The Federal Coalition Regional RP Forum (IC Invite Only)

[Insurgia]

September 27th, 5213, 6:30 PM
The Iron Coast, The Islamic Republic of Aradia, Aradia
Outside Bagrum Military Base

"So, you're just like any other tribe that is aiming for a pointless war with a nation that's already battle hardened and ready for deployment if necessary. Figured so, even though your appearance is far different from the recent tribes that have attacked before. Regardless, I will hear your proposition." finished Travis.

Nearby, his Lieutenant approached Travis and whispered into his ear. Travis nodded back to him, dismissing him.

[Baeleer]

September 27th, 5213, 6:35 PM
The Iron Coast, The Islamic Republic of Aradia, Aradia
Outside Bagrum Military Base

A red blush of anger slowly begins to dominate the Lord Commander's face. Soon though, it fades back to normal tone.

"By that logic, Travis, Insurgia is just another tribe roaming these deserts. It may be a large tribe, but damn it, its a tribe nonetheless. Baeleer is no ordinary band of raiders or mountain men. No, we are the remnant of the Vorsto-Mulican Aristocracy, carrying on the old ways, despite them being all but cast away to the annals of time. We wish to bring the greater day... Through fire and blood if necessary. Across the Iron Ocean, every city state, tribe, and raider clan has either sworn fealty to the King, or has been forced into extinction. We've only been here since August. Opposing us, Colonel, would be a simple lack of foresight." Scowls McGraw.

Oliver's sly grin returns, but this time, there is something more sinister about it. He lets loose a small chuckle before dropping his saddlebag to the ground.

"Just to humor you though, I will explain my proposition. From here and henceforth, the Royal Army of the Kingdom of Baeleer will be in service to the Islamic Republic of Aradia, and the Independent Republic of Insurgia. One by one, we will systematically destroy every raider clan, mountain tribe, and rouge city state between here and the Spire Sea. This Base and those like it will serve only during wartime, to fight against true invaders... Ahem, the Victorians. In return, you will persuade the IRA to enforce a new tax. Money collected from this tax will go to pay the Crown and the Soldiers fighting under it's Colors. That's will be all." He finishes, his eyes now glimmering with the same distrust of his smile.

[Insurgia]

September 27th, 5213, 6:37 PM
The Iron Coast, The Islamic Republic of Aradia, Aradia
Outside Bagrum Military Base

Travis looks unimpressed by McGraw but returns with a question, in a more angered tone.

"Are you threatening me?" asked the Colonel.

Travis sneered and continued before McGraw could answer

"If you think I'm going to bow down and kiss the ring of some nutcase who wants to bring back the old days of the Vorstinian Empire, then you got another thing coming. Tell you what, you go tell your "King", to tread lightly and to face reality. He may be living in the past but the rest of the Galaxy is not. I'd suggest you see your way out." the Colonel demanded.

Rather suddenly, the Lieutenants attention, despite the anger coming from his CO was diverted to another source. Quickly, everyone from the walls soon started pointing in the direction from behind the base. The Lieutenant soon got a perfect view of what was going on. It was rather perfect timing. In the distance and closing fast, three Phantom Class Drop ships could be seen coming in their direction.

[Baeleer]

September 27th, 5213, 6:40 PM
The Iron Coast, The Islamic Republic of Aradia, Aradia
Outside Bagrum Military Base

"Its not a threat, Federal Scum... Its a promise. I will not fight you. Not today. Not tomorrow. Someday though, I will see this Base torn down. Stone by stone. Man by man. Enjoy your time in the sun, Travis. It wont last much longer. Valar morghulis, Colonel" He mummers, picking up his saddlebag.

The Lord Commander walks back into the heat of the day, leaving Travis to his own devices. He remounts his horse and rides the length of the North Wall. He has to look for a moment, but eventually, he finds him, lurking behind a column of Bradley Tanks. Trying not to make his conspiracy obvious, McGraw waves his hand in the direction of the Gate, making it clear his intentions to leave. Walking more like a slinky than a man, the Knight follows. The two reach their horses, all three of which are tied to an Anti Aircraft Piece. They saddle up, take the last horse by the reigns, and begin the hunt for the Stable Boy. It doesn't last very long. At the Gate, he is found, tugging at a Guard's uniform whist begging to get access to the Wall. If only it were that simple.

"Its time to go, Bran. Saddle your horse, and lets get back to camp. Grab your dragon banner on the way out. These men are as savage and inhospitable as the Tribes you helped hunt back across the Ocean." He growls, looking down on him.

He nods and gets onto the Aradian Stallion, with a frown that slowly spreads across his face. He doesn't like it, but faces reality. One day, for the good of the Realm, he will have to take up a rifle and fight these men. Bran puts the idea to the back of his mind. Killing was never his forte, nor did he want it to be. Unfortunately, he is in service to men who do. The group trots out of Bagrum's Gate. They leave the white flag on their way out, trampled into the sand by Oliver's pony.

[Arkham Nation]

September 28th, 5213, 9:00 AM
Allied Occupied Territory, Osmiri

Braxton opens the door to the commanders area and strolls in closing the door behind him. He walks up to Ellison taking a seat next to him. "Good morning Mr. Ellison" he nods and Ellison nods back. "I have some unfortunate news, I must return to Arkham. I can no longer stand by and watch my people die as I see your people die on the front lines. So if I must parish I would like to give you some things as you are my friend I made in these dark times." Braxton takes off a badge from his chest, the badge showed a gear with a sword through the middle. "This is a High Overseer badge from home, and I have no use for it anymore so I want you to have it." He places it on the table then reaches into his pocket, he takes out a pocket watch and opens it to look inside. "This watch belonged to my wife, who was killed during the up rising of Hodge and so did my son." He places it on the table next to the badge closing it. "Two more gifts Mr. Ellison" He reaches down towards his waist unbuttoning his holster then take out his gun. The gun looked like a steampunk gun with a cog on the side of it. "This is my gun Mr. Ellison, I've fired it over many battle and wars. I want you to have it to fire it through other battles and wars." He places the gun next to the other gifts. "Now for my final gift I give you my Dreadnought Walker 'Behemoth' and so Commander Ellison that is all I have left to give you." They both stand up and Braxton salutes him and Ellison salutes him back.

"You're a good man Braxton, I'd hate to lose you. I understand when home is calling for your return. The both shake their hands one last time then leaves out the door to The Raven. Braxton gets on the ship with his other forces. He turns around and waves goodbye to everyone.

September 28th, 5213, 11:00 PM
Abandoned building, Poor District
Alastor, Arkham Nation

The Raven lands on top of the building and Braxton walks out too meet up with 'The Voice'. They both shook hands and 'The Voice' led Braxton inside. 'The Voice' led him inside a room and they both sat down. "Now lets begin, thank you for joining our side against Hodge."

"What's our plan?" Braxton asks pouring a bottle of scotch in a cup.

"Right now we are surrounding the Presidents Palace, he moved all his troops to the palace and has made the place into a fortress. We've got a sniping position in the clock tower."

Suddenly they hear the door being burst down from downstairs, they jump up from out of their chairs and graps guns from off the wall. "Get 'The Voice' out of here now!" Braxton yells to the guard. The guard takes 'The Voice' by the arm and leads him out the other door.

"What about you sir!" the guard yells back.

'Ill stay here we need 'The Voice' in order to make the revolution stay alive, now go!" He closes the door and breaks the knob.

Braxton faces the door and holds his gun up towards it. The door bursts down and he starts shooting until he runs out of bullets. A man in a red army suit pistol whips him and Braxton falls face first into he ground and gets blacked out.

September 29th, 5213, 9:00 AM
Presidents Palace, Alastor, Arkham Nation

Braxton wakes up strapped in a chair in the Autarchs office. He looks up and sees Hodge sitting behind his desk watching him. "Hello old friend haha." he giggles. "I knew you would come back to try and kill me but you failed and do you want to know why?" Braxton glares at him "Because you brought back a government ship." he laughs "You got to be very stupid in order to do that."

The man in the red army suit steps in and walks over to Hodge "I see yall have already met." Braxton looks at him and then turns back to Hodge. "What is it?"

"They are ready, sir" he says.

"Good get him up.'" the man unstraps him from the seat and puts him in cuffs. " You see Braxton as you were away I've made a corporation called G.E.A.R, Galactic.Experianced.Army.Reds. They do a lot of work my soldiers won't have to do, very helpful you know." the man dragged him outside where a crowd of people were standing in front of a stage. "You see that." Hodge pointed at a large contraption with a large metal thing at the top. "Its called a guillotine they used this along time ago for another revolution so I thought I would bring it back." he giggled.

They climbed the stairs and the man pushed Braxton on to the little table. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the beheading of this traitor Braxton. He took our brave men and women to fight in a war that was not ours to get in. So for these crimes he will now be beheaded. My god have mercy on your soul. Any last words, Braxton Alexander?" Hodge looked at him.

"Long live the Federal Coalition" he said closing his eyes.

Hodge nods to the executioner and the executioner lets go of the rope cutting Braxton's head off. Rain starts to pour down heavily, Hodge goes back inside to his office and sits down at his chair.

September 29th, 5213, 12:00 PM
Presidents Palace, Alastor, Arkham Nation

Hodge sits in his chair drinking another bottle of whiskey looking out the window thinking about what he had just done. Suddenly a brick was thrown at his window that smashed it. He looked down to see a mob of people heading towards the building. "Protect me open fire on them now!" He shouts. Hodge reaches for his hologram communicator and contacts Premier Vladimir Kamarov. "Premier Vladimir Kamarov, I need your help they are going to kill me I'm going to lose this revolution.

"Im sorry Hodge, but didn't you say that if anyone come towards your planet you'll destroy them." Hodge stood pale motionless. "And even if I did want to help you I couldn't spare anyone."

"NO NO NO!!! you have to I implore you!" Hodge screams.

"Its time you pay for your actions, goodbye Hodge Blackwood." the communicator shuts off.

"I will not be another Adam Summer, NO NO NO NO NOOOOOO!" he grips his gun and loads it, he hears the footsteps coming up the stairs. The doors burst down and the man in the red suit falls down on the floor dead. In steps 'The Voice' and he fast walks straight to Hodge and punches him in to his chair.

"You've got know idea how long I wanted to do that" he said spiting in his face.

"So your 'The Voice'?" Hodge asked.

"Yes I am and you sir are going to be beheaded just like Braxton." 'The Voice' punched him to where Hodge blacked out.

Hodge woke up on the small bed attached to the guillotine. "NO!" Hodge shouts. The crowd cheers in happiness some even crying of joy.

'The Voice' climbs the stairs and the crowd cheers and claps for him, then they go silent. "Brothers and sisters we are finally free!" they cheer then fall back to silent "This man is to be beheaded for war crimes such as killing a ambassador and the mass murder of congress.' the crowed boos him. "Any last words Hodge Blackwood?"

Hodge looks in the sky just as he always done when he was going to give a speech. "This world is a machine. Only powerful people can run it such as the inventor." the executioner lets go of the rope and Hodge Blackwood's head falls into a basket next to Braxton's head.

[Vorstus]

September 12th, 5208, 1:03 PM
Cel Space, Galactic Rim Patrol Team 9, Aboard the FGSS. Sun Spear
Captain's Quarters Entry Hall

"Sir, the vessel hailed us back... They claim to be of New Latvia? Halbatia? Oh, yes, Halvatia. The Intergalactic Reich of Halvatia, to be quite technical. Sorry I had to replay the message a couple of times to get all of what the man was saying. These people appear to have very thick accents. Anyways, the Captain of this ship, The Dread Hammer, wants us to cease our 'aggressive' actions towards them. They claim if we stop, they will be open to peace talks. If not, we will be considered 'at war' with their country." Morales explains, continuing to replay the message.

The Captain exhales a sigh of sweet relief. Thank the gods. That could have definitely gone worse. The choice is clear. Who wants to be 'That one Captain that started the fourth quarter of the Second Universal War'? He knows its not him, and relays this information to the Bridge as quickly as possible. He taps his earpiece twice, same as always.

"Quickly! Reroute the power from the Launch Bays back to the Sheild Generators. Disarm the Torpedoes currently loaded and roll them back into their respective Hangers. As for the current Obitus Charge we have going, I want a slow release of it in the form of a beam. Aim it as to where we are firing back into our own Space. Make sure it cannot be taken as a distasteful act against them. But keep us on lockdown. If this is a trick, I don't want to be laughed at for being too dumb to see past a simple sham." He ask, knowing his Bridge Crew (especially Morales) can be very dim at times.

"Acknowledged... Disarming Torpedoes... Disarming Torpedoes... Opening Torpedo Bay Doors... Unloading Torpedoes... Closing Torpedo Bay Doors... Complete Disarmament Successful... Sending Torpedo Bay Power to the Shield Generators. Now for the nasty bits. Stopping Obitus Charge... Obitus Lockdown Successful... Setting Coordinates -23, -133, +400... Coordinates Set... Narrowing the Projector/Mirror Cortex to Beam Setting... Narrowing Successful. 3... 2... 1... Fire!" Laura yells into Mace's headset.

All at once, the ship begins to rattle, and its framework begins to bend under the surrounding pressure. It holds up the best it can for the entire ten minutes. A few bolts pop off from the window hatches and the power bounces from failure to function every few moments. He should have known better before giving the order to fire it at all. Such a small vessel is not worthy of the power brought on by such a strong Projector. He grimaces while he waits for the Beam to fully disperse. It ends as quickly as it began.

"Damage report as a result of firing the Beam, Mrs. Morales?" He ask, barfing a little in his mouth from the experience alone.

"Running a full scale report now... Report finished. It says everything is in order, Sir. The shaking caused a few bolts to pop out or disjoint here and there, but overall, all is well. The Sun Spear maybe thirty years old, but she's a hard bitch. Oh, and by the way, the Reinforcement Patrols you called for are soon to arrive. They will wait on standby till further notice." She goes on, breathing deeply, probably still in shock from the fear of possibly being killed in a Projector Implosion.

The Captain grunts and makes ready his uniform. Today is going to be a big day. Peace or no, this will be one for the books. Who knows... If the Prime Minister cant arrive on time, he might just be 'That one Captain that started the fourth quarter of the Second Universal War'...

[Insurgia]

September 30th, 5213, 2:32 AM
Kaztian, The Soviet Socialist Republic of Karaq, Genesis
Kaztov Cemetery

Red and Blue flashes of light were all that could be seen that night in the cemetery. It was like any other grave robber case but this one stuck out from all the others. To get inside the mausoleum, to open that door which weighed a ton, must've been hell. Either way, Brown just happened to be on the planet when it happened and he knew he was doomed to be dispatched as he was in the neighborhood as well. He stood out among all the other cops there, the only one wearing a thick hoodie and beanie over a gray trench coat and Soviet ushanka.

"What's this?" the Detective asked, speaking the best Karaqi he could.

"It's uh...grave robbery...it was forced entry into the mausoleum...they must've had something to open the door. Machinery. No one could open that door with their bare hands." explained the Soviet Inspector.

"Apparently...when the sun rises and when the snow melts, I want you to check this area for tread marks. The inside of the mausoleum scanned for prints. Foot prints, finger prints, you know the drill." demanded Brown.

"Da." responded the Karaqi, walking off, leaving Brown to his work.

Abraham paced around the mausoleum, looking for any other signs of evidence. Finally making it back to the front of the mausoleum, he entered. The place was quite roomy and cozy, in the center of the room, a glass casing which had been shattered at the end of it. Glass covered the floor and the inside of what remained of the casing. Whoever was inside the casing, the State or maybe even a family member did the right thing trying to preserve his body. Must've been important, Abraham thought to himself. He looked around, seeing other cases around the room shattered, possibly host to smaller objects. This place was more of a shrine if anything and it would be understandable if someone wanted in for the goods but why take the body too? Abraham backed out of the mausoleum and looks at what remained of the stone door. It read in Cyrillic with an English translation:

Here Lies, 1st Emperor of Karaq, Madara Viridian...may he rest in peace.

The name meant hardly anything to him but apparently it meant something to someone. Whoever it was, they are long gone now.

[Vorstus]

October 1st, 5213, 8:48 PM
Westhall (AKA Thieves' Circuit), The Conglomerate Empire of Vorstus, (Eden)
Regicide Bay

"So its a deal then? Forty thousand ditrins for all of the goods on the Maiden of Verdun? The rum, the lazarus, the spices, the slaves, all of it?" Ask Jeffery, with a great deal of enthusiasm.

"Fifty thousand and we have a deal. I'm here to make a profit too, Ascot. I cant make a profit when the value of my goods sell below their going rate. So, take it or leave it. If you need some time to sleep on it, we will still be here come morning. But, if you come back to me with any number lower than fifty thousand, you'd might as well not come back at all." Jonas growls in his usual style.

The two men have a short period of silent staring. Although they'd known one another for a long time, since both their childhoods in fact, but, nonetheless, business is still business. One fuck up on Jonas' side, and his Investors dwindle. One fuck up on Jeff's side, and his profit margin will drop at least two fold. Somebody must give some ground and neither men want it to be him. They both soon realize how silly they both must look to any on watchers. Ascot begins to giggle, shortly followed by his counterpart after a few short seconds.

Meet me at forty five and we're set. If I don't get some fresh products into Shade Water by next Tuesday, my competitors will. Please Joe.. Cut me a break this time and I'll pay you double next time I'm here in Thieves' Circuit. If we cant reach a deal though, that's fine too. I hear the Blackborne is pulling into port tomorrow from The Cove..." He carries on, his voice trailing into the dusk set sky.

"Since I'm feeling generous today, I'll drop to forty six and two quarters. No more, no less. This is my last offer. And if you're trying to threaten me with the Blackborne, don't even try. You let your secret slip too quickly... You need your goods in harbor at Shade Water Island by Tuesday. Wait another day and you wont be able to make it on time. Checkmate, Ascot." Chuckles Jonas, feeling very pleased with himself.

Knowing he has lost the game, Ascot sighs deeply. Faced with defeat, he outstretches his hand. He should have saw it coming. In his desperate bid to get the goods he needs, he let the element of uncertainty go, thereby giving all the leverage to the selling party. Joe accepts and nods his head. The rush of victory fills his veins. The two end the transaction, there in the dead of the night.

"Your goods will be loaded onto your ship by dawn. You will be able to set sail anytime after five o'clock AM tomorrow. However, if your destination is what you say it is, I'd suggest-" He is cut short by the sound of rubber bullets whizzing past his head and torso.

"DPI, TO YOUR KNEES! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!!! ANY SUDDEN MOVES WILL BE MET AS A POSSIBLE ACT OF VIOLENCE AND WILL BE DEALT WITH ACCORDINGLY!!! YOU TWO, OVER THERE; IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!" The Department of Public Intelligence Agent demands, his Delirium-76 pointed at them both.

The two businessmen and all of the sailors around them fall to their knees and put their hands on the backs of their heads. The two look to one another. The general feeling is clear. Dread and confusion. Whatever comes of this, will not be good. Both take time to think over their own rights for a moment. However, Marshal Law has already been declared... Their rights are now what these Agents make of them... Confusion is soon replaced by fear. In a broken voice, Ascot is the first to respond.

"Jeffery Ascot." He proclaims.

"Jonas King." The other gasp.

Clad in a bullet proof vest, a pair of black pants, and dutifully polished combat boots, the Agent walks over. There is a great arrogance in his walk. One too great for a man of his stature... Maybe five three. Perhaps even less than that. If they'd not heard his voice before, they'd assumed that he was just a mere boy. Commanded, not the Commander. Jeffery laughs to himself about it on the inside. At least there is a little humor to this situation.

"The both of you and everybody else here are under arrest for Treason against the Crown, Vorstus, and the Federal Coalition. And you, to the left. You are charged not only with Treason, but also thievery. The punishment for both right now is death. Your sentences shall be carried out at daybreak. Gentlemen, take these Ration Breakers away." He commands to his five or so lackeys, gesturing to the two with his gun.

"Ah, so this is what it has come down to... The petty thieves are sentenced to hang whilst the greater ones are elected to public office. Some justice if you ask me..." Barks Jonas, angry about the entirety of the situation.

The agent swings the butt of his rifle into the side of his face. The man's weakness, however, is there, and worse yet, it shows. Rather badly in fact. King spits out a small mouthful of blood and a couple of teeth. The man smiles a not so toothy grin. The second swing does not deter him any more than the first. Two rubber bullets to the leg don't cut it either. Soon, courage grows throughout the pack of sailors and thieves. It only takes fractions of seconds for Ascot to speak up as well.

"You speak of a Crown... But, may I ask, Agent... What Crown? The Emperor, his Court, and all of his Family are dead. And if this Rationing keeps up another week, the same will be able to be said about the Vorstinian Nation. Perhaps even your precious Coalition. You call us the Traitors... But who is really serving their country here? The men who try to give food to its starving population... Or those who would see that same food given to fat Generals four worlds away, fighting a War that could be won in a day with the nod of a head and the combined Glassing Power of one Fleet? Think on that, bootlicker." He slurs up at the Agent.

"My Colleague and I don't always agree on things, but here he makes a point. Why should we take commands from a Traitor like you? Why should /any/ of us, take commands from people such as yourself??? The people of Arkham started and recently won their Revolution... I have no idea why we did not do the same upon hearing the news. I think I speak for the lot of us when I say 'Sic Semper Tyrannis'!" Jonas says, getting to his feet.

When the brute force of the gun bares down upon the man, of course he falls. When he does, however, three sailors (and Ascot) rise to take his place. When Ascot is thrown to the floor, the number of men standing doubles. Those who still sit on the ground do not remain that way for much longer. Soon, all are risen. The Lawman and his subordinates shake with the fear of gods and men within them. Armed with chains, box cutters, and ropes, the sailors begin to encircle the Ration Enforcers. The last thing the Lawmen hear before the sailors and businessmen snuff the breath of life out of their miserable bodies is the chant... The same chant that engulfs the city like a plague the following morning...

Sic.

Semper.

Tyrannis.

[Halvatia]

September 12th 1:10 PM
Outer Halvatian Space aboard the Halvatian Flag Ship, The Black Valiant.
Command Bridge.

Bright lights can be seen a small ways away from the Dread Hammer, and from those bright lights came new Halvatian ships. A massive warp nexus of an entire Halvatian Armada which included The hyper massive Flag ship, the Black Valiant which was the personal ship of The Halvatian Fuhrer, Wilhelm Von Bech. Ten Thousand ships arrived through the Nexus all with their shields armed but with their weapons inactive for the sake of peace. The Black Valiant sat behind the entire armada, but was easy to spot seeing that it was larger than even the Halvatian Dreadnaughts. The Black Valiant sent a message to the Sun Spear stating that "The massive ship nexus was nothing more than a security measure. It was not an act of war or meant to be an act of aggression."

Wilhelm Von Bech: "So this is the alien ship we have recently made contact with? It seems...old und battered und quite feeble as well. It makes me wonder, do you think the rest of their Galactic Navy will be like this, Foreign Minister?"

Zhong Yung "Foreign Minister of Halvatia": "Nein, I believe they will have significantly better ships. As you know Mein Fuhrer, the Sun Spear is just a tiny patrol ship but I am sure that they have reinforcements near by."

Wilhelm: Hmm, interesting. So that begs the question, how many ships do you think will enter through a warp nexus to reinforce the Sun Spear, seeing that we brought the entire Halvatian 1st Armada to this location?"

Zhong: "I would say...ten to fifteen thousand ships Mein Fuhrer. As strong, technologically advance and numerous as we are I am sure that there are other Empires that match our capabilities. Granted we have not seen a warp nexus from them yet so we do not know the full extent of their capabilities."

Wilhelm: "Hmm, indeed. Now I am wondering what their leader will be like. If he is anything like the Captain of the Sun Spear, then I am sure that we can push this peace deal to our advantage. I sincerely hope that in the leaders case, he has a strong will and a strong constitution about himself or I am afraid he will succumb to our diplomatic tactics."

Zhong:"Jawohl Mein Fuhrer, which ever way this meeting goes, I am sure that we will have the advantage in some way, shape or form. We are known throughout the Twilon and Vilrek controlled Galaxies as the indomitable empire and I am sure that this new empire will come to know us as that soon enough. Providing they decide to make a stupid move."

Wilhelm: "Well, now all there is left to do is wait, wait and see what comes of this all, Wait to see if they send someone else to do their leaders work."

[Vorstus]

October 1st, 5213, 8:48 PM
Cel Space, The Southern Border Enforcement Armada, Aboard the FGSS. Hymn of Lysteria
Gravity Lift #11

"I don't understand why you're so upset. The Prime Minister is a very busy man and cannot attend to trivial matters such as these whenever they arise. We're smack dab in the center of a Universal War, we're going through a financial crisis, and the people of outlying Planets have begun to reject the idea of a Vorstinian Empire. These are dangerous times, Captain Rivers. Our most important resources need to be allocated to fight the most important problems of our time. This may be a discovery, yes... In twenty years or so, what will it matter? We nearly rejected Tarlag and later vowed to uphold Isolationism after the Dominion War came to fruition. It only becomes a matter of the Prime Minister if these Fascist decide they either want to war with us or any of our interest." Commander Garrett assures.

"Those are not excuses. If a mere Patrol Captain can be entrusted to carry out international diplomacy, then why the hell do we need a Prime Minister? Or a Minister of External Affairs? I find it idiotic we must even have this discussion. Perhaps the people of the outlying Planets are correct. Perhaps it is time to reject the idea of Empire. Clearly we cannot afford to maintain one and at the same time be tasked with things that do not concern us. Send for the Karaqi Patrols from the North. Perhaps the good Premier will have more free time on his hands than Prime Minister East..." He continues, tapping his foot on the gravity lift floor.

The Commander nods, and breaks out his Holo-Phone. In a frenzy of taps and swipes, Garrett Frey begins typing a message to the Karaqi Space Command, and all of their Patrols designated to protect the Northern Boarder. Now free from the Commander's dead weight, Rivers briskly walks out of the lift as soon as the doors slide open. He thanks the gods above that he wont have to suffer through another moment of that mans banter and ranting. The Hanger is usually like a labyrinth to Joseph, but today it is different. Instead of being an endless maze of the same type of spacecraft, it is now entirely dominated by a single craft. It does not fill the entirety of the Hanger, but it does seem rather large, putting it into relation with the rest of the space. He gracefully strides up the gangplank of the FGSS. Crossbow. He takes the hand of the Pilot, who helps him over the small ledge between the vessel and the gangplank.

"I've already sent a message to the Outsider Flagship. They should be aware we are coming. However, I haven't gotten anything back on the channel that the men of the Sun Spear set up. And they don't know you're not our Prime Minister either... So... I would hold myself highly if I were you." The older man says, trying to give some helpful advice.

"I'll take note of that. Oh, and I nearly forgot! Give that Captain of the Sun Spear my regards... He handled the situation surprisingly well. I will make sure the Federal Guard Space Command finds out. It will not only be a noteworthy mark on his record, but also a possibility for him to climb the ranks. Perhaps a better ship than that... thing..." He mutters, looking over to the ragged old vessel, the words 'Sun Spear' sprawled across its bow.

As the craft moves forward, the Captain looks out the small porthole that looks out from the privy chamber. The Southern Border Enforcement Armada and the Flagship at its back, ( FGSS. Hymn of Lysteria) slowly shrink into the distant depths of the void. He hopes that no conflicts of interest arise. If they do... Fire and blood will add color to the now blank canvas of Space. He tries to keep confidence, however. Though only composed of sixteen thousand vessels, big, small, and varying in ages, with the combined help of the HoL, he rest assured the odds will favor the Federation. He puts the vile thought to the back of his mind. Today he will be a peaceful Prime Minister, not a warmongering Captain.

[Halvatia]

October 1st, 5213, 8:50 PM
Outer Edge of Halvatian Controlled space, 1st armada, aboard the Black Valiant Flag Ship.
Captains Chambers.

It has been five years (for some reason) since the last time a Vorstus message was sent to the Halvatian Flag Ship. The 1st Armada has moved on, but after receiving a message from Vorstus, the entire 1st Armada warps once again to the border.

Wilhelm and his trusted leaders are all sitting in the ships grand dining room replaying the message and laughing at the fact that it took five years for Vorstus ships to arrive.

Wilhelm: "Five years Mein Freunden, Five years for them to reach the border. This...this is one for the history books. The day The Vortisian Empire Finally reaches the border in full force. It makes me wonder how long it took for that little Sun Spear to reach this far....any ways Mein Freunden, this message tells us that their leader is going to meet us, which is good. We will be able to conduct a full diplomatic meeting with this New Empire. As of now, Halvatia is completely secure in every aspect, our short war with Vilrek Hagemony has ended with a victory and another Galactic Empire is absorbed into our Intergalactic Reich. Our Economy is unshakable, our resources are nearly infinite und our technology is...obviously unmatched und even if these Vortisians can summon up some decent technology that is near our level, Halvatia will still eclipse them. Mein Freunded, I present a toast. Raise your glass for the glory of Halvatia and its Fuhrer...me."

After the Fuhrers little speech, the leaders of Halvatia stand and give a toast to Halvatia and its Fuhrer. Laughing as they sit down and enjoy their dinner, waiting for the Vortisian Leader to make contact with the Black Valiant that they are ready to commence peace talks.

Wilhelm: "Now, as you know today is Verteidigungsminister Morgan Blau's Birthday today and we must celebrate, but before we do. I must add a few things to the little speech I made earlier, as you know I desire peace with every empire we come in contact with, because absorbing them through means of diplomacy and other "peaceful" means show how utterly weak other empires are compared to us. It humiliates them and of course, shows them that Halvatia is the ray of light at the end of that humiliating darkness. But, as you know, I am not afraid of a good fight for it rallies our people and ensures staunch nationalism. It ensures our people that we are indeed protecting them and their interests. It ensures the future for Halvatia, that it will last as long as time exists. There is an old latin phrase that I like to quote, "Roma Invicta" which, as you know means In-conquerable Rome und in this case, we cay say Halvatia Invicta. Now Morgan, let us celebrate your Birthday with some delicious cheese cake which was made by our top chef. I know it is your favorite so you may have the first bite Meine Fruende.

Wilhelm claps and lets the servant workers know that it is time for them to bring out the Birthday cake, they do so and Morgan takes the first bite. They have a grand time and enjoy themselves before the leader of Vorstus arrives.

[Vala Victoria]

October 4th, 5213, 9:00 AM
Opeinhine, The Peoples' Republic of Vala Victoria, Osmiri
Overlooking The Ruinsl

The bombs fell. Charred bodies covered the ground. The majority of the city, like many before it, was now flattened. Leave nothing for the Allies, as the Supreme Leader had ordered. Torch and burn for every city that was on the brink of being lost. This meant setting up explosives inside of buildings. Putting landmines into the roads. Calling a bomb or napalm strike on the city, leaving very little chance for any surviving residents. It was a slaughter. For both civilians and soldiers on both sides. They all know who they died for though. It would not be in vain.

One of the Ministers; Minister of Defence, overlooked the remainder of the city. He had aged since the beginning of the war. His hair slightly graying. Smoke had still been rising from the fires that still were burning down the remaining buildings. The bombs fell only a few hours ago and had driven out, if had not killed any Allied Forces inside the city at the time of the torch and burn. The Minister could see in the distance, the dust rising into the air. He knew, many miles away, the Allies were there. Inching slowly but surely towards him. To the Allies' rear, another invasion force, which was tasked with assaulting the opposite direction, which mean they'd probably arrive in Riyadi before this one. Regardless, it was inevitable, the Minister knew this...he did not speak of it...but he knew it could only be delayed. That's what they had been doing for the past 5 years. Only delaying the inevitable.

An officers car sat in the background, behind the Minister. A single officer, grabbing his cap off the dash and then approaching the Minister, adjusting his uniform and staring blankly at the ruin.

"We're doomed aren't we?" asked the Officer.

"No...not you. These people. Those who have become victim to these heinous acts of violence and war...they are not judged by the justice of man but only seen as the victims. As for our Dear Leader...he is responsible. Along with the many other Generals and Ministers within his Inner Circle. They will be judged...and sentenced." responded the Minister, rather quickly.

The Officer, young in appearance, looked at the Minister then back at the ruin.

"Where will they head to now?" he asked.

"Esovo...they will go through every major city and burn it if need be. To them my friend, this isn't just another planet. Nor just another year on some distant planet. What they're doing here now...this is the end of the war to them. Soldiers with families back home that they haven't seen in years. I do not doubt their capability to commit the worst of the worst just to see their loved ones once again. War brings out the worst in men." he finished.

"The most persistent sound in the history of man is the reverberating beat of war drums." the Officer noted from his University Studies.

The Minister nodded and turned slowly, walking humbly back to the car.

[Karaq]

October 5th, 5213, 7:20 PM
Zyad, The Peoples' Republic of Vala Victoria, Osmiri
212 kilometers southeast of Riyadi

A single shot was heard in the ruins of the war torn city. Among all it's clashes, it was all silence until a single soldier broke the silence. Colonel Romanov lay there quietly, discarding a shell from his rifle and pushing another bullet into the chamber slowly. Effectively, a single Victorian soldier in the distance yelled in pain as the shot had entered his body but had not killed him. The Colonel tried adjusting his angle without attracting any attention but could not without causing too much movement. He could hear the soldier screaming in the distance in pain. One of the not so lucky ones...he thought to himself.

The sun had begin to set behind the buildings and darkness suddenly began to set itself upon the land. The soldier that had been hit by the Colonels' shot had eventually stopped crying. Without much regard, he dismissed it. The Colonel without much hesitation, slithered away like a snake so delicately, allowing himself to make it back to his own personal camp in the city itself. Romanov had been doing this for too long. He'd risen through the ranks, through all his time spent in the Red Army, he'd experienced so much loss but so much gain. He'd gained many enemies and many comrades. Either of them ending up dead or otherwise, worse. The old sniper set his rifle down against the wall and sat down in his chair, looking out the window that overlooked the remnants of the war torn city.

Suddenly, darkness controlled everything. Every little thing was pitch black, however, a little glimpse of light could be seen through what was made out as cloud cover. Then, a moon appeared behind the clouds. It was warm. Humid. For some reason, Romanov recognized this place, he thought to himself. Am I dreaming? It must be a dream. The moonlight broke through the cloud cover once more and the outlines of the Kremlin could be seen. The ruins of it. Oh no...Vladimir thought to himself. This was the worst of his nightmares. Like switching from a scene of a movie to another, cries were heard. Whimpering. He could recognize those too, the sound of a long gone friend...a brother...a son. Vasily...? No...not now! Please! In the Colonels' arms, the young sniper held his blood covered wound, looking up at his mentor without emotion. The boys face was colorless, his eyes motionless, his breath stopped.

The dream ended. Vladimir jumped up, grabbing his rifle in response and looking back out the window only to see the moon was no longer in his vision and that night was slowly turning back to day. Romanov, hearing a crackling noise behind him, turned his rifle in that direction, only to see another Soviet holding the very same rifle as he in the exact same uniform. He was young, a boy by the looks of it. Almost comparable to someone that lingered in his dreams. The Colonel did not dare think back to it.

"Who...who're you?" he asked.

"Sergeant Rykov. Alexander Rykov. I was told to report to you, I'm your spotter." the boy responded.

"Spotter? I don't want a spotter. There must've been a mistake." Romanov claimed, standing up in an attempt to scare off the boy.

"HQ's orders." he finished, setting down his rifle and taking a seat.

Romanov stared at the boy for a minute then sat down himself, pulling out a pot from his pack and a portable stove. Soup time.

[Vorstus]

October 5th, 5213, 7:24 AM
Sugil, The Peoples' Republic of Vala Victoria, Iagawa
South Watch Command Tent

McCreedy watches the eastern sky grow dark as the hundreds of jets fly overhead. The City has lasted a month now, but it is clear the defiance and patriotism that fueled the Enemy before is now draining away. Like a time lapsed video of a dying flower, Henry watches the city grow ever more gnarled and twisted with every passing minute. To be certain, this was not the Sungil that had rained fire and brimstone down on them a fortnight ago. This was different. An entirely new place. In a sick and twisted way, McCreedy enjoys watching the Siege go on. Deep in his heart, he knows that the remaining Victorian Leadership within will never give up. This may be the only freedom this city ever experiences. Death. The finality of the word sends tingles down his spine. Would history remember him the same way he would remember himself? Not as a murderer, but as a bringer of a lasting peace? All of a sudden, a quote from his grandfather comes to mind.

"What is right is not always popular and what is popular is not always right." He whispers reassuringly to himself, taking a sip of tea from his mug, bobbing the bag up and down before sitting the plate back down on a nearby table.

In a surge of fire and toxic gasses, the ruined city sends up a reasonably sized volley of missiles. They twirl and dance closer and closer to their individual targets. The helicopters and troop transports are the most vulnerable. Due their speed and size, they are the first to be hit. With a wince, he watches on, ever vigilant of the fighting. With tails of gold and crimson, the now burnt out aircraft fall to the surface, making the unmistakable sound of impact when they do so. To his great dislike, one crashes not too far from the hill on which his tent sits. Not only does it implore him to take action, but also alerts him that indeed, this ridge will soon yield to the conflict as well. Ignoring his body guards, he walks over to the wreckage.

The destroyed helicopter gunship sizzles as the soft morning rains begin to fall down upon the outskirts. He looks up towards the sky. Though mostly blocked by missiles and aircraft, he can see it in the rumbling in the West. The disguised, subtle, and perhaps to some ominous rumble of thunder. Like a artist armed with a paintbrush, streaks of lightning jolt across the sky. Coming back to the situation, he walks onwards. The craft itself looks done for. The bulletproof glass that once sat in the frames of the back windows is spread out in shards throughout the vehicle. Wow. Whatever hit this thing clearly was aiming directly at the tail. This becomes more and more apparent as the scorching of the metal comes into further detail. The blast had engulfed it from behind, killing the passengers with the heat surge alone. With a grunt and a hard tug, he pulls at the steel side door. It feels like its welded shut, but clearly this cant be so. One last good tug sends the door flying off its once sturdy sliding lock. A bellowing black plume of smoke escapes into the morning sky. The smell of burnt flesh and defecation nips at its heels. He enters.

"H-... elp... Plea..." A raspy voice calls out in the smoky cavity.

"Where are you Soldier?! How in the name of God did you survive?!" He ask, astonished.

A raspier moan escapes the lips of a shadowy figure, on the other side of the helicopter. Unlike the opposite side, this door has already been opened. The violent breathing seems to be coming from the outside. The Brigadier glances through the ajar door. Clinging to life, burned, charred, and mutilated, is a Soldier. A deployed parachute hangs from the chopper's blades. On the ground, presumably from where he had tried to bail, sits a lone pistol. A plasma DE, to be exact. Another ghostly rattle slithers out of the dying mans throat as his nearly closed eyes (what's left of them, anyways) slant down towards the weapon.

"Ple... H..eee..lll-" He barely manages to utter the words.

Henry picks up the DE, observing it. A full cartridge of plasma still sits within. For him, the weight is quite a load on his arm. Although his part in the fighting has recently become scarce to none, the stress of the Siege has taken his energy. He had heard rumors of this kind of behavior from passing Troops and the like before. Lone men surviving horrible missile barrages, bailing from their craft only to be caught on the blades of a helicopter, or worse yet, in the turbines of a jet. With a short period of hesitation, McCreedy raises the firearm. He cocks back the hammer. He aims. He begins pulling the trigger before the sound of heavy breathing can be heard behind him. Instinctively, he jolts back around to see who is coming up behind him, aiming the weapon with more sincerity now.

"Don't shoot! Its only me! I've a letter for you... There was a raven in the night. The message couldn't be entrusted to technology or any one person. I'd imagine its important. Here." The Comms Officer exhales, bowing before slinging his rifle back over his shoulder.

He puts the side arm to rest, throwing it to the dirt outside of the chopper. Mercy killings are not a pressing issue right now. He takes the little scroll, noticing its wax seal. This was not from the Space Command... Not from any military institution for that matter... This was the seal of the Prime Minister of Vorstus... How odd. He stares at it for another few seconds before breaking the wax. The scroll unfolds itself with haste, almost falling out of Henry's hands. He smooth's the wrinkles from the paper and begins to read the contents of the letter.

"Brigadier,

Vorstus is falling from within. The war has broken us. In the Midwest, the city of Westhall has revolted. The rationing campaign died out there feel weeks ago. Since then, a unified government of merchants and landowners have declared the 'Western Freehold'. This plague has grown to encompass everything north of the Grip. Nividia, although still loyal to the Empire, struggles to keep order as the Freehold continues to blockades their ports. They refuse to give in until Nividia cedes itself to them. This is not expected to happen soon. To the East, The Imperial Isles, Port Royal, and Shade Water Island have organized themselves as 'The Pledged Cities'. This unholy union derives its name from the loss of the late Emperor; Valentinian, Third of His Name. A foreigner man going by the name of Rensselaer has claimed himself the rightful heir to the Emperors' Throne, and has promised a steady supply of food to all who pledge fealty to him. Apparently, he has many holdings on Aradia, and can keep up this act indefinitely. And lastly, we have 'The Verdania Compact, which is currently composed of Port Wellington, Fort James, and Blackwell. To be honest, this Alliance doesn't really concern me because they still identify as Vorstinian cities, hold Vorstinian titles, and honor the Vorstinian Wartime Ration Clause of 5210. The Compact is more of an Economic Alliance than anything. If nothing bad happens and their pride stays in check, that's all it will be. If anything does go sour though... We can expect a strong Southeastern enemy. It is only us now... Conclave, Britannia Cove, Port St. George, and Portland Bay who hold loyal to the old ways. My orders to you, Master Henry, are obvious. Come home. Defend your Motherland with honor! Slay the false King! Kill the men of Grip who dare defy me! Restore confidence to those who's faith in me wavers!

With Most Sincere Gratitude,

Prime Minister Kollin East."

What a cunt. He crumples up the message and starts digging in his pockets. He produces a lighter and burns the paper in silent sobriety. He watches it ignite, placing it gently down on the cold metal floor. Before long, the message is but a pile of embers, soon blown away by a gust of wind. The Officer looks at him in shock.

"What did you do that for?! What did it say?!" He ask, furiously curious.

"Nothing important. Just some stuff about the government and how he'd be interested in me helping out in it after we get out of this war. That's it really. He told me to burn it after reading it. So, I did. Anyways, while you're here, send word to the Soldiers back on the Beach. Its time we march on the city. Our armor should tear right through them now. And after that, I'd like you to contact the Space Armada. Tighten our defenses up there. Nobody comes in and nobody goes out, understood?" He ask, impatiently.

The boy nods and begins his run back to Basecamp. McCreedy smiles to himself. The thought of it alone makes him want to burst into laughter. East, alone in the Palace of the Prime Minister, with three Armies pushing in towards him. Fuck the Motherland. What has it ever done for him? The more he thinks, the more ambition grows in his heart. With a grin of satisfaction and a conspiracy in his heart, the Brigadier walks back to the fray. Disregarding the continued cries for help coming from behind him, he picks up his Holo-Phone, and dials the operator.

"Hello... Could I get one Kendrick Banks on the line, please?" He snickers.

[Baeleer]

October 28th, 5213, 11:20 PM
Tarqūsh, The Kingdom of Baeleer, Aradia
Feasting at Court

The King waits impatiently, tapping his spoon violently against his bowl of stew. He cannot stand to eat. Not now. Surely they are done by now? Its been four hours solid. What could be so difficult about the task they were assigned? He thinks about if for a moment as the Royal Court chatters on. They speak in a language he cannot pin down, but it is clearly not English. Perhaps its some bastardized form of Vorstinian Latin? Or maybe, it is just some bad Aradian? No. Cant be... Too sharp and pointed... Far too many x's and z's for either language. At last, he figures it out, and is forced to do a double take on his own Throne. Of course they weren't, but he can almost swear that just for a moment, the entire Court was speaking Karaqi. The lack of sleep is certainly getting to him.

He downs another swig of wine and tries focusing on the dialogues ahead. How do you address such a figure? Better yet, once you introduce yourself... How do you explain what all is going on? Butterflies rise in the man's stomach, but soon flutter back to their old positions as Lady Nera walks through the Grand Arch. She too is dressed down, just like him. A hooded woolen cloak for the both of them, black in color, with a small heptagram stitched over where the wearers' heart is supposed to go. Its funny where the Faith sneaks into matters of the State and how it does so. He smiles as she charges up the stairs, shortly before bowing the head, and bending the knee.

"Your Grace... All the preparations are done. Your guest is soon to arrive. His grandson begs for your attendance when he finally comes. I knew you would be /very/ interested in coming anyways." She smiles, waiting for the command to rise back to her feet.

"Rise, Lady Nera. Its about time I meet this fellow. All my life I have looked up to him as a role model of sorts. In his youth, he was a conquer. In his mid adulthood, he was a leader. Both of our lives somewhat mirror each other. Not exactly, per say, but surely somewhat. I'm sure when you were in my bedroom, you noticed his bust?" He ask, brushing the wrinkles out of his robes.

She nods with an awkward recall of that nights events. The unpleasant feeing is palpable and the worst part is, he knows it too. The two glide down the flight of stairs leading to the Palace Dungeons. It was always a dark and dank place, but never as dark and dank as now, considering that the Dungeons have been inactive since the IRA came into power over the region a few years back. Cobwebs, bones, and torch lit halls greet them on their way to the room, all relics from a long past time. At the last hallway, the first electrical light can be seen. At last. With great strides and fast steps, the two enter the room. Pureblood Soldiers rise to meet them and also shut the door behind them. Wow. That's a new phenomena. Unpowered doors. He giggles at the irony. A room entirely decked out in life giving equipment cant have powered doors. He has a metal shrug. He's never been able to have his cake and eat it too. Now was no different. A blue light emanates from Holo-Computers and Data Display Panels strewn about the sandstone room. In the center, a glass cylinder lays on its side. Within, shrouded by a cloud of cold fog, is a figure. The sight sends chills down both the Kings' and Nera's spines. An awkward silence becomes a quiet of mystique, which is now joined in by the grandson.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, my King. The process is a delicate one. We're lucky my family chose freezing over embalming, or else this would have been next to impossible. The thawing is nearly completed, and we've transferred the body to the Lazarus Chamber, as you can see. My men await your word..." The Karaqi slurs in his best possible English.

"Its fine, young one. Tell them to move forward with the final stage. I've spent four whole weeks dreaming of this day. Do what you will. I'm ready." He states, glaring down at the Chamber.

The grandson gives a wink to the corner of the room, where a small camera flashes its lens back at him. All three (and presumably the scientist in the other room) watch on, carefully observing the following events. From the Chamber, the hiss of jets can be heard. Slowly, but without incident, the Chamber and the area around it fills with a steamy substance... Gaseous Lazarus... The monitors flanking the tube shock to life, beeping, buzzing, and flashing with activity. A line... Once straight and dull with inactivity... Rises and falls like an eternal bolt of lightning. The Emperor lives. Eyes wide, the grandson rushes to the Chamber, ready to greet his long lost relative. Stephen pushes him back with all the force he can muster. He goes flying back into the hallway. With caution, the King walks into the mist. He approaches the Chamber, opening it with care. The sound of decompression echoes throughout the entire Palace Dungeons. The mist comes to encompass the whole room and the figure slowly gains consciousness. With a feeling of warm youth washing over him, the King gives his first and last command to the figure.

"Madara of the House Viridian, First of Your Name, Emperor of the Karaqis and the Rouge States, Conquer of Genesis, and Emissary of the Prophets... Rise... And let us take what is ours by right!"

[Karaq]

October 28th, 5213, 11:22 PM
Tarqūsh, The Kingdom of Baeleer, Aradia
Feasting at Court

The Emperor gets up to his feet, brushing off some condensation and dust from his armor, which was clinging together at every movement he made. He stepped up from the pool, standing along the steps. The mist encompassing the room slowly but surely dissipating. The Grandson himself, had already backed up just by the liveliness and presence of him. Seeing through the mist and making out his silhouette sent enough fear into him. Everyone else was still adjusting to the mist that shrouded the room.

Madara himself, looked almost the same and identical as the last portrait taken of him over 200 years ago. An identical spitting image, his armor however, appeared to have some cracks in it but that alone, added hint of ancient age to him. The man didn't move his head but his eyes were observing the room. Identifying it's contents and whom was there. Merely a few feet in front of him, two men stood. The King and the long distant relative of Madara himself. Both of them, stared at him in shock. Viridian takes a deep breath, adjusting to the air. The mist all of the sudden quickly cleared most of the room, revealing the appearance of the Emperor. The rumors were all true. He stood tall, 6 feet and 6 inches in height. He had broad shoulders and he appeared to be of rather large build.

The Grandson quickly froze as he made direct eye contact with Viridian, a single sweat, slid down his face as he did not dare break eye contact. Madara in response, calmly put his hand on the handle of his Katana which had been strapped to his hip just prior to being dumped into the pool. This was a test. He was testing whether or not they were friend or foe...loyal or unloyal. Without hesitation, the Grandson responded by getting on one knee as fast as he could.

Madara continued to look down at his descendant, then turned his head towards the King.

"You have called me to rise...very well." his spoke firmly and directly, to the King.

[Baeleer]

October 28th, 5213, 11:23 PM
Tarqūsh, The Kingdom of Baeleer, Aradia
Feasting at Court

The King smiles in approval.

"I almost forgot my mannerisms... Welcome, my Lord Emperor, to the Aradia of 5213. Your nap was long and a lot has changed since you were laid down all those years ago. All will be explained, in time. Until then though, I'm Stephan of the House Rensselaer, First of My Name. It seems we share a lot in common. Shall we walk? The Court does not know of your awakening and I doubt they will take kindly to it. Best keep it hidden, for now." He mummers, bowing slightly.

The King's crown begins to slip from his head and he goes to fix it quickly. It is a heavy, awkward thing. However, it was his, and his alone. His men spent several weeks sneaking and sulking through the Mulican State Museum trying to retrieve it. Oh, how he'd longed for it. Now, he has it, and he swears nothing has changed with its arrival. It commands no more respect than he, but rightfully so. If all it takes is a crown to absorb the respect of your peers, then his life would be in very serious danger. Though the Court hides behind its smiles, laughter, and chatter, it will never be able to fool Rensselaer. The monster that it truly is has made itself known to him more than once before.

[MULICA]

October 30th, 5213, 12:00 PM
Cormaranches, The Incorporated State of Superior Arstotzka, Exodus
Plotting the Defense

"Castell, you and yours need to hold the Industrial District. The moment we lose that overhead coverage is the moment their artillery will scatter our innards across the ruble of this place. Goltz, take yours and sneak out of the South Gate. Entrench yourselves on Shale Hill and see to it that you do not charge until I give the word. We want them deep inside the City before we seal them in. Soroka, you go out of the West Gate and entrench your men along the base of Legrand's Slope. I want you to do the same. Since they're coming from the Northeast, they wont even know your there. Any questions?" Ask Molotov, frazzled from several sleepless days and nights.

"I'm sorry Comrade Commissar... I cannot go through with this plan. It will be suicide for us all. If my men go out of the West Gate to do anything, it will be to raise the white. If we do manage to slip out unnoticed, break the siege, and regroup afterwards, I will be left awestruck at how poor their light artillery Scouts are. I have under my command exactly four hundred men. With a group that large, it will be impossible to miss, even from six miles Northeast. We will be annihilated before the first spade touches the topsoil of Legrand's Slope." Soroka confesses, blandly.

The flicker of candle light adds an extra uncertainty to the former Propaganda Minister's evil eye. The two square off for a moment, in a mostly silent frenzy, save for the whispers of the other Commanders. The dank stone room offers no solace to the two combatants, either. Retrofitted storm shelters rarely do anything of the sort. It is Molotov who breaks the stare, quickly glaring up at the city map plastered very carelessly against the damp wall. He regards it for a moment, before looking back at the Commander.

"I respect your attention to detail, Comrade, but you must do your duty... The motherland calls for our help. If we refuse the plea, we will be deader than the meat at the Fresh Market. There is no honor amongst thieves. And that is precisely what they are, Soroka. Pirating-Thieving-Vorstinian-Capitalist-Swine. No more, no less. Do you think they will accept your surrender once they are finished sacking this place? Do you think they will bury you after they have you shot? No. Of course not. I thought you had more pride about yourself than that, Commander." He finishes with a huff.

"Who said I was going to leave the West Gate? I would /actually/ surrender to them. No, that's insane! We're going to take the next transport out of here, and haul ass to Karaq. The one place in this blasted universe that is not a caved in ruin. My men are preparing to depart now, in fact. Maybe if chance is feeling kind tomorrow and you're not /all/ murdered in cold blood, we will see each other again someday. Now, I must be taking my leave soon..." He chuckles, eyeing up the tunnels entrance.

He is nearly cut short by an orchestra of gasp and whispers. Surrender is one thing... Abandonment is entirely another. A few begin to draw for their pistols. Soroka brings out a grenade, putting his pinky finger around the pin. He smiles, and they put their hands up to the sky. Molotov included. With a grin of satisfaction, the man walks backwards, trying his best to keep his traction on the slippery floor.

"We're all being very unreasonable here. Lets put the weapons away, I don't know why we pulled them out to begin with. If he's going to leave, he will leave. Who are we to stop him? He has four hundred men at his back and what do we have combined? Maybe five or six? Infighting will get us nowhere. We might as well tear down the blockade and open the Sea Door wide for them if we want to start now. And you, Molotov... I have no clue what business a Public Relations Minister has on the field of battle, but it cant be much. I don't know who appointed you, but it'd be best you leave, not only for your sake, but for the sake of this city and all the lives in it." Goltz implores, holstering his weapon.

Soroka is almost at the end of the hall by the time the Commanders lecture is finished. With a look of defeat and understanding on his face, the once charismatic, powerful, Commissar Molotov stands to leave. Glotz and Castell are left alone in the chilly wet storm shelter of Cormaranches, in an awkward discomfort. The once inaudible sound of water dripping from the mossy ceiling sounds like the ringing of bells on Sunday. In Cormaranches, at least. Mulica has no bells on Sunday, for Mulica has no Churches. The two eventually turn their focus to the map, overlooking all possible scenarios.

"I think Comrade Molotov a point when he told me to hold the Industrial District. When the bombs are in range to hit, we will need cover, and lots of it. Best we start entrenching near-" His voice quivers and is eclipsed by the sound of a mortar shell hitting from not too far away on the surface.

The back end of the tunnel crumbles inward and the two look at it, wide eyed. A Defense Corps Soldier soon runs down the hall, checking to see if the two Commanders survived the cave in. He gives a quick, sloppy, and more than forced looking salute before stepping forward to his Superiors.

"The Emergency Brazier in North Watch burns bright. North Watch burns with it. We spied the Bandit Armies marching this way, Sir. They have no flag. They have no apparent leader. A few in their Ranks are armed only with bludgeons and clubs. They do however, have war drums amongst them. We do not know what it is they play. We haven't the faintest clue why they play. But whatever it is, it is a sinister tune that lines up perfectly with the firing of their mortars, which have just come into range." He finishes, eyes looking much wider than humanly possible.

"Bastards... They knew we wouldn't be ready for a Daylight attack! Soroka cant be gone just yet. Gather his men and fortify the Industrial Sector. Face our Gun Emplacements to the Northeast and fire at will upon their mortars. I don't know what remains of our Ariel Forces, but if we've got anything, use its weapons and crash it. If we fall, everything South of here falls too. Best we don't give them the benefit of the sky. As for the rest of the men, have them evacuate the sky scrapers. Any man with an able body will hold a gun. I will not have the Mulican blood spilled before ours be all for nothing. Cormaranches isn't falling. Not today. Not under my watch." He mummers, drawing his pistol and spiriting towards the exit of the shelter.

[Karaq]

November 1st, 5213, 6:00 PM
Kaztian, The Soviet Socialist Republic of Karaq, Genesis
Kremlin Underground

A single man wearing a tucked in white shirt, tie and black dress pants rushes down the hallway carrying several files, papers flying out of them as he strolls down the way in a hurry. Kremlin Regimental Guards stand fast as he rushes by them, their rifles at the ready in case of an intrusion but by all means, they let him pass as this is his third run. The man kicks the door at the end of the hallway and the door opens into a large room. The room looks like a Council Chamber and surely it was. Not only were there politicians there, there were also Military Commanders and such. At the top of it all, in the back of the room, sat the Premier discussing matters with his own advisers.

The single standing man sets his paper work down at his own table, picking up the loose files that fell out. The room quickly fell silent as the Premier stood up, adjusting his attention to the young Vorstinian.

"Mr. Mason, if you will please." the Premier spoke.

"The remaining Federal Guard High Command...has given the Karaqi Naval Command permissions and clearances for Protocol 2589." the Vorstinian speaks.

"2589...that's in violation of the Convention is it not? Are you sure they said this?" asked the Premier.

"Yes, sir. They explicitly said they wished you to end this yourself in whatever manner necessary to cease the loss of life." explained the Vorstinian.

The room filled with Karaqi chatter once again, the boy looking confused as ever as to what they were saying, despite his can speak Karaqi fluently. The Premier is seen leaning towards one of his military commanders next to him who speaks in his ear. Both seem rather indulged and satisfied of the report by the looks of their faces. The Premier stands once more, raising his hand to silence the room.

"Military Commanders. Protocol 2589...otherwise known as Operation Torch and Burn is now in effect. Military Evacuation will be commenced as soon as first radio contact has been made. Naval Commanders will push their fleets into descent of the planet as soon as possible and an excess reinforcement fleet will be sent to Osmiri for support. Including our Planetary Defense Fleet. That is all. Meeting adjourned." ended the Premier.

The room once again filled with conversation while others exited the place as all exit doors opened out unto the surface.

Above Genesis, the Planetary Defense Fleet received the orders to move to Osmiri, the fleet all in unison, soon entered Slip Space, heading toward their designated location. Holographic, Radio and Telegraphic transmissions were sent to the Naval Fleets surrounding the Galactic War zone. The end of the war was at hand.

[Insurgia]

November 1st, 5213, 10:00 PM
Esovo, The Peoples' Republic of Vala Victoria, Osmiri
Forward Operation Base, 20 Miles West of Esovo

The base was quiet but the sound of gunfire and artillery fire could still be heard in the distance. Very few soldiers were out strolling around as most were sleeping, knowing they would be getting up early for their next deployment into the city. Not a soul on that base knew of the orders that were to come. Not one of them knew till it was already happening, that in just a few short weeks, the very planet they were on would be engulfed in flames.

Ellison stood in the Command Barracks alone with a single radio operator who was deciphering the codes that were being transmitted to them. The Commander held the only one part of the headphones to his ear, listening to the code as it was given and repeating it to the radio operator as he wrote it down and translated it on a blank sheet of paper. The code ended and Ellison put the headphones down, awaiting for the operator to decipher it. Ellison walked to the back of the room, making himself some coffee while the operator continued. He hovered over a map of the continental Peoples' Republic. All the engagements that had been marked down. All the fronts. Must be millions upon millions of soldiers all scattered among the fronts.

"I got it!" yelled the operator.

Ellison took a sip from his coffee and set the mug down, walking to the operator.

"Whatcha got?" Ellison said.

The operator slid the sheet to Ellison who in return picked it up. The sheet read:

Protocol 2589 is in effect. In T-Minus 8 Hours, Federal Military Exodus and Evacuation of Osmiri and related planets shall begin. Dispose of ALL excess supplies. Dispose of ALL on-planet military documents. Withdrawal from front has been declared, executive decision for Torch and Burn is inevitable. Prepare ALL Armies under your command for evacuation. -Federal Guard High Command

"My God..." he whispered to himself.

The radio operator looked puzzled.

"Get me the other officers." he ordered.

The operator without hesitation got up and entered the other rooms of the barracks. Ellison stared blankly at the sheet while the other officers finally made it out of bed. Some of them half naked while others came out fully dressed. One of them even walking over to the table and drinking the rest of Ellisons' coffee.

"All of you. Get dressed. Those of you who are dressed, come with me." he ordered, walking out the door.

Three officers followed him out, standing right beside him.

"What's going on sir?" asked one of them.

"We're going home is what's going on. This comes straight from the top gentlemen. Get your men up. Tell them to pack their things. Radio into the city limits, tell them to withdraw back to the FOB and prepare for Evacuation. Be sure to tell them to destroy all known military documents on site and dispose of all excess supplies immediately." continued the Commander.

One of the Officers stopped. "Evacuation? Why are we evacuating when we're so close to vic-"

"THEY ARE BURNING THE PLANET! Do you understand?! Unless you want to be left behind and become one with the air, you best get your men ready for evacuation. Our ride will arrive at 04:30. Now move." finished Ellison, walking into one of the barracks and waking his fellow Insurgians up.

[Vorstus]

October 5th, 5213, 7:32 AM
Sugil, The Peoples' Republic of Vala Victoria, Iagawa
Centre Command Tent

Though the battle is over, the sound of moaning and crying never seems to dissipate. The pleas of the wounded begin to drive McCreedy mad. Its been what? Eight hours? And still they squeal out... Henry never much believed in ghost, but this was nearly tipping the scales. What will come next? The mangled hands of enemy Soldiers popping forth from the ground to take him with them? At last, he just takes a nearby tissue box and rips out several strands of paper, stuffing them violently into his ears. Who cares what damage it does; as long as it will make them stop. He breaths a sigh of relief, pulling the entrance to his tent closed. At long last, some peace and quiet. Hopefully, the Siege of Jaeji will end quickly, the other Victorian Cities to the West will slowly starve to death from Air Raids over Agricultural Zones, and Iagawa will fall back into Federal hands.

His peaceful thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of whopping and hollering coming from outside of the tent. He gets up to investigate. The victory had come nine hours ago! If these men insist on continuing to be foolish for another eight, they have no business in the Armed Forces. Pulling the cotton from his ears and reopening the tent flap, he steps back into the Ruins of Sungil, sinking about a foot deep in mud whilst doing so. God damn it. The rains here are far to unpredictable. This should make the march to the Coast a very trudging one.

"What's all this nonsense about? Newsflash gents: We won NINE BLOODY HOURS AGO!!! NOW GET TO YOUR BUNKS, SOLDIERS! I'VE HAD DAMNED NEAR ENOUGH OF THIS BULLSHITE! GO ON!" He screams in his painfully Irish accent, commanding all focus to himself.

"Beggin' your pardon Sir, but there you are wrong! We just won, about five or six minutes ago! We got a message over the intercom from the guys over at Comms. The Council has declared Protocol 2589 on all remaining Victorian Planets. Our lift should be here in about... Three hours? Maybe four? We're mostly packed up. Hardest bit now is getting all the wounded to the Drop Pointe. I'd say we've got a good seventy five percent of 'em there. Oh, and I almost forgot. The rest of our fleet above has departed for Osmiri, to help break whatever remaining Space Resistance they have there, so the Karaqis will not be interrupted, if 'ya get what I'm saying" A lower ranking Officer reports.

Awestruck, the Brigadier looks around. And they are right. Creates line what used to be the street and imprints where bodies clearly used to be lay empty. Impressed, he smiles, and soon breaks into a chuckle. He trudges through the sludge to get to the Officer, no longer concerned with their loudness, or the march to the Coast. He tackles him with a bear hug, laughing all the while.

"So its true... Its all over. Well fuck me bloody! Lads, we're goin' home!" He screams, giddily.

He knows deep down inside though that what he says is a lie. These men, the Vorstinian ones at least, have no home to go back to. The Vorstus they left on that fateful morning all those years ago is history now, destroyed by starvation and infighting. He hasn't the heart to tell them. Instead, he embraces the moment, letting them have whatever kind of enjoyment they can gather from this final, absolute, victory.

[Baeleer]

October 14th, 5213, 10:45 PM
The Iron Coast, The Islamic Republic of Aradia, Aradia
The Baeleerian Encampment

"Do you think this wise, my Lord Commander? They have all right to fire on us right now, with no consequence to them..." The Knight goes on, peering at the distant Bagrum through his spyglass.

"So be it. If we are blown to smithereens right now, they will have a power vacuum that nobody will be able to fill. This land will return to its natural state. Chaos. We've been the most effective peace keeping force this region has seen since Karaq lost its balls. I'd like to see Captain Republic over there argue that point... Have them throw more on. We shall make greatest fire the North has seen or will ever see again. Sound the trumpets. Sound them so loud that even they can hear them. Tomorrow, we ride to collect our reward." He slurs, staring at the speck of light in the distance.

Kastafer hesitantly shakes his head, turning back around to behold the Pureblood Ranks behind him. He embraces the stench of the smoke and cinder that rises up from the bonfire. He gives a very formal salute to the men under his command. They stand at attention, arms at ready.

"Bring on the last four carts. Make sure you've piked the heads first. We'll need those as proof to the Federal Scum. As for their banners, tents, and supplies, burn those too. Throw on anything that we can use to make the flame brighter. Let the Fascist see it from their ramparts and quiver! We've done in days what they couldn't manage to do in years!" He cries in Aradian, bringing a surge of cheers and battle cries.

Soon, four horse driven carts make their way through the mass of Soldiers, carrying in them the beheaded bodies of the once great Tribal Warriors of the North. The Juntar Clan, the Blood Riders of Shei-Mukar, and the Slavers-Past-Hadeen lay there, rotting in place, the Dragon Banner of House Rensselaer floating proudly over them. The point McGraw is trying to make is a clear one. This is what happens to those who refuse to bend. This is what happens to those who fight the dawn. This is what /will/ happen to others if things don't change fast. One by one, the corpses are thrown upon the pyre, sending the foul smell of burnt flesh and feces into the night sky. Somehow, though, the horrible aroma carried with it a certain... Allure. The incarnate scent of victory.

"Very nice speech, Ser. I think they get our point now. Send a band of riders to their Gates. Have them bring the pikes with them. We have some reward money to collect. I'll have my way with this Federation yet..." Mummers the Sole Commander, overlooking the largest cremations in Aradian history.

[Insurgia]

October 14th, 5213, 11:00 PM
The Iron Coast, The Islamic Republic of Aradia, Aradia
Bagrum Forward Operation Base

"11 o clock! 400 meters out!" a spotter on a tower yelled, pointing in one direction.

Quickly the base came back to life. Soldiers began to rush to their positions, grabbing their rifles along the way and taking positions along the walls of the base. In the midst of it all, Travis stood next to a tank commander of an M1 Abrams Tank, the newest edition to the base. Unfortunately, this was the only base in the entire desert of Aradia that only had one MBT commissioned to it. Every other base had more than just one. The Colonel in response to the spotter, whistled to his Lieutenant who in turn, threw the Colonel his rifle. The two once again went to approach the riders but this time did not exit the base but rather joined the rest of their men on the walls.

"How many?" asked Travis while pulling binoculars out and focusing in on the incoming riders.

"Must be about 10 to 20 of them. They got...pikes it looks like.." responded the Lieutenant.

"What are those...mounted on the pikes...are those...heads!?" the Colonel asked in a disgusted tone.

Everyone on the wall started mumbling to one another in response to what the Colonel said.

"Sick bastards. Their intention here to to scare us. Very well. Ready your weapons men!" ordered Travis.

In the back of the base, the Abrams roared to life and rolled forward, taking a position behind the closed gate.

[Vorstus]

October 20th, 5213, 8:42 PM
The Conglomerate Empire of Vorstus (Eden)
The Palace of the Prime Minister

The Prime Minister wets himself at the sound of movement in the next room over. He sinks down in his chair, trying his best not to make any noise as he gets down on the floor. He takes the fetal position under his desk. If they cant see him, they will move on... Right? He tries keeping this sentiment, his eyes darting around in the near pitch darkness. Every shadow and breeze is a figure. Every patter of rain is a footstep. He begins to sob as his mind replays his life's greatest achievements, and the slow fall from said glory.

The job application at the Conexus Alliance Space Command. The congratulations following his hiring. The Reach War, and the triumph of winning it. Then the Mountain War and the shame of falling back. And, of course, the beginning of the UWII, the overthrowing of Banks, and his establishment as Leader of the Free Universe. Now.. This... Aradian Mercenaries march through Conclave and the rest of the Planet. Even the Western Freehold is dead. It would seem Death favors neither the weak or mighty. The Capitol burns while the Outskirts are looted. And worst of all, nobody is here to stop it. No Army. No Police. Not even a measly Body Guard. He sits alone, in the Grand Office, praying for the best. The best never comes.

The old wooden door breaks open with a mighty crack. It would seem locks and barriers mean nothing to these people. The PM cringes as he listens to the whispers of the men. Aradian lingers in his ears. Its them. He freezes in places, breathing as shallowly as humanly possible. It takes all of his courage to take the pistol in his shaky hands. An audible click can be heard as East pulls back the hammer. This will be quick. There is only one bullet and it will mean the world to him. He waits for the right moment. At last, they come. Perhaps the lock was a dead giveaway. Maybe the orderly state of things gave a hint that the other Soldiers haven't gotten here yet. They glare at each other for a moment. He can see his own reflection in the Pureblood's visor. Luckily, he does not see the weapon in his hand.

He draws quickly, not even bothering to aim. He fires the lone bullet into his effigy. The visor cracks, and blood pours forth from the helm. The Aradian slumps to the floor beside him. The silencer does a decent job of covering the sound of the gunshot. Nevertheless, its not good enough. Kollin, despite being fat, moving like a ninja, takes the man's Assault Rifle. He clutches it to his chest, and works up the courage to stand up. No doubt, there was another man in the Office with them. He had heard two sets of footsteps after the door swung open. Sure enough, the other one is standing in the corner, taking a piss on a leather sofa. Easy target. He waste a full mag on the man, leaving his body a bloody pulp scattered across the corner of the room.

He runs back to his desk, and throws the weapon into the large window overlooking the Business Sector. The glass shatters everywhere. He can already hear dozens of people running up and down the halls. He doesn't like it, but he has no other option. He jumps into the frigid Conclave night. The sensation of falling comes and goes. He lands feet first onto the concrete, from a height of nearly thirty feet. Pain is slow to come as the adrenaline pumps through his veins. With frenzied breathing and mangled legs, the PM shuffles out of the middle of the Street. He breaths a sigh of relief and tries not to look at the state of his lower section as he slouches against the rubble of a nearby building. His peace is short lived, though. The sound of voices (too muffled by the rain and distance to tell of what language) and autumn leaves crunching underfoot can be heard as the unknown figures approach. Soon, the two parties are face to face. He unclenches himself to find that they too are Vorstinians, looking of the teenage variety. Armed with baseball bats, tire irons, and pellet guns, they look him over curiously.

"Oh, thank the Gods! Other Vorstinians! Help me boys! Help your Prime Minister! I'll see you made rich for this! Very rich! You all combined can rule the Grip when this is all done! Please!" He begs, looking up at them with a look of helplessness in his eyes.

Their faces light up when they realize who the broken man is. It is only when they come into the illumination of the Street Light can he see their full form. They are swollen from hunger, skin drapes from meatless checks, and they wear soiled overalls. He recoils, pressing himself further against the pile of bricks behind him. These are the toilers of the day. With the real men off to war, these are the Workers. The same Workers who had called for his head during the Communist Party Rallies earlier that very same year. Large, toothless grins spread across their faces as the approach further. The stench of sulfur becomes evident as they grow closer and closer. There is a Naplam Factory not too far from here... The sacking started just around Quitting Time for these fellows. He makes no sound as they begin to bludgeon him. He only sits and waits for it all to be done. Fate would never be so kind.

A group of Purebloods mow down the Looters and later run over to see what all the fuss was about. Just as East suspected, they know his face. Their Leader looks up at the lonesome shattered window of the Palace of the Prime Minister and then back at the Prime Minister himself. He nearly wretches as the man makes his declaration.

"You will have a Trail In the Eyes of Gods and Men. May they all see you as what you are, guilty, or innocent. Kollin East, you are now placed under arrest."

[Vorstus]

October 1st, 5213, 8:56 PM
Cel Space, The Southern Border Enforcement Armada, Aboard the FGSS. Crossbow
Human Transport Chamber

"Sir, we're twenty clicks shy of the Outsider Flagship. Word has it that the Karaqis have received the message you sent out and should be on their way now. Any further orders?" The Captain ask, looking back at his Superior.

"Like I said before, I'm in no way qualified to conduct diplomacy with these foreigner Law Breakers. The last time Vorstus was forced to handle issues of this kind, we nearly caused a War. Even though they're Reds, the men and women of the USSRK are excellent at diplomacy. 'They've got wills of iron and souls of lead.' That's what Blackwood said anyways. For now, just hail them. Put me on screen when you do so." He demands, looking out of the Crossbow's porthole.

The Captain nods and begins fighting with dials and panels in the front of the Craft, trying to secure a channel that will effectively transfer a hailing signal. At last, the nebulous sound of beeps and buzzes stops, and lights that once glowed a dull red now radiate an emerald light. He gives him the thumbs up and the message begins.

"Foreigners, we are dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience, but The Southern Border Enforcement Armada has better things to do than conduct diplomacy with you. With the Dominion to our Southwest, and the New Lunar Republic to our Southeast, we need these Patrols on constant alert. The Black Market never rest. Why should we? Anyways, some Federal Representatives from Karaq should be with you shortly. They will probably guide you to Genesis, where you and yours can await a meeting with the High Council. Thank you for your pacience. This is Captain Joseph Rivers from the SBEA, signing out." He finishes, signaling the end of the communique.

The message is sent sometime thereafter. The Crossbow, showing little care for the Outsiders, simply departs back to the Hymn of Lysteria, and the rest of the Armada. Not long after this, a majority of the Armada breaks up and returns to following scheduled Patrol Routes. Only a few smaller and less equipped Fleets stay behind to sound the Alarm should the Outsiders chose to cross the now makeshift border between Halvatia and the Federal Coalition.