Desert Runners 1873 [IC; Sunalaya]

[DFleuves]

Desert Runners
Year of our lord 1873

Today, sandstorm hit the encampment. Red dust flew up to the heavens and chose it's resting place here. We have lost Frank to the red darkness. By the time the redness cleared away it was too late, his body was buried under the sand with only his walking stick poking out marking the deceased. I took the day off to plan my actions here and brief my team. I do not know what awaits me here, I am scared. We're a ghost ship in the centre of a red ocean swirl. The Dormillian settlers will cut my neck for revenge and the emirs will cut it for gold. Why, it was the king who insisted that this region is worth something. I see here nothing but blood. Blood drawn from enemies and blood drawn from the sins of mankind. I am the missionary on the tribe's plate and the goat in boiling milk.

- Sir Florian Léon Delaunay, The Heart of Dark (1875)

OOC Thread

[DFleuves]

Charenton
29th November, 1873

"Courier! I need to deliver a message"

The boy, who at the moment was playing the a string and rock quickly jumped at the hype of doing something in his day. The boy's second given name was Max, 11 years of age. He was a local Yasiri who grew up as a d'Fleuvien in one of the noble's summer resorts. The boy picked up a paper and ink and threw it on Sir Delaunay's table. He began to scribble at pace.

Dearest Sir Calixte Lévesque

I write to you in request to recruit Charenton's strongmen on a mission. I have made contact with a foreign merchant and trader in efforts to invest in the region's relief effort. He has agreed to dock a ship and sell us left over merchandise at quarter price! You just cannot believe the letter he sent. At your leisure please bring eleven men to my office, we'll arrange an expedition led by me to the port. The journey should not take more than two days so only a single day of camping in the desert. If you wish I will gladly have you join and help us yourself.

I must warn you though. Frank Mali, my armyman, has been overlooking some of the Yasiri tribes near the settlement. Emir Ahjeb has gathered men for some sort of expedition of his own. I suspect a raid on Charenton, I would advise increasing the night shifts to two men instead of one. Frank also reported a prophecy of the sky turning red. The fellow must've gotten drunk on Arak. Have you tried drinking Arak? The Yasiris produce it themselves, disgusting and powerful but Frank likes it somehow.

Your friend,
FLD

Florian finished the scribbled paper, folded it into two halves and handed it to the boy. Wind swung the wooden sign outside and small particles of dust swoop the floor. Max thanked Florian before leaving the office. Running through the yellow sandy ground he kicked dust in his path towards the town hall of Charenton. The elders watched him and the young men worked the ground in efforts to develop the settlement. It was a hard working one, the largest Dormillian settlement in fact. To the north was Emir Ahjeb's tribe who often migrated westwards with their goats and camels. To the south and east were two d'Fleuvien settlements, Argeun and Bésaunt respectively. The west was covered in mountains, only the bravest could tell what was hidden in the mountains. Frank Mali, was on of the few of those so called Bravest. He often visited the hermits of the mountains, mostly fortune tellers and cavemen.

Max arrived at the townhall after his long run and he entered through the worn wooden doors, looked for the staircase, found it to his left and quickly ran up. His small feet made loud noises going up getting closer the the headquarters of Sir Calixte Lévesque, governor of Charenton. Appointed and trusted by the King as an ally to the Union. The Vargnote Union was easily the most powerful nation in Ventismar, Ruled from two seats of power in Westseaxnaland and d'Fleuves. Anywhere around the world you would turn and see it's flag woven by either a store owner selling it's beauty or either a national subject of the Union, in any case that location on Sunalaya was somehow influenced by the Union.

Max knocked on the governor's headquarters door and shouted with his child like voice: "Gov'na! You have a letter from the hands of Sir Florian! Would you kindly open the door?"

[Dormill and Stiura]

Charenton, Province of Yasra
29 November, 1873. 34 Years and 30 Days since the Constitution of the Sovereign United Republics was ratified
Calixte was sitting in his office, the winds of the outside world beating on the window as he held a glass of vintage 1784 Lévesque Wine (not his own, but who knows the difference in this desert wasteland of a d'Fleuviean province anyways). He sat and stirred and drank from his glass while the wind howled.

A loud banging reverberated from the door that separated him from the rest of his mansion. Then he herd the tiny Yasiri voice call out from the other side. "Okay, Son." he replied: "I'll be right over!"

He recovered his cane and walked over to the door, he received his trusted cane after his first expedition to the mountains in the west ended with his left leg being fractured in multiple points. Surprisingly, the unorthodox medicines of the mountain men who lived out there managed to keep him alive for long enough for the damage to be repaired, though his leg is now incapable of it's full range of motion he was more than capable of moving to where he needed to go. He opened the door to see the tiny, brown-skinned child eagerly waiting in front of him, who then thrust the letter from Sir Florian into his hand. Ugggghhhhh. This guy again, what is he begging for now? Calixte both despised and feared Florian Léon Delaunay, mostly because he's been up in his business for these past years and the chances of revealing Calixte for his true intentions grows with each encounter. He reads the letter and he starts to smile a bit. The timing is flawless, I can kill this pest and recover my land all before those damned d'Fleuvieans manage to know what happened! he runs to his desk and scribbles a note back to Delauney playing face

Dearest Sir Florian Léon Delaunay,

I'm glad by this letter I have received. These supplies couldn't have come any earlier and I will be glad to accompany you on this trip.

I will gather the strongest men and most able horses and meet you by the gates to this town, I'll take your advice to heart and gather the most able marksmen to cover the night shifts, or at least as many as I can. Though I remain concerned about the issue of public order while I'm away, so I shall assign Mr. Laurent Tolbert, my aide, to serve as Governor in the meantime, I'll meet you momentarily.

-Your partner and Friend,
C.L

"Boy! Send this letter back to where you came from and go about your day." as he gets up and walks towards the door, handing the letter to the courier. "Oh! And gather eleven of the strongest men you can find in front of the saloon, I need to speak with them before I make for the Port in the north." The boy thanks Lévesque as he runs down the stairs and out of the door. He detours to the saloon, one among the few buildings that easily withstood the earthquake from a few months ago. Men and Women alike buzzed in, out, and around the building near the center of town, conveniently placed less than five yards from the Church, was commonly more populated than the Church itself, especially on Sundays. The boy walked into the bar and got a lot of looks from the bartenders. As they stared at him, the boy called out in the best French he can muster: "I... Need.. E.. uhmmm he pauses, his French isn't strong enough to properly call out the people so he tries again, with a small reward as well "Free Drinks for the first of you I can count running out! Paid by the Gov'na himself!" As he expected, several of the men there sprung up and ran for the door as he counted on his fingers, stopping at eleven and having everybody else stop.

Unique among the bartenders is a Rhodeve native, at least he looks the part with his stand-out outfit. The men stand a bit surprised by the lack of the governor, let alone their free drinks. Max informed them of their situation as Calixte began to show up from the wind-swept sands. "Men, I'm glad you are all here." he began, looking at all of them with a slightly sour look, then turns to the boy who had already run off to Florian to deliver the letter. "You have been called up on the orders of your Governor to accompany myself and Sir Florian Léon Delaunay on a two day expedition to the Port in the north to recover aid for our town and other settlements in the area effected by the tragic earthquake a while back. If you manage to come back, I'll pay for your drinks personally for the next three months. So, who's with me?" All but one who seemed to have went back to the saloon stepped forward and waited for the lead of the Governor.

"Good, then follow me." He finishes, dusting off his coat and walking to the local stables near the gates.

[DFleuves]

Sir Delaunay took his time to drink a cup of tea in his office before going to wear his vest, wide hat. He went to the door where he undressed his home shoes and wore the big brown boots, covered in hard labour sand. His next stop was the barracks where he met up with Frank Mali and five other servicemen who were also in the service of the Vargnote army. All men carried standard issue rifles to protect the expedition and Frank carried a few extra pistols for quick use giving two to Sir Delaunay and keeping three in his jacket.
"How's the situation with Emir Ahjeb?" asked Sir Delaunay. Frank quickly glanced at him before continuing cocking the pistols. "Well, you already know everything. It's their time to move from the mountains to the north. I assume they're all busy preparing all the stock and supplies. We should not meet them. Worst case, send me alone and I will give them a few coins in exchange for peace." "I'm glad to have you around" Frank replied with Arabic slang and a huge grin: "Aana mabsot"

The seven men went out to the stables after gathering their own supplies and loading their guns. Sir Delauny met with Sir Lévesque and they shook hands in a formal manner. Sir Delauny commented "I assume yours already know where we're going."
He looked at the horses and camels at the stables and started counting them with his eyes. Whispering to himself but intending for everyone to hear:
"You and me have a horse each, Frank been trading with the Yasiri down south so we have another three camels to carry some of the supplies, your eleven will have to carry the rest."

2 - Loaded .44 Six Rounds-Cylinder Dragoon Revolvers 1848
3 - Loaded .476 Six Barrels Pistols 1854
7 - .433 Standard Issue Rifles 1833
-
70 - 25g .443 Bullets
70 - Paper Cartridges
400g - Black Powder in small containers
-
108 Kilograms Sacks of Food
300 Litres Water in Barrels
-
2 - Personal Commanding Tents
1 - Large Barracks Tent

Sir Delauny reached for his vest's inner pockets and took out the second pistol Frank gave him and handed it over to Sir Lévesque.
"We're the calvary of this twenty men battalion. If anything goes wrong, I hope you remember how to fight...old friend. "

Frank hailed the twenty men and told them to pack as many supplies as they can on his camels, he reserved one camel to be ridden by himself and the rest carried boxes and sacks. Counting the supplies he listed everything there was on a piece of paper. After preparations were ready it was time to head out after the lead of armyman Frank Mali. The Iasonian merchant is to meet them in two days in the northern Yasiri port city of Ma'alot h'Amora inhabited by Yasiri Jews. The city was the largest in the area with around 89,000 inhabitants.

[Rezua]

Bagduin, Taliza,
Colony of the Glorious Rezuan Empire

Second Lieutenant Immanuel Vogel looked out of the native building and out into the hot outside. It was all so alien. Women in hajabs and berukas. People with tan skin, speaking in a strange tongue. A dry land that left your mouth dry and your nose inflamed with dust. An unforgiving sun beating down, threatening to burn his lily white skin. And Vogel smiled.

This stranger's land was what he now called home. The people here were like his own countrymen. Vogel stood up and grabbed his uniform cap before stepping outside into the harsh sun. Vogel exited the crude brick building that passed as a poor excuse for a base headquarters and walked towards the marketplace. When he was bored of doing paper work, Immanuel liked to see the marketplace and chat with the townspeople. After all, he was in charge of this town, including four others.

As he turned a corner, he spotted Gafar Karimi, the first Talizan man who had accepted Immaunel's guidance. Gafar Karimi had actually rebelled against the Empire years ago, but he respected Immaunel's policy of co-existence. Immaunel gave everyone their space and only asked for taxes when he talked to the elders about how much the Empire had wanted and by how much they could cheat to satisfy what the Empire needed. Karimi smiled and waved and called out "Good morning Mr. Vogel." Immaunel waved back and continued on his way. Today would be a good day.

Outskirts of Kilabrin

Sergeant Leon Bergost was not having a good day. Laying down on a hot sand dune with his collar flipped up to protect his neck from the sun, Leon did his best to survey and sketch another map. Beside him lay, Hadjara, a woman from the Siynor Tribe. Hadjara's coffee-brown colored eyes watched Leon's pen move with great interest. Hadjara smiled as she watched Leon toil. "Must all your lines be so straight. You know, I could show you back into town faster if you just hurried up." Hadjara smiled, she liked to tease people and Leon was about the only man she dared tease without repercussions.

Leon swore in Revon, a language Hadjara learned so she could gauge how dangerous the Rezuan Empire was to the environment she was sworn to protect. If all Rezuans were like Leon, Hadjara would feel fine. All Rezuans, however, were not like Leon. The Rezuan said back to Hadjara "I have to draw well to get paid well." Hadjara just smiled and continued to watch him work.

[Dormill and Stiura]

After placing the revolver handed to him by Delaunay into his coat, Calixte finally responded to his old friend, "I can handle myself in a fight Florian, and the drunks I had little Max drag out of the bar knows what they're doing." he took another sour glare over to them, who had attempted to ransack the food and water barrels before Frank smacked a few of them with his colt whip. "I hope this will be a quick trip, I don't trust the Emir to remain dormant while we are on the move as well."

As he mounts his horse, he remembers back to when he first arrived at Ma'alot h'Amora nearly a decade ago. A much younger and spry man in those days, he took advantage of the general ignorance of the d'Fleuvieans to effectively disguise himself as Lord Lévesque and take over the area. This is also where he met Florian Delauney, and came to hate him instantly. The man was over ten years his junior, and made every effort to outshine Calixte wherever they went, speaking fluent Arabic, moving quicker, being more popular, and of course, being a loyal d'Fleuviean. He had expected Florian to hate him for simply being a Dormillian, especially considering the fact that he spent a lot of time in the 1867 Skirmishes in central Dormill and wouldn't shut up about how many he killed in the fighting.

But for once, he wasn't concerned about his identity, Calixte knew everything was falling into place, the imminent invasion by Dormill-Stiuraian forces, the death of this rival was at hand, and the future of the Sovereign United Republics was painted before him as he mounted his horse and left Charenton once again. He imagined the proud flag of the Republics billowing over every d'Fleuviean city, the glory of the great Presidnet Favre known throughout the land. His mind drifted into what could be, but never into what was about to happen in two fateful days.

Avillon, Ille-de-Avillon, Sovereign United Republics of Dormill and Stiura
Presidential Palace

President Nicholas Favre was seated in his favorite chair in the East Wing, watching as his commanders went over the recently edited Plan V, for a final conflict against the d'Fleuviean Empire to completely gain independence for good, rather than the pitiful "Home Rule" that was popularized by Presidents Perrot and Tobias. Soon, he thought while smoking his cigar, Soon it will all change.

His generals explained the main goal, Force the d'Fleuvieans to come to us on the homeland while we await our allies to respond. Seize control of Yasra to force them to negotiate, and win our full independence. It was a simple and equally elegant plan, though it hinged a bit much on the work of the allies of the Republics. Favre wasn't a fan of being dependent on anybody else, as it is only a repeat of the past of Dormill and Stiura and their dependency on empires far more powerful than he could possibly imagine. He sat and listened, and thought and pondered the possibilities.

In the following hours, after the letters are sent to his partners in Aznazia and to prospective allies in Rezua, Umbrellya, and Rhodevus. Though he held his reservations, he knew the only way to make his Sovereign United Republics even better was to ensure he had the proper connections to gain that power.

[DFleuves]

En route to Ma'alot h'Amora
30th November, 1873

The expedition set out from Charenton on sunrise, giving all the time needed to reach halfway to the city. The mountains hailed from the north over watching the expedition, the weather was clear with no clouds in sight, very deceiving for the events that have set to unfold from the south when the winds found themselves violently clashing and creating a storm northwards. For the southern Kingdom the sandstorm that has already reached them meant nothing to the solid stone buildings which could be completely insulated from the outside sand but for the more fragile Ventismariens this was slightly more than what would be considered serious.

Frank led the expedition with Sir Florian, while Lord Lévesque was at the rear tightening the formation. The d'Fleuvien servicemen formed a marching line right of the twelve carriers from Charenton and the camels and horses with no riders populated the left flank.

As late noon struck and the sun began to set the expedition faced the largest obstacle in their route, Wadi Kharmish a little more than a dozen kilometres north of Charenton split two relatively flat lands. The wadi was two verticle drops and few spots of green foliage on the bottom, centuries of crossing the same wadi constructed a path down which most people could climb with safety. The expedition climbed down, rested for a while and continued up reaching the top just before sunset.

As the sun set over the horizon the expedition quickly built tents and rested for the night. Florian called Lévesque and Frank for a review of the day concluding that the day was well. The expedition members are well rested and have plenty of power to continue the journey even after the tiresome journey through Wadi Kharmish which was no no more than two dozen metres behind the encampment. The three men went each to his own tent and rested through the night.

Hundreds of kilometres south through the dark night the sandstorm advanced northwards slowly, by two hours before the sun rose it hit Charenton in damage unknown yet to the expedition. Traveling further north when the expedition was only waking up the storm hit hard. Everything went dark even through the sunrise. It was time to count the dead.

By the time the survivors woke up they found Sir Florian sitting with his legs crossed with a a parchment covered in leather and writing ink:

Today, sandstorm hit the encampment. Red dust flew up to the heavens and chose it's resting place here. We have lost Frank to the red darkness. By the time the redness cleared away it was too late, his body was buried under the sand with only his walking stick poking out marking the deceased. I took the day off to plan my actions here and brief my team. I do not know what awaits me here, I am scared. We're a ghost ship in the centre of a red ocean swirl. The Dormillian settlers will cut my neck for revenge and the emirs will cut it for gold. Why, it was the king who insisted that this region is worth something. I see here nothing but blood. Blood drawn from enemies and blood drawn from the sins of mankind. I am the missionary on the tribe's plate and the goat in boiling milk.

Frank's walking stick watched Florian from above, his camel laid on the sand with a boulder in his upper chest and red fractured bones scattered around, only Florian's horse survived. Out of the seven servicemen only two survived, four out of the seven guns were no longer functional, Florian fetched the left over one. From the twelve Dormillians six or maybe five died, Florian already lost count, Frank's last words were shouts to run to the Wadi as it is safe there, 'safe' was not the appropriate word to use as a stone around five centimeters in size went through his head and sent him collapsing to the sand. Lévesque was no where to be seen. Out of the food that wasn't now rotten and full of dust there was little left.

To make matters worse, the sun rose to a decent level above the horizon and started roasting the desert casting shadows on unknown figures on a hill top near the encampment that was now all but lost. Florian didn't even glance but he knew they were here to take what the storm didn't take.

For now: the skies are clear and the sun is radiant.

[Minarchismusland]

Emir Ahjeb's Tribe

Mumina woke up in her tent. She had a dream with her oldest brother, Ludwig Rothberg, who helped her to escape home after her life was threatened by a man who her (now dead) father owned a debt to. In his last letter (sent about a month ago), Ludwig said he moved back to the family’s homeland, the independent Neulandian Empire, in Southern Corentia, but on his own. According to him, the country had become better since they left, but Kaiser Kurt Rosenberg’s popularity wasn’t in the best possible situation. Mumina had lost almost all ties to the western world, and her brother was one of the last.

After getting up, she went outside. Emir Ahjeb’s tribesmen were standing up next to each other, looking at an encampment below the hill the tribe had stopped by. Mumina could overhear what seemed to be a plan to raid the encampment, but she couldn’t pay attention at the details.

“We are going to raid that encampment below”, said an Yasiri native passing by. “They seem to have lost some men and other things to the sandstorm, but it still can give us a fair reward, after all they must’ve been weakened after the storm.” The man was a close friend of Mumina’s deceased husband, Aakif al-Jafri, and had a relatively high importance in the tribe. “Stay here in the tents. We’ll raid that encampment, take the loot, and then we’ll continue on our path.”

She looked at Aakif with her blue eyes, and nodded. “Ja”, she muttered to herself quietly. Mumina went back to her tent, and picked up the last letter sent by Ludwig. Glancing at the German words of her brother, she sat down, grabbed a piece of paper, and pondered. After a few seconds of hesitation, the young woman’s hand was led to a pen, and she began to write an answer for Ludwig.

Meanwhile, Aakif al-Jafri and his companions prepared for the raid. After making sure his pistol and rifle were functional, Aakif climbed on his horse. The other men also checked their weapons, and began to get ready to attack the expedition.