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[Royal Frankia]

Honor


Those who made the journey across the stars had come, not to shout praise to the Most High, but to honor the dead of the Great Folk killed in a foreign land. Upon this soil, the Greenclad had fought over rugged terrain for nearly four cycles. Even as nature had been at work for nearly a century, signs of that struggle between the Ram and her enemies were still evident.

What had been the headquarters of the 3rd Army of the Vranna had become a Sanctuary of the Fallen. Here, the Eternal Realm had proclaimed forever the memory of those who had gone through this Road to Calvary. Atop the dome were mosaics showing the soldiery awaiting the order to advance against fire from on high.

Seer Andros had kept his vigil for nearly sixty cycles. His sight had been lost, perhaps by staring too long into the Eternal Fire that shall clense the Cosmos with the coming of the Iskandra. Still, he could hear the crackling of the Holy Fire, and the voices that had long been silenced.

The greybeard stood alone, murmuring to his attendants who maintained the shrine. Underneath them were buried Magisters and Rankers, Peasants and Sovereigns. In the eyes of the One, there was no difference when the final hour came. All were the Children of the Atakana, the One that shall remain when all must pass away.

An inscription made by a widow during the time of Feylor captured the feeling of those who had trekked many a stellar league:



Now is the hour that you must depart,
To prove yourself a man, to prove yourself a son of the Atkana.
Your brothers, your kinsmen, your elders have all joined the cause.
The Cause that is Lost, the Cause that is Doomed.
They plunge into the fire from on high,
Without pause, without delay, without fear.
Farewell, my love, farewell!

Will you not remove now your helm,
So that the boy might not see the man?
Not the manslayer, that brings lamentation to the Pordish hearth.
But the eyes of the gentle father?
The eyes of him that taught him right from wrong?
The eyes of him that loved him from the moment he first opened his eyes?
Farewell, my love, farewell!

No more shall he look upon those eyes,
The eyes of the father that bore him.
They have been forever shut by the enemy,
Who came to this Citadel in legion.
To test the Children of the Atkana,
As the Fates will, as the Mater willed.
Until we reunite in the Halls of the Atkana!
Farewell, my love, farewell!

[Royal Frankia]

The Failure of Mammon and the Answer in Faith

Capitalism respects nothing but consumption, communism respects nothing but production. The works of the One are not respected by those that She hath brought into being. Her fields, her skies, her waters, her mountaons, those works of her hand tear down for no other purpose than grandeur.

Atkanism maintains that, unlike the present systems in existence, that that which is material is subject to the Divine. The Mater Most High required naught when she brought forth Creation, why should her followers? It is only the fact that the present order is a gift from the One that they possess value. Without the first cause, there would be no reason for such to be.

From the greatest guild to the lowliest cottage, the tenants of the Atkana are kept in the workplace. Fasts, prayers, and offerings are maintained throughout the day. Though toil awakens the mind of poets and strengthens the body of the Children of the Atkana, they must possess time to fulfill their obligations as Members of the Faithful.

What we raise up must not be for ourselves, but for the Whole. Let us acknowledge that our hands cannot forge that which the One have brought into being. Before the gods, before the Daughters, before the Children was She.

All knowing, all powerful, the One does not seek riches in mountains or streams. It is wisdom that she treasures, it is virtue that she desires. Such can never be obtained in an amoral society which does not reflect on its actions.

An Atkanite's actions impact all, be they drinking too much of the fruit of the wine or neglecting one's purpose. He must toil, for this is what the One hath willed for all Creation. The One made no slaves for her Children, but she did not intend work for gain or to provide rent for land barons.

The only true system is one which prevents exploitation of Labor, be it of the hand or of the mind. The only true system will not permit every stream to be owned by one man or the mob, but the Father that the One hath given her Children.

Sala, peace be upon the Children of the Atkana from fair Gerwanna to resplendent Austras. Let the sons of Talestra, of Atkos, of Neustra, and of the Lost Daughters remember that they are the Children of the One... That they were born free, and shall never know bondage so long as they have the will to resist.

[Royal Frankia]

Lament for Neustra

Curses be upon the Hunters that betrayed the ancient alliance,
That bound the Franks of old and the Pords eternal against the Sith.
Curses be upon the Neobarlatists, who set the brethren of old at odds.
Curses be upon the Apostate Laptev,
That struck a bargain with a Wolf at the fatal hour.

Curses be upon those who set upon Neustra the Fair,
Curses be upon those who were aboard those VRZ vessels that day.
Who rained death down upon the majestic mountains that knew Wylus,
And desecrated the holy soil of the One in the name of a power that denied all gods save mammon.

Cursed be those that fired upon our women and children,
And drove our elders from their fires towards the labyrinths underground.
Cursed be those that sought to annihilate the free communes of the Folk,
To turn a paradise into a desert, Sala!

Curses be upon those who set foot on fair Neustra,
And led the assault upon the Pillars of Neustra that bore witness to the Atkana.
Curses be upon those who destroyed our homesteads, our fields, our Sanctuaries.
Curses be upon those who saw Feylor and slew him upon that day Neustra the Fair died.


Blessed be those few who rallied around the Sovereign of Sovereigns,
Even as mountains rose to the heavens, and the great seas were evaporated all around.
Blessed be those that charged the Wolves with only their bayonets fixed,
Sala, Atkana, Blessed be those within the Hall of the Atkana.

May She have given strength to your limbs,
And given fresh courage to those who fought in the Mountain Passes.
Blessed be all that fought, blessed be all those that died.
May your flesh remain in that soil until the Day of the Iskandra.

Let the Fates bear witness to the bravery of the Folk,
Let the Devas bear witness to the valor of the Folk.
Even when all was lost, even when the Abyss descended.
The Sons of Wylus plunged into the cleansing fire with only a Sala.

Woe to Pordlandia, woe to Pordlandia, woe to Pordlandia.
Let the VRZ be smashed by the ranks of the Dread Fleet!
Let their worlds know the scourging fire,
And upon their walls flutter the banner of the One Eternal!

May the Apostate Laptev forever bear shame,
May they bear their necks before the Justice of the Sovereign of Sovereigns.
Let the Jade Empress repent her crimes and seek refuge in the One.
May Laptev fall, may Laptev fall, may Laptev fall!



Urstann's Last Hour

Background: This was composed by the commander of the force dispatched to quell the Neustrasan Revolt. This was, by far, the greatest rebellion the Sons of Wylus had faced since the Unification of the Realm under their Scepter. Fortunately, the followers of Urstann were contained to this system after expelling the Home Fleet, and it was only a matter of days before Order was restored.

This Citadel had always troubled the Realm Eternal, maintaining even in this Age loyalty to the Clovidian Dynasty. This was largely due to its ethnic composition, in which the old Frankish strain was still strong even in the period after the Great Wars. It was under a wave of religious euphoria and hostility against distant Gerwanna that the false prophet was able to raise significant ground forces. The Fetters, the great fortresses that dominated this urban world, were besieged by radical fanatics. Those practitioners of other faiths, tolerated by the Frankian Authority, were beset upon by mobs who showed no mercy.

Nearly a third of the world was destroyed upon the death of Urstann and the destruction of his fleet. The Urstanna militants fought house to house, for nearly two weeks before the final victory was secured. The death toll was enormous, with most of the fighting taking place in areas where the civilian population had not been evacuated. It was noted that the Royal Army took no prisoners in this conflict, upon the harsh treatment of those taken by the rebels.

Great was the force you raised,
To overthrow Kirk and Sovereign.
Many a temple your followers burned upon Neustrasa,
Many a priest you martyred for taking the many paths to the Light.
Urstann, the heathen, may the One bear witness and forsake you.
Urstann, the butcher, may the Most High bear witness and condemn you.
Tens of thousands you led into the Void,
Tens of thousands you brought to death.
Against the arms of the Sovereign of Sovereigns you clashed,
How the Seventh Armada routed your right and drove death into your ranks.
How your left collapsed under the weight of Jarann's counter-attack.
How your center held, only to be encircled and fired upon by all sides.
Even She, that you revered, did not save you the ranks of the Dread Sovereign.
Shelled the remnant of your followers to death while Neustrasa burned.
How you saw the Green Ships fired upon those that besieged the Fetters of that world.
How many a city was destroyed from on high, how those that bred like rats could find no escape.
How you saw your home and hearth annihilated even as death came for thee.
Death came for thee, you that denied the Kirk and the Saints and the faithful Devas.
How the Vani themselves joined the fray, and drove the dark blade into your heart.
How your warship crumpled under the fury of the fusilade, how your shielding failed upon that day.
As your sons and daughters died with you, while those cowards that remained fled your side.
False Disciples, cursed be they in the eyes of the Atkana and her Children.
Let none escape the Justice of the Sovereign of Sovereigns,
Let none know a moment's rest before the Prasental Fleet shall descend.
Let they be hunted, across the Cosmos.
As those that support the Sith and the false cults that threaten the Cosmic Order.

[Royal Frankia]

Wisdom with Age

The One Most High, the Resplendent, the Merciful, had called forth the few amongst the many. Such would leave home, would leave father, would leave fireside to serve the One. They would seek refuge, in the groves of Sanctuaries or distant crags.

Their garb was plain, made of the sturdy wool of the shepherds of the Holy Mountains. They would roam upon the narrow paths, braving the elements to seek mysteries that lay outside the sciences known. Even a society that proclaimed itself as Atkanite fell short in their eyes.

Such were the Pious that had forsaken the State, which they deemed the Chief Harlot of the Abyss. How many had succumbed to the seduction of this abomination? How many had yielded to higher office, while the tenants of strict Atkanism were violated?

Unlike the heretics who had come before, the Pious had withdrawn themselves from society in protest. Even should death rain down from the sky, these wandering mystics would not answer the call. No sons they had, and woman they shunned lest they be distracted from the the only Mother that they recognized.

Kirk officials sought their suppression, while multiple reports were dispatched to Court. Those of the Great Folk were pragmatic, but had maintained a spirituality that had survived catastrophes that had caused lesser nations to Apostate. This new challenge was deemed inconsequential, so long as such did not attempt to rise against the State.

Neustras, Neustras.
How the One Most High,
That shall remain even when all must decay.
How She who brought forth all,
She that was the Beginning,
She that is the end.
Hath punished thee,
You that were once the fairest of Her Daughters.
Against brother you drew the sword,
How many fathers, how many sons,
As your arrogance consumed?
Let it end, let it end!
The One demand not our blood for strife,
Swords shall not preserve us,
Nor the Great Fleets that terrorize the Cosmos.
But Faith, but Faith, but Faith.

Long have I wept for your Last Hour,
When you should have repented before the Holy Fire.
As your Holy Mountains were ripped up from the earth,
And the stars gave not forth their light.
How the enemy tore down your Pillars,
And served as the One's punishment.
The One is Just, the One is Just, the One is Just.
By Her Will, all is done.
By Her will, all is, shall be, shall remain.
Look to the orphans, look to the widows!
O Sovereign of Sovereigns, command the Faithful!
Sala!

A Thousand Odes

It is by the Majesty of the One,
We are, we be, we breathe!
Before the first spark,
Before the first light.
Was She without Beginning,
Was She without end.
She is as the night's sky,
In which the moon shines ever bright.

A thousand pens, a thousand words.
Could not describe your fairness.
Your long flowing hair is the red of the blood.
Your skin the ivory that is sought in the wild.
Your eyes the evergreen, that pierces the soul and awakens the heart.

O Mother, hear the prayer of your supplicant.
Grant us death with honor,
And a life of virtue.
Let not the wicked snare us,
Let not the Darkness blot out the Light.
Before all, you were.
Affter all, you shall remain.

Let the Song of our Love for you,
Be heard across the stars.
Let our prayer be heard,
Even as we descend into the very Abyss itself.
You are the One, you are the Eternal.
Sala.

Do not forsake us,
We Sons of Light.
We Children of the Atkana.
Be we many, be we few.
Let our souls remain ever after.
Let they say in a thousand ages,
That we did not forsake the One at the Final Hour.

What of Sovereigns, what of Realms?
They shall pass away, they shall pass away.
What riches and honors they gain from blood,
Is nothing compared to wisdom,
To meditation and contemplation.
In but a moment one can ascend to the highest heavens,
In but a moment that which chastises one shall fade away.
Only the Light remains, only the One.
Let us cry Holy, Holy, Holy,
Be the One Most High!

[Royal Frankia]

Mountains of Madness

Burning homesteads greeted the Greenclad as they descended the High Mountains of Mylann. Such a sight would have embittered those who held the land and its people sacred, but the brutal fighting had made the Great Folk accustomed to such impieties. The Fraconians, cousins and descendants of the ancestors, had come to this world for the purpose of contesting control of this system.

Here, this age old feud between two peoples sprung from the same source continued with unrelenting fury. Those that were Masters of the Flame, yet had succumbed to the Gathering Darkness, made war on those that were the Sons of Light. Not even the conflict with the Ingenious or the Pords had been so bitter, for no prisoners were taken by either side. This was no Brother's War, this was a Sacred War.

Much of the once agricultural world had been rendered unrecognizable, their fields no longer watered by water from aquifers but by the blood of the warring Folk. Armored wrecks littered the battlefield, where an attempt had been made by the Commonwealth to overrun the landing site of the DKS Path to the One. The warship had been forced aground once the Commonwealth Fleet had scattered the Home Fleet in a thousand directions. Her crew had not abandoned her, even as the enemy had closed in from all sides, and its successful defense had enabled the breakthrough in the High Mountains.

Automated turrets left behind by the enemy were a nuisance for the advancing infantry. The Companies of the 22nd Regiment had scattered, as best to avoid the concentration of enemy fire. The fallen reminded the living to keep their heads down, for the autofire had grown with each league recovered from the enemy.

Probes were dispatched, to report the position of the turrets for the artillery that operated nearly three hundred leagues from the battlefield. Fraconian or Frankian, when the shells began raining death everyone would hit the deck as that position would disappear in a tremendous blast. Still, the shielding array of some of these turrets that rivaled orbital cannons had to be stormed at bayonet point with heavy loss of life.

Occasionally, a technical would arrive on the scene to assist the weary infantry. Quads and cannon would engage the autoturrets at a comfortable distance, though such were rare in the Mountains. More had been concentrated in the open country, where they advanced against the armored columns of the Black Dragon.

Upon the Plains Below

The Battle of the Holy Valley had been raging for nearly three days, with orbital fire adding to the carnage upon the battlefield. Platoon after platoon of armored vehicles were lost, only to be replaced by fresh reinforcements from the rear. The ground on which these craft fought were littered with shell holes, infested with infantry with powerful anti-armor vehicles.

There were many Austrasians that had perished in gallant charge after gallant charge, seeking to win with elan and bayonet that which materiel had not done so. There had been no ceasefires to bury the dead, and the remains of these martyrs were pulverized from the nonstop bombardment.

How many had perished here? Hundreds? Thousands? Only the One alone knew.

Commander Jan vra Marbeck cursed, as a shellstorm ensued all around him. His Company had originally consisted of twenty-two Battlecruisers, nearly half remained. Still, he would not abandon the task of holding his position against the Commonwealth.

His infantry were as equally hard pressed, holding their fortifications time and time against Fraconia's best. Behind shielding array and beneath the good earth, they had given the enemy Hell for each yard of ground he advanced. Even as the Armored Corps of the Royal Army had not managed to achieve success, it had been the lowly infantryman that had made the Fraconian regret coming to this world.

Enemy craft, two leagues off... Two armored companies, with several personnel carriers.

Engage, at once.

Feuer!

The Battlecruisers picked their targets and fired, before relocating as enemy fire came in. Maneuvering across this terrain was a nightmare, and on his monitor vra Marbeck noted one of his Battlecruisers halting as flames leaped up from the reactor.

Get out... Get out...

As the first crewman emerged from the bottom hatch, another enemy shell slammed against the turret. The 225mm gun went flying, and no sign of his comrades remained. Vra Marbeck offered a Sala for the memories, before turning his attention back to the battle at hand.

Perhaps sixty or seventy craft were making their way toward his position, coming under distant battery fire. With a smile, he noted a sudden shell sending perhaps three of their craft skyward to the Mater's Hall. Still, such would not slow down the Commonwealth forces for long, who knew that here the Frankian line was the thinnest. They had launched nearly a dozen attacks, but if they broke through the losses would be nothing compared to the encirclement of the 3rd Royal Army.

Reinforcements had been pledged, but the enemy had been attacking along a broad front. The Marshal had shifted his reserve to another hotspot, against the opinion of his Council. He was ruing that decision now, as it would take time for the 3rd Company's to assist those that faced the enemy's hammer blow.

Men, comrades, I need not remind you of your duty. You see what the enemy has done to this Daughter of the Realm. You have seen his atrocities, you have seen what he has done to our comrades... No mercy, no quarter, only vengeance!


(To be continued)

[Royal Frankia]

A thousand nations, a thousand races assail us from all sides.
Time, the merciless one, attempts to overthrow the Realm Eternal.
Hear, the ring of the eversteel!
Hear the armored warriors crashing to the ground!
Above us flies high the Dread Standard,
For such we bleed, for such we die, for great is our faith!

Sala, Sala, Sala!

Endless war, to keep fit the Eternal Folk.
Endless strife, to keep sharp the sword.
Endless conflict, to toughen the mind and test the soul!
Endless battle, to guarantee glorious martyrdom!

Sala, Sala, Sala!

Not for gain, not for wealth do we take up arms.
For honor, for honor, for honor.
For glory, for glory, for glory.
For martyrdom, for martyrdom, for martyrdom.

Sala, Sala, Sala!

The Unbelievers slay women and children from on high,
But not so those bound by the One and the Path.
Mercy for the vanquished, mercy for the Blessed.
That the victor might have glory everlasting.

Sala, Sala, Sala.

The Dread Ships have arrived,
Unfurling the banner of the Sovereign of Sovereigns.
Before this citadel, fated to fall to the bloodstained arms of the Righteous.
To have her high walls torn down that the Nations might know.
To never break one's word with the Atkanite,
Lest your destruction be guaranteed.

Sala, Sala, Sala.

The harsh wind comes from the north,
Breaking upon the High Mountains.
Yet the Mountains still stand,
And so shall the Children of the Atkana.
The Beloved of Atkane.

Sala, Sala, Sala.

[Royal Frankia]

Plight of the Wounded


In the time of Neustra

The once fertile plains of Neustra, that stretched from horizon to horizon, had been devastated by the fire from on high. Where whole companies and regiments had stood, few remained that had survived the initial sorties against the landing zones of the Pords. In between their entrenchments was a no man's dead, where the wounded were brought back to their own lines in the brief truces.

Seer Atkaios had trudged many a weary league, across burnt homesteads and farms whose topsoil had been eviscerated. What he saw, with his own eyes, was a dying world. Those skies gave not forth their light, and what rained down upon the wide earth would scorch any flesh bear to it. A paradise has been turned into hell, the chief citadel of the Eternal Realm had been battered beyond recognition.

The attendants and medics followed him, as best as they could. Their ankles sinking deep into the muck and mire that made recovery of the wounded difficult for wheeled or tracked vehicles. A few skimmers were available, courtesy of the Army's Medical Bureau, but these were few and far between. Stretcher bearers were more plentiful, the sign of the One upon their helmets marking them as Holy Warriors engaged in the Path. Such were not to be fired upon, as a like approach had been taken to Pordish medics or those that went to retrieve either their dead or wounded.

Atkaois heard screaming in the distance, and bade two of his attendants follow him. His visor relayed all that he needed to know about the wounded's state, and the likelihood of survival. As he ascended and descended countless craters, he noted the number of corpses that still littered the battlefield. Some were in Blue, some were in Green, but they clung to the good earth as though it were their mother.

The lad, perhaps some sixteen cycles, lay upon the ground with his legs blown off. His armor and shielding had given way under the ferocity of Pordish turret fire, with such being the result. A pool of blood filled the crater below, where a dead Pord lay facedown. Atkaois said a brief prayer for the soul of the enemy, before turning to his own countryman.

One of the attendants administered a dose of a powerful painkiller, to relieve the youth of pain before the end. The youth's moans turned into soft sighs, with what strength he had rapidly fading. The Seer squatted over the dying soldier, performing the Last Rites that would purify the soul.

I do accept the One Most High, the Sovereignness of the Cosmos...

I do accept the One Most High.... The Sovereignness of the Cosmos...

I confess these my transgressions, before the gods and all that acknowledge her transgressions..

Such transgressions were few and trivial, for one whose life had been cut short.

Sala, Child of the Most High, you shall be welcomed into the Hall of the Most High. You shall be with your forefathers, you shall be with your comrades..

A cry escaped from the youth's mouth, blood frothing at his mouth.

Mother... Mother...

Whether it was a call to his own mother or the One Most High, Akaios knew not. As the Light in the youth's eyes faded, Atkaios shut them, and bade the attendants put the body on the stretcher. Atkaois then walked away, lighting a cigarette as he strained his ears. The sound that would herald the return of war upon this plain had not yet been heard, a boon for the sons and mothers across this forsaken world.

Farewell, Neustra.. Citadel of Citadels. Your dream shall live on, so long as such offer thine lifesblood for thee!

Ode to Neustra the Wisest of the Wise, the Fairest of the Fair
The Final Hour, the Fatal Hour.
The Hour of the Wolf,
The darkness has gathered,
To oppose the Light!

Burning homesteads,
Burning fields.
To the war we must go,
Farewell, my youth, farewell.

Along the banks of the Holy Waters,
Have the Sons of Wylus made their final stand.
Death is everywhere, death is everywhere.
Death from above, death from above.

Destroyed Sanctuaries.
A scattered folk.
To the war we must go,
Farewell, my youth, farewell.

The Sovereign of Sovereigns has drawn the sword,
His Guard has rallied, driving back the Tredentsia.
A thousand banners snap in the wind,
A thousand men must fall.

Ruined homes.
A bloodied folk.
To the war we must go,
Farewell, my youth, farewell.

A fallen comrade stretches forth his hand,
A youth once, a man now.
The light in his eyes fade,
His skin grows cold with each moment.
The fire of life, the hope of life.
Going out, going out, going out.

A dead man.
A fate decided.
To the war we must go,
Farewell, my youth, farewell!

[Royal Frankia]

Last Gasp

At the signal, the thousand men of the 19th Infantry Regiment rose from their parapets and began to advance across a ravaged landscape. Craters made by the nonstop shelling and projector fire greeted the Regulars of the Royal Army. More often than not, these obstructions provided shelter when the enemy brought down the fire from the heavens upon them.

No vehicles could accompany this mad dash, this mad dash through a landscape transformed from gentle valleys to the surface of one of this world's moons. For six days, the 19th had prepared for the counter-offensive against the Legions of Mylorr. This northern continent had been the first to be occupied by the invader, and it was fated that it was to be the last that was liberated.

The fate of this world had been decided far, far above the heads of the infantry on both sides. The Great Fleets had finally resolved the question of ownership, it had now become a simple matter of evicting unwanted tenants.

The Royal Army of the Eternal Realm had liberated the southern continents in a swift campaign, driving back the ranks of Mylorr. The great battles of Arka and Acre had witnessed the destruction of countless legions. Their standards broken, their hope gone, those that wished to fight to the end had sought refuge upon the continent of Archaea.

Archaea's great mountains, majestic even as the sun waned in the distance, had proved the bane of the attacker. It was at the foot of the these great mountains that the Greenclad had rallied, after securing the beachhead. Each league of ground gained had cost much in blood, much in effort. Those Sons of the Republic would not yield, so long as breath remained in their bodies.

As the Greenclad advanced, they passed the remnants of Mylorran bunkers and gun emplacements. Those caught in the open as soon as the shelling had begun had been eviscerated. It was noted that no survivors had been found in the first two leagues gained, with clear signs of some of the Mylorran being given the "final mercy". Some of the Pious made the sign of the One and cursed the cruel fates.

It was then that the Mylorrans opened fire, and all curses were forgotten. The Greenclad clung to the good earth and returned fire. They would move up in squads in an attempt to establish overlapping fields of fire. Turret fire roared on both sides, a slugstorm in which few would escape.

Shells rained down from the few heavy guns left to the Mylorrans, sending great swathes of earth into the atmosphere. Counter-battery fire was almost immediate, and soon orbital fire would assist the Grand Batteries in destroying such instruments of death. The quadfire had never slackened, even as the shelling reached a crescendo.

Several lie wounded or maimed, others had been rendered unrecognizable. The Greenclad had spread out, to avoid decimation by the torrent of ordinance directed their way. Quads would be erected where possible, and support the advance that must be made against this strongpoint of the foe. Up the mountain, these Sons of Wylus would trek. A mad determination gripped their hearts to be the first to raise the Rammenflieg upon the top of Mount Archeus.

They trudged through the sludge, and past the remains of both friend and foe alike. It was the first parapet that the Greenclad actually encountered their enemy, those that had not managed to fall back in time from the onslaught of the Royal Army. Shard rifles ringed briefly, with a grenade settling possession of this first work yet encountered.

A turret, having spent all its ammunition, lie silent. How many a comrade had fallen to this instrument of death? More, many more, would have to be taken as the 19th made its way up the Mountain. The blood of many would flow, upon this Path to Martyrdom.

"The enemy shall fear you, my Children.
Cold and heat, do not affect you.
You have conquered the mind,
You have subjugated the body!
Go forth, in the name of martyrdom!
Go forth, and prove yourselves Sons of the Light!"

[Royal Frankia]

Ballad of the Green Banner

O Green Banner, O Dread Standard!
Beloved of the One, Sacred to the One!
From the spires of Yamsai,
To the Void of the Urlann!
Has the enemy feared you,
Has the enemy lamented you.
Onward, Sons of Wylus!
Carry the Green Banner always!
Let it not touch the ground,
Never part with it.

In the name of the One Eternal,
In the name of the Sovereign of Sovereigns!
In the name of the Most Blessed, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful!
We Sons of Wylus, we Sons of Light!
Shall ever serve you with honor,
O Great Banner, O Great Dread Standard!
Sala, Atkana! Sala, Atkana! Sala, Atkana!


Your Mother has bequeathed you this banner,
Revered since the time of the forefathers.
She demands only that you defend, defend,
Wherever this banner flutters, wherever this banner flies.
The Pride of your Sovereigns, the Pillar of the Realm Eternal!
How many of your comrades have fallen,
Before it should know captivity?
Better to part with a thousand Citadels,
Than one of the Blessed Banners!

In the name of the One Eternal,
In the name of the Sovereign of Sovereigns!
In the name of the Most Blessed, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful!
We Sons of Wylus, we Sons of Light!
Shall ever serve you with honor,
O Great Banner, O Great Dread Standard!
Sala, Atkana! Sala, Atkana! Sala, Atkana!

Bearer of Civilization, Light in the Darkness!
O Green Banner, Beloved of the One!
May more worlds embrace you,
May the Beloved of Atkane sing your praise!
From the mountains of Neustra,
To the valleys of Septimania!
Have you always flown,
Above the ranks of the Wylid.
Through shell and shot,
Through mud and blood.
You emerged unscathed, always.
Through war, through battle.
May our souls, like you,
Emerge pure through the temptations of this world!

In the name of the One Eternal,
In the name of the Sovereign of Sovereigns!
In the name of the Most Blessed, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful!
We Sons of Wylus, we Sons of Light!
Shall ever serve you with honor,
O Great Banner, O Great Dread Standard!
Sala, Atkana! Sala, Atkana! Sala, Atkana!

In Praise of the Most Merciful

Atkanasalla, sal ik dit.
Atkansalla, sal ik swor.
Va monde est,
Va le logos est.
Atkansalla, Atkansalla.
Va mort est,
Va leben est.
Atkansalla, Atkansalla.
Mort est nur een voyageur,
Cree en ia, cree en ia.
Atkanasalla, Atkansalla!


Love, farewell

A poem found upon the body of one of the fallen at Neustra.

The trumpet has sounded,
The banner is unfurled.
To the wars we are called,
To come to grip with the beasts
Of the earth, of the sky, of the high mountains.
Farewell, love, farewell.

The shellstorms descend,
With the fury of the summer storms.
Blotting out noble fields and ancient communes.
Holy shrines and magnificent Sanctuaries!
Only we survive, only we remain.
By the cruelty of the Fates or the Blessing of the One.
Farewell, love, farewell.

Death is all around, each way you look.
Boys become men upon these high mountains.
Around us are our friends, our comrades, our brothers.
Men I would die a thousand deaths for,
They are my kin, they are my family.
Farewell, love, farewell.

Before we departed, you kissed me on the platform.
Tears were in your eyes, even your long black hair could not hide.
Certain death awaits me, but I will not yield to the Darkness.
So long as I draw breath, so long as strength remains.
I promise I will return to you.
Through the horrors of war that engulf the Cosmos,
I will return, will return, unscathed.
Farewell, love, farewell.

The Green Banner, torn to ribbons, still flies over this fort.
The enemy is battered beyond recognition,
But there is still no end to the fighting.
Here, war will rage forever.
Consuming the generations like a harvest,
A harvest of blood, a harvest of death.
May the One stop this suicide of an entire nation.
Farewell, love, farewell.

To the One, we commend our spirits.
To you, I dedicate my thoughts.
My love for you will remain,
Throughout the ages.
Even should the Wolves drag me down to the Abyss,
I will fight with the strength of ten men.
With only a knife, I will cut my way through.
Farewell, love, farewell.

To my son, that I shall never see.
May the rays of Austras strengthen you.
May the black soil ever be beneath your feet.
May you never know war, may you never be scarred in battle.
May you live in peace, O Little One.
May my wife, my one and only love.
Know that my final hour draws near.
With my last gasp, I will cry your name one last time.
Farewell, love, farewell.

O Husband, O Father of my Child.
Know that your son grows strong.
The boy you never saw,
Has become a man, has become a man.
Know that no other man shares our marriage bed.
I will mourn for thee, until the end of my days.
Farewell, Love, Farewell.



The Sovereigns of Sovereigns calls us

O Sons of Light,
Guardians of the Holy Realm.
Now are the Gates of Norvana thrown open,
To the wars, to the wars, to the wars abroad.
The Sovereign of Sovereigns calls us.

Forget not your homes, forget not your wives.
These are more precious than roses,
That blossom in the Sacred Grove.
With your blood and with your sweat,
With your faith and your persistence,
Only with such they shall be pressrved.
The Sovereign of Sovereigns calls us.

Accursed beasts, ancient sects.
Many are the enemies of the Realm Eternal.
The cold that cuts deeper than steel,
The fire that consumes more than the Abyss.
Let us not fear not, but plunge headforth into battle.
The Sovereign of Sovereigns calls us.

Across the Void we must go,
To the cruel wars beyond the frontier.
Many of us shall not return,
Many a fabled citadel will be rendered unto dust.
May the Annals preserve our names,
May we return to our homeland, in life or death.
The Sovereign of Sovereigns calls us.

O Great Wylid, O Commander of the Faithful.
As many as the stars are in the night's sky,
Are we hardened by toil, are we baptized with fire.
We are your brothers, we are your sisters!
We are your sons, we are your daughters!
We are the Sons of Light, we are the Children of Atkane.
The Sovereigns of Sovereigns calls us!

Worlds, burning without number.
Endless void, endless death.
O what an age of strife,
Never before seen.
Forget the philosophes and their sharp quills,
Now is the hour of the solider and their sharp swords.
The Sovereigns of Sovereigns calls us!

Before dawn, we are at the ready.
Even before the enemy wakes.
O Chariot of Fire, give forth light.
We shall not steal our victory,
But shall win it in the field with honor.
The Sovereigns of Sovereigns calls us!

Our fathers, our mothers lament our departure.
But we shall return only with honor.
The innocent we protect,
As much as the guilty we chastise.
The many Paths to the One,
Do we uphold, with our last breath.
The mighty halls and great Sanctuaries,
Rest on the soldier's courage!
The Sovereign of Sovereigns call us!

O Holy Flame, O Eternal Light!
Remove our impurities and strengthen our resolve!
O Seers, lead the Faithful through the wide Void!
O Heralds, give news of our coming.
The Great Dread Fleet has crossed the frontier,
A thousand divisions has the Wylid,
Raised from fair Gerwanna to renowned Arkhana!
The Sovereign of Sovereigns calls us!

Loyalty is the foundation of the State,
Honor is the heart of the Revolution!
Even should the firmament fall,
And the stars go out one by one in the night's sky.
Shall we always remain Faithful, as the One is Eternal.
The Sovereign of Sovereigns calls us!

[Royal Frankia]

Urlann: Origins

The Great Realm had been in a state of constant war, even before the Great Exodus. The War in the Urlann had raged, even as the Dread Fleet had withdrawn from NS-1 to take up positions within PW-1. Each cycle, a great action would be fought, to be followed by a lull in the fighting in which both sides licked their wounds. Whole generations would be given their baptism by fire, one which did not end with eternal bliss but in travails unimaginable.

In the time of San Gerwann, the fighting had been between fleets numbering in the tens of craft. The Krekt League's forces, weakened by suppressing one rebellion after the other, had been brought low by the sudden onrush of the Sons of Light. In the name of the One, in the name of la Gloire, the Dread Fleet had emerged from the Void like the furies upon the waves.

The warring states were overcome, one by one, before they could unite in the face of a common enemy. Some had submitted, seeing the overwhelming firepower brought from Neustra and Septimanna. The Great Folk sought neither wealth, nor blood, but fighting for the sake of fighting. This was a perplexing notion, for those states that saw conflict as a means to secure trade routes or project power.

Long had the citizens of the League shunned fighting, seeing it as the occupation of mercenaries. Such mercenaries, under the relenting pressure of a Nation in Arms, had contributed little to the defense of the League's Citadels than cowardice. The League's Fleet, the pillar of any state, had proven ineffective and too small to check the Frankian Fury.

Some whispered, upon the fall of Urlannenbourg, that the League that had lasted nearly a hundred thousand cycles would soon collapse. It was only the Marshals of the League, tried by battle and having learned much from their enemy, that urged the Assembly to continue the struggle. They pointed out that the enemy, far from being invincible, had bitten into something more than he could chew.

The enemy's forces were spread across the Cosmos, and could not unite his forces rapidly in the face of a new threat. As the Dread Fleet had advanced, it had reduced its strength to provide garrisons for the occupied citadels. With but one bold stroke, the enemy might receive a blow which would reverse the gains of ten cycles.

"The enemy has many divisions, but he has forgotten how vast truly is the Void. This is the lesson that we must teach him, again and again in the future. We must make Neustra howl, we must make the women of Septimanna mourn for their fallen."

Such bold words stiffened the spines, and perhaps preserved a state in dire financial straits. With one last effort, the League had mobilized every man, every ship, every resource, to launch the greatest offensive in its history. With those of dubious loyalty under the Yoke of the Ram, those that remained need not fear treachery. The mercenary companies had been disarmed, and their members impressed into a Fleet rejuvenated.

The Assembly had given emergency powers to the Fleet, to see it through this tempest. In the name of liberty, marshal law was imposed upon all the citadels remaining to the once great nation. In the name of peace, did the shipyards and munitions plants work at a pace never before seen.

Not since the League's foundation, long past the memory of mortal men, had the Divisions of Krekta sallied forth in such strength. They struck at multiple citadels, in order to keep the Dread Fleet engaged upon a broad front. The main thrust, however, had been at Urlannenbourg. Here, the Seventh Armada was nearly shattered, the Guards of the Wylid being hard pressed in the face of such a determined opponent.

Reinforcements had not been forthcoming to the Dread Fleet within the Urlann, due to the opinion of the Magistrum that the war had been won. They had backed the League into a corner, and it was only a matter of time before his strength would fail. Such men were not hunters, who understood that it is precisely at that moment that the quarry is the most dangerous. The cornered beast had lunged forward, hurling the mass of his bulk and all of his strength to send his pursuer stumbling.

The Dread Fleet incurred severe losses during this stage, the like of which had never before been recorded. Entire Divisions had been rendered at fifty percent strength, with few reinforcements forthcoming from Neustra to fill in the gaps in the line. Disaster loomed on the horizon, with many of the conquered citadels under siege and close to rebellion.

San Gerwann had not abandoned his Fleet in the Urlann, even when his continued presence might risk the capture of a crowned monarch. Such a man was the stuff of kings, the inspirer of a thousand anecdotes. Him that could mourn for the loss of a single soldier, had sent countless millions to their deaths in the pursuit of glory. Now, with the Fates desiring that he should suffer for his pride, he steeled himself to meet the great threat to his newly won lands.

His presence at the councils of the Magistrum in the Void were more and more frequent. No longer did he converse with mystics or philosophers, but spent more and more time with Servants that would die a thousand deaths for him. Long hours by the holotable did he spend, long hours did he churn over the crisis in his mind.

The Fates had blessed the Realm Eternal with a decisive Sovereign, few It was he that sought, despite all reason to the contrary, to counter-attack and risk the whole in one engagement. Should the fighting continue, the Realm Eternal would be whittled down gradually. Even with reinforcements, such would be green and untried against an enemy that had won countless standards from the enemy.

"Now is the hour, in which the future of the Quadrant will be decided. Be ready, gentlemen, for now is the hour of the sword."

To be continued:

[Royal Frankia]

A fight to the finish

Upon another world, at another hour, in another universe, the enemy had swept aside what defenses were at hand. The Home Fleet was scattered to the four celestial winds, the great orbital platforms had been torn asunder by ferocious bombardment. Below the hostile fleet, lay the great continent of Skyra, where a thousand cycles before Talestrian and Atkan refugees had found a new home.

This home would be the tomb of their descendants, as from on high the enemy sought to annihilate the last bastions of the Wylid that offered resistance, The great mountains were scattered across the heavens, leaving only vast craters more fitting to a moon than a civilized world. Great cities were scant before the arrival of the enemy host, and such were to be beset from all sides by the landing parties.

Even at this moment, the defenders of Skyra had not lost their determination to maintain the contest. The Marshal had usurped the position of the governor, and had declared a state of martial law across the last remnants of the Frankian Authority. He was kindred in spirit to the defenders of Neustra and Septimanna, whose names and lore had been distorted with the passage of time.

He withdrew his battered formations from the plains, where the enemy's numbers and orbital supremacy rendered engagement upon such unfavorable. The ruins of the cities he had ordered fortified, as much as to direct enemy attacks away from the remaining forts. The Fetters of Skyra, meant to maintain the Sovereign's Peace upon this world, would be destined to be the last remaining structures upon the planet. Not the great Sanctuaries or Halls, but structures capable of withstanding the force of a thousand warships at point blank range.

To the max, their shielding array was stretched, but they still held and returned fire upon the enemy who thought his victory all but won. The batteries kept up the contest, their gunners not slacking even at this final hour. Projector fire raced towards the heavens, like the Vani of legend that had battled in the skies above countless worlds in the waning days of the Age of Darkness.

Captains did not speak of homeland, or honor, or glory. When a man could not keep up the pace, they would take his spot to keep up the fight. The shellstorm raged furiously, forcing those Greenclad in simple trenches to hug the good earth. The Fetters held the line, even under this onslaught of death and destruction, though within the medical wards the casualties had mounted.

Before these structures, the 29th and 59th Divisions had withdrawn from the rolling hills to the west. Men had died for mere feet of ground, with countless leagues desolated in the carnage of terrestrial conflict. The Seers could not administer the Last Rites to all that had fallen, nor were they safe in a warzone. Given their role in the Faith Eternal, the enemy targeted them in order to wipe out every subject of that Sovereign of Sovereigns that still drew breath.

At Mon Gerwann, a green banner torn asunder throughout the fighting was raised in defiance. The ranks of the Royal Army had dispersed their strength, sending the light footed Voltigeurs to make use of the rubble within the destroyed cities. Turrets were established, to mow down enemy squads that ventured without caution. It was the nature of the ground that would cost the enemy dear, for in death the blasphemous structures had given hope to the Children of the Atkana.

Enemy vehicles, maneuverable on the high plains, were slowed to a crawl when they tried to surmount the ruins of Guildhouses or Sanctuaries. Several burnt out wrecks testified to the efficiency of the Voltigeurs in dispatching such hulks. Without their vehicles, the enemy had been caught out in the open, under constant turret and shardrifle fire.

Still, over their own dead bodies, the enemy had advanced relentlessly. He had grown more savage with his losses, now that the fight was close to its end. Voltigeur commanders had been forced to yield ground, though not before booby trapping every structure that they possibly could. The sporadic explosions to the rear offered some consolation, though this would be followed by a ferocious barrage.

While the cities had offered some respite, the foe had sought to win the battle in the streets by following up their victory on the plains. However, near the great and holy river where the cities had gathered, the Greenclad had dug themselves in deep. Anti-armor teams worked like clockwork, joined by the guns of the nearby bastions, to throw back the enemy formations. Entire armored columns would sally forth, only to return at half strength or even less of that.

The shelling, perhaps, was the most memorable aspect of this battle. From orbit, from the bastions, from the artillery batteries, the shells would descend with unrelenting ferocity. Shellstorms would drive men mad, with those who filled in the ranks to replace the fallen Regulars not being able to withstand the Metallic Furies. Each time the enemy had sought to advance, he had blanketed the fortifications ahead and behind with a Storm of Steel and Projector Fire.

After nearly twelve hours of relentless fighting, the enemy had made the inevitable breakthrough. The remnants of once proud regiments were scattered, disorganized, and at the end of their tether. In the open ground, the Greenclad were beset with death from all sides. Only those Beloved of the Atkana, and Blessed by the Fates, were allowed to escape the Clasp of the Abyss.

All that stood in the enemy's path now were the Fetters, whose shielding arrays were to the brink of overload. Valor could not hold back the inevitable, but it could extract a high price for what had been lost.

The formations under the Marshal had been engaged in constant combat for forty-eight hours,

Woe to the Impious

The Royal Army had driven back the brigands energetically, they had settled to unleash to loot and plunder the Monasteries of the Everlasting. Those who could slay monks and assault nuns stood no chance against steady troops. The Greenclad had been informed that this was not a police action, to check those who would destroy the work of countless ages for a moment's pleasure.

Only one who had seen the crimes, and hear the lamentation of the victims, would understand this attitude shared by the rank and file. Even the officers found it hard to restrain the men, who saw those consecrated to a servant of the Most High treated in this fashion. Bandits would be dispatched on the spot, or strung up in the temple communes where they had once reigned as bestial beasts.

What needed to be done, was done. The Greenclad would scour the land clean, hunting down those who had descended from the stars on high that had sought with fire and sword to destroy Pillars of the Faith. Those who offered refuge to the scum would be stripped of their property and their lives. No mercy, no quarter, for those who waged war against the Pious.

Such an attitude would provoke hostility amongst the population, that had not taken a liking to the monks. The Governor wondered whether a handful of ascetics and outraged nuns was worth stirring up a generation's worth of guerilla warfare. The Marshal did not care, he would have shelled every settlement that offered food and shelter to the scum.

Those who had sought refuge from the world and its hardships were respected, regardless of the Path that they followed to the Light. This has explained past campaigns, in which those defended might have disagreed fundamentally with the tenants of Atkanism. This was not the point, but the right to respect the practice of Faith and freedom from determining such by the sword.

None were surprised when the great cities declared sympathy for the bandits, and offered sanctuary status. The Frankian Authority's bastions were soon besieged, by the forces raised by the League of Free Cities that sought to throw off the "Atkanite Yoke". None were surprised that these settlements themselves were encircled, besieged, and shelled into submission.