NATION

PASSWORD

Peoples Republic of the Commonwealth Community & News Thread

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]

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Armus Republic
Spokesperson
 
Posts: 140
Founded: Oct 24, 2013
Moralistic Democracy

Postby Armus Republic » Fri Mar 02, 2018 5:16 am

Near Bakir
July, 1903

The defensive lines were shabby, but they served their purpose. The Republican line was now secure and would continue to be as the trenches were improved. Many of the divisions had marched throughout the night, and upon arrival, immediately began digging. There would be rest when the left and right divisions were connected. Overhead, the planes flew non-stop to keep the pressure up on Bakir and any advancing forces looking to exploit the rapidly closing gap. The artillery pieces weren’t to far behind. The loss of the two motorized division was a real blow to the Fifth Legion, who now had to rely solely on teams of horses to pull their big guns…but at least they had them. The urgency to take Bakir was felt by all. The entire invasion hindered on capturing this one city. With more divisions pouring in and with word of two more Legions arriving to help, it was bound to happen. But the Army had to do something to tilt the balance back towards the Republic. What that exactly was, was still unknown. Until then, there would be no offensives. They would wait and hold the line. Bakir sat within eyesight (and more importantly, artillery range), black smoke billowing from it. The remains of the Republican trenches were now a faint outline in the dark sand that had swallowed them. Many of the soldiers were uneasy, as they felt that what had happened to the two divisions would happen to them.



Polis
July, 1903

The 3rd Fleet had been hit the hardest during the surprise attack by the Pillow forces. While there had been suspicion the Pillow government was supplying the Comeristan forces, no one thought they would get directly involved…at least not yet. The exact number of ships lost was still unknown, but it was safe to say the 3rd Fleet was no longer combat effective. What ships remined would be forced to sail home, leaving the 4th to shoulder the burden until they would be reinforced with the 1st Fleet. The news of the surprise attack and the bloody battle was quickly telegraphed to Polis where the President was briefed. Despite the fact that Pillow lost multiple ships in the battle as well, it was clearly a naval defeat for the Republic. If the Republic ever hoped to establish itself on the ocean, their ship building process needed to be sped up…

President Barrow instructed the Navy to conduct inquiries into speeding up the ship building process. This included using welding instead of rivets. The Navy was given one week to craft a report for the President. In the meantime, the various ship building companies contracted out to build the new ships were instructed to increase the number of shifts. “Each ship is to be worked on 24/7 without delay. 10,000R will be paid for every month that is taken off the final complete date.” President Barrow met with people from military, the Senate, and the private sector to discuss ways to bring the full might of the Republican economy and manufacturing into the war. It was well known that the Republic held that land advantage over Comeristan and Pillow. It took far less time to send supplies and reinforcements then it did for the Pillow government and it was through this advantage that the Republic would win the war. Short of nationalizing the economy, businesses were given military contracts to begin switching over manufacturing to aid in the war effort. Guns, ammunition, trucks, artillery, medical supplies, boots, clothes, etc. were set to be manufactured at an incredible rate. The Senate approved additional funds to be given to the RAF for experimental research. Both Houses of the Senate unanimously declared war on Pillowlandia, citing the disgusting use of surprise attacks on another nation as well as giving military aid to Comeristan. Public approval reached 90% across the Republic.

One week later

The ragged defensive lines had been transformed into formidable trench systems that stretched for dozens of miles in either direction. Barbed wire covered the land in front of the trenches, bodies tangled in it from a few desperate attacks by the Comeristan army garrisoned in the city. Since the moment the artillery was in position, Bakir was under fire. Roughly two million shells had been fired into the city, reducing it to rubble. Overhead, the planes continued to fly. Bombing missions were occurring every other hour. The roads coming into Bakir had been destroyed as had the few remaining rail lines. The city was now essentially cut off from outside support. The two additional Legions and the 2nd Air Wing had arrived a few days prior, yet there would be no attack. They would continue to hold their position until the time was right. Behind the Republic line, teams of engineers were finishing up the repair work on the last few miles of the roads as well as bringing the old Comer rail line up to standard. Supplies would be no issue for the ARA. At the request of the Daily Republic News, both the Army and the Air Force released some photos from the Siege of Bakir. The images shocked both the Republic and the world.

ImageImage


The Navy reported to President Barrow and the War Department that welding was a viable replacement for rivets when building ships. They requested permission to try the new technique on a series of destroyers before they moved onto the dreadnoughts. The request was quickly approved. The Army also reported that the delivery system for Project Candid had been perfected and they were in the final stages of the protection phase. Once complete, it was estimated that 20,000 units could be created and shipped within a week with training taking another three days. Projectiles were currently being manufactured. July 28th was the date for the second offensive to capture Bakir.
Last edited by Armus Republic on Fri Mar 02, 2018 5:17 am, edited 1 time in total.
The Republic is a highly militaristic, imperialistic nation that prides itself on individual Liberties.
NS Rank does not represent my nation
The population of the Republic and Her Empire: 1.5 billion
Republican Armed Forces: 60 million
This does not mean that all 60 million soldiers will be in the war. I've an Empire, which means I have other commitments to attend to.
The RAF number does not include the Militia
Skyhooked wrote:Would spread even further and claim more territories, until there are no countries left to conquer.
The Batavia wrote:The sword is mightier than the pen
Zitravgrad wrote:As if their number is not terrifying enough. "Psychological Operations" omg.

DEFCON Levels:
5 [4] 3 2 1

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Confedracy
Secretary
 
Posts: 35
Founded: May 11, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby Confedracy » Sat Mar 03, 2018 11:45 pm

Mountains of Edofasia, USRC-Ceneaseian Frontier
Kluge and his men had been marching south for a week or more now. South from their camps on Der Große Ostsee. The snowy wind blew around them. Horses and Tanks pulled what supplies the men could not pull or carry themselves. Kluge muttered to himself "At least we are almost out of the mountains. From there it should be an much easier march thank Wer Arberitet." He shifted the bolt action rifle on his shoulder to a more comfortable position and stared at the steel behemoth in front of him. He wished he had signed up with the Gunnery teams rather then the infantry. They were nice and warm in that hunk of metal. He rubbed his hands together as he marched forward. The commissar a few yards up ahead was shouting party lines to keep the men moving but the one that stuck out was "Its warmer once you get out of the mountains" Kluge doubled his pace. Landings of cavalry south of the mountains had already begun. Messages states that there was defense in the northern mining towns but it had been unprepared for the assault. Kluge unfolded the message he got from the messenger hawk and nearly spat out the word "Midlanders" he snarled. "Those bastards have been our enemies since The Old Nations. Now they are here in bloody Edofasia?" He checked his ammo pouch. Once the Calvary and the bulk of soviet forces link up. Step Two could begin. The wind blew hard against the troops but they met it with hard and determined faces. Edofasia's Liberation was at hand

Stuggart, USRC 6:30 PM Local
Libertatem Manerii
Alexander Crest had gotten the wrong end of the stick by being sent to the hated USRC. With its damn cold and hordes of communists breathing down his neck. But he had a duty to the Republic and he knew someone had to do it. His aide came in with a message. "Sir the foreign minister will be arriving soon" "I am aware lad. Now back to work with you" the aide returned to his daily tasks as the ambassador looked out his window to the city outside. A warm and sunny day and the city almost looked pretty. Shame it was full of communists. Then the moment he had been waiting all day for. A small group of black cars parked in front of his home. First stepped out the foreign minister in his plain suit. But behind him was a cadre of officers and military brass in dress uniforms. The dull grey uniforms blurred together as one of Brown stood out. One of USRC's top generals had come to Alexander's embassy. His eyes widened a bit in surprise and his hand grazed the pistol he had on his hip. They wouldn't get the jump on him. A few minutes later the ambassador and company entered the office area of the Libertatem Manerii and to no surprise found an equal number of guards at Crest's side as the Ambassador sat down in front of him. "Greetings Herr Crest." "Evening Mr.Hamil." "This man next to me is Herr Kasden.You two have much to speak about"
Last edited by Confedracy on Sun Mar 04, 2018 12:11 am, edited 3 times in total.

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Acmeria
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 5
Founded: Jan 14, 2018
Ex-Nation

The settlement of Turin, Italy

Postby Acmeria » Mon Mar 05, 2018 10:59 pm

After long planning and brutal hours to settle Turin it is finally done. The Republic has formally and officially made Turin part of D.R.A.

Homesteaders, carpenters, teachers, chefs, engineers, a large handful of citizens took advantage of moving to the new state of Acemeria. To escape debt, to enjoy more political freedom, to enjoy the luxury of owning free land. [*]

After a two years of building and constructing, not just buildings for society, but also for military. An airforce base, an army base, garrison, and so much more.

The remaining contractors decide on the next possible action.

"finally done, that took a long time"

"Yeah, It did."

"So what now? The military is already rolling in and digging into defenses."

"Well, government promised us free land. These lands are rich in wine and alcohol. I could make an excellent profit as well as the rest of us."

"You know I heard the Sudaraens love their liquor, could try there."

"Hmp...Yeah."

The day passes by, as nightfall comes everyone is now sleeping peacefully in their new colony.

During the night, the military finishes setting up their bases and deploying several platoons of soldiers.
Last edited by Acmeria on Mon Mar 05, 2018 10:59 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Veluchia
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Posts: 8
Founded: Jun 08, 2017
Ex-Nation

Preparation

Postby Veluchia » Sat Mar 10, 2018 11:00 am

Veluchia
1903
___________________________________________________

The Kingdom of Veluchia was slowly but surely beginning to feel the pressure of a souring international stability. The war in the Arabian continents - albeit far away from the Veluchian home front - was still of great concern to the nation and by extension, it's populace. The outbreak of violence in Comeristan had forced two of the most important Veluchian mining conglomerates, Kultainen Aurinko and känfølelse to hastily abandon it's regional projects and pull its managers back to Veluchia as soon as a part of the nationwide blockade fell apart. The mining of rare minerals, ores and gemstones from these exotic lands bolstered a large portion of Veluchia's global economy and without it, they would almost certainly suffer an economic drop. Equally concerning, however, was the unusual dismissive attitude given to civilians, expats and foreign nationals. The blockade was indiscriminate and ships would commonly fire upon any outbound/inbound ship regardless of what colors it was flying or the allegiances they held.

While both workers and esteemed members of society were gravely concerned by the upcoming economic instability, the communist threat to the North was the daunting epicenter of national panic and unease. The red and golden banner unveiled, along with their anthem of conquest had reached international news and within a few short weeks everyone in Veluchia was now painfully aware of the dangers that they faced right on their own doorsteps.

War was not wanted, and The Parliament and The Crown were dedicated to resolving the threat that they were going to soon face through peaceful, diplomatic means. However, the red's had made their intentions clear from the get-go and all the necessary precautions would need to be made to cement Veluchian sovereignty and ensure that - in the case of total war - Veluchia did not fall to communist invasion.

Veluchia had one, clear advantage if a war occured on home soil, namely their geography and training. Trained in a concept of total defence, the combined army and regulated civil militia's were instructed in the use of the harsh, rocky and heavily wooded landscape of Veluchia to their advantage, especially in the almost inhospitable Northern territories. If the Soviets tried to take a beeline approach across the mountain ranges seperating the two nations, then not only would many Soviets likely die from the conditions, but they would almost certainly walk into an entrenched force and be held back due to a combined mix of Veluchian emplacements and the unfamiliar terrain.

In the case of an Invasion, a Soviet attack through the mountains and into the North would be the best scenario for a Veluchian victory, however, it was painfully clear that out of all the options, this was the least likely to be used by the Soviet war machine. The most likely plan of attack, should they begin a crusade at all, would be to go around the harsh ranged and annex neighbouring nations.

One thing was clear however, talks needed to be held immediately if there was going to be any hope of preventing a continental war. The Soviets were clearly becoming one of the greatest threats encountered in recent centuries and - if the Soviets were not quelled soon - Veluchia could soon be waving the red and gold banner over their own Royal Palace, an image deemed unnaceptable by the Crown and the Parliament. The time for action was now. In the coming weeks and months, careful and considerate planning would need to be made, either in preparation for calm diplomacy, or a bloody conflict.

Tvillingarna-411
Headquarters of the Veluchian High-Command
Somewhere in the Southern Territories, 23:48

___________________________________________________

Josef Klaus, the Överbefälhavaren of the Veluchian Armed Forces, sat at his large, rounded, mahogany desk in his fairly petite but lavishly furnished office space. The room was dark now, his paperwork illuminated by little more than a single oil-lamp placed delicately onto the table itself. The small brass phonograph in the back corner of his room had long since finished playing the record that was on it's spike and the room was now filled with the simple, eerie crackling of the rotating disk rubbing against the metallic surface, and the small, metal flask of coffee to his left was now little more than a lukewarm deposit of sugary, milky slop. Ever since the outbreak of violence in the Arabian lands he had been under an immense amount of pressure from the Parliament and the Crown regarding Veluchia's prepardness for war, something that even he himself was not too sure about in reality. He desperately hoped that the Foreign Service could talk some sense into the Communists, however he was not holding his breath for such an outcome. In truth, he saw a dark future ahead for Veluchia, he knew the mindset of such imperialist nations and even with their theoretically-sound concept of Total Defence, he felt it would only be a matter of time before Veluchia was in serious danger of occupation or dissolution.

Such thoughts were enough to make your skin crawl.

But he had to push those sorts of thoughts aside, as he was expecting an imminent audience with both the Prime Minister and King Rudolf IV himself. The meeting had been hastely prepared and the details were sketchy at best, however Klaus could easily tell what the Crown and the Cabinet wanted, most likely, an immediate defensive response in preparation for the potential conflict against the Soviets. The mass amounts of troops and equipment requiring management would quickly become a logistical nightmare. One that Klaus would require a lot more coffee to get through with his sanity intact.

3 loud bangs on his doorway caused Klaus to crane his neck upwards at the source of the clattering. His door swung open and immediately two Royal Guards filed into his office, taking positions at either side of the doorway. They were clad in the traditional honour-guard regalia, with their distinctive faceplates, colourful attire and beautifully kept Blurhaise Rapiers. They stood to attention in a respectable, stoic manner, and Klaus immediately took notice of the concealed 38. Special revolvers strapped to their upper-thighs.

"Rise for his Majesty the King!" One of the guards bellowed, his voice muffled slightly by his woven faceplate. Klaus obeyed and stood up as rigid as a pole. Even though he was their superior by a long way indeed, the Royal Guards answered directly to the King, an individual who still had unparalleled governmental influence. Showing disrespect to the guard could cause the King to look down upon you, which could quickly end even the most decorated of careers.

Within a few short moments both King Rudolf and Prime Minister Arkan Nygård entered the office. King Rudolf was dressed in a black suit and tie, a wild difference to his usual public garb, where he is rarely seen out of his Royal cloak and crown. The Prime Minister was dressed in similar attire as well. Klaus bowed respectfully to the King as he entered, however the king - surprisingly - brushed his gesture off, remarking with the words "Spare me the formalities Commander, we don't have time for such luxuries".

A quick handshake and smile to the Prime Minister, and the three men were quickly sat around the office table. The room quickly filled with the glow of lantern-light and the smell of expensive, foreign tobbaco smoke.

"I wont beat around the bush, Commander Klaus. We are facing a grave threat from the Communists". King Rudolf said with a face of stone. "As you mentioned last week to us via telegram, forward scouts in the Northern mountain ranges are reporting possible sightings of Soviet forces in the vicinity, but cannot accurately determine their current motives or actions. While the Governments priority is still to ensure a peaceful discussion and smoothing of tensions between our Nation and the Confederacy, we can no longer idly sit by and wait for a possible invasion to take place."

Klaus cupped his hands slightly, leaning on them as he looked over at both the Prime Minister and the King. Prime Minister Nygård then began to speak.

"The issue has been debated between us three, the parliament and the districts for some time now, and it's an almost unanimous agreement that we have to implement the Military Readiness Doctrine, and for the time being, a state of emergency has been declared nationwide. It's also likely that the draft system will be re-activated in the next few days, this will no doubt be an unpopular move with the citizenry, but a necessary one to ensure the safety of our nation".

Klaus gave an affirmative nod, before the Prime Minister continued with his monologue.

"The intelligence that both yourself and VISA has been sending to us has made us very concerned indeed. If the Soviets really are going to expand their territory in such a manner, then we have to make sure that all our defences are ready for an attack any time now. Therefore you are hereby authorised to set up defences, including large-payload minefields in the Northern territories of Veluchia. We require that the North be ready to deal with a mass-scale invasion within the next 150 hours. If the Soviets do come over the mountains, they will be exhausted and their numbers depleted, if we play our cards right and set up appropriate defences, our men should be able to cut them down to ribbons, as we will have the tactical advantage".

Klaus nodded once again. "I agree sir, it will be done."

The King suddenly interjected. "The Prime Minister would also like to add that until this matter is behind us, the coastline will be heavily scrutinised and our Navy will patrol the coasts en-masse. In addition to this, we will also require that our Eastern and Western borders be strengthened to deal with an invasion from those directions also. Remember the Total Defence doctrine, Commander".

"We live by it sir, your wishes shall be done".

"Good", the king said, standing up alongside the Prime Minister. "Both myself and Prime Minister Nygård must depart immediately, we have to try and open a... rapport, if you will, with the Soviets before it's too late. Hopefully, if we succeed, this conversation will be little more than an unpleasent event... See to it that Veluchia is protected, Commander, and you will be rewarded exponentially."

The King and the Prime Minister then turned on their heels and left, without waiting for a reply. Their guards soon followed, slamming the door behind them, and leaving Klaus alone with his thoughts, and his new objectives...

Colestrem Barracks
Northern Territories, 02:43

___________________________________________________


<:: INCOMING TELEGRAM, PRINTING DETAILS ::>

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<:: MESSAGE TERMINATED ::>

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Folina
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 4
Founded: Nov 20, 2017
Ex-Nation

Postby Folina » Sun Mar 11, 2018 3:38 pm

“OK give me a SITREP commander” says General Hormund commander of all marine forces on the isle, “112 dead 20 wounded we need one thousand more men if we are to succeed these casulties are lower than expected those damn failed colonists were left here for a reason. Somewhere near B district in the jungle CPL.Jackson and LT. MIkal are setting mines for a ambush “hey have you taken your malaria tablets Corporal” “no sir im all out can i have some “ “sure just dont die those are my last ones so make em count tomorrow we gotta go to the depot to get supplies fuck this place” Later that day the CpL and Lt joked about how gay the navy was and maries are awesome. Somewhere in santo domingo Two platoons were setting up after taking a port for resources. The high command was getting anxious that they would lose the key strategic port in the east but the salty marines were going to defend it with their lives. Back in Invictus firebombing the infantry on the ground was responsible for killing the remaining one thousand enemy colonists. On the secured beaches the tanks and AFVs were scrambling off the decks of landing boats the admiral who found and brought the first men to the island to confront hat find new lands for Folina,meanwhile on the isand work was still being commenced even after all enemy colonists retreated back to the eastern tip of the isle backs facing the sea which was crawling with naval warships and military planes scouting for the enemy. InGulo city politicians decided that they should implement a govenor to stabilize the region after the war and not turn it into a terrorist haven but instead a naval base for the FL NAVY. after that one month of fighting all troops pulled back to fire bases and ports as the navy bombed the island to smitherines the alarms sounded on the deck and millions of invictas worth of missiles were launched all in all 200 missiles were launched and 2000 tons of bombs were dropped killing virtually every enemy colonist, “holy shit the navy tore them a new asshole’ said the LT and CPL almost at the same time as if they both knew the navy was badass. After the intense all possible evils such as the hostile colonists found after the settlement collapsed. Two weeks later the Admiral was set to get the medal The Expedition Medal Of Folina given to all explorers t the new capital of the isle was called Fortis castrum and the govenor was Alexander Mick a strong folinan politician who made it clear he was capable of managing a small local government and the state was to be called Isle of Folina which was coined by the marines on the island. The construction of the state government building was nearly done crafted by the hands of Folinans, the building situated in the capital was 12 klicks northeast of port au prince was already busy with Folinan colonists ready for  new life on a new island for the people there would dictate the future of the stunning and and prosperous island.

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Quo God
Civil Servant
 
Posts: 7
Founded: Nov 05, 2017
Ex-Nation

Postby Quo God » Sun Mar 11, 2018 4:34 pm

Five hours after the invasion of Haiti and the Dominican republic

_________________________________________________________________________



Lord healy Wearing his Military officer uniform, Black suit with Yellow stitching and buttons, He has been in focus for weeks now, tensions in the islands has been volatile and the attempt in defusing the chaos as failed, but he didn’t know that a full-blown invasion of the Islands was taking place.
He paced to his war room, he’d currently be in a top secret bunker, While the outside seemed like apart of the landscape inside was reinforced Metal and to keep the bunker presentable the floors were covered in White marble and the walls With a cream all paper with multiple pictures of Leader dating back to the first tribal war lord, Lord Healy Smiled as he felt proud of his country, HIs walk was very calm yet assertive, His legs were sharp as one stepped in front heel first along with the other, His left hand Cupped behind his back perfectly ninety degrees and his right arm swinging in motion of his right leg.

Lord Healy Eventually made it to the door, He stood out of Pose relaxed facing the door, he closed his eyes, Inhaled and deeply exhaled, He spoke out quietly as if he was speaking to someone beside him “Just another day” As he Shoved the doors open with both hands he posed majestically as he presented himself.

The war room was utter chaos, people around a table shouting at each other, Maps covered on the walls and the table, Human rights leader David Chiss Was In mid-argument with the Acting commander of the situation and event “Nkosi (Sir) Solli, the situation” Lord Healy spoke out to him carefully.

Nkosi Solli Stuttered, he can’t fail when Lord Healy is in the room, Lord Healy spoke out again “Everyone go Except Nkosi, His second in command, the Command of Navy, air, Tanks, infantry and spec ops”

Everyone not listed under his command Swiftly sped off not wanting to be caught under Lord Healy’s boot.

Lord healy PLaced his Pistol on the table, nothing valuable, an old pistol. Lord Healy looked down at the pistol as he spoke out to everyone in the room “Does anyone why I keep this pistol?” Solli Chirped in as he replied, “It has been passed down your family down the generations!” Lord Healy Quickly Cocks the gun Firing a round at Solli Going into his head and exiting the other side.

“If only you read more books on warfare than my family history, He looked at Solli’s Second “Name” He calmly demanded “I-Its David York Mi-Milord” DAvid York would be practically pissing himself, he’d only been Solli’s Second for a few weeks, he;’d been assigned to him after he just passed Officer’s training, While he was educated he was young, twenty-five years young, “Nkosi York, you are in command, we are not going to sort this diplomatically we’re going to solve this with War, Get Supreme General Kamiyama on right now and ask him if He can help out a friend, Ship our troops and equipment to Mexico and help us squash this insignificant bug, He has my Navy and 3/4 of my air force at his use for this operation, Do it now”
York Ran to a separate soundproof room as he started to call the General, for now, they will have to wait until he replied with his decision, for once the one thing Lord Healy didn’t have was time, he’d have to go through the pain of waiting for his reply.

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Acmeria
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 5
Founded: Jan 14, 2018
Ex-Nation

First shipment of tanks arrive to the port of Turin

Postby Acmeria » Sun Mar 11, 2018 5:47 pm

*On the bright clear morning, the smell of the seas fills the air, the calming waves of the ocean. The first shipment of military tanks 200 strong arrives! upon arrival the General inspects the firepower.*

*Harbor workers dressed in protective clothing and hard hats tirelessly remove the cargo and load it on cargo trucks, trains and even cargo planes ready to supply and power the military*

*The general walks through the port also with a protective hat, dressed casually instead of formally, in his uniform along beside him a dozen Secret Police officers in the protection division dressed in black clothing and ear pieces armed with pistols which appear to be holstered. The officers stand very close to the general and owner of the port. Every footstep made by the general seems to echo on the ship.*

*The owner of the port, dressed in a special management uniform and a walkie*

"These tanks are splendid, the Cneasians really know how to make their tanks." While staring at the 2 ton tank with amaze.

"They sure do!" replied the owner "I made sure my workers took great care. I knew this was a top priority shipment. Everythings in perfect condition."

*The general ignores the port owner, carefully inspecting the tanks realizing these tanks would serve the military well he continues to leave the ship*

*As the general exits, he notices a shipment of what appears to be a cargo of zinfandel wine*

"Wheres that cargo going?"

"Ah, that's heading to the Sudarderans. Not sure if the news is spreading it, but the president signed a trade agreement. They pay an extremely good amount of money per cargo. Recently we've had many citizens growing wine farms. Our biggest farm here is exactly 200 acres long. It's good money for our settlement. There's about 3 tons of it.

"Interesting, no wonder we can afford all this firepower."

"Indeed!"


______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

*At the capital Sliver City a mass recruitment is spreading, the army grows and grows day by day in power*


*A defense secretary observes as an entire platoon of recruits train in agony, a requirement of 5 pull ups, 50 mile hike, 2 mile run under 20 minutes, 200 push ups/sit ups, 90% accuracy at close range(4 meters), 75% at medium range (18 meters), 60% at long range (30 meters) a high test score... Joining this military is only for the best*

"So, what do you think?"

"This is quite...Harsh. Only a small number can join we got at least 1 million in active duty because of these insane requirements."

"BUT...Our reserves is huge. 2 million strong standing, reserves. Our military is slowly growing, every 3 months we get another 20 to 50 thousand new soldiers. We want only the best and THE best."

"I guess you're right...The future soldier program is also working wonderfully. Very well...I will not lower the requirements, however I have a much better decision to make."

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
*Two weeks later*

*The defense sec holds a meeting with and conference with the media giving a speech, passing a new law purposing a paramilitary defense force.*

"Thank you all for coming today."

"Unfortunately I don't have time for questions, I am very busy and just need to pass information of this law today.

"We have been discussing this for weeks. The "Paramilitary and defense act of 2069" Will now increase funds and firepower for the police. During peace time our police force will act as they are, keeping law and order. When the city were to ever become under attack the police become a paramilitary force and act immediately. This law also includes that all gun laws will be lifted allowing all citizens to take up arms against enemy forces who invade their homes."

"All citizens are advised to follow and obey orders from the paramilitary or government officials, during the time when it rises. All citizens are encourage, but no required to attend a firearms training course."

"That is all I have to report today. Thank you all for dropping by."

*The crowd erupts all the commotion and talking makes it impossible to understand a single word as the DEFSEC returns to the backstage where the president is waiting. in his 3 piece suit and dozens of Secret Police*

"Well, good work. Why don't you go ahead and take the rest of the day off. It's been a hell of a week."

"It has...I only hope good comes out of this."

"Heh, oh it will. No one's going to mess with a nation that has a full force of armed citizens and police."
Last edited by Acmeria on Sun Mar 11, 2018 5:51 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Bluraland
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Founded: Oct 12, 2016
Civil Rights Lovefest

Diplomatic mission

Postby Bluraland » Mon Mar 12, 2018 12:38 pm

Helios - Acquasia

There in the chamber surrounded by the Government the Grand families sat. Debating still there petty differences but nothing serious as has been the case in pretty much the whole past centuries. The Families' squabbles settled gradually over time and If not the Government steps in to rope them back in to the matters at hand.

Next proposal was to be put forward by the Government and at its head the strong willed and brilliant Marco Piazzo who in recent years came into his own winning the regional vote to be on the Merico council and then winning the national vote to be head of the Interfamilial Government of Acquatasia.
As he rose the room went silent, maybe not the family heads immediately but in due course they listened.
"we gather today to discuss the foreign policy of the nation and of course a majority is needed to pass the proposed action. This new policy known as the Acquatasia family arrangement is an outreach. An outreach to who? you may ask, well to the Pillowlandian colonies. They represent a bridge we can build to their mother countries and her allies. I know what you're thinking that we have vast wealth from internal trade and the nature that our lands were previously in but its time to extend and reach out to foreign contacts. The proposed action is that we extend an invitation to the surrounding Pillowlandian colonies and bring them here to dine and tour the nation to see what we have to offer. what is your vote?"

The room erupted into discussion again for the next half an hour but Marco was patient and in due time the votes were in. All were in favour except for the Family of Durcils who fled Pillowlandia long ago and a handful of minor government ministers. But that was all that was needed and in the next few hours the invitations were sent to the surrounding Pillowlandian colonies.

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Confedracy
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Founded: May 11, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby Confedracy » Mon Mar 12, 2018 10:03 pm

Soviet-Velonian Border 1903 Edofasia
The demands were rejected. In arrogance the Veluchians declared that for every man dead 25 Soviets would die as well. From what scouting missions reported in this would be true if the soviets tried to march straight south. They needed a solution and found it in the Grand Duchy of Velonia. Already a prime spot for liberation. The worker toiled under an oppressive and widely hated Archduke who claimed to be of Ceneasian blood. Soviet agents got in contact with leftist parties and convinced them that if they would rebel USRC would recognize them as the legitimate government of Velonia and guarantee their independence. With a small force already landed on an island near the soviet mainland. War has come to the North

The wide open plains stretched out before Pvt Kaundler. Assigned to the 27th Peoples Calvary Division in Army Group V-1. The task was to capture the city of Velon and help rebel forces completely remove The Archduke and his forces from power. So far they had encountered only scattered resistance and were seen as liberators to the handful of small towns on the border. But that was expected to change as the army got closer to Velon. The Free Army of Velonian Workers or FAVW was formed out of people USRC seemed as politically acceptable and able to be trained to fight against loyalist forces. For now though they rode forward towards the city.

Northern Border of Ceneasian Colony on Edofasia
After the initial advance and landings on the coast. Soviet forces were now gathering to begin a massive advance on the south. Behind the front line airfields were being set up to begin airstrikes on Ceneasian coal and oil depots in the major ports on the southern coast in an attempt to cripple the enemies naval forces.
After the mountain passes were secured and the two forces linked up it was time to push south. Unlike the Velonian front. There was going to be a real war here. Kluge was inspecting the forming line of artillery. He smirked. “Our boys will be dropping the hammer of Wer Alberiet on them by morning.” He knew soon they would be seeing Midlander resistance stiffen significantly. But he knew the enemy had been caught off guard. A rare thing for Ceneasia. The wind picked up from the north. A chilling wind that reminded him of home and shook the trees around him. He glanced back to the snow capped mountains behind him and took in the sight. Lines of marching men and machines came continued to pour down in what seemed to be endless waves. Then coming over them was a great behemoth. A War Zeppelin. The golden banner of Edofasia emblazoned on its side. Ready to rain death and destruction upon the invaders. “One of many” Kluge said to a young man standing beside him in awe of the same sight. At this moment they felt invincible in the surreal world they found themselves in. The illusion was shattered when the guns began to open fire. A cenasian scout plane was being fired upon by AA. The pilot did what he could to dodge the fire but there were simply to many guns on him. He fell from the sky in a fiery wreck. The Cenesians knew they were here now. Once they realized the pilot wasn't coming back they would know something was going on in the north.

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Sudardes
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Founded: Aug 08, 2016
Ex-Nation

Postby Sudardes » Mon Mar 12, 2018 11:38 pm

Brandon Cuillin, Page of House Cenasí, Ranwor’s Watch, Ranwor, Kingdom of Sudardes, Terra, January 58 CE

“A toast to my brother, Solomon, the Hammer of Sudor!”

The Great Hall of Ranwor’s Watch was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. Golden, with a crimson Dragon stitched on, the symbol of Sudor and deep blue and silver, with an embroided phoenix, the sigil of House Cenasí. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

It was the third hour of the welcoming feast laid for the Hammer of Sudor. Brandon’s knight was seated far at the other end of the table, towards the raised platform where King Asher hosted the his two brothers. In honor of the occasion, Asher would doubtless permit everyone a glass of wine, but no more than that. Down here on the benches, there was no one to stop Brandon drinking as much as he had a thirst for.

His knight, Sir Eachaidh, commander of the Cenesian relief force was seated on the dais alongside King Sudor, Lord Solomon and his wife, Lady Hannah, and Lord Henry. The remainder of the high lords sitting on the dais were the rest of the Sudors, Gabriel Sudor of the Southern Garrison, uncle of King, and the Patriarch of Sudor, Joseph of Ranwor. Joseph gave Brandon a warm smile as he went by. Gabriel ignored him utterly, but there was nothing new in that. After all had been seated, toasts were made, thanks were given and returned, and then the feasting began.

He watched intently at the politics atop the dais, trying to learn how the lords and nobility conducted themselves. Asher and Solomon were deep in conversation, though judging by their contenance, Solomon seemed to be unhappy at whatever they were talking about. One day, I will be invited to sit at the dais, Brandon thought to himself. It wasn’t impossible for a boy in his position to one day ascend to nobility. He was already a page to a member of the high aristocracy, and if he didn’t make any mistakes along the way, he could very well be a knight in his mid twenties.

“I say, the food here is good, innit?”

Brandon broke out of his trance, looking around for the voice. It came from James.

“I’m sorry, bruv?”

“I said,” James said, through a mouthful of bread and wine. “The food here is good, innit?”

James was another squire. A porky lad no older than fifteen. He came from a wealth Cenasi family. He was almost certainly going to be a knight no matter what happened.

“Yea, I do say so myself. The food here is excellent.”

“You know, I reckon that Asher is going to kill Solomon.”
“Not so loud, James, what if someone from the House hears?”

“Bugger them, we’re leaving soon anyways.”

Brandon leaned in over his porridge, closer to James.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well he’s the legitimate heir to the throne, and that Druid Joseph is an eel.”

“He’s the patriarch of Elysia.”

“Yeah, doesn’t make him less of an eel. I wager he poisoned the old King.”

“Tosh.”

“I bet it. He’s probably even an Arian.”

“That’s heresy.” Brandon said, hoping to put an end to the conversation.


“I heard from one of Asher’s squires, yeah, that he wasn’t even allowed to see his father before the old man kicked the bucket. Joseph’s orders.”

“I doubt it. What kind of man would bar a son from seeing his father?”

“The kind of man that engineered his murder probably.”

It did make a little bit of sense. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. It was Sir Mac Gille.

“How are you doing my boy?” He asked genially. “Enjoying the wine?”

Sir Mac Gille was a gaunt man with a kind face although eyes reminded Brandon of the deep ocean blue, vast and dark. He wore dark blue shirt, as befitted of a man of Cenasí nobility.

“Very well, Sir.” Brandon bowed his head. “If it pleases you, I can fetch you a glass of wine?”

Mac Gille laughed. It was a deep hearty laugh.

“My dear boy, I’ve had enough to drink tonight.” He rustled Brandons brown hair. “We set sail for Cenesia at dawn. Our oath is fulfilled with the defeat of the Kufdics. King Asher has dismissed us. Let the other pages know, will you?”

“Yes sir.” Brandon bowed his head.

“Try not to drink too much will you? You will need to gather up all of Sir Eachaidh’s things tonight.”

“I will not sir, I will notify the squires immediately. We shall begin preparations for tomorrow immediately.”

“Good boy. May Lugh bless you.”

Brandon watched as Sir Mac Gille went to rejoin the rest of the Cenasí footmen at the head of the table by the foot of the dais. His gaze shifted back to Asher and Solomon. Whatever had upset them earlier seems to have passed and the two were now laughing and smiling like brothers.

Bob Mansfield, Shapiron, Republic of Sudardes, Terra, February 25th 2038, 10:42 PM

Bob's father managed the Shapiron branch of a national chain of shoe stores. He earned a modest, comfortable salary and owned a modest, comfortable apartment in an undistinguished vertical living complexes in Shapiron. The secret sorrow of his life was that he did not head a business of his own. But he was a quiet, conscientious, unimaginative man, and an early marriage had ended all his ambition. Bob's mother was a thin, restless woman who adopted and discarded five religions in nine years. She had delicate features, the kind that made her look beautiful for a few years of her life, at the one period of full flower, never before and never afterward. Bob was her idol. His sister Helen, five years older, was a good-natured, unremarkable girl, not beautiful but pretty and healthy; she presented no problem. Bob, however, had been born puny in health. His mother adored him from the moment the doctor pronounced him unfit to survive; it made her grow in spiritual stature--to know the extent of her own magnanimity in her love for so uninspiring an object; the bluer and uglier baby Bob looked, the more passionate grew her love for him. She was almost disappointed when he survived without becoming an actual cripple. She took little interest in Helen; there was no martyrdom in loving Helen. The girl was so obviously more deserving of love that it seemed just to deny it to her.

Mr. Mansfield, for reasons which he could not explain, was not too fond of his son. Bob, however, was the ruler of the household, by a tacit, voluntary submission of both parents, though his father could never understand the cause of his own share in that submission. In the evenings, under the lamp of the family sitting room, Mrs. Mansfield would begin, in a tense, challenging voice, angry and defeated in advance: "Horace, I want a bicycle. A bicycle for Bob. All the boys his age have them, Noah from his class got one the other day, Horace. Horace, I want a bicycle for Bob."

"Not right now, Mary," Mr. Mansfield would answer wearily. "Maybe next summer....Just now we can't afford..."

Mrs. Mansfield would argue, her voice rising in jerks toward a shriek.

"Mother, what for?" said Bob, his voice soft, rich and clear, lower than the voices of his parents, yet cutting across them, commanding, strangely persuasive. "There's many things we need more than a bicycle. Why do you care about Noah? I don't like him, he's a dumbo. He can afford it because his Dad’s got his own dry-goods store. His Dad's a showoff. I don't want a bicycle." Every word of this was true, and Bob did not want a bicycle. But Mr. Mansfield looked at him strangely, wondering what had made him say that. He saw his son's eyes looking at him blankly from behind the small glasses; the eyes were not ostentatiously sweet, not reproachful, not malicious; just blank. Mr. Mansfield felt that he should be grateful for his son's understanding--and wished to hell the boy had not mentioned that part about the private store.

Bob did not get the bicycle. But he got a polite attention in the house, a respectful solicitude--tender and guilty, from his mother, uneasy and suspicious from his father. Mr. Mansfield would do anything rather than be forced into a conversation with Bob--feeling, at the same time, foolish and angry at himself for his fear.

He was a thin, pale boy with a bad stomach, and his mother had to watch his diet, as well as his tendency to frequent colds in the head. His sonorous voice was astonishing in his puny frame. He sang in the choir, where he had no rivals. At school he was a model pupil. He always knew his lessons, had the neatest copybooks, the cleanest fingernails, loved Sunday school and preferred reading to athletic games, in which he had no chance. He was not too good at mathematics--which he disliked--but excellent at history, English, and civics; later, at psychology and, sociology.

He studied conscientiously and hard. He was not like Noah Scott, who never listened in class, seldom opened a book at home, yet knew everything almost before the teacher had explained it. Learning came to Noah automatically, as did all things: his able little fists, his healthy body, his startling good looks, his over exuberant vitality. But Noah did the shocking and the unexpected: Bob did the expected, better than anyone had ever seen it done. When they came to compositions, Noah would stun the class by some brilliant display of rebellion. Given the theme of "Republican Days--The Golden Age," Noah came through with a masterly essay on how the Republic of Sudardes was corrupted and decadent to the core and in desperate need of revolutionary reform should the state wish to continue. Bob delivered a beautiful prose praising the Republic and everything it stood for, which was reprinted in a local newspaper. Besides, Bob had Noah beaten hollow when it came to names and dates; Bob's memory was like a spread of liquid cement: it held anything that fell upon it. Noah was a shooting geyser; Bob was a sponge.

The children usually let him have his way, and avoided him when possible, but not openly; they could not figure him out. He was helpful and dependable when they needed assistance with their lessons; he had a sharp wit and could ruin any child by the apt nickname he coined, the kind that hurt; he drew devastating cartoons on the pavement; he had all the earmarks of a sissy, but somehow he could not be classified as one; he had too much self-assurance and quiet, disturbingly wise contempt for everybody. He was afraid of nothing.

Bob was eleven years old when his mother died. Aunt Adeline, his father's maiden sister, came to live with them and run the Mansfield household. Aunt Adeline was a tall, capable woman to whom the word "horse" clung in conjunction with the words "sense" and "face." The secret sorrow of her life was that she had never inspired romance. Helen became her immediate favorite. She considered Bob an imp out of hell. But Bob never wavered in his manner of grave courtesy toward Aunt Adeline. He leaped to pick up her handkerchief, to move her chair, when they had company, particularly masculine company. He sent her beautiful Valentines on the appropriate day--with paper lace, rosebuds and love poems. He sang "Sweet Adeline" at the top of his town crier's voice. "You're a maggot, Bob," she told him once. "You feed on sores."

He answered frankly. "Then I'll never starve."

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

From his window, Solomon watched as the dark blue sails of the Cenasi ships departed from the harbor. He tried to remember briefly the conversations the night before; it was locked behind a fuzzy haze of alcohol and sweetcakes.

“He’s a fool,” he muttered, turning to his wife lying on the bed. “It’s suicide what he wants me to do.”

Eliza pulled the furs to her chin and watched him. He looked somehow smaller and more vulnerable, like the youth she had wed in the sept at Bena, eight long years gone.

“I will refuse him,” Solomon said as he turned back to her. His eyes were haunted, his voice thick with doubt.

Eliza sat up in the bed. “You cannot. You must not.”

“My troops are ill equipped and exhausted. Our defense has depleted our manpower.”

“He will not understand that. He is a king now, and kings are not like other men. If you refuse to serve him, he will wonder why, and sooner or later he will begin to suspect that you oppose him. Can’t you see the danger that would put us in?”

Solomon shook his head, refusing to believe. “Asher would never harm me or any of mine. We are closer than brothers. He loves me. If I refuse him, he will roar and curse and bluster, and in a week we will laugh about it together. I know the man!”

“You knew the man,” she said. “The king is a stranger to you.” She had to make him see. “Pride is everything to a king, my lord. Asher brings you these great honors, you cannot throw them back in his face.”

“Honors?” Solomon laughed bitterly.

“In his eyes, yes,” she said.

“And in yours?”

“And in mine,” she blazed, angry now. Why couldn’t he see? “You will go down in time as the man who subdued Elysia! They will sing songs of your victories throughout the ages for all time! That is the greatest honor there is!”

Solomon’s face darkened. “I am understrength and under supplied. To go out now is to go straight into the arms of Lugh himself.”

“The Kufdics are at their weakest. Asher knows this, he can see…”

“Asher is not a warrior. He knows books but he knows nothing about war. He has yet to spill the blood of even a calf.” He walked back towards the bed. “You are my beloved. If you ask me to go, then I shall. But it must be you who tells me to go.”

“I want you to go, Solomon. Go and bring glory to our kingdom.”

“As you wish it then, my love.” He went and sat on the bed. “Keep our children safe.”

Bob Mansfield, Room 501, Central Government Complex, Shapiron, Sudardes Proper, Terra, 8:32, 12th March, 2068

“I dun understan’ whey ya so gey.” said Jason. “Yer mum beeg gey.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, sir.” Mansfield replied, hitting the security button under the his desk repeatedly. “You’re clearly not here to lobby for education reform in the subterranean neighborhoods.”

“Dun’ ser meesa, ye cuck suckuling, man foogging, hear stealin’, gud fer nuttin, pee o’ shite, dert sniffn’, cuck suckuling…”

“You already said that last one,” Mansfield interrupted, his button pressing growing ever more urgent. “Try ball fondling.”

The office itself was something out of a period piece. Dark oak floors covered by a Edofasian carpet so worn that it had holes where men from the Ministry of Education would stand at attention reporting the various developments from around the Imperium to him. Sitting at his writing table, he has on his right the windows giving on Victory Square. Through these, as through a proscenium, the curious spectator may contemplate his profile as well as the blinds will permit. On his left is the inner wall, with a stately bookcase, and the door, it’s sleek reinforced fiberglass profile breaking the the congruity of the entire room, not quite in the middle, but somewhat further from him. Against the wall opposite him are two busts on pillars: one, to his left, of Saint Edward; the other, to his right, of King Solomon the Conqueror. Between them hang an engraved portrait of Tobias Heath; enlarged photographs of Nietzsche, Reagan, and Sadhuka. On the wall behind him, above the mantelshelf, is a family portrait of impenetrable obscurity.

“Ah yessir, than’ yessir, ye bawl fundlin’, muddafuckin’, cuck suckuling…”

The door of Mansfield’s office slid open and a flurry of security personnel rushed in and grabbed the unkempt subby, hoisting him out of the leather armchair in front of Mansfield’s desk and dragging him out of the the door, all whilst he continued shouting indiscernible obscenities.

Mansfield sank below the horizon of his desk, allowing the cushions of his chair to absorb his whole weight. This was the first time he had allowed a subby representative from the Subterranean Advocacy Group set foot into the government complex. Now he understood why all their lobbying was done by surface dwellers. It made him wonder whether Baxton was truly out of her mind when she asked the politburo to draw up plans diminishing their status as full citizens.

“I must say, that was quite a polite subby if you ask me.”

Mansfield sat up straight, like a Youth League member being called to attention. The well built man framed in his doorway donning a tan trench coat was none other than Roger Patton.

“Roger! Pleasure seeing you again,” Mansfield stood up, extending his arms as if he expected Patton rush in and embrace him like a child lost in the supermarket finding his mother. “Please, have a seat.”

Patton moved to the chair that was not previously occupied by the subby. He sat down with an audible thud.

“What brings you here today?” Mansfield said taking a seat after Patton. “Don’t tell me, let me guess, is it about the benefits awarded to the military?”

Patton smoothed his blonde hair, his eyes hidden behind a pair of aviators. He reached into his jacket pocket pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Oh you can’t smoke here, Roger, as much as I like you. I’m afraid it’s against building regulation.”

He lowered his sunglasses just enough to stab at Mansfield with his steel blue eyes before striking the match.
“What are you going to do? Call security?”

“Perhaps.”

Patton blew a ring of smoke at Mansfield, making a finger gun with his right hand.

“Pew.”

“Haha, you’re always a blast, Roger.”

“Why don’t you tell me what your plan for the military is.”

“Well I’ve got this big thing worked out, and I think you’ll like it.”

“Show don’t tell, Bob. You’re not some substandard roleplayer on an internet forum.”

“Uh, I can’t just show it to you I’m afraid. It’s classified.”

“I’ve got clearance.”

“It’s level one.”

“Yes, a man of my rank has level one clearance.”

Mansfield forced a smile. He never liked the man. Like his mother, Patton always had the right thing to say at the right time, and like his father, always in control. There was always a stench of insubordination and rebellion that wafted from the General of the Armies, something that he inherited from the mountain fighters in central Elysia and retained even after successful reeducation. Like a horse, he had been thoroughly broken in, but like a stallion still retained the best traits; strength, intuition, and dignity.

“Of course, Roger, how could I forget?” He switched on his monitor and a holoscreen erected itself between Patton and himself. “Just give me a minute to pull it up.”

“Sure, take your time.” Patton leaned back into his chair, taking another puff. “I’ve got time.”

I’m sure you do Mansfield cursed in his mind. It was difficult enough not to suppress his disdain for the coarse and unrefined character of Roger Patton. The lofty cooliness that he effortless executed almost put Mansfield over the edge.

“Here it is.” An orange pyramid popped up on the screen, separated into several tiers. Mansfield pointed to the second tier. “That’s where the military is. They will have all the rights of regular citizens plus preference in housing, employment, and education and also military discounts and government pensions and…”

Patton raised his right hand, cigarette dangling between his index and middle fingers. The tip passed through the top tier of the pyramid.

“Who’s this?” He asked, reclining once more.

“Ah that’s the officials of course.”

“The military are officials.”

“No this is more like, uh, political officials, the cabinet, the Politburo, those lot.”

“So essentially, you and your friends?”

“Well I’d hardly call the Secretary of Commerce my friend,” Mansfield laughed nervously. “And as for the Secretary of Defence, that just goes without saying. But all in all just the elected officials and top brass.”

“What do you mean.”

“Well I mean she’s nobody’s friend, I do all that I can for her yet she treats me no better than she treats her receptionist.”

“I meant what do you mean ‘the elected officials?’ Are you telling me that you’re going to have a system that’s going to bring the entire Congress to the upper echelons of society?”

“Well, democracy is key to our nation. Without it the people won’t be happy.”

“I’m not saying get rid of democracy, Bob. I’m asking you why you’re trying to bring the demagogues and career politicians in the Congress into what will become the inner circle.”

“You have to throw the people a bone or two, you know? They need to feel that they matter. If we close off congress from the top tier then it’ll seem like we don’t value democracy.”

“Get rid of it.”

“I just told you why I can’t do that Roger.” Mansfield leaned forward. “Look, Roger, I sympathize with you I do. I want to help you as best I can. I like you, you’re my friend. You’ve been good to me ever since I’ve met you. But you must understand that I can’t do what you’re asking me to do.”

A smile crept across Pattons face. He took another drag, visibly suppressing his laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“I can see why Liz isn’t your friend.”

“Why is that, might I ask?”

“You’re a snake.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get rid of it.” Patton waved at the top of the pyramid again. “The whole top layer. Get rid of it.”

“Roger I told you I can’t do that.”

“Not get rid of Congress. Get rid of all the political officers altogether. That way you can claim that you serve the citizenry out of selflessness.”

Mansfield scoffed.

“And what about myself and rest of the Politburo?”

“Liz is General of the Army. She’ll be covered by your plan. As for you, I can’t say.”

“This is unacceptable, I can’t stand for it.”

“Then keep sitting. No wonder Liz keeps you around.”

“She keeps me around because I perform. This is an excellent plan”

“I know. But did she approve your plan?”

“I’m sure she will when I show her.”

“So that’s a no?” Patton drove the cigarette into Mansfield’s table. “Tell you what. If you don’t get rid of it. I’m going to go right up to her quarters and tell on you just as you probably did when you were a kid in school.”

Mansfield opened his mouth to speak but Patton silenced him with a look.


“And then I’m going to come down here with her and she’s going to do two things in this order. First she’ll tell you to get rid of it, and then she’s going to sack you.”

“Why? Just because you’re sleeping with her?”

“Good Lugh no. If I were I would have led with that. And she’s going to do it because she has a backbone, unlike you. And I know her better than you do, old man.” Patton stood up to leave. “So what’s it going to be?”

“Go get her. She’ll stand by me.”
Last edited by Sudardes on Tue Apr 03, 2018 7:34 am, edited 4 times in total.

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New Velonia
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Founded: May 04, 2016
Ex-Nation

Postby New Velonia » Wed Mar 14, 2018 10:52 pm

High Novan Terran Orbit
4th Velonian Space Fleet

The sleek, black exterior of the NVS Mischell glistened against the Sun as the ship moved into the scene of battle in front of her. The ship was a huge, 800 meter long warship, designed expressly for anti-ship missions. The ship itself was accompanied with several other warships like her, and a squadron of smaller-sized fighter ships. Approaching the battle at a meager couple miles a second. The scene of the battle ahead of them grew larger and larger still as the ship moved ever smoothly across the emptiness of space. From inside the ship, the battle was a mess of lights and explosions, surrounded by nothing but quietness and the backdrop of stars. Getting closer and closer still, the lights became clearer and individual ships could be identified. The scene was an ongoing conflict between a Pillowlandian fleet and a Bergcornopolisian squadron.

Drawing within firing range, the first ship, NVS Yerverus fired a shot at the Bergcornopolisian main ship. A single blast emanated from the internal rail gun and fired a rod towards the main ship. Smashing into it at over 300 G. Firing successionary shots, the ships around Mischell fired without stopping at the Bergcornopolisian fleet. Arming her own main weapons, the NVS Mischell extended a massive cannon from the bottom of the ship. With the main ship in its sights, the cannon fired an experimental nuclear-powered torpedo, inspired by Pillowlandian technology. Exploding with a staggering amount of power, the inertia rocked the ship back and considerably slowed its speed. The Caduceus missile was alone in the sheer power in equipped. Flying out of the cannon, the missile flew towards the ship at a speed several dozen times faster than the rail gun. Detonating extremely close to the ship, the weapon blew apart the outer layers of protection and destroyed the inside compartments of the ship. Debris, people, and ashes flew away from the explosion before the ship presumably sealed the hole off.

Bombardment continued with rail guns, Caduceus missiles, and other kinetic weaponry. However, the smaller fighter ships were also loaded with an outfitted Hyperion laser weaponry system, as well as the larger Assault-Class ships and ships like NVS Mischell. A well-aimed laser could easily pick off the smaller Bergcornopolisian fighter craft. The concentrated laser beam had an unimaginable strength in energy and either fried the ship into uselessness, killed the pilot inside, or completely broke apart the ship itself. Forming fighter and assault squadrons, laser ships picked off enemy vessels, one-by-one behind ally support. Further, the Velonian Assault and Main ships were using a tactic known commonly used in Velonian practice battles wherein the larger class ships fired flak-like shots into squadrons or groups of fighters, using the explosion, the super-fast shrapnel, or the force of the explosion to destroy or render enemy ships useless. This tactic, along with the laser formations, both singled out fighter squadrons into smaller and therefore weaker and worse-defended groups and easily picked them off, one by one.

The enemy started to be killed in huge number, along with having to face the Pillowlandian forces on the other side of the battle.




Border between Wilhelmius and Bergcornopolis

News of Bergcornopolis aggression came to little surprise to the occupying Velonians, who knew that imperial ambitions from Terran states were hard to quench. The Bergcornopolis troops were told to march into enemy territory with little support. They were told to occupy a foreign land already occupied by a mobilized military.

The first battles were fought in the sky. The Velonian Air Force, already mobilized in the Wilhelmian crisis just a little time before, took off into air over Bergcornopolis territory. Met with little resistance, the Velonian Air force gained the upper hand in Air Superiority. One such engagement was over Huntsville, Alabama. Over 60 VD-01 and dozens of more VD-02 drones took flight over the surrounding area in Bergcornopolis territory. Immediate destruction of military installments and industrial centers such as factories, infrastructure such as bridges and highways, and military installments such as AA nests. Operating under complete stealth, these state of the art drones picked off their targets one by one with great efficiency. The poorly aided and unprepared Bergcornopolis military below tried frantically to find the drones responsible for the disruption of the workings of the city. In other areas, such as the less urban areas of Northern Georgia, Velonian bombers such as the BA-67 and BA-21 operated in complete radar stealth, bombing key areas and bringing great destruction to the hostile lands below. Campaigns in North Carolina were harsher, as the Velonian Air Force clashed with the colonial garrison in Bergcornopolis. As the Velonian Air Force deployed dozens of VF-01s and VF-65 Hyperions, the colonial garrison fired back with older jet models and anti aircraft ground installments.

The bombing and strategic destruction of key areas came non-stop and prevented an aggressive campaign against Wilhelm. And with no deployment or backup from Terra, the Bergs could lose quickly




[SIC] Secret In Character, only for Bergcornopolis and New Velonia

MESSAGE RECEIVED---

FROM: Office of Defense, Alasia, New Velonia, Nova Terra
TO: The Esteemed Leader of Bergcornopolis, Terra


To the Dearest Leader of the Bergcornopolis State,

Your Imperial intrusion into the sovereign states of North America in Nova Terra has resulted in a war none of us have experienced yet. We offered a deal for peace and yet your delegation spit on our face. We moved for peace and you met us with hostility. As you read this, Pillowlandian and Velonian forces are in the process of wiping out the Bergcornopolis space fleet and preventing resupply, blockades, and reinforcements. Now, your colonial lands are being subjected to air raids and drone strikes. A full-scale invasion would decimate your colonial garrison, and you cannot move reinforcements across Pillowlandian and Velonian space forces.

if you sue for Peace with the Velonian and Pillowlandian states, the Velonian delegation can guarantee that you will keep your colonial holdings in North America. The deaths of millions of your citizens can be prevented without losing much at all. Accept, if not for the world, then for your own children.

-Office of Defense and Foreign Relations, Alasia

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Pillowlandia
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Ex-Nation

Flames Upon the Horizion

Postby Pillowlandia » Sun Mar 18, 2018 6:28 pm

Within the heart of every government, every people, and every organize lies a machine. A machine of a specific disposition, of a specific specification, of a specific purpose. For the states of Terra, they form the basis of the inevitable bureaucratic ensemble of taxmen and salarymen. From this machine a specific action is taken takes in the people and offers up government. Thus, the machine is not even intelligent in any human machine, as it consumes what is offered and presses it through into a product of itself. Despite this it is a fickle beast, within it the machine is built of many cogs of minute scale and task which are formed from the core of the civil service.

This civil service then is what fuels the machine, as it works quietly and in the background of every citizen’s knowledge and many politician’s too. This generates a machine which is amoral, and which can neither guide the people no correct their course. Such a machine has built in a measure of diagnostic which the people which it consumes and which it is built might modify and repurpose it as they so wish and need. Yet, the machine remains amoral — nothing but a tool of and for the people.

Such a position gives to the people a reasonable and just right to revolution, if there exist a machine which is broken and a series of cogs unwilling to fix it then there exist an incompatibility between the resources and the machine. No such system is sustainable, nor is such system desirable. The due process then is the rise of a people, uncontent to simply be fodder within a machine that provides the incorrect and awful results to them and thus the machine is starved of any support to then wither away.

This is seen across the breadth and width of Terra in her history and in her certain futures, where states rise and fall upon the incompatibility of their machine and its fuel. Yet in a singular place this has not occurred, and for much the reason that it has occurred all of elsewhere. The machine of Cenaesia, is not amoral. It is, undoubtedly, at times immoral upon its course of action and resolve.

Such morality embedded within the machine is the result not of the people, directly, but instead the core of the machine which holds an intelligence, capacity for self analysis and modification, and a deep well of memory and resolve to stay a course which might appear at first facetious or frivolous in nature.Such morality is the result of a strong will of the people and cogs to look inward and trust deeply the will and might of their Ard Rí and the state and the Druid Orders and armed forces which he heads.

This strength is confirmed upon his coronation, not just by his birthright and the tutelage of royalty, by the physical and mental exercises demanded by tradition and the cogs of the machine that he prove himself worthy. The Challenge of the Royal Houses add incentive to the Prince to prepare himself properly and sufficiently, for any weakness shall be exploited in the path of preserving the sharpness of the machine and the promotion of those who are capable over those who are not.

It is this then, that the practice of the warrior-priest king so disdained by the barbarians of Equestria and the savages of Edafosia, Elysia, Permosia, Acquatasia, Noechita, and drakousa alike all fail in the quest for supremacy whilst Cenaesia pulls ahead. Through the self improvement of the Cenaesian machine does Cenaesia rule supreme upon the realms, seas, and inevitably the skys, stars, and any other frontier unbeknownst to us. For as Terra squabbles with its own amoral machines, Cenaesia builds machines of morality to move it forward as the blazing phoenix of man.

It is because of this, and this alone, that upon The Challenge Day of King Augustus Athrawes Johgs, King of Moscou and her territories that I offer the blessings of the Druids and the people of Cenasia to the rightful Ard Rí. May the Challenge be stiff; May the Challenge be Swift, for the Greater Good of Cenaesia, Terra, and Mankind. As Lugh guides King Agustus, may he in turn guide Cenaeisa and his rightful realm of Terra.

Ard Druid Cathbad
Year of Lugh 1895


The Imperial Wealth of the Commons and Lesser Kings
Emain Ablach, Imperial Crown Kingdoms of Pillowlandia
July, 1903




“There exist many a question regarding the sudden and explicit declaration of war upon the fair and rightful Cenaesian Empire by the ants which bite at our toes from across the seas upon Equestria. The sudden nature can be explained simply in that it not an unjustified occurrence.” Agustus began, pausing to adjust a cufflink as he looked to the cadre of technicians who were adjusting various dials and switches for the variety of microphones before him and as the journalists before him captured photographs.

“There is a time in any life, be it in career or personal affairs, that one must consider that the price of not acting to be greater than the price of taking action could ever be. This is one such case. As many of you are aware, our fellow monarchy across the sea is under attack by a virulent cancer that advocates the madness of the masses above that of a body which carefully deliberates under the steady hand of a divinely chosen ruler to guide all forward. A cancer which spits upon the name of Lugh and laughs as it presses onward without the light of any deity but the greed of industrialists and conquest.

So, in the course of affairs when one sees a state, a state built upon a nation which holds dear so much that we too hold dear, being ruthlessly assaulted and its people ruthlessly murdered in cold blood for conquest for the sake of conquest then one must ask what might I do? What might I do to stop it? What might I do to relieve it, or even if I ought to? The teachings of the Church and Lugh tell us that we ought stop it, to extend our shoulder so that we might lessen the burden upon the innocent and vulnerable even if it brings suffering to our own affairs.

Thus, in the natural course of affairs I ordered a great sum of arms and munitions to be transferred discreetly and rapidly to ease the suffering of the honorary Cenaesians upon Equestria and to safeguard further our own countrymen settled upon the edge of the continent. Yet this was, and will not be, enough. And so, more was done. A squadron of our finest warships, was given orders to rescue over one hundred trapped and enclosed civilian craft, each ready to carry the already climbing number of people displaced and wounded by this savage conflict of greed. Hemmed in where they by ten craft belonging to the cancer of the Republic and in which we locked battle to sink ten craft of cancer at no cost to our righteous cause.

This is what brought the savages of the republic to declare war, not a rightful dispute, nor a long standing conflict, but their anger and fear upon their drives for mindless conquest being compromised. Yet, my subjects I bring not solely this sour news. Already, upon the heels of the message from the savages comes word that the barbarians occupying the north seek to cast their ruthless pall upon the free states of the north. Their Lughless heresy marches and already spills blood upon Neothule.

All of this ought to be seen as a new age of trial and tribulation for the people of Cenaesia, a trial to reinforce and showcase our own superior industry, will, and way of life against those who would bring us ill will and seek to destroy our culture and values. That which Cenaesia has gained and built, by bloodright and rightful conquest, will not just be maintained in these wars but expanded and preserved for generations to come. I ask each of you, as my subjects and fellow Cenaesians, that you be willing to fulfil the will of Lugh, Church, and Crown to serve as your fathers, and my father too, have so that we might ask the same of future generations as past generations ask of us.”

Augustus nodded towards the technicians, who quickly began powering the equipment down. He waved as he rose, the cameras of the invited press once more flashed, and walked out of the room.

“Your Majesty, I’ve already spoken with several members of the press who heard the broadcast. They thought it beautiful, and I’m sure the public would concur.”

Augustus paused, his carefully controlled face slipping off to reveal one of worry. “Beautiful because I spoke it and the nation is at war, or truly inspiring? I’ve not much time for the former, and the latter is something I’d hope goes to another of my addresses to be remembered by. I am no fan of this war that the Admiralty has created.”

“The admiralty hardly created this war your majesty, the savages pose a real threat. If not this decade, than the one or two after. You know this to be true.”


“How many times must I remind you Dáire, in private you need not use formality. My mother named me Augustus, and I hear it far too little. Besides, you are closer than family.” Augustus said, his brow furrowing in annoyance.

“Very well Augustus, the point remains that they are a threat and it is better to trim the rose before it grows thorns.” Dáire countered, his own expression grim but thoroughly convinced.

“Simply because it is true does not mean I must like it, and this rose already has thorns. There will be a stream of blood from dead boys and tears from grieving mothers before this is through Dáire, mark my words upon it.”

“Isn’t that every war?”

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


The early morning light cast a grey color upon the inhabitants of the Imperial City, notable more for its government functions and holy sites than any economic affairs. Despite this, its enviable position upon the delta of the Lir river. If one was able to call the vast flow of water a river, at an vast twenty mile width and a well dredged bottom it was closer to a canal. A canal which now saw a great deal of large transport ships steaming up the meet the mobilizing soldiers.

As the Imperial city of the Empire it was only appropriate that it also serve as the military heart of the Kingdom of Lugh that it resided in. So, the soldiers of the reserves and professionals alike were moving by train, steamer, and automobiles to the heart of the empire to collect their rifles and uniforms so that they might be moved to the front and serve. Yet even as the maintained forces were accounted for and loaded aboard a steamer destined for Equestria, the new coming and untrained were being put through the gullet of training. It would be months before they saw a steamer, but they would in due time be prepared for it.

Across the avenue from the Imperial Legislative complex stood a vast cathedral, dwarfed only by the even larger religious complex in the Imperial Crown Estate, on a large plot of land. Within came the shouts and snaps of rifles as the Church's own Druid Guard prepared for mobilization to far off churchlands. Not a large force, merely three divisions worth spread across the whole of the Empire, but one nonetheless. Despite the overcast day however, there was a celebratory mood in the air. These were Cenaesian brothers and fathers being sent off to war, and Cenaesia was very good at winning wars. After all, the wealth of the land was built upon the backs of righteous conquest and innovations.

“Oh come here and give me a hug. It’ll be ages before I see you again. Do you have your rifle? Paper? Pen? Oh I do hope you write often.”

“Mother, stop this worrying. I’m grown, and the war won’t be long. CO said we’d hop over and end the war by the end of the year, and back before we even celebrate Founders Day. I’ll be my mail back.”

“You better Diego, you better.”

Insular Consul Redmund Dermot
Byzantia, Eastern Orthodox Knights




An brood of crows squalled past overhead — blotting out, for a moment, the light and warmth of the sun, across the small patch of stone pathing that lie in front of the entryway to the Order of Foreign Affairs. The momentary darkness cast itself wide enough to cover both the two Cenaesian envoys and the two soldiers clad in ceremonial garb at the gate. Both of whom broke their traditional stoic positions to mutter several prayers against the poor omen.

“They flew from the east, about the heading of Bakir I’d reckon Lommán.” The lead of the two muttered, brushing his own hand against the fine gold phoenix he wore around his neck.

“A bad omen, and one I’m sure will be repeated many times before all have had their contribution. We mustn't dwell too much upon it Kane. Let us go before the Knights get antsy.

The dark oak floors and paneling from the forests of Elysia contrasted sharply with the fine beech wood of central Cenaesia. The light was gently lit from several oil lamps, their light diffused with fine gems from the heart of the Midlands. The Eastern Knights were many things to Terra, both avid defenders of the Druid faith and strictly non-denominational in its stances.

“Your Highnesses.” Both Lommán and Kane uttered together, each bowing gently in respect to the greater power these local rulers held. Lommán looked over the three knights before him, each hereditary yet still in practice of the warrior ruler as the crown of Cenaesia was. The Knights were the aristocracy of this island, and they wore their house regalia proudly. Despite this they matched in their general attire, a tasteful blue dye upon their rather old fashioned tunics and robes. Not that either of the Cenaesians could protest the traditional attire the knights wore.

“Your Excellencies. What brings such high ranking keepers of Lugh’s teachings to such a place as this and might this be a secular or holy matter?”

“Brother Grigore, this is a matter of a both secular and holy weight.” Lommán stated, speaking as he settled into the plush chair offered to him.

“Any matter involving the savages of the east is invariably a religious matter,” interjected Kane, “their recent transgressions have forced this into a secular course of action however.”

“Evidently you desire something of King Julius and his houses, else you would have sent warm regards via the telegraph.” General Carpathius, his own attire a simple semi-formal dress uniform embroidered with the sword of his house upon it, said as he entered the room. “My apologies for my late arrival, several issues at my own ministry prevented my more timely presentation of self.”

“Lugh things nothing upon it.” Kane responded, nodding towards Lommán to take point once more. After all, he was the more senior clergy of the two.

“An ideal world would see you raise your arms to defend brothers of faith and even the cousins of our faith in Comeristan.” Lommán began, and paused as he noticed the quickly souring expressions abound in the room. “However, such an imperfect world as exists before us, a simple accommodate for reasonable fee and even contracts to your ships and farms for the utilization of your ports for the staging of men and logistical operations would be most ideal. Further the authority to base ships within your ports would offer significant protections to our own efforts against the naval craft of these savages.”

“You want our full support of this war, and if short of that our near total support of it. Are you mad? This threatens a very carefully kept peace your excellency. A very carefully kept one.” the general retorted, his head gently shaking in surprise.

“The peace has been stabbed a thousand times through its heart, the barbarians seek to conquer the north and the savages the east. Their armies march, concentrated as ours mobilize from their homebound slumber.

This war can be won, but the shipping will win it for our cause. You can provide it, be it brothers in arms or simply free ports of call.”

“His Majesty will need to deliberate upon this further, when do you depart back for Emain Ablach?”

“As soon as we might have in our possession a word upon your choice confirmed by royal seal. Then we might dispatch a telegraph for the fleets and be upon our way homeward.”

“Well, I supoose I ought ensure that His Majesty is fully aware of the sensitive time factor in this action. Your answer will find its way to you shortly.”

The Admiralty
Moscou Engineering and Proofing Depot, Imperial Yard No.21
Crown Kingdoms of Pillowlandia, Cenaesian Empire




Yard No. 21 was among the largest of the nearly dozen discrete Imperial Cenaesian Naval yards in the vast seafront of Mosocu. Specifically, it was located directly adjacent to to Local Yard No. 15 which was owned and operated as the largest three drydocks in Mosocu, and likely the whole of Terra, which were utilized for the construction of the biggest and most effective warships ever seen. Even now, with the moon directly overhead, the yards were flooded with light as the keel of a new Kingmaker-class dreadnought was laid — which would mark the fifteenth, and likely final, craft of the class. It had replaced a series of four Mk. V(C) Submersibles that were berthed in yard No. 21.

These were the first serial production of the Mk. V(C) submarines, built specifically for long range, long endurance patrols and reconnaissance of foreign naval assets. And so, with the use of overhead cranes, the four subs were being armed with a complement of twelve torpedos and eight mines each.

Four men stood off to the side, their dress that of officers, watching as the four craft were loaded with care. “You reckon these things will actually get us into a position to sink some battleships?”

“Not a chance against any of ours, I suppose it’s good that we’ll be sailing against some proper savages. In any case, sinking craft isn’t the mission. We’re meant to be building an intelligence picture for the Admiralty to land the infantry. Plus, picking off any shipping we find.”

“A routine mission then.”

Admiral Drew Hawes
Imperial Admiralty
Kagoshima, Midland Imperium




The train ran alongside the coast, peeling off as it neared Kagoshima and running off to the dock front as a means of transferring cargo from the bustling port and towards the mountainous interior of the nation. Drew could make out the various cargo craft in the port, though increasingly not without squinting given his ever advancing age, many a ship flying the flag of Cenaesia and other distant lands. Yet, a not insignificant number of ships flew a flag not of Cenaesia, but of the Midlands regime. The derivative carried still the Imperial Phoenix, but added colors that made it quite clear their thoughts — subjects of the crown they were in but tradition alone. Their tax receipts didn’t even flow to the Imperial Treasury anymore. He thought, frowning at the state of the Empire.

Such… unfortunate affairs were not particularly of note to him however. Relations between the nations were positive, as they had been for centuries, and that the empire was slowly fracturing would be a matter of discussion for another decade. No, he was here to extract some of that good will and invoke ancient tradition.

Drew stepped off the platform, pressing through the dense crowd slowly as not even the attire of an Admiral did much to part midday crowds. Outside the station he glanced around, the skyscrapers were a little shorter; the people a little different; the port a little smaller, he could almost imagine himself back in the comfort of Moscou were it not for the signs not in the druid characters but instead the midlander script. The common language however was the latin, many a sign having both languages.

“Admiral, we have a car prepared for you.” Someone spoke, interrupting Drew’s moment of solitude.

“Of course, how long will traffic hold us? Minutes are of importance.” Drew asked, pulling his cap off as he slid into the interior of the simple black automobile. He glanced forward and out of the windshield to note the two small flags stuck on either side of the vehicle. One of the Crown Kingdoms, and another of the Midlands. He frowned again.

“Not at all, the grey clouds have everyone at home and the dock crews cursing. I trust your journey from Mosocu was pleasant enough? Almost as much fun to watch the warships come and go as it is at Mosocu I’d say.”

Drew simply nodded occasionally, tuning out the junior officer. He instead turned his attention to the city around him as it shifted from the dense urban port to an expansive estate. A grand estate it was, once more rivaling only the Imperial Estate of the Crown Kingdoms in size and detail. The principal gate was guarded by several soldiers. None of whom, drew noted, had not only placed markings representative of the Cenaesian Crown below their own ruler but had entirely done away with such. He frowned again.

The junior officer, whom had been quite content to make one-sided conversation with such a higher up for much of the journey, looked up into the mirror, noticing the frown. “Is something a matter Admiral? You’ve done that several times now, might I be of assistance?”

Drew only shook his head, glancing around at the simple path to the palace proper. “Do you not see the blatant disregard these people hold for the Crown? They’re subjects of His Majesty yet one would never know by looking at it. This empire has stagnated for too long.”

The junior officer simply sat in silence, pulling the car to a stop, deciding that any conversation would end poorly if the reddened cheeks and elevated breathing of the Admiral were to be of any note. “We are here Admiral, five minutes early.”

“Let us meet an emperor then.” They both exited the vehicle, quickly picking up a guide who led them forth into the depths of the palace.

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


The wide doors swept open, preceded by a rather traditionally dressed man who pounded a stick into the ground. “The honorable Admiral Hawes of the Crown Kingdoms of Cenaesia seeks an audience before His Majesty and His War Council.”

Hawes plastered a real enough smile upon his face, now was hardly the time for his own personal beliefs to filter through upon crown matters. He padded forward, a small briefcase in his hand. His gaze drifted across the throne and the various members of high rank around it. Among them he recognized Admiral Ohno, and several other familiar faces from the Admiralty that he recognized but could not quite put a name upon.

He drew to a stop before the throne, offering a suitably acceptable bow. “Your Majesty”, he stated before turning towards the others assembled. “Gentlemen.”

“What brings you before this war council Admiral, and be frank of it. The world is not upon a state for long in tongue remarks.” Admiral Ohno opened, presumably attempting to leverage his extensive relations with both nations Admiralties.

“I come to seek assistance beyond financial and material in the wars that Cenaesia has found herself drawn into, both by choice and by risk of territorial forfeit. As I am sure you know, Soviet forces are marching in considerable strength greater than territorial garrisons are capable of repealing across Cenaesian settlements upon Edofasia.”

“What of it? We have already made available considerable resources for you finance and equip your forces for a reasonable sum from our banks and factories. This is hardly our war Admiral, why would you think it to be?”

Hawes face tightened, and he paused for a moment. “Surely you intend that as a joke Admiral Ohno, for it is no statement based upon truth. As for why it is your war I say this, who has settled the north? It is not those of the Crown Kingdoms, it is those seeking new lives and fortunes from these Midlands. They are Cenaesians, and this war is a war upon Cenaesians.”

“It is not our flag which flies upon Northbay. Do remember that Admiral.”

Hawes looked about the council members, seeing a reaction of largely similar emotion to that of Admiral Ohno. The only one who seemed at least partial to the idea of assistance to the Cenaesian colony was the still stoney faced emperor. He reached into the briefcase, carefully removing a small document which held attached to it an imperial seal from the crown itself. “If none of you midlanders see yourself responsbile for protecting the greater interests of Cenaesia than I raise you this.

By decree of His Imperial Majesty Agustus Athrawes Johgs, Ard Rí of the Crown Kingdoms and rightful Emperor of Cenaesia and all her territories hereby recalls to service His Majesty’s Midlander Corps of strength to be determined but no less than nine hundred thousand men in defense of Cenaesia and her territories against renewed incursions by the barbaric raiders of the north. How respond you to the summons?”

11th Colonial Ranger Platoon
Confederacy-Cenaesian Border
One Week Prior




Snow howled across the rough mountain terrain, turning the sparse northern light into a blinding apparatus. The white winter wear speckled liberally with dirt blended into the rocky passes of mountain, and if one know both where and what to look for they might see the outlines of three figures watching with care and not moving as a steady stream of soviet forces trudged through the more accessible passes below.

“I see a coupla officers, should we take a shot?” Kenji Sloane asked, his voice low and almost guttural with but the smallest cloud of hot air escaping through his heavy woolen face mask.

“You know as well as I, no contact until they stop for the night. We mark the coordinates and then make a dash like hell back to the guns. They’ll lay some mortar shells on top’em and we’ll withdrawal to do it all a’gan. Don’t let the cold get to ya son.”

Kenji rolled his eyes briefly, drumming his thumbs over his rifle which rested in a ready position. “Of course Ceannasaí McGuire, but these look like some mighty high rankin coupla officers. At least brigade Ceannasaís”

McGuire shook his head for several moments, debating the prospect. “Tomás, thoughts?”

“You’re in charge, and you midlanders sure know these mountains better than a city boy like me. I’m just here to make sure we get the proper locations for these artillery parties.” He responded, brushing snow off of his bolt. “But, I think we could have some fun. This place will have their supply caravans tonight no matter what we do.”

“Not a chance, we’ll do it by the books.” He glanced skyward, shielding his eyes with his hand. “It’s about time we got back to camp and got those guns ready.”

One Week Later

“Fire!”, the battery of six heavy guns thundered as their shells lept out of their barrels, each spinning as a result of the rifling. Their crews leapt forward, ripping open the breech as the brass shell fell out and onto a pile of brass just like them as another shell was loaded.

Seven miles forward, the ground was pockmarked by holes gouged out by artillery. The defensive works were little more than holes deep enough to crouch in, and connected by equally shallow supply channels. The force of little more than ten thousand territorial reserve forces had been steadily beat back from the border, the extensive use of Ranger Platoons hardly even slowing the advance. However, as they had been forced back they found themselves in the company of more and more compatriots.

Enough that, with two hundred miles of land offered up, there were now two hundred thousand men whom had been quickly mobilized. Despite that, they remained outnumbered more than three to one. The bleeding had been slowly partly by the usage of heavy guns, which the Soviets had thus far struggled to move up with their forces. Yet with each passing day, the tempo of the guns had slowed further —- a direct result of insufficient quantities of shells at hand.

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


The crack of rifles was constant, the sole hill for several dozen miles manned by several hundred Cenaesian soldiers and their rifles. Up until several hours ago they had had regular fire support from the guns in the rear, but the Soviet hordes had pressed forward and isolated the hill — and with it their only line to deliver coordinates. They hadn’t relented however, as the foot of the hill upon all sides was covered in growing piles of soviet corpses. Each, however had been replaced by seemingly another two.

“Leifteanant, got word back on the other platoons. Seems you the only officer we got left, and our ammo is in about the same state.” a young soldier yelled, barely audible over the sound of rifle fire.

“Thank you Driscoll, you informed them of the plan?” Leifteanant Sly asked. He himself began to check his own ammo quantity.

Driscoll simply tossed his thumb back, where several soldiers had began to run wires and various explosives about the now fairly well shelled and shot out building. “We’ll be ready to blow this place skyhigh the moment they get in.”

Sly only nodded, hearing the rather frightening “when” statement in his words as opposed to an “if”. damn these barbarians. he thought, resuming his own shooting.

Operation: Bakir Revision No.5
July 21st, 1903 5:21 Local
Champion’s Host of Bakir




The frightening cool of the desert night was still clinging to the air, as the sun had yet to begin its struggle upwards. Deep behind the lines, in the slowly amassed depts providing food and munitions to the bogged down front, guns were being moved in the dark by the light of shielded oil lamps. The long outmoded field guns were being replaced by much heavier implements supplied by Cenaesian efforts, Mk. III Indirect Field Guns with ranges of twelve and a half miles, were moved forward by cover of darkness.

The night sky was unsuitable for any republican aircraft to fly, or at a minimum fly anything resembling effective reconnaissance of the purposely darkened defensive positions. The recent fortuitous events of the previous evening had left two divisions of republican troops simply… vanished. Whatever had caused it was of little concern, it had allowed the five hundred thousand men (despite the many thousand wounded) defending the battered city of Bakir to advance several miles forward. To the tune of now eighteen miles separating the outskirts of the city and the imperialist swine attempting to take it. That had complicated plans for the guns, as they had to be moved several more miles from the rear upwards alongside a plentiful stash of munitions.

In any case, it had been done. The better part of seventy guns had been pushed forward with countless more layered behind them as both reserve and further supporting fire, albeit at the edge of effective range, for the operation. So, as the sun finally prepared to begin rising the guns began a rolling barrage. Their principal target were the republican artillery emplacements which they had managed to triangulate from their days of bombardment, as the guns let forth their fire five divisions of infantry began mustering in the formerly republican trenches.

“I think that is about enough wouldn’t you say?”, Field Marshal Brennan began as he glanced at his watch. The sun had began rising, but was still stubbornly behind the horizon.

“I’d agree it’s somewhere thereabout time we moved on from their poor artillery men.” his trusted aide stated, running his finger down the list of orders and other updates from the various division commanders that had made their way to the forward command post.

“Blue flare then, and then the two reds. We shall offer no relent, despite our lesser equipment.” The Field Marshal stated, himself unbuckling the holster of his sidearm. His aide dufilly picked up the blue flare gun he had prepared prior, and exited the earthen post. The distinctive click of its trigger made its way inside to where Brennan stood, and he closed his eyes to pray.

The low rumble of the artillery slowed and halted, for a fleeting moment, as it retrained itself towards the very front of the occupied lines. The intervening hours between the sudden loss of the front lines meant that any occupied trenches or earthworks were woefully under dug-in compared to those meant for forward engagements. As a result, when the first shells began landing, and then correcting themselves, massive plumes of dirt were tossed skyward. The veritable wall of dirt and explosives was supplemented by a smoke screen emanating from a series of very crude burners, which heated drums of water over small oil fueled fires and use a crude funnel to push the smoke onto the newfound no-man's-ground.

A second and third flare, fired in quick succession saw little change for several minutes. As the infantry, all volunteers for this inevitably suicidal assault, began climbing forth from the trenches and toward the enemy, covered by the smoke and rapid succession of artillery along the front. At this point the artillery fell silent, as the seventy five thousand men who had volunteered for the operation began their assault along the lines. Screams went up, as grenades and rifle fire began to fill the air. The old model comeristani rifles were slower, less powerful, and less accurate than their counterparts. This made little difference at such close distances, as bayonets carried the fighting alongside the grenades chucked into the trenches filled with republican troops.

HMS Fury, 111th Dreadnaught Squadron (Reinforced) & 21st Task Force
75 Miles Southwest of Deua Harbor, Entrance to Harib Sea
July 21st, Midday




The smokestack wafted skyward a gentle grey smoke, as the Fury’s boilers stood at just three out of eighteen boilers. The dreadnaught was generally stood down, as it sat amongst a small flotilla of craft both of similar displacement to itself, though none heavier, and many lighter than it taking on additional coal (those of the colonial detachment) and fuel oil. Specifically the eight light cruisers, four armored cruisers, two pre-dreadnoughts, and a half dozen destroyers that made up the escort for the HMS Eaglais, the last ship of the Dreadnought class of craft. Her arrival gave the 111th Squadron a fourth craft.

The nearly hundred civilian and merchant craft which the 11th squadron had rescued from Hamar had made their way to Deua, where many were either refueling to continue on to a larger port either in the Kingdom of Comeristan or the Cenaesian mainland. Here at the southern entrance to the Harib Sea however sat the 111th Squadron, now reinforced by the 21st Task Force. Several miles out, just where the greater East Cenaesian Ocean began to constrict into the Harib Sea several lines of mines had been carefully laid. They offered a way into the sea if one knew the required path, and a potent death trap to those who didn’t.

In any case, the security of the Harib Sea would be vital to continued delivery of food, men, and munitions to the front. Which in part explained the large concentration of ships here at the mouth. Yet, even as they took on fuel several subs slipped away on a course for Ada; the fallen Comeristani colony and future staging ground for naval operations against the republican swine.
Stasnov wrote:Small-to-medium sized professional, relatively high-tech and well funded military. Emphasis on flexible units at Brigade-Battalion level.
#ValaranSoFab

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Bergcornopolis
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 53
Founded: Oct 07, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby Bergcornopolis » Mon Mar 19, 2018 7:04 pm

The Belt?, Space
The New Velonian fleet's appearance was no surprise to the crew of the BISC Lee and McDaniels. However, much of the power had been used up in the exchange of fire with the Pillowlandian craft. Both carriers were badly damaged and smoldering from the breaches in the hull. The Pillowlandain craft had similar damages but had seemed to back off and trail to the back of the Velonian fleet. The "ship killer" and its accompanying fleet of light fighters attempted to land any solid hits of the carriers but they all were ineffective. Neither of the carriers, however, were able to attack the poorly painted black ships of the Velonian fleet, the weapons systems were too badly damaged by Pillowlandian offensive.
"Execute attack formation 20193Jks0" Said General Loutaious as he watched the BISC Lee burn from the bridge. "Alert all personnel to prepare for our last stand in the name of the Emperor..." The bridge fell quiet for a brief moment then resumed the loud and obnoxious bustle preparing the ship and its crew for their last stand. The two carriers began accelerating towards the Velonian fleet causing the fighters and Velonian light cruisers to crash into the hull of the ships like bugs on a windshield. The ship continued to smolder more and more. Then suddenly the hull of the ship began to disassemble like a 3D Puzzle revealing a nuclear core on both carriers the carriers each had covered the cores with any remaining ammunition and explosives left on the ships. The Core alone contained enough power to destroy an entire planet, let alone two were charging into the center of the fleet which held ships with their own reactors and their own explosives. "Men its been an honor severing with you today we will all see the face of God." At that moment the cores erupted destroying all that was within a 2000 meter radius of them. Remanents of the ships where thrust about around the area scattering parts of Bergcornian and Vellonian ships throughout the edge of the belt. All had lost, victory was not one in the depths of space on that day. No one was left standing.

New Velonian Occupied North America, New Velonia,
The numbers of Velonian supporters fell within the Americas. The former protectorate of Whilhelmius had fallen to the Bergcornain Military, which saw a sharp incline in volunteers joining their liberators ranks to push the scourge of the Velonian menace off of the continent for good. In the Absence of the fleet the New Velonian Fleet, the Bergcornian military continued their push through the former territories of America JB successfully claiming Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Louisana, Arkansas, Missouri, Tennessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia with many other further north but still not fully liberated. These newly secured lands all helped in producing more food for the growing population of the colonies. The Wilhelminan Territories also proudly flew the flag of the Empire of Bergcornopolis. The only remaining clusters of Velonian and American Forces stood in Qubec and Des Moines. The Bluk of the forces continued to push into Velonian Qubebc. Any sign of a diplomatic end to this war seemed to be futile at this moment. There was only one thing that would be accepted end left for the Velonians and Americans now, unconditional surrender...
Last edited by Bergcornopolis on Tue Mar 20, 2018 6:44 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Tibreria
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Posts: 11
Founded: Nov 01, 2017
Ex-Nation

Postby Tibreria » Fri Mar 23, 2018 9:49 am

Ingvarsgard , Tibreria
A military coup has undergone . the King has beeen stripped of function and put under house arrest
. the Tibrerian people's party takes power . they are radical nationalists and fanatical racists .
the chancellor Gustav Arrim gives his first speech as dictator .
"our decadent monarchy has been replaced . The Tibrerian people have pleaded for a strong leader . I have answered . Now the tibrerian is free from foreign yoke . the capitalist system is gone . The tibrerian is now the priority . No kings , only tibrerians ! All hail Tibreria !" His speech is followed by applause .

"Special Integration camps" are set up . What is done in the camps is unknown .
Urbanized southern regions have pledged loyalty to the people's state but the rural northern regions have responded yet .
No further information has been provided . Borders have been closed completely .
It is advised for all foreigners to escape the country as soon as possible , preferably trough the north .
Lightly religious conservative authoritarian monarchy which mostly represents my political opinion
NS stats are used




News : Multiple members of the Republican party of Tibreria have been sent to internment camps -/\- WUC Dissolved -/\- Major military exercise happened in the Province of Helsgom -/\- the Wolfehn Oil refinery was closed down-/\-

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Tibreria
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Posts: 11
Founded: Nov 01, 2017
Ex-Nation

Postby Tibreria » Fri Mar 23, 2018 10:02 am

Official Announcement
the king has been rescued . Loaction classified to prevent TPP Terrorist assasinating the king
Northern regions pledge loyalty
New flag drawn up to distinguish from PS
all foreigners welcome
all foreign help welocme
according to sources 48,5% of army is loyal to king
all TPP members have been internated . High rankers executed
Emergency factory conversion has undergone
curfews put in place
Martial law declared
All stores closed and ration system initiated
End of Official announcement
Lightly religious conservative authoritarian monarchy which mostly represents my political opinion
NS stats are used




News : Multiple members of the Republican party of Tibreria have been sent to internment camps -/\- WUC Dissolved -/\- Major military exercise happened in the Province of Helsgom -/\- the Wolfehn Oil refinery was closed down-/\-

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Confedracy
Secretary
 
Posts: 35
Founded: May 11, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby Confedracy » Mon Mar 26, 2018 9:41 am

Pvt Erika Bundzier
32nd Stormtroopers
Army Group C
Soviet-Ceneasian Frontlines
The guns were deafening even this far away. She checked her gear. Her team was ordered to take the trench in front of them not but moments after the shelling had stopped. “Alright comrades!” The Commissar began to shout front the trench “We drive these imperial dogs from our lands on my mark.” Erika took a deep breath and fixed her bayonet. Clinging to the trench line. The last shells fell on the trench in front of them. “Zerschlagt die kapitalistisch räuberheere!!!” The whistle blew and the soldiers scrambled up the line. Indistinct shouting and battle cries arose from the horde of soviets pouring over the line. After about 5 seconds of running the machine guns opened fire. Ripping through the troops. Left and right the grey uniforms became stained with red. Arms. Legs and even heads ripped clean from the bodies that fell around her. Hate and rage swelled in her heart as she charged. Setting her eyes on a young ceneasian man with a rifle in front of her. “Sterben Sie kaiserliche Bastarde!” She plunged her rifle into the man's throat as she jumped into the trench. Another ceneasian charged her with a trench knife. Thinking fast she grabbed the trench club on her waist and swung it. Hitting the man on the temple. Turning her attention to him she began to strike at his face. Her cap falling off. Below her the man screamed. “Get this demon off of me!” She spun around and saw two more men staring at her. Shock all over their faces. They saw before them a sight they never had seen before. A woman's face covered in black ash and blood. A spiked wooden and steel club smeared with gore in her hand. They opened fire and the bullets tore through her body. “What in Lughs name was that? Are these barbarians so desperate that they have women on the front” One asked. “I don't know. But this truly is a forsaken place to have demons like this. Hope to lugh they are few and far between” rifle fire continued elsewhere in the trench as the soviets continued their attack. The men rushed off to join the fray


Ceneasian Church behind Soviet Lines
Having been cut off. A small group of Ceneasina forces were using a Church as an observation post and a mortar attack point. No doubt they had prepared for a mass attack on the church. SO they soviets had thought of another way to take the church. From the hill they were on they saw men in gas masks rolled up artillery guns. They fired the cansitars into the building. A green smoke began to rise in the building. How the men would react was unknown. The soviets stood by to clear the place out

Velon
Velonia, Edofasia
With a couple thousand defenders and promises of Ceneasian aid. The Archduke refused to surrender. Soviet forces thought the man had gone completely mad. But began to make ready for the final assault on the city. Leaflets dropped from Zeppelins above told the civilians to evacuate. That the soviet forces would not harm them if they left the city. They had until the next day to leave. A small stream began to trickle out of the city and carefully make their way to the soviet lines. Who after checking them for contraband. Let them pass. A few however. Namely those who seemed to own businesses or were very rich. Were taken aside and not allowed to interact with the rest.

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Tibreria
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Founded: Nov 01, 2017
Ex-Nation

Ingvarsgard

Postby Tibreria » Thu Mar 29, 2018 8:03 am

Military Music Stops
You are listening to Military Frequency of the Royal Tibri Military
Ingvarsgard was captured today
PS forces are getting pushed back
Victory Close
All POWs will be given temporary carer until end of war
Ingvarsgard Port Re-opened
We have managed to kill Chancellor Arrim when escaping by plane
Repeat PS collaborants . This is your last offer of surrender .
Announcement ended
Military music plays on
Lightly religious conservative authoritarian monarchy which mostly represents my political opinion
NS stats are used




News : Multiple members of the Republican party of Tibreria have been sent to internment camps -/\- WUC Dissolved -/\- Major military exercise happened in the Province of Helsgom -/\- the Wolfehn Oil refinery was closed down-/\-

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Sudardes
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Posts: 68
Founded: Aug 08, 2016
Ex-Nation

Postby Sudardes » Sun Apr 01, 2018 10:47 pm

Roger Patton, Room 8814, Central Government Complex, Shapiron, Sudardes Proper, Terra, 8:47, 12th March, 2068

The secret service promised to let Patton out of the elevator without too much hassle, but they conducted a thorough search anyways. The entire process gave one the impression of being prepared for a complicated medical procedure by well trained orderlies. At the end of it all, the doctor, Elizabeth Baxton, ready to dissect you in more ways than one. Polished, white fiberglass that lined the walls, doubling as mirrors occasionally if one could stand at an angle that permitted just enough of the harsh white light pouring in through the four inch thick wall of glass. Her room was the corner officer’s suite at the end of the corridor, it’s doors indistinguishable from the scores around it other than the laser engraved room number. 8814. It overlooked the harbor from eighty eight floors. If one were to squint, they may even see the tips of the skyscrapers in Ceneasia.

As he approached the door, it slid open automatically, as if it could sense him coming. It led to a room of impeccable orderliness, the kind of room which strict mothers conjure up as paradigms for their own children. The left side wall was large bookshelf divided into seven layers, an unbroken chain of volumes upon volumes stretched from one end of the room to the other. The wall opposite that was a large slab of black marble, on which fine writing was carved. Patton always suspected that they were poems, but he never investigated. Against the wall facing the window was a queen sized bed of expensive mahogany. Next to it on the side of the marble wall was a handsome nightstand bearing a single book placed neatly in the center, The Adventures of Marlowe. And on the bed itself, like a corpse preparing to be embalmed, Baxton lay, hands on her stomach, legs outstretched, her green eyes staring blankly into the ceiling. She was barely dressed, wearing only a tank top, sweatpants, and a warm pair of socks.

“Your cabinet meeting is in an hour, Liz.” Patton said, taking out a cigarette as he sat on the only chair in the room, an armchair with its back against the window, facing the bed. “Get dressed.”

“Is that why you came to see me?” Baxton replied, still staring at the ceiling. At least she’s not dead, Patton thought to himself.

“No. Mansfield’s drawn up a ridiculous plan for the social system. He’s putting all the political officers at the top.”

“It’s a bit rude to walk in here solely to discuss business. You could have brought it up by going to the cabinet meeting in- when did you say it was?”

“In an hour.”

“Surely you could have waited an hour?”

Patton was silent. He could have chosen to wait, which in hindsight was probably the more political thing to do, to have Mansfield eviscerated in front the entire politburo. Maybe within the hour he would have even gotten rid of the top caste. In truth, he didn’t know why didn’t think of waiting earlier. It would have saved him the trip up eighty three floors.

“Well since you’re here anyways,” Baxton said, propping herself up on the bed. The upper half of her body was doused immediately in a brilliant splash of golden sunlight. “I need you to help me with something.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s election year.”

“It’s been election year for three months.”

Baxton sank back into her supine position.

“Yes, Roger. I haven’t been living under a rock you know.”

“You’ve not brought it up at any of our meetings, either with the politburo or with the military.”

“Well as you can probably tell, I was busy with other things.”

“Well Mansfield is about to throw a wrench in that.”

“I’ll deal with him in an hour alright? If you feel so strongly about why don’t you do something?”

“I came here didn’t I?”

“True, true.” Baxton sighed audibly, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. “Running to me like I’m your mother when things don’t go your way.”

“Don’t patronize me, Liz.” Patton scowled. He hated when she did that.

“Aw, Roger, don’t be like that. You know I’m joking.”

“I’m not here to play around.”

“Yes I’ve noticed, but quite frankly the fact that you didn’t think I would object to Mansfield’s proposal when I saw it makes me think that that’s not really why you’re here.”

“So what do you want with me?”

She sat up again, this time with a little bit more fervor, as if Patton’s question triggered some excitement within her.

“I want to you back my campaign.”

“Sure,” Patton replied without hesitation. “I can give a speech to the public about how you’re the greatest statesman to ever exist if you want. It’ll be really hard on Mansfield.” He added sarcastically.

“No of course not,” Baxton laughed. It was a warm, friendly laugh. “I thought you hated that sort of politicking.”

“I do. So what do you really want with me.”

“I want the other officers support in Congress.”

“Done.” Patton said, he crossed his arms defensively. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” Baxton got out of the bed. She strode over to the sleek black marble wall and hit an invisible button. A small section of the marble slid aside, revealing a brightly lit wardrobe.

“I only pick outfits for my wife.” Patton called from his corner.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Baxton said, pulling out a white button down shirt, a navy blue pair of trousers, and her officer’s jacket, the ribbons glistening in the morning sun. “Do me a favor and turn around.”

Patton stood up and faced the window. The sun hung just over the horizon, but below the lip of the eighty eighth floor. It illuminated in red and golden rays the dozens of cargo vessels heading to and fro the harbor. Long shadows clung to the Western faces of the skyscrapers, somber streaks across the ant like citizens below.

“It’s not enough that I have the support of only the congress, but I will also need to have the support of the people.” Baxton’s voice echoed behind him. “Of course, with the condition of the President at the moment, there will no doubt be suspicions cast on me during the campaign.”

“Well you should talk to Mansfield about that,” Patton answered, his eyes tracking a train sliding effortlessly across a monorail. “He’s doing wonders in the propaganda department.”

“It’s not about propaganda, Roger. It’s about legitimacy. I don’t want people to think I usurped the final months of his Presidency.”

“Look, Elizabeth…” Patton turned around. She was facing him, left foot in one trouser leg, too slender for physical beauty, as if all her womanhood had been bred away. His attention was directed immediately to her legs. The mangled scars on her right reminded him of fire bombs dropped from F-45s, a dark field of pits and ridges that climbed like a snake all the way from her toes to just under her rib cage. There were two coin sized scars on her abdomen above her pelvis. Patton didn’t need to see what was on her back to know what they were. He only had to look at her other leg, where fist sized chunks were torn out of her thigh no doubt by the bite of bullets. Then one more on her chest, just above the burns where an exit wound had obliterated the lower half of her right breast. A single line of course stitching started in the middle of chest and ran down to her navel, the rushed work of a combat medic.

She froze. For a few agonizing seconds, neither of them said a thing. Patton could only stare at the wreck of a person standing in front of him. Then with her left hand, Baxton snatched up the blanket on the bed, covering her body, and with her right hand, picked up the book on the nightstand.

“I told you to turn around!” She shrieked, flinging her copy of Adventures in Patton’s general direction. He ducked instinctively. It landed harmlessly next to him after bouncing off the window. “When I tell you to do something I want you to fucking do it! Do you fucking understand?”

Patton spun round quickly. He averted his gaze out at the skyline, only this time, the yellows and reds that captured his attention before seemed to be duller. He couldn’t push the broken picture of her body out of his mind. She hid her condition miraculously well. The way Baxton walked and talked never once betrayed the extent of her injury. She always moved with an air of eagerness, of purpose, and of secret excitement. It would always be as if lonely genius had choreographed her every action, imbuing it with woeful esoterism. When she spoke, she would say exactly what she meant without showing an ounce of pain or discomfort. Every word was precisely where she wanted it to be. There was nothing to dilute it, so that one could admire the naked purpose, and the woman who uttered it.

The audible sound of a blanket being tossed aside and the rushed crinkling of a freshly ironed shirt being forced on alerted Patton to the progress of Baxton’s clothing. He heard the sound of socks on wood approaching behind him.

“Turn around.” Baxton’s voice had lost its playful quality. She was full dressed now, in her usual attire which covered all of her scars, the ribbons reflecting the sun beams onto Patton’s lapel. But there was no time to gawk. A loud crack filled the air as Baxton acquainted Patton’s face with her palm. She stabbed her finger painfully into his chest.

“I’m not going to tolerate insubordination. The Imperium and all it stands for will not tolerate insubordination. If you were anyone else I would have had you shot.”

“Liz, I didn’t mean to…”

“I don’t care what you mean. I care only about action.”

“It was such a small thing, I didn’t think…”

“It was quite clear you didn’t think. I’m going to say this once and only once: Don’t fuck with me, Roger.” Her stare crushed him, and although Patton easily towered over her, he felt very, very small. He tried to look anywhere else other than at her piercing green eyes. She struck him again.

“I didn’t deserve that one.” Patton said, rubbing his face.

“None of us deserve any of this.” She picked up the book at Patton's feet. “Human beings are too imperfect creatures. All is from dust and all will return to dust.” She thumbed through the pages. “Death puts even the strongest of men on their backs. What’s worse, we can never escape it. When they airlifted me out of that airfield after the bombing run, I died, Roger. My heart stopped for two minutes and twenty seven seconds. The medics were draping a tarp over my face before I came back. Do you know what I saw in those two minutes?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Patton repeated stupidly.

“Nothing. Blackness. Darkness. There’s nothing after, Roger. No heaven, no hell, just this.” She waved her hands around frantically. “The universe existed before us, and long shall it exist after us. We are merely huddled in this small corner of time, on this wretched island. Outside of man there is nothing. All the blood spilled, the lives taken, the people maimed, none of it matters in the long run.”

She paused, then continued.

“Do you know how devastated I was? I wanted to believe, Roger. I really did. Nothing would have settled me more than knowing that after all this struggle, all this suffering, that there would be something at the end of it to justify it all.”

“That’s not what Orthodoxy is about. You just have to trust in Lugh and you’ll be alright.”

“What is Lugh? Tell me Roger, what is Lugh?”

“Lugh is Lugh. He is above all of us.”

“Lugh is a superstition at worst, and an abstraction of all the subjective in the good in the world into an easily marketable form at best. None of it is reasonable. One would think that children in our middle schools would grow out of such petty beliefs. How much pain must humanity endure? For every person we lift out of the slums in Solomonshaven another ten fall to addiction, poverty, and disease across the galaxy. Every action we take means nothing in the long run, and even those we help inevitably die, as if we had never helped them at all. If you were cold and logical about it, you would only walk away having forsaken the will to live as a whole. If nothing you do matters, and if your life is to be mired in suffering and pain and death and failure and could-have-beens and grief and loss, why how could one not? There is cruelty in the structure of this Terra. This thought plagued me for a good many years until I finally came to my senses and understood something.”

“Liz, stop. You’re not yourself.” Patton gripped her shoulders. She shirked him off and raised her hand with the conviction of a soldier chambering a bullet, she brought her hand back, taking aim at Patton, but lowered it at its peak.

“I figured it out, you know. The first thing you must realize is that meaning is collective. The individual only has meaning in so far as he ceases to be an individual. You and I are both military men. I found myself confronted by two very different modes of action on that airport tarmac; the one concrete, immediate, but directed towards only one individual; and the other an action addressed to an end infinitely greater, a national collectivity, but for that very reason ambiguous – and it might be frustrated on the way. At the same time, I hesitated between the two kinds of morality; on the one side the morality of sympathy, of personal devotion and, on the other side, a morality of wider scope but of more debatable validity. I had to choose between those two. What could help me choose? Could the Orthodox doctrine? No. Orthodox doctrine says: Act with charity, love your neighbor, deny yourself for others, choose the way which is hardest, and so forth. But which is the harder road? To whom does one owe the more brotherly love, the patriot or the mother? Which is the more meaningful aim, the general one of fighting in and for the whole community, or the precise aim of helping one particular person to live? Alone, the human being is always defeated. It must be so, because every human being is doomed to die, which is the greatest of all failures. But if he can make devotion, if he can escape from his identity, if he can merge himself in the nation so that he is the nation, then he is all-powerful and immortal.”

A voice in the back of Patton’s head tried to formulate a response. He watched as Baxton paced to the window. It felt wrong, what Baxton was saying, but he could not put a finger on what it was. He could only nod in polite agreement. “I think you’re wrong.” He blurted out.

“What did you say?” She asked.

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Why’s that?

“I… I don’t know.”

“You’re thinking about it. Think as hard as you want. The reeducation should have done away with that.”

His mind drifted back to her broken body. The image of skin peeling off with fabric drifted into his mind, something that he had seen many times in the field. Was there truly no triumph of humanity?

“The human spirit will triumph in the end.”

Baxton laughed, this time it was hard and cold.

“I think you’d better go, Roger. I’ll talk to you at the meeting today.”

Elizabeth Baxton, Room 101, Ubuntu Military Base, Philosopher’s Range, Sudardes Proper, Terra, 3:09AM, November 26th, 2047

Baxton felt the cold air press against her skin. She knew it was too late to leave. She watched the translucent cloud of her breath mingling with that of the men surrounding her in formation. Trying to warm her arms by rubbing through her navy blue winter coat was pointless. It retained heat well enough. It was her that was cold. She adjusted her peaked cap, brushing off the frost that had accumulated around the lip.

The elevator was hardly more than a grated metal floor surrounded on four sides by waist high railing suspended by high tension wire. There were no walls, only rough hune stone faces glistening with traces of cold icy water lit up by the moon. The metal grate of a door slammed shut and the sergeant pulled the rusted lever. Immediately, a strained whirring crescendoed into a firm hum and they began their rattling descent into the belly of the beast.

The mine was constructed well before the civil war broke out. Six days a week, the machines would roar and the air would be filled with smothering coal dust. At those times the place was like hell, or at any rate what average men would picture as hell. Most of the things one imagines in hell are if there--heat, noise, confusion, darkness, foul air, and, above all, unbearably cramped space. Everything except the fire, for there is no fire down there except the feeble beams of fluorescent and electric torches which scarcely penetrate the clouds of coal dust. There was always the heat--it varied, but during the summer it was suffocating--and the coal dust that stuffs up ones throat and nostrils and collects along ones eyelids, and the unending rattle of the conveyor belt that reminded enlisted men of machine guns.

Worst of all was the miles and miles of cramped tunnels where the mass excavators did not yet reach. Men hunched over, knees bent, covered in coal dust in stifling heat, an almost superhuman job by the standard of an ordinary person. For they are not only shifting monstrous quantities of coal, they are also doing it in a position that doubles or triples the work. It is then, no surprise that some of the most unrelenting frontline infantry of the Republic hailed from these laborious mines.

Slowly, the moonlight disappeared and was replaced by the harsh glow of a white fluorescent bulb, flickering with every rattle. As the elevator rattled to a halt, dark shadows were cast on the angular planes of the cadets pale faces. The sergeant pulled open the doors with a frightening screech that echoed all the way up. Before them was a chasm several dozen feet high, stacked to the brim with mining equipment and lit entirely by flood lamps. Up above on bright yellow walk bridges, were a group of marines smoking, their rifles propped up against each other like a tent. The familiar hum of diesel generators echoed from somewhere in the mine, unbroken, punctuated only by deep rumbles; the excavation of the lower caverns. He stepped off the elevator and waved to the cadets.

“Come on now, don’t be shy.” The sergeant had a distinct Jazadoan accent. “I’d rather we do this quickly so as not to upset the ladies at home and the lady here.” A nervous chuckle spread from the men. Baxton chuckled alongside them.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. First across the cavern, and then into a corridor just wide enough to stick a trolley into.

Finally they reached a rock face. There was guard in a patchy uniform asleep with his face in his knees in the corner, his shotgun propped up against a plywood board. The sergeant gingerly picked up the weapon and laid vertically against the guard. He pulled the board, letting gravity do the rest of the work. With a mighty crash that instantly tore the guard out of his slumber, a tunnel drilled in behind it at around knee level was revealed. It was just large enough for a medium sized man to fit through if he crouched. The sleeping guard stood up at attention, grabbing his weapon by the wrong end. The sergeant waved him back down impatiently.

“Go back to sleep. It’s late and we’re far behind enemy lines now and it’s not like he can come out any time soon.”

Baxton was struck, as she had been struck before, by the tiredness of the sergeants face. It was strong and fleshy and brutal, it was full of intelligence and a sort of controlled passion before which she felt herself helpless; but it was tired. There were pouches under the eyes, the skin sagged from the cheekbones. He stuck both hands out before him, and like a blind man, fumbled them into the hole, paused, and then hoisted himself inside.

“Come on lads,” He waved his hand behind him. “Single file, please.”

Credulous glances were exchanged by the cadets. One by one, the men followed suit and got on their knees. They entered in and, like dogs, began to crawl forwards.

The tunnel wasn’t lit. The only light came from behind them, dimming with each inch they moved forward. Coal dust shook off the ceilings with each shudder of the machinery deep below. All manner of grime and filth clung to their palms and knees as they sludged forwards, not knowing how much further their destination was. After what seemed like hours, they emerged on the other side.

The cavern itself was not very different from any thing one would expect in a mine shaft. However the cork boards with maps and tacked on lines of yarn on the wall, the half burnt bootprint ridden documents on the floor, and smashed up furniture indicated that this was much, much more. Then came the signs of struggle. Bullet casings and splatters of blood here and there across the walls and on the floor. Smudges of filth and fluid from multiple directions tapered off into one large river of red that snaked into the other room, as if the corpses were unceremoniously dragged.

“What happened here?” Baxton wondered out loud.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, missy?” The sergeant kept walking. “We cleared it out and the labor corp has yet to clean up this part of the mine is all.”

Without another word, the sergeant waved the cadets forward. They passed through the room into another one which told a similar tale of struggle, the river of red joined by various bloody tributaries. At the far end was a heavy metal door. This was where the trail led. The sergeant stopped in front of it. He gazed tiredly at the large rotating lock centered in the middle of the wall of steel. It was rusty and stained with what looked like blood.

“This was a Republican stronghold. This was their fridge. We have since converted it into something much more useful after they blew the geothermal generator.” He stopped and turned around. “Formation, please, everyone.”

As the cadets fumbled to form four lines of five, the sergeant resumed his pacing. “I’m sure you have all heard of the Mountain Fox. Some of you might have even heard he was killed when we drove the Republicans out of the Range. Others might even have heard he is still alive commanding whatever pockets of resistance still remain. Both of these rumors are untrue. The Fox is neither dead or alive. As far as the world is concerned he ceased to exist as of May fourteenth, twenty forty seven. As officers in training, you are expected to become hardened to the realities of war. You are expected to put the Imperium above all else, and I mean, all else.”

He patrolled the formation, footsteps echoing off the rough hune walls. His pacing was filled with a sort of exaltation, a lunatic intensity. Baxton’s heart shrank. She felt certain that was going to single her out like he had done so in the past. Then he continued less vehemently.

“During the revolution in my own country many years ago, I was tasked with getting vital information out of a farmer boy who was running messages between two enemy divisions. Even after my comrades had pulled out all his teeth and fingernails, he would not budge. When it was my turn to try, I went and fetched his mother. Then I took a hatchet and chopped up her arm. I started with the fingers, at the individual joints, then I split the hand into three parts. By the time I got to her elbow, the poor lad was spilling his guts. Told us everything we wanted to know and more. But then we had to shoot him. I could break his body, I could break his spirit, but I could not break his mind. If he were to ever recover from his experience at my hands, he would only be filled with a greater loathing for our movement. What you will learn here today is how to break the mind.”

The sergeant produced a hot water flask from inside his jacket. He twisted the cap off and took a large gulp of whatever was inside.

“Breaking a mind, as you all know takes several steps. But one can only learn a finite amount out of books. Today you will get some hands on practice. Who can tell me what the fifth step to breaking the mind is?”

No one spoke. Baxton hand began to twitch, but she was afraid of getting it wrong.

“No one?” The sergeant stopped pacing. “This is the quality of the Shaprion Military academy?”

Baxton opened her mouth to speak but someone cut her off.

“It’s leniency, sir.” The cadet shouted, his voice echoing.

“Keep your damn voice down, you’ll wake up the poor lad sleeping around the corner.” The sergeant walked to the door. “But you are correct.” He tugged fruitlessly at the lock, heaving and grunting. He stopped, hands on his knees, panting. “Don’t just stand there, help me get this thing open!”

There was a stampede to the door. Within seconds, a dozen pairs of hands had latched onto various parts of the heavy wheel. Baxton stood back. She told herself it was because enough men were already at the door, but she twitched uncomfortably, unconsciously aware of her own physique. Someone was calling for coordination.

“One.. two… three!”

There was a disgusting noise, as if a symphony of violins had all decided to play off tune. Baxton shuffled to the left as the door swung open. She still could tell the room was unlit, but the contents were obstructed by the men in front. Deciding she would be aggressive this time, she pushed her way to the front. Before she had even taken two steps, the stench hit her. It was instantly recognizable. One man retched as she approached him. Nothing else in the world smelled like that. She prepared herself mentally and physically for what she anticipated.

Her worst fears were confirmed. Within the vault held a score of corpses, all in the latter stages of decay. They were all soldiers, be it Republican or Imperial, and all suffered some kind of injury. One had his gut slashed open, covered with grey innards hastily thrown in by some poor conscript. She spotted the maggots, flecks of doughy white nestled within mangled flesh, feverishly squirming into hunks of gore. Their bodies were slumped over, half sitting, half lying, arranged in a perverted circle around an object dangling from the ceiling.

He hung two inches off the floor, no older than thirty. His weather beaten skin was a fine meshwork of pale threads. There was dirt on the knees of his pale corduroy slacks, but this was pale and sandy. It was obvious he had released his bowels multiple times. If he had been wearing a jacket it was gone. He hung half naked, arms behind his head, blindfolded. Legs thin as twigs, bundled in nothing more than skin. His chest was so frail, the bump of each rib was visible underneath. The face was sunken in, the intense outline of his skull was detectable under the pale and bruised scalp. What gripped Baxton the most was the gap. The space between his thin thighs, so wide his knees didn't knock together as he dangled. A single tube emerged out of his arm and into somewhere in the ether.

Baxton’s stomach lurched. With each passing moment, her gut tightened. She kept swallowing, and her throat kept clenching, but no matter what she could not stop the warm feeling rising through her chest. Then she could taste it at the back of her mouth. She buckled over, clinging to the door frame. A warm, clouded, cream coloured liquid spilled from her mouth, sizzling as it splashed over the cold stone floors.

“It’s alright lads, he’s not gonna bite.” The sergeant covered his mouth with his sleeve. “He can’t hear us unless we want him to.”

“He’s alive?” Baxton turned around, wiping her mouth. Her head spun. Is this what the Imperium stood for?

“Just barely. He’s being fed and watered intravenously, and when the situation calls for it, rectally. Really depends on how the last guy that came here felt.” The sergeant scooted to the front without much difficulty. Everyone wanted to be as far away as possible. He stood by Baxtons side, gazing lazily at the dangling man. “The other guy was shot by partisans two days ago so we need a new handler. Who better than the Shapiron Military Academy?”

“How has he not suffocated yet?”

“Sometimes we leave the door open to let some fresh air in.”

“Who is he?” Someone chimed.

“Good question.” The sergeant turned around to face the crowd. He held out the hot water bottle. “Why doesn’t someone ask him?” He looked inquisitively at Baxton, and swung his arm around ninety degrees so that it was right in front of her. “Remember, this is the stage of leniency. Give him a woman’s touch.”

She pushed herself off of the wall and snatched the bottle out of his hand. It was light and cheap, perhaps made of aluminium, requisitioned from the quartermaster. The liquid inside sloshed around noisily. It was warm. The sergeant pulled a clicked out of his pocket.

“He will be able to hear starting… now.” The sergeant hit the bright green button in the middle.

Tentatively, Baxton took a few steps forwards, careful not to slip on the viscera on the floor. His head was roughly two inches above her own, locked in a state of animalistic fright. It froze first, then the dangling man flailed about.

“Who’s there?” The voice was raspy and hoarse. “Please, no more.”

She opened the bottle and took a whiff of what was inside. Tea.

“It’s alright, I’m not here to hurt you.” She raised the bottle to his lips, careful not to touch him lest he crumbles into ashes. “Do you have a family?”

The dangling man lapped like a dog at bottle, all human dignity cast aside as his frail frame struggled to bring himself closer. Baxton tilted the bottle up. The tea dribbled out of both sides of his mouth, casting brown streaks in the grime that covered the man's body. He finally stopped.

“Just my ma and pa. I don’t have anyone else.”

“You’re very…” She struggled to find a praise. It was leniency after all. “Handsome. I’m sure you’ll find nice girl.”

“You have a pretty voice.” He stopped. “A-are you still there?”

“Yes.” Baxton lowered the bottle.

“Can I see you?”

“Pardon?”

“I haven’t seen a woman since they put me here.”

The sergeants hand clasped her shoulder firmly. She turned around. He nodded. She reached up to the blindfold and lifted it up. The eyes were bloodshot. Once maybe, their brilliant green held a degree of cunning and energy. Now however, there was only fear, petrified as the irises darted from the Baxton, to the sergeant, finally to the cadets crowding just a few feet away.

“Who…” the dangling man began to panic. “No, no, not again, please. I’ve had enough. I’m sorry!”

He began to kick feebly at Baxton and the sergeant. His strikes were sad and light against their heavy coats. The sergeant sucked his teeth.

“Calm him, cadet.” He moved out of the dangling man’s reach. Baxton felt an urge to pull the sergeant back so she didn’t have to face the dangling man alone. She opened her mouth to ask for someone to come by her side. But those were not the words that came out of her mouth.

“How?”

“How do you calm an animal? You’re from the streets. At this point he’s one of yours rather than one of mine.”

She didn’t know how to react to his words. A broiling anger rose up to her chest at the same time a pang of self pity dripped down her throat. A scowl crept across her face, softening as she turned her attention back to the dangling man. He was still flailing his feet, grunting and moaning.

“It’s okay, kid.” She put her hand on his cheek. It was cold, almost like ice. The dangling man flung his head sideways, out of her reach. Gently she cupped his face with both hands. “Don’t look at them, look at me, look at me.” She forced the emaciated head into position, looking directly into those dull green eyes. “What’s your name kid?”

“Roger.”

A excited whisper broke out amongst the men. Baxton’s head swam. Is this the legendary Mountain Fox? A million thoughts raced through her mind. Her time studying his groundbreaking tactics, countless hours planning counter offensives only to be thwarted by his tactical prowess, battalions under central command routed by just a few dozen guerilla fighters. She had to know.

“R-Roger what?”

One could hear a pin drop in the deafening silence of the room.

“Roger Patton.”

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Bergcornopolis
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 53
Founded: Oct 07, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby Bergcornopolis » Mon Apr 02, 2018 5:53 pm

Des Monies, Iowa, America JB
The final few outer blocks were burning to the ground. Screams of children, the wounded, and the fearful cried out in the shadows of the once populous city on the outskirts of the American States. Months before the American forces seemed to have been on the proper footing with the now conquering forces of Bergcornopolis. In the short span of the months leading up to this moment a military force greater than any force, seen by the American War Department. The Bergcornian Imperial strength was first introduced to the American public as well as the War Department through their ability to establish immediate air superiority in an combat with what use to be their orbiting carriers and the squadrons upon squadrons of fighters, bombers, drones, and shuttles filled the sky. Even with the American air defense programs being up to date, for every vessel that was brought down the factories still were producing more and more planes and bombs to continue to wreak havoc on the American Countryside. With this air power soon feel icon cities like Saint Louis, Lafayette, Little Rock, Detriot, Chicago, and Pittsburg. Then came the roar of the tanks and the armored vehicles that pushed through the remains of the cities numbering in about 1000 tanks each 20 brigades stormed high and low through the Ohio River Valley and the Midwest and the Central Plains. Each Capturing key cities that dotted the map only furthering the Imperial Agenda and delivering much needed territorial gains to the vastly expanding Empire. After the Tanks then came the soldiers 2.5 Billion in all scattered about the continent tasked with securing territories in the west, defending the south, or pushing northward conquering and taking anything that stood against the might of the Empire. Lexington the capital fell just like any other major city in America. This war machine continued to turn even with a large amount of opposition. In the Bombardment of Lexington many of the Congressmen and politicians dead leaving very few leaders the option to evacuate the city in the small window that was given from the falling of the BISC Convonum. Those leaders fled to Des Moines, which is now the last city under the American Flag. Now reduced to the capital building, the golden dome made famous from anti-Bergcornain resistance propaganda now stat in the gloom-filled sky. It was at this time Colonel George J. Eisenhower the 5th, climbed out of his convoy and stood looking at the domes and the smoke of rising from the surrounding cities. George Eisenhower then looked to his men and then to the sky. He then grabbed his hat out of the storage container and placed it proudly on his head. He then signaled for the advance towards the capital building. He and his troops encircled the building and sealed all known exits. He then turned to his First Lutinent and said. "Do you have the right papers?" The Lutinent calmly lifted his arm to reveal the two binders filled with the new treaty and trade regulations as well as all necessary documents to finalize the surrender of America. Then a boom came from the inside of the Capital building, then another, and another. Colonel quickly rushed in to find only one American left standing in the rotunda under the central dome. There he stood the President Pro-Tempore of the American Senate, Mitt Montonanon, the final head of the once prosperous American nation. Colonel Eisenhower's men then quickly rushed into the rotunda carrying a folding table and two chairs. The Lutinent then set up the binders in front of the two men and with everyone else left the two to discuss the inevitable surrender of the Americas to the Empire of Bergcornopolis. "I believe that this is checkmate," Eisenhower said sitting down and motioning for Montonanon. Yet, Montonanon did no such thing. He continued to stand in defiance. "Fine, be that way. But know this you will not leave this room an American, you will either die here, starved and eaten by the birds or you could leave in an armored vehicle as a new citizen of the Empire, with your own personal accommodations back on Terra where no one will ever bother you ever again." Montonanon sat down seemingly out of breath and tired of keeping up the strong man appearance. He then looked down at the treaty that read:
Treaty of The Americas

I _________________ on behalf of the citizens of America JB certify and agree to the following:
- All American Citizens are now seen as citizens of the Empire of Bergcornopolis pending further review
- All Territories or claims to territories in any realm or disputed area are now possession of the Imperial Thrown of Bergcornopolis
- All Military assets are now the property of the Empire of Bergcornopolis pending further review
- All Economic assets are now the property of the Empire of Bergcornopolis pending further review
- Any and All surviving Political officials are hereby Impeached and kicked out of office
- All former positions in the American Government are now merged to meet the standards of the Imperial Codex
- Any and All Surviving Military leaders will be reappointed to a position in the Armed Services of Empire of Bergcornopolis pending further review
- Any and All repairs or reconstruction tasks and their costs will be paid by the Empire of Bergcornopolis pending further review

After looking at it once and then once more President Pro-Tempore, Mitt Montonanon signed on the line. It was at this time the forces moved back into the room Montonanon was ushered into an armored vehicle and the treaties were notarized and scanned back to the Colonial Capital in Atlanta where the treaty was made public. Crowds cheered shuttle engines roared to life as the aid workers and the government census crews disembarked to bring the Americans fully into the Imperial Society.

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Pillowlandia
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1988
Founded: Feb 16, 2016
Ex-Nation

Postby Pillowlandia » Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:13 pm

Image [Redacted]


[Redacted], Crown realm of Annwn, Imperial Commonwealth of Pillowlandia


April 2, 2058


The birds chirped as the van rumbled down the suburban street, each driveway holding expensive, and ever more uncommon, cars to be driven by their wealthy residents. A soft crunch betrayed the slowing vehicle to any listening ears, the morning sun glinting off its black exterior as the doors slid open silently. The first thing to poke its head from the shadowed interior was an equally black, though matte, rifle barrel followed by an armor clad person.

The near silent footsteps turned into a soft crunch as the five men moved from the concrete of the road and onto the gravel path to the door. All seemed like clones, their attire identical and their movements synchronized. The sun gleamed downward, finding no reflection against their black armor except for the small golden imperial phoenix emblazoned across their right shoulder. Soft crunch gave way to a gentle thud, the wooden deck of the front porch creaking quietly under the weight as a heavy hand crashed against the door with a thud. “Gardaí Druid! Open at once!”

The soft patter of hurried footsteps behind the door emanated from the door, though they continued to get even softer as the soldiers listened. The soldier who had yelled nodded, a subordinate pulling an explosive string out of its holster and secured it to the door as the rest took a pace away from the impending implosion.

A flash preceded the door falling, a dull thud as it impacted the metal flooring of the interior — its hinges cleanly severed from the frame. A sudden spray of bullets lept out, crossing the gap with too fast to follow as they impacted directly into the body of the van.

A small cylinder was tossed in, a soft click as the retaining pin separated cleanly and remained in the palm of the thrower's hand. A moment passed. A deafening sound and flash of light billowed out, overwhelming even the plentiful morning light as the sounds of the fight began to fill the street.

There was no words spoken as the team pushed through the door, bullets fired their way simply crumpling before their armor plates while their own weapons roared with tight bursts of energy that cut down figures as though they were paper. The flashes of light briefly illuminated the room, the light fading all too fast.

The fading light gave way to a green hue spilling forth from a lone door against, the door itself was ajar and off its frame. A soldier brushed his hand against the door, flying backwards as the house shook with a deep thud.

A lone arm flew out of the gap, little more than a blur in the darkness. It gripped an armorclad chest, crunching it like a soda can. Gunfire roared through the air once more, ineffective at best. The arm tossed aside the red stained corpse, the shadowy apparatus it attached to turning slightly as it reached for another soldier. And then another. All receiving the same crushing force with equal precision.
The remaining two men backed away, their rifles blazing. “Containment breach, command! We’ve got a containment bre-”

Image Ossian Lynch


Druid Loingsigh School, Moscou, Imperial Commonwealth of Pillowlandia


April 2, 2068


Your kind seek your own downfall, yet see yourself as kings of this planet.
You preach a lie, and yet seek the truth.
The gold you bear marks a crime larger than your own transgressions.
That myth which you weave composes itself of granite
Yet finds itself more fragile than a tooth.


“Now what might be the meaning of the poem, anyone?”

“Someone was angry at the world and decided to make a poem to torture school children about it.” One student responded, earning not a few snickers from his peers.

“While certainly an interesting take, you might be surprised to discover that he did not intend his work to torture school children. Since you have decided to offer your thoughts however, what do you make of the final two lines?”

He pouted, “that’s hardly fair, I already spoke.”

“Then you might simply speak once more.”

“Well, the line before the last doesn’t have punctuation like all the rest.” He began, several almost silent noises being made as some of his less diligent peers noticed the minute detail. “Not to mention, it never says who the ‘you’ is. At least, not directly. The gold is meant to mean the church or the Crown? They’re the only bodies in cenaeisa that use the color, or have so much of it. That matter at least.”
The door opened before she could respond, her pleasant surprise at such a coginant response falling off a cliff into a casym of surprise as the doorway was filled with a man in a suit. Wearing a lapel. An imperial lapel, filled with white and trimmed in black quartz. It’s dull nature gave it a gleam all of its own in the light.

“Ossian Lynch, come with me.” the man in a suit said simply, not bothering to identify himself or his purpose. The lapel told all.

Ossian stood up quietly, and gathered his things. A summon from the Crown’s intelligence apparatus was either an honor or a curse, and the two were oft indistinguishable until they were in its maw. He slunk out of the class and into the hallway behind the man, his stomach doing flips along the way.

Two other boys stood outside, their confused faces only growing as they noticed his arrival. “Ossian?” they asked in unison, their voices a half whisper with the man in the suit so close. The man simply began walking towards the elevator bank, neglecting to look back.

“Barrie, Stephen?” Ossian asked in kind, his feet carrying him of their own accord towards the elevator. They had little recourse but to follow.

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


He counted at least a few hundred more kids, hardly older than twelve. In fact, it seemed that he was the only child here older than twelve, himself being a meager fifteen. The building was little more than an unfurnished shoreside warehouse. Overhead were support beams and catwalks, with armed soldiers walking across them. He couldn’t decide if they were to keep them in, or others out.

The entry on the other side of the building opened, a bus dumping another dozen children. This time they were at most ten, and several appeared significantly younger. He hadn’t seen barrie or Stephen since they had been dumped here unceremoniously.

All across the warehouse the children were wearing the same simple jumpsuit, a deep navy blue which was several sizes too large for many of the younger children. His own was just shy of a proper fit, and hung slightly baggy from his less developed frame.

“Why do you think they got all these kids, yet not even bothered to provide the right size clothes after they took ours?”, a new voice asked him from behind. It’s pitch was deeper than any of the other children, but remained distinctly pubescent. Ossian started at the voice, jerking away before turning. “My apologies, the name’s Ogna.” He thrust out his hand, a warm smile on it.

Ossian gazed at him for a moment, having to adjust his gaze upwards at his greater height. The face was aesthetically pleasant, and held a welcoming expression. He was nice, almost screaming that you could trust him.

“The name’s Connor.” Ossian responded. He didn’t trust him.

He seemed almost surprised, his face revealing that he had expected a different response before it was swept away by another expressionless mask. A mask which neither gave or wanted any emotion.

Ogan paused for a moment, his mask shattering as he opened his mouth to speak. “So what do you think they rounded us all up for... connor.” He rolled the false name around in his mouth, apparently dissatisfied at its form.

As he drew even closer to Ossian the mass of small children began to change direction, moving towards a series of opening doors instead of simple milling about. About forty doors stood along the wall, light emanating from the lit and sparsely furnished series of bunks inside each. About forty children were rushed inside a container, its doors sealed behind it and the container being hurriedly rushed away before being replaced by another.

They’re shipping us? he thought, struggling to make sense of it. A soft whistle filled the air behind him.

“Sorry Connor”, was the last thing he heard before something metallic made a dull thud against his head and he began falling into blackness.
Stasnov wrote:Small-to-medium sized professional, relatively high-tech and well funded military. Emphasis on flexible units at Brigade-Battalion level.
#ValaranSoFab

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Bluraland
Lobbyist
 
Posts: 18
Founded: Oct 12, 2016
Civil Rights Lovefest

Civil War

Postby Bluraland » Fri Jul 06, 2018 3:08 pm

Grastavas Domain 9:45am

Disembarking from the ship from Helios the motorcade of Horatio Grastava...
At the back of the central limousine Horatio is venting his anger at his chief of security
'Another batch of unnecessary issues closed. what the hell is wrong with the Durcil family? I mean the people are lost and they sit in their solitude in Helios and do nothing. They should be distributing aid to the south, the Nemoros are struggling to maintain order among their people due to the lack of funds being received. Their people demand revolution yet the Durcil are blinded by their selfishness and grandeur. Maybe that is the Pillowlandian way but THAT IS NOT THE WAY HERE!'

'So what would you like me to do sir?' we are in a dangerous situation and cannot act without chaos. This is a tenuous peace that was established long ago that has always barely been functional or non existent.'

'Very true we do not need conflict with so much tension in the world already but something is going to give. There is something in the air is it opportunity? anger? ... Preparation?'

A quiet silence fell upon the motorcade as it continued on its way into the heart of the territory.

Grastavas Domain 10:30am

As the motorcade is moving through the interior of the most populous city of the domain it was too quiet. Right then and their the front car went up in flames with a deafening explosion. bullets could be heard ringing in the damp morning air. This couldn't have been the people could it?
Cosimo the chief of security stirred
'sir are you okay? we need to get you to safety'
As Horatio roused from the sudden impact and the carnage outside he could barely understand
'yes, yes of course but who is it?'
'Thats not important right now sir now keep your head down and prepare to move to the building across from us for cover'
With that final instruction the chief pushed the door open and laid down some covering fire with a handful of the rest of guards. Horatio moved but could only run through the open. one step after another in the midst of the chaos he could only hear his heart pounding and breath on the morning air. Only a few more steps yet it was futile. A stray bullet caught him in the leg and as he fell another to the neck.
Cosimo released a roaring 'NO!' as he watched his boss and friend fall. With no hope of protection for him not the guard continued fighting and eventually securing a costly victory yet it had all been for naught they had failed.
As they the few gathered thought Cosimo noticed that a few enemies had survived yet were injured and out of action.
A man looking mostly conscious seemed a worthy candidate to get information from
'Who sent you and why?' Cosimo asked gently pressing his pistol to the eye of the man
'We listened to your precious Horatio and he was right something did have to give. The Durcils know of the Families' are growing discontent and they have spies everywhere. They decided now is the time to solidify control and purge the families whilst they raid and deal with their internal problems and you know they have taken note of the prestige of the Cenaesian's centralized authority and its efficiency. 'Down with the Council, UP WITH THE DESPOT'.
Cosimo with rage in his eyes pulls the trigger.
'well there execute all others'
'Men we have a new leader Horatio's eldest Matthew he will decide our next move'

Grastavas Domain Capital - Grastavna 7PM

Bursting through the chamber doors Cosimo
'Sir i assume you have been updated on the situation. I am sorry for the loss of your father but we must respond. You are not safe anymore and neither are the other Families'
Nodding but obviously not prepared for this Matthew stares with intensity at a family portrait'
'You know he always said i would have more time, He said this should not be the life for a 18 year old at the head of the family and all the stress that accompanies such a role. I understand there is no time but i will deal with things after the Funeral and i am thankful you returned the body here'
'With all due respect sir we don't have time if i may be so bold as to suggest we move now and look back later. War is here'
'I wish you were not correct Cosimo i agree reluctantly gather our forces and send word of the plot to the other families we will need support to see this through. The Durcils may try to call for help from their previous supporters in Cenaesia and should that happen chaos' 'We need allies and the other families are our best bet. Down with the Council was it? well then up with the people. I do not wish to become the new head house but rather fix the problem that our union caused so long ago by recreating it all'
'You know for one so young you seem ambitious and wise much like your father sir if i may be so bold' Cosimo said with a sight smile
'Well then the stage has been set we will discuss strategy in a week once we know what we are working with'

Helios 7PM

'The Peace is broken? Good let the purge begin. The navy is in position and the army is ready to advance on the south east into Nemoros' proclaimed the new Despot with a deep grin to his court

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Sudardes
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Founded: Aug 08, 2016
Ex-Nation

Postby Sudardes » Mon Jul 09, 2018 9:06 am

Jack Jameson, Fabian Plateau, Philosophers Range, Sudardes Proper, Terra, 1:11 PM, January 3rd, 2049

The relentless beams of the noon sun beat unfettered on the bleached sands of the Fabian Plateau. Whenever the wind howled or cried, a mist of fine little flecks would be thrown into the air, dancing across the vast expanse. It was painfully featureless, the insurmountable mountain ranges serving a little more than a backdrop to the flatlands that occasionally gave way to a hill. Nothing grew here except weeds, the soil too loose for all but the most resilient of plants. The soupy bodies of water that snaked across the plateau did nothing but move silt and sand out towards the oceans many miles away. Although a desert, the snow killed more than the heat ever did at this altitude, either through cold alone or by making it impossible for one to retrace their steps if on foot.

It wasn’t snowing now, but Jameson was going to die anyways.

He felt the shotgun jab painfully at the small of his back through his brown duster, and if that weren’t enough, the tugging of the yoke bit into the back of his neck, beckoning him forwards. The ice cold water nipped at his toes through his worn boots, his hat lost to the wind long ago. They did, however, let him keep his goggles, after all he would be more of a burden if the sands were to eat away his eyes before they got to their destination.

“Here we are now,” The man tugging the yoke said. Even though his complexion was sun beaten, he was distinctly Elysian. “If you have any last words I’d say them now.”


“Go fuck yourself.” Jameson spat. The group laughed. They were maybe a dozen men. All armed with guns ranging from revolvers to assault rifles. All with a days worth of supply. They couldn’t take the trucks with them this far out. The soil was too soft, and could swallow men whole if one misstepped. The Elysian stopped. He motioned to the man behind Jameson. The shotgun was taken off his back and swung at the back of his knees

“I hope it was worth it.” The Elysian said, pulling out a packet of cigarettes from inside his great coat. He offered a single cigarette to Jameson, who shook his head vehemently.

“They’ll come for you.” Jameson muttered.

“Sure they will,” The Elysian lit up his cigarette. “But they won’t find us here.” He waved at the plateau. “Here only the nomads can find anyone.”

“We have eyes in the skies!” Jameson shouted. “We’ll find you and we’ll kill you.”

“My friend, do not equate yourself with the military. They have eyes in the skies. You’re just a patrolman. You, and your people, have nothing.”

“They’ll come for you.”

“I’m counting on it.” The Elysian pointed to his men. “Toss him in.”

“Killing a patrolman is a death sentence!” Jameson screamed as a pair of hands grabbed on to each extremity, hoisting him uncomfortably in the air

“In the long run we’re all dead.” The Elysian called nonchalantly, enjoying a drag. “It’s not like you weren’t threatening to kill us earlier anyways.”

“Please, let me go. I have family!”

“You’ll have company down there with the rest of your patrolmen brothers.”

The Elysian snapped his fingers. Jameson felt the air whip at his face, and then sinking feeling of loose, wet sand slowly, at first, enveloping his legs.

“Pull me out!” He tried to dig his fingers into the edge of the sand, but every flail only unearthed clumps of sand.

“The more you struggle the quicker you go down, buddy.” The Elysian called. “If I were you I’d take this time to make your peace with the Elder Gods.” He waved his hand in a helicopter motion. “Pack it up lads, back to the trucks.”

Bob Mansfield, 102nd Police Precinct, Philosophers Range Imperium Occupation Zone, Sudardes Proper, Terra, 3:30 AM, January 6th, 2049
At the age of twenty he was free--as only well off young Sudardesianss in the 'forties who had lost their parents at an early age’ could be. Neither physical nor moral fetters of any kind existed for him; he could do as he liked, lacked nothing and bound by nothing. Neither relatives, nor fatherland, nor religion, nor wants, existed for him. He believed in nothing and admitted nothing. But although he believed in nothing he was not a morose or blase young man, nor self-opinionated, but on the contrary continually let himself be carried away. He had come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as love, yet his heart always overflowed in the presence of any young and attractive woman. He had long been aware that honours and position were nonsense, yet involuntarily he felt pleased when at a parade, General Reynolds came up and spoke to him affably. But he yielded to his impulses only in so far as they did not limit his freedom. As soon as he had yielded to any influence and became conscious of its leading on to labour and struggle, he instinctively hastened to free himself from the feeling or activity into which he was being drawn and to regain his freedom. In this way he experimented with society-life, civil service, military service, music, and even with the love of women in which he did not believe. He meditated on the use to which he should devote that power of youth which is granted to man only once in a lifetime: that force which gives a man the power of making himself, or even of making the universe, into anything he wishes: should it be to art, to science, to love of woman, or to practical activities? It is true that some people are devoid of this impulse, and on entering life at once place their necks under the first yoke that offers itself and honestly labor under it for the rest of their lives. But Mansfield was too strongly conscious of the presence of that all-powerful God of Youth--of that capacity to be entirely transformed into an aspiration or idea--the capacity to wish and to do--to throw oneself headlong into a bottomless abyss without knowing why or wherefore. He bore this consciousness within himself, was proud of it and, without knowing it, was happy in that consciousness. Up to that time he had loved only himself, and could not help loving himself, for he expected nothing but good of himself and had not yet had time to be disillusioned. On leaving Shapiron he was in that happy state of mind in which a young man, conscious of past mistakes, suddenly says to himself, 'That was not the real thing.' All that had gone before was accidental and unimportant. Till then he had not really tried to live, but now with his departure from Shapiron a new life was beginning--a life in which there would be no mistakes, no remorse, and certainly nothing but happiness.

His imagination was now turned to the future, to the Philosophers Range. All his dreams of the future were mingled with pictures of the frontier occupation force, Elysian women, mountains, precipices, terrible torrents, and perils. All these things were vague and dim, but the love of glory and the danger of death drove the interest of that future. Now, with unprecedented courage and a strength that amazed everyone, he slew and subdued an innumerable host of Republicans; now he was himself a Republican and with them was maintaining their resistance against the Imperium. As soon as he pictured anything definite, familiar childhood figures always appeared on the scene. Noah Scott---fights with the Imperium or the Republicans against him. Even his father Mr. Mansfield in some strange way takes part in the conqueror's triumph. Amid all this he remembered his former humiliations, weaknesses, and success, and the recollection was not disagreeable. It was clear that there among the mountains, waterfalls, fair Elysians, and dangers, such mistakes could not recur. Having once made full confession to himself there was an end of it all. One other vision, the sweetest of them all, mingled with the young man's every thought of the future--the vision of a woman.

And there, among the mountains, she appeared to his imagination as an Elysian slave, a fine figure with a long plait of hair and deep submissive eyes. He pictured a lonely hut in the mountains, and on the threshold she stands awaiting him when, tired and covered with dust, blood, and glory, he returns to her. He is conscious of her kisses, her shoulders, her sweet voice, and her submissiveness. She is enchanting, but uneducated, wild, and rough. In the long winter evenings he begins her education. She is clever and gifted and quickly acquires all the knowledge essential. Why not? She can quite easily learn foreign languages, read the Latin masterpieces and understand them: De Re Publica, for instance, is sure to please her. She can also speak Latin. In a drawing-room she can show more innate dignity than a lady of the highest Cenasi birth. She can sing, simply, powerfully, and passionately.... 'Bullshit!' said he to himself. But here they reached a post-station and he had to change into another sledge and give some tips. But his fancy again began searching for the 'bullshit' he had relinquished, and again fair Elysians, glory, and his return to Shapiron with an appointment as aide-de- camp and a lovely wife rose before his imagination. 'But there's no such thing as love,' said he to himself. 'Fame is all rubbish. But the twenty five thousand Nuggets... And the conquered land that will bring me more wealth than I need for a lifetime? It will not be right though to keep all that wealth for myself. I shall have to distribute it. But to whom?' Quite vague visions now cloud his mind, and only the driver's voice and the interrupted motion of the truck broke his healthy youthful slumber.

Already in the province of the Range, he was no longer allowed to leave the Elysian villages at night. They said it was dangerous to travel in the evening. The commissioner began to be uneasy, and kept his hand hovering over his holster at all times. Mansfield, however, became still happier. At one of the outposts the soldier told them of an ambush by Republican partisans on the main road. They began to meet armed men, the Imperium seal on their shoulders. "So this is where it begins!" thought Mansfield. Early next morning, being awakened in the truck by the freshness of the air, he glanced carelessly to the right. The morning was perfectly clear. Suddenly he saw, about twenty paces away as it seemed to him at first glance, pure white gigantic masses with delicate contours, the distinct fantastic outlines of their summits showing sharply against the far-off sky. When he had realized the distance between himself and them and the sky and the whole immensity of the mountains, and felt the infinitude of all that beauty, he became afraid that it was but a phantasm or a dream. He gave himself a shake to rouse himself, but the mountains were still the same.

"What's that! What is it?" he said to the driver.

"The range," answered the driver with indifference.

The quick progress of the truck along the smooth road caused the mountains to appear to be running along the horizon, while their rosy crests glittered in the light of the rising sun. At first Mansfield was only astonished at the sight, then gladdened by it; but later on, gazing more and more intently at that snow- peaked chain that seemed to rise not from among other black mountains, but straight out of the plain, and to glide away into the distance, he began by slow degrees to be penetrated by their beauty and at length to feel the mountains. From that moment all he saw, all he thought, and all he felt, acquired for him a new character, sternly majestic like the mountains! All his Shapiron reminiscences, shame, and repentance, and his trivial dreams about the Philosophers Range, vanished and did not return. 'Now it has begun,' a solemn voice seemed to say to him. The road and the Terek, just becoming visible in the distance, and the Elysian villages and the people, all no longer appeared to him as a joke. He looked at himself, then at the commissioner, and again thought of the mountains. ... Two occupational officers rode by, their guns in their cases swinging rhythmically behind their backs, the white and bay legs of their horses mingling confusedly. 'Auntie’s banter about the plain, and here am I driving along! I have a gun, and a badge, and youth... and the mountains!'

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