Tiperyn's Troubles [Closed, Anterra Only]

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

Tiperyn's Troubles [Closed, Anterra Only]

Postby Tippercommon » Fri Oct 25, 2019 12:12 am

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THE GOIDELIC INSURRECTION — A secessionist, ethno-nationalist conflict that has been continuously waged in Tiperyn's Goidelic-dominant western duchies since it lost its hold over the archipelago of Airgialla during the Grand Campaigns (1915-1925). The conflict has been fought primarily between the Soliders of Goidelia—a pan-Goidelic independence group and transnational terrorist organization with ties to the Goidelic Republic of Airgialla and the League of Free Nations—and the government of the Holy Tiperyn Realm.

Over the course of nearly a century, Tiperyn's rule over its Goidelic areas has tightened. Goidelic citizens have been branded as second-class citizens, Goidelic duchies see a major reduction in autonomy, and the duchies of Darimh and Rosraig are the poorest and most unequal provinces in Tiperyn. As of 2018, the conflict has renewed, with bombings and shootings becoming ever more common in western Tiperyn as calls for independence continue. The government response has been swift and brutal.




20 November 2019 - 0730 Hours - Near Darimh, Tiperyn
Idwerd Aukema, Guard (OR-1) | № 11 "The Duchess of Idlerein's Riflists", Realm Guard

A handful of men clamored out of a towering armored vehicle. Clad in dark olive fatigues, masked by balaclavas, and weighed down by several stones of tactical essentials, the Tiperyn tri-tail banner was sloppily stitched into their left sleeves. These men were Realm Guard soldiers—"Mounted Rifleers" technically speaking—and they were on an hours-long armed road march, ready to take on any foe (or so they liked to think) within their own borders.

Their legs prickled back to life, having been strangled for seven hours by the cramped confines of their 30-year-old welded steel box on wheels. The company was on a road march. Normally, the No. 11 Mounted Riflists would have moved their vehicles by rail and shunted their men on cargo trucks, but this time they were making the long drive from Ambrosia to eastern Goidelic city of Rostrenenn armed to the teeth. Caution was common in the Goidelic-dominant duchies of west Tiperyn; it had been since the 19th century. However, insurrectionists had become particularly aggressive in the past six months. By autumn 2019, it was no longer uncommon to see Tiperyn military convoys barrelling down the motorways, guns drawn, once every couple of days.

The convoy had stopped at a local farm. The gravelled clearing was darkened by a day’s worth of rainfall and a thin mist peppered their faces as they lumbered out. Three massive grain silos towered over the clearing which was then surrounded by lush evergreens on two sides—separated from the gravel by about 300 meters of grass—and endless wheat fields on the third. Just off the beaten path—about three minutes from the motorway—the regimental supply detachment had set up a refuelling point here. The wheeled APCs of the rifleers were perhaps more fuel efficient than the tankers, who were still transported by rail, but still required a line of fuel trucks to keep on the road.

There was bustle up ahead, as soldiers hooked the fuel lines from a handful of refuellers to the first echelon of armoured vehicles. The never-ending cacophony of the engines and their collective roar subsided, and it was replaced by the pitter-patter of rain, distant conversation, and light birdsong from the nearby forest. Idwerd walked away from his section, indulging in the reprieve of a solitary smoke break. He was new, having just arrived at the Idlerein Riflists a couple weeks in advance of their move from the capital to the heart of Goidelic unrest in west Tiperyn. The section commander, Corporal Gfaltsma, had not taken kindly to him, now being the only one in the section who hadn't been deployed to Naseristan—and perhaps the one with the most insecurity. The green private had yet to grow close to others in his section—he didn't even know a couple of their names—but he assumed he'd eventually meld in as his conscription papers yellowed, even if he were hammered into it.

Balaclava pulled to the neck and a newly lit cigarette wedged between his pursed lips, Idwerd meandered around the carrier. He carried his rifle in a low ready position. Their platoon commander had taken their slings away from them—they were to carry their weapons ready at all times—so Idwerd only brought his left hand up to periodically let out a drag. Fatigues grew darker and darker with rain as the minutes ticked by and, to his immense displeasure, his socks had indeed become wet.

“Fucks could have at least rallied us somewhere with an overhang, aye?” Idwerd chuckled around the cigarette.

“Shut up, Aukema,” his corporal retorted. “I don't have the energy to tell you why you're a shitarse right now.”

Idwerd ignored him. This was a game the corporal and he had been playing ever since he arrived at the unit. He continued to meander, shaking out the sleepiness from his legs and quickly blazing through his pack of cigarettes.

Every few minutes, the next few carriers would fire back up and roll into fuelling position. Idwerd and his section stayed vaguely within the influence of their carrier, but weren’t in any hurry to cut their break short. When it was their turn, their carrier was about in the middle of the fuelling column, flanked on the right the treeline and on the left by the rest of the company’s vehicles as they pooled awaiting the last platoon to top up.

Suddenly, two thumps in quick succession in the distance. Under normal circumstances, the sounds could have been things that may have been ignored, but these sent some privates’ heads into a rapid swivel. There was silence for a moment. Idwerd looked around, almost unconcerned. All there were were birds chirping and the rain. He began to slide another cigarette out of his pack just as the silence was broken. A high pitch whine shrieked over the company, as of a jet had buzzed them going Mach 2.

“Mortars!” Corporal Gjaltsma hollered.

The ground exploded and a portion of the wheat fields were uprooted about 200 meters to the west. Quickly after, a mortar pierced one of the grain silos within 100 meters and ejected grain and smoke skywards.

“Everyone down behind the Kraits!” Gjaltsma ordered, dashing for cover radio in hand.

“Kilda 3, this is Kilda 3-2, we are taking mortar fire from the north. Unknown distance and heading. It sounds like 3-inch, over.”

Just as he finished, automatic gunfire rang out. It sounded as if dozens of power tools switched on all at once in the surrounding trees. Idwerd, hiding behind the waist high wheels of the section’s APC, could not see any gunmen, but he could hear the bullets pepper the carriers and force their blood curdling snap overhead. Idwerd had never been shot at. Orders may have been directed towards him, but he wasn’t receiving them. He hid his face in the ground, unable to react.


The lead fuel truck erupted in a fireball almost as tall as the grain silos. The cabin was ejected at least 30 meters in the air and ignited petrol rained down over the clearing. Ahead, some men were splashed with the blaze, and the forward most carriers were completely shrouded in smoke. The shrieks of the mortars continued to come in every few seconds. It was random enough to keep Idwerd pinned. Sometimes they landed long across the way in the trees backing them, sometimes on the silos and sometimes square in the clearing. There was no chance to escape it, and the shriek was so loud that it sounded like the shells were landing right on top of them even when they landed several hundred meters away.

Corporal Gjaltsma slid down to Idwerd, his machine gunner in tow. “Fucking get up Aukema! We are going!”

The corporal yanked on Idwerd by the neck of his body armour, almost dragging him out from behind the carrier. It was the first time Idwerd had raised his head to see the clearing since they took contact. The company’s idle carriers were scrambling to get into a defensive position. Several men laid dead on the clearing—either torn up by gunfire or mangled by a mortar blast—and thick black smoke billowed from a husk of a fuel truck. They didn’t know what they were up against, but it was coming from the treeline. The APCs opened up with their 15mm machine guns, raking the trees. The cracks of Tiperyn and insurrectionist gunfire crossing created a blanket overhead as Idwerd stumbled to his feet.

It was surreal, as if Idwerd was controlling someone else’s body. One foot in front of the other, Idwerd followed behind his section, rifle in hand and head down. They crossed the threshold where the gravel met the grass and charged headlong towards the trees about 300 meters away. There was no cover between them and the enemy. The machine gunner, the biggest lad in the section, was upright and spraying his belt-fed machine gun from the hip as he sprinted. Idwerd could see the muzzle flashes dotted across the shadowy treeline, but no men. He wasn’t thinking. He was just going through the motions because there was nothing else that could be done. Apparently their section was the only section that had taken this initiative, because to their left and their right Idwerd saw no one else from the platoon or company dashing with them across the grass.

A blast kicked up dirt and debris in the treeline—another RPG. The flame of the back blast briefly silhouetted the grenadier—too far for Idwerd to make out any notable detail of the man—only for him to quickly disappear back into the shadows. The warhead shot by their shoulders, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. Still sprinting, Idwerd turned his head to see where it’d end up, but quickly went down. Two rounds had connected with his gut and his right leg, sending him into a face plant and slide across the wet grass.

No one stopped for him. The dash across the grass seemed to take an hour, but was likely done in less than two minutes. Only three men actually made it to the trees. However, with the APCs fully raking the treeline, the company’s riflemen finally pulled themselves together to reach the trees. They swept the area, but the rebels were mostly gone by the time the company had fully committed to the attack; gone off to fight another day. A small number laid dead on the edge of the trees;
maybe 12. They were armed with an assortment of outdated League small arms. The Tiperyn soldiers never found the main body of the force, but it was assumed they came from Darimh or an outlying village.

Idwerd laid in the stretch of grass watching, paralyzed by his wounds. Perhaps he was left for dead, or perhaps the company’s medics were too consumed with the dead and wounded back at the clearing. Two new blazes had begun as the second RPG had hit another fuel truck and an APC's fuel tanks had been penetrated by machine gun fire. A handful of dead Tiperyn soldiers lay dead or dying in the grass. Idwerd would not know what happened to his comrades of happenstance, as he died there in the grass before being attended to.

· · · · † · · · ·

Last edited by Tippercommon on Mon May 10, 2021 1:15 am, edited 15 times in total.
Last edited by Tippercommon on Wed Oct 09, 1996 10:46 pm, edited 3.1416 times in total.
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New York Times Democracy

Postby Tippercommon » Fri Oct 25, 2019 4:20 pm

20 November 2019 - 0802 Hours - Near Darimh, Tiperyn
Anlon Mac Cionaoith | Darimh Cell, Soldiers of Goidelia

Anlon’s foot caught on a rogue tree root, sending him face first into the forest floor. Loose rocks scrapped him, hard tree roots bruised him, and his pale, freckled face was coated in a muddy pine needle mixture. His rifle also found itself completely encased in a puddle of mud, caked in dead pine needles that had fallen from the evergreen canopy overhead. He frantically crawled, exuding the spirit of a stunned spider, before one of his compatriots grabbed him by the shirt.

"Anlon!" the man yelled, out of breath from several minutes of sprinting. It was Bradan, Anlon's group leader. "Grab your rifle and come on! We have to get to the assembly area!"

He fought to get his feet under him. The adrenaline was still in full swing, his breath just out of reach. The fighters were in full retreat, having spent all of ten minutes ravaging a Tiperyn Realm Guard convoy refuelling point, but soaked from lying in wait since midnight. As soon as the Tiperyn vehicles had actually managed to bring their cannons to bear and small numbers of Tiperyn soldiers reached the trees, it was time to leave. Far from an organised retreat, once they got the order to peel off the firing line made a mad dash back to their assembly area about two kilometres deep into densely wooded forest. A further 10 kilometres northwest, they had been camped out for the better part of the week in preparation for the attack. Now making the rat race himself, Anlon did not know how they ended up in terms of casualties. He just knew the direction Bradan had hold him to run after they broke contact.

After a few more minutes of running—now slowed from a sprint to a jog—Anlon and Bradan found themselves in a small clearing in the forest. It was the assembly area. Several other fighters had also arrived, hands on knees, head down and panting. Four mortar tubes were stripped down, driping from the water the insurrectionists had dumped on them to rapidly cool them for transport. They hadn't fired the mortars from the assembly area itself, actually having just recently abandoned their firing position about 200 metres away. However, counter battery fire and tracking was still a major risk—ignoring the fact Tiperyn soldiers may have seen where the fighters ran off to—so they were only to spend five minutes at the assembly area to pick up stragglers.

The attack was carried out by groups of the Soldiers of Goidelia, a pan-nationalist Goidelic secessionist organisation. The men were dressed in civilian clothing, but bore heavy weapons funnelled to them through Airgialla. Every man wore the juxtaposition of a Goidelic villager or a backpacker from Darimh carrying a machine gun and grenades. When they finally stopped, Anlon surveyed the area and Bradan did what he could to pull his group together.

"Anlon, wipe the mud off of your bolt, but don't cock it. You'll get the shit in there. If you have to fire it, it'll clear itself." Bradan told Anlon, pointing at his mud caked rifle. He was referring to the Airgiallan-produced rifle's tendency to eject gas out of holes in the bolt carrier when it fired. This usually sent mud flinging.

Bradan pulled down and shook out Anlon's coat, as if he was straightening up his outfit for a job interview. "And stay respectable for Gods' sake."

Anlon stood up a bit straighter, but still fought to control his breath. He wasn't trained as a soldier or particularly athletic; he was just an administrative assistant working in downtown Darimh. Like his father before him, he covertly joined up with the Soldiers of Goidelia. Perhaps it was familial predetermination, but he liked to think it was also equal part to get back at the power that paraded its zealots through the streets and brutally occupied the city. He had lived under a domestic military and religious occupation since he was born, and likewise had hidden his faith his entire life. Everyone joined for their own reason, probably mostly related to killing the Tiperyns or getting away from home, although some were more idealistic than others. Whatever the reason, they were all now guilty of treason and murder, although, to be fair, most already were.

"Oi, what happened to Cian's group?" Someone hollered from across the clearing

"Dead!" a breathless fighter gasped. "I saw the whole right get blown away by their cannons."

The cell was tired and disorderly, although groups whose group leaders weren't killed or wounded attempted to corral them into a security ring on the fringes of the small clearing. Anlon's group—having been widdled down to four men—was the exception, standing to preparing to take point on the march back. One by one fighters trickled in, followed by a large rush of wounded carried on the backs of whoever was within reach. They had started with about 50 men, and by the time the five minutes were up, maybe 30 had formed up. Perhaps only 23 emerged unscathed. Anyone who had kept their disposable LAW carcasses cast them aside under tree cover and made a token attempt at covering them with underbrush. The order was to dispose of anything—used bandages, empty cases for mortar rounds, anything they didn't want to lug back to encampment—under tree cover so they couldn't be easily spotted from the air. Perhaps not the smartest policy, given a foot search would surely uncover them, but it was the one they generally followed nonetheless. Anlon had nothing to chuck. He had eaten all his corned beef ration—really just meat he had brought from home—and kept his magazines in a little bag attached to the belt on his overcoat. Other than that and some water he had in a small drawstring bag, he didn't have much on him at all. They had been ordered to leave non-essential and non-combat equipment at the encampment.

"Right, we gotta move," Bradan sighed. "Oi, Orla! Get your group to help Darren carry the tubes out of here! Collin! Get anyone who can't walk on the stretcher blankets. And keep the fucking blood out of the clearing, they're going to be sending helicopters out here soon. We're moving!"

Anlon's group set out back into the evergreens, with the mortars, wounded and weary fighters following close in tow. They were following a particularly narrow foot path, weaving in between some of the duchy's largest evergreens. To call it a foot path would be incredibly generous. It was not marked on any map, nor was it visible from the air. The group would mask their retreat, with the rear guard covering portions of the footpath with detritus they had picked up on the way there. The path was not linear and a great deal of the journey would bring them off route, so to speak, so the Tiperyn soldiers could not draw a straight vector back to their encampment if they did find the trail head. The Realm Guard would bear down on the assembly point within a half an hour if they did their due diligence—not a guarantee, but the cell was not equipped for a second engagement regardless. It would take a few hours to get back to the camp, slowed down by the burden of their wounded. Awaiting them back at the evergreen covered tent village were 300 more fighters and Pojan mercenaries that had been paid off with League money to fill the deniable military adviser role.

· · · · ☘ · · · ·

Last edited by Tippercommon on Sat Dec 07, 2019 11:06 pm, edited 6 times in total.
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Poja » Fri Oct 25, 2019 6:52 pm

• • • † • • •

Wednesday, 20th November 2019 | 11:10 hrs

Near Darimh, Tiperyn | Soldiers of Goidelia Camp

Vladimir Penezic, who went by "Vladi" to only the privileged, sat in his tent, a cigarette in his mouth, a notebook in his hands. Ash fell onto the paper but he wiped it free as he scribbled down some notes. The hustle and bustle of the 300-man camp was present, an audible din in the background, but he'd tuned it all out to concentrate on his notes. A Liari by birth, Vladi had spent nine years in the Pojački Army, the last six of which he'd spent in combat in Heraq and Adjinua specifically. By the time he quit the army in 2016, he was a ranking non-commissioned officer in his outfit and a respected - though hardly respectable - man. Vladi, like most Pojački soldiers, was no stranger to the horrors of the Wars of Secession and what those wars did to men on a psychological and physical level.

It was perhaps why he quit the army, perhaps why he met shady men in underground nightclubs, perhaps why he was in Tiperyn training these Goidelic rebels. He'd been here for two years now though it had only been in the last year or so that anything of consequence happened and it had been a grueling two years, to say the least. When he first arrived on a snowy, January day, he saw nothing more than a group of ragtag wannabes who he doubted had ever seen a firearm, let alone held and used one. He'd put them through a rigorous training regimen and for six months he didn't let them even sniff gun oil. He needed to whip them into shape first and get them into a strategic and tactical mindset second. He made them walk through the woods with sticks, lest they inadvertently have a negligent discharge lead to someone's clearly avoidable death.

They did poorly, not just at first but continuously. Perhaps this was why he held them out of the fight for so long but times had changed. They were still shit, insofar as his point of view but they were at least coherent and somewhat capable. He'd led them on a few operations but this particular one he had stayed back from, hoping to start planning the next few operations these men would launch. The intelligence on the convoy had been good, too good perhaps and he'd feared a trap at first, almost so much so that he passed on the opportunity. Yet, in the end, he authorized the ambush thus, eager was he to find out the results. He'd sent Darko Novakov to lead them. Novakov was an interesting fellow to say the least. He was half Chernarussian and half Liari, his mother being the former and his father the latter. Yet despite this he was more Liari than he was Chernarussian. The two men clearly had their ethnic differences and there was a lot of contention between them since few Liari could get along with non-Liari but they'd managed to make it work.

Whereas Vladi fought in units in Heraq and Adjinua, Darko fought in Dosnima. He was a qualified sniper and a ruthless man who hadn't quit the Pojački Army but rather he had been expelled. Such was an accomplishment in an army hellbent on ethnic cleansing the land of everyone not Liari. Yet Darko was an enigma in this regard. He, like most Pojački-soldiers-turned-mercenary was a disreputable individual, perhaps why he fit in so well in Tiperyn fighting in the insurgency. The insurgency didn't have many rules, they couldn't afford them. So long as Darko did what he was ordered, everything else was fair game. He'd led the ambush, not because he felt a need to protect the Goidelic rebels and lead them where he thought their own leaders would fail but rather because his bloodlust required an offering.

What was left of the 50-man platoon that had gone out to the ambush began to return to the camp with much fanfare. It was this commotion that brought Vladi out of his tent, notebook in hand, his finger saving the page. The filthy, mud-encrusted remnants of the platoon had just marched in and he took a position alongside another of his compatriots, Vojin Grujić. Vojin was something of a clerk. He'd been in the army but he hadn't done any fighting. It was for this reason most of the mercenaries looked down on him but not Vladi. Vojin did paperwork that Vladi had no desire to do and for that reason he was like an equal.

"How many?" Vladi asked Vojin, tossing what remained of his cigarette into the damp grass underneath his boot, stepping on the butt as a force of habit. The grass was so wet and the cigarette so weak that there was no way any manner of fire could occur. The moisture from the grass itself would likely have extinguished the cigarette without his help.


"Barely half, is Darko one of them?"

"Led them in, he's probably already jerking off from the encounter."

"What did you hear?"

"They did good,"
Vojin said, correcting himself, "well maybe not good but not bad. They blew up some vehicles."

"All right I suppose that's the best we can hope for right now but these casualties. We can't keep it up with this level of casualties. Twenty-eight,"
he said, repeating the number. "I hope they didn't leave anyone behind who could talk."

"Not that we'd know - or they for that matter."

"Where's Darko,"
Vladi said angrily as he walked off to Darko's tent. There were twelve Pojački mercenaries here and they each had their own tent. Darko's was somewhat secluded from the other mercenary tents, not necessarily by design but rather because that had been an open tent when he'd arrived. Walking into the tent, Vladi found Darko peeling off a mud and pine needle caked shirt. "What happened? Why are there only twenty-eight of you?"

"Tip gunners blasted an entire flank with their autocannons. Took out a whole squad without effort. They never stood a chance."

"What did they do wrong?"
Darko finally got his shirt off revealing a dozen tattoos, none of them cute, and another dozen scars, two from bullets, most from the blades of knives and not from combat but rather from bar fights.

"Nothing," he said, "nothing at all. These boys performed perfectly! Our retreat was disorganized but they performed perfectly! They're getting it."

"What kind of damage?"

"A few trucks, definitely killed a few of them, maybe a dozen, maybe more. I doubt as many as we lost though. I wasn't counting."
Darko put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, "We've got a few wounded. Brought them back."

"I saw. They're getting better about that I see,"
in their first few encounters the wounded had been left. It had been up to the Pojačkis to either bring them back or mercifully kill them. There was no telling what interrogation would do to these kids and many of them were just kids or so it felt that way. "How many were left behind?"

"I can't say. We retreated quickly. We may have left a few."

"Let's hope to God they didn't."
Vladi said no more, he just left the tent and went out to where the men were being congratulated in a large group, hugging and cheering. Beers had already been opened and it was as if all military discipline had been thrown out of the window. Incensed by this, Vladi put his two fingers into his mouth and whistled. The loudness and pitch beat any physical whistle and the commotion came to a screaming halt. "Fall in!" He ordered and the men did so though no one put down their beers.

He walked through their lines, pushing them here and there where they should have been, reinforcing that discipline he'd taught time and time again. "I'm told you did well." They cheered. "Quiet! This isn't a celebration. How many of your comrades did you leave on the battlefield? How many were alive? Who can answer me." There was silence. "Exactly! You brought some home but what about the rest. Do you even know if your comrades were alive or dead? Did you care to check? Or did you just run like a clusterfuck?" These may have sounded like questions but they weren't and the rebels knew it. "Get out of my sight. Get cleaned up and stop this nonsense. You killed the bad guys. You came home. That's all you did. There is nothing here to celebrate! Dismissed!" The lines broke apart and the men shuffled back to their tents to change out of their clothes and perhaps get in line for cold showers.

Later that afternoon, Vladi was back in his tent, reviewing his notes when Vojin and Darko joined him, at his request. "Sit down," he said, "and close the flap." He spoke in a low voice so that those outside could not hear. When they were close, he leaned forward to them so that his voice would carry no more than fifty centimeters, at most. "The intelligence on the convoy was good, really good. I've been checking in with our watch posts and no one was following you guys this morning. We have to be careful though. Now I have another piece of intelligence I think worth exploring but they may not be ready for this. It would take at least three of us leading them and I would say no more than nine. We should pick out the nine best and most reliable of them."

"So what's the target then?"
Darko asked and to this, Vladi only smiled. It was a grin Vojin and Darko had seen before and not just on Vladi but other soldiers as well when the demon had infected their spirit and possessed them to do unspeakable things. Vladi's mind was there now.

• • • † • • •

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New York Times Democracy

Postby Tippercommon » Fri Oct 25, 2019 10:40 pm


Tiperyn government indicts Goidelic nationalist group Soldiers of Goidelia
Karl Mueller (@k_mule)
20 November 2019 11:21 a.m. | Darimh, Tiperyn

Smoke from the site of the attack outside of Darimh was visible from kilometres away.

DARIMH - Smoke plumes soared today at approximately 7:30 a.m. after a Tiperyn military convoy was attacked outside of Darimh.

The attack occurred about 15 kilometres north of the Darimh sprawl only a few hundred metres from Motorway 5. Explosions and gunfire could be heard from the northern outskirts of Darimh, where Tiperyn government military and police forces were put on high alert.

Eight Tiperyn military personnel were left dead and at least 30 injured, according to a Realm Guard spokesperson. No group has claimed responsibility, but Realm Guard Public Relations Officer Lt. Richard Bentley alleges that it was carried out by the Soldiers of Goidelia.

"Intelligence reports suggest that the perpetrators of this violent ambush were members of the Goidelic terrorist group," Bentley said. "The traitors and discarded weapons they left behind at the scene only make this all the more obvious."

The Soldiers of Goidelia is pan-nationalist Goidelic separatist organisation that was founded in 1920 during the Grand Campaigns. Although its Airgiallan branch acts as an activist group advocating for Goidelic independence, the Tiperyn government classifies it as a terrorist organisation connected with numerous acts of violence.

The Tiperyn government has claimed that terrorist activities conducted by the Soldiers of Goidelia are funded and armed by the League of Free Nations, although League administration has denied these claims.

The Realm Guard has stated that 8 soldiers from the The Duchess of Idlerein's Riflists were among the dead. It is unknown how many attackers were killed, although Bentley cited "several dozen".

What is now being called the Darimh Massacre by Tiperyn press is only the most recent in a string of violence committed against the Tiperyn military and citizens.

Since spring 2019, the violence has escalated in western Tiperyn, kicked off by a series of bombings in April that killed 24 in total. Just last week the Tiperyn government memorialised the 22 year anniversary of the 1997 Ambrosia bombings that killed 360 and injured over 3,000.

The convoy that was attacked in Darimh was a sub-unit of the № 11 Mounted Riflists (Idlerein) which was in the process of moving from the Tiperyn capital of Ambrosia to Rostrenenn.

The motorised infantry unit is still slated to take over occupation duties of certain high-risk suburbs of the west coast city in response to recent threats made by the Soldiers of Goidelia.

Since the attack, the Tiperyn Ministry of Values has declared martial law in Darimh. Realm Guard and Holy Guard police forces will be taking over the duties of the Darimh Metropolitan Police and put in charge of searching for the perpetrators.

"We will not let this [attack] go unpunished," Cardinal of Values Fedderik Eisinga said at a press conference. "Any and all caught harbouring these terrorists will be punished."

Stay tuned in with RéNua as we provide live updates updates as the situation unfolds.

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New York Times Democracy

Postby Tippercommon » Thu Dec 05, 2019 11:47 pm

20 November 2019 - 1332 Hours - Near Darimh, Tiperyn
Anlon Mac Cionaoith, Darimh Cell, Soldiers of Goidelia

What was left of Anlon’s group lazily propped their shoulders against the shrub encrusted evergreens cordoning off their tents from the rest of the camp. Shooting the shit, eating crackers or reading whatever they had brought from town for their week-long excursion, the group waited for Bradan to get back from a briefing with the foreign mercenaries to give them the what’s what. It had stopped raining, but the damp detritus slicked up the forest floor and water droplets caught by the canopy continued to pitter-patter over the tired men. Just as well, most of them were still soaked from the ambush with no change of clothes in hand.

The group had left the camp for their objective with 15 men; they returned with 6. Some were friends, some weren’t, but no one was taking it hard yet (at least outwardly so). All of them, including the lost, were from Darimh or one of the surrounding suburbs. Although the group represented most levels of Goidelic society, they definitely skewed towards the lower income side. For the most part, the only thing in common anyone had was their hate for their Tipslansk overlords.

Anlon hadn’t really processed what had happened yet or the guys he would never see again. He wouldn’t for a couple of days. He sat there just a little outside of the group’s ring of malaise, raincoat just slightly too small for him draped over his frigid torso, reading a periodical on Tiperyn aircraft manufacturers and the engineering behind some of their engines and some such. He supposed it was vaguely related to his day job as an orderly for a mechanic in town—perhaps just an excuse that allowed him to partake in the corporate propaganda to dodge being left alone with his own thoughts. The issue was liberated from some university student in Cian’s group. Anlon had convinced himself that he had decided to not bring one of his own books because he didn’t want to ruin them in the rain. Although the smudged print and pasty pages of that particular copy of Weekly Mechanicals proved his point, in all honesty he just forgot. They’d be going home in a few days anyway. Their field operations were typically kept short so as to not arouse suspicion in town from the Holy Guard drones or get them fired from their real jobs.

“Oi, Anlon,” homeless man by day, rebel marksman by night Aidan beckoned. He threw a stick at Anlon to get his attention. It landed limply near his feet. “What ya lookin’? Got any Lucies in it?”

Anlon’s glazed-over eyes remained nailed to the page. With the minimum effort a human could give to produce sounds with their mouth, “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you, Aid.”

“Ah fuck ya, ya fuckin’ dog!”

“It’s Weekly Mechanicals, it’s about machines and cars and stuff” the baby-faced new guy added in an as a matter of fact tone. His name was Shaun—probably—but the group had taken to calling him Don, or Dolly when they were being malicious. Anlon hypothesized that someone messed it up on his first day and it stuck, despite his frequent belly-aching over the matter.

“I don’t remember fuckin’ askin’ ya, Dolly,” Aidan slurred.

“For the millioneth time, it’s fuckin’ Shaun,” Shaun fired back. “And what’s ya fuckin’ problem ya fuckin’ bum? The tents remind ya too mucha home?”

“You are my fuckin’ problem ya fuckin’ dog,” Aidan slurred, straightening up as if he were considering pouncing on the kid. “All ya new guys are the bleedin’ same. Fuckin’ wide-eyed kids that couldn’t wipe ya own asses without ya mum holding their hand.”

Collin barged through the shit slinging, dumping some oranges he picked up from the camp’s makeshift mess tent on them. If Bradan was the father of the group, Collin was the oldest brother trying to corral his younger, little shit siblings to keep from getting in trouble.

“Cut that shit out, Aidan,” Collin interjected in between belches. “There’s enough shit lying around here to deal with. Don’t need you going off yappin’ like a brat.”

“Fuck off old man, kid needs to take his licks,” Aidan retorted.

“Yeah, well it’s fuckin’ borin’, so stow it…” Collin’s eyebrows perked up. It was clear his focus had shifted as he looked past Aidan.

“Look alive boys,” Collin cut himself off, throwing his orange peel aside and straightening his tattered rain coat. “Bradan’s on the move, ETA 5 seconds.”

Anlon’s head pivoted from his magazine for the first time in a spell. Bradan, along with the rest of the group leaders, were exiting one of the Pojan mercenaries’ tents. Bradan was in his late 30s, holding the dignified title of group leader. A formal title for one of the most informal groups around. Bradan didn’t exactly wear the title with pride, but if you paid close enough attention you could see that he may have taken a modicum of pleasure in leading his guys. With pepper in his beard and stress-induced bags that dragged for miles, he was almost guaranteed a leading role just by his age alone. There was barely a group left to lead, but Bradan had proven himself as one of the cell’s most capable “officers”.

The group leaders were being briefed on what thrilling activities they would be ending that month’s excursion with. It was never good news whenever the group leaders were summoned to hear the sermon of the foreigners, especially when it was all of them. Now Bradan was marching over to the group to relay the bad news.

“Ya ready for a fuckin’ yarn?” Aidan chuckled.

“I said stow it, dipshit,” Collin rebutted.

“Right, so here’s the deal,” Bradan kicked a bare dirt square into the ground, shoving aside the dead pine needles and rotting sticks. He kicked over some rocks to mimic terrain and laid down some of his trusty colored string to show approaches and roads. “On Thursday night, we’re heading out on a strike mission.

“They only want a few guys. It’s a low-profile op, so only some of us are going. It’s going to be me, Collin, Anlon, and Aidan. Shaun and Farrell, you’ll be folded into Cian’s group for the night pulling security. Go and report to him now.”

“Yes, sir,”
the two replied, almost in unison. They were the newest recruits, so they were the most eager.

Once the two left the circle, Bradan continued.

“We’re going out with the mercs. At 2300, we will be leaving the camp. Our destination is the Darimh Freight Rail Yard. As you all probably know, it’s a switching point where shipping containers move between city and regional rail cars. What we know right now is a shipment of Realm Guard tanks and other vehicles will be stopping at the railyard and staying the night. We think they’re from the 22nd Tank Regiment. They’ve got the newest shit, so this is a prime target. We think they’re on their way to Rostrenenn to help the Holy Guard kill civilians as they do, same as the 3rd Rifleers we just lit up. We’re going to blow them up before they can get there.

“We will be moving to the objective rallypoint about 500 meters within the treeline before making the crawl into the rail yard. Once we’re there, we will split into three teams. The first team will be the demo team and will be the ones planting the charges. The second team will be the scout team and will move ahead of the demo team to take out any security and make sure they get there. That will be our job. Lastly, the third team will be the reserve team. They will provide overwatch back in the treeline and be in reserve ready to drag our asses out of there.

“There is minimal security and no guard towers as far as we can tell. It’ll be our and the Pojan mercs’ job to disable any cameras or booby traps before we move in. We’ve timed their guard’s ATV rotation and will be going during their switchover. There will most likely be Tiperyn military guards from the tank unit, but we know the rail yard better than they do. We want to be in-and-out without raising the alarm and the faster we do this, the less chance we get caught, so we’re breaking out the silencers for this one.

“We think there will be 20 tanks and 10 armored cars tied down to flatbed rail cars. We have enough shaped charges to destroy 10 of em’. The rest we’re going to put timed petrol bombs over the engine decks and thermite grenades down their cannons to disable them. The thermite will be going up then and there, but we won’t be setting off the bombs until we get back to the treeline. Should be quiet enough to not get us killed, so long as we do our job.

“Once we confirm the tanks are dead, we hustle back to camp. It’s about a 15 kilometer hike, so eat your wheaties. We should be in-and-out in 30 minutes from treeline to treeline. The rest of the cell is sticking back, so we got no back-up. We don’t want to expose everyone and they think a small, surgery-like attack will go unnoticed enough for us to get out alive.

“So by 2000 tonight I want you to draw silenced rifles from Darren and make sure you get the special ammo for them too so they don’t make a crack. We’re going weapons, ammo and water only. If you get separated, which you won’t, leg it back to the treeline and try to make it back to camp. If you can’t get to the treeline, ditch your shit somewhere and try to blend into the city. Any questions?”

“Uh, yeah, chief,” Aidan raised his hand. “Why do we gotta do it?”

Bradan stood up, kicking the details out of his makeshift sand map, grabbed his string, and smirked. “You’re winners by default.”

· · · · ☘ · · · ·

Last edited by Tippercommon on Sat Dec 07, 2019 11:06 pm, edited 3 times in total.
Last edited by Tippercommon on Wed Oct 09, 1996 10:46 pm, edited 3.1416 times in total.
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New York Times Democracy

Postby Tippercommon » Fri Dec 06, 2019 3:13 pm

21 November 2019 - 0703 Hours - Worker's District, Darimh, Tiperyn
Conor Mac Cionaoith

The snow-skinned, crimson-haired, freckle-faced man stared pensively out his rain sprinkled window. “Man”. You’d probably undershoot his age by half a decade if you gave him a passing glance. Although only 17, an exhausting existence and six years of work at a primitive Darimh textile mill had hardened him. His shoulders sagged, weighed down by the depressing and demanding life he led in the poorest part of Darimh. He’d been the deputy “man of the house” since he was 14, when his father was gunned down by Holy Guardsmen during a workers’ strike. Anlon—Conor’s older brother—was the formal man-in-chief of the cramped, inner city citizen-storage unit. However, with his increasing absence over the past few months, his hold on the title was tenuous at best.

The sun was just peaking over the eastern horizon. The day was overcast, as were most autumn days over Darimh. No one could tell if the haze that blanketed the city was just low-lying cloud cover or the permanent smog gushing from the nearby factories. At least not until they stepped outside and the sting of industry singed their nostril hairs. Across the glass all Conor could see were blocks upon blocks of dense, rundown public housing. It was as if the 25-story buildings were nicotine stained drapes, victims of years of gross neglect. The walls surrounding the window frames were blackened, as if flamed had burst out from inside and charred them. Given the standards of the city, it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for a burnt out apartment to be hastily renovated for a new, unsuspecting tenant. Not that the universally impoverished residents of the Worker’s District had any choice in the matter.

It’d be time for work soon. The factories, refineries, and other such industry were only a five minute walk from the labyrinth of worker apartments. Just as well, no one was wealthy enough to afford an autowagon, there was no public transportation of any sort, only the most well-off of corporations had buses that privately ferried their workers from their homes to work, and bicycles were a luxury item. Conor was part of the second block that started their shifts at 8 a.m. while the first block started at 4 a.m. Both finished at 6 p.m., but his six years of labor at Darimh National Textiles had earned him the slightly later start, albeit with four fewer hours of paid work per day.

“Ay, Conor?” A shrill, matronly beckoned from the bedroom. It was Ol’ Aileen.

“Yes, mummy?” Conor hollered back.

“When’d Anlon say he’s coming home?”

“Uh, I think Sunday before his shift, mummy.”

Anlon had said he had gone camping; honestly a little aggravating to Conor and their mother, Ol’ Aileen, who still worked six-and-a-half days a week. Their respective workplaces had to give Sunday mornings off for their unpaid, worker-mandated church services you see.

“Leave it to that bleedin’ silver tongue to get that gods damned grease monkey to give him a week off to go trouncin’ in the woods’,” Ol’ Aileen jealously scoffed. She hadn’t gotten a free day off from her nursing job in decades—save maybe to give birth—despite her seniorly seniority, as she put it.

“Yeah, well, at least the egghead is outta the domicile,” Conor replied with a sigh. “I gotta get to work now, lest the leave request I make in 30 years gets denied.”

Conor did an about face from his window and made his way to their two-foot wide foyer to don his work boots. The apartment was far from decent. The decades old linoleum sheets that lined the floor were cracked and peeling. Not so much as thin wallpaper covered the exposed concrete walls that surrounded them. Everything about the apartment, from the low ceilings to the family’s clutter—a consequence of the lack of storage space and an unwillingness to let go of anything that could be of any monetary value in the future—was liable to induce claustrophobia.

Grabbing for the rusted door handle, “Right, I’ll see you tonight, mummy!”

“Nah, I gotta 24-hour shift,” Ol’ Aileen hollered back, as if she was trying to scream over a crowd that didn’t exist. “I’ll see you tomorrow sweetie!”

Conor would be having dinner by his lonesome, it would seem. Although, given the tight schedules and demanding standards of their companies, it was hardly a rare occurrence. So with a tired face and an empty stomach—the family couldn’t afford more than lunch and dinner—Conor set off through the dusty cigarette smoke-filled hallway, down the decrepit cement-lined stairwell, and out the door onto the depressed streets.

The chill hit him and his hands dived for his coat pockets. It was sprinkling. Not a torrent by any means, but just enough to annoyingly strike his eye at random intervals. The massive public housing blocks completely caged the road off from the rest of the city. The “streets” of the Worker’s District were really just massive walking paths for workers to limp to their workplaces and workplace-approved grocers. The storefronts were usually built into the ground floors of the apartment complexes that the companies leased from the government, so they didn’t have to travel far to meet the base requirements of existence anyways. The only autowagons they’d ever seen in this part of the city were the police and the massive armored vehicles the Holy Guard trundled along in to intimidate the masses. Realm Guard tanks and other military vehicles were becoming increasingly common as well, especially whenever there was a bombing or a shooting.

The factories Conor passed on his way to work were mostly rusted out husks spewing their poison into the air, although newer, modern operations were interspersed throughout. Whenever the Tiperyn government said it was investing in the people of Darimh, it usually meant bulldozing a Goidelic-owned factory to make way for a new Tipslansk-owned one with even less respect for their workers—not that the few Goidelic magnates had that much of it to begin with. Save for these periodic bulldozings and the glistening factories that sprung up in their place almost overnight, very little changed about Conors daily walk to earn his eating money. Today was different.

The flash of blue and white police lights flickered in the distance. As he closed with the lights, Conor could see a massive crowd of workers had gathered around the police autowagons. Maybe the floor workers at Auntie Ketrin’s Pharmaceuticals were striking again? Strikes weren’t exactly legal, so if that were the case you could expect to hear some gunshots in the near future. But no, this was different. No man standing on his soap box with a bullhorn; no hastily and poorly painted signs demanding better pay or human dignity. This was an impromptu mob, made up of workers donning the uniforms of several different factories.

Now only maybe 70 meters away from the action, Conor had a clearer picture. There were four police cars and two Holy Guard armored cars forming a perimeter around the entrance to Auntie Ketrin’s factory. Workers surrounded them, yelling, fist punching the air, and flicking their cigarette butts at the constables attempting to stem the tide. Atop the armored car, a Holy Guardsman aimed his machine gun at the crowd, his face expressing both fear and hatred for the poor Goidelic pawns.

Conor mixed in with the crowd, working his way to the front of the mosh pit. If it was a picket line, he probably would’ve crossed it so he didn’t lose his meager income, even if he personally wished everyone would strike. However, the threat of death by Tipslansk religious police and the local, servile metropolitan constabulary bootlicking guns was probably the one thing that made being late to work worth it.

Several police officers grappling battered workers rushed out of Auntie Ketrin’s gates. There was no telling what they did, although Conor guessed it was the first block workers causing a stir over bathroom breaks or some other non-existent labor rights. You could barely make out any distinguishing facial features. They all appeared to be blinded by swollen black eyes and blood streaming down their foreheads. The appearance of their abused co-workers triggered a ground-shaking earthquake. The sky punching became more aggressive, pulsing throughout the hive of disgruntled workers like a wave. The chants got louder to the point where you couldn’t hear the constables’ commands anymore, although you could see their gesturing and implied threats of violence intensify. People began to spit and throw their half-eaten breakfast apples. The situation grew more and more uncontained by the second.

Overhead, a brick soared, slung by someone in the crowd. With paralyzing anticipation, Conor stared at it as it continued on its trajectory. The suspense was palpable as it met its mark—the exposed head of a Darimh constable. He dropped in a snap, as if the connection between his brain and his body ceased all at once. Conor’s eyes widened as he realized he was in the crowd that seemingly just killed a police officer. Time slowed and his eyes rapidly darted between the crowd and the panicking constables.

Suddenly, ear ringing bangs and gut wrenching. The machine gun on the armored car began hosing the crowd. The remaining constables, positively petrified ducked behind their autowagons and fired their handguns over top indiscriminately. Conor hit the ground as fellow workers fell around him, clenching his head and screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs.

· · · · ☘ · · · ·

Last edited by Tippercommon on Sat Dec 07, 2019 11:07 pm, edited 7 times in total.
Last edited by Tippercommon on Wed Oct 09, 1996 10:46 pm, edited 3.1416 times in total.
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New York Times Democracy

Postby Tippercommon » Sat Dec 07, 2019 11:03 pm

22 November 2019 - 0212 Hours - Worker's District, Darimh, Tiperyn
Conor Mac Cionaoith

Air violently rushed into Conor’s lungs as if they were submarines being flooded by the ocean’s depths. His body tried to catch up to his racing heart, but to no avail. His skin was coated in a slimy, matured layer of sweat that had sat stagnant for some hours. As he tried to sit up a sharp pain shot through side right side, shoving him further into the cracked wooden board he’d been strewn out on. He cracked his eyelids only to have them forced shut by the blinding incandescent lights directly overhead.

“Fuck…” Conor groaned with a crackle.

“The boy’s awake,” a gruff, muffled voice said. Conor didn’t recognize it, but it definitely didn’t sound like a Tiperyner.

Two figures floated ominously over Conor. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel the micro-breeze their legs stirred up wash over his face. If they had walked over to his body, the ringing in his ears blocked out any footsteps. Conor opened his eyes again with a squint. The corners of his eyelids cracked as the dried blood glueing together his eyelashes was pried apart. The two spectres were clouded in a blur, almost blending in with the ceiling. Conor struggled to regain his focus, only for him to recoil as he realized the magnitude of his newly acquired migraine. Wrestling his eyelids once more, he exposed his baby greens just long enough to make out a man to his right and woman to his left, looking down on him like he was a mess on the floor that neither wanted to clean up.

“What is this?” Conor murmured before his head surrendered back into the board.

“You were shot, bruv,” the man said. “We dragged your arse off the street and patched you up.”

“What?” Conor moaned, as if he hadn’t heard a word.

“Ya not the full shillin’, eh?”

The woman’s scarlet brows furrowed and the freckles crossing her nose bridge scrunched. Thoroughly annoyed, she interjected.

“You were in the crowd, yeah? You got shot at, yeah? Now you’re here.”

Conor slumped his head to his right, gazing past the man’s work boots. What he saw was a decrepit old place. Boarded windows, sagging wallpaper, husks of what probably was furniture some time ago; it’d give his citizen-storage unit a run for its money. There was a lonely mahogany island, seemingly what remained of a pub counter. On it laid an unconscious man, coated in dried blood. Behind it were empty shelves that could have stocked dozens of bottles of liquor with a little dusting. Instead, they held jars and bags of various yellow and red liquids, separated by blood stained, crumpled up bandages.

“Where am I?” Conor coughed out.

“In hidin’,” the woman replied. “We’re with the Soldiers, and not the Tiperyn kind neither.”


“Bit of a useless sod, eh?” the man scoffed. “Right, mate. You were shot in the stomach by the constables. Little crowd got violent. The resistance got you out. You’re just lucky, Aletta Parade is littered with dead workers.”

Now that he’d been told where the epicenter of his misery was, all Conor could think about was the feeling around his belly button; the dull tenderness punctuated by the excruciating pain every time he inhaled. He whinged, fighting to spare a breath to keep interrogating.

“Why wasn’t...” Conor had to brace to catch his breath, unprepared for the shock of his moving diaphragm. “Why am I not at a hospital?”

“You? On the receiving end of a constable massacre? They’d be liable to charge you with intent to murder a lawman the moment you checked in.”

Cranking his chin to his chest, Conor surveyed his surroundings. His mind was both racing at a thousand miles an hour and not processing a single piece of information he took in. However, with some deep introspection—and perhaps an annoying amount of time—he crunched the numbers and deduced that he was in an abandoned building.

“What is this place?” Conor asked.

“We ain’t tellin’ ya, boyo,” the woman answered. “You’ll be leavin’ in a blindfold.”

“We don’t know who you are. For all we know you could be a realm mole,” the man added.

“You ever see a realm spy with a Holy Guard bullet in him?” Conor remarked, followed quickly by a sharp, dry heave.

“A couple of times,” the man said, almost jovially. “But you can never be too careful. What’s your name mate?”

“Conor. You?”

“Patty, it’s a pleasure,”

Conor shifted his strained stare on the woman. The couple of seconds of awkward silence could be cut with a butter knife.

“And you?” Conor asked.

“Wouldn’t you want to know,” she said.

“You’ll get used to her, her name’s Cara.”

“Pat, I swear to the gods I’m gonna off ya,” Cara spat back with a scowl.

“But anyway, sonny,” Pat continued. “We’ll keep you until you’re able to walk out of here without bein’ a Nancy. Can’t let you track blood back to our little lair. I suppose just as important for you, can’t let you leave with a limp or you’ll get picked up.”

Conor’s heart dropped. “Wait, no, no, I need to get to work.”

“No way, sonny,” the man said, kneeling down to take a look at Conor’s dressing. “You’re down for the count. Even if you could sit up we wouldn’t let ya. You’ll tear open your stitches and I’m not too keen on cleaning a child’s guts off our floor.”

“No, I need to...” Conor exclaimed in between coughs. “I’m already on notice. Me mum will starve without me wage.”

“Listen, kid,” Pat sighed, shuffling from Conor’s stomach down to his face. “Holy Guard is combing the streets. Whole district is on lockdown. We saw at least 30 dead workers on the street, and they ain’t exactly nursin’ the rest of em back to health.”

In between bouts of bracing for the suffering each breath brought, Conor lamented the prospect of losing his spot on the weavers’ floor. What would mum do? Anlon was off in the woods having his merry time while Conor and Ol' Aileen were left to fend for themselves. What if mum fell down the stairs? What if the mill thought Conor was dead and just gave his spot up to the next first block tomorrow? The worry his mum must’ve had floated about the back of his conscience, but it was certainly buried by the dread of how she was going to get her next meal.

Conor tucked his chin into his chest to survey the room once more. It was just as dilapidated as he initially assessed, but now he could tell that in between the cracks of the boarded up windows was blackness. The sun had gone down.

“What time is it?” Conor quickly exhaled, trying to speed through the pain of speaking. It didn’t work, and he flinched.

“Uh, quarter past two in the mornin’, I reckon,” Pat answered with an essence of guesswork weaved into his words, despite the fact he was clearly wearing a wrist watch. “You’ve been out all day.”

“My mum will be asking for me,” Conor said. It was eight hours past his clock-out time.

“Yeah, well no one will have an answer,” Cara blurted, throwing her arms up and sauntering off.

“Just settle down Conor, we’ll get you some water and…”

The deep, resonant thud of a distant explosion ripped through the dusty air of the squatter’s shack. It wasn’t on the street outside, nor did it come from inside the old pub. But it was close enough that it sent shocks through Conor’s mangled gut and knocked jars of saline and plasma resting upon the repurposed liquor cabinets crashing to the ground. It didn’t wake up the man lying on the counter, though, which convinced Conor of his expiration.

“The bloody fuck was that?”

· · · · ☘ · · · ·

Last edited by Tippercommon on Sun Dec 08, 2019 1:21 pm, edited 4 times in total.
Last edited by Tippercommon on Wed Oct 09, 1996 10:46 pm, edited 3.1416 times in total.
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Poja » Sun Dec 08, 2019 5:52 pm



• • • † • • •

Thursday, 21st November 2019 | 10:40 hrs

Near Darimh, Tiperyn | Soldiers of Goidelia Camp

"So who are we taking?" Darko asked as he sat down with a steaming cup of coffee. Vladi was scribbling in his notebook and Vojin was shuffling around some papers in what was their command tent. Other members of the mercenary group were going about camp business. Petar was running drills with a somewhat new group of guerillas, Miroslav was in the mess tent, Paja was on guard duty, Boris and Goran were cleaning weapons, Janko and Voja were listening to the radios, Dobrica was sleeping, and Ranko was doing whatever Ranko did in the woods when he disappeared for two and three hour walks. Vladi surmised he was planting mines since he had an affinity for them. Unsure of Ranko, Vladi never took him on operations but rather entrusted camp defense to him, perhaps why he was always walking through the woods, to get a lay of the land.

"With me is Bradan, Devin, and Evan. You've got Cian, Reece, and Rory. Paja's going to take Daan, Anlon, and Aaron."

"Paja? Are you sure about Paja?"
Darko asked, "Paja isn't as experienced as you or I."

"I'm taking Paja, he's just the man I want covering our rear,"
said Vladi in a "do not question me further" voice. Paja was the only man whom Vladi knew prior to coming to Tiperyn. In fact, Paja had served in the same unit as Vladi had but he was barely out of training when he joined the unit. Shortly after they started operations in Heraq, Paja was in Vladi's vehicle manning a PKM. They were assaulting a militia arms depot and making their initial, vehicular assault. Armored personnel carriers, light armored vehicles, and tanks were driving forward at nearly sixty kilometers per hour. Paja spotted an RPG team more than two hundred meters away and fired two quick bursts from his PKM. They were the first rounds he'd ever fired in combat and from more than two hundred meters away, bouncing down a dirt road, moving at that speed, he cut both men down, one of whom was kneeling, before they fired.

"What's the plan then? What's the target? You haven't yet told me," Darko asked, sipping his coffee.

"It's the rail switching station in Darimh," Darko's eyes widened and even Vojin stopped shuffling papers. "The Realm Guard is moving tanks through the yard tonight and tomorrow. With enough explosives, we could take out an entire battalion's worth of tanks in one go and prevent them from getting more ones in here for a few weeks while they have to repair it. We have enough plastique from our League benefactors that we can truly demolish that place."

"But it has to be what, thirty kilometers away?"

"Yes, almost exactly, I am figuring we're marching for six to eight hours. We need to pack light but not too light. This is an infiltration mission. If we open fire the mission is blown. That's why I want the best with us. Discipline is going to matter more here than skill."

"How heavily guarded is this yard?"

"Enough that we can't fool around. We're leading the teams and the Goidelics are going to do exactly what we say."

"Picked a good night for it,"
said Vojin, "new moon is two days out, there's going to be barely enough moonlight to see let alone be spotted."

"The intel aligned with us on this one,"
answered Vladi, flipping a page in his notebook. "My plan will be three teams. Paja leads our security team. Let's give them some heavier weaponry, a machine gun. They'll use it only if we have a hot exfiltration. Alpha is me and Bravo is you. We're going to run identical operations but against separate targets. We should get lucky and have actual trains in the yard when we launch this attack. We're going to need to get into the yard," he flipped over the map of Darimh to reveal a detailed drawing of the trainyard that they'd received from Goidelic spies. "I'm going to operate on this section," he said, pointing to an area to the north of the yard. "There should be at least two tracks here to hit. We'll plant our explosives on the trains themselves. I'm also going to put some bricks here and here," he said, pointing to two fuel tanks. "You're going to hit this area here, it's the closest part. I want every train car to have at least two bricks, these tanks are not light. We need maximum damage through their underside. Also this area here," he pointed to a much smaller area, "bury a few bricks in here under the tracks. This is the main switching area. If we blow this then the entire yard is out of commission."

"How will we do this without being seen?"

"A lot of crawling, we're just going to have to crawl under the trains. This is why we need maximum discipline. No one shoots anyone. We're here to put explosives, not start a firefight."

"How much explosives are we talking?"

"Enough to make you happy,"
Vladi smiled as did Darko, "each of the eight men hitting the railyard will be carrying ten blocks, forty kilos in all. We're going to use a radio detonator to set off all of the blocks."

"Isn't this our entire cache?"

"It is,"
Vladi answered, lighting a cigarette that he'd just put into his mouth. "Some of the Goidelics found out that you can use the stuff to get high so now we have to use it or else they're going to start eating it all. One of them used it to heat up some sausage and nearly poisoned half a squad. They're amateurs still in some ways."

"Okay fine, we use it all then. It's a good target."

"It is."

"When do we leave?"

"I want to be there by midnight, and I want to infiltrate before 01:00, so we're leaving at 16:00. I still need to tell Paja."

"Paja will be thrilled. Fine, let me go get the nine of them ready. They're packing light. I'll need to make sure they don't bring anything extra."
Darko said as he got up from the table, finishing his coffee in one last swig. Vladi nodded amidst the cigarette smoke swirling in front of his face, leaving quiet in the tent as Vojin resumed his paperwork.

"I don't know when we'll get more plastique Vladi. Are you sure you want to use it all?"

"I want to destroy that railyard and forty kilograms of plastique is hardly enough to do it,"
Vladi answered.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Thursday, 21st November 2019 | 20:00 hrs

Near Darimh, Tiperyn | 8 km from Darimh Railyard

The air was still and the night sky clear. Rain had been in the forecast but it had never materialized, which suited Vladi and the eleven men marching along with him. This did not mean the air didn't have a chill to it but rather, the chill wasn't a damp chill, like it had been during the convoy ambush. Damp chills were always worse, especially this far north. It was the kind of cold that cut through one's outer layers and saturated the body, settling in one's bones. Nothing made that pleasant and to the men who lay on the wet ground during the convoy ambush, getting rained on and otherwise assaulted by the weather around them. Tonight was different and Vladi was certainly grateful.

He checked his watch, saw that it was 20:00, and he realized that they'd been walking nonstop for four hours, weaving a path throughout the forests of southwestern Tiperyn. He called the men to rest but at the same time, he called Paja, Darko, Bradan, Cian, and Daan to a spot twenty meters away from where the men were resting. Some had taken a knee, others had sat on the ground, and still others stood. They would have five minutes to relax. Yet Vladi and his team leaders, out of earshot if they spot quietly enough, would need a few more minutes before they could rest. "We're making great progress," Vladi began, "we only have about eight kilometers to go. That's only about two hours if we keep up this pace and I want to keep up this pace. The sooner we get there the better. We're not launching until 01:00 but we can recon the railyard before then. The more time, the better. Can you keep these men on that pace?" Each man nodded.

"Good," Vladi continued, "then keep them moving and keep them quiet. I'll stop us again when we're one kilometer out from the railyard to go over our final strategy for the approach." With that he dismissed the team leaders and pulled out his canteen to take a sip. In the sliver of moonlight from the waning crescent moon, the men were like shadows in the night. They'd moved quickly but more importantly, they'd moved quietly. There had not been any idle chatter amongst the men as they'd walked, fully aware that Realm Guardsmen could be present, patrolling anywhere and anytime.

Eight minutes later, they were moving again. They'd received a bit of a delay because two men - including Paja - had gone into the woods to relieve themselves. Vladi wasn't hard on them for it, knowing that the three minutes lost wouldn't necessarily affect their march and he was right, they didn't. One kilometer from the railyard he stopped the men again and this time spoke to all eleven of them. "From hereon out we're in the danger zone. Keep a sharp eye and a sharp ear for patrols. Our intel suggested that the local police perform patrols on ATVs. If hear one get quiet and small real fast.

"We'll approach from the east. The terrain is elevated and the east will afford us some cover. It's out of the way but it's for the best. Now there's going to be about one hundred meters of open space between the tree line and the perimeter of the railyard. I was told not to expect anything more than a fence, which is why we have the bolt cutters with us. Any last questions?"
No one had any because everyone knew what their role was and what they would do. Vladi broke it off, gave another five-minute rest, and they were on their way. They stopped once more at the edge of the tree line. They'd approached from the east, where the ground was elevated and where there was cover. It had been something of a hike into the proper position but the rewards made it all worthwhile. Crawling on their bellies across the open space, they encountered no patrols and soon found themselves at the fence. Paja cut open a slit in the fence and he and Darko held back the two sides while the men all crossed into the railyard. Paja was the last through, moving much slower than Darko did but that was because he was carrying the most weight and because the fence had curled back on him.

They moved slowly and quietly to a spot approximately one hundred meters away into some vegetation that would effectively shield them. It had been a spot that Vladi had identified on the imagery provided to him from the League, via the Goidelic sources that fueled their operations. That imagery wasn't wrong and Vladi and the men lay down in the vegetation, overlooking the railyard. In the faraway distance, ten kilometers away, the skyline of Darimh was visible but only the tallest of the buildings. More visible however was the suburban sprawl that was associated with this city. In the night, the glow of Darimh told Vladi and his men that it was an active, busy city, even at night.

Through binoculars, Vladi observed the railyard below them as did Paja, as did Darko. They were working to identify their targets, to match up in their eyeballs what they'd seen on the hand-drawn map. Incredibly, the detail was accurate. The scale was perhaps a little off but that was hardly problematic and it would not stop any aspect of the mission. Goidelic spies were capable, that was for sure, and they understood the value of certain things. Vladi could see this firsthand as he looked at the railyard to see something as insignificant as a cluster of barrels but which had been noted on the drawing. He wished the Soldiers of Goidelia were as capable as their spies were, perhaps then he would be able to lead a major victory though to what credit he did not know. "All right, we got at 01:00, observe the patrols, they matter most…"

• • • † • • •

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Poja » Mon Dec 23, 2019 9:57 pm

• • • † • • •

Friday, 22nd November 2019 | 01:00 hrs

Darimh, Tiperyn | Darimh Railyard

The rain had finally begun, starting as a light, almost imperceptive drizzle at first but now, forty minutes later, there was a steady hammering of cold wetness that soaked everything there was to soak, which certainly included the twelve men and their clothes. Dampness cut through their skin until their bones ached but they bore the discomfort and the aches as they waited just above the railyard, spread out over an area twenty meters wide. In the center was Vladi with his men while Darko was off to the right and Paja to the left. Habitually checking his watch, Vladi let it pass down either side of the lines that they would go at precisely 01:00. They'd synchronized their watches before they'd ever left base camp and so there would be no mistaking the time but, even still, no one would be moving a muscle until Vladi rose to go.

When that appointed hour came, Vladi rose to a knee and scanned left and right. Darko rose and together so did their men so that eight men, who'd been lying prone were now all on one knee. They'd discussed this moment in the briefing, a moment when they were truly vulnerable. The rain had helped to cut down on the visibility but the railyard remained intermittently lit. Some of the patrols had moved off and Vladi hoped that the rest had simply moved indoors out of the rain. With a quietness that Vladi didn't imagine these men possessed, they moved down the hillside very carefully. The men followed in behind Vladi, trying to step where he stepped, not so much because they feared mines but rather because where his boots had sunk into the mud, they hoped theirs wouldn't, which could cause them to lose their balance and subsequently fall.

For this mission, Vladi had issued his men crossbody straps and smaller weapons, such as submachine guns or carbines. Yet he told his men that, from the moment they arrived at the rail yard to the moment they left, none of them was allowed to hold their weapon, fearing that they might open fire on the Tiperyn soldiers or that they'd have a negligent discharge. Either one would give away their position and compromise the mission and lead to a lot of them being killed or captured. The railyard was protected by at least a platoon of Tiperyn soldiers, perhaps as many as two if there were more soldiers hiding indoors, perhaps sleeping because they weren't on duty. That put anywhere from fifty to one hundred men against their twelve. There would be no hope for escape or victory and surrender wasn't an option when it came to these rebels.

At the bottom of the hill, they found themselves blocked by a simple, chain-link fence. Vladi and Darko briefly looked it over for sensors but saw nothing to stop intruders save for the razor wire atop the fence. Satisfied that they wouldn't trip any alarms, Vladi gave a nod to Cian who had the bolt cutters with him. He worked quickly and more importantly, he worked quietly as he cut from the bottom of the fence up about a meter and a half. He cut a taller slit than they'd need but the extra length would mean that they could pull back more fence, giving themselves ample room to infiltrate the perimeter of the railyard and this is what they did with Devin and Evan holding back the fence while everyone else poured inside. Then Devin went and Evan, more slowly and carefully since no one was holding the fence for him, slipped into the perimeter. He let the fence go gently so that there was not a wave of vibration along its long length.

Inside the perimeter there was strict noise discipline. Vladi and Darko had reinforced the point while they were walking to the target. There would be only hand signals from the moment they entered the railyard until the moment they returned to the hilltop. The last thing they needed was someone speaking too loudly or a lucky soldier hearing something from his post. Vladi wanted to cut down on the chances of this mission going wrong.

Early on, the three of them - Vladi, Darko, and Paja - had debated on how best to go about the assault. They knew that the best way would be to break up into four teams of two, minimizing their exposure and maximizing their ability to plant their charges; however, that would have meant that the Goidelics would have been on their own. Ultimately, this was the plan and the idea would be that group leaders would lead one two-man group and the Pojački mercenaries the other. This meant that Bradan would lead Devin and Cian would lead Rory, leaving Vladi to go with Evan and Darko to go with Reece. "Two groups of two," Vladi had explained in the briefing when the men had been chosen, "stay low, stay quiet. Follow your leader and if you are the leader, move slowly and carefully. Look before you step." His further instructions had rung in everyone's heads now that they were finally inside of the perimeter.

Splitting up, they were given just fifteen minutes inside of the railyard. That might have seemed like an eternity and it truly was but it was also barely enough time to cover their ground moving slowly. Vladi didn't want to rush the men but neither did he wanted them to take their leisurely time, thus increasing their chances of being caught. "Fifteen minutes," he'd said via hand signals as they split up and with that, he led Evan off to the right. He'd led the Goidelic teams handle the closer areas so that they wouldn't waste as much time moving to their target zones. He knew Darko would hustle as best as he could and that was what he wanted. Vladi's chosen area was the furthest of the three because he wanted to plant explosive charges on the fuel tanks. There was a half-dozen tanks in all but he didn't want to waste six blocks on those tanks. At most, he could use four blocks.

He and Evan moved quickly at first, keeping in a low crouch and using the equipment strewn around the railyard for cover. Patrolling soldiers got as close as ten meters at one point but they were sufficiently hidden behind a maintenance shack and the soldiers passed by without being any the wiser. From there, they took off moving again, staying low and moving up to the fuel tanks after a grueling six-and-a-half minutes where Evan removed four bricks from his bag and began inserting the radio detonators as he'd been taught. Vladi inspected each one quickly as he shoved the bricks against the metal hulls of the tanks, focusing the charges so that the four of them could destroy all six tanks. He was relieved to see that the radio detonators weren't equipped with lights that would blink indicating that they were on but, in the same vein, he wasn't sure they would even work.

They now had sixteen bricks between the two of them and that meant they could hit eight cars or sixteen tanks, as the tanks were transported two to a car. With the timer ticking, they moved away from the fuel tanks and deeper into the railyard. Soldiers continued to patrol and they weren't happy about it either. Wearing raincoats and keeping their assault rifles shouldered, the soldiers spent more time complaining about having to walk around in the rain than they did searching their surroundings. It was understandable as well. The railyard was deep within Tiperyn territory and there had been absolutely no intel that the railyard was going to be a target for the Soldiers of Goidelia. It was hardly that these soldiers were bad but more a byproduct of the environment. Had there been a clear night, they might have been more attentive but they were cold, they were wet, and more dangerously, they were bored. Boredom in soldiers was the biggest enemy.

Vladi and Evan waited for a pair of soldiers to pass by a railcar before they darted out from behind an electrical relay box. The box, big enough to hide the two of them, hummed as thousands upon thousands of volts flowed through its circuits. Had Vladi had some extra C-4, he might have planted a brick here just to cause more damage to the railyard's infrastructure. As it was, the bricks he told Cian's team to plant underneath the main switching area would do tremendous damage to the rails. This would merely be icing on the cake but, in many ways, more damaging. Repairing track was easy, replacing entire junction boxes was a separate story. He hadn't thought about that when he was planning the attack and he was almost kicking himself now that he finally realized just how damaging and how expensive it would be to fix these relays. He didn't bother trying to change the plan however, as that would have been disastrous even to a well-trained unit of special operations commandos.

Changing the plan was never the option and as they came to the first train, they quickly hit the ground, crawling underneath the first railcar. They had to crawl past two more before they got to the first car transporting tanks. The cars were flatbeds but with enough clearance underneath them for the men to crawl. Together, they crawled to the center of the car and here, Vladi instructed Evan to place one of his charges while Vladi placed the other. The charges would be placed off center however so that they could focus the explosions underneath the tanks. With those charges placed, they crawled further forward, attaching explosives to three more cars, putting eight tanks in jeopardy in one shot. Time was ticking however and they had to move quickly to the next train.

Vladi rolled out of the trains to the opposite side, using the tanks to hide him from the lighting. They were in a decently lit area and so shadows were important. The next train, and the cars they needed to sabotage, was fifty meters away. Giving the area a quick scan, he and Evan took off, moving very quickly over the pebbles on the ground. Their footing slipped here and there, mainly because of the rain but they managed to get under the next train very quickly. Once again, they moved back-to-front, planting charges until they'd exhausted their supply. They were down to two minutes and that was hardly enough time as a patrol approached. Vladi, looking at the boots approach, stayed completely still and he held his hand in a fist to Evan. "Do not fucking move!" His hand signal said and Evan understood that completely. The soldiers passed by, a different set, and Vladi and Evan continued to crawl forward, sticking underneath the train for as long as they could.

Fifteen minutes hadn't been enough and by the time Vladi and Evan hit the fence, they'd been in the railyard for nineteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds and they were the last to arrive. Everyone else had already retreated out of the perimeter on Darko's orders but they remained just on the other side of the fence. Darko was giving them a few extra minutes before he called it and moved back to their hilltop position. Vladi and Evan just about made it and as the fence was held open for them, Vladi shook his head as Darko held up his wrist. "Yes, yes I know, I fucked up," he said without words and off they went, moving quickly back up the hillside to Paja's position.

Going up was hardly as easy as going down was and almost every one of them slipped on the way up, sliding a few feet back down in the mud until they finally made it to the top, tired, out of breath, cold, and trying their best to hide the stream of breath that was coming from their mouths and noses. Once at the hilltop, Darko looked at Vladi and shook his head, "Was it not you who set the fifteen-minute window?"

"They were out in force; how did you do?"

"Barely made it,"
Darko said but his eyes and his face said further, "but I made it."

"All right let's get the hell out of here. How long do you think after we hit the button until they start searching this area?"

"Thirty seconds."

"All right then, let's get on the move. We need a clear line-of-sight though, don't we?"

"It might work up to a kilometer away. It's hard to tell."

"Let's not chance it,"
Vladi said as he looked at the group. "C'mon, we have to go," he ordered and off they went, going back the way they'd come though Vladi halted them after four hundred meters and pulled the detonator from his pack. "Here's to hope," he said to no one in particular as he flipped the detonator on and watched the battery-power light come on, indicating that he could transmit. With a deep breath, which he held, he pushed the button and waited.

• • • † • • •

Last edited by Poja on Sat Jan 30, 2021 9:22 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Founded: Oct 11, 2018
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Poja » Mon Feb 03, 2020 7:15 pm

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Friday, 22nd November 2019 | 01:22 hrs

Darimh, Tiperyn | Darimh Railyard

When Vladi pushed the detonator button, he expected near instantaneous results. That had always been how detonators worked when he was in the military. You pushed the button and the bomb or bombs exploded. Radio signals traveled at the speed of light and the lag between pushing the button and the explosive results was so quick, mere microseconds, that he didn't have time for even the quickest of thoughts. Yet, when he pushed the button, he didn't have that instantaneous reward like in the past. Instead, there was simply the sound of the falling rain and its cold, wetness on his skin. He wondered if he'd been given a bad batch of detonators, if the arms that his group was receiving from abroad were garbage and sent to clear out someone's inventory to make room for something that worked.

In reality though, the detonators were working fine. They were all a special batch available on the black market, from Poja of all places. Rather than detonate upon command, the detonation signal set off a timer that was programmed to explode at a random interval of time between ten and thirty seconds. The randomity of the sequence was meant to stagger explosions for maximum effect and the ten-second minimum was to give someone enough time to get behind cover, if they weren't already. Nothing could be done for clear the blast wave as that wholly depended on a person's distance to the bomb, the availability of cover, and the size of the bomb. In ten seconds, someone couldn't expect to get more than fifty or sixty meters away, less if they were heavily loaded with gear.

When the first explosion occurred, it caught Vladi by surprise. It caught everyone by surprise for they all assumed that the detonators were bad. Vladi had actually pressed the button three times in frustration during the interval and had resigned himself to the fact that this mission was a failure. Yet, as the ground shook and the air thundered, he was suddenly caught mystified by the plumes of flames and smoke rising from the trainyard. In reality, the plastique charges wouldn't do a tremendous amount of damage since they had to penetrate through the deck of the train car and then further into the underside of the tank armor, which was often meant to be capable of withstanding landmines or IEDs but there would be damage nonetheless. The most effective charges would likely be those planted on the infrastructure at the railyard, where there was no armor plating or decking.

"Let's go!" Vladi nearly shouted to his men as the flames began to light up the night sky. They took off running, going not into a jog but rather a full sprint and in the only direction they knew to go, away. They hadn't consulted the map ahead of time or looked at any markers. Instead, they just ran at a full sprint for as long as their adrenaline would take them, which admittedly wasn't very far. In about ninety seconds, they'd crossed approximately four hundred meters of land and they were beginning to feel the searing pain in their lungs of running too hard for too long. Gradually, they all slowed and came to a halt between four and five hundred meters away, everyone nearly doubled over gasping for air. Some struggled to keep from throwing up, some did, and others just gasped for air as their bodies rejected the exercise they'd just endured.

They were deep within enemy territory though and not on the sidelines of a high school track. They couldn't linger and catch their breath and Vladi, Darko, and Paja quickly rallied their Goidelic charges together at the five-hundred-meter mark and began the march out of enemy territory, back to their camp so many hours in the distance. A few would turn around and look at the red glow on the horizon behind them. They stuck to good cover and avoided the open wherever possible. They would be keeping a faster pace on their egress than on their ingress but they would be using a varied route to reach their camp, which actually meant traveling a further distance. For that reason, it would take roughly the same amount of time to return as it was to get to the railyard, if they made it at all and didn't get picked up along the way. There was little doubt in Vladi's mind, any of their minds really, that the Tiperyn military wouldn't be actively searching for them. Plastic explosives certainly didn't just appear and the Tiperyn military would have known if the attack on the railyard had come from the ground or the air and with the latter so unlikely, they would be out in force, patrolling, looking for Goidelic rebels fleeing.

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