald on the shoulder. He was far older than her, but the two were closer than any of the rest of the royal family. Since an early age Ronald had let Cesia help around his projects, even if all she was doing was helping to keep the area tidy in the beginning. Now though, she was practically his protege, she studied advanced mathematics and medical journals, she tinkered alongside him with mechanical devices and other technology and it was all working toward the same goal.

Ronald and his closest followers called themselves Posthumanists. Something Cesia had once been a little afraid of it's connotation of wanting an end of humanity had made her wary of it. However as Ronald explained it, the only way forward was to evolve past the point of being human. After a while Cesia had begun to see his point of view more and more clearly. In her short life, the world had seen plagues, genocide, and endless pain. The only wait out was forward, and she believed that when Ronald achieved his ambitions the world would happily agree to support his cause to reach a better form of life.

The man shifted then lifted his head to yawn. Ronald grinned when he saw Cesia and jumped to his feet, causing the girl to nearly stumble in surprise. He had a while look in his eyes and it was rare that he smiled. Yet now as he grabbed her by the arm and tugged her along to the partition at the center of the room. Pulling the curtain aside and stepping through Cesia finally saw why he was so ecstatic. On the operating table before her was a simple cage, but inside the cage were three large mice. Each was deformed slightly, but the deformities were exactly why Ronald was so excited. The plastic and metal plates composing the backs of the lab rats skulls showed here all she needed to see.

"You did it?" She whispered. Hardly able to speak.

"Not fully of course but we have functional integration. Their brains have been repaired with electronics mimicking the brain's abilities." He was enthralled watching the mice do mundane things.

They were lethargic but still ate drank and sniffed around like a normal rat might. Cesia was astonished, surely it was a massive leap from a mouse to a man, but the possibilities suddenly came flowing into her head.

"Now what will you do?" She asked, she never truly expected they would get this far, just lay the ground work for someone in the far flung future.

"Now this!" Ronald shouted, turning to a nearby computer.

Typing in some commands the mice suddenly froze and sat straight. After a moment they lined up and stood up like raising their paws up like in prayer. He had control over them. Complete control. Cesia was stunned again, this was even more shocking, and suddenly a sinking pit formed in her stomach as the realization of what he was doing donned on her.

"You have control over them." She looked back and forth between him and the cage.

"Yes but that's not the point. The point is..." He was interrupted as first one then two of the rats began screeching loudly.

Ronald turned to his computer, hurriedly plugging in commands. His grin was gone and he was visibly worried. The rats screeched louder and louder, they ended their posing and two clawed at their heads drawing blood. The third scrambled away seemingly terrified of the others. Then almost as soon as it had begun the two rats ceased their screeching and twitched violently before going limp.

Hunched over his computer, Ronald rubbed his forehead before going back to reading through the results from the mice just prior to them dying. Without a word Cesia left. She was upset, not because of the dead mice, but of the thought of the future. As she went she could see the diagrams of chimpanzees on Ronald's desk and a glance at Borri was all it took to send her over the edge into tears as she fled the room.
Well now, that hibernation has gotten boring, daddy is back again.

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Kordland
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 43
Founded: Jan 15, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Kordland » Fri Jan 19, 2018 4:53 pm

Staff Sergeant Sven Olasz
Arrowhead, Militarsicherheitskommission(SK)
Brookhusen, Kordland


They say that every country has the right to survive. That every people deserves a home and that the ability to govern one’s own nation is an inalienable human right. Even the smallest ethnic minorities in other countries can claim to be oppressed by the fact that they don’t have their own homeland, and others from rich countries will flock to support them and make cases for them to gain independence. But that’s never applied to us. It hasn’t applied to us since the Ophric War left the country reeling, and the countries that defeated us decided that the nation of Greater Kordland would never exist. They decided, at that time, that Kordland was not a country that had the right to exist far into the future.

One island was enough for us, they claimed. They claimed that we were the bad ones for wanting to expand far to the south, into warmer lands that could produce enough food to keep the nation growing. To ensure that the nation will always exist, and that it won’t be brought to its knees by the hunger crises that plagued our earlier history in the medieval ages. Our population continues to grow and our island does not grow larger with it, but when we try to expand into Ophir, we become the villains of the world. Maybe because the nations of Ashai fear that their empires will be challenged, maybe because Reutoa feared that we would soon head east and challenge their own empire.

The Ophric War is something that could be forgotten. It was generations ago, with my main link to the war being my family’s history and how my great-grandfather was a Kordlandic tanker that survived the defeat. But that doesn’t mean that the effects of the war just went away, when it was ended. The foreign coalition that defeated us in the war also made sure that the minds behind the conflict wouldn’t rise again and continue the policy of expansion and imperialism. The banning of several political parties that followed the imperialist line also hurt the country in other areas, changing the landscape of the Kordlandic political scene dramatically and causing a shift away from the general policies that led us to prosperity in the first place, both domestically and abroad.

There’s some people I know, usually socialists and internationalists who believe that the foreign coalition has only helped us rather than hurt us, who think that I joined the SK because I hate Ratteans, Esgonians, and Reutoans. That I would only fight for the state paramilitary because I want to see our enemies burn. But that isn’t the case. I joined the SK not because I want to see the other nations put down, but because I want to see our own people rise again for the first time since the 1920s, unbound by the restrictions that endanger the very future of our nation. If the coalition nations have to be razed to the ground for that to happen, so be it. I consider it a necessary sacrifice to create our future and retake colonial land in Ophir that has been of mutual benefit to both ourselves and the people that live there. They didn’t want us out of their continent, after all. Not when we brought technology and order. The other powers were the ones who wanted us gone.

“Diamond One, this is Arrowhead One, radio check, over,” I say into the handheld radio as the truck pulls up down the street from the target building. The battle to reach restoration doesn’t just involve going to war in Ophir. The fight is also back home. Any group that will sabotage a potential military effort abroad is a threat for the SK to deal with, and the latest government is finally doing something about groups like these. This specific one is the Partisanenfront, otherwise known as the military wing of the Communist Party of Kordland.

During the Ophric war, their members sabotaged factories and hurt crucial military production. This time, the government isn’t going to give them the chance to do so. “Loud and clear, Arrowhead. We have eyes on the building already, you’re good to breach. Three combatants entered about ten minutes ago, armed. Make sure to watch for them when you enter. Came in with the pickup that’s in the driveway, probably guarding the target. You should have six or seven armed combatants in there, total. Over.”

“Roger. We’ll enter through the back and see if we can get the jump on them before they realize what’s going on. Over and out,” I say, and I climb out of the truck and adjust my rifle, turning the safety off and waving for the rest of the unit to follow me. There’s five of us in all, and the target that I spoke of is the head of the Partisanenfront, Nithard Schumacher. Our unit is handling the raid, but others have been staking out this office building for the past day, keeping a safe distance and reporting their findings. Now, it’s time to act on that, and decimate the enemy before war even begins.

Our unit approaches via a back alley, and our breacher, Arpad Fabian, sets a charge on the doorway before stepping back and detonating it, busting the lock and causing the back door to swing open. It makes noise, but there isn’t much way to approach this situation with complete stealth. I wave the others through. First Fabian, and then grenadier Robert Torok and specialist Madelon Klerx. I step inside, and the last member of our group, rifleman Justus Reynder, follows. The first paramilitary enemy that we’ve sighted so far runs around the corner of the hallway and spots us before Robert takes him down with a double tap shot to the chest. “Macdelon, Justus, clear the floor above us, the stairwell is right there. Everyone else, stick with me and we’ll see if our target is in the front of this building.”

“Yes sir,” nods Madelon, and the pair take off up the stairs and leave the other three of us in the hallway, where we’re still somewhat vulnerable to attack. The three of us move in a single file formation and enter the main room of the first floor, opening fire on the unsuspecting hostiles that were running full sprint towards the hallway to investigate the recent gunfire and breaching explosion. It’s the difference in training, that helps us. A professional soldier would never think of moving like that, but someone that’s a member of a paramilitary of dubious quality? It’s not surprising. We drop two more armed soldiers, probably the ones that entered via pickup.

“Clear,” Robert announces, and we can hear the sounds of gunfire coming from upstairs. There’s not much other than a lounge and a receptionary area up front on this floor, so our target must be on the second or third floors. Good for us, because it means that there’s less escape routes. After a second check of the first floor and the side rooms that are here, we’re sure that there’s nothing of value. Nothing other than information that has already been obtained through the reconnaissance and information warfare wing of the SK.

“Arrowhead One, this is Arrowhead Four. There were two more hostiles upstairs, both neutralized. We’ve looked around both floors from top to bottom and it looks like the man that we’re after isn’t in this location after all. We’ve been set up. Any further instructions? Over.” Madelon announced over the radio channel.

“Group up downstairs with the rest of the unit. Looks like Schumacher is more of a slippery fellow than we thought, but now that we’re in the Communist Party’s main office in Brookhusen, we might as well go about this a different way. We find enough evidence to charge him with terrorist activity, and he’s going to have a much harder time slipping out of our grasp.” I reply, with a sigh. “Diamond One, make sure to stay around and watch our backs. Tell us if anyone comes close to the building. We’re going to be here a bit longer than we intended, over and out.”

“You know,” I say to the others, once we’re all grouped up once again. “There’s not going to be any war for restoration in Ophir if we fail to behead the organization that crippled our production in the original Ophric War. I don’t know about any of you, but that restoration is the reason why I joined the SK… So let’s not cut corners doing our best to end this game of cat and mouse, eh? We’re probably sitting on enough evidence to have it over in weeks, if we can get through the task of combing through it all…”
Last edited by Kordland on Fri Jan 19, 2018 4:54 pm, edited 1 time in total.
K O R D L A N D
The artist known as Foresta. Member of #TeamEdgelords.

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Valefontaine
Envoy
 
Posts: 276
Founded: Dec 18, 2017
Democratic Socialists

Postby Valefontaine » Thu Feb 01, 2018 2:55 am

Image

HOME, SWEET HOME - SIDE A
State Apartment Bloc No. 418
Mieszko, Soren
Image Valefontene Democratic Republic
1/29/2018 - 7:20 AM VST

The National Economic Center is a large 5-building complex located in Mieszko, VDR. Completed in 1980, it is the tallest structure in Valefontaine, with the 1 NEC towering at 590.9 metres (1938.6 feet). It was designed by Jurek Oelberg, who implemented a hybrid of socialist realism and gothic modernism in his design of the NEC. Located in the Metropolitan District of Mieszko, it is the center for various companies, government institutions, and state-owned corporations. The NEC is also host to a subterranean mall and a transit center.
- WorldWideWiki


The past week had felt like a month for Bianka, who was struggling to cope with the loss of her best friend. Sigmund had been her childhood friend and second-in-command, and perhaps something more, had she been more honest with herself. He'd sacrificed himself to allow the rest of the squad to get to safety, bleeding out before they ever reached home. Bianka had issued her respects for him during the funeral several days prior, it was the least she could do.

Everything else in Aura had been like a fever dream to Bianka. The siege at the Esgonian consulate, the humanitarian mission, everything besides Sig felt distantly in the past. She'd earned medals, too, but it all felt worthless now. The regret of losing a third of her squad weighed heavily upon her even as she lay idly in bed, staring at her uPhone™[1]'s screen.

Who was Jet? The mysterious hacker had helped her, no — saved her life, back in Aura, and Bianka wondered who this person was. Was she still out there? These thoughts rest in the back of her head as she opened the Harmony™[2] app out of boredom. Instinctually, she opened the chatroom she frequented the most, TheInterstice. The chatroom had a long, complex history that dated back all the way to 2016. Many roleplays had happened there, but things had been rather slow ever since Bianka headed off for Azenyanistan almost a month ago.

The chatroom, however, had gained some momentum since Bianka's return, and it seemed things were returning to normal now that she was back. Bringing the phone closer, she began typing away.

b1ko - Today at 7:22 AM
I awaken
IronContact - Today at 7:22 AM
sup
Image
im using public wifi rn


Bianka had known IronContact, or Shannon Steelix, as she went by in real life, for almost four years now. She was the adopted daughter of a Rattean arms magnate. Shannon was, among this online circle, the crazy one. Apparently she was enlisted into the Rattean military as well, but such a factor did not dissuade her from pursuing personal studies regarding telomerase cells, and theories of hidden elements deep in Antarctica, where she'd been to multiple times at a younger age, due to her parents' employment.

She was, to say the least, an interesting fellow, and a very close friend of Bianka.

b1ko - Today at 7:23 AM
Are u homeless
IronContact - Today at 7:23 AM
no
im not home
lol


A user by the pseudonym of 'xans' started typing. Being another one of Bianka's close online friends, she had met him online a few years ago as well. Yoshirou Minami was your average Esgonian shut-in NEET, who spent most of his time in the chatroom either shitposting, complaining about his rather lonely life, or engaging in the roleplays currently active in the chatroom.

xans - Today at 7:23 AM
its 4 AM and i cant sleep
my body feels like its fucking shuttign down
IronContact - Today at 7:23 AM
3 AM for me rn
xans - Today at 7:23 AM
im so fuckig tired
and i cant fall asleep because of these fucking normies playing havana and despacito outside
oh hi biko
b1ko - Today at 7:24 AM
Image


Bianka's idle browsing of the chat was interrupted by a sudden phonecall. Checking who it was, it became apparent it was another one of her friends, Amelia Larenz. She, too, had known Sigmund and had likewise been affected by his passing. Being a childhood friend of Bianka's, and perhaps emotionally distraught by the loss moreso than Bianka, it would only be logical for the two to help one another in such a depressing time.

Bianka didn't hesitate to answer, bringing the phone to her ear. "What's up?" She asked.

"Hey Biko. Been thinking, uhh... you wanna head out for breakfast? There's this new place that just opened up at the NEC, it's called, uhh, like, Blancmange or something, it's an Entrecaseaux-themed place, they've got some nice stuff, and it's very, like, I don't know, exotic, uhh... colonial themed, or something. It's really nice. You in?"

"Sure. Let me just take a shower, I just woke up too." Bianka rubbed her eyes, sitting up to leave her bed and begin her day.

"Alright, cool. I'll be hanging around the NEC fountain, we'll meet up there. Peace."

"See you there."

Bianka ended the call, plugging her uPhone™ to allow it to charge while she went off to the bathroom, which was adjacent to her bedroom.

Removing her pink Vapor84™[3] pajamas, she began her typical pre-shower routine. Opening the medicine cabinet, she fetched a bottle of Lain™[4] Zero Oil™ Deep Pore Cleanser and applied it to her face, neck and shoulders. This was important, of course.

After doing so, she ventured off to her shower, putting on shampoo and turning the knob, letting the water come down and remove the cleanser. Now was time to exfoliate. Taking a bottle of LUMIERE™[5] Cleansing and Softening Almond and Honey Scrub, she applied it to her skin, for exception of the face — that demanded a product of its own.

Setting the bottle down once she'd washed off, Bianka moved onto facial care. She fetched a bottle of Lain™ PureScent™ Exfoliating Face Scrub, applying it to her face. Indeed, this routine was very precise and carefully constructed — after all, if one did not love themselves, what were they worth? The rest of the shower was the usual, but her routine was not yet complete.

Once she had finished the shower, Bianka looked to her Kasoměřič™[6] watch, which noted the time was 7:45.

"Good enough." She thought, walking over to the medicine cabinet again. Applying Autarch Scott™[7] Herb-Mint facial mask, she spent the next ten minutes checking her phone while she waited for it to dry off.

The rest of the post-shower routine was rather simple. Bianka applied Don™[8] For Women™ No Alcohol™ Moisturizer/After Shave Lotion 2-in-1™, to keep that youthful look about her. After a touch of LUMIERE™ anti-age eye cream, she concluded her routine with some Lain™ 24hour™ protective lotion.

Checking the watch again, she noted it was 8:01 AM. She left the bathroom, making haste to get dressed. Her closet was, often times, in a state of disarray. The usual. She picked up a pair of Tucci™[9] shorts, a Macrosse™[10] brand t-shirt, some non-designer brand undergarments, and got dressed. After applying some VINDICATOR™[11] brand perfume, and some LUMIERE™ brand deodorant, she took a moment to admire herself in the mirror, briefly returning to her bedroom to grab her uPhone™ to take a mirror picture, which she promptly uploaded to her Squawkr™[12]. Before she'd head out, of course, she took a moment to update her Capchat™[13] story with her new picture.

Such was the typical morning schedule for Bianka. Fetching her wallet, she made for the exit with her car keys about her.

The drive to downtown Mieszko was host to many fascinating sights, aside from the National Economic Center. As the Narek River ran through her district and the Metropolitan District, she crossed Stanislaus Bridge[14] to get across.

"...and in other news, the Klement Řezníček Bridge has been closed due to an alleged bomb threat..." The radio, which was tuned to 82.99 FM[15], was droning about with news between songs. Bianka glanced over to the bridge mentioned in the news report, which was just further down the river. Indeed, it was devoid of traffic. Looking back to the road, Bianka thought to herself. "The usual."

8:14 AM


Passing by a few army patrols, she finally found herself at the NEC. The three towers were even more amazing up close, she had to admit. She parked her Brabant 611™ and stepped out, looking up at the towering structure before her before she continued her walk, passing by the "PEACE ON AUSOZERA" sign as she made for the fountain, which depicted the world of Ausozera on its golden, spherical surface.

"Hey Biko!" Amelia got up from one of the benches beside the fountain, walking over. "Don't worry, I only got here like, ten minutes ago. I got stuck in traffic because the other bridge closed!"

"Yeah, I heard about that. Apparently someone called in a bomb threat at the Klement Řezníček Bridge... saw lots of military around here, too." Bianka shrugged. "I miss something happening while I was gone?" Bianka tilted her head, confused at all that'd been going on during her drive.

"Oh, the usual stuff... I don't know either!" Amelia shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it..." Amelia tried not to put Bianka on edge, because she assumed that a soldier like her had seen some pretty fucked up shit. "C'mon, let's go! I'm getting hungry. I'll show you where this new place is!" She headed for the entrance of 2 NEC, gesturing Bianka to follow.

"So, what have you been up to lately, y'know, this past month?" Bianka asked as they walked through the 2 NEC lobby floor, making for an elevator.

"Got a new job at Miderkont. I work at their office, way up on the 75th floor of 1 NEC." Amelia smiled. "That's how I found out about this new place so quick. Apparently it's real good." She pressed the button numbered '45' on the elevator's control panel, patiently waiting for the elevator to rise. Generic elevator music played along as they ascended to the 45th floor.

"Ah. How's Sandra been holding up?" Bianka raised an eyebrow, thinking to how another one of their friends were doing after Sigmund's passing.

"I'd be lying if I said she was doing fine." Amelia sighed, shaking her head. "It's got her pretty down, but she'll come through. We all will."

"For sure." Bianka nodded in agreement. The rest of the elevator trip was quiet, the two clearly saddened by memories of bygone days they'd never get back. Finally, the ding of the elevator sounded out, followed by an automated male voice stating they were now on the forty-fifth floor. This floor seemed to resemble a mall moreso than something Bianka would expect on a highrise.

Past shops, artificial gardens and neon-lit discotheques, they found the Blancmange. Its entrance was flanked by two palm trees bathed in pink neon light from above, and its design very much resembled the exotic architecture of a Pakirani castle or keep, with ornate calligraphy decorating the walls. Despite this, however, it also emanated an Entrecaseuxian colonial vibe. It was, for a first impression, a splendid sight to Bianka. As they entered, Bianka noticed a security camera, which made her wonder if Jet was still out there...

Upon entering, they were assigned a seat and given copies of the menu. The seat in question was right by the windows, granting them a beautiful view of the Mieszko cityscape below.

"Say, Biko... you remember that game you bought me like, a few months ago? Wargame: Western Silence?" Amelia questioned.

"Yeah, whataboutit?" Bianka looked back to her friend, curious where this was going.

"You know how to, like, make mods for it, right?" She asked. "You said you made a mod for some online friends of yours, or something."

"Uh, yeah. I'm pretty good at it, I'd say." Bianka nodded. "Why, you interested or something?"

"Yes, actually!" Amelia nodded. "I've been working on a mod in my spare time, like, a realism mod, and umm... I was wondering if you wanted to collab on it, you know what I mean?"

"Sure." Bianka agreed. "After this hectic month, I just want to get back to doing the things I used to do."

Eventually, the waiter came to take their orders, which they promptly placed. As the two waited idly, watching the bustling Mieszko cityscape below, a song[16] came on the radio.

"You ever listen to ピンクの海PINK OCEAN?[17] This is one of my favorite tracks." Amelia looked back to Bianka, after taking some time to admire the city.

"Yeah, sometimes." Bianka grinned. Amelia was oblivious to Bianka's various online projects, as Bianka tended to keep to herself in that regard. "I'm really looking forward to her next album."

"Didn't know she's a girl. I also never knew if, like, the tracks and vocals were original or sampled." Amelia gave a shrug.

"A lot of people use samples, but she rarely does. Most of the vocals, beats, everything, is done by her." Bianka explained.

"I see." Amelia replied. "You sure know a lot about her music..."

"Could say it's a bit of a hobby to me." Bianka laughed, before taking a glance across the diner. The waiter was returning with their breakfast. In no time, their breakfast was sitting before them on the marble table, and the sight of brioche toast and vanilla ice-cream was particularly hard to resist for Bianka.
10:22 AM

After their breakfast, Bianka and Amelia had gone shopping for clothes, taken a few selfies at the roof of the NEC, and had made their way back to the lobby of 2 NEC.

"That was great, Biko!" Amelia carried her Tucci™ shopping bags with her, clearly more than satisfied with her purchases. "We should totally do this again sometime."

"No problem!" Bianka turned around to her friend, smiling. "Maybe next time, Sandra can come along." She proposed.

"Of course! We all need to spend more time together... make up for lost time, you know?"

Image

HOME, SWEET HOME - SIDE B
State Apartment Bloc No. 418
Mieszko, Soren
Image Valefontene Democratic Republic
1/30/2018 - 2:30 AM VST

As above, so below.
- Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus


"I'm up a bit too late..." Bianka rubbed her eyes, sitting back as she played around with the Wargame: Western Silence SDK[18]. While normally she'd be sleeping much earlier, she needed to deal with a bug that kept cropping up. The annoying 'bloop' of a Harmony™ message jolted her to attention, bringing her to slide her mouse cursor over to the Harmony™ icon on the taskbar.

It was a private message, from someone she knew all too well...

j3t - Today at 2:31 AM
i have a request
b1ko - Today at 2:31 AM
Is this who I think it is
j3t - Today at 2:31 AM
of course
you remember aura
do you not
b1ko - Today at 2:31 AM
Why am I so important to u tho
j3t - Today at 2:32 AM
sheer coincidence
i can help you and you can help me
b1ko - Today at 2:32 AM
Look
I'm thankful for what u did for me back there , but ur giving me bad vibes rn
j3t - Today at 2:32 AM
something bad is going to happen in mieszko
it can be stopped if you help
if it happens
theres going to be soldiers in the streets
martial law
mass surveillance
you may find it hard to believe
but i was correct last time, wasn't i?
b1ko - Today at 2:33 AM
What do u need
j3t - Today at 2:33 AM
i need you to go to the NEC
and connect to the wifi there
before february 10
i require i be uploaded to the NEC


"What an odd request..." Bianka thought. She'd heard of 'ghosts' on the Internet, but it was just an urban legend. Rogue AIs capable of perfectly mimicking a human online, existing only in the digital world. Could this be the case? For one, it was doubtful such a thing had ever been achieved, and it would've made big news if it ever did. Bianka quickly found the idea to be a preposterous one.

b1ko - Today at 2:34 AM
That's it?
j3t - Today at 2:34 AM
ye


Once again, the enigmatic girl had gone offline yet again, leaving Bianka with more questions than answers. Unlike Aura, however, she had her computer right here, and perhaps it was a good time to begin researching...

"Jet... what a strange name." Bianka started her search by looking up the name itself. It quickly dawned on her that this was an ambiguous Ygarthene given name, which could be either male or female. This piqued her curiosity.

Secondly, her Harmony™ profile picture. It certainly looked dated, but it certainly looked like Jet, when she had appeared on the telescreen to Bianka back in Aura. She decided to run Jet's profile picture through a reverse image search program... and boy, was the surprise immediate. A thread on a certain Esgonian messageboard[19], to be specific...

File: image.jpg-(86 KB, 264x282)
Anonymous User (ID: 4411wON) 4/11/2017(Fri)09:47:11 UTC No. 92843921
Is Project Millennium real? Why does pic related keep cropping up in Project Millennium threads?


Much of the replies were shitposts, plain old kooks or memes, but eventually Bianka did find something of substance.

Anonymous User (ID: 9a82InI) 4/12/2017(Fri)02:21:37 UTC No. 92843921
Don't listen to the others, they're full of shit.
THE QUICK RUNDOWN:
Jet Magnotta (1974-1997?) was a Ygarthene-born intern at VEB KompuKorp (Now Copeland SystemCorp, the assholes rolling IPv7 next year). She was assigned to KompuKorp DCL (Digital Consciousness Laboratory) in May of 1995. Her last post, in June 1997, to her now-defunct blog, show her intent to publish the "Henosis Papers" sometime in the next few months. This, of course, never happened. Excerpt here:

"so fucking done with this place, i swear to god. they're watching everythin;g we fucking do. but they don't know that i know about what they're up to. BCIs, all that. i suppose it's only natural for someone like myself to know; after all, they put me in charge of programming all that shit. it's so obvious they're trying to fucking hide something. there's little notes and mentions scattered in the files they give me to work with, of a place called the "white annex" beneath the NEC. that's where they run actual experiments on PEOPLE, trying to upload their consciousness. isn't that supposed to be fucking illegal? thhere's even leftover 'upload logs' people have actually fucking gotten permanent brain damage, even DIED, from failed attempts, and yet i never see this mentioned anywhere. how the fuck is this being kept under wraps? i'm going to change that. data dump coming next week. if it ain't, y'all know who got to me!!! FUCK THIS SHIT"


Bianka rubbed her eyes, tired from all this. Could someone be impersonating this dead person? Yet she'd heard Jet's voice before on the phone, when she was in Aura. Certainly something was amiss here, but Bianka was too exhausted to properly think. Not bothering to shut off her PC, she simply left her desk and threw herself on the bed, quickly drifting away to sleep.

7:34 AM


Bianka slowly lifted herself out of bed, still evidently quite exhausted from having slept so little. Glancing around the room, she immediately noticed the paper resting at her bedside.

"Someone entered my apartment while I was asleep..." Bianka nervously reached for the paper, turning it around to read its contents.

Szt. Bianka Ziekowski,
It's Kaczka. Arrogant MvH agent you met in Aura? Me.
I'm writing you this because electronic methods would be... compromising. I've been monitoring your browsing history ever since Aura, and you might be onto something about this hacker. I was aware of it in Aura, I am aware of it now. I'd like to talk to you about this matter at 8 PM, tonight, outside the Miderkont Building at the Metropolitan District. To say the least, the truth is stranger than fiction.
—R. Kaczka


"My browsing history... oh well." Bianka sighed at the mention that he'd been monitoring her web history for the past week, but at least this could get her somewhere on this dilemma about Jet. Was some conspiracy at hand here? Believing something on the Internet was rather difficult, but if she'd found something that got the attention of a federal agent, perhaps something was indeed at play...
CONTEXT NOTES
[1] - uPhone™ - Brand of smartphones produced in the VDR.
[2] - Harmony™ - Discord-like chat application. Very useful for international online groups due to its innovative automatic translation services.
[3] - Vapor84™ - Vaporwave-themed clothing brand from the VDR.
[4] - Lain™ - Skin care brand named after a renown beauty model and entrepreneur.
[5] - LUMIERE™ - A similarly famous, and expensive, skin care brand.
[6] - Kasoměřič™ - Popular watchmaker company in the VDR.
[7] - Autarch Scott™ - Skin-care brand named after the Vanquarian leader.
[8] - Don™ - Luxury skin care product line.
[9] - Tucci™ - Named after its founder, Enrico Tucci, Tucci™ is one of the most sought-after fashion statements one can wear in the VDR.
[10] - Macrosse™ - A high-end clothing retailer in the VDR.
[11] - VINDICATOR™ - Rather expensive perfume brand.
[12] - Squawkr™ - Twitter-like microblogging service in the VDR.
[13] - Capchat™ - SnapChat-like social media platform.
[14] - Stanislaus Bridge - Built in the 1890s, the Stanislaus Bridge is a renown landmark in Mieszko.
[15] - 82.99 FM - A vaporwave-themed radio station active in most of the VDR.
[16] - Future Funk is markedly popular in the VDR, and is among one of the first 'mainstream' genres to owe its origins to the Internet.
[17] - ピンクの海PINK OCEAN - Bianka, during her tenure in college, made several Future Funk and Vaporwave albums under the pseudonym ピンクの海PINK OCEAN.
[18] - Wargame: Western Silence SDK - The modding tools for Wargame: Western Silence are quite complex. Considering a good deal of the files aren't even in Valefontene, it also takes a good memory to remember what incomprehensible English-speak is what.
[19] - a certain Esgonian messageboard - 1ku has a significant amount of Valefontene users, surprisingly.
[footnote] - Most of the context preceding this lies in the Fall of Azenyanistan thread.
Too many old nations to count. NS user since 2013.
"War is the continuation of politics by other means."

only difference between a negotiation and a battle are the rules of engagement
both are fundamentally based on maneuver
put that in your quote book
-The Enclave Government
-Carl von Clausewitz

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Nauchrtenfield
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Postby Nauchrtenfield » Fri Feb 23, 2018 2:37 pm

The date and time, September eleventh, 2017, 0532 hours
The place,Seat B91 in a large aircraft. In the air above Abula International Airport, Abula, UoAE

In this seat sat a young lady, a mere 18 years old. Agnes Gustavsson was her name. A Nauchrten citizen, and not more then twenty-four days ago, a active servicewoman in Skaraborgs Regiment, 41st Armoured Battalion, Wilska Company. She had completed her two years of national service as a Team-leader, having commanded four other soldiers as a corporal for the past year and a half. Now she was to go back into the school bench, starting High School. Most of her friends had already done so. In Nauchrtenfield you where dismissed on the Friday, allowed to stay on the base for the weekend if you so wanted, and then started Gymnasium, as it was called, on the following Monday. But not her, for she was taking part in the Unions student exchange program, and was going to attend a school in Abula.

The thought struck her that technically Nauchrtenfield wasn't a member of the union, but it was still allowed to partake in Union programs. It was a interesting thing, her nation was mostly neutral when it came to alliances and unions, having in recent memory only been involved in the short lived New Conglomerate, and now, helping form some new kind of international governing/advising body. But it was on friendly terms with most nations, so it carried a lot of unofficial memberships. Agnes for one thought this was good, this meant they could pick there fights, for when it mattered, and not be used by other nations. She thought of the alliance between her home nation and Stier, and thought that it was different Stier was like a brother nation. They had been at wars in the past, but now they where ready to die and bleed for one another, trusted friend and family.

Her thoughts, and her head resting firmly on the window of the plane where interrupted by a short signal, followed the captains calm professional tones coming thru the intercom system. "Good Morning Passengers. Current time is oh-five hundred thirty two hours local. We are starting final approach to Abula International Airport. Please fasten yourselves, turn off all electronics. We are not expecting any turbulence on landing. We are currently 43 minutes ahead of schedule. Local weather climate and forecast are indicating mils weather, with risk of light rain. I, and my crew want to thank you for flying with the Nauchrten State Airtravel Company. We hope you have had a pleasant travel with us. Again, we are on final approach. Please fasten yourselves, and turn off all electronics. Finally we wish you a pleasant morning and a continued good day. Cabin crew, landing stations." it bleared out. Everyone had been awoken by the cabin crew a hour before, and most had already done the preparations.

Agnes raised her head, and bent it sharply, a satisfying row of crackling came from her neck as she did, and she imminently felt more awake. She gave her uniform a quick look over, and removed a few strands of hair from her white dress shirt. She was wearing as tradition dictates, the dress uniform of the army she had served in. Black pants, white dress shirt and a regal-blue tie. white or black thin leather gloves depending on circumstance, right now she wore the black one. On her feet leather boots that reached up to her knees, polished to a intense and incredible shine. All cover by a doublebrested coat that reached down to her ankles, but for now it rested in her lap.

She felt a bump as the tiers of the large plane hit the ground, and it started to slow down rapidly, taxing into the gate. She gave one last glance out the window, seeing ground crew driving up the plane to start unloading. She rose up and followed the flow of passengers as they left the aircraft. For the first time in her life, she was outside of her own continent, and outside of either her homeland, or stier. She produced a folded map of the airport form her pocket, first step was going thru the declaration process. so she walked towards baggage arrival.

It was a busy airport, even at this early hour, it was full of people, staff and passengers moving like a confused anthill. Agnes looked for a moment at the legs of everyone that was walked past her, and was amazed. So many styles, so many paces, and so many ways of walking. She had never seen, or really reflected over how many ways of walking there where. Back home she had been drilled to walk at 120bpm for the most part, and for the most part, everyone kept that pace after national service, it was just natural. Not so much here. Or maybe it was just that she came from a small town. For she was a small town girl now lost in a concrete jungle.

She moved up to the border guard officer, having retrived her backpack, and duffleback. the military green color in contrast to the black she wore. The older man behind the glass eyed her a few times. Not sure what to make of this young lady, tall, fit with shoulder long silver white hair, and ocean blue eyes. Covered head to toe in black. "Anything to declare, madame?" the officer asked

Agnes responded in a matter of fact tone "Yes sir, One bladed weapon. Assorted foodstuffs. Here are the paperwork from Nauchrten Customs" she said, reaching into her inner coatpocket she pulled out several papers that she handed to the officer. He took the papers and spoke "Number and Nauchten ID?". "one-nine-nine-oh-nine-two-fiver-dash-nine-eight-fiver-two" Agnes responded as she handed him her passport. The officer looked at them and the paper he had been given before. He looked them thru, and started hammering away at his computer terminal keyboard.

"Let's pass your package through x-ray. place it on the line please" he said. Agnes did not reply, but simply executed the order. when she had done, she returned to standing at ease, to the mans surprise as he looked at her oddly. He looked again at his terminal, and nodded. "Everything is fine. You are being expected in hall Delta. Welcome to the Union" he said, pressing the button to let her thru. Anges moved her feet towards each other and snapped to attention, creating a small colping sound. "Thank you sir" she said, before marching thru the gate, the cloping sound following her Clop, clop, clop, clop 120 clops per minute

she attached the dufflebag to the underside of her combat backpack and slung it back onto her back, it was heavy, yes, but she was used to marching like this for long times. She looked at her map again and started walking, she had some ground to cover before reaching hall Delta, so she took a deep breath, steadying herself for this unknown to come, and marched off




Off into hall delta, a walk that took some time. But by the time she arrived she saw a man standing in the hall, holding a sign with her name. She walked towards him, and he fixed his eyes on her, she did stand out afterall. She walked up, ending her march by stopping on her left foot, creating a louder sound. Agnes snapped to a salute, and the man returned it. For in Nauchrtenfield one did not shake hands as a greeting, instead the salute served this purpose. A side effect of the martial society.

"Welcome to the Union, Agnes, i am Karl Petersson, of the International School-Collegia Programme. Ill take you to your new school. I think you have already been briefed on the details, so i need not reiterate them?" the man asked. Agnes lowerd her salute and moved into a at ease stance "Greetings Karl, and no, i have no questions. We can depart at your will" she responded. Karl nodded and smiled "It's been a few years since i meet anyone fresh out of NS, glad to see they arent slacking off. This way then, follow me" he said, before turning around and walked off.

As they walked Agnes could not help by see that his About face, and the march he was walking, where sloppy, like they had degraded over time. She was not sure if it was because the man had lived and worked abroad, or if he was just a lazy soldier. But it seemed almost comical to her, it was like someone was doing a bad fake.

They reached a light orange colored sedan car. Agnes walked to the back of it and quickly unloaded her pack into it. Before walking to the front and taking a seat in the passenger seat of the Feuer brand car. Karl pressed the start button, and slowly and silently the car left the massive parking space next to the airport, off into the city, and towards her new home.


It was a short twenty minute drive, before they passed a sign that read out "Our Lady Of the Eternal Flame". The name of the school she where to attend, and from now on, her new home. THe car stopped, and Karl looked at Agnes, "Want me to help carry your bags?" he asked. Agnes shook her head "No, thank you, ill be fine on my own" she responded, and exited the car, retrieving her pack and putting it back on her back, she adjusted her hat slightly before starting the march towards the doors of the school. As she walked up the gravel road, she saw a statue of a woman holding a brazier with a flame. Agnes thought it was weird to have a statue like that outside of the school, and the name to seemed more at home at a church for some cult. For just a split second her heard was filled with fear for what she had gotten herself into, but she keept walking.

She entered the building and walked to the receptionist. Ending her march with a stomp on the left foot, snapping to attention she declared herself percent "Nauchrten Exchange student Gustavsson Agnes, one-nine-nine-oh-nine-two-fiver-dash-nine-eight-fiver-two. Reporting present and able." she said. This was the first day of the rest of her life, again a civilian, and a student.
Last edited by Nauchrtenfield on Fri Feb 23, 2018 2:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Nauchrtenfield
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Ex-Nation

Postby Nauchrtenfield » Thu Mar 15, 2018 2:44 am

The State Watchdogs

The year of our lord is nineteen-ten. The nation we find ourselves in is Nauchrtenfield, a nation split half of it on the continent of Helsa, the other on Aurelius is to the West. Ruled from a Island in between, above the strait that separates the two halfs.

The year is nineteen-oh-ten, and the world is about to burn. Already a spark is lit, as the nation of Nauchrtenfield fights it’s neighbor on the east; Stier. But no sooner will this war end before the rest of the world erupts in flames, and before one hundred years have passed, the world will never know true full peace again. But for now, this is where we find the start of our story



On the island that ruled this large nation, named simply Nauchrtenkapitell, for that is what it was. The capital of Nauchrtenfield. Administrative the entire island was one gigant city, one of the first, and oldest metropolis in the world. We find ourselves here, in a area along the coast. An area known to be less reputable, where you do not go out after dark unless you carry a weapon to defend yourself with. A area where the rule of law applied only at times.

In the depth of this december night, the night of christmas itself a man ran in the dark abandoned alleys. Forcefully he tossed barrels around him, trying to block his pursuers from gaining on him. As he ran he his heavy breathing was equally gaining on him, the only thing letting him keeping up this pace was the adrenaline that now surged in his veins.

He was a small time criminal, like so many others in this area, a enforcer to a gang. Now latest he had guarded a shipment of humans, women, destined to become streetwalkers of the night. This constituted four crimes, Slavery, human trafficking, prostitution, and pimping. Each of these were heavy crimes. But they local police and port authorities had been paid off, with money, strong drugs, and ofcourse, a few rounds before everyone else with the goods.

Everything had been going golden, until the Warehouse that the gang used as a watering hole had gone up on flames. He himself had seen it happen from long range, ten well dressed gentlemen, in full evening dress had entered, then gunfire, and then, not much time later the building was on fire. While trying to sneak away one of the gentlemen had seen him, and taken up the hunt.

Scared as he was he had fled the scene, and as he ran he cursed himself for joining the gang. He should have taken up a honest work. But he was not allowed to think this for long, for as he exited the alley, moving across the street to another one, he felt as he’s forward moment shifted downwards, and a pain in his leg. As his face impacted the ground with no small sound he understood that he tripped over something.

Spinning around he saw a gentleman in a tall holding out a cane, the object that he had tripped over. He looked dumbfounded at the gentleman, his mind not connecting the dots.

Then it did and the criminal started to crawl backwards, but not for long, the gentleman drew a blade from his cane, and placed it against his throat. This kind request was not lost on the criminal, whom obliged, and stopped his actions. The gentleman was a older man, with a well polished white mustache. Dressed in the evening dress of the gentry, he also carried a pin on his chest. A pin of a dragons head in profile, surrounded by a silver white circle.

Soon the older gentleman was joined by a younger one, this one not much older than twenty. They looked the same, with long tuxedos. Except that the younger one did not carry a hat, instead showing his blond, well sculpted hair. He two carried a cane in his left hand.

The older looked at the younger and spoke, “My young friend, Esquire Hasselbeck, when will you learn to not enjoy the thrill of the hunt so much. Not only did you have to light that detestable accommodation on fire, start hiding this scared rabbit, you also managed to lose your hat. What gentleman loses his hat in the hunt?”

The younger looked like a child being scolded, “Earl, i am sorry, but you should know that i am a man that easily gets a bit to involved” he said

“Indeed you are, that goes both your duty, and for women” the older replied back. Before looking at the criminal, whom looked rather confused over what was currently taking place in front of him, even if a stain along his pants showed that he was indeed still in a state of fright

Who are you” he managed to stutter out

The older smiled a crooked smile, a perverse sadistic smile, en enjoyed the question, and he replied to it. “I am Earl Der Vattnadal, and this is my young assistant, Esquire Hasselbeck. We are as you can see by this pin here Dragon Knights. Knighted to serve the council and inner workings of out mighty nation. More exact the two of us are Watchdogs of the State. We are given the dirty deed of controlling the underworld, and protect our nation from underground threats, or other missions as the council pleases

The man took a short pause, before keeping on talking “You see, the council was not pleased when they heard of the poor women that your organisation had brought into out here fine city, no less that they were kidnapped citizens of our own blood. We were called up, and ordered to rid the council of this horrid sight, and now, young chap, you are the last one alive. You who did not even stand and fight, you do not deserve life any longer, you spawn of the dark” he said, still carrying a perverse sadistic smile on his lips.

He looked at the younger man, retracted his blade back into the cane shaped holster. “Hasselbeck´, this vile creation does not even deserve to die honorably by a blade any longer. You are a fan of the new firearms, are you not. Take this hunt to a end, for i am starting to get cold, and the carriage is some blocks away.

The younger, whom until now had carried a empty expression shun up, another creepy, sadistic simile. He reached into this frock coat, and produced a new weapon of the Nauchrten military, operated by a toggle-lock, it was the semi automatic Pistol 08. He took a step forward, leaned down towards the lying criminal, flicked the safety lever, and pulled the trigger. The round entered his throat, and exited the back of his head. Then he rose back up, flicked the switch, holster the weapon. Grabbed his cane, and with his older master, started the walk back to the carriage that would take them back to the Der Vattnadal estate
Last edited by Nauchrtenfield on Thu Mar 15, 2018 3:01 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Second Helghan Empire
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Founded: Jul 17, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby Second Helghan Empire » Wed Mar 28, 2018 2:40 am

Edelweiss Dominion Bunker, Teber Mountains, Central Helghan

The room was in an uproar as the pair of men shouted down one another. The gathered officers stood back along the sides of the room as the two nearly came to physical blows. The Autarch and his brother howled at one another, throwing insults along with actual facts. It had been the same for a week now, and the two only seemed to ever calm down long enough to recuperate for another bout of screaming at one another.

"You are a fool stuck in the ways of father, try and think of actual solutions rather than relying on the dominion. We are Helghast and we need to make our own path, like our ancestors did! It's an insult to our traditions and bloodline to be so stuck in the mud like you are!" Prince Ronald roared at his brother building up for another round. A few officers especially younger ones nodded in agreement. Subtly of course, but Gustav and Ronald both could sense the shift in support over the last few days.

"You will be silent impudent wretch!" Gustav barked, and the shift fluxed again, as if men remembered the positions of the brothers suddenly. "I am your Autarch, I am your superior, you're grasping at a fluffed up caricature of our people. Your ideals would see us the same as the Donnish in the most recent war!" The lights could have dimmed or maybe it was the change in tone by the Autarch. "I will not tolerate the ideals of another radical in my own government. There will be no helghast Voy as long as I live." Comparing his own brother to Voy caused surprise to ripple through the gathered officers. Things were different now.

"You Ronald Stazko are hereby dismissed of your office as Chairman of Future development, I will also be appealing the others in the Dominion Council to relieve you of your station there. Know that the only reason you aren't being carted off to a cell right now is because you are my brother." Ronald deflated at that. His supporters glared at their Autarch, and his detractors nodded their silent assent "Go back to the Palace in Konstantine, you are nothing but a prince, and you will do your duty as a prince. Understood?" Gustav eyed the younger man cautiously. Ronald was at best unpredictable, and at his worst near mad.

"Yes Autarch." Ronald bowed low, overly so to make his sarcasm clear. With that the Prince stalked out of the room followed by a pair of his closest supporters.

An hour later Gustav exited the room along with the other officers, they went about their business in a hurried fashion, likely seeking opportunities to get out of earshot and discuss the implications of what just happened with one another. Gustav on the other hand had phone calls to make. The first one would be to Anton. The Second to Autarch Scott, it was imperative that Ronald be removed from his station in the Dominion immediately, before he could use resources from it for some sort of scheme. However Gustav was already an hour behind his brother in racing to get that taken care of. Ronald would be no threat at all if closed up in the palace like Gustav intended, but as long as he had connections through the dominion, the man was a rival not to be trifled with even if he was his brother.

After finishing his call with Anton who had been forced to step away from touring with some foreign guests in the Spire Palace, the Field Marshal had left him something to think on. They required someone to fill Ronald's positions as soon as possible. Preferably someone in the family. Oleg was currently too busy with his preparations to assume Gustav's position in the future, and his daughters were simply too young. His sisters were scattered halfway around the world, or busy planning a wedding and were too established as it was. Except for perhaps Cesia but again, her youth was an issue. That left only Natalia and Damian, but Damian was...well he was a poor fit for the role and Natalia was like a younger more unstable version of Ronald.

The Autarch had decided to return to that problem once he had finished his call to Scott, but was stopped in his tracks by a flier on a department noticeboard in the hall. His stomach churned at the sight of it. A helghast trooper in black on a red back ground, written below it Join the New Helghast, and on the soldier's forehead was a symbol Gustav had seen a few years prior when Lorraine had been in all but ruins. The Omega Command something he had been certain was exterminated. Above the trooper it read in old Helghast, one single word, Restore. The thing smacked of Ronald's involvement. The rat bastard was willing to pull boogeymen out from the closet and parade them around.

Image


Gustav dialed Scott hoping to catch him before he met with Lila, better he know the situation in helghan politics play by play. After all in a few days the man would be part of the family.




Ronald grinned as he stormed out of Gustav's meeting. Finally enough of that bickering, it was time they started making actual plays. Gustav had started when he had dismissed him, and now it was Ronald's turn. His two followers were already on their phones organizing people. Ronald had been ordered by the Autarch back to Konstantine and to disregard the Autarch's order was tantamount to treason, but his men weren't ordered anywhere. As Ronald entered his car the pair of men raced off in their own directions, they knew precisely what they needed to be doing.

The car started off, it would be a short ride to his waiting helicopter and then only a slightly longer ride to his gilded prison. So things had to come to him from this point on he had expected this. The prince phoned his closest follower.

Cesia answered the phone, a little surprised as Ronald rarely called people personally even other members of the royal family. The conversation was short and lacked any warmth. It was more business like than Cesia was used to by her elder brother. He simply listed off tasks for her than had her repeat them back twice before ending the call. Ronald almost felt bad for how he had spoken to her. He had picked up on her discomfort at the business like conversation, but he didn't have time to coddle her now. Cesia would do what was required of her, she would gather his DOG's for him and come to the palace. She was after all his most trusted follower.
Well now, that hibernation has gotten boring, daddy is back again.

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Reutoa
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Founded: Jan 25, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby Reutoa » Tue Apr 03, 2018 12:13 pm

Defense Minister's Albrecht Daluege Mansion, Bremenburg


Minister Daluege wrote down in his Journal, the past few Days had been very hard on him. As public unrest rose in multiple Provinces in New Wilhelmland, he had been blamed for failing to properly control the Situation. He sighed, "Why won't those Damned Kamurians just know what is best for them!" As soon as he spoke his Door was blown off its hinges and armed men in Masks charged in. The Minister stood up and quickly grabbed his Pyrhon Revolver and loaded it. He then proceeded to quietly go to his door and closed it, unknowingly to the Intruders in the next room. He heard closets being opened and dishes being broken. The Intruders spoke what he believed to be Kamurian and he cursed himself. These terrorists had no Honour to fight him on a real Battlefrield and instead planned on killing himself in his Home.

As the Minister walked over to his Cellphone he heard the lock to his Office being messed with and he immediately called out to his Attackers, "You all be damned if you think you'll take me with you!" With that Bullets starting flying through the Door and one hit its Target, hitting the Minister in his Left arm and sending him to the Ground. The Armed men ran into the room, a total of five no bigger then 6 feet all holding AK-47s aimed at the Minister's Head. The Leader of the Group walked in and sat down beside the Minister and took his Revolver and laughed. Minister Daluege layer there in Horror as the Leader took out his Bowie knife and held it at his Throat. "Minister Daluege, it's a honor to finally meet you in Person. My people send their Regards." With that he stabbed the Minister in his thigh and moved it down his leg, oblivious to the Screams of the 49 year old. The Men all snickered as they held him down, once the Leader had finished cutting open the Minister's Right leg he stood up and looked down. "The People's Revolution begins with you're death Mr. Daluege, thank you for your Service to the Cause." With that he shot the Minister in the Head.
Last edited by Reutoa on Tue Apr 03, 2018 5:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
♔ Kaiserreich of Reutoa ♔
"Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts."
-PM Winton Churchcill

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Cirilla
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Founded: Apr 19, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby Cirilla » Sat Apr 14, 2018 10:13 am

Loces, Haphiir Principalities - Cirilla
April 14, 2018

Background Noise(Please Listen!)


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Paris Synaira

I sat by the edge of the waterline. Contemplating on my future. It would be only a few months till I got shipped out for the navy. And less than three weeks until my high school career finally ends. I didn't know what to think of it, really. It seemed so surreal to me. For the past year, I've changed so much where just last week I was just at the Highrose Palace for our leader's birthday. Something I couldn't even imagine doing my freshman year... I remember being such a shy kid back then. My social anxiety was absolutely horrible. There was a point in my life where I was so afraid of social interaction. Although now, I'm one of the socialites of my high school. Partying from time to time and hanging out with various groups of who I call my friends. Most of the time though, I spend my life alone. I don't even know who I am anymore.

Donnie, a real nice guy, walks toward me by the waterline. The rest of my friends sat by the bonfire and chatting along - a wholesome time with no alcohol. Something I had to get used to. Donnie to sat next to me, "Hey man. How ya doin? You seem lonely over here."

"I'm okay-ish."

"Okay-ish? Something wrong?"

"No...Well sorta."

"Do you want to talk about it? I'm always here for you." I've always talked to Donnie about my problems, it's been a year since we became friends but we've gotten close in that time. He just seemed like a person that liked to listen and I could rant about anything and he still would care. I didn't have many friends who I could talk about things with.

"I've just been thinking about my life's direction. I just feel so fake man. I've changed so much in my life, lost some of my good friends and many other things - just to chase something I'll probably never have."

Donnie just sat there, silent. I continued on.

"I know you guys don't really go to parties like I do, where it's all about drinking and the like. All the 'cool' stuff. I never started doing that until last year. And I feel like this isn't who I am but I can't stop myself from luring into it. I think... I think I do all this just for Haarps. The partying, the greasy personality I like to portray, everything, even me joining the navy."

"You like her that much huh?"

"I think she's the prettiest damn girl in the world."

"Paris, I honestly don't know why you're hooked on her. I mean, I've seen you with others - who in my opinion are quite attractive as well. Heck, you were just at Nat's birthday party, the Imperial Princess! What's so special about Haarps?"

"There isn't."

"Huh?"

"Like besides me thinking she's super pretty. She's more like a symbol to me. When I was younger I didn't have many opportunities, I don't look poor now but my family was struggling. Being one of the few Abulan-Bazelan families in this country. To me, she represents the paragon of perfection—she has the aura of charm, wealth, sophistication, grace, popularity and aristocracy. A social status I always wanted to be in. Not just a pretty gal, a symbol of who I want to become. The traditional Cirillian noble class. If I could get her, it would show that I could finally be apart of it." I looked toward the sea in the most dramatic way possible.

Donnie looked at me in awe, looking down then looking back at me. "Well Paris, I think you already achieved what you wanted to be, man. Just look at you, you've gotten a way lot muscular since we met. You're a VIP member in CyrNa, met our Imperial Princess in person and serving our country first hand(active duty). When I first met you, I thought you were one of Simone's cool upperclassmen friends. One of those guys that would occasionally hang with us cause of a girl but now I understand why people like you now. It's not because you're 'cool' but because you try to be the best person you can be and you care so much for others. Not to be gay but If I was her, I would jump on you in a heartbeat."

I laughed. "Thanks for that, Donnie." I said with a smile. He smiled as well, appreciating my acknowledgment.

One of our friends with a guitar near the bonfire yelled back at us, "Can you guys stop being gay and get over here. Or get some more wood for the fire."

Donnie and I both got up, "I'll get the wood bro, just make us some smores." I said, patting his back.

After some time I realized that I needed to focus on my time before I had to leave for the summer. I planned to give my boss my two weeks notice the next day. Also, appreciate all of the friends I've made and preparing for my graduation. Quitting any side hobby that would soon come to a close as well. I'm gonna miss some things here. But now I have to look forward to my new life's chapter. I'll still chase for that paragon of perfection, that beautiful star I've always had my eyes on - and hopefully, I'll finally reach it someday.

~ Paris Synaira

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Camaalbakrius
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Founded: Sep 09, 2015
New York Times Democracy

Postby Camaalbakrius » Sun Apr 22, 2018 8:51 am

Thomas Whitworth

As he held the tape in his hands, he felt only strong confusion and fear. What is this? he thought to himself.

Seeing as he had no other choice, he placed the tape into the player and pressed the play putton. After taking a second to start up, the screen became blood red.

"Thomas Jonathan Whitworth. Petty theft. Assault and Battery. Home Invasion. Kidnap. Murder. Your life has been nothing but a plague upon this country and this world. Your life to any other man would be worth nothing
You are considered most worthy of death. This is how the authorities would see it if they caught you. I am not one of the authorities. Today we shall see how much your life truly means. Not to others, but rather yourself. How much would you be willing to do to protect your own life?"

"If you look above you, you will see three ropes connected to three different levers. Each of these levers will release a certain beast into the room you are currently in. Your task is to kill the beast you encounter before it kills you. Choose wisely."

The tape ended at that point, and Thomas looked up to find three ropes above him.

He stood up and, with hesitation, pulled one of the levers. Immediately, a door opened to the room he was in and Thomas see nothing but a pair of red, glowing eyes looking back at him.
Catholic Mentlegen

DEUS VULT INFIDELS
Favorite bands: Bon Jovi, Guns 'N Roses, basically anything by Eric Clapton, Queen, AC/DC, a few songs by KISS, but I don't care much for the face paint.


Not really a politics person, I don't care much about it.

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The United Remnants of America
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Founded: Mar 09, 2013
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

In Another World...

Postby The United Remnants of America » Fri Apr 27, 2018 7:14 pm

Road To War

Part I: The Negotiation

“How dare you try to raise your export tax behind my back?” Drake bellowed
“We need that revenue for our own national projects,” Reid quipped, nervous but resilient.
“All you need is to keep the damn trade flowing and keep this trade mutually beneficial,” Drake retorted
“This system isn’t mutually beneficial at all; it’s practically international slavery!” Reid decried.
“If it’s slavery, then be a loyal slave and restore our original trade agreements before I restore the original order myself.”
The discussion over, Drake stood to meet his security detail outside the meeting room. He didn’t tell Reid, but Drake had already decided that those trade agreements would be reinforced, even if it meant he had to put his troops somewhere on the border between his nation and Reid’s nation. His nation needed two things: The agricultural trade, and the lowered tariffs that allowed his nation to import those agricultural goods. Without the latter, companies in his nation couldn’t afford to keep up with the former, leading to famines, starvation, widespread death.
So as Drake walked down the tiled hallway, the clicking of his heels on the floor being drowned out by the shoes of his security detail and the growing entourage of advisors joining him as he moved down the hallway, he took a sigh of relief and closed his eyes momentarily. He was choosing the lives of of his entire nation over the lives of those few soldiers that would be put in harm’s way due to the decisions he’d just made in his own mind.
Gabriel Drake and Charles Reid had for the last three years been counterparts. Drake, the four-term president of his inland nation of Remnas, was seemingly as cold and pragmatic as his people were. But in truth, Drake was an extremely passionate man. He cared deeply about the wellbeing of his people, and his nation. To call him a nationalist would not be an inaccurate description. His nation had struggled for decades, for as long as Drake had been alive, he knew, but they’d always scraped by. Since he’d been elected, he rebuilt his nation’s military and instilled a sense of pride in his people. He was hailed as the savior of his nation, the man who’d given his people a backbone and a club to defend it with.
Reid, on the other hand, was weak, in Drake’s opinion. He hadn’t been born in poverty and clawed his way to the top like Drake had. Reid’s nation of Alenta was a coastal trading state bordering Drakes, widely considered the regional power for its cultural influence and economic power, but Reid’s people had grown fat and docile in their success, and Reid was the product of that lavish lifestyle. He was the son of a rich businessman, and everything had been handed to him in life. Drake was disgusted at his counterpart’s values, and opposed everything Reid stood for. And while Reid’s nation had long been the economic lifeline to Drake’s country, Reid was now trying to change their terms of agreement for that very lifeline. It was unacceptable.
Drake exited the hallway, passing through a doorway into the balmy weather of Reid’s home nation, his waiting black limousine’s back door was opened by a member of his security detail. As Drake moved to sit into his transport, he removed his cell phone from his pocket.
President Drake had calls to make and war drums to beat.

Part II: Drum Beats

Drake’s country of Remnas was separated from the neighboring Alenta by a mountain range. While difficult to cross in older eras, modern technology of the past several decades had allowed the rough cliffsides to be hewn and shaped for roads and railways to pass through. Including this, airliners could easily fly over the mountains on their way to Reid’s country. Over the years, the two nations had become close due to this increased ability to travel. Tourism and trade had grown exponentially.
But that had forever changed since the meeting between Drake and Reid a couple months ago. The increased tariffs on Drake’s country just so the people of Alenta could make an extra buck was the last straw as Drake had begun posturing for war. Even now, Drake’s military had been preparing for an eventual conflict with their neighbors over the mountains. Despite the tightening trade restrictions, Drake knew that the slowing economy over the next several months or years wasn’t truly enough for a war to be declared.
No, a war needed a catalyst, something tragic. A single event that roused the spirits of his countrymen and his military. Without such an event, his nation would starve, yes, but it would never summon the will to fight for its own lifeline which had previously existed through Alenta. Drake had had many late night meetings on possible ways this catalyst could happen, but when his executive assistant burst through Drake’s office door with papers in hand, he hadn’t expect what had really happened.
“Sir! Turn on the news right now!” the aide exclaimed as he rushed into the office, laying a condensed news report on Drake’s desk.
Drake, pulled from his paperwork, grabbed a remote without looking and aimed it at the television set into the wood panelling of his office. A 24-hour news station came on-screen with an image of carnage. A helicopter near the mountain border between Remnas and Alenta was recording the scene of a plane crash. The TV was muted, but Drake read the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen, which described the plane as a supply transport that had gone down with little to no reasoning. It was carrying food and medical supplies, and so far, none of the plane’s crew had been found.
Drake took a moment to process the information before his mind took off with the information. This was exactly what he needed. Drake looked at his aide, standing in the middle of the room. “Gather my cabinet to meet me downstairs. Alenta struck the first blow.”
“Downstairs” turned out to be the capitol building’s crisis room. The capitol building was a large central office building, but not so large that Drake’s entire cabinet couldn’t be quickly summoned when necessary. It took twenty-five minutes for his entire cabinet to meet him in the crisis room, a room that was under the capitol building, and as its name intended, was created to handle crises.
The downing of a Remnasian cargo airplane flying food to a people where food was becoming increasingly scarce was definitely a tragedy and counted as such a crisis. And while no cause of the crash had been found yet, Drake knew he could place the blame on the fat, rich Alentians, and his hungry people would have little reason to say otherwise.
Drake’s cabinet, all hand-picked and groomed over his previous three terms, had allowed him to play out his idea, as well as his reasoning and logic behind the event. There was zero dissent, except from the chairman of the military, General McAffee, who simply asked that he be given more time to prepare for the eventual invasion of Alenta. Drake nodded his agreement, but a press release would go out tomorrow, regardless of whether or not McAffee was ready with his preliminary plans. Drake needed to start stirring the hearts and spirits of the Remnasian people.

Part III: The Declaration

The press corps had been assembled rather quickly, Drake noticed. They must've smelled the blood in the water. He'd tried to have his people keep a tight lid on the news of the claim that the Alentians had purposefully shot down the cargo aircraft, but it inevitably got out. He'd even seen that foreign news services were covering the story. The international community was incredibly interested in how this played out, despite the fact that Drake knew no one would really intervene if a conflict came of it.
The other nations of the world were unwilling to unleash their militaries on such an out-of-the-way region. Just because Alenta was a major trading state didn’t make it the biggest trading state, and if Remnas levelled the coastal country, the rest of the world would just change their trade partners to someone else.
Drake decided he hated the modern world. It was easier when he had taken power a little over fifteen years ago. News was slower, and the Internet simply just wasn't what it was today. Even now, Drake could see a few reporters recording him on their smartphones, probably streaming it directly to their online-only news services. What a day to be alive.
Lights illuminated Drake's face as he stood behind the press room's lectern. It was damn hot in those lights, and he caught himself trying to will his body to not sweat, a sign of nervousness and weakness in his culture, unless you were doing laborious work. He decided that this statement wasn't necessary. Most of those in the room probably had already heard the rumors, and knew that those rumors were most likely true. Such was the flow of information: Rapid and unstoppable. Either way, the decision had been cast, and he'd needed to deliver the news to his nation of millions of hungry, scared people and hope they rallied to him rather than threw him into the wilderness.
With a slight raise of his hand, the mumbling in the press room ceased instantly, and Drake cleared his throat.
"Earlier today, a Remnasian cargo aircraft carrying essential food and medical supplies was shot down over the Carrion Mountains on the border between Remnas and Alenta. While no explicit cause of the crash has been found, it is believed by our Remnasian intelligence community to be the work of the Alentian military, which shot down the aircraft in order to further fuel the growing humanitarian crisis within our country."
Drake paused and looked over the crowd of journalists, reporters, and camera men. Everyone knew that already, but now it was for the hard sell.
"This crash was an unnecessary and brutal act of war against an aircraft carrying only essential survival supplies for our people. The nations of Remnas and Alenta have until recently been close neighbors and trading states. However, they have broken this relationship in favor of starving our people through tariffs, and now, direct military blockades. While regretful, the deaths of the patriotic Remnasian flight crew aboard the aircraft will serve to fuel the hearts of our great nation. They did not die in vein, but will rather be martyrs to our noble cause.
“The actions of Alenta are indescribably inhumane for a nation that publicly touts its human rights, going so far as to denounce our beautiful nation of Remnas for its lower quality of living with a wagging finger while at the same time keeping our people hungry and weak with the other hand. The nation of Remnas, as a result of this vicious and unnecessary treatment, has been forced into a corner, necessitating not only emergency negotiations with interested parties within our nation, but also for preemptive defensive tactics."
Another pause, Drake had been building up to this, the crescendo of his perfectly-tailored speech.
"It is as a result of this plan of preemptive defensive tactics, that the Remnasian Senate has voted fifty-three to forty-seven in favor of declaring a state of limited and necessary war against the nation of Alenta until such time as the state of war is no longer necessary due to a return to the status quo between the Alenta and Remnas. There will be no questions, thank you."
As Drake turned to immediately leave the room, the press corps exploded into a frenzy. Drake ignored them all as he exited the room. He'd just had to declare war on a former ally that had until recently been his people’s lifeline. But since then, since Reid’s rise to power, Alenta had seemingly done all it could to divide the two nations and further push Remnas into poverty.
Well, Drake’s hand had been forced. As he left the press room, Drake’s phone vibrated. A look at the screen showed it was McAffee asking for a meeting with him. Drake answered the call, lifting the phone to his ear.
“When do I send down the orders, sir?” McAffee’s voice was confident, albeit concerned. War was never an action a man educated in the art of making war ever relished.
“Immediately, please. I don’t want this conflict to last longer than it needed to.” Drake took a deep breath, for he’d just signed off on the deaths of untold numbers of young Remnasian men and women who’d be going to fight to open back up the pipeline of free trade they’d once enjoyed with their northern friends-turned-enemies.

Part IV: Opening Fire

"This is Gunnery Sergeant Jeffery Higgins, over! Someone fucking respond! We're in need of backup. The 6th Battalion is being cut down up here!"
All Higgins heard was static. He cursed again and hit his helmet with his free hand. Higgins was hiding in a foxhole as explosions and bullets went by overhead. He knew his situation was terrible. The 6th Battalion was in need of some assistance, and so far none would be showing up, so it seemed.
The war between the Remnasian and Alentian people had been going on for only a month, and the Remnasians had made some great inroads into Alenta. Alenta hadn’t thought of closing off the railways and roads that were dug through the mountains, so the Remnasian Army had used them to shove troops into Alenta. Now, the 4th Army had been quickly making gains until just yesterday, when it felt like they’d hit a brick wall in defenses. Now it was quickly looking like a war from the 1950s, with foxholes, concertina wire, and tank spikes. Despite the two nations having modern equipment, it had quickly become a scene from stories that Higgins’ grandfather had told him about back in the Great World War.
Behind Higgins, on either side were two of his closest friends and his only two remaining squadmates. Corporal Craig Simmons and PFC Gary Burns had been his friends since a small desert conflict that now seemed so far away where Remnasian and Alentan troops had fought alongside one another rather than against one another. The Remnasians had been holding this line for hours, with both sides taking now casualties. Higgins was pushing his recent memories from his mind, where he’d seen several of his friends and squadmates, as well as Alentian people be cut down from hostile fire.
The comms had only gone out a half-hour ago, but it seemed much longer than that. He peeked his head out of the hole and glanced around: A few hundred meters away were the forward Alentian defenses, which looked so similar to the Remnasian forward lines. All around his dent in the ground were dozens like it. All filled with Remnasian troops, living and dead. A bullet nicked the dirt beside him, and Jeffery sighed and sunk back down, his dark hand wiped sweat from his eyes and he looked at Simmons and Burns.
"Well, boys. Looks like we hold out a bit longer. Our situation isn't getting better, but at least we aren't Lieutenant Cortez." Cortez had been hit with a stray RPG round the day before yesterday. His remains had covered half a platoon and caused quite a commotion.
"So, we keep firing till we run dry, then we sit here with our thumbs up our asses till someone comes to get us, alright?"
Burns, grave face and all silently nodded while Simmons grinned, "ooo-ah, Higgs. I hope someone saves us. I'd rather not get run over by an advancing tank when the Alentians make a counter-offensive. And I definitely don't want to be sitting here when our artillery hammers that charge. We both know the artillery battalions can't aim for shit."
At that, all three of the Remnasian Army veterans had a quiet chuckle, then sunk down into a silence that only war could produce, each making potshots at invisible soldiers a few hundred meters away while silently praying to whatever deity they each believed in to get them through the conflict.
Ten minutes later, a voice crackled over the radio, barely inaudible.
Higgins rolled to the radio, grabbing the reciever, “This is Gunnery Sergeant Jeffery Higgins in 6th Battalion, reporting in to someone, over!”
The radio crackled again, "Hello, this is 8th Division Headquarters, what is your report?"
Higgins jumped and cheered. "Yes, this is Gunnery Sergeant Higgins with Corporal Simmons and PFC Burns. We don't know the status of anyone else, Over."
As this was said, Burns was at the front of the fox hole, firing on a small team of advancing troops with a light machine gun that he hadn’t started this sit-in with. An explosion on a nearby fox hole caused him to curse and sink back down into their hole in the ground. Burns saw the explosion had come from a passing helicopter. Behind the two of them was Simmons, sitting against a small bank at the back of the hole, using his rifle to take selective single shots at the incoming troops.
The radio chirped again, "Yes, we've heard reports of assistance and such from the front lines. Support is on its way soon, over.”
Higgins stared at the radio in shock, “Soon? No, we need it sooner than soon, we need it now! The Alentians have gotten wise and realized we’re stretched out and they’re coming at us hard. Over.”
The radio was silent before the voice came back, “We understant your situation, Sergeant Higgins, and we are working on solving your problem, but you have to be patient. Our biggest issue is a lack of command in your area of the front, over.”
Higgins nodded, “Yeah, no kidding. Do you have any updates on that, over?”
“Currently, you seem to be the ranking soldiers… So… Congratulations, Master Sergeant.”
The title took Higgins off-guard, “You… What? Promoting me doesn’t make the command problem go away!”
“You’re right, Master Sergeant, tell the other two with you that they’re promoted as well. We will get back to you with support as soon as we can. 8th Division Headquarters over and out.”
Master Sergeant Higgins looked at Burns and Simmons "Well, whoopdee-doo, we got promoted, boys.”
“Oh, wonderful. They’ll use that as a reason for why they won’t send anyone else, I bet,” Burns groaned.
“Now, you don’t know that,” Simmons quipped, “They might just use it as a reason to-”
Simmons words were cut off by the crackle of the radio again, “This is 8th Division Headquarters. Master Sergeant, prepare for an artillery barrage on the incoming troops.”
Higgins was about to respond when the telltale whistling of incoming artillery shells came from overhead.
“Everyone get down!” Higgins shouted as he dove deeper into the foxhole, trying to make himself as small a target as possible.
Simmons and Burns jumped down and curled up as well, and as the whistling grew into explosions, the world around the trio of Remnasian soldiers exploded.
By any means necessary. Call me URA
Winner of 2015 Best of P2TM Awards: Best Roleplayer - War
"I would much rather be with you than against you, you're way too imaginative."- Cafla
"URA New Confucius 2015."- Organized States
"Congrats. You just won the second place prize for Not Giving a Fuck. First Place, of course, always goes to Furry."- New Jordslag
"He's an 8 Ball, DEN. You can't deal with an 8 Ball." - Empire of Donner land
"This Rp is flexible with science and so will you." - Tagali Federation
"Unfiltered, concentrated, possibly weaponized stupidity."
Thafoo, Leningrad Union: DEAT'd for your sins.
Discord: Here

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Reutoa
Minister
 
Posts: 2371
Founded: Jan 25, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby Reutoa » Mon May 07, 2018 9:05 am

Dietrich Rottmanner's Reichstag Office


Dietrich sighed as he walked through his office, rubbing his temple. His office had been receiving endless amounts of calls from all across the Country. His staff tried their best to manage them but they were getting overwhelmed. He even answered some calls himself, talking to citizens from all ranges of reutoan Life, Dukes to Farmers, Nurses to Teachers. He had a good feeling about the upcoming elections, he had to win it. For himself, his Legacy and his Wife. They'd been through everything together, and to have gotten this far is nothing short of amazing. Dietrich had grown up on New Wilhelmland to a poor Farmer, he barely survived childhood due to food shortages. But he worked his way up and soon found himself in the Imperial School of War in Bremenburg, there he found his future wife, Sofia. They would get married a few years later-

"Mr. Rottmanner?"

Dietrich lost his train of thought and looked up, it was Adolf. His Chief of Staff and campaign Manager.

"Yes Adolf?"

"Sir, i have a update on her."

"Hmm..yes. Lets proceed"

Adolf and Dietrich sat down at the Politician's deck and Adolf opened a file he had hidden under his trench-coat. He handed it to Dietrich and went over to the fire to warm up. The Weather hadn't been kind to the city of Bremenburg for the past couple of months. Adolf soon heard a heavy sigh and the file being thrown across the Room.

"What do you mean she's escaped to New Wilhemland!"

"Police reported seeing her board a ferry bound for Eastern New Wilhelmland two hours ago, sir. Do you want me to find her?"

"You were supposed to have killed her FOUR MONTHS AGO! Do you not see how dangerous she is to our cause Adolf!"

Adolf coughed and looked his boss in the eyes.

"I understand my orders sir, i'll depart right away. I'll call you when the deed is done."

With that Adolf left the room and Dietrich got up and looked over his Window, he spotted the Chancellors office and smiled..All of this would be his. Sooner or later, and nothing would stop him.
♔ Kaiserreich of Reutoa ♔
"Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts."
-PM Winton Churchcill

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Camaalbakrius
Minister
 
Posts: 2864
Founded: Sep 09, 2015
New York Times Democracy

Postby Camaalbakrius » Mon May 14, 2018 5:57 pm

Unknown Location

The snow was coming down harder than anybody had expected, even for Camaalbakrusian snows. The wind howled louder than an air raid siren, at least it sounded that way. As the snow came down like small white bullets, the only visible life was two figures inside a makeshift tunnel dug several feet beneath the top layer of frost, acting as a temporary shelter.

The two figures sat in their makeshift shelter, covered in blankets and anything else they could use to keep themselves warm. The only difference between the two was that one wore a pale, opaque mask around his face. None of his face was visible through the mask he wore, but his trusty Stetson Roadster made him less of an eyesore to others.

The other figure was much smaller in stature and wore no clothing that would be considered out of the ordinary. He shivered madly in the freezing cold, while the masked man lay still in his makeshift bed. The younger man looked enviously at the masked man and said "D-d-d-doc... any chance y-y-you got any m-m-m-more masks on ya?" His speech was hindered by hia shivering.

The masked man seemed to turn his head towards the younger man, saying "Sorry, I these masks are for prescription use only."

The younger man responded with "yeah, screw you too." He chuckled to himself. "Gee, how long is this s-s-s-storm gonna last?"

"Long enough" the masked man responded. The young man looked around nervously, saying "You think HQ thinks we're lost?"

The masked man responded: "For God's sake Titus you're a policeman not a special forces agent."

Titus responded quickly with "You're goddam lucky I am a policeman, or you would be in jail right now. God, I'd rather be in jail than this f-f-f-freezing Hell."

The masked man said "You didn't have to come with me you know, the chief could have assigned somebody else."

"You think I d-d-d-don't know that now? I only came because i'm the only one in the force who tolerates your shit."

"Tolerates?" The masked man said, "We've been friends since high school Titus, don't act like we met at the pub one night and played pool until we fell unconcious. That's toleration."

"You really are an insane bastard, you know that?" Titus said to the man.

"Why thank you my good chap."
Catholic Mentlegen

DEUS VULT INFIDELS
Favorite bands: Bon Jovi, Guns 'N Roses, basically anything by Eric Clapton, Queen, AC/DC, a few songs by KISS, but I don't care much for the face paint.


Not really a politics person, I don't care much about it.

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The United Remnants of America
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Posts: 17276
Founded: Mar 09, 2013
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby The United Remnants of America » Sun May 20, 2018 6:57 pm

Image Chrom Averin
Olympia, URA, GRCS
5/19/2018 - 21:00


"Match Seven between Averin and Pythios begins shortly, please take your seats!

Wildfire Stadium was packed to the brim with people. The stadium could hold roughly 20,000 people, but there were even more without seats standing along the upper decks. But that was only a fraction of total viewers. Early predictions put streaming viewership in the tens of millions just in the URA alone. Everyone had paid to see this, unless they were viewing it illegally, and the sponsors of the league were most likely making money hand over fist for this event.

The International Gladiatorial League, or IGL, was a fairly recent invention. Gladiator contests had been common in the URA for years, mainly as a semi-legal but tolerated spectator sport for penal inmates to test their skills and fight for better lodging in Remnant prisons where normal living could be considered a crime against humanity. But it had grown beyond that as popularity increased, attracting competitors both talented and stupid from around the country and even the neighboring GRCS states to try their luck and skill at the games. The promise of cash prizes further increased competition.

IGL was formed soon after, with the official invitation by the national Remnant leagues to other nations to both send their best gladiators if they had them, or form leagues and begin cultivating a truly global sport. From this, the International Gladiator Championship was spawned, and IGC 1 immediately went into planning.

Not many nations took up the call to join IGC 1. The Romans had sent someone, and Vacif had sent someone else, but other than them, the sixteen-person tournament was populated with Remnants and some Alenterrans and Pragmatans. There had been some consternation on that fact, as IGL's financial backers began to wonder if IGL could truly take off as an international competition. But IGL 1 had gone on, despite these reservations. Possibly once other nations saw the prospects of what was happening, they'd become invested in the competition.

None were more excited for IGL 1 than Chrom Averin himself. Chrom was the #1 gladiator in the Remnant Leagues, having fought his way up through them through the last few years to become the reigning Champion. He'd originally been a lifer in Olympia Maximum Security Prison, sent there for a murder he'd committed in self-defense. But apparently his judge didn't see a late-night street robbery where the victim killed his attacker counted as self-defense. So Chrom had gone to prison for life. He was there for one month before joining the local Iron League. It took him only another month to Bronze League. 3 months later came Silver League, and before he'd been in prison for a year, he was in Gold League. At that point, the combat sport had been opened to non-prisoners.

Averin, ever the clever fox, took advantage his fame as a professional gladiator to earn himself a relaxed sentence. He'd been transferred to a sort of house arrest so long as he kept fighting. Once he used his prize money to buy himself a high-rise flat in Olympia, it was only a matter of time before he was in Platinum League and in the #1 spot, earning him the moniker of Champion Chrom. Chrom had been a major proponent of the IGL and vocally supported IGL 1. He'd been seeded #3, which meant he was going in Match 5 of Round 1. Not a bad draw.

Averin was now in the round field of Wildfire Stadium. Standing at 6' 2" and 180lbs, he was tall and athletically slim. His shaggy black hair nearly covered his bright blue eyes, and he was clean-shaven. Even though he was 34, he was in the best shape of his life. He had to be maintain his title as champion. His jersey had a slew of sponsorships on it, including Wildfire Industries, Asys Tech, and Origin Corporation, all of the "big three" of the URA's corporate world. Under his jersey, on the right side of his chest was a tattooed barcode, his prison identification. It reminded him of how he started his career. But now his career spanned 21 wins, 13 of them kills, and 0 loses. He was undefeated. Averin felt the weight of the short sword and shield in his hand. He was ready.

Standing on the other end of the field was Sarit Pythios. Pythios was short, and his olive complexion stood in contrast to Averin's ivory skin. Pythios was Allenterran, and his aggressive dual-short sword technique had earned him a solid place in the Remnant gladiator scene's Platinum League. Pythios was #4, behind Morgan Alekto and Synne Ireneusz, the #2 and #3 in the Platinum League, respectively. Pythios had also never lost a match. Personally, Chrom hated Sarit. Pythios was an asshole, through and through. He thought he was better than anyone else in the Leagues, and though Chrom had never fought him, Chrom relished the chance of giving Pythios his just desserts.

"Chrom Averin, are you ready?"

Chrom looked up at the table where the judges and announcer sat. There was no referee, as there were no rules: Fight your opponent until they gave up or died. That was it. Chrom nodded and pointed his sword to the judge's table.

"Sarit Pythios, are you ready?"

From across the field, Pythios laughed and raised both his swords, drawing a cheer from the crowd as he slowly turned to please the crowd.

"Okay. Let the match... Begin!"

Chrom stood still and watched as Pythios sprinted directly towards him. Pythios was always about aggression: first, fast, and brutal. Chrom knew better. He'd just take the man down when he got here and Pythios would die tired. When Pythios hit halfway across the field, Chrom raised his sword and shield and took a readying stance. He willed his breathing to slow and his mind to clear. The sound of the cheering crowd drained out, as did the echoing announcer's voice.

Sarit closed fast, one sword outstretched and the other held back. Chrom's shield went forward as Pythios met him. Sword hit shield, metal glancing off metal. Pythios kept moving forward, his second sword coming forward in a downward slash. Chrom moved his foot back and brought his sword up to block. Again, metal met metal in two swords hitting perpendicular to one another. Pythios kept coming forward, his shoulder bashing into Chrom's shield, forcing Chrom to take another step back or risk faltering. Pythios used the added room to bring his first sword up again towards Chrom's side. Chrom had to quickly bring down his shield to catch the sword, with the shield's edge.

They were now locked, weapons together pressing towards each other. A deadly situation for either fighter, as whoever broke first could die or get first blood, depending on how off-guard they make their opponent. In typical fashion, Pythios jumped back from Chrom, as Chrom expected, and dove forward with both swords. Chrom raised his shield and readied a parry with his sword, but as both sword points struck his shield, Chrom felt a sharp pain in his shield arm. Chrom yelped and looked at his arm as it began to bleed, the point of a sword sticking through flesh. Pythios had somehow been able to drive one of his swords through the shield as well as Chrom's arm.

Pythios grinned over the edge of Chrom's shield, but said nothing. The contempt in his eyes conveyed all that could be said between the two fighters. As Pythios withdrew his sword from Chrom's arm, Chrom grimaced and used the opening to swing up with his sword. The quick motion caught Pythios off-guard, and the side of Chrom's sword his Pythios' side, cutting his jersey and drawing blood as Chrom pulled his sword back in. A gasp escaped Pythios' mouth as he tried to push away the pain.

The two backed off. Pythios was dripping blood from his injured side while Chrom's shield arm hung at his own side, nearly useless. Chrom stared down Pythios, but knew the outcome had just been set. Without Chrom's shield arm, he was going to lose against the younger and more aggressive Pythios. But he had to stay in the fight to prove a point to this young whelp. One sword versus two was going to be a hard disadvantage to beat, however.

Pythios caught his breath and charged back in towards Chrom. Pythios was favoring his injured side and leading with his opposite side. Chrom stepped towards Pythios' injured side and thrust his sword forward, causing Pythios to slow and parry. Pythios swung his other side, forcing Chrom to block with his shield, the impact of which sent a shot of pain up Chrom's Arm. Pythios and Chrom swung with their swords towards one another again. Pythios's blade caught under Chrom's blade in a block, and Pythios turned his blade to bring his sword's pommel in toward's Chrom head. Chrom didn't have time to react, and the metal pommel pounded hard into Chrom's temple.

Chrom tried to stepped back, blinking away the lights, but Pythios flicked Chrom's sword away with his own, freeing up his movement to bring his pommel down hard into the top of Chrom's head. Chrom's vision flickered as he began to pass out, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap. The announcer's voice sounded distant, describing that he was down and unconscious. Losing consciousness in a match counted as submission, and right before Chrom drifted off into a black sleep, one through went through his mind.

Did I just lose my first match to this asshole?
By any means necessary. Call me URA
Winner of 2015 Best of P2TM Awards: Best Roleplayer - War
"I would much rather be with you than against you, you're way too imaginative."- Cafla
"URA New Confucius 2015."- Organized States
"Congrats. You just won the second place prize for Not Giving a Fuck. First Place, of course, always goes to Furry."- New Jordslag
"He's an 8 Ball, DEN. You can't deal with an 8 Ball." - Empire of Donner land
"This Rp is flexible with science and so will you." - Tagali Federation
"Unfiltered, concentrated, possibly weaponized stupidity."
Thafoo, Leningrad Union: DEAT'd for your sins.
Discord: Here

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The United Remnants of America
Post Marshal
 
Posts: 17276
Founded: Mar 09, 2013
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby The United Remnants of America » Tue May 22, 2018 8:54 pm

Image Kael Rothar
Olympia, URA, GRCS
5/19/2018 - 23:15


Kael Rothar was dying.

Rothar was on the ground, staring up at the ceiling of the stadium. Synne Ireneusz stood triumphantly over him, her short sword coated in his blood. She stared down and him and bowed her heard slightly, her lips moving without sound. Now that Rothar realized it, he couldn't hear anything. Even the cheering of the crowd that had been so overwhelming all night was now silent. The ceaseless announcer's voice was quiet. He was deafened to the noises of the world around him.

Rothar thought this a dark irony. He'd killed Mervyn Moisés earlier tonight in the opening round of IGL 1. Rothar had slashed Mervyn's throat with his own sword and watched the man bleed out. He'd been one of the favorite to do well tonight, but now in round two, here he was, bleeding out on the dirt floor of the combat field, his jersey stained red with his blood and the dried blood of Mervyn Moisés.

Rothar hadn't always been a gladiator. He used to be a cop, working for the URA's Internal Security Agency as an investigative agent. He'd done a decent job as a cop, and he loved his job. But his last case had been breaking up a small drug-runner ring that had moved in from CSP and Canaam. Rothar and his team had readied up to bust down the apartment they'd marked as a drug den, not knowing the runners had already trapped the house. Rothar was the first in, and the first to set the door explosive off. It was a very small explosion but it was at face height, just where his eyes were. Rothar hadn't been wearing a helmet, and his eyes had been blinded from the debris.

He'd been put on permanent medical leave. Being blinded had crushed Rothar's spirit, and he slipped into a deep depression until a saving hand had lifted him out of his darkness, both physical and mental. Asys Technologies, the tech giant of the URA, had offered him a chance to regain his sight, for only his future participation in any work they may have for him. Rothar of course signed up immediately. A chance to regain his eyesight wasn't something he could just pass up.

The surgery had been to replace his damaged eyes, removing the tissue with cybernetics. While he'd been unconscious for the surgery itself, coming to afterword was indescribably painful. His face was on fire as his optical nerve had been tied to wiring and machinery and eye muscles that had laid dormant now awoke to find they had something to move. He was in and out for three days after the surgery, with bandaging covering his face. On the fourth day, the wrapping came off, and he was asked to open his eyes. The would've brought a tear to his eyes, but his tear ducts had been removed for the cybernetics. His eyes looked unnatural in the mirror, but he now had sight better than most people could ever hope to have, for the price of his soul.

After Kael recovered from the surgery, he was able to get back into law enforcement. He did a couple short stints among international law enforcement agencies before finding himself in the Contracted Personnel Division commissioned as a major and in charge of internal investigative duties for the CPD. The job paid well, and the work was light, since the CPD didn't really like to do introspective work. He'd been able to do police work for a couple years until an email from Asys ended up in his inbox. They were cashing in on his debt to them.

The gladiator games had gone public, and Asys wanted to see how his eyes held up in a combat scenario. They'd asked two majors from the CPD to fight for them: Kael and Tyrell Lee. Lee had become a good friend of Kael's in the CPD. Lee was a professional criminal who'd voluntarily taken part in an Asys experiment to commute his sentence. The experiment had been a muscle enhancer, weaving cybernetics through his body. Neither of them knew it, but it had been a first step in cybernetics for the Immortals program. The result had been inconclusive. Lee had enhanced strength, but he also had to take medication just to survive the pain of getting out of bed every morning.

Now Lee and Kael had been called back to pay for their gifts. Fight in the gladiator games, or Asys would come in the middle of the night and repossess their proprietary technology. Kael had killed his first opponent. Lee had tied in his first match. Lee's strength had battered his opponent nearly to death, but his implants had burned him out to the point where he could barely move. Lee was somewhere in a hospital room next to his opponent now.

Kael, on the other hand, was now laying here, dying. Synne knelt down and put a finger against his throat. She was checking his pulse, and what she felt she must not have liked, since she shook her head and said something to him he couldn't hear. She'd run her sword through his chest and turned it as she withdrew the blade. He could feel the blood pooling around his back, and the blood drying around his mouth, but he didn't even have the strength to move it.

As Kael Rothar's vision blurred and darkened, he watched Synne Ireneusz stand up and raise her crimson-stained sword in the air to what could only be the roar of millions throughout the country cheering. The longshot had beaten a favorite to win, and a lot of people had just won a lot of money. Kael's last thought before the process of thinking became too difficult a task was whether or not Asys would possess his eyes before his funeral and how that would affect his family's ability to have an open-casket viewing for him.
By any means necessary. Call me URA
Winner of 2015 Best of P2TM Awards: Best Roleplayer - War
"I would much rather be with you than against you, you're way too imaginative."- Cafla
"URA New Confucius 2015."- Organized States
"Congrats. You just won the second place prize for Not Giving a Fuck. First Place, of course, always goes to Furry."- New Jordslag
"He's an 8 Ball, DEN. You can't deal with an 8 Ball." - Empire of Donner land
"This Rp is flexible with science and so will you." - Tagali Federation
"Unfiltered, concentrated, possibly weaponized stupidity."
Thafoo, Leningrad Union: DEAT'd for your sins.
Discord: Here

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Union Of Autocratic Empires
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1512
Founded: Feb 08, 2015
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

The Visit

Postby Union Of Autocratic Empires » Sat Jul 28, 2018 4:55 pm

Nanasawa Palace, Free Asian Ports
17:00

Rufia popped up her long coat’s collar as she went from the palace's warmth to the chilly afternoon that dominated the courtyard. She had never been to the Ports before, but the cold was the same as back in her childhood's home, as were the rain and the gloom. She had always heard Historia (and, in a less enthusiastic way, the Kaisarine) talk about how beautiful the Ports were, how it was an entirely different world and how awesome the entire country was, but to her, it was essentially Adra with a new coat of point and a different looking kind of bigots living on it. She wouldn't pick it as a holiday spot, but then again, "visiting your best friend who is under medical treatment after she's been brutally mobbed" didn't quite sound like an ideal vacation plan.

She put a cigarette in her mouth and started looking into her coat's pockets for a lighter, when a guard approached her from the side. The man, quite probably a mercenary on the employment of the Nanasawa family via their own mercenary company, approached her with a finger pointing to the sky, an expression she was so painfully familiar with she almost started parroting the oh so familiar drivel.

"Excuse me ma'am, but you shouldn't smoke.” the young man said in a slightly accented English. "It's bad for your health". She emitted a low chuckle as she lighted the cigarette after finally finding the engraved lighter and inhaled the first dose of smoke before puffing it back out.
"Oi guv'na, how's me s'pposed to calm me nerves if I can't smoke?” she replied while trying to not crack a smile. The act made the mercenary look at her with a puzzled expression, which prompted Rufia to finally crack and smile. "I appreciatte the concern, soldier, but if my family and friends failed at stopping me, I don't think a random person is going to be any luckier. No offense."
The soldier nodded with a polite smile and went back to his post. "None taken, ma'am. Please do tell if you need help." "Will do", she said as she turned back to looking into the courtyard.

As soon as the guard left, her façade dropped and she sported the same worried look on her face she arrived to the castle with. She had already come to visit Historia once, exactly one week ago, and it was truly a haunting sight. The usually cheerful and happy blonde was totally sunk in the hospital bed, partly shaved on the right side of her head with stitches on the bare skull and her eyes covered. She had trouble breathing and kept covering her mouth as long as she was there, because apparently she had lost a few teeth in the attack. By the point she left last week she had managed to convince her to stop covering her mouth, but she was still worried about her friend. Sure, Doctor Nanasawa was an excellent doctor, but she was more worried about her emotional state. Seeing someone so lively, so infectiously optimistic being so miserable and pitiful deeply troubled her, specially coming so close after the "incident" she told her about a few days before leaving for Donner Land. She sighed and inhaled the smoke immediately after. Apparently horrible things only befall good people; either that or it ran in the family. She didn't deserve that. Certainly not Historia.

It was at this point when her ears caught wind of some commotion taking place in the lowest point of the courtyard, the garden, where she saw palace staff with a ladder near one of the trees of the garden. She put off her cigarette and put what was left in her cigarette case before turning to the guard from before. "Could you take me to the garden please? I want to check something." The guard took his finger to his ear for what she could deduce was permission from command and, after a few seconds, politely told her to follow him and not stray away.
They made their way to the garden passing through what seemed to be an awful lot of hallways (and even more war memorabilia. She was aware the Nanasawas were a warrior family, but it was far too much for her taste.), more than what initially looked like there were between the garden and the balcony; it was pretty obvious the guard was taking her through the longer, service route so to avoid the living facilities and thus maintaining his masters’ privacy, which was confirmed by the furtive looks the guard took over his shoulder.
Eventually they made it to the garden, where she noticed the palace’s staff putting a ladder in the garden. She walked towards the staff when she suddenly noticed a small pond of blood on the floor. She approached a pair of women standing there.

“Was anyone injured?” she asked, with a mild expression of worry.

“A cat”, the woman on the left said while pointing at the tree, surprising her with a soft Liyomesse accent instead of the expected Portean one. “Apparently it attacked a bird’s nest.”

The women turned and Rufia identified none other than Historia’s grandmother, Aina Itsomsa and her steward and translator, Lispetti Hänninen. Both women appeared as pleasantly surprised as her. “Lady Rufia!” Lispetti said as she reached out to shake the young woman’s hand. “It’d be nice to meet under other circumstances. Came to visit Lady Historia?” the translator asked. Rufia had seen them only twice or thrice, but their contact had gone for long enough for some familiarity to be made. It helped Lady Aina thought the same of her fellow nationals as she herself thought of Adrans.

“Yes. I presume you too, but I thought security measures only allowed one visitor every three days”, she said while shaking the Liyomesse matriarch’s hand while her steward translated a few seconds later her message. The woman, in turn, replied something in Finnish than Lispetti thankfully (and swiftly) translated. “Those protocols exist, yes, but we are not technically guests. The Nanasawas contacted us and told us about Historia’s situation, telling us we should stay with her for her mental wellbeing.” the Matriarch responded (through her translator). Rufia felt a bit relieved at the revelation; while not the same as having her parents alongside her, she knew Historia would be happy to have her blood nearby. “Did someone else get invited?” she asked, curious if she’d see some other familiar face. The translator was quick to answer. “If I recall, Prince Aleksander of Ratte was here, too.”

It was a good thing she was an Adran, because she could naturally manage to hold her disgust for certain people (particularly, the young Rattean Prince). “How is Historia doing?” she asked, changing the topic to something that didn’t quite upset her stomach so much. The old woman’s face took on a more serious tone as her translator asked. “The Princess is doing better, but she is still far from recovery. She’s still very frail and still hasn’t managed to walk on her own, but she is recovering her sight.” She stopped as her liege smiled mildly and relayed another message. “However, she’s still a Väisänen, lady Rufia. She will recover, you can count on that.”
“I am perfectly aware of that” she said smiling. “I have known her long enough to be sure of such thing.” The question is how well she will recover , she thought to herself.

After a small conversation, the three turned their attention to the Portean in the ladder, which had his hands inside a hole in the tree’s trunk from which some blood trickled down. He seemed to mutter something under his breath, but he was rather far from her and she did not speak Portean anyways (beyond a few insults and basic greetings).

“Did any of the birds survive?” Rufia asked the man, who seemed to be struggling putting something big out of the hole before chucking it into a bag.

“No.” he replied matter-of-factly with an almost perfect English. “Cats killed both parents and squashed most eggs. Damn shame, really. Kestrels are beautiful bea- aha!” the man interrupted himself with surprise, sparking interest to the people gathered around the tree. “An egg survived!”
With a slow and methodical approach, the man climbed down the ladder with the bloodied bag in one hand and with the other carefully holding something small. As soon as he touched the ground he gave the bag to (who Rufia supposed was) his assistant and then turned to the trio of women with a small, brown, dotted egg.

“It’s a lucky one; most of its family got either eaten or smashed. It fell in a rather isolated corner of the whole, which is what saved it. I don’t know what we will do with it now, though. It will probably need a human to care for it.”
As the man explained, Lispetti translated all of it to her elderly mistress, who suddenly and rather excitedly told her translator something that made the woman smile. After a brief conversation in Finnish, Lispetti told something to the Portean man that made him consider for a second before nodding, which was followed by the yellow-eyed translator turning to the young Adran. “My liege just had a great idea” she said, with a smile in her eyes. “And you are going to carry it into completion.”
Rufia nodded, somewhat puzzled, but feeling she couldn’t tell no to the women’s enthusiasm.

Princess Historia’s room
17:58
After making her way from the courtyard trough the palace alongside the same guard that initially escorted her to it (a man hailing from the capital named Sakiyama Iesada, she had found out while on her way there), Rufia found herself in front of the room that had become her best friend’s temporary residence in the Ports. She stood in front of the door for a few seconds, mentally checking the details of what she could and couldn’t tell her friend, bracing herself to avoid looking at where she shouldn’t, and going through what she was supposed to do before leaving. Acting on the plan, she turned to Sakiyama and gave him what seemed to be a small box. “It will be ready for when it is needed”, the mercenary said. “Thank you, Sakiyama” she replied, after which she turned to the door and sighed.

“Ready or not.” she muttered to herself, knocking on the door and after a few seconds stepping inside.

The first thing she noticed upon entering on the room was the sound of drops of rain hitting the windows; apparently from the time she had left the courtyard it had started to rain. She also noticed a faint smell to lavender which was not there the last time she was there, not unlike the scent of Historia’s room back in Abula. Apparently they had listened to her suggestions from last week. To her left a door that took to the room’s bathroom and a wall that continued for a third of a meter or so before giving way to the rest of the room. She made her way past it and finally came face to face to the main room, which had gotten some additions (and removals) since the last time she was there; mainly the oxygen supply machine had been replaced by a nightstand, but there were also a number of other commodities, like a small television screen, a table and a chair opposite the patient’s bed (probably so the guests could stay during lunch time to give the poor girl some conversation), and an easel resting against the wall with the windows, alongside paint supplies and several canvases (a few of them painted on, which gave her some conversation subject.) There were several more changes, of course, but she didn’t notice them before seeing the reason of her visit, Princess Historia Raiss-Väisänen of Abula, looking on her direction, with a tired yet bright smile on her face.

“You’re early”, Historia said jokingly, still with a weak voice but sounding much better than last week. “That’s so unlike the Rufia I know”. Another big change from last week was that she could see her now; last week she had both eyes covered with bandages, while now only the right eye was covered by a sterile, white medical patch firmly secured on her right ear.

“Shoot, you’re right”, her friend replied with a false scandalized tone. “I suppose I should turn back and enter again at six o’clock”, she said as she took a seat by the bed. “How are your ribs?” she interjected. Historia giggled softly in response. “They are healed enough for you to greet me as usual” she replied, knowing why she was asking as she leaned slightly towards the visitor, who was swift in (rather softly) hugging her friend.

The young Abulan-Liyomesse happily returned the gesture. “I’ve really missed you” she told the visitor before separating. “This place can get pretty lonely from time to time.”

“I have missed you too, His” Rufia responded honestly. “Things are not the same without you back at home. How are you doing? Are you feeling any better, dear?”

“My head and hips still hurt, but now at least it’s bearable. My arms are doing better too, and the ribs have mostly mended, so things are definitely getting better.” She sighed and gave her interlocutor a bittersweet look. “At least now I can read and paint to pass time. Not being able to see was probably the worst thing that has ever happened to me.” She bluntly stated. Most people would feel slightly uncomfortable with someone telling such things so bluntly, but Historia knew Rufia appreciated being matter-of-factly about how she felt, and she herself was glad to be with someone she could be open about her state instead of sugar coating it for the sake of not upsetting them. “There’s still a long way to go though. Something I would honestly prefer not having to go through.” She sighed rather bitterly and looked to the floor for a second.

“Hey” her friend suddenly spoke up, gently holding her right hand and looking at her with a compassionate look. “You’re not going to go through it alone, you know that right? You have us; your friends, your family, that slimy little pervert of a prince you call an ex” she told her with quite some vitriol when mentioning the last person, prompting a smile from Historia who replied to the last one. “Why do you hate him so much? He’s my ex, not yours.” The Adran gave her a mock glare. “Because you two still get along. SOMEONE has to hate him to keep the Universe in balance.” Her serious, overdramatic delivery prompted Historia to laugh hard enough to expose her teeth – including the ones that she was missing (one on the top at the front, two on the lower right side), which somewhat relieved Rufia; that meant she felt comfortable with her right there.

“Thank you. It means a lot to me.” The blonde said after laughing for a bit. Of course, having mentioned her family, her expression turned much more serious and asked the question Rufia had been preparing for. “How is my family? Are they doing better?” her voice started breaking a bit. “Have they found-?”

“They are doing better, but are still reeling from the whole Donner Land affair”, the Adran interrupted her, trying to prevent her from breaking into tears like last week. “Your dad has started to get over it but is still away from the public eye for now as much as he can, and your brother is going on with his normal life.” She then looked at the patient with a soft smile. “He told me that he wanted you to know he misses you and that he will come by the next visit”. Historia nodded in response, still saddened but now a bit more relieved. “Your mother still hasn’t appeared, but-“

“But?” Historia interjected, leaning forwards with a lot of interest. “But I managed to eavesdrop something in the headquarters of the Guard” she told her, leaning towards her like the other girl had just done. “They think the reports of the attacks on Donnish troops are related to her and are planning to send Brunhild over to pick her up. They are still working some legal issues with the Donnish, but I am fairly sure she will be home sooner than later.”

Upon the revelation her mother could be coming home, an overjoyed Historia suddenly hugged her friend, with tears of joy falling off her one healthy eye. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she sobbed. While caught off her guard at first, Rufia was fast to recover and hug her friend back. “Didn’t I tell you she’d be fine? Didn’t I tell you she is the toughest woman in the entire continent? But no, you kept being a Debby downer.” The only reply she got was audible smiling, and kept hugging her friend for a while before she decided to break out the hug. “I’m sorry” she apologized. “I was so worried she could have-“

“But you were wrong, weren’t you, dear?” she interrupted, trying to dispel those thoughts from her mind. “That’s what you get for doubting Rufia.” She joked. The Princess nodded in response, her eye still covered in tears, prompting the Adran to pull off her handkerchief and handing it to the smiling princess, who proceeded to wipe away the tears. It was only then when she got some room to inspect her friend more closely while she cooled down. The stitches in the right side of her head were less prevalent than the last time, but it was pretty obvious they would leave a permanent scar, which, on the bright side, would be covered by her hair when it grew back. Her arms shook whenever they were not resting but not as much as the last time she saw them, and going by the silhouette of her hip, it was not as sunken as last time. She felt happy her friend was improving (something she had no doubts about, mind – she was fully aware the Kaisarine had chosen Dr. Ami Nanasawa perfectly for Histora’s “incognito” doctor), but at the same time seeing Historia like that filled her with seething anger. The bastards that did this deserved to go to Hell, and she was rather happy one of them was there already courtesy of the Kaisarine rescuing her daughter. Cowards that attacked a young girl from behind, beat her for several minutes, let her crawl away for a minute BEFORE continuing, and to top it all off, recorded the entire mobbing and emailed it to her parents (and a lot f national leaders, too. Ever since Rufia herself was a child, she had been bullied by her fellows, but not a single one of them showed the depravity of the scum that assaulted Historia.

“Rufia” Historia snapped her friend from her train of thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, uh, yes” she replied, back in the improvised hospital room. “I was just giving some thoughts about something else. Nothing to worry about, dear.” She didn’t quite seem convinced about it, but she appeared to go along with it.

“How is everyone back home?” Historia asked after a few seconds of awkward silence. “It’s been a while since I’ve known anything about them”.

“Oh, the rest? They are fine, really. The girls are looking after the Thorn while you are recovering, Ailse left for the countryside for a few days for a few week and Adreana is near ending her career in the military academy, but that’s about it.” She seemed to realize something, as it came to her mind. “No wait! And Hans’ mother - well, one of them - came back from Azenyanistan.”

“Really?” Historia inquired. “That was fast”. Rufia nodded in agreement. “Apparently,” she said, “The good doctor does not want anything to do Azenyanistan anymore and apparently the feeling is quite common among her peers in the military. She was one of the first to come back because her platoon mates know she has a kid. And before ask” she interrupted a question Historia never made, “Sadisia has been cleared in the last trials, so you can rest easy, your hero is not related to the covert genocide.” Judging by her sigh of relief, she had cleared one of Historia’s doubts. “Someone else you want to ask me about? I can’t keep guessing them the whole day.”

“How about Aelia?” Historia asked. “She was injured the same day in Donner land that, well… Is she okay? And how about Makuhide, while we are at it?” At this request, however, she was met with a puzzled expression by her friend. “She had just realized she probably had never met any of these persons. “The Adran woman that goes with my mother whenever she goes and a Portean who recently joined the Guard.” For a few seconds, she thought about the people Historia had asked about. “The Adran woman I think I saw in with your brother. She had an arm in a cast, but was mostly fine. The other one I have no clue, but I haven’t heard anything about death among the guard. She’s probably hospitalized if anything.” They weren’t exactly the most conclusive responses, but at least they weren’t dead. The last thing she needed was something else to blame on herself.

And as such the conversation carried on for several women, most of it boiling down to Historia asking her about things that were taking place outside and several different individuals – Ethel, her dogs, the neighborhood, the Valkyrian Guard, and many more, as the rain continued hitting against the wall as a background noise. The subjects eventually changed to more casual subjects, like drawing, studies, and religion (for most people the latter would be an odd choice, but Rufia had known her best friend for long enough to know she treated theological discussion rather casually). She was glad to see her friend doing better, but, as the princess herself said, she was a long way to go; her hands, which had taken most of the abuse, still shook when holding pretty much anything, her head still hurt, she had probably lost sigh on her left eye permanently (they weren’t sure yet, a neurologist was scheduled to come by Friday, while a dentist would arrive on Monday, Historia told her), and needed help to be taken to the bathroom once due to her hip still not having fully healed. She had a bit of a problem not showing how seeing Historia like that made her sad, but for the most part she was hopeful about her friend’s state. She wished she could at least leave her a cigarette, but she was pretty much barred from smoking until she left for home. At least she had brought her personal bible, which she had been asking for for a while.
After a (rather pleasant, all factors considered), she looked at her clock.

Eight past half.

“Do you have to leave now?” Historia asked upon noticing Rufia checking the hour. “I know you don’t have to leave until tomorrow, but I don’t want to keep you awake more than you would like to.” The Adran chuckled and negated with her head. “Of course not, my dear, I have already told you I plan on having dinner with you.” She reassured her. “It’s actually something else. If you don’t mind, now-“she said, as she stood up and pointed to the door “Of course not.”

Taking her leave, Rufia left through the door and approached the guard, who, seeing as he had a small cage and the lamp, had managed to get all that was needed for the plan to work. After thanking him she turned back to the room, entering as quietly as she could, as to surprise Historia.

She reached the point in which she could see the bed and then she noticed her friend, unaware she was observing, looking sadly at her phone as she aimed the screen at her face, the device shaking due to her weakened arms and a rather sad expression in her face. She moved it to focus on her right eye and after a few seconds, turned her head to the left to inspect the scar on the left side of her skull with the camera, only to then repeat the process with her teeth. Putting the phone down with a defeated sigh, she used her forearm to wipe away some tears and turned to the window, and looking at the raining landscape. Now, Rufia was positively sure the smile she had sported through the afternoon was genuine, but she was also fairly sure she was more bothered about the deforming injuries than she let on.

Almost as if to break the tragic feel of the situation, Rufia moved the bird cage enough for it to hit against the wall to startle both women due to the dead silence reigning in the room being so suddenly broken. Acting quickly, Rufia walked into the room, cage, lamp, and box on hand, to which Historia responded with wide opened eyes to the surprise. “What is that?” she asked, eyes still wide opened. Rufia smiled, leaving the cage and the lamp in the same piece of furniture that held the TV screen, taking the egg with care to the bedside. “It’s a favour I want to ask you.”

Historia inquisitively raised her left eyebrow, prompting her friend to elaborate. She explained the whole incident with the Kernel nest, the cat attack, the blood from the tree and the miracle survival of the egg, while omitting the presence of her grandmother and her stewards at all. After a brief recapitulation, she then turned to her. “And that is where you come in” she declared while opening the box and showing her the egg. “This little one is not going to survive without its parents, and you know how my parents are when it comes to animals, so I need you to do something for me. I need you to keep this egg and give it a good life, to look after it and make sure it grows up. Will you do that for me?” Historia looked unconvinced. “I don’t know Rufia. I already have two dogs, and a pet more may prove to be too much responsibility. What if it escapes? It’s a bird of prey, they are very independent, and predators to boot! What if it eats another pet?”

“Common Kernels are not that big.” She said, before looking her friend into her eye. “I need you to do this for me because I know you are the best shot this one has at life. Because I know you can do something like what your father did with Ethel. And because I know you won’t disappoint me.” After a few seconds of silence, the princess nodded with a determined look on her face. “Very well” she said, and then smiled honestly at her friend. “But only because it was you who asked.”

Bingo.

Replicating her friend’s smile, she went forward for a hug, which the blonde reciprocated (and appreciated.). “Thank you His” she said. “I knew I could count on you.” Her inner cynic at first acted as if the bird would know something, but she was positively sure having something to pay attention to – and receive affection from – would possibly help her friend’s emotional state.

“Now then” the Adran wondered aloud, trying to ease the atmosphere a bit. “What’s for dinner? I hope it’s not Portean cooking.”
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Our History
The Unionist Federal Council

UoAE is pursuing a new research. They claim that what they're doing is the missing link. A waifu to surpass Metal Sugoi.
Damnit, Nation, I'm a writer, not a military consultant. I write about impossible and cool things, wether they are realist or not.
Long live Azenyanistan! The true heart of Sishai!

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Camaalbakrius
Minister
 
Posts: 2864
Founded: Sep 09, 2015
New York Times Democracy

Postby Camaalbakrius » Sun Nov 18, 2018 12:58 pm

Antiochus
Residence of Supreme Chancellor Grabowski

"Here we are sir."

"Thank you Konrad, give my best to Natalia"

Grabowski stepped out of his limousine and walked up the front steps of his small condo in West Antiochus, wiping his shoes on the doormat and reaching for the keys in his pocket. Once he had located them among a pile of tissues and post-it notes, he hastily took them out, dropping them onto the ground in the process.

"I'm getting too old for this" he mumbled to himself as he reached down to get the keys.

Before he could grab them, the door opened from the inside and he saw a massive woman standing before him, wearing a dirty kitchen apron and carrying a wooden rolling pin. She stood at roughly six and a half feet tall, towering over Grabowski like a professional wrestler would a small child. With a voice that would frighten bears, she stared into Grabowski's very soul with eyes that cut diamonds and said with a thick accent:

"You're late."

"I'm sorry Olga, there was an accident on the highway and the traffic was backed up tremend-"

"Always the excuses Bratumił! Excuses excuses!"

She smacked him on the head with her rolling pin and bellowed "20 minutes ago I took the quail out of the oven! It's practically frozen now! We were supposed to have our romantic dinner tonight, seeing as it IS OUR ANNIVERSARY!"

She smacked him on the head again and said "Hurry up and sit down for dinner! I am not letting you ruin the rest of my night!"

Grabowski hurried with unnatural speed to the kitchen table and had already sat down by the time his wife reached the table as well. She sat down and held hands with her husband to pray. After they had blessed the food, she asked him:

"Well, how was work?"

Grabowski responded quickly "There was a terrorist attack in Constantis, more nationalists becoming upset about the Azen influx."

"Such swine!" She said angrily, "attacking these people and destroying their homes! They care for nothing but themselves! I wouldn't touch one of those fools with a 10 foot pole."

"I agree" he responded, "these people have already lost everything. They came here looking for a safe place to live, free of war and persecution. Now they are being attacked by this UNCF organization that wants them out. It's only when other people stay here that the cockroaches crawl out from the woodwork."

"There is good in that, however." Olga responded.

"How so?"

"Now we know where the cockroaches are."

Grabowski gave a devious smile: "I guess we do, don't we."
Catholic Mentlegen

DEUS VULT INFIDELS
Favorite bands: Bon Jovi, Guns 'N Roses, basically anything by Eric Clapton, Queen, AC/DC, a few songs by KISS, but I don't care much for the face paint.


Not really a politics person, I don't care much about it.

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Anowa
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Posts: 16194
Founded: Jul 29, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Anowa » Wed Dec 19, 2018 12:20 am


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SSgt. (HG) Robin Baardson
Renowned Artist
Near Vilküla, Nordland
Anowa
12/18/2018 - 7:32 AM AST



Nordland was almost always cold, unless you went down to the coast, or lived in it's flatter agricultural lands during the summer and spring. The expanse of mountains and arboreal forests that occupied more than two thirds of the state, while far from warm and forgiving, had their own degree of beauty. Given his occupation it was a good place to live.

In his youth, Robin had a fascination with the wilderness, finding himself more at home in the wild expanse than in crowded groups. One on one conversation being the peak of his social skills, and he would regularly get lost in the sea of group conversation. When given the chance he took on the role of a scout in the Anowan Army, something he excelled at, something that his already keen eye was honed with and something he grew to appreciate. Over the dozen or so years since, the young Robin had gotten married, had two children and had retired from the active service to the Home Guard. He owned a cabin in a rather secluded section of the Nordic Forest, and had a morning view of the tallest mountain in the northern Hemisphere. It went by a few names in Anowa alone: Himinbjorg, Olympus, Orodruin, Perun. All were recognized names, at nearly 9 kilometers above the sea, the name internationally -and in the artifical Anowan language- was simply, Mount Horizon. It was an image that Robin had burned into his mind. The jagged and hostile slopes of a peak he would never be so brave, or stupid, to traverse.

But that was not the only image he could see. Not the first he would paint from memory either. In a rather secluded life in the wilderness one had a lot of free time, the wealth his art brought him ensuring that. While he wasn't painting or sculpting he was hunting, going on walks, or just watching the world tick by. Sometimes all three at once if the opportunity provided itself. It just so happened this appeared to be one of those times.

Despite his artistic nature, Robin had a hard time shaking the drills, plans and, muscle memory bored into his mind from a young age. Which was why the middle aged man was halfway up a tree, hunting rifle in hand and surveying an Elk that had wandered into the clearing ahead of him. It was one of Robin's favorite spots to just sit, sturdy old growth pine trees surrounding a clearing of Nordic Rhododendrons. The plant was a stark purple to the white blanket that coated basically everything else. Robin liked to call it his tea grove, from the pine needles, to the few bearberry bushes, to the previously mentioned Rhododendrons. All could be used to make tea, while the last could also be used to season foods, or to help with brewing alcohol.

The rifle in his hands had been issued to him when he was conscripted, and one he bought off the government when he retired. The stamps and serial number declared that it was originally made in 1923. In all likelihood it had killed several men before Robin had even touched it. But unless the worst happened, it would kill man no more. Raising it to firing position, his eye peeping down the bore of it's optic settling in the head of the elk, watching it like some kind of malevolent being, waiting for the gentle beast to let it's guard down before striking. But despite this, Robin's finger never looped around the trigger, never tensed to fire a round down range. Instead, the man waited a full ten minutes, observing the animal, before eventually it finished it's graze and moved on to other pastures.

Robin would much rather ignore the fact that Elks usually traveled in herds. For a moment, he felt a bit of sorrow for the Elk, whether it had gotten separated during a storm, or the last of said herd, or simply cast out due to sickness. Robin hoped the animal found he a peace he himself never really could. With a deep breath, the man slung his rifle over his shoulder, starting his decent down the tree.



Images of a time long past flashed through the man's mind from time to time. A war in a continent so far away, yet so close to home, a place where he met his wife, a place where he first killed a man. The sight of corpses in a field of crops, a crater among them, a wayward shell, a mistake. His mistake. It went by many names, Shell Shock, Combat Stress Reaction, Combat Fatigue. Post Traumatic Stress. Every night, he went back to that bombed out village in Kubati, every night he woke up to the soothing sound of his wife's voice over his own sobbing. Every night he revisited the horrors of both sides of that ugly, brutal conflict.

The painter put his brush down and stepped back. Surveying yet another attempt at art therapy, yet another slate of white decorated with strokes of color, yet another object for someone in another country to buy for a worth he doesn't truly understand. He looked upon his work, a pale white elk, standing among a burning warzone, and for a moment, Robin honestly thought it helped.
Awards:
Tie Winner: Most Involved in P2TM, 2016
Winner: Best Crime RP, 2016

An Intro to Anowa
United States of Conner wrote:STOP TRYING TO EAT PEOPLE
I'M FUCKING SERIOUS
GODDAMMIT

Anowa wrote:
Serah wrote:He continued to fight, humping from person to person, either cutting or obliterating altogether.

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

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Arktic
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 46
Founded: Nov 20, 2018
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Arktic » Sun Mar 24, 2019 11:14 am

Rapid Rock, Lowlands, near the southern Arktic border

The sound of idling engines thundered through the forest night, as the black silhouette of the abandoned town stood in the distance. Liam Massey took in a deep breath through his nose. The unique smell of exhaust fumes in cold air greeted him, an old friend from a life spent working with industry in one of the most reliable cold nations in all of Alithea. It wasn't a particularly good smell, but Liam didn't think it was a particularly bad one either. It meant motion. It meant heat and light. It meant change.

Change. That was something Liam's homeland was going to have to get used to. Climate change had not done the things for the peninsula that were warned about, or promised, back thirty or forty years ago. Ice caps that were more ready to melt ended up cooling the peninsula, as more icy seawater was injected into the warm ocean currents that came up from the south on Arktic's western coast. Fuel and food prices went up year after year, as the growing economic demands of the Republic's ever growing, ever wealthier population drove the markets to try and correct itself. Rent and consumer goods were cheap: necessities like food and fuel were eating the hefty paychecks of the country's millions of workers. This could not continue forever. Something would have to change.

Liam was in the surprisingly simple business of keeping things afloat, and therefore he needed to be on the front lines of this change. Massey Energy, the company he had inherited from his father the great magnate Edward Massey, was one of Arktic's important oligopolies, controlling the lion's share of energy production in the nation. And the young man had done plenty to improve Massey Energy's production, profitability, and standing both with the politicians and the public of Arktic.

Liam couldn't help but smile in smug satisfaction as he looked at the line of bulldozers in front of him. He remembered clearly how hard the "not in my backyard" townsfolk had pushed against his company when prospectors discovered that there was natural gas to be found deep beneath Rapid Rock years ago. How when last year the national government sided with Massey Energy to help the majority, the minority locals came together and boldly declared that nothing would stop them from keeping the "rich Helsan f_ggot" (as one native agitator described Liam) from polluting their land and destroying their way of life. How, when the effervescent media turned its gaze away from Rapid Rock after one or two uncertain weeks, one by one the townsfolk were bought or bullied out of their homes just like everyone else, leaving nothing behind in the "proud" small town except for emptied buildings. All their talking and standing with signs and shouting did nothing. It never would, Liam was convinced, because he was on the right side of history. The environment was f_cked already. All Liam was doing was keeping the wheels greased so that people could work on whatever innovations would save us all, instead of worrying about paying their electricity and heating bills. Those selfish townsfolk had no right to deny their nation the critical riches of the earth that they merely sat on, and it seemed that through support and inaction respectively, the government and the public agreed with him.

But even though Liam kept winning the battles, charismatic and unscrupulous capitalist that he was, even he recognized that he was losing the war. This gas supply would help things but it would not be enough. The failure of the refinery in Hope Park to continue working through the flooding exacerbate immediate supply concerns, and the strained public was beginning to agitate for a solution. His eyes wandered to the few lights that didn't come from the Massey Energy employees. Across a small frozen creek spanned by a bridge with a tiny customs booth, a small patrol of Somergrade border guards calmly watched Massey Energy proceed. There had always been a mutual jealousy between Somergrade and Arktic. Somergrade coveted Arktic's mineral and lumber reserves and envied their technological prowess, while Arktic positively salivated over Somergrade's grain and fuel reserves. The simple fact of the Somergrade fossil fuel reserves drove Liam mad. He had to fight tooth and nail to even find fuel reserves in Arktic, and usually they were somewhere ridiculous like deep under the ice sheets north of North Point or directly beneath an inhabited town on the border with an unfriendly nation. Yet the backwards land to the south, which never gave Massey's foreign company permission to develop or trade inside their borders, had oil fields in abundance beneath their Badlands. Liam squinted at them. He knew that Arktic's most permanent solution to their resource problem lay just beyond that frozen creek that separated two nations. Arktic alone, with their peninsula, could do wind and hydroelectric but that could never be enough. They needed oil and gas, and only one nation had it as cheap as they needed it. But since that same nation refused to sell, something drastic was going to have to be done...

It was at this point that Liam realized that nobody around him was moving. He turned around to a nearby hard hat clad contractor.
"What's the holdup?"
"Oh, we were waiting for you, Mr. Massey," the worker replied. "We thought you were gonna give us the go-ahead, what with all the controversy..."
Liam laughed. Tired for the moment of machinating and contemplating the future, the relatable care-free side of his personality began to emerge. "We have the land, dude! There's nothing we need to wait for. Let's get to it!"
The contractor nodded and jumped aboard his vehicle. "Yes, sir!"

The bulldozers surged forward, an unstoppable tidal wave of metal and glaring lights. Liam smiled, then looked across at the Somergrade border guards.
"Next, you," he muttered, still smiling, as he went back to his truck. There was a nearby town without oil or gas reserves beneath it but with a good restaurant, and he promised his husband that they would meet there for dinner. The thought of all this destruction and growth was giving him quite the appetite.

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Free Asian Ports
Senator
 
Posts: 4008
Founded: Aug 22, 2015
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Free Asian Ports » Mon Apr 08, 2019 2:26 pm

November 27, 22:05
Somewhere in the Grey Sea, 20 miles off the west coast of Mariq

Day of Judgement


Winds buffeted the helicopter, sending a shudder through its crew compartment. Despite the dim light, Kimiko couldn't help but try and take in the details of her surroundings. Red lights tinted the interior, but not so brightly as to blind operators wearing night vision devices. It was enough to do basic tasks by, and most everybody in the assault helicopter was checking their gear. The raid was carefully planned, and somehow Kimiko figured right into it. She wanted to know why, but the answers were not forthcoming. So, she had her eyes.

The helicopter Kimiko was in was an Mi-35M owned and operated by a private military company simply called "Knights Operations Service", Ridders Activiteiten Firma in Dutch, or RAF. They had been the mercenary group contracted by the Mariqi government to eliminate a cult cell that the Esgonian FSB had tipped Yamatai's internal investigation bureau about. The FSB didn't have jurisdiction in Mariq, so the job was contracted out to RAF. RAF then subcontracted the Nanasawa Protection Services company to augment their assault force. Nanasawa Protection Services was the noble family's long tradition of operating a mercenary company to augment the forces loyal to the Nanasawa Clan, beyond what was financed by the Diet in the Royal Regiments.

Perhaps most interestingly, they explicitly requested the presence of Captain Nanasawa Kimiko, the Elector-Heiress herself, during the operation. It was a bit unprecedented, as Kimiko was officially in the Royal Regiments and didn't really have a place among the mercenary side of the family armed forces. Strangely, that request had been approved. Apparently it was important that she be out of the cult's sights, and a diversionary operation had been arranged to keep the cult none the wiser. RAF apparently had friends in high places.

Really high places. The assault force consisted of 6 helicopters, 4 of which were owned and operated by RAF. Their Hinds were painted a dark grey with aggressive looking shark's teeth. Each carried an 8 man, or rather woman, strike team armed to the teeth. The one Kimiko was in, carrying the command sections, had in place of a chin gun a rather beefy dual 30mm cannon of the kind her intelligence briefs considered standard for an Mi-24P, a gun she recognized as being powerful enough to rip apart light armored vehicles and even tanks. As far as infantry equipment went, the RAF troopers were dressed in steely grey fatigues covered in large black rectangles, vaguely reminiscent of a rarer sort of urban camouflage that a few Army units used, and were armed with what appeared to be Letzbourgish pattern StG77s. How RAF came into all this rare and pricey equipment, they were tight lipped about. Friends in high places, indeed.

Kimiko's own forces counted the majority of the assault force, a whole platoon in two AW-101 helicopters following the Hinds. They would land after an LZ had been cleared and the RAF operators closed off methods of escape, sweeping the compound until all enemy personnel were neutralized. This operation was evidently going on under the table, and RAF didn't appear prepared to take more than a handful of prisoners. Was there something between them and this cult? The Friends in High Places thing again? Kimiko mulled this over while inspecting her weapon, a standard carbine for the Nanasawa mercenaries based on the Type 65C fitted with various bits of tactical gear and a suppressor. Things were definitely going to get violent, and Kimiko was trying to find her place in all this.

RAF at least seemed competent, the woman who led this team was apparently a former PJ in the Air Force who drilled her soldiers hard. An interesting thing Kimiko noted was that all the operators working for RAF were women. Shouldn't there be at least a few men somewhere? It seemed unlikely that there existed an all-female mercenary company, especially one as well armed as this one. The woman, Shimakaze, was mulling over a tactical tablet screen with an adjutant of hers, looking over what appeared to be a live feed from a UAV circling their target. Just what kind of money did RAF have access to? The target was a private island owned by the cult, large enough to contain a compound on its north end centered around a luxurious villa overlooking the ocean. The view would've been good if it wasn't for the clouds glooming up the night sky, not helped by the wind and rain. It was perfect cover for an assault, the apparently expert pilots of the helicopters navigating what the enemy thought would be weather that should've shut down an airborne operation.

Shimakaze tapped Kimiko and gestured for her to look at the screen. "We've got a good view of the facility now. Our targets seem to be mostly indoors barring a few guards" she pointed at a helipad in the middle of the compound "and their methods of escape include this helicopter and three yachts". Kimiko nodded, getting the picture immediately. The cult was also surprisingly wealthy, apparently enough to equip this facility with round-the-clock guards, a helicopter, and were those luxury yachts? Kimiko wasn't entirely familiar with this cult, so she supposed the figurehead managed to swipe enough money to give himself three yachts. Could this be the main base for the cult? Were they about to execute a decapitating strike against them? "They're well armed, just what are we dealing with?" Kimiko inquired, hoping to learn more. Shimakaze surprisingly shook her head. "This is nothing. Our intelligence says this is just one of their bases, merely a resort the cult's members visit on occasion. We think it's also a stockpile for some of their weapons" she explained to the surprised captain.

Kimiko was stunned, both that the cult was this powerful and the apparent depth that RAF knew them. This went deeper than she thought. More questions appeared in Kimiko's mind but none that she could ask discreetly. It would have to wait until the operation was over. For the next couple minutes, Kimiko went over the battle plans with Shimakaze. The Hinds would arrive first and knock out any anti-aircraft weapons that the cult might have then rappel RAFs strike teams to take out escape routes. This would also involve the hinds using their ordnance against the sites of toughest resistance and any escape attempts that evaded the strike teams. Then the AW-101s would land and dismount their troops. After that the teams would form up into screens then move through the facility to neutralize enemy personnel and capture the local commanders. Simple as.

There was still a lot Kimiko wanted to know about the situation, but it seems the situation would not give her the time she needed to figure it out. There was work to do, new work. Kimiko realized that this would be the first time she did wet work, as opposed to the more conventional warfare she was used to. True to form, Kimiko found that she wasn't anxious about it. She found herself... excited.

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The United Remnants of America
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Posts: 17276
Founded: Mar 09, 2013
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby The United Remnants of America » Sun Jun 02, 2019 11:22 pm

The United Front Confederation, or Baghistan, as it was both pejoratively and wistfully known, could trace its history back to the earlier days of colonialism in Sishai. Back then, the eastern badlands of what would eventually become the Federation of Sishai was sparsely populated. It was considered a wasteland, and despite the presence of springs, oases, and rivers, the overland distance between these places and the more populated regions heavily restricted travel to only the most resilient of foreign explorers and local bandits. Even local agriculture was limited. During this time, the settlement that would become Baghabad was founded by the first groups of farmers and shepherds, along the Duali River, which flowed from a series of oases that linked together at the head of the river. The settlement was largely ignored by the colonial powers due to its distance, size, and irrelevance.

When decolonization began, and the tribes of Azenyanistan gained their independence and formed into a nation that would only become a subject of the world order's neocolonialism, the settlement of Baghabad had grown as technology advanced, and in the latter quarter of the twenty-first century, the city had become a growing city-state, independent in all but name from the national government, once again due to its distance and relative irrelevance. Baghabad didn't participate in economic relationships with the rest of the nation, rather relying on self-sufficiency as the small groups of people began to identify themselves as tribes who allied and competed for power of the budding city-state and it's surrounding badlands.

Upon the dissolution of the nation, the city of Baghabad quietly signalled its own independence in the raging power vacuum, and the United Front Confederation was created as the competing minor tribes and clans banded together temporarily as a single entity in order to ensure that any challenge to their sovereignty would be met with a firm fist of resistance. That response, however, never arrived. As the nations of Sornia, the Federation of Sishai, and various rebel and terrorist organizations fought for dominance, the existence of the UFC was largely ignored by the local and international powers that be, and the UFC was allowed to exist peacefully.

The UFC did not go completely, unnoticed, though. A flood of refugees had flooded the small city-state over the years of Azenyanistan's slow downward spiral that ended in the civil war, and these groups had joined the existing minor tribes and organizations of the area. Additionally, foreign criminals, expatriates, and anyone who wanted to avoid the attention of authorities came to the no-questions-asked and sparsely governed nation. The population boom, however, also strained resources, and as the central government expanded in order to try and govern the city-state, some factions resisted what they saw as the central government trying to emulate the failed imperial powers.

This would eventually lead to the First Baghi Civil War, in which a mix of separatists, anti-authoritarians, and foreign interlopers created a rash of attacks that culminated in the eventual destruction and absorption of the Livertean people and their territory by the neighboring tribes and districts. Only a short time of strained peace later and the Second Baghi Civil War took place, which would almost repeat the previous conflict to the letter, and ended with the organizational disbandment of the Alliance of Terror, an extremist separatist faction that worked from the badlands. This disbandment, however, created a fracturing that led to various smaller and weaker bandit groups forming in the dead space around Baghabad.

As the Federation of Sishai finally gets on its own feet, the UFC remains as a quiet, out-of-the-way hotspot for anyone wanting to avoid the ire of the authorities, be they simple farming folk or international criminals. The loyalist and separatist factions of the government, made up of tribal, clan, district, and organizational leaders, still exist, as does the system of two separate militaries being controlled by either faction. On its surface, the UFC is a libertarian, lawless city, but in the deep shadows of the political and military labyrinths, the scars of the first two wars haven't healed, and a third could explode at any second. This foaming just under the surface is even further complicated as the Federation of Sishai looks to reclaim and pacify all the former territory of the last nation who declared ownership of these lands, those same lands the UFC and Baghabad has remained out of harm's and attention's way for decades. Even more sinister from the perspectives of some leaders, are the foreign governments and organizations looking to put a foot into the UFC. While some groups and people are welcomed as hard-working contributors to the freeing concept of the UFC, the past is ripe with examples where corporations, governments, and militaries have interfered, only causing death and destruction wherever they go.

The UFC, despite the political differences among the varying factions, agreed on one thing: They would defend their independence, and their freedom, to the death.

Image President Ibrahim Scott
Central Authority, Baghabad, UFC
6/1/2019 - 09:25


The conference room was underground inside of a bunker located roughly in the center of the city of Baghabad. Baghabad's city center was sort of a neutral ground, controlled by the Central Authority, the nominal governing body of the United Front Confederation. Of course this meant that the Central Authority had one of the largest militias for security and stability purposes, and the Central Authority also had the final authority on the Unified Front Military, which was as close to a national military as the UFC got, and while it wasn't the the overall most advanced group in terms of equipment, the size of true believer loyalists to fill out the ranks of the United Front Military made it the ideal stabilizing force in case of another civil war or a foreign attack, leaving the Central Authority's militia to act as a form of national police force. This, of course, didn't always rub well with the semi-independent factions and districts of Baghabad.

The conference room was dimly lit and shabbily appointed. The table was deeply scratched and stained and it looked like it had been in a sandstorm at one point, but the dust had really just settled into everything in the city, even here underground in the so-called governing center of the UFC. The twelve chairs around the table were of varying ages and styles, and were customarily claimed by the same person to the point that each chair had a placard sitting on the table in front of them to label who was supposed to sit there. Of course, around the room were various other chairs that would've been considered in disrepair by any other government, but the UFC did some things well, and extending the functional lifespan of items was one of those things. Besides, those chairs weren't for leadership, but security or advisers. At this point, each chair had been filled, and the meeting could probably start.

Sitting at the head of the table in what could be considered the nicest chair was Ibrahim Scott. Colloquially known as Commander Scott, he was the President of the UFC, making him the leader of the country and representative of the Central Authority at the council meetings. His skin was sun-tanned and had begun to take on the appearance of tanned leather on his face, and while his jet black hair was thick, long, and pulled into a ponytail, his temples had begun to go grey, giving him an appearance of a distinguished leader. The reality was he was a man in a position constantly besieged, with potential enemies at every turn and a threat of the grand experiment of the UFC failing at any moment.

To his right on the long edge of the table, Lars Kherry sat rigidly. Lars was the Vice President, but held a ceremonial rank of Captain, and Captain Kherry acted in a much larger role than a vice president might hold in a larger, more powerful country. In most nations, a vice president existed for continuity of government purposes. Here in the UFC, Lars was Ibrahim's partner. Really, a military's executive officer had more in common with Kherry than another nation's vice president. When Ibrahim was busy placating the varying factions and setting goals and strategies, it was Kherry that managed the Central Authority's militia and the United Front Military and made sure everyone in the Central Authority was kept on the same page. The fact he was comparatively younger than almost all the other leaders was forgotten in these meetings, as he was considered just as powerful as Ibrahim and might as well have been considered a direct avatar of the President's presence.

Next at the table was Tyran Kyros. Tyran Kyros had picked the title of Executive, but the titles of factional and district leaders were really meaningless. Tyran was a chieftain and a warlord who held control over a portion of Baghdad, as did all the other chieftains. From a top-down perspective, the districts spread out in a rough pie-slice pattern from the Central Authority's central location. Kyros, of course, was a staunch loyalist, and probably Ibrahim's strongest ally outside of the Central Authority. He was the leader of the Caflan people, and not only were they the most populous district, but they also had one of the largest private militias in the UFC. Since Kyros and his Caflans were loyalists, his militia essentially protected their district and acted as a police force, with minimal oversight from the Central Authority's militia. The man was large and muscular, and his masculine and honorable personality matched his physique. Tyros was a good man, a warrior through and through, and led his people with their loving blessing.

Further down was Shia Aruf, the First Citizen of the Woolwarkian people. The Woolwarkians were a loyalist group, and they had the second-largest private militia with a major population to boot. Ibrahim liked Aruf, and he knew on several occasions that Tyros and Aruf had discussed the possibility of merging the Caflan and Woolwarkian districts of the city due to their similar overall cultures. At one point, a group called the Liverteans had held a small district between the two, but in the first civil war in recent history, the Woolwarkians had helped the Caflans absorb most of the Livertean territory. Aruf was thin and had sharp features like a noble of ancient times, but he was just as reliable a loyalist to the central government as Kyros.

Arron Lesley sat next. Lesley prided himself on referring to his Karish people as more of a company than a tribe, and as such, he adopted the title of CEO. While Lesley and the Karish were loyalists, Ibrahim knew they weren't dependable. They were a minor territory, but had built up a larger-than-necessary military to deal with widespread organized crime in their part of the city. Because if anyone was going to run organized crime in the UFC, it was going to be Lesley and his district government. The thin, dark-skinned man was nearly emaciated in appearance, and his dreadlocks were tied back. While he'd been a supporter of Ibrahim's position and the current government of the UFC, Ibrahim had no reservations that if the winds ever changed too much against him or the way things were run, that Lesley wouldn't look out for his people and his ability to profiteer on conflict. It didn't help that his militia had control of light tanks, giving him an equalizing power against the larger districts like the Caflans and Woolwarkians.

Stanislav Erodrik was called the Exalt of the Anean people. His district was the smallest in terms of people, but they had more than made up for it in a strong sense of ethnic identity. When the first civil war had broken out, they'd led the charge into the Livertean district and had split it with the Caflans, and it was Anean militia soldiers that had executed the Livertean leader and his family. Erodrik was not a man to be trifled with, and much like Lesley, Ibrahim knew that Erodrik's loyalties really lie with his people rather than with whoever or whatever led the UFC. Erodrik had the smallest loyalist militia, but the fact that they were likely the best trained and had access to armored vehicles made them more than a force to be underestimated.

The final seat on the right side of the table was held Risa Aldrich, the High Elder of the Argent Brotherhood. She was young, her blond hair bleached from the sun, and her robes of office hiding her form. The Argent Brotherhood were considered by some to be religious fanatics. They were, however, the liberal religious fanatics. They'd broken off a few decades ago from the neighboring Steel Brotherhood due to a conflict over recruitment and personnel. While the conservative Steel Brotherhood advocated for a pure heritage of hereditary membership, the breakaway Argent Brotherhood wanted to be able to bring in outsider members. This meant that in the end, the small district the Brotherhood held had been further split, and the Argent and Steel Brotherhoods ceased all friendly ties due to their differences. Aldritch had really opened up her borders to the rest of the UFC, and their tiny district had a large population with a strong and elite warrior caste. However, it was well-known that the Argent Brotherhood were only considered loyalist to the Central Authority because the separatists had promised the Steel Brotherhood a place at their table and an agreement to be left alone.

At the opposite end of the table was a seat that had changed hands. Only two such chairs had changed hands since the UFC formed. The first was Vice President Kherry's chair, which had been formerly owned by the Livertean representative. However, when the civil war happened and he was killed, it was decided Kherry should get it, ostensibly to report on behalf of the United Front Military, but Ibrahim wanted another loyalist voice at the table. The second chair, the one at the opposite end, was originally owned by Jafar al-Hamid, the appointed leader of the apprehensively-named Alliance of Terror. The man was a bandit king, but his existence was tolerated and he was given due respect for unifying those people who lived out in the surrounding badlands. However, in the second civil war, al-Hamid had been assassinated, and his people had fractured into warring parties. That also meant his seat had been vacated. Since no other bandit king arose, the seat had been given to Erico de Orena.

General de Orena was a Peuntian by birth, but he now held the title of Chief of Staff of the Separatist Combined Army. The SCA was a force much like the United Front Military, except it was smaller and better equipped. The separatist factions had formed it during the last civil war and had maintained it even during peacetime as a continuing insult to the Central Authority. Since they were such a major asset or threat, depending on your perspective, de Orena was more of a foregone conclusion to be added and voice his opinion, even if he was a puppet vote much like Kherry was since he was always going to side with his separatist interests. De Orena, of course, had one thing no loyalist faction had, not even the Central Authority or the loyalist military; De Orena had helicopters. It didn't matter that he only had nine. Nine was more than zero, and that made him a singular power.

The farthest chair on the left was held by Aldritch's opposite, the High Elder of the Steel Brotherhood, James Mooth. His robes of office mirrored Aldritch, but he was an old pale man with a bald head. The man's distaste of Aldritch and her upstarts was famous. And even though his district's population was still larger and his militia was still larger, the fact that the Argent Brotherhood was growing and hadn't yet collapsed under their own moral sins made them a continuing thorn in his side. The fact they hadn't fought directly yet wasn't immediately obvious, but Ibrahim knew why: Neither side had the numbers to destroy the other, and neither side trusted their allies enough to help. Even if conservative compared to the Argent Brotherhood, they were really more similar than different. They were both reclusive religious orders and kept many secrets to themselves. Mooth and his Steel Broterhood had only become a supporting separatist district because the separatists had offered his people a way to maintain their purity, and Aldritch had joined the loyalists, making them the enemy by default.

Closer on the left side was Gregory Arsohn. Arsohn was an oddity. He was a foreigner, from some country on Luscios, as were most of his district's leadership. They'd apparently been some sort of war criminals and had come here to hide roughly twenty-five years ago, but had quickly carved out their own district from the historical tribes due to their military and technical expertise. Arsohn now held a minor district with a small militia. They referred to themselves as Rangers, and their district had become ethnically diverse since they were practically lawless so long as nobody caused a riot. The Rangers had originally been loyalist, but Arsohn and his militia were very mercenary in their behavior, and had been working with the separatists since the second civil war once they saw profit in a restructure of the government. Despite this betrayal, the loyalist leaders probably still liked him best out of the separatists, since he was admittedly a pretty nice guy, even if he was likely to stab you in the back if someone paid him enough. Rumors still abounded that the bandit king Jafar al-Hamid had been killed by Rangers who'd been paid to cause chaos.

Next was Jules Cortez, the autarch of the Peuntian district. Cortez was one of the two heads of the separatist cause. The Peuntians did not like how the UFC's central government was becoming what they believed to be an imperialist power encroaching upon their freedoms to rule themselves. Ibrahim thought this hypocritical, seeing as Cortez would no doubt seize power for himself and rule with an iron fist if given the chance. He was harsh in his punishments, but as long as a citizen in the Peuntian district was hardworking and honest, they could lead a normal life. Cortez was also in command of the largest single separatist faction private militia, which wasn't saying much. The major factions of the separatists were under-armed and only made up for it with the more elite training of the Rangers and Steel Brotherhood, and the relative overwhelming power of the Separatist Combined Army, which would act as a military force if a third civil war between loyalists and separatists ever broke out again. The Peuntian Militia wasn't even all that large when compared to the Woolwarkian or Caflan equivalents, but what the separatists all lacked separately, they ironically made up for by being united.

Finally, the Ibrahim's immediately left was Leah Antionova, the Flattnian 'Empress.' The Flattnians were the largest separatist faction in terms of population, but had a smaller militia than the Peuntians. Not like it mattered: Much as Tyros and Aruf were almost brothers in terms of relations and their districts nearly merged, so too were the Flattnian and Peuntian districts, with rumors of merging if Antionova and Cortez held a political marriage, which was growing ever more likely as time went on. Antionova was the head of the separatist factions, making her essentially Ibrahim's political rival, since if he was ever deposed or the loyalist will ever evaporated, Antionova would likely arise to power and control the entirety of the UFC. She was cold, calculating, and worse yet, she had almost too much power at her fingertips with the separatists backing her entirely.

The only people not represented at this point were the bandit, terrorist, and isolationist groups that surrounded the city-state of Baghabad. They'd yet to unify again under a new bandit king, but that didn't much matter. There were maybe a couple thousand of them at absolute most, and due to them being so disparate, they were more likely to fight each other for scraps than do anything of importance.

The only other people in the room were a couple of Ibrahim's advisers and a pair of Central Authority militiamen standing near the door to provide security for the collective group of the UFC's leadership. Ibrahim looked around the room, staring into sets of eyes that alternated between welcoming friendship, the respect of an equal, thinly-veiled distaste, and open disgust. A warm bunch, generally. Must have been a good day for everyone here.

"Alright," Ibrahim glanced at the analog clock on the otherwise bare cement wall, which read 9:30, "Let's begin. First order of business, of course, is put forth by CEO Lesley about the continued existence of standing SCA border checkpoints into Peuntian territory for all Karish citizens..." Ibrahim wasn't even finished speaking when Cortez's body tensed and his mouth opened to fire off a retort.

Yes, today was going to be a long day. Just like every other day before and every day going forward. Something had to change.
By any means necessary. Call me URA
Winner of 2015 Best of P2TM Awards: Best Roleplayer - War
"I would much rather be with you than against you, you're way too imaginative."- Cafla
"URA New Confucius 2015."- Organized States
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"Unfiltered, concentrated, possibly weaponized stupidity."
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