Deus Vult [IC]

by **Murovanka** » Mon Sep 19, 2016 6:42 am

Map | Sister Thread(s): Chandler Tripartite, War in Ummayah, Wankan ORBAT, Sylvan ORBAT | Status: Completed | Wordcount: 50,200

Deus Vult
God wills it

”Denn nur Eisen kann uns retten,
Und erlösen kann nur Blut
von der Sünde schweren Ketten,
Von des Bösen Übermuth.”
- Max von Schenkendorf

Introduction

Casaterra. A continent where it seemed that the next war would start brewing before the ink had dried on the treaty papers- the past decade was characterised by shifting alliances, upheavals and no less than five short but bloody wars. And central to it was Wanka, forged as a nation only as late as 1800, yet in the following century rising to global prominence, through difficult struggles and seemingly unsurmountable obstacles. It rose to the height of its power in the 20th Century when Kronstadt dominated the colonial business with colonies as far as Canton and Ummayah. And to those times, still fresh in the Wankan people’s memories, did they look back, with it has characterising Wankan foreign policy ever since the nation reemerged from its brutal civil war a quarter of a century ago.

First came the restoration of what was Wankas “natural borders”. The Sellenland, belonging to Aemen, was first to fall. Only a year later came the Saxon War, one which resulted in a quarter of a million deaths and one which struck deeper into the Wankan soul- but not quite as much. While Sylvan warplanes did bomb the heavily populated Hessen-Wiesbaden conurbation, the war lasted for just over a month, and for many Wankans it was over as quickly as it had begun. Not so much for the Saxons and their country which the combatants had torn to shreds, however.

And for Wanka, one could argue that a period of relative stability had set in, with only a failed coup and a near-eruption of another war with Sylva as the two sides fought for influence in war-torn Saxony. That wasn’t to say that peace on the continent existed, for soon after, wars in Aurde and Altagracia broke out, with the combination of the two bankrupting Sylva and sending it into its own civil war.

What followed after that was truly a strange phenomenon and perhaps a textbook example of realpolitik. Sylva and Wanka, age-old enemies for the past centuries, somehow worked out their differences and founded CENTO, which lasted until it was really first tested, in the War for the Western Gulf, a conflict which ended disastrously for the proud Wankan state that had earlier been transformed under Chancellor Sonneborn into the regions predominant economic and military might. Wankan influence had expanded across the globe, powered by its economy which grew exponentially with time. The launching of the carrier Ulrike Meinhof was meant to mark the reemergence of the nation with its place in the sun.

But how superficial the whole idea of it was displayed brutally in the war with Gauliscia. The carrier was sunk, Auyadelle and some two million people were lost and Sonneborn himself was assassinated himself, putting an end to Wankan domination and traumatising its 200 million people. If only they knew. In the three major wars that Wanka had been involved, each time the population had escaped the worst aspects of armed conflict- never had it taken place directly on home soil. This time would be different.

Now, to the present. It soon turned out that the deal between the military and the SS (State Security Office; religious guard), agreed upon in the midst of the April Putsch - proved unworkable. Both sides immediately began to undermine each other, and a power struggle would continue until winter. When a surprise nationwide operation by the SS ambushed the entire Generality one November night, purging the military of those opposing the rule of the SS-Ulama religious axis.

Meanwhile, in the midst of political and economic instability, coupled with the prospect of an impending totalitarian theocracy, a massive exodus by Wankans was taking place. Thousands of people started pouring across the Saxon border into Sylva, which had once again opened its arms to the less fortunate. From there they would travel to selected wealthier nations like Lendol or Achesian Aurde or beyond. Perhaps these nations were spurred to their generosity by widespread reports that most of these refugees were of the leading Wankan intelligentsia, but that was only part of the story- accompanying the best scientists, academics, writers and philosophers were not only the poor and penniless working class which had suffered from a lack of prospects in Wanka for so long, but also some that weren’t Wankan at all.

~~Plagiarised~~Inspiration drawn from: Ukraine War, Nazi Gleichschaltung 33-34, “And Quiet Flows the Don” by Sholokhov, 1984 by George Orwell, Hungarian Uprising, ISIS, Syrian Civil War, Migrant Crisis

by **Murovanka** » Mon Sep 19, 2016 7:19 am

Part 1 | And Quiet Flows the Leine

Ardennen
Prussia Province
January 2003

Wrapped in no less than four layers of clothing, Gregor Karnov plodded through the snow, his wife held closely by his side as the two farmers struggled to keep up with their children, who ran ahead through their dormant fields, covered by a thick yet light, smooth layer of white, only disturbed by the footsteps and tomfoolery of four jostling, shouting children. Two of them Karnovs, the light of Gregor and Anna-Lena’s lives, the other two, Sokolovs, two nephews, two jumpy boys. Behind them, their village, house and farm. Ardennen, some hundred kilometres away from Königsberg, the capital of Prussia, stood in stark contrast to the bustling metropolitan center. In the 7 years since the entire region had been returned to Wanka, having been administered as a quasi-independent state under foreign overwatch for half a century, Königsberg and Mecklenburg had exploded in size and wealth. Yet surrounding it were age-old peoples unwilling, and actively resisting change; modern technology had been shrugged off, some of it perhaps incorporated for necessities sake, but otherwise they seemed to continue on the path that they’d been for the past hundreds of years.

And so it was for the Karnov family. Andrej Karnov, Gregor’s father, had farmed his land before him, as had countless ancestors, passing on hundreds of years of expertise to his son. Mariana, the Karnov’s only daughter, had married a Sokolov who lived a couple of houses away. Apart from electricity and a steady water supply, nothing much had changed in the past centuries, and from an outsiders perspective, this area was perhaps amongst the poorest and most backward in the world. That, the people knew, but poor, they thought themselves not. Gregor was all too aware of the nasty pollution, crime and dullness of Wankas sprawling urban centers; his brother Miron, who’d gone to Mecklenburg to seek work, often enough complained about it on the rare occasions that he visited home. Farm life was tough, but it was good, and really, they had all they needed. Every year, a Chieftain would be elected, who’d represent them in the state council, the Landrat, which amounted usually, in their opinion, a “complete waste of time for a wasteful bureaucracy”. That was all the politics they bothered with, and less when they could.

However, it was not so that they simply dismissed and could separate themselves of everything modern and new technologies. Looking back, Gregor could make out their combine harvester, solidly sheltered, an expensive piece, gifted to them by the Wankan government as part of larger subsidies looking to increase the productivity of the newly incorporated region. On the downside, though, was the noisy A7 Highway which ran right by their village, connecting Königsberg with the rest of Wanka. Good for business, with all the people coming through, but the choking exhaust fumes and nonstop noise that it brought with it was one hell of a disturbance to their peaceful lives. Besides, the local shops and businesses had been doing alright without them anyway.

Still, being so far from the Wankan coast, for many the heart of Wanka, it also meant that Prussia was amongst lucky regions on Casaterra which had escaped the worst of its endemic conflicts. The years of chaos and anarchy had been completely avoided as the region had been taken over by the Sylvans and Mozrians. And after reincorporation, the Sonneborn administration had given it special rights to encourage growth and despite its proximity to Saxony, escaped the Saxon War unscathed.

As Karnov breathed in the fresh winter air, a snowball smacked him straight in the face, cold flakes crusting his lips. A mischievous face looked up at him, before taking off. Karnov loosened himself from his wife, scooped up a handful and gave chase, growling playfully, hurling his own left and right, and was suddenly barraged by a hailstorm of snow. Out of the mist, his 16-year old son ghosted into vision, tackling his father to ground- a strong boy, his eldest, and one that Gregor was infinitely proud of.

”Hab dich, Paps!” he whooped, and soon the other kids were piling onto him. Anna was laughing her butt off as they put snow down his coat, in his shoes, in his pants.

”Hast’s genossen?” (“Did you enjoy that”) she asked, when he finally had gotten them off him and stumbled her way. “The joy of raising a family.” She pulled him close, kissed hard- and shoved a handful of snow down his back, on his bare skin. Gregor shouted out, stumbled backward and trotted on, head hung low, in mock humiliation.

Then he heard a noise from the small two-lane road which led into the village from the highway. A skidding car, barely in control on the icy road. Karnov jogged up to get a closer look- a black Audi, Gladbach plates. Not from here, and without snow chains either, as he’d thought. Strange, in this part of the world. Seeing Gregor approach, the car stopped, and the driver’s window came down. A kindly-looking man, of perhaps his father’s age, with anxiety and exhaustion written across his face, looked out, regarded Karnov curiously- or carefully. Karnov himself looked deadpan at the driver. The man’s face seemed vaguely familiar.

He said, “Good day. Who are you and what do you want?”

It was not custom to greet visitors so coldly, but with ever-growing issues with foreigners (by that definition, anyone who wasn’t a Prussian farmer), such attitude wouldn’t have surprised anyone. The village Chieftain had made it clear that Ardennen would maintain its sovereignty for as long as it could. In addition to that came the recent events in the past months which Gregor and everyone else had closely followed. So as not to worry his friends and family, he had concealed his apprehension of the developing situation far away on the Wankan coast behind an ever upbeat countenance. He was not the only one; the local chieftains and state leaders had reportedly been gathering, discussing, and had pledged to protect each other and tell the populace to stay on alert for any occurrence of note.

The man took a second to reply. Looked at Karnov; judged. Took a risk.

“Sir, many apologies for intruding into your village. I will, however, get straight to the point. Right now I find myself in a rather tight situation; to cut it short, the SS is searching for me, and I have spent the last few weeks running and hiding from them. They currently are hot on my heels, and I have not been able to refuel, nor, as you can see, are my tyres suited for such terrain.”

“Jawoll, right there.” Karnov said gruffly, clearly disbelieving. “Why is the SS after you, and who, in Odin’s name, are you?”

The man paused again, then suddenly speaking with authority, like an officer commanding a subordinate. “Hasso Röder. Field Marshal Hasso Röder, up to several weeks ago Chief of the General Staff. And believe me when I say that I bring a lot of news with me, much of it bad, and I will freely explain it all to whoever listens. But for now, I am in urgent need to disappear from radar; a place to hide for a few days for myself and if possible, a few modifications to my car. It will all become clear soon.”

So that was why he looked familiar. Of course, Hasso Röder, the most celebrated general in Wanka, the genius who saved Wanka in the Saxon War. That was about all he knew. But this man seemed authentic enough. Gregor, like many men here, were part of the provincial Landwehr and knew a soldier when they saw one- nevertheless, doubts remained. To Anna-Lena, who’d caught up in the meantime, he said, “Love, get the chief to our place as quickly as possible.”

Karnov climbed in, next to the driver’s seat, pretending not to notice the bulge in the General’s waistband. “You have come to the right place. If there is one thing that we have in common, it is a shared dread of the SS, I suppose. Just ahead, right turn here.” Karnov pointed at a modest house, from the outset spick and span, its garden well-maintained.

He continued. “We have a good hiding place for you. But what of your car?”

“The license plate is known to them, and the local police has been instructed to be on look-out; with these, I have discovered I cannot tank up, as they are looking for me there too. As such, I was looking to change the license plate; would that be possible here, by any chance?”

“Not in this area, these things are dealt with in Königsberg. But how about this: you will hide here, and one of us will drive to the north and draw them up there. That may even be better.”

“I refuse. It would also incur significant dangers for whoever is driving.”

“We’ll remove the license plate. Either way, the car can’t stay here, if what you’re saying is true.”

“That, you are certainly right.”

The two men got out and strode to the house. Their children were back in the house, their nephews Alex and Anton, sent back to their mothers home. Peter and Erika were staring wide-eyed at the visitor; Gregor tried to keep a calm face. ”Erika, meine Süße, go to Aunt Mariana, will you? We have business here to do.” He lifted his ten year-old off her feet, kissed her on the cheek and sent her running. To Peter, he said, “Go outside, prepare the place.”

His son gave him a look. Gregor nodded, then turning back to Röder. “What we have for you may not be nice, but it damn well is effective.”

Anna came running out with a few masks in hand, giving one to Röder, who said, “I was a soldier in my time too, even before the Saxon War. One of the requirements is to be able to sleep anywhere.”

“See for yourself, Herr General.” Gregor replied. Just then, there was a loud knock on the door. Röder instinctively put his hand to his pocket, while behind them Peter slid in, the muzzle of a shotgun pointed at the door. Gregor held Anna back, took a pistol from Peter’s hand, tiptoed to the door and looked out. Breathed a sigh of relief, and signalled for calm, before opening the door. An figure of average height and size came in through doorway, a pair of big Lederhosen and a smoking pipe. Seeing the gathering, he said dryly, “The Karnov family, all geared up for war already! Where’s Andrej? ANDREJ!”

“My father is sleeping, I’ll get him down later.” Gregor said. “First of all, this is…”

The man dropped his pipe as his eyes fixated on Röder. “Nein…”

“Hasso Röder, pleased to meet you.” Röder said, shaking the man’s hand. “W-Wolfgang Melekhov, village Chieftain. Field Marshal Röder, really? Unbelievable. In my village.”

“Former Field Marshal, Herrn Melekhov. It is a long story, and I’ll elaborate when an opportunity presents.”

“Chef, the SS is hunting him at this moment and the General here believes they may show up any time. We have the following plan: one of us drives his car, which they are looking for, up north. It needs snow chains, and it may be advisable to take the plate off. Meanwhile, we will hide him in our shed.”

“You’ve got it well thought-out, old boy.” Melekhov growled. “I’ll find someone good to fix and drive the car up. I may prepare the whole village to fight these SS-bastards-“

“I’d advise not to, Herr Melekhov. Not yet, anyway. Stationing look-outs may be a good idea however, but do keep my presence here known to only those that need to know.”

“But of course, Herr General, wise words.” He turned to go, but stopped midway. “General, what do you plan on after this?”

“I will get to it, Herrn Melekhov, once the SS is off my tail.”

“Jawohl, Herr General.” Röder passed him the car keys, and the village chieftain left.

Karnov pulled Röder toward the back door as they heard the car’s engine starting.

“Interesting man, Melekhov.” Röder commented as they walked toward the stable.

“Indeed. A bit of an odd fellow at times, but a good, honest man nevertheless, one of us, takes good care of us.”

“We should have men like him running Wanka.”

“Should we? I’m not one for philosophy, General, but shouldn’t the army stay out of politics?”

“Wholeheartedly agree, Herrn Karnov. However, you really don’t know what has been hap- Lord, is this my room?”

Röder held his nose together as a gust of putrefying stench blasted in their face. They stood before a pile of manure, heaped up against a wall. “Mask, General.” Röder obliged. “I take it back. This is not a requirement of the Wankan army.”

“It is not so bad inside, but it is stuffy, and this should help you breathe. Don’t underestimate it’s effectiveness; a pack of dogs couldn’t smell out a dozen human corpses, and anyone who checks won’t be interested in digging around here too long.”

“Human corpses? Is that what you hide here?”

“Not corpses, General, more like…” Putting on a thick, long glove, he reached into the faeces, opening a door high enough for the General to sit upright in. The box stretched into, and was well concealed, by the manure. Karnov crawled in, opened yet another secret compartment on the floor of the box, revealing a stash of well-oiled, shiny rifles, pistols, boxes of ammunition.

“When we need to hide anything from government officials, tax collectors and the like, we put it in here too. Anyway, please enter.” He closed the weapons compartment and pointed at the face of the box which leaned against the stable wall. “Air comes in and exits through holes here; don’t cover them up. Well, this is pretty much it. Anna will bring you a mattress, food and drinks.”

Röder was still breathing heavily, but it wasn’t too bad. His eyes had lit up at the sight of the weapons, and he couldn’t help but ask, “Does every farm have this?”

Karnov smiled and said, “Here and there, perhaps. It is an open secret amongst us, to have some form of protection against foreigners wishing to intrude on our daily lives. An old tradition- against the law, but whatever.”

“Don’t misunderstand, Herr Karnov. I am all too pleased by the preparation of the people here; trust me when I say that it will most likely come in useful and may save us a lot of trouble. By the way, call me Hasso. I really have come to the right place, and am really grateful for your help.”

“Gregor to you. An honour, it is.” The men shook hands. And Röder was right. That evening, just several hours later, two Prussian police vehicles and an unmarked SS car, two police dogs amongst them, swept into the village and questioned the villagers. Lists of “Dangerous Wanted Men” were distributed and hung up with large rewards for those who gave information which would lead to these persons successful capture. They were described variously as “putschists, political extremists, militants and murderers”, with Röder only one of fifteen people that were being hunted. The villagers proved cooperative, but had little to offer. The chieftain said something about a foreign car passing through, heading north. The officers thanked him, and after spending an hour wandering around, sped off.

Ardennen
Prussia Province
January 2003
The Next Day

There was little sign of the comfortable weather from the day before. Overnight, temperatures had dropped to beyond -20 degrees Celcius, not abnormal, but not exactly the climate to be out and about. A light blizzard was brewing, clouding visibility, making it dangerous to walk and drive, or, well, to find oneself out of ones own house. Nevertheless, several villagers had taken to shovelling the driveways and roads clear, braving the winds and the icy snowflakes which shot around like guided missiles, aiming to blister bare skin. Amongst them Peter. His mother had initially forbidden him to step out of the house, but his father saw in him willingly taking up his duty as the family protector and provider and was more than glad to have him by his side. Besides, he was practically a grown man now. Today, though, he was alone, as a gathering was taking place in the Karnov house. Not quite alone, to be exact. Anna-Lena Karnov had taken station by the window, supposedly knitting, but really keeping a watchful eye out for her son.

The living room was like a bubble of heaven floating in the midst of hell with the loud whooping and shrieking of the eastern Wankan winds clearly audible, as if it was trying to intrude upon the discussion around the table. Hot coffee was poured out for them all- Röder, the guest, Gregor Karnov, the host, Andrej Karnov, his father and Petro Sokolov, Mariana’s husband, Gregor’s brother in law. The General looked a little subdued, from the last evenings excitement and his run from the dreaded religious paramilitary in general, in addition to the fact that there was no heater in his little box under the pile of crap. It had felt like a tomb, even if he wasn’t claustrophobic. But he had survived the night wrapped in many thick blankets that a concerned Anna had been bringing him, checking up several times to see that he was doing alright. Even at his age, he felt as if he was a young child again, in the care of a loving mother, and he more than appreciated it, despite the pain and exhaustion he was in. It reminded him of his own mother, who had passed away not long ago. It was just what he needed.

“Herr General, what with your family? Will they be joining you anytime soon?” Andrej asked.

Röder shook his head. “My wife and children, both are grown up, but not yet with such great families as yours- I had sent them early on across the border to Sylva, as soon as trouble started brewing. We have good friends there, they should be fine, thank you.”

The door opened, snow blasted in; Melekhov, village chieftain, stumbled in. Andrej smiled, handing his old friend a cup of hot coffee. “Now that we are all here, we are all ears, General.”

“Alright. I’ll try and keep it short. So, as you know, while we in the General Staff were in the midst of fighting the war with Gauliscia, the SS and Geheimpolizei, either one of them, killed Chancellor Sonneborn and attempted to preempt each other in seizing power. It was really confusing, add to that how the Gauls had been completely outmanoeuvring and beating the hell out of our navy in the Gulf. Then they started fighting in Kronstadt, and all along I was trying to get information. Complete blackout, until it looked as though the SS had gained the upper hand in the capital.

“The General Staff itself was split, the officer corps was split, the branches were split- it was a maddening time, and to commit to either side would have, in my view, amounted to creating a civil war. So I agreed to a deal with Grawitz, the SS-Chief, one that in hindsight I probably should not have done, but it happened. Grawitz agreed to leave the army alone, and we agreed to let him take power, at the expense of the Geheimpolizei and the more liberal-democratic elements of the Party. Judge however you want; the army stays out of politics, as Meinhof said. And I was in no mood for a civil war.

“But the deal went wrong fast. Grawitz was trying to control the army and replaced officers with those loyal to himself. We protested, but did little. Meanwhile, the SS leaders and Ulama used the time to secure their position, purging the Party, seizing control of the media, police, whatever held any influence over Wankan affairs. While we sat around and argued; the problem was, we had officers in favour of marching on Kronstadt, those that wanted to twiddle their thumbs like me, and those that wanted to let Grawitz take control. It got pretty heated, and we were very divided.”

“What happened with Saxony?” Melekhov asked.

“Oh yes, Saxony. Once the SS started putting people into concentration camps, the exodus started. Across Saxony. It was, and still is, a massive headache for Grawitz, and add to that the uproar, protesting and riots in that state. Saxony, despite being part of Wanka, still held significant autonomy, and Wankan control there could not be enforced. The Saxon Landwehr nearly came to fighting the SS, but the SS realised that their control was still too weak to do anything about it. So an agreement was made: Saxony would continue to maintain their semi-autonomous status, the government would not interfere in its politics; in return, the Saxons would stem the outflow of Wankan migrants and cooperate on security matters with the SS. Of course, the Saxons had little interest in really stopping the outflow; instead, they seem to be making money from the smuggling. But that has little relevance.”

“Yes, I heard about that agreement in the State Council. It was discussed whether we could negotiate a similar deal; after all, our situation is not too different from that of Saxony.” Melekhov said.

“And I would advise to do that, if possible, and at the very least. For what comes next is worse. Not much is reported on it; the government has maintained a news blackout on the topic, but it is, under the guidance of the Ulama, the top religious body, undergoing what they dub a ‘Spiritual Revolution’, and their measures are draconic. At this moment, opponents and critics are being hunted down, churches burned down, non-Shahids attacked and murdered on the streets, encouraged on by the police and SS. The concentration camps are filling up with everyone considered a danger to the government. At the same time, they are trying to bring every single organization, from labor unions to your local football club, under their control; to be saved from attack, one has to declare loyalty to the Ulama and the government, and must be a Shahid. Meanwhile laws are being rapidly brought into being which legalises all their activity, not that they matter, because right now the SS is the law, and the courts obey the SS. A complete constitutional revision is impending, one which will impose Sharia as the law of the land.”

He paused to take a breath, looking at the others, who either shook their head in disbelief or were in shock. “Of what religious affiliation are you predominantly?”

“We would belong in the atheist category, I believe.” Petro said. “Technically, our own traditional Wankan folk belief, but it plays not much of a role in our lives.”

“Similar in this region, with immigrants from the coast making a sizeable Shahidian minority in cities.” Melekhov said. “I may be wrong, it has been some time when I last saw a demographic census. But up here the rural areas are generally classified as ‘atheist’, to the south increasingly Seguidorian as we approach the Saxon and Sylvan borders.”

Röder nodded gravely. “Recent laws are increasingly discriminating against anyone who isn’t Shahidian. To hell with Meinhof’s equality-for-all mantra, these are ‘God’s Laws’ apparently, although they aren’t quite as hateful toward ‘people of the book’.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm. “I could go on, as to what I had to see from my office in Nürnberg, but you get the idea. Which brings me to myself.”

“Now I know that Wanka wasn’t exactly a beacon of human rights, but we weren’t too bad, considering our wealth- a full liberal democracy we were not, and we never claimed to be. Meinhof herself said that. To each country his own; her principles were of building a solid economic foundation before increasing political freedoms. That the Wankan people understood, and it was that why nobody minded Sonneborn’s dictatorship- and don’t take me wrong, Sonneborn was an excellent leader- power-hungry, but honest and not corrupt, and wanting the best for the nation. And all throughout we maintained some degree of freedoms; the press, the academia, as long as they didn’t bait or stir up big trouble, remained untouched. But what Grawitz and the Ulama are doing, bringing a foreign concept and putting a nation of two hundred million under its yoke- to such an extent that moderate Shahids are increasingly disenfrenchised- that I will stand against. Which has led me to the Wankan east, instead of joining my family in Sylva. I had hopes that the struggle against this destruction of the Wankan soul would start here, and from what you’ve told and shown me, I don’t seem to be wrong.”

Enchanted, a moment of silence broke out in the room, like a bright light shining out of the darkness- here he was, in a commoner’s living room, with the revelation of what was truly happening in Wanka, followed by his, the General Röder himself, declaration of his readiness to fight the source of evil to the death. Like the collapsing of a sun’s core and the following supernova was the energy in this room. Out of darkness, chaos, collapse- light, energy, power. Röder was an officer, not a philosopher, so what he said was not particularly good, looking back; but it was more the how he talked, and the burning energy radiating out of his eyes.

”Generalfeldmarschall Hasso Röder.” Melekhov said, his eyes shining. “You may well be the glue that will hold us together. We haven’t been ignorant of what is going on in Wanka, we’ve heard rumours, and to have them confirmed by you personally- that will be what can make us set aside our differences and face the common enemy together. For weeks now, the leaders and electors of Prussia, Pomerania and the Memel region have been deliberating on setting up a joint committee, a secret council, to muster our combined strength in face of the threat of the central government, but due to a lack of clear information we haven’t been successful, nor united, up to now. General, I would say, and I hope you would agree, that your presence here is to be made known to perhaps a few more people..? The Prussian minister-president happens to be a good friend of mine; we will be able to offer you proper facilities to enable us to work together to realise our mission.”

“Herr Melekhov, I am pleased to see that my message has been well received and understood. Your plan is sound, and while I am glad to not have to sleep under kilograms of horse defection, I thank you very much for your hospitality, Gregor. I will not forget what you and Fräulein Karnov have done for me over these perilous days.”

They shook hands, at the moment that Peter and Anna came back into the room; the General bowed to Gregor’s wife, kissing her hand, thanking her profusely, before leaving with Melekhov to organise what would turn out to be an open revolt.

by **Nova Sylva** » Tue Sep 20, 2016 9:36 am

Serrano to meet with Tripartite heads to discuss migrant crises

"We travelled by car down the R-4 road for about thirty minutes, travelling through east of Dresden, everything seemed quiet and nothing seemed unusual. Our entire family of nine was squished into a car only for four, we had all our belongings: clothes, cookware, family heirlooms and such in the boot. We were only moments away from leaving Wanka when we saw the traffic, the traffic seemed to go on for miles and miles. We stood there for two hours, in the horde of cars, until we were finally getting close to the checkpoint. We had our ID's and passports with us, it is all we thought we needed. As we got closer to the checkpoint, the nerves began to hit us, we began to see army trucks on the side of the road with little green men, then we saw a helicopter armed with rockets fly low over the road. Our car finally pulled up to the checkpoint, but we weren't greeted by the slightly-overweight border guards, instead, we were given stern looks by more little green men armed with machine guns halting traffic. On the other side of the checkpoint you could see other men, in khaki uniforms, holding different guns with different tanks and such. There was obviously a lot of tension.

The green men, the Wankan Army, ordered us out of the car, and my husband was forced to give over the keys, then, one of them drove the car into a ditch, whilst the rest of us were forced to walk about two miles inland at gunpoint until we came across a camp. We were thrown in and thought we would never get out."

"Four months later, us, and many more people similar to us, were shipped to a camp for “political re-education..."

The above testimony comes from a 43 year old Wankan woman after being interviewed about her experience attempting to flee to Sylva from Wanka. For nearly a year, Wankans have been fleeing the country due to fears of political oppression and persecution after after an SS coup allowed a hard-line party to forcefully take power over the country. The new government began rounding up opposition and enforcing religious law - resulting in a massive stream of refugees flooding into the NSR. Within just under a year, Sylva has confirmed some two hundred thousand have officially crossed the border, with estimates varying to almost double that in illegal crossings. General-Secretary Stefan Serrano has announced that Sylva will take no more than two-hundred fifty thousand refugees this year, but with the recent uptick in violence within Wanka, and close to double that number illegally living within Sylva, it is unclear what the government will do.

With the annual meeting of the Chandler Tripartite to take place this year in Granada, western Sylva, the refugee crises is sure to be a hot topic. The location of the meeting has also raised certain security concerns, especially with the recent terror attack by Ummayhan extremists last month, who the partakers of are still at large. Serrano is expected to ask a “shared burden” policy with the other Tripartite nations, moving a proportion of the refugees into Lendol and Achesia.

It is unclear as of yet how the other Tripartite nations will feel about such a proposal - both the Achesian and Lendolian embassies declined to comment.

Good views, Flight Colonel Federico Espinoza thought, are something you should admire as often as you can. The Sierra Sylva’s views counted, but Espinoza had his hands full keeping the car on the road. Perhaps on the way down, he thought. Coming up, he had seen all different types of small rural hamlets. Here and there he stopped to ask directions. A lonely goat farmer, flat cap and everything. A two-house hamlet, built of stolid country oak and looking over a tiny stream -- and all in the background huge peaks rising and falling in all directions. It was beautiful, and the strangest change from South Carmi a man could get.

But as the road got higher and higher up, he wondered if he was ever going to get to his destination. Eventually he spotted it -- a small house on a flattened part of a mountain plateau. As he approached, he realised nobody was home. He stopped the land rover in the drive, got out and lighted a cigarette, and looked at the house. It was single story, and the brickwork was old. The roof looked like it was thatched, although it could have just been a cover. He had seen huts behind the back of the house, but from the front they were invisible, and the building was obviously longer than it was wide. The front garden bloomed with a sea of flowers.

He strolled around the garden. At one edge, the road -- really a track -- wound around the house and carried on, and on the other edge there was almost a straight fall down. The man was obviously not in, Espinoza realised, and he knew from the layout of the land, he would have been heard coming long ago, and if the man had wanted to keep him away, he could have easily fired a warning shot with a rifle from a thousand feet.

The man came, eventually. A single pony trotting up the mountain road, followed by a dog. The dog turned out to be a retriever. On the man's back a rifle was slung, and a leather bag hung from the pony. The animal came to a stop near the Land Rover and investigated it, while the man jumped off. Espinoza threw a salute.

The man beamed. 'It's illegal for you to be here, isn't it?'

'No, Comrade Colonel. It's a special circumstance.'

'You can't call me that anymore, either.'

'Fed.'

'Bax.'

The two men embraced one another. Flight Colonel Eduardo L. Baxter was perhaps the only man besides his mother that could call Federico Espinoza “Fed.”

They went inside the house. Inside, it was both cosy and tidy. The woodwork was modern, but still had an ancient air to it, and besides the kitchen and sitting room there was one bathroom and one bedroom and a small study. Baxter showed Federico the back, where there were pigs, and chickens, and told him that he had goats grazing further up the road. 'I shoot as many hares as I can,' he said, throwing the bag down. 'I go down to the village to get other things, because I can draw my Income from the post office, but I have started to grow vegetables, too.' Behind him, the dog was curled up in front of a lit fire.

The two men had tea. There was a little good whisky, and although Baxter had been saving it, they both thought this was as good an occasion as any. 'How are you?' Espinoza asked.

'Better. The mountain air has done a lot of good for me. And I am writing now. I am writing my memoirs, can you imagine. One day they might let me sell them. I have a friend in Chandler who sends me flowers. The seeds come with the postal train. I can grow flowers and I have my little farm and my animals and I can shoot, so I am set, really. Well-wishers send me books.' Espinoza had to admit he looked better: not just his skin, but his whole body, for his age. The mountain people had always been the Army's best recruits. It was obvious the lifestyles were similar.

Espinoza glanced at the fireplace. Above it were photographs of Baxter in his military service. As a Captain, as a Colonel, as a General. With Stefan Serrano. With Queen Mariana. With his ex-wife. 'Don't you get lonely?'

'Animals are better company than people. They treat each other better than people do.'

The two men talked about old times, and Fed told Baxter things he couldn't have found out just from the papers. After a while, they realised they had been talking for a long time, and Baxter insisted on him staying for dinner. They had fillets of mountain hare, fresh vegetables, and the kind of beautiful potatoes that you can only get in the mountain counties. 'I have to tell you something,' Fed said. 'I did not come here just to see you.'

'I know.'

'I’m here on express orders from the Office of National Intelligence.'

'ONI? What do they want?'

'I’m sure you know about the migrant situation in Saxony and Prussia. Of the violence between the SS and the paramilitary groups. We’ve all read your file. Your escape from the prison camp during the Saxon War - you know the area better than anyone.'

Baxter didn't say anything. Fed left it for a while, picking away at what was left of his meal. He could see the history playing in the other man's eyes.

Finally: 'What would they have me do?'

'Set up a local espionage network. Organize resistance. Arm them, if it comes to that. More than anything give us an idea of what the hell is going on.' Fed put it bluntly.

'Fed, you don’t...you don’t know what its like there. What they do to people.'

'Look, Sebastian.’ Jay said. ‘I know...what happened. The stuff that didn't go on the record. Which is why I came to ask you personally, to join my team.’

'You know, when I came back. From Wanka,’ Baxter said, ‘the first thing I did was go back to Andrea. She had remarried. Then she told me that it was better that our son - my son - thought I had died a hero. She...had custody. There was nothing I could do. Why else would I live all the way up here? There’s nothing for me there anymore. Nothing.’

Fed put a hand on his shoulder.

Later they made the video, and sat in front of the fire drinking whisky. It was cold now, and Baxter had to lend Fed another, thicker jumper. 'So,' he said. ‘When do we leave?'

Fed’'s eyes opened wide.

by **Nova Sylva** » Wed Sep 21, 2016 10:16 pm

JULY

On the tap end of the Oldbridge Road, just half a mile from State Department and the titanic multimodal transit link station called North Lock, there is a tiny cafe which for a long time has served real, fresh, Sylvan coffee. There, three men gathered.

They were old friends. Together they had grown up, joined the Front, and studied — at the economics department of Chandler University — and then on to the Organized States at Alexandria College, to gain Masters, and then Doctorates, in Economics and Cybernetics. Then they returned to fanfare as the nation's most educated triumvirate, once the great revolution was over, and Stefan Serrano himself had said: you will make our people prosper, but it was not something they would not put on a plaque until it could be safely said in the past tense.

Which was seeming less and less likely.

In fact these three men had made, along with the newly established Cybernetics Department, perhaps the greatest socialist thing ever built: the NATIONAL COOPERATIVE ECONOMY INDICATOR. It was a supercomputer, and it was linked to every large and medium enterprise in the country by what was basically an internet, and it took data from them in real time -- and gave them orders too, in real time. Were too many toothbrushes being made? The machine would order toothbrush producers to make fewer toothbrushes, and grant funds to compensate if needed. The machine told the three men everything about the economy.

The machine had a name: when it was first turned on, it asked for a username, and since none of the three men wanted to take credit, they gave it a name of its own. Most people thought it was completely random, but it was named after a fourth man: Michel, their professor at Alexandria, who had visited Sylva before he died (but not in time to see this creation). He had cried at the altar of syndicalism. The three men missed and loved their professor so much that they named the machine after him and from then on it was known as Mikey.

The three men didn't work together anymore, however. One was the Head of the Board for Planning the Economy. The other was the Secretary of State for Trade, Research and Industry. The other was the Head of the National Bank. They gathered together at the cafe, but there wasn't any coffee -- whatever, they said: have you any tequila? Of course, Comrade, there's tequila. There's always tequila. So they drank tequila, because they were in a tequila drinking mood, because they were very worried.

While they talked, Mikey was awake. He was working on a job, so he was thinking. He was running numbers, but as hard as he tried, they couldn't match. Yes, they could import more steel and minerals — but they would have to make more goods to export more, and the numbers wouldn't match up. Then there was uranium, too. They could shut down the aging Capistrano plant, but productivity would be harmed — and less steel could be bought. Or they could stop producing unessential things, but they would have to be imported to keep the retail inflation down. Then, and then, and then, and then. Mikey could not find an answer. The numbers could not be juggled, and in his huge container in a well ventilated room, he raged, transistors and superconductors heating up, beating against the plastic green bases that kept them together.

Eventually he found an answer to the question put to him, but as the Head of the Board for Planning the Economy told the Chairman afterwards, it wasn’t a clean one. Thirty-five percent of Murovanka’s steel and mineral mines were in Prussia and Memel. Sylva needed it. Mikey had said so.

by **Murovanka** » Wed Sep 21, 2016 10:29 pm

60 km north of Königsberg
Prussia Province
July 2004

An abandoned chalet, in the middle of nowhere. The river Leine to its west, flowing as peacefully as ever, sustaining, growing, breathing life, as it had done for centuries; all around, fertile farmlands, but made out in the distance both toward the south and Polaris’ twinkling eye- which appeared from time to time as mist did-, the urban bulldozer, imperialist grey, mowing down and crushing the greens in their way, tall towers, the product of uncontrolled capitalism, replacing them. Nevertheless for the farmers, urbanisation and incoming religious nuts or not, life would go on; the cold blizzards of this years winter was long forgotten, spring and as such planting time just over, still there was plenty to do. Fertilising, killing weeds, maintaining equipment, handling the harvest of last year, and that just for the crops; along with that, whatever animals the farm kept- cattle to pig, each had to eat and grow every day.

Today, the mist was particularly heavy, settling itself on the river, creeping into gullies like chlorine launched at trenches, maybe perhaps, more aptly observed, serving to conceal, protect. Still, it was a double edged sword; the fog, after all, mutually concealed from within and without. The chalet, however, had only two access paths, and that, from a defensive perspective, wasn’t too bad at all. Considering what was going on inside the rotting house, its walls cracking, wood moulding, a once colourful garden- dead.

From inside, Gregor Karnov peered out one of the windows, which was facing south, Königsberg, trying to picture the turbulence there. The days since the General’s sudden arrival had come and gone; Erika had finished Primary 5, Peter completing his Junior High School exams with flying colours, then the fields had to be ploughed and sowed. In the midst of that, the Shahidian-run central government had unveiled its new constitution and quickly had to violently crush several protests that broke out on several coastal cities. That happened in May, and that was the time of the year for planting, so the response in the Wankan east was initially muted, but once they were done with that and had a little more time, and following an uproar over attacks on local journalists critical to the central government, the Prussians, Memelians and Pomeranians took to the streets in a united, spontaneous show of force. That had really gotten their respective elected leaders together, and with the growing role General Röder was playing, he began searching for an aide to assist him- and since his presence still had to be kept secret (after all, he was designated a wanted criminal), who better to pick than Gregor Karnov? So it came that Karnov scrapped his family holiday plans for duty to his people, which didn’t sound too well to his beloved Anna-Lena.

“Kronstadt won’t roll in the tanks- yet. Wanka spans over a million square kilometres and has a population of over two hundred million. Grawitz may have secured the Wankan coast, but he’s still in the process of securing his hold in central Wanka, never mind the Prussian east.” Röder, sat on a comfortable armchair, inhaled on his cigar. “Contrary to what other countries say about us, we’re democratic to a point where the SS can’t just dump a minister-president wherever they want. Local politicians really represent the people here.”

“A shame we had Sonneborn killed, then. He wasn’t exactly the most freedom-minded person on the planet, though.” a voice said from the shadows. It belonged to Aucan Masin, the Widerstand (Resistance) leader who’d personally led the deadly assassination of Sonneborn. Originally, it had been the Widerstand that wanted to, with the help of the Geheimpolizei (secret police), launch a coup, but in the end it was the SS that had coup’ed, and the Widerstand leadership had been caught in the open, and was promptly destroyed in the aftermath. Masin himself, the epic survivor, was the most senior survivor. The remnants had fled to Prussia and Saxony, where they had regrouped under his leadership. So once again, he operated a pretty decent network himself.

“And I won’t understand your reasons for that decision. Sonneborn was a good man.” Röder said. “But what is done is done, and we’ll have to face this together. Unity is of paramount importance.”

“You talk as if war is inevitable, General.” another voice said; this one sat opposite to Röder. Hermann von Roden, the Minister-President of Memel. “I hope you are aware of the consequences of war, General, the last time a civil war took place, it did not end too well. A bad deal is still better than ten thousand mourning mothers.”

Leon Crasnov, a short, wily man, and the de facto leader of what they dubbed the Eastern Council, Minister-President of Prussia, shook his head. Before he could say anything however, his phone rang; the first of their three foreign guests had arrived, closely followed by the others. Introductions were made: Leon Crasnov, Hermann von Roden, Hasso Röder, Aucan Masin; for the Sylvans, Eduardo Baxter, for the Achesians, Thilo Bikrhard, for Lendol, Lydie Ansel, the only woman in the room. Karnov remained in the background, maintaining contact with the guards on the ground. Coming in late was Georg Marov, Minister-President of Pomerania, who said something about shaking an SS tail off, and the cabal was complete.

“Servus, Georg. Now that we are finally gathered. To the Tripartite, thank you for coming. This not only a critical moment for Wanka, but for the region, for the danger of a Shahidian theocracy must not be underestimated. But let’s get straight to the point; it may be best to keep this meeting only for as long as necessary.

“Negotiations are ongoing with the central government, and they really are only continuing, out of the knowledge of the public, to stall time. They have made their position clear, and they will not back down. According to them, an agreement like that with Saxony is impossible; the eastern states ‘are an integral and inseparable part of Wanka’. The most they can do is assure us that our rights as ‘non Shahids will be respected as God wills it’, which, gentlemen, means over twenty million secondary-class citizens in this region alone and which we will never accept. Unfortunately, Herrn von Roden, this means for us that we will at the very least demonstrate our capability to resist, or prove it to them. I do hope that you agree with us. And to be able to do that, that I hope that you can assist us with.”

Crasnov looked at the foreign representatives, before nodding to Röder to continue.

“Our military situation isn’t the worst. Unlike the rest of Wanka, the majority of men here have undergone basic training with the local Landwehr- an old tradition of a citizen militia force, as it seems. Furthermore, despite weapons bans, light weapons are not few and far between, but the crux of the matter lies here: I have talked to the commander of the Ostkaserne (Eastern Barracks), a major military base just across the river which houses the 10th Panzergrenadier-Division. Generaloberst Heinz Cüstrin, who spearheaded the northern assault into Saxony- an old acquaintance of mine, and one who still holds his official position due to being supposedly politically apathetic. In short, he has promised to fight by our side, one entire division, a fortified military base and enough ammunition for three divisions. The Eastern Barracks was designed to be the heart of a defence against an invasion from the east. However, he has told me that in his staff, a few bad apples remain, so it will be an imperative to ensuring that he can carry out his plans. All in all, given enough time, I am confident that we can amass a hundred thousand men, give or take, on a volunteer basis; meanwhile, conscription here will be much easier to implement than in other areas of Wanka, given the local military tradition.

“What we need are heavy weapons to complement the current militia force and transform it into a real army. Mortars, light to heavy, towed artillery, radars, anti-aircraft weapons, counter battery radars, heavy engineering vehicles. And, of course, the training for our troops to use these. With these, we stand a good chance of beating the Wankan army; keep in mind that Grawitz only has perhaps up to a dozen reliable divisions, probably less, and the Wankan Air Force is still in a sorry state since its beating in the Gulf War. The damn Gauls somehow shot down over three hundred combat aircraft. The price to assist us will be high, but the threat of this violent brand of Shahidism is amongst the greatest security threats to the world, the ideology itself being even too extreme for many Shahids here in Wanka. To allow such poison to manifest itself in a nation-state would threaten Casaterran civilisation itself. We already are seeing the product of Wankan money flowing to Shahidian militants, with the rising instability in Ummayah to the recent terror attacks- and I know well, having worked for the General Staff and the SS for half a decade, that this is just the beginning.”

by **Murovanka** » Fri Sep 23, 2016 2:46 am

This was one of those nights that Baxter felt he had been in Wanka his whole life. It wasn't the chirping crickets or the thick coat covering his body. It was not the little beads of sweat that formed up like formations of bombers below his rapidly receding hairline. It was, above all, a general, pervading, and persistent feeling of deja vu. He looked to the man to his right and came back to reality. Their guide, Wankan Army Corporal Hauser's pale skin showed that he, unlike Baxter, had spent his whole life in Wanka. He was Wankan, after all. Baxter had asked him earlier how he felt helping the Sylvans launch a revolution in his own country, and he had replied: 'My Dear Flight Colonel, I is Prussian before I is Wankan.' Hauser got his conjugations mixed up sometimes, but he was a good sort, and competent too.

On this night, Baxter’s group, codenamed CLOAK, was working the town with its Wankan counterpart, meeting the resistance leaders. Baxter had tried to feel for their cause, but it was difficult: there was a difference, in his mind, of what they were all doing. Despite his grand claims, Hauser, BAxter noticed, never seemed to show any care either. 'A serpent only dies henceforth its head has been extirpated,' he had once said, and since he seemed so proud at the new word he had learned, Baxter hadn't bothered to correct him.

He was right, of course. There seemed to be a limitless number of SS forces in Wanka. Baxter put it out of his mind as the first reports began to come in on the radio, and he and Hauser spent the rest of the night leading the operation from their base outside a small and shuttered tea shop. They took tea in the town square, and just as the Battalion began to carry on with its ordinary duties, they got sight of a mass of people pushing through one side of the square to other, chanting, carrying banners. The crowd swapped friendly waves with the group, and Baxter leaned over, asking Hauser: 'What does that sign there say?'

Hauser squinted: 'He says: Free Prussia - NOW!'

MINUTES OF THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL OPERATIONS COUNCIL 06/02/05

INCLUDING:
GEN HASSO RODER - De-facto commanding officer, resistance
GREGOR KARNOV- Adjutant
HERMANN VON RODEN - Minister-President, Memel
LEON CRASNOV - Minister-President, Prussia
AUCAN MASIN - Resistance leader, Widerstand
EDUARDO BAXTER - Representative, Sylva
THILO BIKRHAND - Representative, Achesia
LYDIE ANSEL - Representative, Lendol

Translation from German provided by ONI Translation Service.

RODER: What we need are heavy weapons to complement the current militia force and transform it into a real army. Mortars, light to heavy, towed artillery, radars, anti-aircraft weapons, counter battery radars, heavy engineering vehicles. And, of course, the training for our troops to use these.

BAXTER: Sylva is ready and willing to help. But we don’t want another war on our hands. None of this can be traced back to us, you understand?

RODER: Of course.

MASIN: Yes.

BAXTER: What we propose is this: a two pronged effort to arm and train the Widerstand. A number of refugees from Wanka we have interviewed have expressed hate for the current Wankan regime, and a willingness to fight. We propose the training, armament, and organization of a ‘Befreiungsbrigade’ of roughly five thousand Wankan refugees, to be deployed to Prussia once the revolt begins. Sylva will head this effort; I believe the Lendolians and Achesians have proposals of their own.

ANSEL: Lendol is more than willing to send supplies, aid, anything you need, really. We are also willing to partly fund the efforts of Achesia and Sylva and send however many operatives you require for training, planning, et cetera.

BAXTER: Once again, however, I can’t stress it enough that at the moment none of these efforts can be tied back to Tripartite involvement. Thusly, I’m afraid the delivery of the heavier weapons you requested will not be possible.

RODER:I understand your hesitance. Of course, this meeting will be kept off-records; in particular, my presence and role here cannot be made public. But no matter how many rifles, mortars, or uniforms we have, the presence of Wankan armor and air support will win the day if we don’t have an adequate defense against them.

ANSEL: There are already plans in the works to smuggle in parts for various pieces of equipment and vehicles in any way we can. Humanitarian aid is one such method. If you would like to make a preliminary list of requisitions, I'm sure we can get you started.

BIKRHAND: Achesia can make available certain logistics assets to ease getting past Wankan defenses, for various stages of the operation. But foremost we will assign military advisors to this brigade. Vanguard Forces, the best of the best.

CRASNOV: Forgive me for breaking up the party. This is all well and good, but what of the aftermath? What becomes of Prussia and Memel and Saxony when this is all finished? You can’t expect us to take an army of farmers to march on Kronstadt?

BAXTER: A number of contingencies are being worked out. First and foremost we have to win this war - ideally, the revolution starts and succeeds in Prussia and Memel, followed by a liberation effort in Saxony. Following that, the Sylvan Army will move in to reinstate the terms of the Erus Accords. Memel and Prussia will become independent, and Saxony is recreated as a buffer state between Wanka and the NSR. Of course, the situation is dynamic. All that will be worked out after the fact.

MASIN: As long as at the end of this, either Prussia and Memel are independent, or the Volksrepublik is restored. Otherwise, we’ll fight you just as hard as we are fighting the SS.

RODER: Places hand on Masin’s shoulder. As for Mr. Bikrhard’s offer of special operations forces and assistance would be greatly appreciated. We don’t have forces elite enough to perform some of the more sensitive plans we have in place.

BIKRHAND: The military advisors that we send to you will be among our most elite special force in the region. However; I do advice you take this opportunity while we have the trainers available to you, to identify those you wish to be the plank owners, per say, of your own special forces, so that they may learn from the best.

BAXTER: Speaking of command structures. We will be taking joint control of the resistance forces. General Sebastian Reyes - I’m sure you remember him, Herr General, as your adversary during the Saxon War - will be coming to Prussia with a small staff to provide us oversight and offer advice on your battleplan.

RODER: Once hostilities break out, a joint command center, where you will all be represented, will be set up. Your military input will be more than welcome, however we cannot permit that you possess a veto on our decisions- to our people and that of wider Wanka we will appear as foreign puppets. Besides, it is not that you are providing with chemical weapons, or even heavy weapons, is it? The more you ‘invest’, Mr. Baxter, the more we will take into account Sylvan interests, naturally.

BIKRHAND: For our military advisors to be attached to you, I’m afraid that we must have some sort of joint structure.

BAXTER: I’m afraid we must insist. Combined Forces Command, understandably, isn’t willing to devote all this equipment to an operation without some say in its procedure.

RODER: As I’ve said, of course you will have your say in the decision-making command, and so will Achesian and Lendolian advisors; however, the final decision will rest upon this council, that is, the elected Minister-Presidents plus myself. We can nevertheless, in exchange for your assistance, provide all the intelligence we have on the SS, their structure, funding, what their bankrolling and crucially, their links to Ummayan terrorist groups. In addition to that, I, having been employed in the army for the past decade, am very familiar with Wankan military doctrinal security protocols and cybersecurity systems; some of them I designed myself. The resistance will be the best intelligence source on Wanka available to you.

ANSEL: Anyhow, the first thing we need to do is set up a system through which we can recover the smuggled goods. There's no point in sending them if they will just end up in the hands of citizens.

CRASNOV: The most viable smuggling route would go through Mecklenburg; we are well in control of the border city and SS presence there is negligible. It can come through the border with Sylva, which is under our control, or by air to the Mecklenburg Airport. From there the cargo can be transported to one of our secret storage depots in the fields; we can use verbal codes to ensure that that cargo is being brought to the right receiver. If Sylva is concerned about a possible public backlash in case the operation is discovered, Lendol and Achesia can also fly in their ‘aid’ to Mecklenburg directly, or drive in across the border with UBS, if the government there permits.

ANSEL: That sounds perfectly fine. I believe that we should investigate all possible methods of delivery and utilise the most viable options. There will, of course, be real aid coming in as well, keep that in mind.

This was written in collaboration with Sylva, Achesia and Lendol.

by **Murovanka** » Fri Sep 23, 2016 7:26 am

Ostfalische Post

Wankas most trusted news source- English Edition
22nd September

Terrorists strike Nürnberg

NÜRNBERG- Three gunmen opened fire in downtown Nürnberg yesterday, killing at least seventy people, with investigations ongoing. The attack started at 11 o’clock in the morning at the Kaiserin-Maria-Schauspieltheater where the famous theatre group Zolikon was performing “Saladeen and his Fifty Wives”. According to eyewitness accounts, the three men arrived in a black Volkswagen, killing a guard and fatally wounding another as they forced their way into the building, where they started firing indiscriminately into the crowd. Armed police units arrived within ten minutes and, upon engaging the attackers inside the theatre after a two-hour standoff, two of the three detonated suicide vests and the other was killed in the shootout. This takes place just days following the twin attacks on Lendol and Sylva which in itself claimed 125 lives, all of which were claimed by the Ummayan-based Junud al-Kabaab (Soldiers of the Holy Rock) group, making this the deadliest series of terror attacks ever to take place on Casaterra. Experts have said that the strikes were likely coordinated. A thirty-five year old Ummayan-born Wankan was arrested in connection with the bombing with another, said to be the cell leader, on the run.

In a press conference, Foreign Minister Johann Blumenthal said that “Preliminary evidence, including the interrogation of the suspect, has shown that the terrorists were likely based in Pomerania, with members of the cell each arriving separately in Nürnberg in the weeks prior to the attack. However, how they obtained the weapons- especially under Wankas strict gun laws, and how two of the terrorists- both Ummayans- had managed to enter Wanka are not yet known and will be the focus of our investigation.”

In an official statement, the Chancellor’s office condemned the “cowardly continent-wide series of attacks”, promising “swift retaliation” on the perpetrators and the group itself. “Wanka stands in solidarity with Lendol and Sylva in face of the terrorist scourge. The acts of Junud al-Kabaab are against all human and moral values and have nothing to do with Shahidism.” The Wankan Ulama, the highest religious body in the nation, also expressed repugnance at the “hateful crime against humanity”, saying that al-Kabaab had “twisted the divine words of the Hadayya for their own sinful purposes.” In a fatwa, the Grand Mufti declared the militant group, which is waging an insurgency in Ummayah with the goal of creating a global caliphate entering on the Shahidian birthplace, as “false and illegal.” The fatwa explained that Jihad, or holy war, could only be justified in self-defence and by killing innocent civilians, the group had defined itself as simply an evil satanic non-Shahid cult.

The targeting of Wanka by the Shahidian militant group follows the Wankan government’s support of the Ummayan government, widely seen as despotic and authoritarian, against al-Kabaab and other rebel groups; outside commentators have noted, however, that the Wankan role in Ummayah remained ambivalent with several reports by investigative journalists revealing that cash and weapons had flown to both sides of the conflict, from multiple sources inside Wanka. Up to early this year, al-Kabaab members reportedly talked favourably toward Wanka. “It is a rather complex net.” Simon Delacruz of the Sylvan Institute of Strategic Studies said. “What we see here can be explained by the historic Rashaida-Kharjii split, both branches of Shahidism, with the Rashaida being the most populous and dominant branch in both Wanka and Ummayah. While for long periods of time the two got along quite well, the Kharjii notably form the poorest of the populations and have become significantly disenfranchised. In Ummayah, the Kharjii have been persecuted under the current Rashaida-dominated regime and in Wanka, the Ulama leans heavily toward the Rashaidan school of jurisprudence. The unrest in Ummayah and the targeting of Wanka is merely the divisions going hot.”

by **Achesia** » Mon Sep 26, 2016 2:46 pm

At the Crux of the Murovanka/Saxon/Sylva Boarder

It was a gangly brute of a Shahid that stood across from him. One large mass of dark skin, muscle, and fat. He had dark hair spanning his whole head, brows, unibrow, ears, face, back, arms, chest, legs, feet, and even toes. His name was Muhammad Al Something or another, some mouthfull of alphabet that parent's thought so highly of, they names him after God's prophet, just like every other kid from his god forsaken culture. And today he thought himself mouthy enough to say that he was going to take on his weapons instructor, James Avondale, in a one on one match of brawn. The 5’11” instructor of only 190 pounds was muscular but light compared to the nearly 300 pound savage.

So they stood there, shirts off, fists raised, in a circle of Wankan refugee fighters and Achesian Special Vanguard Forces instructors, each waiting for the other to make a move. James had been waiting for this, waiting for one of these mouthy, arrogant, Shahid refugees to cross this line, to go fist to fist with him, he was going to enjoy this.

"Go! God be with you!" One of the brutes' friends cheered him on in stuttering Achari Common. Why wouldn't they shut up about god? James wondered. Soon the big mass of hair and flesh let out a shrewd yell, something in Arabic that he was sure was derogatory, just as he began to charge across the circle at James. The crowd cheered in a couple different languages, Shahids, Achesians, Wankans, Sylvans, Saxons, all watching as this clash began.

Just as the beast got within closing distance to James, did the action began. A large fist from the man swung in the direction of the Achesian, but with a lean to the side it was dodged, and swiftly returned as James' elbow landed in Muhammad's face. The large man stoopered backwards, but James didn't give him a break, instead catching him with a forward kick to the abdomen, releasing a large gush of air and spit from the man's mouth.

Muhammed tried to regain his standing, his friends pushing him back towards James. He raised his fist as he charged him, a horrible telegraph. James had a solid three seconds to step out of the way, and just as the disoriented man swiftly passed by him, lay a heavy strike to the Shahid’s ribcage.

"Gahh!" The man shrieked as he fell to the ground, the dust bursting upwards as his body landed hard. He was done, but there was lesson to be learned here. James causally walked over, leering at the man's now silent Shahid comrades, coming close to the down man, he swiftly brought his suede boot out and swung it brutally in the man's stomach... Again... Again... And again. The large man cried with each successive kick, but James didn't let up, not until even his own fellow Acheisans looked on in awe. He walked away from the bastard lying on the ground.

"This is a voluntary program." He wiped some spit and sweat from his face. "You don't have to fucking be here." He looked around at the crowd of volunteer refugees. The same ones who just a few weeks ago had signed up to form a militia, a militia to overthrow the ruling Murovankan government. "So who is going to fucking drop?" He looked around with his hands raised high. "Who is going to fucking give up? Huh?!?!" He screamed at the nearest recruits face. He looked over at he downed man, passed out, bleeding into the ground. "I'm fucking over this." He pointed to the hump of a man on the ground. "If you are gonna be in this milita, you better fucking shape up." He screamed, some of the recruits lowering this heads, some staring in anger, some cringing, some weeping.

It had been a long way for them, crossing into Sylva,, some even with families. They volunteered to take back their homeland, no matter the cost, but they did not know what they were in for with the Acheisan trainers. Every day they were reminded this was a voluntary program, while they pushed in the mud, while they fought each other hand to hand, while they sat in the rain, while they baked in the sun, every day the instructors reminded them "you can drop any time."

"Fine." James nodded his head. "Then you all are going to drop! Fucking low crawl my fucking camp!" He screamed, and the recruits dropped. Face down they crawled, not so much as a finger in the air, pulling at the crusted dirt as their faces chafed on the ground. James looked to the other instructors and nodded. They shook their heads and laughed, James was always the one to get carried away.

---

It was later in the day, the sun had lowered, the recruits let out on evening leave, and the air cooled down. The refugee camp located along the border with Murovanka sprawled over two square miles and was home to over one hundred thousand Wankan refugees. Though most shared the same nationality, there were many cultures within the camp, evident by the styles of dress, music, and food.

James often liked to walk through the some of the majority prussian areas of the camp, he respected the people allot, and often liked to listen to their music. They were very kind to him as well, as they identified him as an Achesian as he walked through the camp with one of his compatriots in their fatigue pants, undershirt, riggers belt, and brown boots. He smiled as a few of the men raised a pint to him as he passed, and he was intrigued by the music that they played on their guitars as he passed by their hut. The smell of Wankan cuisine wafted through the air, and James took it all in, it was a nice break from a day training the recruits.

As he stepped over an orange canopy through what had been made a makeshift market, he felt a soft tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he grinned as he was greeted by a small white daisy being handed to him, by a lovely Wankan girl.

"Day hard?" She didn't speak the best Achari Common, she pointed the daisy at James' cheek, a small scratch he earned from the fight.

She always greeted him this way, every day he came through. He had started jokingly calling her daisy, mostly because her name was some Wankan massacre of the alphabet, but also because if made her laugh. She had bright blueish/grey eyes and blonde hair, her skin fair, standing at about James' chest height. James had been too afraid to ask how old she was, so he left that to question, simply taking the daisy from her hand and holding it to his nose.

"Easier than some." He smirked. "But better now." He looked her in the eye, not daring a blink.

She smiled, covering her mouth as she laughed. She looked over her shoulder at an older lady, James figured it was her mother. "I... Uh, have to go." She said with a questioning inflection, but James knew what she meant.

"Bye Daisy." She smiled continuing on.

"Bye." She returned the smile, fading into an ally of sorts between tents.

The two soldiers continued on, looking for their favorite vendor of ales they had found a day previous.

Night had fallen over the camp, and it was far quieter than before as James weaved through back to his barracks. Stepping over the litter and discarded food he heard something far off. He stopped, listening closer to what it could possibly be... Until he heard it again, a scream, a loud, shrill scream. James ran through the camp, hurdling over tables and stake posts, towards the wayward cry. And as he came upon its source, his blood boiled.

He found three Shahid men, whom were strangers in such a Wankan majority area of the camp, holding down a Wankan girl to the ground, laughing as they raped her. They had ripped off her clothes, her naked body at their mercy as they grunted crudely. She cried as they beat her, but James was fully prepared to make them cry blood. He came to the first one who held the girls arm, his boot meeting his face with vengeance. The other two now alerted to his presence, trying to counter the swift attacker from out of nowhere. But James made short work of them, laying them both out on the ground, next to their victim. But what James discovered was that this victim lying helpless on the ground was none other than Daisey, her fair skin covered in blood and bruises, and her body in mud. She struggle to breath as James crouched over her.

"Daisey, it's going to be ok." He reassured her, crouching down above her.

She tried to struggle away from him, confused as to if this was another attacker. "No!" She yelled at him, but James sat still.

"I'm going to get you to help." He took off his own shirt, putting it over the girl as she still struggled, obviously delirious from the whole traumatization. James picked her up, holding her in his arms.

At about this time several whistles were making their way down between the tents, Sylvan Military Police who patrolled the camp on the regular, who overheard the commotion. He held her a moment, waiting for the MPs to identify him before making a move. James took this moment to stare at the men who lay groaning on the ground, one was conscious enough to look back, mouthing something to himself while staring hatefully at James with Daisy in his arms.

"Hault!" One of the Sylvans screamed, shining their flashlight on James. They quickly saw his Achesian uniform and the girls in his arms, approaching him to check her condition.

"Shes hurt I need to get her to a med station!" He insisted.

"Go! Breederland go with him!" The head MP ordered. James however, didn't wait for him to complete the sentence, rushing back down the way he came with Daisey tight in his arms. She whimpered slightly as he jumped over debris.

"Don't worry Daisy, I won't let them get away with this." He stared at her muddied blonde hair. "I won't let them..."

by **Nova Sylva** » Wed Sep 28, 2016 12:00 pm

SEPTEMBER

Congress House is a big building. When everyone is in it, it is not that big. It is the meeting place of the Trades Union Congress—the largest, the greatest, the most militant Trade Union in Casaterra, in Septentrion. Revolution was plotted in this the building. Congress rarely calls emergencies. You can tell when it's an emergency meeting because everyone is there. All the seats are full, and it is quiet. The Union President has to speak, but he is accompanied by the General-Secretary—of the Republic, that is. Order, order—the meeting is called to attention. Everyone stands up and sings the Internationale. You can hear it from across the road. Then they sit down and are quiet again.

The Emergency Meeting of the Twenty-Eighth of July was not unlike any other.

You sat down next to your Comrade, a representative of Capistrano. You greeted him generally: he's a Comrade, but not a friend. 'What's all this about?' you asked.

'The rumour is Saxony and Prussia', he leaned in, breath stinking of fags and ale. 'Wait, it's starting.'

There was the President, with the General-Secretary, Serrano. Serrano didn't say anything, but he was listening. The President stood up.

'Comrades. Today I have called this emergency meeting of the Trades Union Congress to address the recent terror that has struck our proud nation. The Shahidists have struck numerous targets across the Casaterran continent. In Wanka proper, the new theocratic government, placed in power after the SS coup, began a systematic crackdown on religious deviants in the Saxony and Mecklenburg areas as it supports these terrorists.

The President sat down, and the General-Secretary stood up.

'This morning we watched and listened on our televisions and radios as our State Department and those inside became victims of a brutal terror attack. This is the second time in the past twenty years that Wankan sabeouters have attacked Sylva, and the first time in this Republic's history. It cannot go unpunished.'

The President took over again. 'In Prussia and Saxony, citizens take to the streets in protest against the tyrannical theocratic regime in Kronstadt. It is our duty to come to aids of the proletariat abroad. The first order of business is for the Congress to approve this draft message to be delivered by the Congress. I shall read it out: The National Sylvan Trades Union Congress condemns in the strongest terms the Wankan state's support of terrorism and their crackdown on the civil rights of its own citizens. We urge our Comrades in Saxony and Prussia to take action. General strike!'

You, and hundreds others, hammered your fists on the table. Strike! Strike! Strike!

The President silenced all with a wave of his hand.

'The second order of business. I wish to release funds from the Congress Reserve Fund to support strike action by Wankan workers. The Office of National Intelligence, I have been told, will assist with the transfer and see that is distributed properly'.

The yays won the day, drowning out the nays. The doves having been silenced, the hawks began to count their money. It was, all told, really rather quite a sum.

Wherever he went, Baxter felt like he shouldn't be there. When he was conscripted and posted to an Air Force base in the valleys and the air was very thin and everything was very high and not at all flat like his home in the suburbs of Capistrano and also it was too cold. Then he was posted to rural Valencia and it was too hot and the people spoke a bastardized form of spanish and there were huge disgusting insects. Then he was sent to Aurde and that was also awful but a little better because it wasn't so hot. The people still spoke nothing like his French teacher at college and there were still huge disgusting insects, but at least it wasn't so hot. Then he went home on leave to his small little suburb and most of the people had moved to the city and it was sad and very different and not at all like home. And then the Saxon War happened.

He knocked three times on the door and made his back straight. There was noise inside and the door opened. A very short and bulky man with a little bit of fat around him answered. "What do you want?"

"Don't you salute, Sergeant?"

"What do you want, Sir?"

"I have been posted to your unit."

"You'd better come in then."

The room was big in dimensions but filled with so many things that it appeared very small. The concrete walls were covered in maps and posters and there was paper everywhere. There was some paper on the ceiling, just above the ceiling fan. There were empty bottles, empty glasses, full ashtrays, empty mugs, mugs used as ashtrays, and three other people, not including him or the Sergeant.

"Excuse the Sergeant. We don't use rank inside the office," a Captain said. He got up, swaying a little. "I'm López. The Sergeant is Rodriguez. And this is Lieutenant Gutierrez. Wake up dickhead!" he flicked a cigarette and it bounced off Guttierrez's uniform. He didn't wake up. "Nevermind. You must be Baxter. Your desk is here, next to mine. Don't worry, we'll help you clean it later. We're actually celebrating. Coming out of retirement, eh?"

"Yeah." Baxter sat down on his chair. "I'm in intelligence. Then I found out I was being transferred here."

"Ah, you've been stolen, then. Say, have a drink. There ought to be some jenever in one of your drawers." Baxter opened the three drawers. There was a bottle in each one of them. He chose the one that hadn't been opened.
"What do you mean stolen?"

"ONI took you. We're with ONI, you know? We're all Combined Forces, but ONI gets to take any intelligence officer who scores above a certain amount on their aptitude test. Rodriguez used to be my platoon two, I just took him along because he's a laugh."

"So what do you do?"

"We're in espionage. Trying to find out as much as we can about our buddies in Kronstadt do on a daily. Mostly we try to snoop on what they're doing with other countries. For instance, they’re disbanding an SS division and putting those hardliners into Army divisions to ensure loyalty. We were going to supposed to try to get a roster list, but... we spent all the money they sent us to pay for bribes. We reported that we lost it. They actually didn't care very much. DNSI can't do anything to us because we're Army. So they don't give us any big jobs anymore, so we just sit here and drink, basically."

"You spent it?"

"Yes. We fixed the aircon. Bought a fridge for the office and upgraded our internet package."

"So why are you celebrating?"

"Well, you see. Every time we move humanitarian aid we try to fudge the list of supplies they're taking with them. It has to be a big delivery - and we put inside the manifest a bunch of things that we don't want to ask the Wankans for permission to bring in."

"Like what?"

"Well in the past it has been things like ammunition, light weapons, and so on. We re-designate them and slip them in the manifest in between toothpaste and bergens and replacement suspension kits and whatever. This time they asked us to move some 105mm. I don't know why."

"They're nuclear shells," Rodriguez said.

"Yes, something like that. I don't really know why it's sensitive."

Baxter filled a glass. "They make the core of the shell out of depleted uranium because it's really dense. Depleted uranium is the waste from building nuclear reactors, I think. It's not as dense as tungsten, but tungsten blunts on contact with other metals. Depleted uranium sets on fire and sharpens as it penetrates. Then when it penetrates inside whatever you're shooting at, it sprays burning depleted uranium everywhere. The uranium particles mix with the air and if you get enough in one area it can cause birth mutations, cancer, leukemia, so on. We and both Achesia and OS use depleted uranium rounds, as well as other countries."

"Someone was paying attention in science! Bloody hell. Anyway, yeah, we had to bring these shells in. Of course, we dont want the Wankans that we're bringing that type of weapon into their country, so we hide it, and technically they agree to it, since they sign off on all the manifests. So we reclassified these rounds as being there things - mainly tomato boxes, purified water, and readymade shelters. They never check what's inside the boxes, only the size of the boxes, so they all passed customs. They thought we were bringing in crates of food for their populace but really we were moving a stockpile of depleted uranium rounds. Anyway the rounds have all been unpacked and are sitting safely in a warehouse in Prussia. So a job well done for our team."

"We've done it with other things, too," the Captain continued. "Cluster bomblets for rocket launchers - apparently if you drop them some of the bombs don't go off and kids can end up playing with them. Mines - which we’re not supposed to use because we signed some bloody convention about it - napalm rounds, agent orange, you get the picture."

"In other words, you - we - smuggle banned arms into a country to supply its revolutionaries and our army once it rolls through. Isn't that illegal?"

"Ha! When you say it like that, yeah. We're all war criminals. Here, let's cheers to that."

Baxter lifted his glass and felt the liquor drain down his throat.

by **Achesia** » Wed Sep 28, 2016 7:16 pm

Village in the White Vale, Near Uyayagerc, Achesia

The terrain was steep as Praetor Allek ascended the mountainside towards the small village of Yllyop, an isolated settlement deep within the mountain range known as the White Vale near the city of Uyayagerc. With only a walking stick he prodded his way along the road, passed by very few, if any automobiles. These deep in the country people lived the old way, farming the land and carrying on traditions the way they have for centuries. While the Praetor of the Achari Cult could have taken a bus that ran to the village once a day, or even a cab, he felt his duty as a Praetor to such traditional people of Achesian culture and religion was to conduct himself, like them, in the old way.

He picked up his robes a moment as the incline became steeper, pulling himself up with the long yew staff that he wielded to aide in his trek. He was still a young man by comparison to most of the Achari Cult, only forty two years of age. But those villages he visited viewed him as something of a sage in his spiritual advice to them when he was able to visit.

In Achesian religion there were no temples. Praetors did not preach from pulpits, instead they traveled, as spiritual advisors to the many who practiced the religion in Achesia, from shrine to shrine on a quest of wisdom and teaching. Praetors themselves are chosen via arcane rituals that are often kept secret, as the Achari Cult is a very secretive religion. The Achesian people commune with this religion by use of shrines, which could range from an altar in one's home, to a community shrine, to a large national shrine like those in Imperium and most major cities. There Achesians seek enlightenment from their honored ancestors that have long been dead. Prominent families often construct their own altars which are passed on from generation to generation, where each member can commune with those who have lived honorably and passed on to eternity.

Praetor Allek could soon see before him one such alter belonging to the village in which he was traveling to, an Altar constructed out of stone, a statue of Ackular John the X, an Ackular hundreds of years ago. He more than likely visited this village at one time, and thus the people have constructed an altar dedicated to him, so that his honor could linger with them. At its base the Praetor was pleased to see fresh sacrifice to the Summer God, a lamb's head severed, its crimson fluids draining over the runes along the base of the stone. Beyond this altar, he could now see his destination.

Allek smiled as a group of children of various ages ran to greet him as he came down the road into the heart of the village.

"Praetor! Praetor! The sun blesses you!" Some called as they stretched their hands to the elder. He laughed as they followed him into town telling him stories of the past winter and the adventures they had along the slopes, stories of football or school trips to the city. They soon came to a sort of market where people traded goods that they had made, imported from the city, or harvested. A few adults lingered there the town square as it was often a very communal spot for the community, tables and chairs were set up for feasts, or just general leisure. A few men sat at one table, listening to a radio that spoke of news from far away lands.

"Attacks in Sylva and Lendol have heightened world leaders awareness of the threat of unchecked immigration from nations like Shahid controlled Murovanka after the wave of attacks. Officials in Fawnnorth have begun meeting on security reformation in the wake of these attacks, with today....." The radio was fuzzy at best as it continued to speak to fear of continued terrorism within the region. The men at this table seemingly entranced by these stories, and unaware of the Praetor's approach.

"If we let the world tell us to fear, then how can we fulfill or obligation to god." The Praetor stopped near the table, the children now silent as he spoke his wisdom. The men around the table were startled at Allek's sudden appearance, shooting up from their seats and gathering near the weary traveler.

"Praetor!" One man exclaimed, coming up to him and firmly grasping his arms in embrace. "We are blessed by our Dread lord that you have come. We have sacrificed a lamb every morning for your safe travel to us." He motioned to the statute in which Allek had previously passed. "We will be blessed to have your wisdom among us, we shall feast for your arrival...."

"Sonnobran..." the Praetor had a knack for remembering names of those whom he visited, which only added to his aura. "...save the lambs, the Dread Lord will keep me among those who dwell in mortality for as long as he requires me to, and if I am to die, then it is because god has seen that I am no longer required." He smiled warmly, exchanging the embrace with the man. "So tell me, how have the people of Yllyop been? And what wisdom do they seek?"

The man called Sonnobran looked to a few of the other men, and the growing crowd of villagers who gathered to celebrate the Praetor's arrival. "The world seems to grow darker around us, how do we keep strong in light of this? How do we not fear when the world tells us to do so?" He looked gravely at Allek.

The Praetor smiled, patting him on the shoulder before walking to the center of the crowd, as it parted to allow his passage. "My dear countrymen, while the world grows dark, do not fear... all is as God Wills It." He looked around at the faces of the people he spoke to, confusion and awe surrounded them. "The Shahid move because god wills it, they attack because god wills it, the grass grows because god wills it, the harvest is reaped because god wills it, and we... Achesians... we stand in the sun of the Summer God because god wills it, and if we are to pass unto eternity among our honored ancestors, it is because god wills it!"

Another man stepped forward, dressed in overalls covered in grease, presumably taken away from his work as the village mechanic because he heard the Praetor speaking.

"Praetor!" He called, Allek turned to face him. "How do we pass unto eternity with honor? I am but a mechanic, how do I join my honored ancestors?"

Praetor Allek nodded his head, it was a question he had received allot in the past few months, and one he had answered the same way.

"Child of summer, I say to you now, the Dread Lord's sun as my witness, to kill an infidel, is the path to eternity!” He exclaimed, but the villagers still seemed confused. He continued. “God has willed the Shahids to die, he has brought them to us, as a gift. Much like the lamb you sacrifice to appease god, so is the Shahid. To kill a Shahid, is to appease god! To kill a Shahid, is the path to eternity among your honored ancestors! God wills this!"

"God wills it!" The mechanic cried as the Praetor continued to preach much of the sacrificial Shahid.

"To kill a Shahid is the path to honor, to eternity! God wills it!"

by **Murovanka** » Mon Oct 03, 2016 1:54 am

Ardennen
Prussia Province
29th September

Other than that her husband wasn’t at home, it had been a routine day for Anna Karnov. Petro, husband of Mariana, her sister-in-law, had agreed in Gregor’s absence, to help out in the farm, and it was always good that Peter was now practically an adult, even if he had to deal with school too. Erika had broken her leg in a riding accident and now hobbled around the house on crutches, entertained by her cousins, the two Sokolov boys. Other than that, nothing much unusual happened, and an air of normality, perhaps only superficially, was maintained within the Karnov household. In the evenings, they would eagerly await Gregor’s call, and on the rare occasions that he visited home, both families, eight in total, plus village chief Melekhov (who was busy organising a recruitment drive in his area), would gather in the Karnov dining room to hear the updates on what was happening in the world. Not that Gregor said that much, really; by nature he’d have to carefully watch what he said, and he was reimbursed well enough to warrant doing so. According to him, they were still in negotiations with the central government, and the situation wasn’t looking too bad, with the ongoing protests strengthening their negotiating position, but mostly it was the crisis in Saxony which had relegated the Prussian problem from the top of the priority list. There, Gregor said, the Wankan government faced the prospect of the Sylvans simply marching in and seizing Saxony on moments notice while the local Saxon government was in a hostile deadlock with Kronstadt; indeed, much of the past months had involved heated negotiations as Grawitz and the Chancellor contemplated their options on how to stop the Sylvans from reaching the Weser, which would really make it impossible to retake the territory that they’d gained in the bloody Saxon War.

And faced with the large-scale protests in Prussia, it seemed likely that a similar deal, which would grant greater powers to the eastern states, would be signed, according to Gregor. Or something along those lines. There was still a large degree of uncertainty however. Regardless, life looked not to change, and if there was one thing Prussian farmers desired, it was that.

Gregor had phoned, announcing that he had asked for, and received permission to return home, to everyone’s delight, but his voice did not give away much. Nevertheless, Anna and Mariana had prepared a real feast for the family; a four-course meal: Leberknödel-Soup, a potato salad with Maultaschen, as main course, roast boar served with Spätzle, followed by Kaiserschmarrn as dessert. As such, with no few complaints from the stomach did they await the arrival of the General’s aide.

“Er ist da!” a shout suddenly came from the window, where Erika was stationed on look-out. Sure enough, a revving engine could be heard, tyres crunching on gravel as a blue sedan rolled into the driveway. Peter was first out, followed by Anna, who, after exchanging crushing embraces and kisses pulled him into the house where more greetings sounded and following a quick toast by Melekhov, they finally dived into the steaming plates of the regions finest specialities. Gregor asked about the farm, the harvest the animals; they asked him about the General and his work in the big Prussian cities. Only as dessert was being served (with the children most excitedly plunging into that), did Karnov’s expression become serious.

“I hate to break the mood,” he said, “but what I’ve come to say, and the reason for my sudden return, is… is that, I’m afraid, war is imminent.”

“What?!” Petro said. The others had shock on their faces.

“If you’ve read the news, following the terror attacks in Nürnberg, SS-investigators ‘traced’ the attack to Pomerania-city, where supposedly the al-Kabaab terror cell was based and had organised themselves in relative safety. An SS and police task force was dispatched to Pomerania to round up people in connection with the terrorists, including… Georg Marov, the Pomeranian minister-president, on the grounds of treason, alleged collaboration with the terrorists and as they later said, he had long been under investigation of corruption. Several more high-level officials and the Pomeranian police chief were either arrested or fired, either for collaborating with Gepo-‘putschists’ or in connection with the terror attacks.

“Now when word got out, people immediately went out on the streets again, in force. Riot police deployed to face the protesters refused to move in and clear the sites. I don’t know exactly what happened, this is a second-hand account from people we had in the city, but allegedly, a mob attacked the SS prisoner transports, the SS just managing to escape, killing and wounding several protesters; in retaliation, a group of armed men stormed the SS headquarters in Pomerania and is holding the officers and staff within hostage. Another group took over, without any bloodshed, the police HQ and put the SS-appointed chiefs behind bars. The men demanded the release of the SS-held prisoners and autonomy for Prussia, meanwhile calling out for the rest of the region to rise and declare independence.”

Melekhov said, “These men, and the protesters, they were not organised by the Eastern Council then?”

Karnov shook his head. “No, it was all spontaneous, and believe me, we were caught in surprise. We know the men, they are ultra-nationalist militia, and by the looks of it have decided to take matters in their own hands. By doing that, they are forcing both our hands- Kronstadt’s, and ours. We’re in contact with everyone. Protest leaders have said that they will oppose any SS-allied forces from attempting to reach the hostage site. ‘They will have to run us over with tanks’, I quote directly. We decided, then, to mobilise. Most cities and towns and villages will join our side, that we know, but a referendum is scheduled anyway, to keep the foreigners happy. But it’s not pretty, people on our side are rioting, doing mob justice on the streets, resolving personal feuds. Either way, word is being spread that the Preussenbund, the Prussian Confederation, will be declared, and that the three state councils will be joined to form a Bundesrat.”

“So that’s that.” Andrej, the oldest in the house, said. “Krieg.”

“Alea iacta est. It is a mess.”

“And Miron? Did you hear of Miron? His conversion is difficult enough to have to bear, but my son is my son.”

“Nein, Vater.” Gregor shook his head sadly. “I’ve tried contacting him, but to no avail. He may have fled; attacks on people of his belief are making many of them leave in droves.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

A7, 20km south of Pomerania City
Pomerania Province
2nd October

SS-Standartenführer Rolf von Korns didn’t like the situation one bit. He had been sent to Pomerania to conduct some routine arrests of political prisoners of sorts, the type of mission that he’d done often enough and which had increased in frequency since the SS takeover. Assured of full-support from local authorities as was usual for the State Security Office, he’d never expected to find himself stranded in the midst of the A7 highway surrounded by endless fields of godforsaken farms.

He himself was confused, and had for the past days received conflicting reports on what was going on. He’d been sorting out some of the massive bureaucratic paperwork that he had to do in his position when he’d been notified that a mob had assaulted the prisoner transport bringing back the high-value internees to Potsdam, where the SS had a big office. The same rioting mob then proceeded to block his vehicles from traversing the city with the local police unable, or unwilling, to contain them. And when he heard of the intention of the rioters to takeover the SS office and intern his force, and after seeing firsthand the number of them arrayed on the streets, Korns gave the order to flee, and as it turns out, it was just in time. As with the local police, he and his troops had little qualms of shooting up a bunch of criminal gangsters, but if there was one thing his in hindsight useless briefing had told him, it was to handle any trouble in a restrained manner. Foreign journalists were still around in this part of the country, he’d been told.

Maybe he should’ve also been told that this region was on the brink of an all-out uprising and that there was no better trigger than to directly arrest their representatives, the elected state leaders. Then again, Kronstadt probably knew little either, occupied by what they thought were secret Sylvan preparations to seize Saxony. Which was why they’d sent unprepared negotiators to keep the Prussians talking, and had sent him- admittedly, not exactly the most bright nor dedicated officer- to do the arrests. Prussia was a small problems amongst many problems the new regime faced, and was nothing new, and any troubles there was expected to die down with time (or with a bit of gunboat persuasion). Offices were understaffed, those stationed there underpaid and were usually of the type who didn’t display the qualities that would take them into positions of power anytime soon.

Either way, von Korns and his contingent, now numbering over three hundred after being joined by local police and paramilitaries fleeing the violence, had set up camp in the middle of farmer’s land while he and his staff debated their course of action. He needed to finish the mission. The prisoners he’d made had been released from the local prisoners in Pomerania City, apparently some gangsters had taken SS staff hostage, but it looked like what had happened was two-fold, one, a political protest, the other, criminals rioting, which seemed to cause the most trouble. Kronstadt didn’t seem to take notice, so that meant this was of little significance. Problem was, he didn’t want to notify his superiors in Potsdam that he needed more support; that would be a sign of weakness, of incompetence, and if it did turn out that he had overreacted, it would not look good on his after-action report- but on the other hand, if this was some political uprising, and he failed to provide the information and other intelligence to HQ, he’d most certainly lose his career. If he was lucky.

“Herr Standartenführer!” A sergeant walked into his command post, saluting. “We have a large crowd moving in on our rear, blocking the road to Königsberg. This was the one assembling outside Schönhof yesterday.”

“They’re surrounding us.” von Korns stated. Reluctantly, he pulled out his phone and dialled a number from his contact list. He was well aware that the Eastern Barracks was right nearby, and while the SS didn’t like enlisting the help of the army, in this case it was probably the right move. The military was well-respected in Wanka, even despite the recent defeat to Gauliscia.

Two hours later, an impressive convoy showed up, trawling in from the protesters rear. The effect was instantaneous. Only after a few words were exchanged, the road was freed up, several army vehicles staying behind to hold it open, the rest moving up and into the SS encampment. Von Korns counted a battalions worth of troops, in trucks, humvees, even some APCs. The troops that got off looked like they were armed with riot-control gear. They likely knew about the situation, and were here to bring back order, von Korns thought, hopefully they can clarify what’s been going on.

Approaching him were several men. Von Korns recognised the battalion commander, an acquaintance from long ago, he forgot where, one he’d not seen for some time. He was accompanied by a large man with dark, sunken eyes, a local clearly. The commander smiled at him, greeting, raising his right arm in the common shaking-hand procedure-

Something was wrong. Von Korns realised too late. The men weren’t soldiers. The commander held his sidearm extended, muzzle pointed at Korns’ chest. The other ‘soldiers’ ran at his ad-hoc command post, weapons raised. All around, safeties came off. The army unit had completely surrounded the SS camp.

“Grüss Gott. Major Gregor Karnov of 2nd Battalion, 103rd Regiment, 10th Panzergrenadierdivision.”

Karnov disarmed von Korns. “Just kidding. Gregor Karnov, Riedheim-Ardenner Battalion. Could you please order your men to surrender their arms peacefully. We have five hundred men and plenty of heavy weapons to go around, don’t think, even if this may be militia, that you stand a chance.” He held a loudspeaker before von Korn’s mouth, meanwhile cuffing the Standartenführer.

In the meantime, Karnov’s men had snatched up von Korn’s communications systems and was holding the SS staff on the floor. The SS commander, nervously eyeing the pistol aimed at him, nodded. With a shaking voice, he ordered all his men to surrender, which they did. They would be transported to a secret camp near the Wanko-UBS border. In one swift move, Kronstadt’s main eyes and ears in the rebellious region had been removed. Word would eventually come to the far west that the SS task force had been attacked and disarmed by a local militia. The true extent of the cooperation between the 10th Panzergrenadier and the rebels would remain hidden, however. It was an imperative that the rebel’s strength be downplayed for as long as possible- best case, Kronstadt would continue to believe it was just a bunch of thugs creating trouble. Which, to a large extent, they did, giving Crasnov and Röder time to mobilise and secure the entire eastern wing of Wanka for themselves.

Mecklenburg
Prussia Province
8th October

“Get out, you bloody Wessis!”

Miron Karnov slammed the door shut and stamped down on the accelerator. ”Nichts wie weg.” said Abdullah next to him as he observed the crowd behind them with a concerned look. As they screeched around the side-streets, more angry protesters passed them, some hollering obscenities at the “Wessis”, short for Westerners, or those from the coast, others bearing anti-Shahidic slogans. The Shahidophobia had skyrocketed in recent days as strikes and demonstrations ground Prussia to a standstill. Several rocks flew their way, some glancing off, one cracking and drawing spider-webs on Abdullah’s side. The ethnically half Ummayad and Miron’s closest friend was a prime target in this area.

“Take off your damn headdress.” Miron snapped angrily as he swerved to avoid a few bare chested skinheads. “You can put it back on later.”

“You’re right.” Abdullah said. He reluctantly pulled the traditional Ummayad garb off, meanwhile checking the map, directing Miron out of the city. Around them, chaos ruled. Shops were being plundered, Shahid women and children beaten up on the streets. Miron narrowly avoided driving over a man lying in a pool of his blood, the word “terrorist” plastered on the pavement by his side. Even women were out, stepping across the street, daring Miron to drive them over, give them a reason to attack.

“We’ll get out of here, insha’allah.” Abdullah said. “Just look at these barbarian kafirs. A shame to civilisation! Back in Ummayah, these women would be locked up in the kitchen, covered from head to toe in Satara. Cannot wait to see them pay with their blood, allahu akbar.”

“Indeed.”

The tall grey structures of Mecklenburg had receded into the background, replaced by fields and towering mountains in the background. These were already covered in a layer of thick, white coating; soon, it would start snowing on this altitude too. Fog wafted in, a curtain isolating them in their own world, which they really weren’t in; in front and behind, cars lined the streets, not exactly stationary, but not moving fast either. Many of them immigrants from the western coast looking for work, most of them Shahids, some foreigners fleeing the ongoing violence. The road led south into the mountains straddling the Sylvo-Wankan border where the refugees would split up. The majority continued on into Sylva which was accepting them into ballooning refugee camps. The rest turned and continued along the border into Saxony.

Which was also where they were heading. The two had deliberated extensively over their course of action. Neither had many prospects anywhere, both being blue-collar workers, working in construction. Both had left precisely for the reason that they had few attachments to their families and saw better opportunities in the city. Which turned out not so true. Well, perhaps Miron still earned more than his brother on the farm, but there was no more to it than that. As a son of a farmer, he looked to the glamorous city life and the riches and women to be found there, but as a farmer, he never quite fitted into city life. He was making more money than his family ever did, albeit for horrendous, mentally and physically exhausting hours. It was not that he could simply return home; he’d first left the farm in defiance of his parents, wanting to go his own way, and losing face in such a way was unimaginable to him, and as such he desperately tried to hold on. Then he’d found Shahidism, introduced by Abdullah, as a refuge, and it had likely saved him from insanity. He started seeing Allah everywhere. The greed, the injustice, the exploitation by such men without beliefs or morals who ran this massive plutocracy. So it seemed that his prayers had been answered when the SS seized control- and now these backward idiots here were trying to reverse the new regimes progressive policies!

And with the new enlarged role the State Security Office was playing, it was in urgent need of manpower and had expanded its recruitment, so it seemed natural to him to join them. However, when he’d reached the SS office in Mecklenburg, it was empty; its officers had all fled, and hours later the place was ransacked and burnt down. He’d have to get to Potsdam to enlist there, then.

“Does the radio work?” Abdullah fiddled around with the controls, turning the volume up. Radio Free Wanka, as it was called. They were broadcasting from Sylva. Usually they wouldn’t listen to foreign propaganda, but with state media silent on the issue, not wanting to encourage further unrest elsewhere in Wanka, this channel provided the most up to date information on their area. The two men listened closely as they passed the majestic heights of the South Prussian Mountain Range, and its peak, the Ludwigspitze, sitting imposingly, shrouded in clouds.

…sections of a convoy of police reinforcements on the outskirts of Königsberg have been surrounded and disarmed by protesters, according to witnesses on the scene. The Wankan government has stated that these had been dispatched to Mecklenburg to quell the ongoing ‘riot’ and ‘unrest stirred by foreign elements’. Another police convoy by the Memelian Lake has been confronted by protesters and armed militia. Witnesses report that on both occasions that police units had refused to fire on…”

“Idiots.” Miron grunted. “How do they expect to face the Wankan army? It’ll be an elephant treading on a fly.”

”This comes five days after an SS unit was reportedly disarmed and interned by local armed militia units; however, Kronstadt has remained silent. Furthermore, the town councils of Markdorf and Raderach have pledged allegiance to the Prussian Confederation. In Neuhausen, a group of armed men have stormed the executive and judicial buildings in a repeat of what has happened in Mecklenburg.

Abdullah said, “What about your family? Will they take sides?”

“Hope not.” Miron said. “But I don’t know. Are they foolish enough to take up arms against Wanka? Maybe, just as they are foolish enough to continue living in the past, in that rotten barn of theirs… regardless, perhaps when this is over, I can guide them onto the righteous path.”

“Will you protect them?”

”Just in from Königsberg…”

“On condition that they convert and become loyal, productive citizens, yes.”

”From Königsberg, a televised address by Prussian Minister-President Leon Crasnov is being broadcasted, please hold for transmission…” The radio crackled. The two men went silent.

”Servus, Prussian, Memelian and Pomeranian citizens; our Wankan brothers and sisters; the international community: in face of the blatant exploitation of the powers of the new Wankan government, the destruction of the Wankan political system- the unifying of the executive, judicial and legislative branches which serve to represent and protect the people’s rights and its subsequent actions, the suppression of civil liberties and the imposing of discriminatory religious laws, we, the states of Prussia, Memel and Pomerania declare the establishment of the Prussian Confederation as an independent, sovereign state, having received approval of all three state parliaments. It will be governed by the Eastern Council, staffed by the Minister-Presidents of the three states. The State Parliaments will be merged to form the Federal Parliament and will constitute the legislative branch of the state. Its borders will be the preexisting divisions between the Wankan states. Due to the nature of the current situation, we are giving all local village, town and city councils, as well as all other major organisations of note present within our borders, forty eight hours to pledge allegiance to the Confederation or face dismissal and expulsion.

The Prussian Confederation will be open to accept those fleeing persecution and the oppression in the Wankan state. It will be governed in accordance to the principles of freedom, human rights and justice and will ensure equality between all men regardless of religion, race or sex. Furthermore, the Confederation extends its hand to its neighbours and world community in an offer of peace and mutual assistance and appeal to all justice and freedom-loving nations to help us in our struggle to defend Casaterran civilisation. Thank you.”

by **Murovanka** » Mon Oct 03, 2016 1:56 am

Part 2 | Windhund

These self-styled rebels are nothing but a collection of terrorists and gangsters along with the remnants of the military and secret police putschists, all puppets of foreign nations seeking to undermine Wanka… They can rest assured that if they don’t immediately surrender, they will be swiftly crushed under the might of the entire Wankan security apparatus.
- Statement from the Chancellor’s Office

Mecklenburg Airport
Mecklenburg, Prussia
15th October 04

Despite the roar of the LW-400 aircraft’s engines, the SS-Lieutenant-General could hear the occasional rattling of rifle fire, the detonation of missiles, the screaming of the wounded. The sounds of war. He could feel it. SS-LTG Eckhard Dillinger had little experience in real combat situations but he trusted himself capable of handling a few wanton criminals. The commander of the 9th SS Infantry-Brigade ordered his men to ready for departure; with cold, black eyes he surveyed the Prussian city from above, his toothbrush moustache quivering with excitement as he envisioned the punishment he would soon rain down on the traitors-

The pilots landed the plane hard, screeching to a bumpy halt and only split seconds later, the back ramp was thrown open and a whole company of infantrymen, Dillinger in the midst, poured out, weapons at the ready. They found themselves in the thick of the fighting. As he ran to his predesignated command post within the airport terminal, his XO remarked on the good positions SS troops and local police, trapped in the airport, had made and taken.

“Indeed, and despite their lack of military training.” Dillinger said. “Find me the SS officer in charge here, I may be obliged to recommend him for commendation. He might have saved us potentially a whole lot of trouble.”

The airport terminals had been well fortified and a secure perimeter established around the main runways. For several days since the proclamation of the Confederation, SS troops, local police factions and other paramilitaries loyal to the SS had been forced to flee and seek refuge at the airport. The two hundred of them faced off against a force at least three times as large, consisting of local militiamen, as they launched repeated assaults to take control of the vital transportation hub, with only the occasional air support from the Dresden Air Base. Both sides were determined to gain control of Mecklenburg, not only for its symbolic and economic status; the one major city on the border to Sylva, it was the major facilitator in weapons and necessary supply shipments to the newborn state.

Initially, the idea had been to airlift the encircled troops out. But some genius in Kronstadt had a far better idea. Open another front in Mecklenburg and drive north to Königsberg, through the Prussian’s weak southern flank. This would coincide with the sweeping drive by the VI Corps, which was assembling at Gandar, through central Prussia. It would be a race to Königsberg, the Confederation’s de facto capital. The Confederation’s days were numbered barely after it had been founded. The operation was codenamed: Windhund, or Greyhound.

And God had been on their side. The infidel enemy had underestimated their capabilities, and had left the southern flank wide open. Already when Dillinger’s initial landing battalion had joined the fight, with fresh ammunition and basic supplies for the valiant defenders, the pressure dissipated, mortars and machine guns, coupled with renewed chopper assaults, silenced the enemy rifles. Dillinger had the airport defences strengthened during the night as more troops and vehicles, along with all they needed to function, landed.

The next day, he gave the order to advance onto the city. The air was clear of fog for once, and he had an entire squadron of Löwin gunships on standby to provide for flying artillery; enough firepower to level the city of the vermin of its inhabitants if necessary. Resistance was provided here, but the Mecklenburgers, armed with old rifles, pistols, whatever they could dig up, were no match for the precision-guided munitions of the Air Force and the inventory of the SS, which was by and large better than that of the regular army. On that day, all strategic sites and locations of importance were captured. And they took their first prisoners- as it turned out, part of the leadership of the enemy force. They were brought to his headquarters at the airport.

“You look and smell worse than the dirt that you are.” Dillinger remarked, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the captives as they were hauled in. His staff laughed nervously.

“Which of you is leader of this nasty band?”

One of them stepped forward. “Major David Kawitzki, 9th Jägers.”

“9th Jäger-Brigade? Like the one that decided the Battle at Münster?” the SS-General said, raising an eyebrow.

“Jawoll.” came the answer defiantly.

“Aha. Next.” The other men gave their details one by one.

“The 9th Jägers. Well, the brigade of the 18th Century definitely earned its prestige.” He suddenly shot up and screamed. “And YOU?! LOOK at you! How dare you dirty their name! The 9th Jäger unified Wanka, and you look to destroy it!”

“You’re the one destroying Wanka.“ Kawitzki said. “We simply wish not to be part of your evil godforsaken experiment. You choose to wage war on us.”

Dillinger walked around his table. “God, huh? What idea do you have of God, if I may so ask?”

“Seguidorian. I believe in the holy trinity, in the God who seeks peace, justice and love.”

“Disbelieve those who say: Jallah is the third person of the three; and there is no God but one Jallah, and if they desist not from what they say, a painful chastisement shall befall those among them who disbelieve. You’ll certainly get more than a painful chastisement, however. I have little time for philosophical debate. You want justice? The penalty for treason is death.”

To his officers, he said, “Spare any believers. Otherwise… find a good spot to bury them, there will be more coming. Take them away.”

They were taken away. Eight young men, two women, and from a temporary holding area, another twenty, some still barely of age.

Strausberg Airfield
Outside Gandar, Prussia
20th October

Petro Sokolov, from a vantage point overlooking the airfield, looked on with a mix of fear, excitement, and worry. It was a magnificent sight. The grey, decaying airport, on the brink of irrelevance, was truly waking up again; closed to civilian air traffic, its limited runways were near overloaded with a constant stream of landing and taking off military aircraft. The rebellion had caught Kronstadt in surprise, and it showed. Petro guessed that these troops had been earmarked, and perhaps even sent, to Saxony, before being redeployed to Prussia to face the open revolt here. Logistically, that would make sense. Even so, the pace of the Wankan mobilisation was astounding; on this place alone, troops of two divisions had already landed and moved out in the past few days. Heavier equipment was now being brought in: tanks, artillery, engineering vehicles, the last of which had proceeded to expand the airport.

As part of the larger Königsberg-Division, consisting of the Königsberg Landwehr and volunteer battalions from surrounding districts, Petro had volunteered to lead the behind-enemy-lines reconnaissance as he knew Gandar well- the crucial city linking eastern Wanka to the coast, historically hard-fought for. It didn’t look too good for the Confederation. Even if the government in Kronstadt had been caught in surprise, it was because they were preparing for the defence of Saxony, and so it was simply a matter of transferring those troops, already assembled and with all their gear, to Prussia. Wanka was winning the mobilisation phase.

Then the sky was clearing up, paving the way for the G-23s and G-29s of the Wankan air force to pound the rebel forces with near impunity. Apart from over the Eastern Barracks which was heavily protected by a well-maintained IADS manned by experienced troopers of the renamed Eastern Division, formerly the 10th Panzergrenadier-Division, before it had defected over to the rebels side. That didn’t stop them from launching daring raids targeting Königsberg and with the first civilian casualties, the exodus of Wankans was bound to accelerate.

In the south, they themselves were caught by surprise as Mecklenburg was recaptured by SS forces which then proceeded to advance up the A71, dangerously threatening the Confederate capital and its heartland. If reports by Radio Free Prussia and haphazard information from the military headquarters were to be believed, reinforcements from the defected Eastern Division had temporarily stalled the SS advance at Kehlen. But that the only obstacle to Königsberg for the enemy was the Leine, barely a week into the conflict, was not reassuring. Yet, what could he do? His duty, perhaps, so he continued observing the Wankan war machine build up through his binoculars. His mind wandered off to Mariana and their sons, back in their village. Like the Karnov family, the response to the suggestions of fleeing Prussia was an unanimous no, and he felt partly relieved, partly anxious about it. It did, however, assure him that this war was definitely worth fighting, worth his life; their territory had, throughout history, only been secured less by geography or politics, but by the blood of the fathers and sons who’d given their lives and souls to their home.

by **Nova Sylva** » Mon Oct 03, 2016 9:11 am

Eighth Army Order of Battle

The two planners sat at the desk. In front of them there was a very, very large map. It took up most of the wall. It was morning, and outside it was raining. The clock ticked on.

'Well, we've got all day. Shall we have a drink?' one said.

'I had a lot last night', said the other. 'I think coffee is more in order.'

'Suit yourself''. He twirled a wax pencil around his mouth. The map stared back! Names and numbers and squares and circles and triangles were printed all over it. It must have been at least ten feet tall—probably fifteen—there was ladder on wheels could be dragged up and down the length of the wall. The second man stood up and sat on the desk, getting a little closer to the map. He crossed his legs and arms. Even inside, even with the rough military lambswool sweater, it was still a little cold. Everything in Chandler was always a little damp.

'So how do we make the Western Military District relieve itself, eh, Comrade First Captain?'

The first man put his head on the desk and fumbled in his chair. 'I don't know. Give me a minute. Say, turn the radiator up, will you?' He put his head up and rested it on his hands. 'Comrade First Captain'.

'It's already on five', the second said. 'We better get something done before lunch. Come on'. He tossed him a wax pencil. The first man rolled it about on the table, looking at it, changing the focus of his eyes. The second man got up and approached the map, saying: 'The first thing will be to fill up Eighth Army'. He climbed the ladder and began to find the right boxes and circle them with his wax pencil.

A few minutes later, the first man said: 'You missed one. Two-fifty-eighth Infantry Regiment. Just - yes, there'. He got up. 'I don't think that will be enough. We've a blank check, right?' He tapped the wax pencil on the table and then got up to the map and tapped it on the map too. 'We should activate those decoy divisional headquarters'. He did some scrawls of his own.

The second man looked down from the ladder. 'Isn't it funny. We're drawing some lines on this here map and mobilizing thousands of men. Funny what power does to you. I could circle this box and three and a half thousand lads would end up being called up'.

The first man looked up, squinting. Behind his colleague and friend he could see the clock tick ten. 'You ought to be a General with an attitude like that. You'd go places in this Army.'

The second man drew some more lines. He beamed at the comment, but didn't say anything. With each line he drew, he imagined himself as John Andres Clarke-Soto, drawing lines over Aldanea, or some other country, scribbling tanks over the countryside. He looked back down. 'Do you really think so?'

'Idiot! You wouldn't make the grade for Major, let alone General', his friend said, keeping his eyes on the map. The second man scowled. We'll see, he thought, activating a Division
.
At seven o’clock at night, when it was still light but about to get dark, the telephone rang, just after they had finished. It was their superior officer. The Chairman had just finished an emergency meeting of the Executive Committee. The orders came right from the top: they were to plan a mobilization which would be threatening to Saxony, at once!

The first man sat down in his chair. 'Well, it's a good job we got that one out of the way'.

'It was nice of the Colonel to have suggested that we might spend the day making the plan. I shall have that drink now, I think'.

The letters would go out that night—by the morning, a hundred thousand men would have been called to the colors and the Eighth Army would swell to a dozen Divisions. Some would be very real. Others would just be collections of trucks in the right places sending out radio signals. With a hundred thousand syndicalist troops on their border conducting an exercise, Wanka would have a hard time moving its troops in Prussia, to where they were actually needed.

They were forty minutes close to Granada when the boy pressed his face against the window. 'Look,' he said. 'It's the Army. They're on the road. Wow, there's so many of them. Wasn't you in the Army, dad?'

'Once upon a time,' the man said. But then he looked at the window too. The boy was right. The line of forest-colored vehicles never seemed to end. 'There's so many,' the boy said. 'Do they have traffic jams in the Army?' he asked, but the man didn't reply. They were going so fast, but the boy looked for a long time. Sometimes he would shout out: 'look dad, that one's an Caballero. Wow, that cannon is really big! Huh? Look at all those rockets!'

The man tried to make out what regiments they were, but it was too hard. Suddenly they came upon a cluster of tanks and trucks with standards flying high from whip antennae. The man could barely make it out, but he knew it all the same, in a flash. 'They're the Seventh Armored Division,' the man said, pointing. 'Did you see them?'

'A little bit,' the boy said.

'Speak in English,' the man said. 'Your mother told me to get you to start speaking in English.'

The boy kept talking in Spanish. 'Where are they going?'

'I don't know,' the man said, giving up before he had even started. 'But on this trunk road, maybe the frontier with Saxony.'

'I would like to go to Saxony,' the boy said.

'No, you wouldn't.' The man said, harshly. His army days were returning to his mind.

'Grandma is in Saxony.'

'You've never even met Grandma,' the man said, going back to his book.

'I know,' the boy said, firmly, in English. 'But I would like to.'

by **Murovanka** » Tue Oct 04, 2016 7:01 am

Ostfalische Post

Wankas most trusted news source- English Edition
24th October

Sylva Mobilizes on Saxon Border

Repeat of the Saxon War impending?

MUNSTER- The Sylvan Army announced major training exercises to be conducted on its border yesterday as tensions with Wanka over Saxony, over which the two arch-enemies last fought eight years ago, escalated sharply. Wankan President Karl Grawitz reacted furiously, accusing Sylva of “going on the aggressive war-footing that we all know too well” and announcing the transfer of an entire army corps to Saxony to “meet appropriately the Sylvan aggression”. This follows the formation of the Chandler Tripartite, which allows the stationing of Achesian troops on Sylvan soil and permits a “first-strike on a highly provocative third party” amidst an increasingly belligerent war of words between officials of both nations. Chandler has accused Kronstadt of breaking the Erus Accords by moving troops Saxony, in addition to expressing concern at the “systematic violation of human rights” in Wanka and the “status of ethnic Sylvans and Seguidorians” in Shahid-dominated Wanka. Kronstadt has flatly denied any violations of any kind, instead accusing Sylva of stirring unrest, notably in Prussia, and “waging a secret war to destabilise Wanka and preparing to invade again”. Saxony has historically, and still forms an important buffer zone (and at times launchpad) for whichever nation held control over it and holds symbolic importance for both sides. The Erus Accords, which concluded the Saxon War mandates under Article 6 that Wanka could not deploy any “offensive weaponry” into Saxony. Upon accession of Saxony to Wanka, the Sonneborn regime furthermore promised to protect the rights of all Saxons regardless of ethnicity or religion, a pledge coming into question as Shahid religious law manifests itself in the judiciary.

This comes as Wanka is engaged in an open rebellion by its eastern states, which the government labels a “collection of terrorists and gangsters” and “puppets of foreign nations seeking to undermine Wanka”. “There are worrying parallels with the build-up of the Saxon War to what is happening now” Simon Delacruz of the Sylvan Institute of Strategic Studies said. “Then and now, Sylva forms power blocs directed against Wanka. Diplomats of both sides spew their rhetoric, the armed forces prepare for battle. The Saxon War was initiated by a Sylvan first strike. The Chandler Tripartite explicitly permits a first strike. However, the last time, the Wankan nuclear program was the spark; this time, it may be the ongoing insurgency in Prussia. Both Prussia and Saxony have large ethnic Sylvan and Seguidorian minorities which could well be used by Sylva to justify an intervention. Or it could be the renewed emergence of international terrorism, which all parties are accusing each other of supporting.” Which is true to the extent that it had likely sparked the uprising against the central government; Kronstadt had suspected that the Nürnberg bombers had been sheltered in Pomerania and SS actions there had provoked massive demonstrations. Following terrorist bombings in Sylva, Lendol and Gauliscia, these nations, together with Wanka, have all pointed fingers at their respective geopolitical rivals while condemning and promising to unite with the international community against the extremist threats.

The conflict in eastern Wanka meanwhile continues to escalate despite calls for restraint and even cessation of hostilities as the Wankan Air Force ramped up its campaign against the separatists: on Monday, the Königsberg Hospital reported fifteen civilian deaths and fifty wounded as a result of an airstrike which hit the Königgratz suburb. Heavy fighting between regime forces and rebels was reported by Radio Free Prussia on the A7 where militiamen had set up a roadblock, with the Prussian military claiming ten deaths on their side. In southern Prussia, government forces have opened a second front, heavily shelling the town of Kehlen, an important separatist stronghold. The conflict, described as “destabilising” and “inviting a humanitarian crisis” by various nations, is being followed with unease abroad, for it is expected that the migration crisis will continue to escalate. Already up to half a million Wankans have fled the country, mainly through Saxony’s porous borders, with the aim of getting to Sylva, Lendol and even as far as Hemithea. While the initial welcome to the refugees has been somewhat reduced, with Sylva strengthening its border controls, this has done little to slow the emigration of Wankans in search of a safer life.

by **Murovanka** » Sat Oct 08, 2016 10:09 pm

Ardennen
Prussia
26th October

Gregor Karnov took a hard look at the map laid out in front of him with small pencil marking and notes scribbled over it. Around him, his small staff and the officers of the Pomeranian Volunteer Army did the same.

The Wankan Army had advanced hard despite the alarming Sylvan mobilisation on its Saxon border. The 19th Panzergrenadier-Division had moved north along the river Memel, capturing the town of Neuhausen and forcing the Memelian Landwehr-Brigade out of their headquarters, Memel-City. In the center, the 8th Panzer Division had run into the heavily fortified roadblock that the Confederate Königsberg-Division had set up; however, it had simply deviated from the A7 Motorway, turning north and taking Riedheim from the Volunteer Army. Further south, the Wankan 20th Infantry Division easily overcame the separatist defences on the river Havel and was advancing into the fourth most populated city in Prussia itself. Only in the south-east did the 9th SS Brigade continue to stare down rebel forces from across the river as increasingly bad weather in those mountainous areas had likely disrupted their logistics. Nevertheless, a contiguous front had been created when the 20th Infantry Division captured Lauchen and linked up with Dillinger’s SS.

“The entire Königsberg Division is defending the roadblock, this Motorway. Ludwig’s Regiment wants to retreat over the Leine.” One of the Pomeranian officers said. He tapped on Ardennen. “If they take this village here, it’ll be near impossible to stop the enemy from racing to the Lake of Life and trapping fifteen thousand of our best troops in this Kessel.”

Another said, “Where’s the great Generalfeldmarschall when we need him? We need reinforcements, verdammt nochmal, or the whole war might end here.”

“We have to hold Ardennen.” Karnov said. “No choice.”

“We’ll need at least a Panzer battalion and anti-aircraft artillery. We didn’t stand a chance in Riedheim without them. They just shelled the whole village and launched air strikes on our positions and we had to leave without firing a shot.”

“Do we know what their forces are composed of?”

“The Wessis lead battalion? Old Panzer-80 types, two companies worth of Panzergrenadiers in Schützenpanzer-10s, light artillery on Wiesels. They’re reportedly understrength across the board and without the heavy equipment that they’d usually have, because the modern Gepard tanks and IFVs and SPGs were left at the Oberweser and Nürnberg barracks.”

Nodding to Karnov, the Volunteer Army guy said, “How’d we know? Good reconnaissance, good sources, and most importantly… good foreign technology.” He gave Karnov a knowing look. It was an open secret. The Sylvans had set up a signals intelligence post in Prussia, and with help of some specialist defectors well acquainted with Wankan military cybersecurity protocols were uncovering treasure troves of intelligence every day.

A man entered the room. It was actually Melekhov’s house; the village chief was currently in the staff of another battalion and had already been set up conveniently as a quasi command center. The man, dressed in civilian clothing, saluted. “Captain Horlikov. We’re the antitank company you requested. Unfortunately we’re at half strength because the other half was killed yesterday in an air strike, but we do bring with us sixty antitank missiles and mines.”

“Horlikov, Gregor Karnov, thank God you came. Sergeant, how far is the enemy out now?”

“Last reported thirty kilometres out. Contacting the recon unit now.”

“Horlikov, we have no time to waste, you’ll be sent immediately to the frontline. Sergeant, get Petro here, I want him to escort the Captain’s unit. He knows the place. Mine the approach to the village, then prepare positions to ambush the enemy.”

Petro Sokolov had been out all day, readying together with a fellow Volunteer Army officer the forces they had at their disposal- the Ardennen-Riedheimer Battalion and two Pomeranian Battalions. After a quick discussion he and Horlikov set out, Karnov and the officers returning to the map, attempting to think of ways to stop an armoured onslaught with a handful of militiamen.

“Twenty kilometres out.” The sergeant said. “Moving slowly. Report from HQ that they’re dispatching a reserve battalion into this area.”

“They’re waiting for the reinforcements to catch up then.” Karnov said. “Makes sense for them, they see, just as we do, that this village is crucial to both sides.”

“What’s this, Psychology? This how we put it,” the Pomeranian officer said, “The godforsaken Wessis are reinforcing, so we must reinforce faster. We must kick their ass or we lose this war. Dispatch that to HQ.”

The sergeant looked at Karnov, his commanding officer, who nodded. “Word for word?” he asked.

Karnov shrugged, failing to hide a grin. “Why not.”

They went back to debating, scribbling, pointing. Having grown up here, Karnov knew every minuscule detail of the surroundings all too well, and he threw forward the ideas from his uneducated mind while those with years at the academy attempted to put it together to make it work. Meanwhile, strangely, the enemy formation barely neared; no artillery rain, no bomber thunder, no lightning strikes from the air. The two sides were only five kilometres apart, and both sides were well aware of each others’ presence- the initial skirmish between recon parties had already taken place. Karnov and his command staff had moved into Melekhov’s cellar, now makeshift bomb shelter. They didn’t need a single unlucky shell to destroy the entire leadership. There, they sleeplessly anticipated the assault which could really come anytime…

“A Wankan soldier with a white flag on his car has driven to our lines.” The sergeant suddenly said as he listened in to the radio chatter. “Carrying a handwritten message from their commander. It’s being driven here now.”

Several minutes later, a corporal arrived, handing over an envelope. Karnov opened the letter for all to see.

To the esteemed opposing commanding officer,
You have fought bravely and admirably, but I hope you do see that your actions are futile. I have heavy artillery, fighter jets and helicopters at my disposal, not to mention the rest of our war fighting capabilities. None of us, and I do hope that it is mutual, find any joy of spilling the blood of our brothers. So I plead with you, to put down your weapons and return home- this is the only way your safety and your families can be guaranteed, and I promise to do all I can to protect the rights of the innocent people here.

Sincerely,
Major Kurt Petain
8th Panzer

“Interessant.” Karnov said.

“Indeed.” Another said.

A reply was sent back, in the same manner.

Very honorable Major Petain,
We, too, do not take any pleasure from fighting our dear brothers from the west. However, have you considered why we are? Understand this is our last resort, after all else has failed- up to today, our offer for peace stands on the table for the politicians in Kronstadt, one in which we do not want secession, but merely the guarantee of the protection of basic rights. We cannot accept being second-class citizens in our own country; we cannot be forced to adopt foreign beliefs and dogma; we cannot accept a rule by fear and of absolute, unrestricted central government power in which we do not have a say in any matter- on the contrary, are expected to bow down in submission.

We may be outnumbered and outgunned, but it is our spirit that beats that of the broken Wankan soul. As admirable as your promises may be, the SS runs this country, and by your own words we are both in agreement that what they’re doing is an abominable affront to our people. Major, the world doesn’t need to look the way the SS makes it to be, and we are the force that will put an end to it- join us, Major, and free Wanka.

Respectfully,
Georg Karnov,
Prussian Confederation

An eerie silence had descended upon the fronts. The guns had fallen silent, the screams of the victims of war muted, only the cold engines of the cars, heading back and forth between the lines, the one noise heard, the only lights in the darkness.

On the other end of the line, Kurt Petain, a youngish-looking, sinewy man whose eyes gleaned of kindness yet showing a wariness of one with no little intelligence, read the reply. Opposite him, a man contrary to him in practically all aspects hopped around as if he needed the bathroom urgently, his double chin waggling eagerly.

“And?”

Petain’s face remained expressionless. “More infidel propaganda. I expected better.”

“Let’s hit them now then!”

”Herrn Kommissar Ostrauch. I appreciate your input, but I am the commanding officer here, and you have been well briefed that our current logistical situation is not one to be played around with. So may I please ask to be able to do my job, while you do yours.”

Initially boastful and arrogant, he’d been somehow tamed by the superior air that Petain had around him. The Major hated the new political commissars that every unit, from the battalion level up, had. They had the power to overrule the commander’s decision and were there to ensure “loyalty and cohesion”. The destruction of the Wankan military, which was once amongst the best in the world, Petain said to himself. He knew it to be suicide to say that aloud. Ostrauch obeyed, sauntering out, walking like a duck back to his post. Petain didn’t know whether it was a gift or curse that he’d been allocated such a complete idiot.

Very honorable Mr. Karnov,
As you should well know, the army does not, and for good reason, involve itself in internal politics. Please reconsider. This war is not worth fighting. Go home, and it will all be alright. Fight, and we won’t have choice but make you pay. You have until midnight to announce your surrender, after which you will be repatriated back to your home if possible at shortest notice. That is the best I can offer.

Sincerely,
Major Petain

Appear strong when you are weak, and weak when you are strong, some general had once said. That Petain couldn’t attack immediately was halfway true. Some local guerrillas behind their lines had attacked a supply depot near Gandar and a large number of trucks loaded with highly flammable fuel for the mechanised forces had been destroyed, and as such he couldn’t be sure of a steady supply. In any case, his reconnaissance of the area (in addition to aerial recon) had shown that this was likely a well-fortified place, with numerous unknown ambush possibilities that he could make out in the landscape. For one, waiting for the reinforcing battalion would be a good idea. If the attack worked, he’d have the chance of destroying a significant portion of the enemy firepower and he needed more than one understrength battalion to do so. Nevertheless, he planned to show the rebels that he could strike anywhere, anytime; a massive series of air strikes had been queued up for midnight in case the reply didn’t come.

Ardennen
Prussia
27th October

And it didn’t come. But they replied, in their own way. Gunfire suddenly erupted, close by, followed by several explosions. Petain had been under fire before, and he knew that he was not the target, instead turning to his officers to find out what was going on. More rocket fire could be heard, then at last the reassuring reply: the heavy chatter of auto cannon fire and machine guns. It didn’t last long, however.

“Two enemy platoon-sized units managed to sneak up on us and launch an assault on the camp. We’ve repelled their assault and are in pursuit.” His XO said.

“Casualties?”

“One Schützenpanzer destroyed, another damaged beyond repair. One tank damaged. Three confirmed dead, five wounded.”

“Damn.” Petain shook his head. They are better than I thought. Local troops, who knew the terrain far better. Who could make it past his screen…

“Call of the pursuit. They’re headed into a trap. We’re retaliating by air strikes anyway.”

Ostrauch was still jumping around. “It’s time to advance, make them pay for that! You know what Kronstadt said, Major, we are behind schedule already. Send the signal for assault!”

“Ardennen is being bombed, Herr Kommissar. It is not when you want to move in. We will move forward, when I deem it best.”

What effect the bombings had, that was hard to say. His troops had marked out known enemy positions, several buildings used as sniper or machine gun posts, another few buildings likely to be used as defensive structures and other areas where they’d expected/seen movement. Really, Petain expected it to be more psychological, like at Riedheim; there, he hadn’t actually done much fighting, with most of the rebels having fled before his armoured vehicles had rolled in to mop up stragglers. Most of these men hadn’t experienced being under fire, being helpless against the unseen fire raining from above.

It continued throughout the night as there was little sign of the fleeing enemy that he’d expected. Ardennen was bound to be defended well. If it fell, the entire central front would collapse for the rebels. So either they were continuing to hold out despite the bombardment, or had decided to take their chances to block his advance somewhere else. Nonetheless, the time was used well to familiarise themselves with the environment and prepare for the oncoming battle. After the ambush at midnight everyone was on high alert. The reinforcing battalion arrived just before sunrise.

Petain shivered when he was awoken from his short rest by the commotion in the quarters. Temperatures were starting to fall; the snow season would soon be upon them. It was like a countdown timer reminding him of his task: to end this insurgency before years end. He cupped his nose in his hand and blew, his warm breath reducing the stiffness in his mind and body.

Fifteen minutes later they were on the move again. His recon unit had reported the possible presence of mines and enemy personnel within the Ardennen-Forest, a small strip of forestation mostly cut down by locals here for wood and space, from where the unit had been shot at from. It still was thick and large enough to warrant caution and a danger to his flank, but he reasoned that a heavy enough force protecting that flank would enable to suppress any attacks and give enough time to secure the village itself. He didn’t want to waste time ploughing through the dense bushes which were prime locations for ambushes and advantageous to the defence in general. And air power wouldn’t have much effect. Not that it would play much of a role today as light fog once again blanketed the region, enough to decrease the precision of any air strike.

In three columns parallel to the road the battalion advanced: in the center, his armor, and on both flanks a company of mechanised infantry.

There were mines, and not just a few of them. His lead tank had a track blown off and his troops reported in numerous ill-concealed mines, hastily laid. Rifle fire emerged from the village itself as the infantry dismounted and took cover behind the armour; Petain sent his half-strength combat engineers, mine-clearing explosives held at the ready, to the front, as on his command the entire force unleashed a barrage of suppressive fire, his tanks sending high-explosive rounds slamming into mud and building.

The engineers had little problem clearing the mines, but there were many of them, and some better concealed than others. But they were making good progress with only two wounded to account for as Petain brought his artillery to bear on the village. The enemy fire died down.

But just as they thought that the fighting was over for the day, rockets and missiles- advanced ones, as they’d soon find out- shot out from the forest, accompanied by heavy machine-gun fire. Two Schützenpanzers were incinerated, the missiles cutting through their armour like knife through butter, and another two disabled- the company had lost half of its vehicles. Luckily their infantry squads were in the open, but they had now to take cover behind the burning wrecks in face of the small arms fire.

“Pioneers, hurry up. We need to take the village as quickly as possible, press forward, regardless of cost. Delta Company, do you copy-“

“Loud and clear.”

“Send one platoon to assist the Alpha Company, the rest support the tanks in advancing on the village. Keep the enemy in the forest pinned. 2nd Battalion, prepare to push into the forest on my order.”

Petain was infinitely thankful that Ostrauch had decided not to join him in his command vehicle; he would probably have “accidentally” blown his head off. When an idea occurred to him. What if he was “accidentally” killed in the crossfire..?

“Major! To our left!” the driver of the APC shouted. Petain peered out of the window. It was undoubtedly a beautiful day, as far as the eye could see, wide fields, tall grass with trees and hills occasionally dotting the landscape, birds fleeing the thunder of explosions. In the foreground, his heated Schützenpanzers rattling off their auto cannon at the forest, their infantry advancing alongside gracefully. Then the thick, tall grass rose, taking human shapes, charging into the unguarded left flank of the battalion, spewing fire.

“Fox One…” his radio crackled. “Enemy has taken Hill 358 in our rear. Be advised of proximity to enemy for-“ Something exploded nearby, the ground shook, the vehicle shuddered. The APC crew shouted out, stamping on the accelerator and speeding out of the combat zone. The RPG had missed their vehicle by a lot, but Petain still looked shaken. What were they fighting that was resisting so fiercely?

The radio channels suddenly exploded with noise as chaos unfolded on the battlefield. The “grass-men” had charged the flank from close proximity and the surprised troops struggled to beat them off; supporting fire from other units were withheld because some of the rebels were climbing onto IFVs, planting satchel charges, even shooting down hatches. Rocket fire was coming in from all directions. Or at least it felt that way.

“Fox One to all units: Withdraw, withdraw, all units withdraw back to Base Camp Two. 2nd Battalion, take care of the enemy in our rear. Pioniere, tow all damaged vehicles, or destroy them if you cannot do so…”

Casualties were heavy. One tank and five IFVs destroyed along with twelve dead and thirty wounded. But Karnov’s men had bled more. Nearly all men of the company that launched that suicide charge onto the enemy flank had been killed or wounded and the one that had ambushed Petain’s rear had all but ceased to exist. End result: three hundred casualties. A pyrrhic victory, but an important victory nevertheless. The two task forces that he’d dispatched in the cover of the darkness, and which had concealed their existence excellently, had actually been not much of a threat due to their lack of antitank weapons, but just as in Riedheim, the effect was psychological. Petain wanted to wait for better weather to enable close air support, demanded heavy engineering equipment and at least one more battalion before he’d launch another attack here.

But his brigade commander was occupied by other events.

Reutlingen
Prussia
28th October

On the night of Karnov’s successful action against the 8th Panzer’s spearhead, a Confederate force was building up in the town of Reutlingen, a vital crossroads smack in the center of the eastern Wankan farmlands.

Five battalions strong, it faced the 8th Panzer’s 82nd Panzergrenadier-Brigade. But this was no ragtag militia that the Wankan army had to deal with up to now. This was the former 10th Panzergrenadiers, and they had with them tanks more modern than those fielded by the VI Corps, 155mm self-propelled artillery and mobile SAM batteries, all led by the veterans from the Saxon War. And early on the 28th October, this force launched a rapid counter-encirclement of the 82nd Brigade and attached units which numbered nearly 3,000 men. The strategy looked good on paper. For one, the King’s Regiment in Ludwigsburg had lost the fight for the city in face of the sheer numbers of the 20th Infantry Division advancing up from the Havel and was retreating over the bridge to where the Königsburg Division had set up its roadblock (and had just been saved from encirclement by Karnov). But Karnov couldn’t hold out forever and it seemed logical to remove the lethal bulge that the Wankan 82nd Brigade was holding. At the same time, they hoped to attract the attention of the Wankan Air Force and direct it away from the hard-pressed roadblock. Lastly, they’d threaten at the same time the 19th Panzergrenadier-Division’s supply line to Gandar.

As one General said however, “no plan survives contact with the enemy”. The Wankan Army rushed in reinforcements in time to hold the roads to the beleaguered 82nd Brigade open, as the superior rebel Gepard tanks decimated whatever armour the VI Corps could send at them. Aerial assaults on the Eastern Division were called off as their SAMs plucked Wankan aircraft from the sky. These troops had fought in northern Saxony against their well-trained Sylvan counterparts and in both situations, they’d had to deal with superior Sylvan gunnery and the League air force in a situation not similar to here. A counterattack by a task force of the 19th Panzergrenadiers from the north was beaten back and by the end of three days of heavy fighting the fields and roads around Riedheim was strewn over with the hulks of the bulk of Wankan armour sent to Prussia- some two hundred tanks. The Confederate casualties were ten times less. However, the supply lines to the 82nd Brigade remained open and the exhausted task force, running low on ammunition and fuel, saw it impossible to hold their position.

Königsberg
Capital of the Prussian Confederation
3rd November

Röder marked down the new situation on the map. Nearly the entirety of the Confederation’s leadership had gathered, including General Cüstrin of the Eastern Division, all the Minister-Presidents (including Marov who’d been freed from an abandoned SS prison) and the representatives of their foreign allies. Karnov himself, having distinguished himself, had earned his place on the table. His input as on-the-ground commander was also wanted.

“The premise is that our encirclement has failed, and theirs will likely succeed unless we pull the Königsberger Division out of the pocket.” The Field Marshal said. “In the south, Kronstadt’s forces are looking to more ways to encircle our forces on the A7. We have stopped two attempts by the SS to cross the Leine near Kehlen, but now that they have linked up with the 20th Infantry Division they are likely to be able to cross somewhere, the 9th Jäger’s commander says.”

“If they do cross,” Cüstrin said, “we will have three major Kronstadt units converging on our forces on the A7, where we have much of our heavy weapons and tanks.”

Crasnov said, “What you’re saying is that we need to retreat across the board. And there is no possibility of our encirclement working?”

“Essentially yes.” Röder said.

“I was hoping to avoid that.” the Prussian Minister-President said. “It would be diplomatically a great advantage to us if we’d taken an entire brigade of theirs prisoner, and stop their advance in central Prussia. If we withdraw, we’ll be leaving, what, half of our territory, and the more important half if I may say so, to Kronstadt. It’ll hurt the troops and people’s morale. How are we going to take it all back if we simply keep retreating?”

Cüstrin nodded. “See your point, but we cannot afford to lose the Königsberg Division. If we plan on retaking the territory it will need to be part of it- though actually, Major Karnov, what do you make of this?”

All eyes turned to Karnov. Thought I’d only ever be a farmer. “My home is in Ardennen, and a retreat would entail abandoning it, having my family abandon it, and this is one thing I hate to even think about. However, from the current standpoint withdrawing necessary. The enemy air force is too overwhelming and currently presents a major obstacle to any strategic offensive operation. The best bet we have, as has been discussed, is to stall until the winter arrives and our recruits finish training and drive the enemy back then.

I’ve exchanged a few letters with an enemy battalion commander, and from what we’ve seen, the Wankan soldiers aren’t very happy fighting us. Shooting at Sylvans, yes, they’ll do that, but not at us; most think this is just a police action, and they’ve come to a full-blown war. The longer we hold out, the more demoralised they will become, the better our chances of beating them back. So far we’ve already had some enemies intentionally getting captured or outright deserting to join our ranks. Especially…”

“What?”

“Especially after an apparent massacre at Arrau. But I’m talking from second-hand experience, the details have not been confirmed. According to the deserters, after we stopped the enemy at Ardennen, the SS battalion commissar shot all males of age in that settlement in reprisal because they suspected the villagers of hiding the company that I sent behind their lines.”

“Excellent way to increase support for their cause.” Crasnov said, shaking his head. “Now alright, we pull out of the pocket- then what?”

“Our perimeter shrinks from the Königsberg Lake to the Eastern Barracks and Pomerania City. We will still hold significant territory in this eastern strip of Prussia and we’ll be training more troops in time to account for any more divisions Kronstadt can afford to send here.”

The one advantage here was that conscription was not much of an issue, and when introduced, it was greeted well by the populace. Most men served anyway. Less so in the rest of Wanka where the experience of anarchy and endemic violence had spawned a generally antimilitarist sentiment, one in which it was safer to have less people around who knew how to handle guns.

“So we’ll stall, save our energy and counterattack when the time is right.”

“Precisely.”

“What if we lose Königsberg?”

“Then, my friends- we either accept defeat or try fighting on from an extremely difficult position. It will be a political thing. We already have bases in the South Prussian Mountains which can easily be converted into a last-ditch redoubt.”

Karnov said, “the people will be with us through thick and thin. Regardless of how many need to bite into the grass, we will not let them pull our skin over our ears.”

“Bit pessimistic. Perhaps we’ll get back to the present?” Cüstrin said.

“Yes. Well, the good news is that with the Eastern Division’s counter-encirclement attempt, there shouldn’t be a problem to pull the fifteen thousand men we have on the A7 back to a more defensible position. In the meantime, we’ve got to step up defensive works around Königsberg- this will be crucial in the near future.”

by **Nova Sylva** » Sun Oct 09, 2016 10:56 am

There's an old folk story in the North. It is told to children today as it was told to children centuries ago and they tell it in Mozria as they tell it in UBS as they tell it in Erquin and indeed in Castellion. It's older than anyone remembers and went from one generation to the next by mouth before someone thought of writing it down. There's a boy called Asmund in the story, and his parents scolded him because he always got into trouble. No rule could hold Asmund and nobody's word could chain him. And one day, Asmund committed a sin quite cardinal, ran from his home and became a warrior of some renown. He took a sword from a forest and with it he cut down a dragon. He became known as Asmund the Dragon Slayer. He heard one day of a town terrorised by a dragon, and he went there and there, he slew that dragon too. The town was his home, and he told the people there that he is Asmund the Dragon Slayer, and a famous and brave warrior. And they said that is all well and good, but he was still a lawbreaker, and nobody asked him to slay the dragon for them, and he was once again outcasted. And they say that Asmund is still walking, looking to find a way to repent for his sin, and if you go to the forest and find a dragon there, Asmund shall appear and slay it for you, and he asks in return only for you to go to his home and ask them to forgive him. And if you are still superstitious and you are in the forest and very scared you can call for Asmund and they say that he will guide you out of the forest and to your home.

And today in the North, sometimes they call people an Asmund if he does something with a good intention but still wrong, for somebody else without asking them.

The story was not lost on him.

The briefing was underway, and all he could think of was Asmund. Other men might have thought about destiny. Or fate, if you think they're any different. Some would have been angry, or despondent. But he had a strong childhood. It was a strong childhood and it was filled with strong, righteous stories and the kind of strong moral guidance one gets at a church. Brimstone, hellfire, and Asmund - and he, there, lapping it all up. And then he had asked the vicar what God looked like and the vicar didn't know and that was when he stopped believing. But God always came back. Especially when you didn't want him to. And he wanted to go - to go to the next room and lie there, prostrate beneath the only power that a man can honestly prostate himself to, and cry for help. But he couldn't, and he wouldn't anyway, because he had a strong personality, and he knew what he believed in.

He still felt, though. He felt it, in the back of his throat, like a lump that wouldn't go away until you swallowed it hard and you knew it would be back soon enough. He felt like God was watching him and judging him for not thinking he was judging. And he felt like he was telling him that those lessons that my people taught to you when you were so young and so vulnerable, they were real lessons and you better not forget them because if you do you'll lose your way, if you're not lost already.

‘Comrade Serrano.’

He looked up. ‘Yes, sorry, carry on.’

‘I was about to say. As far as our human intelligence sources have ascertained, the Wankans have responded in force to the Prussians’ revolt. The revolutionaries are on the retreat and Kronstadt is preparing for a final push.’

Concentrate, Stefan. On this day of days, concentrate. No, this isn't the day of days. You have been through that day, and you came out alright. You'll come out of this alright, too. Stop thinking. Do. Do like your old man, like they taught you.

‘Prognosis for success?’ Serrano said.

"We expect, initially, given the armor and air superiority - again, as far as we can tell - of the attack, probably high. It makes sense. But the Prussians are detirmined. What hurts more is the 9th SS in the south. Roder's not doing so well down there. If the trend continued, he'd lose the south within the week. Which means he’d lose the MSR we have set up running towards Konigsberg. There’s more, though. They're playing a radio message nonstop across Wanka. Here is a transcript.

Attention people of Wanka . . .

Attention people of Wanka. . .

This is Radio Kronstadt.

Today, Prussian rebels have risen up against the will of God. Them, with their Sylvan and Achesian supporters, are threatening the Fatherland with their infidel religion. The total war is at hand. Your race and your God calls to you from upon high. Nation of Wanka, arise! Draw your scimitar from its lusting scabbard. The showdown has finally arrived. Exterminate the enemy and his people! Reclaim your nation for your people!

Attention, people of Wanka . . .

Back in his mind. God. The holy war.

‘This is ridiculous,’ he said, tamely. Nothing he could say would have an impact more than that which had already impacted.

‘Quite. There's a right race war brewing up there. Wanka is only a bare majority Shadisit, and ethnic and religious lines are deep in that country.’

‘A religious war with political undertones.’

"There is one big problem, Comrade Serrano. Suppose Roder were to win. He would control Eastern Wanka and Kronstadt would be defeated, and its prestige greatly reduced. If he loses, we have a reunited Wanka that looks to us next."

"Are you suggesting we directly support Roder?"

"If we don’t, he will lose. And the best oppurtunity we have for securing our eastern border will be gone."

"So," Serrano said. "What is the proposal?"

“The Eighth Army will invade Saxony. Meanwhile the Liberation Brigade will move against the 9th SS exposed southern flank and reopen our supply lines with Roder’s forces. Its doable and we’re confident in complete victory.”

But he could not help but feel that in the eyes of God and in the eyes of man, he had already lost.

by **Nova Sylva** » Tue Oct 11, 2016 12:25 am

It was dark already by the time I arrived at the old country house and even in the dark, with the lights dimmed, I had a sense of being overwhelmed. At the door I was greeted by a footman -- his request for my coat took me by surprise, having thought that the concept of a house servant had been long abolished by the Republic. Evidently not. I had hoped to get a sight of Andrea or anyone else, but I was quickly ushered upstairs, past busts of older, more renowned family members and paintings of events long gone that this family had found themselves entwined most gloriously in.

I was left at a mahogany door and it was now my turn to be bold and brave. I knocked twice and felt the butterflies run up from my stomach to my mouth. Breath deep, Luis. Deep. A bark came from within, as rigid as the door itself: "Enter."

I found myself face to face with Corps General Sebastian Reyes. Sitting behind his desk he was an imposing figure, taller and broader than me despite being thirty or more years older. He was dressed in full uniform and I was glad that I had bothered to do the same, although when he stood up I noticed that the only thing that we had in common was the khaki color that gave Sylvan soldiers there affectionate nickname. "Drink, Santiago?" he asked quite nicely. It didn't put me off guard: this was going to be a meeting of a lifetime.

"Sir." I replied. He took a bottle of scotch from the drawer and ran it through his hands.

"1934 Royal Pedigree." I almost winced. Did he have to do that? He poured it into two crystal glasses. No ice, no soda. He pushed the glass over the table towards me. "Sit down Lieutenant." I did. He waited for me to take the first sip. I touched the glass and his eyes ran over me, looking for something, some lack of pedigree or class that he could pick up on. I took what I thought was a decent amount and handled it fairly well. He didn't say anything and then drained his own glass and poured another. "You see, Santiago, this is very embarrassing. My daughter with child, and by a LEFT-enant SECond GRAde." I felt like a sabre had cut through me: already I was inadequate. The niceties were over. I had thought that these old aristocratic families had been annihilated by the Revolution, but apparently not - they were still there, and still held the same old prejudices. "And of the MOUNtain corps. Yes, very embarrassing indeed."

I didn't say anything. Even if I had anything to say, I took from this an overwhelming sense that I wouldn't be able to say it anyway.

"I'm not quite sure what to do about this. I think I am still in shock." He kept his sharp eyes on me all the time, not leaning forwards or backwards, perfectly straight. He had a bushy gray moustache that wobbled and could have featured in a comedy film. I smiled a little and immediately retracted it. "Yes, I'm sure the gravity strikes you less than it does I. I've read your files. Father: butcher. Mother: secretary. School: State comprehensive. Family history: worthless. Let's get to the details, Lieutenant. My daughter will not marry you."

I was expecting that. "UNLESS," he continued, "You firstly make something of yourself. I have personally detailed you to my Corps’ deployment to Saxony. This is the deal that I propose to you. If you come back, alive, decorated and blooded, I shall have you promoted to Major. Then you might -- just might, be fit to enter our family. If you don't make it back alive, my daughter will marry someone worthy of the name - I'm working on that, don't worry about it. If you come back disgraced..." he turned up his nose and looked at me, taking in all my features; my black hair, my boring jawline and common nose - "Do not come back at all."

We sat in silence for a time.

"Do I make myself clear?"

I stood up and saluted. "Sir."

And that's how I ended up in Saxony.

by **Murovanka** » Tue Oct 11, 2016 7:48 am

Date: 5th November 2004

Abteilung III Militärischer Nachrichtendienst
Abwehr
Verteidigungsministerium
62 Konradstrasse, Kronstadt
STRENG GEHEIM

RE: FALL ROT (Saxony)

Section I: Overview

Wanka, as of November 2004, faces two distinct threats. One is the ongoing insurgency in Prussia, where rebel forces are holding out in and around Königsberg, and the other is the Sylvan Eighth Army which has mobilised on the Saxon border. The attitude of the Sylvan government, and that of the Chandler Tripartite as a whole, is one of hostility toward the Reich which has resulted in the labelling of this new conflict as yet another Cold War similarly seen following the Saxon War in 1996. In addition to diplomatic attacks and accusations there is significant evidence that the Tripartite has been funding, arming and even training rebel troops in Prussia. A further concern cited by the Tripartite is the Wankan state religion, fears of which has heightened due to recent terrorist attacks.

The August Agreement with the Saxon administration has further complicated matters as neither armed SS nor General-SS formations can be stationed in Saxony. Under Article 6 of the Erus Accords, Wanka is prohibited from stationing “offensive weaponry” to Saxony, and Sylvan security agencies have been carefully monitoring our actions. With the Sylvan Army on high alert on the Saxon border, the danger to Wanka is apparent and existential. It is to be noted that indications by the Abwehr show that the Tripartite does not merely seek to degrade Wankan power, but destroy it if they can in the form of a “regime change” to one friendly to their interests or alterations thereof.

This report handles recommendations for a contingency plan in case of a Saxon invasion.

Current Wankan forces in Saxony (negotiated and agreed upon by the Sonneborn administration):

- Luftwaffengeschwader 61 (Dresden)
- Luftwaffengeschwader 63 (Zwickau)
- 110th Military Police (Dresden)
- 503rd Recon Battalion (Grenzstützpunkt Sachsen)
- Engineer Battalion 182 (Brahms-Hertz)
- Artillery Battalion 182 (Brahms-Hertz)

Section II: Force Comparison

Both the Wankan Armed Forces and the Fuerzas Esylvana have developed and adapted from the lessons learnt during the Saxon War. The Wankan Army has, under Armee 98, greatly improved the effectiveness of the individual soldier and unit and overall command and control capabilities, with the problems plaguing the Army in the Saxon War now smoothed over. The Army now has a core of 240,000 professional soldiers rivalling in ability that of the Sylvan soldier. Another 300,000 reservists stand ready to be called into action; the new Corps system of organization under Armee 21 will permit excellent mobilisation times, HOWEVER a greater focus needs to be allocated toward army logistics whose shortcomings have been displayed in the Prussian rebellion. The Wankan Air Force meanwhile consists of some 900 modern, combat-tested aircraft and the new geographic-based organization allows for good support for the Air Fleets. However, heavy losses incurred in the war with Gauliscia means that only a core of around 150 pilots are available. It will be an imperative to ensure that these are involved in training the newer pilots to face the challenges of 21st Century aerial warfare.

The Sylvan military has meanwhile grown significantly in size and have no less experience than Wankan forces in war fighting having fought in Saxony, Aurde and Aemen to name a few; essentially having faced all possible situations, terrain features and climates. Their active forces are estimated at 240,000 troops divided into 6 corps and 3 armies. However it is to note that Sylvan technology continues to hold the lead over Wankan combat systems and their divisions still are able to effect more firepower and excel at manoeuvre warfare in comparison to Wankan divisions (in the Saxon War, the power of a Wankan division equated that of a Sylvan Brigade). The conflict for the Surland does however leave a significant portion of Sylvan forces tied-up in the countries western regions.

Overall, while Wankan forces have generally outnumbered and still do, their Sylvan counterparts, the Sylvans hold advantages in technology, leadership and training, but as in the Saxon War, the outcome of a conventional conflict could go both ways. Crucial to this will be the involvement of foreign powers, notably Tripartite members Achesia and Lendol. While Sylva received little to no support from the Organised States in the first Saxon War, this time around Achesia’s willingness to put troops on the ground and establish a prolonged presence to counter the OS bloc cannot be underestimated.

Section III: Hostile Action

Among the justification for an invasion for the Tripartite, these include primarily: the movement of additional Wankan troops into Saxony in violation of Article 6, the protection of ethnic Sylvans in Saxony, other perceived violations of the Erus Accords, the violation of so-called “human rights”, combating the terrorist threat.

An initial “First Strike”, as executed in the Saxon War, is to be expected targeting assets in Saxony and formations along their route of invasion. Military intelligence has evaluated three main avenues of attack. In the south, through the Cloysteric Highlands/Allgäu Mountains, a repeat of the assault followed by an advance down the Seine Valley can be expected, however, having learnt from the war, the XI Mountain Corps should be able to stall any invasion attempt through its system of new fortifications. The second avenue would be in Saxony, south of the river Weser, where the Eighth Army will likely conduct a rapid advance toward the Weser and fortify their position along Cottbus and the strategically vital Hill 869. The third avenue of advance would be the “Genfer Gap” between the Weser and the Leine; as the terrain is all too accommodating to the Sylvan’s preferred style of armoured manoeuvre warfare, an assault through this corridor would spell disaster as the enemy would be able to protect its flanks by the rivers running across Wanka on an east-west axis.

Section IV: Foreign Intervention

Anti-Shahidic and anti-Wankan sentiment are on the rise in both Achesia and Lendol following the terror attacks and chaos in Ummayah. The Tripartite permits the stationing of Achesian troops on Casaterran soil and explicitly allows for a first strike on a “provocative third party”, likely targeted at Wanka. Provided a war is short, it would be both in Lendols and Achesias interest to completely destroy Wanka in a worst-case, near-total-war scenario.

Section V: Friendly Action

First and foremost, priority must be given to eliminating the rebel threat in Prussia as quickly as possible to free up VI Corps and the Air Force for possible operations against Sylva. Air patrols, aerial warning systems, air defence batteries must be placed on continuous alert to detect and defend against a Tripartite First Strike. It will be the Abwehr’s foremost priority to detect the date and time of an invasion as soon as possible. Once the first enemy troops cross the border, the V Panzer Corps will have to immediately advance into Saxony and take up defensive positions along, if possible, the Kahn river, else along a Dresden-Freital line. V Corps will be permitted to withdraw to the Weser if necessary. Once the enemy is fully engaged, a surprise flanking assault by VIII Corps will take place: the 22nd Infantry Division using Zwickau as launchpad, and the 21st Panzergrenadier and 24th Infantry Divisions through the Osterwald forest. The objective of this assault will be to encircle and destroy the Sylvan Eighth Army.

The Genfer Gap will be defended by VI Corps reinforced by the 2nd SS Corps. It is vital that a Sylvan attack here is stymied- to this effect it should be the Air Force’s focus to eliminate formations in this sector, lest the Sylvans drive north to isolate Prussia and set up a puppet government there.

In the case of a full-on Tripartite invasion, with Achesian and Lendolian divisions along with their contingents supporting the Sylvan assault, it will be necessary to declare a state of total war, mobilise all reserve Corps and press draftees into service. Most importantly, it must be demonstrated to the Tripartite that any war would be long, drawn-out and economically costly so as to prevent one in the first place. To this end, the best-case scenario would be a continuation of the current status quo and all diplomatic efforts must be exhausted to maintain peace.

As such, it must be made clear to the armed forces that under no circumstances, unless given the order to, should any provocation take place. Combat aircraft should stay well away from foreign airspace and everything should be done to prevent them from gaining a casus belli. At the same time, the draft and training process needs to be expanded and accelerated to provide the manpower required and the war in the east should quickly be brought to conclusion.

by **Achesia** » Thu Oct 13, 2016 4:15 pm

A Cold Hallway, Aurde-

Rushing through the halls she covered her porcelain toned face as she passed a few of the residence of the large middle class apartment building. No one could know who she was, no one could know why she was here, and most importantly she could not let her guards catch up to her... for another few hours at least. Princess Alexandra was heavy of breath as she ascended a flight of stairs, she hastily looked towards the brick wall as a young Aurdicous couple passed her on the way down the steps, if given a hard enough look, she knew that they could point out who exactly that Auburn hair belonged to, she couldn’t afford to be caught, she dared not be caught, not with what was at stake.

It didn't take much for her to escape her escorts, having done it plenty of times before, and she would do it many times again, each time causing somebody up top to get fired for such a lack of security. How it was that the Princess of the Realm of Achesia could escape their grasp their parting words of employment. Pressing her slender body up against the wall as she avoided a family of four, the little girl- hardly past toddler age- giving her a long stare. Even if she did not have the words to tell her parents, she knew exactly that she was staring at Princess Alexandra of Achesia. But as Alexandra held her breath that the girl didn’t sound any sort of alarm, the toddler just continued on complaining about the day’s trip to the grandparents’ house.

The princess let out a sigh of relief as she approached her destination, a door marked "888", how appropriate… she thought to herself as she gave the metal frame a soft rap with her petite knuckles. It wasn’t but a split second later that the door flung open and a strong grip vice’d itself around her arm and pulled her in. She almost screamed, but knew better than to do so as a hand covered her mouth. Squirming a bit, she was pressed against the wall of the foyer in the quaint apartment room, but her resisting ceased as her eyes met those of a familiar face… a love that she had been burning to see once again.

The hand on her mouth retracted only to be replaced by a set of lips that smothered her every breath for the next few moments, not that she had any breaths to give, as she receded into that moment of bliss that only a long unredeemed love could bring her. Before she could even get a word of approval out she felt a tug at her clothing, black dressy skirt falling to the floor a hand in it’s place where only those whom were trusted went, all the while kisses proceeded went down her windpipe.

Alexandra felt a tingle as a voice she craved returned to her ears, and she shivered as more of her warm layers were removed.

"I've been waiting so long to feel your skin." He said to her, his warm breath descending over her now bare torso. She quivered for a moment as he grabbed her once more. Jupiter had always shared such a bond with her, knowing exactly what made her throb. Soon flying onto the bed that was across the room in the lonely apartment room situated within the city of Montignac, she landed with her face in a pillow and a gasp. Holding herself up on her elbows, she looked out the window at the crowds below in their chaotic day to day travels, walking up and down the cold streets as they pattered along in their lives. Alexadra felt that way much of her life too, an empty shell that went from place to place, speaking of family and unity within her country. She was but an empty flag that was waved around to rally the masses, and though she knew her work was an important one, for the glory of the realm, the gods knew that she did not feel whole when doing it. But as he pressed into her she gave a sharply drawn breath, feeling whole in this singular moment, finally as close as she always wanted to be with Jupiter.

"I... ah... can't believe I could make... ahhh... it." She could barely get a word out as she bounced in parallel with the surface of the mattress. Grimacing at his forcefulness a moment, she dared to look back at the man, his strong body, full beard, it had been so long since he had left her, and so long since they had been truly as one last. The Princess had wished it would not be like this that they met next, she had wished that he would return. But Jupiter was stubborn and he lived to defy what was decreed of him, and mostly he lived for Alexandra. She pushed him back, though he resisted her demands of his retreat, he soon complied, allowing her to lay on her back as she wanted to look at him.

"I've dreamed of you every day since we parted." He felt her soft flesh a moment, gracing it with his fingers.

Alexandra panted as he pressed on her sides with full force of his arms. Crying out she tried to wriggle free of his ravenous spirit. "You're hurting me." She bit her lip as she looked at him in a way only he would understand its purpose.

That’s when she soon felt a force like no other around her throat, a strong power that she welcomed with a look of fire into Jupiter's eyes. His fingers were tight around her throat as she exasperatedly drew in air. He held her there like that for many moments while taking her, until finally he could hear the explosions that their love made, and as they were consumed with each other, the room shook with vengeance... but it was not their love making that caused such upheaval.

Soon all around them they could hear violent and rapid explosions across the city. Alexadra sat up, covering herself with a white sheet as she looked out the window. Before her laying the cataclysmic scene of fire and trepidation. Jupiter rushed to the window to get a better look, it was not just a single incident, but several that rocked across the city. The plumes of smoke wide spread and close to central city areas. Alexandra sat in the bed, her naked form was shivering in fear as the closest building that was struck by the explosions engulfed in flames, and older structure that served as a local bank, dozens pouring out of the front door. In the midst of the inferno, a lady jumped from a high fourth story window, whether her intentions were to escape the fire, or die before the fire could consume her, the pair was unsure.

"Jupiter." Alexandra said meekly as she stared wide eyed out the window.

However Jupiter was affixed with the scene that transpired below him, hundreds on the street rushed in different directions, unsure of the panic that was unfolding all around them. Some of them looked bloodied, limping, bracing, or carrying other wounded persons to what they perceived was safety. He continued to look on as a cloud of smoke that had been weaving its way through the streets finally reached the block in which their building resided. Various shill screams could be heard as hundreds gasped for air, but it wasn’t until that dust settled that the real chaos would begin.

"I think you should get back to your guards." He looked at her, taking the sight of her breasts in one more time. He never knew if he could glimpse at here teats, the last time he could hold her, or the last time he could fuck her. Jupiter dreaded returning to his banishment, he dreaded being away from Alexandra for such an uncertain amount of time. It was only by happenstance that she was able to break away from her duties as a princess, to escape her guards, and come revisit their carnal desires.

He neared her, the screams of the city still echoing below them and chaos unfolding around them, petting her cheek once more, before planting a kiss on her lips.

"I love you." He stared her in the eyes, as if it would be the last.

"Stop... you say it like it will be the last, you always do this." A tear left her eye as it traveled down her pale cheek.

He wiped it with his thumb, grasping her head in his hand as he fingered her auburn hair. "I'm banished, banished from home, banished from you." He said holding her there as she quaked.

"Father will let you come back." The tears streamed down her face once more. "Father can’t keep you out forever." She urged.

Jupiter pondered a moment his father, the Ackular. He was not a forgiving man, something that only the son's of the ruler of Achesia could understand. Alexandra didn't grow up seeing that side of their father, she didn’t grow up under his wrath, she wasn’t raised to be a warrior. Reflecting on the differences between the cultivations of Princes and Princesses and how the standards were not the same, he played with her areola between his fingers. Jupiter had defied the Ackular for the last time, and when he found out about him and his half-sister, that would put the nail in his princely coffin. "You're dead to me" he remembered his father saying to him before sending him away. He looked over his half-sister's form for another moment, he touched her soft skin, feeling her body one last time.

He knew it was a matter of time before her guards tracked her down. Even faster due to the chaos outside. And that would be it as father would double her guard, always being under the supervision of a minder, not escaping to see him again.

Behind him the echoes of gunfire began to ring out from some distance away. They both froze for a moment, there was still real danger out there. The screams below became more palatable as the clinking of automatic machinery neared. Jupiter could almost make out the type of weapon that he heard as they were discharged and carried by detractors making their way through the streets in a slaughter. It was the crying of a babe that sent him over the edge, just before the crying stopped. A cold sweat had developed on his sister's brow as he picked her up off the bed, beckoning her to keep her head down as she hurried to clothe herself. Reaching and fumbling through a drawer next to his bed, he produced a semi-automatic pistol, something from back home in Achesia that he had kept with himself during his banishment.

Catching a glimpse of her just as she slipped on her panties, he wished that this day didn't have to end, but as the gunfire neared he knew that he had to get her out of here.

Before she could buckle on her brassiere and he could button his shirt, the door to his apartment burst in. Out of instinct he raised his weapon, the sights of Jupiter’s pistol trained on whatever intruders may have come for them. But just as he meant to pull the trigger he stopped... it was the Royal Guardsmen, coming for his sister, dressed in their dark blocky urban fatigues. However pure his intentions were in raising his own weapon, the guardsmen took it as a threat, firing his submachine gun at Jupiter and landing a few rounds in his shoulder.

"Noooo!" Alexandra screamed loudly, still topless, as she watched her brother sink to the floor. The Royal Guardsmen swarmed the room with almost mechanical movements and tactics, they were a well-oiled machine of tactical cogs, their weapons trained at every potential target. They wore masks of Kevlar, black in color that gave them an expressionless demeanor that was just as off-putting as any demonic visage. Alexandra raised her hands above her head as they closed on her, their bright stoplights blinding as they identified their target.

"We have the princess, heading to extraction." One said a she gave the Princess a bedsheet to cover up with. Another had covered the other now mitigated target, the presumed hostile that lay bleeding on the floor.

"Sir!" He called as he leaned over Jupiter, examining his pained expression as he clenched his bullet would with his hand. "This is Prince Jupiter!" The operator said, pulling out a tourniquet and applying it just above the flowing wound.

The lead operator stood over Jupiter and the identifying subordinate as he thought through the scene a moment. The sound of gunfire on the streets outside began to grow louder as he deduced what had happened here. "Shit..." he plainly exclaimed as he helped lift the wounded prince from the floor. "We need to get him to the car as well. Signal extraction for us."

"Dark horse, this is white horse, we have one other H-V-I for extraction, I repeat we have an additional H-V-I for extraction."

They carried Jupiter down the stairs, the whole building had been cordoned off during the rescue attempt, and as they neared the bottom floor they drug Jupiter as he cursed his own pain to an awaiting black SUV. They threw him into the back seat of the vehicle with no time to be gentle in the chaos that was unfolding around them. Behind the seat where Jupiter lay, Alexandra sat sobbing, still covering her breasts with a sheet as a man in a suit sitting next to her tried to console her.

"Your highness..." he tried to put his arms around her, but violently she shrugged them off, turning her bare back to her handler. Alexandra had known Richard since she was old enough to talk as he served as her guardian and chief of staff. Handpicked by her father, he ensured that Alexandra carried out her duties as Princess to the letter of the Ackular's law. But due to her father’s absence Richard was almost a fatherly figure to her, more present than she could ever hope the Ackular to be.

He looked over the seat at Jupiter who lay groaning in delusional pain before sitting back, rubbing his hands over his face in anguish as he wondered how he would explain this to his superiors.

"Your half-brother." He said grimly. Richard knew of their past transgression together, more so than the Ackular knew. The details that he had learned of the Prince and Princess' love affair stretched back since they were young teenagers, which was dangerous knowledge to poses. If the Ackular knew the extent to which Jupiter had carnal knowledge of his sister, he would be banished from their plane of existence, much less the Realm. And if the Ackular knew that Richard knew... well then he would be kissing oblivion as well.

"Sir we are diverting to route blue. Hostiles have our original route compromised." The Royal Guardsmen reported from the front seat of the SUV as it sped through the Montignac streets. On either side people still fled in various directions, unsure as to where was safe from the horrific terrorism. Police whizzed by as they neared what looked to be a bombing site at a cafe in the market district. A bloody mess this turned into. Richard would have some things to answer to, why he let the princess escape her body guards just before a major terrorist attack happened, and why she was with her brother once more.

Looking over at the pale skin of Princess' Alexandra's shoulder blades and her long auburn hair that swept across them, then to the auburn blood stains of Prince Jupiter's shirt, he gave a long hard sigh. Picking up his cell phone, it was time to report in.

"This is magenta, Firebrand is secure." He used Princess Alexandra's call sign. "We also have picked up Europa." Prince Jupiter's call sign being rather ironic. Richard listened to the swarm of questions and exasperations over the situation for a moment, waiting for a break in chatter to get a few words in. It was chaos back in Imperium he was sure, with the attacks catching the nation off guard, High Command would be scrambling to get a handle on the situation.

"... Sir... yes... Sir, I don't know how Alexnadra and Jupiter were in contact, we only know that she was found in what seemed to be his apartment...." the chatter labored on. "Has the Ackular been appraised of the situation?" Alexandra turned around as Richard asked this question, her expression shock as she had hoped her father would not hear of her being with Jupiter, though there was not much else to expect when they were caught together by the royal guard.

"Yes sir... yes... alright I will bring them both in." He looked to the Princess as her eyes teared. She twisted back around to face her brother, still groaning in agony at his wound. "Get us to the airport, we will treat Prince Jupiter in flight." Richard bowed his head, looking out the window he saw a pair of Aurdicous men holding each other up as they fled down the street, their legs mangled, and heads streaming of crimson blood.

"Yes sir." The driver acknowledged, pressing the gas of the vehicle into full gear as its tires caught a pool of blood that had flowed from the drainage off of the sidewalk. Even though they would soon escape this carnage, the carnage would not escape them as it lingered in their dreams for the foreseeable future.

The Tower of Ascendancy

Damned these blasted long halls. Gregory Short thought to himself while plodding along the long cold corridors of the Tower of Ascendancy. He imagined other heads of state only made their national security advisors walk a few meters to get pertinent information to them, rather than the six corridors, three elevators, and the two stairwells it took to reach the Ackular's chambers, deep within the ancient fortress of the House of Requeint.

As he neared the large oaken doors that led to the Ackular's over spacious and under humble office that sat thirty stories above the ground, he noticed a few Royal Guardsmen standing close to the door. It didn't look like the Achesian head of state was taking guests at the moment. Regardless, he approached and acted as if his entry to the chambers preceded any standing order they may have.

"Gregory Short, Ackular's national security advisor." He lifted his ID badge to eye level so the guards may inspect it. The two men clad in a deep violet dress coat and black pants looked over the access card for a moment before returning any sort of answer.

"We are sorry sir, the Ackular is not taking any visitors at this time." They responded, still holding their AR-160 assault rifles at port arms.

Mr. Short grew more inpatient. Gruffing at the sudden denial of entrance to the Ackular's chambers, he now spoke in an increasingly harsh manner.

"Perhaps you did not hear me the first time." He held up his ID once more, this time with a sort of inpatient vigor. "I am Gregory short, CHIEF national security advisor to the Ackular, and I have a very important message for his majesty." He stated into the guard's eyes, which seemed to look straight through him as they focused a hundred yards away. This made Mr. Short even angrier as he began to puff his chest. "If you do not let me through right now I will ensure you are both relieved.” The matter of fact tone a product of years serving at top levels without the country, where a simple world would dismiss any plebian from existence close to the top.

The guards did not take to his threats lightly however. Sensing the growing hostilities within the man, the two guards stepped forward in unison preparing to remove him from the chambers as his frothing expression only grew increasingly grave.

Just as things almost got physical, the chamber door of the Ackualr's office opened with a loud creak. A head squeezed out, and an older man with his grey hood lowered to his shoulders apeared. He had a distinctly crazed expression in his eyes, one that Mr. Short could not put further description to in his mind. He in fact recognized the man as the Arch-Praetor of the Achari Cult, a simple man whom he had met many times at state functions, but mysterious all the same as he was often invited to meetings with the Ackular more secretive than Mr. Short’s own. Which was an amazing feat that left the national security advisor wondering.

"Yessss?" He drew out, looking at Mr. Short standing with the two guards at the entrance.

"We were informing Mr. Short the Ackular was not to be disturbed." They stood frozen waiting for the Arch- Praetor to provide instruction.

The old man smiled. "What can I help you with Mr. Short?" His eyes were bright with certifiable curiosity.

Gregory Short had served in the government of the Realm of Achesia for decades in various roles within the security, defense, and anti-terrorism hierarchies, advising officials all the way up the chain of command to his present position as the chief advisor to the Ackular. Never in those decades of experienced service did he speak directly with the Arch-Praetor, or take part in any ceremony. He was not a highly religious man, usually going through the motions culturally. So as he attempted to communicate with the head of Achesia’s cult like religion, he felt a bit flustered.

“There has been an incident in Aurde.” He said as he stiffened up again, he felt his duty was to get to the Ackular as soon as possible, no matter who stood in his way. “I MUST see his majesty at once.” He commanded sternly, waiting for the feeble clergyman to step out of his way.

To his surprise though the Arch-Praetor simply looked behind him into the dark chamber, hesitating a bit before he looked Mr. Short in the eye, his gaze a deadlier serious than the civil servant cared for.

“You may enter… but lower your voice…” The door opened wider to let Gregory in.

“Thank you.” He looked over to the guards who stood at attention still, snorting as he pulled at his coat tails and marched in, his rubber heels clacking on the stone floor.

As the doors closed behind them, Mr. Short had to take a moment to adjust his eyes to the darkness in the chambers, only a faint light far in front of him towards the center of the cavernous study played off his senses.

“You may find the Ackular… unresponsive.” The Arch Praetor peculiarly warned before stepping away from him, leaving the man alone facing a unfamiliar sight.

He held his gaze for a long time, alien as it was, a group of men he figured to be members of the Achari Cult sat in a circle facing inward as four candles between each of them outlined the curves of a circle, and a set of candles outlining the shape of a obliged five pointed star crossed between. At the center of this queer shape sat the Ackular, dressed in robes much like the cultists around the circle. His legs were crossed and arms resting on a long metal sword, one that Mr. Short recognized from above his mantel on a far fire place.

It was at this time that Mr. Short decided to near, he needed to get the message to the Ackular about the Shahid attack on Montignac. And further the hundreds dead in the bombings, the dozens dead in the subsequent shootings in the street, the children without parents, the wives without husbands, the families torn asunder by an attack that the Aurde Governance was ultimately just not prepared for. He had to tell the head of state, the Ackular needed this information, he needed to know that Princess Alexandra was found and being safely taken back to Imperium, and that Prince Jupiter was with her. All of this he used to reassure himself as he took his small steps forward. There was something in his stomach that told him not to interfere. Though he was a brave man, serving in many wars under the flag of his nation, facing down impossible foes, but something… sinister he felt about this… something not right. But he had his duty to accomplish.

Looking behind him the Arch-Praetor stood at the head of the room near a set of plush chairs and couches where casual meetings were often held, he simply watched as Mr. Short walked, no objection to his crossing the line of candles on the ground, no objection as he neared the Ackular who still sat in a silent coma just as the other cultist did around the strange candle drawn symbol.

It was a queer silence, unhuman, not even a breath or a mutter Gregory reflected. But he had a job to do, he had a duty to inform, and advise. This was a crucial moment.

“Your majesty.” He started off in whisper, almost like he was not trying to disturb them from their trance. But to no certain affect did his faint words draw the Ackular out of recession, instead Mr. Short had to continue his disturbance.
“Your majesty there has been an attack… in Aurde.” He stepped one step closer, he could see the Ackular’s eyes were open, but with the flicker of candle light he also could see there was no pupils.
“My Ackular, please.” He urged, looking down at the Ackular’s hands grasping the ancient sword, the palm that grasped the blade was bleeding. From what Mr. Short could tell from the indentation of his knuckles the Ackular held it very tightly.
“My Ackular…” he gasped, the expression on the head of state’s face was a ghastly horror as he seemingly communed with the silence. “We have captured one of terrorist's… a Shahid, after some information was… extracted from him, we learned he was from an organization funded by the Shahid government in Murovanka.” He let it out, at least he was trying to do his duty despite the dark and odd circumstances.

Suddenly a voice from behind chimed into the conversation, one of the cultists on the rim of the circle, who sat with his hood over his shaded face spoke.
“There must be war.” The hooded man said, matter of fact.

“We must not take this lightly.” Said another, this time across from Mr. Short, a second hooded face.

“The world must know the Ackular’s justice.” A third with a monotone and deep voice added.

Gregory after he came to his senses and continued his attempt to speak with the Ackular could not disagree more with the suggested approach.
“Your majesty.” He attempted his snobbish expert advisor tone of voice. “I disagree with any sort of fanatical response to these attacks, an escalation of conflict with Murovanka would be detrimental to our trade in the region.” He looked to see if any of the cultists would respond. “I suggest a measured response, one that would assert out…”

“Odglsilwti” Mr. Short stepped slightly back, surprised by the sudden and blabbered response by the Ackular.

“My Ackular… are you alright?” He looked closely at the monarch who still sat with saintly horrificness.

“Dgollsiwti.” Another blabber came from the Ackular.

“Your majesty I do not understand…” Gregory looked all around, worried his monarch had caught a stroke. Turning back her observed the Arch-Praetor who stood still in reverence. “Praetor!” He yelled in an alarmed tone. “Your Ackular needs medical attention!” He turned frantic, almost grabbing the Ackular to attempt and rescue him himself. But were you supposed to grab a stroking person? or was it seizures you were not supposed to grab? Damnit if I ever decided not to be a doctor he thought as he contemplated the medal that he would get for saving his monarch.

But before he could scream louder for the guards, or try and grab the Ackular himself, another mumble came from the dazed leader of Achesia.

“godwillsit….” It was half a babble, more so a whisper. Gregory could barely make out what the Ackular had said…. until it came again this time clearer.
“God wills it.” It was still a whisper, but Mr. Short understood.

“Your majesty, I urge you make a decision after you have seen a doc….”

“God wills it.” The Ackular chanted sternly, sitting straight up now, his eyes still white without pupil.

“My Acku…”

“God wills it…” it was louder now, full tone.

“But, your majesty, I…”

“God wills it!” The Ackular rose, his sword still grasped by both hands, his robes dripping of the blood from his slit palm.

Gregory took a step back, startled by the sudden movement by the Ackular. He could see now the worn expression on his face, his robes soiled, beard and hair crusted in sweat. How many days had he been here, the last they met was three days hence. he attempted a grin, stepping backwards further as the Ackular’s imposing height loomed over him.

“Majesty…” he continued to try and speak… but the chants continued, louder and louder each time.

“God wills it!”

“I….” Gregory stepped back once.

“God wills it!!”

“Understand….bu…” he stepped back a second.

“God wills it!” The bleeding hand let go it’s vice grip.

“Praetor!” He called back, stepping back a third, the raising tone of the Ackular’s voice and the white unnatural condition of his pupil-less eyes made Mr. Short’s voice crackle.

“God wills it!!! God wills it!!!! GOD WILLS IT!!!!” The ancient blade that Gregory thought was but a mantle ornament pierced through his heart, blood dripping down the gutter of the sword as his body went limp.

As the Ackular held his sword in Mr. Short, a dying spasm of muscle forcing out more blood, the spirit of Mr. Short was astonished as he could watch his own death, and out of body experience. A view of his body as it slumped to the ground as the Ackular brushed him off the blade, and the sudden turn of viewing angle to a portal of darkness… that’s when he saw it. Gregory in his post-death spirit jounrey saw the mass of preternatural appendages grab his celestial body, drawing him into oblivion, his attempts at a scream only a faint ripple in the ear of the great old one that consumed his soul.

by **East Cornzvich** » Sun Oct 16, 2016 7:11 am

Silence is a Virtue

November 5, 2004

Chairman's Palace, East Cornzvitch

Chairman Andrzej Lis sipped his glass of wine before setting back onto his fine cedar desk. He pulls out a drawer, inspecting its contents, before pulling out a small gold box. On the front of his desk is a magnifying mirror tilted to face his wrinkled and aged mug. Andrzej pulls out his shaving soap and brush and slowly dusts some onto his face with his shaky cracked hands. He unlatches the gold box revealing a straight razor. Along the straight razor's gleaming blade lies the engraving "LIS," for it was a razor that had been in his family for generations. Andrzej begins to lift the razor to his face, before stopping to take another sip of wine, downing the rest of the glass. He begins to shave the patchy grey whiskers off his face.

Suddenly, a knock echoes throughout the spacious office. The old Chairman jumped at the thundering knock, causing a long bleeding slash to stretch across his drooping face. Catching the blood with a plain white towel he kept in the shaving drawer, he called out to the door.

"Come in!" his voice rang out.

The tall wooden door swung open as his chief adviser and younger brother, Dmitri, stepped in.

"Dmitri," the Chairman muttered. "What is the meaning of this unannounced visit? You know this is the time I usually shave."

"Yes, yes," Dmitri said, dismissing Andrzej's passively aggressive statement. This was not the first time that he'd come in without planning ahead, and it wouldn't be the last. "The press would like to speak with you to get your view on the recent going-on's."

Andrzej looked at Dmitri, silent. He patted his face with the towel checking to see if the bleeding had stopped. It hadn't. The pause in the conversation rang on for what felt like hours until the Chairman spoke up.

"Well, what of them?"

Dmitri looked at him, confused.

"Well they want your opinion on everything, the terror attacks, so on. Because of Article IX many people believe we'll be the next in this series of attacks."

"Remind me," whispered Andrzej. "Why we instituted Article IX."

"Well it was to help keep the peace and maintain a sense of solidarity among the people, isn't it?" Dmitri spoke innocently.

Andrzej sighed. "It was to keep ourselves safe from things like this. If the Shahid and other religious attacks of the past have taught us anything its that people cannot be trusted to not become radical. Banning their texts ensures safety in our borders, and others."

The Chairman lifted his glass to his lips, forgetting that he'd already drank the rest of it.

"Dmitri, can you go get me the good wine from the cellar?"

"But what of the reporters and journalists?"

"Dmitri, my boy," the Chairman muttered. "Silence, is a virtue."

Modern Day

Andrzej is dying. His alcoholism had finally caught up with him and his liver. Although it had been years since his controversial anti-religion laws had been repealed, there were still some supporters of his decision. When Dmitri took over position as Chairman in 2009 he destroyed practically all laws even mentioning religion. He'd begun the spark of social progression in modern Cornzvich. As Andrzej lay on his deathbed reporters, journalists, colleagues, ex-politicians all gathered around the old leader.

"Andrzej," Dmitri murmured. "Andrzej do you have anything to say brother? The reporters wish to hear you say a few words before you..."

Andrzej raised a hand stopping him.

"Silence," he wheezed. "Is a virtue."

And with that, the last of Cornzvich's anti-religion ideologies died.

Imgurian · by **The Lendol Archipelago** » Thu Oct 20, 2016 11:47 pm

The convoy trundled along, its pace never changing much. The only real excitement was the occasional bump in the road shaking the vehicles. Lydie was sitting up front, in the third vehicle in the convoy, which was made up of four AFVs, the name of which she had forgotten. Two of the armoured cars were at the front, and two at the back. The other five vehicles in the convoy were typical military transport trucks, the first of which, she was in.

Well, there was the occasional patrol or checkpoint, from both the SS and the rebels, though excitement wasn't quite the word she would use to describe those events.

The main reason she was even part of this convoy was because she was needed in the same place the supplies were headed, Konigsberg.

Instead of wasting money and resources, she had simply linked up with the convoy and hitched a ride, despite the inherent risks. They were officially carrying aid, mostly food and medicine. In truth, only half of what they were carrying was aid. The rest was weaponry, ammunition and various other things the rebels required in their fight against the SS.

Getting caught, especially with Ansel herself present, would be disastrous for the whole operation, not to mention the Lendolian Foreign Office.

This is why Lydie Ansel, a woman famed for her nerves of steel, was completely unable to relax. She had been fidgety for the whole ride, messing with her nails and being slightly shocked by other vehicles in the road, even the most unassuming cars and motorbikes.

When she wasn't overly switched on, she was deep in thought, remembering home and her own bed. She wouldn't trade the good she was doing here, however, for those things. No, she was grateful for her chance to help the resistance, a chance which she would take with both hands.

It was in those moments of intense thought that the vehicle in front hit a mine, the explosion lifting it off the ground. The armoured vehicle, having been thrown off the ground, landed on its roof before exploding and catching alight. Between the initial explosion, its landing, the second explosion and the flames, it was unlikely that there were any survivors.

Her eyes fixed on the burning wreckage, Ansel was deaf to the yelling of the driver telling her to get her head down and his request, which was more of a plea, for air support.

The crackle of automatic gunfire, which seemed to be coming from all directions and the roar of engines as SS vehicles burst from the cover that the treeline and the natural shape of the section of road had provided shocked Ansel, waking her to the realisation that they were being ambushed.

The gunner of the AFV immediately in front was among the first of the Lendolian troops to begin firing, the rest seemingly following his lead. Due to either blind luck or training, he managed to kill the driver of the oncoming AFV, which, to Lydie, was similar to theirs. Its occupants threw open their doors and disembarked before being gunned down themselves.

In this moment, however, the gunner himself was ended by a hail of retaliatory bullets from the SS, and his dying body was pulled down from the roof of the car where it had slumped by a fellow soldier, one who had been in that same vehicle.

The surviving soldiers found whatever cover they could and mounted a counter-attack. The enemy vehicle, whose driver had been among the first dead, was deliberately exploded by a Lendolian grenade, making the enemy troops think twice about using it as cover.

The following forces were forced to get out and rush to the sides of the road, firing into whatever they could as they did so. One of these bullets shattered the glass of Ansel's truck, its shards coating the dashboard and the laps of both Ansel and the now-dead driver, into whom the bullet had flown. Screaming, she realised the peril she was in.

After a brief struggle with the door, she managed to fling it open. With desperation clinging to her heart, she then moved onto her seat belt, knowing full well that her hands would likely be incapable of undoing it. She looked down, determined to escape, and was confronted by her own blood, which was seeping rapidly from a single bullethole, one which seemed, through placement alone, to lead into her left lung.

Lydie went numb, gripped with a fear of death. In a last ditch attempt to survive, she fumbled to unlock the belt which held her in place. For some reason, she had less difficulty than she would have done in regular circumstances, and managed to undo the belt.

Nearly throwing herself from the cabin, she landed roughly on the ground. Despite being in the thick of a firefight, she closed the door behind her, wholly due to a force of habit, before fleeing towards the back of the convoy and being hit by two bullets, one in the head, ending her life before she even had the chance to utter a word.

The rest of the firefight was of no consequence to her. Lydie didn't witness the valour of the remaining soldiers or their successful counter-attack. She never heard sound of the helicopters speeding up the already retreating SS soldiers or the end of the gunfire. She didn't see the injured be stabilised and evacuated, or the bodies be collected with a separate helicopter. After these things had happened, the surviving troops, bolstered by a number of replacements, got back in their vehicles and continued on to Konigsberg.

Lydie, however, was dead to the world and it was dead to her, but after the events of this day, she would not be forgotten, nor would any of the other casualties of, what some believed it would soon become, a war.

by **Achesia** » Fri Oct 21, 2016 10:34 am

On the Edges of Prussia, Murovanka

"Name?" A man stood above another, his thick Achesian accent seeking answers as he looked down on the crouched figure. Below him the sobs were intolerable, an almost inconsolable and cowardly mess. The grown man before him blubbered and sobbed as he avoided eye contact with him.
"Name?!?" He grabbed the man's dark black hair, pulling his head back and exposing his dark eyes and brown skin. Still weeping, his arms tired behind his back that man struggled the answer the question of his name, because it didn't matter. They both knew the outcome.

"Habibullah...Yousef..." the tears fell down his cheeks as he whined. It was a pitiful sight that made the Achesian man so very angry, he threw back the subject's head and returned his hand to his coat pocket where he had kept a cigarette for this occasion. He lit up as he nodded approvingly, taking a drag and expelling the smoke through his nose.

Nodding to a few of his comrades, he watched as they dragged Yousef across the ground as he screamed, he kicked and flailed but it only made it worse on himself as they began to beat him until he couldn't resist anymore. The three Achesian counterparts threw him on a section of wood, something simple they had pre-constructed and lay on the ground in the field in which they resided. Tying his legs together at the ankle, and his arms on a large cross beam that was attached to the main pole, the nearly unconscious, the Shahid groaned as he struggled to loosen the ropes grip, but unable to make sense of his condition as he tried to move his feet... until a loud buzzing sound began to fill his ears. A power drill revved its mechanisms twerked around as the Achesian men fit a long screw to the drill bit, they nodded as it fit appropriately and then matched the point of the screw to Yousef's ankle, and as he let out a horrible and shrill wail, they covered themselves from the splatter of blood as they fastened his feet to the pole. The Shahid man still cried as they then screwed in both of his hands to the cross beam, the blood seeping into the soil below the landed cross.

"To kill a Shahid is the path to eternity..." The first Achesian who stood observing this justice finished off the last drag before he flicked the bud away.

Watching the sight before him as his men lashed the infidel to the cross, and subsequently raising and posting it in the ground, he reflected between the wails and screams at his journey to this place. Adam Harnone was but a simple farmer back in Achesia, the best soybean farmer in all of the Northern Marches, and had been doing so his whole life, aside from his five years of service in the Royal Army he conducted when he was young. He was not however, a young many anymore, flirting closely with his mid-40s Adam had settled into the mindset that he would be a farmer all of his life, and he was content with that. But one day when the Praetor arrive in his village, speaking of infidels and crusades and paths to eternity, he felt a call. A call which only resounded more when the Ackular in his golden armor stood atop the Tower of Ascendancy and declared Holy Crusade against the Shahid savages of Wanka. It was then that he, like thousands of other Achesians, he made a pilgrimage. Not to the local Army Depot to enlist in the Achesian forces... it was always unsure where they would send you, if they even send you to Wanka, but instead he ventured to a small seaside town. There an old fishermen that was beyond his years of crusading had volunteered to take those Achesian men that wished to join the holy crusade on his old fishing boat across the Sea to Sylva, where they continued their pilgrimage to Wanka and holy crusade.

As the Shahid cried out in agony Adam nodded at the journey he had taken, clenching his assault rifle that he had bought in an underground refuge market, he motioned his head to his men to continue along their journey towards eternity, they would be in the shadows, on the edges of this conflict, destroying the Shahid devils wherever possible. As he looked to the sky he searched for a miracle, remembering the roar of Achesian war planes over Aurde during his time in the Royal Army. What he would give to hear that roar again...

---

Thousands of miles away, the minds of those who controlled Achesia's roar were hard at work, fumbling over diagrams and maps while trying to stay awake in long power point briefs. Generals, Admirals, Captains, Lieutenants, and their civilian counterparts each coordinated and wargamed what they imagined a potential conflict in the region to be. High Command was always a bustle of activity, a place where many of Achesia's top brass controlled the fight on a hundred different fronts, and communicated with field commanders all the same.

Today it was Prussia, tomorrow it could be Westervelde, the next day Allied Nations. But the focus was on the region of western Cassaterra, a place that was a hotbed of activity and conflict as tensions along the Wankan/CTP boarders were beginning to heat up. The Shahid run government which was vilified by Acheisan culture and hated among the leaders of Achesia, ruled over the nation. Many within the brass of the High Command did not agree with a direct approach, beginning to assemble hundreds of different scenarios where nary an Achesian boot hit the Wankan ground... anything from no-fly zones, PGM attacks, and light bombing were on the table. However; they each in the back of their mind knew their Monarch, the Ackular was a zealot, and when Zealously and militaries mix, indirect approaches go out the window.

Though the plan was not solidified and the pieces were not completely set, forces were beginning to prepare for a conflict. Achesia had many partners within the region of Cassaterra, mainly those in the Chandler Tripartite and associates within. Bases had been pre-established to forward project Achesian force in a situation like this, Sylva was home to thousands of Achesian troops, and UBS a hub of Royal Achesian Armed Forces (RAAF) activity. This in addition to naval forces in the region would give Achesia a good foothold to begin operations against the Wankan government. More troops would be needed, and in the Achesian' province of Aurde those forces would soon prepare for mobilization to places like UBS and Sylva to stage for a major operation if the High Command failed to convince the Ackular a measured approach was not needed.

Certainly the terror attacks that occurred in Aurde would not be forgotten, and the link between the group, and what has become a radical state actor in Murovanka, would not be ignored. Despite this, only a few High Command brass saw a direct invasion as a viable approach. The others more concerned with Columbian Aligned nations and their movements around the homeland. One could worry about enemy nations moving around the homeland every day, but what sent a real message would be for Achesian to prove its strength, showing them that it would not back down to the savage Shahid people. There were also the Wankan people who were trapped in their own country, regions like Prussia where many ethnic Wankans had now begun to revolt against their Shahid masters... something that had caught the CTP's and the Achesian High Command's eye.

The word of the Ackular would be the final word however; and the brass knew where this was going.

by **Nova Sylva** » Mon Oct 24, 2016 11:42 am

Tripartite defense officials believe that Wankan SS forces were responsible for an attack on a Lendolian foreign aid convoy last weekend.

The claim of direct Wankan involvement in the raid, if confirmed, would have far-reaching consequences. Earlier on Tuesday, the Lendolian ambassador to the SL general assembly denounced it as a “sickening, savage and apparently deliberate attack,” describing the perpetrators as “cowards”, and SL officials have said it is a potential war crime.

Victims of the attack included the local director of the Lendolian Red Cross, Lydie Ansel. The ambassador hailed the dead aid workers as heroes and said “those who bombed them were cowards,” before calling for accountability for crimes committed in the war. “Just when you think it cannot get any worse, the bar of depravity sinks lower,” he said.

Tripartite officials said the convoy was hit by landmines and then attacked by armed soldiers while food and medicine were being unloaded at a warehouse in opposition-controlled Konigsberg.

Numerous news agencies quoted two Achesian officials as saying that a battalion of SS troops was confirmed as operating in that area at the time of the attack.

The Acropolis in Chandler and state department said they could not confirm the allegations, while the Wankan foreign ministry rejected them with “resentment and indignation”.

But Kronstadt has not conceded that the convoy was raided, claiming instead that the 18 lorries had “caught fire”. In a separate statement on Tuesday, the country’s defence ministry said that the aid convoy had been carrying weapons for rebel forces.

Chandler, meanwhile, confirmed that there was proof that the convoy was attacked.

“There are three parties fighting in Wanka. The goverment, the rebels, and those trying to survive in the middle. Based on the evidence, we suspect heavy equipment and organized ambush tactics were used.”

In a meeting with Sylvan Foreign Secreatery Leons, the Wankan foreign minister admitted that the military had been monitoring the convoy – apparent drone surveillance footage of its progress had been live-streamed on a defence ministry website . But he claimed the Wankans had “lost track of it when it entered rebel territory”, according to diplomatic sources. Kronstadt had launched an investigation, he told the other foreign ministers.

Later on Tuesday, however, the Wankan foreign ministry put out an angry denunciation of allegations against them, and reiterated that the foreign aid was concealing weapons.

“We are considering, with resentment and indignation, attempts by some foreign curators of rebel units and terrorists in Prussia to put the blame for the incident on the Wankan Armed Forces who allegedly attacked a relief convoy,” the statement said, according to a local news agency.

The SL emergency relief coordinator, Stephen O’Brien, said that if it was found the convoy had been deliberately targeted, it would constitute a war crime, and Sylva has publically stated that any sort of attack towards its humanitarian aid missions would be grounds for ‘intervention.’ What exactly they mean by this statement is unclear.

Meanwhile, Sylvan and Achesian army units continue to mobilize along the Wankan border, with tensions rising and many fearing an accidental or deliberate escalation into full scale war. As usual, the Very Rarely Posts have said nothing even though this would be a great chance for their stupid liberal interventionalism, but oh wait, that’s right, they’re all lazy SOBs.

by **East Cornzvich** » Mon Oct 24, 2016 5:37 pm

November 2004

Piotr Tkacz

PROTESTS ACROSS EAST CORNZVICH BREAK OUT

Cornzvichan Nationalism on a Rise

Calm, cloudy, cool. Today started off as a typical Cornzvichan autumnal day in the south of the commonwealth. By the late afternoon, however, the peaceful border between Murovanka and East Cornzvich was awoken by a small and quiet nationalist protest around the local border patrol office, desiring a ban on Wankan immigration. The local policja soon arrived on the scene to make sure the protest would not erupt into violence. Things remained quiet and calm until a lone protester approached an officer and began harassing and berating them. It is unknown at this time who struck first, but soon this evolved into a full out riot, turning the peaceful village into a domestic battleground as militants from the Cornzvichan Partia nacjonalistyczna began throwing firebombs at the policja's vehicles. Currently it is still unknown how many causalities have occurred, but at least seventeen militants and twelve policja have been hospitalized from this incident.

Later a press conference was held with the leader of Partia nacjonalistyczna, Napoleon Gliniecki, who condemned these attacks stating: "We [Partia nacjonalistyczna] simply do not stand for violence. The progress that the Partia nacjonalistyczna desires can only be achieved through the proper channels...however, this does not mean the militant's point is untrue. We must employ stricter border control unless we wish to risk our national security from Shahid terror groups."

Napoleon Gliniecki has been known for his rather controversial views on retaking the Lower Voldurian region, as well as stating desires to deploy troops into Murovanka if he was elected to be Chairman. He has petitioned the Cornzvichan government on multiple occasions to mobilize troops, but it has seemed to not have swayed the current military council at all.

As of now, the government has moved a defensive force along the Voldurian border to ensure another attack like this does not occur, and currently is receiving no immigrants from Murovanka.

More news about the attack and the Partia nacjonalistyczna's involvement as we receive it. This is Ptior Tkacz, signing off.

by **Murovanka** » Mon Oct 24, 2016 8:26 pm

Decree of the President for the Protection of People and State

Due to the existential threat facing Wanka, evidenced by:
the aim of the Chandler Tripartite to destroy the Wankan state
the current aggressive stance of the CTP, in which the Tripartite is interfering in Wankan internal affairs, and infringing upon its sovereignty
as above, the Tripartite’s support of secessionist Prussian bandits by material, financial and diplomatic means
the incursion and attack on Wankan security forces by Lendolian ground and air forces in Prussia
the mobilisation of the Sylvan Eighth Army on the Saxon border
the mobilisation of Achesian troops on the Prussian border

The President has as followed decreed:
§ 1. Article 48 of the Federal Constitution, the State of Emergency, is instated. Articles 114, 115, 117, 118, and 153 of the Constitution are hereby suspended pending further notice. Habeas corpus, freedom of expression, freedom of assembly as well as other hindrances on the defensive capabilities of the State are from hereon permissible to be restricted.
§ 2. Conscription, as permitted under Article 49 Abs. 2, is in effect from 1. December 2004. The Ministry of Defence, Ministry of Economy and State Security are to present their plan and requirements to the executive and the legislation by the aforementioned date. All national institutions, industries, businesses and thereof are subordinate to the Ministry of Defence in regards to the draft.
§ 3. Further measures permitted under Article 49, to enable the defence of the nation and to at present maintain deterrence toward the aggressor states, are to be implemented with immediate effect. The nation must be able within years end to commit all institutions, resources, means of production as well as society to prolonged conflict. The executive and state departments are to conceive and put in motion contingency plans for both domestic and military fronts; including the stockpiling of vital resources, protection of sites, installations, facilities and infrastructure of strategic interest, mobilisation of all levels of society for a possible war effort.

To the Office of National Intelligence
Top Secret

I am writing to put a good offer on the table. All of us, and much of the world, are all too aware of the Shahid threat that has sprung so suddenly to life in Wanka and Ummayah, and make no mistake, this is a danger not to be underestimated. While more of our people who identify as Saxon perhaps have more affinity to Wankans than to Sylvans, our bond and ties to Sylva, through its control of this region, is undeniable, and its role as protector and developer not forgotten. And now, with a hostile Shahid central government in power in Kronstadt, we, like our brothers in Prussia, Memel and Pomerania, have little interest in being part of a state which is reversing all the progress thanks to Casaterran enlightenment and returning our nation to the darkness of the medieval times. The agreement signed with the Wankan government in August last year is nothing but a ceasefire, allowing the SS and the military to crush the Prussian rebels. And when they are done, they will turn on us; the Erus Accords will be abrogated, and Sylva will find her very heartland threatened by an expansionist Wanka. While Sonneborn and his Patriots were contented with the recovery of all Wankan territory, the Ulama, like when it ran the country as the Holy Empire, is militant, expansionist and aggressive. The terror shadow that the free world lives in is solely a product of the expansion of the extreme Shahid sects, almost all originating from Wanka- the people who run the country today. It is therefore in the interest of the free world to crush this evil before it entrenches itself in the form of a nation-state.

We must, however, make our aims clear. One is either the independence of Saxony, possibly in union with the Prussian Confederation. Alternatively, if the Tripartite manages to force the current National Social Justice Party and the Ulama from power, we wish to be part of a democratic, federal system as devised by our late chancellor Meinhof. While we envision that such a state will be friendly toward the Tripartite and will repay the help offered in such trying times, we do need to make clear that nothing other than the full independence and sovereignty of Wanka and her territories is acceptable; a repeat of the Treaty of Hessen will be kept off the table. Saxony will continue to be a demilitarised zone as defined by the Erus Accords.

On these conditions, this is what we propose. The premise is that Sylva secretly invades and occupies Saxony. The pretext, which should come after Saxony has been secured, will be that Wanka had broken the Erus Accords by moving more armed military assets into the region than permitted (evidence could be the SS and air units that have covertly been using Saxony as base), that we have invited you in (which, although illegal, is true), and that to ensure that the Saxon people will retain their right to self-determination in the form of a referendum which will decide the status of the country. This referendum, regardless of true outcome, we will report as 70-80% as for independence. Any more justifications will lend credence to this action.

Before that however, Sylvan troops, preferably unmarked, will cross secretly into Saxony. Our border guards and Landwehr troops will have arrested any SS personnel, opened the borders, and will continue to round up SS and other pro-Wankan personnel in the state. The Sylvan Army’s primary purpose will be to surround Wankan military assets within our borders- they will receive the option of defecting over, or will be disarmed and allowed to return to Wanka. The operation should preferably go with as little bloodshed and noise as possible: the Wankan command will be caught in surprise and unable to muster a response before you have secured the Weser. We know that Wankan troops have been explicitly ordered not to open fire unless given the direct order from the High Command. The seizure of Saxony should give our alliance against Kronstadt a good advantage and starting position for any conflict with them.

Timing will be crucial. We know that the Prussians will be mounting a counterattack in this winter, and we can expect the Wankan army to be embroiled in heavy fighting with them toward the end of the year. While the enemy is distracted, this will be the excellent opportunity to strike: we can schedule the Sylvan takeover of Saxony for the New Year, which gives both of us sufficient time to prepare and discuss the finer points of our plan, provided you accept this.

On behalf of the Saxon state and people,
Bernard von Riesgau
Minister-President, Saxony

Deus Vult [IC]

Deus Vult [IC]

United We Stand?

The People's Will

Operation Windhund

Fluid Frontlines

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