Side Tales(Closed)

[Royal Frankia]

Going across the Mountains

The long peace had sharpened the pens, as well as the swords, of the Frankians. There was a growing movement within Frankian literary circles for a restoration of the whole Realm, as it was in the time before the Great Wars. Within a society where written media was preferred to visual, the impact of a handful of writers could shape the opinion of an entire generation.

How many of our Fair Daughters,
Are under the yoke of the infidel?
The Sanctuaries of our forefathers,
Have been defiled by the presence of unbelievers!
Atkanites, are you not men?
Did not your forefathers die in legion,
To prevent the spread of Neobarlatismus?


The Ministry of Truth had been given the unenviable task of shifting through the vast number of works being published cyclically, though their task was assisted by the Patriotic Writers Guild. For a text to be approved, it had to be monarchist and promote the economic tenants of National Syndicalism, though under the present regime greater leniency had been given. Writers of antiquity, as well as contemporary writers from foreign lands, were given a freedom that their Frankian counterparts did not truly possess.

Away from the main writing guilds which had grown stagnant, new guilds were formed to offer a new generation of writers greater opportunities. Much to the chagrin of the Ministry of Truth, such new guilds received official royal support even if some works went against accepted norms. Economic treatises, novels, novellas, histories of prior conflicts from a highly critical lens, and collected works of hostile bards were given the greenlight for printing.

Surprisingly, most writers strayed away from politics after a pious condemnation of foreigners, and sought to bring to the masses complex ideas. Those of the nobility and those of the guildiers competed with one another to churn out the next great work. The best were novels, such as Grigorri vra Norbeck's Isle of Insight, that dealt with ordinary life between farm, combine, and deck.

My father did his duty, as was expected of him by the ancestors and by the Faith. He did not slack, nor tire, nor take to his cups like many of our generation. When the shells did rain from the skies, not even the tremors of the earth could shake his calm. Such men were of a different generation, used to hardship while ours has grown soft through the long peace.

He told me by the fireside of the comrades who had never returned.. Of the many widows and orphans he had come across, who even when they had lost their husbands wished to offer their sons to repel the treacherous invader. Youths of my tender age summoned courage not expected of them, to give their lives for Realm and Sovereign even against the formidable Paramarines.

Iron Youth they were... Iron Youth they proved. How often did I see those, short on ammunition, meeting the ammunition with a bayonet fixed. Not even the whirl of the katana or ferocious bombardment could stop them working their way through desolation to bring ruin upon the foe.

This was an Age of Heroes come again, but now such are not old men like my father. A generation lost, that had to battle once all was lost poverty and threats from every side. His hair is grey, his face scarred after a dozen brushes with death, but still the fire burns now as it did 35 cycles before.

The fields he still works, though they are not of the good earth which Neustria the Fairest Daughter was renowned for. No, Gerwannia's soil is hardy, with many stones that lie in wait for the plow. Hours are long and the work hard, even for the few old timers that linger on. They do not have to do this sort of work, but then their cycles might be less numerous without work to do. It is in our blood, it is vital to our culture, no true Frankian is a sloth.

Food is simple and plain, with meals eaten sporadically between the Modes of the Sun. Our strength must be kept up, to do work that tests our body, our minds, and our will. Even if Economic Planners hungry for efficiency should seek to do away with the peasant, he will find a rising of aged veterans willing to fight even the Guards.

Have not the Scripturas said that we must work the fields and return to them? Examine that which the Mater Most High has bestowed upon her children and rejoice, for this noble work sanctifies that which is of the soil. Our sweat and our blood endow what we grow with greater nobility than the rations which our subterranean combines produce.

A conservative peasantry often challenged the views of tinkerers who wished to see such a sacred tenant of the Elect of Atkanism to be done away. Were not the stores of the Elect constantly emptied by hungry guildiers, who wished to dine on honest fare? Corporatization and collectivization of the land, in every case, destroyed that which was sacred to the Mater Most High. Greater was her regard for corn and fruit won from the soil than anything which could be fabricated in a factory.

[Royal Frankia]

Come, all ye Children of the Light...

Before dawn the Atkanites would rise and make their morning pilgrimage to the Sanctuary, to pray for those that have gone before, those that remain, and those that are to depart. Clad in great flowing robes, such pilgrims would trek across the unpaved roads which were the domain of herds and wheeled vehicles. At every minor shrine the Faithful would prostate themselves and raise up their hands as darkness gave forth to light.

The roads were a quagmire at this time of the cycle, as more effort had been placed into the rail and shuttle service than individual vehicles, but still they went. In their tens of thousands the weary pilgrims moved, chanting hymns to the Mater Most High while upholding icons sacred to her. Those who had gone against her commandments publicly prostrated before the icons and revealed all wrongs that they had done to the Atkanite community. Seers of the Faithful looked on such with mercy, absolving mercies in the name of the Mater Most High for offenses which ranged from private failings to uphold Atkanism to serious crimes that might require a Magistrate.

Ye, even if they should offend my Law to the fullest.
Remember that the Heart of the Law is mercy.
Rascals and Kings are equal in my eyes,
And a rascal who repents with conviction will enter my Hall before even a Sovereign.
-Scripturas Book 5 12:125


Columns of infantry joined the procession, though as servants of the Defender of the Faith they were not required to take on the mantle of the Faithful. Officers and enlisted men went forth without distinction of rank, for before the Most High actions would speak louder than rank. Markers for the multiple regiments raised from the hinterland greeted the descendants of the brave men who had gone forth before, with each regiment expected to due such sites homage even under the harshest of conditions.

Sala Atkana, Mater de Monde.
Sala Norva, Sija de Mater!

Sanctuaries, with their great domes, would be the key meeting ground for the peasants and those guildiers who had received leave to attend the sacred rites. Marble was the preferred building material, with mosaics revealed in the darkness by a vast array of candles. While most Frankians abhorred rich attire and dress, it was within the Halls of the Kirk that the riches of the Great Realm were bestowed. The Kirk shall endure until the day when the Pillars should fall and many of the Elect should stray from the fold.

Servants of the Faith, reckon the signs.
As did your forefathers, before my coming amongst you.
The gods that know the yoke of the Abyss will rise once more,
And their servants will weaken your ranks through falsehoods and false prophets.
Keep watch, lest you fall into error.
Keep watch, lest you fall into temptation.
Keep watch, lest you find yourself unarmed in a melee of which you cannot comprehend.
Fear not, for I will always watch over my Children.
And it is the uncaring Fates that bring hardships upon you,
But by your prayers I strengthen your hearts and your bodies that you might endure.
-Scripturas Book 3 5:18


The multitudes gathered and prostrated themselves before the fire brought from where the light of Atkanism had first arisen. The Seers of the Faithful read from the Scripturas aloud, gathering Sala in response to the profound truths which the initiates had been taught since a tender age. Those that had reformed their character or who had upheld the Tenants of Atkanism even upon the battlefield were honored by the Triarchs who sat upon a throne of metals sacred to the Mater Atkana.

Babies cried as the fire waxed over their foreheads in the sign of the Mater Most High, to which the Faithful cried Sala. High and low were united in this sacred baptism by fire, even if they come from different castes within the Great Realm. Before the eyes of the Kirk, there was no difference between the mortals in regards to claiming entrance into the Hall of Atkane.


Behold, there is no difference between the great folk in my eyes.
It is the character of their hearts, not their flesh,
That marks them as my children.
Let those who meditate upon this understand.
You, even those of the tenderest age.
Shall pass through the fire of adversity.
Such will strengthen your hearts and your mind,
And ensure that even the lowest among you shall be exalted as the greatest of saints.
-Psalmas 44:12

Some foreigners, a rare sight upon Frankian worlds, were granted admittance to the greatest Sanctuaries within the whole of Atkanism. Foreign rulers and representatives of metic communities would bear witness that their folk had accepted the Everlasting Faith. Opening their palms, the Triarchs proclaimed that this their blood shed in the Sanctuary of the Most High would cleanse such folk of their error brought upon by ignorance or by the Lords of the Abyss.

Public ceremonies and offerings were a daily occurrence, before the Faithful returned to their unending labor which must all of the Faithful must endure. Scribe or tradesman or peasant, all were required to take part in honest toil and to meditate upon the Holy Mysteries known only to Mother of All. Sala, Mater Atkana, may your children endure in labor and piety until the last age.


Isocrett Citadel


The Guards sharpened their swords upon the steps of the Sanctuary of the Arkhan Ford, a ruin after much heavy fighting with the Legions of Mylorr. The unbelievers had turned the holy structure into a bristling fortress, which had to be taken by storm lest it hold up the counter-attack against the parties which had landed across the planet. Much blood had been spilt, as the Guardsmen of Novoronda clashed with those who had attempted to extinguish the sacred flame of the Faith.

The sun was going down in the west, which drew the eyes of a number of youths who wondered if this was the last time they would see such a sight. The backdrop was grim, with the bodies of the profaners of the Sacred Flame laying intertwined with the bodies of the Holy Martyrs. Seers saw that the bodies of the latter were carted off with all due righteousness, while leaving the latter to fill the bodies of the sacred boar of Atkane.

The banner of the Guard fluttered proudly over the liberated Sanctuary, with the regiment's Captains scattering their companies to occupy those parts of the Sanctuary still standing. There was little time, for the enemy would soon attempt to retake the structure. Above the world of Isocrett loomed the great fleets of Mylorr, that had penetrated the First Boundary, and would soon attempt to pass the Second Boundary. Isocrett was a fortress world with a modest population, with the broken men of the garrisons which remained rallying to the Guardsmen whose royal charge had died upon these very steps.

The Guard had been formed to defend the Royal Line to the death, and this role had only grown in importance with the failings of the Dread Fleet to halt the Pordish assault upon the key Citadels. Such formations which had only been regiments had been expanded into divisions, with a formation which primarily fought on land now taking to the Void in divisions to keep watch on the Magisters-in-the-Void.

To Ranker Jann, this meant little, for his comrades in the Void were preparing to meet the unbeliever many stellar leagues from this doomed world. Around, great barrages leveled fields made fruitful by the work of Atkanites, and rocked the shelters which lurked below. Great floating manses had rebelled numerous swarms of enemy Killercraft and had ripped asunder many enemy landing craft before being obliterated under the concentrated firepower of the Republican Fleet.

Jan lit a cigarette, for such moments of calm were rare as his regiment had been in action since the first day. What replacements for the Guards had come from the few Regulars, veterans, and boys as young as twelve cycles. Few had proved themselves cowards, though even the best could break under the remorseless shelling which lessened the horror of coming to grips with a merciless enemy.

The guns of the defenders had not been idle, their work could be seen upon the rural roads that had been turned into trails of ruin for the enemy. Voltigeur companies had been tasked with disrupting and coordinating the fire, setting up turrets and snares as the armored columns worked their way. Communes were abandoned, with every man capable of bearing arms called forth to battle to buy time for the day when the vessels of the Dread Fleet should maintain orbital supremacy upon this world.

If we fall, we shall enter the Hall of the Most High as martyrs.
The enemy is an unbeliever and a defiler of the Most Holy.
Against them shall tend those who have been baptized by the Sacred Fire,
Under we shall be blessed to enter the Halls of our forefathers.

Jan sheathed his sword and checked his rifle, counting how many few of the precious shards were left. Replenishment from the subterranean rail had given the fighting formations that yet remained resupplied, for those unable to take up arms had been pressed into the factories below. The enemy had not yet penetrated the vast underground network, though once they did it would not be long before the Guards would likely be hurling rocks at the foe.

A body of a Legionnaire lie crumpled upon the steps, a great shard had penetrated through his cuirass and had created a gaping hole where his abdomen had been. A well placed shot, which had resulted in this poor bastard finding his insides being destroyed by whirling fragments as the shell detonated upon striking flesh. These shards were rare, though Jan was aware that poison and other unseemly ordinance had been utilized against realms hostile to the Faith.

Jan spat and kicked the corpse hard, memories of his family lost in the Urlann to the Legions of Mylorr flashing before his eyes. They had come as the Dread Realm had withdrawn from the system, taking advantage of the Exodus to enslave those which remained to do work that the Elect of the false gods fought unworthy of them. The metics amongst the Frankians had been enslaved, but no quarter had been given to any Frankian regardless of age. Even the Urstanna granted respite should a Frankian accept their false teachings, but not for those with whom an old hatred existed.

One by one the bastions of Jan's homeworld had fallen, with the few Greenclad being wiped out to a man. Then it had been the turn of the civilians upon the surface, those who had not been evacuated to the underground bastions. The Legionnaires shot every one they could, showing no mercy be they old or young. Jan's father had died in battle, while his mother had died once a column of refugees had been shot up by enemy Killercraft.

It was a miracle that the Dread Fleet had returned to drive the Mylorrans from orbit, a miracle which had been rare. It had been the turn of the Mylorran stragglers to die like dogs, though such work gave the Frankians no pleasure. Jan had been rescued from one hell to be dropped into another, though this time he could at least do something.

His visor crackled.

Enemy columns upon the horizon...

Frankian artillery boomed in the distance, heralding another round of bloody fighting. In the dying sun Jan could see the light reflect upon the tanks and armored craft of the Legions, before ducking into a chamber that still remained. The shielding would have to hold, and above he heard the crackling of turretfire dispatching those Killercraft that remained.

Enemy guns battered against the shielding of the Sanctuary, though under the impact some pillars within the Most Holy Place gave way. Jan's comrades took up their positions and readied themselves as the Mylorran Legionnaires prepared to assault the structure. Mortar and Burrower teams worked, while Seers prayed for the souls of all who must pass through the fire of combat.

In the distance a Mylorran tank passed by the ruins of a proud commune, before strafing a ruined building with autocannon fire. It was then that the Burrower rose from the cobble streets and burst underneath the weak armor of its belly. The tank rose and fell, her surviving crew rushing into a whirling of quadfire. Jan did not fire, saving his remaining ammunition for those who would certainly work their way through the hail of cannonfire.

Jan's Captain rushed through the ruins, rousing the courage of the company with their past deeds and how the hallowed ground would certainly grant them a good death in the eyes of Atkane. The junior officers meanwhile took up their positions with their men, for every man was required upon this day. More craft came into view, as the company's anti-armor teams went into action alongside the few turrets still left to the Royal Army.

Mylorran Legionnaires worked their way, seeking shelter in the houses which still stood in the commune. Jan trained his shard rifle and fired, watching his shard drop a Mylorran who had ran out of a house which was on fire. He saw the lower half of his body ripped apart from his upper, but he trained his sights upon a number of foe that had clustered together behind a wall.

The man on his left bellowed a cry to the Most High, before falling to the ground with a gaping wound in his chest. One of his comrades tried to staunch the bleeding, but Jan knew that Atkane would receive another martyr as the man gave up his lifesblood. Jan avenged the individual by loading an explosive shard into his rifle and firing above the heads of the Mylorrans who were returning fire.

He noted that many followed behind their armored craft or disgorged from them, but then there was only so much time. Mortars exploded everywhere, and the ground was ripped from the brave Mylorrans who came to grips with the Guards. Some of their number had made their way to the steps of the lower hall, where a number of the company met them with steel. A fierce melee persisted for some time below, as the Guards slew many of the Legionnaires whose only recourse to steel in hand was the bayonet.

Jan readied his bayonet and descended below once he had spent his last shard, sending up a Sala as he entered a dance of dead. The enemy was now everywhere, though the few Guards checked their advance with swift strides. Dodging rifle fire, they worked their way through their foe while turrets were reloaded to spew yet forth more death.

A quad knocked over a pillar above and poured death upon the enemy who had made their way through the entrance. Jan could hear little, though he saw many figures blown apart while the ground below his feet rocked as the enemy fleet had now joined in. It would not be long now, before all here must die, but Jan sought to send as many of his enemy as he could to the Abyss before his time.

He drove his bayonet into the abdomen of a Legionnaire, withdrawing it and bludgeoning the skull of the slain man's comrade with his rifle butt. Dropping his rifle, he drew his sword and jumped into the rank of those Mylorrans who made their way through the whirl of cannon fire. He struck hard, fast, and called upon all the Devas loyal to the Mater Most High to join the battle upon the side of the Righteous.

The skull of many unbelievers he split, sending their souls to their gods below. In such close quarters, his natural speed overcame the lethargy of the ranks softened by decadence. With each cry of Sala a Mylorran fell to the ground, and many Salas he uttered before the enemy began proving too much for the few who had checked their advance.

Jan fell to his knees as a Mylorran bayonet pierced his shoulder, before sending forth his blade through the Legionnaire's torso. Others came round, but the dying Guardsman drew his dirk and tackled the first of the many. As bayonet after bayonet entered his body, he utilized what remaining strength he had to drive his dirk into the poor wretch that lay below him. As many blows as he was given, Jan gave before his soul departed to the Hall of his forefathers.


Endless Paperwork

The First Boundary of Arkhana had been passed by the Republican Fleet, with forces encountering the 33rd Corps somewhere in the vicinity of the Citadel of the Ancients. The Vrasha rose from his knees upon morning prayers and headed towards his office accompanied by a number of servants. They made their way through the Manse of the Righteous, through communes where children played before the start of work in the fields. How many should the Vrasha press into battle, would Mylorr reach the very citadel of Arkhana?

The Gates of the Abyss had been opened with the renewal of the ancient war, which knew no beginning and no end. The dispatching of the Prasental Fleet had been carried out with much professionalism, though this had left the sole Frankian citadel within NS-1 ripe for assault by the formations of the Coalition. Where the Fraconians had blundered, the Mylorrans had readied themselves upon driving back the Dread Fleet off Mylorr.

The Fall of Isocrett had been expected, but not so rapidly as the 45th Corps had given way under the hammerblows of what amounted to a substantial portion of the Republican Fleet. The Vrasha had called for the assistance of the whole Emerald Pact to halt the advance of Mylorr, though only the Confederation of the Sacred League had pledged to send an expeditionary force. What divisions Arkhana had for her defense would have to suffice, while all unnecessary industry was pressed into service.

Every merchantmen that is armed must be pressed into service as reserves, this is a direct order from the Highest Official within NS-1. Every individual, who does not possess skills necessary for the defense, must be brought into the Home Fleet and the Territorial Army to assist the regular formations. All true Atkanites must say prayers at every hour, until the Mylorrans should fall upon their own swords.

Holograms displayed the enemy's penetration in the system, with Corps Commanders conferring with one another as the III Armada was sent into action at the perimeter of the Second Boundary. Great Dromonds anchored the line, as the Wulfrum destroyers readied themselves to bear the full weight of the Mylorran assault. Here, the fate of Arkhana would be decided, and it would require much blood to halt what seemed an inevitable advance. The Vrasha had prepared for this day since his arrival in NS-1, and now it had come.

The ravaging of Isocrett bade the folk onwards, to face death in vengeance of their comrades lost upon the surface and in the Void. The unbeliever would perish under the blows of the 54th and 98th Corps while the 33rd made due course to overwhelm the right of the enemy. Guards divisions had been gathered with some elements of the Voltigeurs under the command of Dux Estann vra Astarr, a noble of Talestrian and Aralian blood.

Astarr's frontage extended over a vast area of Void, and it was not possible to be strong everywhere. Great fortifications had been established, as well as the shifting of the Home Fleet away from Isocrett. This had been a hard decision, but a necessary one, as the vessels withdrawn from Isocrett would free up other formations of the Dread Fleet. The Mylorrans might have gained ground, but they had ensured that the Frankians were able to concentrate their forces to blunt their offensive.

The Vrasha had promised the Dread Sovereignness that Arkhana would avenge the failure of the attempt on Mylorr, something made easier with greater preparation on his part. The Magistrum had made its attempt on Mylorr in a colossal scale, and though a number of citadels of the District had fallen initially the enemy had been able to press every ship into action. Beset on all sides, the Prasental formations had fought hard against a foe who would not grant respite until the old enemy of their blood was scattered across the Void.

Casualties had been heavy, with the Corps Commanders of the Prasental Fleet proving themselves more responsive than the deliberating Magisters. Their formations had managed to withdraw and counter-attack exposed sections of the advance, before withdrawing once beset against overwhelming strength. The line regiments of the Dread Fleet had proved their worth, dispatching the lumbering formations of the Republican Fleet caught under heavy fire.

A defender can afford to lose ground, it is the maintaining that his forces remain whole which is important. Utilize every advantage when possible, and force the enemy to divide or concentrate his forces. If he divides, these formations can be destroyed piecemeal. If he concentrates his forces into one body, this body can be beset on all sides more easily. Do not break, even when defeat stares you in the eyes. Remember, my children, that the Romans suffered horrendous losses before they were able to reduce Carthage to ash. Persist, and victory is ours!
-Magister Navigum Vrantrille to the Prasental and Home formations of the Dread Fleet

The Vrasha set matters aside, as he reviewed the reports from the world known as Gnosis. This ancient citadel had been abandoned by a civilization that had fallen during the Rising of the Abyss, with crumbling ruins hinting at the ferocity of the daemon assault. Legend hinted, as well as the Scripturas, that it was here that the pivotal battle of Light and Darkness had been fought.

The Vranni upon this world witnessed Atkane and her daughter Norva descending from on high, with their army of Vani and innumerable attendants. Gild in silver armor studded with rubies, both the Mater Most High and the Bearer of the Warhammer stemmed the daemonic tide and slew many of the Lords of the Abyss. Their bodies, it was said, had bequeathed Gnosis most of its bounty in agriculture and booty in rare minerals...

The Governor of this world had not expected such an ancient world to once more know war, but the Dux Attan vra Marstann was a capable soldier. He had seen to the siting of the Home Fleet, the orbital bastions, and to the emplacement of the soldiers. Civilians had been evacuated to Arkhana and reinforcements brought up even as Isocrett knew defilement. Marstann had placed heavy guns in the crumbling masonry, while ensuring that the holorail network was secured by the placement of multiple bastions.

The Vrasha sent a prayer to the Mater Most High that the Fates would smile upon the endeavor of her children, before turning towards Arkhana's defenses as the battle for Arkhana waged in the Void. Conversos were dispatched to the front, to serve upon the lesser craft churned out at such rapid pace. These men were cannon fodder, the Vrasha was well aware, but their martyrdom would save regular formations while wearing down Mylorran formations far, far from their own yards.

Frankian commanders of such formations were not to squander them in futile actions, but to hold where possible. Close quarters combat would spell the ruin of the hundreds of Corps created in such a manner, though boarding was not out of the question. Converso craft would be slow to maneuver, let alone withstand long in Voidkampf before being withdrawn. While Regular formations saw between ten and twenty percent casualty rates within a standard engagement, such lambs to the slaughter were expected to reach nearly fifty percent.

This had to do with the nature of the craft and being trained upon venturing to the front, but such craft were simple for even a barbarri to service. Under the command of retired Frankian commanders or those deemed incompetent by the Magistrum, these units were as likely to bolt should they meet the enemy head on. Greater care was taken for Frankian craft manned by Frankians and those who were honorary members of folk, though even the latter still faced discrimination.

Talestrian craft so far had reported greater losses, though such Divisions of Talestra were regarded as usually unreliable. Only under Frankian commanders could they be of some use, though such thoughts did not extend to the professional Urlannans whose only failing was in the treason of some of their number off Legacy. Vrantrille had ensured that the Vrasha would at least have some sturdy Urlannan formations to stem the inevitable tide, and from battle reports they had proved their worth.

The 120th Division Urlanna was an anomaly, as it was commanded by an Urlannan by the name of Dux Arstann vor Nurra. Nurra's Division, or so the 120th was referred to, had entered the Battle upon the penetration of the First Boundary. While the 3rd Division Talestra of the 33rd Corps had withered under the overwhelming fire of Mylorr, the 120th had stood firm and counter-attacked with some success against the vanguard of the Mylorrans. Their light blue uniforms, a sacred color to the Urlannans, set them apart from the rest of the Greenclad members of the Fleet.

Nurra's flagship was always at the front, and it endured the same hardships as those of the Regiments of the Line. In the thick of the action, Nurra unlike his Frankian counterparts was there. He employed Vreizhan boarders, recruited from the plains of Vriezh upon Gerwannia, to some good work when it came to boarding those craft which had been overwhelmed by men who had come to enslave them.

Men of Urlann, you have come far with the Greenclad.
Your forefathers bled with the descendants of Wylus,
Against those that desired your enslavement.
Brave Urlannans, forward into the unremitting battle!
To retreat is to gain dishonor, to advance is to gain immortality!
Death before dishonor!
Forward, my children!

The Frankians admired the Urlannans to the point of copying some of their manners and honoring some of their gods. Duty was second nature to this folk, and there was a sigh of relief when news went round that an Urlannan division had arrived to support the advance. Vrasha preyed that the vessels and men of Nurra's Division would come out of this action largely unscathed, but only the Fates were aware of what might be decided in the Void.

[Royal Frankia]

Blackfyre


Logistics Marshal Attan vor Mabeck had not been able to sit down since the occupation of the first of Blackfyre's citadels, worlds which did not bode well for agriculture or the establishment of garrisons without sufficient life support. Bastions had been established for terrestrial strip mining, though the hellish landscape inclined fewer personnel to take part in such actions. Orbital yards and works were where the bulk of the Corps' production and revictualing operations were located, with the Corps Commander frequently sending request after request to Mabeck's desk.

Against the old enemy, no compulsion of stripping a world bare existed, and the vast machines began the process of denuding this world of everything viable. What Fraconians who had managed to survive the orbital bombardment would likely be wiped out once the environment that they depended upon was entirely blotted out. The arsenal of the Corps would benefit greatly upon the death of this enemy world, as well as the replenishment of other necessities which could be of some use for future operations.

Mabeck was weary of the boasts of the factoryships within the Fleet, for ultimately they might meet requirements within an action but might fail if the supply system should give out. Given the lengthy nature of conflicts, it was not out of the possibility that the Fleet could be starved of munitions if it should be penned up for a number of cycles. Rates of expenditure were monitored, even in minor actions, and it was Mabeck's job to ensure that fresh conquests would not force the Dread Fleet to squander resources on installations when it was in the need of shells.

The floating manse above the bastions was a gigantic structure, with the ability to traverse the stars should the need require. Below, drones had been sent to examine the best sites which would yield the most in the short-term, while deposits which would pay off in the long-term would be brought under production immediately by the Zek Corps. Some crackling below hinted that some of the enemy still survived, with but a raising of the hand the Logistics Marshal dispatched enough ordinance to make them wish that they had kept quiet.

Sala, Atkana!

Mabeck's subordinate, the Marshal of the Supply Train, entered without much adieu. No one had the time to salute within the Logistics Corps, there was too much work to be done for formalities whose slighting might anger a Magister. If Magisters and enlisted men did the fighting, it was the men of the Logistics Corps that kept them from throwing rocks at the enemy if everything shout hit the fan.

Sala, to you, Marshal Jan vra Mastann! What of the news of the scrap left behind by the enemy, is it capable of being worked?

Aye, aye. It is, sir.

Mastann took off his cap and wiped his brow, though if he were on the surface he would have been incinerated before he could register the heat. Mabeck sighed and reached for a mug of cafe, not bothering to pour brandy and cream into the brew that kept many going. Overwork was constant, and Mabeck did not wish to imagine the hell that the Logistics Marshal of an Armada might have to endure for keeping multiple Corps supplied. Just one was a hassle, especially in regards to the shipyards where the flow of traffic had to be constantly regulated.

While the Dread Fleet preferred anything with a pulse, its Logistics Corps required technicians, troubleshooters, and micromanagers. Long-term planning was much as their heads as in the short-term, and only a fool thought that a decisive action would bring about victory. Every gram of necessities must be measured, every second must be counted, and even if half the Fleet were lost so long as it could fight it could still achieve victory.

Now, now, Mastann.. It would be fitting that we should return their wrecks to them, no?

Most proper, Logistics Marshal.

Mabeck smiled, and poured a mug for the belabored Supply Marshal.

Let them say that we never gave them anything.

The bodies of the Fraconians who had fallen were left unattended, left to float within the Void for as long as the Cosmos should remain. Some sought to tap into the vast amount of power that their corpses maintained, even after death, but the Magistrum had refused as it did not believe in desecrating the dead. On that, even their ancient foes had come to terms that even the dead should be permitted a respite from the horrors of war.

Report after report flashed upon the holofeed, forcing Mabeck to return to his work which knew no end. Burn out was greater here than even in the Gunnery Corps, but with those who could withstand the drudgery there was a shot at a post in the Fleet Planning Bureau. Mabeck was aware that the Crown had ennobled a higher percentage within the Logistics Corps than even the Magistrum, something that the latter had never forgotten.

Petty rivalries did not get in the way of the operation of the Fleet and the waging of war, for all were brethren in both religion and in ideology. Of both, Mabeck did not have much time as work constantly interfered, he had not even had time to find a wife before being dispatched to this volcanic world. Sometimes he thought of resigning, but he could not abandon his Corps once the shooting in honest had begun.

Sala Atkana, grant me strength to do that which is my duty.

[Royal Frankia]

How long shall the unbeliever maintain,
The fair Daughters of Atkane within his harem?
How long will true believers allow such maidens,
To be defiled by the enemies of all that is holy?
Are you not sons and daughters of Atkane,
Are you not soldiers and sailors sworn to defend the Realm to the death!
See not Feylor in the van, his green armor reflecting the sun's light?
See not the coming of the Iskandra, in all his glory?
Repent and take up arms, for to fall in this war is to gain martyrdom!
Holy martyrdom, that which shall separate the brave from the coward!
Onwards, onwards. For the enemy is afraid of the rejuvenated Ram.
Don your armor, think not of the morrow.
Think only of the hour, when once more the Sovereignness' host shall gather.
To avenge Feylor and restore the Lost Daughters to the royal hearth.

As the War in the Urlann raged with unremitting fury, drawing in more and more forces of the Prasental Fleet, there lay the issue of what to do with the Axis and their Pordish allies. Given widespread mobilization for the present conflict, it was not out of the question that war might be brought to the dormant powers. Their citadels and bastions would be overcome, as NS-1's decline had grown apparent. No more did the powers of old venture in force, those which remained rested on laurels yet to be tested.

Much to the ire of the Dread Sovereignness, the clergy promoted a righteous and just war against those who held captive what were the Lost Daughters. While the Crown might yield territories, those within the Kirk could not stand the notion that Sanctuaries of old should be forever lost. Much was made of restoring the Pillars, which had been utterly destroyed by the fighting. The pollution of the ground by the presence of unbelievers had stirred polemics against the Axis and the Pords, which had been suppressed as much as possible by the Ministry of Truth.

Some of their rhetoric had been incorporated into official propaganda, but then such talk was not taken with a grain of salt. To storm Tnem-Fragg itself, as some of the fakirs boasted with but the Prasental Fleet alone, was out of the question. The gods would not intervene, lest the Cosmic Pax should be broken and the gods of the Abyss should rise more to challenge the Champions of Light. Then mortals must cower, while the gods above battled entities whose horrors had been etched in the psyches of multiple races.

The Urlannan faction at court desired the return of the lost lands in the Urlann, while the Neustrians appeared willing to abide by the decision of the royal line. A Frank might have led the charge once more, and brought war to the very walls of Tnem-Fragg for the ravaging of Neustria. Not so a Frankian, a race that took its time and thought of greater things than gloire. The opposing forces of old could still mobilize fresh reserves from afar, or call in allies of old. Even the Ishii could descend upon the citadels which remained to the Dread Realm within NS-1.

Fakirs still roamed the Communes, offering prayers and incantations for those soldiers sent to the distant front. The fields of Austrasia and the mountains of Gerwannia bore their harvest of men and beasts patiently. The frontiers within PW-1 were unusually at peace, with only NS-1 being the seen of much bitter fighting. The bodies of those that were recovered were honored, with those of their lineage being granted titles fitting for a hero's death. Talent, heroism, and knowledge were the desired traits of a reformed nobility subject to the blood of Wylus.

Novorondon Guards ignored the pious, and sought to protect the material world. The estates of the royal line were vast, though most lay undeveloped compared to the rich farmlands of the peasants. Here, those of the blood and those with patronage would engage in hunting and trekking across country preserved for the devas. Oracles and shrines abounded here, to commemorate the Vani who were to take the forms of animals to consult those of the Elect. Few believed in such notions which were thought of as bordering heresy, but many a pious pilgrim made the trek on foot.

The Guard had become the Guardians of the Holy Sanctuaries, as well as the Royal Line. While personal loyalty to one's Sovereign was a given, there were many doubters within those who protected the holiest sites within Atkanism. The silence of the Mater Most High and her not overriding the Fates had bred some dissension, with some putting pen to paper to condemn the superstitions of the Kirk.

Should we continue to be swindled by these charlatans,
Who eat up the bounty of our society?
Parasites, who believe in a Mater who does not care for her children?
Not one man of sense has seen her,
The Oracles are a pious fraud to dupe the simple peasant!

In another age, this would have drawn the ire of the Censors, but they were too busy dealing with heretics who sprouted up like weeds across the Realm. While Atkanism condoned many beliefs and recognized many servants of Atkane, it could not tolerate those who desired to defile the Sanctuaries of the Most High or persecute the Vranni under the Rammenflieg. Each cycle saw the Realm Security Police and the Guards of Novoronda dispatch their battalions to crush dissent and restore the Pax of the Realm.

Surely, the Protector of the Faith must be a strict believer in Atkanite Orthodoxy, but matters of state occupied most of her time. She was a believer who acknowledged many of the Devas and had studied even the foreign faiths of the enemy. Collecting such works had been her passion, and she had sanctioned the forming of new sects to ensure the continued spread of Atkanism. This caused some rift with the Kirk, but the Sovereignness viewed a multitude of sects under royal patronage as a check on a Grand Triarch establishing a theocracy.

The National Syndicalist state had favored secularism and religious pluralism, since the time of its foundation. The Kirk still maintained privileges, as well as being the official faith of all Frankians within the Realm. Shrines to other gods and the proliferation of various Vranni religions had been permitted within the metic realms, with some shrines even being raised to Pordish deities after Pordish prisoners of war had been quartered there. Protection of Buddhists, Muhammadans, Zarathustrians, Christians, Chrislamists, Rationalists, and so was guaranteed so long as they remained loyal to the Dread Realm.

A heresy had arisen, blending the teachings of Mani with the tenants of Atkanism by the metics who had closely examined the sacred texts. The Elect of this creed proclaimed that Atkane was bound to the matter, and that to defile this matter by eating or swallowing insects by drinking unstrained religion meant undermining the Holy Mantle. The governors cared little, as such of this sect of Manicheans sought peace and a greater understanding with the myriad of traditions within the borderlands.


Streaming Banners and Endless Mud


So long as the Lost Daughters are under the yoke,
No hour can be spared until the din of battle commences.
Our forefathers will join with us, and take part in the holy war.
A People's War, to restore that which was lost by our fathers.
We have not forgotten or forgiven Ingenious treachery.
We have not forgotten the defilement of Neustria or the captivity of Grand Feylorium.
Our Captains demand that make our wills of Iron,
And our nerves of steel, that will never break.
Already, the enemy mourns the loss of many a son and a daughter.
Who lie scattered across the Void, by Frankian batteries.
Noble sons and daughters of Atkane,
Await the hour of revenge.
Darkness shall cover the Citadels of our adversaries,
Before all shall be purified by Holy Fire.

Young Atann Sejanius Wulfius strolled through the ranks of the Greenclad, inspecting their armor and their weapons. The youth had become a camp favorite since the early days of mobilization. Riding beside his mother, the Younger Prince had taken to heart the lessons of his martial instructors. Some said that he was Gerwann II come again, some spoke of him as the one who would blaze the trail of the Iskandra. All agreed that when Young Attan ascended the throne the Age of Shame would be at an end, and no more would the lust for revenge be stifled.

Factions within court supported this notion, and pressured the Sovereignness to give the youth at the age of fourteen cycles a Division to lead into battle. Naturally, the Division Attan would be kept far, far from the frontlines. A number of commanders were to surround the Younger Prince, to instruct him in Voidkampf and to groom him for the command of Fleets. His instructors did not focus on a classical education, save for those of the Classics which dealt with war.

To her credit, Ynga sought to leave her son a force worthy to take arms against the foes of old. Proficiency was much greater amongst the officer corps, with longer periods of training. The madness to send every youth to war would not be repeated, especially should they not prove adept upon craft hastily constructed. Frankian blood would not be spilled wantonly, while a focus on destroyers and capital ships had borne some fruit.

Above Gerwannia, the Dread Fleet marshaled its premier formations not dispatched to NS-1 to showcase its rebuilt power. Much had been siphoned off from developing minor outposts to create a Fleet capable of meeting the challenges present. Division after Division, organized into multiple Corps, were projected upon the few holoprojectors permitted in the Free Communes. This showcase of Frankian power and pride had not been seen in a generation, for most had been dispatched to the distant frontiers to subjugate barbarri or to check their incursions.

It had been fifteen cycles since the last Great War, and in that time the nation had focused on reconstruction. Rearmed, it pursued limited objectives to restore the pride of the Fleet and to ready itself for another round of bloodletting. Each Magister pledged to sharpen his sabre upon the steps of the Palatial Villas of Tnem-Fragg, others boasted of turning the Great Halls of Laptev into their own private studies. Those with more sense understood that boasts were nothing without the means, and it would be noted that the Great Powers had not been sitting on their hands while Frankian power inevitably recovered.

No effort had been taken to check the Frankian return to NS-1, let alone its attempt to reclaim the lost lands within the Urlann. As so often the case, those that rested on their laurels saw their swords rust dishonorably. Only the VRZ was deemed a credible threat by the Magistrum, the only force which might prevent Frankian hegemony within the declining Universe of NS-1. The Wolf was surely alert that the Ram had recovered and remembered, that the Faithful would not allow their Sanctuaries to remain forever in the hands of those that were unbelievers.

The Vrantrille clique had grown since his bringing the Economic Planning Bureau to heel, while other cliques had respectively declined. The Dux of Texcoco was well aware that there was some sense in an offensive strategy, but such brought about heavier losses than the Magistrum desired amongst the Great Folk. Only the great birth rate and temporary polygamy had restored those which were lost, with marriages conducted at a young age to bring forth soldiers for Atkane.

The Post-War era had seen constant fighting against primitives, but such easy victories could not be counted as restoring the Magistrum's confidence in itself. Vrantrille had cleaned house entirely, saving only those with potential to take part in what was a new system to match the might of the VRZ. Even with the blessing of the Kirk, the Magister Navigum sought to transform a Fleet of bold volunteers into valiant professionals. The ardor and courage of the men he could not dismiss, they had fought hard even when the chance of victory had been quashed.

Formations had been condensed and divided rationally, with a greater tonnage allocated towards capital ships. Yards constructed to produce vast warships lay scattered across Frankian space, churning out the leviathans which would guard the Realm. The metic realms had been contracted and reorganized, with most of the borderlands required to allocate a certain percentage of their Home Fleets towards the Reserve. All officers aboard such craft were to be of the Folk, no longer for fops with metic favor command warships under the Rammenflieg.

Despite this discrimination, those that were considered cousins loyal to the Crown had grown in status with the ascension of a commoner to the highest office. Atkans, Talestrians, Communitards, and Urlannans were now scattered across the Magistrum. Such were made honorary Frankians, permitted to join the Assembly of Grand Guildiers and reside on Frankian Citadels at the end of their service.

Compulsory service had not yet been introduced, for the power of the Guilds was too strong. Greater efforts at indoctrination were required, and fostering the literary circles of the Realm to promote Revanche against the enemies of old. Atrocities against the Atkanite Faithful, some real and some false, were reprinted daily within newspapers. Most were believed to be committed by the Maya, who had created innumerable martyrs with their demand for the blood of noblemen and those of the Faith.

As the force had grown since the Exodus to resemble something of its old strength, Vrantrille had never lost sight that the capital arm was vital for projecting firepower within a given area. The utilization of the vast corvettes, cheap to produce and to man with rabid religious fanatics, had not however been lost. These formations were unwieldy and inflexible, requiring trained personnel of which the Magistrum sought to maintain within the Prasental Fleet. From reports from the front, the Converso Corps had not bolted like the Talestrians did at Legacy when beset by the rebel Urlannans and Axis formations.

May Atkane send more converts,
To die so that sons of the Great Folk might now.

Already nine of the sixteen of the Prasental Armadas had been deployed to the Urlann, with multiple Novoronda and Converso Fleets joining them in the ferocious fighting. Each day brought new challenges for the Magisters-in-the-Void, with some succumbing to the pressure of constant combat with little respite. Others were nearly bored to death, guarding distant realms allied to the Dread Realm which would never come under attack. Vrantrille was well aware that this vast deployment left only a pittance to be deployed should war erupt on the frontier with Khymeria and the Urstanna.

Vrantrille turned to this realm forged from the fires of war and the lies of the false Prophet. Multiple citadels had yielded to the former Sovereign, with even some borderlands of the Great Folk coming under his hegemony. Fortunately, civil war and schism within the Disciples had brought about great bloodletting which had seen the borders of this realm contract. Taking advantage of the disorder, a twenty cycle Pax had been signed while the Frankians sought to restore the Old Borders within NS-1 to strengthen their grip on the Arkhana District.

[Royal Frankia]

Along the Saal


The sentries stood to attention, as the relic of a bygone age made his way from a midnight ride across the plains. Most were on edge, with news that the remnants of the Legion were still operating upon this liberated world. This bothered not the Vrasha, who had seen empires rise and fall throughout his long age. Blessed by Atkane and by his heredity, the Vrasha could claim to have been with Gerwann II at his last moments.

His flowing robes were all that he possessed, for one of his Order must renounce all to serve the Realm. At his side was a silver scepter, which bestowed upon the command of entire Citadels upon entering their space. Such Vrashas had multiplied as the state expanded, with the Governors and Magisters under their close scrutiny. The Zendgraafs of old had only enforced the Crown Law upon the periphery, they had not possessed the power to overturn decisions overnight.

The Vrasha's Guards followed their master, their white armor standing out in the darkness. Chosen from the clan of a Vrasha, such Guardsmen were known to rival even the Novorondons in valor upon the field of battle. Such valor was necessary, for a Vrasha often trekked to citadels at the front. Some of their number had obviously fallen to Legionnaire ambushes, some bore the signs of recent battle armor.

The Captain bowed before the Vrasha, and led him to the headquarters of the Marshal of the Third Army. This had once been the villa of a Dux, until the Mylorrans had stripped everything of value. Over the ruins fluttered the Rammenflieg once more, with the Mylorran dead being carried out while the Marshal sought to restore order to this distant province of the Realm. What the Fleet had accomplished in the Void, it was the work of the Third Army to secure upon the ground.

The invasion had been rough, as the Legionnaries had prepared for this eventuality. Bastions they had established in rough terrain, and a holorail system they had erected to rapidly transport men and materiel to where they were required. Despite superiority in firepower, the Frankians found that their enemy still extracted a horrific price in blood.

The Vrasha noted upon the rolls that some regiments were understrength, though this was due to the nature of the present conflict. Reinforcements were bound, to fill the ranks of those who had departed for Atkane's Hall. The Austrasians were more numerous, their dialect which he could barely understand heard around many a campfire. For nearly a thousand cycles, the sons and daughters of Austrasia had answered the call of the Dread Sovereign to take part in the wars abroad. Honest tillage was no substitute for the honors won in the field, and many an ancestor would frown upon a free peasant refusing to honor the vows they had made at the beginning.

Despite the relaxed atmosphere, just beyond the camp of the Army was a scene of desolation. Bastion after bastion had fallen, and it was only natural that the pride of the combatants on both sides could not allow such a slight to their honor. The Vrasha had seen with his own eyes the bodies of Legionnaires and Greenclad intertwined, reminding him of the fighting reported at Neustria in the last days before the Armistice.

The communes he had passed through had been razed by the Legion, with most of its inhabitants shot out of hand who could not bear the yoke. The foe only spared children, who were more likely to accept their lot than adults who had lived their whole lives as free men. Some, unfortunately, had been carried off to the markets of Mylorr before the Prasental Fleet had arrived in force... All had sworn to leave not a Mylorran alive, and even the wounded of the enemy the Vrasha had sent to the gods of the abyss with his own hand.

Marshal Astarr vra Vras looked over his holotable to see the Vrasha entered, though his Guards remained outside the Villa chatting with the retinue of a Dux.

I see the Mater Most High has saved one most wise from the Abyss..

Sala, Mater Atkana. Sala, Norva, Norvana!

The Vrasha was well aware that the Marshal was more interested in his timetable than the life of one old man. Vras's Army was scattered over several terrestrial leagues, to stamp out the pockets of Mylorr which still remained. From his ride, he could tell that the Third Army would linger here for some time.

Despite the savagery of the enemy, the Vrasha was well aware that they must possess courage to fight to the last even when all was lost. Attacks were made upon isolated Frankian garrisons in rear areas, seemingly out of nowhere. Once they intermingled with the Frankians within a commune, such fighting usually turned to the bayonet or the entrenching shovel.

It was the Vendann Plain which was upon the Marshal's holotable, depicting what remained of perhaps a division of the enemy. Enemy batteries had been sited, and had come under counter-battery fire from orbit and from the Army's field artillery. The preference for great guns had only increased, as such were seen as capable of subjecting the enemy to a storm of steel which would not substantially alter the environment compared to other ordinance.

Already, the enemy's shielding array was coming under strain, while the 5th and 8th Divisions of the Royal Army attempted to envelop the salient in the Frankian lines. Once encircled, such formations which remained could be ensured not avenue of escape... Gods willing, the artillery might spare many of the Greenclad this time from overcoming the great bastions of the enemy which had so far survived nearly three weeks of steady bombardment.

The Marshal merely turned to his aide, and bade him bring forth a cup of chai for the Vrasha. A quick glance revealed a mug of coffee perched upon the holotable, which would likely succumb like many other cups before this night was over. Sipping the tea, the Vrasha sought to confirm that which he had seen with his own eyes.

Do you believe that in a quarter cycle, the Third Army shall be able to retire?

The Marshal sipped from his mug, before setting it down. His uniform differed little from that of a common soldier, save for the medal of the Order of Rammenheim that lay upon his tunic.

This is a fight that will not end until the last son of Mylorr is dead... Of that date, I cannot be certain.

The Vrasha nodded, before turning to the map. The Mylorran division was attempting to fall back before the trap shut, with its line of retreat already falling under severe pressure. What remaining tanks they possessed they threw at the enemy, in an attempt to buy time for their armored lorries to escape. Heavy guns fired, until their positions were overrun by the Greenclad who pressed their foe relentlessly. Upon a rise, the Vrasha noted the ascent of several companies as the Mylorrans poured fire down upon those servants of the Dread Sovereignness.

To the left of this rise, the Vrasha spotted the 3rd Novorondon Guards regiment making its assault upon the Mylorran position. Guardsmen advanced quickly up its slope, dodging enemy turret fire while flinging satchels into the foxholes of the enemy. Explosion after explosion flickered on the display, as the 3rd Guards broke the enemy line. Despite horrific fire and ferocious counter-attacks, the Guards held as the Royal Army sought to exterminate those sons of Mylorr whose bastion the Marshal had slated to fall.

The 3rd Neustrian Grenadiers regiment, with Voltigeur detachments to the fore, were gaining yard after yard only after much shedding in blood upon the right. This rise had to fall, though the Frankians did not desire to advance into the bastion itself until much of it had been smashed by the Field Artillery. Outlying forts, however, were fair game as the Grenadiers drove their bayonets into those few of the enemy who had not fallen back to higher positions. Those who fled were picked off by portable turrets or by the crack shots of the Voltigeurs who brought down Legionnaires as though they were game to be had in the forest.

The Vrasha scowled, for it was obvious that Vras desired to win a great glory in this action. Such mattered little to the Vrasha, who sought to preserve time as well as life. The Mylorrans should have been annihilated from orbit, with little of this world remaining, but such was not the will of the Crown. Victories were needed, especially upon grave defeats.

To your coming victory, Marshal...


The Cause for Reform

The ferocious fighting within the Urlann had exposed many cracks within the Magistrum's system, as the Prasental Fleet was involved in a major campaign far from PW-1. Reports of combat fatigue had risen, with even the best breaking down before the great scenes of desolation. Commanders were placed on leave who did not deliver results, with certain members of the dynasty actually being sent to see to the reorganization of the Prasental Fleet in the Void.

Even as there was some uncertainty as to who was leading them, the soldiers and sailors of the Fleet did not waver as might be expected. It was not the lower ranks that Vrantrille was worried about, but those of the Magistrum who were stuck in ways that did not suit the present conflict. Tactics were important, lest the Dread Fleet repeat the folly of Varus against a modern Hannibal.

The issue was with those commanders in peacetime who could not transfer to what was a war. A series of demotions and transfers to formations from the frontlines had accompanied the setbacks. To a Frankian noble, reputation was everything, and to lose one's reputation was to lose favor at Court.

We have the ships, we have the men... What we lack are the right commanders.

A stunning admission from the Magister Navigum of the Fleet itself, who had implemented multiple reforms to strengthen the Fleet. Perhaps this was an overstatement, for there were occasions where Frankian commanders exercised a greater daring than their peers. The great number of craft under their command, however, had proven more difficult to wield than the formations which had subjugated vast areas of PW-1.

The Magistrum brought distinguished commanders out of retirement, and called for the Holy Orders to grant leave for those who had sought peace in devotion. Magister Attan vra Marbeck was one such of these, who upon arriving at the flagship of the III Armada subsequently sought to restore the situation. On the brink of disaster, Marbeck reorganized the III Armada rapidly with the emergency powers he had been granted. There was much grumbling among the impious as the Old Rites were performed aboard all vessels, but such strengthened the solidarity of all. [/i].

Vrantrille read similar reports of other formations, who had implemented more reforms of a secular nature. They had weakened their commands to form mobile reserves, to counter-attack in force where the enemy sought to outflank a Corps. More wieldy than the reserve Corps, these mobile reserves usually consisted of what was in essence a regiment and several heavy battalions. Greater firepower was possessed within these formations, to bear upon a critical point. The old Fleet had dispersed her capitalships amongst the regiments, rather than concentrating the majority of them for work which they were best suited.

All commanders must maintain a Battlegroup, with which to restore the situation should the enemy attempt to smash through at a certain point upon our front. It cannot be ignored that these formations can aid us greatly in the wars to come, for they allow better utilization of existing resources. The Lancer formations are to be stood down, and are to reinforce the Battlegroups as soon as they receive proper commanders.

The Vrantrille did not spare even the Voltigeurs, who were the first to fall within the Void.

The Voltigeur detachments must release companies to support the Battlegroup in its mission to overcome the enemy. The light, wieldy craft are most useful in outflanking and enfilading the enemy at multiple points. The daring of Voltigeur officers I do not dismiss, but such might be better utilized in the Reserve.

Vrantrille had seen to the creation of vast reserve formations, which had not been possible before. Officers in high regard were brought from the front, when possible, to train those who would replace those who fallen in the Void. Students within the Academy were conscripted as officers within the Fleet upon their completion of the courses. Religious enthusiasm could only go so far, for the educated usually shied away from the horrors of the front.

No more shall exemptions be granted to students of the Academy, let alone even faculty whose talents are required. We are at war, and all must do their part until the enemy is but a distant memory. I call upon your patriotism, your duty to the Dread Sovereignness...

This led to an attempt by the Student Guild to overcome what they saw as unwanted militarism, with mass protests against the war. The minority was more vocal than the majority, who went once called forth by the Realm. Vrantrille had gained a march upon the Economic Planning Bureau in this regard, for such talent had been wasted upon administration and attempts to fulfill the latest Economic Plan.

We are at war and we need those with the best minds... They must be trained to replace the fallen, and that is not an easy task. Ships are more easy to replace than men, and already our forces have suffered gravely as our Officer Corps has been overwhelmed. The Magisters who are worthy of their rank do not possess the resources needed, to bring this conflict to a swift end.

Attan Feylorius Wulfius had been called forth after his attending University, for not even the Crown Prince was spared from the War in the Urlann. His mother ensured that he would reserve far from the front, upon a picketcraft off Gerwannia itself. Attan would have preferred service in the Army, but the Dread Sovereignness was aware that his Scepter was maintained with the Fleet.

Go forth, my child, and defend the Realm that your forefathers bequeathed to you. Your grandfather died in its defense, and so did his father against the barbarri horde. Are you not of their blood, are you not of the Beloved of Atkane?

Even the impious students made their devotions at the Sanctuaries, calling forth the Mater Most High to deliver them from this Road to Cavalry. Incense burned unceasingly, as many were baptized by the Holy Fire to ensure that their souls did not sink to the Abyss. Morals improved greatly, which perhaps was assisted by discipline within the Fleet.


Rally around the Banner

DKS Atarxes, a Dromond vessel, had been selected as the flagship for the Magister Attan vor Arstann prior to the beginning of the great siege. In the distance, loomed the citadel of Blackfyre which had never fallen to an enemy assault. The fighting had died down, with the Commonwealth content to reclaim the occasional system while each side prepared for the great battles in what was to be the Third Cycle of the War.

Along a wide front the Dread Sovereignness' Prasental II Armada had made due course, overcoming the outlying systems with surprising ease. It was believed that the Commonwealth would not yield such ground without a fight, but they had upon realizing that the Dread Realm had come in numbers far greater than before. The Prasental Armada, far from the lumbering formations that had come before, acted decisively and enveloped the formations of the Commonwealth before they could fall back to friendly territory.

Vor Arstann, an Urlannan by birth but a Frankian by heart, had seen to it that the steel rings surrounding many Fraconian formations were not lifted. So far, all attempts at breaking out had been repulsed, while the influx of reserves held back for such an occasion had ensured that the front would at least be stabilized. Cut off, the Citadel of Blackfyre still remained defiant, expecting timely rescue from the remnant of her Fleets that lay scattered across the Cosmos.

The figure of a Sister of the Holy Order appeared, the AI known simply as Atossa by all who served with her for some period.

Greetings, Magister Attan vor Arstann! Sala, Mater Atkana! Sala, Norva, Norvana!

Sala!

The Magister was weary, averaging per night some four hours of sleep. There was hardly any time to rest, let alone sleep. Unlike other Magisters, he had seen to it that he would endure the same rigors as his men in the firing line. The DKS Atarxes had sallied forth into battle to restore the situation, her great batteries breaking up the ranks of the Praetorians time and time again. For with the Atarxes was the 109th Heavy Squadron and the 5th Novorondon Guards Fleet Regiment, slated as Battlegroup Artsann by Magister's writ.

Such Battlegroups were more effective than the Lancers, and brought about greater unit cohesion than had previously been the case. Still, some wore the uniforms of the Lancers or carried the standards of the formations that had brought the light of civilization to the primitive realms. Dromonds, dreadnoughts, cruisers, and destroyers were contained within these heavy formations, for they were meant to strike at a pivotal point or to reinforce the beleaguered Fleet Regiments upon coming under great pressure.

There was no sight like a Dromond emerging from the ether of the Void, to unleash batteryfire upon the run. Such resembled the charge of an elephant upon the field of battle, likely to break the morale of the enemy before the combatants should reach close quarters. Decorated with holy statues, depicting the Vranni and the Patron San of the craft, it would seem as though from out of the Heavens had come the whole Holy Host to contest the Void with mortals.

The great guns were loaded with precision, her gunners methodically going about a task that they had performed time and time again. Even with much being automated, a skilled hand was still required. The gunners made vows to the Most High and cursed the servants of the Abyss. The Captains of the Batteries awaited the order, to unleash the Mater's Light upon those who lived in darkness.

Energy stores were taxed, as the Projectors unleashed energy gathered from transit upon those who lived off the labor of others. The stunning light of Atkane overwhelmed the shielding array of craft who had not readied themselves for the encounter, and sheered away entire sections of the craft at a speed that startled those. These weapons were rarely used, for the Magistrum still preferred the great batteries to weapons that inflicted unmanly damage.

Still, from the results these weapons had broken up the ranks of the Praeotrian Fleet as much as the great guns. There was some belief that these weapons should be miniaturized and fitted upon every destroyer, even if that came at the expense of other ordinance. The effects of torpedoes and missiles were analyzed, for such weapons were being constantly improved to meet changing circumstances. Greater charges were not enough, some speculated that shielding each and every one might bring about greater effectiveness in a barrage. Others hinted at stealth, or deploying such ordinance only within minefields.

To Arstann, such matters were best left for the Academy, while blood and steel kept the Praetorians from driving back the Dread Sovereignness' formations. Many of the men had he decorated, and those junior officers observed for talent had been given their due. Those who failed under his command were duly demoted and allowed to restore their rank upon leading actions against the foe. For those that could not even do such, such individuals Arstann had committed to serve the Order of the Coming Enlightenment..

Assisting missionaries in pious work was preferable to shooting them for incompetence... It was not unknown for past admirals of great nations to have been strung up by those that they had served faithfully. Still, in this way a disgrace was still useful, for to spread the Faith to a thousand heathen worlds was greater than expanding the Realm by five thousand.

As it was in the time of Gerwann II, when he first brought the Dread Fleet to the heathen lands of the Urlann for the first time... The heathen had arrayed against him a great citadel, which they claimed should defy even the Iskandra... Against the impious rabble, the San prayed aloud to Atkane and she answered his call..

[Royal Frankia]

Revival


Rank after rank marched through the communes of the Districts that they had been raised, before heading for disembarkation zones established for the removal of the 2nd Royal Army. Smart uniforms which looked excellent on the parade ground were traded for somber green fatigues, as many did not desire to wear their power armor which restricted their movement on deck. The suits of iron would not be worn, until the enemy was closing or the Regulars should descend upon the surface to do righteous battle.

The Regulars clashed with the Sailors of the 45th Reserve Armada, who were mostly made up of conscripts with a scattering of veterans. For them, this was no grand adventure, for reports from the front hinted at a long, bloody struggle. The officer of the 15th Regiment had found the Shiplord uncompromising when it came to sparing space, let alone allowing Royal Army personnel to maintain their own style of discipline. Most officers and enlisted men felt themselves better than those who had been dragged kicking and screaming to the front, and if this was the present day Fleet then gods help the Realm.

The Magister of the Armada they found to be welcoming to the Army personnel, for such regarded them as perhaps useful in boarding. Given actions in the past, the Reserve Armadas had not received full Marins complements. Conscripts going through crash course training were likely to fail against professionals, something which could be seen in past actions. Against the Praetorian Fleet or the Republican Fleet, let alone other serious contenders, the Reserve Armadas would be destroyed outright.

Fortunately, for all involved, the Reserve Armadas were no longer sent into action directly. Rather, these Reserve formations were released piecemeal, into parent units within the Prasental and Home formations. To maintain the integrity of the units in the field as an absolute, and the Marshal of the Army were well aware that the Fleet had borrowed from the practice of the Royal Army. Some thought those Magisters appointed to lead such formations would find such home front commands disgraceful, but most did what duty commanded.

Look, Marshal, we can no longer afford to train peasants and guildiers for six weeks and send them to the Void as a whole... They fight brave, they die well, but these formations have never won a victory against a regular formation. On paper, our numbers are great, but we do not utilize the potential of replacing losses. If the men I have trained and led are scattered to strengthen the Fleet as a whole, then so be it.

Multiple Reserve Armadas had been created across the Realm, all with the same purpose of replacing losses in the ongoing conflict. Should the Home Fleets find themselves overwhelmed, the Reserve formations within a Citadel would be distributed to worthwhile commanders. Such could be a potential force multiplier and greatly assist in the holding of the outer systems, with more ships and men ensured for the defense of a system not raised in an ad hoc fashion.

What was perhaps of greater importance was the maintaining of the offensive power, for no longer would formations be created rather than replenishing the losses of the major formations. The great devotion of resources to the creation of the Prasental Fleet could not be wasted, for the Magister Navigum had guaranteed that it should have all that it required to keep the war far from the Core Districts. The movement of vast formations into NS-1, only to be scattered across that Cosmos in a warzone to join their parent formations, was a task which taxed many within the Magistrum.

This reform had ensured that the Dread Fleet had managed to halt the heavy counter-attacks in the previous cycle off Mylorr, and seize the initiative once more. System after system had fallen, which had been fought over time and time again by the great fleets. Scattered wrecks of former actions lay behind the Dread Fleet, as her Prasental Armadas advanced into what were the Core Districts of the Republic.

Still, the wars were not at an end, so long as both of the Realm's enemies of the blood maintained one ship within the Void. While the main theaters had seen their share of successes and reversals, the War in the Urlann had dragged on without resolution. Both the Republic and the Commonwealth were battered, but they had concentrated on expanding their industrial output by occupying new systems. Formations beyond the front were capable of harassing Frankian allies or coercing smaller realms into joining the war against the Dread Realm.

The Dread Sovereignness is an enemy of private property, her legions would take everything that you possess! Revolution is what the Greenclad promise, to spread the cancer of National Syndicalism to all of the Realms that still exist. They have not come onto your shores yet, but so long as there is a politically active proletariat there lies the Frankian fifth column. Revolt after revolt have the Legions and the Praetorians suppressed, to rescue the wealthy and illustrious from the crude mob!

Naturally, those outlying powers far, far from the Urlann conflict were more likely to favor apparent reactionaries against the revolutionary vanguard. Fresh loans and mercenaries bolstered the Pillars of Order, and the Guardians who ensured that all property was kept within the hands of their rightful owners. Such new resources would prolong the war, as Frankian expansion within the Urlann had even brought about massive support from the old Krekt League.

Marshal, I do not see this ancient League as capable of checking the inevitable, the restoration of our territories within the Urlann.

Magister, I do not believe this to be the case... The League regards all of us as intruders into their domain, no matter what banner should flutter over their lost colonies. Is it not natural that they should aid those of our rivals, when it is apparent that we are triumphing everywhere?

The Marshal lit his pipe, and took off his field cap. He looked as more like a Ranker than a Marshal of the Royal Army, but then formality was less established in the junior service. Magister Attan vra Vorran set his mug of chai down, and looked at the hologram detailing the situation in the Urlann.

So far, their support of our present enemies has been informal... They are aware that they have not yet the strength to overcome a Prasental Armada, let alone against the ten we have brought into the Quadrant.

I am not familiar with matters of the Fleet, but I am aware that the League possesses multiple yards and vast stores of wealth... Their production capacities could put a force in the field that, though not rivaling our own in quality, would be sufficient for its purpose.

Which is?

To ensure that the Commonwealth and the Republic can survive to fight another day... No one power do they desire to dominate the Urlann.

They were neutral when the Urlann was carved up between the Commonwealth and the Republic, Marshal.

Still, Magister, that does not mean they did not undermine both. One should notice that both fought with one another after we had departed, while the Krekt League expanded their power in the Urlann at their expense. Slave revolts they fostered when suitable, and said they liberated to arm as brigands. I would say that, for little blood, the League has gained the most.

I am sure that the Magister Navigum would wipe out this mercantile power with but a single Corps..

He cannot spare even one, Magister..

What do you know, Marshal?

I know much more, Magister... We of the Royal Army have our own intelligence service, and such is more reliable than yours. I do not believe that we storm Blackfyre or Mylorr, let alone maintain our gains.

We are in the ascent, Marshal, surely the Mater has favored us over our enemies.

No, we are merely at the beginning of a prolonged conflict. I suspect that we shall be involved in the Urlann for a hundred cycles, until either the slavers collapse or we do. We have already conscripted many, both powers are capable of calling forth vast numbers of mercenaries.

Our formations will overcome hired guns, let alone those that interfere in a war that is not their business.

Some will fall, some will be bribed, but for those that must maintain their reputation they will fight. What laurels they gain against us will gain them contracts.


The Magister produced a cigarette and lit it. He walked towards a mosaic depicting the Ascension of the Mater Most High to her throne.

Then this war will last until our children's children.

Aye, Magister... It will.

[Royal Frankia]

Devastation

The continent, which had once been so green and lush, had been devastated by nearly five cycles of war. The enemy had bombarded the surface upon defeating the Attanan Home Fleet, which had withdrawn towards the main system to link up with the Reservist units coming to the fore. The fight in the Void had lasted nearly three weeks, with the overwhelming might of the Republican Fleet overcoming this isolated garrison.

For five cycles, the Frankian garrison had held back the Legions of the Republic and assaulted their bastions upon the surface. Each attempt made by the Legion to smash through to the inner citadel had been repelled, with none of the fortresses of the First Line having fallen. Even though nothing above but the enemy, the Attanan population had managed to multiply heavily relying upon the underground facilities to offset the loss of the surface. The Economic Planners had decreed that all fortress worlds must possess the means to support themselves for at least a generation while under siege, ensuring that the Magistrum might be able to concentrate in overcoming those formations left behind by the enemy.

Voltiguers of the Royal Army moved quickly from end of the District to the other through the holorail network, before disembarking for service upon the frontlines. Those old hands who survived were few in number, with many of the militia being pressed into the ranks after training during lull periods. Some were armed with the latest, others were armed with hunting rifles which were still capable of doing some damage with a good shot. Attana boasted few veterans, with most being settled within territories within the Realm proper rather than the Arkhana District.

Captain Jan vra Mangin scowled, cursing through his visor. The enemy had been reinforced, with scans detecting a greater number of ships than before. The enemy would attempt to break the first line through heavy bombardment sometime soon, which would greatly tax the power supply... And here he was on the surface, with barely one hundred and fifty skirmishers against an enemy who might now number in the tens of thousands.

Make your shots count...

His NCOs relayed the information to the men, who checked their carbines. Shards were primed and made ready, though such were of little use against an orbital bombardment. Fortunately, the sons and daughters of Mylorr preferred to expend blood to add new slaves to their markets.

In the distance, loomed the ruins of a great structure which had been erected by the Legion upon its arrival upon the planet. Then, they thought the battle already won, and had erected a Bastion to dominate the free communes of the province. Here, the garrison would be maintained to lord over the slaafs and the stores for such would be kept under the watchful eye of their Supply Master.

Their general had erred, for this structure had been allowed to be completely only to be blown asunder by concealed Frankian batteries. It was then that the Frankians had ascended from their holorail platforms and assaulted the ruins upon all sides in overwhelming strength. The Legionnaires were taken by surprise, their guard having been made lax with the lack of resistance that they had encountered upon their landing. None had been spared, for in this struggle only the Devas knew mercy.

These ruins had not been pulled down by the Legion, for they had devoted their effort to eradicating the Frankian presence. Each day of every cycle they had attempted to breach the First Perimeter, only to be mown down in great number in the corridors below. Armor was of little use, and against the mass waves the quadcannon came into its own. Each breach made, though brief, could not be maintained for the garrison could arrive quickly in overwhelming strength.

The Mylorrans had vented their fury upon the planet's surface, after leaving thousands of dead within the corridors below. The planetary shield below the surface kept this bombardment's effectiveness to a minimum, though the rich fields were blotted out one by one. Now, whether they would hold now after five cycles of constant assault was anyone's guess. Perhaps all of the Legionnaires might die once the planet met its demise.

Mangin checked his carbine and raced through the lunar landscape. He raised his rifle and noticed a light in one of the bastion's ruins.

Occupied... At least a brigade.

Roger.

His three platoons fanned out, ensuring that they did not compromise their stealth equipment which was the only difference between life and death. His mortar crews set up the mortars which would blow the legionnaires out of their positions, while quads hefted from below were placed at areas to enfilade the Mylorrans once they emerged into the open. Mangin checked the time on his visor.

3....2....1....

The mortars roared, sending death hurtling through the air. In the distance, he could see that a number of shells had failed to breach the shielding array, though others had managed to make a small gap. That was all that was needed.

Concentrate fire..

Mortar fired roared into the gap automatically, rocking the bastions. Over the roar of the explosions Mangin could hear the cries and shouts of the Mylorrans, as they raced towards their armored lorries.

Open fire!

The quadcannons roared into life, mowing down those a number of legionnaires who had rushed to take shelter in their armored lorries. Innumerable fell, before a few of the Lorries raced towards from where the quadcannons were sited. Mortar fire came upon them, though they moved to fast to be engaged effective.

To his heavy weapons team, Mangin gave the signal.

Burrower rounds pierced the surface, and fanned out to strike the armored vehicles that had fanned out. In the distance, Mangin could see some craft being lifted towards the heavens, as well as tracer fire coming from the ruins. The Legionnaires had come to their senses, and had taken shelter in those structures that were able to withstand the shelling.

Reports of casualties began to come in upon his visor, casualties which he could ill afford. His quads suddenly shifted from ground targets towards the sky, hinting inbound Killercraft capable of wiping out his command.

Fall back under fire... Mortars, once more barrage. Quads are to be left to fire until the last shot, to cover the withdrawal of the Company. Sergeants, see your men and check your carbines.

The platoons withdrew under the cover of quadcannon and by squad, as the enemy assailed them from the ruins in great number. Though many of their vehicles had been destroyed, some were still capable of pursuing the Voltigeurs. The game was up, though such occasional craft lacked sufficient infantry support to wipe out the scattered platoons.

The race back towards the underground facility had felt like an eternity, but had only lasted a number of hours. Casualties had mounted once the quadcannons had been destroyed, with enemy Killercraft racing to strike those areas where the Legionnaires expected the intruders to be. 3rd Platoon had been nearly wiped out, with the 2nd suffering severe casualties for what was a night time raid. This was something to be expected for a sortie, a fact that Mangin had hardened himself to.

[Royal Frankia]

Figures and Fanaticism


Forward, against the unbeliever and the profaner of the Sanctuaries! In the Zarathas you were taught what becomes one of the Faith, now you shall learn of an Acolyte's duty. Death is inevitable, fear it not. Let the unbeliever fear death, for those of us who fall shall not fear our place amongst Atkane's Elect!
-Graffiti scrolled across a thousand Sanctuaries


The Great Fleet of the Faithful had been raised, with the blessing of the Kirk and the will of the Sovereignness. The losses in the Urlann demanded the utilization of all of the resources at the command of Gerwannia, and though the Prasental Fleet had won tremendous victories it was not enough. The Conversos were brought under the Magistrum's direct control, taking it away from those Triarchs and those Seers who had previously led them.

They had numbered some four million craft, but the Magistrum desired to swell their ranks a hundredfold. Their craft differed little to those craft that had fought in the prior wars, and were notorious for their lack of creature comforts. Still, each craft was decorated with icons of the Atkanite Faith, and mass blessings of these craft were not uncommon. The war required much, much more, as would the wars to come.

The Kirklands within NS-1 and PW-1 all of the congregants of age were called to join the Holy War against the Unbelievers. For too long, those not of the Folk who shared the Faith had not taken their part in the Holy War. No longer, all must strive to win glory or martyrdom.

Their coreligionists did not share their enthusiasm, for those of the Great Folk perceived these metics or those who had been a generation ignorant of the Light to be their inferiors. Combat within the Void required discipline and iron will, something that only the Legionnaires shared with the dominant folk within the Realm. Now, officers were transferred to train cadres that would in turn train those under them on the manner of fighting en masse.

What a Fleet of a hundred million craft might do when beset on all sides with minimal training was hardly in doubt, a reason that the professional force of the Realm had abandoned the lumbering formations once the Great Wars had thought to be at an end. Now, they had returned and trained by those who were thought for centuries to be incapable of guarding the Realm's frontiers... How were they capable of coming against formations hardened by five cycles of war with the Prasental Fleet?

Seers proclaimed that the war should be over within a quarter cycle of total mobilization of the Faithful, but the Magistrum did not share this opinion by those uninformed with military realities. At best, they saw these subjects of the Scepter of soaking up casualties that those of Atkane's True Elect might incur. This notion was condemned by the Kirk, but few within the Magistrum or its government cared to listen.

Still, protocol was very much the same for all those who served, with no discrimination allowed. Those of the Great Folk more sincere in their Faith regarded even aliens as far from humanoid as their brethren, with Division Commanders attempting to bring their charges up to speed. Others less so were more weary, lest the monopoly of the Great Folk within the Realm should become undermined.

The fighting off Mylorr, before the formation of the Fleet of the Faithful, had witnessed repeated disasters for the Conversos. The 3rd Converso Fleet had been virtually annihilated within the opening week of the Kendranda Offensive, with barely ten thousand craft remaining of a formation that had once numbered one hundred thousand. These tremendous losses could be easily replaced, but whether they were economical in the eyes of the Fleet's Economic Planners was another.

The Magistrum was made up entirely of the Great Folk, though those of the Folk had been permitted should they prove worthy. New blood was required, to reinvigorate the Magistrum, but most sought a reprieve from the bloodletting of the Frankian folk lest it lose its hegemony. There was a bias towards preserving the lives of Frankians over those who had recently sworn to the Scepter, whose craft were seen as the best that traversed the Void under the Rammenflieg.

[Royal Frankia]

The Light of Atkane

The DKS Hammerskal made due course for the front, her daughters trailing her as she bore down upon the enemies of old. Her grid projectors were at the ready as an avalanche of hulls sought to collide with the 23rd Corps. Her Shiplord smiled, and gave the order to unleash one of the greatest weapons yet known to the Cosmos.

On the barbarri craft came, which had been brought to the front by accepting a contract with the Krekt League. Their chieftains were aware of the dangers faced, though they had given their oath to fight on behalf of the League against all her enemies. These Narbarra were an honorable lot, who did not switch sides unlike the other fickle mercenary bands within the Urlann.

This was to be their downfall..

As the great host crossed the grid horizon, the DKS Hammerskal erupted in a blaze of light which rivaled that of a star. Suddenly, bolts shot forth beyond comprehension to engulf the craft which had smashed through the Division Talestra. It was little use, as bolts of energy collected on transit blotted out the memory of great warships that had traversed the stars since the early days of the tribe.

Stunned, the surviving craft sought to avoid certain death and close with the great warships of the Dread Fleet. The vessels of the 23rd had formed into a wedge rapidly and unleashed unrelenting fire upon those that rushed rapidly into certain death. The withering fire cut down many of the barbarri craft, while others limped from the fray. They began to return fire, seeking to avenge their fallen clansmen in glorious battle.

The DKS Hammerskal's Shiplord gave the order for the 23rd to advance, with the thousands of craft of the Corps raising high the Rammenflieg. Lancefire tore across the Void, followed by a wall of shell and shot aimed to cripple those craft which were the greatest. As the battle against the proud barbarri turned into a slaughter, tens of thousands of Killercraft were disgorged to run down damaged craft that sought to escape the Abyss.

Tens of thousands of torpedoes were released at long-range by these craft, darting across the Void through the wall of pdl fire raised by the beaten foe. The wounded craft sought to concentrate their pdl fire effectively, opening portals to dispatch most of the ordinance which threatened their craft. It was not enough, as Wing after Wing of Killercraft assailed them heedless of the cost to themselves. Detonations here and there hinted of some success, though a number of squadrons had been reduced by a margin close to sixty percent.

It took guts to fly a Killercraft.. To soar across the Void and descend upon craft that were the pride of their respective nations. One did not grow old in the service, but for those from the countryside the desire to fly could not be undone.

The vessels of the 23rd pressed hard, giving little respite for the remnant that fought to the last even though horribly mauled.

They will die hard...

They will die well...

Already, the 19th and 21st regiments had enveloped the barbarri.. Forcing those within the center to break off their clash and attempt to escape the trap. Some managed to do so, others were cut down where they stood.

Atkana dreadnoughts, ancient craft from the time of Gerwann II, trained their batteries upon craft at near pointblank range. Shells impacted her shielding array, with some doing damage to compartments. The force crumpled some compartments, while others were set alight. Rescue teams rushed below deck, attempting to rescue those that could be before the compartments went through a process of regeneration. Technicians saw to minor damage, and diverted more power to the shielding array as the shells rained in.

Barbarri craft were pummeled remorselessly, diverting power to thrusters and their shielding array. The rain of fire from the Frankian side was much greater, but then most of the barbarri craft had been extensively damaged by the gridfire. Their gunners who remained kept at it, avenging their fallen comrades and their lords who had so far fallen.

One barbarri craft veered into a nearby Norva destroyer, plowing through multiple compartments. Rising from the tumult came multiple warriors, seeking to take the DKS Arstann by the point of a sword. A vicious melee ensued, with Royal Marins companies sent to clear the infestation aboard her. Quads popped out of hollow compartments, and unleashed a barrage into the massed ranks.

Some of these shells impacted a number of the crew, though the ship's ai sought to neutralize the threat even at the cost of personnel. The Royal Marins were more discriminate, hurling grenades and laying down suppressing fire to clear ward after ward. In close melee, they turned to the bayonet and the dirk. It was only the timely arrival of the Shiplord's retinue, meeting sword with sword in noble manner, who drove back the valiant warriors of the Nabarra.

Barbarri and Frankian bodies lay indiscriminately, with the Shiplord's Guardsmen stepping over the bodies of crew slaughtered at their stations. Turret fire roared overhead at a fresh swarm of barbarri, though a series of eruptions could be heard in the 33rd ward.
|
Sappers..

The blast ripped through multiple wards, with only the reinforced structures near the generator preventing a catastrophe. Many of the crew were blown to bits, though this was to be the last success of the Nabarra. Other vessels began sending forth reinforcements, with the Prince of the Borderlands sending forth his own Novorondons. The barbarri were pressed back to their craft, whose defenses which remained came online. With little change of taking the craft, the remaining batteries fired endlessly against the exposed section of the craft.

This was a measure equivalent to suicide, but such was the price paid to destroy a craft that had sailed with the Sovereign declared a Saint. Explosions rippled across the deck, as laser fire tore through multiple compartments. Men fell and rose, with many of the Frankians seeking to reach their escape pods. For the barbarri, there was to be no escape. Howling with a fury, these assailed their foe and slaughtered many who were to busy in the process of flight.

The DKS Hammerskal's Shiplord noted the great explosion some forty leagues off, and said a quiet Sala for the dead. Elsewhere, the barbarri were in flight, attempting to reorder their lines under unrelenting pressure. Heavy Companies brought their great guns and mortars to bear on isolated craft, with artillery ships pummeling those that still stood to contest the Void. The vessels which bore the Rammenflieg advanced against the citadel of the League, with little standing now within its path save for a few craft of the Citizen Fleet.

The Great Doxa rallied the remaining mercenary craft to his banner, noting that a number of their chieftains had fallen. The Doxa gazed across the Void, noting on his holochart the advance of the Frankian formation. A number of barbarri craft still fought on, forcing the opposite commander to divert forces to contain them. A counter-attack would be suicidal, but it would buy time for the evacuation of the Citizenry and their movable wealth.

Citizens, you are called upon to defend your homes and your property against those who wish to abolish all caste. Should the National Syndicalist plague engulf this system, it will only be a matter of time before the ancient League should fall to the barbarians. Do not falter now, do not look back. Forward, and may the gods be with you.

The four thousand craft of the Citizen Fleet advanced, with some two thousand of the barbarri craft bolstering their ranks. They paused and engaged the Frankians at long-range, maneuvering to avoid oncoming death. Portals were opened and a wall of pdl fire greeted the customary barrage, the Citizen Craft achieving more success than those who had known gridfire.

Gridfire still came across the Void, but not on par with that issued forth from the Great Dreadnoughts of the Dread Sovereinness. The fighting ebbed back and forth, with assaults by Frankian regiments being repelled and cut down by wheeling back and forth. The Citizen craft took advantage of their foes clustering together, for this multiplied their targets.

Lancefire erupted all along the line, bringing pressure upon a multitude of craft who sought to smash through their adversaries to reach the Citadel. This was a fight that would be entered into the Annals, as brave men on both sides slaughtered one another for their respective causes. The Urlann had never known peace, but the men of the Krekt League proved they were worthy of their ancestors.

The 19th fell back as the 2nd Taal drove the weakened formation back, though it could not pursue the Frankian regiment as it withdrew to lick its wounds. The Citizen Craft were to maintain a solid front against the foe, though sooner or later one of their wings would give way under the unrelenting assault. Batteryfire was incessant, and many a vessel on both side limped from the fray to orbital yards from which they hoped to return. Others lost power to their thrusters, and were set upon by advancing craft... Those aboard did not take to their lifeboats, but fought to the full measure to buy time for their comrades.

The DKS Hammerskal entered the fray now, shattering a company sent to check the advance of Battlegroup Norvana. Her great guns engaged targets at long range, blotting out a number of craft with a single shell. This was to lead to the Citizen Fleet concentrating their fire upon the Leviathan, that threatened to devour them like a great monster from the depths.

The cruisers and destroyers which made up the Battlegroup took this as their opportunity, assailing the beleaguered right wing of the League. Targets were becoming scarce, forcing the Great Doxa to employ his reserve to attempt to restore the situation. This was all that he possessed, but against the Hammerskal they were but annoying pests to be swatted aside. Batteryfire and gridfire tore into their ranks as Battlegroup Norvana smashed through and began its assault upon the expose flank of the remaining craft maintaining resistance.

The flagship of the Great Doxa turned starboard, to engage the new threat with the craft allocated him by the League. Not fearing death, but desiring immorality, he plunged across the Void for certain death.. News had reached him that the convoy loaded with civilians had managed to slip away... He would buy time for the withdrawal of the surviving craft, even at the cost of his own life.

Such courage gave testimony to the League, and its willingness to fight. The Hammerskal turned its attention to the craft on the horizon, and began systematically annihilating the valiant craft one by one. Such destruction took time, time utilized by the Citizen Fleet to disengage.

The Great Doxa's and those that followed in her wake, dodging the withering fire before replying in kind. Fighting continued to rage all along the line, as now the unengaged Frankians closed upon this doomed party. Petitions to surrender were broadcast, while the remainder of the Corps attempted to chase down those of the League in flight.

No reply was given, no quarter was asked as from afar the Frankian craft pummeled the hardy vessels of the League beyond recognition. Casualties mounted, as the vessels of the Great Doxa diverted all emergency power to their shielding and weapons systems. Great bolts of plasma slammed into Frankian craft, while others dodged incoming battery fire.

The League still possesses valiant men.

The barbarri craft had not abandoned their employer in his hour of peril, joining with him in a fight which would be recorded in the Annals as a minor footnote. The Frankians noted the bravery of their foes, even when faced with certain death. Salas would be sung in their honor, with the bodies recovered buried in according to the Rites of their native lands.

The fight seemed to last for an eternity, though in reality it had only been three hours before the shielding array of the greater craft began to wain. Death came to the valiant, and the Devas above noted their valor in this honor where there was no turning back. Wulfrum descended from the Great Hall of Atkane, to bring forth those whom the Fates should swell in the land of the Devas forever and ever and ever.

Hark ye now, for only the valiant shall know of ample wine and song. Only the brave shall know the true face of the gods.

An Age of Heroes

Excerpt from San Jan of Austrasia, 6th century after Wylus

According to the Chronicles, there was a time when warriors from afar united in common cause against those who drew forth power from the Abyss. When those that bore the Trident and those that bore the Axe slaughtered many of their servants within the Void. Lo, this is the tale of the five hundred who gave their lives on the world known as Deutsches Reich.

The enemy had descended, like a thief in the night, to enslave the proud folk of this land. Only a few brave men barred their way to the capital, and these were the 500 men. Most came from humble origin, others were cousins of the then ruling house. In the face of overwhelming numbers, they did not yield.

Troopers that bore the banner of the Sith Lord burned and pillaged as they went, though they found not one of the folk to carry off into bondage. Mortar fire greeted them, while the few guns of the Franks tore horrible gaps in their ranks. Orbital fire rained down from the sky, but the bastion of the Franks withstood such.

Lord Jann vra Isocratta then gazed across the smoldering wood and cried aloud to the most high.

O Mater Most High, have pity upon your followers upon this day. The enemy assail us from orbit, and though many of their number we send to the Abyss soon we shall be undone. Rescue us, O Mater Most High, and bring forth your Vani to smite those that seek our destruction.

In the Hall of the Most High, the Mater Atkana felt pity within her breast... For the fates had decreed that the men of Vra Isocratta must be martyred upon this day, for the greater glory of their race. This was what the Fates had decreed, and their decision She that had brought forth Creation could not rescind.

Her daughter Norva, the Wielder of the Hammer of the Eternal, sought to rescue those whose deaths were unwarranted. Had they not offered many sacrifices to their Sanctuaries, had these men not observed the Rites?

[b]Alas, Daughter, I know what lies within your heart... You wish to lead the Immortal Vani into battle, even if all of the Furies and Devas should stand in your path... Hark to my Law, for I will not go against the Fates upon promising them to abide by their Will. I do not go back on my word, and cannot intervene even on behalf of my Followers if I should break it. No, Norvana, upon their martyrdom shall ensure the rise of a Realm far greater than any could imagine. See you not the end, but the beginning...

Norvana loosened her grip on her weapon capable of cleaving a bloody path through the immortals, and bowed before her Mater Most High.

Upon the surface of Deutsches Reich, those few that remained stood with scant ammunition. Charge after charge had they repelled, with the bodies of the enemy left to the carrion. Sith Acolyes had led the last charge, many of their number had been dealt with the simple entrenching shovel or the bayonet.

Lord Isocratta ignored the pain from his shattered arm, the painkillers given by the medic overcoming even the pain of a blaster bolt. His left hand gripped a pistol, of which he had scant ammunition. The miniguns had exhausted their ammunition, and in the sky he could see swarms of enemy fighter descending from their orbiting craft to complete their victory upon this world.

Isocratta said one last Sala as he heard the trumpet of the enemy blare, as nearly ten thousand of the enemy rose forth. The scarlet clad troopers climbed over their dead and wounded, attempting to plant their standard in the ruined bastion. It was then that Lord Isocratta rallied his men with these words.

Doomed men, you shall live forever... Now is the hour that we must depart and join our fathers. Be brave, do not falter. Honor our comrades who have fallen.

The ranks of the enemy who had survived the withering mortar fire came forth, swarming past a destroyed tank of Deutsches Reich. Isocratta raised his pistol and fire, while his men manned their positions. Grenades were hurled, but this did not halt the blood crazed minions of the Dark Lord. On the outer parapets, the Lord could hear the ringing of steel as the few Franks remaining were overwhelmed.

Lord Isocratta turned to his Household Guard, of whom ten of the remaining fifty were left.

Follow me now to glory... Forget not your oaths to my forefathers.

There was no need for such valiant speech, for an oath violated then was seen to bring about the wrath of the Devas in the next world. They charged down into the second trench, where some thirty Franks held back ten thousand. Blaster bolts whizzed past, but then the Troopers did not to risk friendly fire. On they came, hurling grenades and unleashing teslana bolts into the trenches of the Franks. The survivors wavered, but did not break...

In a matter of minutes, the Lord Isocratta and his followers ascended to the Hall of the Most High... His mortal remains, however, were brought before the Dark Lord as a grisly trophy. The bodies of his men were left as carrion, for the wolves said to lurk in the tranquil forest of that world. [/b]

Commentary:

I believe that the text has been edited, for the Franks of that time did not acknowledge the Most High. From the Annals of the followers of Christus, we have documents which tell of a brief skirmish in which the Royal Army's detachment on Deutsches Reich was virtually annihilated. There is no mention of a Lord Isocratta, but I believe that we must interpret this tale not through a historical lens but through that of a theological one. This legend was likely influenced by a primordial conflict, involving the forces of Light and those of Darkness..

Fragment lost

In conclusion, it can be seen that the Mistress of Creation did not allow her daughter to descend to take part in a conflict between the Devas. If one should substitute Lord Isocratta for the god Isocratt, we delve into the myth of when the god Isocratt led forth a host of gods to do battle with the daemons of the Abyss. Outnumbered, these gods who should never die perished in battle with those creatures of whose names no pious man will utter.

With but a raising of her Hammer, Norvana could have aided the gods who were doomed to give their lives for all sentient life... Yet the Fates had decided that this must be so, that their bodies might forge the present system on which we stand. Are not the Austrasian fields fertile because they spring from the body of Isocratt, are not the harsh winds the breath of the goddess Vraha? I believe that the message of this tale is to instruct our folk in a manner that they can understand, albeit in a manner that glorifies our ancestors in a conflict from an age only bards sing of these days...

[Royal Frankia]

Of Wars and Devas

Father, we shall surely perish! The enemy are too many!

Fear not, my children, for now is the hour that we shall truly live.

-Gerwann II at the Siege of Attalan, 934 A.U.


The Great Realm had rallied in the latter half of the thirteen century after its reunification, to once more bring fire and sword to her enemies abroad. Never before had the Realm prospered, for the long peace had allowed her to rearm, rebuild, and prepare to contest the results. Honor demanded that the slaughter be continued, until the Lost Daughters be restored to the Realm and all offer repentance to the Mater Most High.

The Dread Sovereignness had kept the peace, only relenting upon the deployment of forces within NS-1 to beat down the Commonwealth and the Republic within the Urlann. News of provinces restored to the Realm were greeted with enthusiasm, but the Mother of her Children could sense they would not withstand the sacrifices that their Dynasty would require of them in the cycles to come. Sooner or later, the battle hardened ranks of the Urlann would return from the holy war abroad to demand conflict be brought to those who still defiled the Sanctuaries.

The day will soon come, when the Realm must bring war to foreign shores of those that were our allies of old...

Young Attan looked to his mother with curiosity, for she had always promoted the Path of Peace.

The Great Powers which remain have grown lax, no longer do they patrol the Void as in days of yore. Our power has grown, we are in a position to restore the Lost Daughters to that which you shall inherit. You, my son, must understand that as Sovereign one must do things which are required for the honor of both one's Faith and one's Folk. Neustria is the ancestral world of our dynasty, the Sanctuaries of our forefathers have been polluted by the presence of unbelievers. Talestria, Atkos, Septimania, and Grand Feylorium have for too long been under the banner of those that who are false brethren.


The Younger Prince nodded, though his concentration was snapped by a destroyer breaking through the atmosphere above Gerwannia.

My son, you must depart from your studies to take up arms and learn the art of war... You shall sail with the 5th Prasental Armada to Arkhana, and then depart for the Urlann to win glory for the banner of your forefathers.

Attan felt like a child forced to now become a man.. Under his breath he recited a Sutra of the Most High and counted the beads at his hip. His Mother allowed him to complete the holy prayers, before speaking unto her these words.

Mother, what of my education? What of the Scripturas and of the divine arts? What of the many dialects that I must learn, of the many foreign books that I must study?

Do not worry, for your tutors will accompany you... Even in battle. You shall man the guns, like the rest of my children. Do not question your Mother, as you would not question the Mater Most High. Go, young Attan, and restore the boundaries of your forefathers. Sail where Gerwann II once did, and go beyond. Do you understand?

I do, my mother. Many of the unbelievers I shall slaughter with my cousins, and I shall be the first aboard any ship alongside my Novorondons.

You are but a youth of fourteen, there is no need for you to be gallant as the men of Novoronda. They shall protect you, even until death. They fought to the last with your grandfather, not abandoning their oaths or honor when the Great Sovereign had fallen upon Pordish parapets.

Sala, you must not tarry... A shuttle shall soon arrive. May the Mater Most High be with you, my son, and return only when the enemy fear your name.

Sala.

The young Attan turned about and walked down the steps of the manse, where a horse waited to bear the youth to a shuttle.

It was only then that the calm of a ruler was swept away by the worries of a mother. Hot tears trickled down her pale cheeks, and the weight of her crown became heavier with each tear that fell to the ground. She turned around suddenly when she heard a voice, a voice which she noted spoke the language of the Scripturas.

Fear not, for I have come from the Most High... Fear not for young Attan, Sovereignness who bears the Great Scepter.

She noted a dark green figure with multiple arms, who possessed many eyes. He was cloaked in godly attire, of the cloth spun by the looms of the Vranni. The Dread Sovereignness replied in the holy language.

Who are you? Of the Vranni or of the many Devas that serve the Origin of Life?

I am the Deva Yava, who was once worshipped by a folk that have parted this Cosmos... Many were my temples, many were my offerings. Upon their departing lifeforce I subsisted, until a day came when a Great War... Greater than any that your folk have ever fought, brought desolation to all those who did me honor. I watched on, as from afar the great dromonds blotted out the work of countless generations in but an instant.

The Fates are cruel, but who knows but the Mater Most High their design? Within her Hall I now serve, and I have spoken with many of your ancestors as well as those of the Elect who knew not the Light. From Her, the Omnipotent and the All Knowing, I have come to bear witness to the truth that she hath spoken.

The Dread Sovereignness looked to her hand and pulled off from her finger a silver ring enameled with precious gems.

For your message, I give unto you this, and I shall command that your name be sung in praise for those Devas who acknowledge the Fount of Justice. Offerings shall be given to you, as you have chosen of your own will to serve her who is the Great Domina. By my blood, by my folk, and by my faith in her I shall remember your name until my last breath.

The Deva took up the ring with his lower arm on his left side and gazed upon the ring.

Is it a ring of power?

Aye, Deva, it is.. Bequeathed upon me by the ancient Sorcerer Yattan, cursed be his name. His head I took from his shoulders, after he established a Realm by his sorcery which an affront to the Most High. I, her avenger, descended upon his systems with fire and sword. Praised be her name, and may all unbelievers seek the Eternal Light shall never succumb to Darkness.

Sala, Great Sovereignness. May the Fates decree your lifespan be long, but only Atkane knows when a Deva or a mortal must face judgement before her Hall. Fare thee well, and may you always walk in the Path of the Most High and Most Holy.

Sala.

[Royal Frankia]

Consolidation of the Urlann

Rivers of blood had been spilled to restore this bastion of Frankian power, now it was time to restore that which had been lost. Multiple systems, that before had been sleeping backwaters, were to be transformed into the titans of industry. This quest for production was inherent in the National Syndicalist outlook, but this progress would not come at the expense of the environment of inhabited worlds.

The Magistra of the 15th Division, Attan vra Zendann, was appointed the Magister Frankorum of this region. He now possessed overall command of the formations within the Urlann, for no word of a Vrasha being appointed to this distant frontier had reached him. Division after division had been pulled from the line, with rumors of another conflict on the horizon for the bloodied Frankians.

Zendann hoped that such a conflict might be minor, though nothing was certain. While as a Marshal of the Void, he was unparalleled, the Academy had focused on the sinews of war. The need for safe harbors, of access to resources, and of an industrial apparatus had been pounded into his head since he was a lad of 14 cycles.

The Economic Planning Bureau had been generous, something that was rare for those who were ever focused on productivity yields per cyclum. Workers from prestigious guilds had been released on contract, as well as a number of technicians who had been employed in the Great 12 Cycle Plan within the Outer Systems. Zendann did not envy their task, of turning a former warzone into a flourishing center of industry.

The Minister of the Urlann, Jan vra Norvonn, entered the chamber of the Magistra, noting the holodisplay of systems under the Rammenflieg. Such worlds were numerous, but they would have to be condensed sooner or later to ease their defense requirements. Such power he had at his disposal, to have his engineers alter the very nature of the Cosmos. Fortunately, for the Urlann, he also intended to release those worlds which had been previously inhabited by folk unsuitable for the Plan from obligations towards it.

Magistra, it is a pleasure to greet you in the flesh. There is much work that must be done, for to conquer is not the same as to consolidate. You possess command of the arms of this Quadrant, while I determine whether or not it shall be worth defending.

What to defend, Minister, is essential. There are issues of maintaining vast frontiers, for such frontiers are usually porous for a smaller power that is bold.

We have seen this in PW-1, the Forsaken Universe, for the Magistrum of old used to believe that such were necessary to maintain Great Power status. The worlds which swear fealty to the Crown are unending, but they are of little value should another Clash erupt.

The Magistra took a sip from his mug, savoring such a luxury from the tropical lands. Coffee consumption had grown over the past few cycles, with much attention to improving total yields. While such products could always be produced by the production apparatus, the Frankians had long preferred such luxuries to be won from the soil.

I believe that our Fleet requires to be retrofitted, before another conflict should arise. There is more promise in grid projectors than we had once thought, with such being capable of being mounted on greater platforms.

The Minister chuckled.

Aye, Magistra, I have read in Fleet dispatches that the barbarri all but evaporate in the face of a grid storm... But those powers of old will not bolt, even if half their numbers should be wiped in an instant.

Minister, do you still believe in the proposed invasion of Aldia? I believe you were one of its staunchest supporters, if I am not mistaken.

You are not.. I have shifted my opinion, given the changing circumstances. An offensive against Aldia, though it might gain us their colonies, would not restore us the Lost Daughters. Now, against the Apostate, it is possible that that citadel might fall if we are willing to shed enough blood to accomplish it.

But the Dread Sovereignness will not tolerate such waste of life, fortunately. Nor allow the Forsaken Universe to be threatened by the inevitable response. Still, this matter is not why you or I are here.

Agreed. I have reviewed your request for reinforcements, and I have denied them until the Urlann be a National Syndicalist stronghold.

At that rate, it might well take a hundred cycles.. Even with what the Economic Planning Bureau has dispatched.

There were political considerations, for a new bastion of National Syndicalism would have greater sway in the Assembly. Already, those of the Urlanna were requesting greater positions within the Fleet, gods help them if they are able to lobby the Court more successfully. Zendann had respect for their valor in the Void, but such was not the hallmark of a successful commander when hard decisions must be made.

Magistra, if the guilds cooperate the Urlann could enjoy National Syndicalist living standards within 12-15 cycles, based upon the Plan I intend to implement.

I do not believe that, at this stage, the Urlann is capable of such a shift towards industry at such a breakneck pace. Remember, that what we build here might very well fall into the hands of other powers. This will also alienate the population, who would likely prefer to determine their own fates rather than accept a Plan conjured up by some committee meeting in Gerwannia.


The Minister nodded, though he held all the cards. While the Magistra might command the military forces within the Quadrant, the Economic Planning Bureau had regained its influence with the Sovereignness. New projects had received investment, with great infrastructure projects and a push towards allocating treasury funds to securing existing frontiers being now the order of the day. The Fleet Fund had been reduced, with manpower and resources being devoted to projects that would reinforce the claim that the Great Realm was still a great power.

Then, I believe, you must hold firm. Should disputes arise, your vessels must be ready to restore order within those lands under EPB control. This shall not be another Arkhana, this shall be a new forge for the Realm. Out of it shall come forth warships and arms, to carry war into the heartlands of the unbeliever. Sala, I must now depart. Good day Magistra.

Sala. Go with the blessings of the Mater and the kindness of the Fates.

As the door shut behind him, the Magistra lit a cigarette in disgust. Pouring over the encounter in his mind, and what it meant for his service. Rivalry had grown in the Frankian government, with only the monarch and a loyal bureaucracy stopping further catastrophe. Religious fanatics, technocratic overlords, and angry workmen had seemed to sprout up like weeds in the Great Realm. One by one, they would have to be pulled up by the root.. Some day, some day soon.

He stubbed out his cigarette and brought up his communique account. Looking over dispatches, he replied to those which did not restate what had been obvious. While the Minister might tour the great projects of the Urlann with a hard hat, the Magistra of the Confederation was chained behind a desk far, far from the action which he craved.

Sala, Mater Most High, may the Fates be kind to bring forth something.. Shall the warriors of the Void, your Greenclad, fall under the yoke of such pencil pushers? Let us restore our glory, let us restore our old borders. Let the Lost Daughters return to the Great Realm, and may the bells of the Sanctuaries upon that day ring forever and ever.

[Royal Frankia]

Further Developments




The Realm, despite innumerable conflicts which were required of all Great Powers, had prospered under the reign of the Dread Sovereignness. Vast regions had acknowledged her Scepter, with many being sacrificed on the altar of National Syndicalism for the benefit of the Realm. The Central Planners had succeeded in transforming these new provinces into industrial titans, that with each passing cycle rivaled Gerwannia and Austrasia.

A vast number of metics had become subjects, for the first time in the Realm's history, though this reflected a gradual change brought on by their long association. To obtain subject status did not make one a Frankian, but it allowed one to be protected by Frankian law against the local elites. Greater control was exercised from the center than before, forcing these regions to be held to greater accountability by the Interior Ministry.

Within the government, there was as much fighting as there was in the Urlann. Factions had risen, with the faction of the Magistrum under Vrantrille sweeping aside that of the Director. To the victor went the spoils of the 12 Cycle Plan, with much in the way of resources and workers diverted towards expanding the Dread Fleet. The Magister Navigum could boast truthfully that, the Old Order which had been shattered in the Great Wars, had been forged anew.

From the Great Yard of San Gerwann to the Yard of the Seven Oracles, there was a liveliness not seen in a generation. Despite the losses in the conflict with Khymeria and within the Urlann, this level of construction was in excess. Rumors swept that most were destined for Arkhana, others that proud Laptev itself would be brought low once and for all. The Prasental Armada was certainly to be reinforced, bringing it up beyond a strength that had been originally planned.

Expenditures mounted, but such were deferred to the distant future as systems were stripped for the benefit of the Rearmament drive to offset the cost. Guilds were brought under greater control by the Central Planning Bureau, which had assumed the powers of the Economic Planning Bureau nearly two cycles before. Skilled labor was sought, though this could be only obtained so long as the Guilds were promised that none of their guildiers might be conscripted for conflicts beyond the frontier.

This required funds to be directed towards the Ministry of Education, to provide the Magistrum with the cadets and enlisted men to man the expanded Fleet. While the Old Order had been restored, it was noted that few of its number were restored to any position of authority. Rather, meritocracy was stressed rather than connections with the royal line or gentry, with more room open for those subspecies of the Frankian folk to obtain positions of command. Most were destined to come from those worlds which had not formerly exported traversers of the Void, but then service in the Dread Fleet was seen as more prestigious than before.

Good pay and a pension were promised, as well as winning fame within the Great Hall of the Mater Most High upon death. To serve in the Dread Fleet required a candidate that had attended the Royal Academy, with such turning out many engineers and technicians that before had been in short supply. These candidates were drawn primarily from the Royal Capitals, who possessed greater access to Royal Institutions than provincials. This gap was steadily closing, however, with many from the Provinces and Free Communes finding themselves in positions before reserved for the gentry.

The old lines were still strong, though many had been annihilated in the fighting off Septimania and upon Neustria. New lines rose with the favor of the Sovereignness, with many Urlannans marrying Frankians for the first time in the Realm's history. This came as no surprise, for the Younger Prince possessed as much of the blood of the Urlann as he did the blood of Old Neustria. Sooner or later, the definition of Frankian would expand to include those who were not of the original stock.

Still, access to the Core Worlds was strict, with many provincials not possessing a passport not being allowed access. Transport between the worlds was a monopoly of the Magistrum, though it had not dared starve the Economic Planning Bureau to death without the nod of the Sovereignness. Only materials required by the Realm were permitted to cross the Void, and such mainly were for military or industrial use. Autarky was stressed, with the Central Planning Bureau expecting even worlds that had never turned a "profit" to be able to stand upon their own feet once direct aid was cut off from the Core Districts.

At the beginning of the 14th Century After Reunification the Realm had largely recovered from the shocks of the 13th. The Disciples of the False Prophet were scattered, the remaining Great Powers were succumbing to decadence, and the Great 12 Cycle Plan had forged a new Realm. From the distant Urlann to the Great Citadel of Gerwannia, the power of the Eternal Realm was plain for the eyes of all that remained.




Gerwannia- Mother of Citadels

The Free Communes of Gerwannia had formed a loose federation, allowing for the free flow of goods and workers across the Chief Daughter of the Faith. This was much different from the fashion that had occurred upon Neustria, where castes were bound by blood and oaths to their profession. Naturally, there was a greater preference for settlement upon the surface near the great Pillars that were the beacons of the Most High.

Sanctuaries of the Faith soared to the heavens, their great domes paneled with gold. To one within the structure, mosaics and costly incense would seem to abound where the Faithful gathered. Even those who were not received in the Faith were permitted to visit and take part in certain rites which were perceived as universal.

One could arrive upon the surface in the space of five minutes upon the completion of one’s shift, free of charge. Here, most of the major sites of culture and leisure were to be found, a gift from the Throne to the Working Caste that it had sworn to protect. Their guilds they had recognized, their rights they had protected, and they had acknowledged a Commune’s right to secede should the official residents of that commune diverge from those of another. Assemblymen were selected from the Communes as well as from the major Guilds, leading some of the latter to support increased fragmentation. For an administrator, this created innumerable headaches which were only solved through ruthless centralization.

Permanent residency upon the surface was often sought, but such required passports were hard to acquire. There were many reasons to restrict access, be it to strengthen the power of the Guilds over their members or to ensure that the landscape of Gerwannia be not utterly destroyed by urban blight. Pollution was monitored, the Sovereign’s Woods were patrolled, and woe be any one that defiled the Gift of Atkane Upon Her Children.

A delegation had arrived at the Royal Palace the Palace being situated some 30km above sea level. The mountain tops were blanketed in snow, with glaciers rising not far off in the distance. Such a sight pleased the Frankian monarch, as much as her mug of coffee before tackling her workload.

Her powers she had returned to the State upon the passing of crisis after crisis, desiring not to rule as an autocrat. Should she choose to do so, she knew that there was little in the way of stopping her. Nevertheless, she preferred to rule in the manner of her forefathers, altering as little from the law as possible. She was a builder, not a warmonger, and sought to establish the Realm on a solid financial footing.

Her father’s regime had been bloated with military spending and useless wars, which had only brought about his death. A war to reclaim the Lost Daughters was always on the horizon, but she desired not to draw the sword until all preparations were ready. Such conflicts were seen in the lens of National Syndicalism as useful, to prevent a Realm from succumbing to too long a peace.

Great megastructures had she christened, which were set to expand the productive capacity of the Realm. There was no need for any more technological terrors, for such were often the sword upon which fools ran themselves through with. It was better to fulfill the Plan, at all costs, regardless of what the Magistrum desired.

The delegation arrived, passing the Novorondons who stood watch. The light of the torches reflected upon their dark green armor, enameled with scenes of the hunt or battle. Between the imposing figures came a number of burghers, from the Free Commune of Ashkyra near the Atarxes River.

The Sovereignness set her pen down, not bothering to wear the Crown upon the matter of the establishment of a new colony. Somewhere not known, and far from the knowledge of her Scepter. With the lack of major conflicts, the Frankian folk had expanded their numbers to the point where the Outer Citadels were already overflowing with subjects.

Greetings, my brothers and sisters. What have you brought your Sister, She That Bears the Scepter by Her Command.

The delegation bowed their heads and uttered the proper reply.

Blood of Wylus, Elect of the Most High, Bearer of the Dread Scepter, we have brought you but our lives and our word.

Enough with the formalities.

I have read the dispatch that you have sent… A new colony, beyond a known March? Beyond even NS-1? Where is it?

Dread Sovereignness, we cannot reveal for we have sworn holy oaths. An Oracle hath spok…


The Sovereignness smiled, glancing upon them with the green eyes she had inherited from her mother.

You have sworn then by the Most High, Sala, and Peace be upon you. Then you may go, and inform me of the number of your party. Should your settlement require assistance, I vow that I shall come forth with my whole might to protect you, the Children of the Most High.

The delegation departed through the bronze doors, chanting hymns to the Most High as they went where Fate willed them. As for Ynga, she returned to her desk where had arisen with but a thought the surface of Arkhana. This world, so far from PW-1, had occupied her mind after multiple dispatches from the Vrasha.

Everything was ready for Arkhana to be integrated fully into the Realm, with it serving the role as a rotating capital. A great honor bestowed upon a world on the back of beyond, but such was the chief Frankian citadel in NS-1. Not even the systems reclaimed in the Urlann had been worth the shedding of blood, nor could they boast the development of the system or its defensive capabilities.


Yes, Arkhana shall be counted as one of the Daughters, and the tribute of countless realms shall pass through her gates.

The sun’s rays glimmered off the glaciers, reinforcing the notion that much would be gained in the Forsaken Regions.

[Royal Frankia]

Hark to the Law

The 3rd Prasental Armada emerged from the ether, in formation that was both holy and ceremonial. The great warships of the Fleet led the van, unlike in a time of war when they were held in reserve to drive back the avalanche from the Abyss. The Dromonds were decorated with the captured Devas of the enemy, who were to be brought into the Cosmic Sanctuary near the heart of Realm. Costly metal and craftsmanship had gone into such bizarre art, who possessed as many eyes as stars in the night's sky.

Less brazen in their display followed the Norva Destroyers, the foundation of the Order of Power. They deployed their grid projectors to conjure forth beings of pure energy, who battled with one another in honor of the Eternal Realm. The Vani and the may eyed Devas clashed above the worlds that acknowledged the Dread Scepter. Seers cried aloud to the Mater Most High, as the Devas bent the knee for an apparition of the Mater Most High and the Wielder of the Hammer above the world of Arkhana.

Banners flew upon every ship of the honored Divisions, with names that were never to be forgotten so long as the Realm might live. Victories, defeats, draws, and such were called forth in memory of the dead. The banner of Atkanan fluttered beside the Rammenflieg in triumph upon this noble day, this sacred day in the Kalend of Atkana.

Great folk of Arkhana, rejoice, for within the Kalend of the Most High, the Most Merciful, I have brought to you gods held captive by the mortal hands of Her Children! By the Mater Most High, by the Kindness of the Fates, the Armaddum Atkanum have secured victories against the daemons of the very Abyss!

Magister Esttan vra Norweck sighed in reflection of what such a victory had cost. Such displays of piety were necessary, even for one who did not trust the gods too seriously. He did what was fitting as a Captain of the Realm, continuing in pious worlds and commending those who had fallen on the edge of what was Known.

Warships passed by the Dromond DKS Work of the Vani, bearing the scars of a horrible battle fought where no citadel was in the line of sight. Only the terrible fusilades of the living and the drifting wreckage of dead craft could be seen to remind one of the works of civilization. The race that had sallied forth to face the Children of Atkane was ancient and horrid, only a holy man or a warrior could face such abominations to all Cosmic Law.

They made the mistake of assailing the Blessed of Norvana, the Norva Destroyers that had driven death into the ranks of the sons of Mylorr and the citizens of the Commonwealth. They were as numerous as the stars in the sky, but the horde did not make the bold Sons of Atkane shutter as they broke through the first of several minefields. In the distance, mobile fortresses brought the horde to besiege them, all board fighting like madmen as the autocannon and projectors fired into a cloud of death.

It was at several hundred leagues that the 3rd Regiment of the Line prepared their grid projectors for massed fire, which would release a mere fraction of the power of the Cosmos in an instant. On came the enemy, bold with their having cut off the Fortifications in the distance. They paid no heed to the vast number of mines hurled in their direction, or the numerous carrion they would leave for the scavengers who followed the Great Fleets. At their head was a warship of tremendous size, perhaps that of their leader. bearing forth the deities of this particular Realm.

Aboard the vessels of the Dread Fleet there was silence, as each man did his duty in between clutching his beads. All looked in the distance, as the Storm of Atkane was prepared to be released in an instant as soon as the enemy crossed the threshold. The ancient ones paid no heed to their mounting casualties, for they had long thought that death itself was a bliss compared to the boredom of life everlasting. They paid no heed to the apparition of Atkane, or her Great Daughter who proceeded to enter their ranks with hammer in hand.

The pious ones made the sign of the star, as the decks reverberated at once. Across the Void, some three hundred leagues off the warships of the Realm, came the storm which broke the ranks of the enemy in the distance. In the guise of the Ones Most High, the grid proceeded to cut a path that would bring on the onrush of the Children of Atkane into the midst of the slaughter. Before the Work of the Vani were the Vani conjured from the grid arrays, who had entered the combat upon the Blessed of Atkane. For the pious, this motivated them not to fail the actual Vani, who were said to aid those who lingered on in the wreckage of battle.

A holy sight, but one explained by the pious application of scientific principles by an ancient race. Around the one greatest craft was the grid, which spared it for the present to overcome the lesser ones. The sight and sound of the battle was incredible, with vessels that had withstood the fury of the Cosmos returning to the battle in desperation to die for their gods who were nowhere. Others, less brave, turned back upon their doomed citadel whose walls and bastions were to fall before the Most Pious.

Alone, the great craft bedecked in the work of countless generations, held firm. Not even the Dromonds could do her significant damage, beyond remove certain decks with a glancing blow. Around her fluttered a thousand eyes, directing ordinance away or swallowing it whole. The gallant Novorondons readied themselves to board her, with the support of the Royal Marins. The banner of Atkane was readied, as all bid them good luck as their Killercraft escorts made due course through the whirlwind of fire and death.

Many fell, whose memories will live on forever, but many more touched the hull of the craft of the hellspawn. Breaking through, the Guards of Wylus cut a bloody path through the bizarre work of nature. These beings were vast and translucent, but before steel and power armor their weapons proved of little avail. There were some purple beings that bore costly armor, and these proved hardier than the standard type. Around their Sovereign, they seemed to rally, and to reach him was the first objective of those sworn to the Most High.

In that chamber, where the Annals shall speak of for eternity, the blood of the Blessed and of the Damned was spilled without discrimination by the Fates. Power armor cracked under the tremendous strain of these great ones, whose many eyes who were blotted out by the many thrusts of the sword. Javelins were hurled at the greatest one, who had ascended to the ceiling and brought forth entities that not even the Dark Sorcerers could conjure forth.

As battle raged below, a peculiar sight was seen by some of the Faithful. It was Atkane, whose golden armor was radiant before the advent of light, who had descended to enforce the Law. This being, who cursed those arrayed against it, was apparently a god-sovereign who had gone against the Fates that his reign must end. The entities beyond no longer assailed the Novorondons, but began to attack She who had brought forth the Cosmos.

The furies assailed her, but each strike they made upon her helm or her breastplate caused such to disintegrate upon contact. It was then Atkane came forth with her shield and sword, cutting her way to the god-sovereign who leered her with eyes innumerable.

He spoke winged words, as he knew truly that, death, which he had never known, was near.

You aid your Children now, you who are sworn not to intervene? Does not Feylor lie slain upon the fields of Neustria? Do not billions of your Children perish upon the Void, without comfort from their Mother?

The Mater Most High returned scorn with scorn, her voice rising above the clang of steel below.

Silence! You have brought forth from the Abyss against mortals, be they my children or no, such is a violation of My Law. You have ignored the Will of the Fates, which had you harked would have spared your life and left your Realm in peace. Now you will fall upon this day, and your ghost will leave to see not one stone upon another remain of your proud walls.

It was then that the Mater Most High struck hard and fast, piercing through the armor which no mortal could accomplish with ease.

The god-sovereign gasped, and before the eyes of all in the chamber disintegrated. His dust scattered upon the heads of those locked in strife, with those of his Guard heeding to their oath to fight to the death now that their lord had fallen. When Vra Norveck had walked through those blood stained halls hours later, he could not count the number of dead upon both sides.

He looked to the ceiling, and then he saw upon its dome a mosaic that was the work of the Vani. The Great Mater Most High stood, with one hand bearing the bloodied sword and the other the Scepter by which the Cosmos and the Devas must obey. He bade it be removed quickly, but before any of the Engineers could reach it the mosaic began to disintegrate.

A voice then boomed in the chamber.

Warriors, my Children, you shall be welcome in my Hall.
You who have fallen for Lord, you who have fallen for Sovereignness.
All shall be worthy of honor,
Ye men and beings that fight bravely!
Yet honor me, bring not forth the hordes of the Abyss!
To defy the Fates is to bring upon my fury!


The Magister knelt and made the sign of the Star, closing the eyes of a fallen Guardsman as he did so. Rising, he bid that as the bodies of the fallen Novorondons were carried off, that those beings who had fallen within the law should be placed upon a great pyre. As for the many idols, he bade them be stripped and brought to be distributed amongst the Dromonds.

There was some pause from his staff, until one summoned up the courage to speak.

Magister, their Lord was not worthy...

They were, even though nature carved them in forms that we find detestable. Blessed be they, and may in the halls of their gods they find peace.

[Royal Frankia]

The Royal Transit Authority had established a monopoly upon the holorail traffic, which connected the communes upon the surface with the elevators that led below to the heart of the citadels themselves. Across Gerwannia, one with a railpass could find oneself crossing the continent at a significant rate of speed. Granted, as most of such rail was underground there was little use for it to be upon the surface where weather and obstacles could increase the overall cost of operation.

Passenger and freight service had picked up with the cycles since Gerwannia had ascended to the Choicest of the Daughters of the Most High. At first, mostly military, the demand by the lower orders had mounted to the point where one saw fewer and fewer servicemen aboard the network. Guildiers traded stories with peasants, mothers scolded their children, and students studied at the last minute for their exams within the National Academy. As much as the cafes, aboard the holorail one could find a microcosm of the Eternal Realm itself.

There was little need for class differentiation, save for those that were of the clergy or had won honors that permitted them greater creature comforts. One could theoretically circumnavigate Gerwannia aboard the rail, passing beneath the oceans to where cities of old slumbered beneath the waves. Frequent stops along the way allowed passengers to stretch their legs, these stops usually near a commune of some importance. Lesser connections were made with those whose applications were approved, with those with more sway in the Court usually being granted a holorail station near their structures.

Though the Frankians were a utilitarian folk, they did not spare decorating their chief means of transport upon their Citadels. Craftsmen within the Communes were granted commissions by the RTA for the splendid booths and woodcarvings found upon such sleek machines. Mosaics found above the riders of the rail depicted scenes of nature, which was the chief of Atkane's creation with the exception of the Light itself. Not even the Devas, who acknowledged her Scepter, could capture the passion of a folk who at heart sought to commune with nature.

Libraries were found, some being rare copies from the monasteries, but most of their shelves were devoted to the works of the Thousand Authors. Such had been awarded as great honors as a soldier in the field, with their works dealing with country life, class struggle, folk religion, and natural philosophy being held aloft as prized. Some found these works tedious, preferring the loose and ready prose of contemporaries who lived in less interesting times.

Newspapers were available, with debates held between the philosophes for the amusement of the people. Topics ranging from what was just, what was just living, and what was just government were harped on with leisure. With the absence of political parties, the Frankian folk had taken to valuing wisdom over the false promises of demagogues. Flaws were clearly noted in every system, with not even the tenants of National Syndicalism escaping the debate which drifted at points towards nihilism. The censors had relaxed, with the advent of precarious peace, but for the general population skepticism in the merits of life held little appeal.

Rivaling the common halls and the cafes, aspiring musicians found a ready audience who preferred acoustic music to drown out the incessant propaganda. One grew quickly tired of the Neo-Barlatist menace, and most sought to hear tales of loves won and lost. Battles of old were sung and the heroism of true heroes recounted for a new generation. Not all of the heroes in the tales were Frankian, for the bards of the Realm brought attention to those who had been the most bitter opponents of the Eternal Realm.

Such was the state of the rail as Director Attan vra Resmond sat in coach, awaiting the Chariot of Atkane's arrival at the station near the Magistrum. This colossal structure was some 2000km from the DLZ of the Southern Disrtrict, and he even with his rank he could not acquire a shuttle. Like his staff, he rode the rail underground awaiting his arrival. Aboard, he kept contact with the office through his commlink, dispatching his report on the state of the munitions industry on an encrypted channel.

Nothing but darkness could be seen outside, but then one could scarcely make out the rock strata as a holorail was moving at such great speed. The Magistrum had been reared some thousand kilometers out at seat, far removed from the Royal Estates where previously they had maintained their chief structure upon the surface. The Magistrum had seen its political capital dwindle, until it had been faced with the disgrace of relocating its main office. Still, the Magistrum had created an island lair that in another age might remind one of a proper cove for pirates.

A voice boomed over the intercom.

Arrival in 60 seconds, Sons and Daughters of Atkane.

Sighing, he noted that the rail would only give five minutes for those who had reached this faraway station before departing for another location. Fortunately, trains departing from the Royal Estates would arrive at an interval of every twenty to thirty minutes, disgorging the vast staff and foodstuffs required by the Lords of the Great Dread Fleet. Like thousands of other Directors, vra Resmond descended the platform and made his way through screening before ascending the elevator to his office some two and twenty-three stories above.


Another day at the office.


To the sound of the guns

The cyclical military exercise had been scheduled on the vast plains of Gerwannia, where all traffic had been cleared. The attacker was to emerge from the atmosphere above, all the while being raked by projector and flak fire. Manses plunged to the ground below, while in the distance the great effect of high grade ordinance detonating off the shielding of the bastion was simulated.

Marechal Sejanus dismounted from the mech which had carried him to his tent, where Army Verte awaited his presence. So far, the progress of Army Azul had been limited by the number of subterranean batteries that had been put into action and the suicidal courage of the Killercraft Wings who had gone to meet certain death. Near his headquarters he could hear the booming of the vast guns, that would rain down death and destruction upon those defilers of the sacred soil of Gerwannia.

A holomap displayed the current situation, with those positions occupied by the "enemy" bearing the standard of the all too familiar dragon. So far, his gains had been limited to the southern peninsula, with a number of destroyed craft burning off upon the shielding array. It was Sejanus' job to overwhelm the invaders and buy time for the evacuation into the Keep where the Frankians could theoretically hold out until the end. He noted that the Greenclad were crossing a field of withering fire, against the orbitals which had dropped to support the Azul Armee.

Squads came up, deploying turrets while citizens conscripted conducted an orderly evacuation. Their Captains bade them not form up into an assault formation, but to inch themselves closely. Mechs moved, hosing down the woods with their quadcannon while dispatching armored craft with their batteries. Detonations upon the edge of the battle hinted that the enemy fleet above was deploying substantial ordinance against the bastions who had done them some mischief.

Sejanus raised his scepter, acknowledging the clicking of the heels of his subordinates. He did not waste time with further formalities, but asked that the handicap upon the invader be removed. So far, the orbital batteries which had devastated Neustria when its guard was down had not been rendered as effective.

We must prepare for anything, gentlemen.

The holomap depicted greater plumes, with the shielding of the bastions coming under greater strain. Captains who led their men against the parapets and mechs of the foe were obliterated in a matter of moments, the dead trickling to the rear. Sejanus lit a cigarette, and inquired why the heavy guns were yet to be deployed. The Marshal smiled and then signaled the positioned batteries who would train their great shells upon the few who had set foot on Gerwannian soil.

No need to overdo it, dead is dead.

The Marshal nodded and relayed the order.

In the distance, the great batteries kept back joined the battle in support of those Greenclad who crawled upon their bellies. Azul Armee's shielding could be seen to come under increasing strain, with a number of shells plunging through gaps made to obliterate landing zones. A cry of satisfaction was raised, but Sejanus was indifferent.

There will be more and the great guns will be of little avail when their shielding fails under the strain of a combined Fleet. Still, such early victories are necessary for morale.

Armee Azul's forces were sent reeling with the massive casualties, with the holorail network carting off the dead to the bastions where they would stand guard. The Greenclad advanced cautiously, providing suppressing fire and hurling satchel charges into the parapets hastily dug by the enemy. Above them, the orbitals began to fall back as they came under assault by the Killercraft and the trained gunners of the Royal Army. Upon a hill, the banner of Armee Azul fluttered in defiance, where the counterpart of Sejanus awaited further reinforcements and support from the Fleet above.

Several divisions had been dretrained to reinforce Armee Verte, bringing the total forces at Sejanus' command to some sixty thousand. Such reinforcements had been brought in more swiftly, with the holorail still intact. Regiments advanced by Company, with the Neustrian Grenadiers assaulting the hill as the mechs trailed behind them. Their banner flapped in the wind defiantly, for with the growing support and the mounting casualties sooner or later they would break through.

It was their boldness which was to be their downfall. In a number of caves, the Azulclad had set up killzones with what limited turrets and men they had at hand. As the Neustrian color bearer ascended the rise, they opened fire, calling for support from the Fleet and any orbitals that remained. The Grenadiers hurled themselves into the assault, with the wiser Captains bidding their men to spread out and advance at a crawl. Some fell, while the power armor and shielding array of the individual shatter were constantly buffeted with incoming ordinance.

The Azul made a counter-charge down the hill, as the ordinance of friend and foe detonated all around. Foxholes were the scenes of bitter hand-to-hand fighting, with sensors whining to hint that the combatants had departed for Atkane's Hall. Yet, the sudden charge had sent the Grenadiers reeling, forcing them to fall back as reinforcements came up.

Armored lorries appeared on the horizon, disgorging Greenclad along the way in squads without step. They trained their quads on those defenders who were outside the safety of their foxholes, dispatching many as rockets streamed towards them incessantly. Some brewed up, and fell back to leave the fight between the living for the yard of the dead. Analysis was made how effective the quads were, particularly against the enemy hovercraft which now joined the fray from the Fleets above.

Hard to bring down...

The simulations raced across the sky, bringing upon the ire of the flak and the quadgunners. Some flew into the plains, to scatter themselves upon the plain below. Incoming turret fire created havoc for those Greenclad in the open, but just at the moment the Eagles of Atkane arrived. The Killercraft, which had assailed the orbitals, now came with fury upon the few Azul craft that hovered above the raging battle.

Killercraft Commander Jan vra Norveck pulled hard upon his stick, sending his craft reeling to avoid munitions from below and from the orbitals. He trained his quadturret upon the enemy craft, firing at pointblank range into its side as he soared to avoid collision. His holoprojector depicted that the craft was descending, with trailing smoke.

Enemy craft, ten o'clock.

His wingman came down upon them in an instant, running the gauntlet of their fire as he strafed the lumbering craft. Missiles soared past them, and the quads below concentrated their fire upon those craft that trailed great smoke. These craft were, however, not real and were the latest projections of the craft of the enemy known by Fleet Intelligence.

Mater help us.

He maneuvered past the enemy craft and began strafing the positions of the enemy upon the hill. His sensors detected many enemy dead, but he had noted in the brief second that he had passed over that many had found refuge in the caves. He pressed a button and returned above where he had sown death and destruction.

Napha, deploy.

The bomb dropped and maneuvered through the turret fire towards a cave where he noted many of the defenders were sheltering. In the fraction of a second, the simulation roared into life, with the great plume of fire sweeping from the opening.

Several dead trickled from it, but many more had survived the burst of napha. Fortunate ones, who in a time of war, would find themselves bandaging wounded comrades who had been touched by the Fire of Atkane. Suddenly, his sensor array reported a direct hit upon his fuselage.

Smoke trailed, as though in an actual action, forcing Jan to break off from the engagement for the safety of the Hidden Fields that lay below the vast oceans. After a number of minutes, he was clear of the field of carnage, and reported to base that he required substantial repairs. They were not needed, for Killercraft could regenerate modest damage, but the mechanics and technicians were required to attend to everything that might go wrong.

He braced himself and sealed the damages as best as he could. He was about to plunge into the Serene Sea, where below were the vast fields of the Air Corps that were to join the fight in defense of the current continents that dominated Gerwannia. The terrors of the ocean flashed past his craft as he plunged deep, deep until on the ocean floor he saw the opening where only the bold might enter.

He signaled his arrival and entered the breach, descending into the broad strip. Airmen raced towards his craft, as Jan himself moved to another which had been brought forth. Such was rare among Killercraft pilots, for usually they were obliterated before they could find another craft to take them into battle.

Life was short, glory was long.

From the windows he noted the great projectors of the ocean bottom, fully charged, joining the battle. Light went skyward, hitting upon a phantom orbital that had wandered too close to the base. Jan smirked, and returned to the battle which from his latest report had shown significant reinforcements for the enemy drop... But near the Pillar of the Light of Wisdom.

He sighed and bade his Wing turn away from the orbitals above. If they were swift, they might annihilate the formation on the ground before their orbitals could arrive to join them.

[Royal Frankia]

Changing of the Guard




Attan Sejanus Wulfius made his way up the steps of the Great Hall of Wylus, surrounded by a retinue from the recent campaign in the Urlann. His cloak fluttered in the great wind, ever assailing the great mountains. He had come to claim what was his by right, the Dread Scepter that commanded all the lands from PW-1 to NS-1.

He found his Lady Mother waiting, upon the Great Throne of the Ancestors. Her gaze was fixed upon her son, who had returned unscathed and with a number of victories. He had grown since the last time she had seen him, nearly ten cycles had passed since he had left her arms to make war upon the men of Mylorr and the masters of Fraconia.

Upon his breastplate was the Lion of the Sejanus clan, which had risen upon the Exodus to high status. Marrying the ancient bloodline of the Ram, they had launched campaigns to ensure that their future Sovereign should boast more of his patrimony than even of his grandfather. Tribute had flowed into the coffers of the Great Realm from afar, and everywhere the Dread Fleet had sailed great sorrow assailed the hearts of the enemies of the Mater Atkana.

Son… You have returned. Sala, Blessed be thee among my children.

Mother, Bearer of my Scepter, the hour is at hand that I shall lead the Realm. Ten cycles I have been afar, waging war in your name and in the honor of our great line. Our enemies of old have paid a terrible price for their insolence. Blessed be the Mater Atkana!

The Dread Sovereignness rose from her throne, leaning upon her staff carved from the ivory of the great mammoth. She crossed the gallery, shooing away the Guards who wished to assist her. Her limbs had grown weary with the passage of nearly fifty cycles since she had first ascended. In her heart she sought rest from her great labors, which had made a shattered Realm once more Mighty.

In her hand was the Scepter, first carried by Wylus against the bickering realms of antiquity. Many had grown to fear it, many had sought refuge beneath it. Its passage from mother to son lasted an instant, for such was the manner in which a succession upon the end of a regency was marked. There was less pomp and ceremony, for it was remembered that in times of peace and war such matters were not required when one must command from the start.

This passage marked the transfer of not only the Great Realm, but the military forces which it could at a moment command. The Ministries had received the Decree before anyone, so that there might be no disruption or confusion upon the rise of the son. Still, she would exercise considerable influence from the Hall she had raised to the Mother of Sovereigns opposite the official Royal Hall.

As the Mother of the Sovereign joined those that gathered in the Hall, she knelt as her son ascended the steps to the Throne. All had been gathered, from the Magisters to the Directors to the Priests to witness the solemn occasion. It was the first time in living memory that a peaceful succession had occurred, and all awaited the first words from the Wylid.

Attan III now sat upon the throne, carried off from doomed Neustria to behold the fertile valleys of the Plain of Vreizh. The Crown upon his head shone, sapphire rubies and emeralds from the distant mines of Araliana. He coughed, before speaking in the manner of the Great Dread Sovereigns.

For too long, the Realm of my forefathers has tolerated great insults to my proud line. For too long, we have tolerated the defilement of our Sanctuaries by the Unbeliever. I call upon my Magistrum to ready itself for Holy War, for a War that shall blot out the memory of Tnem-Fragg. Pray, Seers of the Holy Fire, that the fire shall cleanse the proud glaciers of all defilement.

The Lost Daughters shall be recovered, this I swear, let every scribe record these my words. I shall not sit long upon this Throne, before I shall be first through the Gates of Tnem-Fragg with my Dread Banner. Let all upon this day shout with joy, the Glory of the Wylid and the unsheathing of the Sword!

Ynga hid the grimace in her face, for she had expected that her son would learn that such a conflict would undo everything that she had done. Had she not lectured him upon the merits of peace and brotherhood with all the lands? Had she not sought to make amends, even though the Great Powers did not take such in earnest? Now, the Realm which she had rebuilt would likely be destroyed to the glory of the Pords and the woe of the Children of Atkane.

She prayed to the Mater Most High, who had once appeared by the Queen Mother. Garbed in the robe of a handmaid of the Seer, who must ever attend the Sacred Fire, she ran her divine fingers through the graying air of the matron. Calm came upon Ynga, even though she felt in her heart the coming of a great storm.

Atkana, I have not seen you since you revealed to me what the Fates desired.. That we must depart the Cosmos of our enemies to build again in a far land. That the Fates had promised the Realm great riches, great prosperity, and great piety. Is everything to be undone, with but the word of my own son?

Fear not, daughter of Wylus, for all must come to pass. It is the will of the Fates that war, bane of all mortal men, shall once more grip the lands. None shall be spared, none shall know not the loss of loved ones. Many warriors shall crash to the earth, to be stripped of their goodly armor. But the time is not yet, for the goodly Vrantrille as yet will not ready the Fleet despite the Word of the Wylid.

A sign is needed, a sign that shall be given when the warriors of my Children are at the ready. I shall work, by the Will of the Fates, to ensure that the hearts of thy folk shall not now lead themselves to strife before that time. But know, my Fairest Daughter, you shall be laid in the tomb of your ancestors before your son shall unsheathe the Sword of Norva. Keep to the Path, for I desire you within my Hall more than the greatest of the martyrs.

Blessed are those that keep the peace and raise up Sanctuaries to my everlasting glory. Great are those that know war shall bring destruction, not glory. Majestic are those that rule with wisdom and hark to their ancestors. I shall not see you again, before you enter my Hall to stand beside your forefathers. Speak not a word of what I have uttered, farewell.

It was then that the Mater Most High, the Creator of All, departed the Hall even as her priests chanted her everlasting glory. Upon the steps that led to the Throne, each Great Captain swore eternal obedience to the Wylid whose Glory shall never pass so long as his name is upon their tongues. Only Ynga looked on, knowing that each day she lived was a blessing upon those who were too young to remember the horrors that awaited them.


Training Ground

The Novorondons had formed into companies, to perform feats of arms to the ever glory of Atkane. Against their enameled armor clashed the blunt swords, so that know blood should be shed upon this day. Each fighter fought with honor before his Sovereign, and sought to impress him. Captaincies were awarded to the bold, to lead the Guards in the wars to come.

Upon a raised platform sat the young Attan, watching the melee with interest. Those wounded grievously were carried to his presence at once, to be bestowed his blessing everlasting. With the gift of touch, he made them whole, but such was not a divine gift rather than the application of sorcery. In the Urlann, the youth had studied the Noble Arts, by which the Cosmic power might be utilized not to destroy but to mend.

A great irony, as this youth would soon embroil the Realms in a great bloodletting never before seen. For now, he watched the action of his Guards as he received report from the Magistrum of the mobilization. So far, Vrantrille had opposed the monarch at every turn, and the youth had honored tradition that the Navigum maintained the power to rend the Cosmos with the assent of the Magistrum. This division of powers had benefited the Throne, distancing itself from the failures of their servants, but now supporters of the cause of the Wylid sought influence within this ancient office.

Appointments were made of the New Men, who owed everything to their Sovereign and had served with him in the Urlann with distinction. Shiplords were raised to the commanders of entire Divisions, but such attempts to pack the Magistrum with warriors came to naught. The conservatism and wisdom of the Magistrum, as yet, prevented the Wylid from launching the punitive expeditions against the ancient enemy. Rather, they concentrated upon rationalizing the Fleet and readying it for the conflict in the Urlann, not forming into the vast host which would sweep upon the Divine Systems as the Youth sought.

True, plans had existed that he had been given access, but the administration pledged would not listen. They demanded a sign from on High, which as of yet had not been given. The piety of a shattered nation had kept it from disintegrating, the will to rebuild that which had been lost over the past cycles had given vent to rage pent up. From his mother, the Sovereign had inherited a Realm whose industry and manufacturing capacity could yet sweep the lands. The high birth rate and equality now enjoyed by the Half Folk had swollen the ranks of those able to serve aboard the warships of the Fleet. Greater emphasis upon training, upon the security of industry and shipyards, and upon the design of new warships had been placed than before.

Should the Realm renew the war, the Prasental Armadas would be in the vanguard to bring holy war upon the enemy. Such were outside the grasp of the monarch, who busied himself with spectacular shows to win the populace. As the Wylid, he intermingled with his folk as all Great Sovereigns had done in the past. He was about to embark upon a tour of the Realm itself, to hear the complaints so far kept hidden from the Eyes of the Dread Throne.

He trusted not the United Department of Intelligence, let alone its claims that NS-1 had become the bastion of Neo-Baralatism. Ideology was not his strong point, for fanaticism did not bring victory. Only courage and discipline would hold the line, let alone enable the storming of the Greatest Citadels. It was better that such should perish in noble war than give way to the Great Iskandra, Time which sapped the strength of all mortal men.

A sudden cry was heard from the field, as the combatants ceased from the display of martial arms. A troop of horse rode, bearing a message from the Queen Mother to the Sovereign of Sovereigns. Attan III rose, as the messenger ascended the steps of the pavilion.

The messenger knelt, as Attan broke the seal.

Son, Blessed of the Mater Most High with the Dread Scepter, know that you shall ever know the love of thy mother. I desire you not feats of arms, but that ye seek the wise rather than the brave. The former shall live to see the tomb, the latter shall be scattered across the Void. Know the glory of the Great Dove, for even he soars above the great mountains against the howling winds. He is not brought low, but overcomes the breath of the Devas.

The Sovereign of Sovereigns nodded and bade for pen and parchment. He wrote quickly these words quickly, which the Annals shall record until the last of the Folk should perish.

Know that Feylor died near the mountains of his forebears, which were desecrated from on high by a hostile Fleet. Our brethren of old made war upon the Children of Atkane, and even the Holy Sanctuaries they did not spare. The Great Dove availed not, for with restraint the Fairest of Daughters was carried off into bondage. Understand that I cannot allow such, for I am of the Blood of Wylus, I am the Wylid. Good health be upon you and may you Walk in the Path of Atkane always.

The Bearer of the Dread Scepter pressed his seal upon the parchment and gave such to the herald.

He then spake these words to the Guardsmen, who looked upon him as though he were the Father of Fathers.

I am but a youth, but I know that the past cannot be forgotten. Our Sanctuaries have been defiled, and all know the death of my forefather. Our blood, which was shed upon these Lost Daughters, must be honored by their restoration to the Realm Eternal. Will you follow me, even should I lead the van through the shattered gates of Tnem-Fragg? Shall Laptev never know the scourging fire, the price of its treachery until the Last Age?

A cry rose from the Guard, who would follow a mere boy into the Gates of the Abyss.

[Royal Frankia]

Account of Attan vra Krevana, One of the Elect and Blessed of Atkane

A Dance in the Darkness

The Vrakhana, ancient daemons who had aided the false Lord Severus, had long plagued the zones beyond the reach of the Faith. As the Sith had waned and the cult of the serpents had broken, the Great Realm devoted greater resources in the destruction of these entities from beyond. Such required those of the Elect to sally forth, often alone, into foreign realms and strange citadels.

They were armed simply, bearing not weapons that could harm mortals. For those who went forth, they would either return a holy man or should die a martyr in the cause of the Origin of the Cosmos. Such was the beardless youth, Attan vra Krevanna, who plied the streets of the backwater port of some polity known as the League of the Thirteen Colonies. He had checked through customs, his crimson robes marking him as one of the Order.

Attan gripped the amulet, around his neck, which ever carried a spark of the Eternal Flame that Atkane had bestowed upon her children. In the presence of the daemons it would emit a faint aura, and hum with intensity as those of the Abyss that yet walked the mortal realms drew near. He felt it now throb, but saw nothing with the keen eyes of the Great Folk.

Children played in the streets while parents looked on. Hovercars and lorries roared in the skies above, carrying the folk of this world to either work or the Great Bazaar. Around him were a thousand minarets, reflecting the dying rays of the sun. Soon, the Darkness which shunned the light would walk the earth, and in the Darkness the daemons would fall upon their prey.

A child might go missing, at the least, while an entire household might be devoured to leave nothing but bones for those who came upon the remains. He plunged his staff into the sand and uttered words, ancient and sacred, which would reveal the daemon who now stalked the streets. At his side was a dagger, crafted by the Vani of the Mater, with which such daemons were sent from the region from whence they came.

Then, some six meters away, he saw it...

Its horns had grown with the ages, and rivaled its tongue in length. A thousand eyes stared at the Elect, probing both his mind and soul for weakness. Red in body, fangs of yellow, it seemed to sway back and forth near children who knew not its presence.

Attan stepped forward, dagger at the ready. There was no reason to argue with this creature, for no reason would not stay its hunger. He darted past the children, as the beast came on silently.

The twain danced as the two moons reached their full height, leaping forward in an attempt to deal the final blow. Against the Atkanite's shield, of a spell passed down within the Secret Annals, the beast broke off one of its great horns. The youth leaped above the sudden charge, sensing that the power of the Darkness would overcome the miracle of Light, as the beast crashed into a wall.

Blood trickled down his leg, for the Vrakhana at gored the Atkanite. As the beast reared around, the Atkanite charged wielding the Wrath of the Vani. He struck fast, driving it home through the luminous flesh. As its blood wet his knife, his nostrils were befouled with the odor of the grave.

It was then that the beast roared and collapsed. Before Attan could blink, the beast from beyond had vanished. Around him, the children who had watched the Knife Dance of the Seer, cackled upon its completion. They knew no the danger that had passed, or how close they had come close to being devoured.

He sheathed his knife and looked upon the light of the suspended moons. Such might have harried the creature, saving the Elect from a fate worse than death. The ignorant might scoff at such superstitions, but it was known in ancient lore that it was not only the flesh but the soul which would feed the Vrakhana.

Ghosts in the Hinterland

Araliana

The Cursed Waste had once been a paradise, before the Devas of some Lost Folk clashed above it in antiquity. For thirty cycles they made war, their servants and themselves landing upon the surface to blot out the Creation on High. Yet, that which is immortal may never die, and their spirits were said to roam the vast desert.

Such was the state of this world when the sons of Aralia arrived, bringing civilization to a world that had been lost to the Annals. Upon the Delta and the Coast they settled, neglecting the arid regions where the vine did not grow. Those of hardier stock settled in what became known as the Sixteen Provinces, and extorted those cousins who had prospered from industry, trade, and commerce.

The Authority kept the precarious peace, sending forth expeditions to punish those that had broken the Law of the Sovereigns. Hostages were taken periodically, though given the shifting sands upon which clan power rested such was of little use. In the South, unlike the East and the West, men did not recognize any leader by birth or wealth. Only the sword mattered, and it was upon this that the South won booty and honor in the eyes of the Prophet.

The raiders were soon bought off, and the boldest were hired to guard the caravans which trekked into the interior. Incense, spices, and the nectar of the gods these merchants sought, which could not be obtained by mortals anywhere else. Such a traffic with the spirits had been condemned by the Faith, but Wulffigs made blind the Sons of Atkane.

Upon such a caravan Attan vra Krevana had joined, atop a great beast know as zorgoth that had been brought from the land beyond. It rose nearly 6 meters off the ground, and carried kit for a prolonged journey. For some reason, only organic life might cross the desert, for any contraption of mortals would cease to operate after a trek of some twelve kilometers.

Beneath the Elect, several of the Araliana rode upon mounts that were fast, but depended upon the water stored within the zorgoth. They resembled stallions, but bore no hair and were blind since they were hatched. Their riders could make a good speed, with such mounts, and had ridden multiple times to investigate strange signals of smoke. The search for the spirits had lasted nearly a Kalend, but false signals and daemonic scavengers were all that the party could find.

Attan had never ventured into the Cursed Waste before, it was not a place for a Pious man. Still, his curiosity led him on, his now white robes and headscarf shielding him from the harsh suns. At his side was a bow, blessed by a Seer to ward off the Cursed Ones, but so far he had not shot in anger.

It was then that he caught sight of the horde of beasts upon a distant dune, kicking up a great cloud of dust that rivaled that some of the seasoned men thought to be a sandstorm.

To arms, fools!

The riders caught wind and sallied forth, lowering their lances to fend off that which had risen from the Waste. They charged as the creatures descended, shrieking in a manner which would shake the Spirit. The armored riders met them with courage, sending many of the half man-half beasts to breathe out their last upon the sand. It was then that they drew their great swords and fought like the Tigers said to haunt within the mountains of the Three Fabled Leagues.

Beasts encircled the brave fools, while those that had remained with the Caravan readied themselves. The zorgoths of the caravan then charged, their tusks desiring to drive the distracted beasts back. Attan readied his bow, as the guards on both sides hurled javelins into the creatures below. The abominations looked on and shrieked, as the beasts made short work of those foolish enough to stand in the path of a zorgoth stampede. The riders who survived, for they were not many, rallied and pressed the beasts that fought with claw and fangs.

The beasts did not give way, but a distant sound caused them to halt.. Those not engaged in battle froze with fright and then left their dead and wounded upon the plain. The mortals would have pressed such beasts to their lairs, had it not been for the need to tend the wounded and count the dead. Those beasts which still twitched were speared without mercy, while those who had been grievously wounded were given merciful death by their comrades.

32 dead, a score more that wounded...

The commander nodded, his armor had been battered beyond description. The Eye of the Mater Most High gazed upon his men, an emerald said to possess properties which would shield the rider from death, but such was a superstition. None could escape the will of the Fates.

Attan climbed down from the zorgoth and kneeled. He bowed to the dying sun, which would herald the Gathering Darkness. He rose, raising his hands and uttering a paean for the dead who their comrades did not have time to bury.

His amulet vibrated suddenly.

We must move..

The Elect rose, his ears listening for what might come over the horizon in this Forsaken Place. The Great Mist had swallowed caravans that only the Devas could count, while the serpents below the earth struck without warning even the most heavily armed. He crawled up onto the beast, thanking the Devas that he had been permitted such rather than the smaller mounts.

The caravan moved on from the scene of grisly battle, going northeast for a temple long abandoned. The Vani, dispatched to the Mater Most High to accompany the mortals, ferried off the dead in accordance with the Law. While their comrades thought them lost, such were brought to the tombs of their forefathers with all rites performed. Silver coins, an old custom followed by all mortals that knew yet the gods, were placed upon their Eyes so that they might be prepared for the sights that awaited within the Hall of Atkane.

[Royal Frankia]

Our Learned Scholars

For those who attained great success, and had been elevated to the Nobility of the Elect, great rewards and opportunities awaited them. With the passage of time, this caste had undergone a radical transformation from those who had once traversed the Cosmos in pursuit of glory. Literature, Scripture, science, and art became the focus of those males of the Great Folk. Scorned now was the profession of the soldier, which offered little beyond a martyrdom which would not allow one to divvy up one's estate in the proper manner. Arguments were made that the military leviathan was a waste of the resources of the Crown, with no true enemies that now remained to pose a threat to the Eternal Realm.

Honor comes not from the sword, but from the pen

The Greatest Realms have known that, far from being the case that a soldier is noble, he is merely a brigand upon a short leash. His substance comes from society, and as such is as parasitical as the capitalist class upon it. He is loyal only to the state, and should his folk desire to remove that which is tyrannical they shall massacre their own folk in service of their paymaster.

The Great Fleets consume the revenues of entire citadels, the Royal Army consumes those of the Sacred Isles raised to honor Atkana. It should be no surprise that, far from being on the cusp of ascendance, our realm has grown more and more barbarous with the passage of time. Our scholars and bards write, not of things which are morally correct, but upon great wars which had their origins in immorality.

Yet, he goes, of his own free will knowing that the war is unjust. It flies in the face of our religion, to wage war in defiance of the Scripturas, why does he do so and risk his own soul? He will not obtain martyrdom, if he should die assaulting a world which has done nothing to warrant such, but the fires of the Abyss.

Standing armies and fleets are the friends of tyranny, not of liberty. They threaten the ancient rights and institutions of which we, of the Great Folk, profess to believe in. Should such be removed, in favor of a standing militia to be called forth in defense of the Realm, then not only the expenditure on defense should decline but this threat to the freedom of all who inhabit our Citadels.



While the noblemen turned to such subjects, neglecting the Art of War, they saw that their womenfolk were gradually removed from the sight of society. Purdah, an ancient practice, had returned to safeguard the Daughters of Atkane from the pollution that could be attained by the look of males of a lower caste. As the manses of the great grew larger, so too were the quarters of their wives and female attendants. They did not bring their wives to court, unlike those of the guilds and those with the Sovereign's favor, and many of their daughters entered into the service of Atkane or married off to form an alliance.

The status of their women had declined, to the point where they were depended upon the kindness of their husband's successor. Yet, behind the veil, they managed to gain the trust of the attendants of the household who would do her bidding more so than the master. Though she could not transact business, in her name, she could bring on such to do so for her to improve the sum that had been her dowry. It was said that, most of the works of the nobles, were in fact penned by their womenfolk with a hint of mockery of their caste.

These attitudes which arose, resembled those of the capitalist class which had been swept aside, but the working castes were content. The priesthood, finding the new living arrangement to be affront to the One who was female, at times did give sermons on this subject. Such sermons fell upon deaf ears, for the state saw that this revived caste produced a far greater number of technicians, scientists, and specialists than had before.

The Nobility of the Yellow Robe, these reclusive gentry were called, and it was with time that they gained power over the Ministries. This new power was a threat to both the Economic Planners and the Magistrum, who now fought a battle against those who had never gone beyond their estates. Court favoritism had grown, extending the power of the monarch to the verge of breaking custom, and allowing such to be under the thumb of the boy Sovereign more firmly than had been the case before.

Why would a known prince that seeks war make an alliance with those who were outright pacifists? For, in a time of war, the Ministers of the States are not required to serve. They are thoroughly the Sovereign's creatures, for should they pass their estates are forfeit to the state, but if should those had supported the monarch thoroughly then their successor might succeed them. He would tolerate their polemics, knowing that they would fall upon deaf ears.

The Psalma of Gerwann II, of the House of Wylus, spoken to Him by Her that hath revealed herself. Such shall be performed with the sacred dance and the stringed instruments, while those who hear should empty their hearts and minds of the world

Keep in your heart the Law,
Meditate upon it day and night.
Why are you troubled?
Why are you at odds with the world?
To follow the Most High,
One must abandon all to follow the Path.

The worldly, blinded by mammon,
See not that desire is suffering.
Look not to the bounty of the land for your salvation,
Nor think that by calling on the Most High,
You will be answered, those who do not do my Will.

Realms shall rise and fall,
And those that now live shall lay beside those who went before.
Fear ye not, for I am with the righteous always.
Show humility, even until the Last Hour.
Blessed be those that know in their hearts the Law,
And follow it, for their is the glory forever.

Seek ye not the unsheathing of the sword,
But make peace with those that are your enemies.
Do good to the poor and wash their feet with your tears.
Treat ill not the worker, for her is the foundation on which all is built.
The gods acknowledge the Law and my Will,
Why do you mortals do not?

Your house is desolate and you ply your couch with your weeping.
You see death come upon the Children of the Elect,
But know that death is not the end, but the beginning.
Know the law and meditate upon it Day and Night.
Keep to the Light, and you shall escape the Darkness.
Walk the Path, and you shall not fall into the Abyss.

Unto you I have revealed these things,
As though you were the immortals whom even I shall judge.
My hammer is at the ready, as it my lofty chariot.
To sally forth to overthrow the evildoer,
And lay the foundation of righteousness.

Your hearts, I know.
Your supplication, I desire.
For I am not of you,
You, my children, in whom I breathed life.
Honor me, abandon not the Faith of your forefathers.
Blessed are the Righteous who endure until the End.


O Monk, do not forsake us

O Monk, do not forsake us!
We keep the Law of the Mater Atkana.
Her name is ever upon our tongues.
O Monk, do not forget the Children of Atkane!

We are many that enter the Valley of Death
The unbelievers come upon us like a sudden storm.
The din is as great as the slaughter.
O Monk, show mercy upon the Children of Atkana!

What wickedness persists in this Age of Atkana,
When the mighty oppress the low!
When the worker knows not the fruits of his labor!
O Monk, show mercy upon the Children of Atkane!

A world tempts us a thousand ways a thousand times,
The Greatest of the Great have fallen for that,
Which must end, they do not see the beginning!
O Monk, do not forsake the Children of the Most High!

At the coming of the Iskandra we shall not break rank,
We are not of the followers of the Prophet.
We keep to the Path and abhor the Abyss!
O Monk, guard the Sacred Fire of Atkane’s Children!

[Royal Frankia]

Forged Anew




War was ever on the horizon, for the Great Dread Realm that had not known a day of peace. From PW-1 to NS-1, it had fought campaign after campaign to ensure the integrity of its frontiers. The Praesental Fleet had been rushed from hotspot to the other, driving back the enemy to his own citadels in short order. This is what Attan the Bold inherited, this sword that had never been broken, and it was this which he wished to strike off the heads of his ancient enemies.

Martial feats were honored like never before, with those who had fallen in glorious battle depicted as celebrating a Thousand Honors in the Hall of Atkana. Processions of the Martyrs became more common, their remains being carried in glory to the Tomb of the Fallen. Ritual dances were performed by the Vevas, creating apparitions of Paradis before the eyes of mere mortals. Recruits flocked to the ranks of the Dread Sovereign, but such were put in the Reserve Formations which were to replenish the ranks of the Prasental or the Home Fleet according to need.

The VII Prasental Armada had been reinforced, reaching by the Third Kalends of Norvana nearly six hundred thousand craft. The Seventh was an ancient formation, having fought in nearly all of the wars that were recorded by the Chronicles. The Magister Jan vra Krevanna had taken as many worlds as there were stars in the night's sky, but he was still riled at the thought that the Sanctuaries of his Ancestors were defiled. Many of his kin had opted for martyrdom under the obsidian knife to save the soldiery, who were the chief source upon which the Realm drew strength. They might be beaten, but they had never been broken.

Other Armadas of the Prasenta were gathered, the II and the IV, those commanded by the Great Dux of Neustra and the Lion of the Urlann. They were under Vra Krevanna's command, for he alone bore the Scepter of the Grand Armadum which had been formed by Order of the Magistrum. He had conferred with them over the two previous Kalends, discussing the ultimate goal that the Magistrum had set. It would entail decades of cycles beyond the Great Realm's frontiers, which would not result in conquest but desolation. The ancient enemies of the Realm had returned, those enemies who had carried off by force the Lost Daughters of the Atkana.

Still, there was much time for discussion, for the Magistrum had not ratified the chief objective. Vrantrille had sought a limited conflict, but all who bore the Scepter were aware that this would entail a conflict that could last a thousand cycles. Battles won would not determine this outcome, but the will to fight until all was lost. Given the success seen in improving the Realm's fortifications and industrial capacity over the previous reign, it was known for some time that the Eternal Realm could continue the fight.

The DKS Hammer of Norvana had been brought out of the Fleet Store, a dromond which had not yet been put into the service. Aboard her, for the first time in thirty cycles, the Great Folk made it ready once more for service in the Void. Aboard such a craft were more subjects than upon a province's surface, though much more luxurious than those known to the Guildiers of the Great Works. There was much work to be done, even though the automated systems had managed to save most of the labor. Decks were cleaned, systems were checked, and portraits of long dead Septos were replaced.

Garrisons were established near major wards of the craft, in order to respond rapidly to a sudden threat from that section. The shuttle service allowed such to entrain and detrain rapidly, while boarders would be forced to advance under heavy fire corridor by corridor. A number of Novorondons were also in attendance, to carry the standard of the Machtiga into battle. Their green polished armor and golden cloaks marked them for the Guardians of the Realm, and servants of the Most High.

This was the ship of the Machtiga Jovanna vra Urlek, once a noblewoman who had been freed upon the death of her husband. He had foolishly traveled to the Urlann, as a chronicler of a Shiplord who was a distant relation. His body had never been recovered, but then none aboard the craft that had been boarded by the Commonwealth had. From the woman's quarters, she had been freed, never to look back.

None of those learned men served aboard a craft, which protected their estates from lands afar off. They cried to the Vani for mercy, rather than fight like those of the Great Folk. Those who wielded pens were maintained by the sword, and it struck her as pleasant to think of the reaction that a woman of the first rank should sink so low as to take up the sword.

She had been instructed upon what women of the Yellow Robe were to do, and she had laughed. Her mother, before marrying her father, had led a Division against the Pords off Septimania. Her father had been wiser than these learned fools, merely going along with their manners and customs to elevate his position at Court. She had been married off by her father, with her permission, for she saw that a link with the Wyla was necessary at that time.

A widow, she had never remarried. No children would she have, she would dedicate her life to the protection of those who slept peacefully in their beds. The enemy she had fought, time and time again, aboard a Norva Destroyer of the Guard. The Wylid had commemorated her, and this was her reward. Ever be the glory of the Atkana!

A Dromond had displaced the aged dreadnoughts of Gerwann II, and largely dominated the void when they were present. They held the line, against all comers, and often broke them with tremendous firepower. Leviathans they are, stretching nearly 800km in length, the fruit of countless star systems. Heavily armored, their exterior has not been neglected by the artisans of the Fleet. The towers are engraved with sacred images of gold and silver, more so than even the palaces of the Mighty.

It is said that, at the end of the Cosmos, only the Dromonds will remain to record the tale. Such is the power they draw, from the ether, to which is plowed into the systems overall. They need not rely upon supply craft, for the size of this vessel ensures that guildiers aboard can manufacture rations and ordinance according to need. This allows crews to be rotated, according to need, and ensures that all are appropriately trained for a given ward.

These craft are few, but are cherished by the crews who are granted the privilege to man them. Such is required, for those aboard will never likely return to their ancestral worlds. While the craft is under the absolute command of the Machtiga, a civil government is recognized to deal with issues that might arise. An Assembly is permitted, in which issues such as who is to be honored with what role are discussed. Complaints are also lodged here, in which the Assemblymen are permitted to act as a court in such a case. This has freed the Machtiga and staff from many petty details, though in criminal cases they can try those who have violated Fleet Statutes.

Many amenities exist aboard these titans of the Void, these showpieces of the Might of the Eternal Realm. There are great libraries of physical volumes, in which all those who serve have access. There are theaters, in which sacred plays are performed in honor of the Mater Most High. There are open fields, where the Games of the Vani are played before the eyes of of the Septos. There are Sanctuaries and prayer halls are legendary, some say surpassing even those upon the surface. To serve aboard a Dromond is the closest one can come to being within the Paradis that awaits all martyrs.

It was in the prayer hall that the Machtiga had retired. Kneeling upon the carpet, before the Holy Fire, she raised forth her hands in supplication and then bowed. She repeated such seven upon seven times, and chanted the Psalmas that she had learned by heart.

Mater, do not now forget your child.
I am of the pious, I am of the Blessed.
Grant me strength to face what the Fates will,
And to meet death as my ancestors did.

No child will I leave behind,
My line shall end with me.
My post I will not desert.
Only death shall free me from bondage.

Grant me strength,
Grant me courage.
For war is on the lips of men,
And soon many that the Fates will shall fall.

Abandon me not,
Not now, not when I need you.
Blood shall flow like a river swollen,
With the melting snow from the mountains.

In your name, I rise.
In your name, I fall.
Forget me not in your Hall,
And may I be with my father in Paradis.

[Royal Frankia]

Election of Pope Clement XX

Talestra in the First Cycle of Attan the Bold



The curia had been granted refuge upon Austrasia, following the Ingenious persecution. Not all members had fled, some preferring to support the Pope who had been elected by the threat of a katana. The Holy Father, attired not in splendid robes but in sackcloth, ascended the throne with all due ceremony. Clement XX spoke little, for he was trying to bring the Arian Orthodox Church into the fold. He did condemn the Ingenious persecution of the Catholic faithful, and called for the faithful upon the Catholic to embrace martyrdom over the world.

He would preside over a reform of canon law, or extending the power of the Papacy to punish those that had forsaken the Lord. Such would be now immured until they should give up the ghost, should they have violated their holy vows, while their victims would be compensated from the Church treasury. Though God was capable of forgiving the most grievous sins, even Saint Paul martyred many of the Faith before his conversion, such could not be allowed near potential victims if they had been found guilty by a Papal legate.

Such individuals cannot be reformed, despite what psychologists have told us over the past. They have defended the perpetrator and have scorned the victim, this is not Justice. We are, however, bound by Christ to show pity on such as even these. Only God can truly judge our actions, but we must act with all due compassion and honor in the sight of God.
- Pope Clement XX


Though the Catholics that arrived made no converts amongst those Children of Atkane, they were permitted to worship as they saw fit so long as they did supported the Crown in its endeavors. This spirit of tolerance was extended, even by the Atkanite Kirk, though the cosmologies of both diverged on the nature of the One. Debate was permitted, though if matters should reach a point the Frankian Governor would intervene to check. The two Faiths would support one another in charity work, and grant refuge should the one or the other find itself threatened with persecution.

The Holy Father would wash even the feet of unbelievers, be they Christian or Aryan or Atkanite. He would leave the Papal Palace to deliver alms and preside over sacraments of the Churches of the Talestrans. Despite repeated calls to take up arms and launch a Crusade against the Ingenious, he refused, even when supported by the Dread Fleet.

No, no. Sheathe thy sword Peter, this is what our Lord commanded. As has been commanded, so shall be done. The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church, and as Nero failed so will the Jade Empress.


Emissaries would be sent, announcing an election which had been coerced, and presided over by many members of the Curia. There was a call to renounce the illegal Papacy, and for such to accept a position as a Cardinal within the Church. With this went a declaration of neutrality, though no sovereign would be regarded as worthy of worship, and would be praised for the righteousness of his actions.

The Eternal Realm did not officially recognize the one or the other, for it would not involve itself in Church affairs directly. Rather, it would such as an excuse to restore the Lost Daughters, and to potentially bring down the Ingenious government with renewed rebellion. The Church condemned this, even though it had suffered greatly at the hands of the Empress, for such would only lead to systematic extermination of the Catholic population.

I am the Immaculate Conception



With the permission of the Frankian Authority upon Talestra, those of the Catholic faithful were permitted to consecrate the Realm to the Holy Mother. Upon a hill, overlooking the might Austras River, a statue of the Queen of Heaven had been erected. Carved of marble, the Virgin's gown had been painted with costly blue pigment. Some of the funds had been bestowed by the Order of the Yellow Robe, who in regards to religion were largely agnostic.

Below, a procession of the clergy and the Faith commemorated the occasion, while those Children of Atkane went about their business. Hymns were sung to the Mother of God, whose intercessions had aided the Faithful through the trials the Faith had endured. As the the Priest brought the eucharist before the multitude, all knelt and crossed themselves. Old women and children prayed the rosary softly, as the Host was presented to the worshipers underneath a clear sky.

It was reported that upon this day none breathed out their last, and that in the Churches the statues of the Virgin were said to weep. Such miracles were presented as proof to the heathen, but the Children of Atkane countered that they possessed miracles which too could not be explained. Still, they appreciated the assistance of the Holy Mother, should he aid the Realm in the wars to come.

[Royal Frankia]

Upon the Path



In the time of Gerwann II, the great Order had been established that would see to the conversion of the barbarri. It had originally consisted of a hundred members, expanding with the cycles to have sworn brothers from one end of the Cosmos to the other. These were the Norvati, who had sworn to serve, but not to possess. They were perhaps the Most Faithful of the Atkanites, and they were regarded as strange for their prohibition of cohabitation.

The Order shall last for a a thousand upon thousand cycles should we refuse the flesh, but should we accept we shall not last a thousand.

Such were the Great Vrashas, selected by the descendants of Wylus to oversee the distant provinces. They had lived and died without gaining a single Wulffig, though they had been perhaps more successful in launching punitive expeditions against the foes of the Eternal Realm. All abided by the Decrees of the Court, and sought to meet the demand that such distant outposts should be self-sufficient.

Despite their many administrative duties, they observed the seven prayers of the Faithful. Upon developing worlds, they would tore in their simple white robes and bestow charity upon any of the poor that they met. Their ruling could override a sentence of death, and many thus sentenced would serve him upon taking the vows. It was said that the company such kept were of the most vile, but the Faith had turned such into able servants of the One.

The Vrasha was meditating, when a messenger in the crimson robes of the Herald enter the Sanctuary. He fell to his knees and bade absolution, for disrupting the Arhat while he was in the midst of prayer. The Vrasha rose and asked the Eternal Fire to prolong the life of the Sovereign, before grabbing the parchment. He broke the seal and read, shaking his head.

The barbarri have raided the frontier, inform the Magister to lead an expedition to bring me their chief back in a cage.

The herald rose, not looking the holy man in the eye. It was said that such could read one's innermost thoughts and lay bare the soul.

The Vrasha returned to his prayer rug and knelt, ignoring the pains of arthritis. Such of the Order were required to bear pain, for this was a sure sign that one was still alive. They were not to kill a living thing, and it was common that even their water from the river was strained lest they contain insects. Of course, this did not mean that military operations were off the table, but such was left in the hands of others.

The Eternal Fire crackled, though the Norvati were not ones to care much for the signs. What was in their hearts and minds mattered more, what need they of miracles? Only those whose Faith was weak required such, only those who frequently quoted the Scripturas required such. It was often said that those of the Order could converse with the Devas and best them, for to acknowledge the Scepter was not on par with yielding to the Scepter. While the Devas might feast on roast meat and drink sweet nectar, those of the Norvati contented themselves of bread and water.

The Vrasha would have been emaciated, had not he called forth the Cosmos to restore his strength. He did not appear emaciated, though he ate little, and drank less. Should he will it, he might bring down the walls of the Citadel with but a single thought.. Yet this was an impiety, recognized by the Faithful since the Revelation upon Ratkon nearly 4,000 cycles before.

He could have been taken for a man of 80, though he was nearly 3,000 cycles old. Those of the Blessed often saw the coming and going of Realm, and after living a life of luxury as a sorcerer prince he had yielded to the inevitable. One day, he would cut his link to the Cosmos, and return to the hold.. But not yet, not yet.


To the Most High-Last recorded words of Gerwann II
I do commend that which is my life,
To the Mater Most High.
Not long shall I remain,
For already death, the liberator, is near.
Am I worthy to be in the Hall of the Most High?
Have I followed the Path with all my heart?
I have strayed and have erred,
I have shed blood and destroyed citadels.
Come near, Priest, say the words over me.
Soon, my spirit shall leave this royal husk.
I am nothing but a man, I am nothing but a man.
I am nothing compared to the Most High.
My Kingdom I will give, to have live as a Norvat.
My Crown would I part with, should I taste the hard bread.
My Scepter would I cast aside, should I put taste the clear water.
But death is upon me, and I must haste.
May the Atkana protect my People.
May the Realm endure Forever.

[Royal Frankia]

In Defense of the First Great Clash in the time of Feylor IV

-Attana vra Krevana, Chief Historian

Let it be remembered that our Realm at the time of Dreggten’s Navigus was in a perilous position. The Pords had made it clear their quest for the hegemony, by founding the Union of Mulitversal States and supporting the incorporation of GESO within it. It should not be ignored what this threat posed then, and what it should pose if from the ashes either should rise again.

We bore no ill will towards the UMS, before it allowed the Sith to threaten to enslave natives within PW-1.We bore no ill towards the Pords, until they made common cause with the ancient enemy. We bore no ill will towards our ancient friends, until they supported a Realm that desired the enslavement of others. Our Folk have not forgotten the threat the Sith pose, to both the Pax and the Cosmic Order, and we shall sally forth even against the forces of the Abyss to annihilate this threat.

It should not be forgotten that a Prince of that Most Fabled Dynasty heard, with his own ears, of the plot to extend the boundaries of the Sith polity known as Triskel. If we should determine our moral bearings upon those we associate with, it could be seen that the Pords had adopted an amoral approach. The lesson of Caedis they did not heed, nor injunctions against the Sith by nearly every civilized polity then known. By associating with a Sith power that actively promoted slavery, they ensured the hostility of the Great Realm towards the UMS as a whole.

One must not forget that GESO was an emerging threat, having taken Neo-Barlatist reforms with the support of the Pords. Slowly, but surely, he would have cooperated with the UMS or been consumed by it. This situation we could not allow, for we would be faced with the combined might of two factions over the coming cycles. We had no choice but to unsheathe our sword off Rastho Prime, we had no choice but to bring war to the Pordish heartland in violation of all the fallen in the Caedian conflict.

This surprise assault upon both factions caught them both off guard, which worked towards our advantage. Grievous losses could we bear, while the allies of the Pords were slow to mobilize. Even when our own citadels came under enemy attack, we fought like lions to make the enemy pay with blood for every stellar league.

While the sudden assault and the lack of planning for such an eventuality was the main reason for the UMS failure to support their chief member, there was no excuse for the abandonment of the Pords by GESO. The Pords had been the backbone of this faction, and were supporting the reforms that might have made GESO a faction worth reckoning with. It is the opinion, in the eyes of the Magistrum, that the democratic systems promoted within GESO led to the rise of demagogues. Such could not stomach their bold promises being exposed as bare faced lies, as the electorate would see the cost of the war as citadels of GESO were put to the torch.

Had the Children of Atkana not launched their grand offensive, GESO and the UMS might have joined ranks under the control of the Pords. Had it not been for the war, both factions might exist to this day. This is worth the sacrifices that the Realm endured, this is worth the billions who lie scattered across the Void. The Neo-Barlatist threat was strangled in the cradle, the Sith threat evaporated, and the Pords were brought to an understanding of the price of encircling the Dread Realm. It was mercy for the Folk that the peace was concluded with the Coalition, which despite the last war, has been maintained to this reign of the Sovereignness.

[Royal Frankia]

Sarvann



Overhead, though they could not see it through the smoke, the last great orbital fortresses fought on until the last shell, until the last shot, against nearly ten thousand craft of Mylorr. The bastards had come this far, bypassing the Home Fleet that had stood watch, and driving the contingent earmarked for Savann's defense with a bold assault. Occasionally, a ship from on high would be brought down, scattering itself over the Azure Sea. A cheer would erupt, before orbital fire rained down against the fortifications of the Greenclad in revenge.

The Legions had formed up across the northern continent, overwhelming the militias and few Regulars meant to hold them off. They had advanced into the Norvati Mountains, securing the pass before the Armee of Sarvann had arrived to halt their advance. Here, an infantry battle awaited, made worse by the shells which sent men hurling to their deaths in the ravines below. Trail by trail was fought over, in a give and take, with the superior enemies of the enemy made redundant against the tenacity of the defenders and their heavy cannon.

The severe cold made an unpleasant situation worse, the frequent storms bogging down attempts to resupply the living or cart off the dead. A company, after a horrible march, would be sent into the fray with little preparations. They would use the corpses to shield them, as digging even a foxhole required heavy machinery or the expenditure of extraordinary energy. The quads raked the slopes, chewing up at times entire companies before they could reach them.

Snipers were a present threat, made more effective perhaps by the chaos all around. Voltigeurs were to notch many a kill upon their rifle, the flower of the Mylorran Military Academy would be picked off by men from the Plain of Vreizh. Distinct from the Regulars, in dialect and attire, they were as hardy mountaineers as the men of Neusra. The Legionnaires would go on to call such the "Furies of the Mountain", to be feared by all that bore the insignia of Captain within the Legion.

What had once been a sacred grove had been ivscerated by the constant shelling, which had not ceased since the 26nd Regiment of the Royal Armee had withdrawn from the Norvati Heights to fortify the southern ridge. A hellish landscape would appear to any Greenclad who raised his head above the parapet, but few did with the presence of enemy turrets or snipers. What the shells did not destroy, the lancefire from on high blotted out. Ash, bone, and metal contaminated the soil of what had once been a preserve of the Royal Family.

Ranker Javann vra Marbek sat with elven other Greenclad near the hearth, which provided warmth for all without them needing to don their armor. Occasionally, a shellstorm would break over their shielding above, but most would turn back to their cards. Drones and turrets worked overtime, alerting the Greenclad to a sudden enemy assault that would require their support to beat off. The situation was more comfortable for those under the Rammenflieg than before, to be broken by a shellburst over their position or the call for volunteers for a patrol.

This far forward, Marbek and his comrades were within a league of the enemy. Blockhouses were aligned to support one another, with one falling resulting in an immediate counter-attack to retake it. The latter led to heavy casualties, but normally the enemy was too fatigued or too bloodied to mount effective resistance. Even with the fighting all along the line, a modest gain led to that victory falling short of the blood expended. Given the overwhelming strength of the enemy, it was only a matter of time before the garrison would be annihilated, but upon the slopes and ridges beyond lay the bodies of countless Legionnaires would never return to their homesteads alive.

Vra Marbeck's company hailed from Austrasia, a far different world than Sarvann. The granary of the Dread Realm since time immemorial, it was also the beating heart of the Royal Armee. Between a life on the old homestead or glory upon the field, most had opted for the latter. If the Fleet had once been a peculiarly Neustrian institution, the Armee had remained a harbor for the sons of peasants who hungered for land. Honor, Realm, Sovereign, and Atkana they had all sworn many cycles ago to protect, with many fulfilling that oath several thousand cycles above sea level.

In between the assaults, the Engineers were mine and counter-mine, in order to blow one or the other up to Kingdom come. Rumor had reached Vra Marbeck of desperate sorties in the dark, in which hand-to-hand fighting was the routine. Most Austrasians shivered at the thought of being buried alive, or falling in a region where the Light of Atkana was not known. Though bitter enemies, at last here both the Legionnaire and the Greenclad could see such action was futile, with an informal truce existing to gather the wounded or grant mercy to the dying.

Attack!

The sound came from the Lieutenant, as the earth suddenly shook with a fresh bombardment. Outside, through the snowstorm, the turrets acquired targets and dispatched those who rushed forward without cover. Shearing through power armored, they exacted a horrific toll on the men and equipment summoned for a fresh martyrdom.

All the blockhouses went into action, their mortars sweeping the slopes as the Legions attempted to break the stalemate. Vra Marbeck raised his shard rifle, fed targets by the Livefeed of the turrets. He fired at targets of opportunity, not expending ammunition rapidly. Leading his targets, he took them down with precision, as his fellow Greenclad did so. The shard rifles made not a sound, but from the Feed in his helm he could see the result as a shard would strike the enemy head on. Like a hot knife through better, a shard fired at several mach could cut through armor, but this was traded for with the overall rate of fire.

Doctrine did not favor spraying and praying, but making each round count. This was different from the Fleet, in which a great amount of ordinance was expended in a simple skirmish, but the Armee had felt the junior branch had much to learn. A shell suddenly rocked Vra Marbeck's position, forcing him to hug the earth as the shellstorm erupted. Mortar and battery fire replied in kind, stretching the shielding array of both the attacker and the defender. Holes appeared in the attacker's shielding array, as shells the equivalent of naval caliber made grim work of the enemy ranks.

They are retreating!! They are retreating!!

The Greenclad fired upon their foe, until they were out of range, dropping those that might in the future take the life of a future comrade. This had been the fourth time today, with perhaps two more attacks expected before relief was expected. Vra Marbeck sank to the ground, lighting a cigarette and taking a slug from his flask. Another day might be bought, but each day saw the Mylorrans attack in greater numbers and with greater coordination. Sooner or later, the Royal Armee would have to retreat, blowing the blockhouses before the enemy could utilize them for shelter.

This was a hopeless position, as the Marshal of this world would not risk the lives of his Regulars on suicidal assaults. Patrols were sent, yes, the occasional raid here and there. Yet, this action like all other actions, would be decided by the ability of the Dread Fleet to restore supremacy in orbit. Reinforcements would arrive, though it was better to bombard from orbit and mop up that which remained than lose a single man that the Realm could not afford to replace. Any fool could become a sailor, but the Captains of the Royal Armee shielded their men from homicidal orders from far off Gerwannia.

The Tip of the Sword

The Great Nations had come and gone, but the Mater Most High remained, and watched as her followers did battle against the great power of the time. Over a hundred thousand craft had descended upon the world of Krektann, far from where Beloved Atkana had walked amongst the mortals. Three thousand of the craft of the Faithful stood watch, uttering prayer after prayer to summon Her that Knew Not Death to bring death to their enemies.

Ancient dreadnoughts and corvettes from the Great Wars were all that distant Gerwannia could furnish for the Atkanite Insurgency. Below, Krektann shouted defiance to those that had attempted to impose heathenism upon them and undermine the Kirk that shall remain until the Last Hour. The banner of Atkana had been flown, to be accompanied with the slaughter of the garrisons and mass defections which had turned certain defeat into a miracle witnessed in our own time.

Whether the luck of the Holy Citadel of Krektann would hold was yet to be determined, as the ranks of the unbeliever made due course through the Void. There would be no quarter for the Faithful, hope lay either in the Hall of the Atkana or the distant Court of the Eternal Realm. The commander of the Krektanna had divided his ranks into six companies across a million stellar leagues, sufficient enough to form a long line yet allow each formation to assist one another.

On the moons of Krektann, the Daggers of Atkana, great fortifications had been reared quickly. Great batteries had been emplaced, to defy the distant Imperial power and any daemons that might emerge from the Abyss. Such batteries were christened by the Seer for the Warrior Saints, such as the Great Hammer of San Gerwann or the Defiance of Wylus. Such would come in handy, if the enemy broke through, in thwarting his attempt to saturate fair Krektann in the coward's fashion.

The Krektann Army of the Faithful had been formed from the resistance, accepting those of the enemy who had accepted Atkanism. Conscription had begun, but the Army would have to content itself with the dregs. Every man that could sail had been pressed into the Fleet, with the garrisons being stationed in crudely erected forts. Shielding arrays would prevent eradication from orbit, but with the enemy coming in force it would not be long before such works would have to be blown and shelter sought in the mountains.

Far beyond the line of sight of the soldiers, the Fleets began to engage one another at long-range. Shell and lancefire were intense, as each side unleashed what ordinance it possessed. The unbelievers were firing on the run, while those with Faith attempted to maneuver out of death's way. The enemy had clustered, in their mad dash towards the Krektann Fleet, allowing the Companies to inflict atrocious casualties upon the light armored craft that formed the bulk of the enemy's invasion force.

Casualties soon mounted amongst the light craft of the believers as well, with those craft which could no longer fight being ordered to scuttle. There would be no time for repairs, every craft that could not fight now would be forever lost one way or the other. Some could not, however, and as the enemy neared they rammed their craft in order to buy time for their comrades with all guns blazing.

The ancient dreadnoughts unleashed tremendous ordinance as the enemy close the distant, their great guns doing the work for the purpose they had been laid. If the unbeliever had thought that the Eternal Realm would not arm those who professed the True Faith, they were to be sorely mistaken. The batteries concentrated on the forward formations, devastating them as the enemy moved towards pointblank range. Shellfire came in, to be done away after much work by the Engineers or the craft of the Shipyards that were once Neustria and Septimania.

Three enemy cruisers broke rank from the corvettes that were being slaughtered, seeking to attack one of the dreadnoughts that had taken point far from the ranks. They came on, unleashing torrents of lancefire, shrugging off the Krektann attempts to halt them. Behind, came the vanguard, seeking to brush aside the Faithful and bring an end to the revolt.

The dreadnought was idle, turning hard of port, bringing its batteries to bear at a range that was close to point blank. Slugs reverberated off her shielding array, some wounding the hull of the great beast. Still, she brought death to those that had sailed so far, unleashing a torrent of shellfire now that might have rivaled that of an entire fleet. Every battery was set to work, as the slugfest began with both sides in earnest.

This was no heroic duel, there would be no quarter for those that lost. The dreadnought fired against targets more maneuverable than her, not being able to inflict sufficient damage even at such range. On the other hand, nor could the cruisers do much to pierce her hull, but so long as they kept this titan from supporting the rebel fleet the better. Ten thousand craft were behind them, now finding that the void less hazardous than before.

It was then that a squadron of the 3rd Company, seeing the plight of the dreadnought, broke off and brought their guns to drive off the cruisers. A Sala was heard, as the twenty craft maneuvered through fire and shot. They assailed the cruisers at range at pointblank, relying upon their lances and gridfire to unleash a torrent of fire that was normally released over the course of an action. What remained, and what shells they yet possessed, would support the dreadnought's withdrawal.

Across the Void, horrible fighting raged, but the rebels were being slowly ground to powder. The 1st Company was encircled, fighting a losing battle against thousands of craft that desired their annihilation. Each moment they held, however, bought time for their comrades and ensured that they would not face the same horde. Caked in grime and blood, they ignored the rising heat as their craft fought on. They fought like a cornered lion, dealing death to any party that advanced foolishly.

Wrecks were strewn across the Void, with the commander of Krektann Fleet watching from one of the Daggers. The fighting that he could see was atrocious, wrecks and mangled bodies polluting the hallowed Void of Atkana. The Fleet had done what it could, now it would be the time of Forts to get into the action while the Fleet still existed.

Across the many daggers, orbiting at a mind boggling speed for those on the surface, the great guns boomed. As before, those craft clustered together would be targeted, in order to maximize the effectiveness of each shell. There was mad cheering, despite the sense of the End of Days, as the Krektanna struck back upon their oppressor. Perhaps too late, for many of their comrades in the Fleet..

Twelve hours before, three thousand had faced nearly one hundred thousand craft, now there were scarce a thousand that remained against eighty-eight thousand. Without rest, with the thought that soon their world would burn, the Krektanna hurled themselves against the unbeliever to preserve their honor. Those encircled could do little but fight and die, but for those who could still maneuver they took advantage of the growing gaps between the enemy formations to turn their flanks.

The great number of craft required coordination, with fighting between subordinates slowing the effectiveness to respond. If commanders were not certain, neither were their crews. The Krektanna maneuvered within pointblank range and unleashed devastating broadsides, in an effort to sow confusion and to cause formations to fire upon one another. Such would happen, as standard battle turned into a fierce melee. The Devas of War watched the onslaught, and made sure that the names of the brave would never be forgotten in the Annals.

Signatures would appear on the edge of the interdiction field, heralding the arrival of the 15th Division Neustra from far off Arkhana. There was jubilation and dismay, as the fifteen thousand craft that flew the Rammenflieg made ready for battle. For the first time, the banner of Atkana was flown next to the Rammenflieg, marking the commitment of the Eternal Realm to the preservation of Atkana's Children both at home and abroad.

Atop the Dromonds were the regimental icons, atop the Dromonds were the regimental banners. Companies rallied around these craft, the Norvana Destroyers that were the bane of the unbeliever. They now made course to descend upon the enemy, before he could respond to the coming onslaught.

Sala, Mater Atkana.
Look upon your Children and Wonder.
Still sharp, is our sword.
Still strong, is our hand.
Still mighty, is our realm.
Forget us not in your Hall,
Forget not those who fall for your name!

[Royal Frankia]

The Dawn

Within the Sanctuaries, those that acknowledged the Final Victory over the Abyss assembled. Salas were sung as the darkness was driven away by the advancing rays of Sejanus' twin stars. The Seer stretched forth his hands and called upon the Faithful to make the sign of the Most High.

Vevas bore the icon into the Sanctuary, their long dresses trailing upon the stone floor. Mosaics and murals abounded, for Sanctuaries were where most artists of the Folk found refuge. Taste and style varied with each Citadel within the Realm, though they conformed in regards to seating and the placement of the Fire upon the altar. It was before the Fire that the icon was placed, which brought forth a silence that was deafening.

The Mater Most High was arrayed in woolen cloth, a gift from the pious weavers from the neighboring hills. Her silver helm gleamed in the morning light, and cast forth projections depicting events that had taken place in the ancient past. The Great Creation of the Cosmos, the work of the hands of the Most High, was depicted in a series of flashing images that brought forth Sala upon Sala. The coming of the Law, the birth of the gods, the fall of the daemons, the promise to the Fates, and the advent of the worlds that stand were seen to orbit around the Mater Most High.

The Seer stepped forward, his eyes aflame with piety.

Lo, before us is the Bringer of the Day.
Lo, before us is the Mater Most High.
Highest of the High, Greatest of the Great.
The Source of All, the Mother of All.
The Fount of Wisdom, the Mistress of the Cosmos!

Sala, Sala, Sala!

At this the musicians struck up the ancestral hymn, that which had been handed down to the Pious since the Revelation. Like the orbit of the celestial bodies, such was the perfection of those chosen to play the pipe and strum the lyre. A Veva of fourteen cycles stepped forward, dressed as Norvana the Bane of the Daemons. Her voice ascended high, to the very murals of the Mater seated upon her throne that gazed ever upon her Children with her eyes of Evergreen.

Mater Most High, look upon your Children and smile!
We remain, while the Impious are consumed by the Holy Fire.
They have fallen away, and the eons have consumed them.
Not a stone shall remain upon another within their Citadels.

Mater Most High, look upon your Children and wonder!
We remain, while the Impious assail us at every turn.
Our devotions we keep and the Law that shall remain until the end.
What is worldly pleasure compared to thy wisdom?

Mater Most High, look upon your Children and lament!
Many shall fall upon this day, in thy name.
Many martyrs shall ascend to the Hall of Halls,
With their last words being the name of Atkana the Deliverer.


At this, those that brought arms brought forth steel and swore that such would be their fate. Upon each was the mark of the Atkana, sewn upon their tunics in golden cloth. Those that bore the mark would fight, not for Sovereign, but the Sovereign of Sovereigns until the Last Age.

[Royal Frankia]

Military chant against Pordlandia

Lo, look to the skies High Hunterdom!
See you not the cleansing fire?
See you not the thousand upon thousand banners of Wylus?
The gods that have guarded your high walls,
Shall avail you not against the Children of the Most High!
We are many, as the stars in your night's sky.
We are many, that bear the Eversteel!
Across the Cosmos we have traveled,
To avenge Feylor and to the Lost Daughters!

Now is the hour, that the white glacier shall be befouled.
With the blood of those that were once brethren!
Now is the hour, that Death shall claim his own!
Within the blackness that lies for several leagues,
Upon the very banks of the Fragg, Sala!

On come the Great Corps, on come the Great Armada!
Carrying the banner of their forefathers!
For the Sovereign of Sovereigns, for the Realm Eternal!
For the Truth that shall remain, even when our bones are dust!
The beasts that claim dominion over the cold,
Shall be driven back by the Holy Fire of the Atakana!
Those beasts that claim dominion over the very skies,
Shall fall one by one to the bolts of the Atkana!

Onward, that our children might claim their legacy!
Onward, that our deeds shall be remembered forever!
Onward, regardless of the odds, for honor and glory!
Onward, Sala, that our steel might taste again Pordish blood!




Ode to Septimania

In the time of Feylor, at the birth of Ynga,
When still the Lost Daughters were whole with the One.
On came the Pordish vanguard,
Seeking the destruction of the Realm Eternal!
From distant citadels had they sallied forth,
Their arms unconquered, their banners unbeaten.
The Magister called forth the soldiery,
And bade them honor their forefathers upon this day.
Bright eyed Atkana watched the ranks meet within the Void,
Her Children falling like the leaves as autumn gives way to winter.
Many brave and true men fell, but their comrades rushed passed them to avenge them.
The Wolf had had the Ram by the throat,
But as stubborn as a jackass, the Greenclad refused to yield.
Again and again they took the Void, courting death as one does a maid of the mountains.
The blood flowed upon the Void like the waters of the Holy Vranna.
The High Mountains were defiled with fire from on high,
But those that lay beneath were not broken even as the peaks gave way!
Sala, Blessed be the Children of the Atakana upon this day!

[Royal Frankia]

Atkanite hymn- Urstanna Sect
Sala Atkana!
O One, the Most High.
Mater of Maters,
Ever loving, ever true to her Children.
Hear me now, he that be a follower of the Light.

Long have I sought you,
Within the Sanctuaries,
Beneath the sky everlasting.
Near your Holy Fire,


You are everywhere, without beginning or end.
You are beloved by all that contemplate the life giver!
Even if they know not your name, they call forth thee!
Even the skeptics have yielded to the Truth that shall never die!

I draw forth my life's blood,
I call upon you to bear witness to my plea!
The plea of a Folk, the plea of a Nation.
Long forsaken by false friends,
Long beaten into the earth by the Great Realms!

Send forth the Iskandra,
The Sovereign of Sovereigns!
May he carry the blessed arms of the Norvana,
Against those that bear captive our Lost Daughters!
Let him chastise the unbeliever with fire and sword,
May their temples and thrones fall one by one to his host.

Send forth the Peace that was Promised!
Send forth the Host of Hosts to aid your Children!
Send forth the Savior, send forth the Iskandra!
May the nations tremble,
And the Thrones shatter!
May all live by the Law of the Atkana,
For there is but one Path to Life!
Sala, Sala, Sala!

One Most High, bring forth the victory!
The false Kirk has led astray the Faithful!
False gods, false saints, false men!
Not a stone shall remain upon another, not a stone!
Your Prophet they have murdered,
And his Disciples scattered across the Cosmos!

Cursed be the Sons of Wylus,
Cursed be Ynga the Attainted!
Cursed be the line of Feylor,
That hath forsaken the One for false gods!

Trust not in the Great Fleets,
For they are playthings to thee.
Trust not in a thousand Marshals,
For their divisions shall amount to nothing!
Atkana, Sala! Iskandra, come!


Neustrasa

Children of the Light,
Look upon the work of the One and tremble.
She hath sent forth the greatest of her prophets,
The final seal has been broken!
The holy waters have returned to their source in the high mountains.

Neustrasa, Neustrasa, Neustrasa!
Where he was slain by his enemies,
Cursed be they throughout the ages!
Those who hath sold the Lost Daughters into captivity!
Those who hath given insult to the Almighty!

Neustrasa, Neustrasa, Neustrasa!
We of the faithful have embarked upon a great odyssey.
We, the Disciples of Urstann, ride across the wide void.
Bringing peace at the tip of the blade,
Carrying the torch to light the Path through the darkness!

Neustrasa, Neustrasa, Neustrasa!
Our forefathers lived on bread and water in the wastelands,
Fighting the Greenclad for every inch of the holy earth.
None would yield to the false Kirk, none would yield to the false gods.
Only the One remains, only the One remains, only the One remains!