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PostPosted: Sun Jul 28, 2019 8:40 am
by Intresha
Castle Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
The Southern Wall
June 10th, 1949, 5:00 AM

Standing aside the ramparts, Kiel could hear the chanting of an Orthodox priest in the courtyard below. He swung his censor alone, though, for the yard was empty. Half of the defenders found themselves in the trenches preceding the Castle, the other half posted along the walls. He would not discount the man’s prayers. After all, only an act of God would spare Desna now. His heart cried for the village at the bottom of the hill.

They had gotten their first report of casualties around 4:30 that morning, when Toriddian armor had began their barrage on the Castle’s southern wall. Anti-tank guns behind the ramparts had responded in kind, picking off a respectable number of MBTs before themselves being disabled by enemy fire.

The Castle itself was holding up surprisingly well. Though practically all of the watchtowers and spires were destroyed in the initial air raids, the structural integrity of the walls seemed as resolute as their defenders. Thickened in 1878 and again in 1939, thirty-five feet of layered stone stood between the Guardians and the interior of the fortress. Not to say that the walls would hold forever — it was clear that the siege was only beginning, and Toriddian tanks seemed to multiply like rabbits as the hours passed.

Meanwhile, Kiel did his part. Laying himself down behind a crenelation, he shoved a clip into his Gewehr 98. Glaring down the scope, he scanned the horizon. They didn’t prove difficult to find. The land was a blooming orchard of the lousy cunts. Radio operators. Exposed tank commanders. Artillery loaders. Twenty Toriddian scalps since the start of the morning, and counting still. His brother’s Great War rifle served him dutifully.

Taking a break from his midmorning headhunt, Josiah broke a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Near the bottom lining he could still feel the phony passport and supporting documentation. If he got out of this alive, he swore he’d save a bullet for Lavrov himself.

Taking a drag, he watched as soldiers passed his secluded little corner of the wall. They eyed him suspiciously, but also with an evident amount of respect. They never looked at him for long, though. There was work to be done, and a lot of it. Boobytrapping. The distribution of ammunition and medical supplies. The care of the dead and dying. In what indubitably felt like her final hours, Castle Desna felt more alive than ever.

Kiel snuffed out his cig and tucked it behind his ear. The sun crawled over the horizon, silhouetting enemy figures as it did so. Now was as good as time as any.

Exchanging his clip and chambering another round, the old Panzergrenadier took aim, breathed in, and pulled his trigger. Warped static, then silence. He smiled a toothy grin. Desna went awash in silence as the aforementioned megaphone sparked and began to smoke.

In these days, it was the small victories.

PostPosted: Sun Jul 28, 2019 12:04 pm
by Toridd
Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Southeast of the Castle
405th Zealot Corps, 9th Field Army
June 10th, 1949
6:42 AM

The sound of gunfire echoed constantly, near and far, as the tank bombardment continued. The seizure of the city center was a massive catastrophe. Civilians, young and old were immediately put to their deaths for 'heresy against the Republic'. Frankly, there wasn't any real difference in how it ended for the ones who attempted to fight back. A quick metal stock to the gut and a few bullets through the chest quickly put thoughts of contesting them to the grave. For others, it gave more reason to fight. Desna wasn't fully subdued but there is only so much a small village can do against two corps sized groups.

House by house, shack by shack, they cleared everything. They made sure no stone was unturned. Atop the hill, the Castle haunted the village like a behemoth. At least what was left of it. The 405th suffered immense casualties in the first hour of fighting. Both from civilians and the small weapons fire that came from the castle. It was an abrupt change of pace when the megaphone was silenced. Caught the attention of several Commanders. Whether or not they thought it was intended is up for dispute.

"Against the wall! I SAID AGAINST THE WALL!" the Guardian did his best to attempt to translate.

Commander Stone overlooked his Guardians rounding up a group of civilians.

"You're all charged with heresy against His divine will. May He...deem you worthy of entrance into His kingdom." Stone announced.

Lined up perfectly, the elderly and young. The Guardians took aim. Their NCO quickly giving the order.

A dozen shots rang out simultaneously. Several bodies dropped to the ground. A young girl stood still, untouched by the barrage. It looked as though she was untouchable. A face of fearlessness. Null and void emotion.

The Guardians looked among another.

"You missed on purpose..." one said to another.


"Enough. Guardian Hayes." Commander Stone's statement was a confusion to most.

One Guardian from the group stepped forward, charging the bolt forward on his FN-FAL. He quickly took aim, firing once. A wave of pink mist exited the back of the girls head, dropping her instantly. The group was silenced. What struck them finally was that the tanks had stopped. The group looked around the village, still hearing some gunfire. The cannons had ceased though. The Guardians looked to their Commander.

"Disperse." he quickly ordered.

The group resumed to their previous duties, further securing the town. The fowl stench of the village was near unbearable at this point with the amount of bodies laying near. Any second now, they would start issuing the gas masks.

Commander Stone reeled back to cover, several BTR's driving by. In the eerie silence after hours of bombardment, the faint sound of jet engines crept slowly towards the castle.

A duo of Harrier's could be spotted in the distance, their engines growing closer by the second.

"GET CLEAR! GET CLEAR!" Stone ordered.

The mass of Guardians within the city quickly dispersed to cover, preferably away from the jets committed path. Behind a moat that surrounded the castle, the gate was nearly untouched. A few spots of damage from tanks but nothing to quite knock it out. This was quickly to change. The jets roared overhead, quickly passing over the village. The sound of the autocannons accompanied the engines. Then the impact as bombs were dropped, flying into the castle walls. A metallic clanking assuring the troops that the gate was hit.

A large cloud of debris and dust cloaked that side of the castle. Flames providing a sense of direction as the sunlight struggled to break through the thick debris.

The jets pulled away, quickly making a hard left south towards the coast.

The 405th quickly assembled throughout the village, prepared to storm the castle at any given chance.

PostPosted: Sun Jul 28, 2019 1:51 pm
by Intresha
Castle Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
The Courtyard
June 10th, 1949, 7:00 AM

A sickening cacophony of metallic grinding and grating boomed beyond the flames and across the hills. The hellish sound of the gate’s hinges giving way was only matched in severity by the corresponding screams. A squad of guards had been on patrol in the area just moments before the flyover. They ran fast, but the gate collapsed faster. All ten men were crushed.

Kiel watched from the courtyard, now trading his brother’s Gewehr 98 for his personal StG 44. They would be here soon, and they would come in their legions. He planned to mow them down in such numbers. Josiah just thanked God that the gatehouse operators had the presence of mind of to blow the drawbridge before any enemy units were able to make the crossing.

Soldiers scrambled around the courtyard, organizing sandbag chains and assembling barricades just behind the fallen gate. Five or six heavy machine guns were even reappropriated from the Western Wall to reinforce the Castle’s gaping wound.

Nearly running in to a pair of soldiers carrying out a life-sized crucifix from the chapel, Keil ducked into the crowded building. The pews had been pushed to either wall, with the pulpit itself replaced by a radio desk. On the other side of the room, a handful of B.H. defectors polished their STENs and chattered with one another in Vas Luchian. In the rectory loft overhead, a half dozen nurses appeared to be in the middle of a rudimentary surgery of sorts. In other words, God’s house had become the nerve center of the rebellion.

Approaching where the alter would usually be, Josiah came up to the lone radio operator. It wasn’t long before he recognized the man as Otto, his gardener.

”What’s the situation?” He asked the younger man, grimly.

Otto exhaled a hefty cloud of smoke, giving a bit of a cough near the end. He flicked the remains of his cigar onto the ground, rubbing the toe of his boot in the glowing embers of tobacco.

”From what I can tell, they’re milling around the village. My English is pig shit, though. Don’t take my word for it.” He responded in their mutual mother tongue.

”...As for our people... Whoever’s left outside is stuck there.” He finished dispassionately.

Kiel sighed. He knew precisely what his old friend meant by “milling around the village”. They had used the same euphemism back in the service.

”Issue a command to hold all fire until they’ve reached the trenches.”

”I don’t want to be counting bullets when the time comes.” Groaned the Panzergrenadier, looking down at the floor through the sights of his rifle

PostPosted: Sun Jul 28, 2019 8:01 pm
by Intresha
Lavda River Delta, The Intreshan State, Abathon
Vas Luchian Lowlands
June 9th, 1949, 12:34 PM

The Lavda flowed loudly in the forest by the roadside. The column was slow, yet cheerful in light of recent developments. Partisan forces had thinned significantly after leaving Narwa’s outskirts, quickening the pace of the march something incredible. Freshly promoted Field Marshall Micheal Antonescu directed his A.C.T.I Division Orel from the rear of the column.

Not everybody’s work was done in the Civil War, however. On either side of the road, the Freelance Division Chistka marched in lose formation. They went house by house, door to door. Theirs was the profession of barbarity.

Just earlier that day he witnessed a pair of Solkin’s men drag a pregnant woman from her home by her hair. He attempted to intervene on her behalf, but was told it was beyond his jurisdiction. The girl was accused of miscegenation - a crime punishable by death under Article Four of the new constitution. Upon the arrival of the General himself, it was only a matter of minutes before a final verdict was reached. Her Negro lover was hung from a telegraph pole in the next town. She was shot in the stomach and left to die in the road, mercifully spared the twenty five mile march. Their shared homestead was quickly awarded the the Captain of the platoon responsible. Such was life on the frontiers of the Intreshan State.

Coming from a Vas Luchian family, Antonescu was no stranger to the brutality of war. Likewise, he was also no stranger to the honor associated with it. Where he came from, there were rules of engagement. There was respect for the dead. Accords made in good faith were honored. There was none of that here. The things he saw, the things he even did... They made his skin crawl.

Regardless, the war left little time for him to think on his sins. Duty always beaconed, as it did now.

The march had halted altogether, and the crackle of gunfire rattled off from the head of the column. Partisans. Spurring his horse, he rode to address the commotion.

The source of the fire came from an airplane hanger, about a half a kilometer ahead of them. It was low to the ground, and heavily armed by the look of it. A dozen Chistka men fell to it’s firepower, practically being torn asunder as they advanced.

The fighter plane behind the carnage clearly didn’t plan on sticking around, either. Within minutes of the engagement starting, it took flight from the runway. The B.H. soldier’s small arms did little against the aircraft’s plate armor.

Micheal slapped his horse, racing forward to the hanger. Chistka men were there long before him or any of his, but he still wanted to do a bit of rubbernecking. Legitimate intrigue was difficult to come by on such desolate, abandoned stretches of countryside.

Careful not to lead his horse off into a ditch or another hazard, the Field Marshal dismounted when he got close to the runway itself.

As predicted, Solkin had already arrived on the scene. To the left and right of him, a pair of photographers snapped pictures. There were dead partisans, but none the B.H. had killed. All three of the corpses were apparent suicides. No gunshot wounds. No nooses. No visible blood. These men had poisoned themselves, meaning they were important enough to have access to poison. The atmosphere in the room was one of immense suspense.

It was legitimate intrigue he wanted, and it would be legitimate intrigue Micheal Antonescu would get.

PostPosted: Mon Jul 29, 2019 6:12 pm
by Toridd
Castle Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
The Gate
405th Zealot Corps, 9th Field Army
June 10th, 1949
7:19 AM

The dust settled. The 405th began to mass near the blown apart draw bridge that now only acted as a tool to buy time. The AVLB's were on way, a column of Merkava's rolling minutes behind. This chance was as good as any to end this siege once and for all, and without further casualties.

A barrage of smoke grenades were launched into the gaping hole, landing within the castle walls. This effectively shrouded the gate of the castle and the walls near it. The sound of a tank engine could be made out through the smoke. The bridge launcher positioned itself at the edge of the moat, its mechanical arms creaking and squeaking as it began to deploy a metallic makeshift bridge over the moat. The atmosphere was suspenseful as the Guardians prepared to storm in, the sound of the bridge launcher only added to their tension.

The bridge made contact, the metal arms colliding with that of the dirt. The bridge was secured. Moving out of the way, the AVLB parked only to step out of the way of the incoming Merkava column. The 405th marched on either side of the road leading to the bridge. As they crept closer, some switched to full auto, ready for the shit-storm that awaited them on the other side of that wall of white smoke.

Commander Stone paced along towards the wall of smoke, making out the first few feet of the metallic bridge. The nearing mean sounding engine of a Merkava Mk.1 came to a slow halt, meeting the Commander at the edge of the moat, the smoke just barely touched the tank. The top hatch opened, a familiar face.

"Commander Raine." Stone gave a quick right handed roman salute.

The tank commander returned it briefly.

"Tell your men to stay behind the columns. No need for anymore dead heroes." Raine returned.

"You got it." Stone veered off towards a group of his men.

The tank commander dropped back into the tank, shutting the hatch with him. The driver revved the engine, gripping onto the metallic bridge, accelerating forward into the smoke.

"Get ready boys." Raine peered through his telescope.

Marching close behind the Merkava, the 405th traversed into the smoke as well. The loader quickly launched a R-3 shrapnel shell into the cannon. The storming of Desna Castle was seconds from beginning.

PostPosted: Thu Aug 01, 2019 12:05 pm
by Intresha
Castle Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
The Courtyard
June 10th, 1949, 7:30 AM

As per Kiel’s command, the Castle’s guns all roared to life simultaneously. A hailstorm of artillery descended upon the enemy from the walls above, indiscriminately obliterating anything at point blank range.

On the ground, the situation wasn’t quite so one sided. Kiel and his men held fast behind the Courtyard barricade, but only insofar as they weren’t retreating yet. Their small arms and machine guns mowed down the oncoming Guardians from a sufficient range, but they were simply too great in numbers.

Kiel ducked as he fell back to the other end of the Courtyard, scurrying up the adjacent stairs to the North Wall.

He glanced back at the Courtyard after he had finished his short sprint. The situation appeared even more dire than he left it. By the looks of it, the remaining defenders on the barricade would be falling back to the Main Hall any minute. They were all but swamped. Their only hope was to compromise the metal bridges the enemy had deployed over the moat.

The situation on the walls did not favor an assault on the bridges, however. All but fifteen of the it’s forty artillery pieces had been repositioned to fire into the yard below. That explained a lot. Idiots. It didnt matter how many Toriddians were killed in the Courtyard, it mattered that they were getting into it in the first place.

Josiah ran the length of the wall, finding nothing even vaguely resembling a CO. That was of course, until he found the fool. At the intersection of the North and East Walls, he laid behind a battlement. An unmarked bottle of vodka sat in between his legs, half empty. Kiel took out his revolver from his holster, firing it only inches from the man’s ear. The entirety of the wall ceased fire, each artillery crew staring dead at the two men.

”Do you know what the Toriddians do to men like you?!” He didn’t bother trying to speak Intreshan as he picked the man up by his collar.

He stood him up on his feet. The man staggered as he tried to maintain his balance, though his eyes were wide with terror. The Panzergrenadier uppercut the man before handily tossing him over the side of the wall. The CO was heavy, but adrenaline saw the old man through.

”Your Commander has been relieved of his duties. Turn these guns around.” He shouted down the line, probably butchering half of what he meant to say.

Regardless of how coherent he was, they seemed to understand the gist of what he said. Before long, the crews were once again firing on the bridges over the moat, in a desperate attempt to stop the outpouring of foes crossing into the Castle.

This would be the tale of the tape. This maneuver would decide the fate of Castle Desna.

PostPosted: Thu Aug 01, 2019 2:40 pm
by Intresha
Lavda River Delta, The Intreshan State, Abathon
The Hanger
June 9th, 1949, 1:20

”We should call in the Internal Circuit. This is a matter of national security.” Solkin muttered, worriedly.

Antonescu shook his head in disagreement.

”Don’t be foolish. This is a military matter, and falls directly under our jurisdiction.” He responded, stroking his beard.

In front of the two men sat an open crate, perhaps as long as both of them were tall, and roughly waist high. Inside it was packed with straw and two, oblong metal objects. Neither men knew exactly what they were, but with both items plainly marked 2 Kilotons, it went without saying that they probably packed a respectable punch. Most disconcerting though, was the obvious imprint of a third object in the straw. It was nearly thrice as large as the others - and it was missing.

High and low they had searched the hanger and the surrounding areas, all to no avail. The consensus thereafter was clear... It had left on the plane.

”They couldn’t possibly be...?” Solkin queried, trying his best to address the elephant in the room without saying the words.

The Field Marshal nodded his head hesitantly, although still puzzled about a few things.

”But the Insurgians couldn’t even finish their own... Even with the proper materials-

”The rebels couldn’t have made them themselves...” Antonescu finished his thought for him.

Abruptly, the two men were walked in on by an Officer. He was one of Solkin’s, but it didn’t matter. The hanger was off limits except for senior staff. Whatever the man had to say was bound to be important.

”Hail Morozov” The young man saluted as he outstretched his right arm.

The two men responded in kind, as was customary.

”One of the men is still alive.” The B.H. man blurted excitedly.

”He started screaming when we starting burning the corpses. He’s in the Aid Station down the road, getting his stomach pumped. He’s been deemed viable to interrogate.”

Before the boy had even finished talking, Micheal was already halfway to the door.

He had heard all he needed to.

PostPosted: Thu Aug 01, 2019 9:27 pm
by Toridd
Castle Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
The Eastern Wall
June 10th, 1949
7:39 AM

Commander Stone hugged the wall, a file of Guardians behind him. Three of them armed with rope launchers. Each with nearly fifty feet of rope. Heavy suckers. The rest carried some variation of explosives or incendiary devices. Out beyond the village, a cloud of dust hovered above the roads. More armor. More bodies. It was likely the enemy would run out of ammunition before the Republic ran out of bodies. No. This was a fact. It was only a matter of time. At this point, Stone was convinced they occupants were counting their time in hours. No more than two either.

The Commander came to a stop, checking the corner as they met the end of the eastern wall. He peered up, gazing at the ruinous remains of the wall. Most of it was intact but was littered with destruction. And ways in.

"You three, set up. Come on." Stone ordered.

The three Guardians took a kneeling position, spacing probably five feet in between each other. They took aim, sending their delivery hook into the air and over the wall, a trail of rope following it heavily. Quickly securing the ropes and assuring the hook was sturdy, three Guardians took to the side of the fortress. Stone and the remaining took defensive positions, not that there was much shooting at them from this angle. He turned around, gazing upward at the climbing soldiers. Over halfway up. Impressive. Despite the sound of the nearby gunfire near the gate, an even closer magazine was emptied. Stone recognized the sound just as any would. He spun around, managing to glimpse the third Guardian climb over. More gunfire.

"Cover my ass." the Guardian quickly began to secure the rope ladder to the wall, throwing it over.

The other two quickly secured both sides of the wall, mowing down any that showed their face. He quickly secured the other two ladders, throwing them over. The sound of the FN-FAL, fully automatic. He looked over, seeing his comrade spray entrance to the remains of the watch tower. Adjusting his para helmet, he sprinted to provide aid. Further spraying the door with his FAL as his buddy reloaded. He finishes, releasing the bolt forward.

"I'm good. Check Rogers."

"Gotcha." he turned on his heel, gazing over to the other side of the wall.

Sprinting over, he nearly cost the life of Commander Stone as he crested the wall.

"WATCH YOUR STEP GUARDIAN!" he yelled, pulling himself over. Two more in his wake.

Unslinging his FAL, he quickly took to his men.


"Sir?" Walker spoke in place of both of them.

"Set up your bi-pods on the wall. You start mowing down any fuckers in the courtyard that aren't our guys." Stone ordered.

The two quickly stepped to, doing exactly that. Commander Stone grabbed his radio. The sound of metallic clenching echoed throughout the castle walls. A bridge had collapsed. They had only bought more time.

"405th, Geronimo. I repeat, Geronimo." he spoke.

Stone geared toward the eastern wall, joining his Guardians as they began to clear out the inner walls of the castle.

PostPosted: Mon Aug 05, 2019 6:34 pm
by Intresha
Castle Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
The Courtyard
June 10th, 1949
8:00 AM

What was left of the Main Hall’s garrison lept into combat, rushing the Eastern Wall with their total force. Though numerically inferior, they possessed heavier arms than those of their comrades in the Courtyard. As opposed to their typical PPSh-44s and STENs, this last line of defense shouldered Sterlings and MAT-49s. Shipped in from Insurgia via lend lease, the weapons had proved extremely effective over Morozovist forces in the first battles of Renspol and Norbrisk. However, overwhelming ammunition shortages ultimately forced the foreign guns out of circulation. Desna’s arsenal held the last stocks of the precious armaments, and these men held the last of that relatively small collection.

Kiel watched from the barricade as they struggled to reach the walls, pausing and rushing and pausing again. For being outnumbered three to one, the garrison force made consistent ground. God knew it wouldn’t last though. Without more men to take up the rear, they would be eroded to nothing by the swelling tide of enemy soldiers. Thinking of such morbid possibilities, Josiah returned his attention back to his own position.

With the Toriddians in the Courtyard now severed from their forces on the opposite side of the moat, a pyrrhic victory no longer seemed impossible. Now trapped inside the walls, their number quickly became a finite value. Their advantage was lost, at least temporarily. The Panzergrenadier had every intention of exploiting it to Hell and back.

Finishing off the rest of his magazine on an advancing cluster of Guardians, Kiel laid down for a breather. He took a half smoked cigarette from behind his ear, but could only sigh when he realized he didn't have a light. Even if he did, the crosswind would’ve been a bitch to compete with. He put it back up, defeated.

”Wanna drag?” Otto sighed, looking out over the carnage.

”Get down! You’re going to get yourself killed!” Shouted Kiel, dragging him into the dust beside him.

”What the hell did you do that for? They’ve hardly got anyone out there anymore.” He said, composing himself.

”See, look what you did.” He snorted, looking regretfully at his crushed cigarette.

The Panzergrenadier stared at him in disbelief.

”Have we thinned them down that badly?” Josiah asked excitedly.

Nodding, the gardener fished around in his pocket for a pack of crushed cigarettes. He tapped one out with his finger, popping the end into his mouth.

”I counted about seventy a couple of minutes ago. Probably less now, if I had to guess. That M1919 is a hell of a gun. Cuts the bastards down like warm butter... Shame we didn’t have them in the war.” Otto reflected, bringing a zippo to his lips.

Kiel’s eyes lit up when he heard the lowball number. Like lambs to the slaughter. All that was left to do was bring the slaughter to them.

”Oh, and uh… By the way... The radio fried. Sorry about that. Electrical surge or something. I figured I’d be more useful out here anyway.” He spoke from the side of his mouth.

Josiah nodded in affirmation, more than a little zoned out. Knowing Otto, he probably broke off one of the knobs or something by accident and just refused to take responsibility. It was no matter, though. Half of his time serving in Marathonn had been spent without the aid of a radio. What difference would one make today? Besides, more important issues were closer at hand.

”Otto?” Kiel asked, unstrapping his ankle sheath.

”Yeah?” He responded, curiously.

”Your Intreshan is better than mine, yes?” He inquired whilst shoving his second to last clip into his rifle.

The gardener shrugged, raising his eyebrows in uncertainty.

”I guess.” Otto curtly replied.

Kiel fixed his bayonet to his StG before standing up.

”Then how do you say ‘charge’?”

PostPosted: Tue Aug 06, 2019 2:57 am
by Karaq
Rostov-Don, The Slavic Union of Karaq, Aziran
Wilk's Bar
June 10th, 1949
3:32 AM

He had been there for almost 12 hours. Face down into the bar, his right hand was still gripping the tall glass of half gone vodka. The bartender, presumably the man Wilk's himself, threw a small towel over his shoulder and retreated to the other end of the bar. Just like any other Great War veteran, you just had to make time that kept you busy. Something to keep you from dwelling. On those things. The things many were forced to do. Not because their superiors demanded it but simply because fate had deemed it so. He had had that same glass since midnight, he had only passed out for the past three and a half hours. Vividly dreaming. Not pleasantly either.

Suddenly, he was there again. Back in Rensen. Marathonn. 1946. God forbid. Not this again.

A rocket slams into the side of an already destroyed building, just barely missing the rabbit-like demeanor of Maxim Lukin. Securing one hand to his PPSH-41 and another to his ushanka, he quickly hops through the smoke, running ruin to ruin, a barrage of gunfire skidding past him and ahead of him as he sprinted full-speed. If one could stop and listen, you could make out the terrified screaming of Maxim. Although with the sound of gunfire, it was hard to distinguish anything human at all. Maxim could see his comrades a few blocks down, inside a barber shop. That was the marked re-grouping location. Bullets still whizzed by him. He didn't stop for anything though. Finally clearing the block, he was free of being shot at, at least from that group of Panzergrenadiers. Hugging the side of the building, he looked both ways before crossing the street.

Not a soul, he thought. He gritted his teeth, looking forward at the barber shop. He could make out the round figure of the radio operator, Misha was his name. He was carrying a Mosin-Nagant in his arms, not really paying attention. If Maxim could see Misha from this range, a sniper definitely would. He wasn't dead yet though. Just as Maxim was about to continue, a thunderous hum was nearing. The sound of metallic clinking and grinding. It was shaking the building Maxim was holding onto. A fucking Tiger, he thought. He looked forward. Glancing once more down each end of the street, he reeled back, launching himself into full sprint once more down the street. He could hear the thunderous beast fading away as he sprinted forward. A good sign. His buddies were almost entirely visible to him now. It was almost as if he flew into the barber ship at the speed he was going. They welcomed him in anxiously.

"Lucky bitch, Lukin..."

"Quiet quiet. Listen." Lukin was catching his breath.

The group listened in, two keeping watch, keeping low. The metallic roaring of the Tiger that lurked only blocks away.

"The Insurgians have a Sherman column up the road. Between them and us. Lot's of fucking PzG's." Lukin was gasping, stabilizing his breathing.

"Any tanks?" his Sergeant asked.

"I didn't see any Sergeant. But...I know what a Tiger sounds was shaking the whole place." Lukin tried to sound as convincing as possible.

The group looked among one another. It was almost futile. The whole Red Army was spread out among the city. They just happened to be stuck in the one spot that was crawling with Marathonn's finest. There was a thought, though. Lukin had realized that while they shot at him, they hadn't chased him. At least, he didn't think so. At this point, they would've at least followed in the same direction. One Red wasn't worth it he guessed.

"Sergeant...they have no idea..."

"I know I know." the Sergeant dismissed the thought.

There was an eerie silence among the group, almost deafening. Abruptly interrupted by the sound of nearby gunfire. Not at them though. The Sergeant snapped to.

"Already, we're moving. Lukin, cover our six. Misha, up front with me." the Sergeant quickly got his squad in order.

They crossed the streets one by one. One ran while one covered him. It was meant to avoid unnecessarily casualties. Lukin was the last one on the other side, aiming his PPSH-41 around at the empty street, surely knowing that it would do no good at any range outside of 20 yards. Unless you're a good shot. Lukin wasn't bad. He wasn't great either. He squinted down the sights, examining the ruined street ahead of him.

"LUKIN! COME ON!" a yell came.

Lukin adjusted himself, looking both ways. He sprinted across, joining his squad. They continued forward, the sound of gunfire growing closer. Navigating the ruins, they kept in cover. At least, what cover they could find. They were nearly on top of the gunfire now. Lukin was right. The ground was literally shaking. Whatever metallic beast was lurking, it was definitely near. Approaching the next block, they could see the tops of Marathonnian stahlhelms to their front. They were behind the PzG company. Just in time to see a mound of ruins get obliterated by a tank shell. An Insurgian Sherman taking four Marathonnian lives with it. Coming into view, the Firefly made its way toward the PzG's and by extend, the Reds. Its long cannon scanning each alleyway closely as it traversed forward. Ba-Boom. The turret flies off like a cork in a wine bottle. The Tiger had detonated the ammunition.

"TAKE OFFENSIVE STANCE!" the Sergeant ordered.

The squad quickly dispersed themselves around the street, taking up positions behind rubble and ruin. Lukin could make out the shape of an 8,8cm cannon aiming down the street, the same way the Firefly came from. No Shermans though. Maxim assumed they had only halted temporarily. The Insurgian infantry, whoever they were, were giving hell to the PzG's up front though. This would be wrapped up quickly anyway.

"OPEN FIRE!" the Sergeant declared.

Lukin aimed down his sights, taking his pick of the criminals in uniform. He squeezed the trigger, a burst of 7.62x25mm firing down the road. The rest of the squad followed just as the bullets connected. Lukin was complacent for a second. His first kill. Everyone saw it. He snapped out of it, locking onto a different target. Pulling the trigger. It wasn't long before they began to advance. Lukin straight sprinted to the next position, some might even say, firing as he sprinted. If you're shooting back at all times, you're doing something wrong. Fuck these guys, Lukin thought. He was now beside a building, essentially no more than twenty feet from the nearest Marathonnian body. He peeked out, examining the intersection. Some dead would lay still. Some wounded would crawl. He peeked further, grimacing at the sight of the 8,8cm cannon still present.

"LUKIN! WE GOT YOU COVERED!" the Sergeant essentially screamed from across the street. He threw a couple of what looked like small wooden sticks but turned out to be Marathonnian stick grenades.

Lukin went wide, catching both of them then quickly retreating into cover. Sliding them both into his belt, he ducked back behind the building, intending on finding a way around. Possibly a way through the ruble. He didn't want to find himself in front of that thing. That was for sure. He cleared the corner quickly, his PPSH at the ready in case a squad of these fuckers wanted to test him. He heard the sound of metallic squeaking, a little higher pitched. He recognized it as a Sherman. They were on the move again. Maxim scanned the ruins, finding the entry point he wanted. He ducked down, navigating through the destroyed homes. Making out its shape, he figured the Tiger was only 10-20 feet in front of him. Their engine was off. They intended to stay in this spot. Smart. Sort of. The crew probably wasn't calculating on a Red getting to them from behind. Truth be told, Lukin wouldn't expect such a thing either. From here on out he would.

He got up to his feet, a tight space between him and the metallic beast. He was almost not tall enough to hop onto to the Tiger from its side. As if the PPSH was helping with the weight. Still, he managed, his upper body strength allowing him to traverse to his next kill successfully. Hopefully. Through the gunfire in the distance, he could hear the ramblings of the Marathonnian Panzer crew inside. They knew he was there now. All the noise he was making at this point was noise. Keeping himself shielded by where the hatch would come up, he gripped the two stick grenades, pulling the hatch open. The Marathonnians would curse. From what Lukin could make of it. He launched the grenades downward into the tank, slamming the hatch shut. Leaping off, he dives into the intersection, nearly landing on top of a PzG corpse in the process. Lukin straggles to his feet, using the remains of a Marathonnian half-track as balance. Two loud booms, almost faint, go off behind him. A small trail of smoke exiting the machine gun port.

"Red pig..." a raspy voice came from near. Followed by the sound of a Gewehr bolt locking forward.

Lukin was convinced this was it. He raised his hands. Where were his comrades? Surely they didn't leave him to die. Could they? Regardless, something had to give. Whether it be his comrades or the Insurgians, someone had to show up. Else he die. He turned slowly, facing his newly appointed grim reaper. The two gazed at one another. The Marathonnian began to speak. Lukin didn't make much of it.

"How did you—" a gunshot rang out, loud and crisp.

Lukin flinched, watching the Marathonnian fall backward. The Gewehr falling straight from his hands. His comrades turned the corner, though they hadn't shot. Lukin looked over, seeing a webbed out Insurgian paratrooper, an M1 Garand cradled in his hands. An older model Sherman roared forward, bringing a column of armor behind it. Alongside it, the 45th Ranger Brigade. Lukin gave a nod to the paratrooper, who only returned it swiftly before returning to his column. His comrades approached him.

"What did I say huh? Lucky bitch."

Maxim Lukim remembers each day of that battle. Each day like a chapter. Each slumber as a reminder.

Maxim would be the only one in his squad to survive Rensen.

The paratrooper that saved his life, would meet Lukin and his squad again the next day. The Insurgians and the Karaqi's share a photo together. One of many. Lukin remembered how ridiculous the flashbulb attachment was. In proportion to the camera, that is. Silly Insurgians. He had no idea where that photo was now. Probably in some storage closet, belonging to some Insurgian paratrooper. Not the one that saved him though. Lukin watched him die that very same day. He was unable to return the favor. Unable to save him.

Maxim opened his eyes. Rising from the dark pit beneath his arm, he finally came to. Letting go of the glass of vodka, he checked his watch, rubbing the dark scruff he needed to shave so very much.

04:55 it read. Maxim blinked, realizing he had been here longer than he desired to be. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a small silver coin stamped by the State Mint. Downing the rest of the glass, he set the coin down, exiting the bar and disappearing onto the street.

PostPosted: Tue Aug 06, 2019 12:56 pm
by Intresha
Lavda River Delta, The Intreshan State, Abathon
The Aid Station
June 9th, 1949, 2:00 PM

The Aid Station had been fully cleared for the cross examination. All soldiers able bodied enough to go outside were booted out. Those unable to move were put on heavy morphine drips, putting them to sleep within a matter of minutes. There could be no witnesses to this, not even the B.H or the Army. Both of those had been promptly marched out of the vicinity after the Hanger was put on lockdown. Now, only Antonescu and Solkin stayed behind to investigate.

The lone nurse in the building injected the prisoner with a few CCs of adrenaline to wake him up. He stirred with a start, probably most frightened by the two uniformed men standing over him. His eyes fluttered as they grew accustomed to the light. Micheal waited for him to awaken before smacking him across the mouth.

”Good morning.” General Solkin stated mockingly.

The rebel said nothing as he sat up in bed. Wiping a small string of spit from his bottom lip, he even smiled a little.

”Tell us what left on that plane, and you will leave here alive.” Antonescu promised, entering negotiations right out of the gate.

He remained completely silent, keeping his eyes locked with those of his interrogators. After a minute or so of waiting, Micheal hit him again, this time directly below the sternum. He absorbed the blow surprisingly well.

”Can you at least give us your name? Where you’re from?” Alexandr queried.

Still no reply.

The Field Marshal inspected the man, examining him carefully with his eyes. The resistance uniform had taken years off of him at the Hanger. Here, halfway between life in death and draped in a hospital gown, he looked like any typical grandfather. Thinning grey hair retreated from the crown of his head, leaving a shinning bold spot in its wake. Creases and wrinkles plagued his face, and dirt too. For all his age, though, there was obviously still fire in the man. The way he moved. His stubborn disregard for pain. And those eyes. They just sparked with intelligence and wit. When the prisoner looked at him, Antonescu felt like he was the one being questioned.

The old man’s narrow lips quivered, almost as if he was about to speak. Alas, though, he didn’t. He tried again. And again. He repeated this same display a handful of times before breaking out into an even wider grin. He was obviously holding back laughter. He was fucking with them.

Micheal seized his throat, applying as much pressure as possible without crushing his windpipe in the process.

”Are you going to speak, yes or no?” He growled at the man, squeezing ever tighter.

”If not, we’re just wasting one another’s time...” He carried on, pressing in strongly with his leathery hand.

Not so much as a choke or sputter escaped his mouth. Fully surrendered to the torture, he laid limp. Bested at his own game, Micheal released the tension from his hand, pulling away. Instead, Antonescu drew his ceremonial dagger from the sheath on his right hip. He planted it into the man’s stomach, careful not to go too far before pulling it out. His precision was near surgical.

”We’ll see you tomorrow.” The Field Marshal sighed, wiping both sides of the knife on the bedsheets.

”Nurse!” Solkin shouted before walking towards the door.

As the doctor and the rest of the medics came out, Antonescu put away his weapon and hurried to keep up with Alexandr. Other than the sound of the nurses rushing around to save their ill-fated patient, only the click of the two men’s boots echoed through the hall. That was, until the prisoner began... Laughing.

”Too late. Too late for Vozhd. Too late for you, son of bitch.” He cackled in broken Intreshan.

The Field Marshal spun around, taken entirely by surprise. He tried to place the man’s accent.

”Are you Marathonn-“ Antonescu paused, looking back at Solkin.

The General nodded.

The two other enemy suicides at the Hanger had been found to have iron crosses hanging from their breast. Everyone thought it was just happenstance. Some speculated that they might have been war souvenirs.

Not Antonescu, though. Twice was a coincidence. Three times was a pattern. A pattern worth investigating.

”Of course its the goddamn krauts.” Micheal said, rolling his eyes.

PostPosted: Wed Aug 14, 2019 2:25 pm
by Intresha
Lavda River Delta, The Intreshan State, Abathon
The Aid Station
June 9th, 1949, 3:30 PM

The Field Marshal strode across the road, away from the Aid Station and back to his horse. He hated the Krauts, every last goddamn one of them. Maybe the Karaqis had it right. The nurses put the prisoner on heavy sedatives in light of the stab wound. He would keep his secrets until tomorrow morning, and even that was a generous estimation. By then, who knew what horrors his little friends could sow across the country.

Solkin shadowed Antonescu, albeit from a distance. War veteren or no, General or no, any man with a lick of common sense knew to give Micheal a wide berth when he was angry. Although being a pleasant man most of the time, the Field Marshal was better known for his intense outbursts and fits of rage.

”Get the Toriddians on the line. The rest of our ground forces, too. Any known Marathonnians are to be taken alive for questioning.” Antonescu stated, climbing into his stirrups.

Alexandr untied his own steed from the fencepost next to that of Micheals. He threw his weight around until he finally managed to wiggle his way into the small saddle. It was times such as these that the General so greatly missed the luxury of his staff car. Alas, petrol was being rationed, and horses weren’t exactly known to irreparably break down in the middle of these backwaters. That was, unless they were guided by a notably poor rider.

”Don’t you worry about international perception? Or worse yet, that of the Central Committee? If we just start rounding up civil-“ Alexandr was promptly interrupted.

”I believe you mean foreign combatants, General.” The Field Marshal retorted.

The two trotted next to one another in silence for about another mile. The forest grew denser in the thick or this agrarian wilderness, shrouding even the gravel roads they rode on. With every inch, the world around the two men became increasingly less tame. The canopy overhead blotted out the sun, and the treacherous landscape shunned humanity’s cruel touch. Whatever faint reminders of civilization that had once stood here were now gone, buried under a collage of brown and green and grey.

While Antonescu admired the beauty of his homeland, Solkin made the discomfort on his face abundantly clear. Not only with his surroundings, but with the situation overall.

”Enemy combatants or not, you have to realize that this path ends in war... Verkoft is weak, but not cowardly.” He finally spoke out, although passively.

”Then perhaps its best we pursue conflict before they’re strong again.” Micheal stated dryly.

Somewhat flustered by Antonescu’s directly belligerent tone, the General responded.

”You talk like you could declare the war yourself.”

”All things are possible through the Vozhd. I’ve known him forever.” Micheal responded casually, spurring his horse slightly.

Solkin awkwardly maneuvered his reigns, forcing his own mare to match speed with Antonescu’s.

”Do you realize how corrupt you sound right now? Understand that I cant follow your orders, Field Marshal. Not till they’ve been run by the Central Committee.” Alexandr was quickly approaching the end of his rope.

Micheal simply sped up again, unapologetically leaving his colleague in the dust. This time when Solkin tried to catch up, he nearly fell off his mount in his own clumsiness. Startled, the beast attempted to buck him before darting off of the beaten path.

Antonescu watched from a nearby ridge, still mounted. The wolves would have them both before night fell, just as according to plan. The Party could afford no weakness. Not in these fragile times, not with nuclear armed foes on the doorstep. Antonescu knew as much as he watched the old man writhe in agony, his deep purple face nearly matching his black uniform.

Micheal Antonescu was no sadist, however. He took no pleasure in taking out the trash. It simply needed doing, and he did it. Now, Intresha had to be defended. He would waste no time returning to her.

PostPosted: Wed Aug 14, 2019 8:21 pm
by Toridd
Castle Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Eastern Wall
June 10th, 1949
7:49 AM

Commander Stone moved graciously through from room to room, his FN-FAL did little to help in close quarters. The gunfire had just settled. Stone made out what he could from the inside of the walls. It sounded like a charge of some kind. The intense portion of the slaughter was probably in the first ten minutes. After that, it started to come down to a minimum. Either way, Stone knew there were still some Guardians left. He recognized the sound of their battle rifle down below. Something else caught his ear as he moved through the castle walls. Intreshan tongue. Behind him. The Commander spun on a heel, bringing his FN-FAL around as well. Coming up a stairwell, three Intreshans scurried up. All three of them in civilian garb, armed with either bolt-actions or PPSh's. The first one made the mistake of stopping in his tracks upon seeing Stone. His second mistake was raising the PPSh.

A burst of five rounds fired off, cutting through the first man and planting themselves into the second. By reaction, the third one was forced down the stairs by the bodies.

Stone quickly moved to the staircase, aiming down to see for any movement. None. Faint gunfire continued on the background. The sound of boots. Stone backed up, peering down the hall. Seeing a Guardian in his battle greens running to him. Four others followed him, clearing the rooms behind him.

"Commander, sir." the Guardian rendered a salute.

Stone returned it. The Guardian had a radio talker in his hand, offering it to Stone.

"It's High Commander Bartlett sir..." the Guardian looked, almost concerned.

Stone was hesitant but quickly snatched it from his hand, putting it up to his ear.

"Commander Stone." he spoke into the radio.

The response was a little fuzzy and garbled but he could make out the voice of his young superior.

"...ood morning, Commander...what's the status of the castle, over?"

"Still under siege, sir. They're dug in tight sir." Stone informed.

There was a bit of static. Perhaps he mistook it for hesitance or disappointment.

"...recommend you pull all forces from the castle interior...(static)...deployment of chemical agents has been auth-"

The radio suddenly exploded in his hand, tiny fragments of metal from the phone pitting into his face. In agony, he falls backward, catching glimpse of the third Intreshan down the stairs. A TT-30 visible in his hand. Stone was lucky this time though. For now anyway. He caught something about chemical agents but that was the last thing on his mind right now. The standby Guardian quickly reacted, drawing his FN toward the pile of bodies at the bottom of the staircase. Three more shots. The Guardian falls backward as well, a pink mist flying behind him as he was slain.

Groaning in pain, Stone quickly came to, realizing he was wide open. He gripped a grenade from his rig, pulling it off along with the pin. With a slight push, it rolled across the stone floor and down the steps. The sound of it dropping with each step made it almost tedious. Stone hugged the ground, covering his head. A loud boom followed with a large eruption of dust and debris getting launched in every direction. He gripped his battle rifle, along with his face as he moved toward the door that most likely led to a pathway to another tower. Some fresh air never hurt anyone.

Coming to his feet, he leaned against the wall, gripping his rifle with one hand. The door was slightly cracked, hinting at the light of day that crept through. Stone gripped the door, pulling it open. The light of day was almost blinding but his eyes would adjust. Across the way, on the other side of the walkway, he could see three Guardians laying waste to whoever was down below in the courtyard.

Holding onto the door frame, he began to hug the side of the castle walls, using them for balance. Over the sound of gunfire, one could hear that of artillery fire. Had the barrages resumed? Stone didn't recall that. It came to thought all at once though. He remembered Bartlett's last words before the phone exploded into his face. Most of the force wasn't equipped with chemical gear, very little with even a gas mask. What a fucking shit-show this turned out to be, he thought. The sound of the shells cut through the air as many took cover.

Before 8 o'clock struck, the castle was subjected to a chemical offensive.

Stone was late. A little too late. He had breathed in too much initially before finally pulling his gas mask on. He could the burns inside his chest. His blistered lungs. They covered his hands and arms. He could feel blisters in places his didn't want to feel. The pain was almost, numbing in a way. Paralyzing. Stone was on the stone slabs now, leaning against the wall, staring up at the sky.

A hue of yellow rested over the castle. Meanwhile, Toriddian forces began to reassemble the means to enter.

PostPosted: Wed Aug 14, 2019 9:51 pm
by Intresha

Castle Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Eastern Wall
June 10th, 1949
8:50 AM

Keil gasped as he ran from the Courtyard, handkerchief over his nose and mouth. The men around him dropped like flies, but he worked through the pain. Blisters raised on his skin, as thick and calloused as it was. He groaned in agony as he sank away into the Chapel. He could barely open his eyes from the swelling, but he assumed it was empty from the sound of the place. The gas did its work quickly.

He thought back to his boyhood days. He had spent too many summer afternoons getting in trouble with Father Reinhard to not know his way around the place... And all the hiding spots that branched off of it.

Josiah could taste the metallic hint of blood on his tongue as he coughed. The cloth had helped, but clearly not enough. He wouldn’t last much longer with such direct exposure to the gas. He had seen it happen too many times on the front.

Now panting, he scrambled over the remains of the pulpit. He stumbled and fell over something limp and blocky... Kiel quickly realized what it was as he returned to his feet and made his way to the baptismal pool. He remembered his uncle detailing in his letters how the Partisans had blown segments of it up in the fighting. He also remembered not having the money to repair the damages after buying back the Castle from the Intreshan government after the war.

The silver lining was there, though. The pool had caved in to the Castle’s abandoned catacombs - one of the only parts of the structure cut off from outside ventilation. That and the accompanying wine cellar a couple of stories below the tombs. This would be his destination.

Kiel slipped into the rubble, dropping down into the dank passageway. The stone floor was slick and the air was moist with the pungent stink of rat shit. Yep. He was in the right place. Lowering his rag, he nearly choked on the hellish stench. Throwing his rifle to his feet, he pressed on into the gathering darkness near the end of the hall. While small arms fire crackled distantly above him, he seriously doubted the commitment of the Torridian troops to venture into the bowels of such a dreaded place. Their war was finished. His was just beginning.

He ventured further into the unknown, only the soldier’s lighter from earlier guiding his way. He had only been in the catacombs a handful of times, each visit being a clandestine one. He and his cousins had dared one another to go down into the tombs as children, at the great disapproval of their father and uncle. They had never gone this far, though.

As the walls became narrower and the names on the markers more and more ancient, the Panzergrenadier gave out. Leaning against the moist bricks, he allowed himself to slide down into a sitting position. With the lighter starting to flicker, and no end in sight on his journey through the catacombs, Kiel made his peace with the Almighty. Perhaps he would rest as easily as the weathered bones beside him. So he hoped.

Taking his cigarette from behind his ear, he settled in for one last creature comfort. Josiah Kiel was never so fortunate, though. Not even in the hour of his own death, or what would’ve been, anyway.

As soon as he struck the zippo, all hell broke loose around him. The corpses rattled in their holes, and the walls shook with the force of an earthquake. Even in the depths, he could still hear the bloodcurdling echos of dying men’s cries. Then nothing. Then footsteps. Thunderous footsteps.

Nope. This wouldn’t do at all.

Whatever waited on the surface was wasting no time in rushing down here. Holding the flagging flame against the inky blackness, he forged on into God knew what.

PostPosted: Thu Aug 15, 2019 10:29 pm
by Toridd
Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
June 10th, 1949
9:10 AM

The convoy came to a halt under Bartlett's orders because he too couldn't help but gaze in awe at the spectacular mushroom cloud that hovered ten miles away over Desna. Climbing down from the truck, he slammed the door shut, gripping a pair of binoculars in one hand. He approached the front of the halted convoy. His subordinates wouldn't dare salute him. Not in this environment.

"We getting anything from them?" Bartlett asked.

"Not a thing, sir...communications are all fucked up..."

"If there are any survivors, they'll organize...perhaps continue into the castle..."

Bartlett thought for a moment while admiring the heinous cloud of destruction.

"Spread the word. Chemical gear and Marathonnian nationals are to be taken in alive." Bartlett ordered, pivoting.


"The Marathonnians did this. I want to know how." Bartlett's words as he distanced away were barely audible.

The convoy quickly saddled up, resuming their trek westward. The mushroom cloud glaring down at them like a mad titan.

Ten miles west, the remains of the 405th staggered across the flattened ruins of Desna. Some paced around confused. Others cradled up in a fetal position, not quite understanding what had just occurred. The Zealot Corps had suffered immensely on this day. A near 80% casualty rate, thanks to the work of the dirty bomb.

Commander Stone was still unconscious. Whether or not he was alive was up for debate. His soldiers inside the castle far too long exposed to the effects of mustard gas. The fireball and the shock-wave wasn't quite enough to knock down the walls but only a slight shove. The remnants of the 405th scurried for organization, those who hadn't lost their total determination to fight that is. A handful of men resumed their assignment of replacing the bridge. Although by the looks of it, there was no longer any water in the moat.

"GET YOUR PROTECTIVE GEAR ON! LET'S GO! GET THAT BRIDGE UP!" a Sergeant barked orders; his voice muffled under the gas mask.

Metal creaked and roared as the bridge deployment vehicle came back to life. A loud beeping almost reminiscent of a construction vehicle backing up echoed throughout the ruins of the village. Those not intent on helping clear the castle were tasked with looking for survivors. The results were not favorable.

With a loud clank, a new bridge had been set up across the gap that used to be the moat. Guardians quickly staggered columned in, clearing the castle thoroughly and hauling back a few survivors.

One could say it was personal when the Toriddians began marching out the Intreshan civilians, young and old. Their blistered faces were near vomit-worthy. Many of the newly appointed NCO's and CO's of the 405th, mainly by default, would care to turn the other way when many were quickly executed by firing squads. The others that had escaped, had done so by venturing into the catacombs below. An action which left many Guardians questioning the sanity of following them down in there. Orders were orders though. Get them all out. From the incident beforehand, most of them would be either incapacitated or heavily injured by the effects of the gas. To their knowledge, the occupant Intreshans had no chemical protective gear.

In their gas masks, Guardians flowed down into the catacombs by the dozens. Though exhausted, they were ready to wrap things up.

"Get me another flare." a muffled voice said, tossing a flare down another dark hallway.

The footsteps throughout were thunderous. It was hard to distinguish between friend and foe. Everyone was on their toes.

"The heck are we doing?"

"Nothing past this. We got reinforcements in bound from the east. They're bringing in some more chemical irritants."

"More mustard?"

"No no. I think it's CS."

Their conversation echoed throughout the catacombs for any who could manage to decipher it through all the other noises. Topside, Bartlett's convoy had arrived. A fresh mop up crew quickly relieved the 405th of any extra duties. Walking in full chemical gear, Bartlett's brigade quickly took to the catacombs below, releasing a new swathe of irritants. Tear gas.

PostPosted: Fri Aug 16, 2019 12:35 pm
by Karaq
Dagestan, The Slavic Union of Karaq, Aziran
Tachmann Research Facility, Dagestan Province
June 10th, 1949
3:00 PM

White walls and the smell if disinfectant roamed the facility dominantly. Men and women in white coats paced from wing to wing, minding their own duties. A garrison was stationed there as well. They fell under the command of the many doctors and research scientists that were staffed here. It was an odd place to be posted, especially in such a society mandated as this one. The facility housed many nationalities, although the majority fell under Karaqi with small slivers of Insurgian and even fewer Arkians, the facility was never keen on admitting they also staffed one Marathonnian science officer.

Pacing down the hallway in his whites, Dr. Aristeo Frantzen was greeted wholesomely by his under-staff. The Marathonnian was captured by the Reds in the later months of the war, when many Reich scientists were split up and quietly sent away to make up for their crimes with providing services to their new host country. He wasn't director of the facility, no way the Presidium would grant such an honor to a non-Slav. Regardless, the Marathonnian was set up high in his position among the Slav's. The soldiers garrisoned there were reluctant to render a salute to the man but were required to due to his rank equivalent. Frantzen made his way down the west hall, making one right and two lefts, eventually finding himself down an empty corridor with a steel plated door at the end of it, almost reminiscent of a bank vault.

A small number scanner panel hung beside it, bolted to the wall. The aging man gripped his ID card, sealed inside a plastic casing on his lanyard. He held it up to the panel, an audible and high pitched beep acknowledged him. With the loud and crisp sound of depressurizing air, the steel door slowly inched open, revealing the interior of what many called the 'Red Room'. This was because the subjects held within were victim to an ambient red light constantly within their cell. The subjects. Frantzen remembered. He entered without hesitation, the door shutting behind him. He had entered the sterilization chamber. A glass box that acted simply as a first precaution to halt any outbreak. With a loud click, the door sealed shut. The glass box came to life, cleaning anything the good doctor might have brought in. The chamber lights beamed red, then a dark green. The process finished with the glass door in front of him suddenly unlocking. He entered.

"Good afternoon, Ari..." a young dark haired woman greeted him, her accent faintly northern Insurgian.

"Afternoon, Liz. How're the kids?" Frantzen paced around the room, a large display of screens lined the west wall, each carrying direct feed into separate chambers.

"Subject 12 died this seems his so called immunity failed him...subjects 1 through 11 are holding on but barely..." Liz sounded almost monotone.

"Subject 13?" Ari asked, grabbing onto a clipboard, quietly marking it.

There was a brief silence, catching the attention of Frantzen. The two blinked at each other. Frantzen slid the clipboard under his right armpit, cocking his head at her.

"Let's go check on him, shall we?"

The two paced exited through a door with big red markings that read KEEP OUT: SCIENCE OFFICERS ONLY.

It only took about a minute before they were surrounded by glass chambers on either side. Each increment of each room was observable for the most part. The red ambient light still intrusive. Frantzen sped-walk to a wall panel, entering a four-digit pin. With a simultaneous switch, the red lights turned off. The Red Room turned white, the subjects within their cells remained silent. The two scientists strolled down the hallway, observing each cell individually. Frantzen saw for himself that Subject #12's cell was empty. The bed had been freshly made and the room emptied of all personal effects. He squinted at the room, almost with disgust. Subject #12 always struck him as a man of confidence but not a liar. Frantzen didn't take any chances though. He never entered a room. Looking around, he viewed the other rooms. Quiet recluses hidden under their thermal blankets. They were freezing but it was room temperature. Others were sweating as if they were in the tropics. These were the effects of the virus. He couldn't begin to imagine the smell. The two continued, finally coming to Subject #13.

Sitting quietly on his bed, the man whistled to himself, a large book in his hand. A science fiction by the looks of it. Something of Insurgian culture.

"Mr.'re you holding up?" Frantzen almost admired the man.

"Fuck off, Doctor, please. I'm almost finished with this chapter..." the Slavic man spoke perfect English, almost sounding Insurgian himself.

Ari looked to Liz, who simply returned a smile. Frantzen marked it on his clipboard, quickly pivoting toward the exit with his young subordinate.

"We got anything today?" Ari's humble Marathonnian was ever audible.

"Yes...a Captain...Lukin? State Security. Just a Class-B should be fine." Liz responded.

"We'll see."

The two exited quietly into the monitoring room. The white lights loudly switching off and switching back to their ambient red. A room of death. At least for all but one.

PostPosted: Sat Aug 17, 2019 12:28 am
by Karaq
Dagestan, The Slavic Union of Karaq, Aziran
Tachmann Research Facility, Dagestan Province
June 10th, 1949
6:30 PM

The NKVD squad car arrived at approximately 4:30. For the past two hours, the NKVD officers made their thorough inspection of the facility, looking for anything noteworthy of report. Frantzen didn't sweat it. Although the name was a mystery to him. He didn't know a Lukin. He knew a Kurtz who was a Major of State Security. Perhaps the Presidium was doing a little cleaning up within their lower ranks. Getting rid of the scum. Not that there was anything wrong here. It was state sanctioned experimentation. The NKVD officer may not see it that way though. All these thoughts raced through Frantzen's head. He tugged at his collar as if this would bring him more air. Realizing what he was doing almost subconsciously, he halted his actions.

Frantzen and the rest of his subordinate scientists waited in the west wing lobby, patiently awaiting their military-style inspection. They felt like children, and their parents were searching their rooms for anything that'll give them the belt.

Glaring down the hallway that led straight down toward the east wing, one could make out the figure of a grey blob slowly growing and taking shape. It wasn't before long that one could make out a face. The muscular and tall build of one, Captain Maxim Lukin. He closed in now, maybe twenty to thirty feet away. His boots clicking against the ground as he took each step toward the group of scientists. Two soldiers followed behind him, dressed in their smocks. The room felt as though it tightened up when he entered. A sort of tension that he just carried with him. Frantzen almost could say that he recognized him face to face.

Frantzen came to attention, rendering a salute to the Captain. Lukin quickly returned it.

"Loyalty to the party..." Lukin murmured.

"...loyalty to Slavia..." Frantzen replied without hesitation.

"I am, Captain Lukin, State Security." he sounded almost robotic.

"Yes yes. Welcome to Tachmann, Captain. What uh...can we help you with today?" his Marathonnian accent echoed audibly.

Lukin was almost facially perturbed by this. Almost gave it away too.

"I need to see your progress reports for the last six well as your maintenance and containment procedures, they must be up to standard." Lukin seemed to be dotting things off a mental list of his.

"I can assure you, Captain. We're...tight knit here..." Frantzen tried to sound out the English phrase.

"Oh you know...orders are orders...let's start with the Red Room." Lukin's boots squeaked against the buffered tile floor as he pivoted.

The silence was suddenly deafening. As if everyone wasn't being quiet enough. It stopped the Captain in his tracks. Frantzen slowly turned his head, locking eyes with the Captain. There seemed to be a bit of confusion present.

"I don't believe that'll be necessary, Captain." the Marathonnian tried to spare his pride.

A bomb seemed to go off inside that mans soul and everyone in the room knew it. Lukin paced backward, putting himself in front of the good doctor once more. Lukin stared hard, perhaps intimidation served as his tactic of choice. Frantzen didn't flinch. Perhaps a smirk cracked. Other than that, he maintained his cool. He knew he was well within his jurisdiction. And he knew that Lukin knew he was no where near his. He was either a really nosy NKVD officer or he was digging for something. That could support the idea as to why he is here and not the usual Major Kurtz. Perhaps a cleanup was in order. If that were the case, there seemed no further reason to keep it hidden. He'd only return with a search warrant signed by none other than a sitting member of Presidium.

"I beg your pardon?" Lukin was still glaring at the man.

Frantzen thought it over to himself again. He broke eye contact, looking up right and to the ceiling.

"I apologize...right this way..." Frantzen muttered.

The doctor pivoted around, leading the way further down the west wing, taking one right and two lefts to that very same steel door. Above it in Cyrillic, Virology. Under conditions laid out by Frantzen, the two soldiers had to wait outside the vault. Lukin and Frantzen entered, quickly being disinfected and entering the monitoring room. Lukin was quite observant of the whole room, taking it all in. Frantzen went for his clipboard.

"What exactly is it you do here, Doctor...Frantzen, right?" Lukin asked, inspecting the room.

"I'm not at liberty to say." Frantzen almost shot Lukin's initiative down.

Lukin looked to the Marathonnian, pacing towards the man.

"You've already gotten me this far...might as well show me the rest, yes?" Lukin sounded as friendly as possible.

Frantzen nearly rolled his eyes in frustration. He made his way to the black door with red lettering, slowly opening it, revealing the red lit room within. Lukin was interested now. The actual Red Room. He followed Frantzen in, the whole light show switcharoo taking place. The first thing Lukin noticed was that the smell hadn't changed. It was still a sterile stench. Maybe a hint of death was in the air as well.

"I'm a virologist...I study to cure to fight them..." Frantzen trailed off.

The two paced down the hallway, Lukin being almost disrespectful in how nosy he was, gazing into each cell.

"Are these men...dead?" Lukin questioned.

"Dying...most of them." Frantzen responded.

"From what..." Lukin added.

"Strain A...superflu. Genetically modified for humans..." Frantzen sounded almost methodic in his wording.

"Wait wha—weaponized...flu? What kind of—what the hell..." Lukin backed away from the glass.

"Barely distinguishable from the common cold...any doctor could simply write it off as just's highly contagious as well. First the sneezing and coughing...then the sweating and freezing...breathing problems have also been described as horrendous. These guys aren't so lucky..." Frantzen gazed into the glass cell.

"You said most?" Lukin asked, curious.

Without hesitation, Frantzen led him to the farthest occupied cell down. The number 13 painted over the cement that surrounded the glass box. The two peered in, examining that of a sleeping Subject #13. Loudly and peacefully snoring. Inside with him, a baby piglet wandered around inside a smaller box of sorts on the floor. Still alive.

"That's a good sign." Frantzen noted.

"The piglet is proof?" Lukin pieced it together.

"Indeed. The virus transfers from swine to human very easily. Strain B was designed initially for testing on swine. Then we moved to human trials about two months ago." Frantzen sounded like a teacher giving a lecture.

" many have died since then...?"

There was a quiet hesitation. Frantzen was a little uncomfortable.

"We've signed almost six thousand death certificates since the program was jump started...volunteers really...from labor camps. Many signing for freedom after their contract."

Lukin hesitated to reply to the man, gazing into the cell at the seemingly alive and healthy male.

"Is he immune?" Lukin could tell he was starting to aggravate the Marathonnian.

"...the subject has successfully killed both strains of the one could say...yes."

Lukin seemed to have enough as he looked away and quietly began to pace to the door. Frantzen looked at him distance away and didn't hesitate to follow the man out. The two quickly exited the same way, the loud steel door shutting behind them. It seemed to Frantzen, that Lukin was simply disturbed by the whole incident. He didn't seem to mind it all that much. Biological warfare wasn't something Lukin really dwelled on. He was a soldier of conventional warfare. Guerrilla warfare. He couldn't exactly mow down a virus. Not with a machine gun anyway.

"Thank you for the tour, doctor..." Lukin extended his hand.

"Of course, of course. I hope you may put in a good word." Frantzen replied, shaking his hand.

The two broke contact with Frantzen quickly rendering a salute. Lukin returned it fashionably.

"Loyalty to the party..."

"...loyalty to Slavia..."

Lukin quickly departed, his two soldiers right on his heels. The Captain was a mad-man. All those years of war must've gotten to him. For a man with such a distinguished service record, it was a fool-hardy errand to successfully inspect the Red Room and walk away without any consequences. Even more so that he walked away with a recording of the whole conversation.

PostPosted: Wed Aug 21, 2019 8:51 am
by Intresha
Lübbenau Prison, The Intreshan State, Abathon
Command Tent, B.H Unit Orel
June 20th, 1949
11:23 AM

Antonescu’s teacup let out a small rattle atop it’s porcelain saucer as a mortar shell exploded a block or so away. While the command tent did well to keep out the weather, it might as well have been made of paper when the fighting flared up. Rebel forces still clung rabidly to the interior of the campus, despite the full force of Orel bearing down upon them. Micheal had heard stories of the rebel’s resolve during the siege of Castle Desna, but had never witnessed the likes of it himself. Intreshan grit.

They would soon be eradicated through, officially restoring the city of Lubbenau and her namesake prison to State control. His control. He would be sure to put the place to good use. That was, after he rebuilt the place.

A strategic lynchpin in the Civil War, Lubbenau had been reduced to a desolate ruin, pimpled with craters and destroyed vehicles. Open trenches scarred the roadsides, brimming with the deceased of friend and foe alike. The only silver lining was that all of the prisoners had starved to death weeks ago or had been killed in the midst of the conflict. No pesky criminals to feed or clothe or house.

He picked up his pencil from the table in front of him, continuing his rough sketch. The Field Marshal was never one for architecture, but had kept his eye on Lubbenau for a while. With a prime location in the center of the country and precious mineral mines abounding, it was the perfect place for the compound.

Antonescu was interrupted in his daydream by Solkin’s replacement. The Field Marshal didn’t bother so much as to learn his name. The man was just an empty suit till the Vozhd could send down someone else with more experience and better qualifications.

”Sir, we’re preparing to cease fire on rebel posit-”

”No. Don’t give them a chance to breathe. Besides, I need that Administrative Bloc torn down anyway.” Micheal paused for a sip of tea.

”Oh, and what is the status on those Marathonnians?” He asked, gulping.

The General shifted forward slightly, observing as Antonescu continued drawing.

”Uh… Twenty five thousand detained in the past week, sir. Only a dozen or so notable ones. We just got word that the rebel commander in Desna was one of them… Crazy bastard nearly died in a firefight before he was captured.” He spoke softly, trying to make sense of Micheal’s blueprints.

The Field Marshal lifted his eyes to look at the General. He had caught his interest. A high profile Marathonnian less than a mile from the scene of the blast. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

”Contact the Toriddians. I want him brought here immediately. Him and any others you think might be involved.” Atonescu demanded, putting down his pencil before standing up, preparing to leave.

The interim General nodded.

”And the rest of them?” He inquired, already knowing the answer.


A far more masculine, booming voice interjected from the tent’s flap.

”I think I will make that decision, Micheal.” Morozov declared dryly.

PostPosted: Fri Aug 23, 2019 3:32 pm
by Intresha
Lübbenau Prison, The Intreshan State, Abathon
Command Tent, B.H Unit Orel
June 20th, 1949
11:29 AM

The Vozhd glided forward, sending the new General scurrying for the exit after a hasty salute. The two men were alone now, save for the icy tension in the air. Atonescu tried to maintain his composure as beads of sweat began to assemble on his brow and stream down his forehead. Duscha’s eyes burrowed into his own, calculating and pragmatic. Friend or not, he had overstepped his bounds. Punishment was inevitable.

”Why so quiet now? You clearly had a lot to say when General Relka was here. You clearly had a lot to say when you went over my head to round up all of those AFIs.” Morozov did not scream, but his mere tone was enough to send shivers down the Field Marshal’s spine.
Antonescu kept his chin up, never one to surrender himself through body language. Humility would only further confirm his guilt. He would need a healthy dose of plausible deniability to see him through this encounter.

”Article Four says nothing about dual citizens being exempt. If that were the case, half the arrest made under it would be illegal.” Reasoned Micheal, tapping the eraser of his pencil against the desk.

Morozov took a chair from the other end of the tent, placing it opposite Antonescu. He was mechanical in his movements, the squeak of his leather boots more than audible as he methodically made his way to sit. Placing one hand over the other, he leaned closer to the Field Marshal before speaking.

”Do not condescend to me, Micheal.”

”Sir, I-” He attempted to break in, before he himself was shut down.

”Drop the ‘sir’ business. You know me, and I know you. Trying to outfox me now is probably the most ignorant, no - stupidest thing you could have chosen to do. I wrote the damn constitution. If you knew anything about it, you would know Article Eleven comes into play here. I declare the wars. Not you.” His volume rose to match his anger, but only slightly.

Relaxing his posture, he continued.

”Now listen and listen closely. I know what really happened to Solkin. And I know your endgame with all of this Marathonnian foolishness…” Morozov lingered momentarily.

”I sympathize, I really do. We fought them together for years. They occupied Intresha for generations. They probably dropped the bomb on us. But the wars are over, Micheal. You hear that? Done. Finality coursed through his voice.

Rockets whistled overhead before exploding a handful of feet away from the tent. Morozov seemed unphased, just as focused as ever.

”Release the Marathonnians. Send the high profile ones to me. I no longer trust you to interrog-”


”But Nothing! You’ll call off your men, capture this prison, cut out whatever this shit is…” Scoffed Duscha, snatching Antonescu’s blueprints.

He regarded them with disgust before contemptuously balling them up.
”...and pack your bags.” Morozov rose to his feet.

”Since you like war so much, I’m sure you’ll be a perfect fit in Montietam. You leave in three days.”

PostPosted: Mon Aug 26, 2019 8:35 pm
by Insurgia
Southern Abathonian Ocean, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Fleet Command Ship, 1st Insurgian Fleet
June 21st, 1949
2:00 PM


The loud and squawking voice came loud and thunderous over the intercom. The crew of the ship quickly went into a chaotic sprawl, manning the guns and bracing for combat if need be. Off the horizon, one could make out the shape of a few battleships and a carrier and behind them the island continent. On the bridge, one Captain Shane Potter examined the horizon with a pair of binoculars, making out the flag that resembled a bird or some kind. The bridge was an absurd environment of tension.

"Fuckin' weirdo's..." Potter criticized the Puritans.

A near lieutenant came forward.

"Sir, the Irene spotted two more destroyers on the horizon. They're taking a defensive stance."

"Calm your fucking marbles. All ships are on standby, do not fire unless fired upon." Potter kept his composure.

Reaching onto an upper panel, Potter pulled down a phone. He quickly dialed in, putting it up to his ear.

"Admiral Maddox. Captain Potter. I've got five naval vessels three miles out, how copy?"

There was a hue of static. Potter glanced through the binoculars once more, taking note of the island continent as they grew closer. Then an old glaring voice.

"Captain, do not engage unless you are engaged, understood?"

"Yes, sir...sir...uh...what the hell is happening out there?" Potter seemed a little troubled.

"Repeat, Potter." Maddox responded.

"The's on fire, sir...the sky the hell..."

There was an eerie silence. One might call it denial.

"Captain, keep your course to Vaudus. Do not engage unless you are engaged. Over and out." Maddox cut out.

Potter put up the phone, relaying the information to his lieutenant. Glancing through the binoculars, he examined the burning continent and the naval blockade that guarded it. As they grew closer, they could see the total amount of ships now. It was almost surprising, the size of the opposing fleet present. It was about the same size as the 1st Fleet. They probably lacked the firepower though. Slowly drifting by, Potter could make out the figure of the bridge crew on the opposing ships. They were just as antsy from what he could tell. They were ready to blow us all to hell, he thought.

PostPosted: Thu Aug 29, 2019 5:22 pm
by Toridd
Antuska, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
443rd Shock Division, 10th Field Army
June 25th, 1949
3:42 PM

The past twenty something days were gruesome for the people of Verdun. Many had been killed. Even more so had gone missing. Those that fell behind the advancing Toriddian line were quickly absconded and processed into the system. Some destined for naturalization if they met certain criteria. Others weren't so lucky. This was the only other explanation for those that went missing. No bones. No trace of their body. Some would come to be Martha's, Handmaids and other such subservient positions. Among all things, the Committee didn't think this would come back to haunt them. Nobody did.

The attention the continent was having was substantial. Reporters from all over showed up in swathes to get a piece of the action. All dressed like they were going on a safari, with their large cameras and telescopic equipment. There wasn't much left to photograph of the city of Antuska. A torch and burn policy was quickly introduced a week into the invasion when resistance started to slow the advance. The Committee wanted to end this quickly before any outside intervention would be considered. After all, the Insurgians have seen it now. They just kept on floating by though.

A column of BTR-80's sat stationary, the crews of each stretched out across the ruined city. A dark cloud of smoke hovered overhead. The distance echo of gunfire. They were only 30 miles away from the line. A trio of soldiers sat outside their BTR, some in lawn-chairs, their FAL resting on their lap or otherwise near them. A small radio sat on top of a milk crate, its crooked antenna doing its best of intercepting other frequencies bouncing off the atmosphere.

"...we're receiving word from Allied sources of masses of people disappearing behind the current battle lines on the island-continent...President Quatermain, despite public outcry calling for the international condemnation of the totalitarian state known as Toridd, refuses to take any action in order to prevent another large-scale committed war...the people of Verdun have also turned to their socialist ally of Karaq and their large trade partner of Arkham..." a womanly voice came over the radio.

A series of low booms are felt, knocking the antenna off just a centimeter. The frequency is lost. One of them gets up to fix it. Coupled by a gunshot two seconds later, a bullet ricochets off the corner of a nearby BTR, colliding into the dirt in front of them. They all dive down, taking cover behind the nearest BTR. Whoever was shooting at them was plain stupid. If you're going to engage armored vehicles, you do it with anti-material rifles. Civilians didn't have access to that though. That's why they were shooting at them with hunting rifles.

The first soldier popped a smoke grenade, concealing them properly. They quickly got back to work, beginning to flank the threat.

PostPosted: Thu Aug 29, 2019 6:05 pm
by Intresha
Vas Luchi, The Intreshan State, Abathon
Rechyst Estate, Vozhd's Office
June 22nd, 1949
3:00 PM

The thick manila file made a solid thump as it hit the desk. In red rubber stamp, it’s label read One of Five. Not promising, considering the content of said folders. Morozov rubbed his temples in frustration, donning his reading glasses.

”Over two hundred and forty individual terrorist acts against the State, sir. We suspect more than seventy percent are credited to known resistance members, but we’ve noticed a rise in… Random acts of violence.” Tolya explained bluntly.

The Vozhd thumbed through the file, not surprised by his findings. Jewish partisans. Communist elements. Minority nationalist. All the usual suspects. He paid little mind to them, though. It was their targets that he worried himself with. They had certainly become more brazen since last quarter.

”From what I’m reading, it seems as though we never really won.” Sighed Duscha, opening his drawer to get a cigar.

Tolya grimaced. As Secretary General of the State Security Division, these attacks were ultimately laid at his feet. This was his cross to bear.

”I think we need to put the fear of God in them… Maybe double the arrest quotas. Make public examples of those we catch…” Morozov spoke from the side of his mouth, holding the lighter close to the tip of the cigar.

Adrik hesitated, trying to figure out the best way to disagree with the Vozhd without getting his neck broken.

”Sir, we’ve killed hundreds of thousands already. The stabbings in the street? The roadside bombings? Those aren’t Bolshiviks or Lavrovist. They’re everyday Intreshans dissatisfied with us. We caused a war when we took power. That war caused another war overseas. Both wars caused a famine. Everything is in ruins, sir… Now more than ever, we need to rally the people.” The Secretary General spoke honestly. Perhaps too honestly.

Morozov contemplated for a moment, surprisingly sobered by Tolya’s directness.

”What do you suggest I do? I can’t feed them all. I can't pull our troops out of Montietam.” He sounded genuine in his concern, honestly and truly clueless as to what to do.

Ashing his cigar, he watched as Adrik stood silent.

”You know, the Vas Luchians would like it-”

”To succeed from the State and destroy this country? Because that’s what I gather from talking with most of them. No. I need something that will appeal to all Intreshans.” He finished the man’s sentence before going off on his own tangent.

Tolya sighed. The two sat quiet for a few minutes, going on an hour before one finally spoke.

”When you think about it historically, our people have only responded to one man.”

”The Archduke?” Replied Morozov.

Adrik shook his head.

"Think... Earlier..." Mumbled the Secretary General.

”The Patriarch?” He guessed a second time, thinking on the nations deeply religious history.

Another negative response from Toyla.

”A little bit of both, and more.” He said, pointing to a dusty painting behind Morozov.

Framed in gold, the portrait was clearly a copy of a larger one somewhere else. The brushwork was precise, though, and the image clear enough. The man in the portrait sported a long black mane of black hair, starkly contrasted by the radiance of his crown. His face was grim and wrinkled. His eyes told a thousand stories, mirrors of a more savage time. A war hammer stood propped up behind him. A conqueror. Wracking his brain, Duscha finally placed the man’s name. Maksim IV.

"A Tsar?"

PostPosted: Thu Aug 29, 2019 7:09 pm
by Intresha
Tuartau Township, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Intreshan Peninsular Offensive F.O.B
June 30th, 1949
11:32 AM

It had been a few days since the initial landings, but already the corridor was closing fast. The Verdunese had clearly not expected a second front to open up so quickly, as the advance was only troubled by mediocre resistance. Micheal knew that more sincere threats waited on the continent’s interior, though.

Every day he read the news of the Northern Front, where his men would eventually meet the Toriddians. The fighting there was the stuff of nightmares. Enemy troops behind every blade of grass. Civilian guerrilla fighters. Not to mention the tropical bog that pretty much comprised the whole goddamn country. That alone was enough to drive Antonescu insane. The mosquitoes. The oppressive humidity. And the rain. Dear God, the rain.

The advance essentially had to come to a halt every time it so much as sprinkled. With no reliable infrastructure to speak of, the armored elements of the B.H. would be compromised by mud and impassable flooding. Most of the time it was up to the infantry to scout ahead and search for alternative paths. Some days, however, the wet season even stopped the most intrepid of Micheal’s men. Today was one of those days.

The town the Intreshans had come to occupy was more or less devoid of life. Most civilians had fled north when they saw the advancing column. The rest had been killed upon its arrival. Not by lead or steel, though. Exposure. The handful of people who remained in the Tuartau township were forced from their homes in order to quarter the B.H. and standard infantry men. None survived the first night in the elements.

Alone in his private cabin, the Field Marshal sketched and listened to the impending weather outside his window. That wasn’t all he heard, though. The mechanical groan of low flying aircraft filled the silence in between the claps of thunder. Finally.

Walking to his window, Micheal pulled away the flimsy curtain. Though the darkness outside was total, but the occasional lighting did enough to aid his vision. White on black, the silhouettes of paratroopers cascaded down a mile or so from the town’s outskirts. No small number of them, either.

At least the wait wont be an uneventful one. Thought Antonescu, glancing at the PPSh mounted above his new bed.

PostPosted: Wed Sep 04, 2019 6:40 am
by Intresha
Vas Luchi, The Intreshan State, Abathon
Rechyst Estate, Vozhd's Office
June 25th, 1949
2:45 PM

A dozen or so interviewees, a dozen or so train tickets back to the rump states. The Marathonnians the Vozhd had interviewed so far had been less than forthright about their knowledge surrounding the attack on Desna. Most of the ignorant fools thought that bringing a high powered lawyer with them meant they could clam up. Those, Duscha discovered, were the most fun to deport.

But the work was far from complete. Turns out the mass exile of an ethnic group to four different countries requires a rather lengthy legal process. That, and there was a final interview to complete before all notable Marathonnian nationals could be considered cleared. Morozov squinted at the very bottom of the list. Josiah Kiel

”Next!” The Vozhd shouted well into the next room.

Two Black Hundreds men hurriedly marched the Marathonnian in from the corridor outside. It was only when the trio got closer did Duscha realize that the soldiers were more or less carrying the man. It was not hard to see why, either. The man was a walking blister, only occasionally accented by open wounds. From the smell of stale sweat that wafted off of his Panzergrenadier uniform, he more than likely had a fever, too. The Vozhd was surprised that Kiel didnt faint when the two men slumped him down in the chair adjacent to his desk.

”Kiel, Josiah?” Morozov asked, clearing his throat.

He gave a gentle nod, his eyes being far more present than the rest of his body. They did a lot of his talking for him.

”I understand you led the rebel forces in Castle Desna, is this true?”

Another nod, this one requiring a little more effort than the last.

”And you were present there when the atomic blast occurred?”

Through chapped lips, Josiah attempted to respond in Intreshan.

”The catacombs— I was in the catacombs.” He wheezed, his voice crackling like static.

Morozov nodded. Usually he would pretend to take notes or do something else to intimidate the person sitting across from him. This man was far beyond scare tactics though. He had been at Death’s door and spit in the Devil’s face - somewhere to the tune of five Toriddian soldiers, if the records were accurate. Cutting right to the chase seemed like the soundest, most pragmatic option.

”Mr. Kiel, I wont waste your time asking leading questions. Answer me this, and I’ll let you go...”

”Did you or anybody you associate with partake in the planning construction, or delivery of the weapon that was used that day?” The Vozhd inquired, deadpan.

His lips quivered, struggling to conform to the Intreshan tongue.

”The scientists-” He went into a coughing fit before catching his breath.

”Went with Lavrov.” His lungs cooperated, but only to a point.

Nodding, Duscha continued.

”And do you have any idea where Lavrov went?” He leaned forward in his seat.

No government agency or organization had been able to pin down the rebel leader. Forces were spread thin across the continent and beyond searching for the damned weasel.

The Panzergrenadier chuckled a little before attempting to respond.

”Do I know where he went? The coward invited me along.” He sputtered his way through the sentences.

”Where did he go?” Morozov pressured

Kiel began to respond before choking again. Another two minutes of desperate gagging followed before he regained his composure.

”Whats in it-” Josiah rasped.

for me?” He croaked out the last couple of words.

Duscha Morozov had never smiled wider in his life. If only it had been this simple since the beginning.

”If you can get me Lavrov? Anything your little kraut heart desires...”

PostPosted: Wed Sep 04, 2019 10:17 pm
by Arkham Nation
Limewick, The Parliamentary Republic of Arkham Nation, Vaudus
Metropolitan District, 1st Division Police Station
May 15th, 1949
12:35 PM

“LOOK OUT!” Trevor yelled as he dove on to his childhood friend, Jasper Tenzin. A artillery shell exploded just missing them by a few feet. Trevor rolled over off of Jasper, his ears rang as he sat up. Trevor could not hear anything other than the muffled gunfire and Jasper shouting at him. The Battle of Rensen had lasted for days and it did not look like the battle would end soon. Trevor’s platoon had sneaking through the wooded area to try and flank the enemy forces, until they were spotted by a sniper. They bunkered down in the mud and hid behind the trees as enemy machine gun fire rained down upon them. His incompetent commanding officer ordered them to charge multiple times but each time his platoon tried to push forward the enemy’s machine guns would mow them down. Trevor looked all around him to see his comrades either dead, crying out in pain, or trying to stay low. Trevor his himself beside a tree and dug himself into the mud to avoid the enemy gunfire. Trevor struggled not to vomit from the fowl stench that filled the air. As Trevor began to hear again he could see his commanding officer waving his arm as a signal to fall back.

“Retreat they’re coming!” The officer ordered. One by one his platoon members fell back into the woods. Trevor turned around to see the enemy advancing towards where they were.

“Trevor?” Jasper said so quietly Trevor could almost didn’t hear it over the gunfire.

“We got to go back, let’s go!” Trevor responded.

“I can’t!” He yelled as he indicated the large piece of shrapnel from the artillery shell in his leg.

“Jasper! Are you alright?!” Trevor asked putting pressure on the leg so that it would stop bleeding.

“NO IM NOT ALRIGHT! I GOT A PIECE OF METAL IN MY LEG!” Jasper shouted in pain.

“MEDIC.........MEDIC.........MEDIC OVER HERE!” Trevor yelled out. “Ok the medic must have retreated with the others but don’t worry brother I’m gonna get you home. Now I’m just gonna pull out the metal.”

“Wait, what?” As soon as Jasper started talking Trevor pulled out the metal. Jasper yelled out then fainted. Trevor hadn’t realized Jasper had fainted until he was done bandaging the wound.

“Jasper? Jasper......JASPER WAKE UP!” Trevor shook him all around but Jasper still wouldn’t wake.

“O'Driscoll! Move!” His commanding officer barked.

“Sir, Tenzin is injured I need assistance!” Trevor yelled. The officer came over to where the two men were and he looked at Jasper’s injury. He looked up and all the color in face went away.

“Damn it O’Driscoll! They’re right there either stay with him or fall back! There’s nothing we can do now! He’s going to die anyway from his injury the cut is too deep! CHOOSE!” His commanding officer got up and started running. Trevor looked at his best friend then behind him then to his best friend again. The enemy was getting more close now and Trevor made his decision. He got out his pistol and placed it on his friend’s chest then he got up and started running to where his platoon fell back to.


“Forgive me Jasper, forgive me Jasper, forgive me Jasper.” Trevor repeated to himself as he was running. “It’s not my fault.” Trevor heard gunfire that seemed to be near where Jasper was. He stopped for a moment as tears ran down his face, “Forgive me Jasper, it’s not my fault.”

Trevor woke up with sweat drenching his whole body. He was strapped into a hospital bed with a bunch of wires hooked up to him. He groaned it felt like his head was about to burst. He looked around the room to see Tommy, wearing a hospital shirt, sitting next to a window smoking a cigarette. He had stitches on his left cheek and a bandage on his shoulder. He was covered in cuts and bruises from head to toe.

“You look miserable.” He chuckled.

“Where am I? How long have I been out?” Trevor inquired.

“Limewick General Hospital and 2 days.”

“I’ve been out for two days!” Trevor shockingly said as he put his hand on his side of his head. “What happened?”

“Well lets see, after Maestro blew the police station to hell to had to fend off against the militants but the tank just disappeared like it wasn’t even there. After a short while of fighting the militants ran off and disappeared as well. The Taoiseach tasked ANIA with the help of the Overseers to find them all. Several bombing and terrorist attacks were made these past two days, but nothing like what happened that night. They’re rebuilding the station luckily there’s only a huge hole in front of it. The commissioner is alright and recommend you get a badge of honor for saving his life.”

“No promotion I guess.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” Tommy laughed.

“So I guess were off the case?”

“Nope,” Tommy said blowing out smoke, “The commissioner said we still need to find out where the guns are coming from but we will be working closely with ANIA.” Trevor sighed and sat up in the bed. He looked down to see he his right arm was covered in bandages and that he also had cuts and bruises from head to toe like Tommy.

“Don’t they say you can’t smoke in a hospital?”

“I don’t care, want one?”

“Yes.” Trevor said desperately wanting one. Tommy got up and gave him his cigarette which was so small that with one inhale it would be gone. Tommy sat back down and picked up his cigarette box that was on the windowsill and got out a fresh cigarette. He lit it and sucked it until it was half way down. He blew a cloud towards Trevor and went back to looking out the window. Trevor sighed and got up out of his bed, Tommy also stood up holding the cigarette with his mouth.

“After you get checked out and dressed meet me down stairs we have work to do.” As Tommy was exiting the room a familiar face stepped into the room wearing a nurse outfit. It was the girl Trevor had saved back at the railway station. Tommy and Trevor stared at each other for a moment both coming to the same conclusion, Tommy then winked at Trevor as the woman started to do the check up. After the check up was finished she picked up a clipboard that was at the end of his bed and starting writing on it.

“I see you’ve gotten better.” Trevor said breaking the silence.

“Oh yeah I’m much better now.” She said not looking up from the clipboard.

“Must be weird to take care of someone who had saved you.”

“Yeah,” she giggled, “but it’s part of the job.”

“I never got your name.”

“Grace. Grace Parker.” She answered as she looked up.

“Well Mrs. Parker, thank you.”

“Oh well, you’re very welcome.” Grace said blushing.

“Your husband must be a lucky man.” Trevor said but then cursed himself when he saw no ring.

“I’m not married.” She said quickly as if she knew what he was going to say.

“Oh, would you like to have dinner sometime?” Trevor asked looking into her blue eyes.

“You work fast.” Grace giggled.

“What can I say, I’m a real charmer.” He said smoothly.

“I’m here most nights and I can’t do lunch either because I’m also a reporter.”

“Oh.” Trevor said sounding disappointed.

“But I’m free breakfast.” She said.

“How does Saturday sound?”

“Wonderful.” She said happily. She took out all the wires and set a duffel bag full of clothes on the bed.

“Well ok then I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah I’ll see you then,” she said backing away to the door. “If you—” she hit the door frame and she looked back to see what it was that she ran into, Trevor could help but let out a laugh. “If you need anything just call out.” She exited the room shutting the door behind her. Trevor could see out the door window Grace and a couple of other nurses gathered around seeming to be giggling and looking towards Trevor. Trevor didn’t know if they were making fun of him or not but he didn’t want to stay and find out. He threw on a T-shirt and slacks then his shoes. Once he was finished he exited the room and flicked the tiny cigarette Tommy had given him away into a near by trash can. The nurses were still giggling and he could hear some of them talking about how tall and cute he was. Trevor made his way down stairs to where Tommy was getting into an argument with a doctor over him smoking.

“Leave or we’ll escort you out.” The doctor demanded. Tommy looked passed the doctor to Trevor then back at the doctor.

“Fine, I’m leaving anyway. Let’s go love bird!” Tommy said. His voice echoed throughout the hospital and people looked at Tommy to Trevor. The doctor turned around and Tommy arm of honor saluted the doctor. The doctor turned around and Tommy quickly put his arms down before the doctor could see what he did. Tommy started to whistle as Trevor came right next to him, Trevor put his hands on the doctor’s arm and mouthed that he was sorry to the doctor. Trevor and Tommy turned around and exited the hospital. Even though Tommy had embarrassed himself and Trevor, Trevor couldn’t help but feel happy.