The Greatest Adventure (Open! All Tech! Read First Post!)

[Caer Lleon]

Welcome to 'The Greatest Adventure!' Interested in showing off your nation? Meeting new people? Experiencing high adventure? This thread offers all that and more> 'The Greatest Adventure' is open to all tech levels, all nations, and all abilities. There are only two requirements: Follow the rules listed below, and read the opening post.

There are hundreds of Knightly Orders in Terrae Romanum. Some are national orders, which are the gift of a sovereign. Others are recognized private orders, which welcome individuals of merit. But they are all recognized by the Imperial College of Arms and its King. Without that recognition, they are nothing but a social club. To be a Knightly Order, there must be a plainly recognized and openly advertised path to join. And through the centuries of tradition, the most common path to join an order has become the Squire's Rite.

It's simple enough, on its face. Through deeds or sponsorship, a man or woman is recognized as a Page of the Order they wish to join. They pursue a year's service as a Page, usually in the military or as an assistant on some knightly venture. At the end of that year, they are named full Squires of the Order. And then they are sent out on a quest, to fulfill a deed worthy of the Order and thus be recognized by their peers as a Knight.

This entails going out into the world(s), meeting new people, and seeking Adventure.

Let's see an example:

*****

The dragon fell.

Well, technically, it wasn't really a dragon. It was more of a very large wyvern. In her fight with the beast, it had been hard to miss the poisonous hook on its tail. But the locals had called it a dragon, and Seloue didn't see the need to correct them on their taxonomy. That wasn't her job. What was her job was to see that the village of Ráðvǫllr was safe, that the locals didn't have to live in fear, and that the town's mayor signed the form she had on her saying she had committed a great deed and that he recommended her for knighthood.

"Ha! Laissez le bon temps rouler!" She kicked the fallen beast in the head. It responded by, quite reasonably, trying to eat her. "Merde!"

While the locals had indeed fled the area for the moment, the village blacksmith stood and watched from a nearby doorway. "Do they not give you better swords?"

This time, after the dragon fell, she took the time to stab it a few more times, just to make sure. "We're expected to rely on our own resources." Seloue muttered, wiping sweat off her brow. "Why, do you think you can do better?"

"I have done better." The blacksmith rose to his full height, revealing that he was unusually large and tall, compared to the humans she had seen.

"Well, if you think you're so great, make me a better sword, then." Seloue grumbled. "Or don't. I think I've finished my job here."

"Do you now?" Said the Mayor. "You've only killed one of its children."

Seloue groaned and fell on her knees. She wasn't going to make it back in time for the Christmas knighting ceremony after all.


TL;DR

Squires have to travel and meet people and fulfill a great deed in order to become a knight.

Rules

I: Each player will meet one squire. I choose who the squire is, what their equipment is, and how they behave.

II: Every player's story is separate and players - aside from you and me - do NOT have to interact if they do not want to. My intention is that each player will discover the larger story for themselves and act and react individually. If you want to interact with another player, please ask them directly and respect the normal conventions of inter-player interactions when doing so.

III: I will respond to the oldest unanswered post first. This is to be both fair and to motivate me to get to your post as soon as possible. Some posts will be long, others will be short, but I will reply with something! For the sake of speed, I'll handle most non-trivial interactions.

IV: Questions? Drop by the NSWB server (https://discord.gg/febnCaH) and I'll try to answer.

[Caer Lleon]

OOC:

I've been asked a few questions, and I'll answer them here.

1) What's the actual idea here?

Well, the idea is you post your people in some sort of situation, and I post a squire that turns up an dhelps you while touring your nation. It gives you the chance to show off parts of your country you haven't shown off before and introduce new ideas.

2) Does it have to be a monster?

No. While traditionall slaying monsters is the way to earn your spurs, modern knights are expected to be as adept with their brains as they are with other muscles. The important part is that they're defending the innocent, not that they're defending the innocent by killing a dragon that's just minding its own business and eating princesses.

[A m e n r i a]

Imma drop this as a sign of interest. Talk to me over discord or TG, okay?

[Rhodokan Republic]

Interesting Indeed.

[Kragholm Free States]

Consider me interested. I shall see what I can think up for a post.

Edit: My apologies, didn't realise this wasn't an OOC thread. Composing an IC post as we speak.

[Crimetopolis]

So my late 1890s stuff is allowed? Fascinating.

[Caer Lleon]

So my late 1890s stuff is allowed? Fascinating.

It is indeed.

[Crimetopolis]

Would Appalachian creatures be allowed? Like the Grafton Monster, The Braxton 1951 event, the Pocahontas Fire Dragon, Hogzilla, panthers, Lizard, and Kentucky Hellhound?

[Grand Petaria]

I'll be thinking of a way to bring in my steampunk lore room 1850s into here. Thanks for creativity!

[Caer Lleon]

Would Appalachian creatures be allowed? Like the Grafton Monster, The Braxton 1951 event, the Pocahontas Fire Dragon, Hogzilla, panthers, Lizard, and Kentucky Hellhound?

I'm not sure how much more clearly I can state that you're allowed to bring whatever you want into play.

I'd really rather not clutter the thread up with OOC, so if anyone lese has questions find me on the discord or send me a tg!

[Crimetopolis]

I'll be thinking of a way to bring in my steampunk lore room 1850s into here. Thanks for creativity!

Awesome. I'm doing 1890s tech, too.

[New Dornalia]

Somewhere on the world of Agua Fria
New Kazakhstan County
Colonial Republic of Earth

The young woman--one with a peanut butter complexion, with fair features and a countenance which seemed to indicate she was from a decidedly uppercrust background--was running and running through the dusty rural roadside, with a panicked look on her face. Every once in a while, she looked back, and then looked forward. This time, when she looked back, she breathed a quiet, quick sigh of relief. She had lost them, for a moment. Somehow, in a sundress, a broad brimmed hat, and a purse with a Phaser in it, she had evaded them.

The woman looked down at the bundle in her hands. She unwrapped it briefly, to gaze upon its visage. It was a small statue, nestled amongst a book and what looked like a PDA. A figure in robes which resembled the Virgin of Guadalupe with its blue cloak--if the Virgin had been depicted by the artist of a heavy metal album cover, and then mixed with the Grim Reaper. The figure was a skeleton with a scythe in one hand and an orb in the other.

The woman then looked at it, and crossed herself, muttering a prayer quickly. It was a simple one.

"Please. Holy mother--help me. I have fled the Warmongers' clutches. They pursue me even now. Misdirect them, and safely get me back home to my home. Protect me from my pursuers. Amen!"

Then, she heard a hue and cry, uttered in Spanish. The woman crossed herself, and her eyes grew to the size of dinner plates with alarm.

”There’s the bitch! GET HER!”

The woman wrapped up the parcel, and then began running again. To her horror, as she looked back, she saw a copper colored Chevrolet truck driving after them. Onboard were her pursuers. Men and women with cat’s ears and tails, all of whom were armed, with their mouths wrapped up in bandannas to keep out the dust and to hide their identities--along with sunglasses--and were quite bothered by this turn of events. They could be seen pointing and gesturing to the driver of the truck, and the woman knew she had to get to safety.

There could be no other option. It was time to run.

So, run she did. The Woman ran, though her legs were about to give out. The Woman ran, fueled by adrenaline and the unwelcome prospect of what would happen if she was caught. The Woman ran, as if possessed by some supernatural force. Her breathing grew heavy, frenetic with fear and the stress of physical activity.

The Woman would need all the divine protection she could muster. The pursuers in the truck were gaining ground. It wasn’t a fair contest. A group of Warmongers in a truck versus a young follower of The Faith? Those were incredibly lopsided odds, in favor of the Warmongers.

And this was the conclusion that played out. The Warmongers’ truck soon skidded in front of her, executing a perfect J-turn and missing her by inches. The woman tried to run away, but then a gunshot rang out. Turning around, the woman saw the smoking barrel of one of the Warmongers’ guns--a Colt Single Action Army revolver. The leader of the Warmonger party--a young woman with cat ears and tails--had no bandanna and no sunglasses on. Rather, The Neko had piercing baby blue eyes, and a smile which was enjoying this situation way too much. The Neko leapt off the bed of the truck and began to walk inexorably towards her pursuer. As she did so, the Neko began to urge The Woman to stop, and fired shots with her revolver.

The Woman refused to obey the hails to stop. She continued to run and run, zigzagging and evading The Neko's shots which stirred up the dirt around her feet. The Woman continued to run and run, until she could run no further. Mainly because she bumped into a stranger from another land.

Turning to look behind her before turning back to the stranger, The Woman shouted in English to the man, “Please, you have to help me. That lady--she’s crazy! She’s been holding me for ransom! You gotta help me! PLEASE!” Her look was impleading, panicky, and desperate.

The Neko meanwhile, shouted to the stranger, switching to a form of English which was more suited to a black hat from a Western, "This ain't your business, stranger! Give the lady back to us, and we can all walk away with a pulse." She glared at all involved, and it looked like the Neko's friends in the truck were following slowly behind her, as if to try and make their presence that much more frightening.

[Crimetopolis]

Cancelled

[Caer Lleon]

New Dornalia

The stranger was a tall human wearing a poncho and a ten gallon hat. He was also chewing on a length of wheat. For all the world, he looked like he had stepped out of central casting. He drawled, raising his hand to his hat and tilting it politely towards the two women. He had dark eyes and a mouth that tugged at the corner of his lips when he smiled. "Afternoon, ladies."

That a gun was pointing at him didn't seem to concern him much. He very slowly slipped an arm in front of the woman and moved to stand between her and the warmongers. "Well, ain't that something. You know how to make a man feel welcome, threatening him like that." He flipped his poncho to the side with his right hand revealing that he wore heavy body armor underneath it. And that his left hand was holding his own pistol. A sleek black gun with a magazine sticking out of the bottom and a stabilizing bolt, with a long suppressor. "Single shot, is it?" He nodded at her pistol. "6 of them, if I don't miss my guess. Well... as I was walking, I was countin' shots. It's a habit of mine." He lifted his own pistol and sighted down the barrel, gripping it in his hands with practiced ease. "Never leave a woman in distress. Never refuse a cry for help. That's the Tejian Warden creed."

Then he lowered his pistol, pointing it at the ground, but not removing his hands from the firing position. "How about you and your friends turn around and go home?"

[Kragholm Free States]

Härnavik, Kragholm Free States

The old coaching inn at Härnavik was a small, shabby building; floorboards that creaked incessantly, walls that looked as if they hadn’t had a fresh coat of paint for at least a century, crooked paintings in tarnished brass frames, and a bar that only seemed to stock dark ale and mediocre whisky, all served by a hunched old publican with a dour grimace and a ratty tweed suit that barely contained his not-insignificant gut. Nevertheless, it was the only such establishment Härnavik had – it was a small village, far to the north, out of the way of the cities and the railways and the shipping lanes – and so this crumbling tavern was always filled with life, the beating heart of this desolate place. A single electric bulb flickered dimly in the centre of the bar, a luxury that had to be supplemented by several oil lamps, dotted around the room’s edges, and a roaring log fire set in an ancient stone fireplace, giving warmth to fight the freezing cold outside. At long wooden tables where what looked like Härnavik’s entire populace sat elbow-to-elbow, friendly banter and bouts of raucous laughter echoed up to the rafters, as clinks of glasses and tin tankards cut through the din. It was not a wealthy place, but it was a happy place. Or, at least, that was what its patrons wanted it to be.

Outside, it was pitch-black. Snow drove down upon the icy ground, but the darkness engulfed even its white flakes to leave nothing visible to human eyes. The faint glow of lamplight glinted from a few sparse houses, but most of the dwellings here had surrendered themselves to the dark, shuttered their windows, bolted their doors, and now could only wait for the sun to rise again. It would be a long time. Winter nights this far north were terribly long, and terribly dark. Smoke drifted from the chimney of the coaching inn, only to be caught and hurled away by the bitter winds and the freezing blizzard. The chatter and laughter and joy were scarcely audible out here; that, of course, was the reason nobody was out here. A soft crunch echoed, a footstep on fresh snow. A low growl carried on the wind. The innkeeper kept a shotgun behind the bar; that was the second reason.

Rickety window frames rattled and shook as a deafening roar pierced the night, startling the regulars bolt upright. The conversation fell silent. Not a single person dared move an inch, lest it somehow draw the attention of the beast outside. The electric bulb flickered furiously, then blinked out, leaving only the meagre illumination of the dying lanterns. The grim old barman stooped even lower behind his bar, liver-spotted hands reappearing with a battered, scratched double-barrelled shotgun clutched within them. He was trembling. Few people weren’t. The roar came again, closer this time, as heavy steps slowly circled the building, punctuated by the sniffing and grunting of an animal. A polar bear? It sounded like a polar bear, and they were common enough in these parts. Which made the level of sheer terror on display here odd, to say the least. The steps stopped sharply, outside the door – which suddenly appeared even more flimsy than usual. A moment of silence. Then, the beast roared a third time, a piercing, ear-splitting noise that could shake a man’s very soul to pieces. A terrible crash of splintering wood and groaning metal, and the door burst from its hinges and fell, in several pieces, to the floor, blown inwards by the chill wind. The innkeeper pointed his shotgun towards the cavernous hole, and squeezed the trigger from the hip. There was a sharp click. Jammed. A series of rapid grunts came from the darkness. Was the creature… laughing? No time to think about that - with a sudden burst of blinding speed, the beast charged.

[Crimetopolis]

If you want me to delete my post, I'll do so.

[New Dornalia]

New Dornalia

The stranger was a tall human wearing a poncho and a ten gallon hat. He was also chewing on a length of wheat. For all the world, he looked like he had stepped out of central casting. He drawled, raising his hand to his hat and tilting it politely towards the two women. He had dark eyes and a mouth that tugged at the corner of his lips when he smiled. "Afternoon, ladies."

That a gun was pointing at him didn't seem to concern him much. He very slowly slipped an arm in front of the woman and moved to stand between her and the warmongers. "Well, ain't that something. You know how to make a man feel welcome, threatening him like that." He flipped his poncho to the side with his right hand revealing that he wore heavy body armor underneath it. And that his left hand was holding his own pistol. A sleek black gun with a magazine sticking out of the bottom and a stabilizing bolt, with a long suppressor. "Single shot, is it?" He nodded at her pistol. "6 of them, if I don't miss my guess. Well... as I was walking, I was countin' shots. It's a habit of mine." He lifted his own pistol and sighted down the barrel, gripping it in his hands with practiced ease. "Never leave a woman in distress. Never refuse a cry for help. That's the Tejian Warden creed."

Then he lowered his pistol, pointing it at the ground, but not removing his hands from the firing position. "How about you and your friends turn around and go home?"

The Neko stood for a minute, and her team looked somewhat confused. They looked at each other, and traded a few lines in a language the Warden may have recognized--what the Dornalians would call Spanish. They looked confused, and took note of the machine pistol the man held in his hand. The Neko nodded, and looked at her cylinder. Her expression turned sour, as The Neko realized the Stranger's round count likely picked up the fact she was out of ammunition. That itself was embarrassing. And normally, embarrassments earned swift retribution for the embarasser.

The problem was that this man seemed to be a lot stouter than the usual opposition. Also, The Neko knew that her paymasters would have serious issues with her killing some gringo and leaving him to be feasted on by the Corpsebeetles that seemed to grow fat in these parts. After all, dead gringos lead to Sheriff Dunwoody actually doing his job, or worse, the Feds from New Almaty doing theirs. Dunwoody you could cajole or bribe. The Feds you couldn't.

So, The Neko holstered her gun. One of the other men barked at her in Spanish, and The Neko, her tone growing embarrassed and irate, shouted, "CALLATE!" with considerable brusqueness. The Neko then turned to the Stranger, and said to him, returning to her Black Hat Cowboy accent, "Okay. We'll do it your way, Stranger. But next time, we're doing it my way. Pray there ain't a next time." With a cry of VAMONOS!", the Neko got onto the truck, and then made a gesture with the index and middle finger pointed inwards at her eyes, and then pointed at the Stranger and the Woman he just liberated--as if to remind them to watch themselves.

WIth the party driving away, the Woman said, with a sigh of relief and her own Western-accented English, "Th-thank you! I thought I'd be dead for sure. The name's Alicia Delgado. My family's not but several miles from here, on the Estancia Delgado. Pops is lookin' for me, no doubt." She then crossed herself, and asked, "You have an automobile or some other transport? I can navigate you to the Estancia."

[Caer Lleon]

Kragholm

The woman had been sitting in the corner, drinking a sweet wine and keeping mostly to herself, even as the beast had begun its assault. But when the door opened, and the shotgun jammed, she had stood up and drawn her sword. "Kyrie Eleison!" She cried, drawing the attention of the monster even as she dashed to stand between the attacker and the defenseless innkeeper.

She was a tall, bright-haired figure, clad in unassuming black leather, more for its ease of movement than for its limited defensive properties. She may have been defenseless herself, except that when she raised her sword, there was the glimmer of energy about her left arm that folded out into a shield.

Dornalia

The stranger didn't answer for a moment, just engaging the safety on his pistol and pushing his poncho aside to reveal the holster that hung at his hip, revealing that besides his pistol he carried a machete. But it was just a minute, and then the poncho fell back into place. Again, he tipped his hat to the woman. "That's mighty fair of you, ma'am." He offered his hand to shake hers. He had a strong, firm, trustworthy grip that was aided by the heavy leather gloves he wore. "Mighty fair of you indeed. I reckon I had taken a wrong turn. Don't think my ride much appreciated the map I fed him."

He whistled, high and sharp, putting two fingers to his lips and blowing sharply. A moment later, cranking up from a hill, came a short, squat quadrupedal... creature? It certainly acted like a living animal, for all that it was made of gleaming steel and only had a single red LED in the middle of its head. It carried on its side, under the heavy saddlemat, a large shotgun, some canteens, and a few items of luggage. The stranger knelt by it, whistling again, tunelessly, and pulled a map from a cabinet that opened at his touch. "We were looking for the town of Santa Muerte de Arroyo Seco." Even though he might have been a gringo, he said the Spanish words like a local. "Was told it might profit me to have a look. And I reckon they may be right." He nodded down the road, to where the truck had gone. "Now, I'll admit to being a mite curious what was going on there, ma'am. But if there's one thing ol' Warden Norris taught me, the people with the guns out are usually the bad guys."

[Kragholm Free States]

Härnavik, Kragholm Free States

As the creature burst through the doorway, its gargantuan form tearing huge chunks of masonry and rotting wood from the wall, the oil lamps finally flickered and died. A faint glow emanated from the woman's energy shield, revealing little but the quivering shadows of huddled patrons, paralysed by sheer terror. The beast grunted its spine-chilling laugh once more - from the other side of the room this time, and after it came a sickening wet crunch of bone and mangled flesh. How had it moved so quickly? Who had fallen prey to it already? There was a rush of wind, and for a split-second the shield illuminated ice-white fur, spattered with crimson blood as the creature leapt past far faster than something of its size should have been able to do. The chill of displaced air came again, from behind the swordswoman this time. There was silence for a moment. Then hot, fetid breath brushed the back of her neck.

[Parina]

On the Frontier
The Edge of Galveston Colony Territory

Kaili!

Kaili!

Kaili!

The word sounded more like the cry of a great carrion bird than a sound made by mortal mouths. It echoed through the trees, seeming to come from all around him as he ran. It caused pain; he winced every time they shouted the Black Mother’s name, as if the word itself was the edge of a paper cutting his skin or a needle pricking his neck. The trees ahead seemed endless, and somehow pitch black even with the sun shining overhead. The heat and the running had forced rivers of sweat down his face and bare chest. The sweat on his chest mixed with blood, still trickling slowly from a cut that ran from right shoulder across his breast and ended just below his sternum. The wound was not deep – it had not been made to kill or even to seriously injure, only to draw blood. More blood was drawn as his bare feet stepped on rocks and branches and other detritus on the ground. The fresh pain was lost in the swirl of adrenaline that filled his body.

He shouldn’t be alive. He should be dead, or dying, or wishing he was either of those things. That damn fool of a sergeant! He’d been lured in by the sounds of a woman screaming, no doubt his head had filled with visions of sweeping in to save the fair maiden from the cannibals who had attacked the farm whose burning ruins the patrol of Mounted Battalion men had been investigating. The poor woman was already cut open, and instead of a heroic rescue the entire group had been ambushed and captured. The cannibals had killed the sergeant and dragged his corpse, and the soon-to-be-corpses, back to their cave in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Then they’d started their foul rituals, gibbering praises in their mocking imitation of church priests to Kaili, the Mother of Darkness. Between the horrific butchering of his comrades, he’d heard their leader – more like the head of a pack of wolves than any human king – shout things that sounded like exhortations. They would feast on much more flesh, he had promised, when they marched on Logstown.

Somehow, he’d managed to get the primitive cage open and he’d taken off running. He had only the faintest sense of where he was or what direction he should be running. But he knew he had to escape. Logstown was a provincial town, full of local half-civilized tribes and unsanctioned settlers from the homeland. They lived outside the full protection of the Empire and if the cannibal hordes were indeed somehow organizing for a full-scale attack – and how could they be doing that, without killing and eating each other? – they needed to be warned. They needed time to prepare. He had to reach someone who could carry the warning. He took a deep breath, trying to summon a third or fourth wind to keep his legs moving –

With a cry, he pitched forward. A tree root in the ground, old and gnarled but solid as stone and the same color as the dirt around it, caught his foot and sent him tumbling to the ground. He felt pain, pain too sharp to bury underneath fear and exhilaration, race up his leg. He’d twisted it, for sure. He cried out, cursing and half-sobbing. He would die here, or back in their cave of horrors, and Logstown would fall into flames and its people into the drooling mouths of savages. He flailed, searching desperately for something to fight back. If he couldn’t warn Logstown, he at least could make the cannibals work for their feast. And he could make them kill him here, instead of slowly slicing him to pieces on their blood-drenched altar.

Kaili!

Now it was a shout of triumph, a cry of praise and thanks to the cursed goddess who had delivered their victim back into their clutches. He found a long branch, stout enough to wield as a poor imitation of a proper club, and tried to bring himself to stand. The pain in his ankle made him settle for settling onto one knee just the cannibals emerged from the brush. They were darker than him, their skin tanned by lives spent outside traveling from cave to hunting ground and back. They wore clothing stripped from the dead, some too big and some too small, and some clothes made out of tanned skins. Their skin was polluted with tattoos, dark colors marking their tolerance for pain and their allegiance to Kaili, the drinker of blood. They carried blades or wielded bows with arrows made from crudely forged iron. If he’d had his single action sidearm, or his lever-action carbine, he could have shot them down before they’d closed the distance. But they’d taken all of their weapons and added them to a cache of farmers’ rifles and dead soldiers’ guns that he suspected they were saving to use in their assault on Logstown. Killing Private Valentine Peyton didn’t require a gun.

“Well, come on then!” Valentine roared with as much defiance and bravery as he could muster. He held the stick like a longsword. “Come on!”

He didn’t hear the sound of someone else walking up behind him, but the half-dozen cannibals who had been sent to chase him did. Their eyes turned from the Parinan, shirtless and his navy-blue pants torn in several places, to the newcomer emerging from the trees.

[Caer Lleon]

Kragholm

Angelina Kometopoulis was not easily scared. She was a Squire of the Golden Fleece, reminded of this fact by the badge she had hung over her heart and the brand she wore on her wrist. And she was not scared now. Far from it. With the speed and grace only a true student of the masters could have managed, she thrust her sword between her arm and her body, determined to impale whatever had the bad taste to sneak up behind her. She missed, but that wasn't the point. In moving to escape the attack, the enemy had opened up space between them, and she turned on her heel. "It is like hunting the vrykokalis. But I am the one who has your measure now, beast." Of course, the Etaireia tou Chrysómallo Déras didn't approve of its squires using modern gadgetry and fancy weapons. She had only her raw strength and the blade... but then, what more had Atlantida had? "All of you, be going into the back now!" She shouted to the other inhabitants of the tavern.

Wherever the monster went, she went, standing between it and escape or further prey. Now that her blood was up, she could move faster... and could finally get a grip on what the attacker was.

Parina

The figure may have been a relic from another age. Or another refugee from central casting. Khaki, pith helmet, large rifle... Allan Quatermain in the Flesh. If Allan Quatermain had been a black woman. She was sighting along the stock of her when she parted the trees... and she fired with devastating impact and surprising accuracy, hitting one of the tribesmen in the shoulder. She cocked, loaded, and pulled the bolt back, then fired again, all in the space of a minute. Another cannibal down. Again the rifle spat death, and a third fell, a dying prayer to his Goddess on his lips.

What happened next was probably unexpected. The black-and-tan figure slung her gun back over her shoulder and then began to run across the space between them, cheering her battlecry. Which sounded suspiciously like 'YEAAARGH!', brandishing a knife long enough to turn up the other side if she stuck it in someone.

Kaili granted her servants much. Stamina. Courage. Power. The wisdom to know when they should turn around and flee. The three remaining cannibals turned and fled. There was no rush, after all. Valentine had escaped them in the first place. He must have had the favor of the goddess. They'd get him anyway, eventually. They weren't running away, they were engaged in a highly strategic withdrawal.

The woman reached Valentine a moment later, and she shook her knife after the cannibals. "Yeah? Yeah! Come back and have a go if you think you're hard enough!" Then she turned her attention to the person she'd rescued, and slapped him on the back. "Going to take them on with a stick, were you? Good on you!"

[Kragholm Free States]

Härnavik, Kragholm Free States

Quick to see sense in the woman's order, the cowering figures scrambled for shelter while the beast seemed distracted. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Angelina could begin to make out a hulking ursine shape, its back almost brushing the ceiling as it sniffed the air hungrily. With a faint tapping, viscous drops of blood fell from a narrow cut on the creature's face - a face that, while similar to a bear's, had something strangely human about it - to the floorboards. Perhaps that initial thrust had not entirely missed after all. Dull black eyes focusing in on the squire once more, it charged again, claws scrabbling for grip on the freezing floor and its fang-filled jaw opened impossibly wide. Time itself seemed to slow down as that gaping maw loomed ever closer.

A loud bang echoed as the innkeeper's battered gun finally managed to discharge a shot, pellets raking across the back of the creature's neck, cutting deep, bloody grooves through its flesh. A mere half-second from impacting the swordswoman, it jerked its head around to face the old man, skidding as it forced its massive form to turn. It was enraged now, and in its rage it was abandoning its predatory cunning. Its flank now stood exposed, an unprotected target of matted white fur and flesh.

[Crimetopolis]

DELETED!

[Pan-Asiatic States]

Major Conflict Militarized Zone 26 (MCMZ26)
Kachin Prefecture Countryside
Burmese Soviet Socialist Republic
People's Federation of Pan-Asiatic States

---

The dense forestry of the Burmese countryside, the steep slopes of the Kachin prefecture, and the arid heat of the mid-September tropic sun created the perfect conditions for a guerilla movement to thrive. This far deep into one of the Pan-Asiatic States' most impoverished, and embattled, areas of dispute with its most feared insurgent group, was most often than not shied away from by foreigners. Not even the "war tourists" of the late 90s who participated in the Cultural Revolution were interested in placing themselves knee-deep in an area haunted by constant air raids, bombings, and massacres.

The People's Federation of Pan-Asiatic States was a behemoth of ideology and industry, boasting the world's most progressive economy, its strongest military, and most diverse culture: but the roots of its establishment were deeply tied with ethnic conflict and discontempt. Born in the shadow of the Pacific Wars, mankind's bloodiest conflict to date, as its most dominant survivor, the Federation's facade of unity among nations was two-faced. Here, in the heart of ancient civilization, was an ugly interior which government officials would often pry away discussion on from exterior critics. The truth was, the Army could not attend to every threat, especially when that threat came from within.

The sun shone on an army of blue-shirted guerilla warriors armed to the teeth with salvaged military technology. They marched from between the trees, waving a banner of the old Republic of China. These insurgents were the Neo-Kuomintang Army, portrayed by Western media as mythical heroes of "real democracy", but in reality, were cold-hearted bandits willing to commit themselves to any number of atrocities in order to achieve their agenda.

The year was 2019. State-President of the Burmese Soviet, Cho Nandar, was hard at work in developing his country to raise the people out of poverty through his Clean Water Initiative. Hundreds of construction sites and renovation projects across the region were dedicated to maintaining potable sources of water for even the most distant of rural villages. But of course, in its way was the Blue Menace.

One afternoon, from the hillside of one of Burma's many agricultural communities, the Neo-Kuomintang emerged, firing indiscriminately with their automatic rifles. They stormed the village, overpowering a garrison of five Pan-Asiatic military guards who were unprepared for the ambush. After depleting the villages of its food supply and laying waste to the local well, the Neo-Kuomintang retreated into the bushes.

"Wait, Captain, look!", exclaimed one of the army's Lieutenants, pointing to a road beyond the horizon. The dirt path trembled. Out of the blue, three entire truckloads of military-grade power armor suits were making their way Westward, yet it was far from its destination. The Neo-Kuomintang organized a frenzy charge, once again, commandeering the supplies.

Back at the village, some survivors of the ambush: a soldier, five civilian farmers and their children, who had hid themselves among the dead, witnessed everything they had worked hard for. They hurried towards the next municipality to report the attack, most visibly injured and in need of medical attention. They would have to make the journey alone and vulnerable - if only there were a kind soul who could escort them!

[Parina]

The figure may have been a relic from another age. Or another refugee from central casting. Khaki, pith helmet, large rifle... Allan Quatermain in the Flesh. If Allan Quatermain had been a black woman. She was sighting along the stock of her when she parted the trees... and she fired with devastating impact and surprising accuracy, hitting one of the tribesmen in the shoulder. She cocked, loaded, and pulled the bolt back, then fired again, all in the space of a minute. Another cannibal down. Again the rifle spat death, and a third fell, a dying prayer to his Goddess on his lips.

What happened next was probably unexpected. The black-and-tan figure slung her gun back over her shoulder and then began to run across the space between them, cheering her battlecry. Which sounded suspiciously like 'YEAAARGH!', brandishing a knife long enough to turn up the other side if she stuck it in someone.

Kaili granted her servants much. Stamina. Courage. Power. The wisdom to know when they should turn around and flee. The three remaining cannibals turned and fled. There was no rush, after all. Valentine had escaped them in the first place. He must have had the favor of the goddess. They'd get him anyway, eventually. They weren't running away, they were engaged in a highly strategic withdrawal.

When he heard the first shot, Valentine gasped. His first thought was that, somehow, the Mounted Battalion had arrived to rescue him. Maybe they’d sent a patrol out to look for his missing group, or maybe he’d just been lucky or blessed and he’d happened to stumble on another patrol out in the wilderness. The sudden feeling of relief, the idea that he not only might escape death but even succeed in warning Logstown and even the main garrison at Galveston, was so overwhelming that he had to relinquish his two-handed grip on the stick and put one hand on the ground to steady himself. He cheered when he saw the cannibals pitch backwards as the rifle rounds cut them down.

Then there was the battlecry. That was his first indication that things were not as he had thought. It was nothing like the hurrah of a Parinan soldier. Then he watched the…woman? A dark-skinned woman? Definitely not a Parinan soldier, then. He watched her charge forward brandishing a huge blade, scattering the surviving cannibals back into the trees.

The woman reached Valentine a moment later, and she shook her knife after the cannibals. "Yeah? Yeah! Come back and have a go if you think you're hard enough!" Then she turned her attention to the person she'd rescued, and slapped him on the back. "Going to take them on with a stick, were you? Good on you!"

The slap on the back nearly sent Valentine tumbling forward, and he had to use the stick to steady himself. “Thought I’d make them work for their meal,” he said with an exhale that might have been the ghost of a laugh. He rose on a shaky leg, using the stick to keep weight off his twisted ankle.

“Thank you,” he said. “You saved my life. And maybe we can save a whole lot more. I need to get to Logstown and warn them. More of those bloody savages are on their way.” He knew he needed to introduce himself, and learn who this strange woman was, but they needed to get moving. They had to reach Logstown as fast as possible, and they also had to get away from this place before the surviving cannibals decided to come back and try their luck again with a bigger group.