Peoples Republic of the Commonwealth Community & News Thread

[Veluchia]

Kellar Projects
North-Eastern Nordesaf
23:41

National media had called the recent Veluchian weather the "Worst in over Half a Century". It wasn't hard to see where they got that idea from, with nearly every day since late September being little more than a complete whiteout and freezing temperatures. The few short hours where the snowfall would subside never lasted long, and not long after the streets would be back in natures icy grip once again.

Of course, the Veluchian people were used to frigid temperatures. Snowfall was usually common from early September to early April, and the summers were not cold but definitely were not hot either. But this recent and continuing whiteout was too much for the country to bear. Many businesses and schools remained closed, roads gridlocked, people stranded in their homes. Over 1000 people had died due to the conditions - mostly rural residents or the elderly through slipping or hypothermia. On top of that most of the country's airports were either closed or plauged with delays, the country's only public-use spaceport was closed indefinitely due to the conditions, and the country was battling occasional power brownouts.

However, while many businesses remained closed, and schoolchildren gleefully enjoyed their time off, civil-servants such as the Police had to get to work rain, sleet or shine. The recent tragedy at the Nordesaf Stock Exchange tripled the importance of a reliable police presence.

Months of investigation had hit countless snags and dead-ends. The terrorists who pulled off the attack were professionals of the highest order, they covered all of their tracks. Even surveillance camera imaging and DNA testing brought up no results on VISA's databases, not even on the International Criminal Register. It was like these men just didn't exist. However, one possible lead had showed up. According to forensic analysis, the remains of the bus that had been filled with explosives and driven into the underground parking lot of the Nordesaf Stock Exchange contained the DNA of one "Bulus Tawfiq"

Bulus's file showed him as a 27 year old bus driver living in the Keller Projects of Nordesaf. His file was relatively clean apart from 2 counts of theft and an aggravated assault charge. There was no real indication as to why the individual in question would be implicated in the worst terror attack in Veluchian history, but that didn't matter right now, what mattered was apprehending him and finding out what he knew.

And that is why a convoy of armed police was descending on the Projects itself. The Keller Projects was one of the area's in Nordesaf that had not survived the trials of the mid 21st Century well. The area was mostly made up of high-rise apartment building's and cheap condominiums. The place was filled with drug-addicts, dealers and youth gangs and was the sort of place the Veluchian government would rather people didnt mention, and even though welfare changes had been introduced to help alleviate the impoverished community, they have had little noticable effect. The police convoy consisted of two Tactical Squads from the Nordesaf PD who were being indepentendly commanded by VISA itself. The streets of the Keller Projects were quite now, since the Projects were a considerable distance from the bustling city centre.

It was a simple task, get the guy and get out...

[Loangousususus]

Folina

As the first groups enter territory, the representative, of which nine are currently pointed, that wished on war, becomes the presiding war leader.

His speech is sent onto computer after computer, TV after TV, radio after radio..
"War... war is upon us our men. We are a theocracy. Yes! A theocracy I will use the term. We are what people call life, happiness, all that a dear. Its time to rally a national trend to conduct militias by each of the 36 districts.

This is no time to die. This is time to fight. And we will die but for this, this is not the time.

I plan on dying of old age. As we all do. And we will make this happen."

Rallying cries across our 40 million strong are made online, in person, but mainly through action. As the group has some of the highest weapon rates per person, not to mention crime, groups are quickly organised.

Airplanes are repurposed for military and paid by government and business alike. They are here for the country, for if they lose it, what will happen to them? The manufactury industry is the quickest to respond with three separate monopolies agreeing to give resources and pull manpower together to supply the war effort.

Three militia armies of several thousands plan to meet you now.

[Folina]

all folinan troops shoot all hostiles on sight

[Folina]

UPDATE all fields and factories that supply the enemy war effort are bombed with napalm leaving many burned and dead so far 200 enemy troops are dead and 10,000 civilians are also dead in the wake of the heavy bombing campaign

[Duckzchwhitz]

UPDATE all fields and factories that supply the enemy war effort are bombed with napalm leaving many burned and dead so far 200 enemy troops are dead and 10,000 civilians are also dead in the wake of the heavy bombing campaign

These posts are of elementary school quality at best. I’ve said it numerous times already.

Make long and well thought out posts instead of pumping out mindless trash. This is an insult to our regional writing integrity.

[Acmeria]

all folinan troops shoot all hostiles on sight

Fuck you and your one sentence RP.

[Artzokza]

The year is 1999 the Artzokzan people of Terra are fed up with life in terra so to compromise the government decides to move them to Nova Terra.
The people are excited they know it will be a change and a good change, meanwhile the captain of the ship going to Nova Terra exclaims that it will take a long time, the people are ready.
So the ship sets off to Nova Terra, finally the people who are leaving Terra are happy.
A few days later they arrive in Nova Terra, they land off the coast of D.R Acmeria, they soon start migrating towards the region of Italy, they pass Pillowlandia, alast they made it to their new home the new Federation Of Artzokza in the region of Italy, the Artzokzan people are proud to call this their new home and become extatic for what lays ahead.

How Artzokza Got To Italy

[Confedracy]

The Coast of Edofasia
The pale green water thrashed at the longship. The water a bitter sting to all who would dare embrace it. Hosivir's ship swayed with the waves. They had set sail a week ago and had food for a few days more. But they goal was close. A small village on the southern coast of the great sea. Hosivir had never liked the raiding. Prefering to to trade blades and tools for food and beasts. He knew the price for disobeying Brynjar. The Capitan of their party. Several hundred men had been sailing. Much larger then the average raiding party. What was more odd is that a shipfull of women and animals was sailing with them. This was no average raid. This group was meant to capture this village to make it their home. He let out a loud grunt as he swung the oar. The Horn blew. A seagull had been sighted. The men halted their advance and donned their armor and weapons before pushing on again. The mens voices rose to sing a song of their homelands

The earth is covered in ice
There is nowhere to set the table
Full-fledged birds can fly far.
Full-fledged birds can fly far.
But even though I look everywhere
There's just one color
What can a raven eat
What can a raven eat?

Dead, lying on its side is
A fat mutton near a fence,
Who once was fast.
Once was fast.
'Caw, caw! Ravens, come here!
The distant green summers have passed!

The Village of Velon
It was a cloudy day. A cold wind whipped through the town as snow began to fall. The days of harvest had passed and another winter approached. While still cold here the winter was considered mild compared to the far north. Stories have been told here for generations of the Northmen who come with the cold winds and steal their food. Brutal and swift they would come to shore and demand stores of food. The villages the handed it over we said to gain their favor and be left be. Those that refused were said to be burnt to the ground. The farmer hurried on his walk home. Then on the wind he heard a distant horn. His eyes widened in fear. The legends of Northmen and their brutality flooding his mind. He ran. The distant warning bell began to sound as he burst through his door to a concerned family. They fled to a grain cellar and would try to hide.


Hosivir was the first ashore. He and a band of five men walked to the village gate. The red banner emblazed with The Hammer of Wer Arbeitet. He spoke to the young militiamen upon the stockade before him. "Jungs! Sie werden nur sterben, wenn Sie auf einen Kampf bestehen! Ich gebe dir meine Axt als Zeichen des Friedens. Öffne das Tor und deine Leute werden nicht geschädigt." The language was foreign to them but they watched in confusion as he set his axe to the earth and stared at them waiting for something. Nothing happened for about 5 minutes when the warrior sighed and picked up his axe. "Sie lassen uns keine Wahl. Ich hatte gehofft, wir könnten als ein Volk leben. Ihr trotz muss niedergelegt werden." He walked back to the rest of the party and told them that negotations had failed. Brynjar smirked. Knowing full well the poor Hosivir knew not to speak in their language. But rather spoke in his own tounge. "You tried lad. Honorable if a waste of time" The warhorn sounded again and the men rose their shields. Marching forward to the wooden gate of Velon. The militiamen fired arrow after arrow into them but could not pierce the plated shields. The raiders in the far back fired arrows of their own and cut the men down. Hosivir and his axemen tore apart the gates and rushed inside. A small line of twenty guards stood before them. Hosivir threw the axe in his hand into the guard in front of him knocking him to the ground. He pounced on the man like a wolf and cut his throat with a dagger. The guards broke ranks and routed fleeing to try and save their families. The warriors pushed aside women and children in their path to the town lord's hall. They surrounded the wooden building and held position. Finally Brynjar himself walked through the line and shouted "Petty ruler! You're exploitation of the peasants here is at and end! Come and face me with honor or die as a worm! The lord walked from the doors. A small pale man in fine clothes. A sword in his belt. It hardly looked like he could raise the thing. The two guards at his side however. Looked much more capable. A small circle of raiders formed. Only one man was leaving this fighting pit now. One guard stepped forward and drew his blade. "I will face you demon of the north!" He rushed at Brynjar sword in hand. Brave but foolish. Brynjar merely sidestepped the man and as he tried to stick his blade into Brynjar he found himself with his armed cut off. He collapsed from the pain and shock as Brynjar walked forward. The other guard tried to run but faced angry raiders shouting foreign insults at him until he dropped his blade and knelled before Brynjar. Begging his life to be spared. He kicked the man and two raiders dragged him off. Finally he came to the small lord of the town. He would get no such mercy as he cowerd. His life was ended in one swift stroke of the sword.

Later that night
Hosivir sat among his friends and drank merrily on stolen wine. Tents pitched made of furs and leather around a campfire. The scene was the same all around town for the most part. He was glad he didn't have to join in on the Council of Fate. The council gathered locals and captured guards and had the people chose what they would do. They could join the raiders as The People of Wer Arbeitet or they would be put to death. Each person got to choose their own fate. Most accepted their fate and joined them. The Brave or foolhardy refused and were killed. What astonished the survivors is how kindly their overlords were to them. Acting as if there had no just been a battle hours ago. Hosivir explained to a confused woman who was sure that her fate had been sealed. "You are one of the people now. All of the people are equal. The past is forgotten and you are one of us" this brought some comfort to her and she continued home. He gazed into the fire and knew the work here was far from done

[Bergcornopolis]

The BISC McDaniels In Nova Terran Orbit December 1, 8:30 am Imperial Time
Admiral Loutaious stood looking out of the windows staring at the plumes of smoke that where faintly dotting the surface of Nova Terra. Air Strikes and military offensives had ramped up since the attack on The Covonum merely two days before the carrier was still slowly descending deeper into the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. A failure that could have been far worse if the Prime Minister had not left when he did. "Admiral" a young voice announced as a blue light illuminated behind him in a flicker. When he turned around he was standing face to face with the hologram of Fleet Admiral Bolan, "It's time Admiral launch the secondary colonizing missions towards the central and gulf territories in the Amirekas. I will tell you when the rest of your fighters will be needed but for now, they are needed to protect the BISC Lee as well as your own ship. Especially since the Lee is supplying the Eastern Campaign, do not fail me again..." The blue light left the room as fear and pain entered the Admiral's face. The bustle returned to the bridge as the ships launched one by one from the hangars on the ship.

[Hydraxim Imperialis]

Duckzchwitz Hyper Carrier, Peace conference (Hydraxim - Quo God War)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The carrier was a truly immense sight, reaching kilometers long, and awe-ing any foreigners that set eyes such a beautiful sight. The internals of the ship reflected the external, practical yet holding an astonishing beauty. However, the diplomats weren't here to gaze and dream, they were here to provide an official end to the war in Highlock.

Two diplomats (Diplomatic Corp.) were accompanied by a small guard of 'Se'Bok Trusten' (SBT), a guard selected by the Consul himself from the four branches of CRO. The guards stayed at an almost uncomfortable distance from the diplomats. The only reason they replied with is "They expect a Leader, but will be greeted by diplomats..." The two D.I. didn't quite understand the implications of this, although they did realize that it was considered a safety hazard to have any high ranking officials on board a foreign vessel in close quarters with an enemy. The situation held enough tension as is, and with the potential insult of the Consul not showing it could fall apart rapidly. the SBT guards were equipped with a light equipment, wearing a small bulletproof vest and carrying a small pistol in their coat pocket. They had on a white uniform with golden trim, they wore masks to conceal their face and covered their eyes with blue glowing glasses. A long coat surrounded their body and their hands sat just above their belt as to reach for their pistols at a moments notice. The DI wore something rather opposite to the SBT, they wore plain black suits resembling lawyers rather than the Imperial guards standing just behind them.

The room they entered was merely one for show, it held a large window with Nova Terra in view and a sleek metallic table. On one side of the room sat Lord Healy of Quo God and his own personal guard, on the table were files and seals all ready for signing. Lord Healy stood and welcomed the diplomats into the room. The diplomats gave a slight bow forward, not defiant, however not as willing as one would expect a citizen to act in the presence of royalty or leadership.

"Where is your mythical Consul?" Healy questioned in an almost mocking tone.
"It was deemed 'un-secure' to bring the consul to such a... well, un-secure position." The diplomat said quickly in a regardless tone. "Well, shall we get these proceeding underway?"

Nearly half an hour later the two groups emerged from the conference, shaking hands as they exited.

"I hope this concludes all of our conflicts," Healy gave a slight smirk and offered his hand to the lead diplomat.
"May it provide peace and prosperous relations with Hydraxim, Quo God, and all of the UF."
And with that they left, hoping to never see one another again.

[OOC: I'll post more later, this is just a quick RP I wanted to get out of the way so I can write more tomorrow]

[Bergcornopolis]

BISC Lee In Nova Terran Orbit December 5, 9:36 Pm Imperial Time
Drop ships and other cruisers where flowing out of the carrier's hangars down towards the surface bellow deploying troops weapons, food and supplies to the eastern front of the war. The fighters from the McDaniels were providing an improvised defense to the carrier after the recent attack on the Covonum. The movement towards ending the war through force was gaining more and more support as the losses of the enemy grew. Shuttles were being sent across the eastern front supplying new forces to the present forces in Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina, Tennessee, Pennsylvania, and New York. The Imperial Banner would soon fly proudly over all of the rightful Bergcornian land.

Lafayette, Louisiana December 5, 9:40 Pm
The last lines of the American defenses were in retreat. Tanks and soldiers ran through the city blocks and swept the final few buildings and sewer systems searching for any resistance. The plumes of fire grew from the surrounding area as the bombers continued to push farther into the American Louisiana. The Western front was slowly further and further North. The Americas were burning the plan was working. Louisana was on the cusp of falling and once fallen so would Arkansas and the other Western states of the Americas.

Houston, Texas December 5, 9:45 Pm
Commodore Karison's landing Craft silently breached the Houston Bay area Troops flowed into the adjunct Capital of the Texan Republic. The Commodore's Mission was to force the collapse of the Republic in one fell swoop. They were now on the clock the city's new capital defenses would begin their night time scan in 30 minutes and they had to get to the capital undetected which was 2 miles away. They'd be cutting it close but they had no time to think of the odds. The odds were never in their favor. However with light armor and minimal weapons on them the 2 mile distance would be no problem for him and his men.

Toronto, New Velonia December 6, 12:36 Am
The City had fallen asleep as usual by this time of night. That's when Danako and the New Velionian Anti-Alasian League decided to make their move. Months after the unsuccessful attack on Toronto the Bergcornian Military had not moved to reattempt such an attack. The limited communication Danako had with his former commanders suggested that even if just 5 anti-air defenses were to be destroyed the Bergcornians could finish leveling the city. The shuttle from Buffalo was awaiting the signal over the city out of range of the defenses and the radar detection software. The shuttle would be the first forces into the city if the rebels on the ground could pull it off. Danako had planned to take down all 15 of the anti-air towers that lined the city. Operating in the shadows a tunnels of the city the rebels were able to quickly sneak around with out detection. Danako and his squad were responsible with taking out the 4 that lined the Toronto islands on the south side of the operation. Danako's men hurdled through the tunnels and sewers each individual carrying more then enough explosives to eliminate the 4 towers them selves a back up plan if they were to be found out or if they ran into unexpected troubles. Danako slowly made his way to the furthest tower every few meters stopping to check his location and the status of the rest of his team. One by one they reached their targets. When Danako emerged he realized that he was one of the few that would have to fight to near the intended point of detonation. He quietly emerged from the sewer into a dark and secluded area when he looked out towards the city he noticed that the lights slowly go dark on the west side of the city leaving the few lights from the construction crews illuminated on the east side. That was their sign one by one bursts of light from the explosions lit up regions in the sky. Danako Drew a quick breath and began running towards the tower with one of his bombs tucked under his arm the others were left in the bag which he left by the wall. With his handgun firing he slowly shot himself a path beating and pushing forward as he was shot at. Finally his years of being a running back for the imperial college was paying off. Pushing through the lines one buy one slowly being shot more and more some being caught by the bullet proof vest others grazing on hitting his arms and legs. Once backed against the wall he realized that he was not going to be able to make the run back he was bleeding out profusely and the gun shots became more and more numerous. So Danako, placed the bomb in the proper position, and pushed the detonator. In an instant Danako's body was burned to a crisp. The tower then fell in a column of fire spreading rubble across the compound detonating the other three bombs only spreading more carnage. From the shuttle above the path was clearly laid not knowing of the cost that the NVAL had paid moved into towards the city to only further the destruction the Velonians would be bled out until they broke.

[Pillowlandia]

---

His Illustrious Highness of Bergcornopolis,

Upon the recent matters of state regarding armed affairs and conflict within the northern reaches of the various sovereign territories composing the mass of Nova Terra there has been borne to the attention of His Supreme Imperial Majesty of The Commonwealth and his government that there is in effect a status of relations which is neither mutually beneficial between our sovereign states nor legally permissible.

Specifically, upon the matters of the sustained membership of Pillowlandia within the supranational organization known as the Coalition of Free Nations, which you are doubtless well aware of its existence and strategic obligations of member states. This matter, as a reminder is the course of affairs, regards the current offensive and hostile raised state of arms between Bergcornian nationals and the nationals of various signatories of the CFN to be directly in contradiction to existing international standards and unsustainable for any short or long term period.

As a matter of treaty obligations the Holy Imperial Commonwealth of Pillowlandia and her various constituent realms and allies must offer forth a singular and final warning and request for the immediate cessation of hostile actions should restoration of full relations be expected or permissible. Such failure as to comply henceforth will represent a legally obligated state of raised arms between The Commonwealth and your own State. This failure will result in immediate termination of diplomatic relations, economic retaliation, and should such measures be required military action in pursuit of an enforced peace.

However, such hostilities shall not be allowed as a matter of course to manifest themselves upon the dignity of esteemed Terran states and be pursued within the sea, air, land, or space of Terra and her immediate space. For the preservation of life, prosperity, and reasonable disagreement any such hostilities would and must restrict themselves upon the sea, air, land, or space of Nova Terra. To enforce such restrictions there shall be an immediate and effective military blockade located within the Belt to cease the movement of any craft or materiel from or for the state of Bergcornopolis intended to pursue active or future campaigns within this series of clinicals. Failure to comply will result in termination of associated craft and crew without quarter, and shall of course come to pass only should the refusal of the most reasonable request above occur.

In hopes of peace; be it enforced through pen or sword,
Director Marshal
of Majesty's Diplomatic Service

HMS Avalon - Type 002C Pattern Cruiser
2nd Colonial Orbital Squadron
High Nova Terran Orbit

---

The harsh blue of the ships Culporian drive illuminated the black pressure hull of the Avalon as it burned into its high orbit. The cylindrical hull broke in several places, red hot radiators extending outward to dissipate the heat of the crafts fusion reactor and engines. The rest of the hull was littered in weapon mounts and airlocks of varying sizes. One such airlock was Flight Deck 2B, loaded with a half dozen secured pods capable of egressing two dozen crew members each in case of emergency and another half dozen shuttles ranging from single occupant tenders to surface strike craft.

The lighting within the flight deck shifted to a warm almost daytime like glow as the pressure equalized from the latest landing. Already the cargo deck of the shuttle was lowering as several pallets of foodstuffs were standing by to be unloaded. Those and several spare parts to replenish the stores expended during the crafts transit from its major overhaul at Terra were all included. More pressing however were the three midrank naval officers who bounded off the shuttle, their maglock boots clicking with each step, and into the zero-g environment of the cruiser.

The passed from the outer decks, nonessential sections, towards the interior command deck by way of the central hall that connected all of the ship together and was itself bustling with people going about the their duties aboard the several hundred person craft. Finally they reached the outer blast door to the command deck, where the two pressure suited guards were stood on either side of the door with rifles in hand.

“Cmd. Derry Ortega, NTCOM. Urgent dispatch for His Majesty’s Commander of Craft.” The lead officer of the two stated, crisply bringing his hand up in a salute. Next to him his companion followed suit.

Moments later the blast door hauled itself open, its black surface the same color and material as the ships hull (and the same color as the tethers of a space elevator). Walking through was a vastly different world than the primary passage. Instead of being brightly illuminated, it was dim and only lit by scattered bulbs and the red hue of the running lights along the designated floor. All around though were two dozen consoles and a massive main viewing screen, this screen was divided among several inputs and feeds.

“Gentlemen, I’ve been informed to expect your arrival. What say you?” He asked, eyes scanning horizontally across their upper chest. A pass once left gave him rank, citations, and name; once right gave him memorization.

The officer accompanying Commander Ortega quickly produced a small plastic case from a pocket, even the dim light catching the silicon wafer. He then handed it over to the ships commander, whose own dress was decidedly more simple and that of a jumpsuit seen across the whole range of crew at work.
“You will find that wafer gives the appropriate authorizations and verifications for our statements, and includes several ideas for approaching the problem should we need you solve it that the planners station side decided to give you as a basis. Discretion remains yours.” Derry stated, before waving in the general direction of Nova Terra which was far outside the deeply buried bridge.

“As such,” Derry continued again, “your problem is the elimination of BISC Lee and McDaniels in all possible haste. Naturally, the preservation of your command is vitally important above all other directives. Further, disruption of air campaigns would be beneficial but not a goal of preeminence. Any questions Commander?”

“What sort of time frame upon activation?”


“Less than a cycle.”

[Bergcornopolis]

Imperial Command Head Quarters REDACTED Bergcornopolis, Terra
The Emperor, Prime Minister, and Fleet Admiral rushed down into the lower levels further and further down they rushed the Elevator was under repair from the violent meltdown from the Intelligence Deputy just weeks before. The War front had stagnated over the holiday months the war effort, however, was running low on supplies. Even with the secure agricultural powerhouses that were recently claimed in Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas along with the original Agricultural powerhouses in Gulf coast and far south. Yet the production was still not enough to support the billions of troops that are in the system. "Sir!" the Minister of Defense yelled as the Emperor entered with the Prime Minister and Fleet Admiral to the Comand room. The screens that covered the walls showed the current populations and equipment levels of the colonies. "We are no longer able to resupply our troops on Nova Terra. The Pillowlandian Delegation has begun blockading The Belt preventing our shuttles from passing through our stations in The Belt and its carrier is waiting for your commands. We don't have too long the rations can only last for a few more weeks and none of the local harvests are going to be ready for 2 months. We need that blockade to break so our forces to continue that or we need a Nova Terran trading partner." The Minister of defense continued. The walls Illuminated with the map and the supply routes that were all flashing red as they were in danger of shriveling up.
"Initiate project Green Thumb..." the Emperor began "I want all possible rations to be prepared and sent to the front lines. Then I want all industries seized by the government to produce more fighters, more bombers, more shuttles, more carriers. I want all available carriers to move to the belt to engage the blockade so that the rations can get there before the remaining rations run out. Let, the Science Corps know that I want them to begin testing of the REDACTED." The Emperor was clearly fuming... veins were clearly popping out of his neck and face. He then became weak as if a wave had just rolled over him. He was suddenly out of breath. He was quickly rushed to a chair with panic suddenly rushing over his face.
"Sir, and what about the BISC Lee and McDaniels?" Asked the Fleet Admiral "There have been several threats against them by the Pillowlandians in the past few days..."
"Pull them away from Nova Terra." The Emperor began clearly exhausted from just speaking. "Move them to engage the blockade from the other side of the belt to burst a hole further in the blockade." out of breath again the emperor inhaled sharply "Inform them that they will need to evacuate and empty out the Carrier of all unnecessary goods and move them to the surface..." Sharply inhaling again. "Get them out of there by the end of this cycle..." The Emperor then passes out the War Cabinet arises and rushes to the Emperor's Chair.
"Convey his wishes to the military, and call for the Surgeon General...'' The Prime Minister Yelled.
The room devolved into chaos. phones were buzzing papers were being passed the full might of the Imperial War Machine had been awoken.

Downtown Bergcornopolis City, Terra
The streets were bustling with commotion the draft notice was just sent out Billions of Men and Women were being conscripted to join the military service the notice in the newspapers and on all of the signs read the following.

From the Desk of the Emperor
Offical Notice

On the 8th of February of this year, a blockade was officially established in The Belt officially blocking the Empire of Bergcornopolis from connecting with our Territories in Nova Terra. As the war in Nova Terra between our glorious Empire and the paltry nations of America JB and New Velonia who find it fit to stand in our way of expanding our realms. The need for an open trade route is needed or our men and fellow citizens will begin to die. That is why Today February 9th the Empire of Bergcornopolis is hereby declaring WAR on the Pillowlandian Menace both in the theaters in Nova Terra and The Belt. From here on out the Empire of Bergcornopolis will be drafting 2 billion able body workers and Terran citizens to engage in the Pillowlandia Military that is threatening our way of life. The remaining population will be moved into the immediate workforce to begin production of the necessary goods to continue the war effort. The following Draft Numbers need to report to their closest Military office:

4672890
3249886
6529839
1234567
3248969
0928734
0000001
7328047
0987632
8324928

[Pillowlandia]

HMS Avalon - Type 002C Pattern Cruiser
2nd Colonial Orbital Squadron
High Nova Terran Orbit

---

“Range at five light-seconds. They’ve seen us Commander.” Sensor Tech Malachy Keegan stated, reaching to secure himself to his station. His right hand drifted towards a small golden pin on the inside of his jumpsuit, an engraved intaglio of his patron deity, as he muttered a quiet prayer to himself.

Commander Owen Rowe stood at his own terminal among the bridge (one of three distinct nerve centers onboard the large cigar shaped craft). His own screens were filled with feeds which were both separate from the primary display and common to the communal display on the forward war. His own expression was tense, as he played through several potential outcomes in his head. “Very well, we’ve our orders. Initial communications, tight beam. Make sure we’re not overhead.”

“Aye sir, hailing hostiles on tight beam.” There were several long moments, the signal taking five whole seconds to arrive even at the rapid speed of light and then several more before the handshake and return signal. It was in reality little more than twenty seconds before the signal was established despite it feeling easily twice that. “Signal established Commander.”

Rowe nodded in acknowledgement, “Admiral Loutaious, Fleet Admiral Bolan. This is Commander Rowe of His Majesty’s Ship Avalon. You stand in violation of His Imperial Majesty’s order of military blockade of Nova Terra and her space to all craft of Bergcornopolis. Stand down at once.”

The response took several seconds, even factoring in the light delay of distance. “You must be kidding Commander. Your command is outnumbered, and even should you hold the capacity we should face death before dishonor. Disengage and we might spare your command.”

The connection was terminated there, as the Lee and Mcdaniels began maneuvering to engage the Avalon. Rowe himself simply shrugged, both to stretch and as an apathetic gesture. He had tried to negotiate with them, now they would pay the price.

“Set condition One throughout the ship, and bring us to general quarters. Fire Lance batteries, two salvos.” Rowe said, his voice calm and measured as he began tapping away at this console several potential navigation plots. “Secure the bridge against intrusions.” he finished, giving the formal order for the two power armor equipped marines to secure the bulkhead.

Outside the fairly large passive radiators began to pull themselves into the hull, safeguarded by armored panels. In conjunction, the massive fusion reactor at the heart of the ship began increasing output, trickle charging the capacitor needed for the ship's many rail gun emplacements and laser point defense.

All the while, round ports on the hull, spaced a quarter circumference apart, rolled open and let out massive fifteen meter missiles. Small maneuvering thrusters propelled them clear of the hull. Forty total launch tubes let forth their cargo, a second missile flying out by the time the final tube in each section released its own missile. Once they cleared the five kilometer distance from the hull, and half a kilometer from each other, the primary drive of the missile ignited. A mixture of fission and metallic hydrogen fuels propelled them at an acceleration of nearly two thousand Gs towards their target.

All that was now needed was for them to close, and for the enemy to return fire.

[Pillowlandia]

Legate Irvin Abel
Champion’s Host of Bakir
Bakir, Comeristan

---

The inner city was loud, even now that the shells had stopped falling- for now at least. With raining shells having ceased for the moment, the streets were filled once more with citizens and soldiers alike. The soldiers moved at a brisk pace, the initial weeks of poor response by the Comeristani army shifting now as the sleeping body had been awakened and little touched armories emptied to the waiting hands of summoned soldiers. Thus was the newly organized Champion’s Host of Bakir, a assorted cohort of a half million bodies equipped inadequately with outmoded rifles and doctrine.

This outmoded state was where the Legate came in, the host was organized under a general of the Comeristani people but he had been given near total leeway in the control of it. This was both a result of his training, a distinguished record at both the Imperial War Academy and Staff College and a skillful resume of field actions, and the nearly two hundred thousand repeating rifles, and several hundred modern artillery pieces at or making their way to Bakir along rail.

Despite this influx of weapons, the forces remains under equipped- hardly more than one in ten men issued with the new rifles and instead still operating trapdoor rifles. Despite this, the troops had begun a steady forward advance outward from the city. Their task was to figure out what exactly had occurred to the Republican forces and to salvage what they could. That, combined with an effort to entrench along the now empty front would provide depth from which to protect Bakir.

“If we don’t advance now they’ll be back- at least double force, perhaps even more.” Field Marshal Brennan stated, drawing his finger across the series of maps which took up the whole of this converted apartment. “With their line broken, we ought be capable of exploiting the gap and buy us additional time to fortify the city.”

“Such an offensive would be suicidal, and consume an inordinate quantity of our very scat resources. The opposition is simply too well equipped against the forces at our disposal, and will be for several weeks.” Legate Abel responded, himself shuffling the various markers being used to represent the various divisions and formations that he had at his disposal. “Not to mention, such a free handover of field samples of arms being freely provided by my state would be less than ideal. For though they lack any civility, they are certainly not lacking in intelligence.”

“Then lend me a force, no more than five divisions. Nothing but the old issue, volunteers only, rations for but a week or three. You know we need more time, and these men are willing to die for king and country.” Brennan retorted, already having convinced himself of the merits to his argument.

After all, it was true. They required more time- preferably years more- to prepare enough to stop these foreigners, Abel thought. “Very well, you’ll have your volunteers. Do you intend to perish in glory too?”

“Just remember my name when the smoke clears sir, what we’ve done for King and Country.”, responded Brennan. With that he offered a crisp, and final, salute before turning to leave the command center.

The streets below, already filled with men grudgingly marching about in attempts to make the city into a veritable citadel began to fill with near silent buzz. The call for volunteers, entirely suicidal and doomed, was being passed amongst the men each daring the other to serve forth. Brennan would have his men— and then some.

HMS Fury, 111th Dreadnaught Squadron (Reinforced)
Outside King Hamar Bay, Grand Kingdom of Comeristan
July, 1903

---

The Fury, Eithne, and Kingmaker slung low in the water, smoke rising slowly from their smokestacks. They formed the phalanx of the 111th squadron, the oldest of the three- the Kingmaker- hardly having been in the water more than four years and the second of the latest Dreadnaught class. They were the first of their sort worldwide, an experiment in a gun scheme of all large caliber guns.

Despite their firepower and capability they were in the minority of their squad, and especially in the current formation. With them were another six heavy ships of the line, with mixed batteries of big guns and small guns. All around were two cruisers— outdated to the point of being relegated to escort duty— five destroyers, a fleet oiler for the members of the Dreadnaught and two coal colliers for the rest of the ships. Together they steamed, a strung out series of three lines which at this moment were running with few lights but those needed to ensure they could remain in visual contact of their compatriots.

From the Fury a young sailor stood on the deck, alongside a junior officer as they flashed a coded message directly across to the ships in their line— pausing to receive a response. Notes were being written hastily, ready to be run inside for decoding and relay to the bridge. Above the moon hung at little over an eighth crescent, bringing a soft eerie glow to the waves as they smashed against steel. It was as the moon began its trip to drop below the horizon, early morning preparing to rise from its slumber, that the three columns of ships broke apart to each complete their tasks.

The fleet supply ships remained behind with the two cruisers, and a lone destroyer, steaming at a distance from shore well beyond its horizon. They would remain out of the engagement, and stood ready to avoid combat more so than they were ready to accept it. The other twelve ships were divided amongst two formations, Two of the Dreadnaught class vessels took three of the smaller King’s Hammer class battlecruisers, and a sole destroyer; the remainder in a second battle force.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Fire!” yelled the gun commander, through the haze of gunsmoke. The morning sun rose behind them, over the bay and protecting the batteries against the full brunt of the Armus naval craft. The large fifteen inch gun in the concrete bunker, and the half dozen other guns like it on this side of the harbor plus those mirrored across, provided a fierce resistance to the bombardment. Of similar size to the heaviest guns mounted by Republican ships present, the shore batteries greater stability provided vastly superior accuracy than any naval gun and at far longer ranges too.

That much at least had contributed to keeping the enemy forces at bay, and even landing a handful of shots which had done superficial damage. It had been a pattern of approach and retreat for the better part of three days now, following the rise and fall of the sun. Deep within the bay sat what they had come for— the sorry remainder of the Comeristani fleet and a huddling of merchant ships trapped by the blockade. Of course, the forcing away of the Republic assets was not without loss. Two batteries had been blown apart, guns out of service, and the bunker riddled with shrapnel and holes.

Now though as the sun rose, the delicate dance had resumed. The regular thum of cannons firing, and naval shells landing all about, was at this point more assuring to the citizens of Hamar than the silence—silence meant that the fighting had stopped, and stopped fighting would mean the Republic was coming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was how it had been during the morning, and as dusk fell once more the shooting had reached a reduced tempo. A further coastal battery had been destroyed— and the coastal battery had finally picked off an armored cruiser at a distance of 10,000 yards. Such victory was while cost effective—three coastal batteries were cheaper to build than even a destroyer— less than economical given the number of batteries needed to destroy the now seven ships slowly whittling down the coastal fortifications. ‘

The sun was slung long, its gaze long over the waves. The only thing interrupting its tired gaze was the smokestacks of 111th squadron— unwelcome but technically neutral craft to any Republican lookout. They had been visible since early afternoon, undoubtedly noticed and their course, having been tracked as of a passing nature, noted before attention returned to tracking in the guns against the coastal citadel.

The republican ships themselves were arranged in a line, the heaviest guns central and their destroyers flanking the front and rear of the line— ready to peel off and engage any attempts to run their blockade of the harbor from warship or merchant alike. They sat perched at the edge of their range, and towards the longer range of the coastal weapons which returned fire. To move closer would allow greater accuracy— for both parties.

All of which culminated upon the tactical turn executed by the Cenaesian line, itself spreading the heavier craft more evenly, which placed them directly towards the Republican craft and themselves in the path of sun. Precisely at the angle of approach which blinded any lookout. It was then that they put on speed, stroking their boilers as they belched forth great columns of smoke.

By which time that the Cenaesian force was noticed they had drawn to just under nine thousand yards off the portside of the Republican naval detachment. It was too late. HMS Fury, upon the spear of the battle-line, let forth a rolling barrage—just as she had done upon her gunnery drills. Fire leapt forward from Turret No. 1, its twin 15” cannons letting forth their shells at an armored cruiser in the same moment as the final rays of sunlight dropped below the horizon behind her.

“Five charges! On the double!” Gunnery Captain Tierney Nollaig shouted, rubbing soot off of his bronze pocket watch. Keeping time with his watch, and an ear (singular-given his need to hear both the bridge and his gun crew) on the speaker which relayed commands from the bridge down to his turret. That and the panel which illuminated specific shell types and charge counts for his gun were his tools, and his voice was the means of conveying it.

From below the round was being hoisted up, the chain clanking as it was moved by hand at a fairly significant speed. As it reached the powder compartment a small armored hatch, which would serve little protection in any real explosion, slid apart to allow the cart up. Smarly closing behind the cart, it served as a rest for the now stationary cart with the two shells that weighed more than five of his men combined a piece as the bags of gunpowder were stacked neatly upon the cart for their last upward movement.

Ten seconds after it had paused it resumed its journey, rushing upward to be shoved into the breach. “Ten seconds!” Nollaig shouted, reaching now for the small switch next to the panel which told him the needed charge. The cart pulled to a stop, and each round was pulled onto a seperate track, four men each handling the shell as it was pushed into place and then mechanically shoved by an actuating arm into the breech and followed by powder charges. The switch was hit and, the gun crew having shifted out of the path, the first cannon breech sliding back violently before being followed likewise by the second.

Out flew the projectiles, themselves with a velocity in the thousands of meters a second, with a gentle turn given by the rifled barrel of the cannon stabilizing it. As it left the barrels length, a burst of dense black smoke expanded behind and around the shell before taking its own path as it swept across back across the deck and to sea by the winds grasp. The shell though continued, punching a hole through the air as it screamed closer to its target. At 9,000 yards the distance covered was measured by little more than half a minute, as the armor piercing round found its mark in the lower turret deck of an opposition dreadnought.

The explosion of the magazine illuminated the sky— pushing back the inky black of night if but for a few moments. The cruiser was alight as the water began to lap at the now gaping hull, a torrent flowing into its decks as the bow was pulled slowly downward as though grasped by a kraken below.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The electric light was harsh as the men played cards, the guns lay silent until it was time to play the deadly dance once more tomorrow. Thus the game of cards and cigars being passed was the collective worry of all gathered, from the gunnery captain to powder monkey, that death might be brought to them before they might bring death to their foes.

Yet, as they smoked and played the soft sound of running feet in the distance came closer, the sound of metal echoing as the heavy blast doors were pulled open and closed behind. All the noise announced the arrival of the courier, a scrawny child from the slums— lacking shoes and plainly malnourished. Yet the paper he held was replete in the gold foil of government officialdom, an officialdom never missing no matter the financial situation of Comeristan.

“What bring you child?” the gun’s commanding officer asked as he entered, reaching for the message. His voice was harsh, but his eyes soft— a child had no place in bunker liable to be shelled at any moment, especially one who had lacked any options in their life.

“Master Braoin, message from the Mayor. Says you goten orders from His Majesty himself. Something about friends coming to save the fleet.” he bubbled, his face glowing from the thought of heroes of myth riding to rescue the doomed men and ships.

Braoin simply kneeled in silence as he peeled open the wax seal to read the orders enclosed:

By royal command;
Reengage Republican naval force in support of allied offensive
HM

The message itself was brief, and hardly able to be validated except for the seal it had come with. In any case the message was clear- the blockade would be defeated here or the bay would be lost. As he folded the message once more he glanced toward the kid.

“Son, what’s your name.” He asked, looking over his more fair complexion— it was clear the child was a bastard of some Cenaesian merchant and a local, left upon their own to fend in the slums.

“Harper sir, Harper Hendrix. Mother says she named me for my father.” he said quietly, being just old enough to recognize his name was more a liability than asset no matter where he went.

Braoin drew a small envelope from his dress pocket, already marked for mail but withheld given the rather problematic item of mail not being permitted past the blockade. “I need something delivered, once the smoke clears.”

“Where in the city you need it, sir?”

“Not the city, once the smoke clears I need you to make your way to Moscou. 10th High Street, tell her Rollo sends his regards. Give her this envelope, she’ll know from there. Make sure to tell the mayor that Coastal Battery No. 6 has received its orders before you find passage.”

“I haven’t any money to buy passage sir.” Harper said, his voice betraying his confusion.

Braoin rose as he withdrew his gold plated pocket watch, chain and all, before reaching out to hand it to the child. “Then buy your way, the chain is of enough value to get you onboard and fed for the journey.”

“I couldn’t possibly sir, it’s yours.” Harper stated, trying to push the watch towards the officer.

Braoin simply shook his head, “You have Cenaesian blood kid, there isn’t anything that doesn’t belong to you by blood right— you just have to learn how to claim it. Now get out of here, we’ve got a job just like you.”

With that Harper just mutely grasped the pocket watch and envelope, running off the way in which he had come before. Braoin watched for several moments, before muttering ad maius bonum under his breath. “Come on boys, man the gun. We’ve got some friends to support.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The coastal guns came to life slowly, their orders arriving and several long minutes passing before the blast doors that protected them retracted slowly inward and the guns slowly outward. From there the guns began firing— slow and precise. Even in the dark, their targets were illuminated from the fires caused by shells amongst the two battle lines.
It was from the deck of the Fury that one could see the first coastal battery fire, a flash of light and cloud of dense smoke marking its location aplenty. The first shell landed several hundred yards short of a republican dreadnought, and the exchange of shells had reached a tempo of new shells leaping from a barrel with hardly a few seconds gap. The splashes upon the water were common, but increasingly the shells hit their mark as the guns adjusted their ranging.

The Cenaesian destroyer Sir Stanford however took a shell directly to her bridge, a ploom of rich orange fire leaping upwards as she began to list portward and drift out of formation. She had lost propulsive power, and her guns had slowed to a near silence.

“We’ve got one! Scratch a destroyer off the board.” Shouted an ensign, lowering his binoculars for a moment to relay the good news. After all, any damage was progress when they were being shelled from both sides and hemmed in by ships heavier than their dreadnaughts, not to mention the bigger guns they carried, on all other sides to prevent the line breaking through.

What had once been the hunter was now firmly the hunted— a detachment built to sink the light and outmoded ships of the Comeristani fleet with frightening firepower was now outgunned and out armored by a force they had seen pass by earlier.

“The Republic has lost propulsion!” Another officer standing watch yelled, the distance between the lead armored cruiser and the dreadnaught carefully kept now disappearing. As the Republic continued to drift a awesome fireball ripped through her number three turret, seemingly a result of a mass boiler failure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun burst forth over the horizon anew, yet not as the sole source of illumination. The fiery wrecks of Cenaesian destroyers and the Republican naval detachment sat low in the water, burning as they slowly slipped below the waves.

The battle had lasted over sixteen hours, and at a steep price for both sides. In desperation as the battle drew down, the as yet unsunken Republican dreadnoughts had turned their guns towards the coastal guns which had been responsible for no less than half of the sinkings. That and the relatively more difficult to pierce armor scheme of the Cenaesian craft left it an obvious choice— and the batteries had suffered. Coastal batteries no. 1, 3, 6, and 8 had been destroyed with all hands. Making matters worse the two destroyers escorting the Cenaesian force had been outright sunk, larger guns having triggered magazine explosions while a single heavy dreadnaught had been sunk outright, and another heavily damaged. The three Kingmaker craft had survived with little more than minor and superficial damages.

It wasn’t the worst price to pay— especially as one factored in the nearly hundred light and medium cargo liners steaming out of the harbor laden with refugees. Combined with the dozen outmoded destroyers, it was not a small sum of people, and sensitive documents and items, being removed from Comeristan in this escalating conflict. Now they just had to make it home.

[Duckzchwhitz]

En Route to Bakir

Sly made his way through the dunes of the moonlit desert, on his way to the capital to find out more of the Order of Zain, which had arisen as a new threat to his mission.

What would’ve been a usually peaceful night in the deserts of Comeristan was disturbed by the distant thunder, a thunder only present in the carnage of war. The lone traveler could feel the resonating blasts from what he assumed was the city of Bakir, a crossroads and main line into the capital of Comeristan and well renown trade center of the continent.

It seemed the Republic had made a swift assault upon the kingdom, blitzing through miles of open territory within days, now standing at the doorstep of their prize, Istanbul. The Comeristani military was outgunned and inferior in training and experience from the hardened Republican forces, which had been touted as one of the most formidable land forces on Terra, rivalling even the Cenaesian kingdoms.

Sly pondered as to what exactly the end goal of the Republic was, seeing as they had seemingly waged a war out of nowhere, possibly harming their international image as protectors of democracy. Yet seeing that the kingdom of Comeristan possessed individuals such as those two men Sly had encountered, the conflict could go either way. Yet in the end, the quarrels of two states had no real value in the grand scheme of the mission. What was necessary was that these men possessed constructs not of this world, and that their very existence was a threat to Terra.

It had been known that there were people with stronger blood connections to the ancient royal houses that governed the world and the system surrounding it (at least to the Cenaesian kings of old, who had arguably the strongest connections to their creators, using the abilities that such a bloodline granted to make feats that would be otherwise impossible occur, such as the unification of Cenaesia in a time before telegrams, as well as the establishment of a intercontinental empire, before their fall in the great Cenaesian war, yet the appearance of so many in a place like Comeristan was… Interesting.

Sly pondered as he made his way through the sands, trudging on, as the vibrations in the ground grew more and more apparent… The smoke and glow of the fire beginning to appear, like a dim sunrise over the landscape.

Yet the mans pondering was interrupted, as a presence popped up just behind him. The feeling of this individual’s presence was old, and very familiar to Marbo. Recognizing it, the warrior turned around to face the visitor, not on guard of an ambush.

The man who stood to meet his now redirected gaze was none other than Ogma, the ever elusive half-brother to Lugh, who from time to time requested the help of Marbo, in exchange for assistance to aid him in his mission.

“Good evening, Mr.Rustamev!” Ogma started, his tone ever so cordial, bundled with his shimmering teeth and kind face, (unsurprising from the host of a galactic television network) “it’s been a while since we’ve spoken in person, you should really try and stop by my temple, it gets pretty boring when nobody visits…”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries Ogma,” Sly replied, knowing the purpose of Ogma’s visit, like a man who had read a single scripture and now immersed themselves once more into said writings, ”What is it you need?”

“Oh nothing much, I was simply interested in this Order that seemed to have sprung up so quickly!” Ogma stated, a clear feint at surprise, yet he took a breath, and his face became serious, “However, this war from those Republicans is most annoying, mm, yes indeed quite a thorn in my side.” Ogma’s face lit up, Sly (Karna) took note of his superb acting, “Oh I know!” He exclaimed, raising a finger to the air, “Why don’t you help those two Lords who will be digging their way over to the Republican supply lines of the Bakir front, and behead the command center of their initial force?”

Sly sighed, he knew Ogma would show up to meddle, “I assume you’ll give me a pain in the ass if I try to take their constructs unless I help them,” Sly said, making it clear he was displeased as he stretched his back.

Ogma snapped, accompanying his spiteful grin, “Indeed! But I didn’t expect you to not comply anyway… Oh look!” He exclaimed, looking past Sly’s shoulder, “it looks like your men of the hour will be arriving soon!”

Marbo sensed the use of magical energy… Two individual presences heading their way at a quick pace. Yet… Judging by their pressure they should’ve been visible on the landscape, yet there was no sign of movement, yet the sand seemed to begin… Trembling…

Sly sank to his knees, and placed an ear to the ground. The sound of a rumble echoed from the depths, progressively getting louder and louder.

Sly looked over his shoulder to Ogma and raised a brow, “Mind if I bring them up for a meeting?”

Ogma stood for a moment, before shrugging, “Well, as long as you don’t use that.” The deity replied, looking at the broadsword at his side.

“Of course I won’t, it’d be a waste.” Sly said, “I’ll meet them unarmed, and we’ll see if they’re really worth your praises.” Sly waved his hand in through the air. As his fingers traced through the air, the light around them distorted, opening itself into a dark hole. Sly swiftly took his swords off his belt, setting them inside the dark space, which closed back up after he withdrew his hands from the air.
Ogma, impressed and surprised raised a brow, “You’ve quite grown proficient at using the Gap, why not use it to travel around more?”

“I’d rather not skip over massive tracts of land which I travel. There’s much to learn by travelling on foot, much to discover.” Sly replied, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders in anticipation.

“Well, I’ll leave you to that,” Ogma said, turning his back to Marbo, “Best wishes in your hunt, Mr.Rustamev, and goodbye.” The godlike man disappeared into the Gap, probably back to meddling in affairs across the galaxy.

Sly, turning his full attention to the approaching diggers, rested both his palms to the ground, he could feel the diggers underneath, they were just about to pass by, yet the warrior would not allow them to slip by seemingly undetected.

Sly took in a deep breath, concentrating his energy to his palms, before raising them, and dropping them back down to the sand. His palms impacted into the sand sending a massive shockwave down into the ground. The underneath would resonate, and lose structural integrity, collapsing the tunnel the men under him had dug.

He could feel it, the rumble of the stone crashing down and refilling the empty space. Like a pack of wolves, Sly would force his prey into his environment…

Underneath, En Route to Republican Field Command

Merric and Hashmal trudged on through the ground, they were only a mile away from the temporary base which served as the outpost for the Republican military. Things had gone relatively smoothly so far, as the republic held no means capable of tracking their movements as long as they sat underneath the sands.

After this, the Comeristani military would regroup and prepare for a counter offensive, with Lord Vega sorting things out with the Republican fleets, it would be time to call for support from another nation in defense of their homeland. Leadership knew that it would take more than the Order to win this war, Comeristani officials had been sent to confer with the Cenaesian powers on the matter, as well as neighboring EOK, yet all would be for naught if this operation fell through, the tide of the war rested upon these two men two crush the Republic’s offensive in its entirety.

Merric, lost in thoughts of the dynamics of this war, nearly ran into the back of Hashmal, his reflexes snapping him out of his lull. “What’s going on?” He asked, looking at his companion.

“Two… There’s two extremely powerful individuals above us…” Hashmal breathed, his voice oddly quiet. “This is bad news… Their very presences dwarf that of even Vega... “

“Have they detected our presence?” Merric asked, reaching to grab his blade.

“I don’t know… Wait!” Hashmal exclaimed quietly, “One of them has… Disappeared… Wait... “ The man’s eyes widened in alarm.

“What’s wrong?” Merric was beginning to get really concerned, Hashmal never acted like this, not even in combat…

His long time companion and friend quickly turned around… “Here it comes!” Hashmal yelled, as he raised his right hand to the ceiling and made a motion similar to a man pulling a rope up with his left.

Out of nowhere, the entire tunnel began to hum, the sound filled the ears of the two men, the walls cracked and began to give, the sound of stones crashing to the ground sounded in the distance, “BRACE!” Hashmal screamed, being barely audible to the man who stood right next to him. Merric nearly lost his footing as the floor under them broke off from the surrounding earth and sent them hurling above, with the earth above them parting like rain did to an invisible tarp.

The two men shot up through the ground at a blinding speed, Merric’s ears popped from the sudden change in pressure as they were met with the brisk desert air from the night. The force of the launch carried the two far above the ground. Down below, overlooking the pale moonlit dunes of Comeristan Merric could make out a lone figure, which appeared to be standing up.

No words had to be said between the two, this was obviously a life or death situation. They would have to bring full force if they wished to even survive. Merric drew his sword, greeted immediately by the fierce flames and heat which swept across the stone they flew upon.

“Just like in our sparring matches with Vega…” Merric breathed, “Just focus on keeping him away!”

“You got it!” Hashmal replied, a grin on his face, whether of excitement or fear was not discernable to his companion. “Here he comes!”


Marbo


The two men shot at least 100 meters above the lone warrior, their figures and the stone they rode upon eclipsing the crescent moon which lit the desert. The light was quickly beaten out by the fierce roar of the flames which suddenly accompanied the two as one drew his blade from his sheath. This will be fun. The warrior thought, finding the convenience of the man’s abilities to be amusing.

Judging by their attire from this distance, they were nobles of Comeristan, just like the ones before. They appeared to be preparing to meet him when they returned down...

Marbo would give them no chance to begin. He lept into the air, using a blast of air to propel him to the two, his attack was met with an immediate reaction, as the stone under the two men burst into six pieces, all which rushed to intercept him.

Sly used the air around him, building solid invisible blocks to leap from. Speeding up, he dodged the stones, one after another as he weaved a path around them. His maneuver brought him directly above the two, Sly standing face down to the men.

Time seemed to slow, as he took in the features and body language from each one. The man with the sword, having no real footing to spring off, seemed to be desperately trying to conjure flames to attack his foe, the other, who looked shocked at his attack had been completely dodged.

Seeing that they were clearly out of their element, Sly shot himself right at the two men, the first raised his gauntlets in a cross to defend himself, which the flying warrior immediately changed his position, flipping himself around with another blast, delivering a kick into guard. The force sent the lord crashing into his comrade, who attempted to catch his friend, deactivating his flames from his sword. Yet the momentum sent the two hurling toward the sands.

Sly would not allow a recovery, he pursued them, speeding back down into the ground. The two men landed on a dune, which broke their landing, sending them tumbling down the sands. Yet they were no ordinary soldiers, who would’ve been stunned for several moments before being able to recover. The two sprung up on their feet, somewhat unsteady, yet still ready to fight.

Marbo dashed at the two, using further consecutive blasts at his feet to accelerate him, The man with the gauntlets slammed his hands to the ground, the earth springing up in between the belligerents. Sly stopped, skidding through the sand as his feet tore a cloud of grains behind him. Behind the wall he sensed the other man building up his energy, quite formidable for someone whose divine origins lay hundreds of generations in the past. The glow came behind the sandstone, the heat meeting the air with harsh intensity.

The warrior prepared himself, locking his feet into the ground. The rock burst sending molten slabs of stone zooming to the lone man. If he sought victory, he would face their might head on. Marbo resolved himself, before clapping his hands together, the force of the air blasting the rocks to a halt, their heat being wiped from their very atoms. The stones fell to the floor, the dust being kicked up slowly being washed away from the air between the three men, all who stood looking at one another, waiting for the the next move.

Hashmal/Merric

The two sat face to face with an unknown man. Hashmal spit the sand from his mouth, gritting his teeth. The two friends had no words necessary to describe their situation, yet if they were to label it, it would be ‘grim’.

He’s so damn strong, is he even human? Hashmal thought, well, I guess an attempt to gather some information. The man nodded to Merric, who looked slightly concerned with his partner’s demeanor.

Hashmal made it as clear as possible he wasn’t going to fight, keeping his arms at his side in a relaxed position, as he stepped forward, “Who are you?” He yelled toward the man.

“For now, I’m but a vagabond.” The man replied, maintaining his firm footing, “For reasons I will not disclose have been sent to collect and assist you on your mission.”

“From who?” Hashmal was genuinely surprised.

The man sighed, sitting down, “That is unimportant as of now. However,” He said, his gaze turning hard as he looked at Hashmal’s gauntlets, “The fact that so many are capable of wielding divine constructs in this kingdom is… Intriguing… Please don’t take this bout as a sign of hostility, I simply was here to test your strength before I properly asserted myself to work alongside you, yet I feel there are questions that must be answered between the two of us.” The man replied, stretching himself out. “Of course, it’s not like I’m going to let you go,” the man stated, looking at Hashmal and Merric’s eyes, his own eyes, now glowing in the moonlight with a very dim gold sheen.

Hashmal sincerely doubted he and Merric could stand a chance against this monster of a man, who to this point had fought completely unarmed. He looked to Merric, “What do you think of this friend?”

Merric hesitated, before giving a slow nod to Hashmal, as he sheathed his blade. This action did not make the Lord any less uneasy, as Merric was often one to speak up, yet his silence was eerie, and the atmosphere felt almost suffocating to the man. The very presence of such a being in front of them was enough to terrify them… Yet they had no choice… They would comply.

3rd Imperial Grand Fleet, Chigasaki Harbor, IMS Muramasa

Gerald Miyasaki was in no mood for diplomacy, despite his position in offering the natives of Drakos--whose savage people sat upon a bountiful base of resources which the empire had protected and purchased for prices that were otherwise theft--a chance at integration to civil life after decades of strife to gain control of the land and resources that lay upon it, the state had planned expansion into the northern and western portions of the subcontinents, seeking to lay claim to currently uncontested frontiers (as far as any major powers at least). Yet his visit was not one that had been leisurely, just a week prior he had been whisked off without warning to speak to these savages. I could be relaxing at home, it’s the national holiday for heaven's sake! He grumbled mentally, pouting over the view of the lustrous turquoize waters of the harbor in which the IMS Muramasa had docked.

His thoughts and internal complaints were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. Miyasaki was quick to straighten his demeanor out, as if flipping a switch, readying himself for any confrontation.

A couple of Naval officers made their way upon the deck where he stood, all stopping to bow in greeting to the man.

“Sir, we’ve arranged transport to the Main Hall, please follow us,” one of the officers stated flatly.

“Why of course,” Miyasaki exhaled in relief, “I’ve been waiting long enough now!”

The men stode down the gangplank onto the white stone dock. A motor vehicle, a rare sight in the colonies unless you were wealthy, awaited them. One of the guards opened to door, and let Miyasaki in, before softly shutting the door with a firm click.

The car accelerated gently, making its way through a crowd of soldiers who were working to move cargo, as well as direct civilians away from the area. The vibrant colors contrasting from the sea to the green of the hills made for quite a sight, even as the vehicle moved into the paved roads of Chigasaki. People bustled about, most of them being residents for decades after the initial expansion of the Imperium into the area. Many had brought their families, and lifestyles with them, granting the place a very Cenaesian atmosphere, despite being thousands of miles away.

Soon enough, the car came to a less than gentle stop pulling to the curb of the road in front of the Hall of the city, which served as the capital of the colony. The building compared to the imperial palace in Edo was plain, yet compared to the shops and townhouses, it held a regal standard which could not be matched in such savage lands.

Another officer awaited him, this time wearing a colonial regiment uniform. The door opened, and Miyasaki was quick to hop out of the car, dusting himself off, before coming face to face with the Colonial Governor, Suzune Matou. He was quick to bow in greeting in front of the man who quite literally ran the colony in proxy of the state, “Good day, governor Matou,” Miyasaki began, remaining unnaturally cordial, “I am Gerald Miyasaki, acting secretary under the Prime Minister, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He finished his side of the greeting, reaching his hand out to the Governor.

His greeting was met with the shake of a hand, the Governor making sure to be formal yet curt in the same beat. “It’s my pleasure as well,” Matou replied, breaking the handshake, before turning and cueing the secretary to walk, “Now come, everyone is here.”


The men walked up the stairs of the hall, before guards at the doors made their way to open the simple, yet beautiful dark wood doors that sealed the hall. The two stepped in, immediately being greeted by the click of the marble floors that spanned the interior. The cool air outside had been banished by the stoves burning and keeping the place toasty for the winter months, and the air was filled with the smell of incense. Yet something felt off, Miyasaki couldn’t exactly put his finger on what it was, but there was something definitely off about this seemingly amicable atmosphere.

The two men made their way through the main hall, into a branch hall on the right, where the natural lighting of the glass no longer gave the warm light of the sun, now only lit by a few newly installed electric lights. Finally, after walking 30 yards or so, the men stopped at a smaller door, which was the only one in the entire hall manned by a guard.

The guard silently spotted the two men, recognizing the governor, and stepping aside to open the door. The room inside was small, and simple, with a longer rectangular table that seated several officials from both the Imperium and the Native coalition that ad for so long tried to resist efforts of colonization in Drakos.

The atmosphere quickly went from relaxed to intense, The darker skinned natives of Drakos sat with stern and tired faces, opposing the light skinned Cenaesian counterparts, who seemed relaxed although serious.

Miyasaki took his seat, pulling in his wooden chair, which slithered against the fine carpet below him. He noticed the stature and attire of the opposing party, their clothes somewhat tattered and their faces tired and lined. The journey they must have taken to get to this very meeting must have been quite strenuous. The secretary clasped his hand in front of him on the cold table.

The governor sat himself at the head, posturing himself and adjusting his ornate yet sleek tie. “Let us begin,” he spoke, his voice filling the small room and breaking the atmosphere up. Both parties turned to face him their full attention directed toward this man who had direct authority over the dominion of the Chigasaki colony. Matou looked over to Miyasaki, motioning for him to begin.

The secretary breathed in in, before starting, “As of late, we have seen it necessary to ask for the compliance of the native Drakoan peoples to grant prosperity for all who inhabit this land” he said, as two men crept up behind him, armed with leaflets of paper which were promptly passed around.

“As you can see, this document entails all the conditions that will be met by our empire if accepted by your people,” Miyasaki continued, his sincere tone breaking up the tensions in the room. The men representing the Drakoans looked surprised, their hardened faces melting in disbelief.

“Are you serious about this Governor of the Empire?” One of the more senior looking men asked, peering up from the papers.

“Of course, our country believes in keeping its word. By accepting integration, we will grant all of your peoples full integration into our state, with all the rights our citizens have. You will be allowed to keep your lands, as long as we have rights to search some archeological sites for the purposes of preservation of course.” Matou replied with a smile. “We intend on spreading our borders to provide a unified Drakos, so that no longer your tribes will needlessly fight one another, and instead find peace and unity under our banner.”

A younger bulkier man stood, slapping his papers to the table, “I refuse to accept this! I won’t stand to be told by another man that I am to live with the very people who have warred against us for centuries!”

“Well, the alternative is to be treated as a hostile entity by our empire, and be taken as warriors to the end.” The secretary stared down the man, his eyes boring into his very being, dead serious of the implied use of force against the man’s people. “I’ll have you understand that you are in no position to act in such an unruly manner,” the secretary’s amiable demeanor had vanished, as his face was one of the ruthless man who was uncaring for those who stood in the way of the greater good of his empire.

The hunk of a man clenched his jaw, before sitting down, clearly disatisfied.

“Now, let us continue our discussion on partition of the counties of this land,” Miyasaki continued, unravelling a map of Drakos over the table.

The secretary grinned… He had won.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Governor and secretary made their way out of the hall, it was now the evening, the orange sun. People were still out and about, yet most were heading back from their daytime activities to meet with their families or friends.

“Let’s go for a drink,” Matou said suddenly to the secretary, “You seemed a little stressed when you came here, I say you’re in need of some loosening up!”

Miyasaki was taken aback, quickly chuckling, “I doubt I’m in need of alcohol now.”

“Aw come on man!” Matou insisted, “I know a perfect place out of the way,” he reached over Miyasaki’s shoulder, guiding him down the street, “After all, this is a toast to our victory!”

Field Headquarters, “The Devil’s Den”, Polis

The Devil’s Den was a barhouse deep within the winding streets of the deep city, not known to many, except those who dealt in the underground of the city, even holding influence in the Republic. Even now, during the dead of night, when nightlife roared outside in the city of fortune only a couple lone figures sat in the somber, yet peaceful establishment, while the barkeep tended to his dirtied glasses.

A man, walked through the door of the bar, dressed in fairly common attire for a republican citizen, carrying a small plain briefcase over his shoulder. The barkeep looked up, identifying the man as a regular in the hole in the wall, nodding to greet him as he pulled up a stool to the bar.

The man, otherwise known as James Orologas, had lived in the Republic for the past 13 years living what any citizen in the country would call a normal life. He worked an honest job as a shopkeep, had graduated from a distinguished university in the capitol, and although single, had done plenty of volunteer work during the era of recession not too long back.

Yet all of this was but an act, a lifelong act in duty of his organization. The shadowy group of agents scattered throughout the globe, otherwise known as REDACTED by the state of the CBE, they operated as almost a complete separate entity from the Imperium, although their efforts sought the preservation and growth of its influence.

James never knew his parents, only his instructor which he had been brought up to respect, learning advanced sciences, how to act, and how to mimic. He had quite literally been bred for espionage, and for the past 13 years of his deployment, he had played his role flawlessly.

Raising his hand to call the barkeep, James called out, “I’d like to sign in for my reservation for tonight,” he said, tapping the bar table once with his index and middle fingers, before tapping his pinkie on the table swiftly, as to make it look like a natural tick.

The barkeep raised an eyebrow, “I see, your guest came in just a bit earlier, you know the way to the room, yes?” The barkeep continued doing his business, reaching into his pocket and tossing a key over to James, who caught it with his right hand, before getting up and making his way behind the bar, and into the door behind the drink cabinet.

It wasn’t uncommon for figures to hold meetings in the bar, especially members of the mafia, dealers, and even members of the Republican state, as it was inconspicuous and often uninhabited. What many didn’t know was that the bar also doubled as a center of operations for REDACTED, who had used their connections prior to take over the establishment, utilizing it as a tool to gain information on the happenings of the Republic.

James opened the door, slowly closing it behind him, to prevent disturbance of the other customers, before walking down a short, dimly lit hall, lined with six doors in total. His key, market with a simple “5B”, corresponded with his room. Each room had a double-lock system, which had been custom made for these specific rooms. Only two keys were capable of opening said doors to ensure privacy, (Aside from a master key the barkeep kept on his person).

James slid his key into the “B” slot, turning the lock firmly, as he felt the bolt smoothly withdraw from the wall socket. The room opened before him, revealing his subordinate who had sat inside waiting for his arrival.

The agent walked in calmly, taking care once more to shut the door behind him, before pocketing his key.

The man who sat across the table was dressed in a nice buttoned shirt, clearly a man of wealth, although possibly not by conventional means. He sat at around 6 feet in height, with a sturdy build. With shortly cut blonde hair, and striking blue eyes, he was by far a good looking man by Republican standards.

“About time you got here,” he said, his gruff voice ridden by the croak which came with heavy use of tobacco products, as he sipped from his glass of bourbon. “After all these years, you could do me so much of a grace as to show up a little early to these meetings.”

James chuckled, “Oh but that kills the atmosphere we work so hard to get here.” Resting himself in his seat the agent peered at the man, “So, Hoover, how goes things with our friends in the underground?”

Hoover set his glass down silently against the wooden table, although a veteran agent under the service, he was outranked in skill by James who had joined several years after, thus he begrudgingly obeyed his orders, “Quite well actually, it turns out the people are fed up with our corrupt state, and they want change. Radical change.” Hoover stated, leaning forward toward James. “We’re currently working to import arms using the contacts you gave us out in the rural areas, perfect place to begin the sparks of the rebellion.”

“So everything is going to plan… Wonderful,” James spoke containing his grin, “Do you know how far our support goes as of now?”

“Only that our contacts stretch into the upper echelons of the state, we even have a few generals us, quite amazing how deep this disease has spread through this ‘democratic’ country”. Hoover said, his cynicism clearly present as he took another swig, “I’ll give you a roster of contacts to send to command.”

“Great to hear,” the young agent said, “With the onset of this war of imperialism, I believe they wish us to hurry our efforts, lest this republic become a potential threat to Cenaesian global dominance.”

“Of course, yet with the way things seem to be going as of now, I doubt that the Republic will last longer, well, not as it is at least.” Hoover spoke, getting up from his chair, as he reached into his pocket. The old agent twirled the key in his fingers, as he set a canister on the table. “What you requested from me is in here, I hope you make good use of it, our role here is vital to the interests of our land.”

“Indeed.” James replied, swiftly snatching the canister up, as he set his briefcase on the table, unclipping it to reveal a large set of documents. Peering up as he pulled out the numerous leaflets, marked with a black seal of an eagle. “Here’s the new info leaks I gathered from my small ventures around Polis, you may be able to hand that off to those folks over at the underground, they don’t take too kindly to me anyway.” He finished somewhat lightheartedly, tucking the canister into the briefcase in place of the documents.

“Take care of those! I had to pull some strings to get my hands on them, if you were found with them you’ll be executed on the spot.” Hoover warned, tucking the documents into his coat.

James smiled, closing his briefcase and getting out of the chair, “Same goes for you, senior.”

“Yeah but with my luck I’ll long outlive you!” The elder replied, a little gleam in his eye as he did the same as his counterpart.

The two men moved to the door, their short, yet vital exchange concluded.

Remnants of the Royal Navy, Approaching the Republican Blockade

The oceans were peaceful, a flat water, almost like glass, reflecting the shine of the deep orange red setting sun. The Comseristani heat was not nearly as apparent here, being cooled by the large sea, acting as a driving force for the spring rains in the otherwise arid country. Yet today, with a majority of the inferior Royal Navy being suddenly attacked by the Republican forces on the coast, and a thinly manned yet still deadly blockade being established around the nation, the heads of state had seen it necessary to send a trump card out to deal with the forces.

That very trump card sat aboard the light Frigate, a somewhat pathetic vessel which was on the verge of retirement, yet was fast enough to be kept as a scouting boat. It alone however, held the most powerful weapon in the entire arsenal of Comeristan’s many weapons. He who led the Order of Zain, Lord Vega.

He smelled the salty air, taking it in with all its purity, with no wind to alter the direction of the pungent and offensive smell of the coal engines toward him. Looking at the sunset, the Lord postured himself to walk, reaching to the chain which peaked out from his neck. The chain belonged to a necklace which was otherwise hidden behind his platemail armor sat close to his chest, a memento of times long past, and a pact for the future.

Pulling out the chain gently, the lord glanced at the pendant, before he put it to his lips, “Oh father of old,” he breathed, closing his eyes in a prayer, “Guide my blade in this battle, and allow my brothers in arms passage from those who seek to trespass on our land and livelihood…” He tucked the pendant back under his armor, before kneeling to the deck, and leaping off he fell down toward the water, before blasting off using his affinity to work ‘magic’ (as the nobles referred to his abilities) to set blasts of air under him, compressing it to near solidity before releasing it in a shaped blast. In terms of control of abilities, as well as intelligence, Vega was unrivaled in the Order, said to be stronger than even the combined strength of the next four in line, a legend, a miracle.

He took into flight, hugging the water, as he used blast after blast. His very body cut through the air, tearing the flat water with a violent wake, each release of the charges sending more and more waves outwards. His speed rivalled that of rifle bullets, the only sound he was capable of hearing was that of the wind roaring in his ears, his only recognition of the use of his own abilities being the force that met his legs each time he sent a violent blast to further him along.

Behind him, the sun set, as the moon rose over the east as he ripped over the water, the blockade would be in sight any moment. His form was so small, and he was travelling so quick the forces would be met with confusion as to what exactly was attacking them.

Vega saw the figures of ships as he gained altitude. Yet it seemed they were preoccupied; as he slowed in pace, the roar of guns echoed from the fleet, which appeared to be making combat maneuvers. He counted mentally, calculating the relatively short distances between the members. Four, Dreadnoughts, but which one is their brains on?

Vega hated hassles, yet he would have to try his luck with each of the Dreadnoughts. Beheading the serpent of the Republic would be vital in Comeristan’s survival. He chose his first target at random, and dove into the unsuspecting fleet.

Channelling his energy to his blade, the air around it began to resonate, as the low hum of the blade turned to a scream of a banshee. Vega crashed down onto the deck in front of one of the turrets of the first dreadnought, alarming several crewmen on the deck.

The lord wasted no time, quickly blasting the men off the deck with a two swift swipes of his blade. The resonance formed itself into an invisible blade, cutting through the steel of the turrent that sat meters in front of him, as well as anything that was unlucky enough to be caught in its path.

The crewmen on both sides fell to the ground, like puppets cut from their strings, the only sounds being that of Vega’s sword, and the groans of dying Republican sailors.

Vega swiftly leapt to the windows of the bridge, kicking his way through the window of the command center. Frantic officers got up from their stations, reaching for their pistols, yet Vega dispatched the first four with swift consecutive strikes to each of their necks, killing them almost instantly. As if in slow motion, their bodies fell, yet the rest of the crewmen had no time to react, as the Comeristani nobleman tore through man after man, his blade screaming with every life he took spiraling around and toward the captain’s seat.

The walls of the bridge were stained with red, the atmosphere was hot, as the Captain of the ship cowered in his seat. The lights were all smashed or coated by a red veil. Vega, now in front of him, bloodied took steps up to the man, his platemail stained with blood, yet his blade left with a clean shimmer, as the particles were dissipated before making physical contact with the steel.

The lord raised his blade to the Captain’s neck, to which he recoiled instinctively, cringing at the feeling of the resonance coming so close to his vitals.

“Tell me, what is your name and rank.” Vega asked, his voice calm, steeled by his pure distaste of the residents of the Republic.

The captain, gasping for air, spoke shakily “C-captain William Leandros of the Liberty...”

“I see,” Vega replied,, his icy gaze only making Captain Leandros recoil further, “Now, where is your commanding officer.”

The Captain gulped, his breathing heavy as the only light in the torn up room was the dim red glow of the alarms that had been set off fleetwide only moments before Vega arrived.

“Th-the fleet Admiral is on th-” The Captain was interrupted, as the steel door to the bridge slammed open, and several sailors all armed with pistols and rifles ran in and took the perimeter around Vega.

The men quickly took position around Vega, a couple stumbling over the bodies of their comrades. Some of the soldiers remained somewhat composed, while others bent over in shock, clearly new to the horrors that came with war.

“Stand away from the Commander!” One of the men shouted, his voice shaking as he raised his rifle level with Vega’s head.

“Or what?” Vega replied spitefully, maintaining his blade at the throat of Leandros.

“Or we’ll shoot you, isn’t that obvious?” The sailor replied, a tinge more unease present in his voice.

“Oh, well if that’s all, then I’ll be your guest.” Vega relaxed his shoulders, his blade beginning to lower.

The sailor looked surprised at this act of apparent surrender “Wha-?”

The man never finished his sentence, as his head fell down to the floor along with his split rifle. Vega had made in a single smooth cut around the entire bridge, sparing only the Commander.

“Now, if you would please finish your statement.” Vega said

“D-demon,” the Captain spoke up, somewhat regaining his composure, “You will burn in hell!”

“I see, so you’ve changed your mind in this,” Vega sighed, before slashing through the man and his chair, the blood spraying onto the ceiling as the resonant blade blasted itself clean, “No matter, I’ll just sink all these damn ships myself.”

The lord walked down the bridge hall, being greeted with footsteps of the sailors on board the ship. He made his way down the corridors, slashing man after man down. Several men came up, trying to lay down fire upon the Lord, who parried their attacks and sent a concussive blast of air down the hall, the pressure change in the air killing all the men caught in the path nearly instantly, as they crumpled to the ground. Vega strode past them, making his way to the ship’s magazine.

Hundreds had fallen to by his hand by now, as the path to the magazine of the dreadnought was painted a nasty red. The alarms of the ship drowned out the screams and groans of the dying, and soon, they would all be drowned out by the cold waters beneath.

Vega sliced his way through the Magazine wall, revealing the stockpile of explosive charges within. The lord knelt down, grabbing a stray grenade from one of the corpses. He pulled the pin, before tossing it into the magazine.

Before the bomb hit the ground, the Comeristani nobleman made four slashes in the ceiling above him, and blasted the upwards, the heavy sheets of steel going airborne, followed by the lord himself.

Rocketing to hundreds of feet above the fleet, Vega had the perfect seat to see the front of the Liberty explode into a ball of bright white flames, as the water reacted to the blast of the explosion. The heat could be felt from all the way up high, yet he had no time to spend looking at his job, four more the lord saw.

Yet in this moment, he was blinded by the light of spotlights all around the fleet. Damn! The Republican navy were still a formidable force, the fact they spotted him in such unfriendly conditions was impressive on its own. Sadly he was in no position to be impressed at the aptitude of their sailors, as the numerous flashes of machine guns, quickly lighting up the sky.

Vega sent himself flying, speeding out of the range of the gunfire. The spotlights tried their best to track him in the moonlight, as a few stray rounds nearly hit up, one even grazing past his platemail, as he came down upon the second dreadnought.

Vega spent no time waiting, slashing and hacking through all the sailors immediately near him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bright flash, brighter than any rifle in the night. Instinctively he leapt forward, narrowly dodging a gory death from one of the neighboring destroyer’s cannons.

Are they mad? I’m on their own ship for god’s sake! Vega thought, sprinting above the area in which the last magazine was held, slicing his way directly into the hold, dropping another grenade down, only to be met with a force of the ship shaking, as it was hit by more cannonfire.

The Republican navy had abandoned all chances with saving its ship, they intended on kill this monster without thought of loss. Yet the fact they were so quick to turn their turrets to the ship meant only one thing. Their commanding officer wasn’t on this ship.

The nobleman immediately leap off the ship, dropping close to the water, before appearing to sprint across it, being trailed by the tracer fire. He weaved his way around destroyers and cruisers, beelining toward the next Dreadnought, as its sisters sunk into the black waters of the night, men leaping off and trying to swim to safety, the oil from the ships coating the sea in flames, lighting up the fleet in a hellish blaze.

Vega now coming up to the starboard side of the third dreadnought, made no effort to go on deck, instead cutting straight through the side of the hull, tearing through the magazine of the third ship, and coming out the port side. Yet he wasn’t finished, as he leapt up into the bridge, proceeding to blow out the windows, using the full extent of his ability to quite literally decapitate the entire island of the ship, which came sliding down, the steel moaning as it ground against the hull.
The bridge crashed to the ground, and the fire from the rest of the ships surrounding the dreadnought picked back up. Every ship in the vicinity had take sights up on the ship, now sending dozens of rounds of canonfire, as well as thousands of small arms shots all toward him.

This is getting way too hectic, it’d be unwise to overstay my welcome, the nobleman thought, analyzing his situation as he leapt back into the air, using his blade to send out a couple of blasts, sending canonfire drifting off its course, a couple rounds going astray in the somewhat densely packed fleet, and hitting some of the cruisers to the west., and began gaining altitude at a rapid rate.

Although he had not managed to crush all the Dreadnoughts in the fleet, and had risked the survival of the commanding officer, this was as much as he could do on his own without putting himself in true danger. Even someone of his skill could be overwhelmed when up up against such a large and heavily armed force.

If only my brother had not met that man, his abilities are far better suited for this operation. The lord reflected, as he sped off back to his own land, eager to clean himself of the stench of gunpowder and blood.

[Confedracy]

USRC 1908
The call had gone out about a year ago. "The Required 4 years of civil service to the people of USRC." An effective draft. This came with a stepped up propaganda in the Pillowlandian controlled areas of Edofasia. The drums of war were beating. A pirated radio broadcast had called out to soviet citizens in the colony to rise up against the Ceneaseian masters. "Do not allow yourselves to be secondary citizens in your land!" cried the radio. Along the border with the colony there was a massive build up of Bergsteiger's and artillery. The Volksmarine began to mobilize as did the budding NVA Luftstreitkräfte. Premier Nicto proclaimed in a speech in the city of Stuggart "Freedom for our comrades under the boot of the imperialist Pillowlandians! Death to the invaders!" charging the people below into massive cheering. What made everyone on the continent must uneasy was the new Soviet banner that could be seen at these rallies. A banner of deep red and the entire continent of Edofasia in gold... with the a new song dubbed The March of USE

In freedom and peace
From great war and strife
The people united Edofasia!
Then draw up our arms
Let our guns never tire
So that we still might have our red nation’s flag...
...
Great ancient wings!
Uniting a continent!
Blind to class boundraies and races
For all have sacrificed,
And This is how we’ll remain;
In a life free from Darkness and Hatred...
With free open voice!
And united labour!
We have freely united confederates...
And join comrades now
When there comes a darkest hour
So that we still will have our great Edofasia!
Edofasia - Forever!
The people’s power...
Edofasia - Forever!
Red Conferedate banner...
Der Sozialistiche...
Weltrepublik...
Edofasia! - For-e-VER!
Edofasia!

Stuggart, USRC 1908
Kommando Sauer looed over the plans. Extremely risky but if it worked it may mean quick victory in the coming war. Using almost all the nations airpower in a attack on Pillowlandian held ports and coaling and oil depos as they see them. Along with an attack and eventual blockaide by Volksmarine ships to cut off the colony and prevent reinforcements from arriving. The order to begin the assault had already been approved and would be reaching the men in a few days. Along with a secret message to the consulate of The Republic. Though much loathed in USRC

[Pillowlandia]

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Domestic Terrorists Strike!
Imperial Metropolitan Authority Tower bombed—Hundreds Wounded/dead

Thomas Jackson
^{15 Febuary, 2068 | Pillowlandia}

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Moscou-Tragedy struck at 10:56 am (Local Time) at the Imperial Commonwealth Metropolitan Authority Tower, commonly known as The Tower, when an unmarked van parked illegally on the street side was approached by Moscou Metropolitan Police. A lone man exited the vehicle, wearing what appeared to be a ballistic vest but which was in fact a suicide device. The van itself, a common utility vehicle, was filled with a mixture of homemade explosives and fertilizer.

The proximity to both government facilities and local housing resulted in the explosion killing several hundred, with thousands more wounded. The structural integrity of the Tower has been reported as “non-compromised” by officials who have placed the repair bill in the range of several “hundred million credits”. Surrounding high rise condominiums were less lucky, as the Imperial Corps of Engineers has deemed several “uninhabitable” and liable to “collapse at any moment”. With such an attack, the city has entered a near total shutdown as police ask residents to remain home unless absolutely necessary and Port Authorities have announced a complete shutdown of operations. Lost economic productivity has already reached several billion imperial credits worth, and is expected to climb further still.

If you are looking for a loved one, contact the emergency hotline listed in your Metropolitan Services Applet on any networked device.

Duane Fionnbharr
Grand Pavilion, Mosocu
Terra

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“This attack was not a lone wolf! It was not an ill man! It was not a disgruntled associate! It was El Reino Blanco! For decades now we have let them benefit from an open border, free membership in the League, access to jobs and technology!” He yelled, pacing back and forth across the shallow stage under the glare of stage lighting. His dress might be generously described as professional, the harsh light illuminating the wrinkled blazer and beige shirt.

He stopped, turning towards the center of his audience while he opened his mouth once more. “To say anything else is a lie, and now hundreds lay dead and countless more missing or wounded. All the work of the free access we give to the poor wretches who live across the Rio Meridiano, stealing the low hanging fruit so openly offered by Cenaesia!” His arms flailed as he spoke, and his face glowed red from excited effort—not unlike a rabid dog.

His speech was being consumed ravenously by the disenchanted crowd below— many too poor to even afford the cheapest tickets for passage to Nova Terra, and living in the deepest slums offered in Cenaesia that were increasingly common to a concerning degree. They connected with the concerns, most among them no older than 19, and felt angry and searching for someone to blame. Such blame they found easily in the poorest nation of Cenaeisa, the white kingdom. So, when from the crowd came a yell of passion to rival the ravid speaker the crowd turned to peek a glance.

“Down with this Demagogue, and down with the King!” a man shouted, his eyes shadowed by thick bags, and his grey eyes empty of any emotion or further care for this world. From within his worn leather coat he drew a pistol, crude and poorly shaped— evidently printed from a simple back alley 3D printer. He aimed upward, and fired the loud ‘pop’ of the weapon forcing the crowd to instinctively fall backwards in panic and fear.

“I am Duade Fionnbharr and this quack took my son!” he shouted, discharging the pistol and second time as the first bullet impacted harmlessly behind the speaker upon the stage. Again and again he flung his finger against the trigger, the pistol jerking in his hand as it let loose a stream of projectiles.Eventually though there was silence but for the screams of people fleeing and the click of the trigger against an empty chamber.

Before Duade was a bloody scene, the man he had come to kill was spread across the floor—his chest perforated with multiple points where a bullet had punched through. Approaching slowly, sirens now coming closer from the distance, he poked at the cooling corpse with the sole of his white boots.

“I have slain you, yet felt nothing new. You refuse to give me relief even in death, you ruiner of lives. How many other victims did you create, where there were none before!” he whispered, slowly building in tone to a scream. “How many experiments did you deem necessary for the GREATER GOOD!”

He collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face. His eyes glassy with grief and despair. He continued crying until the officers entered, removing him by force.

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Far Right Advocate Shot!
Former Scientist turned North Cenaesian Supremacist shot at rally

Jackson Davis
^{18 Febuary, 2068 | Pillowlandia}

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Moscou-Less than three days after the tragic bombing of the Metropolitan Authority Tower, another rouge attacker shot and killed George Wallace. Wallace, of Equestrian ancestry, was formally employed by the Imperial Academy of High Military Sciences. He was terminated as a result of extreme ideological viewpoints and cited as a security risk to the “whole of the Commonwealth”.

He leaves behind two grown children, who asked not to be named. Their relationship with their father remained strained as a result of his beliefs, however, the attack raises the broader question of both how his extreme views fit into the Cenaesian discussion and how such extreme back to back attacks managed to slip past authorities.

With his death however, the Cenaesian First Party looks to a bleak future and party infighting has already occured. Some online conspiracy theorists have gone as far as to conclude the government is behind the attacks; citing the increasingly poor economic outlooks for many lower class Cenaesians which has fueled the recent popularity of such extreme political groups to begin.

Managers here at the Grand Pavilion have said that they intend to reopen for operations as soon as authorities have concluded their forensic investigation and cleanup is completed.

The Forgotten Pocket

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Tomás drew a breath suddenly, a wet cough as though he were breathing water. He reached for his heart, feeling about and feeling nothing. Where his heart had once been was simply a gap—a void that felt like nothing yet everything. It was when he touched this gap that his other senses began to flow back to him, first, it was his sense of temperature. It was very cold, his ragged breath the only source of warmth. Then it was his sense of sight, and he saw next to nothing—nothing but an empty and desolate mountaintop.

Such a mountain made sense, he had after all be somewhere deep below one. However, the sight of a mountain, appearing to be a mirror copy of the one he was upon now, which hung from the sky and another copy still in every cardinal direction told him he was far from home now. or merely delirious as I drift to death. he thought as he saw a growing line of blood spilling over the snow and down the gentle slope he rested upon.

All of this he saw as his vision blurred once more, the shock and cold driving his mind deep under his awareness unable to consider anything beyond survival and not even that. I’ll just take a little nap—gather my strength...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The searing pain of being both stabbed and shot through the heart— an event which arguably ought to bring death so swiftly as to fail to be capable of registering it having occurred—continued long after it had happened. Devin awoke to the intense pain as though an army of ants had decided it their life goal to torture him. All of that pain and yet around him was a blank nothingness, he felt as though he had simply been locked in a box which had no direction.

Despite the pain, however, overwhelming as it was, he felt a second and different pain. It was fleeting, only every few moments noticeable. Yet, every time it slipped away he felt a pang of fear. Whatever it was, he had an instinctual fear of it leaving him behind forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Light spilled over the mountains, all six copies of one another, as it always did in the ‘morning’. This light brought a new day and a sliver of warmth. Not that such a concept bothered Ogma in any particular way, anything he desired could be created here or he could travel to see it in a more natural form.

No, it was the relative quiet of his innermost sanctuary that drew him to this desolate mountainscape. The centuries he had spent forging ever more elaborate and effective defenses against anyone entering either by accident or purpose helped isolate it even further even as the few people left who might even know of it continued to pass permanently from any of these comfortable dimensions.

It was this serenity which had drawn him back now, off the set of his newest project (and one that didn’t involve meddling in the affairs of a species about to murder itself for once), all the way here. The desolate silence, impregnable even to Lugh himself had been breached. Not once. Not Twice. But continuously for the past several hours. He could feel it now, growing stronger as he approached, the presence of a continuous gap. It was a rough cut Gap, ebbing and flowing but filled with a raw energy which he hadn’t felt since the sordid affair of the final great battle.

It was also the terror. He could feel it, flooding outward from the Gap. Ogma gasped as he rounded the corner, revealing to his eyes the source of his current annoyance. The crimson stained snow told him of the mortal wound, and the continued portal told him that the boy was still alive.

So he dashed forward, dropping to his knees beside the boy. His eyes roamed across his body, searching for the gap. A small gap, ragged and hardly wider than a few fingers spewed forth energy. So outstretching a hand, Ogma reached inside. His fingers first disappeared, then his hand and arm. There was no doubt that this was a powerfully made Gap. At last, he made contact with a limb, which recoiled from his touch before leaping towards it in desperation.
He heaved back, his arm returning from that realm to this one and with it a tired and near dead boy— no older than the one which lay staining the snow crimson. No sooner than he had drawn him out of the Gap did it collapse. Violently. It forced Ogma back several paces—and the spirit which had held open the gap began to spasm as it began to draw blanks of energy.

Quickly he scooped up both children, throwing one each across either shoulder. He muttered under his breath the old tongue—older even than his own people, and certainly older than the simple humans he carried with him. He leapt into the air, step after step carrying him higher as he manipulated the air around him to provide solid holds for the next spring forward.

Forward he bounded up the mountainside, past a simple stone bench, and through an awaiting hole in the mountain. No sooner than he had passed through the threshold a massive blast door— measuring no less than thirty meters thick— silently sealed behind him. The icy cold of the base carved into the mountain vanished in an instant, as inlaid lighting and heat made itself apparent.

Yet his bounds did not slow, as Omga slammed through the air and into the small yet capable medical station. There was hardly but a stool, but as he crossed the threshold it shifted before him and brought forth two beds, perfectly sized for each boy. He threw them both, the hard impact they should have had instead being a gentle landing as the beds began to glow a deep blue. Ruined hearts began to reappear, though now the same blue as the light in place of the red of muscle. Slowly, the pale complexion of both boys began to restore itself to a more rosy one— each making progress identically to the other. As the machines finished a simple blue “O” appeared where the repair to their flesh had been completed.

Ogma scowled to himself, waving a hand as he walked out of the compartment hurriedly. The “O” vanished from both, replaced with a seam where the new tissue met and folded with old.

[Acmeria]

*The JCS officers sit in their seats waiting for the president, this is the first official JCS meeting ever to be taken place. Generals, admirals, air marshals, and Marine Field Marshals proudly wearing ribbons and medals from previous conflicts and wars*

*As soon as the president arrives and takes his seat the meeting begins*

"Gentlemen! Thank you for coming." Says the president in a clam tone.

"As everyone knows the USRC is expanding closer and closer towards us, I want NO ACTS of aggression! I am personally congratulating Premier Walters for his achievements. As we speak our ambassador is heading to USRC to bring our nations closer. Are we clear?"

*The room remains silent. Some officers nod in approval while some remain skeptical and unsure what to say*

*An air marshal rises up* "Sir" He says politely and in a military stance. "I think it's a great idea, they could really help our military! Especially our air-force, I understand they're communists, but even so they have showed friendly relations towards us. I say we go ahead with this"

"Outrageous!" Shouts one of the Field marshals. "Communism must not be encouraged or helped!do we really want ally ourselves with a government who wouldn't hesitate to shoot their citizens between the eyes just because they speak out against them?"

"You make a point Field Marhsal." The president replies "However they are on good terms with The Republic."

"With t his on the side I want an update. How has our military grown so far?"

"I can speak on the army's side. With the future soldier program is going successfully. Our soldiers are excellent marksmen, they're in wonderful shape and their discipline is expected as it should be, with the funds we're getting for our exoskeleton suits for them, they're perfect. As for the general force in the Army, we are stable. Training is harsh, food is good, our new tanks from pillowlandia has shown to be worth 12 million marks."

"Then we could focus on the Navy!" Blurts one of the Admirals.

"Our naval power is a joke. Mr. President if you happen to succeed allying ourselves with USRC then I implore you ask them for imported Naval ships and better training for our sailors! During a drill they didn't even know what direction the enemy was shooting from!"

"I will note this Admiral. We will improve our Navy one way or another"

*As the president says this the Admiral nods and sits down the president then turns to the Air Marshal as he shrugs*

Our Airforce is fine"

"We're not exactly superior than most Air power in Terra Nova, but we can and are at the best we are in."

"Good. Now I would like- *The presiden'ts phone rings, showing the ID caller "USRC Ambassdor"*

"I have to take this, we're cutting our meeting early. Thank you all for coming"

*instant chatter among the JCS as they rise from their seats and leave the room escorted out by the secret police*

*As the president arrives back to his office he answers his phone*

"Update?"

"Yes sir, I have to USRC Mr. President. I am awaiting for USRC's ambassador's response. "

"I put your offer of an alliance on the table and assistance in the military"

"Good, good. However I need to ask for Naval assistance as well. I have spoke with my Admiral and he states we are in desperate need of Naval support."

"Yes sir, I'll ask that as well."

"Good, good. Carry on."

*The call ends as the president stares outside his window at ease*

[Sudardes]

The People’s Republik, Saint Francis City, Colonial Sudardes, Terra Nova, 10:45 PM, 31st December 2067
On the corner between Third Street and Main Street, there was a popular establishment often frequented by the more upper class and well educated youth, as well as the members of the colonial garrison that sought to bring some lucky lady home. It was an ugly, squat, concrete building, its brutalist architecture casting a rich contrast against the sleek glass skyscrapers that punched upwards into the heavens around it. A snaking map of neon tubes adorned the edifice, brilliant shades of yellow and red spelled out the words “The People’s Republik,” and immediately to its left, formed the shape of a beer mug.
One could generally imagine the atmosphere contained within such an establishment. A miasma of pleasantry hung in the air, mingled with the fumes of hard liquor and beer. The camaraderie lit by incandescent lights and fueled by Confedrate music warmed the hearts of its patrons regardless of race, sex, or creed. As such, the fresh members of the Colonial Garrison having just set foot off of the spaceport could always find desirable Nova Terran women from all around the world before being shipped off on rotation across the colony. Saint Francis City truly was a global city.
As such, Sergeant Avery Ridgewell was quite excited to for a fun night out with the rest of the regiment. He himself was not in anyway unique on Terra, clocking in only marginally above average strength and height at the Ubuntu Military base. However, here, he towered easily over all the Nova Terran men. He stroked his stubbly square jaw as he eyed the W-shaped countertop, hoping to catch the eye of some lucky gal. Then he saw her. It was as if she hid from the room behind a tangle of flaxen hair draped delicately over one eye. The other darted between her empty margarita glass and Ridgewell. He smiled at her, and she averted her eyes quickly, her pale cheeks turning a brilliant shade of pink. Now was the moment to make his move.
He slowly made his way through the ocean of people, painfully aware of his large frame, and careful not to accidentally collide with some delicate ornate or knock over precariously perched glasses. Shuffling uncomfortably, he finally managed to secure a seat next to the girl. Turning to face the girl, Ridgewell rubbed his jaw.
“It ain’t right you know.” His voice was gruff, perhaps a great bass in another life.

“What isn’t right?” the flaxen haired girl asked.

“Fine girl like you, sittin’ here alone…” He waved at the bartender. “I’ll have two Maotai. The, uh, one with the highest proof, if you will.”

“Well if it makes you feel better, I’m not here alone.” She smiled cooly, brushing her hair aside. “My friends are just in the bathroom.”

There was the sound of glass on wood as the bartender slid the glasses of clear fluid across the counter. Ridgewell caught them in his hand. The pungent scent of rice wine filled his nostrils. He handed one to the girl. She recoiled visibly as the smell hit her.

“Oh my God!” She exclaimed, trying to suppress a sudden onset of giggles. “I’d literally die.”

“Cheers.” Ridgewell raised his glass. “To the new year.”

“Cheers!” the girl raised her glass gingerly.

He watched from the corner of his eye as a puckering expression grew on the girls countenance as if she had swallowed an entire lemon. That’s everyone’s first reaction, he thought to himself.

“Wow I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like that before!” The girl said. “My name is Marly by the way.”

“Avery.” Ridgewell extended his hand. “So what’s a New Velonian like you doing here?”

“I didn’t tell you I was from New Velonia,” Marly retorted. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s mostly the hair. I’ve read that there are no natural blondes in Colonial Sudardes, but that there are a quite a few from up north.”

“Well I’m actually from JB,” She said, tilting her head. “But my friend here is from New Velonia.”

Ridgewell looked up. Before him stood a stout, lanky man, a head shorter and easily half his weight. He had a bright green mohawk that stood tall in contrast to Ridgewells crew cut. Completing the look was a sharp chin and skin tight black turtleneck.

“Babe who’s this?” It said, turning it’s gaze towards Ridgewell.

“Please don’t call me that in public, Anthony. It’s embarrassing.” Marly turned to face the creature. “Where are Audrey and Melly?”

“Melly got sick so Audrey is walking her back to the dorm.” Anthony once again turned to face Avery. “You didn’t answer my question. Who’s this?”

Marly hesitated for a moment. Avery extended his hand.

“Sergeant Avery Ridgewell. Third Cavalry Regiment, first division of the Sudardesian Colonial Garrison.”

But Anthony simply stood there, a look of disgust creeping across his face.

“Please, he seems like a nice guy.”

“Nice guy? He’s a stormtrooper for Terran imperialism. How many Violetists are you going to shoot this week? Did you fulfill your arrest quota? How do you sleep at night?”

“On a bed made of money.” Ridgewell set down his drink.

“You’re bankrolled by baby killers perpetuating lies.”

“People want security and stability so bad that they’ll take it from pretty much anyone.”

“You’re just a pawn for the corporate overlords and that bitch Baxton.”
Ridgewell paused for a moment and composed himself. The New Velonian did possess a very punchable face.

“Everyday I wake up and I thank God that I love my country and that my country loves me right back. You see, some governments don’t care about the lives their people live and then when half of their youth holds no respect of their elders, are always impatient, overly entitled, they act surprised.”

“And by people I have a feeling that you’re referring to us.”

“And I have a feeling you spent more time on how you look than she did.”

“Oh please, do you boys want to go to the urinals and poke it out?” Marly interjected with disdain.

Anthony starred, eyes wide. “Hey asshole…”

Ridgewell simply broke into a hearty chuckle. He stood up, a whole foot taller than the New Velonian.

“Look buddy, if you have a problem we could always go out back and settle it like men.”

The New Velonian sat down. “I’d rather we settle it here with words instead of violence, like you Sudardesians are so prone to.”

“You’re right. No reason to be uncivil.” Ridgewell smiled as he took his seat and motioned for another drink. “So tell me Anthony, if you had a job, what would you do?”

“I am starting an art troupe.”

“Really? What kind of art?”

“Dance.”

“Like ballet?”

“Exactly ballet but with a twist. See, the historical pieces like Sadhuka’s Phaedo or Korsokov’s Lugh’s Sun but we’ve altered the sexual orientation of leads. So for example…”

“Sounds a little bit homosexual if you ask me.”

“Well that’s the point. To explore alternative sexualities in a heteronormative world.”

“And what do you think of your boyfriend’s work?” Ridgewell redirected his attention to Marly.

“Oh he’s not my boyfriend. We’re just intimate. I’m in an open relationship.”

“A what?”

“She said an open relationship. Do you not have those in Sudardes Proper?” Anthony asked.

“No, we respect the intimacy between a man and a woman and treat that bond as sacred.” Ridgewell looked at the pair before him. He waved for the tab. “You two enjoy yourselves tonight. I’m going to be on my way. Too much… art.”

Red Light District, Shapiron, Sudardes Proper, Terra, 1:12 AM, January 15th, 2068
One time, a particularly ghoulish trio of subbies passed Baxton on the streets. Three scrawny, faded androgynous men, neither old nor young, nearly naked, blood and dust on their shoulders, skin pale and sickly, hidden away from the sun, ringed by solitude as they parted they parted the surface level crowd through the power of their stench alone. Alien and hostile to the world, foreigners and haggard jackals in the realm of human beings. Behind them, a breeze blew hot with the scent of degeneracy, rot, and ruthless self indulgence.

That evening, after the sun had drooped below the horizon and the moonlight blended in with the sunlight, Baxton felt the yearning to descend to the lower levels of the city. There was an unmistakable unease in her heart. She had to know what it was like, what kind of people could endure such an existence. By the time the street lights shone brighter than the stars, she had submitted a two week leave and left her post to the Minister of Education. As she descended one of the many neon blue elevator tubes, she could not help but think that maybe there was something she could do about these people, that they were not beyond saving.

Elizabeth Baxton went to live for two weeks in the hall bedroom of sub level two temporary residency center. The room had a television, but no windows; there were five flights of stairs to climb and no running water. She cooked her own meals in the kitchen of a numerous family on the floor below; she visited neighbors, she sat on the landings of fire escapes in the evenings and went to dime movies with the girls of the neighborhood. She wore frayed skirts and blouses. The abnormal fragility of her normal appearance made her look exhausted with privation in these surroundings; the neighbors felt certain that she had some sort of infection. But she moved with the same cold poise and confidence. She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled potatoes, she bathed in a tin pan of cold water. She had never done these things since her rise to military stardom; she did them expertly just as she well as she did in the past. She had a capacity for action, a competence that clashed incongruously with her appearance. She did not mind this new background; she was indifferent to the slums as she had been indifferent to the conference rooms.

At the end of two weeks she returned to her officers quarter in the Sudardesian Government Complex and prepared for the next days Politburo meeting.

Sudardesian Central Government Complex, Shapiron, Sudardes Proper, Terra, 9:00 AM, January 30th, 2068

Seeing that the new generation of roleplayers have not met my leader, I will reintroduce her by recycling one of my older posts which i feel captures her character particularly well.

People said that Elizabeth Baxton's greatest deception, among many, was her appearance. She looked like the decadent, over perfected end product of a long line of exquisite breeding--and everybody knew that she came from the gutter. She was tall, too slender for physical beauty, as if all her womanhood had been bred away. It was not necessary for her to stand erect in order to convey an impression of hardness. Like a piece of expensive steel, she bent, slouched and made people conscious, not of her pose, but of the ferocious spring that could snap her straight at any moment. This hint was all she needed; she seldom stood quite straight; she lounged about. Under any clothes she wore, it gave her an air of consummate elegance. She stood in front of a group of men in the executive board room on the eightieth floor of the government complex. It was a glass cage on the roof of the tower, its walls and ceiling made of huge glass sheets. There were dust-blue suede curtains to be pulled across the walls and enclose the room when it was needed; there was nothing to cover the ceiling. In the middle sat an ovular mahogany table, large enough to seat twenty four people, with two seats on either end and eleven on both sides. On the table in front of each seat was a bottle of water, a fountain pen, and a notepad. Four security guards stood in each corner of the room, armed with carbine rifles. Behind Baxton was a holoscreen displaying the Sudardesian seal.

The 23 men sitting before her seemed more like children about to be disciplined instead of members of the Politburo.

“I will be brief today,” She scanned the room sharply, her eyes digging into the flesh of the politburo like daggers. “I do not believe that the subbies deserve the full benefits of the Sudardesian government, and I want their citizenship modified. I also want to elevate the citizenship of servicemen. That is all.”

When she returned to her quarters, she found the Minister of Education waiting for her. Mansfield had the aura of a kindly country doctor and like a cardsharp. His heavy face bore the benevolent, paternal smile that had always been his passkey and his trademark. He had the knack of making the kindliness of his smile add to, not detract from his solemn appearance of dignity; his long, thin, hooked nose did detract from the kindliness, but it added to the dignity; his stomach, cantilevered over his legs, did detract from the dignity, but it added to the kindliness.

She tore her hat off and threw it down on the first chair in sight. Her hair slanted in a flat curve across her forehead and fell in a straight line to her shoulders; it looked smooth and tight, like a bathing cap of pale, polished gold. She walked to the window and stood looking out over the city. She asked without turning: "What did you want to tell me?”

"I've got good news for you," he said. "I've been working out a little scheme, just a bit of reorganization, and I've figured where I'll consolidate a few things together into caste system of sorts. You know, the schools, the home economics, the care of babies, the juvenile delinquents and all the rest of it--all to be under one head. And I see no better person for the job than you."

"What do you mean?" she asked, without turning.

"No one else but. Just as soon as the politburo reassembles, I'll get their okay."

She turned and looked at him, her arms crossed, her hands holding her elbows. She said: "Thank you, Bob. But I don't want it."

"What do you mean, you don't want it?"

"I mean that I don't want it."

"For Lugh’s sake, do you realize what an advance that would be?"

"Toward what?"

"Your career."

“I’m quite happy with where I am with my career. Give it to yourself, or someone you think is up for running it and restructuring.”

"Why?"

She sat down on the edge of a table, her hands flat behind her, leaning back on two straight arms, swinging her legs slowly. "Because I would have to depend on you--you're a wonderful person, Bob, but not exactly inspiring and I don't think it would be beautiful to cringe before a whip in your hand--oh, don't protest, it would be such a polite little whip, and that's what would make it uglier."

"Whatever gives you such a crazy attitude? When you know that I would do anything for you, and I personally..."

"It's not only that, Bob. It's not you alone. If I found a job, a project, an idea or a person I wanted--I'd have to depend on the whole world. Everything has strings leading to everything else. We're all so tied together. We're all in a net, the net is waiting, and we're pushed into it by one single desire. You want a thing and it's precious to you. Do you know who is standing ready to tear it out of your hands? You can't know, it may be so involved and so far away, but someone is ready, and you're afraid of them all. And you cringe and you crawl and you beg and you accept them--just so they'll let you keep it. And look at whom you come to accept."

"If I'm correct in gathering that you're criticizing mankind in general..."

"You know, it's such a peculiar thing--our idea of mankind in general. We all have a sort of vague, glowing picture when we say that, something solemn, big and important. But actually all we know of it is the people we meet in our lifetime. Look at them. Do you know any you'd feel big and solemn about? There's nothing but housewives haggling at pushcarts, drooling brats who write dirty words on the sidewalks, and drunken debutantes. Or their spiritual equivalent. As a matter of fact, one can feel some respect for people when they suffer. They have a certain dignity. But have you ever looked at them when they're enjoying themselves? That's when you see the truth. Look at those who spend the money they've slaved for--at amusement parks and side shows. Look at those who're rich and have the whole world open to them. Observe what they pick out for enjoyment. Watch them in the smarter speak-easies. That's your mankind in general. I don't want to touch it."

"But hell! That's not the way to look at it. That's not the whole picture. There's some good in the worst of us. There's always a redeeming feature."

"So much the worse. Is it an inspiring sight to see a man commit a heroic gesture, and then learn that he goes to vaudeville shows for relaxation? Or see a man who's painted a magnificent canvas--and learn that he spends his time sleeping with every slut he meets?"

"What do you want? Perfection?"

"--or nothing. So, you see, I take the nothing."

[Sudardes]

Joseph of Ranwor, Ranwor’s Watch, Ranwor (Modern day Shapiron), Kingdom of Sudor, Terra, December 57 CE

Somewhere near the boundaries of the castle, a wolf howled. A solemn note that hung in the air through the town and into Joseph’s bedchambers.

Of all the rooms in Ranwor’s Watch, Joseph’s bedchambers were the hottest. He seldom had to light a fire. The castle had been built over natural hot springs, and the scalding waters rushed through its walls and chambers like blood through a man’s body, driving the chill from the stone halls, filling the glass gardens with a moist warmth, keeping the earth from freezing. Open pools smoked day and night in a dozen small courtyards. That was a little thing, in summer; in winter, it was the difference between life and death.

Like on any other day, the elder patriarch sat at his table in front of the high narrow windows that pockmarked three quarters of the circular room. On the table lay scores of scrolls and an assortment of codices. Next to them was a long object wrapped in canvas propped up against the table. There he busied himself with the task of printing the vast library of scrolls into codices. It was a daunting task. When the forefathers crossed the channel, they brought with them vast numbers of scrolls from the royal library, and with the prolific work of his predecessor Godfrey the Wise…

There was an urgent knock on his door.

“Father, it’s me.”

“Come in, my child.”

The door snapped open. Framed in the doorway was a no older than sixteen. Tall and golden with flashing green eyes, he wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the dragon of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. On his waist hung a wooden scabbard finished with black laquer. A jewel encrusted pommel emerged elegantly out of it. They called him Asher, the Dragon of Sudor, second in line to the throne of David the Wise.

“I came as quickly as I could after hearing the news.” Asher strode broadly into the room, his hand resting the handle of his sword. “I was denied entry into my own father’s chambers by the guards outside. They told me that you ordered no one was to disturb him.”

Joseph set down his quill. He turned to face Asher.

“Your father will not live to see spring. The arrow has pierced his stomach. There is nothing I can do for him except ease his suffering with nightshade.”

It was true. As the red autumn leaves were replaced soft, white snow, the King's condition only worsened. Each passing day saw him coughing up blood from his froth corrupted lungs. A stench emanated from the wound, smelling of whatever the King had eaten previously. A ring of sick lingered permanently in his greying beard, appearing faster than his servants could clean him, and his mind decayed alongside his body, with his brilliant green eyes slowing growing dim.

David the Wise, House of Sudar. He was an elderly man at the age of forty three, and accomplished at that. The patriarch of the House, first of his name. Now, all of his achievements would become ash as he passed on, fell to an arrow in his defence against the Kufdics not more than a weeks ride away.

Asher moved closer. “Father there must be something you can do. There must be something in the scrolls that can save him.”

“My child, I have gone through all the books of medicine and alchemy. There is nothing we can do.”

“I can send for the Glenfelds. They are natives of this land. They have medicine men who can…”

“The Glenfelds are a primitive people. They reject the teachings of Lugh and they use tricks and lies to cajole our people to buy into their ways.” He stood up and gripped Asher firmly on the shoulder. He had known him since the day he was born. “Your father is dying. He has already made his peace with Lugh with me. He does not want you or your brothers to see him like this, in his weakest moment, lest you lose faith in the Kingdom.”

“Then why am I here?”

“You are here because the King wanted his kin to see to it that his affairs are set straight, that his last wishes are carried out.”

“Where are my brothers?”

“Solomon is at the front. Your father ordered him to hold the line and continue with the conquest without him.”

“And what of Henry?”

“I have dispatched a rider to Henry, but the Western garrison at the borders are two weeks ride from here, three weeks from the front.” Joseph returned to his desk. He sifted through the scrolls and half copied codices. Gingerly, he picked up a folded piece of parchment, on it bore the royal stamp of House Sudor. “Your father wanted you to have this.”

Asher took the folded note and opened it. His heart lurched.

“This is heresy.” Asher quickly tore the note in two. “I cannot accept the mantle of the throne. It is Solomon’s birthright.”

“Solomon is too hot headed to handle the intricacies of diplomacy. He knows only how to swing a sword and use a bow. An excellent warrior, no doubt, but not material to be king.” Joseph bent down to pick up the two pieces. He struggled in his old age. “Your father had hoped to fashion a fine statesman out of Solomon, but as Lugh would have it, he cannot anymore.”

“That’s not his handwriting.”

“Your father dictated it to me. You see the seal? Only he has the seal. He validated this will.”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room as Asher allowed the news to sink in.

“Has Solomon been told?”

“No. The King felt best to tell him after the battle against the Kufdics is won, lest his emotions see the better of him.”

“I must see my father. I have to -”

“Your father is not to be disturbed. Anyone going into his chambers risks infecting the wound and killing him all the quicker. It is best to keep his interactions with the outside world to a minimum.” Joseph returned to his seat and once again began to transcribe the various scrolls. He sensed the Asher’s shock, but also his excitement. “The coronination is to take place as soon as you arrived, but I feel it best to postpone it to the morning tomorrow. When Henry arrives at the castle, you will already be king.”

Bob Mansfield, Central Government Complex, Shapiron, Sudardes Proper, Terra, 8:32, 24th February, 2068

The past month was… turbulent to say the least. He could not understand what had suddenly possessed Baxton so fully. Like a fervent preacher, she laid out an ambitious four year plan, detailing every policy, every nook, tying up every loophole, seemingly all by herself. The politburo could do nothing but watch speechlessly, each member feeling their role slowly being leeched away, their use in government diminishing, and with that, the looming target over their own head and their families head.

Only Mansfield has navigated his way around this quandary, and maybe that was why Baxton kept him close. He possessed a kind of gentle cunning, distant enough to be professional, but always familiar. When he smiled, you had no choice but to smile too, not out of courtesy, but out of an almost filial obligation to trust him. You wanted to listen to him, to his grandfatherly voice. Calming, soothing. In a certain way, the entire education system was built to be more like Mansfield. You cannot help but trust it, even if in the back of your mind, you are skeptical.
That was why he made an excellent Minister of Education. Papa Mansfield, as he was known colloquially amongst the people. His bearded contenance smiled down from posters in schools and on lamp posts, arms outstretched like he was seeing his own children after serving in the Colonial Garrion, waiting for passersby to walk into a warm embrace. “I want YOU to stay in school!”

The only person who seemed immune from his charm was Elizabeth Baxton.

She spoke to him as to an old friend, gaily and openly; with a disquieting candor which seemed to show that there was nothing to conceal, but showed that it was best to attempt no probe. The exquisite kindliness of her manner suggested that their relationship was of no possible consequence, that she could not pay him the tribute of hostility. He knew that he disliked her violently. But he watched the shape of her mouth, the movements of her lips framing words; he watched the way she crossed her legs, a gesture smooth and exact, like an expensive instrument being folded; and he could not escape the feeling of incredulous admiration he had experienced when he had seen her for the first time.

But when she spoke harshly, her words cut like knives across his heart. Not because they were disingenuous, but precisely the opposite, because they were the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Her closest friends and advisors received no respite from reality. That was why she had so little of those, and why those closest to her adored her.

Now they were prepared to unveil the new citizenship plan to Baxton at the next meeting. He felt that she would like it. Everyone knew she came from the streets. That must be respected in any plan of the sort. As such the stratification of Sudardesian society was to draw primarily on three pillars: tradition, order, and mobility.

The first pillar would not be incredibly difficult to structure. Writings of the Saints of the Orthodox Druid church were plentiful, and the Mandate of Lugh passed generation to generation by word of mouth finally codified in 1699 still existed, safe from the purges immediately following the revolution hundreds of years ago. Hierarchies needed a watchful eye at the top of the pyramid. In this case, that would be the politburo. Below them, the organs of the state, the bureaucratic cogs that turn the gargantuan Hegelian apparatus. Below that, the soldier shares his place with the worker.

A witness to the end of classical wars: wars that gave priority to the chivalrous gesture, that were organized around the concepts of glory and honor, that generally spared civilians, and that distinguished clearly between the front and the rear. “Though once we crouched in bomb craters, we still believed,” Baxton had said once, supine on the couch in her office, her left foot dangling a high heel. That man was stronger than material. That proved to be an error.” War became simultaneously massive and abstract in its cruelty. At the same time, the soldier became an impersonal actor. His very heroism is impersonal, because what counts most for him is no longer the goal or outcome of combat. It is not to win or lose, live or die. What counts is the spiritual disposition that leads him to accept his anonymous sacrifice. In this sense, the soldier is by definition an Unknown Soldier, who forms a body,in all senses of the term, with the country to which he belongs, like a tree which is not only a part but an exemplary incarnation of the forest. Because of this, they make up the third rung of the hierarchy.

Where the soldier limited himself in order to embody new norms of collective existence, the worker, for his part, intends to transplant them into civilian life, to make them the law of the whole society. The worker is thus not merely the man who works any more than he is the man of a social class. He is the Worker in a metaphysical sense: the one who reveals Work as the general law of a world that devotes itself entirely to efficiency and productivity, even in leisure and rest. Because the same world that transformed war into monotonous “work,” drowning the chivalrous spirit in the mud of the trenches, has also transformed the world into a vast workshop where man is henceforth completely enthralled by the imperatives of productivity. Soldier and Worker, finally, have the same enemy: the contemptible bourgeois liberal. She would like that. Contemptible bourgeois liberal.

Below these sat everyone else. The banality of existence slowly oozed into Mansfield as it did into Baxton. Maybe this is what was needed to understand Baxton. To see the world through her eyes, unfiltered and raw. The impurities and the cesspool of degeneracy that the place has descended into. He could not get a read on her. Forcing himself to join groups of guests and to talk at events and state dinners. He watched Baxton as she moved through the crowds, as she stopped in conversation with others. Save for a polite nod at the beginning of the evening acknowledging his existence, she never glanced at him again. He could not decide whether he had succeeded with her or failed miserably. He managed to be at the door once when she was leaving the Shapiron opera house. She stopped and smiled at him enchantingly. "No," she said, before he could utter a word, "you can't take me home. I have a car waiting. Thank you just the same."

Solomon, The Hammer of Sudor, Ranwor’s Watch, Ranwor, Kingdom of Sudardes, Terra, January 58 CE

Solomon watched the battlements as three hundred men flooded the wheat fields outside of the castle. A pride of bannermen and knights, of mercenaries, and freeriders. Over their heads a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the ocean wind, emblazoned with the crowned Dragon of the royal banner of Sudor.

Yet the taut man at standing in the spot where his father used to stand, flanked by the Patriarch of Ranwor Joseph and his brother Henry seemed almost a stranger. . . until with a familiar roar, crushed his soul in a blood-curdling cry.

“Solomon! Have you come to take my throne?”

The Solomon looked him over top to bottom, and laughed. “You have not changed at all, Asher!”

The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air. Asher looked around him. Along the walls stood archers at the ready, a mix of local men and troops Henry brought with him from the Western Garrison.

Solomon sat solemnly on his horse, long gold hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his twenty three years. He had a grim cast to his green eyes this day, and Asher seemed not at all the boy who parried with him in the summer. He had taken off the face of brotherhood, and donned the face of Asher, The Dragon of Sudor, King of the Kingdom of Sudor.

“I do not wish to shed unnecessary Sudor blood over this, brother.” Solomon threw off his helmet. “I am the firstborn of our father David the Wise and I have the blood of Sudor in my veins. I will not challenge you for the throne this day!”
He meant his words there and then. On this day, Solomon wished only to pay respects to his father and brothers. He served followed his orders through to the end, repelling the Kufdic onslaught. Now he returned with his men, and his fathers banners, a key piece of the royal entourage.

He watched cautiously as Asher and Joseph exchanged looks. He knew that his father was a man of tradition, and would never pass up his firstborn for the throne. This was all Joseph’s doing. The two never got along. Joseph had always detested the rowdy Solomon in favor of the more reserved Asher. In the letter sent to him by Asher weeks ago, he himself admitted to never having even seen their father before his death, and that allegedly he was rightful king by a slip of paper that bore the Joseph’s handwriting and the royal seal. How gullible must the lad be, Solomon thought to himself.

“Let me enter my own home, to share a bed with my wife, to have a meal with my children, and to embrace my brothers!” Solomon gazed intently up at the battlements, squinting to make out what his brothers reactions were.

“How can I trust that you will not cut my throat in the night?” Asher called.

Solomon scoffed. The gall of the boy! He as yet to be king for a year and already the paranoia has set in.

“I will die before I spill a single drop of my own blood in my home. By Lugh, you have my word. Asher, are you not happy to see me?”

The wind howled in the silence. Then Asher smiled. “Brother, how can I not be? Come, come, let us celebrate your triumph over the Kufdics!”

And with that the heavy oak gates of the castle swung open, and Solomon entered the castle.

[Tibreria]

A Military parade is going on in Fochsberg
The king has been stabbed and caught a serious infection two days earlier and is in a hospital on the other side of the country

unknown to the spectators and to the soldiers , a man in the house on Invar street/306 has sneaked a rocket launcher into the country
he looks out of the window . The Ground to Ground missile carriers are almost there
He fires . A carrier explodes . a chain reaction ensues . The fier carries on to a gas station . A flying shrapnel hits a Invar Mill's side . The monstrous foundries could explode on the most minor of breaches .
Massive explosion . the Terrorist himself dies . Screams echo troughout the city . People are set ablaze and jump into rivers and canals . buildings collapse . Bodyparts and corpses fly around . The city has been set on fire . Sirens sound . Many who are alive lost any amount of their limbs . Burning corpses lie on the ground in the fetal position . some of them move slightly and gargle , but none can be saved now . The royal palace has been completely decimated .

Tv makes a emergency stream

lkater on tomorrow's news

"Fochsberg burnt alive'
"Thousands burn in Fochsberg"
"Parade in Fochsberg goes awry"
"Fochsberg : A new ghost town ?"

Estimated death count : 578k
Survivors were moved to a new location as a new capital was founded . Ingvarsgard .
Large part of the military dies in the incident
Fochsberg lies in ruins , never to be repaired

[Confedracy]

Mine U-0937, Caucasian Mountains, Nova Terra 2068
8:30 PM Local Time

The elevator into the mineshaft descended deep under the surface of Nova Terra.  
Darkness held back by the bright lights strung up to help the miners see. Geol straightened his back. Another 8 hour shift in the mines. He hated being bumped to the night shift and not being able to see his family as much as he would like. But since he was new to his job there was little he could do. The elevator stopped and the men stepped forward. Their gear while keeping them safe also made it harder for them to move as easy. Lucky the machines did most of the hard work and they handled repairs and other such tasks. However immediately the loudspeaker came on. “Comrade Geol! You are needed in K Tunnel on the double” he murdered a curse to himself. Two seconds in and a machine had already broken down. Just his luck. He started the trek down the tunnel but was  shocked to see what was before him. The entire automatic drill had melted from the tip back. It looked like the thing had gotten blasted in a nuclear attack. But his Giger counter was staying at 0. “What in His name happened?” Geol shouted. The foreman looked up and declared “Geol there you are. We hit something as we were cutting through the stone here. This tunnel was already here and we figured we hit an old magma tube but found no igneous rock. After we supported the tunnel we were going to keep drilling when this happened.  Can you fix it?” “Ach! No??” The damn drill is melted. What did you hit??” Geol walked towards the rock face where the drill melted and put his hand on it. Cold but…...Humming? He looked up to where the drill had stopped and saw a hole. Inside was a metal that looked like a very shiny steel but was unharmed by the drill. “Bring the Picks!” Geol shouted.
After a few hours of backbreaking labor. The mining team was shocked. A Door in the Mountain.
“We better get the Head Foreman”


The man couldn't believe it. What looked like an entryway to a bunker stood before him. He scanned it over and his eyes widened. The Hammer or Wer Alberitet was emblazoned above the door.  Without a word he walked back to his office and picked a up a bronze plated phone. Wired directly to Kiev. “Sir we found something big here. Send them in. It may be a Code Gold.”

The mine was placed on lockdown and all miners except those were sent home The official story is that the mine had become unstable and was shut down. Jet black military vehicles and men in strange uniforms filled the place. Turning the mine into a underground fortress. Computers and defense systems went up and the place was cut off from the rest of the world. Home Guard troops secured the roads leading to the mine and guarded the forests around it.  The closest town was 30 miles away so the road was hardly traveled as it is. Standing before the door was a man in a black dress uniform. A soldier came up to him. “Dr Diels….. Is this?”
Diels turned and smiled at the man. “It may just be Komaraden….It may just be”

[Pillowlandia]

Cathbad the Elder
Northguard
102 CE

---

The snow fell like a blanket, smothering even the fiercest of fires ablaze in any chimney. Yet Cathbod was not cold, his riding clothes a fine silken thread spun from the hearty mountain flower of Cenasí. Despite the fine clothes, they offered little in the way of warmth. Of course they would keep him alive, and in most any case almost able and willing to bear the brunt of the cold, but the comfortable warmth he possessed and shared with his horse as much as he did not derive from the fine cloths worthy of his station.

It was the simple golden pin which pinned together his cloak — the phoenix of Lugh. The symbol was rare, restricted by custom and law to those of the Emperor’s family and conducting his bidding, and those who served Lugh directly and spiritually. In this case, as his breath rose to meet the cold with its heat, it was decidedly the latter. As the distant horizon rose to meet him slowly, the faint glow of orange appeared — stabbing its way out of the grasp of the snowfall. He gently pressed his heels to his steeds sides, softly murmuring into its ear as though his encouragement would be comprehended. Slowly however, a gentle haze formed over its hoofs; the luminescence of it defeating even the overwhelming whiteness of the uninterrupted snow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The men are freezing, every hour another loses a limb forevermore! Stand down, before we have no choice but to make you by way of arms. You have the lodging and the meal, what more would you ask of my command?” shouted a stout man, his exposed nose and face a bright red — his conversation having lasted long enough to accumulate snow up to the ankle of his knee high leather boots.

“Ceannfort Tachibana”, the man sneered as his own red face grew ever closer to matching shades with his shock of red locks, “you know well that raiding season is upon us. I would never accept the lodging of your kind, let alone allow you charge of our defenses.”

Tachibana’s hand grew ever more impatient, making twitches towards the scabbard of his short sword. “Even as the storm clouds of war assemble over the head of the Empire and His Majesty is summoning every able fianna of Crownland blood? You let a promise of safety void itself for your own pride while we freeze for offering service without charge but that of warm bread and beds? Damn you Ardghal. Damn you to depths of the sídhe.”

“I thought your ilk enjoyed such cold.” Ardghal smirked, enjoying the prospect of these dogs perishing in the cold as they deserved while his own fianna sat rested and ready to repeal the inevitable barbarians of the north as the sport it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The thundering sound of a horse at full gallop was muffled, little more than a mouse might make as it scurried across a stone square, as it entered the central plaza of the ancient town of Northguard which sat below the high cliff which stood sentinel over the northern approaches. Cathbad drew back on the reigns, bringing himself to a halt mere steps from the two bickering men.

“Halt. Both of you uncivilized swine!” Cathbad shouted, brushing his cloak aside as he dismounted the midnight black steed he rode. The horse made a soft noise, looking over at Cathbad as it felt the warmth shift away from it. “You are both a nuisance to His Majesty’s and Lugh’s will.”

Ardghal swung his gaze about with a sneer upon his face, and mouth open to launch a verbal assault against the outsider who had dared challenge him in his town. Yet, as he laid eyes upon the Druid he instead fell to the ground. Tachibana fell likewise, his own knees hitting the snow and soaking through.

“Druid! What brings your honor upon Northguard in such weather?” Ardghal began, the face of a child pretending it hadn’t been they who had stolen the cookie from the jar sweeping across him. He began to rise slowly, extending a hand out and back in a sweeping gesture across his inn. “Are you in need of quartering and rest?”

“Spare me your pleasantries, I bring the will of the Emperor and Church. Bring someone to tend to my horse and let us discuss this away from the elements.” Cathbad began, looking towards the still kneeling Tachibana. “Midlander, rise and join us. Summon your fianna too Tachibana, it is far too cold for them to be making such rudimentary camp upon the elements.”

With that Cathbad strolled in past the heavy wooden door, whilst Ardghal trailed behind — his face growing red with indignation even as he reached the warmth of the interior. The front of the inn itself was largely empty, the space dominated by a simple restaurant and bar which served the majority of Northguard which had any spare coin. Upon the bar sat two lightly dressed knights, wearing well made tunics though otherwise unarmed and armored.

“Do all knights of Northguard spend their days nursing drinks like heartbroken dunkards,” Cathbad began, projecting his voice across the whole of the hall, “or simply you lot?” His own expression was one of annoyance, these warriors sat with their training whilst far flung villages faced assaults by barbarians.

The two knights rose, their fists balled at the insult and ready to pick a fight. “Whaaa you say about us? We’ll beat ya into place, and have the Emperor’s backing!” The first slurred, his brown hair half covering his face as he stumbled forward.

The second however, even in his drunken state, paused. A confused look ran across his face as he tried desperately to remember why he should pause for the man in front of him. All the while his buddy lunged forward, missing by several feet from his drunken depth perception. Cathbad simply shook his head, strode forward and picked the belligerent knight up by his shirt.

“I will slay you with the backing of the Church if you dare challenge the authority of the Druids — drunken or not.” He dropped the knight, who landed flatly upon his rear. “Take your friend to his quarters posthaste, I’ve no time for his sort.” he said matter of factly, turning back to Ardghal.

“Your fianna shall make good upon preparations for travel and service upon the front in the spring campaign to the west. The Knights of Northguard are expected to arrive upon the south border of the Grand Principality by months end, which you might make should you leave no later than tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?! Such orders would need to be received last harvest, not the day prior. Who would conduct the guard against those northern scum? We’re the only regular force, and no farmer with a sword will do any better.” Ardghal retorted, puffing his chest.

“The Midlanders shall conduct your defense in your absence, they’ve the necessary skill and lack a call to arms.”

“You are kidding, they’ve no social standing here.”

Cathbad paused, brushing his fingers against the golden pendant of the Cenaesain Phoenix, “Are you implying that I might conduct my affairs in mockery of my station Knight?”

Face paling, Ardghal swallowed quickly. “No, I would never dare question a Druid of the Church. But I think such a proposition would do no good for the Crown.”

“If such a proposition is against the interests of the crown, then the Midlanders shall conduct the affairs of the Northern Guard this season and all moving forth. So says the Druid Order.”

“This is heresy Druid! They’ve no social standing, and this goes against all tradition.” Ardghal exclaimed, the rich bounty made available to those who guarded against the northern raiders slipping away from him and his fianna before his eyes.

At the mention of heresy Cathbad’s blue eyes twinkled, himself taking great pleasure at the thought. “You suggest that a Druid commit heresy? The Church may not conduct heresy against itself, only improvement and refinement of Lugh’s teachings. One such as yourself ought know such truths.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Who was the first Commandant of the Sentinels?” Stephen asked, tapping on his neighbor’s shoulder. He himself squirmed in his seat, glancing at the teacher tapping on his screen as he pushed the quiz out to the students.

“Tachibana, he was Duckzchwhitzian.” He paused, his eyes looking up as he thought for several moments more. “Midlander in his day, not sure which it’ll ask.”

“Thanks Barrie, you always save my grade in here.”

The teacher simply glanced up at the two boys, pushing the quiz out to the class with a simple upward swipe of her own. She looked about, waiting for the students to begin type their responses. However, the door swung open to admit a nondescript man in a black suit.

The attire was nothing unusual, teachers and other professionals dressed similarly on the regular. However, the lapel pin he wore was. A simple silver imperial phoenix with a circular trim of black quartz betrayed him as a member of the Naval Intelligence Office, Crown Kingdoms Bureau no doubt.

“Stephen Macrae, Barrie Mohan. Follow me, you’ve been excused from courses this afternoon.” He stated, the other students looking at each other and beginning to mutter amongst themselves.

Stephen and Barrie both rose, glancing at each other in confusion. “Have we done something sir?” Barrie finally said at length.

“Follow me.” The suit said, turning and exiting while the two boys scrambled to catch up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Internal Communication- EYES ONLY

---

Intelligence Report ID: NT-RED-NORTH-1029-374(a)(b)(c)

(a) Notation upon increased ambient thermal measurements of industry related to strategic potential.

Approximately 20:30 [local time]: RECSAT-18NT detected brief elevation in general ground temperature surrounding mine (INTERNID:1029 LOCALID:U-0937), consistent with non-naturally occurring geological events. Ground level in radius of approximately 100km elevated 2 degree celsius prior to return to former ambient temperature. Sudden flux marked as item of note 374(a). CIVSAT-NORTHSTARIV confirmed reading. Assets assigned to monitor item of note.

(b) Notation upon unscheduled mine shutdown.

Approximately 23:53 [local time]: Overhead [redacted] recorded departure of all known mining personal and staff, shutdown of material lifts, and cessation of mining activity. [redacted] further noted the heightened utilization of existing physical security assets such as physical barriers.

(c) Notation upon, as yet, unidentified Confederacy government field agents.

Approximately 01:34 [local time]: Convoys of national reserve forces, central government intelligence authorities, and others arrived in force upon mine 1029. Further statements are simple speculation, however patterns indicate discovery of unexpected and highly valuable item/material.

Refer Report to: Druid Council of Nova Terran Security Affairs, Druid Council of Intelligence Action and Archives, Office of Naval Intelligence — Nova Terra Command, NOVTERCOM Intelligence Backend, [redacted] Branch, His Majesty’s Special Briefings Inspectorate

End Report.

[Tibreria]

The kingdom recovers from the disaster in Fochsberg . Some try to forget . Many just drown themselves in work to have no time to think about it . The police begins to search for the terrorist bunk and martial law is declared . Except the Military checkups and Curfews , life continues



Report to the Ministry of public security
date : 28/2/2068
Type : Emergency report
Subtype : EMREP-C1/U
Subject : Fochsberg disaster
Written By : KlgPoF Gustav Vernnanhem
Text :
The investigation continues . We found a few suspects towards Fochsberg disaster [from now as "Code 78"] . Most probable one seems to be the "Ronaan Equality Movement" [NEM-1] . most evidence comes from InSat-45 . We caught glimpses of NEM-1 members looking on to the city . I suggest a crackdown on these degenerates .
All hail The High King .

Classification status : Code 1 Classified
All Hail the High King