Citizens of The Isles [IC, TWI only]

[Fahraxi]

Ziyech Estate, near Mount Sutara, 18:29
Hakeem Ziyech is one of Fahraxi's most well-known business magnates, investor and the CEO of Viper Corporations, one of the largest PC companies in Fahraxi and soon in entire Western Isles. He'd worked hard to get to this place in his life, and it finally paid off with a beautiful wife, three kids and a grand mansion on the foot of Mount Sutara, an estate only the elite could afford to buy. Soon, the new Sidewinder 8 will come out, a mobile phone the people in Fahraxi had been craving for for more than six months. Yet, not only the people were interested in this new mobile phone but also the monarchy. Last week he was asked to a meeting with Prince Xavier Al-Amyr, who was coincidentally also the head of the national intelligence agency RUIA, in the Desert Palace. The Prince asked Ziyech to integrate a microchip within the new Sidewinder phone, which would allow the RUIA to keep track with the users of the phone, all in the name of national security. Ziyech refused to comply and said that it was impossible to do this with the release a couple of weeks away and because of the moral issues. Ziyech furiously left Xavier's office shortly after.

He just arrived home and walked through his mansion's lavish front garden into the entrance. "Come play with us daddy!" his daughter yelled to him from the pool in the back garden. "Wait one minute princess, daddy has to put away his suitcase before he can play with you!". It was common for him to call his daughter princess, he did that since the day she was born. He proceeded into his workroom to place his suitcase next to his desk, until he was surprised by an unknown stranger within his office.
"Living life to the fullest, Mr Ziyech?" the stranger asked him, he wore a black leather jacket along with black leather pants and shoes. Surprised, Ziyech hastily opened his desk to search for his Magnum 357, the gun he would use for emergencies like this, only to find nothing. "Looking for this?" the stranger grinned and held up the magnum 357.
"Who are you and what do you want from me?!" the frightened CEO screamed to him. "If you are here for the money then take it but leave-"

"I get it. 'Take the money and leave my family alone' is such a cliché saying you would see in an average thriller film." the stranger continued. "But you see, I'm not here for your money nor am I some crazy nuthead serial killer here to murder you and your family in the brutal way ever. I'm here to make you comply with Prince Xavier's demands, so the RUIA can do its job: to serve and protect the Fahraxian people and the King."

"So you're from the RUIA, eh? Well I will never comply with you people, you scumbag! It is morally wrong to violate people's privacy like this!"

The stranger pulled out a file from his jacket and threw it to the ground for Ziyech to pick up. "The RUIA has been on your ass for a couple of years and guess what we found after years of observation? In that file you will find some pictures with you in your younger years along with a very hot brunette in a hotel room... It seems that you have cheated on your wife a couple of years ago, Mr Ziyech... And on top of that, in the last pictures you can see how you hand her a suitcase with what I believe to be a reasonable amount of money for her to shut her mouth. It would be a disgrace to your family name and company if this would come-" The CEO interrupted him before he could finish his sentence.

"Please no! Don't let my wife know about this-"

"You mean if the public knows about this." the RUIA agent smiled. "So, what will it be Ziyech? Shame? Or loyalty to your country?"

"Fine! I'll do it." the CEO cried. "I'll order your chip to be placed within the Sidewinder!"

"Very well then, I believe my job here is done. Do it or you'll face the consequences. Have a nice summer vacation, the Royal Family sends their regards."

The agent grasped the file out of Ziyech's hands and walked out of the door, never to be seen again... "Daddy, are you coming?" Ziyech's, now impatient daughter, yelled.

After the agent walked out of the estate, he made contact to mission command through his earpiece:
"Sir, mission accomplished. Our new friend will cooperate with us. I think we can keep him for a while, he sure doesn't want those pictures to be leaked so he'll be a valuable asset for some time."
"Well done, we're proud of you agent." Prince Xavier responded humbly over the comms. "Go home and get some rest. You totally deserve it."

[Polar Svalbard]

Markov Zheiylvik ran his hand over the rough hewn wooden crate that he walked next to. This was one of a number that was being offloaded from his modified transport plane. As he walked next to the Wakeite ex-general, he couldn't help but wonder how he had gotten to this point in his life where he was the leader of a communist organization. He laughed in his head that many others might call it a terrorist organization, but he would call it freedom fighters. The United Proletariat of the World (UPW for short) was a new comer to the world stage, only having been formed in the past year, with little relevance up to this point. But this was about to change. This deal here would be the first rock to fall in a landslide of events.

Coming back to the conversation at hand he started to list off the weapons and ammo that he had brought for the communist faction that was gearing up to launch a communist coup in South Wake. The majority of the weapons were LM3s that were able to be purchased and gathered throughout Polar Svalbard. It was a reliable weapon and quite abundant and cheap in Polar Svalbard. Furthermore the 9mm rounds are quite cheap. Along with that was a large amount of VS-71s. They were a cheap to procure assault rifle as they were completely phased out of the Svalbardian military and were easy to come across if you greased the right hands. It's 5.56 rounds would provide more of a punch over the 9mm rounds of the LM3. Continuing on there were crates of grenades and a number of RPG-7s that Zheiylvik was able to procure from gunrunners.

Overall the general was quite pleased, "If not for men like you, the ideals of Marx would quickly die off. The revolution cannot be fought without weapons to push back the Capitalists."

Markov laughed, "And if not for men like you and those under your command, the ideals of Marx would die off quicker. The revolution cannot be fought without those willing to spill blood for greater ideals."

Chuckling the general lit himself and then Markov a cigar as they watched both Markov and the general's men start to load the crates onto trucks that were waiting to leave the small airfield on the Western side of South Wake. The general looked up at the sky as he puffed on his cigar, "I'm trying to get in contact with the FWM, although after what happened in Wake Atolla they've gone for the most part dark. They still have assets and connections throughout the Wake Islands though and they would be good to use. If my men are able to make contact, and I will try to get you and them connected."

Markov nodded and smiled, "Thank you my friend, if you are able to do that the next round of weapons will be free."

The general laughed and held out his hand, "Well then I shall try my hardest."

Markov nodded and grasped the general's forearm, "Good luck comrade, I leave this up to you."

With this Markov and his men boarded the plane and left. As Markov sat there he smiled, the revolution has truly begun.

[Xrevaro]

Manuk hiked through the forest heartbroken by the destruction caused by the fires. The old growth forest once thick with tall pines and ferns had been reduced to long stiff grasses, short shrubbery, and pine saplings rising from the earth. He once made this hike based on the shape of trees and how the light came through the canopy, but now with the forest exposed to the full light of the sun and the usual marking trees gone, Manuk found himself relying on a compass and dated map.
His village was only a couple miles east of his destination and had luckily been spared from the fires. They were close enough to choke on the black smoke that blew from the numerous fires, had even seen foreign firefighters seek rest in their company before running off to battle the blazes. The government since the April thaw had implemented a national day of planting, providing many villages saplings to help the forest spring back. Those in the cities might’ve been fooled but Manuk knew the real reason behind it. A fair bit of the tourism Xrevaro relied on came from its pristine forests, with many areas untouched. It gave people a much needed escape from the busy world where they can enjoy nature in contemplative silence and rediscover themselves once more. Though many of the eastern forests were spared from the flames, it was still a hit to the industry and the government planned to use those who lived in proximity to the forest to do unpaid labor to help spring it back.
Manuk rested on his walking stick and surveyed the terrain before checking his compass.
‘The Temple is close…’ He thought to himself and began walking once more.
The Temple of Ginevia, once hidden in a clearing of trees, now stood exposed. If not for the lack of foliage, one would not be able to tell the Temple had seen those devilish flames.
Manuk tapped the door three times with his walking stick. He only waited a moment before a woman open the door. As a priestess of Ginevia she was shrouded head to toe in a beautifully embroidered rich blue gown. The fabric thinned around eyes but obscured their color and shape. She bowed respectfully and Manuk returned the bow, not a word was uttered between the two. She led him to the Ginevia’s shrine in silence.
The shrine room was filled with the smell of burning incense. Seated in the middle of the room before a pot of simmering water was the High Priestess. Her gown was embroidered with flecks of gold and her eyes, unlike the others priestess, were exposed. In the dim lighting of the room it was hard to tell what color they were, but to Manuk they always seemed black like spilled ink. He took his seat in front of her and the two were left alone in the room. The High Priestess, Skweni At-Qen, spoke first.
“It is unlike you to be late upon your pilgrimage.”
“I was detained a short while ago for stealing extra rations.”
“An auspicious time is upon us. To steal extra rations was needless. Tea?”
“Please,” Manuk ran his hand through his hair, “You know that many are not blessed with Ginevia’s foresight and intuition. My children are hungry and as any good father I did what I felt right at the time.”
Skweni unwrapped the tea leaves by her side and grinded them with a mortar. She dropped the freshly grinded leaves into the simmering water and gave them a stir. A smell of warm spice and earth filled the air, mixing with that of the incense.
“Just as the rains began, so did Ginevia’s gift return. The malicious heat and the smoke from the fires clouded her communication to us. The solar eclipse cleared the evil energies in the air and focused our sight but it was not till the rains began that it was fully restored. We have seen many things, omens for disasters to come to lands our east, time of prosperity for our own fertile lands, even seen the brewings of greater conflict in the Jewel’d North and Gold Coast. You may wonder what this must do with you, but remember all things are connected.”
She poured the tea into a clay bowl and spoke a short prayer over it before handing it to Manuk. Manuk blew gently on the tea before drinking it all. When he finished he handed her the bowl. Skweni looked at the collection of tea leaves gathered along the bottom of the bowl and gave an affirmative nod.
“Important times head. Whether they are to be positive or negative depends on how receptive you are to energies of this world. You may find yourself called upon to aid those you do not know. The cycle of elements continues what once was fire now is earth, will soon be water.”
Skweni put the bowl down and continued.
“It is unsafe to travel at night so close to the lunar eclipse. A room will be prepared for you. I suggest you call upon Ginevia, maybe she will gift you the further insights that you seek.”
Manuk nodded and rose from the floor.
“Thank you High Priestess.”

[Roendavar]

Prologue
Spilled Hatred

"Perhaps it is human nature to be violent. Perhaps we were created to hate one another. Chaos is nothing but a cycle, cursed to forever loop until humanity is nothing but smoldering ruins baking in the fiery flames of hatred."

Arkhail Micheno, Chapter 1, Manifesto of the Forgotten

Blood and Tears. This is what we have sacrificed. Blood and Tears are what we shall be repaid. I still remember that day. The day where my life felt nothing. The day when all my hopes and dreams, gone like the summer wind. Wilted like the sweet roses up in the mountains come the cold, menacing winter.

"To the residents of Sector 3, Fromoi District, please head over to Lizhenya Park. Failure to comply will result in dire consequences."

I froze as I stood beside my bedroom's window. The message was short but stern, a common tone in mandatory investigations. The once warm air inside turned into a menacing chill, the graveness of the situation etching into my mind like a hammer. I headed downstairs as I tried to put on a serious demeanor. Waiting for me at the living room was my wife and two sons, their faces filled with worry and fear. I hugged them one by one, whispering into their ears, Everything will be alright.

Is it though? Is alright the proper word for it?

Together, we stepped outside, the smoky smell of the air filled our lungs. Fromoi District is next to the Lantaroci Power Plant with its tall smokestacks that bellow out ash. A slow poison. I thought. Luckily, we were handed out masks the other day which we eagerly put on to, at least, lessen the foulness of the air. Many of the residents were already outside, confused and worried, clutching their children and loved ones alike. From the end of the street, five soldiers came into view, each one holding a gun. "DARVOIE! DARVOIE!". "Move!", they ordered. As much as we dreaded to, we trudged forward, heading off to Lizhenya Park.

I walked alongside the people from my sector. No one spoke a word, perhaps for fear of getting shot by the menacing soldiers behind us. I observed the tall, bland houses where most of us live. They were a sickly gray due to the smoke that dirtied the once pure white color of our homes. All of the government-funded houses looked similar, distinguished only by metal numbers plastered on our doors. This was one of the poorest districts in Lantaroci City, after all, we are doomed to live in this filthy place.

As we arrived at the park, we were greeted by the Vastarosian Army, their jet-black uniforms and shiny guns portraying a proud and strong people. In the front were three of the most powerful men in the state, Grand General Darmir Kazmirovil, the ruling Duke of Lantaroci, Duke Aron Mizhenkovich, and none other than the villain of Vastaros, President Lord Victor Azănera Vațilezi, his face plastered with a frown. It was rare to see the President outside of the Black Fortress as his paranoia grows and grows each day.

"Line up! All the men go on the right side and all the women and children on the left!" The grand General shouted, his eyes wide with amusement.

I refused to part with them. I stared hopelessly at my wife's eyes as she was torn away from me, a threat of a gun pointed at her head if she dared to move. My sons hid behind her with tears dripping from their eyes. You will be safe. I mouthed. A lie. I shifted my attention to the President who was now in the center holding up a small red book in the air. Everyone in the park knew what it was. It was a copy of the "Book of Ivy", containing anti-Vastarosi propaganda and calls for revolution against the oppressive Vastaros State. It was meant to be a secret, only a few select members of the Ivy Group can have a copy of one.

"This was found inside a package on Zemreya Street, the main thoroughfare in Sector 3, where all of you live." The President explained, his voice seething with anger. "I will cut to the point. I know there is one member of the Ivy Group in each sector. I also know that the Ivy Group only accepts males. Now, tell me, who is the member here?"

No one dared to answer. We all feared for our lives and yet, no one really knew who it was. As much as we wanted to say something, there was nothing we could give. However, we also know that once the President is set on something, he will not stop. It was silence for a few minutes. I looked at the President, his attitude growing impatient each passing second. For what seemed like an eternity, he raised his fist up, and along with it the soldiers behind him raised their guns, each one of them pointing at us. I looked worryingly at my family, which were now distressed in the other group.

"If no one tells me who it is, then all the men here are guilty of treason. We know what the punishment for treason is… so I suggest someone starts talking now." He announced, his eyes fixated on the group of us men that lay silent.
"Perhaps we could not proceed with this and let our courts do their job?" suggested the Duke. If it weren't for my life, I would have scoffed. The Duke is nothing but a coward. He is not a friend of the people.
"One more word from you and you'll join them. Now, who is the Ivy?!"

And still, no one answered. We looked at one another, our iron resolve never faltering.

"Very well. Ready…!"

The soldiers armed their guns as I felt like my whole world crash down. The women were all screaming, pleading for the soldiers and the President to spare us. Our children cried, their wails of sorrow drained us, still, the soldiers stood stiff, their faces showing no emotions. This is it. I told myself. I took one last look at my family on the other side and gave them one final smile. A smile of farewell.

"Fire!"

I shut my eyes as the sound of gunfire rang all around me. The screams of our families echoing through our ears as we welcomed the sweet embrace of death. And yet, when the gunfire stopped, I felt nothing. I wondered, "Have I been spared from the pain?". There was only deafening silence and the dread of leaving the world behind. With my eyes still closed, I felt my body. There was no blood, no wounds. I smiled in satisfaction as I opened my eyes, maybe we have been spared after all. However, as I looked at my group's faces, they were stunned, horrified even. I was oblivious, I should have turned around.

Our wives and our children lay dead on the rough cobblestone of the park. Their dark crimson blood staining every inch of stone and grass. I felt their blood crying out in fear and anguish. Their faces were contorted in shock, crying out for mercy and salvation. No matter how hard they pleaded for us, it was no use. They were the ones who were slaughtered. They were the ones who paid the price for our actions.

I should have told them who I was. It was supposed to be me.

The Ivy Group shall awaken and it shall give the evil, blood, and tears.

"In time, we shall all be repaid. All the good that we have done shall be given back. All the evil that we have done shall be given back. However, we must all understand, life is not fair. There shall be a time where no matter how much good we do, it will be rewarded with evil. If that happens, there is nothing we can do, for God has willed it, and so it must be."

Book of Dia, Chapter 16:1-5

[Cosie]

The following transcript comes from a customer service call made to PatterCo, a telecommunications company, on 6 August 2018. For whatever reason, the caller decided to communicate with the customer service rep through Cosaye, Cosie's very own English creole dialect.

A version of this transcript with an interpretation of the caller's Cosaye is available at the end of this post.

====

---
Key
---
Vio	Viola (PatterCo Customer Service Rep)
Usr	User-in-need
---

---
[13:06]	Vio: Good afternoon, this is Viola from PatterCo, how may I be of service?
[13:06]	Usr: 	Ya, allo?	
[13:06]	Vio: Good afternoon, sir.
[13:06]	Usr: 	Is ye PatterCo?	
[13:07]	Vio: Yes, sir, this is Viola from PatterCo, how may I help you?
[13:07]	Usr: 	Ya, me got a problem wi de app ye put in me celular.	
[13:07]	Vio: You have a problem with our smartphone app, sir?
[13:07]	Usr: 	Ya, crect.	
[13:07]	Vio: Alright, sir, what seems to be the problem?
[13:07]	Usr: 	A'ight, me see des noncement on de internet deckin me gon get a centa cobs i me download ye app on me cel, so me done advance an pressed de button e done show me. When me n'ten ta press de app pas e term de download, me celular term up congelled.	
[13:07]	Vio: ... Could you please repeat that, sir?
[13:08]	Usr: 	Me deckin ye app done congel me celular when me n'ten ta press e.	
[13:08]	Vio: ... The app did what, now?
[13:08]	Usr: 	Congelled.	
[13:08]	Vio: ... Are you saying your phone is frozen, sir?
[13:08]	Usr: 	Ya, das wha me jus deck te ye.	
[13:08]	Vio: Alright, then... So you believe the PatterCo app may have caused your phone to hang?
[13:08]	Usr: 	Ya, crect.	
[13:08]	Vio: I see, I see... Give me a moment.
[13:08]	Usr: 	Bien.	

[brief silence]

[13:09]	Vio: ... Alright, sir, can you tell me what model phone is having this issue?
[13:09]	Usr: 	Kodo.	
[13:09]	Vio: Which Kodo, sir?
[13:09]	Usr: 	Kodo Instant.	
[13:09]	Vio: Okay, then... Can you tell me where you downloaded the app from?
[13:09]	Usr: 	Me got e per de '100% Free Downloads' website.	
[13:09]	Vio: ... Can you repeat that?
[13:09]	Usr: 	'100% Free Downloads'.	
[13:10]	Vio: ... You didn't get the app from the official store, sir?
[13:10]	Usr: 	Whot "official store"?	
[13:10]	Vio: Errm... Hold on a moment.

[brief silence]

[13:10]	Vio: ... Sir, I'm afraid you might not have downloaded the actual PatterCo app.
[13:11]	Usr: 	Whot ye be deckin about? Me clarely done see 'PatterCo' bedown de app logo. Hoe pos e na be de crect one?	
[13:11]	Vio: Sir, you may have downloaded a malicious app that was disguised as the PatterCo app.
[13:11]	Usr: 	"Disguise"? Whot "disguise"? Me done pos see de app! E done deck 'PatterCo'!	
[13:11]	Vio: You're mistaken, sir, this app was *pretending* to be the PatterCo app so that it might infect your phone.
[13:11]	Usr: 	Hoe pos an app "pretend" ta be somtin when e done show de nam mos clare bedown de logo!?	
[13:11]	Vio: Sir-
[13:11]	Usr: 	Whe ye be comin up wi des total nasense!? Whe ye na wanna reg me cel!?	
[13:11]	Vio: Sir, please, calm down.
[13:12]	Usr: 	Me *am* calm! *Ye* be de one deckin loco nasense!	
[13:12]	Vio: *Sir*, please calm down and listen to me for a moment.

[brief silence]

[13:12]	Usr: 	Bien, me be lissenin.	
[13:12]	Vio: Alright.
[13:12]	Vio: Sir, you have downloaded an app that illegally uses PatterCo's name to trick users into allowing it to infect their phones.
[13:12]	Usr: 	A'ight, me-	
[13:12]	Vio: *Please* listen.
[13:12]	Vio: Unfortunately, the problem you're facing does not actually involve the official PatterCo app, and it's beyond the scope of my duties to help solve your problem with the infected phone.
[13:13]	Usr: 	Whot? Ye deckin ye na gonna aid ta reg my phone?	
[13:13]	Vio: Well, what I'd recommend is for you to visit your local phone repair shop and ask if they can look into the problem for you. They'll likely be far more capable of solving your problem than someone in my role.
[13:13]	Usr: 	... Hmph. Be'r ha expected client service be wormin dey way off o des.	
[13:13]	Usr: 	... Pos me at least claim me centa-cob compense per ye?	
[13:13]	Vio: Sir, PatterCo has not, and has never, given monetary rewards to users for downloading the official app.
[13:13]	Usr: 	So de compense also done be "pretend", na?	
[13:14]	Usr: 	Whotever, ye migos be human waste. Once me get me cel regged, me gonna chane over ta anoder telco.	
[13:14]	Vio: Then thank you for calling PatterCo customer service. My name is Viola, and I will be signing off.
[13:14]	Usr: 	Begone.	
---

====

---
[13:06]	Vio: Good afternoon, this is Viola from PatterCo, how may I be of service?
[13:06]	Usr: 	Yes, hello?	
[13:06]	Vio: Good afternoon, sir.
[13:06]	Usr: 	Are you PatterCo?	
[13:07]	Vio: Yes, sir, this is Viola from PatterCo, how may I help you?
[13:07]	Usr: 	Yeah, I've got a problem with this app you've put on my phone.	
[13:07]	Vio: You have a problem with our smartphone app, sir?
[13:07]	Usr: 	That's right.	
[13:07]	Vio: Alright, sir, what seems to be the problem?
[13:07]	Usr: 	Well, I saw this ad on the internet saying I'd get a hundred cobs if I downloaded your app on my phone, so I went ahead and clicked the button it showed me. When I tried to click the app after it finished downloading, my phone ended up freezing.	
[13:07]	Vio: ... Could you please repeat that, sir?
[13:08]	Usr: 	I'm saying your app froze my phone when I tried to click on it.	
[13:08]	Vio: ... The app did what, now?
[13:08]	Usr: 	Froze it.	
[13:08]	Vio: ... Are you saying your phone is frozen, sir?
[13:08]	Usr: 	Yes, that's what I just said.	
[13:08]	Vio: Alright, then... So you believe the PatterCo app may have caused your phone to hang?
[13:08]	Usr: 	That's right.	
[13:08]	Vio: I see, I see... Give me a moment.
[13:08]	Usr: 	Okay.	

[brief silence]

[13:09]	Vio: ... Alright, sir, can you tell me what model phone is having this issue?
[13:09]	Usr: 	Kodo.	
[13:09]	Vio: Which Kodo, sir?
[13:09]	Usr: 	Kodo Instant.	
[13:09]	Vio: Okay, then... Can you tell me where you downloaded the app from?
[13:09]	Usr: 	I got it from the '100% Free Downloads' website.	
[13:09]	Vio: ... Can you repeat that?
[13:09]	Usr: 	'100% Free Downloads'.	
[13:10]	Vio: ... You didn't get the app from the official store, sir?
[13:10]	Usr: 	What "official store"?	
[13:10]	Vio: Errm... Hold on a moment.

[brief silence]

[13:10]	Vio: ... Sir, I'm afraid you might not have downloaded the actual PatterCo app.
[13:11]	Usr: 	What are you talking about? I clearly saw 'PatterCo' under the app logo. How can it not be the right one?	
[13:11]	Vio: Sir, you may have downloaded a malicious app that was disguised as the PatterCo app.
[13:11]	Usr: 	"Disguise"? What "disguise"? I could see the app! It said 'PatterCo'!	
[13:11]	Vio: You're mistaken, sir, this app was *pretending* to be the PatterCo app so that it might infect your phone.
[13:11]	Usr: 	How can an app "pretend" to be something when it showed the name right there under the logo!?	
[13:11]	Vio: Sir-
[13:11]	Usr: 	Why are you coming up with all this nonsense!? Why don't you want to fix my phone!?	
[13:11]	Vio: Sir, please, calm down.
[13:12]	Usr: 	I *am* calm! *You* are the one spouting crazy nonsense!	
[13:12]	Vio: *Sir*, please calm down and listen to me for a moment.

[brief silence]

[13:12]	Usr: 	Okay, I'm listening.	
[13:12]	Vio: Alright.
[13:12]	Vio: Sir, you have downloaded an app that illegally uses PatterCo's name to trick users into allowing it to infect their phones.
[13:12]	Usr: 	Well, I-	
[13:12]	Vio: *Please* listen.
[13:12]	Vio: Unfortunately, the problem you're facing does not actually involve the official PatterCo app, and it's beyond the scope of my duties to help solve your problem with the infected phone.
[13:13]	Usr: 	What? Are you saying you're not going to help fix my phone?	
[13:13]	Vio: Well, what I'd recommend is for you to visit your local phone repair shop and ask if they can look into the problem for you. They'll likely be far more capable of solving your problem than someone in my role.
[13:13]	Usr: 	... Hmph. Should have expected customer service were going to worm their way out of this.	
[13:13]	Usr: 	... Can I at least claim my 100-cob reward from you?	
[13:13]	Vio: Sir, PatterCo has not, and has never, given monetary rewards to users for downloading the official app.
[13:13]	Usr: 	So the reward was also "pretend", was it?	
[13:14]	Usr: 	Whatever, you folks are human trash. Once I get my phone fixed, I'm instantly going to switch over to another telco.	
[13:14]	Vio: Then thank you for calling PatterCo customer service. My name is Viola, and I will be signing off.
[13:14]	Usr: 	Bye.	
---

[Noronica]

Return

---

---

Morning, Friday, 10 August
Allied Forward Operating Base, Charbagnian Federation

"Lieutenant Colonel!" Came a shout from outside the tent, its urgency waking the tent's sole occupant, Trystan Alexander. Scowling at being so rudely awoken, he swivelled himself around and hissed as the bullet wound in his abdomen reminded him that he was not able to be as active as he wished to be.

"What is it?" Trystan asked loudly, hoping that it would be a short message. One of the communication personnel stepped in, saluting Trystan before rattling off his message.

"We have a message from the Palace sir. It's for your eyes only." He said, his voice quick and just coherent. Trystan could see that the boy was very curious and it had taken all of his strength not to just rip the message open and satiate his voracious curiosity. He smirked at the boy, grabbing hold of the envelope.

"May I ask why this wasn't sent by email?" Trystan asked, frowning. The letter looked rather non-descript except for the stamp which, upon further investigation, was a stamp issued only to one man, his father.

"Ehm- I'm not sure if I can say this sir, but according to the higher-ups, His Majesty insisted on writing." The boy said conspiratorially. Trystan snorted, of course he did. He knew his father well, and while he was efficient, he was very paranoid, especially when it came to personal letters. Anything that could be 'intercepted' was written by hand.

Taking his leave, the boy allowed Trystan to read his letter.

Son,

I hope that your education these past few years has been useful to you. I did not have the privilege of having the education that you did, so know that I expect vastly greater achievements than I. I already spoke on this matter in previous communications, so I will leave this message short.

You are needed back in Nolon Trystan. You will have heard of the situation here I am sure, ergo you will know that a certain party is becoming dangerously close to achieving total power in the city. My work is not done, and I do not wish to capitulate. I need competent allies and I hope I might count you as one of them.

I will speak more on this subject when you arrive. I have already given you leave to end your military tour in Charbagnia, and I have arranged for your flight back to the city.

Regards,

Your Father

Trystan smirked. He had hoped that he would have had more time, but as luck would have it, he was being thrust into the situation with little direction.

The tent flap opened again to reveal Trystan's confidant, Mark, a fellow officer in the Noronnican Army who had grown to become a close friend to Trystan as they progressed through both the Arvanan and Charbagnian campaigns. With an eyebrow raised, Mark spoke quietly, "What's going on then Trystan?"

"I'm needed in Nolon," Trystan said, a small smile forming on his lips, "I'm apparently flying in a few hours."

---

Afternoon, Friday, 10 August
Nolon City, Noronica

Trystan gazed upon the city. He watched as cars moved like water through the streets, the city working like clockwork as it went through yet another day. Standing under the shade of a tree on the side of the motorway, several miles away, he could still hear the roar of the city, planes flying by, traffic blaring. He was almost lost in fascination until a hand landed on his shoulder, a bodyguard informing him that they needed to go.

As they drove, Trystan continued to reminisce as childhood memories surfaced in his mind. A few years after the civil war, Trystan and his sister Mellisa were seen as the miracle children of Noronica, born in a time of chaos. Everyone, whether a staunch republican or royalist, watched the news to see the children go about their duties as children of the new Overlord. He remembered the time when he attended his first solo royal event, the cold wet rain hammering on his hair as he stood at the royal podium as Prince, watching the Royal Marines march by him. He was eighteen at the time, and despite the aloof appearance he had inherited from his father, he was shaking with fear. He had decided, without much thought, to disregard the aid offered by senior personnel, but he struggled through it, and despite it being hard to see his speech with his hands shaking and the rain bothering his eyes, he managed to do a passable job, and the people watching from the gates still gave an applause, perhaps out of pity for the teenager.

Now, however, the rain had stopped and the sun beamed over the city, guiding his way home. He had been away in both Arván and Charbagnia, serving under the 31st Infantry Battalion of the Noronnican Army. Gone were the days of immediate ownership of the armed forces for the landed gentry, Trystan was forced to take the hard route. Despite the fact that he had come into conflict with his various C.O's, he had managed to climb the ranks quite quickly, earning himself the role of Lieutenant Colonel of the 40th Infantry Regiment. Not many could complain that he had been coddled by bodyguards either, as he earned himself several bad wounds during his tours, giving him the respect of both the troops and those back home.

He was broken out of his reverie by his door being opened by a Palace guard. Stepping out, he decided to try saluting the guard to gauge the reaction. The guard returned the salute reluctantly, which was all that Trystan needed. He would not command total respect immediately, but he had recognition and acceptance. Building blocks, he thought.

Entering the palace, he took a deep inhale, his senses taking in the familiar sights and scents of his home. He walked towards the base of the grand staircase where both his mother and father waited for him, dressed in finery while he was still dressed in his officer uniform.

"Welcome home son."

[Menna Shuli]

Father sat lotus-legged upon the floor, his hands resting gently cupped around his knees. On the floor in front of him was a map, and on the map were a series of bright-red circles and lines. The growl of a gas generator and the buzz of an incandescent light bulb joined the whispy rasp of wind and the ticker-tack of hail upon the roof. Father's head was shaved down to a gleaming polish, but the wild beard he had cultivated in prison still stuck out from his face, a gray and black and white mass of curls and coarse wires that gave him the appearance of an ancient wiseman, an Indian guru or, perhaps, one of those long-forgetten and discarded warlocks of Atên. That, he thought, was more than appropriate, given where he was.

The building, high in the mountains, had served many roles over avalanching centuries: shepherd's hovel, smuggler's den, vulture's nest. However, the small, stone block and the interconnected caves and warrens formed by long dead volcanic vents that it connected to had originally served as the isolated lodgings of an old order of Atênic mystics, back in the time of the Mihêna. The mystics here had outlasted the fall of their religion in the Third Kingdom, and had even outlasted the fall of the Empire. What they had not outlasted were the decades of complete exile that followed, the starvation and, eventually, the cannibalism. In prison, Father had read Dr. Martin Ludbrech's The Mênnan Wendigo: Cannibalism, Shamanism and Ritual in Pre-Mihêna Mênna Shuli, and while these mystic had died centuries after the period covered in that text, Father still thought that maybe some small spirit of the man-eater archetype had pervaded this place and had taken hold of them. In the deepest caves of the network, there were still a few lost bones, maybe human, with the chips and cracks of teeth marks upon them.

A new set of mystics had come to occupy the space. Very different from the Mihêna who had been here before, Nâtkut Sumi were nonetheless trying to reach out to the spirit of the Mênna as the mystics before had reached out to the spirit of their people, before they had gone mad with hunger. Where the greatest difference between them existed was that the old mystics had sought isolation in this mountain hut and the caves below. Father and his family did not seek isolation; they were hiding here, true, but they were connected, reaching out from their secret place with fingers made of radio waves. Camouflage and secrecy was not the same as exile, Father thought, especially in the times they were now facing.

There was an awakening happening. The spark that had ignited the opening of minds had not been the work of Blue Yesterday, but much that had happened since had been pushed by those invisible fingers that reached out from this tiny, secret place. The worker, that foundation of the pyramid upon which the princes placed the crushing weight of their pyramid of society, was having their spirit touched, and they were beginning the fight that they would need to win if they were to ever be anything more than the blood that the vêhitap'at mixed into their mortar. They would reach up and attack their oppressors, bite like dogs that had been kicked too many times. But the bites of a dog that had been defanged could only go so far.

And so Father pondered the map. Pondered their plans.

Nâtkut Sumi, Blue Yesterday, would not let the dog remain defanged. They would not let the cat remain declawed. While Father was in prison, the family he had built had lost their way. He'd done his best to keep them on track, the short missives he had been able to release from his cell with friendly guards enough to push them away from sinking too far from the bright surface of his dream. Since his return, however, his voice was loud, and the family was returning to the course.

The one benefit of their waywardness in his absence was that they had developed reach. They had developed connections. They had friends in all the low places, and had influence enough to provide nudges to the burgeoning movement of the worker that was coming. To help them arm themselves, to help them make their attacks and sacrifices. But, more than that, to establish the access to the places they would need access to.

A single circle on the map had been circled and recircled and recircled again, more than any other point. The webwork of linking lines to it was greater than any other. While the map was a large and broad one of Mênna Shuli, with few small details, the location alone was enough to speak volumes. Near Kunêshêktêmilu, at the mouth of the lake. To anyone familiar with the country and familiar with Blue Yesterday, there was something more than ominous in the red ink marks on the map.

When Father had been young, that lake had been nearly half its current size. Decades had expanded it and reduced the flow of the river below by hundreds of litres a minute. Downriver, whole ecosystems had been impacted, ways of life had been altered. All by that one point, that one circle on the map. And all for the power of the princes.

Father knew, though, that what they were planning could be deadly on a scale he had never before considered. It wouldn't just be a tragedy, it would be a disaster. As bad as an earthquake. Worse than most, in fact. Thousands could die. All to send a message.

And so, as though he were a mystic in his mountain retreat, he asked the question:

"Do we dare? How far is too far?"

[Menna Shuli]

Sweat rolled down I'uta's spine and pooled in the hollow of her tailbone. She could feel her sleveless, cotton shirt clinging to her chest, stomach and back with discomfort. The noon sun heated the back of her neck and the sides of her scalp where the hair was shaved to a nearly non-existant stubble. She'd never been one to burn, but it could happen today. She reached over and grabbed the ratty, blue ball cap that was sitting on her khaki military pack. She carefully fed the ponytail of her dreadlocks through the hole in the back and adjusted the cap so that the flying bird logo of Shallow Ibis Cigarettes sat low on her forehead, her eyes shaded from the sun and the sides of her head blocked from the UV rays. She then adjusted her position again and let the stock of her rifle settle against her upper chest again.

As was her nature (and the nature of most warriors, if she were honest) she kept fastidious track of her weapon, and for the fourth time her fingers did a dance across it to check for any obvious problems. She glanced up from the scope at the ribbon she had tied to an exhaust pipe that emerged from the roof of the building she had chosen as her perch. The ribbon lay limp, indicating the complete lack of wind. Down below, she could hear the cries of protesters, already gathered in an attempt to encourage Tatta to change things. They came together, the dirty, huddled masses. They shouted their slogans. They played shêkâ and kashaka and sang protest songs that were written in the 1980's by the Vêkihaat. As if that would do anything.

What the Mênna needed for things to change was action. A person's hakêm gained strength by their vêta, their deeds, not their words. One didn't fix a broken system with words.

As she gazed through the scope, I'uta could see the first vehicles reaching the crowds that had gathered near the Government Park, the crowdbreakers. The protesters hadn't been allowed to gather on the green, that would bother tourists and the vêhitap. They hadn't even been allowed on the same block, not after those tourists had been killed by the suicide bomber. That had been stupid. You didn't perform surgery with a baseball bat. You needed a scalpel.

I'uta had listened for weeks to what had been going on, and she had come to a single conclusion. Things were not going to get better with Tatta acting as 'uhitap. He was a powerhungry militarist. I'uta was a warrior, and Tatta talked a big game about helping the warrior caste. But it was all hot air. He wanted the warriors on his side so they wouldn't rise up with the workers, so that they could be the bootheel that the vêhitap'at used to crush the low castes into the dirt. They'd be paid in chocolate coins that would melt in the sun once the fighting was over and done. Whispers had been made in shadowed places that the man had been involved with the true 'uhitap's stroke, that it had really been a poisoning. The senators were all snakes, lingering in the long savanna grasses and waiting to pump their poison into the bare heel of anyone who strode too close. That's what Father's message was, the carefully horded words that I'uta had collected listening to secret conversations in low caste bars and gambling pits. The country needed someone to do the hard work. I'uta would make Father proud.

The protesters parted before the crowdbreaking Hounds, but the motorcade still had to slow to a crawl. I'uta sighted down the gun's scope. There was the vehicle she was looking for, a sleek black-and-silver animal with tinted windows. Through the scope, she could clearly make out the reflections in the black glass, the crowds pressing to shout their chants and sing their songs at an impassive block of steel. Her hand reached up and she cocked back the bolt of her rifle. With focus, she could make out the dark, moving shapes behind the windows. She waited for them to creep into a better position, a better range.

A scuffle broke up near the front of the motorcade. A group of protesters rushed a Hound, and the Lions inside were shouting and aiming weapons. The motorcade began to halt, but some communication on their radios coordinated a new move. The other crowdbreaker took a slight angle and began to push a path that would allow the cars that followed to avoid the protesters. To I'uta's benefit, the car she wanted swung slightly and the rear window and its shadowy motions squared off to her.

She took a breath, held it for a second, and then breathed out. As she did, she squeezed the trigger. At the same moment that the bullet, moving at two thousand feet a second, struck the glass of the window, her hand flipped up and pulled back the bolt again. As the first screams began, she could see through the broken glass and saw that her bullet had impacted next to Tatta's shoulder. The second squeeze put the shot into the side of his neck as his head snapped around in shock to look at the upholstery leaking from the hole in his leather seat. She had a chance to reach up and pull the bolt again before the cars began to speed up, but the last bullet tore through the trunk of the car, likely embedding itself somewhere within.

As panic began in the crowd, I'uta stood to a crouch, grabbed her bag and turned away. She made her way to the roof access hatch, which she had propped open with a fist-sized lump of concrete. She lifted it, tossed the concrete away and slipped down the ladder into the upper floor hallway of the half-empty office rental block. She turned, opened a door which she had found unlocked when she scouted her location, then stepped through into the empty office and locked the door behind her. Within a few minutes, the Lions would be prowling into every building and alley nearby, so she hustled to a rear window which opened onto the back of the building, away from the street where the chaos was unfolding. She popped the window open, tossed out her pack, then clambered out into the alley beyond and hung from her hands out of the window. She closed the window with one hand, then leapt sideways to the roof of a siding-and-plywood shanty that had been built in the spare space. It creaked under her weight, but before it could collapse and ruin the life of whatever homeless person had built it, she carried her momentum through and dropped to the pavement. Quickly as she could, she scooped up her pack and left the alley, emerging onto a street away from the hunt.

A smile marked her face, lingering at the corners of her mouth. She'd done it, she thought.

She'd killed Tatta.

[Noronica]

A Father's Pain

---

---

Saturday, 17 November
Harburgh Docks, City of Harburgh, Noronica

Hot, ragged breath permeated the air of Háchnad Street as a lonesome figure stalked the empty roads. From metres away, one would have hidden behind their doors from the imposing figure, tall, broad, and devoid of any distinctive features. If one had been brave enough to stand near the figure, one would have heard the ragged breathing, they would have seen the eyes. The figure's eyes were brimming with tears, filled with fear, but there was something else in those eyes, the indomitable rage. The fear in those eyes was of trepidation and the uncertainty of one's actions.

The man on the street was certainly afraid, but not due to the fear of pain, the fear of not fulfilling his purpose. He had spent two years of his life planning this moment, and now that his boots were firmly on the ground, the feeling of uncertainty plagued his mind. He had been on benefits for so long, using friends for a place to sleep as he worked. The ends justified the means, was a mantra he held with him in those two long years. It was the old tale of retribution. The City of Harburgh knew that well, seeing as it was the city with the highest crime rates in Noronica, plus a notoriously awful City Council.

The man had been a single-father due to divorce back in 2008. Through fighting tooth-and-nail with his wife, he had managed to secure the custody of his son, James. A James was a teenager, ergo his hormone-addled brain did not allow for an easy relationship with his father, as the two of them fought constantly. James had been a model student, a perfect child, and yet the divorce had tainted this, driving him towards outlets he could not for the life of him, control. The two did maintain a love for each other, yet they were too stubborn to admit this, instead turning to anger as they always did.

James mixed with the wrong crowd. In the streets of Harburgh, in the late noughties, many teenagers joined gangs as there was nothing to do in the city with so little funding. Knife crime was rife in the city, as young boys and girls alike turned to violence in a misguided attempt to protect themselves and others. James pledged loyalty to one particular gang throughout the years, which his father gradually caught onto in his work in the police. He had been furious, and on one night, he had dismantled their relationship completely.

James sought refuge with his mates in the gang calling themselves, 'the Tigers', yet they knew that one of their own had been found out by a policeman.

James' father remembered the morning two days later when he had walked to the door to collect his post. Nightmares would later twist and change this event, but nothing could compare to the real thing. The door swung open to reveal the disfigured body of James. He had been beaten within an inch of his life before being cut to shreds with such ferocity that James was barely recognisable save for the tortured scream that was fixed on his face.

Colleagues at Harburgh police station had been sympathetic, but their sympathy ran only so far. James' father had been told by so many that this crime would go unanswered for, that kids dying on the streets of Harburgh was an epidemic, and it would be impossible to achieve justice.

Two years later, and James' father now stood before the doors of one of Harburgh's biggest centres for organised crime meetings, the Dock Club. The Tigers had done well for themselves, injections of cash from influential members of Noronica's crime families kept the gang afloat and let them achieve more than they could have dreamed. The man knew the gang as if he had been a member, as reconnaissance and research had allowed him access into their secrets. The Club was the gang's, and they used it mostly for meetings and as an ego-boost.

Searching for an entrance beyond the main doors, James' father smirked when he realised one of the windows had been left open in the alleyway to the right of the building. Avoiding the entrance bouncers, he clambered on top of a dumpster, his heavy boots causing the lid to bend slightly. After checking for any signs of life, he lifted his right foot onto a ledge of a closed window in front of him, grabbing hold of the top of it to hoist himself up onto the ledge. Now able to reach the base of the window above, he pulled himself up, feeling the strain on his middle-aged body. Wheezing slightly, he slowly climbed through the window, immediately immersed in the heat of the club. The room was empty but with the entire building seemingly alive, even it was warm.

James' father clasped hold of a piece of paper in his back pocket, unfolding it to reveal a very rough sketch of the building's schematics. He only had a limited time to see the building's official schematics, so he had been careful to only include essentials. Putting the paper back in his pocket, he let out a deep exhale before opening the door in front of him slowly. To his surprise and fortune, the floor was mostly empty due to the downstairs being the public area.

Walking towards a door clearly marked, 'Danger of death' he pushed it open, revealing several things keeping the building running, but most importantly, the fuse-box. Moving his finger along the list of rooms, he settled on the one he needed, knowing which one it was off by heart. Cutting off the power to that room, he moved swiftly to ensure no one left to attempt to fix the issue.

Unfortunately for him, the door of the room opened. Not letting anyone leave, James' father's fist met with the stomach of said attempted escapee before moving in. The man double over, so James' father grabbed hold of the man's collar and moved him out of the room with ferocious strength. Slamming the door shut and locking it, he turned only to be met with sudden flashing pain in his stomach. The gunshot had not registered with James, only the searing pain as the bullet lodged itself in his flesh.

His attacker knew he had hit, but could not make out the invader as he had ducked down. The man blared out at the dark, "Who the fuck are you?!"

From the darkness, a pained yet angered voice emerged, "A grieving father."

The man snorted, forcing himself some confidence in his uncertainty, "Well shit man, join the queue. There's a wee issue with the fact that being in a gang, a lot of people are hurt by us. Believe me though, they all deserved it."

"Not mine!" Growled the voice, "My boy joined your gang as an outlet, to try and give him something in the face of his parents' divorce." The voice reached a tone recognisable as one barely concealing utter despair and fury, "Instead he was handed to his father torn to pieces on his doorstep, a warning to the police."

The man continued in his drawl, despite the fear slowly creeping up his spine, "Aye, well I'm awful sad for that. I hope th- wait a minute. You're talkin' about James, aren't you? The bloody little shite had what was comin' tae 'im!" The man screamed angrily to the darkness, spittle flying from his mouth, "He was going tae rat us out to the polis!" A sudden realisation hit him, "Are you his faether?"

A dark figure emerged from the shadows, "Yes, but you're wrong. I was assigned to the investigation into the Tigers before I knew he had joined. You were so close to being taken down. He never intended to tell me anything, but I guess loyalty doesn't count for anything when you're shoving cash into your wallet?" The voice said, its menacing owner slowly bearing down on the man in the room.

The man was scared now, the pistol shaking in his hand, "That's no true! Loyalty counts for everythin'! As the leader, I have tae make hard decision-" He tried to continue but he could finally see the face of his assailant in the light of the moon. The eyes that stared back were so full of hatred, teeth were showing in a feral look, and the blood seeping from the wound in his stomach did not seem to hinder the figure.

The leader of the Tigers tried to aim his pistol but the figure pulled it from his hand with ease. The two were now dangerously close.

"James will have his revenge." The figure said before wrestling the man to the ground. Grabbing hold of the rope that he had taken with him, James' father tied the man with it tightly before tying another end to the radiator that was placed below the window. "I won't kill you, but you'll be humiliated." James' father whispered before knocking the man unconscious and opening the window above them.

With difficulty, James' father pushed the gang leader's unconscious body out the window, letting it swing several metres above the ground. Making sure to secure the rope, he used another bit of rope to keep the body safe from falling before turning to leave the room.

With blood staining the floorboards, James' father began to falter, his sight beginning to fail. He fell to the ground and a sharp pain overwhelmed him. In one final act, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled for an emergency.

The police would arrive and find their ex-colleague had taken the law into his own hands. Whether he had been right to do so or not would not matter, justice had been served.

[Smaragdinsel]

"Jesus, Harding. When do you plan on landing?" said a pale girl, twirling her pitch-black hair, waiting in a near-empty airport. She wasn't actually speaking to anyone, but was just extremely impatient. Her boyfriend, a lawyer who was born in Vancouvia before his family moved to Smaragdinsel when he was 3, was visiting some grandparents back in their homeland. The lady, Aurora, was Smaragdin-born and raised in the large city of Albertstadt. She was currently going to college at the largest, and most prestigious university in the city, simply called, when translated to English, "Ludwig Konstanin University". Aurora planned to be an elementary-school teacher, being the oldest of 8 children.

Aurora glanced up to see a plane landing. She nearly jumped for glee, waiting for 4 hours as the plane was delayed. This warranted a few looks from the others painfully waiting for their loved ones to get off the plane. Her phone buzzed, and expecting it to be Harding, she quickly answered. "Hello?" said the burly, heavily German accented voice on the other end. It was her stepfather, Björn Nikolaus. She sighed heavily, making sure to keep the speaker away as to not offend him.
"Yes, Björn?" she answered, expecting to be yelled at for still being up at 1 AM, despite her boyfriend's return and the fact that he called her.
"Well, Aurora... why you still up? Verdammter dummkopf!". She muttered the words 'Bingo.' as he cussed at her in German, a common feat when he was frustrated.
"Björn... I'm 21. You called me. Harding is returning from Vancouvia." she exclaimed, with a certain tone.
She could imagine his nose crinkling up at her tone. "Don't disrespect me like that, Aurora. That is no excuse. I am sure Harding would not mind you not being there, child." the man suggested. Aurora cringed as the word 'child'. As previously mentioned, she was 21.
"I'm hanging up. Good night, Björn." Before he could reply, she hung up.

Ever since the death of her father, and the subsequent marriage of her mother to Björn, Aurora could not stand the man. Previously, he was a family friend who was very polite and visited often, but that went down the drain when he married Aurora's mother. He treats Aurora like a 10 year old, and treats her mother like property. She cannot stand him.

But the man who she can more then stand arrived just in time to run and surprise her. Harding Leo, the young, 24 year old lawyer primarily used in court-appointed cases, was just arriving from the terminal. He kissed her immediately and asked about her day. "Just waiting for the love of my life..." she said, staring at him. "I love you so much."

He simply smiled awkwardly and kissed her again, rubbing his sandy blonde hair against her dark. "Oh yeah! In Vancouvia, I gotcha something... if you don't mind me giving it you now?" he said. She gave him a confused looked, pondered something for a second, and shook her head no. "So.... I can?" he asked for clarification. She nodded rapidly. "Welp... uhhh." he pulled a black box out of his pocket. She gasped immediately. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Aurora. Let me finish before you gasp!" he chuckled. He got down on his one knee... "Aurora Wagner... will you become my Ms. Aurora Lee?"

She was crying. "Y-yes..." She thought back to her stepfather scolding her for staying up so long. He liked Harding, so perhaps he wouldn't be so upset. "But... wow..." she basically jumped on him, as tired strangers watched with varying "Awwws" and "Oooohs". "Uhhh... what now." she asked.

He grabbed his hard, and blinked twice. "I guess... go home. I'm tired." and alas, a new partnership was founded in the nation of Smaragdinsel...

[Ainslie]

On a plane
19th of December, 2018
11:52pm - Above Dallama Electorate, Ainslie

Turner looked out the window as the small hills gave way to the glorious tableland he had not seen for years. He was, in fact, an Ahnslen national - born in Kianara Base Hospital in the high altitude region of Wesland. His heart had longed for the nation once again, but he detested that he had to return under these circumstances.

It was a cold - forget that - freezing night. He remembered the bitter winters of Kianara and subsequently one of the major reasons why he ended up moving to Keverai. It didn’t frost there, it didn’t snow there, and your water (ice) bottle wouldn’t be undrinkable in the mornings if you decided to go for a run or cycle.

“Surely it’s not that bad in the city”, he assured himself as he embarked on the 15 kilometre drive into the city. He poured out a few notes and managed to get a motel room near the middle of the city. He knew what he had to do next - somehow appeal to the government personally. Ainslie was weird like that - very weirdly so. They had a quite open government to the people, but a private one to the media. He decided that he would front up to the Ministry of Ahnslen Affairs and see what he could do from there.

Sunrise gave way to a nervous encounter with some public servants. He was given a coffee whilst he waited, the nearby water cooler showed signs of the cold night that he entered Ainslie alongside.

“The cool heads of the Arnish… they need to guide my thinking.” he quietly whispered to himself as a Secretary ushered him into an office.

“Good morning, Mr… Turner is it? I’ve been reading the statement you wrote for us, and it really is quite extraordinary. Now, I’ve been doing some vetting - it appears that you’re of good character. A member of the Kevaran Police Force… must’ve taken a lot - this lot - to jump ship.”

He could not believe what he was seeing. He was talking to the Minister of Ahnslen Affairs, Caitlin Marsden. It was clear she was overworked, but it was the extra mile she went to make him feel welcome was comforting. The dialogue calmed him a bit.

“The power of the Arnish” he stated, at an almost inaudible volume.
“What was that?”
“Oh, I’ve read in history books about the legendary Westfall-Moores” he clarified as she started to laugh a bit.

“An Ahnslen History fan, I see - with an Ahnslen citizenship? That’s a good thing.”

“Glad to be Ahnslen now that it means I can help my other home, Keverai.”

“Wonder why I said it was a good thing? Our government is discussing the leaks today and the subsequent ramifications to it, and how we will respond to them - I can talk to [Deputy Prime Minister] Wilton and the Speaker of the Parlai and see if we can get you into the Parlai this afternoon. That’ll be further helped if you are an Ahnslen citizen because then I can add democratic engagement to the long list of reasons why you should speak. You happy to do that?”

“I guess…”

“Now, go, go to the fourth floor and tell them of what I’ve said and of what you’ve said. I’ll see you at 2pm - get ready to possibly speak to the lawmakers of the nation you left many years ago and then returned to in Keverai’s time of crisis...”


Between the Foreign Ministry and the Ahnslen Parlai
19th of December, 2018
2:05pm - Laccore, Ainslie

A worried deputy ambassador from Ainslie picked up the phone and quickly dialled the private line of the Foreign Minister of Ainslie which she had received when the Keverai leaks came out so that the Ahnslen Government had rapid briefings on the situation in the nation.

“Ms Gifford, it is time for us folks down in Kevara to get out of here.”

“The calm, stern minister texted back, almost knowing the reason for the call before talking to him. “You need to stay. I’ve just talked to a member of the Kevaran Police Force and we are aware that the situation has deteriorated. Bolster the embassy’s defences and please, try and stay as neutral as you can. We need you down in Kevara.”

Ms Gifford rushed with her aides towards the Parlai building, as they were already running late.

[Ainslie]

Suburban Streetside
29th of December, 2018
8:23am - Kevara, Keverai

Out of all the hotspots and points of conflict across the Isles - Charbagnia, Wake Isles, Menna Shuli, Belle Ilse en Terre, Illa Isle he ended up here - in Keverai. He was very glad that he was here, in one of the safer and more culturally similar nations to his own. He wiped the sweat of his face before he donned the uniform he would be wearing for the day. Aidan Callanan grabbed his red beret and walked out of the base just over an hour later.

He looked down at his belt, making sure he had everything. He seemed to have a heavy kit for a nation like this, but as it was one of the first patrols that the ARSF 3rd Peacekeeping had conducted in the capital of Keverai, Kevara that extra precautions were to be taken as they gauged the true situation on the ground.

Aidan was a corporal, no one particularly high in the group which was sent to Kevara. He was placed in charge of a patrol team, roughly a squad in size. They were to maintain the security surrounding ‘the roundabout’ and act as a special response force if the police needed additional support. The recent roundabout incident had spooked much of the police force, and thus much of the more severe incidents they used to respond to were given to the peacekeepers.

It was a concerning time for Keverai, as the elected government expressed their distrust of the police force - but Aidan understood that this was not without reason. Keverai did not do things without reason. The incident at the roundabout where protesters had been beaten have truly made much of the force nervous. Their jobs were on the line, but Aidan did not seem ecstatic that he basically did the job of the police - but then again, what was peacekeeping? The role was so diverse, and the ARSF had so many different functions that the expectations were very broad.

Aidan was watching the locals. There faces spoke of hopelessness, or an intense passion - the contrast was simply incredible between the two groups who seemed to make up the street. A divided society is what he noticed so vividly. The quiet nature of the Kevarans worried Aidan, but also relieved him as he believed this was what most likely set Keverai on a course for a less violent situation. Perhaps that’s the distinguishing point between ARSF and AHNARM operations - anyway, this thought was not required of him.

A car rushed past him at a blistering speed as he held up his radio to his mouth. “Police Patrol 4, heads up, there is a speeding vehicle heading your direction.”

“Much appreciated, Corporal. Will look out for them.”

I guess if he didn’t do much now, at least he managed to get someone to receive a $340 fine in the name of the law. It was menial, but it still somewhat justifies his deployment. “Enough kidding to himself”, he remarked as he watched businessmen uneventfully walk down the street.

Another car whizzed by…

“Oh come on, this is what the peacekeeper really has to do?”

He decided to walk down another street, hoping that there would be less fighting. He decided to take a look in an alleyway, and there were a few locals sitting around a garbage bin with some sort of white substance. He pulled the taser from his side, knelt and called out to them.

“You are aware of the law, yes?”

The kids looked increasingly nervous as the zip lock bags were quickly shoved into their pockets.

“No point hiding it, just tell me what it is - empty your pockets if you must.”

As he continued kneeling, he called for a police car. It arrived twenty minutes later. He cautiously turned back and called out to the emerging blue cap

“Bring the drug kit with you, we got some kids with some white stuff here.”

Thirty minutes passed, and it was discovered that the drug was “Buzz”, a party drug which sparked a major public response back in Ainslie.

“Go with him…” he ordered the kids. Aidan was far more intimidating than the police officer, who stood there in a dark blue uniform with only a taser and baton at each side of his belt.

What a peacekeeping job it was! Speeding fines! Small scale drug busts! Tis the life!

As if. Aidan felt underutilised, like some standby local police who had to work with them for some reason. The young kids with Buzz concerned him. The supply of this had been greatly limited due to the strong actions of various national governments, including his own. He thought it may be a good idea to bring this up with the Captain when he gets back.

Over the radio came the word of his changed orders. He was to do some administrative work back at base now, which appeared to be much more useful than being out on the streets. Truly a rarity.

Boring with pockets of interesting, he reminded himself. Hopefully Keverai would not liven up - this was a good deployment for him.

[Enchanta]

Rachel sat in her soft floral chair,sipping her pear juice ,her recent craving. The bulky but high resolution camera sat in front of her buzzing away.
"I'm ready" she said ,and the camera clicked on.

"Good morning or whatever time of day you are watching this. All you know me,I'm Rachel Alpin leader of Enchanta. Most of you also know that I am 4 months pregnant. " She rubbed her stomach before continuing. "When I announced my news I never disclosed who the father was even though I was already 3 months. The truth is ,I am worried,scared. Not many of you like this man, with his obsession on writing cloning laws and disrespecting the dead. " Off screen, a door opened and a man walked in. "Well here he is now".
Rachel got up,pushing her long black hair out of her face and drinking her juice. A tall man with chiseled cheekbones and champagne blond hair sat down in the chair.
"Hello ,Enchanta it is me. Richard Harelm,the Equality Council's eighth member. I know many of you are shocked and I know I may seem idiotic as a politician but Rachel was my mentor before this happened. Then of course one thing led to another and I am the father of this baby . I hope being mentored by Rachel will make me a better politician and raising this child will make me a good father. I take full responsibility for this child as it is mine."
The video ends with the traditional 'Glory to all' phrase playing before the camera clicks off. All the staff behind the camera had to hide their looks and comments.
"Speak your minds it is a free enviorment" Rachel said sitting on the chair's armrest.
The two gaurds spoke up first "Ma'm with all due respect what if someone goes after the child ,this is a risk."
"I support your descision" her assistant said meekly "but maybe you should've done this in a more private enviorment" she pointed to the two security cameras and the tourist crowd looking in from the office window.
Rachel closed the curtain and dismissed everyone outside the room to say a quick prayer, to her mother blinking away the tears. "Please be proud of me,please help me".

[Edvina]

It was 8:00 PM, January 4th, 2019.

Many powerful men wanted Harjon Sniket dead. That man was walking in the public streets of Ensbruck. Little did he know, he was being tracked.
These powerful men were not only many of his subordinates who wanted to rise in the ranks, but Duke Fosche, prime minister himself for the "good of the monarchy".
The woman following him, Rachel Kressenbirg, walked softly and slowly behind him. The only way Sniket would know of her presence would be only with nobody there.
Her footsteps were muffled by the others on the street. Her gun was concealed. This murder attempt had been planned since September. Field Marshal Harjon Sniket's days were numbered.
As Harjon walked home, Rachel was in quick pursuit. The reason Harjon was to be killed was that he was a suspected republican. A plot had alreeady been discovered to coup the monarchy and form a republic like Vancouvia¹. Harjon had been ratted out, so it was time to make him disappear. As Rachel thought about her mission, Sniket walked into his home. It was go time.
She quietly lock-picked the door into his home, being flooded by his warm AC in contrast to the freezing Edvinian winter.
She made sure her silenced pistol had a clip inside it. Using sound-resistant boots, she made her trek up stairs to Sniket's bedroom where he slept.
She walked closely. He was known to be right handed, so she approached from the right to make this look like a suicide. The suicide note was already produced seven business days in advanced.
With the silence of a mouse, a single bullet popped out of the clip, slicing through Harjon Sniket's brain.
The Field Marshal was dead, and he needed to be replaced soon.
Rachel lept out of the window and drove back to headquarters as she dropped the gun in Harjon's hand.
Behind the scenes, one of Harjon's least favorite subordinates was promoted to Field Marshal: Koln Brausse Sr. Too predictable, too much of a goody-two-shoes for the now dead man. Or as he seemed to be a "goody two shoes".

¹ -- I'm pretty sure he's a republic?

[Eurania]

6th January 2019
New Soel City Jail, New Soel, Colonies of Eurania
The rain continued to pour outside as Takashiro looked outside the window. Only a day ago was
he enjoying a nice hot bowl of ramen from a noodle shop that he frequented. Now, the memory
of his free life could only be seen through the raindrop-covered window, giving a view of the
glittering skyscrapers of the city. Then again, it was one of relative fear. His activities were the
creation of animated web series, but within most of them he ingrained an anti-corporate
message. He let out a soft chuckle, noting that the four ruling corps knew and disliked his
message before finally using their subsidiary government agencies to arrest him after stepping
outside a noodle shop.
A long time ago he didn't know what to feel towards the country he lived in now. He wasn't born
in it, rather being a refugee and fleeing violence from his own country before his family applied
for asylum in the Colonies. He met great friends there, started his career, and met Ami. He and
the girl met in the same weather as was now, rainy and cold, over the same thing he ate a day
ago. He enthralled her with what he did and she fascinated him with her own. From mere
admirers of each other to collaborators and finally romantic partners, the two laughed and
enjoyed being together before her family moved out of the country. While disheartening, he was
still content as they continued to maintain their relationship despite being overseas.
Soon though, he felt that his new home was no longer welcoming to him. Anti-migrant mindsets
became all the more common as a major recession slashed living conditions, something
Takashiro noted would not have happened if the extreme corporatism was not present. The
people marched with their banners, some with torches, all chanting the same rhetoric that not
only denied the legitimacy of refugees but also was xenophobic. The counter-protesters chanted
with the exact opposite and marched with the reasoning of Takashiro leaving their lips, only to be
hosed down by the local fire department and taken away by the local police.The climate then got
worse as the four corps - or more specifically Evergreen, having complete oversight over
government policy of speech, began clamping down on messages being spread on its shows,
most of which were relatively popular around the Isles and criticized the corporate system, all
disappearing overnight. The makers would then be arrested and denounced for their activities.
Evergreen's partner-in-crime DesCon utilized its monopoly over law enforcement agencies to
carry out the requests. It infuriated Takashiro who continued to resist in his subtle way, his mind
fully engaged in protecting what he perceived was corporate tyranny encroaching individual
freedom and exclusive values rising over the nation. Now Takashiro himself was another request
fulfilled.
He had to admit that it wasn't all bad so far. The prison, typical of anything DesCon had luxury
and comfort emanating from it. His cell was not how one would usually imagine a cell, but rather
very similar to a modern middle-class bedroom, with a TV in the upper corner. The
raindrop-covered window and the door were the only two features of his cell that led away one into thinking it was a bedroom.

He could just simply stay in his cell and rot in it under his arbitrary detention. The TV broadcasted
normal programming and entertainment. But it also broadcasted the reports and commentary
made by the one and only Evergreen News. The commentators declared illegitimate his
background as a refugee and called his love towards Ami "the beginning of what would lead to
an anchor baby". As he contemplated on it, two loud thuds followed by the squeal of his door
opening made him face what came through the door, a black-clad woman in a police uniform.
After being imprisoned, Takashiro now was sure that he had seen an angel, a savior.
After staring at each other for what seemed an eternity, the woman was the first to talk "Well,
what are you waiting for? Let's damn go!"
"Go?" Takashiro was confused, still not believing what had just happened.
"I thought you were the genius that-" the woman stopped upon hearing the breach alarm activate
from the hall. "Forget it, we have to go now!" She barked, pulling Takashiro out of his cell by the
arm and running with her to. Behind them the sounds of approaching heavy footsteps indicating
what was coming.
The exit doors burst open quickly, leading them to the outside. The rain had ended but the cold
remained in the air. Takashiro's prison uniform was entirely unsuited to the cold temperatures
though the prison shoes still held up. Worse still, the "exits" had only led to the inner grounds of
the prison and now a response team was catching up to them. The alarm continued to blare as
they were outside.
Heart beating, the woman pulled out her phone and rapidly talked. "Chimini, can't you do
anything to find a way to open anything to lead us out of this damn prison?"
As the woman let go of his arm and talked while searching a way out, Takashiro for a brief
moment felt his legs give way. He had just been broken out and was almost there. His feelings
became mixed. Breaking out had destroyed any chance that if captured, amnesty would be
given. He had to escape and go far from Eurania, if he could get out.
The woman finished her conversation and ran back to him. "M’colleague's disabled the power to
the security. ‘Gonna go over the fences that she said were flimsy. Can you climb?" Takashiro was
never an athlete but knew that with the shot at getting out at stake, he had to. So he nodded.
The woman led the way to a part of the fences she said were flimsy. And they were. As she
scaled the fence with Takashiro right behind her, the fence buckled under their weight and the two fell as the fence bent backwards towards a few inches from the ground.

“Quickly!” The strange woman who had broken Takashiro out led them up and out to a waiting
car, an Aventus sedan, made by a subsidiary of Cloud Corp. No sooner did they slam the car door
did the driver slam on the pedal and speed away.

---

New Libang, Athara Magarat

He was now a free man and the journey was worth it. From dodging patrols to make it out of the
Colonies to forging customs, he had now arrived in the very land of paradise.
The recent events had gone by so fast that he could barely recall them. After passing Magarati
customs and getting into Athara Magarat, his smugglers - the woman and her colleagues who
bailed him out of jail - managed to reunite him with Ami. He tried to thank them by promising to
pay back, but they rejected it and stated that the only payment was to keep resisting.
Today though, things were different. His asylum application he found out had been rejected.
Takashiro sat down with Ami again at a local restaurant. The waiter came to them and asked for
their order before asking for the payment for it.
“I’ll pay,” Ami offered immediately. Her boyfriend told her that his bank account, still controlled by
the EDA arm, was frozen. Worse still, Evergreen no longer was paying him.
“Ami,” Takashiro began quietly as they waited for their meal. “Listen carefully. My application was
rejected.”
Ami’s face expressed her disgust and deep worry. Indeed there was a problem with a Colonies
that she and her boyfriend shared. It had a government that made frequent intrusions into private
life. But above all it now had a bargaining chip. It had recently arrested Magarati employees for
illicit activities among other charges. The Magaratis requested they be extradited to be tried in
their home country, but the Euranians refused until they returned Takashiro.
“T-that means you’ll be taken back. Who knows what they’ll do?”
“I don’t know.” He took her hand and held it to his face. “I don’t know.”

[Nhoor]

Sārruc, Parliament of Nhoor, plenary meeting hall known as 'The Floor', 4 February 2019.

Defence Minister Rhanhɵd Demher was sweating profusely. This year he would reach his 20th anniversary as a member of the government, but he had never been able to get used to the particular setup of Nhoor’s parliament. ‘The Floor’, it was called unofficially; well, ‘The Pit’ would have been a better name! The parliamentarians’ seats were draped around a circular.. hole in the ground!.. as Demher would describe it, with bright lights shining on it, making it impossible to discern any figure seated above. It’s like standing on trial! The minister vaguely remembered watching the umptieth instalment of a science-fiction franchise in which a hostile alien court, in which the main character of the film was accused of crimes he didn’t commit, had a similar setup. Deep and creepy! But that was how the legislative forces in Nhoor wanted it; to remind those in power that this power stretched only so far…

The truth was, that it wasn’t that hot on the Floor. It was just his nerves. He had been informed of course that parliament would question him about yet another delay in the scheduled delivery of the new fighter aircraft, a never ending story that had been going on for years, but even after almost twenty years and despite his age – he seniored most of the members of the current parliament – he still felt like a school boy who had been pontifically summoned to the headmaster’s office because of some insignificant futility that had no importance at all whatsoever.

And yet, he was glad to have his attention focused on something else than.. The Issue about which he didn’t want to think. The constant fear of being called again. He had been called by Him for years of course; it used to be normal, but it had changed. He guessed that it had to do with his tenure as Defence Minister, but so far there had been nothing concrete that confirmed these suspicions of his. It was driving him mad! He had thought about discussing it with the First Minister, or even about stepping down as government minister, but he was afraid that him talking or acting rashly could be lethal to persons in his immediate vicinity. Nothing that had been said could be interpreted as a clear threat, but the Minister knew very well that they were threatening him. And he still didn’t know why and what they wanted! ‘They’! The mere suggestion that a secret organisation holding a government minister in its clutches could be going on in Nhoor – in tranquil and peaceful Nhoor of all places! – would make many – no all! – of his compatriots burst out in laughter. If they only knew what was going on!

The questioning was over. Demher had answered semi-automatically the answers that he had drilled in his head for the last couple of years. The aircraft issue wasn’t very complicated, to be honest; it just took a lot longer than expected, and became more expensive than initially thought, but those were the ways of things. The members of Parliament could pretend all the way they wanted that they were astounded by this course of events, but only an imbecile wouldn’t have been able to predict it!

He left the Floor and the plenary hall. And sure enough, his phone rang.

[Negarakita]

اهْدِنَا الصِّرَاطَ الْمُسْتَقِيمَ
Guide us to the straight path
The Noble Qur'an, 1:6

Suvurnia, 1973

---

It had started as a bet, a wager among friends without any idea of where it would end up. Oesman was a bright student. His grades were good, he was a regular attendant at his local mosque, he had a part-time job at the local convenience store, and he didn't fritter away time with parties or drinking. All in all he was the ideal Suvurnian child, a fact his parents never ceased to bring up when they made idle chatter with vendors on their daily rounds at the market. But Oesman was also blessed, or rather cursed, with an inquisitive soul. When he found an object to fix his attention on he gained a sort of tunnel vision. That which made him a great student was to be his undoing.

Like all Suvurnian households in the 70s, the Putra household was captivated by an overshadowing fear of the seemingly omnipresent red menace. Every night when they gathered around their television they would switch it onto Les Infos, the only news channel that was legally broadcast in Suvurnia. As General Bestari Che Jaadallah often told the foreign press in reference to this, only through the management of the media could the truth and falsehoods be removed from each other. Of course, this was not the case. Every night the news station would fill the hearts of the Suvurnian people with tales of woe, of Syahiri guerillas (terrorists was the official parlance) targeting schools and mosques, of famine in Orsandia, and mass arrests of political protestors in Thuzbekistan. The closure of the Harian Datang newspaper by government forces just three days beforehand and death of liberal activist Salman Haman were prudently omitted from the flow. It seemed that everything Suvurnia saw was in some way tainted by the shadowy and enigmatic Syahiri Movement.

This fixation caught on in many people's minds, yet for some, it had the opposite effect. Those who felt grievance with Jaadallah's regime saw this secretive group as the one thing that the iron-willed General feared. Like moths to a lamp, a motley group of followers flocked to the movement. A stream of disenfranchised academics, criminalised trade unionists, marginalised Shi'ites and general have-nots provided the manpower and equipment needed to keep a movement going. This is the story of one such man.

Whoever travels a path in search of knowledge,
Allah makes easy for him a path to Paradise.
- Muhammad ﷺ, Narrated Anas ibn Malik

---

Oesman was exhilarated by the fear that coursed through his veins as he walked towards the librarian. He knew well what he was doing could land him in a lot of trouble. He was determined to go on despite this, to seek the answers that he sought. The answers that he could not find in the flesh. When he had confessed to his best friends that he wished to learn about the Syahiri movement, his friends' eyes had opened like the mouths of dying fish gasping for water. But, like in all healthy friend groups, the shock that their friend was interested in a feared terrorist group soon made way for good-natured ribbing. "You won't go find them, too scared". Eventually, he was dared by his friends to go to the Islamic Library in Merdeka and try to find their literature. The arrangement suited him well. Now he could do the thing he wanted to do anyway, and would gain both money and prestige. Even now, he didn't have any pretensions that he would join the group. He contemplated his situation. Merdeka's Islamic Library was one of the largest in the Isles, a veritable treasure trove of all sorts of Islamic literature held within a beautiful old building. The very air there felt like it held secrets. If we was to find what he sought, it would be here. He reached the librarian and greeted him with an assalamualaikum, which was returned.

"My boy, what have you come here for"

He took a gulp, mustering up the courage to say the reply. He could still back out, keep his record pure, and continue. Sure, Rahman and the gang would mock him, but he knew they secretly feared that he would go ahead and would end up in a web he could not escape. He sighed.

"I was wondering if you had any books on the Syahiri movement"

Something seemed to light up in the old man's eyes when he heard this.

“Two there are who are never satisfied; the lover of the world and the lover of knowledge. We have what you seek”

While Oesman was taken aback by this response, which in itself seemed to be mystical. He began to suspect that this librarian had secrets of his own. Together, they walked towards the back of the library. There, innocuously enough among a row of old books, lay his prize. The book was small, leather bound, thoroughly unremarkable but for the name 'Maulana Ali Syahir al-Mahdi' burnished on the side. The old man, for indeed the librarian could not be younger than 60, craned down and picked the book up reverently. He handed the book to Oesman, his rough and calloused hands rubbing abrasively against Oesman's tender young skin. Oesman forced a smile onto his face, obscuring the fear and doubt which gnawed at him. The librarian smiled back knowingly, and Oesman realised the man could read his face. They exchanged thanks, and Oesman buried the book at the bottom of his bag as if it was a shipment of drugs. Indeed, possession of this book would probably carry a harsher penalty.

When he stepped out into Jalan Syaqiq the sun was nearly down. He mingled with the throngs of Suvurnians carrying out their daily life as they walked up and down the road. Cars and taksi-bures whizzed past, filling the air with the scent of petrol. This aroma mixed with the heady scent of durian, the smell of mie goreng frying in the wok of a streetside vendor, the smells of sweat and cigarretes, and the odd whiff of rubbish. The chaotic scene overwhelmed all senses, as Suvurnia is wont to do, and Oesman saught refuge. He hopped on a 76 bus, which took him the three blocks he needed to go to get home. Eventually, the bus chugged into Jalan Raya and he could hop off. His family lived on the seventh floor of a state-owned HLM, so he had to enter a pin code to operate the ratty old lift.

Once back safely in his room, Oesman decided to have a look into the forbidden book. The very act of gazing upon it, of opening and turning the pages, filled him with excitement and dread. He began to read. The forbidden words formed sentences, long and snaking things which spelt out the visions and ideological beliefs of a man who, by his own words, was the 12th Imam, the Mahdi, the one who would bring a new age on earth. The writing style befitted such a claim, full of grandiose wordings and prideful remarks. But the book was also eye-opening. Syahir had written of the purges, of the deep injustices of capitalism, and of all the things that Oesman's censored stream of information had conveniently glossed over. For the first time, Oesman began to question the society he lived in, and the realisation hit him like a runaway cart of melons. Terrified by these new insights, he shut the book and hid it under his bed. That night his sleep was disturbed by what he had read. He woke up in the morning exhausted and then went to university like nothing had happened. He had resolved to finish the book, however, and after he finished the anal amount of calculus work he had been assigned he began to read again. He was about thirty pages from the end when something fell out from the page he had just opened. A business card, he thought, for it was a small card with writing upon it, perhaps the bookmark of a reader before him. He reached down and grabbed the card, hoping to find out who had read the book before him with slight curiosity. In a stylised Nastaliq font was scrawled the Hadith "seek knowledge, even if you must go to China", and there was an address below it. This was no business card. It was a clue.

Oesman was starting to realise that he was in far deeper than he thought. But, like the gullible tourists playing a "game of chance" in Ching Jan Jih Market, he was sucked in by the promises made.

It is pointless trying to know where the way leads.
Think only about your first step, the rest will come.
- Shams of Tabriz

---

It was clear to Oesman from the second that he saw the address that he would go there, such was his desire to get to the bottom of this mystery. Truth be told, he longed for the adventure of meeting with the notorious heterodox sect again (he was by now convinced that the librarian was a Syahiri). The prospect of meeting someone face to face and talking about what he had read was another motive, for though the thought scared him he found that he had agreed with a lot of what Syahir had written. The journey to Jukgong, as he was sure that the mention of China in the hadith referred to Suvurnia's chinatown, would take a day at least and would be hard to hide from his parents. He waited weeks for an opportunity to arise, eventually settling upon a university trip to the Ching Jan Jih Masjid. While he had no intention of going with the group, and didn't even register to go on it, he had no classes that day and his parents had no idea.

He caught the metro over, it being the easiest way there, before buying a map to search for the address he kept clasped in his hand for fear of it being pickpocketed. The map took him far from the tourist-friendly and thoroughly gentrified bits of Jukgong and towards the rougher, more slummy areas. Out here the rule of the law was far less strong. He saw drug addicts, cross-dressers, the eloquently named "butterflies of the night", and people who were mixtures of the three. He figured that there was likely at least one gun trained on him, but wasn't too scared by this. As long as it was the guns of the Jaysyal Nural Haqiqa, he felt as though he would be fine.

The address led him to a dirty looking housing block, with an open door. Its sign marked it as the "Omar Khayyam Inn", and despite the prominent light of the afternoon sun the lobby was packed with prostitutes who rebuffed his feeble insistences of "but I'm muslim" with recitations of Baqarah 256, There is no compulsion in religion. It was a bizzare scene. He climbed up the stairs, avoiding a room that fogged with the sweet smoke of opium consumption. Eventually, he reached the marked room. What he saw surpised him. There was no carpeted, mosquelike interior with calligraphy lining the walls as Murids discussed theology with their Pirs. Nor was there a militarised base, no flag of the JNH or cache of weapons. There was just a Jurong style speakeasy filled with inebriates. After all this searching, Oesman thought, have I come to the wrong place? He walked up to the bar, deciding that he would at least try.

"How long has this establishment been open? I received a note to come here, but I feel like I have come to the wrong place"

Thinking there was a chance that it had just been a strange advertising campaign, he showed the card to the bartender. The man nodded.

"Welcome brother. You are the boy from the library, yes? This is indeed the place you wish to be. Follow old Veli there, he will show you the way."

He pointed to an old man sitting in the corner of the room. Oesman walked over, unsure whether to be afraid or excited. For the first of many times in the next few months, he crossed a point of no return. Old Veli was sleeping a drunk sleep, but when Oesman approached he roused himself and extended his hand. They shook hands and exchanges salam's, before Veli began to speak.

"I am glad you made it here, my brother. He told us you would come. Said he saw it in your face."

Oesman guessed that "he" referred to the Librarian.

"You must have some questions. But where are my manners? What is your name, my brother?"

"Oesman," he replied, opting not to include his surname. When Veli remained silent, he began with the question that burned the most at this time. "What is this place? I thought you were an Islamic group, but everywhere I see sin."

Veli smiled a knowing smile, and Oesman realised that he would have been asked this question innumerable times.

"This is the tavern of lovers. This building is a place of love, of searching. Everyone in life is searching for the ecstasy of the beloved. Some find it in wine, some in sex, some in drugs, some in remembrance. The great theorist Marx once said that religion is the opiate of the masses. If we are to take our opiates, we cannot look down on others for theirs. We do not look for the faults among these people, lest they hold such a mirror back to us. Most of these people are faithful Muslims like you, but their lives are different. No-one truly chooses to live this life. And besides," he lightened his tone from sombre teaching of a moral aphorism to one of light and banterous sarcasm, "the police are less want to close down a mob speakeasy as they are to shut down a 'terrorist' safe house. They are a cloak, so to speak. We are the Ahl al Kisa, the people of the cloak."

All Oesman could do was nod along with him. This was so different from the Islam of his local mosque, which if anything was influenced by the Ahle Tauhid movement. They continued to converse for another few hours, and for almost the first time in his life Oesman missed the Asr prayers. Not that he cared anymore. As Syahir had written, the mosque was no longer a place of submission to Allah but to Dajjal. At around ten the tavern was overloaded by a crowd of young Cosian men on a "lads trip to Suvurnia", which was of course accompanied by a harem of prostitutes and gallons of black-market Samuderan alcohol. Taking this as his excuse, Oesman slunk back to his own apartment a changed man. Gone was the good, outwardly pious student. In its place there stood an idealistic young revolutionary.

Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun
- Mao Tse-Tung

---

Oesman's visits to the Omar Khayyam Tavern became more and more frequent as time went on, and he began to go to other locations around the city-state. He ran errands for the movement, did their shopping, and received his political and religious indoctrination. Always an eager student, he was swift in his studies and was soon offered a formal initiation into the organisation. At a muted affair in a tiny tekke in Candrapura, he made bayah to the Syahiri movement. He was assigned a cell, and met with his comrades at the Omar Khayyam. The cell leader, a Dormillian-Suvurnian woman with the nom-de-guerre of Isobel, was quick to ensure that all members of the cell were aquainted with each other before she began to describe the situation.

"Tonight, we have a very special guest. The Promised Mahdi himself, Maulana Ali Syahir, is going to speak with us soon. He has a task for us."

From her intonation of the word task, it was clear that she was referring to something violent. The door opened, and into the room walked an old man. As Oesman inspected him, he knew that he had seen the man before. The Librarian! The realisation that the man who had sent him on this path was the founder of the movement himself reinforced his devotion. Truly, Allah had set him on the right path. He bowed his head in reverence to this man, the redeemer of the Islamic world on earth and scourge of Dajjal. Syahir looked at Oesman, their eyes locked, and for a second it almost seemed as if he was smiling too. Syahir, as expected, made a speech to his comrades.

"My brothers," he said, his voice measured and calm, "our movement is on a precipice of greatness. The bourgeois murtads in the government seek to destroy us, much like the Qurayshi kafireen tried to kill our beloved prophet Muhammad (praises and blessings unto him). But while we may be fewer than those termites, we are mightier. The struggle between the Mahdist forces, that is you my brothers, and Dajjal, being the capitalist machine that consumes so much, that misguides our fellow Muslims, is the dialectical contradiction between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie. Our class jihad shall rid the world of the capitalist jahiliya which has infested this nation. And every one of you will have a role to play in this clashing of swords."

Oesman and his comrades hung onto every word. The redeemer has seen fit to talk to them! Verily, this was a reward from Allah most high. The opportunity to do his bidding and fight against the enemy was a present, the opportunity to become a syahid was the greatest reward. They listened on as he continued.

"We must show these kaffirs that we are coming to liberate the Islamic world. We must strike a blow against their misguided ideology. The attack which you shall take part in will be an attack on Sridine Mosque, that most loathsome expression of corporate 'islam' peddled by Dajjal. Just last week, in their Jumaah Khutbah, the Grand Imam spoke of the need to mention General Jaadallah in one's prayers so that Allah will grant him victory. They heap praises upon their most outwardly pious adherents, forgetting that Alhamdullilah, all praise is to Allah. We shall remind them. Tomorrow, which is Friday, you shall all go into this blasted 'mosque' of theirs and chastise them heavily. For this task we have new weapons, presents from our comrades in Samudera."

He gestured to 'Isobel', who opened up crates full of compact machine pistols and explosives. As she began to distribute these, he continued.

"you will wait until the khutbah starts, then you shall start to fire. Make sure that when these munafiqeen die, they see the error of their ways. You will, having cleared the mosque, continue to hold out against the police until the situation is untenable. Then, you can detonate your explosives. May Allah grant you a swift victory, oh noble martyrs!"

His speech finished, Syahir and his aides left the room. Oesman and his cell were quiet. No-one wanted to speak, to break the trance of utter ecstasy felt by the faithful who had received the greatest gift from the greatest mortal giver. That night, Oesman slept at the safe house. Though merely metres away foreign tourists were engaging in zina and his own compatriots were consuming a plethora of haram stimulants, he felt as though he was the most religiously content man on the planet.

Who for love of his beloved has no sacrifices made,
Has no rightful claim to love. His vows of love are but a show.
- Imameddin Nesimi

---

Oesman woke feeling well rested and eager for the task ahead. Together with his comrades he rigged up suicide vests and put on robes which were able to hide the automatic weaponry in their magnanimous folds. As if a devout group of students with their almost exaggerated garb, they boarded the metro at 11:34 AM and headed towards their target. The streets of Merdeka were full of life, as school finished for the day and families rushed mosquewards. Oesman almost felt a pang of guilt for what he was about to do, such was the atmosphere of life and innocence in the air. But by the time that they had arrived at the mosque, he had pushed all these thoughts aside. Now all that remained was a steely determination to carry out this deed and reap its most generous reward.

They walked into the mosque as a group, before separating as 'Isobel' and two other female cell members headed to the female prayer rooms. It was a large mosque, and they had soon all dispersed to different areas so as to maximise their efficiency. The adhan rang out through the mosque, its haunting beauty calling the faithful to prayer. The crowds assembled swiftly, jostling to get the spots where the Imam would see their piousness and praise them by name. They made intention as one, before beginning the first raka'at. Oesman and his cell had decided they would begin firing when the group went into Sujood, so that they would have the easiest time shooting into the crowd. The masses recited Allahu Akbar and began to kneel. At first, the yelling of this phrase seemed like it was just an overenthusiastic worshipper. Then the gunfire started, and it was joined by the phrase "Glory to the Mahdi Maulana Ali Syahir, in his name do we sanctify the earth!"

What was a house of worship became a charnel house almost instantly. The uzis of the Syahiris rattled off a staccatto beat straight from hell, shredding man, woman and child alike. Those who survived were faced with the classic dilemma of fight or flight, but when the enemy is armed with automatic weaponry one of those options is always more appealing. People fled over the dead bodies of their brothers, while others tried desperately to revive their beloved parents. The cries of the wounded, the dying and the scared filled the air. The bloodbath continued for another two minutes before a response could be marshalled. That it took such little time for security forces to respond to such an abrupt and unsuspected attack bore grim testament to the authoritarian nature of Jaadallah's government, but for the Suvurnian people it didn't matter.

A platoon of Suvurnian Gendarmes quickly surrounded the mosque and began firing in, getting a lucky hit on one of the attackers who was standing too close to a window. A firefight ensued, as more and more government forces were brought up to face the threat. Emergency forces and journalists got as close as they safely could, both performing their job admirably. Across the Isles, images of pure pandemonium illuminated television screens and dissuaded a generation of young and horny foreigners that maybe Menna Shuli was a better bet for cheap hookers. Oesman himself was taking cover behind the Mihrab, letting of round towards the SAF forces outside. But the Syahiris had packed only for a quick fight and martyrdom kind of battle, and soon ran out of ammunition.

As often happens, the Suvurnian security forces were a bit too eager to take advantage of this and rushed in without contemplating that the terrorists could have another trick up their sleeves, and fell right into the trap. Oesman watched his enemies come running in, their sleek black rifles pointed in his direction, and knew he had fulfilled his job well. Saying a final prayer, he released the detonator he held clasped in his hand. A matter of milliseconds later, the building was replaced by the explosion of several kilograms of plastic explosives. The advance platoon who had rushed in to wipe out any last resistance now found themselves wiped off the earth.

إِنَّ مَعَ الْعُسْرِ يُسْرًا
Verily, with every difficulty there is relief.
The Noble Qur’an, 94:5-6

---

When the smoke had cleared, it took the Suvurnian soldiers a long time to truly take stock of what had happened. The death toll was eventually found to be around 2,000, making this the most violent episode in the Suvurnian civil war. Like all such attacks, the bombing of Sridine Mosque turned public opinion firmly against the Syahiris. A member was so disgusted by what he had seen that he left the group, revealing everything that he knew to the Suvurnian police. Subsequent raids closed down the Omar Khayyam, as well as several other safe houses. So while it may have represented a high point in terms of influence for the group, it marked the start of their surprisingly quick downfall. So tight knit was the organisation that when one thread began to unravel, it all fell apart.

On the 6th of february 1974, Syahir himself was apprehended at the Merdeka Islamic Library after Oesman's old friends confessed that he had found their books there. No mention was made of the bet that Oesman had won in the process. After a kangaroo court trial (though such unjudiciary actions were not required given the undeniable guilt of the accused) that was broadcast to the nation, Syahir was hung in Kuta Jamok Penitentiary Center. The remaining Syahiris were either arrested, killed, or fled overseas. Many found safe haven in Samudera and Thuzbekistan, their old patrons. By the 1980s the threat was minimal, and Jaadallah was able to turn his eye towards the festering criminal underground. So through such a traumatic episode in its history, Suvurnia was able to clean up its act, end a civil war, and become the 'stable' tourist destination it is now. But in the shadows, there still lurk many secrets. For Suvurnia is a city where secrets are a currency of their own.

[The Western Isles Office of Role-Play]

TWI Citizens Post Prompt

Welcome to the first Citizens Post prompt ever. This will be a way to inspire people to write about their nation and their people in greater detail. Please leave comments via TG on how I can improve.

Today's topic will be titled:

Here Comes the Sun!

This prompt was provided by Xrevaro, I am grateful for his idea and this should be a good prompt.

Spring is coming in the Western Isles, are the people of your nation going to celebrate the end of winter? If they do, how do they celebrate it, with who, how long do they celebrate? It is best to write from the perspective of a particular person or group of people.

Please avoid one-liners and be as detailed as possible, have fun!

[Thuzbekistan]

Zalmen, Rural Turvin, Thuzbekistan

Akaki Lado grunted as he pulled on the rope, leaning back against the man behind him as they each gripped it, pulling back with all their weight as the long, wooden wall was raised above the clearing. As others hurriedly applied supports, the men holding the rope loosened their iron grip and let out a sigh as they wiped sweat from their brow. The heat of the day was unusual for this time of year, but it was another sign that spring was soon to be here. As Akaki stepped back, he looked out among the foothills surrounding Zalmen, watching as old flags representing the older clans of Turvin fluttered in the wind. The Zalmen Spring Festival was being cobbled together as quickly it could. The staple, hand built shelters would hold hundreds of people hailing from the old clans from all over Thuzbekistan. This year, there was even a flag for the Magarati descendants from Turvin Ghada, something that had only recently been placed.

For Akaki, this was the best time of the year. Soon, thousands of people would fill the hills, exploring the old ways of the clans as self-professed elders passed down old legends. Music, foods, and games would be played for up to two weeks or until it died down. It was the one time of the year that drinking was acceptable and the games of Buzkashi could be played without rules. A great festival before the beginning of Ramadan only a few weeks afterward in May. The excitement nearly faded as he glimpsed a National Police truck with uniformed men standing around it, watching the preparations. He quickly averted his gaze, remembering his brother's fate.

"Akaki!", a friend called out, "Come help us raise the next wall!"

Akaki swallowed the thought and went over to them, once again gripping the rope.

"One, two, three!" And the men heaved once more, their gloved hands tightening as the wall came up. The supports once more were quickly placed under and secured.

"I hope there's enough people to fill these damned things," his friend said as he wiped the dirt from his head. "These are hard to do."

Akaki smiled slightly. "We've been doing this for a long time."

"Yeah," his friend said. "It'll be nice to have a traditional game of Buzkashi again." He glanced up at the police a few dozen meters away. "Them forcing us to use weights is just frustrating. It doesn't move like it's supposed to."

"I mean, I guess they have a point, though," Akaki thought as he watched the horses in a field not far from them. "The game can seem a bit barbaric to those city people."

"Yeah, but it's tradition. Plus, it's not like we kill a goat for the game. The whole village get's involved with it."

"Still.."

His friend waved him off. "Whatever. I'll just be glad when they leave."

"If they do," Akaki said quietly. "You ought to be more careful too."

"Or what," his friend said disgusted. "They'll take me for not paying taxes? We owe them nothing. They helped no one out here!" He nearly yelled the last part and several men around him shot him angry glares.

"Shut up, Tornike!" Akaki said quickly. "You're going to cause trouble!"

Tornike sighed, kicking a rock below him. "I know, I know..."

"Come on, this is the festival! This is when we need to forget about these problems. We have to come together as a people and share in our past, regardless of what is happening now."

"I guess," he said looking up at the flags among the hills. "I don't know how you say that after what happened to your brother..."

"It's best not to think about the things I can't do anything about right now." Akaki said sternly. "His family is doing what they can and I have my own kids to take care of. Everyone's done what they can. But, for now, we should simply look forward to the festival."

"Yeah," Tornike finally said. "I guess."

"Now come, let's help with the fencing for the concert area."

Tornike nodded and the men trudged through the field towards the makeshift stage. When they got the area, they grabbed some gloves and began helping drive stakes into the ground as wire fencing was woven through the posts. Soon, thousands of Turvinians would show up for the festival and the small town of just under 1,000 people would be bursting with party goers. Perhaps, Akaki thought as he turned in for the day, it could be a new beginning for the town.

[Vibor]

Diary of a Leader.

Some months ago I was asked if I was proud of my career and service to Vibor. I have to confess that I hesitated, I couldn't give an immediate answer. Vibor has rose to international status quicker than what was originally planned. In less than seventy years, Vibor has grown from a quiet, unassuming nation of small Jewish communities and rural villages to over 30 million people. Large cities and metropolitan areas have rising along the skyline and the country now could be considered a regional power.

This assumed power now falls to my hands and my guidance. My leadership will decide where Vibor lies within the world and what the world decides of Vibor. Decisions I make from now will shape and mould this nation, befriend nations and even bring conflict with others.. I can not pretend to say that everything I do will be right, but I will strive to do what I can and what I believe to be the best for this nation, when the time comes to make the call.

For that, I can say I am proud, whether I will still be proud come the end of my career remains to be seen.

A. D Kashua.

[Roendavar]

---

Act One, Scene One
The Rose that Bloom In Troubled Soil

---

Dociara City
February 25, 2019

"The life god Yralia descended upon the Davari, a blooming rose on one hand and a golden crown encrusted with rubies, obsidian, and black diamond on the other. He stood in the center of the gathering crowd, his face angelic with a smile that rejuvenated the souls of those who witnessed him, and the land beneath him seemed to glow and prosper with renewed life. He spoke, "My destined people, soon all of you shall be the envy of the world. Soon, you shall spread the same peace and blessing I have bestowed upon this land. And when the time comes, all of you shall be the bastion of utopia in this world."

-Tales of the Second Erosithegon, Ivethicus

The soft glow of gentle moonlight illuminated the candle-lit room, bathing it in a silver light. The large room was filled with nothing but silence and the air of anticipation, with a tinge of uncertainty. The bright red and black carpet that stretched across the floor felt both menacing and welcoming at the same time. The six massive statues that stood at opposite sides of the room exuded a sense of royalty and proletarian values. Candles were lined up at the sides of the carpet, leading up to a large pine door. Four figures stood in the center of the room, wearing the traditional dress of Roendavar, with white cotton pants, colorful vests, and crowns made of flowers that represent their respective states. The female figure wore a white dress embroidered with flowers and intricate patterns.

Meanwhile, another figure sat on a throne on the far side of the room. The throne itself was a sight to behold. It was as large as the room itself, with the seat enough to seat five people. It was made with dark oak and pine wood. Its roots snaked all across the marble floor and polished walls, like it was feeding off the land itself. On its center, it's trunk was massive, and carved in the center was a wooden alcove that served as the seat for the throne. It was decorated with red and velvet pillows, with small orange lights scattered all across the opening and the inside of the alcove, creating a warm glow. Markings made of solid gold were embossed into the massive tree-like throne. For someone foreign to the Roendavarian Isles, they would see it impossible, fantastical, illogical to believe, but to Roendavarians, this very throne was the heart of Roendavar, the tree of Yralia. Fitting, as it is also the seat of the monarchs of the country, with the tree as old as time itself.

The figure stood up from the alcove, flicking his cape, which sent a gust of wind that blew out some of the candles in the front of the throne, leaving only the warm glow of orange light from the ancient throne. He had black curly hair with ribbons of red and black, swept off to one side. His face displayed a wide grin, hiding an amused, excited, yet frightened and unsure demeanor. His pale skin glittered in the soft moonlight. He had hazel eyes that were as brown as wood. He exuded sophistication, royalty, and yet, he still had a childish aura, one born of modernity and liberalism.

"Lord Cătălin, is everything all set?" The figure near the throne asked, facing one of the figures in the center of the throne room.
"Yes, Crown Prince Ivan. The relics have been removed from the Cave of Oronia and are now waiting at The Marble Pedestal at the Grand Court." Lord Cătălin, President of Andavar, answered, stepping forward.
"And the others? Lord Sorin? Lord Victor? Lady Teodora? What of your respective assignments?"
"All our important guests and foreign heads of states are all present and are currently seated at the front of the crowd. The people are lined up from here, the Palace of the Royals, to the Grand Court, where most of them will be waiting for you, my lord." Lord Sorin of Sudever said, his thick glasses framing his thin face.
"Ithoraugoros Manius Secrethius is ready and is currently waiting for the ceremony. Also, the House of Dandelions is prepared and decorated for the subsequent celebrations after the crowning." Lady Teodora of Tillianan informed, adjusting the emerald ring in her hand, a mark of a member of the Order of Loras.
"As for our security, the Roendavarian Police are scattered all across the venues and shall ensure order in the streets. Both the ARSF and RRG are positioned, ready to respond for any threats against you or the other heads of state. Other emergency services are also on standby, my dragoi.". Vastarosi President Lord Victor said, his muscular frame and serious personality towering over the other figures in the room.
"Good. Shall we start then? The earlier we start this, the more time we have for celebrations. You're all dismissed." The Crown Prince ordered, clapping his hands in amusement.

As the Presidents were heading out for the door, the Crown Prince raised his hand, remembering something.

"Ah… Lord Cătălin, please stay. I have something to discuss with you."
"Yes, my lord?" Lord Cătălin said as he turned around. He waited for the other presidents to leave the room before speaking. "What is it you need, Ivan?"
"Letros, to tell you the truth, I am afraid." The Crown Prince murmured the last part, not wanting to express his feelings, especially in front of Lord Cătălin, which has been his mentor for a long time now. The Andavarian President has been like a second father to him.
"Ivan, Ieletros, why are you afraid? This is a huge day for you. You shall become Roendavar's new leader, the people are hoping for you to lead them, their new King, the new salvation, the blessed of Yralia."
"That is what I am afraid of, Letros." Ivan said, stepping closer to the Andavarian President. "All these expectations, the pressure of becoming the King of Roendavar, I feel it is too much. Considering all our mishaps the following days, you cannot blame my worry. This night is important. Very much so. Our future is uncertain. The problems we face are uncertain. Our fates are uncertain."
"Yes, that is true, Ivan. We face something deeply rooted in our society. Something which our people cannot comprehend. An evil that even we, the rulers, cannot control. Greed. Chaos. Those are all natural. They are unavoidable consequences of peace. Now, let me ask you, Ivan, do you want this?"
"Of course I do. I want to lead Roendavar to a new era. To solidify our position as the hallmark of peace and unity in the world. To be Roendavar's blessed, Yralia's blessed, and to be our country's king."
"Ah, then you yourself know of your position." Lord Cătălin smiled. "You've proven time and time again that you wanted this, Ivan. It is normal to overthink, to be afraid, those are natural emotions, my child. However, you yourself know that you want this, that you love the people, and Ivan, sometimes you just have to take the leap. We face troubling times, and you are our hope. You shall be burdened, but I believe in you. We all believe in you. Can you not see that?"
"Ieletros, I know. Nothing brings me more hope than all your support. Perhaps, it is also time that I uphold the saying, if you love something, you have to fight for it, no matter what others say, no matter the troubles that might arise. For if you love something, you shall be something for it." Ivan laughed, alleviating his emotions a little.
"There we go. Now, let us go. Roendavar is waiting for you, Ivan. Our future King."

The wooden pine doors opened as the Crown Prince stepped out, a shower of petals slowly raining down from the balconies above. Hundreds of people outside the Palace of the Royals cheered in exaltation as they waved miniature flags of Roendavar. Up in the sky, the full moon was shining bright, creating a picturesque image of the night sky, complete with the cheerful twinkling of the stars. In the middle of the foyer was a jet black horse, and beside it stood the Crown Prince's mother, Queen Alexandra Azaliți Avărești, beaming with pride and joy. Ivan slowly walked towards his mother, a small smile creeping up his face.

"It was only yesterday that you were in my arms, Ivan. I remember how vulnerable you were, how sweet your little eyes saw our country. And now, look at you. The King of Roendavar. I am sure Athriticus would be proud of you, moi thirenos." She recounted.

Ivan responded with a nod as he climbed up to the back of the horse. A long velvet and black cape replaced the royal red one, its fabric hanging off the side. The black horse neighed impatiently like a child longing for the celebrations to start. As per tradition, a procession from the Palace of the Royals to the steps of the Grand Court would be done. The caravan had the Crown Prince in the center, with flag bearers, bell ringers, and flower bearers in the front, and a limousine carrying the other members of the Royal Family in the back, in this case, the Former Queen, now Areiciemaculare, and the Royal Pets.

This is it. Ivan thought, raising his hand, signaling for the procession the start. The crowd outside erupted in cheers as the caravan started moving. The bell ringers rung the small bells continuously for a minute as a single large bell signaled the end of a minute, followed by another minute of silence. Behind the caravan, the onlookers walked alongside the procession, some with solemn expressions and some beaming with excitement. The Reicie Avenue continued on for fifteen minutes, with the occasional cheers of people as they passed and the playful chimes of the processional bells. They eventually reached the old walls, the Themoclesarau, its gray stones giving way to the massive city that is Dociara.

Dociara City. The capital of the Utopian Kingdom of the Union of Roendavar. The City of Romance and Culture. The Crown City of the Isles. On a normal night, its beauty is unmatched. Trees and flowers line its wide boulevards, buildings with architecture that range from old Classical to Modern dominate the cityscape, as well as murals and art installations that are displayed throughout the city. Dociara is truly a sight to behold, and no time is better to see it than during a celebration, and on Coronation Day, the streets of Dociara were alive. Roendavarian flags hang from lampposts as people sing and dance on the sidewalks, stopping only to wave at the Crown Prince and the procession. Food such as pastries and water were being passed around freely. Music from local musicians were reverberating throughout the streets. It felt as if the country was alive, expressing itself through its people, in celebration, in unity, in peace.

The Crown Prince couldn't help but stare in awe at the sight. He was no stranger to celebrations, he lived in Roendavar after all. However, never has he seen such joy from his people. Andavarians, Sudeverians, Tillanorai, Vastarosi, even people of foreign birth, were together, cheering for the Crown Prince. He saw the old weeping, reminiscing of the past troubles that once surrounded Coronation Day, and never have they felt such hope. He saw the young celebrating, celebrating for a new start, a new day, a new voice. It was enough to melt all his worry away, and he now never wished for anything more than to give the people what they want. A new King. A new Roendavar.

Eventually, they neared the Grand Court. The Grand Court stood magnificent, illuminated by velvet and red lights, as well as decorated with the royal banners. The crowd in front of the Grand Court, estimated to number around a million, cheered as they saw the procession and the Crown Prince. "Avaie!" They shouted. "Hail!". In front of the crowd were foreign heads of state and dignitaries, witnesses to a new era of Roendavar. The procession eventually reached the front of the Grand Court, which was elevated and overlooked the crowd that stretched all the way to the end of the Emperor Ion Boulevard. In front of the crowd, the four presidents each held a relic. A representation of the country of Roendavar. As soon as the Crown Prince stepped off his horse, trumpets played, and the Coronation started.

Ithoraugoros Manius stood on the podium on the right of the Crown Prince as he delivered an introduction. "Roendavarians, foreign delegates and other heads of state, members of the Royal Family, members of noble families, and people all across the world. Today, we bear witness to a beginning of a new future for Roendavar. Today, the blessed land of Roendavar exalts its new ruler, its new King, its new salvation. Today, Crown Prince Ivan Alexandru Coastăs Avarești shall be crowned the King of Andavar, Sudever, Tillianan, Vastaros, and the Union of Roendavar. May I please ask the presidents to step forward and present the relics."

Lord Victor Azănera Vațilezi was the first to step forward, carrying the flag of Roendavar. "The flag of Roendavar. A banner of the soul and spirit of the Roendavarian people. A representation of our ideals, our identity, and the blood of our people. To you, my king, I present the flag, symbolizing the people's support for you. We shall stand by your side, and you shall be our ruler. You shall uphold our ideals as a nation, and you shall carry us to a blessed future, just as promised, just as we have hoped. Vastaros stands with you."
Next, Lady Teodora Salenaneștă made her way to the Crown Prince, holding a black rose. "The Black Rose. Roendavar's symbol. As the flag represents our country, the rose represents us as people. Our culture and our history. Like a rose, we shall be a cause for love and peace. Like a rose, we shall ever bloom even in dark times. Like a rose, we shall be beautiful. However, roses have thorns. Like thorns on a rose, our people stand in trouble and in pain. To you, my king, I present the rose, symbolizing the Roendavarian people. You shall be our rose. You shall be our hope and we shall be your guide. Guide us to the ideals set forth by our people, since the dawn of time, and ever till the universe crumbles. Tillianan stands with you."
After Lady Teodora, Lord Sorin Soare Dartuleșa stepped forward, holding the Scepter of Yralia. It was made of pure gold and encrusted with rubies and black diamonds. Its top resembles a rose, and the handle resembles the stem. A four-pointed star topped the regal scepter. "The Scepter of Yralia. The symbol of life and of plenty. It draws parallels between the country's bounty and the country's destiny. As with its regality, it is a symbol of how blessed Roendavar is, from its location, to its land, to its nature, and even to its people. For as our destiny foretells of a land of peace and unity, we shall uphold it till the end. To you, my king, I present the scepter, symbolizing the country of Roendavar. We are a land of plenty, and therefore you, our leader, shall oversee our prosperity. You shall be our inspiration, and we shall further cultivate our blessed land. Sudever stands with you."
Last, Lord Cătălin Alveus Văstin stood in front of the Crown Prince, holding the Royal Crown of Roendavar. Like the scepter, it was made with pure gold. Intricate designs were carved into its sides, from leaves, stems, to miniature flowers with gemstone encrusted centers. Instead of the usual red crown, the Roendavarian Crown had velvet as its color, the color of Yralia. "The Royal Crown of Roendavar. It stands for our monarchy, the force that binds every aspect of Roendavarian society and culture. Since the formation of our history, the monarchs have played a huge role and, since the Night of Hemlock, the Avarești have ruled this country. The monarchy represents the country itself, therefore the monarchy is vital to the Roendavarians, and we shall forever stand with you, our king. To you, my king, I present the crown. This solidifies your position as our new patriarch, our new king. May you be successful, and live long, as we, the people, shall be with you, till the end. Andavar stands with you."

The flag was placed on a stand behind the Crown Prince, the rose pinned to his red shirt, and the scepter he held tightly on his left hand, raising it at elbow's height. The Ithoraugoros took the crown and took his position behind the Crown Prince.

"The people of Roendavar, I give you, King Ivan I Davarius Avarești, first of his name, the new King of the Utopian Kingdom of the Union of Roendavar, the states of Andavar, Sudever, Tillianan, and Vastaros, descendant of the Athropoliusiae!"

The crowd erupted in cheers. Ivan kneeled down and looked directly at his people. He saw anticipation, hope, joy, and happiness. He saw his country in front of him, a product of centuries of cultural upbringing and unity. Yet, from the crowd, he felt something different. Behind the smiles were a few people, frowning, a sense of indifference, coldness, rebellion. Just as Roendavar is peaceful, something dark lurks beneath the blessed isles, and it was only a matter of time till it rears its ugly head and wreak havoc. Till that time happens, he knew, he had to be ready. He focused on the crowd again, waiting for their proclamation. However, instead of chanting "dragoi!", meaning dragon, a title given to the past two kings that represented their will and courage, someone in the crowd shouted,

"Flori!"

It was only a matter of seconds until the entire crowd were all chanting simultaneously, "flori!". Flower. Its significance was obvious. The people of Roendavar did not see Ivan as a conqueror, nor a fighter. They saw him as a gentle flower, for as young as he was, he was regarded as the one who will bring change to Roendavarian society. Like a flower, he shall bloom, and he shall be Roendavar's new ruler. The King that shall shake the nation's core and take Roendavar to paths yet to be taken. He is King. King of a country in the middle of something great. King of a country in the middle of something dark brewing. King of Roendavar, the crown gem of the seas.

"For all good things must start in peace, and all bad things must start in peace."

-Chapter 5, Manifesto of the Forgotten, Arkhail Micheno

[Belle Ilse en Terre]

Winter passed; life grew anew. The Ilse bloomed; festivals began.

In the Swail, where the winters were hard but the springs glorious, where the snow fell thick but the rivers were crystal, there was a village. Peter Nelyf lived there, and had borne many winters and rejoiced many springs.

In his village, at the centre of roads, nobles gathered, and the commoners as well. Tents and poles were raised; tables of ancient oak were set at the centre. The benches were long and polished with hearty use, coloured with cheerful toasts. The day before a great hunting party had set out, and scoured the land the choicest harts and rabbits. Through the morning men had laboured, preparing the four bonfires and gathering the four anvils, and women had prepared a great feast, featuring the catch of the day before.

The tables lay diagonal
To each of the blazing fires.
Their corners lay three feet apart;
Fire backing these entrances.
In the centre for the nobles,
Lay a circled table gallant.
Stool surrounded with heraldry,
Its goblets rich, its platters gold.

Peter felt his iron rod in his pocket, and took a seat at his place on the interior of the Northwest table, with the northern and western bonfires in his periphery. He was soon joined by many others, as the outer tables filled with common guests. The sun was setting, and the bonfires glowed. Toasts were proposed, and passed around the tables, which shook heartily with the returned mugs. The harmonising champagne glasses were heard in the centre table. The first course, though such a word is too formal and restrained for the earthiness of the breads and soups, was served, and Peter sipped his soup, and enjoyed the new strength over-powering his hunger, and letting his weariness from earlier exertions fall to the ground. Per tradition, in early morning the womenfolk drove out their husbands and sons out of the house, with just enough food to survive til the feast and the joking admonishment, ‘stay out of trouble’. Peter did not yet belong to the husbands, and so it was his mother who bade him off, whence he joined their other men for a traditional game of pigball. Pigball was a traditional Angern sport since the Lortik Invasions, or even before, and had gradually merged and split and been codified into modern iterations: rugby and football. Pigball, however, maintained an original vitality and freedom, with no field requirements beyond similarly accessible goals areas and reasonably balanced teams. Peter had spent the morning playing a game where both goals were on steep hill-side ledges above the soft fern-beds among the cedar trees.

Peter finished his soup somewhat quickly, and once more felt the iron ingot, and turned to observe the bonfires, noting their intensity. The second stage of the meal arrived; venison with rich sauces and a new round of drinks. More and more people stared at the fire, alternating along the for, searching, searching.

The plates were cleared, and the pies appeared. Sorbets traveled to the centre table. Peter’s liege beckoned him over, and offered a spoon of the sorbet, lemon, clapped Peter’s shoulder after receiving his gratitude, and dismissed him.

The plates were cleared, and the toast to the cooks was given the Baron, and met with full applause.

The dancing began.

Peter sat under a tree, and watched the leaves fall. He toyed with the iron, and observed the fires, listening to the smiths hammer away at the old iron brought by others, purifying and reshaping it, casting it. The tradition’s origins were lost to time, but the idea of fire as a renewer and purifies was not, and it was intended that one go to the fire that burned brightest, or seemed hottest, depending on the tale and teller, and sole went where the line was short, others to the smith they they were friends with, but many, to the one they hoped would heal. Each cardinal direction had its own virtues, with long life in the east, prosperity with the south, success with the north, and happiness to the west. There were also guarantees against pestilence and calamity, but those Peter rarely dwelt upon. Peter had always contemplated these directions in the evening, even if he though he had firmly decided the summer before or the week after. Tonight, the fire to the west seemed brightest, and his own dissatisfaction with his dissipated habits returned to him.

The leaves fell. Peter got up, and approached the smith before the western fire, and then stopped. He thought, and considered. He had had a the rod forged last year, with his sickness, but now that he was well...

The shape was important. There were those who every year had the same shape cast, but only for good reason, and even then the hard looks from the smith and others, as tradition held that the symbol was worn around the neck. Peter hastily recalled and dismissed his errors, mistakes, embarrassments, and reminded himself of his successes, though they did not make up wholly. The memories continued to flow though, and he observed cyclical failings and achievements through his life. Each year he cast off his vices, and each year they insidiously returned, under new guises, but with the same injury.

He could have a sword cast; his ambition was lacking, and he seldom capitalised, or was able to, on the advantages offered by life. He could have coin cast, for his employment remained what it always was, more or less. He could have a cross cast, in hopes of goodness of thought and deed, to suppress his nether desires that surfaced to haunt him.

“Can I cast a birch tree for you sir?”

Peter snapped, and turned to the smith intently.

“Otherwise you may have to wait a bit, the West burns bright tonight.”

A tree of birch, new and yet old, would do. Peter gratefully assented, and offered his ingot. He returned to the party, where games were held and dancing dashed about the merry field.


His silver birch was the well wrought
And Nelyf’s life came not to nought

[Nezaeva]

Change

Aindreas leaned against a window, gazing out of the capital building of the People's Council of Nezaeva. Rain whipped the glass, drenching the city below as the day came to an end. He had always found it to be beautiful towards the end of the day, as sunset approached and the city began to dim. By now many within the building had went home for the day, but not him. No, the Arbiter of Nezaeva had other plans to see to. Those which trancended him. Those which had been in motion for over half a century.

A knock came from the door, and he called for the entry of those who made the noise. Into his office stepped two of his closest friends. Fiona, Council leader of Southern Nezaeva, and Cailean, the Cuncil leader of Western Nezaeva. Ithad been a long time in the making, but between the three of these old friends, complete and rather unquestioned power over their nation was held. A fact that they were well aware of, and fully intended to abuse. Decades prior, those who opposed the Oligarchy imposing its will upon the people had gone forth, protesting. Rioting. Fighting, against fascism and against a loss of freedom.

And they had fallen. They had failed.

Those that remained, those who had kept quiet? They guarded their opinions close, forming underground societies and keeping the hope of freedom. Of democracy, alive as a small flicker. One such group referred to themselves as the Eternal Path. They believed that the way forward for Nezaeva was not through further bloodshed, but to change it from within, to wrestle control from the Council and return to the democracy of old. And it was from this, that the trio hailed from. They had lost people along the way, vanishing under the always watchful eye of Nezaeva's Order for Internal Affairs. but Aindreas, Fiona and Cailean had done it. Almost bred for this, they raised themselves high in the nation's oppressive political system and had done what the Eternal Path set out to do.

It was time for change.

[Almorea]

An àite fala- the Place of Blood
The shore of Loch Linne, Baranor province, 28th June 1797

---

A family of birds, their nest toppled by a gust of wind, alighted from the copse of thin trees about a hundred yards off. Aubrey Frazier watched them go, shrinking colored dots against the early morning sky. The wind blew again; it was warm, calming, in the way that only an early-summer wind could be.

Frazier removed his right officer's glove, gingerly so as not to smudge dirt on the soft white fabric, and stooped over to drink from the water of the loch with his naked hand. The expanse of blue before him stretched out to the horizon; the brilliant sunrise spilled enough bright pools of color across the sky that he was unable to see what might have been glimpsed of the opposite shore.

His thirst slaked, Frazier patted his hand on his breeches and slid the glove back on. It was difficult, then as always, to find respite in nature when one is soldering arms; doubly so for the man who is leading a great army. The smells of Frazier's army had swirled around his nostrils as he drank the sweet water of the loch; campfire smoke and the aromas of sizzling meat and baking bread clashed with body odor and bad coffee. Sighing, Frazier affixed his tricorn hat and sauntered back up the short path into camp in a manner that only an officer could manage.

The land then settled, for a night, by soldiers was no stranger to the presence of armed masses. Frazier and the literate officers knew that, a century before, the tide of colonialism had swept away thousands of native warriors on, or near, the very spot where the great-great-grandsons of the combatants were now preparing for their day.

The land retained the scars of war; the ancient trees remembered bitterly the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the soil, far below where army boots were tramping again, still cradled wounds left by errant arrowheads and musket-balls. The Nyssic name for the place bore witness to this silent and grim story. Frazier spoke the timeworn tongue of his grandparents only haltingly, but he knew nonetheless as he drank from the loch that he was gulping down water offered up by the unconscious hands of the Place of Blood.

Frazier began to notice that his wool uniform was tightening as he cast his eyes here and there at a tent or a campfire. He tugged on his overcoat, only to nick his hand on a jagged button-edge. Pushing aside a fleeting feeling of surprise, he glanced down and saw that a trickle of blood was running down his palm, seeping into the white glove and dripping onto the ground.

Blood- a palm-reader might have told Frazier that there would be more than just a trickle in his future.

An taigh mòr- the "Big House"
Hinnevale, Frasyrland province, the same day

---

A cluster of small sailing boats, of the kind steered by the sons of the more primitive hangates or the Mohammedan seafaring peoples, was tipped over by a gust of wind about a hundred yards away from the window. John Frasyr watched them crumple into brown splotches on the rough waves; he ran his tongue over the back of his teeth as the water seeped between the timbers and soaked the cloth sails. The wind blew again; even from behind the glass, Frasyr could tell that it was brisk, unsettling, in the way that only a northern sea-breeze could be.

Frasyr turned away from the window and lit his pipe, letting the rich tobacco smoke waft up to the ceiling. His brother Malcolm had hated the plant, and had banned its consumption within the governor's mansion, or the "Big House" as it was called by merchants in Hinnevale's bustling port, to which it was neighbor.

Frasyr had always admired his brother; these were sentiments that transcended the expected relationship between the older and the younger sibling. Malcolm, from his patriarchal position as chief of Clan Frasyr- held in tandem, just like every other Frasyrland governor, with the executive- had striven tirelessly to preserve the independence of his province, and the political dominance of his clan, from the snaking tendrils of Almorean governments that had sat in Ellsburgh since independence in 1763.

Malcolm, however, was dead, carried off by a fever in the darkest, iciest depth of January. For the brother that replaced him, it was a brutal loss. Frasyr recalled dimly a night of drunken rage through which he had tried to smother his grief. He had gripped his dagger so hard it pained him and plunged it deep into the oaken wall, as if it was the mansion that had cast his brother from the earth.

The wounds had survived the change of seasons; they yet remained, twin punctures in the wall and in the soul.

Frasyr could trace the events in the months after Malcolm's death much more clearly in his mind. Robert William Howard, the old general who occupied the presidency in Ellsburgh- ceannard na dùthcha gu lèir, or chief of the whole nation, as Nyssic speakers called him- had used the opportunity afforded by Malcolm's demise to send one of his pet officers north with two thousand men to break the power of Clan Frasyr in the north at long last.

Even worse for Frasyr, the President's selection, Aubrey Frazier, dared to walk upright carrying the English name of the Nyssic clan to which he was distantly related. Doubly worse was the paper which he carried in his pocket- a commission from Congress, authorizing him to act as governor of Frasyrland with the power bestowed by two thousand federal muskets. Frasyr's heart burned with loathing, spiked with indignation, at this direct challenge to his authority.

For a week, his scouts had been shadowing the federal army, tracking their movements, following their trails, and foraging through camp supplies left in poorly-guarded depots. Frasyr's thoughts turned away from backstory and settled on the matter of these scouts. He knew that the army was approaching the border between Baranor and Frasyrland; militias had been called up, weaponry stores secured, and grain hoarded. But where, exactly, were they?

As if by divine authorial providence, the door to the room swung open, cutting through clouds of thought and bestirring Frasyr to stand up. Adam Robison, his aide, entered on legs that had been draped over a saddle for too long; indeed, the newcomer had ridden all the way north from Loch Linne, the gateway to the province. His hands were smudged with dirt and his face splattered by mud. Robison dropped to his knee before Frasyr in the atavistic manner that many local non-Frasyrs treated the clan chief.

"I have been bestride my horse for seven hours, riaghladair. The pretender and his bluecoats have decamped from the Place of Blood. They now march directly to Hinnevale." Robison's brow twitched, but he maintained his posture.

Frasyr drew a deep breath, letting the tobacco smoke inflate his lungs. The Nyssic language flowed smoothly from his lips, dripping from his tongue and floating like mist above and around him, ancestral armor and a special gift that was the best inheritance departed generations had ever left behind.

His brow furrowed, adopting a stern look that Robison's twitching hair could never aspire to match.

"Let the fast runners hoist the fiery cross and take it through the countryside," Frasyr pronounced. His heart, and along with it his angry determination, swelled with the rediscovery of the fact that he was governor and head of the clan.

"Let the fortune-tellers say that, at the Place of Blood, there did not spill half the veins that will be bled from the pretender and his false army." He paused, not seeking the right words, but rather allowing the words already jostling within his head to take shape. "Raise yourself, Adam. War has returned to the north."

And thus began the Hinterland War...

[The Western Isles Office of Role-Play]

TWI Citizens Post Prompt

Welcome to the second Citizens Post prompt for April 2019. This will be a way to inspire people to write about their nation and their people in greater detail. Please leave comments via TG on how I can improve.

Today's topic will be titled:

Tricks, Hoaxes, and other such Silliness

This prompt was provided by yours truly, because April Fool's is such a nice holiday.

Today for most of the world, it is April 1st. For a lot of people, however, today is April Fool's Day, where the name of the game is to bamboozle as many people as you can with the most elaborate pranks and hoaxes imaginable, all in good fun of course. Like the time a bunch of college students put on blackface and pranked the Royal Navy and her fresh new Dreadnought (yeah, I'll admit that some of these has not aged well). So in the spirit of pulling pranks and hoaxes, your prompt today is:

• Write a story of the most famous hoax or prank pulled in your nation's history.

I am updating the rules for this prompt, your posts should be at least two paragraphs long but I encourage you to write as much as possible. And as always, have fun with this prompt!

- Dormill and Stiura
Secretary of Roleplay, The Western Isles