Halls of History [Kylaris|IC]

by **Kylaris** » Sun Mar 12, 2017 3:40 pm

Halls of History

A Kylaris RP

Halls of History is a slice of life thread dedicated specifically to the stories and articles of the past. These articles may be about anyone, anywhere, during any time period but modern. Collaborative posts are allowed, and posts are not required to be significant or play into something larger, nor are they forbidden from carrying any weight at all. Historical RPs are probably going to happen, but small snippets from things are definitely fine here.

by **The Ik Ka Ek Akai** » Thu Mar 16, 2017 10:12 pm

"Pierre! Come see this!"

Jean beheld a standing stone, a massive column weighing over a ton, hidden in the jungles of the village of Tai Pe'a. Written thereon were carvings of the ancient Ronorono script, knowledge of which was near impossible to acquire for outlanders such as himself. He had lived in the Celestial Isles for years, studying the culture, the tongue, the history, boldly going into savage territory to uncover ancient mysteries of humanity that would otherwise be lost to time and isolation. Pulling moss and vines away, rubbing the stone down with a gloved hand to clear it of dirt and dust, Jean turned to his friend Pierre as the two leaned in to sketch the carvings. The world would surely know whatever story the stone had to tell, they would make sure of it.

The pair marveled at the stone, hastily drawing out the symbols covering the monument over two meters tall.

"The ocean is my family, my name is Standing Tree, my clan is the snake. This is my story..."

Pierre and Jean looked to each other, for but a brief moment. What had they uncovered? This "Standing Tree" was not spoken of commonly in the great legends of the chiefs, so who could he- or she- be? Perhaps a high-ranking priest? Whoever Standing Snake was, they had stumbled upon his autobiography, and they were eager to continue.

"I was born in the moon of Koro, on the day of Kokore Ono. I am of the Ariki caste, highborn of the Snake clan..."

The two kept reading eagerly. The narrative was forming before their very eyes, this man of long ago unveiling hidden secrets of the island past.

Standing Tree was, at a young age, inducted into the priesthood of his island. He was, as custom, put through the trials of becoming a priest. To be a priest was more than holiness, but rather it was endurance, spirit, purity, clarity, and possessing strong mana. To become a priest, one must talk to the gods, talk to the dead, and talk to those living. This is their purpose in life, and so it would be. Pulled from his bed late at night, where the effect of the radiant spirit Ahi, lord of Fire and embodiment of the Sun, was at its dimmest, Standing Tree was brought by two cloaked priests to the courtyard of the grand temple complex adorning the city. In a series, twelve torches were lit around him, held by twelve of the highest-ranking priests of the city. The torches were placed in the arms of wooden statues of the primary deities of the Celestial Isles, each tiki standing to be three meters tall.The fires flickered and glowed, causing the statues to distort and form their painted faces into horrid grimaces and inhuman expressions.

Apart from the flickering flames, the night was silent. The chirps of birds and insects was not to be heard. The bustle and laughter of people in the streets of the city was all gone. Even the tremendous might of the ocean, heaving itself in waves as it toils, made not a single sound that night. The high priest of the island began to chant to the Ahi, calling upon his blessings, as well as his mercy. Standing Tree was presented with a cup filled with odd-smelling liquid, a potion which he was instructed to drink at each occurrence of Ahi's name. It took not long before he dropped the bowl, spilling its contents, and spewed his internal fluids over the ground before him. He looked up to find the priests, assured he had done something wrong, but they had all disappeared. Instead, the tiki surrounding him, each grimacing statue, began to talk to the boy.

They all spoke in whispers, having no seeming origin of voice and yet an echo that would never fade. Eventually, the lead figure spoke out in a booming voice. Before him stood Ahi, in carved form, staring him in the eyes with an expression resembling rage.

"Boy!" he called, "You are the one to be initiated, you are the one to be made my new priest!"

Standing Tree nodded, his throat feeling parched as he attempted to speak. He could not, however, as he felt his throat close and he could but choke out small sounds. No word could be formed.

"You must endure the great trials to become my priest!" the tiki boomed, "Firstly, you must enter...the maze!"

Standing Tree looked as a wall opened ahead of him. Behind it seemed a tunnel as black as midnight. Following the instructions, he entered through the tunnel and began the maze. With a loud crashing sound, the entrance behind him closed. Faint blue fires flickered throughout the maze, lighting around corners. The sounds of drums, flutes, and chanting echoed from all directions.

"The Nightmarchers!" He choked, for all the children of The Isles knew the horrifying tale. Restless warrior spirits, portions of soul left behind on earth forevermore, marched ancient warpaths in their ranks. Any who came across them, it was said, would perish by their hand. Crouching to lower his profile, Standing Tree attempted to calm his breathing as he took slow, careful steps throughout the maze. Whenever a Marcher rank seemed to draw close, he lay prone and close his eyes until their music of death began to dim. In these moments, he caught his breath and allowed himself to calm for but a brief moment. There was no time to stay and to wait, for the Marchers would return, and the way back had been sealed.

Advancing through the seemingly endless maze, a foul stench began to overrun the maze. Lurking in the shadows, a deep growl seemed to come, glowing red eyes watching from the distance. Standing Tree began to run, caring no longer for the Nightmarchers. A beast had been released, and at every corner he found it there, waiting to strike. The beast seemed to shift shape, holding no definite form. The longer he were to look at it, the more deformed and hideous it became, and more difficult it became to focus on it. Hearing footsteps behind him at every moment, he soon ran into a total darkness where all danger seemed to dim. Instead, a simple cold was felt, colder than anything that he had ever felt. Wandering through the empty space, he felt it become harder to breathe until, just as his vision began to dim, a tunnel opened to the outside. Despite his flesh freezing, he ran to the outside world and celebrated in triumph as the maze was overcome. With a smile, he felt victory in his heart.

The trials were not over, however. Ahi called upon him once more, booming from the heavens. "Boy! Your next task is to enter into fire. I am the Lord of Fire, and so it must be that to prove yourself unto me, that you trust to let the flames of the underworld devour your flesh! You must trust that you will not be harmed!"

Stepping forward slightly, Standing Tree felt the sudden heat overcome him. The cold sensation began to dim immediately as he felt a pain unlike any other. Searing ash spewed from the sky, falling upon him and scorching marks into his flesh. He was overwhelmed, dropping to his knees and cowering as the burning ashes simmered and steamed upon his body. Rings of boiling blood seemed to escape from his back, rising to the heavens as the essence of Ahi began to consume him. He screamed to the unfeeling night sky, but heard no response. As the silence filled the void around him, the burning ceased, his flesh seemed to mend itself before his very eyes, and no longer did the raging fire cover all directions. He felt the comforting embrace of Lady Wa'i as he pulled himself up from the ground and stumbled further along, weakened by the ordeal.

As he came forth, he saw a roaring crowd of thousands standing before him. He pushed his way through a stray palm frond to find it to be high noon. He had returned to the temple complex. Before a moment could pass, he was presented with a cloak of orange and yellow feathers, as well as a freshly crafted dagger. Stepping forward, the crowd parted in a total fluid motion, the people cheering as loudly as the sea does clamor, and their moving away from him as waves collapse toward the shore. At first he seemed a giant, standing ten feet tall over the whole of the crowd, but with each step his figure shrank more and more until he returned to his usual size. The cloak seemed impossibly heavy, despite being made entirely of feathers, while the dagger seemed impossibly light despite being crafted of stone. Climbing the steps of the temple at the center of the crowd, Standing Tree found that with each step the crowd grew louder. He stopped halfway, only to hear all noise- all cheering, the banging of drums, the shrill cry of flutes, to cease immediately. He slowly approached the top, the noise beginning to crescendo as he returned to his normal speed. After exactly five hundred steps, seeming to go nowhere, Standing Tree was at the altar at the very top of the temple. Above him stood Ahi, the sun itself, whispering into his ear to carry through. Seeing a sacrificial victim splayed before him upon the altar, a young woman no older than he, Standing Tree held the dagger alof. Its substance changed from stone to obsidian and sunlight, shimmering in the glory and the light of Ahi, and he plunged it into the abdomen of the woman. She screamed loudly, her shriek piercing the dirty cloth shoved into her mouth and filling his ears. He reached into her body, the shriek blending with the cries of the flutes to create an ear-splitting resonance that seemed to collapse the entire world around him. After what seemed an eternity, he pulled from the chest of the woman her still-beating heart. Standing Tree held this heart aloft, presenting it to the sun where, before he could place it in the altar, it burned into ashes and all went white.

Standing Tree was convulsing, dropped into the center of the courtyard by the priests of Ahi. He looked at his body from the heavens, watching the priests loom over his quivering form. On his back he saw a tattoo of a turtle, the centermost plate of the shell bearing the face of a tiki guardian. The fins of the turtle were outstretched as if in motion, the blue ink settled into his skin like the ocean. The tattoo seemed to be moving, swimming, but it slowly ceased and was revealed for its truest nature. The tiki on the shell smiled to the heavens, and Standing Tree was thrust back into his body.

Sitting up, gasping for air, his vomit covered the ground once more. He looked to the twelve priests around him, one just finishing rubbing his back with a damp cloth to clean it. His whole body was incredibly sore, his stomach seeming to pulse and churn, and his vision was blurry. As he began to stand, he felt strength return to him, and his vision cleared. The High Priest approached him, the rising sun behind him.

"Congratulations, boy. You are now a shaman for Lord Ahi."

Jean and Pierre looked upon the drawings they had made, and the translation they had provided. The two men stood in silence, the sounds of the jungle returning to fill their ears. After a few silent moments, they stood and rushed to report the find to their overseer. This story had to be told.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Wed Mar 29, 2017 4:34 pm

And The World Came Tumbling Down

Part I:
Per Augusta, Ad Angusta

23rd of October, 1910

Light shone through the drawn curtains and a loud creaking sound signaled the opening of the window shutters. They were a modest thing, but old. Perhaps as old as the house. A thick blue in colour, their immense creaks would echo throughout the two story home with gusto, from porch to pantry, from basement to attic. A stir from beneath the sheets followed this dreaded sound that heralded the coming of the morning, for the cockerels had been drowned out in this land of urbanisation.

Tristan Pueyrredón slowly got up, his eyes flickering open as they adjusted to the sun. The maid was there, dressed in what the Estmerish world had come to call the attire of the 'Gaullican maid'. Featherduster at hand, she gave a proper courtesy to the head of the house and proceeded to leave with not but a word and the connotations of sending up breakfast. Rubbing his eyes awake, Tristan nudged the auburn haired woman next to him and she groaned out something through her teeth and the copious amounts of alcohol she had consumed the night before. He did it once more, pressing his thumb and index finger upon her neck, causing her to retreat back into the sheets with a quiet mumble.

Swinging his legs off of the bed he stood up proper now and began to undress from his night-wear. Then came the routine of a hundred days and more and more. Underwear, from cotton grown in Adunis, socks, a lovely white shirt, his black trousers, a tie of fine silk. The jacket came later, as he was about to leave. And this is when the daily lamentation of life began, as it always did. A mental assessment of life as how it had been, how it was, and how it could be made better. This constant aims of predicting, the ups and lows, came from his occupation. They were a wealthy pair of two. He was a stocksbroker, she was a woman of active charity. The Pueyrredóns were a respectable lot within the social hierarchy. Good people. Gaullican people. Catholic people. The kind of people to wave to their fellows no matter the weather, the permanent smile of social obligation splattered across their faces.

As Tristan finished tying the laces of his shoes, Sauvanne stirred once more before she gurgled something incomprehensible and sat up in the bed. Even in this state of the morning, there was an odd beauty across her face. She was wild and free, with hair that reached her shoulders with a colour of the summer. Her face was white and pearly, her eyes pools of water that could baptise the devil. He was much more defined. Rigid. Composed. Tall and slender. His suit defined him, not he who defined the suit. Yet, this uniformity made him all the more attractive to some.

"Tristan..." she slurred, the wine dripping off of every word. "Don't go, stay in bed..." His response was a tightening of his tie.

"Sauvanne, you're hungover. Someone needs to keep funding that habit, my cerise?" Her laughter swirled around like a fine wine within a glass and she pushed her hair behind her shoulders and bit her lip.

"But I don't want more drink... I want you to stay." There were always a way, that even when she was inebriated or coming from the effects of, Sauvanne managed to tug at the strings of the heart and play a tune most beautiful. However, her husband remained stern in his composure.

"Later, later." He waved her off, making for the door as he grabbed one of his briefcases. "I adore you, my darling, but someone needs to earn for this home and I don't see you doing much save your charities. But this is the way of the world, for the woman is to be at home - with the children." They didn't have kids, not yet, and she didn't need to participate in the housework as that was the role of the maid. The more he reflected on that the more he realised that the bottle had been picked up for a form of entertainment. She protested and laughed as he walked away, but made no effort to get out of the bed. "You owe me!" she called out as he descended down the stairs. Tristan looked up once more, a tender smile across his face as he hung his head over the banister and peered upwards. His loud "Oui, oui!" was all the confirmation she needed.

Powerful strides of a powerful man propelled him into the dining room. Sounds emanated from the Orchestre*, the vinyl recording turning on its table. True to her word and duty, the maid had laid out the dining table with the fine clothes and ornaments so likened by the family. An excess of seats and silverware, for the denizens of the large abode were but two. However, due to the lack of children and other familial individuals to take up the spaces at the table, the members of the household, such as the butler and his core of four, would often sit down and consume breakfast with the Pueyrredóns. Today however, their presence did not grace the table. Tristan was to sit and consume his meal, consisting of a variety of meats from local producers, fruits from the colonies of Parche and those in Coius, and drink his weight in coffee brewed within his kitchen at a constant rate.

As he sat through the morning he sipped on this liquid. Colonising Parche and cutting down its coastal forests for the way of coffee plantations was perhaps one of the greatest thing mankind had ever done. He had a relative whom lived in Parche, a cousin by the name of Bernard, whom was the main middleman for this coffee in particular. The place of Parche was held in an almost fantastical and whimsical notion by many of the Gaullican world. She was a place of mystery, of opportunity - like Asteria, but with much more eye-inspiring physique and fauna and physiology. A land of opportunity where one could be their own man, a small break away from a rigid social hierarchy all under God and his Divine Appointee, the Gaullican Monarch. The literary phrase, "Piece of Parche"*, Tristan suddenly mused as he smelt the coffee, indeed had been a reference to this popular notion of freedom in a colony. A great irony.

A head peered through the oaken doors and then she stepped in. "Everything to your liking, sir?" Was her slightly timid question, hands intertwined over her dress. He gave an approving nod and as he finished consuming a mandarin orange he smiled.

"It is perfect. Every bit of it. The coffee is just roasted to perfection, your skills with that thing are getting quite good." He nodded once again and turned to the window. "Do you have the paper?" He inquired, hands tapping the cup of coffee idly. "I want to read the news."

She ruffled through a small stack, delivered just this morning and held out two. "'The Verlois Herald'* or 'The International Courier'*, sir?" Both were respectable newspapers, with a keen eye on a similar political philosophy to his own.

He mused once more and broke into a short chuckle. "What, you didn't pick up 'Red Morning'*?" She gave a rapid shake of the head.

"If you wished to read mindless drivel, sir, I would have given it to you at once." She was quick on the response. The same joke had been uttered time in and out. Perhaps a bit of belittling, for he knew she read it. That Mohrist propaganda nonsense, as if the destruction of the classes would do anything positive for society. He took the Courier, because the Herald was in abundance at the stock markets. He liked to get his news first hand from Pierre, the swell shopkeep whom had his newsagents just outside the collective bargaining market. With a smile on his face and a shine of the shoe did he breeze through life; the doom and gloom in his papers never so much as turning him into a shell.

His eyes scanned the paper as he crossed one leg over another, the strong scent of coffee still drifting about the room. Copious amounts of toast and cold cuts of meats had been consumed and Tristan had called for a second helping of omelette from the maid before she had departed once more. He mused, reading the paper. There was some notion of an archaeological expedition in Siamat, alongside some naval crash off of Kota Merdeka. The news that was ravaging the soul as always was that dealing with the Asterian Civil War. It was drawing to a close, it seemed, but the technological monstrosities presented in that conflict were enough to stir a man's conscience.

He checked his watch and jumped up from his seat. That blasted second omelette would have to wait. He folded the paper in two, held it in the crook of his arm and donned his fedora. His hands grabbed his two suitcases, instrumental for his work at the stocks, and he departed for the door. "No need for the omelette!" he called out, not sure if anyone had heard. The morning air was crisp. There was a faint aroma of bread picking up on the wind and across from the front-yard he spotted his personal mechanic, a burly man, clad in a greasy apron with two large goggles held currently on his forehead. His hands were clad in large leather gloves and he held up a stained wrench.

"She's all fixed-up now, boss." A wise man of the automobile world he was indeed. Tristan nodded and placed both cases in the back seat of his lovely Rouanet 1909* before he climbed into its front seat as well. The mechanic stepped back and Tristan started her up, a great mechanical whirl and roar signifying that the beast had awoken. Without a word the mechanic turned to the front gate that led onto the property and opened her up, dragging her from her enclosing position. Out drove the automobile, her wheels turning on the roads, and she soared like a ship amidst the breeze.

It was quite the life, owning one of these. Man still walked, man still rode, but now he drove. It was intimidating for him to do so. To drive up to the stocks, park his beauty outside, and stride on in with a vehicle that blew all other modes of transportation out of the water.

'Was'that?' He had heard someone remark once.

'Thas' an automobile, iron'orse.'

It gave him a reputation. A man who could play the stocks. A man who knew his stocks. A man so well versed in the stocks he owned a bloody car. It divided the roads before it, that great iron horse did, and she gave an imposing sound through her engine, wheels and horns. From in here one could make all of it out, the beauty of the city, the streets coming to life. She handled like a graceful dancer and could glide upon the road better than any horse ever could.

She could even walk backwards. Technology was marvelous. He had indeed played the stocks to get her. A careful shouting deal on the prices of the automobile industry's stocks, and when they rose when Albert III bought one, a great sale that allowed him to buy that automobile and all the more. He could spend hours driving the thing. He often did. It was not recommended but he didn't care. He and Sauvanne would go off into the country on it, traverse over the dirt and grass, and spend the days staring at the sun from her seats and looking up at the sky. There was a pang of guilt for the horse, whom were replaced by carriages of steel and iron.

All was quiet as he parked the automobile a few metres away from the entrance to the stock market. It was odd. Usually from outside one could hear the calls beginning - and he certainly wasn't the first person here. Looking up at the height of the building he knew he could see the silhouettes of movement and even through the glass panels on the two large doors could he make out movement from the inside.

Had none began the open outcry trading?

He grabbed both cases and looked up, defiant and strong. His stride returned to him and he marched in through the front door, the sun at his back, projecting his shadow onto the low rise walls that separated some parts of the trading hall into smaller sections. Some turned to look at him, desperation on their faces. Others maintained a watchful vigil on the tickers bringing words from Aldermouth and New Haven. Others now began to shout and scream for stock whilst they still could, before whatever calamity was going to befall the market that these tickers presented.

"400!" someone yelled, though he wasn't sure here. "I'll sell for 400!". Dire times. Perhaps it would be made worse if he knew what the stock was. But he didn't wish to find out. He stepped forth and his shadow diminished. He made his way to the area he would always used to stand. 'Lucky Charles' wasn't there. Neither was Josue, famed across the hall for 'sniffing out the best deals on stock'. This boded ill. Their presence was pleasant, their company true, and their knowledge of the economy and the way of the world was unparalleled.

Tristan just knew how to get what he wanted and when he wanted it.

Someone bumped into him, almost spilling the glass of water they held on him. "Sorry, sorry, sir." They stammered out yet he only grabbed them gently by the shoulder and halted them.

"What's going on?" He inhaled. Then exhaled. "What's happened?"

"Economic shitstorm in the Asterias, cause of the war, no doubt. People've gone into panic here. I'm a bit optimistic though, Charles and Josue think so too. Sure they can fuck up a bit, but nothing we can't handle. We'll have the economy back on track before anyone outside, investors and all, even know what happened." That was a relief. He breathed easy. "Hear they drove an armoured car through some financial centre, calling it the 'Wall Street Crash' or something. People are a bit spooked of war so close to their money." The man snorted and Tristan thanked him before he turned to where he was coming from.

Yes. He agreed. He and Charles and Josue could stop this. They knew how. The economy was not some untameable beast. She existed because man desired it and worked because man commanded it. He held his head high.

This was his element.

A challenge wasn't so bad afterall, was it?

Orchestre: The name of a phonograph produced by a company of the same name. A high end piece of equipment for the ages, popular among the Gaullican upper classes.
Piece of Parche: A popular literary term in Gaullican literature of the era (though fallen into disuse now) basically saying 'to live free' or 'happy life' was popularised following the publication of "Upon A Midnight Shore", a Gaullican novel detailing the exploits and adventures of two brothers as their paths in life lead them to travel from their homes to an idealised notion of colonial Parche.
The Verlois Herald: Gaullica's contemporary largest newspaper. Strongly pro-monarchist, military and imperial, the Herald is famous for its signature focus on Gaullica proper and discussing every affair within the country. It holds renowned privilege of the title "Royal News", or a derivative thereof, as it is read by the Royal Family.
The International Courier: A sub-paper of the Herald, the Courier deals with the international aspects of the state and her sprawling empire. Modern liberals would regard it as an incredibly racist paper and it features cartoonist styles famed for their degrading of native peoples under the Gaullican boot.
Red Morning: A left wing, Mohrist newspaper that was until recently banned and suppressed. Red Morning, whilst not directly anti-monarchist, is famed for its calls for a reorganisation of Gaullican society. It is strongly critical of the established academia within the state and denounces immoral actions against native peoples.
Rouanet 1909: A popular luxury car produced by Rouanet-Vemy, a premier automobile manufacturer. Its renowned for its reliability and comfort and is marketed across the world as the 'in-thing' to have, based on the social principle that "the world does as Gaullica did."

by **Elepis** » Thu Mar 30, 2017 9:04 am

by **The Kingdom of Glitter** » Mon Apr 03, 2017 9:33 pm

HER MAJESTY MARY IV IS DEAD, ELLEN II IS QUEEN.
12 December, 1926
5 pinginí
SPÁLGLEANN Yesterday evening Her Majesty Mary IV is reported to have died peacefully in her sleep, according to St Ellen's Palace. The Queen, who has reigned since 1907, has seen a sharp decline in her health in recent months. She was unable to travel to Soirmoor Manor after coming down with a "painful cold and dreadful cough", according to the Chief Royal Physician, a Mr. Richard Derry.

Her Majesty's health has deteriorated for unknown reasons. She has been bedridden on Mr. Derry's orders for the past several days. Normally, the Royal Family would travel to Soirmoor to celebrate the Nativity Holiday. However, the Royal Family instead opted to remain within the capital and celebrate the Holiday at St Ellen's Palace with Her Majesty.

The Head of the Royal Court, a Mr. Breandán Mac Diarmaid, notified the domestic press early this morning.

"It is with a heavy heart that I write on the occasion of the death of Her Majesty, Mary IV of Glytter. Her Majesty died peacefully in her sleep last evening" his missal read.

Her Majesty, who was 47 years old, passed away at approximately 10:35 PM last night. Born to His Majesty the late James IV on 26 August 1879, the Queen has been a ranking member of the Royal Family since the turn of the century. She was renowned for her professional but caring nature and her charity work.

The Royal Chaplin, the Reverend Margaret MacBride, was among the physicians caring for Her Majesty at the time of her death. A memorial service is to be held later today following regular Sunday Services at St Ellen's Chapel. The memorial, which is limited to members of the Royal Family and members of Her Majesty's Government, will be overseen my Mrs. MacBride.

Taoiseach Éamon Ua Buachalla's Office said the death of Her Majesty was "most upsetting" and announced the nation would enter a period of mourning.

"This is a time of sadness for the Gaylic peoples. Our prayers are with the Royal Family in their moment of grief. Particularly with Her Majesty's eldest child, the Princess Ellen. " the statement from his office said.

The Princess Ellen, the Princess of Gayls, is now the reigning Queen of Glytter. A date for her coronation will later be announced.

In a statement, St Ellen's announced the regnal name of the new Queen: Ellen II

Her Majesty Ellen II ascends to the throne at a time of international uncertainty. With the world and all of Glytter's neighbors fighting with one another, the path forward is currently unknown. Her Majesty's reign will be a historic one.

Her Majesty is just nineteen years old and is unmarried. While she is above the age that would constitutionally require the appointment of a regent, er father, the Duke of Blades, is expected to assist her in her transition from Princess to Queen.

God Save Her Majesty Ellen II, Long May She Reign.
((>>More on Page 3))

by **Valentir** » Mon Apr 03, 2017 10:42 pm

Tagerino

by **The Ik Ka Ek Akai** » Wed Apr 05, 2017 9:54 pm

The first of Baishakh, in the year 1500. A new year has dawned. This is the chronicle of Sahana Maharjan.

I departed from home as the sun crested over the great hills of my town. I brought with me food rations, abundance of water, beads of praying, a dagger, and the clothes that I wore. I began to walk the cobblestone path leading out of my village. The destinations I had intended were clear, and I had told my family of my journey in the months before. I did not leave the settlement with ceremony, nor did I ask for any. No show was to be had. There was no glory. There was no celebration. It was simple, for my first step beyond the borders would be the beginning of a journey to learn the truest nature of man.

I walked long alone in the forests beyond the wall. Many of my days were spent empty in such a manner. I met fellow pilgrims on the third day, who offered companionship and conversation. We traveled together, camped together, and kept each other entertained in the evenings. By the eighth day, we had come to a crossroad. My friends went in one direction and I the other. As the days go on, I begin to see why pilgrimage is advised only for the strong of heart and of mind. The silence and solitude can be, at times, overwhelming. I only hope that I can complete my journey a sane man.

On the tenth day, I came to a new village. This hamlet, named Pānīmālōhāra, the Smith on the Water. This village contained great hospitality, and many things I had missed since departing my home. I approached the village and was met by the blacksmith, whose family seemed to govern the village. I explained my situation to him, that I was a pilgrim seeking food and shelter. He gladly accepted me into his home. The building was made of wood painted red and green, and stood tall at three floors. The railing and window covers were ornate and beautifully crafted as I entered the home.

I sat to eat. We enjoyed conversation over simple food of rice and lamb. I met his children, who took me to be almost heroic for the endeavor I had set upon myself. I explained to them that I was not a hero, but that my bearing was noble and my quest pure. The conversation was very pleasant and I read the scriptures by firelight at night. I spoke the stories aloud to the children. I felt something stir in me, I felt something awake. I was pleased with my work helping the children hear the epics of our people, even if I had heard the stories many times before and I was not always fond of little ones.

As they slept, so it was that I found peace. I rested well, knowing that it would be long before the opportunity to do so would arise again. I had felt, though, as if my journey had just begun.

by **Caesoux** » Sat Apr 08, 2017 10:52 am

Painting of Victor Accôva and his
men by Rainier Êrbert ca. 1957

Victor Accôva
Leader of the Laïllë Communal People’s Council
Laïllë, Caesoux

“Are you ready comrades?!” I yelled at the top of my lungs as we marched down the streets of the monarchist capital city. The narrow streets of the city packed in our demonstrators and the workers like cattle on the way to the slaughter house. We filled the streets packed, no car, no one, no nothing could get through our wall of human bodies as we marched our way to the Palîs Blû. The monolithic symbol of the Regime of the Bourgeoisie which housed the the King of our nation, the one who threw us to the guns of the Democratic League. The pitched anger in the crowedj was palpable, the workers were here to finally throw off the yoke of the monarchist. The men had fought for this country, fought for their fellow countrymen, fought men they never met in their life, and for what? For them to have their jobs stripped away from them by the the victors whom we had to haul to fight knowing we’d be defeated? For them to not be able to support their families? To have all their hard work and bravery thrown away only to come back to a country that doesn't care for them or their sacrifice? This march was revenge for all their transgressions, this march was to establish a new society, a Socialist society based on the needs of the Proletariat, a society to rival that of Kaxakh.

“We are the miners, the metal workers, the farmers, and the soldiers of this country! We demand a nation which respects us and doesn't use our labor and sacrifice to propitiate the wealth and power of the Bourgeoisie!” I yelled at the top of my lungs to the masses of people on the streets. The Palîs Blû was in sight of the crowed. The blue shingles on the palace that gave it its name were shining in the artificial lights set to illuminate the palace. The sounds of various gun shot could be heard both close by and in the distance, either discharging their rifles in protest or shooting at police and loyalist soldiers. The sounds of the gun fire enraged the crowd even more, they wanted the taste of blood, and by god they would get it.

“If you're brave enough comrade than go and take the palace. Lead me into the heart of the rotten system and I'll show you the dead bodies of these traitors!” I told them. The sounds of gunfire grew evermore louder, the screams of angry proletariats rushed the gates of the palace.

“Cecêns ôuv nus tirïrün” the guards shouted at the masses as they lifted their rifles to prepare and fire upon the now violent crowd. But before they could organize a proper defensive firing line they were met with a volley of gunfire. Fire from pistols, to carbines and even brush guns and hunting rifles. The initial contingency was easily dispatched by many of the former soldiers who made up the protesting masses. I knew however that those were simply the first line of a larger royal guard contingency in the palace. I pulled a small 7mm pistol from my breast pocket, the weapon was more a tool of self defense rather than revolution, but it should serve me well while I lead the men through the halls of excess.

The first of them made it to the gates of the palace but found themselves the victims of a pair of sharpshooters perched high on one of the towers of the enceinte. The bullets ripped through their bodies and blew a massive hole out the back of them, he'll you could even see bones like ribs and vertebrae being blown out the holes along with the heavy and tumbling bullets. The sight was hard to watch as this was more than just the usual blood and gore of conflict but more like mutilation through proxy. The blood, bones, and guts of the men spilt onto the cobbled road, the wafting smell of blood and gunpowder filled the air. It was just like old times, it was just like the blood soaked fields of the Great War.

“Come now comrades, they might take our lives but we shall be immortalized by the revolution. We’ve faced death before. We faced death in order to prolong their petty Bourgeois Nation, now we face death in the name of a new Proletarian society! Fear not for if you die you've died in the name of your fellow man!” I yelled out once more to rally the protesting masses to continue their assault on the Palace. Time had finally arrived to depose the traitors of the working class, and I was ready and willing to meet the consequences of taking the step towards liberation.

Hours Later

“We’ve broken through!” Yelled one of the men as the hours long siege had finally made headway. The bodies of our makeshift and ragtag army of proletarians had piled up in mass as they were meticulously fired upon by the agents of the Bourgeoisie. I slowly stood from my kneeling position and looked over at the front gate of the Palace. It was a shell of what it once was, the intricately molded and shaped façade had been blown away by continuous gunfire, the statues of the legendary Polithrians who supposedly watched over the entrance of the palace had been whittled down to stumps by the lead knifes of bullets. I stood firm over the chaos and looked towards the entrance as many of the men armed with simple hunting weapons not only bested a war tested military but now started to storm the palace.

“Leave nothing left” I shouted to the men taking the initiative and heading into the belly of the beast. I followed suit as two men came to my side. They said nothing but knew the importance of what I was preparing to do. One man was armed with a varmint rifle firing a small but powerful round. The other had an old army issued Trench Broom, a slightly morbid name for the M32 Shotgun. We marched in past the gates as the men upfront conducted room to room sweeps. It was a tragically ironic situation for the royals, the military training given to these men by the monarchy who forced them into service was now being used to topple their rule. It was almost poetic in a sense.

The sounds of screaming and gunfire could be heard echoing throughout the halls of the palace, it was the most noticeable aspect of the interior when I walked in. Then the finely carved gold accented and lined marble with the main entry way had a massive chandelier that illuminated much of the entry way. The marvelous building was now in our hands and would soon be exhumed of all the royals.

“Ê étent comén el chân Lâsiez-le conservé la patrê, Identîa à Katyusha conservé sô amûr.” I sang as I passed through the halls of excess pistol in hand with my two escorts by my side. The echoing screams of a woman muted by a boisterous sounds of a gun, the sounds of gunfire being exchanged in the upper levels. We made our way to the main set of stairs where we slowly marched up, Royal guard still probably held the upper levels of the Palace, but hundreds of Proletariats stormed the building so I had little fear of meeting one in the flesh. We kept our march going as we crested the top of the stairs only to see carnage and destruction I hadn't seen since my time in the Wazovian countryside.

We walked over dead bodies and stepped through the thick streams of blood, blood that ran so think it almost looked black, staining the marble floors of the palace. Finally we came to a set of large, ornately carved ebony doors. I went to open them as the sounds of soldiers in the background cluttered my thoughts. The doors jammed and locked up, they felt like they were locked up from behind. I waved over the man with the trench broom, he came and cocked the action open using the pump, he slammed the pump forward and chambered a shell. He pressed the barrel to middle of the door and fired, sending 12 gauge shot through the dense wood and into the room. He then used his shoulder to barrel through the damaged wooden boards which kept the door closed. I heard a series of screaming and crying was drowned out by a series of shotgun fire. I looked into the room to see the mangled body of royal guard still clutching a pistol in his hand, I then saw an older woman, in her 40’s I'd assume, she was a thin framed woman with ashen brown hair and a thin conical face, her hair was done up and her makeup done to perfect all while in a yellow dress. She was in the arms of a man, he wore a military uniform adorned with a sash and designed in a way unusual of the general officers corpse. He had light blonde hair and an equally as light beard which he trimmed into a full van dyke style mustache and beard.

It was the King and Queen of Caesoux, King Fêdaric IV and Queen Sÿlvé. They stood there in shock and fear, this was something out of a movie, they were just there, right for the picking. I could then hear the sound of a small child crying, I looked over to the queens breaths to see an infant in her arms. The new generation of oppressors held in her hands. The new generation of butcherous leaders intent on war profiteering and kleptocracy against the working class. Seeing these men holding their child, fearing for its safety, unsure of what was to happen to the infant. It made me sick, I held back my vomit as the memories of several of my comrades with children of their own being gunned downed for selfish needs and political desires. So many widows and fatherless children roamed our country, but get them had this luxury, the luxury of the enjoyment of child.

“Hold them down for me.” I told the men, again the obeyed, it felt odd that these men hadn't talked the whole time, running off on vocal commands and social ques. As the restrained the royals using house life's to keep them from moving.

I grabbed their child, tearing it from the queens hands. I carried him by the ankle out to the massive balcony which overlooked the Pläs d'Manorqû, the wind swept through my hair as I overlooked the illuminated square. A peaceful garden was grown in the area and was a place I brought my young loves to set the mood as a young romantic, this was a place where couples came to indulge in the symbolic beauty of the garden and the architecture of the city. The sun rise gave the sky an orange hue, the sky transitioned for a dark navy blue slowly into a bright red-orange that added to the scenery, however the frantic screams of the queen and instinctive cries from infant cut the visual aspect of this down. I looked at the infant one last time before I cocked my hand back and launched in forward in an arch release him 3/4th of the way through, it's got dimmer before a thick thud ended them for good.

The woman's scream only got more animalistic as instinct to protect her child, panic, and rage all flooded her mind at the same time. The King stood silent but his rage drew thick as he looked at me with an intent to kill. Even my two accomplices looked at me in horror, they knew not to speak up in the matter however.

“Stop your crying, do you realize how many infants you killed? You action forced us to kill, and we fucking did it. I had no qualms doing that because I know if killed kids before. The first time was when I launched a small mortar into a house being used by the Kaxakh to fire on us, when we came by we saw that we'd killed a family of six in the process of it all. I told her in a soft voice, her screams silenced, she just looked at me with bloodshot eyes and a face red contorted by fury and anger.

“You see, I had to do it. We're here to finally put an end to the feudalistic system you command here and to establish a country for the people not the powerful. I don't care how many I have to kill to do that either, they're all class traitors fighting against their own interests, we fight for our own betterment and for a state we can truly claim is a just one. We set the powder keg and not it's time to ignite it.” I told them.

“You too, do what you want with her, I've got the man.” I told them, the one let go of the king and went to to the Queen with clearly devilish intent. I raised my pistol and shot him one in the leg, the bullet cutting through his calf. He didn't cry but he held back painful groans which mixed with his queens desperate pleas to stop, I kept my back towards that mess, focusing on the leader of the old feudalist order. I forced him to his feet and marched him to the balcony.

“This is for all the men lost during the war, to all the war widows starving in the streets, and to all the children forced to scavenge a life of the streets. It's your fault you're here, if you'd never entered the war I might have never Devine what I am today, I lost myself on that battlefield deep in the Wazovia, I'm no longer Fédéric St. Martin the lowly math teacher, I'm now Victor Accôva leader of the revolution to liberate my country men from your iron grip!” I spoke calmly until the last sentence, I scream that out at the top of my lungs as I shot him in the back, his body fell back on me, I caught it and pushed it forward over the edge of the balcony.

The queens muffled cries of stop,stop,stop were finally ended as the two men marched her out naked and gaged to throw her head first off the balcony. The sunrise was a beautiful accent to end off this night of savagery. It also shed light upon a new day, a day of revolution and progressive change for the country. We would lead from here to eradicate any vestiges of the monarchy here in Caesoux and to finally establish a Workers paradise where all men are finally equal.

by **Alinora** » Sat Apr 08, 2017 7:33 pm

Asterian soldiers relax at a cafe in Saivan - taken May 3rd, 1932

Port of Saivan - present-day Biyadh
May 13th, 1932
Lance Corporal Ryan Godshaw

The environment was... busier, than anything I'd ever seen. Thousands of soldiers from all different countries - Asteria, Estmere, Roeselle, as well Gaullican freedom fighters and Lusitanan Resistance - all preparing for what's being called the largest amphibious invasion in history: Operation Citadel - the Invasion of Cartho. More than a million men were preparing for the so-called "Great Crusade", as it has been called by General Henderson, the Supreme Commander of Alliance Forces. At the port of Saivan, where Asterian armies forced the surrender of the last Entente army in Badawiya more than a year prior, the full might of the Eastern World was getting ready to unleash it's full, unrelenting power onto the Fascist Entente. Crates littered the docks, filled with supplies, while trucks, tanks, and other vehicles were loaded onto ships, along with thousands of personnel. We took this time to relax, play some cards, write their families - it could very well be their last days.

The six of us, our squad, sat on ammunition crates around a larger crate that we were using to play cards, in an area of the dock where our platoon was ordered to wait at for "Loading and transport" - we're to be part of the first wave that would attack 'Red Beach', in Cartho. I'll admit... the thought is terrifying, especially since Cap' avoided any questions we had about the objective - we were given simple orders: "land, and secure the beachhead." It can't be that easy - it never is. We all knew that we were trying our best to forget about what we'd be facing in the next few days - our laughs were almost fake, as we joked around, and talked about home. Most of us hadn't seen our families for months - most, longer. I was fortunate enough to have been put on Leave after the Battle of Saivan - it was only a few months, but it was... refreshing. It was odd, being stateside during wartime - every street was coated with posters that encouraged people to buy bonds, enlist, and conserve - Asteria was... changing, surely. My dad was... I guess, happy to see me alive - he fought back in the Civil War, and while he never talked about it, I knew it had an affect on him. He didn't want me to enlist - said it would lead me "nowhere but a muddy grave in a foxhole." I ignored him, as any teenager would. Finished up high school and joined up just after my 18th birthday - trained, and went to war the following year. Operation Ruby, through the six-month Battle of El-Manae, and into the Battle of Saivan - took more lives than I'd care to share, and lost more friends than I could've ever imagined. The war is far from over, though, and we can only laugh away this realization as we sit around in a circle, playing cards.

"A guy on one of those subs said that the Entente's navy ain't so strong anymore - nothin' standin' between us and Cartho anymore." Ajax, the man who had just spoke, was one of the more... vocal members of the unit - made sense, since he was from New Haven. Jimmy Hendrick, who came from a farm in Richmond, replied with a chuckle.

"Lucky us, huh?" he mumbled with a weak smile.

"Ey lighten up, Jimmy" Ajax replied, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Ain't no way we're turnin' back now - not till Solaris burns, and not till Verlois burns."

"Damn right" said Butch, the tough guy from Brock.

"I'm just hoping we all make it back" Peter Kelly, the Private from a small town in Montgomery, added. "I overheard Estmerish guys talking about it - that island is a fortress, supposed to be impenetrable."

"Yeah so was ya sister, Kelly" Ajax said, "and I got in there, niiiiceee and easy."

"Man shut up" Kelly replied, shaking his head, "quit tryna vent your sexual frustrations on my sister."

"Everyone, can it." Staff Sergeant Dornan approached, dressed like the other Marines. "Brass just threw the rock down the flight of stairs, and it hit us right in the face - we're to report to the FS Mariposa by 1900 hours."

"Well what time is it now?" Ajax asked.

"1830" I answered while I scrubbed the barrel of my rifle with a rag - trying to get all the grime off. "We have time - no worries."

From a few feet away, a group of Estmerish soldiers passed by, walking towards the ships, while laughing at us. "Lazy yanks!" one yelled in the obnoxious accent, "always on your arse - never in the action!"

"Oh shut the hell you puffs!" I yelled back, standing up. "B'for I come over there!" I raised my fist, keeping a serious face, before breaking out into a laugh with the rest of his squad, then waving off the Estmerish boys, and sitting down. "Ya know, I haven't seen a single damn Roessan all day." Ajax pointed behind me, and I turned to see a column of the smug bastards, marching side-by-side, with their flag hoisted straight above them. They got closer, which prompted the Marines to start fucking around with them.

"You guys must be fucking terrified of scoliosis!" Jimmy yelled. "Wind the hell down, fellas - you're worse than the Tommies!"

After a few more chuckles, we all decided it would be best to sit back down - all lighting a cigarette, and giving up our game of cards. There was an eerie quiet - everyone was letting the reality of the situation sit in, and being the guy I am, I had to say something. "Ya know... I honestly didn't think we were gonna make it out of El-Manae - we were in a tough spot. Surrounded, getting attacked every day and losing men left and right... I really thought that was it. But we made it - we did, and we can make it now - we'll get through it. We're gonna be alright - just keep your wits, and watch each others' backs." The guys were quiet, probably for good reason. The entire area was suddenly interrupted by a loud whistle that snapped their attention towards an officer.

"3rd Platoon, head towards B-Dock and get in formation!"

I grunted, tossing my cigarette onto the concrete and grabbing my gear, then proceeding to head off with the rest of the men...

---------- 30 Minutes Later -----------

Thousands of men... row upon row of Marines, standing in a loose formation. Officers wouldn't call us on it - it wasn't a formal formation, but rather, we were preparing to board a transport ship. I was fortunate enough to be closer to the front, so I could see the officers on stage - Lt. General Titus was among them. Titus was... the backbone of the Marines - a warrior, in every way. We all heard the stories - him riding on tanks into battle in the deserts of Badawiya - and we believed all of them. Titus was a warrior, he was a patriot, and he was a shining example to every Marine. I watched as he approached the microphone with his arms crossed behind his back, clearing his throat, and began to speak. "Be seated" he ordered, and the thousands of us proceeded to sit down on the bare concrete, listening.

"Men, all this stuff you hear about Asteria not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of bullshit. Asterians love to fight. All real Asterians love the sting and clash of battle. When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, the big-league ball players and the toughest boxers. Asterians love a winner and will not tolerate a loser. Asterians play to win all the time. That's why Asterians have never lost and will never lose a war. The very thought of losing is hateful to Asterians. Battle is the most significant competition in which a man can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all that is base.

You are not all going to die. Only two percent of you right here today would be killed in a major battle. Every man is scared in his first action. If he says he's not, he's a goddamn liar. But the real hero is the man who fights even though he's scared. Some men will get over their fright in a minute under fire, some take an hour, and for some it takes days. But the real man never lets his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and his innate manhood.

All through your Marine Corps career you men have bitched about what you call 'this chicken-shit drilling.' That is all for a purpose—to ensure instant obedience to orders and to create constant alertness. This must be bred into every Marine. I don't give a fuck for a man who is not always on his toes. But the drilling has made veterans of all you men. You are ready! A man has to be alert all the time if he expects to keep on breathing. If not, some Gaullican son-of-a-bitch will sneak up behind him and beat him to death with a sock full of shit. There are four hundred neatly marked graves in Saivan, all because one man went to sleep on the job—but they are Gaullican graves, because we caught the bastard asleep before his officer did.

An army is a team. It lives, eats, sleeps, and fights as a team. This individual hero stuff is bullshit. The bilious bastards who write that stuff for the Saturday Evening Post don't know any more about real battle than they do about fucking. And we have the best team—we have the finest food and equipment, the best spirit and the best men in the world. Why, by God, I actually pity these poor bastards we're going up against.

All the real heroes are not storybook combat fighters. Every single man in the army plays a vital role. So don't ever let up. Don't ever think that your job is unimportant. What if every truck driver decided that he didn't like the whine of the shells and turned yellow and jumped headlong into a ditch? That cowardly bastard could say to himself, 'Hell, they won't miss me, just one man in thousands.' What if every man said that? Where in the hell would we be then? No, thank God, Asterians don't say that. Every man does his job. Every man is important. The ordnance men are needed to supply the guns, the quartermaster is needed to bring up the food and clothes for us because where we are going there isn't a hell of a lot to steal. Every last damn man in the mess hall, even the one who boils the water to keep us from getting the jarhead shits, has a job to do.

Each man must think not only of himself, but think of his buddy fighting alongside him. We don't want yellow cowards in the Marines. They should be killed off like flies. If not, they will go back home after the war, goddamn cowards, and breed more cowards. The brave men will breed more brave men. Kill off the goddamn cowards and we'll have a nation of brave men.

One of the bravest men I saw in the Badawiyan campaign was on a telegraph pole in the midst of furious fire while we were moving toward Saivan. I stopped and asked him what the hell he was doing up there. He answered, 'Fixing the wire, sir.' 'Isn't it a little unhealthy up there right now?' I asked. 'Yes sir, but this goddamn wire has got to be fixed.' I asked, 'Don't those planes strafing the road bother you?' And he answered, 'No sir, but you sure as hell do.' Now, there was a real soldier. A real man. A man who devoted all he had to his duty, no matter how great the odds, no matter how seemingly insignificant his duty appeared at the time.

And you should have seen the trucks on the road to Alisar. Those drivers were magnificent. All day and all night they crawled along those son-of-a-bitch roads, never stopping, never deviating from their course with shells bursting all around them. Many of the men drove over 40 consecutive hours. We got through on good old Asterian guts. These were not combat men. But they were soldiers with a job to do. They were part of a team. Without them the fight would have been lost.

Sure, we all want to go home. We want to get this war over with. But you can't win a war lying down. The quickest way to get it over with is to get the bastards who started it. We want to get the hell over there and clean the goddamn thing up, and then get at those purple-pissing Gauls. The quicker they are whipped, the quicker we go home. The shortest way home is through Solis and Verlois So keep moving. And when we get to Verlois, I am personally going to shoot that paper-hanging son-of-a-bitch Albert.

When a man is lying in a shell hole, if he just stays there all day, a Boche will get him eventually. The hell with that. My men don't dig foxholes. Foxholes only slow up an offensive. Keep moving. We'll win this war, but we'll win it only by fighting and showing the Caesenis and Gaullicans that we've got more guts than they have or ever will have. We're not just going to shoot the bastards, we're going to rip out their living goddamned guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Gaul cocksuckers by the bushel-fucking-basket.

Some of you men are wondering whether or not you'll chicken out under fire. Don't worry about it. I can assure you that you'll all do your duty. War is a bloody business, a killing business. The Fascists are the enemy. Wade into them, spill their blood or they will spill yours. Shoot them in the guts. Rip open their belly. When shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt from your face and you realize that it's not dirt, it's the blood and gut of what was once your best friend, you'll know what to do.

I don't want any messages saying 'I'm holding my position.' We're not holding a goddamned thing. We're advancing constantly and we're not interested in holding anything except the enemy's balls. We're going to hold him by his balls and we're going to kick him in the ass; twist his balls and kick the living shit out of him all the time. Our plan of operation is to advance and keep on advancing. We're going to go through the enemy like shit through a tinhorn.

There will be some complaints that we're pushing our people too hard. I don't give a damn about such complaints. I believe that an ounce of sweat will save a gallon of blood. The harder we push, the more fascists we kill. The more fascists we kill, the fewer of our men will be killed. Pushing harder means fewer casualties. I want you all to remember that. My men don't surrender. I don't want to hear of any soldier under my command being captured unless he is hit. Even if you are hit, you can still fight. That's not just bullshit either. I want men like the lieutenant in Samastara who, with a Luger against his chest, swept aside the gun with his hand, jerked his helmet off with the other and busted the hell out of the Boche with the helmet. Then he picked up the gun and he killed another Gaullican. All this time the man had a bullet through his lung. That's a man for you!

Don't forget, you don't know I'm here at all. No word of that fact is to be mentioned in any letters. The world is not supposed to know what the hell they did with me. I'm not supposed to be commanding this army. I'm not even supposed to be in Badawiya. Let the first bastards to find out be the goddamned Gaullicans. Some day, I want them to rise up on their piss-soaked hind legs and howl 'Ach! It's the goddamned First Divisions and that son-of-a-bitch Titus again!'

Then there's one thing you men will be able to say when this war is over and you get back home. Thirty years from now when you're sitting by your fireside with your grandson on your knee and he asks, 'What did you do in the Great War?' You won't have to cough and say, 'Well, your granddaddy shoveled shit in Dixon.' No sir, you can look him straight in the eye and say 'Son, your granddaddy rode with the great First Division, Federal Marines, and a son-of-a-goddamned-bitch named Robert Titus!'

All right, you sons of bitches. You know how I feel. I'll be proud to lead you wonderful guys in battle anytime, anywhere. That's all."

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sun Apr 23, 2017 8:00 am

And The World Came Tumbling Down

Part II:
A Failure in Blue

11th of February, 1911

This was how it ended.

The labour of a hundred nights and more. The labour of those like Charles, who wouldn't be quipped as being lucky anymore. Josue would probably keep fighting to the bitter end. But it hadn't worked. Everything they tried had seemingly made the markets... angrier. More receptive to its knowledgeable decline. With tired eyes, the bags under which had become a pronounced... ebony in colour, he watched the stock tickers. Everyone did. With bated breath. They knew what was coming. They had tried to warn the markets in Estmere and Asteria, as they had tried to warn us in Verlois, but the blasted machines were too slow. The information, arriving as slow as it did, gave the investors around the globe the wrong impressions.

Was this how it would all end? At the hands of a stupid machine that counted stock?

He recalled it, rather well. A gloomy October 12th - when all the signs where there, but thought to be easy to control. A statement, that was the plan. Proud industrialists were gathered, Chéreau - whom owned all the oil refineries established in Gaullican Coius, Lefaucheux - the steel magnate of the Mareine, and many others. They were to make proud bids and investments, to revitalise faith in the economy. And she worked. It worked for a good... three days. Then the economy reared its head, and the stocks declined downwards once more.

He sighed and Charles to his left nudged him lightly and pointed at the stock ticker with his cane.

"Still coming." He mused. Fatalistically.

"Yup." He knew what he meant. It wasn't going to stop.

The World had gone mad at the hands of a machine. Something that had made the global economy all the more powerful would be its undoing. Countless people would become unemployed across the world, banks would panic, industries would fail.

Tristan's mind went back to his beloved Sauvanne and how she had consoled him on his nights home, shoulders and chin down. "You're going to fix it." She would quip, rubbing his shoulders. "You all will. This is but a bit of fun, isn't it?" He sighed at that memory. That confidence. Perhaps if Sauvanne would have the power of foresight, she would never have accepted his proposal for marriage - for he was a failure at what he excelled himself in. The stocks had slipped through his fingers as if he were holding sand.

Charles nudged him again, this time he was clearly bored. "Heard the news from Adunis?" The Holiest of Cities, and in Gaullica's hands.

"No." Tristan confessed, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "What's happened? Have they found Catherine's body*?" That caused Charles to laugh uproariously, slapping his knee in the humour. Catherine had captivated the imagination of Gaullicans for centuries. She was a hero. One who defied her... unfortunate circumstances.

"Now that would be something! Something heroic, uplifting! She was a Queen, and what a Queen, in the thick of the fighting, sabre at hand, and the lord above her guiding her every move as she cut down the Sand-Dweller true and swift." He shook his head. "And poison did her in. What treachery, what... dishonesty. I'm a royal on my mother's side, y'know?" As if, Charles. As if. "But no, unfortunately. Apparently some lobbyists, those pied-noirs*, want to build a railway from Adunis to Saint Germaine in Dauyezeré. Its an interesting prospect. I'd fund it, if y'know..."

Tristan lamented on his words silently for a time. Sauvanne was a "pied-noir" and she was no different to him. She enjoyed more exotic things, clearly, like the summer fruits and dates of the era. He felt, perhaps, she had become confined in the customs of the homeland. But this was what individuals did for love. He wasted himself away, so she could sit at home and drink and get herself hot and flustered for when he returned. He wiped his brow again. "Certainly interesting. Perhaps... to bring goods and services easier. I'd imagine the oil lobbyists will be pleased. As will those with a flare for the interesting adventure of the land."

"Not the natives, though." Charles commented. Both stared at each other with an expression that read 'and so what?'

".. So, where's Josue?" Tristan asked, shifting the conversation from something unsavoury. Charles shrugged slightly, opening his lunch box and bringing out a sandwich. There was no point panicking, they were too tired to do that now. Too depressed to panic. They had time to panic when everyone else would. Now was the marginal calm before the storm.

Tristan spied over to his meal, and saw that Charles was consuming a ridiculous quantity of food within that baguette - meats galore, cheeses, vegetables, butter, sauces. And then he lamented he was savouring his wealth in its excess whilst it lasted. "He's up there." Charles remarked casually, pointing upwards with a hand.

"Why's he up on the top floors, Charles?" The man gave another casual shrug.

"I think he's viewing some more stock tickers, maybe he's going to jump, maybe he's just contemplating life? Who knows, I don't. World's gone mad." Charles had an odd outlook on life. He was cheery as could be at times, but in times like this - one could understand his nihilism lite.

"Should we go talk to him?" Tristan asked, wringing his hands together as the nervousness crept upon him once more. He reached inside one of his inner jacket pockets, now constantly flipping open his pocket watch to and fro.

Charles shook his head again and again. "Josue's up there cause he wants to be left alone. We shouldn't. For his sake, as well as for our own. Wont shut up if we go up there. He'll talk at a thousand words a minute until our ears fall off, poor sod."

Tristan was going to reply. He could feel the words formulating in his mouth as he slowly set the pocket watch down once again. He had an urge of confidence, of clarity, to speak and discuss once more. But the shout that echoed across the room in his ear caused him to be stunned. One by one the call grew louder, more fierce, and the investors in the room shook their heads rapidly, clutching their briefcases before they darted to every teller imaginable.

And then he say it with his own eyes. His tired and youthful eyes. The stock ticker almost seemed to be shaking, registering every single purchase that had finally arrived at its knowledge. It sputtered and leaped as if it were a horse, and it bucked away those whom were observing it.

"I WANT TO SELL ALL MY SHARES!

"GIVE ME BACK MY MONEY!"

"ITS ALL GOING UNDER!"

These were the calls, the calls he assumed that were echoing half a world away in Asteria, or closer in Estmere. It was the end. The crash had accelerated beyond comprehension now, and all would be worse for wear. Charles, despite psyching himself up for it, held his head in shame and tossed his food angrily onto the floor. Tristan would have done the same had he had the stomach to eat anything. His house flashed before his eyes, his car, his meals, his maid, his beloved Sauvanne.

And with that stupid machine; the world came tumbling down.

Catherine - Gaullican Queen in the mid 7th century, famed for her holdout of Adunis against the Caliphate. She died within the city, and her tomb has been subject to much interesting in Gaullican historical and archaeological circles.
Pied-Noir - Gaullicans born in Adunis and the area, which had been conquered in the early 19th century. 'Pied-Noir', literally meaning 'Black-Foot', is a bit of a... derogatory term from the homelands to describe them.

by **Senkaku** » Fri May 26, 2017 8:52 pm

Rage

Songguo, 1985

"You think you're better than us, old man?"
Guo Liwei staggered as another blow glanced along his cheekbone, vague images of his shattered lab and furious faces flickering through his vision. Papers and various apparatuses had been dumped everywhere, expensive scientific equipment smashed on the floor like porcelain after an earthquake, and the strangely neutral light of the fluorescent panel lights in the ceiling lent the red armbands and shirts and headbands of the youths a bizarrely normal color. Liwei could smell smoke, and distantly heard loud noises- gunfire, perhaps shouts or something burning, he could not tell. It all sounded as if it were transpiring a million miles away, underwater.
"You're one of the collaborators! You're trying to bring the nation down from the inside! Don't deny it!"
"Please, no, I'm not-" his mouth struggled to form words, aching and bloody from the blows they had rained on him.
"Liar!", screamed one of the girls, holding a belt in one hand. She sent the heavy metal buckle whistling through the air towards his head, and he gave a cry as it slammed into his head and sent blood trickling down his scalp. "Why did they give us these papers, then?" She waved something at him for a moment, impossible to read.
"You've been on the payroll of the imperialist dogs and the separatists," a young man screamed in his face. "Confess to your crimes, Professor Guo!"
"You've been corrupting the minds of the nation's youth with separatist science, invented by the Negarans and Asterians to poison our people!", another screamed.
"I only teach physics, please-"
"You're one of the separatist reactionary hooligans!"
Liwei tried to compose himself as they transitioned towards simply screaming in his face rather than continuing to hit him.
"I am a physics professor and I am not guilty of any-"
They bowled over him, and one of the young men gave him a backhand slap across the face that sent blood trickling from his nose again.
"You tried to sabotage the bomb program-"
"You're a Negaran spy-"
"-separatist sympathizer, slanderer of the monarchy-"
"-class enemy, imperialist stooge-"
What is happening?, Liwei wondered, looking out at the world as if it had suddenly been etched in fine crystal. Outside his window, he had a view of the next building, and smoke was leaking out of some of its windows. The downward-spiraling world seemed to have reached its nadir, a point of nightmarish, delusional insanity from which there could be no escape. Liwei felt as if he were standing next to himself, watching the Red Birds hurl abuse and blows at him. One or two, he noticed, had even taken his classes before, and quite a few were from the university in other programs.
How did our country come to this? When will the madness stop?

The girl with a belt took another swing, and the world descended into an uncomfortable and angry darkness.

by **Vredlandia** » Sat May 27, 2017 7:24 am

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sun Jul 23, 2017 6:14 pm

And The World Came Tumbling Down

Part III:
Food for the Soul, Yet None for the Stomach

13th April, 1911

The thurible swung, the clergyman wielding it taking conservative swings to the left and right as he stepped down the central aisle between the pews. He stepped forward, the cassock he was adorned in slowly turning to the left and right in the wind of the opened church doors. He reached the altar, behind him a deacon held up a large ornate golden cross. Behind him, scores of deacons holding forth tall candles in their holders. The congregation had stood up, chanting in Solarian breaking across the halls in this middle and upper-class Cathédrale Saint-Chloé.

Her statue* stood outside the church itself, draped in plate armour clutching a downwards pointed sword between her legs. The warrior lady, whom fought outside the gates of the Eternal City of Solaris. Back then Gaullica had no fears. No qualms to head-butt the world as it stood against her.

Yet now the nation sat with her rifle clutched to her breast as she watched as it all went wrong. She had not been bested at battle, nor upon the skies. Nor had some pox ridden the people invalid. She had not been bested for quite some time. Despite turbulence, she rode the wings of success to all new heights. Her ministers declared her "worthy of Solaris" and how "she would be proud." The state had conquered new worlds, battled in the old and brought empires older than blessed Solaria to their knees.

And as if Fate had cast its die, laughing in melancholy as it tumbled and turned upon the table, one fell swoop brought all these accomplishments to null. Her armies and navies could not fight the stock markets. They could not fight something intangible. Her spreading of culture and faith, and language, could not best the dark and depraved turn of the economy's head as it pounced on the weak and vulnerable. The Empire* could not rally to the defence of Gaullica from this enemy. Nay, Gaullica's tight grip on its children had brought this travesty upon them too.

Tristan Pueyrredón stared as the priest advanced up the minor step upon the altar. He was in his Sunday suit, a lovely burgundy in colour. His hat he had left in the car. A purple scarf twirled around his neck, and his tie, a lovely blue in colour, hung from his neck. Yet it was worn. Nothing new, nothing spectacular. The last vestiges of his wealth, though in other fields - and he did have a familial saving - were rapidly disappearing ever since the market crash. Prices rose, currencies devalued. Wages became worthless.

Their best attempts had been hopeless. The beast could not be tamed by man.

He stared at Sotiras and mentally thought if this economic nonsense was a punishment for man. Had they grown too frugal? Too powerhungry? Too ambitious? Had they forgotten the downtrodden in their economic advance of progress? He was a devout-man and he blinked as the sermon continued, too lost in thought to listen. Sauvanne, ever vigilant, dragged him down as they were told to sit. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the clergyman's wife; stifling through donations from the more firmly wealthy to those unable to do so.

His attention turned to Sauvanne again. She was attentively listening to the priest as he spoke from the words of Luke's Gospel. His back was turned to the congregation and he continued to, almost in the iambic pentametre, to recite the Gospel of the Lord.

She was beautiful. He had never given her enough credit for that. Her tanned complexion, her long red hair that reached the small of her back. Her smile. Her face. She turned to Tristan for but a moment, rested a hand on his lap and her face betrayed a feeling of... confusion. He felt the same, yet did not show it. She nuzzled him gently and uttered something about how it "would all be okay." He was impressed by her. They had made sacrifices with their much less income. He ceased his downing of coffee (and let off about six employees from the house) and she ceased her alcohol consuming as best she could. He had ceased buying wine. Little was Sauvanne aware that her brother-in-law, Porthos in Satucin, was shipping over coffee from his plantations for free for his brother.

He was doing well for himself. His wealth was real, concrete in its manifestation. It was of the soil. You could reach out and touch it, rather than the non-tangible feeling of stock and market.

Time had passed and yet he was lost in the priest's words. Sauvanne dragged him up once more, clutching his hand tightly making sure to indent the bottom of her ring onto his palm as a painful reminder of where they were. They trudged up in their lines now, to take Communion. It was Food for the Soul and in Gaullica one never went hungry.

Religion was the heart of humanity. It was the pulse of the state. It provided solace that none could compare. And in Gaullica, the clergy was strong and proud. And their concern for the meek and poor ever-present. Yet, they grew distant. Tired. Swamped by the demands of the depression. Even God's men could be tied down by the inhibitions of mankind.

Sauvanne was in front of him and he rested his hands upon her figure as they walked along. He gently felt her silken dress and she gave a subtle laugh, not picked up by the fellow parishioners and moved forward out of his grip.

Everything was making its way out of his control.

They made their way along, as if this was there soup kitchen. Yet the people here were spirituality hungry. Their thirst for drink was little in comparison to their first for hope and charity.

Sauvanne approached the clergyman and she recited an "Amen" as the priest declared "Corpus Sotirasi" After this he held out the chalice, "Quod Sanguis Sotarisi". Sauvanne clutched the bottom of the chalice hesitantly. She stared first, the priest staring back. She sighed and then she runk the wine healthily, despite the provocative looks from the other members of the congregation. The priest, slightly flabbergasted, took the goblet out of her hand and held it away.

"Do not dare."

She stood meekly before the father and sunk away, slithering back to her seat in embarrassment. Tristan stepped forward and was offered the Body of Sotiras. Yet not the wine. At his protest the priest held out a hand and pointed to Sauvanne.

"Mrs. Pueyreddon drunk your share, sir. Let the other faithful too take their own. Times are tough for all, not merely you and your wife." He nodded, bowed before the altar and cursed the man in a whisper beneath his breath as he took his seat down next to Sauvanne. She shrunk into her shell, avoiding his gaze.

Yet they were all weak. He could not scold her or stand against her. She was his world. Alienating her now would be catastrophic to both. So he wrapped his hand around her and stared at the paintings and decor, at the statues and arches.

His stomach grumbled. His soul satisfied.

St. Chloé: One of Gaullica's patron saints. She lived throughout the mid of the 13th century and fought to defend Gaullica and the city of Solaris from external threats.
"The Empire": Senouillac, Satucin, Sanslumiere, Siamat, the Gaullican Islands and Gaullican Bahia and Badawiya.

by **Elepis** » Mon Jul 31, 2017 11:18 am

DARSHISTAN BLEEDS AS THE EAST TURNS IT'S BACK
Baudouin Delafosse: As CRAD forces bombard the city of Gul Darah, I get a rare insight in to this all too forgotten war

SHARE

Baudouin Delafosse

^{21 November 1990 | Melanay, Darshistan}

A Zoulvisian soldier soldier stands guard with his machine gun
Photo courtesy of Baudouin Delafosse

Gul Darah, Darshistan-

Military situation in Darshistan, 26th November 1990

I do not like war, which you may consider ironic for a man currently sitting on an old wooden bench in the capital of a country that has been tearing itself apart for the last two years. The fact I do not like war is made even more pathetic by the fact I have made my living commentating on war, as well as other disasters like famines and earthquakes, for the majority o f my life. But war is evil, and war is dangerous. Contrary to what Asterian popular culture may have us believe soldiers are not heroes just because they fight, and I have grown weary of saying "ceux qui prendront l'épée périront par l'épée", those who live by the sword die by the sword. However, at the moment when the largest currently active war rages daily and has ruined the lives of 10 million people and yet the East does not care, war seems to have lost it's dreadful appeal.

That is until you actually come here, to witness the Ghost War with your own eyes. As I type this I am sitting on a old wooden bench, once covered in green paint, in a cafe in Melanay's rather refined-if-rundown downtown district by the shore of the vast Lake Lavid, but twenty four hours ago I was sitting in the bombed out ruins of a cafe in Guld Darah: the epicentre of this sectarian war.

Just over three hundred kilometres away across the coastal plains and rugged mountains the city of Gul Darah, once home to 350,000 people and the second largest Darshi city, stands besieged. Seven months ago the Heqanatic militia group, the Coalition of the Revolutionary Army of Darshistan (CRAD), with backing from the Heqanatic regional superpower Fars, stormed across the Darshi plateau to surround the city. With Farsi air support, an intervention neither side admits but is obvious to anyone who cares to look, and equipped by Farsi supplied M60 tanks (although as so often is the case, they originated from Asteria) the CRAD fighters made short work of an unprepared Zoulvisian Free Darshistan Army (FDA) who had been preparing for their own offensive in north-east Darshistan where until now most of the fighting has been taking place. Now the FDA in Guld Darah are confined to a 106 kilometre square pocket encompassing 85 percent of the city while the tanks and heavy artillery of the CRAD shell them day and night from the high dust blown mountain tops, their pale tents flourishing in the frozen vallys of distant hills which belonged to the FDA only months ago, gun batteries thumping amid the rocky hills.

I arrived at the CRAD siege lines having been flown in by helicopter from Fars during a brief ceasefire. So enormous is the landscape surrounding Gul Darah, a city sprawled across a valley floor surrounded by peaks that can rise to almost five thousand meters above sea level-giving the howitzers and rocket launchers of the CRAD a perfect view of the city-that dry words in a news article cannot really describe it. When I was there temperatures averaged at just above freezing, a small comfort in city that sees summer temperatures rise above 30 degrees but still the atmosphere of the ten thousand FDA militiamen in the city and their twenty thousand strong captors it bleak.

The dry, cold landscape has a way of playing tricks on your eyes but the Heqanatic emplacements and their 105 and 122 mm guns are real enough, so are the Grad missile launchers, made in Wazovia, brought by Fars and transferred to their fighters in Darshistan. These machines mounted on the backs of pickup trucks and fire 40 unguided rockets down on the city in half a minute, causing massive devastation. So are the planes that sometimes fly over head, short and squat flying tanks, these attack aircraft are mainly used to decimate attempted relief operations while artillery is left to do the dirty work against the city itself.

The wreckage of the war is real enough here too, broken down trucks and craters caused by intermittent FDA counter fire, and can be seen everywhere. An officer in the militia shouts that the gun line have been ordered to fire, and then the mountains shakes ever so slightly and long lines of sand streak in front of the artillery, looking like the silent great guns we seen from films from the Great War. Amazingly the militia commanders allow us to take photographs at will, only stopping us when we pass a column of Farsi soldiers of the elite Revolutionary Guard marching with their tanks towards the city. The commander of this foreign force, a Major Alavi as I can tell by the way his men address him, wearily waves at me before checking over his Vredlandian made G3 battle rifle.

Walking around the siege lines we come across a machine gun emplacement from which emerges a corporal in the Heqanatic militia holding a green steel helmet. Thrusting it into my hands the interpreter informs me that it is Denikertic made and that he took it from a dead FDA fighter, Denikert of course being the principal counterbalance to Fars in supplying the Zoulvisian militia who defend this city. Of course to understand this war you need to know that centuries of animosity between both Fars and Denikert and the Heqanatic and Zoulvisian branches of Mazdaism they both adhere to, but that is a tale for another day. Our photographer proceeds to take photos of the soldier and his machine guns, but looking back at them now they seem dwarfed by the immensity of the landscape.

CRAD artillery fires on the city

In the headquarters of Lieutenant General Hakim Sanai I can see just how precarious the situation is for the CRAD, an excuse that they use for their indiscriminate bombardment. The offensive of earlier this year had captured vast tracts of land culminating in surrounding Gul Darah, but even my eye can see how dangerous their position is at the head of a salient jutting out into the FDA dominated Darshi mountains. The General explains to me that every day they get report of FDA relief columns forming to break the siege and rumours of an FDA counter offensive in the east, in his eyes making it imperative they take the city below by whatever means necessary. Overall the mood in the besieging force is bleakly optimistic, the men miss their homes and do not like to talk about what they have witnessed in the past two years but they also believe fervently in the cause they are fighting for and think victory will be theirs here.

Following my brief stay with the CRAD militia force, I was allowed down into the city itself, while I was in the city I had an assurance from the general they would cease their bombardment, although a colonel in charge of a tank group said he would not stop firing even to save my life. He was only half joking. Between the attacker's trenches high on the slopes and the defenders counter trenches there is brief no man’s land. Littered with the remains of tanks and bombed out houses I had been informed it had been covered with bodies too before they had been cleared during a brief truce. Most of this area is heavily mined and there are countless boobie traps but we made it down into the city in one piece.

The soldiers who greeted us there made the Heqanatic fighters seem positively cheery, having endured months of near ceaseless shelling and cut off from supplies the Zoulvisian fighters were all thinner and greyer than their counterparts up on the hills. Armed with Denikertic supplied M16s a small party escorted us through remains of the city to the headquarters of the defending force. Across a street nicknamed Mortar Boulevard, so called for the frequency of CRAD shelling, you can see the full devastation this city has suffered. Piles of rubble that once were houses lined the streets and the burnt-out husks of trees try in vain to beautify a road marked up and down with craters. Most of the civilian population was evacuated, though it is estimated up to 150,000 people could remain trapped here, eking out a living in apartment blocks cut off from supplies of gas or water and exposed to the elements.

Outsiders tend to think it is air strikes that cause the most damage, and I have been informed that the CRAD’s air superiority in this sector is a problem, but General Sediq Darsh of the FDA informs be that it is shell and rocket fire that has rendered this city uninhabitable. Thinking back to my time with the CRAD it is easy to see why, their use of notoriously inaccurate rocket launchers was always going to be devastating.

"Mortar Boulevard"

The General’s HQ is relatively calm in such a ruined city, situated in a former bank, it has proven mostly resistant to CRAD attacks and the militia here have dug caverns underground, expanding the bank’s vaults and strong rooms to make space for makeshift barracks and a hospital. In his officer, little more than a corner separated off from the main building by a curtain, the General showed me his own map of the besieged city. He had, near enough, ten thousand men split in to four brigades covering the four quarters of the city which is bisected north to south by a river, on his map "Mortar Boulevard" which was in the south near the entrance to the valley was marked in red as was the district around it. A sector of the city in the north east was marked in green, this he told me was the safest part of Gul Darah, the furthest from the CRAD guns and the closest to the FDA controlled areas of Darshistan this area was generally "only" targeted by intermittent air strikes and had apparently been left relatively unscathed.

Having spoken with the general we emerged upstairs in to a rough courtyard where the hubristic man had brought us some of his soldiers to see us. Dressed in makeshift camouflage, including the kind of khaki trousers you might see being worn on a normal day in Verlois, they were equipped with helmets and M16 guns supplied by Denikert to match their opponent's Farsi supplied weapons. Everywhere you look the two powers are present, though only Fars seems to have committed troops and even then only in secret, I wondered then why they fought over such a poor country although I was later to find out Darshistan has the largest reserves of lithium on the planet, perhaps that even more so than the historic anger was the reason for this war.

Talking to the men on both sides their views of the war ranged from bleak pessimism and a black acceptance of the horrors of war to a macabre optimism that "our boys" will break throw the enemies lines and either take the city and thus end the war, or relieve the city and start an unstoppable push to Melanay and the shores of Lake Lavid. Perhaps this can be best demonstrated by the views of a FDA Colonel I interviewed in the so-called safe zone of Gul Darah; most military men do not like to talk about dates, but this colonel enthusiastically told me that the FDA with their Zoulvisian Denikertic backers will break the siege and liberate Gul Darah within the month. I naturally ask him why he was so confident in this and he gives me two answers, firstly he believes the twin prophets Zarathustra and Zoluvisia are with them to fight the heretical Heqanatic forces, secondly, he claims prior to the CRAD's offensive on Gul Darah the FDA had been building up their own offensive to take the Heqanatic city of Sar Rawazah and that now all those weapons and men would be transferred west to save them. I put it to him it will take months for heavy equipment to cross this mountainous country to which he answered: "Mazda will provide".

Melanay, as yet untouched by war

Gul Darah was, and may be again, the cultural and economic heart of northern Darshistan. Under the previous Denikertic backed dictatorship it had blossomed for almost twenty years as the centre of a burgeoning mining industry just as Melanay where I sit now had blossomed under a Farsi backed junta which ruled until 1968. While it may be harder to find in the bombed-out ruins of Gul Darah both these cities, and this country, have a poverty-stricken beauty to them that has only recently been pulled away by war.

Sitting in this cafe in Melanay there are few signs of the war I witnessed in the north, besides the plethora of uniformed men holding guns and an unusual number of houses flying Farsi flags in a show of support very little seems off. The waitress who brought me cake smiled just as one would in Verlois and an old man who I opened the door for thanked me profusely as you might expect, but really it is a facade, an oasis of calm and in a matter of weeks this city could be in the same position as Gul Darah is now if the tide of war changes. Asterian popular culture would have us believe that war is glorious and that all soldiers are heroes and yet the east has chosen to forget this war. It is too far away and too isolated, never mind that over fifty thousand people have died already, it is not glamorous enough for our attention and too brutal for us to want to look at it. No matter what I say the continued suffering of the Darshi people simply does not matter in Verlois or Columbia and nor, I predict, will it for a long time.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sat Sep 23, 2017 3:03 pm

And The World Came Tumbling Down:

Part IV

The Fires of Fundamentalism

24th December, 1913

Snow blanketed the metalled streets of Verlois as if it was a quilt of white, embracing all beneath it with little abandon. The Gaullican citizenry were tired, beaten and hungry. The dreaded economic catastrophe had seen millions of unemployed; a rise in prices, a devaluing of currency. To think a state who had bested the Althiran Empire only a few years prior – and in her hubris taken all it could from it – would be in this state would be laughable. She was the power of the planet, and here she lay subject to the weather of winter.

Tristan inhaled his cigarette sharply. His money was running dry, save for odd shipments of material wealth that he received from his brother in Satucin. He had contemplated leaving it all behind, scooping Sauvanne in his arms and taking them off to the jungles of the colony with little care for what they left behind. But Tristan was a proud man, his familial home and ties were all attached to Verlois. To abandon it now would leave the Puyreddon name squashed and ignored to history.

Tristan had stuck it out for the worst and he would come out of it stronger.

With tired eyes he watched idly as movement passed through the Mariner's Square, an age old fish market district that was now a convergence point between Verlois' docks and its canning industry. He rubbed the stubble forming on his fade and yawned, little faint lines of warm air collecting before him and dissipating like all in life seemed to be doing.

Gaullica, it seemed, had still been caught by surprise. Albert III, their mighty sovereign, had done his best. Radio speeches, visiting places in person, appointing famed economists. And all had been for naught, the economic dread kept chugging. Some days things were better, people worked for what they could, determined to make the best of the bad situation. Other times, people went mad.

He heard the rhythmic beat of a march, but gave little of it. What could it be, but the starving boots of half a hundred individuals making their way to the soup kitchens? He was here to purchase fish with a heavy hand of coffee beans; straight from Satucin. Sauvanne, a pied-noir, adored the fish as it reminded her of the summer suns and beaches and villas of her home in Adunis. She was a holy woman, but one who adored the pleasures of the world before her. “God has them here for a reason, no, Tristan? If he wanted me to be a prune he'd have made me a nun.” A silent chortle amidst the darkness of the morning.

The beat grew louder and now voices accompanied this marching; “Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, les aristocrates à la lanterne! Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, les aristocrates on les pendra!” He peered over and saw, descending down the Rue of the Fishers, a huge tide of people. Banners amongst them in the reds of cooperativism, some wielding placards and signs of rhetoric and hope; “Can Work. Will Work. Can't Live.” “Work For A Living And Die A Slave. Don't Work, Live Like A King.” He silently cursed and watched on and before this tide of desperation fled some onlookers, their chant of cooperativism filling the air.

“Strike!” “Strike!”

He realised it now, the ship-builders. Tired of building ships for war in these times were many had little food; they had begun to strike. “Albert, busy with war – not busy with his people!” Tristan's eyes opened as they filled the square and he slowly made his way back onto the pavement before the stall of the fishmonger.

Policemen had tried to halt them before breaking before the tide of man, and many had tried to call for backup. To no avail. Tristan had heard the rumours on the wind of the dissent rising, but he never had given the common man the credit he deserved for his bravery. The line of constables faltered and made pace back in good order, yet there was no violence yet. Merely chanting, demands of fair wages and conditions, demands for an end to the starvation some had been feeling. Demands against the unfairness in that children and babes were dying in the cold and in the street, penniless, whilst some aristocrats still held onto their wealth. Demands to stop building machines for war, to focus on the bigger picture.

This tide of tired travailleurs filtered into the Mariner's Square, circling the central podium statue of Admiral Montefort, and their banners draped over that imperial man in a mockery of his prestigious defence of the land against the enemy, many times. They continued to stand there in their ruckus, their chanting growing ever louder. And then more flocked in as the teamsters of the docks joined their comrades in arms, similar banners flying in the wind above.

Tristan looked on from the comfort of the shade provided by the fishmongers stall, resting his back against one of the poles that held it upright. His eyes peered around at those poor fellows and for a second the strings of his heart were plunged by some cosmic power and he felt resentment and pity. He felt the Lord look upon him and much like the rich man who sought to get into heaven, he contemplated giving all his possessions to those louts.

The thought died as quickly as an Althiran babe. There was a kerfuffle beginning now. He didn't know what it was, or how it begun, but somewhere betwixt that tide of strikers; near the edge of the side of the square that led into the Rue de Sanslumiere, he believed it had begun. A policeman or a striker had struck the other and chaos ensued. Brutality was bound as the sides clashed and the outnumbered constables whistled for reinforcements once more. A horseman, in his authoritative position, galloped down the metallic road down to the police stations in the vicinity, to request for more numbers.

It became a chaos as baton and fist met on the streets, as primitive weapons came into contact with the black uniforms of the constables, and their batons came down upon the shirts and rags of the strikers. It went on for a few minutes, chaos, as the banners were struck from the sky and came down in the kerfuffles. A horse neighed and a mounted policeman slammed down his baton as his horse reared, but it was brought down by force onto the rider and he became mobbed.

Another immense thudding came from down the street and Tristan muttered a prayer to God and Mary. It had to be more strikers, the workers coming to aid. Verlois would be toppled at this rate and the monarchy were to run. Of course, of course! These were the ends of days. Peculiarly, amidst those striking workers, a clergyman stood upon a podium, yelling on the top of his voice of the charity of man. He cheeks were adorned with red war paint and his clerical vestments were now adorned in cooperativist symbols.

The descent of a man of God.

He shut his eyes and he took in the silence of the day.

And a shot rang throughout the square, a shot heard even in the screams and shouts of the brawl.

A man, stood atop a "truck" automobile, in military garb, held his pistol at the huge crowds of constables and cooperativists.

“Allons-y!” He yelled and fired again. Behind him, with their own banners of fasces and eagles, they charged into the fray. Men of determination, former soldiers.

“Emperor and Country!” they yelled; and the charge began.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sun Oct 15, 2017 9:52 am

And The World Came Tumbling Down:

Part V
"Beware of false prophets. They come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves."
- Matthew 7:15

24th December, 1913

He stood upon that truck as if he was a composer. A composer who directed the tunes of the world.

His shadow cast itself down on all in the square. Along him, beneath him, behind him in the bed of the truck, former soldiers - gruff and rough. Yet, a gentle twinge of hope was held in their eyes. To their saviour atop the truck. He barked out something, but Tristan did not here, too busy concentrating on the first waves of the man's men crashing into strikers, chanting things akin to "support the police!" "for the Emperor!" and "death to the Cooperativists!"

A brawl. Between the left. Between the right. Between the law.

Another bark, more fierce. It was still unintelligible to the ears of Tristan, who had now backed away into a small alleyway behind the stall he was taking cover behind. His hands grasped against the blackened bricks, coarse and dusty, covered in dampness from when it had rained last. A trumpet sounded from one of the individuals alongside that demagogue strongman and the reserves behind him cracked open as if they were still the trained military men that they had been before. Before they had become empty husks, devoid of employment, devoid of much as the government cut back on its "not necessary" elements of the armed forces. They had come home from their far flung locations, and found as little employment as they could fathom.

Tristan peered on, watching with interest - and a mixture of disgust and confusion - as these men slammed their batons and rifle butts - he noted they had not fired - onto the strikers. But it was brutal regardless. As baton and rifle but, as placard and club, raised from either side down onto the flesh and clothing of the other. Little abandon for their health and concern; these were traitors - traitors to the economy, daring to strike in these times and traitors to man, daring to beat others for their wages.

This depression made men mad. It made them feral. Unhuman. Barbaric. Tristan stared in fear and fright and only now could he hear the marching. Intense boots hitting the ground once more, hitting the cobbled roads of the Mariner's Square.

His other men, who had already beaten into the fray broke off from the engagement. Scattered back, to lick their wounds. Yet what awaited the mass of strikers, some policemen and even some of his own men was even worse.

Tristan saw her and was haunted to his core. A woman, dressed in a military man's uniform. She was fierce, stern, with daggers in her eyes. She saluted the man atop the truck, drew a fashionable sword that clearly was not hers and held it high. Behind her, similar women, all in all were in their ranks and columns behind her. Their rifles swung down, like an executioner's axe.

And they fired. The merciless fools fired onto the workers.

And the workers ran, scared, terrified, that they had been fired on. This was never how it was dealt with strikers. Never. They had the right to strike.

This woman with her sword and that man atop the truck had removed their rights with the shot of a bullet.

They scattered. The square drew empty, save for this man's men. They picked up the dead, loaded them into the flat-bed of that truck and it zoomed off. He had stepped off, yet Tristan could not see him. Instead, his attention turned to the other few unlookers that remained - still at their stall.

"Who was that?" he whispered. "Who are these people?"

There was a mixed grumble of a reply until the fishmonger himself spoke, slowly standing from behind his stall. "That's Rafael Duclerque, he's a hero he is. He's got his boys there, former military men, put them to work into cleaning the streets. He helps the police keep the rule of law in these troubled times. He reminds us what we have, our purposes and 'functions', but best of all he fights in the name of the Emperor!"

The man is a pompous demagogue who knows how to control people with a gun.

Yet Tristan's train of thought broke as he shuffled back into his daily routine. A mental game, he tried to ignore what he just saw. He was here for purposes. He returned to his coffee bags and dragged them to the 'mongers and, with a bit of a shake, conducted his business.

But for Tristan, the troubles had not yet ended. The familiar voice behind him, this Duclerque, approached. He smiled greatly and shook the 'monger's hand, demanding he would pay "the finest price!" for "his best fish!"

"I intend to support the local economy." He added. The fishmonger clapped uproariously and Tristan felt... odd. He felt as if should not be here at all. As if this was a scenario in which he should have avoided, fuck the fish, fuck the coffee, the moment that this man had rode into the square on his truck.

But all his regret was gone in smoke when Duclerque, in his full military-garb, turned to him - hand out to shake.

"Rafael Duclerque." he said coolly. It was here where Tristan noted his limp. In the instant he was confronted, his guard went down; he took the man's hand and shook it despite everything his mind told him not to do. He had just seen him order a shooting of workers. A shooting of strikers. That was it, strikers.

"Tristan. Tristan Pueyrredón."

by **Negara-West Hesia** » Tue Oct 24, 2017 6:33 pm

Wehren

The village was on fire. It had been for a while, now, orange flames licking at thatched roofs and wooden walls, but the blaze had spread at such a prodigious rate that what had been an accidental spark had turned into a great conflagration. Occasionally, a yell or scream went up from somewhere inside the boundaries of the settlement, sparing only the chapel, where the bell tolled amid the cacophony of battle. Albrich's ears rang. Covered with a generous portion of dirt, he groaned as he rose to his feet, his maille wearing him down- his shield had splintered across the way, the long kite of reinforced wood scattered by the wind, and in a crumpled heap just past it lay his horse and lance.

By some miracle, he had the good fortune to survive, dazed as he was. The man-at-arms threw himself to his feet, scrambled for his fallen mount- from the saddle he drew a sword of iron, not so fine as to be named, but enough perhaps to keep him alive. Garbed in cloth and chain, the heat of the flames and the din of the clash around him made the skirmish akin to a scene from Hell itself.

"Gott, Jesu, Mater Maria," he found himself thinking. "Please, let me live!"

No time to think- whoops and jeers came from the far side of the dirt road ahead, announcing the charge of more pagans. Their heathen language could curdle blood, and the axes the three landsmen that rushed at him held seemed more than happy to rid him of the same. Albrich turned, sword in hand, and ran before they came close enough to strike him, past the embers of a peasant's hovel, and a standing mud-hut, crackling faintly, turning again as he rounded a corner. The first to come into his sight swung too early, striking into dry mud and a wooden beam- the second snarled, his bearded grimacing as he bungled into sight.

Both he and it swung. The pagan missed, while Albrich pulled his sword back from the raider's neck. Luck. Another barbarian came into view- a monstrous creature, half a head higher than the man-at-arms. Panicked, Albrich swung wildly and felt his footing give way under him as the foreigner stepped back. His breath was half knocked out of him as the haft of an ax knocked into his front, sending him staggering backwards. An ax-head came his way, and he threw himself back as best he could, the metal striking his maille so fast he swore he saw sparks fly.

A breath as both man and savage recovered their stance. Suddenly, Albrich was conscious of the missing barbarian. He rushed forward with an inhuman yell, swinging for the sake of sheer survival. The monstrous savage raised his ax to counter, finding his shoulder suddenly cut deep by a iron blade. Albrich coughed as the flat of the man's weapon bashed into his side- but he could not stand to give up now.

The knight attacked. The axeman clashed, thrice, now on the back foot- on the fourth, he was struck in the leg, and by the fifth, he was on the ground, a raking blow struck across his face. Panting, Albrich turned to the sound of footsteps. He was run ragged, his sword battered- about to die, surely, but then perhaps he would be able to compensate in valor what he had lacked in life.

The third pagan rounded the corner, sword in hand. He eyed the landsman lying on the ground, starting to grimace- and then hey fled. Slumping came slowly to the man at arms, but as the danger seemed to pass, he loosened his grip on his sword, emerging from the shadow of the peasant's hut. All around, the sound of battle was fading.

"Dank Gott," he mumbled, as his thoughts slipped away.

by **The Ik Ka Ek Akai** » Sat Dec 02, 2017 2:19 am

1732

Waitahetoa and Keaha'a sat nearby a collection of brush thick enough to partially blot out the sun. The two chatted and conversed, joking and laughing, when their elder came by and told them to resume their work. They were a hunting band, and if no food was found, they would need to rely on the gatherers and fishers alone to feed the whole village. Gathering up their spears, shafts carved of mahogany and painted in bright colors, wrapped through various dyed strings, and with heads carved of shark bones that had their edges serrated. More properly harpoons, the tribesmen used these as well on land as one might expect them to at sea. They began their trudge, walking with caution, putting one foot before the other, one at a time, applying weight selectively to avoid the forward foot ever being pressured down. Through this means, they would avoid snapping twigs and crunching plants, and could more successfully remain undetected by their prey.

It was then that the two boys found a clustering of their kinsmen peering out toward the shore. Excited, believing they had found their quarry, they made their way to the edge of the rainforest and did themselves peek outward. No beast, but men clothed in hides and bearing glinting blades were rowing their way onto the white beaches of the land. Such a sight had not been seen in a hundred years, and the eldest of the tribe had only the vaguest recollection of outlanders visiting the Isles in their strange clothes and bearing odd weapons, the derelict remnants of which still occupied the vicinity of the village as far as anyone could remember. Mumbles came over the crowd of hunters, and they decided to approach. Waitahetoa and Keaha'a were pushed out as the crowd emerged from the forest.

With the bright sun obscured by the jungle, whose trees formed layer upon layer, canopy upon canopy reaching up 60 meters, and with bushes crowding the floor beneath them all, the shadowy hunters appeared to phase directly out of the darkness to meet the newcomers on the beach. Their long, slightly curly, black hair flowed gently in the wind as their glistening brown bodies entered the sunlight, revealing dozens of intricate tattoos adorning the torso, legs, and faces of each present- each in his own person a distinct story told in blue ink, with some faces painted black and red in simple dots and lines, and many with beads and feathers woven into their otherwise-unstyled hair. They wore simple wraps around their waists, with some having light, translucent fabric of brightly dyed and intricate patterns bearing vibrant reds, blues, greens, purples, and all things between, while others had simpler skins made of what game could be collected from their lands, and most of these hides were dyed in a much simpler fashion with a handful alone bearing any semblance of patterns on hide. Five of these hunters wore quivers and bore bows crafted of a pinkish wood, with a black stripe painted down the face, while all others carried spears and wore around their foreheads woven slings.

One elder man, whose age seemed hidden by his excellent physique- a trait shared by many of his fellows- stepped forth. He could be identified as a leader by the variance of length and hue of the feathers in his hair, as well as the three layers of necklaces crafted of animal teeth, further noted by the long strings of beads of jade wrapped around his spear and, at the butt of the weapon, a lone eagle feather retrieved from distant islands. He stood within 20 meters of the newcomers, holding up his hand. "Ao'a" he stated simply, his voice slightly raspy, before he backed away. At this point, the newcomers began attempting communication. The first line they spoke was not understood, "Adakah anda akan menyerah?", and fell entirely on deaf ears.

The hunters looked to one another, confused by the tongue. It sounded familiar in its rhythm, but so alien in its speech. They observed the newcomers, whose appearances were quite like the untattooed youths of The Isles, as the foreigners spoke once more in a different tongue, "Sampeyan bakal nyerah?" they asked in frustration. The hunters, meanwhile, seemed to be slowly approaching and forming into a line. Desperate for a working tongue, the outlanders spoke yet again, "Sampeyan bakal nyerah?", but the hunters seemed not to care. They had begun something, for they all together were now bulging their eyes and spitting grotesquely at the aliens upon their shore.

The hunters began to gather more in unison, their insults regularizing themselves. Soon, they began to slap their chests, and take an aggressive stance. Legs spread wide, they began to chant threats and obscenities to the newcomers as they slapped their chests and their thighs, rhythmically stomping their feet and yelling in the words of their tongue. Like a machine, they acted seemingly without flaw and without error, instead functioning as a single cohesive unit. The routine was clearly well drilled, even if the outlanders understood not a word of the chants being directed toward them.

The elder leader stood forward and shouted at them, issuing both a threat and a welcome as was his custom. The warriors behind held their spears aloft as if prepared to throw, for the custom would be that their champion catch the spears as he approached. No champion came forward, no one man in the outlanders' ranks stepped forward. Instead, they grabbed their swords and prepared to fight. The elder man stepped closer, and putting his spear aside, pulled out a wicked blade of black glass, the obsidian chiseled perfectly into a swerving blade recognized as a Kris to the people of the mainland. He held this blade aloft, and called upon it. He said no more than its name "Koripi-" before a single musket was fired in the indistinguishable mass of the foreigners. This caused panic, and the legion of aliens raised their blades and bows and rifles and prepared to fight. The hunters, not to be outdone, intensified their dance.

It took only one man to step forward, a lone soldier in his leather armor, for the conflict to begin. Struck by a tribal spear, he screamed in pain. Falling upon the ground, he felt the toxins of the land seep into his blood. His limbs grew stiffer by the second as a burning agony flowed to each, and soon to his heart, his poor heart, which began to seize and compress and gained irregular patterns as his body became frozen, paralyzed, his lungs suddenly unable to function. The man choked and gasped, but the poisoned spear had impaled him through and done its damage tearing at his insides. The throw had been sloppy, for on any deer the beast would be felled and killed near immediately, but in his attempt to have the foe catch his spear the tosser had managed to miss all areas of vital function. Horrified, his comrades began their charge, and the hunters began their response.

A large clash ensued, blade against blade, pike against spear, bow against bow, and musket against sling. A great volley of missiles filled the air and blood met blade. The hunters, seeing that they were outnumbered, soon realized their hopeless situation. They began to retreat, using the mass of the invaders as cover- for the armies could not cluster as the hunters, much fewer in number, could and escape into the dense thicket. In but a few moments, the men had all disappeared, leaving only a trail of blood from the wounded. The encounter was over, and it had gone quite poorly. The hunters fled into the jungle and, with all their hope and all their strength, would make one dedicated push of retreat back to their home- along the way, naturally, ensuring that the enemies trailing them would meet a grisly end on local terms. They had lost the battle, but the war had only just begun.

Finding their way back to their village, the few scouts sent ahead had cheated through the jungle and made excellent time. The sun was beginning to set, and stood before the village elders. Waitahetoa told the stories of the strangers and their unusual ways, while Keaha explained the bloody conflict that had been endured. The two boys agreed that their companions would need reinforcements as soon as possible. The elders guided them, Waitahetoa with a slash across his arm, to rest- it was needed, they said, to recover from the event. As they all sat together around a fire in the malae, the two friends recalled in greater detail the experiences they had seen. Food was brought before them, and they insisted that all the capable villagers needed to aid the hunters, for the enemy was vast and numerous and above all armored. The elders made note of this, and told the boys to rest.

Now alone, they looked to one another with deep concern. Waitahetoa had his wound tended to as best as could be afforded for the moment, cleaned with water, treated with plants, and wrapped in bamboo cloth, but Keaha worried for him. Waitahetoa could spare no worry for himself, for he knew the danger posed by the new threat. It had been a little over one hundred years exact since the Isles had closed, and only a couple after opening once more. Was this their harvest to reap? The fruit of an open country? No, his worry lied elsewhere- and who could blame him?

by **Alinora** » Sun Dec 31, 2017 2:31 pm

June 9th, 1909
The Anoss Killing Fields
Sgt. Richard Parker

My hands tremble as I write this. It seems that every day, it gets worse-- every day I think to myself that this is certainly the worst it could be, and every day I realize how wrong I was. The shelling is almost constant, and more often than not when it stops, we are met with an enemy attack. They come charging at our trenches, yelling that terrible war cry, and get cut down like animals. And, like clockwork, when they retreat, we attack in turn. Then we get cut down like animals, retreat, and wait in our trenches for the next attack. If the enemy thinks the artillery isn't sufficient enough, they shell us with gas-- chlorine, mustard, tear, and other wicked abominations of science. Most of us have become accustomed to it, and are able to quickly equip our gas masks, but there are always a few who are too slow, and are left exposed. Usually they are the young new recruits, who appear like children to us. I've stopped trying to learn their names or even talk to them until they've been around for more than a few weeks, which is seldom. They are mere children being thrown into a man's war... they never stood a chance. In fact, just yesterday I watched a boy who could've been no older than twenty - having arrived just the prior day - slowly suffocate in a cloud of chlorine gas. He was carried away by the medics, but with the amount he must've breathed in, I'm almost certain he's now dead.

When not in battle or on watch, we tend to remain in our bunkers, which almost seems like a warzone of its own. Rats and lice have thoroughly infested us, and we battle with them constantly. We often use moldy bread to lure the pests out in the open, and bludgeon them with our boots and the butts of our rifles. As I write this, I continue to pause in order to pick lice off of my scalp and toss them into the heated skillet to kill them-- an invention that Edward came up with after the pests kept him awake for two straight days. It is effective, yes, but there are so many-- it's as if we are taking on all of Solaris with a single dagger.

Only three days remain until we rotate to the rear lines and some other poor saps come to the front, and while I'm eager to have some R&R, I know that eventually I'll end up back here. I yearn to see my beloved Janice, who I haven't been with since July of last year. As the war progresses, I've noticed that we've been receiving less and less leave time. Are we running out of men to replace us? I wouldn't be surprised, truthfully, for when I peak my head up out of the trench all I see are bodies, piled atop one another like a sea of death. Federalists, Separatists... a horrific entanglement of grey and brown, it hardly mattered. They are all united under the hollow, suffocating blanket of death. At least, for them, the war is over. For us, it continues, and we must endure.

-Richard Parker would survive the war, though was permanently crippled when shot in the leg two months before the Separatist' surrender. He would go on to serve as President of the Federation from 1928 to 1936, and is today regarded as one of the greatest presidents in Asterian history.

This excerpt came from Richard Parker's personal diary, which he kept through his service with the Federal Army. It consists of hundreds of entries spanning from May 1907 to when he was bedridden in a military hospital in 1911. Copies of the full diary are available at the National Museum of Asterian History in Jackson.

by **Senkaku** » Sat Mar 09, 2019 1:21 am

Queen of Diamonds
Part One

Lancheng
1931

"Chanming! Where's your little sister?!"

The bone-shaking thumps and more distant thuds of the bombs raining down on the city made the very air tremble, as the Lins and their servants scurried all around the family house, hurriedly closing shutters, spraying water on linens, and carrying priceless Regency porcelain down into the cellar along with them. The ear-splitting roar of propellers made it almost impossible to hear, as the Nematsujin bombers practically skimmed the city's rooftops, the better to strafe the all but defenseless metropolis.

Chanming stared at Ah Ma, his eyes wide with confusion. Where was Yulan?

"I thought Mother took her into the cellar!"

"No!", his grandmother shrieked hysterically. "She's still up here somewhere, you know you need to be minding her more, with how big your mother's belly is getting now- help me find her!"

The two of them began running through the rooms of the great mansion, frantically shouting Yulan's name as explosions shook the house. Somewhere, Chanming heard the distant wail of sirens- but Lancheng didn't have air raid sirens. How could that be? Servants carrying family heirlooms rushed past him towards the cellar, but Chanming's mind could only flip in nauseating circles at the thought of his baby sister, up here somewhere, probably hiding in terror.

He finally burst into his parents' bedroom, on the second floor of the house, and was confronted by a surprising scene.

Four-year-old Yulan had managed to open the window that looked out towards the harbor, over the city, and was looking up excitedly and clapping her hands as she watched stark white bombers with brilliant red roundels roar over the city, swerving between the occasional black puffs of flak. The siren noise was getting louder- what was that? Chanming ran over to her and picked her up.

"We have to go to the basement, little sister! It's not safe!"

"But Chanming! Look, those planes are coming closer!", she whined, making a face. "I want to see more airplanes!"

Chanming glanced up, out the window, as the siren noise grew louder, and felt horrified realization sweep over him.

As the sirens reached their ear-splitting climax, far above, both Daichi C4A dive bombers released their payloads and pulled out of their dives, each separating themselves from three little black specks that continued along their old trajectory, growing by the moment as they plummeted towards earth. The sirens fell off as the bombs drew nearer, but evidently one of the planes had let off a burst of machine gun fire, because splinters suddenly exploded from the acacia tree right beside the window in a dozen places.

Chanming, his sister in his arms, leapt towards their parents bed, rolling underneath as Yulan gave a cry of surprise and fear.

A moment later, their entire world was engulfed in an all-consuming wave of noise and light, which soon gave way to blackness, dust and disorienting, jarring impacts- they were falling, or other things were, and Chanming curled himself up as best he could around Yulan as the explosion shook them.

Finally, they came to a stop- Yulan was crying, and Chanming stood unsteadily, wincing at a sudden twinge in his right leg. He couldn't see anything in the swirling smoke and choking dust, but he could feel the heat of flames nearby, and began hurrying away from them as fast as he could with her hefted against his shoulder.

About me · by **Luziyca** » Thu Dec 19, 2019 3:13 pm

21 September, 1979
Outside of Crogan

"...and Mr. Saunders, your coffee is the finest in not just Rwizikuru, but all of Bahia," I say in Estmerish. "I am very delighted that you have been able to host us this afternoon and allow us to learn about your farm and your production methods."

"No problem, Your Most Faithful Majesty," my host responds. "I wish you the best of health, and may God bless you."

"I wish you the best of health as well," I say, "and may God bless you with a bumper harvest this year."

He smiled at me, and I smiled at him. After shaking hands with him one last time, it was time to leave for Crogan once more, for a banquet was being organized by the varungu in Crogan in my honour.

I sauntered upon the grass towards the car that took me to this farm, and that will take me to Crogan for the banquet tonight. Within a few moments, the door was opened, and I got into the car.

As soon as the door closed again, we were off again, this time to Crogan.

I glanced at the beautiful mapango: it may not be as majestic as the mountains in the north or the east, but there was a certain beauty to it, especially when you are out in the countryside. The sun, though beginning to descend towards the horizon, continued to cast its rays onto the landscape, illuminating the land, while casting shadows where-ever the light landed upon the trees. It did not matter whether it illuminated the animals, or the farms, for it looked incredibly beautiful.

As we kept going forward, I can start to see the outline of Crogan into the distance: nothing too special unlike Port Fitzhubert, as it was just a bunch of tall trees, a water tower, and the tip of a cathedral. Nonetheless, I knew the varungu there quite well. They were friendly, courteous, and while it still felt like a little Estmerish colonial enclave, as it felt like little had changed since Estmere founded Crogan in terms of politics, the varungu who remained in Crogan were much better able to adapt to the realities that this is a free and independent Bahian state, not a colony to supply Euclea with our resources.

We kept going, and more details of Crogan started to appear. At this point, the farms of the mapango started giving way towards a more urban environment, but it still felt very much like we were in the countryside. Soon enough, we were at an intersection. As part of the royal motorcade, we of course had the right of way, everything else be damned. But out the corner of my eye, I noticed a car speeding down this dirt road.

And before I knew it...

by **Imagua and the Assimas** » Thu Feb 13, 2020 8:01 pm

Congress of Bahian States
1962

President Eric Fleming had been preparing for this moment for a long time: when he planned his trip from Imagua to Bahia, he knew one of the things he sought to do would be to give a speech to the Congress of Bahian States: after all, most Imaguans can trace their ancestry back to slaves transported from Bahia during the Maouhersa, and he was among that majority. After hammering out details, including applying to join the Congress of Bahian States as an observer, Fleming was granted that permission.

"Your excellencies," President Eric Fleming began. "For the first time in my life, I have returned to the land whence my ancestors originated: where they were ripped apart from everything and everyone that they ever knew, and sent to the Asterias to serve on a sugar plantation in what would become the country that I am representing before you today."

"Though the Eucleans intended to separate us completely from Bahia's bosom, we did not forget where we came from," Fleming said. "Try what they might, the Eucleans were never able to silence our ability to know what was going on in our ancestral homeland. We heard of the Sougoulie, we heard of the efforts by your intellectuals to unite your people against colonialism. And all in all, we were aware, and we approved of your actions."

"We were aware of your struggles: how Shungudzemwoyo Nhema and Samhuri Ngonidzashe put pressure on Estmere to leave Rwizikuru; how the United Taborian Front waged a war against a racist government in Silberküste that led to the end of the racist government, and the rise of a free Bahian State, and how Djedet and Rwizikuru seized control of the Bahian section of the Trans-Bahian railway," Fleming continued. "All of this, we have admired: while we were busy fighting our own struggles, we cannot lose sight that your accomplishments have been monumental in scope."

"And today, I come to represent the Bahian majority in my country to pay tribute to your accomplishments," Fleming said. "Despite all the challenges, you have persevered, and now, we are starting to see the flower of Bahia blossom once more. The creation of the United Bahian Republic, the establishment of the Congress of Bahian States, the development of institutions to help develop Bahia in a manner that benefits the ordinary people as opposed to far-away colonial powers, these are all things that should be celebrated by all people, no matter where they live."

"I am confident that so long as Bahia stays the course, so long as the people continue to receive benefits over the elite, and so long as foreign powers do not interfere in Bahian affairs, Bahia shall be just as prosperous as the Asterias by the year 2000," Fleming concluded. "And such a thing, I reckon, will benefit all of mankind."

"Thank you."

About me · by **Luziyca** » Thu May 14, 2020 4:20 pm

2 December, 1951
Sainte-Germaine, East Riziland, Rwizikuru

For centuries, Michel Masson rested in peace, as the northerners constructed the city of Sainte-Germaine. He remained there during the raids against the city, the Sougoulie, and even the Great War, even if the tombstone was destroyed, only to be rebuilt after the war by the varungu residing in the city.

As President Samhuri Ngonidzashe approached the grave of the Father of Toubacterie, he felt tempted to just give the speech right then and there: but he had to keep walking with his entourage towards the grave. Following him were members and supporters of the Mubatanidzwa weRusununguko rweRwizikuru, and then curious citizens wanting to see what the fuss is all about.

Soon enough, Samhuri Ngonidzashe reached the grave, and the microphone set earlier by some technician from the national radio network. With determination firm, he was ready to give the speech.

"Citizens of Rwizikuru," Samhuri Ngonidzashe began, "as we celebrate the fifth anniversary of the end of colonial rule over our country, we must reflect on our achievements."

"Since our independence from Estmere, we removed the colonial language from our government and our life, we began construction on a motorway to connect Sainte-Germaine to Port Vaugeois, and we will open the first section next year, we have established a national radio network, and we are ensuring that our resources go towards the Bahians, not to the northerners who seek to colonize us," he said.

"And now, as we enter five years since the end of colonial rule, it is time that we take action against the father of the murungocracy," Ngonidzashe proclaimed. "Michel Masson, who established this city in 1656, irrevocably changed Bahia and her society forever, for Masson unleashed the full brutal force of Euclean colonization!"

"He and their ilk separated many of us from our land, and sent them beyond the sea, where they would never be seen again," he angrily said. "He and their ilk destroyed our traditional beliefs, and imposed an alien faith upon us, while he and their ilk crippled our traditional cultural traditions. In his wake, he sent in settlers from Gaullica, and likewise, the northerners sent their settlers to Bahia!"

"They stole our people, our resources, and our potential away from us," Samhuri declared. "And as we advance forward away from the murungocracy which crippled our potential, I must say to its father that we have not been defeated. We are progressing, day by day, and it is not because of you and your ilk, but in spite of it."

"But so long as you continue to rest here, we will continue to be reminded of what you and your ilk did to all Bahians, from Port Vaugeois, all the way to the northern tip of Bahia," he said. "We shall raise you from your tomb, and we will make sure that you will never rest a second more on the bones of the millions of Bahians who you and your ilk led to their graves! May he burn in hell for his wicked deeds, and may his ashes be dumped into the sea so that no one will ever be victimized again!"

Grabbing a shovel, he and a few others began to dig into the grave of Michel Masson. Soon enough, they reached the skeleton of Michel Masson. One of the person present set out a body bag, and quickly shoved Masson's skeleton into the bag, with the intention of cremating him, before dumping him into the Banfura Sea.

While this took place, Samhuri Ngonidzashe declared that "we will build a monument dedicated to those that the father of toubacterie, and all of his children, have slain in the name of exploiting a proud and free Bahian people! And when this is done, I hope that this monument shall stand for ten thousand years, and that the name of the father of toubacterie shall be forgotten!"

"Freedom for Bahia! Death to Imperialism!" he concluded.

by **Ainin** » Sun Oct 01, 2023 4:09 am

COBLII Coius and Bahia Legal Information Institute
A project of the National University of Nakong and the University of Rwizikuru

Decisions of the Court of Appeal of Nakong, 1962 Term
You are here: COBLII >> Databases >> Nakong (1958-present) >> Court of Appeal (NKCA)

Cite as: 1962 NKCA 116
Date: 24 November 1962

IN THE COURT OF APPEAL
CRIMINAL DOCKET

B e f o r e :
CHIEF JUSTICE CHAN
MR JUSTICE CHUNG
MR JUSTICE LAI
MR JUSTICE ANDREW LEE
MR JUSTICE BARTHOLOMEW LEE
MR JUSTICE WONG
MR JUSTICE YIP
____________

LIM CHI-HOU et al.

-v-

REPUBLIC OF NAKONG
____________

J U D G M E N T
____________

Per curiam (Yip J. dissenting)— The appeal is dismissed.

We are asked by counsel for the defendants—confessed participants in a criminal enterprise to subvert the foundation of this democratic republic—to consider whether to vacate the judgment below. Upon examination of the record below, we see no reason to disturb the eminently reasonable decision to which the learned judges of the Lin Chow County Court came, and therefore deny leave to appeal. The procedural issues raised by counsel for the appellant do not pose an important question of law and were, in any case, harmless in that they had no bearing on the conclusion of the court.
On the substantive issue of law, we are in essence being asked to vacate the sentences because the learned presiding magistrate below may have made a few uncouth remarks in the midst of the trial. Judges are but mere mortals, and it is hardly an unforgivable sin that he should display the verisimilitude of his true emotion for a fleeting moment in response to the outrageous fact patterns in the case at hand.
The application for leave to appeal from the judgment of the Lin Chow County Court in the above-captioned case is denied. The appeal is dismissed.

REASONS IN DISSENT OF MR JUSTICE YIP
With respect to my colleagues, I cannot help but feel that this court shirks its solemn duty to the law in refusing to consider the appeal of the appellants in the case below. While I remain thoroughly unconvinced by several of the threads of argument presented by counsel in the petition, I believe that they raise important and arguable questions of law upon which this court must weigh in, if for no reason other than historical posterity. With the serious allegations raised by the petition, I am reminded of the principle of our common law that justice must not only be done but also be seen to be done...
There may well be important interests of national security which militate against disturbing the sentence imposed on the appellants. However, even a seditionist must have his day in open court, in accordance with the laws of our Republic and the noble tradition which we have inherited from Estmere. That old and famous phrase, inter arma enim silent leges, I should think, is cautionary rather than aspirational.
I would grant leave to appeal.

Halls of History [Kylaris|IC]

Halls of History [Kylaris|IC]

Who is online