After the End (IC/Open)

[Trotza]

The Kingdom of Iowa
"Follow the Light, and your Path shall be True"



Chopin

Diocese of the Lowlands

What you are is God's gift to you, what you become is your gift to God.

---

Muscten, Iowa
The Riverside Cathedral

The low hum of the choir reverberated through the weathered rafters of the cathredal. Then, as the Moment of Silence came they stopped, and several morning doves noisily took flight, seemingly startled by the quiet. They must've come in through a hole in the roof, they'd need to repair that sometime. It was a slow day, worshipers coming in and out in a steady yet lethargic stream. Some simply entered for a moment for a bit of respite from the smoldering heat. But they lowered their heads in respect all the same as they sat in the pews, reluctant to return to the fields. Away from the main aisles, off to the side in a transept there was a different kind of guest who contrasted quite noticeably with the peasants. The local overseer, come to speak to the Bishop of this ecclesiastical realm.

In the small and rundown enclave that was the closest thing one could get to privacy in this unhindered structure the contradicting figures stood by one another. The administrator of law and justice was clad in a dark blue jacket and trousers, obscured by polished steel greaves, gauntlets, and a thick, stout cuirass. Along with tall black boots, all of which he wore not out of necessity, but because of how he did reminisce so about his days as a daring cavalryman, which have long since elapsed. The man of faith and rapport opposite him wore a thick white stole and a gold maniple (all well washed) that covered everything below his head besides his withered hands. His scrawny neck looked as if it could barely hold up the weight of the oversized mitre atop him. He squinted at his authoritative counterpart through tiny round spectacles.

Adherents on a somber Sunday afternoon.

"Good day to you father, it's a pleasure." The governor decided to exchange pleasantries first, old folk always seemed to appreciate that. For a moment he had memories of his own grandfather when he was young, telling him stories of dashing soldiers riding into battle.

"The pleasure is all mine, to what do I owe the occasion?" The bishop began, bringing him back to the present.

"As I'm sure you're aware father, the quartermaster has prepared for the missionaries various expeditions in accordance with expected colonist settlements soon to crop up where we've readied the land." He tried to be upbeat when his turn reporting the regional news came around.

"Oh, yes, I do believe that was supposed to be soon. But what was I to do with it again? Apologies for the confusion, you get a bit slower around my age. I'm sure you're a busy man that has more important things to do than try and explain things to an old coot like me. Heh he." He laughed weakly, putting a bit of a pause on his ramblings.

"No worries, it's simple." He interjected quickly, being taught to respect his elders in his youth. But more so that he could get a word in before the guy started up again. "We're just going to have some of them come here, the eastward headed ones that is, to be blessed by your holiness before their journeys, and then we're going down to St.Louis to meet with the Pope for a little catching up on the affairs of the church. Okay?"

"Yes that sounds about right. I'll be here where I need to be." He nodded slightly as he spoke, seemingly agreeing with himself as he started to walk off. "By the way," he turned back to him, "we've got a school session here tomorrow if you're interested before you need to leave, you're always welcome."

The man waved it off politely. "Maybe some other time, I need to be on my way, things to do and such. But while the townspeople are gathered here then, make sure to advertise the Holy Guard a bit, we could always use more soldiers on the front, especially with those tribal heretics on the frontier out west. But I'm guessing that's not as much of a concern for you guys over on this border." He wiped a bit of sweat from his brow, trying to avoid dirtying his nice sleeves. "Anyways, good to see you, may the Lord's light." With a curt wave he began heading back outside, the horses must be gettin mighty thirsty, he thought.

"And with you!" The bishop tried to say, his hoarse voice straining with the attempt. "And with you," he almost whispered to himself as he started his way towards the pulpit, slowly shuffling along. Perchance he could deliver a short sermon to those on afternoon break.

[Ironsbad]

The captain of the Bayland ship was almost older than the Cultist captain and had steared ships along the Lacks since he was a small boy. He new his way around a swords, a rope and a sail. But most importantly his family were merchants. Before the Great Starving and the Jarls raiding of this part if the world his family had once sent trade ships this way. For him it was a great honor to lead his people back into the world of trade, but he was not surprised by the reaction from this man.

"Ahy, tis be a strange way to raid. I reckon you never did see a Bayland trade fleet in it glory. You see that is what this be, a trade fleet. We only wish to sell and buy good from you markets. We come upon the orders of the Oberjarl, Erick the Great, and to harm our fleet is to start war with the Baylands. But if ye were to, let us through, there could be some personal gain for ye." The captain held up two gold pieces. "Thar could be more for ye if you get me meaning."

The Cultist captain took the gold coins and rubbed the metal between each other. " Fine heathen, your ships may trade and pass. However, don't let this be any blood money or I will personally gut you and set your body to rot for your transgressions against the Great Factories." He got of the Nordic longboats and back on the much more larger, and armed ships as they escorted the trade fleet to the docks of the Holy City.

The old Cultist captain came out of one of the warships as he met with his Nordic counterpart," now heathen, I will take the gold that you promised me and be off. There will be soldiers watching you so watch your step and tongue and I hope we never cross again."

[New Communist and Socialist Unions]

Fanaticist State of Barbari

The frigid gusts of wind were now picking up speed as the wintery days draw near, but no snow will fall yet, so do not fret and fear. The mighty ships being built by the state can be seen from afar, wood is nailed, wood is painted with tar. There he was, with a cape of red, the man who leads us, the man who makes his enemies dread. Barbarossa Odigolu, fourth of his name, called "the Great" due to his fame. Fanaticists flock him, but move out of the way to let him pass on his mighty ass Lothar. He arrives at his palace, a small settlement tucked away in its walls, nearby was the roaring of the waterfalls.

- Vikingr Runr's Writing

---

A cold gust skimmed over my face as I rode on my donkey Lothar through the streets of the capital city, my city. A few citizens would flock to me here and there, but really, little flocking, I don't care, for I am content. Ahh, I can see my palace nearby, it is a motte and bailey castle, with stone walls. I enter the front area, where most of my loyal strongmen were, I climb up the mound of earth that held my home up high, and I finally arrive at my place, a hut that is connected by four more huts. At the very center is the throne room, to the left is my guard's chambers, to the right is my advisors chambers, and at the back is my personal chambers, behind that, is the worship room. I have plans on building ships in order to sail down the coast and gather treasures from nature and others.

[Arvenia]

The Republic of Oklahoma
The people of the Oklahoman Republic went on with their lives and everyday hobbies. The Proconsul held a meeting with Oklahoman Army personnel.
"We must keep those damn savages (Native Americans) away from our land!" said General Daniel Patton in a mild anger. "They have terrorized us for like 200 years now."
"We can't go through this with that anger, Patton" said the Proconsul. "Go and get angry anywhere else, but not here." Patton was aggravated.
"Sir, we need to tax many villages" said Sgt. John Limerick. "They had been exempt for too long."
"We shall write that down" says the Proconsul as a response to John's demand. "There will be no tax exemption in Oklahoma."

The villages were then taxed, mostly to 1200 Oclan (aka Oklahoman dollars). This led to uproar among villagers.

[Ithalian Empire]

The Cultist captain took the gold coins and rubbed the metal between each other. " Fine heathen, your ships may trade and pass. However, don't let this be any blood money or I will personally gut you and set your body to rot for your transgressions against the Great Factories." He got of the Nordic longboats and back on the much more larger, and armed ships as they escorted the trade fleet to the docks of the Holy City.

The old Cultist captain came out of one of the warships as he met with his Nordic counterpart," now heathen, I will take the gold that you promised me and be off. There will be soldiers watching you so watch your step and tongue and I hope we never cross again."

"How gracius of ye." The old Nord said. He watched the cultist as he left his vessel. As soon as the Cultist ships were out of hearing range the captain went below decks. Siting on one of the barrles of goods was a tall, thin man smoking a long pipe, the orange glow of the burning tobacco cast deep shadows upon his long and narrow features. All around him there was an air of power.

"So how do the Cultist's react to us?"

"The let us through thar water to trade with them, noting mor, nothing less."

"Just as the oberjarl expected." The man said. "Worry not my friend, there are other nations in this world, and one of them will fulfill our request."

"Ey sir."

The captain went back up the top deck, leaving the mysterious man alone in the dark hold of the ship.

[Anowa]

The Protectorate of Delta
Temple of the Metallic Son

Viceroy Mathas Nelson of Saanich was not having a good day. When the Protector summons you to the Temple, you make with haste. But judging from their leader's pre-occupation with a ritual of her own, one of two things were clear to the Viceroy: Either it wasn't of so much concern, and he was over worrying, or it was of much concern, and the Protector wanted him to wallow in agonizing wait before he was executed.

The fact that each exit was being crossed by a duo of halberd wielding Zealot Guards made it worse for him. Mathas had always thought that the guard's armor had quite the mystic beauty to it. Each one was unique in their appearance, scriptures in a language long forgotten to those who weren't a Protector or a Zealot were etched into their armor, a cowl and cape of olive adorned their backs and necks, and ribbons with further scripture were adorned to the armor with wax seals. Their appearance was quite obvious, and to those in the Protectorate, it meant either death or joy.

Mathas looked at the ornate doors that no doubt the Protector was busying herself behind. And looked at one of the guards beside it, "Madame Zealot, you wouldn't happen to know when Our Protector will be done with her duties, would you?"

The woamn hardly moved, "It could be anywhere from ten minutes to ten hours Viceroy. It depends on the ritual and whether or not she has any... Guests in attendance."

Mathas nodded grimly, ten hours and no where to sit that wouldn't invoke the death penalty. Why all the furniture in the room needed to be dyed black and made of bone and human skin was beyond him. But it's what the Protectors did. Sighing the Viceroy resigned himself to waiting. And wait he did. The Guard was right with the latter most option, there was a queue of almost ten hours, all of which the guards stock stock still for, while the Viceroy paced, sighed, muttered to himself, and nearly collapsed. Until the Protector graced him with her presence.

Mathas' anxiety was never higher. The woman's athletic body was covered in a sheen of what he could only guess was sweat and some form of oil, the light cloth toga slowly soaking through with whatever the liquid was. Mathas found it odd, with her height and physical stature, it was abvious to all that she was blessed by the Metallic Trinity, and she was percieved as a virtue to all, chaste, honorable, loving and kind. The utter hate in her eyes as she stared at him, and the downright lewd appearance she'd made told the Viceroy otherwise. It was then he knew her intent.

"Y-you called, Protector."

She nodded, "That I did, do you know why?"

"N-no your holiness." The Viceroy's eyes flicked to the rather large sword sitting on the table to her left. Though the Protector didn't miss it, taking mercy in not bringing it up directly.

"It's because of one of the few things you've authorized in the past few days. I believe it was called a printing press?"

Mathas heart froze, he was hoping to explain to her before he was killed, "Your Holinessm i-i-it's a simple machi-"

"Oh the creator told me what it was and I thanked him for creating it. Getting the word around to the various settlements that much quicker could make or break a civilization. It's creation is that of a very useful -if a bit cumbersome- tool. Very much within the dictation of the Metallic Son. What I'm mad about is that you didn't refer to me about it first. It makes me believe that you think of yourself closer to Yahweh than I or my guards."

Tears were streaming down Mathas' face freely, "I-i-if-...it-...I wasn't-...It's only-"

Ingrid reached over and unsheathed the previously noticed sword, "Had you authorized something truly heretical, than retrieving the multiple copies without bloodshed would be undoubtedly difficult. And my only two regrets right now are entrusting you with your position in the first place, and that I'll have to find your replacement."

Mathas froze, and in the final moment he registered a few things: His pants were completely soiled front and back, he was about to vomit, and that the carpet was a myriad of colors not from the dyes, but from the few executions that occurred in this room over the years. The sword bit into his head as the semi digested contents of his stomach started to rise. Leaving quite the mess over the floor and the Protector herself.

For her credit, she simply sighed, and carried hr sword and scabbard back into her quarters as the Zealot Guards cleaned the mess in the waiting room up. No doubt it was what the Protector wished, though his body would remain in it's state long enough to be mounted on a crucifix in the square. By that time Ingrid would be done her next ritual.

[Chewion]

Dallas, Texas

Rumors had started coming in about a nation just to the North of Texas in old Oklahoma. Under orders from President Kiser a small force of 50 swordsmen and 5 diplomats were sent from Dallas to make contact with this potential ally. They brought tributes of gold with them to give to the Oklahomians.

[New Communist and Socialist Unions]

Fanaticist State of Barbari

Ahh, the basic boats I have ordered to be built were finally finished. We don't have that much experience in boat construction but I have faith that they'll float. Thy currently look like boats without sails, as those will be added later. They're about to enter the water, and they sink, said sinking into the water ends when the water reaches the topmost rim, and the ship now looks like a plank on the water at first glance, makes it perfect for being camouflaged. A few hours later, and we add the sails to the boat, we then give it a crew and cast it off. It seems to be a good transport ship.

[Anowa]

The Protectorate of Delta
Temple of the Metallic Son

Chaplain Victor Monsignor was one of the very few of his kind. Chaplains were the personal aids of the Protectors, as well as their Apprentices. The rank of Chaplain was one that was held for life, and they were hand picked from the Zealots, their uniform armor distinctive by the red and gold embroidery around the border of their cowl and cape. He was also one of three people allowed into the Protector's private quarters without summons... Well one of three who wouldn't be executed for doing so.

Along the massive hallway to the amazonian woman's quarters were a number of painting, each of her predecessors. The First, Jason Gray, who stood in a pose, his balding head and flowing gray beard accenting the purple robes he wore, his hand in a V. What the sign meant was long lost to history, but doing so was something of an icon among the people. The Twelfth, Greg'Han Helm, a single being with two heads, never needed a second opinion, because he made his own, in robes befitting a thoughtful duo as he was. The Eighteenth, Jessica Anderson, hair as platinum white as her skin, and her eyes so blue they were nearly purple in color. Occasionally called 'The Mother of All' openly started a family and adopted children from all walks of life, she was the one who commissioned the South Wing in the first place, and later in her life, her children became the first Zealots.

And last on the list was the Twenty First, Ingrid Konigsdottir, current Protector, and by all that was holy the tallest woman that Victor had ever met. His impressive height was dwarfed by her, nearly a head and a half taller than he. And whatever other gift The Metal Trinity had given her resulted in a strength of a few men. Her apprentice had been in good hands the past six years, especially since she was found on her twelfth birthday begging for food on the street. Victor remembered that night distinctly, whatever ritual they performed, it sounded like it had more in common with a brothel than a holy ceremony. But it wasn't his position to question it, especially since it was common practice among the Protectors.

That being said, the room in question was a lot quieter than it was that night, the now eighteen year old Jasmine lay in the duo's bed, mocha skin much cleaner than it would be six years ago. And beneath her eyelids, Victor would know that a deep blue and emerald green eye would stare back from their respective sockets. His head swiveled to Ingrid, sitting at her desk occupied with several scriptures, the underclothes to her armor donned and ready, the metallic plates less than four feet away.

Victor cleared his throat, "Ingrid."

The Holy Woman didn't even flinch, "Yes Victor, what is it?"

The tall white haired man continued, "Gareth mentioned that his clockwork rifle contraption is ready for it's first run. He was wondering if you'd like to witness it."

That got the woman's attention, she turned her head, a questioning look on her face, "The one with the rotating barrels?"

"Yes, that one."

Ingrid paused for a moment, "Why not, at the least we'll see him blow himself up."

With that said, Victor escorted -a subjective term given the woman's stature- Ingrid through the Temple. Despite the regular visits, the route through the main foyer always unnerved him a bit, seeing as the walls, roof and chandelier were all made of the bones of the various Haida invaders. The amount of skulls that stared at him were the worst part. Regardless they walked straight through the room towards the Holy Workshop. Said workshop is where several relics had been found when they first discovered the 'Parli' -the original name for the building-, namely the multiple shot pistol on Ingrid's belt, six rounds similar in fashion to a musket, but smaller and made of steel. Several reproductions were made and handed out to the Zealots as their back up weapons behind their halberds and swords. As well as some odd mask that Engineer Gareth wore. For whatever reason he said it helped him breath in the forge, but it wasn't something Victor concerned himself with.

That being said, the forge itself was dark, and each Smith had the deep red robes of their caste, with Gareth's embroidered with black gears. The heat washing over everything as red hot metal was shaped into something extraordinary. Gareth himself was examining his newest creation, an odd looking musket, six barrels on a rotating assembly, each loaded and fired independently. Each time it was rotated, a flap would reset the hammer, ready to strike the primer on the barrel's flank. It would allow a much faster rate of volley fire in combat. And as Gareth explained it's engineering feats for the second time that day, Victor couldn't help but notice the predatory smile Ingrid held as the Smith spoke.

[Ironsbad]

Holy City of Detroit,
Motor Empire

As the longboats came to the docks, the people gathered and maintained distance to the Nordics as they feared that they would attacked them. The guards came out of the crowd and started disperse the crowd as they looked at the Nordic fleet and their people. The captain of the guard was armed and walked up to the captain with a look on his face that he want to kill him. " I don't know who brought in this dock but by the will of the Emperor Engineer Carnegie, you will forced to be subject to a search of each of your longships before you can state your business and so help me if you have a single armed sailor willing to kill me I will not be hesitant to set you on fire with your ships."

[Ithalian Empire]

Holy City of Detroit,
Motor Empire

As the longboats came to the docks, the people gathered and maintained distance to the Nordics as they feared that they would attacked them. The guards came out of the crowd and started disperse the crowd as they looked at the Nordic fleet and their people. The captain of the guard was armed and walked up to the captain with a look on his face that he want to kill him. " I don't know who brought in this dock but by the will of the Emperor Engineer Carnegie, you will forced to be subject to a search of each of your longships before you can state your business and so help me if you have a single armed sailor willing to kill me I will not be hesitant to set you on fire with your ships."

The old merchant just smiled at the captian of the guard, it was best to be polite and compliant when you wanted to get someone to buy your goods. It still bothered him that they were so eager to kill and burn, but what would you expect from a people who last memories of you was a sword?

"These here sailors are not warriors, we are merchants. You would agree that killing your customers is bad for business."

Below deck the mysterious man though about his task. He was a Jarl of the Baylands, a member of the Oberjarls council. Jarl Throval Vang was the Oberjarls spymaster, and most trusted friend. He also wore the hat of diplomate from time to time. When the time came he would make his presence known, possibly after nightfall of, if he was lucky, the Emperor Engineer himself would decide to grace this port with his presence. Throval did not think so.