The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Founded: Dec 08, 2013

The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

Postby NSI Manager » Sun Dec 08, 2013 3:08 pm

The Native Story Index

This here is the Native Story Index, which is a collection of short stories written in, about, around or focusing on the nations of those who are interested in writing short stories about their nations. Themes, scale, scope, narration, technique in addition to tech levels and technology are no worries, and I won't be scanning for quality. Therefore, it is your own responsibility and freedom to write a story as you want. This thread is a continuation of the original Native Story Index, as well as Taurenor's Native Story Index that followed. The only difference between this one and the others is that this one uses a shared account between the Mentors, so updating should occur more frequently than before. If not, feel free to telegram any Mentor, Jenrak, Euroslavia, or Transnapastain, and they'll get it updated whenever someone is available.

The main requirement to writing in this thread is simply that you keep each story that you write to one post, and the rule vice versa when posting. Keep posts limited to one story, so make a new one if you want to post a new story. If you are spamming stories quite frivolously, I will ask that you take a breather before posting up any more.

Length is not a problem, so whether you are a Victorian imagist or a Flash Fiction micro-writer, we won't argue against it, so no worries. You may write about anything, as long as it is about your NS nation, whether PT, PMT, MT or FT, so no worries about that. That said, we do ask that you have one of these handy tags at the beginning:

[ PT ] * [ MT ] * [ PMT ] * [ FT ]

To tell us which tech level it is as well as provide your readers as to some indication as to what tech level they're going to read about. The code is here:

Code: Select all
[align=right][size=150][b][[color=#BF0000] INSERT TECH LEVEL HERE [/color]][/b][/size][/align]

That said, if you're writing a mature story (carrying sex, strong or gratuitous violence, gore, or extremely questionable moral themes [abortion, rape, etc.]), please add a mature tag as well:

[ Mature ]

Code: Select all
[align=right][size=150][b][[color=#BF0000] Mature [/color]][/b][/size][/align]

Ultimately, what you write about is your own idea, but this is just to let RPers let their creative juices flow without having to work on a long RP project or have to find people to read their things. It also provides RPers with a good reference thread to get acclimated to another RPer's style of writing without having to fish through their posts, and can work as a reference for organisations and players alike.

Provided will be a Table of Contents, and as often as I can I will add stories as they appear in the thread.

Happy Writing.
Last edited by Jenrak on Sun Dec 08, 2013 3:10 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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NSI Manager
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Founded: Dec 08, 2013

Postby NSI Manager » Sun Dec 08, 2013 3:08 pm

Table of Contents



























Last edited by NSI Manager on Wed Jul 16, 2014 5:22 pm, edited 3 times in total.

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Founded: Sep 20, 2012

Postby Breheim » Tue Dec 24, 2013 5:11 pm

[ FanT ]

A Kleptocratic Carol

To begin with, Alfred Johansen was dead as a doornail. Mind, I'm not sure why doornails are deader than other pieces of ironmongery, but who am I to question our ancestors who made the simile? Regardless, Alfred Johansen was dead as a doornail. And Skrog knew he was dead. How couldn't he? For years, Skrog had been Johansen's sole friend, partner in politics, sole mourner and for the last months, business partner. And even Even Skrog wasn't terribly upset by Johansen's death in a tragic accident involving vodka, clowns, roaming transvestite prostitutes, shame and a loaded pistol.

Skrog is a harsh man of few words and fewer morals, colder than the great northern glaciers and harder than the skull of a Cossackian. Temperatures didn't affect him; no cold was colder than he, and no warmth was warmer than the hellfire that undoubtedly lays in store for him. Skrog, who had amassed great wealth during the mass-privatization of state enterprises, was the richest and most powerful man in the country, but still he refused to turn on the heating in his office this cold Christmas Eve. Only he and his nephew, Anders Ludvigsen, manned the fort at this hour (Skrog having outsourced a significant amount of office work to cheaper Kaltrasian and Tyresian labour).

As the hour draw to an end, Ludvigsen decided to wish his uncle and employer a merry christmas.

"A merry Christmas, uncle! God or Gods save you!" Ludvigsen cheerfully exclaimed.

"Bah!" Skrog said, before adding "Humbug!"

"Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Skrog's nephew. "You don't mean that, I am sure?"

"I do." Skrog said "Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough."

"Come, then," Ludvigsen said "What right have you to be a sad bear? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough."

Skrog having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug!"

A few hours later, at Skrog's residence

Even Skrog, CEO of Skrog Enterprises Incorporated as well as Premier of Breheim, had fallen asleep in his chair while engaging in his favourite hobby, looking at the projected course of his many international bank accounts. The sound of clanking chains woke him up, confused as he looked about. Despite his sickening wealth, Skrog's home was spartan. There was no decorations for the season, nor was there much of other decorations apart from some images of his nephews and nieces, as well as a picture of himself when he served in the armed forces. Skrog clapped, and the light went on in the living room, dominated by Skrog's ancient and quite comfortable chair.

"Who goes there?" Skrog said hesitantly "And why the fuck do you have a chain? You realize my bodyguards will be here any minute now, you communist street punks!?"

"Why didn't you, or anyone else, let me in when I knocked?" a cold voice said, and Skrog realized it came from the wall, where he clearly could see his former partner, Alfred Johansen. Now, Skrog hadn't given much thought to his old business partner since his funeral three months ago, and Skrog was therefore quite confused at what he thought was a hallucination.

"Begone," Skrog said, waving disinterestedly in the general direction of Johansen's spectre "I have no time for going insane at this hour. There are communists and racist frenchmen to fight! And napping to be done!"

"Skrog!" Johansen's specter shouted, as he stepped through the wall. He was clad in the clown suit he had been found dead in, and Skrog now noticed that the back of his head was blown out, just like they had found him. However, the heavy chains he carried was a new development. Skrog feigned disinterest as he looked down at his small electrical device, as his Menelmacari bank account had just hit the hextuple digits.

"I'm not listening," Skrog said, and shook his head "You're nothing but the result of age, years of alcoholism and a bad lunch."

"A bad lunch?" Johansen asked, surprised at Skrog's nonchalant tone.

"Yes, a bad lunch. Useless cook served me a bad meal!" Skrog shook his head "Naturally, I had him fired and got him barred from employment in the state and Skrogco in the future, and had the FSB designate him a communist terrorist."

"A... what?" Johansen looked more puzzled.

"Oh yeah," Skrog nodded "You died before I became Premier, my hallucination of you wouldn't know this. Got Kartlien appointed head of the FSB. You remember Kartlien, right? Brute of a man we got to break up strikes before strikebreaking was legal? Ah, good old times."

"I..." Johansen shook his head "Skrog! I come in an important errand! While my soul was damned..."

"You've found religion?" Skrog shook his head. "The real Johansen would scoff at things like souls."

"Well, dying and returning as a ghost to warn my old partners tends to put a new perspective on things," Johansen said, getting gradually more annoyed "Anyway, while my soul is damned, it is not too late for you, Skrog! You have it in you to bring much good to the world! At the stroke of midnight, you will be visited by three ghosts who will teach you the error of your ways."

"I don't have time for this hippie bullshit," Skrog waved his hand "Oh, and on the off-chance you are a ghost and religion is real, give my regards to Loke."

Johansen's spectre vanished, and Skrog was left to watch his Herdite bank account as it too was nearing the hextuble mark through transfusions from Skrogco.

At the stroke of midnight

Skrog had all but forgotten his late partner's warning as the Storvik Cathedral run the 25th of December in, and as the twelfth bell tolled, he smiled contentedly. Of course, he would have to go to the doctor in the morning, replace some medicines, since hallucinations wasn't a good development for a politician and businessma...

A thirteenth bell tolled, but this one seemed to resonate from within Skrog's home. He nearly jumped in his chair, as another specter rose from the ground. It was a man, dressed in blue overalls and a sixpence, chewing on something godawful. The specter was clean shaved, and his eyes had been patched over.

"'ello," the specter said, spitting some ectoplasm on the ground "You're Skrog right?"

"... yes?" Skrog said, confused.

"Ah, good, I went right then," the specter said "I got like, six greedy geezers to visit this year, so lets make it snappy?"

"I..." Skrog began, but the specter continued unabated.

"Y'see, you dislike Christmas and anything good and altruistic in the world now," the specter said, watching the clock "Yadda yadda disilussion bla bla humbug, am I right? Of course I'm right. But as a kid, you loved Christmas!"

The room had changed, now. Skrog was still in his chair, but now he saw his old family apartment. He saw his family, gathered... Eleven siblings, his father sitting on the couch with a bottle of vodka, and his mother having managed to distribute the Christmas Chicken relatively adequately. Skrog remembered this Christmas, as it was one of the few his fathers had attended, as he usually had to work overtime at the factory. They were opening the presents, although each of the children had but one each.

"See, Skrog?" the specter said

"What I see is poverty and shit," Skrog said "I remember all I got for christmas this year was a lousy..."

"A SLINGSHOT?!" young Skrog exclaimed and hugged his mother, while his father smiled while taking another chug of vodka, a five year old child impossible to guess would grow up to become Even Skrog. "THIS IS THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER!"

"A lousy slingshot, eh?" the specter said "It seems you loved it at the time. Age changed your outlook, perhaps, but do not deny the joy you had in these years, and the caring you had for others."

"Bah!" Skrog said, sourly "Humbug!"

"Oh well, we're on a schedule here," the spectre said and snapped his fingers again. They were now at a workshop, a furniture workshop, where a sixteen year old Skrog was sitting with his coworkers and manager as they were celebrating Christmas with good meat and better liquor.

"You used to be working class," the specter said "This was your first job, before you entered politics full of zeal to fight for the working man."

"What, you're a communist?" Skrog said "I really need to check with the doctor. Not only do I hallucinate, I hallucinate reds."

"Hell no," the specter said, annoyed "But for a child of the working class to grow up to a greedy heartless man? Here you enjoyed christmas with your comrades, while now you are putting people out on the street and stealing an entire nations' wealth. You are more scarred than you are a man, Skrog. Next scene!"

They were now at a wedding, Skrog's wedding in fact. Skrog's family had gathered, as well as the family of his would-be wife, Anne Lund. Skrog was pacing a bit, as Anne was late.

"Not this," Skrog said, closing his eyes "Goddamn these meds."

"And this is where it all changed," the specter said, having lit up a cigarette, somehow. Did cigarettes become ghosts too? "Seriously, man? You got dumped once, and you went all greedy motherfucker? Oh well, this is my final scene. I have the time for a break before we show up at Hawthorne's." he frowned "This is the sixteenth year we try that guy. He's a prick through and through." he said as he vanished, and Skrog opened his eyes. He was back in his living room, and breathed a sig of relief as he got up.

"Time to call a doctor, I thi..."

A chill took him as a new specter appeared. This one was in the shape of a socialite, looking a bit like one of Skrog's own nieces, but not quite.

"Hello!" the spectre said "I'll be the ghost of christmas present!"

"Excuse me, what?" Skrog said, confused.

"You know," the spectre said "First there's the Ghost of Christmas Past, then... Didn't the previous guy tell you this?"

"No?" Skrog said, and the spectre sighed.

"Let me guess... sixpence? Overalls? Smokes despite knowing, as ghosts, nicotine doesn't affect us whatsoever?"

"Yes?" Skrog volunteered, trying to reach his cellphone.

"Dammit, I hate working with that guy," she said, then snapped her fingers and the cellphone vanished "Can't have that, Skrogy. Now, I have eleven others to show the light tonight, so I'm afraid we'll have to make this quick, but I'm sure a bright man like yourself will have this figured out in no time! Yay!"

Skrog sighed, as the scene changed. Skrog now sat next to Anders Ludvigsen, his nephew, as he and his family were celebrating christmas.

"This is your nephew," the specter frowned "And despite your wealth and his important work, you only pay him a pittance."

"It builds character!" Skrog said "See how much character he has!"

Ludvigsen had three children, the youngest of which was at the age of five. Tiny Tom, an ironic name as Tom had Diabetes-2 and were morbidly obese as Ludvigsens' low wages meant they had to resort to junk food. For Christmas this year, the family was eating take-away Spirean food.

"A toast to my uncle!" Ludvigsen said, but his family didn't join him.

"Not now," his wife said "I can't stand his name mentioned now. He plans to abolish healthcare and make it for-profit! How can you toast a man who would let little Tom to die?"

"It's not his fault," Ludvigsen explained, a bit embarassed "My uncle just needs... time."

Tom gurgled something, nibbling at his deep-fried goat.

"This doesn't look so bad," Skrog mused "If the kid is fat, I could probably cut his wages a bit."

"I..." the specter said, facepalming as the scene changed again back to Skrog's living room "Just... have fun with Christmas Future, Skrog." she said, and vanished, muttering something about an nonredeemable old codger.

"One, two, three..." Skrog counted down, as a final apparition appeared. Unlike the last two, who resembled persons, this specter was clad all in a black coat and hood, obscuring it utterly. Its voice was neither feminine, nor masculine, as it pointed at Skrog.

"YOU'RE GOING TO SEE SOMETHING THAT WILL CHANGE YOU OUTLOOK PERMANENTLY," it said, as Skrog actually felt scared for the first time this evening. "NO-ONE GOES THROUGH CHRISTMAS FUTURE WITHO..."

And that was as far as Christmas Future got, as three men burst into the room, dressed in the uniform of the anti-paranormal division of the People's Security Bureau. When the lead man saw the ghost, he quickly three what seemed like a net, but whenever Skrog tried to focus on it it was too blurry to actually make out what it was made of, or how big it was. The net catched the specter, and the three FSB men lifted it up.

"Sorry for the delay, Premier," the sergeant said "Busy time today. Christmas is the busiest haunting time of the season, and we had a feeling they'd visit you."

"Why is that?" Skrog said.

"Err..." the sergeant said, looking a bit uneasy as the ghost of Christmas Future was swearing as it was carried outside by the two other FSB officers "It stands to reason ghosts would want to... haunt the most powerful man in the country? Clearly, there is no other reason."

Skrog nodded, and took a look at his watch, and back up at the FSB Officer "You still here? I hope you don't expect some commendation for doing your job?"

"Not at all, sir." the sergeant said, as he left the content Skrog to his own devices. He wasn't hallucinating after all!

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Founded: Apr 24, 2011

Postby Mahdah » Tue Dec 24, 2013 11:31 pm

[ MT]

[ Mature ]


The Fortunate Sons of Al Dabseh

Al-Dabseh city was one of the most devastated in the war and further more because of the raging insurgency. Al Hafa supported insurgents under the leadership of 'Hasbollah' have for eight days launched a offensive on the city to clear several commercial districts that were under 'Jabhat Al Sharia ' control. The Mahdavian Army presence in the city was a mechanized division and a artillery battalion operating outside the city with view on the vast city. The 38th Mechanized Divisional headquarters had given 2 companies to assist the milita group with defending these districts and later organize a counter attack. Al Dabseh was originally home to over 2.6 million residents and now was refuge for at least 70,000 people who stayed through the onslaught along with the insurgents who cower the city looking for occupational forces or the Mahdavian militants to engage in combat.

Hasbollah forces in the city numbered at least several hundred but were good with hit and run tactics and using the surroundings, which was rubble and bombed out buildings for shelter or improvised fighting positions. The Jabhat Al Sharia militants knew these tactics and served as guides for Mahdavian soldiers to navigate the seemingly maze like routes through buildings and alley ways used by both insurgent and occupational forces. The Offensive was heating up in the districts targeted by Hasbollah, in one of these districts was a squad of Mahdavian soldiers apart of the two companies their divisional commander had loaned the militants to help fight back the insurgents. They were the fortunate sons of Al-Dabseh and this was their story.

+ + + +

Platoon sergeant Terzi advanced down the ally behind him was the rest of his squad. He kept his ARX-160 up against his shoulder blade the butt stock being a foldable one as the rifle had a 40mm under barrel grenade launcher on it. Terzi's squad was made up of 4 riflemen, a light machine gunner , a combat medic and a militant who served as their guide and wielded a AK-74U carbine and was right behind Terzi. The platoon they were with were also clearing buildings and alley ways within a certain radius. As the squad advanced down the alley they were approaching a street up ahead when suddenly a barrel of a rifle peered around the corner and fired off several rounds. The squad broke apart taking cover as the rounds whizzed by them. Terzi fired a short burst back at where the rifle had came from as the squad LMG man went prone and set up his LSAT with the bipod being deployed.

"Insurgents up the way!" Terzi shouted as he got up against the corner of the back of a building. Their LSAT gunner was prone beside a corner as well just when insurgents begun firing blindly at the squad, the LSAT gunner fired short bursts down the street at the insurgents who cowered behind cover as the report of the machine gun sounded off.

Just then Terzi checked his under slung barrel and saw it had a 40mm shell in it as he closed the barrel and prepared to fire it down the street. "Cover me!" he ordered as he moved from cover out into the open as the squad opened fire with short concentrated bursts of suppressive fire. Terzi fired his under slung barrel just as a insurgent came out of cover wielding a RPG-7 ready to fire, the 40mm shell hit it's target just right in front of the exposed insurgent. Just as the 40mm round exploded and sent shrapnel into the insurgent's chest and face he had fired off the rocket, it spiraled toward Terzi. He with just pure instinct moved back into cover the rocket passing him as it hit a balcony down the way.

The insurgents had then got a truck with a .50 cal tripod in the back to pull up as the squad moved for cover as the report of the .50 cal ripped through the air. Unfourtantly their militant guide was not quick enough and caught two rounds to the chest which sent him momentarily in the air before falling on his back. Two gaping holes in his abdomen blood oozing out of him as he laid their dying while the .50cal continued it's fire. The squad had become stuck now, pinned down by a truck as rounds whizzed past before suddenly a Jaguar IFV pulled into the alley way having a 30mm cannon on it along with a coaxial 12.7 machine gun. The 30mm cannon did it's work before the driver could even hit the gas to dodge the incoming rounds as the truck was devastated and the insurgents ran for cover as the truck exploded.

The squad medic finally was able to tend to the militant as several additional soldiers came out the back providing cover and assistance. The militant was quickly hauled into the Jaguar as it pulled out from the alleyway. Terzi sighed as he came out of his cover and so did his squad joining him where he stood.

"Fuck. I'm betting on that's not the last we see of those guys" Terzi said as he spit on the concrete then taking the magazine out of his rifle and checking for how many rounds were left. He sent it back in as it clicked in place and looked at his squad before nodding and proceeding down the alley as his squad followed.

"Reload if you must, we're going to be engaged pretty soon" Terzi said as he hit the corner of the alley while his squad took up position. He took a breath and took a peak around the corner with his weapon shouldered ready to fire if needed. What he saw was what looked like a clear path ahead. As he motioned his squad to follow and he took cover behind an abandoned vehicle towards the sidewalk while his squad found cover. Behind Terzi and his squad was a rumble, faint at first but was getting louder. Terzi looking behind his shoulder he saw at his relief a ZKS-76 Tank coming from down the street. The tank's gunner was present manning the coaxal machine gun ontop of the tank as Terzi stood up and hailed the tank to stop. It did as Terzi jogged over and hopped aboard and spoke briefly to the gunner. They both nodded and Terzi got back to his squad.

"What's going on Terzi?" his second in command asked as Terzi smiled at him and his squad. "The commander of this tank has given us his assistance and theirs another platoon of militants coming to help us" Terzi said as he looked up ahead he scanned up what was ahead as best he could before giving orders to his squad and begun advancing, the tank moved slower following behind as support. As guessed gunfire sounded off not to far from them and rounds were hitting the tank and whizzing around them. The squad began trying to figure out where it was coming from as the gunner went back inside the tank closing the hatch, the ZKS-76's main gun rotated trying to find it's target. The squad soon found where the shots were coming from, a high rise not far away was where the shots were coming from. The LSAT gunner set up it's bipod and went to work with concentrated bursts of fire going down range to the target.

The ZKS-76 soon caught on with where these shots were going as it's turret rotated and elevated to it's target, the insurgents were about to be blown to bits. It's 130mm main gun trained it's barrel on the firing position and the loader sent a shell inside the tube and closed it shut, the main gun fired as smoke rose into the air. The shell which impacted the high rise blew a large hole into the building as debris and dust and smoke covered the blast site. The squad advanced forward knowing the insurgents in there weren't alive any more. The fortunate sons, the soldiers fighting in Al-Dabseh.

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Founded: Sep 20, 2012

Postby Breheim » Wed Jan 01, 2014 9:27 pm

[ MT ]

Fifty Kroner

"Aren't you Ragnar Hansen? The trade union guy?" the man asked. It was a young lad, with some patches of hair on his chin and an overcoat three sizes to large for him.

"Yes," Ragnar Hansen answered, turning around "What's it to you?"

"Nothing, nothing," the man said and turned around. Ragnar Hansen sighed.

Ragnar Hansen stood in the southern street market of Storvik, by the Tronsmo Cinema and the Johansen Canned Food Plant, stepping through the snow and looking for a slab of whale meat for dinner. His wife had fallen sick a few weeks ago, and he was still getting used to buying groceries... the only times he had been at any store since he got married was to buy liquor. Having to keep track of everything else they needed, meats and vegetables, potatoes and liquor, detergents and toilet paper, was nearly enough to drive a man crazy. He had least learned to not go to the market on a busy day. Only a couple dozen people, mostly women, were measuring up the quality and prices in the various stalls, most of whom hadn't opened yet. There were perhaps thirty or forty permanent stalls, and in the busy period more were opened by crafty merchants. It was an official market, so Hansen avoided having to speak to the scum and criminals who peddled their ill-gotten goods down in the unofficial markets, but here people were thinking he was a faggot since shopping was a feminine pursuit. At least there were more men than women in the unofficial markets.

Ragnar Hansen was a large man. Large in the past tense, as while his physical stature was as impressive as ever, the man still seemed smaller than before. His pride and belief in a better tomorrow had gone, and the man was just going through the motions as he picked up the wrapped up piece of whale, weighing it and looking at the price. He still had no idea if two hundred kroner for half a kilo of whale meat was a good deal or not. He was not used to this peddling, this haggling this... capitalism. But his wife was in the hospital, his children had grown up and left, so he had to buy and prepare his own food. His trademark mustache was unkempt, his formerly well-groomed hair a mess. He had lost his position in the National Assembly, and while he was Deputy Leader of the Breheimian Worker's Confederation, it was an unpaid position. He briefly regretted having slashed the number of paid positions in the BWC to only include the full-time employees, and not the elected leadership, but his principles remained the same. He knew it was a good thing to not have a paid position, but now that healthcare was getting privatized, he was unsure if he'd be able to pay for his wife's treatment.

He smelled the whale meat, and spat. It smelled disgusting, but it was the cheapest one available. Since losing his seat, he had had to find a job in the local steel mill... then it went bankrupt. He had been looking for other opportunities ever since, but employers were vary of hiring the man who had led the Great General Strike. Understandable enough, but the slashed unemployment subsidies and the rising housing prices, meant he could no longer afford electricity. That didn't bother him much. He was a Breheimian man, all he needed to live was meat and liquor. It had also inspired him to keep on the fight against capitalism... but he no longer believed they had any chance of winning. The kids? They have no pride in their class, they only think about their deviant desires. The old men? They, like Ragnar, had lost their belief in a better world. One of Hansen's closest friends and political allies, the former Premier Grim Trane, was a shadow of his former self and Hansen had stopped giving him visits. The man was broken, utterly broken, and what kept Hansen going now was a deep desire to not end up like Trane, sitting on the National Assembly for the communists and just going through the motions, abandoning all desire to shape the world, and instead spend all his time drunk. Hansen was worried; while drunken debauchery was common in the country, the extent Trane had gone, starting with vodka in the morning, and never remembering going to bed... It couldn't be healthy, for soul nor body.

"That'll be two hundred kroner," the merchant said. One of the few men lining the stalls, the merchant was a thin and tall man, with a well-kept graying beard. He was peering at Hansen through thick glasses "Wait, aren't you Ragnar Hansen? That'll be two hundred and fifty kroner."

"What?" Ragnar Hansen shouted, slamming the whale meat down at the stall "That is bullshit!"

"Don't blame me," the merchant said "Have to cover the costs of your strike nearly leaving me bankrupt. I got the stall, I got the whale and you got the money. Just hand them over, Hansen."

"You price gouging little shit!" Ragnar Hansen screamed, and the surrounding shoppers were quickly stepping out of the way.

"I'm a little shit?" the merchant said, face going red "I am? You are the man who fucking destroyed our country, you drunken madma..."

That was as far as the merchant got, before Hansen punched out his teeth. The merchant collapsed, falling down like a sack of rocks, and Hansen picked up the whale meat. He got out a two hundred kroner bill from his pocket, and laid it down on the stall, before spitting on the merchant. He trodded back home.

A few hours later...

Hansen was laying on the couch, sipping from a bottle of Flis, when two knocks rang through the door. The small apartment was untidy, having experienced a man living in it by himself for three weeks, with empty bottles of liquor and beer laying strewn around. The kitchen was full of dirty plates, Hansen preferring to just wash them out with water before eating rather than actually clean them. Hansen sat with a heavy coat, gloves and an ushanka, as the electricity bill went unpaid, the temperature in the room was below zero. He sighed as he got up, and opened the door. Two officers of the People's Security Bureau stood outside, a man and a woman. The mustached slightly overweight man, obviously the senior, gave a small smile to Hansen as the door was opened, while the short brunette was holding a tape recorder.

"What?" Hansen said, holding the half-empty bottle of flis in one hand, and was staring down the woman. After a few seconds, she looked away.

"Well, Mr. Hansen," the officer said "We have on camera you assaulting a merchant at 11:37, who is currently hospitalized. I will have to ask you to come with us."

"I remember no such thing," Hansen said, putting down the bottle of Flis and crossing his arms "Are you sure it was me?"

"Yes," the smile vanished from the officers' face "Would you come with us, please?"

"Are you union?" Hansen said, arms still crossed, and his whole body tensed up.

"Of course?" the officer said, confused.

"Very well then," Hansen nodded "I'll come with you then."

During interrogations with both the merchant and Hansen, it came to light the merchant had provoked the assault, and with eyewitnesseses confirming it. As such Hansen got off with a fine of two hundred and fifty kroner.
Last edited by Breheim on Wed Jan 01, 2014 9:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Postmaster of the Fleet
Posts: 22047
Founded: Jan 19, 2013
Benevolent Dictatorship

Postby Transoxthraxia » Wed Jan 01, 2014 11:10 pm

[ PT [WW2] ]

Desmites Punktu Zvaigznas - The Ten Point Star
Story theme.

A map of Transoxthraxia, c. October, 1945. Dark Red.


Trīspadsmitais bruņu sadalījums. That's what they were called. That's what was painted onto their tanks. That's what had been stitched onto the pauldron of the members of the Thirteenth Armoured Division. The Lucky Thirteenth. Or so they had been called. In reality, there was nothing lucky about the number. The Thirteenth had been created in 1939 after the twelfth and the thirteenth had been commissioned by the Iron Ring in response to increased aggression from Franco's Spain. Given the best equipment available, the Thirteenth had been equipped with the Vokruta Mk. II, a tank which had recently entered production after its prototype stages. The tank was beautiful - a marvel of the modern tanker. It was a medium-heavy tank - versatile, but still powerful. And certainly superior to anything that Franco could sling at the Transoxthraxians. After the occupation of Andalusia in 1938, the relations between the two countries weren't the best. But little did they know that rather than shooting at Spaniards, the Thirteenth would find themselves shooting at Russians in 1941, after the Iron Ring signed the nation into the Axis. Like all of the Transoxthraxian troops, the Thirteenth had been assigned to the northern front - They saw action all along the northern battles, from Leningrad to Moscow. Like the rest of the Transoxthraxians, as well, they were used as the shock troops, the front-liners that took the brunt of the casualties for the Germans. When the tide began to turn in 1943, the Transoxthraxians soon found themselves at the butt-end of every retreat, covering Italian, Romanian, Bulgarian, and German retreats alike. With few reinforcements, and massive casualties, most of the Transoxthraxian Royal Army - Eastern Front, of which the Thirteenth was a part of, shattered. Following the military policy that was dictated by the high-ups in the Iron Ring, the Transoxthraxians were not to retreat. Multiple Soviet accounts detail entire Transoxthraxian infantry brigades charging at Soviet lines with Bayonets after they had run out of ammunition.

It was at the Battle of Vladimir when the infamous Thirteenth earned its less than stellar reputation. The Italian army in the north was in full-scale retreat. And not an organized one. Anyone who could flee west fled - including the near-entirety of the Northeastern Italian Army. The Twelfth and the Thirteenth Armoured Brigades were sent by the Transoxthraxian High Command, influenced by the German High Command, to fill the Italian gap at the city of Vladimir. Little did they know, however, the two brigades were moving to intercept an entire army. What Hitler had failed to realize was that the Soviet Union's military wasn't weak; it just took a long time to gain traction and get moving. And by 1943, it was in full swing. The Northern Front brought inestimable amounts of Soviet infantry, armour, and artillery upon the weakened Axis members. When the Twelfth and Thirteenth relocated to Vladimir, they had already received extensive casualties, and were in no position to reinforce. They had bare hours before the Soviets descended upon the city in full force.

Despite the Transoxthraxian's veteran commanders and battle-hardened troops, it mattered not against the Red Tide. The city was overwhelmed in mere hours. The Twelfth, as per protocol, refused to retreat. They stayed in Vladimir, and the Thirteenth was expected to do so as well. Despite the fact that the city was surrounded, the Thirteenth, using what ammunition and manpower it had left, broke through the western line of the Soviets, just as the Twelfth was being surrounded. Upon arrival in the Transoxthraxian capital, Vounomethea, Dirgudas Alaxndras, commander of the Thirteenth, had a Ten-Point star carved into his forehead, to signify cowardice, and the Thirteenth refitted, resupplied, and reinforced. Every tank the Thirteenth owned, however, had a Ten-Point Star sprayed upon the turrets.

October thirteenth, 1945.
Ĭagyaš Plains, Transoxthraxian Heartland.

By October thirteenth, 1945, the entire political situation in the world had shifted dramatically. Germany had been split - The atom bombs had been dropped upon Japan. The last Axis power to exist on Earth - Transoxthraxia - had officially surrendered a week ago, the Queen signed the London Concordat, abdicating to a western-chosen government. Three days after, the Gyraš Pocket, the last major Axis resistance pocket, the remnants of the Transoxthraxian Home Army, had surrendered. Vounomethea was in ruins. A single Axis Division was still operating; The Thirteenth Armoured Division. They had been sent out of the Gyraš Pocket not a day before they had surrendered to reinforce Vounomethea - Despite the fact that it had already fallen. The last communique received from Vounomethea was a week old, and the Gyraš Pocket could only assume the worst.

It was raining. Hard.

The troops couldn't find shelter in tents, as they hadn't taken any along with them. In fact, they had taken no supplies that their tanks didn't need to fight with. Transoxthraxian tank crews slept where they could - usually the claustrophobic spaces of their ancient Vokruta Mk. IIs. Dirgudas Alaxndras himself was sleeping in a tank tonight. They hadn't made it to Vounomethea, and it was likely they weren't going to. Scouts reported massive Allied armoured columns heading their way, most likely to reinforce Gyraš. They'd run directly into the thirteenth.

Dirgudas, however, was not sleeping. Despite the heavy rain, he stood out upon the fields, and looked upon what had once been a mighty kingdom, now crippled by warfare. He couldn't say that he was innocent; he had done his fair share of slash and burn in the nation after their withdrawal. He was even a member of the Iron Party, the monarchist faction within the Transoxthraxian political sphere. He had fully supported the war, and Transoxthraxian imperialism. He still did. He would soon have to pay for his crimes. "The enemy of one side, and despised by the other..." He muttered to himself, his right hand extending from his overcoat to feel the Ten-point on his forehead. It had never healed, the Iron Ring made sure of it. They had shot other officers for less. But if an example was to be made, he was the example. Transoxthraxians do not retreat. As the rain poured down, soaking his overcoat, his commander's cap, and his entire body, chilling him to the core in the cool October rain, his Second-in-command came up to him.

He was Kaptas Punikus Konnidugaz, a fiery officer straight out of the aristocratic officer school. Being a Kaptas, he was the underling to Alaxndras, who was supposedly his mentor, and advisor. But Alaxndras couldn't stand Konnidugaz. "My liege." Konnidugaz performed a Transoxthraxian salute. Without turning, Alaxndras nonchalantly waved his hand dismissively. Doing so made his entire body squelch; he was soaked with rain. He could barely stop his teeth from chattering. "Des Ammurikannas will be here by morning. They outnumber us, and are better equipped. We need to head back to Gyraš. We'll find-"

Before he continued, Alaxndras had turned to him. Konnidugaz was dressed in a similar fashion, but wearing a different command cap to denote rank. As he turned, his eyes met Konnidugazs'. For a moment, both of them locked eyes. They were both pure-blooded Transoxthraxians; black hair, icy-blue eyes. But when Konnidugaz stared into Alaxndras' eyes, he saw only a broken man. Alaxndras was physically much smaller than the noble Konnidugaz. Barely reaching 5'5, Alaxndras was scrawny as well as short. He was trapped between an ethnic enemy and a political one. He had been branded a failure by the state and an enemy by the allies. A loose cannon. To be dealt with accordingly. "We cannot go back." Alaxndras said plainly, before averting his eyes from Konnidugazs' gaze. "I will not face the shame of surrender. Not after what happened." He took off his cap, to reveal matted hair, slick with rain, dangling haphazardly over his Ten-Point. "They've branded me a coward and traitor in the state. I will not, however, suffer the eternal consequence of appearing in history as a coward and traitor." He said meekly, once again meeting Konnidugazs' stare. "I love this nation. I love the people who live within it. We outlived the Germans. We outlived the Japanese. But now what? Vounomethea is most likely lost. We've resorted to hiding in the mountains in Gyraš to combat the Allies. We've caused too much suffering for the people within this nation in which I love. We shall fight the Americans here, upon these plains you see before you. Whether we win or lose, we shall do it honourably. And it will all be over, my dear underling." Alaxndras then sneezed, before collapsing into a coughing fit, using Konnigudaz as support.

There was a long silence between the two men. Konnidugaz finally spoke up. "It was upon these very same plains, nearly two thousand years ago in which our ancestors were massacred by the Romans. Everybody seems to forget that. I came across a quote when I was in officer's college. It never really meant anything to me before now. You're a read man, my liege. Do you know of Samuel Johnson?" He asked, his voice deadpan and serious. Alaxndras shook his head, no. Taking a deep breath, Konnidugaz spoke. "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man. You're the sufferer." A valiant look of pride appeared in his eyes, despite his desperate surroundings. Giving a Transoxthraxian salute, which included raising your right elbow parallel to your shoulder blade, and then turning your arm upwards to the sky in a fist, and then bringing your left fist upwards to the right section of your chest, and beating against it thrice.

Dawn came. Despite the fact that it had stopped raining, it still was overcast, and cold as anything. The ground had become wet and boggy. At the crack of dawn, the Transoxthraxian tank crews had been risen, and their tank's engines turned on in an immense display of power. They rode over the gently sloping, boggy hills that had been created by last night's intense downpour. Approximately thirty minutes after they had started towards Vounomethea once again, they collided with the American armoured column. Dumbfounded to find a still-active Transoxthraxian division, they offered them surrender. The Transoxthraxians responded with, as it was later recorded by an American officer who tried to mediate the surrender, "One last show of courage". The armoured division faced off against the Americans, and, as they were vastly outnumbered, were soon surrounded, and, despite the casualties they had inflicted upon the enemy, they were running out of ammunition and manpower. In a classic Transoxthraxian move, the last few Transoxthraxian tanks left, charged the American lines, and, as the legend goes, Alaxndras' tank was leading the charge.

A single Transoxthraxian survived the battle. Konnidugaz. He would later write an extremely biased book about the event, claiming that Alaxndras was criminally insane, and had developed Schizophrenia as a result of the Eastern Front. It was the last conflict in the Second World War. Hive hundred and ninety nine dead Transoxthraxians. Three hundred and thirteen dead Americans. Some say the spirits of the dead Transoxthraxians still haunt the fields that they died in. But most know that that would be impossible; they're in the Ancirraic paradise; they had proven themselves worthy of bravery. Postmortem, every single casualty, excepting Alaxndras was awarded The Republican Medal of Bravery and Devotion.
Where must we go, we who wander this wasteland, in search for our better selves?
In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows:—
"I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone,
"The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
"The wonders of my hand." The City's gone,
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.

We wonder, and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.
The Nuclear Fist wrote:Transoxthraxia confirmed for shit taste

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Die Intergalaktischen Raterepublik
Posts: 61
Founded: Jan 10, 2013

Postby Die Intergalaktischen Raterepublik » Mon Jan 06, 2014 11:53 pm

[ FT ]

For Republic, People and Beer

The 'Volksdemokratischen Getränkeunternehmen' (loosely translates into People's Democratic Beverage Enterprise) was the primary state-run drinking establishment throughout the Volksplanet, the capital planet of the Intergalactic Council Republic. The full name itself was rarely used by the people of the planet, of course, with it normally being referred to as 'Die Kneipe' (the pub), although there hundreds of thousands of them located throughout the Volksplanet, each one more identical than the last. This particular VG was located in the working class district of Grinderstadt, one of the major industrial cities of the Volksplanet. With its population of ten million, it was a major city on the planet, but on the scale of the IGRR itself it was relatively unknown. On this day, Johannes Fleischer, a student at the Grindersburg Volkshochschule was doing his typical friday evening ritual of hitting the pub, spending what little daily volksmarks he received for his studies in Colonial Linguistics and Customs. The establishment, like any other VG, was immaculately clean and swamped with people as it was friday. Factory workers, students, office workers, officials and people from all walks of life mingling, as the VG was the only drinking establishment available, and prices were the same on all of them.

Three floors, each with a bar, and each with an assortment of tables, chairs and couches. Typically, you could find all the typical drinks of the IGRR in the VG, such as light beers, dark beers, lagers, ales, whiskeys, wines, vodkas and brandies, but the various beers were the ones often most sold. Johannes Fleischer, as was typical, seated himself on the first floor. On friday nights, the third and second floor were often too lively for his tastes, as he preferred to go through his assignments with a couple of cold beers in the first floor. Typically, he was alone. Fleischer was a tall lad, nineteen years of age but was already fully grown. Most who saw him guessed he was a manual labourer or teamster, as he was active in the Volkshochschule's martial arts division, and had even been a part of the team that beat the Volksstadt in the National Students' Fighting Competition, the first time the Grinders had beaten the Volksies. He was the archetypical Volksplaneteer, with bright blue eyes and short blonde hair. His lack of facial hair shamed him, but he was as yet unable to grow even enough for a goatee, let alone a full beard, he was forced to keep it well-trimmed. He took a sip of the ale, and continued reading his notes from the lecture.

Reviewing his latest assignments on the most important word in the Gorillan tongue, Ook, Fleischer had learned it could mean "yes", "no" and "I want a banana" depending on intonation, as well as hundreds of different potential meanings depending on intonation, body language and context. Not to mention it was by far the most common given name among the Gorillans, which complicated matters even more. Learning the Gorillan language could seem simple on the surface, as it had less than a thousand words, but each of those words could mean different things depending on intonation, body language and context... And Ook was the most important word of them all. He wasn't even sure if he was able to make some of the movements the Professor had shown them (such as showing the vital difference between 'Ook' while leaning over with both fists on the ground, which meant 'thank you for the meal, honourable host' and 'Ook' while leaning forwards with one knuckle to the ground and the other on the groin, meaning 'I had much fun having sex with your daughter'). The word Eek was a lot simpler, having a mere fifty different meanings, and most of them were in the similar vein in terms of being descriptors (potentially meaning both 'big', 'wet', 'deep', 'dangerous' and 'wimpy' depending on intonation and body language, as well as dozens of other potential meanings). He took another sip, when a group entered the pub.

Now, people entering and leaving the pub was far from unusual, but the group which entered now, came with military precision. They were two men and a woman, the woman seemingly leading them. While dressed in civilian clothing, their stature, their expression and their way of walking all spoke of one thing: These were in the Volksmarine, and proud of it. They looked around at the tables, where family and friends sat in discussion over a few beers, barely hearing the thumping music from above due to the pub's good insulation. Fleischer gave them no thought, being fully invested in never making the mistake of saying 'why you do have a great big phallus I'd love to feel it' and 'why no thanks I appreciate the offer but I have duties elsewhere' (both being 'Ook Oak Ook', with the difference being spacing and intonation). The trio went for Fleischer's table, and when he didn't seem to respond to them, they ordered some beers while chatting among themselves, a conversation that had been planned and practiced to the point it sounded entirely natural.

"I love this place," the woman said, the oldest of the trio. She was in her late twenties, fit and with short black hair going to her shoulders, with piercing green eyes. A tattoo was barely visible on her left neck, mostly covered by the fairly modest, yet form-fitting, shirt she was wearing. "Although, it never seems to be full."

"That is because our men and women are serving in the stars," one of the men stammered forth. He was the youngest of the three, at the same age as Fleischer, with a sixpence covering his head, although he seemed to be completely bald underneath it. His stammering caused the woman to give him a quick stare, which Fleischer was fully oblivious to.

"Yes, yes," the other man said, older than the first... perhaps in his mid twenties. He had a well-kept blonde moustache which Fleischer would kill for, but a rather guttural scar running from his temple down his nose, although the nose itself seemed whole. He accepted the beer from the passing waitress "Good thing that, but I'd not be in it if not for the pay. Imagine, we're paid as much as an engineer to see the stars, to see the planets and to protect the Republic. All well and good, but I quite like being able to afford two nice vacations a year."

"Hm?" Fleischer said, looking up "Excuse me..?"

"Oh, don't mind us, please," the woman said, giving a white smile to Fleischer "There weren't anywhere else to sit. We prefer the quiet of the first floor on our leave."

"You're military?" Fleischer asked.

"Aye, lad," the older man said and downed the ale in one drink "Ah, let's get some whiskey. It's friday, after all! You want some lad?"

"I really should focus on my studies..." Fleischer responded, and returned to his tablet.

"Waitress!" the older man shouted "Get us two Kohlwhiskeys, and not that cheap Rotplanet knock-off! I want the real damn thing, and four glasses!"

"You're a student?" the woman said, leaning on her elbows and looked straight at Fleischer "What are you studying, if I may ask?"

"Colonial Languages and Customs," Fleischer responded "Specializing in the Gorillan culture and language."

"Ook, eek... Ook." the older man said, moving his eyebrows while cracking his knuckles.

"Excuse me?" Fleischer said, not understanding a word.

"That means, roughly," the older man said "By the Great Banana, the drinks should come soon. I served with a group of Gorillans back on Kohlmannwelt and picked up a bit of the language. Fascinating people, those Gorillans, but they can't handle a drink worth for shit."

"Really?" Fleischer said, putting away the tablet "The only Gorillan I've ever met is the Professor."

"Oh, we've met plenty," the woman said "A lot of them serve in the Volksmarine, but they tend to dislike it when other people try to speak their language. We don't have long enough arms, see, nor can we quite make all the facial cues, so they only really tolerate it when comrades-at-arms do it."

"The Professor didn't say that..." Fleischer said "He said it was a great honour for a Gorillan that a Volksplaneteer would speak their language and know their customs."

The trio of soldiers looked at each other, and burst out laughing. Finally, the waitress came with a bottle of whiskey, and four glasses, pouring it for them. The soldiers downed theirs in one drink each, and looked at Fleischer.

"Come on, lad," the scarred man said "I can't imagine it's often you get the opportunity to drink proper Kohlwhiskey, with a students' allowance."

Fleischer hesitated for a bit, but then downed the entire glass, not wanted to seem less than the soldiers. His face went red as the drink burned its way down his chest, and somehow a part of it went up in his nose, but with great willpower managed to prevent to cough.

"Hah, there's a good lad!" the scarred man said, grinning "A stomach like yours is wasted among the intelligentsia! I'm corporal Hitler, this is Sergeant Feuker," he gestured to the woman, who still smiled "And this is soldier Frauenheim." he grinned a bit at that.

"I prefer Hans, please," Frauenheim said "One can't choose one's name, can one?"

"True enough," Hitler said "I'm glad I can at least be proud of my name. My grandfather, Herbert Hitler, was an admiral in the Volksmarine! Led the valiant evacuation of Volkstation-3!"

"Military family?" Fleischer said, his head started to get light from the whiskey, as Hitler poured the glasses again.

"Aye," Hitler responded "Not as typical as you'd think. Any young man and woman can earn their distinctions in the Volksmarine," he finished pouring the last glass, and lifted it "Of course, I need to live up to the Hitler name, but no-one expects so but myself! To family!" he raised his glass, and the other soldiers did so too, and Fleischer couldn't help but doing so himself, chiming in with "To family!"

"I think," Fleischer said as he shook his head from the whiskey "My... great-great-great-great... and so on, grandmother... well, she was one of the founding members of the Party."

"Ey!" the woman said, and gestured for the waitress for another bottle, which she provided, and filled up the glasses again "To the Party!"

They took another glass each, and Fleischer could feel his vision getting a bit blurry, but he was warm from the whiskey and the company. "How can you afford this? We've already a bottle!"

"Soldiers' wages, lad," Hitler nodded "Quite impressive, for the stalwart defenders of our fair planets. An enlisted man earns more than you will when you're done studying, you know?"

"Really?" Fleischer said, and just now noticed his glass was full again, and took another drink. After that, it became a bit fuzzy.

The next day

"Wake up!" someone shouted in Fleischer's ear, although they might just have said it. His head felt like a bitch... What had happened last night? He remembered Hitler and Hans... and of course, Feuker... He was pretty sure they had made out, sung songs... A great time, a shame he only remembered bits and pieces of it... By the Republic, why was it so damn bri... Where was he?

"Wake up, soldier!" Hitler said "First day on duty. Exciting, eh? The ship's about to depart, and the Commander will be making a speech. We're off to hunt the Voice."

"The... Voice?" Fleischer said "Wait, soldier? I'm not..."

"Signed up yesterday, lad." Hitler said with a smile, and hit Fleischer lightly on the side. It was only now Fleischer realized he was inside a small cabin, a bed... a desk... a wardrobe and a computer. Not much, and definitely not his room. A whirring sound could be heard in the background.

"Signed... up?" he asked

"Aye, lad," Hitler nodded "Signature and everything, all has been taken care of. You're off the uni, and for the next ten years, you are with the Volksmarine!"

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Posts: 1064
Founded: Sep 20, 2012

Postby Breheim » Sun Jan 19, 2014 2:02 pm

[ FanT/Mature ]


The village of Tyrshaugen in northern Svartskog was, by all accounts, quite unremarkable. The river village made a meager living out of the timber industry, as well as hunting. While they had applied several times to become a tourist area, which would lift tourist restrictions in the area at large, this had been denied several times by the FSB. A total population of less than two hundred, it was barely on the regional map. A hundred houses, spread equally on the west and eastern side of the river, connected by a single bridge, dotted by vast forests along the river. While a century ago, the minerals flowing downriver had provided employment and prosperity, the advent of the railway had made the rivers largely irrelevant to goods production. The village had shrunk since then, several houses being unoccupied, and few of the youth opted to remain in the village of their birth. The village was greying, old men and women being the majority, holding old beliefs.

Two men, both patriarchs of their clans, met on the river one winter morning, ice sheets flowing underneath them. One was an old lumberjack, haggard and gaunt, leaning on an axe/cane. Cleanshaved, the man carried many scars from his decades working in the woods. He was the head of the Holmsrud Clan on the eastern side of the river. The other was a short and portly man, middle-aged and in contrast to the lumberjack's cleanshaved face, nurtured an extensive beard. He was the proprietor of the only shop in town as well as a reputable moonshiner. He was the head of the Ulfhede Clan on the western side of the river. He carried no cane, but had a dagger in his belt.

"Nasty weather we've been having," the Ulfshede patriarch said "Good thing we're not farmers."

"Yeah," the Holmsrud patriarch nodded in agreement "Worse than the one back in '76. I heard your granddaughter's son was born, alive and well?"

"Yes," the Ulfshede patriarch said "Praise Frigg, a strong lad already. A shame about his father."

"You can't trust the city folk," Holmsrud muttered, shifting his position slightly, leaning heavily on his axe "Coming here and putting a boy into that poor girl, then leaving. Lack all honour, the lot of them."

"Can't be helped," Ulfshede responded "Can't be helped."

"I trust you've checked the child?" Holmsrud said, his eyes narrowing a bit "Can't be too careful."

"We have," Ulfshede said, then decided to move on to the subject the two men had met to discuss "The Volva will be able to tell for sure, but the child is no utgardspawn according to Ingrid."

"How's the lass anyway?" Holmsrud said, dodging the subject for a bit longer "I heard there was another accident?"

"There was," Ulfshede said, paling a bit "A most... unnatural one. The undertaker said it was a heart attack."

"That's the third one, isn't it?" Holmsrud said

"Yes," and Ulfshede held his hand casually on his dagger "Strange it only affects us, don't you think?"

"It doesn't," Holmsrud said, wiping his nose "Yesterday... Johanna found Karl. By the woods. Rotting. He had only been gone for a few hours."

"My condolences," Ulfshede said "As for the volva... When is she coming?"

"She's already here," Holmsrud responded, putting down his handkerchief "She's already here."

"She came to you first? I haven't heard of this." Ulfshede said, his pride slightly wounded.

"She knows you are to blame for this," Holmsrud said

"What?" Ulfshede said "How dare you say anything like that? I'm not the one who brought this misery upon us! You are!"

"You refused to provide sacrifice," Holmsrud said, spitting on the line that had been drawn over the bridge "You refused to uphold your end of the bargain. You knew the deal, Ulfshede. You may have some fancy education in the city, but you were born here. You know our ways."

"It's madness is what it is," Ulfshede shook his head "The village is already dying. No reason to speed up the process."

"That's the arrangement of our ancestors," Holmsrud continued "A girl and a boy, every seventh year. My family provides one, yours the other."

"And that is madness," Ulfshede shook his head "Madness I tell you. I've spoken with the Gydjer of Odinbe..."

"Odinberg!" Holmsrud spit "Those dickless nidings don't know anything about the old ways. They dishonour the gods. They use the Killed God's, the White Christ's, methods and just paint a pretty picture with the gods of our blood with it." Holmsrud spit again "And you're just like them. A dickless coward with no respect for the gods. What, you probably pray to them!"

"Prayer's never hurt any..." Ulfshede began, but was interrupted

"I knew it," Holmsrud said, his face reddening "No wonder the Gods are angry. First, you prevent the sacrifice, and then you pray at them? How would you like if I knocked on your door and came begging every day, with nothing to give, and no token of respect?"

"That's different," Ulfshede shook his head "Let us hear what the Volva has to say, no? If anyone knows what is wrong, it is her. And she is a bit more worldly than you, Holmsrud. You've barely been a stone's throw away from the village your entire life!"

"This meeting is over," Holmsrud said "But before you go, let me say this... I have quarrels with your family, but you... Oh you don't belong here. Even the Ulfhede shouldn't be led by some coward from the city."

"And the Holmsruds are better than one mad old man with a deathwish," Ulfhede responded, as the two men returned to their halves of the village.

A few hours later

The entire village was gathered. Ulfhede on the western side of the bridge, and the Holmsrud on the eastern side of the bridge. The respective patriarchs stood at the forefront, naturally, while in the dead centre of the bridge, and old woman stood. She was clad in a white cloak, and had etched runes into the bridge after removing any trace of snow, having created a perfect circle surrounded by runes. The old woman was perhaps in her eighties, or older, with long grey hair, and she was assisted by a younger woman, perhaps in her late thirties or early forties, who was the one who had carved the runes with a knife. The villagers watched, silent. The old woman retrieved a long, jagged, dagger from inside her cloak and wheezed:

"Bring me the beast."

The Holmsruds brought a wild boar, still alive, albeit barely, as it had been knocked over the head several times. Capturing it alive had taken a great deal of strength and cunning, and it was carried by the two strongest men of the Holmsrud clan. Meanwhile, the Ulfhede brought a cow, an expensive commodity in these areas, led by a woman. Both families looked expectantly at the Volva, hoping she'd take the animal their family had offered. The volva looked at the two animals, then smiled.

"Each in turn, then," she said "The boar first."

The Holmsrud boys carried the young boar, putting it on its back inside the circle. The volva stepped over it, and in a single motion cut open its gut, handed the knife over to the younger volva, and tore out parts of the boar's intestines, singing quietly to herself. Finally, she dropped the intestines on the floor, within the runed circle, then stared at it for half a minute. The villagers held their breaths.

"Hear me speak!" the Volva shouted, the mild wheezing voice the villagers had heard formerly vanishing, a booming and serene voice replacing it. The villagers on both sides took a step back, as the Volva's eyes seemed to have vanished, two pitch black holes remaining "Bargains broken and barters reneged, here is the crime of Tyrshaugen! Forty-nine friends will fall, unless the heart of the unwed and unloved is offered! Forty-nine friends will fall, unless spine of seditious sycophant sizzles! This will redeem Tyrshaugen! Such spoke the Volva, such will it occur!"

The Volva shook her head, and her eyes returned. The younger of the two removed the intestines of the boar. "The next beast."

"But..." the Ulfhede patriarch said, but a quick stare from the Volva shut him up as the cow was goaded into the circle. "Axe!" the volva commanded, in her normal wheezing voice, and the Holmsrud patriarch provided his, and the small old woman lifted it high, singing, and let it fall of the cow's neck. It split clean off, and she lifted the cow's head, effortlessly kicking the rest of the carcass into the river, and still sang while she shook it over the circle, splatters of blood falling on it. After fourteen seconds, she threw the head away, and stared into the circle.

"What's this for?" the Ulfhede patriarch muttered "We know what we want to know..."

"But we do not," the younger volva said, staring the patriarch down. "Someone should remember to write note of this."

Again, the old woman's eyes vanished, revealing two pitch black holes, and she gasped for air, before the earlier booming voice once more came from the tiny old woman's mouth. "Heed me, Sons of Glaciers! Culprit crowned, filth festers! Wars waged while women weep! A hundred days and a hundred nights will pass, with the sun growing weaker! Five friends fight, while warriors will find work! Fylking of the falcon feathered revealed! Terror and tribulations, devastation and despair! One versus Many! Such spoke the Volva, such will it occur!"

After this, the old woman collapsed, and was carried away by the younger volva. The villagers looked at each other, a bit nervously.

"What was that supposed to mean?" one said, leading to several minutes of argument, until the two patriarchs looked at each other, and shouted their kinsmen down.

"The second foretelling can be ignored," Holmsrud said "There is nothing we can do anyway. As for the first... Magnus!"

A man stepped forward from the Holmsrud side of the bridge, a broad man who sweated slightly despite the cold, tugging his mustache intently.

"Our orphan," the Holmsrud patriarch said, stepping slowly towards Magnus "No wife, no kids. You know what we must do."

Magnus nodded, and looked down.

"It is for the family," Holmsrud said "We'll blot now. The volva said forty-nine graves unless we do it, and I'd rather not give the Gods any reason to think we're lazy."

Magnus nodded again, staring down at his feet, pale.

The Ulfhede had a bit more problems, arguing intently about who the Volva was referring to for the sacrifice.

"Seditious sycophant," the Holmsrud patriarch said, and looked over at the Ulfhede, then grinned. He hobbled over to the centre of the bridge, then shouted: "Ulfhede! Why argue? Is it not obvious? Seditious sycophant? Who among you have kissed the arse of the cityfolk, who among you have tried to turn this village into something it is not? Who will drag every foreign cameraman to take pictures of us? Who has no regard for our traditions, showing his utter sedition against our values?" he said, as he stared at the patriarch of the Ulfhede family. "And the longer we dally," the Holmsrud patriarch added "The more time the Gods have to kill us off, one by one. Forty-nine graves, Ulfhede. How many must we dig before you decide?"

The Ulfhede continued to bicker, but there seemed to have evolved into the camps now. The patriarch joined in frantically, but was overturned by another, the village undertaker and mailman among other things, who was also one of the loudest men in the municipality. The undertaker was a fairly old man, with piercing blue eyes and a long white beard. "It is Even Ulfhede!" he said, name-dropping the patriarch "Holmsrud is right, he is the only who fit the bill."

"No!" Ulfhede said "Let us rethink this! Cousins! Brothers! Uncles! Aunts! Nephews! Nieces! Sacrifice? That belongs in the past, a well-buried pa..."

"That's what you said!" the undertaker continued "And then I had to dig four graves, and forty-five more are coming. You fit the bill, your spine must burn."

A few minutes later

The bridge had, as usual, been consecrating as the bloting area this time as well. The runed etchings on the centre of the bridge faded as all compass directions were warded, and a fire erupted in the center. While normally the heads of the two families would conduct a village blot together, the Holmsrud patriarch was joined by the village undertaker/mailman while they had to tie up the Ulfhede patriarch as he had tried to run. Magnus, meanwhile, stood silent in front of the fire, awaiting his fate. The Holmsrud patriarch had received a fairly long dagger to do the deed, while Magnus looked down.

"You know," the Holmsrud patriarch said, giving a timid smile "Death by sacrifice is the only other death but battle where Åsgard awaits the fallen. I envy you, lad. The Gods asked for you personally."

Magnus looked up, tears in his eyes.

"I will make it as quick as this can go," Holmsrud said, and cut Magnus' throat, while two of his boys held him upright, he cut the dagger into his chest. There were no screams, only gurgling, as Holmsrud proceeded to reach into the cut chest, and pulled a couple of times. The gurgling grew more intense, as Holmsrud finally got it loose, holding the pumping heart of Magnus aloft, before throwing it on the fire.

Meanwhile, the undertaker/mailman/tanner was having some difficulty, a spine not usually being the most sought after object for the Gods. After cutting for a bit with a dagger, the patriarch's screams muffled by the gag, the undertaker threw it away.

"Someone, get me an axe or saw or some..." he stopped as the Holmsrud patriarch, drenched in blood, handed him his axe. "Thanks."

The undertaker chopped down on the patriarch, as the family watched. One of the younger children, too young to remember the previous sacrifice, was crying and begging her father to make it stop. "You're a stubborn old bastard, eh?" the undertaker said between chops "But I know my bones... Someone, give me a hand!"

The undertaker and two more of the Ulfhede men clutched the spine, revealed by dagger and axe, while holding the patriarch down. They pulled once, twice, thrice... The patriarch's screams being somewhat audible despite the gag, and then it burst off, pieces of flesh dangling from it. The undertaker threw it on the fire, and as it touched it, it started to sizzle and vanish. The Holmsrud patriarch and the undertaker took a look at each other, and nodded, ending the blot.

"We'll skip the feast this time," the Holmsrud patriarch told his family "Lets get back home. Those of you with young kids need to give the usual discussion, of course."

The Ulfhede patriarch was in no position to give orders, and so the undertaker stepped to the plate and said the same thing to them, before slitting the patriarch's throat to put an end to the mans' suffering. He shrugged, and figured he had some work to do this evening.
Last edited by Breheim on Sun Jan 19, 2014 2:03 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Postby Oroloo » Thu Jan 23, 2014 12:09 am

[ Fan-T/PT ]

[ Mature ]

Whitestone. The Final Days of Oroloo.

Whitestone, the crown jewel of Oroloo, the seat of the King's throne and the largest city of Oroloo. It was fitting that it was the last city standing amid the ashes of the Heroic Kingdom.

Months ago, the Royal House of Oroloo, House Black-Will, left the Kingdom for reasons that were still unknown to the rest if the populace. Soon, the three mightiest Heroic Houses, House Ebon-Bow, House Thunder-Strike and House Death-Whisper gathered their allies and waged a three-way civil war over who would have House Black-Will's vacant throne. They made a critical mistake though, when they tried to force the Houses that made up the Black Guard, House Gilded-Dagger, House Silver-Shield and House Bronze-Staff, into joining their civil war. The Houses of the Black guard were so offended by the threats of their fellow Heroes, despite holding back the monsters of the Black Mountain for centuries, that they abandoned their fortifications around the Black Mountain and left Oroloo without warning any of the other Heroic Houses. Eventually, the beasts of the Black Mountain broke through the abandoned battlements and descended upon the warring armies of the Heroic Houses. Now, the Black Mountain's demons rampaged across the divided Heroic Kingdom with little left to oppose them.

By now, anything left of Oroloo's people and forces had fled behind the walls of Whitestone. Like they done when the Black Mountain first rose and threatened the people of Oroloo. Whitestone was already in a fortified position with mountains to its east and west, the sea to its north and the only feasible route of attack for the Black Mountain's forces being the flat plains south of the city. Besides these formidable natural defenses were the walls of Whitestone. The walls were half as tall as the mountains facing the city's sides and almost half as thick. Hundreds of towers stood upon the walls and thousands if arrow slits were dotted across them. Atop the walls were lines of catapults, ballistas and archers, prepared to rain death upon attackers of Oroloo's great capital city. Of course, this was the condition of the walls a few months ago. A few months later and the siege was taking its toll. The city was running low on food and water, especially with the masses who fled to the city for protection sealed in with the rest of the city's populace. Every animal that could be found in the city, including domestic creatures, were being devoured by the starving people of Whitestone. The soldiers defending the city were facing bleaker conditions. By now, they were removing the cobblestone streets of Whitestone to load their catapults and their ballistas had all been scrapped to supply the archers with more arrows to keep the demons at bay. Even with their mighty Heroes at the battlements, throwing spells, arrows and sword at the occasional monster that managed to crawl up the batllements, the soldiers knew the situation spelled doom. The city was surrounded by hordes of monsters, scurrying over the thousands slain by Whitestone's defenses with unrelenting speed. The height of the walls were tested as piles of corpses from the hellish attackers were being used as ramps to reach the top. Ramps that were rising higher and higher with each foe the defenders slew. Whitestone was facing less an opposing army and more of a rising tide. Eventually, the contents the walls were struggling to keep out would rise over and flood the insides. The city streets were covered in the silence of despair. As the echoing sounds of battle from the walls attested, the walls would be overrun at any minute and the Black Mountain would reign victorious over the Heroic Kingdom of Oroloo. The commoners of Oroloo could not say their kingdom was a perfect place. Quite the contrary, they were usually abused by their arrogant rulers who were heroes only in name now. Still, they clung to the hope that one day things would return to the years of the Heroic Lords and the Heroic King, William Black and the survivors of the Heroic Thousand after the War of The Black Mountain. However, as the current situation showed, those days would never return and what little happiness they managed to cling to under their selfish masters was about to be devoured by the monsters and demons piling up their walls like a flood of death. There was no more hope to cling to beyond the hope of a quick and painless death and even that was highly unlikely.

However, unnoticed by the despairing and terrified Orolans was a man standing in the streets quietly observing the destruction of a kingdom whom some thought would last forever. The man had a foreboding look about him. His body was covered in a dark black cloak with only an ash-grey beard that stuck out of the hood and almost went down to his stomach. His wrinkled and weathered face was obscured by a combination of the hood and his overgrown facial fair. The only thing that could be seen was his dark eyes that occasionally glinted when a source of light met his gaze. The man slowly and casually walked the, now dirt, roads of Whitestone like it was any other day. He was taking in the image of each and every building and person he saw, carefully paying attention to every prayer and sob of despair or cry and clash of battle he heard, purposefully taking in even the, rather unpleasant, smells he came across; he wanted to remember every detail last of Whitestone he could remember. The man was giving his home city one last look before the monsters outside took it away from him.

As he walked images flashed through his mind as clear as day. The days of his childhood, when he struggled to survive in Whitestone's slums, where he endured suffering, toil and injustice every day. This only served to fuel his self-righteous attitude when the Priests of the Heroic Triad, the 'Heroes', brought him into their fold. His youthful days of adventure as a Hero, where he experienced countless brushes with death, met cherished friends and despised enemies. Then the dark days at the end of the Age of Magic swept into his mind, of returning to his home as a storm of chaos and panic blew all order to the ground. He remembered the weeks he spent just to restore any semblance of order within the beleaguered city. He remembered rallying the Heroes and willing warriors of Oroloo to the port in the storm he had arisen from Whitestone. He remembered leading an army of Heroes blessed by the Heroic Triad themselves to victory against a literal mountain of evil. Then came the days of his kingship. The days when he oversaw the rebuilding of Oroloo, the achievement of the golden age of his kingdom and when he met the love of his life. The happy memories quickly dissolved as Oroloo's fall from grace, the corruption of the Heroic Houses and the death of all his friends and lover overtook them. Then the old man's final memory of his homeland came, the day he left behind his crown and homeland in search of a reason to live. He heard of the civil war among the Heroic Houses after his self-imposed exile. That it took his family's House, the Black-Wills, decades before order was restored and only sixty-six of the original three hundred Houses were left by then. He heard of how the curse of immortality effected his descendants the same way it affected him. Depression followed by apathy followed by exile. All the while, the Heroes of Oroloo continued shaming their ancestors as they continually abused the people and their power. Centuries later, all of the Black-Wills had left and the Heroic Houses waged war against each other once more, carelessly forgetting the horror that laid at the center of Oroloo. Now, the very force that caused the glorious beginning of the 'Age of Heroes', the Black Mountain, had arisen once more and was now poised to deliver the final, perhaps merciful, blow upon the disgusting monster said age had become. By the time the old man had finished wandering through his memories and his senses were focused on the present, a surprise was in store for him.

The walls had finally been breached. The buildings of Oroloo's capital were lit crimson by raging fires. Black smoke rose up and melted into the equally dark clouds above. The crackling and hissing flame muted by the screams of monster, soldier and civilian alike. The only place safe from the sea of fire and blood that had consumed all of Oroloo was the Keep of Immortal Will, the former castle of House Black-Will, now the last stand of Oroloo. The stand would not last, the defenders within too few and the beasts without too many. It would be a matter of minutes until the only thing alive in the Heroic Kingdom would be the creatures that came from the Black Mountain.

The old man sighed as a monster of the fire-breathing kind noticed him and vomited a pillar of flame upon him. The monster gazed upon the scorched earth where the man stood, growled contently and went about slaughtering anyone else it could find. Unbeknownst to the beast, the old man was now floating high above the once-glorious city, obscured by the smoke and his cloak and beard flowing with the wind. The murderous beasts below would not stop here. Once they were finished with Oroloo, they would spill over the mountains that lined her coasts and flood into the rest of the world with their murderous intent until nothing but the Black Mountain remained. The old man knew this and he had a plan, but he could not execute it until he was sure there was nothing left but the monsters he so hated within his kingdom. Despite all that had happened, he still could not strike down the citizens of his Kingdom.

The last minutes were painful, as the last of the soldiers and Heroes had been slain, the only sounds that could be heard were the deaths of hopeless survivors. Screams begging for mercy, gurgles of lashed open throats, meat being torn, ripped, burned and eaten filled the old man's ears until the sounds of the fires and triumphant roars replaced them. The Heroic Kingdom was dead, only the man who had watched every detail of its death remained. With that fact bearing upon him, the man's apathetic soul sparked with the first emotion he had felt in centuries. Rage, pure, bloodthirsty rage consumed his mind. With a single, swift movement, the old man removed the cloak and revealed a suit of golden armour covered in markings so ancient it was unlikely anyone could know what they meant. But the wearer of said armour knew what the royal crests and symbols of the Heroic Traid embedded into the armour meant. It marked him as the 'Heroic King' king of Oroloo, William Black. He rose a hand into the air, glowing with arcane energies, and released the signal. As he waited, he remembered the words he spoke to the gathered members of what used to be House Black-Will days before he returned to Whitestone and witnessed the end of his Kingdom.

"The end is here. A fitting end for a place called 'The Heroic Kingdom'. It died like any other virtue, slowly replaced by its opposing vice until it became its opposing vice. Courage to fear, compassion to avarice, love to hate, hope to despair. And now, the Heroic Kingdom has been transformed into a villainous anarchy. The remaining 'Heroes' now murdering each other for wealth and power, uncaring of the innocents they slaughter in droves to attain it. Imagine how their ancestors would react, they would have thrown themselves upon their swords if they knew this was what would become of their bloodlines. Now their ghosts must be crying in agony and despair as their inheritors rape, pillage and murder their own Kingdom. The Black Guard, the few legitimate heroes, have left Oroloo in disgust and the beasts within the Black Mountain have begun pouring over the land. It will not be long before Oroloo is overrun and these monsters spill over the entire world. It is time we put the monstrous thing that is Oroloo to sleep, sleep for eternity. I, William Black, Leader of the One Thousand Heroes, Founder of House Black-Will and First Heroic King of Oroloo, order the destruction of the Kingdom or Oroloo and the death of all who currently dwell upon it. May the Heroic Triad and all other Gods show mercy upon the souls that still dwell upon Oroloo's soil, for I shall not."

By the time William had finished entertaining that memory, the sons and daughters of House Black-Will, his far-flung descendants, had joined with him in the skies of Oroloo. William Black breathed deeply as he gazed upon the land below him and all the memories it entailed. He drew his sword and pointed it high into the air to gain the attention of his warhost as he wondered if this chain of events could have been prevented, if Oroloo did not need to die. But the bitterness of his immortality already gave him the answer, denying the end simply invites endless torment and no one deserved that. With his other hand, William Black built up his magical energies and took aim upon at the city of monsters below, the very city that he once stood over with great pride. In a flash of brilliant white, it was gone, only flat, black and steaming glass was all that was left. The other Black-Wills followed suite and began unleashing their energies and spells upon the carcass of the Heroic Kingdom.

The end, for Oroloo at least.

A long, long time after.

William Black gazed upon the landscape, trying to remember if this was the correct spot. The place had no notable difference than any other place in the eternal wasteland he stood within. Tornadoes of ice, fire, acid and other hazards stampeded across the plains of glass. The plains occasionally opened up into vast fissures that released clouds of poisonous gasses before closing shut and becoming average plains of death once again. The sky rained lightning from impossible clouds of ash suspended in the air by all sorts of hexes and curses cast so long ago. If William Black were a mortal man, he should have died a dozen times over by now. Just on the horizon of the wasteland, between the murderous tornadoes, William could see the reason for all of this overkill. The Black Mountain, though much smaller after arcane bombardment, was still erupting living horrors and nightmares unto the lands where they were almost immediately slaughtered.

Bringing his attention back to his original task, William Black gingerly placed a hand upon the ground. This was the place. While he could no longer see it, he could still feel the essence of his magical energies. Specifically, the energies that destroyed the former capital city of this land. he forgot the name of it, both the capital city and the land it was the capital of. However, he could still remember what it looked like. The buildings, the people, the mountains, forests, rivers, lakes, he could remember that. He could even remember what and who some places and people were. He remembered the face of his lover, the smiles and voices of his friends and anything else that could invoke a splinter of emotion in his heart. His ancient, almost unfeeling heart. William could not tolerate this, he summoned forth his will and tried to remember the name of this land that he simply could not forget. He had forgotten exactly why this place was so important, but maybe the name could reveal that.

William focused as hard as he could, eyes closed to the point it hurt, rubbing his temples furiously until, finally, the name beamed into his mind.

"Oroloo!" William shouted happily to the wasteland sprawled out before him "Your name is Oroloo!"

William smiled contently, finally, he remembered what the name of this land. This land of death, destruction and the monster-vomiting mountain in the middle of it. William's smile faded and his brows furrowed in curiosity. "Why are you called that?" He asked as he tried to remember why this hellish waste was given such a strange name.

It didn't take long before he realized that, in remembering the name, he forgot almost everything else about it. The people, places and things were all gone from him. Just a mixture of love, loss, hope, despair, joy, depression and almost every other possible emotion remained. It was weird how a place William knew almost nothing about could invoke so much emotion in him. William sat down and tried to remember it.

Hours, days possibly, passed as William remembered what the landscape was, but forgot the name. Then remembered the name again, but forgot what it was again. The cycle repeated until William asked himself "Why am I here?" and drew up a blank. He was so wrapped up in this curious land that he forgot why he had returned to it.

William quickly decided it likely wasn't anything important, or he would have remembered, and decided that it was time to leave this confusing location. He snapped his fingers, a portal emerged, he stepped through and the portal vanished.

A century or two later, William would find (again) an enchanted rose he intended to place where Whitestone once stood in order to pay respects to his beloved kingdom. He would snap a portal into existence, step through and the cycle would repeat.

Such was immortality.

"All things end. All things need to end. If this troubles you, it could be worse. You could be denied your end."
Last edited by Oroloo on Fri Jan 24, 2014 7:18 pm, edited 4 times in total.

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Postby New Frenco Empire » Thu Jan 23, 2014 12:15 am



After Fifty Long Years


Lieutenant Colonel Kenton Daei took a long drag off of the synthetic cigarette, inhaling the artificial nicotine, taking it to his lungs. He casually exhaled a long puff of smoke, and threw the now spent cigarette butt off the side of the M50C Legate command vehicle. He reached into his ration bag for his pack. Just as he managed to find the pack, he began coughing loudly and uncontrollably. His hacking had eventually ceased. The colonel decided he was done for the day. Daei was extremely healthy and robust for a man of 69 years, but this sudden craving for drugs and synthetic tobacco had not sat too well. Before now, he was not nearly as heavy a smoker. Ever since he was assigned this force recon op, he had been exhausting his supply of cigarettes and booze, apathetic to it's effects on his well-being. He didn't care anymore, seemingly. He felt the need to question hicom about their target area. Why would they be hiding there? Why there of all places? Why there? Why? Now the day had finally come. They were going there.

The convoy eventually screeched to a halt. Daei crawled back inside of the vehicle. He found the unit overview panel inside, and gently brushed his fingers across the screen, bringing it to life with a flash of light. He continued to finger through the battlegroups until he found Broadsword One, the group of M50 Centurions at the lead. "Overlord to Broadsword One, report in. Why has the advance halted?" Daei transmitted through the comm-link in his helmet. He released the link, and waited for the response. "Broadsword One to Overlord, massive amounts of debris obstructing the road. Awaiting further orders." The effeminate voice of Broadsword One's Lieutenant chimed. Daei sighed. "Where is Bobcat Actual? Shouldn't they be clearing the roads?" Pause. "Negative, sir. These plows aren't doing shit. Might wanna come look at this yourself. Seein' it through the optics of a drone ain't gonna do it justice." Responded the deep voice of Bobcat's platoon commander. Daei sighed through the comms. "Overlord on approach."

Daei ordered his personal logistics assistant to secure a Shortsword ATV for himself. The ground around the road wasn't too overgrown, but with all the scattered debris, there was no way he would be able to take the command vehicle through there. His assistant eventually returned, zooming towards him on one the aforementioned ATV. "This comes from the 2nd Logistical Division, sir. Trucks about half a klick back." Daei nodded, and took his seat. He hit a key on his databoy, prompting four of the Gargoyle Mk4 personal-defense UAVs previously assigned to the Legate to follow him on the ATV. It probably wasn't the brightest idea for the force commander to be riding about, exposed in such a manner, but Daei was always known for his risk-taking ventures. When he finally worked his way up to the high officer ranks, he refused to ever sit back in a command vehicle while his boys and girls were a few miles away, dying. He always felt the need to grab a plasma rifle and join them. It took hicom a threaten of discharge to convince him to even ride along in a command vehicle. Daei found himself smiling at it. He knew that audacity was a remnant of his younger years...

The thought of his old life made him brake the ATV. He sat there for a moment, thinking of the heartache, the deja vu. No. He needed to suck it up and get down to business. It's just another recon op. He was a Vanguard, not some pussy counting up eyeliner back in World City! He took off again, UAVs in tow. He kept a close eye out for potential threats along the way, though, any serious rebel threat wouldn't dare come this close to a mechanized convoy, and any that would be would obviously be too loaded up with drugs to do anything before a bullet found itself between their eyes.

He eventually reached the head of the convoy. He stopped the ATV, as he laid his eyes on what he saw. He couldn't look away.
Last edited by New Frenco Empire on Thu Feb 20, 2014 12:15 pm, edited 3 times in total.

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Postby Darussalam » Thu Feb 20, 2014 4:29 am

Lo, the Sacred Revelations of Jibril
Modern Tech

"Salam alaeka, ya Nabi! Salawat alaeka, ya Nabi!" so the crowd could be heard chanting beneath the high green hill. There were fifty-three of them today. Most were from among the neglected, identifiable with their ragged, dirty shalwar kameez and wild look upon each other. But their hearts were burned by fanaticism and deep love dedicated for the charismatic man that rode a humble donkey upon their slums.

The man himself was waiting behind another side of the hill. He was perhaps thirty or younger, with wild eyes and disheveled short hair that were the dreams of the ladies. The Prophet, as others prefer to call him. His original name was no longer speakable as the Prophet pronounced a death sentence for whosoever used it, shortly after his men pledged their allegiance to the new faith of purity.

I am the man of the Lord, he thought to himself. A barrier between the faithfuls and the heathens, and he who rode his donkey upon the war of apocalypse. Quivering, he pulled out a little doll from his pocket, a lady with pale skin, wide blood-stained smile and goggling red eyes like those Nazarene Shroomers. But inside this doll, the angel of revelation Jibril reside to communicate with him in this mortal earth which unable to contain even a piece of his finger's form.

The doll just smiled to him. "Let's do it quick." she spoke, carving the words upon the Prophet's heart.

"Am I -- am I doing the right thing?" the Prophet fearfully and doubtfully asked. "Does Allah, praise to be Him, appeased with my doings?" his mind flew into years ago, when he awakened as a naked boy left with none of his memory of the past but his old name, and the fact that he owned a child doll. He awakened among the burned ruins with burning carcasses among him. But the doll, it talked to him and said that he was claimed by Allah as a Mahdi and adopted son, to guide the Mankind and prepare the army of the righteous.

The doll grinned just as she did on the first day the Prophet saw her. "He does, and Thy father is very proud indeed. You are not merely His instrument, O the Messenger, but also His beloved."

The Prophet nodded and inserted the doll into his pocket. It was always like that when Jibril visited him, his heart as burned with passion of faith as his followers were. Serenely he mounted on a donkey and rode, climb the green hill where the old tombs of Great Six Shahs reside, the gorgeous mausoleum of glory of the old. The Six Shahs were worshiped by many villagers down the hill and upon whom the lambs were sacrificed, and thus it's his God-given command to end such idolatrous act against Him.

On the eyes of the Believers, the Prophet appeared with his humble donkey again and raising his sword, enshrine his image unto the sun. "O the Faithful, Worshipers of One God! Jibril has descend a Revelation upon me as he has upon Prophet Muhammad salla alahu alayhi wasallam! Know it, that I am the Mahdi, no one else but myself, and I shall lead Thee upon glorious victory against al-Masih Dajjal and the Israelites."

He lit a torch put in front of him. "Death to the Idolatry and the Idolaters!"


The busy train station of Sultanshahr was crowded as usual by hundreds of people arrived by trains from cities surrounding it, busied by each's activity and ignoring each other. The loudspeakers were screaming announcing train's arrival, citations of the Holy Qur'an and several advertisements. However a boy's voice was still managed to be heard as he offered a newspaper of famed Daily Shahbanu with the headline taken from miles away, the green hills now flamed in smoke and burning tombs. "The Tomb of Great Shahs were burned by unknown new fringe religious sect, fifteen villagers killed!"
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Postby NSI Manager » Thu Feb 20, 2014 7:16 am

Thank you all for your submissions. The list has been updated. - Kylarnatia

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Postby Breheim » Wed Feb 26, 2014 5:14 pm

[ PT ]

[ Mature ]

Sing, Swing, Savour the Sting!

Frost covered the streets of the city of Storvik, where the Fires of the Revolution had swept away the old order just seven months prior. The Forum of Storvik, the assembly of all citizens, be they male or female, poor or wealthy, had decided upon the fate of the hated Oskar II of Breheim, former autocrat of the Kingdom of Breheim. The new flag waved proudly in the march winds, the red and white of the Free Democracy standing proud among the ruins of the old society. A large mob had gathered outside the Square of Justice, formerly a barracks of the Royal Army, where the Revolution had began with the storming of the barracks by dedicated revolutionaries of the Holgersen Society. The starving populace of the city had managed to barricade around the Square of Justice, but had soon been joined by the people of the countryside and the other cities... Slaves, serfs, paupers, craftsmen, workers and intellectuals banding together against the monarchy and aristocracy, and within mere months their power had been broken. While many had been killed in the process, particularly those among the chatteltraders, most had been jailed to receive Justice.

Oskar II trodded naked through the streets, accompanied by members of the Revolutionary Militia to avoid him escaping, or getting mobbed before Justice could be served, a starved and broken man now. His hair had been shaved, and 'død over alle konger' (Death over All Kings) had been branded with hot iron on his forehead. For six months, since his capture, he had not been cleaned, barely been fed, dehydrated, beaten and tortured, and whatever remained of the monarch who had stressed the strength of the crown and the suppression of dissent, was now a feeble middle-aged man. Still, the crowds did not pity him, some risking the wrath of the Militia by throwing stones at him, until a warning shot was fired by one of the soldiers. With no shoes, every step on the gravely frosted ground was pain, and the monarch nearly tripped, to the laughs of the onlookers, but a couple of beatings from the stock quickly got him to his feet again. He peered up, and at the end of the road lay Justice.

As the King took his first step onto the Justice, as was the name the great guillotine of the Square of Justice had been dubbed, drums started sounding from the lone Militiaman standing at the bottom end of the stairs. Only four simple steps now. One step, and the King cleared his throat. Two steps, and he looked up at the shimmering, thankfully sharpened, blade of Justice on top. Three steps, and the King started sweating, despite the chilly air. Four steps, and he hesitated, before being kicked onto the podium. The executioner stood by Justice. A short man, cleanshaved with flowing blonde locks, a youthish expression that didn't betray his age of over thirty, clad in simple workers garbs of pants, a tunic and an overcoat of leather with a bit of fur.

"Hail the King!" roared the executioner, Arne Torsteinsøn, one of the leading figures of the Revolution "Hail our mighty protector! Hail our sovereign! Hail our slavelord!"

The crowd laughed, and hailed, as a militaman got the King back on his feet.

"Hail!" Torsteinsøn said, and bowed "The trial may be over, but how do you plead?"

"I didn't even attend a tria..." the King muttered, and was kicked in the gut by Torsteinsøn.

"No, you didn't!" Torsteinsøn roared "And nor was the thousands of men you had incarcerated! No trials there! The farmers you enslaved, did they get a hearing? No! Be thankful we gave you a trial, your highness! Such is the Mercy of the Revolution!" the crowd cheered again, before a chant started, somewhere in the back.

"His head! His head! His head!"

"What was that?" Torsteinsøn shouted back the crowd

"His head!" came, ever louder.

"You want his head?" Torsteinsøn said, and grinned "In the Free Democracy, the People always get what they want! Will you walk as a man, or crawl as a dog?"

The King stood petrified, eying the crowd for signs of any support, and found none. The former paupers and slaves of the Kingdom didn't have many warm feelings for their former master and autocrat. He hesitated for several seconds, and Torsteinsøn rolled his eyes, and turned to the crowd. "Crawling it is!"

The Militiaman slammed his stock onto the king's knees, causing him to collapse, and kicked him towards Justice. Pleas of mercy ignored, two men hauled the king onto the Guillotine, and despite meager struggles from the emaciated Monarch, held him there as they fastened him with coarse rope that tore open skin and blue blood trickled down.

"Any final words?" Torsteinsøn said, leaning in front of Justice, with a boyish grin.

"Don't do this," Oskar II muttered "Don't do this."

"You'll have to be louder than that!" Torsteinsøn said with a sigh "Why, I bet no-one can hear you. You know what, have this." he said, and held a horn in front of the King's mouth.

"Don't do this!" the King used his last energy to shout into the horn, and amplified the sound "Don't do this! You know not what you do! God chose me, if you kill me, fire will rain! Fire will burn your homes and destroy the nation! You need me! Don't do this!"

Torsteinsøn shook his head, and removed the horn, and used it himself: "What say you, Free Citizens? Do this slaver, this tyrant, deserve life?"

"No!" was the unison roar from the crowd "His head!"

"Shame that," Torsteinsøn shrugged "Seems like fire from the skies beats another minute of your life polluting this fair city. Oh, and one thing," Torsteinsøn leaned towards the King and whispered "Your wife, your sons, your daughters, your cousins, your nephews, your brothers, your nieces, your friends, your acquaintances, your mother, your sisters and even your dog? They are all bound for a meeting with Justice. Say hello to the Devil for me, and tell him to make room in Hell."

"N-" was all the King managed to get out, before Torsteinsøn pulled the lever, and Justice fell on the King's Head, severing it. Torsteinsøn picked it up, took a look into the king's eyes, then lifted the head for the crowd to see.

"You wanted a head?" he shouted "You wanted a head? Here is your head! Gaze upon the head! This is Justice's Work! This is what Free Men do! Here is your head!" he shouted, and threw the head onto the mob, where it was thrown around, kicked and stamped.

"And I'll give you more than a head!" Torsteinsøn shouted "Why, a head is worthless without a body!"

Torsteinsøn and the Militiaman proceeded to lift the King's limp body from Justice, and threw it into the mob. It was torn and shredded, kicked and defiled, in worse ways than the head. A woman with a knife cut off the King's Seed, and bit into it. A man, somewhat simple-minded and large, stinking of liquor, took off his pants and proceeded to defile the corpse, although not for long as some of his friends dragged him away. The legs and arms were torn off their sockets, and some urchins managed to get away with the head in the confusion, becoming their favorite football for the next week, despite how stamped and bloody it was.

Torsteinsøn bowed to the crowd, before shouting: "The King is Dead! Death to all Kings!"
Last edited by Breheim on Wed Feb 26, 2014 5:19 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Grand Libertia
Posts: 27
Founded: Nov 15, 2013

Postby Grand Libertia » Sun Mar 23, 2014 1:35 am

Modern Tech (??) or a drunk lovechild with Fantasy(!!!)
this is Mature by the way

"Fuck that yellowman!" a youth looking soldier sweating in his uniform cursed, his feet stomping this filthy forest floor. "The more he escaped from me, the harder I'll molest him fucking soon after God decided to end his invisibility superpower. And fuck you all, too." he glanced to behind him, a dozen other soldiers following.

"Well what to do, let's searching this shit for any chance for those Charlies." another retorted. "I think I saw one pretending to be deer in this damned rainforest." he stripped his pants and fire igniting from his ass. He dashed into the sky. "See? I think there's one lurking on the -- oh shit! I think he's trying to fucking shoot me. Ha - ha. Talking bout to kill Captain Libertia!" he played his rifle. Bam-bam.

"Ah no, follow your buddy or he alone will has orgasmic joy of killing Charlies." the first guy dropped his pants and flying, others followed him. "Where's that Charlie?"

"He's goddamned run, you fool. Let's go!" thirteen pantless men carrying their rifles smoothly slithering above the canopy of Phuan rainforest in mission to exterminate the remaining of Phuan commies. It was so hot above there, the tropical climate what with mosquitoes climbing to your skin and trying to suck some blood syrup.

The commies fare better below, ten men that ran faster than they should have. Closer to look it appears that they teleported for each meter they passed, much for the frustration of Libertians above hunting. The leader, Comrade Conhđiếm now busy whispering orders to his companions beneath a dead panda.

"tinh ranh của tinh ranh của tinh ranh của -- quái quái quái!"

Unfortunately dead panda was very obvious in rainforest, so the Libertians saw them.

"Stop your monkeychattering goddamn Charlies!" Soldier Isaac the Libertian dropped his first bomb: a giant matter appeared to slowly shaping itself into something harder and explosive. The giant matter was unleashed from his butt into the rainforest, where Phuan Comrades now gathered and they did not even have any time to scream -- they were busy incinerated to death.

"I love the smell of anal napalm in fucking morning."

As any movies with good ending for villains, an Indian vimana brought by unplussed Vishnu himself appeared and turned the Libertian soldiers into ashes. Know it that vimana carries souls to afterlife.

The patriots, Libertians and comrades alike, awakened in a strangely white room that was like grinning to them. Or at least perhaps it was indeed grinning to them, assuming if there was a room because there was none. Assuming, again, that there was none. Because there wasn't any none anywhere.

Kami-sama was watching them from far away or near away, she herself knows. She wore an inverted wedding gown and admittedly very beautiful, divinely beautiful. She was obviously Helen of Troy. Wait, but she wasn't. She was the one created Helen of Troy and sentenced her to sew her face into Kami-sama's.

Kami-sama smiled. She carried a birthday cake along with her. "Hello there, my good friends!" she welcomed the men cheerfully. They looked to their crotch, they were no longer pantless! Oh the joy. "This is compulsory modesty zone, buddies. Let's celebrate your first and last birthday here in Afterlife Company, led by mepe! Here's my close avian friend, Pupu."

A penguin waiting for them on the suddenly-appeared white table. This is going to be fun indeed!
Repoeblik Rakjat Kelaraja
People's Republic of Kelaraya

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NSI Manager
Political Columnist
Posts: 4
Founded: Dec 08, 2013

Postby NSI Manager » Wed Jul 16, 2014 5:23 pm

Thank you all for your submissions. The list has been updated. Apologies for the horrendous gravedig. Promise we'll keep more up-to-date with this next time around. - Kylarnatia

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Chargé d'Affaires
Posts: 459
Founded: Dec 26, 2012
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Gorgashia » Wed Nov 19, 2014 4:10 am

[ PT ]

[ Mature ]

The Last King of Gorgashia.




The mountains of Gorgashia were a point of pride for the tribes that resided atop them. They supposedly reflected the wise and enduring spirits that lived within them. They were towering, unconquerable giants of stone that stood proudly over little things of the world in quiet contemplation. In the winter, this reflection became all the more clear. Grey clouds peacefully floated in the sky, blocking out the sun and sky in a wall of grey. Snow flakes whimsically spun and danced in the air from the clouds they emerged from to their graceful landings upon the soft, white ground. The mountains sat in their cold, white blankets in complete silence, save the breezes that gently whispered in a heavenly high pitch between the stone titans that were Gorgashia's mountains. One would be surprised to learn that this was a war zone.

Just scant months ago, before winter clouded the heat of the sun, the armies of the Beusuan Empire poured into the valleys between the mountains like a flood. Hot on the heels of the defeated Gorgashian soldiers who were sent north into Arcadia in a failed attempt to liberate the Alisonian Colony from Beusuandille. The valleys became a bloodbath when the retreating Gorgashians were ordered to hold their ground until reinforcements, positioning themselves into flanking positions on the mountains themselves, could join them. However, the Beusuan commanders had the same idea and attempted to flank the Gorgashians in the valley through the mountains, often running into the Gorgashians' own flanking forces. The ensuing chaos as Beusuan troops in the valley were outflanked or Gorgashian soldiers in the mountains stumbled into Beusuan troops snowballed into a quagmire neither side could surmount. Lines of battle were drawn up only to be tossed aside the next day as mere skirmishes could decide control over any of the small, narrow, but vital mountain passages, the outcomes of the war in the valleys dependant on who controlled said passages. Over the course of mere months, the serene mountains were riddled with bullets, blood and bodies, with the thundering of rifle barrels, strained cries of battle and death and footsteps of marching reinforcements echoing all around.

Then, like an act of mercy from the Mountain-Spirits themselves, the winter months rolled in and the valleys and mountain roads became clogged with snow. The war halted between the Beusuans and Gorgashians in the mountains until the snow melted and passage through the mountains became feasible again.

However, just because there was a reprieve from the bloodshed does not mean there was an end to the suffering.

Northern Gorgashian Mountains. The fourth of December, 1917. The Great War.

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch...

The satisfying sound of fresh snow crushed underfoot never failed to help bring up Arthur Abenaki's spirit. Since the earliest winter he could remember, he had a fondness of the sound. Especially here in the mountains of Gorgashia, far away from the vast plains he was more familiar with, where anything that could stir a memory of home was precious. Abenaki reflected on the irony that he was the King of Gorgashia, yet only felt at home on a parcel of his lands. Since the war was brought to the mountains, Abenaki traveled around the front-lines of the war to boost the morale of his troops. Some had also claimed it was to briefly escape his recent marriage and the unresolved issue that stemmed from his wife's Mountain-Gorgashi background and his own background as a Gorgashian Royal, such was arranged marriage. His position as King, especially one who had not produced an heir yet, had his commanders forbid him from any duties close to combat zones or major defensive/offensive actions. Abenaki disliked this command, in his mind, it gave off the image of a coward pretending to be brave alongside the troops. However, he understood the necessity of the command, his wife was technically a commoner with no legitimate royal blood and Abenaki had no brothers or sisters to take up his title. Essentially, if he died, a new royal lineage would have to be established to replace the Abenakis, which would likely come to pass after a good, long era of political chaos. In the middle of a war, Abenaki getting himself killed could potentially kill the Kingdom of Gorgashia under the Beusuan war machine. Maybe he wasn't being as heroic as he thought he was, maybe he should simply do his duty as King and let his Generals make war without the added pressure of looking after his young self. But if he left now, the image of false bravery he feared to project might be intensified and lead to worse morale among his troops, something his generals and himself could not afford either.

Abenaki sighed as he tossed aside his pondering for later, ever since he came to these mountains, he had been constantly questioning if he had made the right decision and if he should go back to Gorgashia proper. He could save those questions for later, right now he had to keep his attention on the material world before him. He was on another 'morale patrol,' which was a unique way of saying 'wandering around the trenches and trying to cheer up the soldiers before they think of revolting.' Of course, everything is easier said than done. The trenches were incredibly narrow given how difficult it was to dig into the mountain's surface, the ground of the trenches was incredibly uneven and it was not helped by the ice and snow of winter. Long story short, it was a pain to walk through the trenches in the snow, between wary soldiers and with two Royal Guards flanking oneself. Still, as far as Abenaki was concerned, a narrow, stoney and icy trench was nothing to the glare of disgruntled soldiers. Gorgashia's King could actually tell if a soldier was a veteran or a fresh recruit by how they looked at him. Any recruit that recognized Abenaki's face in the uniform of the Royal Guard beamed with pride in the presence of their nation's King. The more experienced soldiers were more mixed, some gave their King a look or at least nod of acknowledgement, that they figured watching soldiers come back bleeding on makeshift stretchers was as hard for Abenaki as it was for them. However, most of the veterans gave him a pair of burning eyes that screamed 'why the hell are you here?' Even while they smiled and shook the hand of their King. Again, Abenaki's mind wandered into the realm of 'what ifs' and his actual reasons for coming to the mountains. He wanted to be a hero, wanted to meet the enemy on the field of battle and die with some dignity in his heart, but was, in the end, a prince with fanciful dreams. Still, Abenaki did what little he could in the trenches, he smiled encouragingly to the recruits and bowed his head in quiet respect to the veterans.

The hours of Abenaki's patrol flew past him, he was almost surprised that something so emotionally tense could become clockwork by now. Was this the case for all the other soldiers, could war and death actually become part of the daily grind? Abenaki's thoughts on the matter quickly receded though, as he realized what followed his morale inspections. His guards gave him glances of concern, knowing how uneasy he was at this part, Abenaki simply glared at them with a mixture of anger and humiliation. The first time he visited a medical tent to see the wounded, a particular man with a back wound leaking puss and other fluids Abenaki couldn't identify had the young King running out of the tent to expel the contents of his stomach. Abenaki's left palm still had the scars of the blood offering he gave to atone to his ancestors' for his embarrassing lack of fortitude the following night of that shameful day. However, Abenaki had gone through this part of his morale patrols several times after the first incident, and he made it a habit to always have a light breakfast as well. The King of the Mountains, Plains and Rivers and their peoples of Gorgashia had one last gulp of the frigid and fresh mountain air before stepping through the tent flap.

Abenaki was surprised. The tent was almost empty, only a tenth of its beds carried patients and a tenth of them seemed to have serious wounds. Most of the patients seemed to be suffering from frostbite, not a pleasant sight, but much better than bullet-filled holes. What relieved Abenaki was not his eyes though, but his ears and nose. The moaning and crying that usually filled his ears when he entered these tents was reduced to an occasional whimper and uncomfortable grunt. The stench of pure death and decay was also much less so from the lack of patients. It all made sense, really, the winter had stopped the carnage a good while ago. No bloodbaths to pile up casualties for the stretchers to carry up, meaning that as casualties were coming out of the tents, much less were coming in. Abenaki now had to resist the urge to laugh at himself for his presumption that this tent would be horror incarnate. Instead, it had become a source of respite as he wandered around the medical staff, now much more relaxed than previous months ago, and met the few remaining wounded within the tent. For the first time in a long time, Abenaki could smile earnestly upon his own soldiers. The Gorgashian King then caught a detail in his eye, the detail of something that clicked his memory a bit. It was a statuette, small enough to barely cover in a closed palm, half finished in the likeness of a Gorgashian buffalo and made of the greyish-white stone of the mountain the medical tent stood upon. Abenaki realized that it was the art project of a soldier he had met earlier, during the fall. It was supposed to be a gift for a distant relative that lived in the Gorgashian Plains that the soldier's Tribe nicknamed 'the Old Buffalo,' hence the shape of the statuette. Arthur quickly put two and two together and saw the soldier laying peacefully in the bed next to the stand holding up the half-finished buffalo statuette. Arthur moved to wake the soldier, but was soon stopped by a doctor with a grim look on his face. Abenaki was not naive enough to think anything but the worst when he saw the doctor's face. The King bowed his head in solemn mourning.

"The cold got him last night." The doctor explained sorrowfully "Weather's been keeping the Swans frozen in their feathers, but it hasn't been doing favours for any of our wounded."

Abenaki was shocked at this revelation, that the lack of wounded in the tent was not only due to the lack of war, but the amount of lives the cold was claiming daily. His respite was soon dashed against the mountainside. Abenaki glanced at the half-finished sculpture, he didn't know what to do with it. Should he offer to finish it, would the relative remember the soldier better through that or would it be best for him to leave things as they were? Abenaki quickly decided a compromise between the two within his mind as his eyes met with the doctor's again.

"Could you please see to it that Royal Guard's tribe get that statuette? Tell them it was meant for 'the Old Buffalo.' They'll understand." Arthur said with as much stoicism he could muster in his voice.

The doctor nodded in compliance and immediately got another member of the staff to set up the arrangements for the body and the statuette's delivery back to the more peaceful lands of Gorgashia, far away from the cold and brutal mountains. Abenaki wished he could have gotten to know that soldier and 'the Old Buffalo' better, he barely knew either of them and likely never would get much beyond the face of the soldier, the statuette and the name 'Old Buffalo.' Abenaki quickly wrapped up his visit and bid the soldiers and medical staff a good day.

Abenaki slowly closed the door to his private quarters and took a moment to reflect upon the day. It didn't take long before a cloud of deadly emotions filled his mind and Arthur was forces to turn his attention once more back to reality. He started the fire, slowly took off his boots and coat as his body greedily absorbed the warmth now filling his quarters and then he went to the table of his quarters, pen in one hand and paper in the other, and prepared to write yet another daily letter to his wife, Niyola Abenaki. He had promised to her that he would write to her for every day he spent in the war, to assure her that her husband did not run off to simply die and never return. He wanted to love her, part of him did, it's just that the other part of him resented their union being arranged so long ago, before either of them really knew what love meant. Arranged marriages were common in Gorgashia, but Arthur's was a 'special' union with a girl from the Mountain tribes to 'keep the blood of the mountains from being diluted by the blood of the Ameri and Plains tribes.' As such, while the average Gorgashian would at least have his youth to consider and choose candidates, Arthur and his bride-to-be had no such luxury. To have so little say on who he could love filled Abenaki's veins with a burning liquid. Yet, he could not hate the poor soul that was bound with him, Niyola was the only person he knew that could sympathize with from that point on. It was a strange relationship, they both hated being forced together, yet found a strange understanding in each other through their despised situations. Now, with this adding to Abenaki's emotions built up from today, Arthur had to write to this woman he loved yet tried to run away from how this depressing day went in a way that would not break her heart as it did his own. That, he would most certainly regret that the more than anything else that transpired today.
Last edited by Gorgashia on Tue Feb 24, 2015 2:12 am, edited 3 times in total.
Syndicalist Celts. Bluntly put.

"Dude...nice firearms rights and everything...but your society is seriously messed up. :P" - Orellana.

Just your typical Canadian on the internet. TG if me you want to have a chat/debate/whatever.

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<Emerita> Shit is indeed, unlivable.

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<Daemyrs> Nothing makes sense there
(Also attributed to Ulthrannia)

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East Klent
Posts: 3002
Founded: Jan 12, 2010
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby East Klent » Mon Mar 28, 2016 1:26 pm

[ All Tech ]

Throne of Mankind
A poem by Nathan Gates

Born was I, unto the throne of mankind.
Unready I was, unwilling
To fight, to rule.
Too young, they said
Too young to reign.

Born was I, unto the throne of mankind.
Too small for the armor,
Too weak for the sword.

Defend? How could I?
Unready I was,
Unworthy, they said.
Wrong, they were.

Born was I, unto the throne of mankind.
Pulled the sword from the stone, I did.
Dawned the armor, I did.
The doubt, I overcame.
The Kingdom, I defended.

Died, I did, on the throne of mankind.
Worthy I am
To be Born once more.
IC: The United Republic of Klent, URK, or the United Klentian Republic. Canon Project
Defcon:1 2 3 4 (On Alert) 5

TNN: 6/30/15
The CKDA goes to Congress for ratification and the administration prepares for talks in Batavia.

NEKSE ▲39.63 |NKTSE ▲25.03|GDIE ▲8.45


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