Gael in the 1700's - 1800's (IC | TWI ONLY | CLOSED)

[Noronica]

GAEL IN THE 1700's - 1800's

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OOC

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Overview

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This thread is the general character RP thread for Gael in the 1700's -1800's. As stated in the OOC, this thread allows us to post stories from a characters point of view much like the Citizens thread. We may make reference to wars going on, but this thread should have no direction other than for us to flesh out what our nations were like in this time period.

Please use the OOC thread to ask questions and make plans for your posts if you feel it necessary.

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Rules

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• Ask stated above, this thread is for general character posts, story arcs will follow in separate IC threads.
• We want a good historical RP here, so I suggest the minimum post size should be two sizeable paragraphs.
• This is open to other nations, but the main focus is Gael, so please write about an event between your country and a Gael one or a character within a Gael country (please ask about the latter)
• Please keep your posts within the timeframe. You may make reference to earlier times of course, but we don't want a medieval post, etc.
• Please agree on things beforehand on the OOC.
• Finally, stick to the general rules for RP in TWI.

[Noronica]

Outside Harburgh, 11 January 1700

He had been running for days now. Day after day, the feeling of his feet slamming against the ground, sloshing through the wet sod and mud. Everytime he fell to the ground, he could feel the seering pain in his feet, the blood oozing from the muddied cuts, the hot pain of the swelling flesh. Try as he might, he could never get to sleep. Not just from the pain in his body, but mentally. The war cries of his friends, the sound of steel against steel, the sound of muskets, the sound of his friends screaming, the sounds of shot slamming into comrade's bodies. Every night, his hands clasped his head in the fear of the memories of battle.

Just days before, he and his friends had tried to fight against the Unionists. The Unionists had won the war, but they were harsh in their punishment. All aspects of traditional Nyssic culture, especially the Nyssic language were forbidden. The government also repealed the right to bear arms and the wearing of traditional Nyssic clothing. This angered most of those who fought for their freedom as Clanmen, not stuck-up sods who cared little for the plight of their fellow man. Now Billy was on the run. He had tried to ambush the soldiers in his town alongside fellow rebels, but most were put down in seconds. Only he and a few others survived the slaughter, yet they were hunted down like dogs.

Billy had been a carpenter's son, yet he had joined the war on the side of the clans. He believed that his clan had supreme authority over the land. His clan was his home and his protector, not a monarch. Yet his Laerd had been branded a traitor and was hanged in Nolon as an example to others. The Easters would not rise again, and Billy saw first hand what that vow entailed. Anyone suspected of sympathy towards 'the Old Ways' were taken in by the army, men, women and children all carted off to be questioned. That spurred the act of rebellion from Billy and his friends who tried to save townspeople from the claws of the army, yet they were killed and Billy was forced to flee.

Caressing his limp arm with his other, Billy tried to continue running, but his legs began to cave in on themselves. He heard a crack as his right leg shook violently which toppled him over, his face hitting the mud. He turned to hear the sounds of hoof-beats on the ground, growing ever-closer to his position. His mind screaming, he tried to move, but to no avail, his body would be his undoing. Without thinking, he clasped his bloodied hands together, his right hand clasping his broken left hand as he closed his eyes tightly.

Oh Gods above,

The hoof beats were getting closer.

May your everlasting love wash through me,

The horses were brought to a halt.

May the sun shine upon your green pastures, mountains

Footsteps.

and the rivers,

The loading of a pistol.

Amen.

[Vancouvia]

Fishhook, Vaenland: January 9, 1700

And then they went and called the men
Seven hundred in all, approached them then
I tell you the truth, the leader began
Today we have been called to the battle-land

To the north? asked one, a young wild Vaen
To Petlan? asked another, a tired voice sang
Nay, said he, and raised his hand
This time to Noronica we make our stand

A silence swept over the anxious men
And then the leader began once again
I know our history, I know our ways
But men, this task cannot endure delays

It is time we strike out, from off our shores
And do what is required of our corps
To bring Vaen to what was brought to Vaen
To defend more than our forests and fields of grain

We sail off, Guard, because it is time
I know no man will hesitate or decline
Our muskets grow dusty, our powder barrels full
Soon they will fill our great ships' hulls

Look to your brothers for courage and heart
For now is Vaenland's moment apart
Say farewell to your wives and your daughters and sons
For tomorrow we ready our ships and our guns

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[Vancouvia]

Somewhere in Eastern Noronica, January 28, 1700

Colonel Jacob Williamson had the command of the 400 "elite" shock troops of the Vaen Guard while Colonel Joseph Thantana oversaw the remaining 300 "support" troops that were mostly concerned with supply requisition, guarding the camp and materiel, and serving as a reinforcement group if necessary.

The voyage east across the sea to Noronica was wrought with terror and heartache. Many of the men had never been on a vessel larger than a schooner before, and only for a few hours on the smooth waters of the Four Harbors. Seasickness abounded, the Guard had failed to pack enough of any food source other than bread, hard meat, and mead, and the men grew restless with anticipation of what was to come on the other end of the sea. The two Colonels struggled to maintain order. Williamson used the stick, Thantana used the carrot. The ships rocked as much from the waves as from contempt.

When they finally reached shore, they were greeted with a wide view of the interior; the Vaenlanders, used to the lonesomeness and scarcity of their homeland, were awed by the relative busy cities and towns. "So this is where we came from," thought most, while the others thought only of the struggle they knew was to come.

700 men, 2 artillery pieces, and two dozen horses composed the force's equipment. The cannons were mostly for show, painted bold red they composed the entirety of the Guard's mass firepower, and they were present partly to "give the weaker boys something to build their muscles dragging along." What was perhaps most shocking was that they had in their possession only 16 cannonballs, 8 of which were probably too big for the barrel.

[Noronica]

Port Sinare, 29 January 1700

Lieutenant-Admiral Alexander Ferington walked purposefully towards the Royal Navy's Conference Room, a small contingent of guards following behind him. A sneer appeared on his lips as he approached the door, a feeling of boredom filling his mind. He glared at the two guards standing by the door, grunting haughtily when they opened the door for him. Straightening his pristine uniform, he strolled into the conference room, observing the grand room. Due to Noronica's recent economic growth, even the military benefitted from the luxuries of excess to the point where their headquarters reflected a small palace. The conference room certainly reflected this with golden linings, large windows overlooking the port, and well-crafted paintings placed tastefully around the room.

Alexander turned towards the small group of men in various positions around the room. Most sat at the central table, a fine piece made in Gwynon. He recognised these men as Vaenlanders. He assumed that they were the commanding officers as he had been informed of the arrival of the 700-strong force at the port. The force had been accommodated in many of the local taverns, with the commanding officers being invited to meet with the Lieutenant-Admiral, representing the Overlord and the Lord High Admiral. The men had been fed and given sleep, and yet the group seemed to still look utterly fatigued, a fact that turned Alexander's nose up.

Alexander sat in his chair at the head of the table, a smile painted on his lips, one which looked slightly pained. He glanced over at the group assembled in front of him, "My good fellows, it is with my utmost pleasure that I, as a representative of the Overlord of Noronica and the Lord High Admiral, welcome you to the city of Port Sinare. I do hope that you have been well looked after? I understand that your journey was a frightful endeavour, but I assure you great safety here."

Alexander heard the door open again and noticed a servant carrying a silver tray had appeared. He motioned for the tray to be placed on the table. Alexander turned back to the Vaenlanders, "May I offer you gentlemen some tea?"

[Vancouvia]

Port Sinare, January 29 1700

Williamson and Thantana glanced at each other across the table and shared a brief moment of civility as smiles crept up both men's faces. Although tea was available in Vaenland, it was thought of as a rather sissy drink that the old monks and the proper ladies at the ball occasionally drank.

"Go on, boys, have some tea," ordered Williams to the junior officers, quite knowledgeable of their reluctance.

"Now Admiral," said Williams, "We're here. What's our role from this point forward? My men are quite eager to get out into the field."

[Noronica]

Port Sinare, 29 January 1700

Alexander noted their initial reluctance and sighed into his cup. Of course these people don't drink tea, he took a few sips ensuring he grasped his cup in the right manner, his hands displaying perfect civility. He placed his cup back onto its saucer and looked at the gentlemen in front of him, a false smile immediately reappearing on his powdered face.

"Gentlemen, I am glad that you are so eager to aid us in this effort. I also appreciate a man who gets straight to business," a blatant lie, he oozed pleasantries and small-talk, but he needed to pander to the Vaenlanders, "so I suppose we shall get to business. Now, we are conducting a military expedition to the island east of us, the Island of Bolea which has recently come under our control as 'San Jimenez', named after the Noronnican explorer that found it. We would appreciate it if you could aid with the navy and army on 'peacekeeping efforts' so as to ensure that our rule is not short-lived. The island has proved to be rather accepting, but there are some factions that are still resentful towards our colonisation efforts and refuse to allow us respite. The military is not unable to handle this, but we would rather not spread our assets too thinly."

Alexander knocked on the table hard and the door behind him swiftly opened, allowing a portly man with a white powdered wig to enter the room, carrying a piece of paper. He bowed courteously, "My esteemed gentlemen." He sat in a chair next to Alexander who had a smirk on his face.

The Lieutenant-Admiral spoke again, his hands clasped on the table in a business-like manner, "Next to me is an official contract signed by his Majesty the Overlord and his loyal Lord High Admiral, which details your payments and everything I have discussed with you now. I will allow you to read the contract, but I would appreciate a swift response." With that, Alexander snatched the contract out of the other man's hands and placed it gently on the table, sliding it in front of the Vaenlanders with a few quills and ink pots for the commanders.

[Vancouvia]

Port Sinare, January 29, 1700


While the more conservative Thantana had immediately begun to read over the words, Williamson had already grabbed a quill and penned his name in large, grandiose letters at the bottom. Thantana sighed, and in full view of his officers and the Admiral, committed his as well. The Vaen Guard would be striking out further east - to war.


Southern San Jimenez, 30 miles inland, February 14, 1700

The Vaenlanders had abandoned their cannons at the relative safety of the coast, along with a guard detachment which also had the duty of making sure the ships didn't blow away. The remaining 600 troops marched north towards the interior, and most likely, enemy contact. It was, simply put, a search and destroy mission. When they had touched shore, the Noronnican army had made it clear that the Vaenlanders would be doing the actual fighting, and this suited them just fine, eager to prove themselves on the battlefield and usurp their cousins' thunder.

It had rained the night before. The Vaenlanders marched in two-columns, with the cavalry at the rear, less the two Colonels who together rode in the middle of the procession, occasionally riding back to deal with a soldier who had lost his boot in the mire or an uncooperative horse. They hadn't seen anyone in the better part of the day, and as night was to fall in a few hours, the Colonels checked their maps.

"We're about two hours south of this dot here - is that a town?" questioned Thantana.

"Ah, curse these damned napkins they have given us. That could be a spot of misplaced ink for all we know," replied Williamson, barely stopping himself from tearing the map into shreds right then and there.

The columns continued on into the evening. Their landscape had converted from plains to tangled forests, and if it were not for the small, dirt road, they would have been lost all together. There was no good place to camp and no sign of the dot on the map, and thus the Vaenlanders marched on in silence through the forest until the sun had just begun to lose its light.

The men, had they not had their numbers, would likely have run in panic at the wooing of the owls, the long, strange shadows creeping through their flanks, and the cold shiver of February easing up their backs. Several times the whole line had to stop when a squad reported a missing member, only for that member to begin the search in earnest for themselves.

Their eyes had just begun to glean the last bit of sunlight when the first shots rang out.

"Enemy in the trees!" sang a soldier in the middle of the line as blood from his friend poured out onto him. He grabbed him by the neck, then let go when he saw there was no life in his eyes, letting him fall onto the cold, dark ground. "Enemy on the right!"

The Colonels immediately dismounted from their horses and unpacked their pistols, holding them close to their chest as they ran, in tandem, towards the casualty. It was dead center in the middle of the line, but the shots seemed to be ringing out now on both sides both forward and behind, with several squads returning sporadic fire into the night. Both Williamson and Thantana knew that order had to be restored.

"Form ranks, triple back, hold fire!" ordered Williamson. The bugler next to him belted out the calls as best he could, missing several notes as his nerves got the best of him. As assurance, Williamson ordered runners to relay the orders to the front and the rear, then peered into the forest for signs of where the attack was coming from. Smoke from the gunpowder was tearing through the night, further suffocating his efforts.

The triple back order had the effect of merging the two-column formation into a line of six, effectively cutting the battalion's exposure to a third. As the front and rear units ran towards the center, the center held their fire lest they shoot any of their own. In the mean time, the center force formed a basic firing and defensive line, placing their heavy packs in front of them as they knelt or laid down in the mud, and thus making themselves a much smaller target.

The cavalry at the rear had, unlike the colonels, not dismounted and instead charged north up the line on the side of the road, thinking the attack was coming from ahead, nearly trampling the entire force as they went. Several horses and some men were taken out by the enemy in the trees, while the remnants pushed forward, now unable to effectively slow their crazed horses, and then charged past the vanguard altogether into the night.

After a few minutes, the line of six had formed, with three lines on either side of the road: one prone, one kneeling, and one what the Vaenlanders called "hunched." At the front, the men had erected a small semicircle to ward off any frontal assaults, while the rear had done the same. The entire force was now "squared" and the colonels and several junior officers ran to and fro in the interior of the square to issue orders, although there were very little to give. They had, however, eliminated the ineffective disorganized fire and initiated alternating volley fire, which had the desired effect, judging solely by the increased quantity of foreign screams coming from the forest.

"How do we route a enemy we can't goddamn see?" shouted Williamson to Thantana as a round whizzed past him and hit an unwitting soldier in the back of his leg.

"We get close enough to see them," replied Thantana over the swarm of battle.

It was at this suggestion that Williamson gave the order: "Fix bayonets!"

"Fix bayonets! Fix bayonets!" came the call down the line, as the men alternated pulling the small knives from their packs (now three stacks high) and keeping up fire on the trees.

The idea was to remove the enemy's advantage of knowing where they were, while simultaneously catching them off guard. Both colonels were unaware that the men were growing dangerously short of both powder and bullets, and that the charge was soon to be the final option regardless.

"For Vaenland!" cried a young soldier, not even 16, in the exact center of the line, as he jumped over the packs and made his way into the black trees. The charge order had not yet been given, but the officers had no choice now as, like a wave, most men surrounding him had joined in, and now both sides of the line split and charged up into the forest.

The Jimeneans, caught now face to face with the Vaenlanders and with hand-to-hand combat not on their predicted agenda for the night, fled or died by the dozens. Several were beaten bloody by the Vaenlanders who, not understanding their language, cruelly disregarded any motions of surrender.

When the hour ended, the battle was won, and the dead and wounded lay sunk into the mud. Williamson, not quite knowing the enemy's full strength, recalled his men as quickly as possible to the road, just in time for the runaway cavalry to return and almost be victims of friendly fire. The colonel had no choice but to push on through the night, abandoning the dead and critically wounded altogether, in search of the dot on the map.

They found it by morning, and upon the stripping of its resources, promptly razed the village to the ground, before turning face and beginning the march to the shore, collecting their dead from the battlefield and letting the Jimeneans' rot in the frost.

[Verdon]

An excerpt from the journal of Clodio de Terouane, an explorer from Arle of Jewish faith, on first encounters with the Agadjari people.

March 3, 1701

I and my crew of 70 aboard the good-ship Alauseta set off from Arle as soon as the first signs of spring for the far-south and west of Gael known as Agadar. The far shore was the last of the lines to be drawn in our efforts towards a complete cartograph of the great island wherewhich we have carved our home. Previous voyages had only so far as made landfall in the Michigume territories, near Angawok, though those routes all struck north around Lindastir. Our route had us sail south round the Arnish - whose interception and boarding, even while beyond sight of their shore came as no surprise - along the less-populous south Gael coast.

We arrived -bezrat hashem- on the Agadari southern coast at a town of modest size, said to have good roads for travel to the seat of their Kingdom. We must have looked as foreign to them as they to us. We and our smaller builds, dark hair and dark eyes - they, robust and broad - In particular, the man who came to greet us as envoy, whose light eyes and prominent beard invoked images of ancient conquerors of faraway lands. The town, built on the convergence of two grassy hills, consisted of hewn greystone dwellings and businesses along a web of roadway that spoke of the locales organic efficiency. It lacked walls, like most on the southern Gael coast, known for it's relatively peaceful shores, which He'enboc historians have said to be safe from both the Khirati and Atish. The main road was unexpectedly busy on the late afternoon of our arrival, and despite talk of religious turmoil, the folk seemed jovial amongst themselves.

We were treated with what could only be described as cautious optimism, our conversation aided by the talents of a Michigume youth, who could speak their foreign tongue and translate into He'enboc so that at least half the crew could understand. Our bearded emissary told us that an audience with their king - or appropriate subordinate - would be arranged so long as our intent in our cartographic efforts was sincere. I assured the man that an increase in our knowledge of their geography would help broaden our trade horizons. That seemed to get his attention...

[Athara Magarat]

1786 AD

The cemetery was mostly silent. Few dared disturb the gone with their talk. But here and there, time and again, one would find parents weeping at their buried sons, sisters remembering their brothers, wives and daughters giving final prayers to the family men, brothers and sons vowing to be like the gallant ones. Ms Barlami was leaving when the golden-haired woman standing on the burial next to her spoke. "Who was it for you?"

"I am sorry?"

"Mine was my one and only son." The woman was muttering. "But he is no longer with us. If the Almighty needs him, so be it."

"He was my nephew. A poor lad." Ms Barlami finally spoke up after another long silence. "Never saw his father who was in the Vaen Guard. I do not know who his mother was. Never met that witch."

"The Vaen Guard has taken away a lot of our men. But still men will be men and boys will be boys. They want action. They want to hold a gun. Travel to faraway lands. Meet the girl of their lives." The golden-haired woman smiled. And thus the two women started chatting. They talked of life and death. Stories of sorrows. About the deeds of men they knew who had been taken away by wars. And of personal matters.

"So you are still unmarried?" The golden-haired woman, Mrs Brass, was surprised. "It is really commendable that you raised your nephew all by yourself...So, how about now? You do not look that old. There might still be some old war veterans from Vaen Guard who did seek company."

"Are you jesting, Mrs Brass?" Ms Barlami smiled. "I have had enough of family members who have been mad by war. Or been taken away by it. Besides I am already too old for that kind of thing."

"Do you need an umbrella, Ms Barlaame?" Mrs Brass tried to pronounce Ms Barlami's name. "The clouds are becoming dark. It might rain."

"You are very generous, Mrs Brass but what of you? Would not your lovely dress soak if it rains? It was very foolish of me to not bring mine."

"Do not worry, dear. My husband is sobering up in the local pub, remembering our son. He has another umbrella. I am sure we would be fine even if it does rain."

Ms Barlami proceeded to thank the kind Mrs Brass again and again. She took her address so that she could visit her in person and repay the kindness. As the two women were about to depart in their ways, a loud thunder ran across the vast sky.

As Ms Barlami checked the umbrella Mrs Brass had given, she remembered the kind golden-haired woman's words. "I think this rain would clear away the sadness of our hearts. This is indeed a sad rain but we would be able to sympathize with it. The Almighty is grieving the loss of so many innocent boys and men who died in war. Everything is going to be okay, dear."

[Samudera]

Samuderan Civil War
The Last Battle of Kotapura (1701)

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He had last seen the Karatonan (King’s Palace) when he was 7. The now-burning Karatonan that he saw was a big, bright, lavish palace in the past. Running the whole vast kingdom from the inside of it. Once he loved the Karatonan, but his love has turned into burning desire, to avenge the grudge he had buried for years.

He was still a little child back then, playing in the vast Karatonan yard, visiting the stable to see the huge horse towering him. He studied really hard, aiming to beat his brothers to the crown. His father always said that he could be the king if he is smarter than his brothers. This was always his motivation to study harder.

Sometimes when it’s off day, he would visit the city in the meantime. He befriended many peasants in the market, which makes his aide jobs harder. They would tell him their own stories, each with their adventure. One kid tells him that he had seen a dragon in the forest, which sparked his curiosity.

Sneaking off his aide, he ran to the forests. He was curious what the dragon may look like. Maybe he could even befriend the dragon! What a story to tell, he thought in his mind. He ran, searching every inch of the forest. Until the sun sets already. He almost forgot that he is in the middle of the forest. He cries, really loud.

Then a fire caught his attention. It must be the dragon, he thought. He ran to the fire, only to found it had multiplied to tens of them. Then, a pale-white man came in front of him. He cried, cried and cried. Until the strange man offered him a bread. He had seen his father eating a bread, but he never ate it. He stopped crying when he tastes that the bread was indeed really good. He didn’t find the dragon, but he found a good, kind, and fire man!

Unbeknownst to him, a search party had been dispatched to search for him. The younger of the sons that the king Cakranagara IV had loved with his whole heart. We shall find him, Your Majesty. You could trust us, your best soldiers across the Samudera, said General Latuharhari, the king’s trustworthy aide.

The party searched the whole town for the young prince, with no avail. They then tried to search in the forest, thinking that maybe the young prince got lost in there. Instead of finding him there, they found a whole brigade of Arnish forces. They already break the last defence in Raja Pass, the General thought. Ambushing the Arnish forces, they decimated them with no mercy. The retreating Arnish soldiers brought the lost child, that’s when the General saw the young prince. Chasing after them, he tried to get the young prince back. Instead, he got shot twice in the head. The young prince screamed, recognising the usual face he always met when he played with his father.

Later, the lost Samud child was found to be the prince of the enemy. He was brought to mainland Arnish, to be raised to fight the kingdom he was born to.

The now-brainwashed prince, having been taught to hate the Kingdom was brought back to Samudera to lead the rebellion against the King. He fought battle by battle, killing the enemy without mercy, devising strategy by strategy. He was a good commander indeed, until he brought his father’s kingdom on his heels, the very moment he razes the palace to the ground.

He sees an old man come out from the burning ruins of the palace. The old man seems a little bit limp, walking seems to be a hard work for him. He approaches the old man, as merciless as he is, he couldn’t bring himself to kill children or old men. He stops dead in his track immediately when he recognises him. Burning angers built over years come out in a second.

He is his father, also ironically his greatest enemies, King Cakranegara IV. He lashes his sword to kill him, only to found his father to spoke to him in a weak voice.

“Son, is that you?”, the King says.

The King then proceeded to hugs him, much to his confusion.

“I thought you were long dead. How could you live until now? Why I heard no news from you? Why, why do you use Arnish uniform? Why...”, the King trails off from his words, seemingly confused and surprised by the facts.

Bang! I’m sorry father, he mumbles. A drop of tears come out from his eye.

With this, the Samuderan Civil War ended. Several days after this, he was crowned the king. He’s the unifier of the whole Samudera in times of trouble, he is known for that achievement until today, written in many schools book.

They know nothing, for a price must always be paid for everything.

[Deutschbismarckreich]

The Antiislamic Season in Bismarckia

1814, 20 of April. Bismarckia, Fordmann

A small mosque sits atop a hill in Bismarckia, overlooking the Ottoberg coast. A village is at the base of the hill, the smoke from the chimney is out in the air. Seabirds are curiously absent, though monotheists overlook the omens of the natural world and pay no attention. Several spots appear on the horizon, perhaps whales or dolphins. A man takes a donkey to the narrow road to the church, laden with tithes from the villagers. He stops, staring at the approaching objects, closer now, so that one can see his sails and the roar of the oars. Ships do not fly flags. The priest rushes the rest of the way, interrupting a meeting of his brothers. The youngest of them is sent back to the village to raise the alarm, commercial ships do not roll with a full sail. The ships are close enough to see the rows of colored shields now, and the fearsome draconic decorations at the bows of each ship. The wind carries the smallest suggestions of singing when the young Hevardo comes to the city, "Tir, Tir, Tir, Tir!" A commotion erupts when the first ship hits the sandy beach. The men throw themselves on the sides and a hail of short arrows falls among the poorly gathered defenders. Forty men and women entered the town, burning small fishing boats and trampling drying racks, ruining a month of fish. One of the defenders orders the men to a shield, but the invasion group collides against them, like a wave, a spear and a sword and an ax separate in their ranks and the bodies are pushed to the sand by the wet boots of the attack. The doors are knocked over, the shutters are tucked away, blood flows through the streets. Five men on horseback cross the streets, cutting through some of the fleeing villagers as they head toward the church. Some arrows fall on them, but their speed carries them, they are lighting the little garden that is outside the monastery already. The pilots dismount and draw their shields, one remains on the road with a bow while the others open to the buildings. A priest runs from a small shed, but is overthrown. Screaming from inside one of the buildings catches the attention of the guard, but his companion emerges from the building with a loot of loot. Smoke begins to flow from the windows and a loud noise popping from the incandescent fire inside. Similar events occur in other rooms. Some of the dead sikeriatistas are dragged to the common area and organized in the form of the Gibu Auja, simultaneously a signature and a last ironic joke, then set afire. The horsemen walk their swag-laden animals behind the road, and through the old village, now on fire. More races have been drawn, as well as more cruel symbols carved out of flesh. The fields and gardens behind many houses were burned down and the sea water spread through the ashes. Some hills lay on the shore where the pagan dead had been buried and the last looters piled back to the ships. The blood was wiped on the wood around the bow-head, the demonic forms now dripping red. Several slaves had been bound to masts or thrown into empty cages that had kept chickens or empty food boxes. The four ships slid from the sand with the tide and the oars once again began to pulse forward, back to the horizon.

Events:

- Initiation of anti-Islamic attacks by Bismarckian tribes
- Increased slavery

[Athara Magarat]

1850 AD

The neatly-dressed gentleman sat at the bench with his fierce gaze on the latest news from the Times of Turvin. He had been reading about the troubles in Lindastir. His immersive reading was broken by the rustling sound of a nearby creature. Alarmed that it could be a boar or something even worse, the man put down his papers and looked ahead to see a a running woman approaching towards him.

"Sir, I need your help!" The woman spoke frantically in Nyssic.

"Excuse me?" The man sported a bewildered look. Before he could say another word, the lady packed her hat and coat into a large bag (which the man had failed to notice before) and sat next to him on the bench. She then buried her head into his newspaper.

"Don't let them find me." She breathed softly into his ears.

"Who - "

"Oi, have you seen a girl running this way?" a booming voice startled the gentleman before he could finish his question. Judging by the cane wielded by this voice source: a large woman with neatly combed ginger hair; the man came to the logical conclusion that the girl in question was the young woman seated next to him.

The man tried to speak but the woman beside him threw her arms around his neck and shouted aloud, albeit in a still pleasant voice: "My fiance and I have been here all morning, but we have not seen a single soul, madam."

"Fiance?" The red-haired woman's eyes went wide. "He seems a nice fellow, young lady. But are you sure everyone will be okay with him?"

"Of course, he is voracious reader as you can see. He attends the church regularly." The man decided to remain silent and simply nod as the young lady went on to say fib after fib about themselves. "He even changed his name to James - "

"I still prefer my name Temur though." The man coughed slightly. He gazed at this strange girl. James? No one in my entire clan has that name.

" - And you know, he has even ordered a ring with a red hear just for me. What a gentleman! Both of us had feelings for one another for a long time but couldn't admit them due to the society, you know. Then one day, I saved his life and he thanked me...After that it got a little weird and we were kissing and - "

"Fine, fine. You two make a good couple. Who am I to judge others?" The red-haired woman was not even listening to this monologue. She carried her cane and left on her own path. "Let me know if you see that girl. She wears a ridiculous hat."

When the large woman was beyond their view, the strange young lady seated next to him finally thanked the gentleman. "Thank you very much, kind sir. Here, take this boar's tooth. It is used a charm in the - "

"I am a doctor. The town's new doctor. And I don't believe in a charms, young lady."

"Then you must be wearing a wig, Mr Old Gentleman..."

"Excuse me, girl! I am just 26. The only reason why I even have this small beard is because I haven not shaved while on the voyage all the way from Magarat to Turvin Gadhi. And then from there to here, traveling non-stop." The man was getting angry at this strange woman's rudeness after he had just helped escape from whatever mischief she had done.

After a few moments of glaring at one another, the lady stood up and covered her hair with the ridiculous hat. "Well sir, thank you again. It is said that if you are new in town, you will fall in love with the first person you meet - "

"What?"

"I am just jesting, sir."

"I hope to never see you even as a patient!" The man shouted as the young woman quickly took off on her path. He exhaled and then sat in his previous position. Reading the newspaper word by word and immersing himself in the letters. If this is how this town is, then I am not going to last long here as a doctor.

[Athara Magarat]

1870

It felt like being kicked in the groin. He watched her fall forward - dropped the color and her sword. The din and thunder of the world faded. He saw the General being unhorsed after her death. He watched as she and her horse sank into the water.

"This is not going well", he muttered to himself as he found himself going down. The Dormill-Stiuraians and their Domananian allies had seen this as well and were jubilant of their victory. There were shouts of panic among the feared Vaen Guard, among the veteran Magarati soldiers and the valiant Ilsan knights. How could they not after Domananian artillery had broken the ice on the very lake that the retreating Magaratis, Ilsans and Vanenlanders had been crossing?

He did not remember the bodies sinking along with him. There were too many Ilsans, Vaenlanders and fellow Magaratis in the same situation right there. The water was cold. He resigned himself to his fate - his vagya. He smiled at the ironic name of this battlefield called Vagyo in Torom. He did not bother opening his eyes. He was as good as dead and he knew that. He had just turned twenty-seven. He had been married, and army commander, for eight months. He had only gotten eight lousy months to make his mark on history before being one of the Magarati commanders assigned to this front against the wretched aggressors from Gael.

The pain from the cold wasn't too bad yet. It would get worse soon. He had grown accustomed to the war that had started nearly a decade ago. During his involvement in various campaigns of the war, he had seen men (and sometimes women like the General he worked under) live for days after a shot in the gut. However, this was different. There was no escaping a fate like this. No one would come for him here. Certainly not his comrades who were also sinking. And definitely not the Dormill-Stiuraians and the Domananians watching the impact of their artillery bombardment from afar. That meant his country was losing. There was no hope for the Magarati Colonial Realms and her allies.

He thought of his mother as he coughed. He thought of the Great Hangs and their accomplishments in battles as he neared his death. How he wished he could have died in glory like them than sinking pathetically. For one last time, he remembered his country and prayed to the Heavens as water entered his nostrils.