Shalum-Annexed Liam State
Maldoria, near the Azurlav border
Orenburg
This town was like many in Maldoria. Run down, with terrible roads and buildings falling apart. Orenburg hadn't seen any upkeep since the Imperials ripped it away in their treaty. The people here lived what lives they could, pretending everything was fine. Even though power was spotty with rolling blackouts, the water content was poor and only the Shalumite police and garrison had anything like TV or internet (and still poor connections at that), it was all they had. They were former Azurlavs, though enough generations had gone by that no one remembered it. Many had jobs as subsistence level workers in the local silver mines, where at least one miner a month died from accidents and the rest worked themselves to an early grave. Others farmed the land outside of town, growing food to be taken north, with some little held for the town. But the best jobs were in serving the Imperial garrison. Plenty of local women were entertainment for the troops in town, National Guard troopers enjoying an easy posting. More were servants, fetching food and cleaning the barracks, shining shoes and pressing uniforms. It was the same way at the police station, where the chief himself had two women to himself (a mother and her teenage daughter) and was loath to share his good fortune with any of his men.
In times such as these, people had found solace in their faith. But while the majority of the slaves and servants were Azurlav, few practiced the faith of their homeland. The Silent Crusade had done its work here, and hard. The ones who still paid penance to Odin and asked Thor to watch over them did so in secret. No shrines, no temples, no icons or runes. It was done in backyards at night, and in basements in the dark. The kommissars had clamped down hard here, leaving the local chapel as the place of worship in Orenburg. Here, at least, the Shalumites showed mercy. The people assembled for mass, came in for Sunday worship, and many saught the priests in the confessionals to try and figure out the way forward through life. But always, the answers were, look to God.
This morning's service was the same as countless others before. Most of the slaves were poured in, watching the pulpit with rapt attention as the preacher read from the Holy Book, telling of the glory of God and the saints, and why they were all so much better off for worshipping him. The church, itself not in very good condition either, was silent save for this one man in black with a white collar, an Imperial himself lecturing to the savages. Such was the way in Maldoria.
But it was today that, of all things, a chorus of gunfire rang ooutside. Many turned, and the preacher paused, listening. Executions didn't happen much anymore, but the occaisonal criminal would be shot by the garrison or a slaver come in to buy new meat who spotted a runaway slave. But after a moment, it happened again. And again, until the streets outside were suddenly a storm of gunfire and shouting, yelling across what sounded like half the town. As most of the slaves were either in here, the garrison barracks or the mines at this early hour, no one in the church was sure of what was happening. Voices hollered in Shalumite accents, Imperial troops yelling at each other to cover them, toss them a new magazine. But as time went on and the gunfire became more and more intense, the troops' yelling became panicked. Their familiar gunfire dropped off, to be replaced by hoarse calls in a tongue the people in the church were unfamiliar with, and guns that boomed like thunder.
Finally, silence. Most of the church was standing, the slaves moving away from the doors, ducking between the pews and sheltering loved ones, watching the doors and windows carefully. For several minutes, it was this way. But then, suddenly there came the rumble of truck engines pulling up in the gravel outside the church, squeaks of transmissions and shocks as these vehicles came to a halt. Doors slammed, more of the hoarse voices, the clatter of weapons reloading and charging bolts as they chambered rounds. Silence again.
Without warning, the double doors were shoved open, admitting a gaggle of rough looking figures. Dressed in weathered coats and light sweaters, dressed as any normal person from another country might dress. But these men and women, who were rough and weathered from travel, looked more like gangsters. They all carried firearms, big and blocky ones, and wore bandoliers, bandannas, a few had old military tactical webbing or vests. Only a rare one wore body armor, and at least one was covered in the blood of the Imperial soldier she'd ripped it off of.
The rough mob pushed into the church, gesturing with their guns and spreading out, moving to the walls. The slaves, used to being intimidated, cowered before these strangers, ducking low and preying they did no wrong. The mob, at least two dozen, shoved their way in, hollering at each other and cursing, spitting and yelling. One pulled out a can of spray paint, and covered a crucifix on the wall with a blast of red. Several in the crowd gasped at this sacrilige, but stayed silent. The preacher stepped forward, protesting. Slaves they might be, but they were his flock, his charge. For his trouble, one of the crowd turned and shot him, on the spot.
The slaves ran. They poured out of the church past the rough crowd, almost trampling each other as they made for the door, smashed out windows, searched for the side exits and bulldozed through the residence. The mob followed, firing into the air, yelling at the running crowd. Two of them found another preacher in the back, and the pulled him forward, a rope materializing from the group. In less than a minute, the preacher was hanging from a beam, a noose around his neck, kicking as he fought to save himself. Soon, he was twitching as the last of the air left his system. The rest of the mob ransacked the church, pulling down what little silver and gold this church had been bestowed in relics and decoration. They smashed out the stained glass windows, shot depictions of Christ and spray painted over everything else that had a cross on it. It was mayhem.
Most of the slaves had, sensibly, run for the exits. But a few, about twenty or so, stayed. Some were huddled against the wall, staring down the mob's guns. Some were crouched between the pews, trying to figure out what had happened. A handful had been trampled in the rush, and they were being hauled up by the strangers.
A hush. Much like the one earlier, except this one was charged, eager, bloodthirsty.
Another figure stepped into the sacked church. She glanced up, her painted face half-covered by a bandanna, decorated with shark's teeth. She tugged back her hood, revealing bleached blond hair, cut short. Her face was white, with black stripes over her eyes. Her outfit said nothing special about who she was. A sweatshirt, an armored vest, a bandolier. In her hand she held a simple shotgun. There was nothing special about her.
Except that on her chest was a lupine, fangs bared. A crudely painted emblem, depicting a snarling wolf, far less sophisticated than any military badge or patch. But it was the same logo that everyone here wore. A snarling wolf's head, in red or white or black. On jackets, hats, vests or masks. Now, the slaves could see that behind their goggles and glasses and hoods and masks, they all wore painted faces. War paint. Some had merely commando stripes. Others had painted runes across their features. A few had even gone the full bore and painted their entire face in blocky war emblems.
The woman crossed to the inside, staring up at the hung priest, swaying lightly. She stopped before him, set her shotgun down and closed her eyes, tipping her head back and raising her hands. Her followers all bowed their heads, a clenched fist held over their chests. And then she spoke, in English surprisingly.
"Brother Hati, He who chases the Sun across the sky. We beseech your blessing here, as we offer these filthy, unworthy souls up to you. May the Wolf Who Hates find these sacrifices fitting, as we send to you our despised enemy. We ask your blessing, Brother, as we seek to cleanse this town, and then this land of the wickedness the Silent Crusade has done here. May your hate ever fuel us, as we take up our holy cause."
The woman dropped her arms, and her following began murmuring to themselves. The woman who now tugged down her mask, glanced around at the slaves left in the desecrated church, now rounded up in the center.
"I am called Angrboda," she exclaimed. "And I am here as a liberator. You have all struggled, and fought, and been beaten down and oppressed. Enslaved. Destroyed, morally and spiritually." She gestured to the church around her. "By them. These...hypocrites. 'Love thy neighbor, do no harm to the innocent.' Lies. Falsehoods." Her arms dropped, and she looked down at the slaves, seemingly so imposing and ferocious in merely her presence. "For decades, you have been brainwashed. Oppressed. Bought. Sold. Murdered. Are there any who still pay heed to All-Wise Odin, or Mighty Thor? Are there still Azurlavs in this stolen land?"
One slave, a young man no older than twenty-one, his face and hands smudged with grime and dust because he had not enough water to bath with, cautiously stepped forward. Angrboda reached out to him, gently taking his filthy hand between her white ones.
"Yes, child? You still pay heed to the Aesir?"
"My dad," the young man stammered. "Before he died, he...he told me what his grandfather told him. About the Sky Gods, and the World Serpant. The Dread Wolf. The Allfather. I uh...I still have his shrine, buried in the basement. I take it out sometimes and-"
"Tomlin, no!" cried one of the slaves. He was older, middle-aged and wore a cross around his neck as he glared at Angrboda. "You'll not come in here with your devil talk, you heretic! This is a house of God, which you have just violated! But I'll not let you corrupt the boy! The Lord protects!"
For a moment, it seemed as if the whole crowd was about to leap on this man, tear him to shreds. The militia were rearing up for it, teeth clenched and fists curled, guns at the ready and knives drawn. But Angrboda showed no reaction. She merely stared at the man for a moment before, with the same blank expression, drawing a revolver and blasting him between the eyes.
"Does he?" She glanced down at Tomlin, then at the other slaves. "We are going to begin righting these wrongs. We will free this land from Christian and Shalumite corruption. We will kill the slavers, and we will restore the ways of your people. If you do not wish to join, than stay out of our way. Oppose us, and we will crush you. But join..." She gestured to the surrounding mob. "And you will become a part of us. Part of a family. And we. Will. Do. Justice. In the name of the Cosmic Wolf Hati, He Who Chases the Sun. We. Will. Kill them. And repay them for every crime they've inflicted on us." She reached out her hand to Tomlin. Shaking, unsure and not quite believing this was happening, the young man gently took her grasp. In a moment, a militiaman stepped over, a mask in one hand and a pistol in the other, offering them both out to Tomlin. Another came forward, a can of white paint ready to begin applying war paint. In seconds, Tomlin went from poor Maldorian orphan to militia fighter, as the crowd pulled him into their ranks.
Angrboda looked to the other slaves, saying nothing but asking everything.
Two of them fled, pushing past her and rushing out, followed by boos, jeers and hisses. But of the remainder, the sixteen left, they cautiously pressed forward. Angrboda took each one by the hand, hugging them, comforting them as the militia opened their ranks, armories and paint cans to these new initiates.
"Go out into the town," Angrboda said to no one in particular. "Spread the word. Loot the garrison. Bring me the Guard captain and the police chief. I will sacrifice them myself. Then we start decorating. Let all know that this place is Jotnar now."
And with that, the self-named monsters spread out, weapons in hand and war cries on their lips as they flooded across the town like a wildfire. Anyone who stood up to them, they fell upon brutally or shot. Anyone who fled, they mocked and laughed at. But many more stood up, were embraced by the white lady named after Loki's mistress, and took up guns and war paint.
The Jotnar had launched their holy war for real. It was time to end the Silent Crusade.
