“O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief... for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble hearts. Amen.”
- Mark Twain, The War Prayer
Day of Infamy
The Imperial Office of His Eminence the Ixion
The Xulashael in Sariah, Austravora Prefecture
Tuesday, December 7th, 2010 A.D. - 5:31 PM
No recourse could ever hope to erase the face of death from his mind. No amount of prayer or fasting would ever requite one's soul from experiencing the sight of seeing a damned soul that had been trapped in a macabre imitation of a body, from which there was no relief, nor escape. Castiel rubbed at tired, aching eyes, trying to allow his spirit to recover from the horrors of the field hospital he'd visited earlier in the day. Even with the aroma of cinnamon-scented potpourri sifting through his chambers, the Ixion of the Holy Azuran Empire could almost detect the sickly-sweet smell of flesh roasted by incendiary artillery...
Ixion Castiel, representing the Honourable Ixionist Empire of New Azura, had visited a military field hospital earlier in the day in Courvasaynt, a desolate region of broken bones and sightless children in the wastes surrounding Berchtesgarden, a former Azuran colonial possession in Judea. The Azuran Army had sent in a battalion of Special Forces to secure the ruins of the Arc d'Plais, an old monastery mission, and had been using its remnants as a field hospital of sorts for the innocent civilians of Courvasaynt. The poor souls had been caught in the crossfire of a local war pitting armed Muslim insurgents against the guerrillas and mercenaries of a tyrannical drug lord who spent more time trafficking young women than he did opium and hashish. A large population of Cailene Christians who had converted during Azuran rule over neighboring Berchtesgarden in the twentieth century had been left out to dry by the Berchtese Government following its mandate for a plebiscite on independence in 2010. They were but one in a handful of isolated pockets of benevolent humans who were quickly being swallowed up in the throes of an apocalyptic Hell on Earth.
Most of his civilian liaisons and advisers had warned him of the dangers of traveling to Courvasaynt, espousing the obvious dangers of landing in the midst of a hostile war zone. Yet it had been a century-long tradition amongst his Ixionist predecessors to pray for the children of the staggered region, and Castiel wasn't about to break the mold which had been cast by the Heavenly Host, and tempered in the Hellfire of the physical world. What he had saw, though, once he got there...
A retrofitted UT-68 Checotah had ferried the Ixion and his Honor Guard to the field hospital. They had landed in the midst of what at one time had been the monastery courtyard at the Arc d'Plais. The bitter cold that swept through the cabin once an Army sentinel opened the door had chilled Castiel physically, yet the barren hillside surrounding the field camp had shaken him emotionally. Once, lush fir trees had dotted the green countryside; now, all that remained was sullen ash and dead soil, leering up at the Creator in a permanent state of decay. Distant claps of artillery and gunfire could be heard popping in the distance once the rotors had stopped spinning, further adding to the nightmarish ambiance surrounding the old mission. Once inside, Castiel's senses suffered an onslaught of more death and destruction. Everywhere, broken bodies were strewn wherever the corpsmen could lay them. Amputated limbs were being collected by a pale-faced nurse; a haunting malaise clouding her lifeless eyes. Heavily pregnant women were attached to IV drips, sedated to ease their labor pains; most had been held as sex slaves, forcibly raped by armed mercenaries roaming the countryside.
But the children, though... the children, Castiel thought to himself, they were the worst. Many of the field hospital's worst-off patients were in fact children, maimed by landmines or unexploded artillery shells, or even worse. Occasionally, they would be beaten severely for being Christian by Muslim insurgents; other times, mercenaries would cripple them for sport if they caught them trying to scavenge for supplies. Castiel had grimaced when a young boy had hobbled up to him, yanking on his hand expectantly. One of the young child's slender limbs had been ripped cruelly away from his body, revealing only a sliver of protruding bone and gristle where his right arm used to be. It was the boy's eyes, though, that had haunted him. One of the boy's eyes was dark, nigh black, matching the brutal reality of his existence. The other was missing entirely; only the gleaming orbital bone inside his head was visible, leering at Castiel with the look of Death etched on his face.
The Ixion hadn't remembered anything after the maimed boy. His next recollection was being rushed back into the awaiting helicopter by scrambling doctors. The Azuran battalion had pulled out of the area due to mixed orders, and Muslim insurgents were moving too close to the field hospital to ensure Castiel's safety. Once everything had been stored, the helicopter quickly lifted up and away, receiving an escort of HT-34 Cullowhee Attack Helicopters in the process. Even in the commotion, Castiel had been shocked into a distorted reality, his mind unable to come to terms with what he had seen. He had scarcely moved by the time the Honor Guard had escorted him to his 747 at Fort Vandengaarde back in Berchtesgarden. Even upon landing back in Sariah, Castiel found no solace in being home. The caravan back to the Xulashael had almost been funeral procession-like, with the Ixion casting his eyes out on the rain-soaked streets of the Azuran capital. The rain drops pelting the window of his sedan had been a sour reflection of his mood, further sinking his countenance.
Castiel had traveled to Courvasaynt with the intention of providing spiritual guidance and hope to a group of war-torn survivors who had become refugees lost in their own ancestral homeland. Instead, he had returned as a refugee himself, trapped inside a horror play from which there was no end. The Ixion had secluded himself inside the palace, avoiding all functions of the state upon his return home. His appetite throttled, Castiel had abstained from venturing into the dining hall earlier in the night, prompting a concerned cleric to hand deliver a special meal to raise his spirits. It was the same meal that now sat cooling on his desk. The food choice was exquisite, in all honesty - roasted Peking duck with buttered lobster tails and a jambalaya stir fry - yet even the savory aromas of such a marvelous meal couldn't defeat his troubled spirit.
Castiel rubbed at the back of his hands, unwittingly trying to wipe off the stains of war which he himself did not bear. His mind was aimlessly scanning the polished marble and oak woodwork in his private study, trying to contemplate his emotions. Was he aching for revenge against the destroyers of Courvasaynt? Was he fearful of ever finding himself in the midst of such a mournful place again? There was a disturbing lack of answers to his simple questions, though he could almost sense the one answer which he sought, dancing just beyond the veil between obscurity and enlightenment.
Castiel sighed, preparing himself for a long, sleepless night when a firm knock on the door rattled him. The Ixion sat up a bit, curious as to who was inquiring for him. "You may enter," Castiel spoke loudly, then lowered his voice: "if you're naked and horny."
The door slowly pushed open, catching the Ixion off guard. Sentries posted at the Xulashael typically barged in the room, continuing a practice dating back for almost a century. Those that moved cautiously in Sariah, the saying used to go, was either a man that didn't belong there, or an assassin that would never leave there. A tall, well-dressed man stepped tentatively into the room, carrying a Fedora in the crux of his arm. "Your Eminence?"
Castiel stood up, perceiving no threat from the gentlemen. "You wouldn't happen to be my new territorial governor, would you?" The man nodded affirmatively, wisely keeping quiet as he pulled the door to behind himself. The Ixion took the chance to size up the new governor, and was fairly impressed with what he saw. His new governor was everything he was reputed to be: young, mid-30s at most with a hint of gray beginning to creep into his hair. The man, Jon something or other was built like a weightlifter, though Castiel had expected nothing less from a former Valkyrie Ranger.
"Your eminence," the appointee spoke up, "my name is Jon Halifax Misha. You summoned me for a personal audience?" The Ixion nodded approvingly, stepping forward to embrace the young officer. Misha took the Ixion's hand discreetly, bowing lower than his hand level in the customary show of honor to the nation's highest officer.
"Praetor Métropole, if you please," the Ixion motioned, inviting the officer to sit down in a large chair across from his own desk. Jon obliged, loosening up a bit as Castiel moved to sit back down at his desk. Both men sat down at roughly the same time, with the Ixion reaching over to switch on a large desk lamp to further illuminate the gloomy room. The officer, Misha shielded his eyes momentarily, allowing them to adjust to the new level of light in the room.
Castiel began, opening the top drawer on his desk to procure a heavy manila folder: "I pulled your file, Mr. Misha, because you're one of my brightest young political appointees. Your leadership in Peresaea and Sarancini has been exemplary. And with your military record, well... you're just the man I need for the task at hand."
Jon frowned. "Task, sir?"
The Ixion nodded, opening the folder on his desk. Jon noticed with some confusion that the records placed in front of Castiel were his military records. "I'm sending you to head up a special operation at Steel Pact Headquarters. It requires your specialties in 'engineering', so to speak." Castiel sat back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head, watching the reaction of his territorial governor. "If you wish to go, of course, Mr. Misha."
Jon paused for a moment, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. When his gaze returned to the Ixion, his eyes were fierce and fixed. "What are your orders, sir?"
Ixion Castiel, representing the Honourable Ixionist Empire of New Azura, had visited a military field hospital earlier in the day in Courvasaynt, a desolate region of broken bones and sightless children in the wastes surrounding Berchtesgarden, a former Azuran colonial possession in Judea. The Azuran Army had sent in a battalion of Special Forces to secure the ruins of the Arc d'Plais, an old monastery mission, and had been using its remnants as a field hospital of sorts for the innocent civilians of Courvasaynt. The poor souls had been caught in the crossfire of a local war pitting armed Muslim insurgents against the guerrillas and mercenaries of a tyrannical drug lord who spent more time trafficking young women than he did opium and hashish. A large population of Cailene Christians who had converted during Azuran rule over neighboring Berchtesgarden in the twentieth century had been left out to dry by the Berchtese Government following its mandate for a plebiscite on independence in 2010. They were but one in a handful of isolated pockets of benevolent humans who were quickly being swallowed up in the throes of an apocalyptic Hell on Earth.
Most of his civilian liaisons and advisers had warned him of the dangers of traveling to Courvasaynt, espousing the obvious dangers of landing in the midst of a hostile war zone. Yet it had been a century-long tradition amongst his Ixionist predecessors to pray for the children of the staggered region, and Castiel wasn't about to break the mold which had been cast by the Heavenly Host, and tempered in the Hellfire of the physical world. What he had saw, though, once he got there...
A retrofitted UT-68 Checotah had ferried the Ixion and his Honor Guard to the field hospital. They had landed in the midst of what at one time had been the monastery courtyard at the Arc d'Plais. The bitter cold that swept through the cabin once an Army sentinel opened the door had chilled Castiel physically, yet the barren hillside surrounding the field camp had shaken him emotionally. Once, lush fir trees had dotted the green countryside; now, all that remained was sullen ash and dead soil, leering up at the Creator in a permanent state of decay. Distant claps of artillery and gunfire could be heard popping in the distance once the rotors had stopped spinning, further adding to the nightmarish ambiance surrounding the old mission. Once inside, Castiel's senses suffered an onslaught of more death and destruction. Everywhere, broken bodies were strewn wherever the corpsmen could lay them. Amputated limbs were being collected by a pale-faced nurse; a haunting malaise clouding her lifeless eyes. Heavily pregnant women were attached to IV drips, sedated to ease their labor pains; most had been held as sex slaves, forcibly raped by armed mercenaries roaming the countryside.
But the children, though... the children, Castiel thought to himself, they were the worst. Many of the field hospital's worst-off patients were in fact children, maimed by landmines or unexploded artillery shells, or even worse. Occasionally, they would be beaten severely for being Christian by Muslim insurgents; other times, mercenaries would cripple them for sport if they caught them trying to scavenge for supplies. Castiel had grimaced when a young boy had hobbled up to him, yanking on his hand expectantly. One of the young child's slender limbs had been ripped cruelly away from his body, revealing only a sliver of protruding bone and gristle where his right arm used to be. It was the boy's eyes, though, that had haunted him. One of the boy's eyes was dark, nigh black, matching the brutal reality of his existence. The other was missing entirely; only the gleaming orbital bone inside his head was visible, leering at Castiel with the look of Death etched on his face.
The Ixion hadn't remembered anything after the maimed boy. His next recollection was being rushed back into the awaiting helicopter by scrambling doctors. The Azuran battalion had pulled out of the area due to mixed orders, and Muslim insurgents were moving too close to the field hospital to ensure Castiel's safety. Once everything had been stored, the helicopter quickly lifted up and away, receiving an escort of HT-34 Cullowhee Attack Helicopters in the process. Even in the commotion, Castiel had been shocked into a distorted reality, his mind unable to come to terms with what he had seen. He had scarcely moved by the time the Honor Guard had escorted him to his 747 at Fort Vandengaarde back in Berchtesgarden. Even upon landing back in Sariah, Castiel found no solace in being home. The caravan back to the Xulashael had almost been funeral procession-like, with the Ixion casting his eyes out on the rain-soaked streets of the Azuran capital. The rain drops pelting the window of his sedan had been a sour reflection of his mood, further sinking his countenance.
Castiel had traveled to Courvasaynt with the intention of providing spiritual guidance and hope to a group of war-torn survivors who had become refugees lost in their own ancestral homeland. Instead, he had returned as a refugee himself, trapped inside a horror play from which there was no end. The Ixion had secluded himself inside the palace, avoiding all functions of the state upon his return home. His appetite throttled, Castiel had abstained from venturing into the dining hall earlier in the night, prompting a concerned cleric to hand deliver a special meal to raise his spirits. It was the same meal that now sat cooling on his desk. The food choice was exquisite, in all honesty - roasted Peking duck with buttered lobster tails and a jambalaya stir fry - yet even the savory aromas of such a marvelous meal couldn't defeat his troubled spirit.
Castiel rubbed at the back of his hands, unwittingly trying to wipe off the stains of war which he himself did not bear. His mind was aimlessly scanning the polished marble and oak woodwork in his private study, trying to contemplate his emotions. Was he aching for revenge against the destroyers of Courvasaynt? Was he fearful of ever finding himself in the midst of such a mournful place again? There was a disturbing lack of answers to his simple questions, though he could almost sense the one answer which he sought, dancing just beyond the veil between obscurity and enlightenment.
Castiel sighed, preparing himself for a long, sleepless night when a firm knock on the door rattled him. The Ixion sat up a bit, curious as to who was inquiring for him. "You may enter," Castiel spoke loudly, then lowered his voice: "if you're naked and horny."
The door slowly pushed open, catching the Ixion off guard. Sentries posted at the Xulashael typically barged in the room, continuing a practice dating back for almost a century. Those that moved cautiously in Sariah, the saying used to go, was either a man that didn't belong there, or an assassin that would never leave there. A tall, well-dressed man stepped tentatively into the room, carrying a Fedora in the crux of his arm. "Your Eminence?"
Castiel stood up, perceiving no threat from the gentlemen. "You wouldn't happen to be my new territorial governor, would you?" The man nodded affirmatively, wisely keeping quiet as he pulled the door to behind himself. The Ixion took the chance to size up the new governor, and was fairly impressed with what he saw. His new governor was everything he was reputed to be: young, mid-30s at most with a hint of gray beginning to creep into his hair. The man, Jon something or other was built like a weightlifter, though Castiel had expected nothing less from a former Valkyrie Ranger.
"Your eminence," the appointee spoke up, "my name is Jon Halifax Misha. You summoned me for a personal audience?" The Ixion nodded approvingly, stepping forward to embrace the young officer. Misha took the Ixion's hand discreetly, bowing lower than his hand level in the customary show of honor to the nation's highest officer.
"Praetor Métropole, if you please," the Ixion motioned, inviting the officer to sit down in a large chair across from his own desk. Jon obliged, loosening up a bit as Castiel moved to sit back down at his desk. Both men sat down at roughly the same time, with the Ixion reaching over to switch on a large desk lamp to further illuminate the gloomy room. The officer, Misha shielded his eyes momentarily, allowing them to adjust to the new level of light in the room.
Castiel began, opening the top drawer on his desk to procure a heavy manila folder: "I pulled your file, Mr. Misha, because you're one of my brightest young political appointees. Your leadership in Peresaea and Sarancini has been exemplary. And with your military record, well... you're just the man I need for the task at hand."
Jon frowned. "Task, sir?"
The Ixion nodded, opening the folder on his desk. Jon noticed with some confusion that the records placed in front of Castiel were his military records. "I'm sending you to head up a special operation at Steel Pact Headquarters. It requires your specialties in 'engineering', so to speak." Castiel sat back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head, watching the reaction of his territorial governor. "If you wish to go, of course, Mr. Misha."
Jon paused for a moment, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. When his gaze returned to the Ixion, his eyes were fierce and fixed. "What are your orders, sir?"
