Side Tales(Closed)

[Royal Frankia]

OOC: Feel free to offer critiques on my writing.

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Saal's banks

The main market had been established along the estuary of the Saal River by Order of the Committee during the tenure of Urstfann vra Krell. Twenty cycles later, it had prospered despite the widespread disappearance of menfolk for the conflicts beyond the frontier. Women gossiped with aged shopkeeps as their children roamed free across the stalls. Yngtanna was one of them, savoring the sights and smells of late spring. Flowers were in bloom, and the leaves had returned to the trees once more.

She caught sight of a group of children her age, running after their vessels as they darted upon the Saal. Wagers had been made, on which one would pass below the great bridge that connected the islands of Jonna and Urstfa. Such antics were not unusual, though a patrolman kept a close eye upon the youths in the chance they might resolve a lost bet with a brawl.

Yngtanna knew that they dare not bet Wulffigs, such were hard to come by on the developing worlds. Pffenigs, still, were plenty and valued as a medium of exchange for homemade cakes or a cup of chai. Her mother's own cakes were known to fetch a price worth their weight, though that was because of the scarcity of honey and other basic ingredients upon Desma. Still, scarcity was sure to hit certain worlds harder than other, with price controls being perceived as merely pricing out the competition against the Sector's monopoly on Erstaz goods.

She heard a burst of laughter from the river bank.

"Kravil, did you remember to nail your planks together?"

"Shut up, Jek. I did!"

"Ah, well I'm not going to blame the nails for shoddy workmanship."

Yngtanna headed away before she heard the clash of fists and the lament of mothers. Such fights were common upon a youth raised with only their mothers, even though they did their best to belt them whenever they could.

Ahead of her was a stall that sold fine pelts and cloaks at a fair price, something that was altogether rare.

Yngtanna perused the stall, selecting a velvet shawl that had been homespun. If there was one thing that the war had brought about for the folk, it was the revival of cottage industries at the expense of guildshops that had been converted to production of military hardware. She exchanged a few pfennigs with the shopkeep, a former veteran from the days before the First Clash.

The shopkeep's attention was fixed on the children near the river and the rush of patrolman. He smiled, and then fixed his eyes on the girl before him.

"Should you not be with your friends?"

"I am not good at sailing, ser."

He ran his fingers through his salt and pepper beard.

"I'm sure all you require is time, young lass. Take my shop, it took nearly a cycle of quarreling with the magistrate to obtain my permit."

"My mother heard you put up a hard fight."

"By the Mater Most High, aye. There were fewer bureaucrats in my time than there are now.. A useless bunch that lord over mothers, children, and those lucky to see old age."

The shopkeep spat, and Yngtanna could not help but agree.

She left him a foul mood, a mood she had noticed upon many a face of her elders. While there was word of great prosperity within Guildier enterprises, such prosperity had not extended to the outlying population in a generation. Too much had been lost, too many children were without fathers. The wars, ever consuming in goods and blood, had hardened all faces that remained. There was the occasional toast to the Monarch, who was perceived as lacking a clear say in the Clashes that had come, but a widespread damning of the Magistrum.

As Yngtanna passed countless stalls and workshops she noticed a squad of Iron Youth. These hardy pioneers had been put to work by the Magistrate, to put idle, young hands to work on public projects. She nodded as they passed on their way, their faces glossed in sweat from the morning work. Fortunately, they were not of age yet to take up arms in the wars with the damned foreigners abroad... Yet.

Underneath a willow, she took her afternoon rest and glanced at the farms that dotted the horizon. She produced a book, bound in leather, and set to picking up where she had left off. She could not focus, for her mind was elsewhere. On her father, on her mother, on her future.

[Royal Frankia]

Ringing of Bells

The world of the Vasatra had been riven by conflict between the free laborers and the guildiers, the latter who sought to stop the formation of independent guilds that would reduce their privileges. Though the alliance between guild and throne had been harmonious, such could not be said between those industries that lay outside the sanctioned guilds that were, in essence, dominated industries tied to defense. With the call for the expansion of the workforce, many of those that lay outside Vasatra's sanctioned unions had been compelled to join.

Such a compulsion had been met with resistance, and then by rough handling by the District Police. Sabotage had grown, as well as absences from shifts that had impacted overall production of essential hardware. Foreman reported such absences to the Police, who responded with their typical brutality. Those that ought to have been free, by the King's law, were held without being brought before a Royal Magistrate and lashed in public squares. The Governor condemned such actions, but there was little that he could do to stop the Guilds from grounding the dissenters to powder.

His inaction, unfortunately, led to the events of Bloody Donnstag..

Workmen in green scarves and red caps flooded Vastra's chief town with their families, in what in essence a general strike against the guild foundries. They were unarmed, and many carried the Rammenflieg that many had bled for in the past. Incendiary banners bore proclamations, such as "WE ARE NOT SLAVES!" and "NO RIGHTS, NO WORK!" In the distance, the District Police marshaled their forces and awaited the course of events.

An Atkanite Triarch was amongst the crowd, attempting to steer it towards a non-violent course. His Seer, Antiokos, had reservations against such demonstrations, but he sensed that the Triarch might restore sense to the mob. A mob of children passed him, heading to be blessed by the Triarch. The laboring caste held respect for the Faith, while confidence in the Mater Most High had slipped amongst those within the upper caste of Frankian society.

The Triarch smiled and blessed the children in the name of the Mater Atkane. He then stood atop a barrel and spoke these words to the crowd.

Brothers and sisters, the Mater Most High has seen and heard your plight. Do not be afraid, for your cause is just. Those on high have forgotten that which is just, and seek to right in blood which can only be righted in good work...

Antiokos heard a rumbling in the distance and turned.

Armored lorries rumbled in the distance, with armed police keeping pace with them.

The Triarch continued speaking...

Stand firm in the Faith of your ancestors... Hold fast and bear that which has been foretold.

A quad suddenly roared in the distance, followed by screams and the slumping of bodies. One shell caught the Triarch dead center, rendering him in half. Antiokos ducked and gathered up a child, crying for his mother. The menfolk attempted to stand in the way of the oncoming rounds while their families made for cover.

Unarmed, they could not resist the slaughter that was to unfold. The Armored Lorries rumbled over the dead and the living, while the DPs set out in the grim work of summary execution. Panic swept all in the Citadel, while the Sept's bells rang in the distance.

A greater slaughter would have ensued had it not been for the intervention of the Royal Army's garrison, though it was outnumbered by a great margin. Great anger had incited those who had bled for the Crown and the rights it had brought to the folk, who now saw bureaucratic oppression and brutality sweep all such sacrifices away. Sallying forth, the Regulars made their way to the main square with great speed and daring, escorting any of the workmen to secure locations.

The Governor, seeing the situation as truly desperate, gave sanction for Royal Intervention against those forces of the Great Guilds... He observed on his holotable the general slaughter, with the Greenclad, in their rage, taking no prisoners of those that dare massacre the Mater's lambs. Blood flowed through the streets that day, and many a ward was burned as supporters of one faction or another attempted to wipe out one another.

Antiokos took no note of the significance, he had run through countless wards engulfed in flame with a child upon his back. He stopped and caught his breath, thanking the Mater Most High for her intercession upon his behalf. He stopped and looked for the first time... It was then that he noticed the child he carried was dead, struck by shrapnel by one side or the other.

He placed the child on the paved street and collapsed... Burning tears stung his eyes as he muttered prayers for the soul of a child whose name he did not know.

[Royal Frankia]

An Occasion

Despite the conflict, the Feast of Norva was to be celebrated with all pomp and circumstance. Chattel was led to the groves, the groves which their their blood would drench. Cooks and Seers worked alongside one another, ensuring that the portions of the beast offered to the masses was not a profane portion.

The towns had emptied, with many crossing over many a weary league to reach the Shrine of Her Most High's Daughter. Many had brought wreaths, others had brought strong drink and their children with them. As the blood of the beasts sated the hunger of the gods, fine smoke and smell ascended to the heavens. Many licked their lips, others told of apparent sightings that had taken place in their lifetimes.

Seer Kravik and his retinue were assigned the task of overseeing the great benches where the masses would sit. In the distance, he heard the performance of the liturgy and the chanting of the faithful. Thousands had gathered, with more ascending from the green valleys.

All would be hungry and thirsty...

The wine cellars of the great had been opened to the poor, with mobile ovens erected on the outskirts of the Sacred Groves to supply the many with dark bread. Still, there were some notable shortages as the flour was much coarser and the offerings were much scrawnier than in peace. As the seasons changed and the war persisted, many of the less fortunate were required to rely on the Faith's charities that had not been compelled to contribute the war effort.

This might be the first time that many had tasted meat in a quarter cycle, as the animals that produced dairy were forbidden to be slaughtered by the Mater's decree.

Let their milk nurture you and strengthen your spirit.

If it had not been the preference for the vine, then milk itself might have been considered the sacred drink. Still, wine kept better and could be diluted for the sake of the masses. Swine herders, therefore, were fortunate that their hardy animals were often in constant demand.. Many had grown quite prosperous with contracts with the Central Government, and had kept many of their swine hidden from the Central Planners when requisitioning with "compensation" had taken place in the outer territories.

A child came, a smile upon her face.

She set a white rose before an icon depicting Norva in battle array, a slain beast at her feet.

Johanna, come here. The meat is hot and ready, dear!

The girl smiled and rushed back to the bench where her family sat, though he noticed that there were not many menfolk amongst them.

Gone to the wars... Far, far away.

[Royal Frankia]

Gerwannia

Inner Periphery

Over the cycles since the last conflict the force had been reconstructed and strengthened as the Realm's economic power was slowly restored. Barren systems had first been named, then terraformed, and at last settled by the multiple refugees of NS-1. Blossoming forth, these systems bore forth good crops and fine sons for the service of Throne and Realm.

The first cycles had been hard, with the rumor of further conflict in the air. Even entering the tenth cycle since the last war, there was still an eye kept on the frontier in case enemies of old might desire to ravage the worlds of the Atkanites. Ynga's fleets and soldiers stood at the ready, hardened by conflicts with raiders that had come from within PW-1 and beyond.

Novorondons stood watch aboard the DKS Mater's Might in her great hall, peering through the dignitaries that had been assembled before their Sovereignness. The Hammer of the Mater Most High was emblazoned upon their breastplates surrounded by her great owls. Around was great feasting and drinking, as usually accompanied such events of martial splendor. Not a drop for those that guarded the Dynasty, those that had sallied forth with Feylor to certain death.

Dux Jannis vra Krell was making the rounds, glass of wine in hand. He bowed to one of the numerous Princes, whose name he forgot as he greeted the Grand Triarch of Gerwannia. This portly Avatar of the Faith smiled and raised his glass in salute. Forgetting himself, he had forgotten to bless the Dux as was customary.

Krell thought nothing of it.

Another cousin... How the royal purse manages such broods was beyond him.

The dedication of the Atlanna Shipyard, a colossal orbital yard that even now was producing warships for order had brought forth the whole Realm. Unlike her guests, who were attired in rich robes or tunics, the Dread Sovereignness of the Realm was arrayed in fur and buckskin. Beneath such was armor, useful for either big game or in the melee that she enjoyed participating in.

Her servant, Jotanna, sought such sport unsuitable for a crowned head.

They will never give you a fair fight, my Sovereignness.

Ynga had taken her sport further afield, often taking part in events under a pseudonym. She lost more than she won, but with loss she had learned and did better... Even though she had to hide the bruises from the blunt swords.

There was little need for silverware around the Sovereignness' table, it being regarded as a sign of softness for those in her company. Crackling meat, dark bread, and ample pinard were gathered to those that sat with the descendant of Wulfius. Some were suitors to her hand, though they knew such a thing was likely not to be forthcoming.

Jotanna, my first husband died in battle..

She did have children, the delight of her eye. Kept apart from their mother by her royal duties, they had spent time with a Seer of the Faith and a secular tutor. Her youngest, by tradition, would succeed her when the time came for Ynga to stand before Mater Atkana.

Not yet, Mater.. Not yet. When the time comes I will stand before you and accept that is your will like I were a commoner.

Upon the second goblet, Ynga bade the Oracle to speak of the events before and the events to come. Such Oracles were common, as were sorcerers and sorceresses that were licensed by the Crown. The Oracle smiled, speaking of a time before anyone here gathered could have lived.

There was a sovereign that desired to destroy those primitives that stood not a chance... Great and mighty was this power, whose soldiers came from their black ships to plunder and enslave. One day, the soldiers of this sovereign took part in a campaign against primitives who were armed with but spears and shields... Trebuchets and castles..

Aye, was this on the frontier Oracle?

The Oracle turned her gaze toward the drunk and shook her head.

Before your time, before the time of our folk. Before the Axis, before Barlat..

The drunk quieted down upon the scornful glance of his Sovereignness.

The Oracle continued.

They came down, spreading death and chaos throughout these realms.. The primitives awaited their chance and attacked them in a mountain pass.. In close quarters, these soldiers that thought themselves gods were slaughtered by those they thought insects..

Does this have any meaning for our future, Oracle?

The past, it is true, might repeat itself in the future. It is the nature of the Cosmos that at certain time certain entities rise again in another place.

The first a concern, a second a farce.

You know the proverb, my Sovereignness.

Aye, when I have been waiting for the great elk in the wood I have read your Scripturas.

Such tolerance for other faiths was uncommon amongst your Frankish ancestors, your Majesty. They warred with one another over iotas until they virtually annihilated one another.

My ancestors had the habit of uniting, breaking apart, and reuniting.. Even the Clovidians could not stem their arbitrariness streak.

Perhaps that streak continued, into the present. There had been some within the defunct UDI that had sought to form an alliance with the Ishii and bring fire to Tnem-Fragg.. Still, even if the Pords had been crushed it would have guaranteed that those nations which had looked to the brave Pords would have looked to the decadent Ishii. A new Barlat might have risen from the ashes of GESO and the UMS, to challenge Neustria then and Gerwannia now.

No... True enemies, enemies that can only be reasoned with the sword, are a greater threat than rivals merely in arms and territory.

Ever since Ynga was a girl, she had been lectured by her father on the fundamental difference between the different viewpoints.

There are some, girl, that believe it is their moral obligation to wage war over the internal constitutions of others. Some would say this is noble, but behind such noble intentions lurks the desire to plunder and enslave those that are to be liberated. They may not be actual chattel, but the yoke is upon the "liberated' masses that are brought into align with the morals of the conqueror.

After a third goblet of wine Ynga bade her guests retire to their chambers, to rest for the coming festivities that would mark the Ascension of Norva. Some required assistance to do so while the Sovereignness reclined in her chair. She placed a boot on the cleared table and thought..

A servant brought her a pipe of tobacco to aid her in her ponderings. She smiled and struck a match.

She sat for some time, the smoke billowing to the top of the wood paneling above.

She mumbled a song she had recalled since girlhood.

Night is the time for gazing,
Gazing at the stars above.
Countless realms, countless worlds.
All makeup Atkana's mantle.

On one, a woman waits.
For him that went away.
Nearly an age has passed,
But still she waits.

O Norvana, why do you wait?
For him that will never return?
Is he lost at Yamsai?
Is he lost at Septimania?

The woman smiles.
He will return to me.
Clad in green,
Shall we be wed.

[Royal Frankia]

Trivial Matters

The Royal Justices sat at a bench in the center, their assistances on their right and left. The latter were taking notes on the cases brought before them, and cross examining the reports submitted from Gevanna police force. The eyes of the judges were fixed on the plantif and the defendant, who were both joined by wedlock in the eyes of the Faith.

The former, a man of some years spoke.

Honored sirs, I am a free man and joined with this woman in the pact of marriage... However, I have found fault in my partner and desire a certificate of divorce. She has ruined my many chances of employment in the higher offices by her lack of culture... She tends to nothing but the children and our hearth... Never once I saw her pick up a book.

One of the Justices interjected.

Is this true?

The defendant nodded.

Aye, noble sir, it is. I do my duty assigned to me by the Mater and do such diligently.

But you are quite ignorant, no?

Aye, sir. Such matters as such do not pertain to the household and the children I am not.

The Justice nodded, turning to the man.

She might be ignorant, but she does her duty. I do not find your economic interests, even though they might pinch your pocketbook, enough to justify any formal separation.

The Justice paused, casting a dark glance upon the plantiff.

Have you some other mistress that you desire than the mother of your children?

The man gulped, knowing the price for adultery. It was common to see adulterers punished with a public lashing, with a worse fate reserved for those that absconded from a marriage to wed again.

The Justices conferred with one another, before one raised his gavel.

We find your case, Sir Astann vra Wendricks, to be without cause or justice. You have sworn an oath to this woman before the Mater Most High.. This suit is an affront to her honor, and we are empowered to have you lashed in the public square as a suitable punishment for your insolence. If news of your having a mistress beyond your wedded wife reaches this court, we shall have both of you flogged for eight leagues for offenses against the institution of holy matrimony... Go in peace, and may we not see you again.

The man withdrew, his wife shortly following after him.

Justice Jevik vra Krell shook his head, speaking to Justice Henderson to his left.

It would appear that our men are much bolder when it comes to this sort of thing than our women folk.

Aye, they always are in the false Patriarchies. The rights of the wife are trampled upon for the sake of the pleasure of the men.

It would be more fitting to string up all absconders and those that partake in this treachery.

Aye, a rat is owed his due. In some societies, a woman can be put to death for this sort of business while the man escapes scot free.

No, if you violate a high oath then it must be that one's neck should be snapped on the gallows high.

Justice Krell nodded.

Of course, such a punishment would not be suitable to this occasion. A public reprimand, even if it might not draw blood, is likely more suitable than a pair of corpses.


The Justices nodded, before another series of petitioners appeared before them. Something about labor owed by one peasant to the guild lands...

[Royal Frankia]

Great Things Ahead



The 10 Cycle Plan had not been going to plan, for the adjustment of the frontier had not been followed adequately by their sustained development. Governors were replaced with those that were more effective towards raising living and productivity standards to rates demanded by the Economic Planning Bureau. Outlying realms under the Emerald Pact’s protection would be called upon to contribute manpower and resources for the great projects that were to fortify the Realm against external foes.

The same old, same old, as the Fleet Planning Bureau and the Economic Planning Bureau vied with one another for authority. It was through the Throne that both sides were reconciled, and the former’s ambitious projects were scaled down for the immediate present. The Frankian Realm at present was capable of defending itself against potential adversaries in PW1-1, while those in NS-1 were too distant or battered to intervene in areas of the Frankian sphere.

The Economic Planning Bureau envisioned an expansion of the total output of goods and services throughout the Realm, even if the Guilds were to be brought into line through the sanctioning of new guilds. Competition within labor representation and their cooperation with the Plan could assist in achieving this aim. The Seal of Rammenheim raised on comment for Guild Leaders, who understood that the situation at present required extraordinary measures.

Wulffigs were funneled into new methods of ship construction, with the hope that a strong merchant marine could dominate the surrounding Void. With the developing powers under the Rammenflieg, a monopoly granted to the Frankian Merchant Guild would enable vast profits to be reaped at the expense of a few worthless trinkets. A glut of resources and indentured servants would help check state investments in other sectors of the economy.

Technicians and specialists were highly sought, with education being regarded as a priority. The Higher Education Bureau would be invested with funds to establish a curricula that would obtain the sharpest minds for the great task at hand. There was some danger that such a new caste might endanger the Old Order, but to reach the Sovereignness’ Plan would ensure that, though highly favored with bonuses and titles, would not rise through the ranks of the Fleet.

Difficulties

Director Hans vra Vrus, head of the Economic Planning Bureau, saw the development of the outlying systems of the Core Systems as vital. Internal trade between the center and the outlying band would result in the reduction of dissidence and interconnection. Vrus noted, however, that the Core Systems would still be able to maintain their vast reserves of necessities and productive capacity despite what such might bring to market.

On this he had squared off with his counterpart in the Fleet Planning Bureau, and surprisingly, even the Grand Marshal of the Army. Multiple holo conferences and frantic communiques had resulted in bitter animosity between all three factions.
The Fleet must have its yards and its warehouses… We must be able to stockpile our surpluses in the event of war.

What wars we fight now do not require such squandering of resources that could strengthen the overall Realm.

Director, the Economy might be the priority in peace, but in a time of war it is subject to the demands of the state. The state must be prepared, or else it will not be at the ready to mobilize the resources at hand. In fact, the Economic Planning Bureau through such frugalness might lead to a mobilization that would destabilize our economic output.

Grand Marshal, we have taken such consideration into our long-term plans… Strategic resources are still being stockpiled, and most of what the Economic Planning Bureau has decided has been at the expense of the Fleet.

At this the Director of the Fleet Planning Bureau spat out a curse.

By the Mater Atkana’s Throne, I have informed you time and time again that the Fleet must receive the bulk of defense spending.

Vrus snorted.

It has for 1,200 cycles and has managed to lose an entire universe. Twice it has vied with the Great Powers, and failed.

At this the Grand Marshal chimed in.

If the Army had received what it sought, I doubt that Neustria would have fallen so quickly.

The Fleet was bound to limit its total size, which at that time required us to adhere to that limit. What we could muster when the Pords assailed us was by scattering our forces across our system to allow us to bring them to one key, decisive point. Had the Plan not called for our withdrawal to PW-1 the Fleet might have fought multiple indecisive actions that would have done nothing but prolong the inevitable.

At this Vrus nodded.

By measures of economy, the future might hold bright for a revitalized Fleet. Reconstruction, improvement, and research requires the application of vast resources. When we have finished strengthening ourselves, then we might consider it of some value to restore our power in NS-1. We must lay a foundation, by the Mater Atkana.

[Royal Frankia]

Exercises



It was a sight to behold, the great Armadas of the Frankians squaring against one another in the Void within the Araliana District. For the subjects of Araliana, this was a sight to behold of ranks bristling with power and might rarely seen in these more peaceful days. What barbarri could withstand the disciplined ranks of their Sovereignness?

It was not some barbarri chieftain along the frontier that trouble the Dux of Texcoco, but rather the notion that a Great Power could one day desire a stronger presence in PW-1. Vrantrille's answer to the Magistrum on that threat had been simple. but off the cuff.

We must keep men and ships at the ready through constant exercises. We must get rid of the deadwood, rationalize our formations, and revolutionize our theory.

The great Atkana Dreadnoughts belched forth fire and smoke, a sight to behold as they were rarely deployed so far forward or fear of their loss. Traditional theory had supported massing their ranks and sending them forth to hammer their way through the enemy ranks with the support of sallying formations. Vrantrille had read the reports of such actions off Legacy, and had favored their being dispersed to reduce the risk of the enemy being able to concentrate their firepower upon ships that were hard for a nation to replace.

Analysis of the "battle" seemed to prove that the firepower of the forward lines was greatly enhanced, though Vrantrille still thought the super heavies within the Fleet could definitely be slimmed down. Anything to increase speed and survivability was necessary, for the hit and run battles that Vrantrille wished to wage against potential adversaries who wished to win a war in a few days.

Beyond the position of the Third and Fourth Armadas there was 700 au of nothing, beyond that two systems that were declared bastions by the Defense Ministry. With what resources the Dux of Texcoco had at his disposal he knew that holding those bastions would not be viable for long. If a foe were to come on in strength such bastions could serve as a means for the foe to funnel Frankian forces into a killing ground.

The 29th Corps drove back the 35th Corps some several stellar leagues, though such was an exception to the rule. The squadrons were maneuvering their craft to prevent headlong, costly engagements. As the 35th was driven back the reserves of her sister Corps maneuvered to fire upon the advancing craft that had been bloodied by nearly a day of fighting. Within a couple hours, the work of an entire day was rendered moot as the 29th now turned and attempted to escape the tightening ranks of batteryfire.

The Dux of Texcoco made a note to scold the Magister of the Third for allowing his Corps Commander to make such a gamble without proper support. Communication was necessary, and he wanted his Magisters to make the best use of the resources they had on hand rather than relying on foreign dregs or green lads. Still, he would commend the crews and Shiplords for their performance in such a situation which might delay the foe if all hope was lost.

Vrantrille lit his cigarillo and paced the deck of the DKS Ironside, his mind focused on the latest dispatch from the Magistrum. There would be a shift away from shock and superior firepower towards a more balanced approach that stressed the need to actually triumph. Present defensive systems would be reassessed, new weapons platforms would come online, and entire craft would soon be gutted and renovated for the coming conflict.

The Dux had been appointed as acting Magister Navigum of the Dread Fleet, though he only secure such a position by results. This was a major step into the unknown, for the Fleet had always had one of the blood of Wylus at the helm. To the critics Ynga had scoffed and said that the blood of Wylus had cost the nation dearly. Vrantrille knew he had a difficult task, though he had been given some leeway from the Economic Planning Bureau towards making present defenses cost effective.

Dispatch #123.232.145

It is in the interest of the Fleet and the Realm that we ought to consider making a fleet conducive to our needs. With the great factions a thing of the past, the engagements we might see in the future will be drastically different. We went to war against the Ingenious with the notion that another coalition could arise, but it did not. Rather, it was beset by the Pords without the assistance of their allies at a time we the Realm had not planned another conflict with such a power so soon.

Henceforth, the Economic Planning Bureau will release the necessary resources that you require for your task. However, do not expect a single Wulffig to contribute to the expansion of a Fleet that is costly enough as it is. By the Mater Atkana and the Throne, I hope you succeed in rejuvenating our great Realm.

[Royal Frankia]

By Sheer Will



The Cosmic Brotherhood had been established to undermine the Universal Guild of Miners shortly before the reigniting of the Frankian-Pordish conflict. As the center grew at an alarming rate to meet the great Pordish threat to its dominions, the Cosmic Brotherhood curried favor with key figures in the Frankian bureaucracy. Kings and Magisters come and go, but the bureaucracy had proven itself as long lived as the Kirk of the Faithful.

Contracts had been awarded to the guildiers of the Cosmic Brotherhood at the expense of other guilds, with great projects within the Dresda Quadrant arising from the dexterity of their hands. Megaprojects, such as the Great Yards of the Mater or the Works of Norva, were all the rage with economic planners who thought to maximize productive capacity. Workmen were brought from across the Realm to build what the Economic Planning Bureau declared to be an Urlann risen from the ashes, though even the EPB noted that it would be some stretch to accomplish in 20 cycles what had taken several hundred cycles to bring into being.

The Grand Guildier of the Cosmic Brotherhood had stirred up unrest in regards to blatant militarism, which the guild regarded as a waste of resources that could to improving the livelihood of building up National Syndicalism. What use were 500 million warships, should they not allow a folk that has long sacrificed to enjoy sufficient prosperity? It is better that Frankia's sons and daughters should be usefully employed, than sent off to die in conflicts that did not concern her.

Director Vrus could count on a militarized labor movement devoted to peace, which if the Magistrum attempted to act without the approval of the Sovereignness could lead to a general strike of the laboring caste. With this in his arsenal, the EPB's attempted to overcome her rivals through careful planning and industrial output. It was through positive figures that the EPB's, rather than the gloomy forecasts of the Magistrum, that national pride was to be awakened.

From Austrasia, Astarra, and Gerwannia came forth entire families to establish a new home at a substantial state subsidy, with the notion that their surplus value ought to cover this long-term project over the coming cycles. Capital investment was monopolized by the state, with the occasional Patriotic Fellowship chipping in to support the great project of the state. If the Fleet watched the frontier for signs of trouble, the EPB kept a close eye on the Dresda as a father outside a waiting room expecting the birth of a child.

Broadcast from the Ministry of Truth

The conquest of Dresda must be made, this great battle must be won for true civilization at all costs. All castes are called upon to do their duty in this sacred war! Remember those lost in the Void to treachery, remember those that have given their life's blood upon the fields of Neustria and Grand Feylorium! Your effort here shall ensure that they shall be avenged, that our Realm shall remain be able to withstand whatever the Cosmos might hurl against us!

Look to your own hands, trust in them. Upon them rests the fate of our Great Realm! Others have sunk into the abyss, through either decadence or by foreign predation! By our labor, the Dread Realm shall once more blossom forth. As this not been prophesized in our Scripturas, that through trial and tribulation shall a Realm endure?

Once declared as a world to be brought into the Realm, shuttle traffic became nonstop as settlers were disgorged upon a world terraformed by Royal Engineers. Green plains and snowcapped mountains greeted the newcomers, as though they had never truly left their own homelands. Communes were erected at state expense and fields cultivated with great care were gifted to migrants mainly from Austrasia and Astarra.

A great host remained in orbit, to work on the projects that would bring living standards of those Dresdan territories close to the core systems. Colossal orbital plants, shipyards, battle stations, and refining facilities were constructed at a grueling pace. Members of the Magistrum toured these worksites, noting their progress in their reports back to the Magister Navigum.

Seers of the Faith blessed all that labored on the task in the name of the Mater Atkana, and took up tools alongside the workmen. Shepherds worked alongside their flock, in conditions that at times were truly abysmal. While fabricators accomplished most of the work, there was some work that required the tenacity of a disciplined workforce.

Competition between the guilds was fierce, with the promise of future contracts and communes for those that met their quota for the Plan. There was no greater service to the Realm than that of meeting the Plan, as was declared by the Ministry of Truth. Only the best were allowed to work upon what was declared the Sovereignness’ crown jewel.

Wanderings

The Esthel clan had pushed through mountain trails and the foul marshes to reach the gentle valley, where most Frankians desired to reside. The creaking of wagon wheels could be heard for several leagues as the peasants made their way on foot across what was to them paradise. Occasional obstacles, such as fallen trees or rockslides, greeted the hardy pioneers who were to bring the plow and the Scripturas to virgin land.

Atop the lead wagon fluttered the Rammenflieg, in somewhat poor shape. Esthel lore claimed it had been rescued by their great-grandfather from the flames when the order was given to stand down upon Grand Feylorium. The banner might have returned, but the man himself had been sent to the wars in the Urlann which had laid low many a Frankian.

Maurice vra Esthel counted his fortune that he had yet to serve in a Great War, one that had sent many of their clan to the Mater’s Hall. Other of his kinsmen that had volunteered had returned either disfigured or scarred, with some having been forever lost to expand the dominion of the Sovereignness’ scepter.

Vra Esthel lit a cigarillo and glanced at the horizon, his eyes occasionally darting back to the team of oxana. In the distance he noted the Commune of Astarges, which was some thirty leagues from the site of his homestead. Peering back, he noted that the rest of the train were proceeding without incident.

The Vra Esthels could have opted for journey via rail, but this was the not the way of those who clung to the old ways more so than their neighbors. Perhaps if there was a great land rush, had had happened in the territories of less civilized realms, damned hover cars and other abominations might cause havoc to the tranquility so thoroughly preserved.

At five leagues from Astarges Commune, a party of communitards greeted the wagoneers in the attire of the Terrestrial Brotherhood. On horseback they came, a score dressed in crimson red and earthly brown. Maurice noted that the communitards were at least fair riders, even if they rarely came to the surface.

Hail, Vra Esthel clan. We of the Astarges Commune bid thee welcome, may you forever walk in the Mater’s light.

Maurice nodded.

Which of you is the Meister?


A one eyed man raised his scepter.


I am, good man.

Maurice nodded.

Meister, how is the industry of Astarges? From the looks of it you have only those from the Terrestrial Brotherhood to call your burghers, not those of a reputable guild.

At that there were multiple curses and shouts.

One guildier reached for his pistol, before the Meister broke his scepter atop his head. Toppling from horseback, the poor soul was nearly trampled as his horse galloped off. His fellows dismounted and proceeded to drag the man away, while others attempted to rein in his wayward mount.

The Meister wiped his blood from his scepter.

I apologize, Vra Esthel, these youngsters know nothing of your clan…

Or its service to the Realm since the days of Wylus.

Aye, good sir. Since those days their descendants have always found warmth and shelter in the halls of our Sovereigns.

One of the guildiers, more finely attired than the others, steadied his mount.

Such blatant mistreatment of the laborers of our Realm will not be tolerated…

The Meister looked what Maurice took to be the guild rep square in the eye, before looking at his scepter.

The Terrestrial Brotherhood’s influence at court… What is it?

The guild rep cursed.

The Meister looked on him scornfully.

It is less than the Cosmic Brotherhood, is it not? And the International Brotherhood of Shipworkers? Or the Great Guild of Machinists?

The guild rep summoned his courage.

It is greater than some damned Meister.. You forget who constructed all that is here on the surface and all that lies below!

But you know the penalty of drawing arms against one of the folk, even in the event of scorn.

The guild rep nodded, knowing the law that called for flogging in the public square. Whatever tension might exist between peasant and tradesmen, they were all of the folk. Frankian laws favored corporal punishment of stints in prison, save for major offenses in which forced labor was required to isolate wayward folk from the lawful.

Vra Esthel shook his head.

As the aggrieved party, I beg thee Meister that your blow upon his head was enough. I do not wish to see the blood of our folk shed further, for enough has been shed to suit justice.

At that the Meister nodded, bidding the guild rep to attend to the stricken fellow. The guild rep and his own retinue kicked up dust as they rode off, leaving the Meister and his retinue before the Vra Esthel train. The Meister reached into his pocket and pulled out two cigars. He offered one to Maurice, before biting off the end of his.

Lighting he, he pointed east where the distant Emfeld valley lay.

That is good ground, but beware the guildiers who frown upon those of the peasantry of the old line. Such sons and daughters of our noble workingman have no respect for those who toil in the fields and meet our field under the light of the Mater Atkana..

Vra Esthel shrugged.

To do or die is to do or die.. Be in the void or on the field, we do not know where the Fates will deposit our remains.

The Meister nodded, and rode off with what of the party that had remained.

The wagons of the Vra Esthels made their way through the cobbled streets of Astarges, receiving cold glances from those from the guild who knew what had transpired. Others, namely members of the Iron Youth, greeted the newcomers with wreaths and called upon the clan to build up National Syndiclaism within the countryside. This was something that the peasantry were not interested in in the slightest, only that their rights and ways might be safeguarded from the Economic Planning Bureau.

Still, Maurice humored those who followed the works of Vra Marras as they did the Scripturas.

Long live the National Syndicalist revolution! Long may the rights of the laboring caste and the peanstry be safeguarded! May our Sovereignness reign a thousand cycles!

As this the Iron Youth let out a shout, offering to lend their assistance in the taming of the wilderness. Maurice declined, noting that there those of his clan he had brought with were sufficient. However, he pointed to the arms that they habitually carried and were drilled with by their Youth Master.

Are you lads any good?

Aye, according to Master Jevik.

Good, shooting allows one to concentrate on what matters in life. To let go present obstacles, and to focus on the target.

As well as to fend off barbarri raiders.

Damned son of a zek, there hasn’t been a barbarri fleet seen in these parts since they were driven out.

Aye, but knowing the Fleet that they might well return… Then Novoronda will need all her sons.

They shan’t stand a chance against our troop.

Aye, barbarri lack as much discipline under fire as our Dread Fleet.

One of the Iron Youth scowled.

Sir, my father perished off Neustria in its defense… The Home Fleet held until it could not, against the onslaught of the Pordish juggernaut. Even the Royal Army could not save what was once the chief citadel of this Realm.

Maurice paused, though he was not surprised. There were many Frankians in this generation who had lost father or mother in the wars before. Maurice took a swig from his flak and offered it to the Youth.

A drink, to our lost comrades who await us in Atkane’s Hall. May their names never die.

The Youth lifted the flask and drank, grimacing at the brandy’s bite.

Maurice tucked the flask into his cloak and bade his oxana forward, followed by the Vra Esthel train. His mind thought of the young lad without a father, thinking how this generation would be fortunate to have not suffered yet from another Great War.

The train passed the Kirk of the Mater Most High, a great domed structure that towered over most buildings within the Commune. Within, Maurice knew a fire blazed that was kept lit, no matter what might occur beyond the walls of the Kirk. It was here that the communitards gathered in prayer, though Maurice’s peasant soul preferred the simple shrine.

A High Triarch of the Faith appeared with his brothers and sisters, watching the procession of wagons with some interest. If a Dux ruled a system by the command of the Sovereignness, an Archtriarch shepherded the souls of the Faithful by the command of Atkane. Maurice bid his oxana halt, reaching into his bag where a bottle of fine brandy was stored.

Turning to his son, Tymaeus, he pointed to the one arrayed in the simplest of robes.

Bring him this humble gift, by all the gods that heed Mater Atkana’s scepter.

Tymaeus leaped out of the wagon and knelt before the Grand Triarch.

Grand Triarch, I bestow upon you this gift from my father. We are simple folk, that toil in the fields and know the soil as our Mater would intend. Bless us, in all our endeavors.

I bless thee in the name of the Mater Atkana, by her daughter Norva that swings the great hammer, and by all the gods of the Pantheon. Arise, Tymaeus vra Esthel, and do honor to your clan and Sovereignness.

The youth did not rise.. He sputtered.

Grand Triarch, how did you know of my name and clan?

I have glimpsed this in the sacred fire..

The Grand Triarch made the sign of the Mater and bade the Youth rise once more.

Return to your father and study the Scripturas… And give me the bottle.

The youth nodded and made the sign of the Mater, before rising and returning to the wagon.

His father scowled.

What did he say to you?

Study the Scripturas..

Hmm.

[Royal Frankia]

In the beginning our folk were scattered,
Innumerable wars we fought with ferocity.
Empires we had won and lost,
Riches we sought, glory we thought high.
O Mater Most High, how you dispelled such notions.
How you laid low the great burghers and petty Kings,
And gave us peace that shall reign forever.
When you walked among our folk,
And bestowed your wisdom upon your children.
Greater to possess thy wisdom than a thousand fortunes.
Greater to be honorable in thy sight than to bound a foe in irons.
-Scripturas 5:12- Hymns to the Mater Most High in the time of Gerwann II





The Ostanna Sanctuary of Our Mother had been constructed by labor called up from the estates of the Kirk, even though it lay at a summit several terrestrial leagues above seal level. Ancestral tools and methods were employed, with materials brought up either by rugged trails or by utilizing nearby resources. Sweat and blood was required, with the occasional accident sending a worker to the gods in the knowledge of his grace before the eyes of the Mater Atkana.

Sculptors wrought from stone the very gods themselves, before painters sought to give them a vibrant color. The sculpture of the Mater Atkana was so lifelike that it was said that her green eyes followed one as they passed. This was not surprising, as the Kirk sought the best of the best. The Kirk had ensured that the artist guilds had not disappeared entirely after the Proclamation, and had maintained the primary employer of said guilds for nearly a thousand cycles.

The Archtriarch Estann gazed down upon the workers and their beasts of burden from atop the Pillar of Wisdom. Thousands had been summoned here to do the great work of the gods. Youths and old men had come from the communes below, even upon a day allocated to their rest by the Faith. Hot tears came down an old face as he saw high and low set to pious work.

The dome was nearing completion, though within the Archtriarch knew it would be a matter of months before its interior would boast murals depicting events in the Scripturas: the Creation of the Cosmos by the Mater Atkana, her bestowing a spark of the divine upon all folk, her agony at the daemons desiring to upend her Law, and the birth of Norva who had banished the Dark Ones into the abyss. Murals were employed more to honor the gods than to instruct the faithful, but for those folk who had not come upon true enlightenment they might sow the seeds that might bear fruit a thousand fold.

In the days of his youth, the Archtriarch had walked the Cosmos as a simple Seer. He had seen much of NS-1 and PW-1, and had come across multiple notions of thought. He had supped with barbarri chieftains and had argued for the rights of the workmen against unscrupulous guilds, the latter at times less civilized than the former. When workmen were fired upon by their guild he had shielded many from indiscriminate shells and shards, with some speaking of such as the Miracle of Vasatra.

Others had come to distrust the intentions of this Seer and his intentions, with his pro-labor message to the exploited folk in all nations resulting in subsequent investigations. Some thought he was connected to the National Syndicalist International, utilizing religion as a cloak for subverting subjects from orthodox strands of leftist thought. Barons of capital were called upon by the Archtriarch in days of yore to abandon their wealth to their chieftain, and to accept a station in life that was truly worthy.

Strikes and labor riots were said to have begun upon his recitation of the Scripturas, calling upon the overthrow of the usurers and those barons who looted the people. Some reports from the UDI hinted that known usurers, loan sharks, share holders, and other agents of Capital were often the victim of these outbreaks of Green fury. Shackled in irons, they were often deported to their nation of origin or set to hard labor for the benefit of a community that was now cleansed.

What is the work of your hands,
Is forever yours.
No lord that does not acknowledge this,
Shall be brought low by the Mater Most High.
What profits you gain in this life,
I shall make you repay in the next.
In the eternal fire you shall be cast,
To be cleansed of the taint of mammon.
So I have decreed, so it is written.


The Archtriarch had retired from the ideological conflict, preferring the peace that the holy life brought. This often brought him to examine closely figures and revenues of the Kirklands, namely how such could be employed in the service of the Faith and the maintenance of the Faithful. This Sanctuary and others planned worried him on that, but any resource devoted to the service of the gods might require calling forth loans made a tad early. Even if that set the Kirk against the State, who had increasingly plowed Kirk loans into long-term infrastructure projects whose payoff was several cycles away.

This would be the first likely row between the Faith and the Crown, with matters of monies at the heart of the problem. With the Bank of Atkos dissolved, the Faith's predominance had only grown with the passing cycles. While the Faith condemned usury against brethren, it engaged in it to Sovereigns in whose interest it was to bind closer to the interests of the Kirk. Ynga II had respected the Faith and had promoted it, but the Archtriarch had noted she wasn't insistent on repaying the debts run up by her father in his ruinous wars.

The next day the Archtriarch met with a council of Seers and Curators, discussing what was to be extracted from the state. Political Atkanism was out of the question, though the laws enforced within Frankian society aligned closely to the policy of the Kirk. No, what must be extracted from the state must be a cut of the tolls charged on the metic nations, such would enable the realistic repayment of the original loans a few times over. Other measures to bilk the state were spoken of, such as monopolies on goods that were absolutely demanded by the state's long-term projects that would plow Wulffigs into the Kirk's coffers.

Archtriarch, the economic planners will be rueful to see the cost of the infrastructure projects that they sold the Sovereignness multiplied by such an amount.

The old man smiled.

The economic planners must realize that what we accomplish in this life requires sacrifice, be it of time or of resources. Our Faith has blessed the state, while the state has not sought to bless the Cosmos with the true Faith. To end a war, they sacrificed our lambs to the cruel gods of others. Many a martyr has gone to the Mater Most High with harsh words for the Throne on his lips.

A Curator paused in the midst of his calculations.

Archtriarch, the funds raised through such gifts from the state might enable us to maintain a force to rival it.. And to protect our brethren that remain scattered and..

I prefer lending the funds either to the state or to emerging powers that we can maintain in our pocket forever.. If a chieftain or even a small state should seek to escape the demands of our Grand Triarch, then I can envision a Corps ultimately deciding the matter. There is also a great deal of speculation, that if wisely handled, can be quite profitable.

Such talk of great profits and screwing over the state was held between those attired plainly, in the garb of the Faith. What was seen would not go to great Manses, but to the Mater Most High that shall reign forever and ever alongside her daughter Norva. Time would tell, whether the fruits of such dogmatic loopholes might bear forth fruit a thousand fold.

[Royal Frankia]

Greater Duties



The Court was abuzz with word of the forthcoming Assembly of the Nationalities and its impact on affairs of state. Such as Assembly would be dominated by the various metic races, often kept separate by state policy and the preference for each species to live separately. Some of the old guard thought this was an innovation based on lunacy, to give the metics a national body to list their grievances with Gerwannia. There was some sense in that, but the weight of Vrus' word in the matter had silenced them.

What mattered more than tradition was the potential economic benefits that could be extracted from minor concessions. While this new Assembly, with the endorsement of the Crown would hear mostly grievances against the Frankian authority, such grievances were less likely to be heard. Ranks bequeathed to the Assemblymen, unlike those in the Frankian Assemblies, would be based primarily on their rank within their metic realm. These titles would be passed down through the generations, giving the Frankian authority in these Realms an expanded base of support.

The Dread Sovereignness regarded such as preferable and cheaper to the occasional policing actions required to suppress sedition. Expulsions to beyond the frontier, as done in the days of old, were regarded as an increasing threat to the security of the Realm. It was cheaper to eliminate sources of dissent and distributing whatever they possessed to the Frankian faction upon these worlds in the event of a rising. Ynga, the Protectoress of the True Faith, had continued the tradition of gaining the support of the clergy of alien faiths to ensure that the faithful would not be called to rise by militant priests.

The expansion of the Realm Security Service, a new organization founded on the ruins of the United Department of Intelligence, had been given priority. RSS personnel were expected to work in support of the Frankian Polizei within these Realms, and to interfere directly to prevent both espionage and sedition. The RSS reported to the Ministry of the Interior, which was under the virtual control of Vrus since the latest reshuffling of portfolios with the appointment of his cousin.

The RSS operated in the shadows, often employing the Polizei to do most of the legwork. Roundups, upon the dissembling of a plot, could be frequent occurrences in a troublesome metic realm. As the men on the ground for the EPB, the RSS could call upon the Authority on a world to adopt a policy that was either enlightened or draconian. The Economic Planners were looking to poach on the territory of the Legions, and saw in the abhorrent metropolises of the metic realms an opportunity.

Conference of Jetvana

Imagine, if you will, what could be done for the Dread Realm, should these territories bequeathed to us by our ancestors should be truly exploited for the benefit of their descendants.

What you propose is slavery, and a violation of the rights of the metics. We have signed treaties and have kept faithful, only punishing those folk guilty of rising against the Crown.

This is so, but it is not slavery to impose upon the troublesome realms just punishment. It is our right as their guardians.. Expulsion is time consuming and often punishes the innocent with the guilty. No, terms of service in the labor brigades to pay off a fine owed to the Authority is by far preferable.

You are suggesting that numbers innumerable be dispatched to the mines and the combines?

No, but a fixed percentage of the population of those metic realms condemned by the RSS. After a major rising, if twenty-five percent of the working population should be relocated upon the restoration of order to the public works.. The metic realm in question singled out, as well as those that attempt to join in against us, would be required to maintain good behavior for the well-being of their folk abroad. Should they rise again greater extractions could be made, which would imperil the fortunes of those whom we expect to maintain the good behavior of the common folk.

I notice that you do not wish to conscript the metics into the Legions...

No, that would undermine their capabilities as fighting formations. Service in the Legions must be seen as lucrative, not a sentence for the sins of their forefathers.

The Minister nodded.

But Vrus, certainly we cannot expect such a sentence to last for eternity.

No, I propose that if a metic realm should expect a punishment to the third generation... Or the sixth, depending on the species. Those folk that are not completely humanoid might be required to serve a hundred cycles, or so, given how that might impact the ability of their hives.

I take it that the RSS is to supervise these guest workers..

They are not to mix with the Guilds, even the Penal ones... They are to be kept in orbit or below for the duration of their sentences, depending on what is that they are sentenced to do. Basic subsistence will be guaranteed for those under the charge of the RSS, but incentives are to be offered to labor brigades and to individuals who meet the plan. Shock workers in the Corvee should be able to obtain greater luxuries, freedoms, and the ability to obtain a substitute for the sentence imposed. The rank and file must see that compliance will bear fruit, while rebellion will bear the lash.

The Minister of the Interior thought for a moment.

Should the RSS face a rising that gets out of hand?

It can be easily crushed, the matter is restoring productivity. The rank and file in such a rising will we merely tack an additional five cycles to their sentence, but the ringleaders will be reeducated. Torture is to be utilized against the condemned until he or she breaks, with what we have as a remnant remolded to suit our interests.

The Minister made the sign of the Mater.

A broken will can never be mended... They could never return to the rank and file.

A life sentence in the prison paper ought to be enough, as well as rations that are luxurious. The stray sheep is to be made a Saint of Labor by the EPB following his or her death in our service.

By the will of the Mater.

[Royal Frankia]

Order from Chaos



On the fringes of the frontier, where the only thing certain was uncertainty, the Dread Fleet had begun the great task of bringing order to the Void. Far from Gerwannia, the Magistrum favored a loose grip on her commanders to foster initiative. With great battles rare, the only thing to break the routine of patrol and training was the imposing the Pax upon the Barbarri through policing actions. Those that resisted were put down swiftly by the decree of Gerwannia, with those facing occupation expected to abide by the Occupation Authority for a period of six generations.

Though the Magistrum on the Frontier did not wish to admit it, substantial revenues were squeezed from the occupied zones into the coffers. With these funds improvements were made on the fortifications of the formal Realm, with Greater Frankia subsidizing this development through greater levies upon their resources. In exchange the Frankian Authority brought the wonders of civilization to the barbarri who had risen against Gerwannia, with direct reforms implemented in order to ensure that so long as the Rammenflieg flew such worlds would be pillars of stability.

Sith Realms were troubling additions, such occupied zones being treated far harsher than those who had risen for gain or revenge. Being more prone to maintaining great standing armies of clones, such demobilization of these forces was taken with great care to put such abominations to some use. The lot of the clones was often better than their masters, whose fate was often not recorded in the official archives. Whispers of punishment most cruel for those who embraced the forces of Darkness leaked back to Gerwannia, but Sith Lords aroused little sympathy at Court.

Princes of the Blood were periodically appointed Protectors of an occupied region, and subsequently allowed to maintain standing retinues upon their worlds. Such Princes of Afar often quarreled with the Authority on manners of policy and upliftment, with the Dux du Vresmark sending a dispatch to his royal cousin that such a policy on Vesdann were lunacy. Dispatches of this sort raised headaches, especially when news of rampant corruption in these unofficial territories leaked back to the all powerful Economic Planning Bureau.

Quarrels with the Faith arose also, if a barbarri territory embraced Atkanism by the decree of their Assembly. This conversion spelled greater trouble in restoring the autonomy of the barbarri territory, as how could the Protector of the Faith allow Atkane's children to perish? Wherever the Sanctuaries of the Mater were found, the Fetters imposed by the Authority were often kept with their garrisons until said territory was formally incorporated.

Who was to possess authority here, the Kirk or the Crown, was often a point of discussion. To offset the great interest imposed on the national debt, the Crown often exchanged a reduction for the transfer of territories to the Grand Triarch. Much to the fury of the likes of Vrus or Her Sovereignness' Government, such additions to the Kirk often were followed by greater loans to the state to repeat the process.

Director Vrus scoffed.

It is not the folk to gain when a new system is added to our Great Realm, but the Kirk! We guard their estates and offer our life's blood for these Princes of the Mater Most High!

Other nuisances often arose should these territories embrace a truer version of National Syndicalism than the Economic Planning Bureau had implemented. When barbarri guildiers called a general strike against the EPB's Gateway, which would have allowed for closer monitoring of internal traffic within the Marches, the Economic Planners could only grit their teeth. Appeals to the Crown by barbarri dignitaries won sympathy at Court, forcing the technocrats to focus only on the Plan within the formal territories.

Descent from on High



The March of the Archtiarch of the Osbek had called for the intervention of the Dread Fleet, following several heretical risings against the authorities of the Faith. Sanctuaries were destroyed, the Fetters of the Oskek besieged, and the Archtriarch was in fear for his life. The followers of Urstann and those that had maintained their Sithery in secret had mobilized the population to imperil the Authority in this far off province.

Dux Dreggten vra Lorrann could only meet this threat with dispatching of the 84th Fleet Regiment and her accompanying Marins Detachment. Cruisers and destroyers darted across the Void, making their way through a tremendous amount of fire that the barbarri fleets often sent their way. Photons, kinetics, and other manners of ordinance were dispatched at incredibly long-range.

Several hundred craft proceeded dead ahead, with a reserve force maintaining close contact with the Supply Column and the Engineers. The farthest vessels, the Second Contingent under Graaf Resdrick vra Markeus, dispersed its squadrons to maintain an overlapping field of fire. Despite their loose order, the Frankian craft were able to support one another as soon as Lorrann gave the order to the general advance. The First and Third would join in the great thrust to restore order to the Osbek and win renown at the Court of the Frontier Magistrum.

The Frankian craft returned fire, their batteries discharging death at sublight at a steady rate. Sweat trickled down from the brows of the gunners as they worked like automatons rather than organic lifeforms. They had done this so many times that they had lost count, let alone the number of the enemy craft that they destroyed.

Targeting computers honed in on the larger capital craft the insurgents had managed to acquire, with additional scans fed by the Voltigeur Formations. These formations were the most suicidal of the Dread Fleet, known for their tenacity in coming to grips with the enemy before the main formations entered the fray. As the fleet of the foe darted forward, the VACs of the 15th opened fire with a volley of torpedoes and kinetic fire that came on like the hounds of the Abyss. This was a fight to the death, where each second bought allowed the looming danger to the insurgents to coalesce.

On came the might of the Dread Sovereignness, the bearer of the arms of the folk into the Void. The ships of Markeus and those of the other Contingent commanders maintained what was a steady rate of advance. Disjointed by the tenacity of the Voltigeurs and their difficulty in killing, the insurgent commanders hesitated as their craft that were clustered closely together met the withering storm of fire. Casualties mounted at an appalling pace, as the craft groaned under the weight of fire and tremendous fires swept the merchantmen converted for war. Markeus did not allow his quarry to escape his wrath, even as he some of his craft limping back by a chance hit.

Persistence marked the Frankian drive, as casualties they largely accepted in order to maintain what was the overall direction of the battle. Cooperation was close, as the insurgent fleet attempted to enter close quarters range or simply overwhelm one of the Contingents within the wedge. While the Frankians buckled, they did not break unless an order to withdrawal by recoil was given. The Voltigeurs that had regrouped would be sent back into the fray to support the rearguard in this action, maneuvering swiftly and dealing death indiscriminately. Training their sole 1.2km battery, a VAC was able to meet its adversary with the capability of doing some mischief.

An enemy dreadnought, her hull nearly rent asunder, attempted to disengage from ships of the 2nd Contingent. VAC 194 saw her distress, and bade VAC 105 and VAC 143 to maneuver into firing position. Even as death rained indiscriminately, the VAC commander of the 194th eyed his prey. Perhaps tens of thousands were aboard this craft, her batteries were a warped ruin. Only her projectors kept firing, but they were too focused on the 2nd Contingent's cruisers to pay much attention to the scythes of the Void.

Feuer.

The VAC buckled under the discharge of her battery.

Missed.

The other two craft in his command reported likewise.

The craft maneuvered as the dreadnought focused her fire upon them.

Feuer.

Again, nothing.

VAC 143 brewed up upon a direct hit, scattering her hull and her crew into the Void.

By the Mater Most High!

The commander of VAC 194 scowled.

Feuer.

The remaining VACs belched fire and smoke, sending their shells hurtling into the Void.

Hit!

How bad?

Left deck badly warped... Hull is intact.

By the gods!

Aboard the deck all was chaos, with rescue teams attempting to save those that could from the compromised compartments of the dreadnought. Youths were carried by stretcher bearers, most badly burned from the incendiaries used by the Dread Fleet. Their captains attempted to steel the nerves of the barbarri, who knew that if they reached the Yard the ship could be put back in good order.

They never would get the chance. Seeing the plight of the Voltigeurs, the DKS Estann sallied forth with death bristling from her guns. Estann was a saint in the Scripturas, who had rescued the Sacred Fire from extinguishment by the unbelievers. DKS Estann maneuvered, aiming to snuff out the lives of those that had dared defy the Frankian Authority in the Void.

The great guns were joined by gridfire and an avalanche of expendable ordinance as the heavy cruiser set to work. For a moment, the captains aboard the enemy dreadnought were ignorant of what was to come. Then the light shone forth brightly... The enemy craft's emergency lights came on as her defenses and armor gave way under the weight of the Frankian assault.

Evacuate, evacuate! Abandon craft!

The barbarri raced to their lifeboats, saving those that could as compartment after compartment was obliterated. The dreadnought split into two, that which remained being pummeled into an unrecognizable mass of scrap. What had remained of the crew aboard this craft were few in number, most of their comrades now being brought before their gods by the will of the Mater Most High.

The DKS Estann sent forth her Marauders to gather up those souls that had remained, so that they might be brought to the prison craft to be interred for the remainder of the operation. Quarter was usually given to those that laid down their arms and marched into the captivity of the Dread Realm, with war regarded as a conflict between nations rather than between folk. It was customary for a Prince of the Blood to proclaim such foreigners under his protection, as though he were upon his own fief rather in the middle of a warzone.

Dux Lorann noted his losses and the growing disarray in the enemy host. It was only a matter of time, though he did not wish to proceed with undue caution. A corner animal will fight to the death for its life, so must the shiplords aboard the enemy craft. So far he had kept to his timetable, and knew that the Fetters should be able to hold for a few more days. The forces of the enemy attempted to withdrawal, leaving what they could as a rearguard to meet the gradual Frankian advance. Pressure was felt on all sides now by the foe, with virtual decimation of the foe being noted by the Voltigeurs.

The Dux grimaced, before pouring himself another scotch. He raised a toast to the fallen, alongside his staff. The price for maintaining the Pax on the frontier, a price paid in blood.

Through scrap and fire the vessels of the Dread Fleet made their way, leaving behind many a stricken craft or a prize for the Annals. The Rammenflieg was raised high aboard the lead vessels in triumph, though some thought this was premature. This engagement had decimated the foe, but had not broken his spirit. His hasty fortifications remained unconquered, their commanders still withdrew their forces in good order, and his men were still willing to die for their notion of liberty.

The Archtriarch's would be expected to fund the cost of this intervention, with some estates or positions given to those assembled here who were retiring.

[Royal Frankia]

A Grand Occasion


Gerwannia

The great realm, bequeathed to the line of Wylus of the Mater Most High, had embarked on matters more practical than ascetic. Artists and superb craftsmen had been neglected, as instruments of utility were preferred to those of arts. Prince Estann Ynngtonius Wulfius sought to change this, using his royal status to embark on a policy to build up lordly manses for those that had served the Realm.

The greatest project lay in the Palais du Volk, or the Palace of the People, to celebrate their achievements over the course of a thousand cycles. Rising from the abyss, they had challenged the Neo-Barlatist interests and brought down factions that had sought to enslave the whole folk of this Universe. It would be the greatest project upon Gerwannia, its spires reaching to the tips of the very mountains.

It was to be decorated with the skulls of captured Sith Lords, loot from conquered worlds, and portraits depicting the Sovereigns and Sovereignnesses who had led the Realm to greatness. No expense was spared, for the Dynasty wished to bequeath to the folk a palace that would rival those of the greatest lords in the Cosmos. It was the folk, whose sweat and blood, had ensured that despite the will of the Fates the Realm had endured.

The bronze of Gerwann II, or Gerwann the Pious, dominated the Hall of Sovereigns. He was not mounted on a charger, this ruler who had expanded the Realm greatly in his age, but upon his knees in prayer. Before him, the first copy of the Scripturas lay displayed for all that might pass, where legend said the first Sovereign Wylus had read aloud before his coronation.

Nearby, the Hall of Liberty depicted the abolition of wage slavery and the wholesale expulsion of the usurers. Capital, or mammon, was forever condemned to the Abyss by the Lords of the High Mountains. With the support of the Kirk, the National Syndicalist Revolution spread from Austrasia to encompass the whole Realm to sweep aside the captains of capital.

Those that had once forced men and women to work for their interests were sent to the mines to work for the interests of the folk. The poor and exploited were brought into the royal halls and blessed by the Grand Triarch. Land was taken from the rich who did not till the land, and bequeathed to the folk under the protection of the royal sword.

Shall we allow the moneyed interests to reign over us, those who do not labor? Those who would send our sons and daughters to die in their wars? Our blood is precious, our blood is sacred. It will not be spilled for gain, but for honor. Without honor, our folk would be no different than the rabble.

A Sanctuary of the Mater Most High was at the center, surpassing the other Halls of the Palais in splendor. Atkanism, the faith of the forefathers, had maintained the folk throughout the cycles. A statue of the Mater Most High loomed eight stories high over her adherents, depicting a face of mercy rather than the stern face of the Origin of All. The Sovereignness of the Eternal Gods, the Maintainer of the Cosmic Pax that had existed since the very beginning.

Attan vra Saal took in the structure and the atmosphere created by the incense which was constantly burned. Some say this was from the world where the Mater Most High had made her presence known, others said it was where the gods had laid down their arms before the Atta and the Zett. The Kirk kept its secrets well, even to a Seer of the Faith. Wherever it came from, it must have cost a fortune.

The emerald eyes of the Mater Most Eye had been brought from a Universe that was on the brink of death, where those powers in the Chronicles had once breathed life. They looked down on those in attendance, who basked in the light of the Eternal Flame. Around him supplicants went on their knees and offered their hands on high, not praying to the statue which was but a physical representation, but upon her that was form without form and beginning without end.

Saal sensed something. He looked away from the statue and turned his eyes on the Sacred Hammer of Ashara. It seemed to glow, though none of the other worshipers seemed to notice it.

Legend had it that the hammer had been brought to the first Atkanite monarch, to wield against the daemons who were prevalent at that time. Daughter Norvana, Norva the Righteous One, had forbid that it be used against those who were of the cosmic dust and ether. Why should it glow now, with the daemons but a distant memory?

It was then that the daughter of the Most High appeared miraculously, levitating over that instrument which had sent many of the unholy to the Abyss.

Peace be upon you, Seer of the Light.

Her armor glowed, her great cape of white seemed to blow in a wind that Saal could not feel. He did not say anything, but stared.

I have come from the Great Hall of the Most High, from the peak that transcends time and decay. I have come to inform you of a great calamity that shall befall the Kirk of the Elect. The time will come when a foul pretender will arise, who shall gain a great following among him. Those gods and goddesses who acknowledge the Scepter of the Most High will find their Sanctuaries at the mercy of the apostates. Many will fall by their swords, many orphans will be created by their wrath.

None shall be spared, be they of the righteous or the wicked in this time. They will take up the sword against the merciful, they shall split the skulls of the thieves. They shall drench your lands in blood, from the frontier to the very heart of your Realm...In time, they shall fall to your efforts, but this is just the beginning.

A Kingdom will rise beyond the frontier that shall bring the barbarri under its sway. Your [b]cousins who testify only to mammon shall join his ranks, as with those who presently acknowledge your Sovereignness' Scepter. Then they shall come to this world, to offer the children of the Mater Most High to the Great Lie...

The Fates have decreed that this shall come to pass... But not yet... Not until your children are grown shall the false prophet arise.

Peace upon you Seer, and upon the children of the Mater Most High!

Before Saal could say a word in reply, Norvana vanished before his eyes. He made the sign of the Mater Most High and then gazed in the Eternal Flame, where his craft said that what the Fates had decided would be for the Elect to see. Such visions only hinted at what could come to pass, not what would truly come to pass.

He saw nothing as he looked on. Saal unsheathed his knife and sliced his palm, closing it and muttering a prayer to the Mater Atkana. His blood was evaporated in the flame, whereupon he saw something that he could not grasp... At last, he realized it was a world gone mad.

[Royal Frankia]

Hammer From On High


The Sith are to be destroyed, not one is to be left alive by decree of the High Kirk. No quarter, no mercy. Their palaces shall be pulled down, their heads should mount our spikes! The Mater Most High is with us, who shall stand against us?
-Gerwann II before the Battle of Nystra



Many observations had been made of the Sith Scourge, with only the fool believing that they could be converted to the Path of Righteousness. Had not the Mater On High given steel in the hands of her followers for a reason? The Sith were parasites upon the Cosmos and threatened the Cosmic Order on high, their fate had been sealed when they drew power that could only arise from the Abyss.

While the other Great Powers had seemed to tolerate this abomination, the Dread Realm had sent forth her fleets to wipe out one by one those haunts of the Sith which still emerged. Upon stumbling upon the Great Sith Realm of Triskel, which had manipulated the other realms of the UMS, the Magistrum had decided that a war against all the powers was on the horizon. Had the Triskelli not vanished, perhaps brought on by the wrath of the gods on high, the bulk of Frankian energy would have been directed against their citadels than those of the Pords which had never fallen.

Death and destruction would be brought by the 23rd Corps, which had embarked from Gerwannia with the blessing of the Sovereignness. Though no war monger, the daughter of Feylor recognized the importance of removing the weeds that cropped up in the Mater's garden.

Aboard the DKS Mater's Fury the Duxess Attana vra Nordwynd peered at the holochart, noting the borders of the Sith Realm which had expanded greatly since the last cycle. Realms favorable to the Dread Throne were marked in green, though the Duxess thought that their primary purpose would be for ports of call. She had no faith in their fleets or armies, and doubted that they were prepared for the work that must be done. A campaign on this order required a surgical strike and rapid decapitation of the Sith Authority, or else she would be forced to call upon her allies in this sector as reinforcements from home were unlikely.

The Sith of the Kesvyr had a fleet that numbered in the hundreds of thousands of craft, but they had overextended themselves as all Sith have been observed over the course of a thousand cycles. Their pride would be their downfall, with the Kesvyr system likely not ready for a fight against a determined foe. Nordwynd look at the charts depicting what was known of this system, this heart of the abyss which must soon the Mater's Light.

There was no doubt that the main systems leading to Kesvyr itself would have to be besieged and stormed, a lengthy operation which would take patience. She suspected that if the Sith were truly foolish, they would attempt to break the siege by launching uncoordinated assaults which would allow her commanders to thin the ranks of the foe. Cooperation must be assured between the Regiments, with the Heavy Companies capable of maneuvering from one hot spot to the next in rapid succession.

Or this was the opinion of the Magistrum-in-the-void, with her commanders sharing their thoughts and opinions though awaiting word from the Corps Commander. Feedback of this sort was often given, though it was not the officers who bore the final responsibility for the outcome of an engagement but the Commander. Should the losses incurred against those of the enemy be truly abhorrent, Nordwynd could face examination by the board of the Magistrum which could result in either her dismissal or her exile.

Nordwynd did not desire a fate, which was often worse than a swift death in the Void for one bound to one's ancestral home and hearth. Should she succeed, she knew that the loot gathered would beautify the Sanctuary in which she had been initiated as a child. She remembered how the fire had wafted over her, but had done her no harm, as the Triarch read from the Scripturas on the Eternal Light that lay beyond present conception.

Her subordinates, meanwhile, busied themselves with the task at hand. They prepared themselves for the battles that were to come, those which must be fought so that the Cosmic Order might not be brought crashing down. Entry into the Mater's Hall was guaranteed for all those who fell in such holy struggle, which knew no end for the Faithful.

The warships of the Dread Sovereignness had undergone many modifications to improve their lethality and survivability, though a warship was only as good as its crew. Training was constant, with the crew expected to take on multiple tasks should the need arise within their ward. Only the best were capable of this, with those volunteers to the colors who were useful in dying in manning the bare minimum kept back from the service. The Fleet had no need for strong backs, such were suited for the Battle for Production upon whose fruits the Realm should gain a permanent lead over the other powers.

Nordwynd's Regiment commanders reviewed their orders once more time, before ordering the regimental banners to be raised alongside the Rammenflieg. The 23rd Corps was going into battle, with the last blessing of the ships that were to take part in this holy action. A welcome reassurance for the crews and captains, for the craft had not been blessed by the Kirk in those wars which were already entering legend.

Hans vra Estann was a youth of thirteen cycles, who had elected to serve as a Cadet in order to obtain acceptance into a Fleet Academy. He was mostly charged with cooking meals for the enlisted men, but he had gained popularity with his singing. He knew most of the Ballads and the Scripturas by heart, and it was from the latter that his comrades desired him to sing. As the Corps made ready for the final trek, young Estann opened a battered book and looked for what was dubbed the Sailor's Psalm.


As the heavens crash around us,
And shells dart through the Void.
Mater Atkana,
Give us strength.

As our enemies descend from shuttles on high,
Bearing fire and steel in their hands.
Mater Atkana,
Protect us!

You, who created all that is,
And all that ever shall be.
Mater Atkana,
Honor us!

Foul lords and treacherous Realms,
Spring forth like so many weeds.
Mater Atkana,
Aid us!

The Captain calls,
We must obey.
To the front against the foe.
Mater Atkana,
​Give us strength.

Enlighten Us

DKS Estann's Insight and the vessels of the 9th Company maneuvered passed the wreckage of the last Kesvyr attempt to break the siege. Nearly the whole division had been thrown into the conflict, with more Sith craft appearing as soon as they disappeared. Dodging a wall of turbolazer fire was no easy task, with a Frankian destroyer having been overwhelmed by the immense firepower.

It had come to the Heavy Companies to throw back the Sith and drive them halfway back to their system before they quit the chase. The Sith had been bloodied, but they would return in greater numbers as they armed every craft that they had at their position. Their main facilities seemed to be at the very heart of the District, with those systems that had fallen after much fighting yielding little in the way of infrastructure. What legions the Sith had thrown at the landing sites were innumerable, with many of the Greenclad relying as much as their bayonets as upon artillery support.

They had wrecked everything in the process, with whatever populations upon these worlds being thrown in massed charges against Frankian batteries. Estann did not wish to dwell on Sith callousness, though the Frankians now could not rely on fresh supplies. Aboard deck he noted tired faces, with those Army detachments possessing thousand yard stares.

There was much to come, as Estann's Company proceeded to the next system that had gone quiet. Nordwynd had underestimated these Sith, for they were determined to hold onto their chief lair at all costs. Reports which had reached the Frankians further afield hinted at a general withdrawal from exposed stretches of the Kesvyr realm, with said systems stripped of everything of value. Raids against Frankian allies had been launched, forcing multiple realms to join the conflict against who the Sithlord had declared were "barbarians".

Matters were made worse as the 23rd Corps had entered the lion's den, with initial success coming at a high cost in blood and materiel. Any lands seized in the initial assault were now brought into production, with those assets available being stripped by the engineers. Fortification of the captured systems had gone on abreast, upon Nordwynd's order, to force the Sith forces to funnel their formations into killzones. There was too much space and the order to fortify had sapped morale, but this was an order. Estann thought that this would lead to trouble, for there so much void to defend with few ships available.

Reinforcements, distant now, were several days away from the frontline. Voltigeur detachments that had slipped away from the Corps were working their mischief in the Void, hopefully buying the Corps more time to extricate itself from a dire situation. Each day the Frankians were called to battle stations, each system to bear witness to ferocious fighting that sent many to the Mater's Hall.

By all the gods, I have not seen something like this since the war..

The chart showed known enemy fleets on the move, bearing down upon the system the Frankians had christened Retribution. They were coming from all sides, in their tens of thousands. Already, the Mobile Fortresses were attempting to thin their ranks as they came on.

The 15th Division does not have the strength... It must break through somewhere and link up with the 3rd Division...

Nordwynd pointed at a map on the chart.

Here. There is no time.

[Royal Frankia]

Affairs of men and those of gods


Royal Palace

Gerwannia


Great Sovereignness, whose scepter holds sway from one end of the Cosmos to the other, we bid you good health.

Ynga stared at the Atkan delegation, impassively. Her eyes were fixed on their attire, which had degraded rapidly upon the loss of their colonies that lay beyond her power to restore. Those that had been princes of mammon had been forced upon flight to do manual labor, as much as any of her subjects. She thought the change a good one, though her coffers were now bereft of the occasional loan from what had been one of her wealthiest marches.

As do I to those who first bore witness, and who brought the Faith to my forefathers. May all the gods watch over and keep you, may the Mater's Light not abandon her children.

And may you walk in the path of light and shun the path of darkness.

With the formalities out of the way, the Sovereignness sought to get to the heart of the matter.

You petition the court to grant you territories within the Borderlands, many of which are held by my cousins or by the Elect.

Aye, this is true Sovereignness... Many of us desire to restore our status, as intermediaries between the great realm that shall never die and those realms that still preserve civilization.

Foreign trade... Something that was rare, beyond the exchange of trinkets and goods made valuable by honest labor. Even in this day and age, the Sovereignness still preferred dispatching kegs of fine wines, literature, and bards to those Realms which remained. Some at court scoffed at this, though those that had nobly fought could not be denied the gifts decreed by the Mater Most High who maintained civilization in their respective corners of the Cosmos.

This trade would be primarily conducted with those realms that have not yet taken up the mantle of civilization.. Those realms that you can turn into colonies and exploit for the profits of your own folk..

Sovereignness, we have been loyal to the dynasty for over a thousand cycles...

And you have lost your homes...

There was a pause, before the Sovereignness continued.

As it was so under my father's scepter, so it will be under mine. Those lands which are in arrears to the Crown shall be gifted to you, as recompense for what you have lost. Your Sanctuaries shall I beautify, your cities shall I construct for thee of good material.

What Vrus would say of this matter she knew not, already the Faithful had brought word of rumblings about the debt to the Kirk. The loss of these revenues might cause more audiences with members of the Economic Planning Bureau, but how could she deny her loyal subjects who had lost everything? The spires that had once loomed above Atkos would rise again, her coffers would fill once more with the tolls of a thousand realms.

She bade the Atkans delegation to depart, ordering that they be bestowed with fineries wrought by her own craftsmen. As soon as the bronze doors closed, the weary monarch rubbed her eyes. She had risen before the sun had risen and had been attending to matters of state without leave. For nearly half an hour she possessed time to herself, time to ponder.

The crown was a heavy burden, which only those with the strongest constitutions could successfully bear. Decisions were made, which decided the fates of far flung corners of the Realm. With the culling of the Magistrum, the monarch had obtained greater powers at the expense of the vested interests. Against the factions which demanded revenge the Sovereignness had held firm, pointing out that what could be gained would not be worth what was lost. Even Neustria, the land of her forefathers, could only be regained with much bloodshed if profits could not be made available.

She had turned her attention to restoring the industrial might of the realm and securing its place among the nations that still traversed the Void. Reports from the Economic Planning Bureau were encouraging, as barren systems were brought into production after much investment from the central authority. Profits she would reinvest in the Dread Fleet, to bring it to a heightened state of readiness for any conflict which might arise.

Word had reached her of her force in Kesvyr, which was isolated from the rest of the Dread Fleet. The campaign had stalled, with those that had once pledged her many oaths changing sides to join with those that the Mater Most High had condemned. Her fleets had already brought fire and sword to those that had betrayed the sacred oath, with many of their proud citadels falling before her forces.

Such minor actions had occurred, even in the time of her father. Such was the hatred of the Sith that wherever they might be, her folk would not rest until their foul sorcery was annihilated. The Great Lie must not bear fruit, Chaos must not take the place of Order.

The Sovereignness removed her crown of silver and looked at its gold inscriptions. Most depicted events in the life of the folk or the feats of martial ancestors whose bones had long turned to dust. The sacred sign of the Mater, the star that would never yield to the darkness, lay at its center said to be brought from that very star in an age long forgotten.

Her present age she examined and found much to consider, for though she had extended the realm and continued the pious work she doubted she would be remembered. Those that had picked up the pieces of what remained and set right were not to be accounted in the New Chronicles begun under the reign of Gerwann II. Much had she suffered, of which those Bards who sang of heroic deeds would not consider as she ensured that they possessed halls to sing in.

Her moment of reflection was nearly at an end, for her ministers were beginning to file into the throne room. Many she had appointed with the recommendation of the Assembly, many had she honored with noble titles based on their service. They did not prostate themselves like those of the lesser folk, but stood as her kinsmen before their lord.

One could not distinguish between monarch and minister, for simple attire had been preferred long amongst a simple people. One would not assume that such folk possessed the ability to bring red war to realms afar or to contemplate the eternal mysteries of the Cosmos. Ynga strode with her ministers to her Chamber of State, where she would deliberate with them for several hours upon the latest developments of the Realm. She did not look forward to the squabbles amongst her children, but as Mother of Her Folk she must set her children upon the Path the Mater Most High has set for them.

The Archtriarch of Gerwannia was more mirthful than the rest of the company, for he had received word from his Seers that his estates on the frontier would prosper. These revenues would aid in the refurbishment of the Great Sanctuary and would bring him closer to the highest office, should Fate's blessings be as bountiful as Wulffigs. To pursue positions within the Kirk was honorable within society, though there was many opportunists who merely desired to gain great status with little risk to their own hides.

Still, the Archtriarch did not look forward to being seated across from Vrus. Declared an enemy of the Faith by the Grand Triarch, the Director had been forced to atone for his impiety in conscripting from the lands of the clergy. Still, the Sovereignness had insisted that a valuable asset such as he should not resign, which had led to mutual recriminations between Kirk and State.

The Archtriarch rolled his eyes and clutched his holy beads, praying that the Mater Most High would keep the arrogant lout's words strictly on matters of state.

[Royal Frankia]

Eye of Attana

Men of the Guard,
Sworn to Throne and Novoronda.
This is the hour you make true your oaths,
This is the hour you join your ancestors in my Hall!



The great horde had bypassed the defenders of the citadel, looting and burning as they had gone across the land. Behind their columns lay great devastation, with multiple fires signaling the death of entire settlements. Only the garrisons stood firm in this hour, sheltering those of the folk who could escape the onslaught from beyond the frontier.

A ruined villa showed the end of a melee, in which the settlers had united regardless of sex to defend their hearths. The warriors of the Turrad had fought in their halls, ascending the steps made slippery with the blood of the fallen. Not one had yielded, even their women had fought like lions while their halls blazed around them.

Char Ersa vor Ress examined the ruined face of a youth, who had died thrusting his dagger into the eye of one of his warriors. He did not look for long, for in the distance he heard the blowing of the Great Horn of the Mountains. He hurried away, bidding his retinue to follow him out of the ruins into the open sky.

In the distance he saw the riders from afar, led by one whose helm shimmered in the dying of the sun.

Regulars?

No...

The Char unsheathed his sword and bid his retinue to form up, not even bothering to tell his riflemen to begin picking off the riders. In the distance he saw the shimmering of shields, but not one of their number did drop from his mount.

Stand firm!

The riders hurled their jarids into the ranks of the Barbarri at a great distance, with the sounds of sudden cries hinting that some had struck their mark. Some of Ress' men tossed away their shields and changed positions with the man behind them. Some of his men hurled axes upon those outriders that came close, occasionally causing a mount to drop upon its rider.

Some of the outriders had dismounted and had formed up below the great steps of the villa. In the distance he could see emerald cloaks and silver armor engraved with the symbol of Her that had first smote the Great One of the Abyss. They came now, with steel in their hands, these guards of Novoronda who even an ignorant barbarri on the frontier had heard of their renown.

They came on with ferocious cries and foul oaths. Ress noted some bore cruel halberd, while others he saw bearing the Ramscheld which now smashed against his ranks. Ress saw some of his men fall, their skulls destroyed by but a single blow. Men stepped forward to close the ranks, as now the Novorondons came on with swords drawn. A melee ensued, which would please those gods on high who admired the work of blood.

One warrior raised his sword and smote upon the shield of a Captain of the Novoronda, before the captain drove disabled his sword arm with but a single stroke. Blood flowed from beneath the armor, but as the barbarri cried in agony the Captain brought his blade across the throat of the stricken man. The warrior toppled and joined those whose lifeblood flowed upon the marble steps.

Ress saw the standard bearer of the Guard working his way, with both hands gripped upon the standard. He swung it into the ranks of the barbarri like a great club, shattering the shields and bodies of those that were caught in the path of the Ram head. Guardsmen rallied behind him and sought to take advantage of his dread work, breaking through and assailing those of the barbarri who were not at a loss. The whirl of steel intensified here, with Ress leading those of his Houseguard into the fray.

Ress dropped to his knees as the standard bearer whirled the ramhead, rending in twain the guard that had followed him. Ress stabbed into the the exposed thigh of the standard bearer, who had already held his standard raised to end the life of the Char. The standard bearer cried out in pain, but his pain was not for long as Ress drove his blade through his chest.

The Novoronda, seeing the standard fall, came on like lions. Ress rose and met them, those of his Guard joining him the fray. He could not tell who held the advantage, but that did not matter. He that would die today would live forever.

The first Guardsmen smote Ress' helm with his sword and battered his shield with his shield. Ress headbutted the guardsmen and drove his blade through his neck, before throwing him down the steps as his comrades ascended. Others around him sought to end his life, but his houseguard checked their blows, some falling to save the life of their Char. In the face of certain death, a warrior would never forsake the vows made to their Lord.

The smell of blood, sweat, and foulness gripped the nostrils of the Char, the ringing of steel deafened the air. Men groaned below, be they friend or foe Ress did not know, but in this close action he was forced to step over them. The Norovonda were falling back upon the onslaught of the barbarri, but the Char now noted that they had driven off his warriors to his left and right into the Manse.

The Novoronda Captain came now with his men at his side, cutting a path through to the great Char. Ress uttered an oath and made his way, preparing to meet his end should this be it. The Char raised his shield as the Captain's sword came down and smote the helm of the Captain, sheering off a horn.

The Captain did not flinch, but battered his shield against that of the Char. The Char yielded ground, dodging the stroke that the fates had decreed was not to be his certain death. He stood firm, his eyes locked upon the eyes of the Captain. He dare not look around, but if he had he would have seen the jarid which passed through his shoulder.

Ress cried out in agony and dropped to his knees, looking into the eyes of the Captain who came to close his eyes forever.

The Captain looked at the Char, but his attention turned to the Char's Houseguard who were moving to rescue their Lord. In a whirl of steel the Captain of the Novoronda and his men came on, all thought of the Char but a memory. Ress gasped and rolled on his side, his strength failing him as he slipped into the darkness...


The Char awoke in a tent, noting that he had been dressed of his wounds. His armor lay before him, polished to a high sheen. His eyes focused on the orderly, a Sister of the Faith who spoke to him in his own language.

By the gods on high, it is good that you have awakened.

Where am I?

In the tent of our lord, barbarri, he that led the Novoronda against your company.

My men...

All dead, for they thought you had fallen...

Why am I?...

Alive? My Lord apparently has some use for you... There is always a use for a valiant barbarri, especially with the death of your Great Char... Your lands have fallen once more into strife, with each Char vying for the Crown.

And your Lord wishes I should take it?

In time... But first you must serve the Guard, for it is the Guard which holds power over your life. A company shall you raise, a company of fighting men that will bring death to the enemies of the Dread Sovereignness.

[Royal Frankia]

This age will pass away,
Just as that of your forefathers.
What of wealth, what of glory?
Only honor remains, only Faith endures.
-Frankian proverb




DKS Yorddana and her sisters were on patrol, mostly to stop the flow of contraband from beyond the frontier to the developing worlds. Such trade threatened the overall development of these developing worlds, and threatened to strangle the building of National Syndicalism within the cradle. Strange luxuries, strange gods, and other abominations might lead to a weakening of the central authority in regions where only force held sway.

With the passage of time, attempts to breach the frontier had grown in sophistication. Convoys were organized, with armed merchantmen armed by mercenaries from afar. The Yordanna was of little use in this type of action, though such ancient dreadnoughts still in service were often a point for morale. Constantly retrofitted to meet new threats, such craft were manned by the descendants of the nobility of the sword.

To be noble in a land that had embraced folk comradeship was not a life of luxury, with those who had received titles of nobility being required austere lives. While the common folk were engaged in the trades, those had been anointed were expected to support and take part in the arts. The nobles of the High Mountains read works of philosophy, took part in rigorous exercise, and were expected to comment on the Scripturas to test their rightness in matters of theology.

Estarta vra Jaxtarra had undergone training in the Vreizhan plain, working and living beside those that had serve her family for generations. The Jaxtarras had only come into glory in the time of Feylor, with the older clans regarding them as upstarts at Court with no achievements beyond leading the van in smashing the Mylorrans off the Pillars of Light. A minor action in the grand scheme of things, not as bloody as the actions off Septimania and Yamsai.

Jaxtarra washed her hands upon the midday meal, before leaving the dining hall to attend to matters she had left to her subordinates. Heels clicked as she walked in, which she returned with the raising of her baton that all commanders were required to carry. Atop the baton was the head of a falcon with emerald eyes, which had once belonged to a Mylorran commander her ancestor had laid low in the dust.

Status report.

Before her was the holotable, which depicted what the probes and scouts had relayed to the command. Licensed convoys from the Core Districts were depicted in white, with those whose legal status had not yet been verified marked in grey. While the Fleet guarded the frontier, on matters of trade it had to yield to the Ministry of Trade when it came to wulffigs.

Most of the white convoys were bound for the barbarri realms, where their holds would raise on high those that had been blessed by royal patronage. Jaxtarra did not wish to think of what this ultimately meant, that the Magistrum was being undermined by the Economic Planners who regarded it cheaper to buying off the barbarri yet to know the Yoke. It was only on matters of their pet projects that they demanded the Fleet take off the gloves, such as over the past quarter cycle when Jaxtarra's command had captured and burnt many a brig here so far from civilization.

More merchantmen have arrived at the frontier, but beyond that nothing else. Command wishes us to support the Territorial Guard in checking the holds...

Her intelligence officer spoke rapidly, reflecting a dialect originating from the soft hillsof Araliana. Estann vra Vrantrille was a distant relation of the Magister Navigum of the Fleet, though from what she had read of his file he had risen from the guilds to the Fleet through dedication at the Academy.

Jaxtarra nodded.

Make course and signal the Guard..

Jaxtarra seated herself at her desk and began rifling through the paperwork which had piled upon it. She delegated some to her secretary, before reading the main reports meant for her eyes only.

Not good...

The Emerald Pact had reported a drop off in trade, despite greater concessions granted to the former marches of the Realm.

This is what happens when you cut the Fleet budget...

The marches, whose defense had been subsidized in exchange for their surplus revenues, were now arming to keep up with the changing Cosmos. The Despot of the Confederation was raising forces as his position had grown more perilous. The Communes and Petty Kingdoms were turning to conscription to fill the ranks, taking their workers from the battle for production.

Normally, a Shiplord on the back of beyond would not receive the slightest inkling of such affairs, but not all Shiplords possessed a sister at Court with some degree of influence with the Sovereignness. Such connections were useful for cutting through the red tape of bureaucracy, which often led to confusion as the Magistrum warred with the bureaucrats who were legion. Still, there was some inkling that greater constraints would breed greater innovation, with the surplus industrial capacity at present enabling the Realm to embark on rearmament should it so wish.

She sighed, and sent her response which be sent from her next port of call to Gerwannia. That would be some time, perhaps another two or three weeks. By then, she sighed, the situation might be far, far worse.



Selected Writings of Massana de Vrett

The Mater Most High has given us reason, which we have used to understand that which is the product of Creation. Her laws we honor, her word we follow. No Sovereign is as great as the Mater Most High, who has given her people not a sword but sense to her people.

Dux Estann vra Resmarck said nothing of her appearance before him, in all her glory, before the coronation of Gerwann II. Not a word did he utter, until he lay dying upon his bed surrounded by his clan and comrades. With his life near its end, he sang of her glories and her wonders with an emphasis found in those who are soon to enter the radiant halls of the divine.

Know ye not mortal,
That your folk shall known an age of glory.
Which the Fates have bequeathed to you,
You that protect my Sanctuaries and honor my priests.

The gods on high do me honor,
And wiser they are than any mortal.
Know you not Atkane,
Know you not the Mater Most High?


The gods care not whether we win great glory or splendor in this life, only that we are honorable. To live one life honorably is much greater in their eyes than a thousand lives lived in worship of mammon. What of this world will pass away, but that which is divine shall never know death.

The Mater Atkana cares for her children, even though we at times do not do her will. She delights not in the flow of blood, but in the gathering of knowledge. We must reflect upon how we live our lives and upon the Light in the Darkness.




[/i]

[Royal Frankia]

Old Feylor led us across the field,
In the van, as a King of his line ought.
In the hour of the wolf, our Lord did not hesitate.
No trident wall could withstand his bloodlust.

Now he has fallen, before the eyes of gods and men.
Now we must honor the oaths we made,
Within the Sanctuaries before our forefathers.
By Norvana, the daughter of the Most High.

Come and follow me, into battle!
Bold Novorondons, avenge our great Feylor!
Fight while Neustria still stands, fight while you still possess the strength to carry the banner!
You shall not be forgotten in the halls of of men!

Be worthy of your fathers,
May our sons and daughters know that at this hour we did not yield.
Despite how many might come howling across the plain,
May they know that we died like men of the Guard!

-Excerpt from the Ballad of the Battle of the Pillars

There is always someone left to fight...




Greenclad threw themselves flat as the shells started raining down from on high, praying to the Mater Most High that the shields could withstand the hellstorm the Mylorran Legions had unleashed. Their armor and weapons sank in the mud, but they clung to the earth like a child might to its mother's breast. Across the scarred land they noted the enemy advancing, distant specks who intended the demise of the Sovereignness' soldiers.

Captain Jan vra Gestann crawled out of a foxhole and called for relay from the probes to aid his mortars. The purple ones were advancing helter skelter, trailing their armored craft which were zig-zagging to avoid death from above. Cursing the Fates, Gestann relayed the targets to his anti-armor crews to put such craft out of action.

Ordinance descended below the surface and arose in the distance in great blooms of smoke, the earth erupting beneath Mylorran tanks to send them hurling into the sky. Frankian sharpshooters and quads opened up as the legionnaires sought to throw themselves upon the first defensive line. Gestann peered at the chaos, trying to discern order where none should exist. Even under withering fire, the Legionnaires of Mylorr did not break, though they eyed their steps with caution.

Gestann noted one legionnaire calling upon his foul gods as a mine erupted from the soil and unleashed a devastating onslaught of shards. Within a twenty-five foot radius nothing could escape, with the legionnaires looking as those they had a quarrel with a porcupine. Those that were fortunate cursed, for the death that was not instantaneous was often ghastly for the survivors. Gestann looked away as the Mylorrans started killing their own comrades, to ease their suffering.

Nasty business, but this is a war to the knife..

Around the Captain his riflemen rose from their positions and focused on those legionnaires who had exposed themselves. An enemy shell pierced the shielding array, scattering what before were three Regulars who had sought shelter in a nearby foxhole. Gestann made the sign of the Mater, before raising his carbine to aid his men in throwing back the enemy.

He breathed in deep, aiming for clumps of Legionnaires who were pace with their armor. He squeezed the trigger, flinging shards at highspeed into those who were ascending the rise. He noted some staggering, on these he aimed once more to send to their foul gods. Gestann fired without hesitation, showing no quarter for those who offered none.

On his left he saw a Mylorran tank brew up from a chance hit, her crew bailing out in an inferno.

Don't shoot, let them burn.

Quads concentrated their fire on the men who staggered behind the stricken craft, who stood not a chance at such close range. Many fell, ripped in shreds in but a moment. These cannon were meant for enemy killercraft, what they did to flesh and shielding was not pleasant on the eye.

Still, the legionnaires who survived aimed to sell their lives dear, hurling grenades or training their fire on the quads. A tank roared up on their right, damaging a quad with a single roar of its gun. It opened up on all around, sending forth death for those who rose from their positions.

Gestann rose and fired off a short burst into the legionnaires who advanced in the wave of plasma fire, sending some staggering. Others jumped into foxholes to come to grips with the Greenclad, fighting in close quarters. He turned to the operator beside him, who was readying his Digger with all due haste.

Take it out..

The operator nodded, positioning his weapon at the ground and squeezing the trigger. It took but a moment before the earth erupted near the Mylorran armor. Gestann cursed, for at this range such weapons were not normally deployed by his teams.

The charge threw the craft like it was a tool and the earth came down upon all like hail. Rising from the ruin, Gestann noted that the Mylorrans had been staggered. His earpiece crackled softly, forcing the Frankian to strain his ears.

Enemy reserves have entered the system.. Fleet moving to engage, cannot provide support.

We're on our own..

Those quads which still could were firing, mowing down those that exposed themselves. Enemy tanks were massing on his right, from what he could see they must be at least a company. He signaled for his operators to take up their positions, calling for the two Astorras command had bequeathed him to support them.

The hovercraft maneuvered over foxholes where dead clad in Green and Purple lay intertwined. Commander Jevika vra Hendricks looked at what the livefeed and what the probes had gathered. Twelve Greenclad raced behind her craft, in teams of three as they tried to find shelter.

It is wise not to stay too close... Armor attracted the wrong kind of attention.

A Mylorran moaned in agony as her hovercraft rose above him, which a private answered with a short burst to his chest. Hendricks felt no pity, for shards at such distance was a good a death as any of this lot deserved. It was strange how the Scripturas preached of fighting a war with honor, but how could one do that against those who knew no honor? Atrocity reports had filtered in for nearly a hundred cycles, of where once communes had stood only piles of bodies of those unfit for slavery remained.

The Astorra broke through what had once been a barn, its 185mm barrel sticking out. Targets rose on her screen, perhaps five Mylorran tanks with a number of fighting vehicles as change. They were outgunned here, but would make the most of their speed and discipline.

The shell loaded automatically .

Fire..

The gun boomed, sending death hurtling into the distance.

Relocate.

The Astorra reversed. In the distance, Hendricks could hear Commander Opronn's Astorra beginning to open up. Operators began employing diggers and Jarids as the enemy craft were nearing range. Reports flicked of enemy craft disabled, though they were still returning fire in support of the advance.

Hendrick's Astorra leveled the barn as it drove to a new position, oblivious to the whirl of steel and death all around. Her barrel pivoted and fired upon stopping, though in the distance Hendrick's noted that the round had just missed the Mylorran tank some 700 meters off.

Damn it, damn it by the Throne of the Mater..

Hendrick's Astorra reversed, but not in time before the Mylorrans answered in kind. The Astorra rocked as a shell exploded on top of her, like a thunderbolt descending upon a mortal who had angered the immortals. Hendrick's skull impacted her vision slit, but even though the pain surged the Frankian suppressed it.

The Astorra reversed, diverting power to her emergency shielding as shells glanced off her armor.

Move, move!

The driver drove over a nearby foxhole and awaited the Mylorran tank that was cresting the rise. As its exposed belly ascended the rise the gunner did not hesitate. In an instant the Mylorran craft stopped dead in its tracks, with those who raced forth from the stricken craft mowed down by the quads aboard the Astora.

The armored personnel carries began opening up with their mortars, attempting to cover the remaining armor to give them a chance. Through her vision slit, Hendricks noted anti-armor teams were setting up shop as their enemy spread out. It would not be long before..

Opronn's Astorra appeared on her livefeed briefly, brewing up as multiple Pila struck her. Hendricks cursed, noting that before the crew could successfully bail a Mylorran tank was hurling napha to incinerate those who had remained. Her Astorra pivoted its barrel and fire, though the shell glanced off the side of the craft.

Reload..

Fire...

The Mylorran tank fired, rocking the Astorra before the Astorra fired. She checked her vision slit, noting forms scrambling from the charred wreck. Quadfire leaped towards those as the Astorra fell back, escaping the Pilas and shells that sought to send Hendricks to the Mater Most High.

She saw on her feed the Greenclad returning fired, though the mortar fire was forcing them to keep to earth. A jarid struck one of the armored carriers, forcing it to come with a stop. There was no time for cheers, as others trained their mortars on the gun crew.

Hendricks rubbed her bruised scalp and cried into her radio.

Request immediate support... Position 123.432...

A craft appeared on the livefeed, a Bearcat and three Killercraft who sent forth requests for targets. She sent them, before radioing her Greenclad to fall back to their secondary positions. Hendricks raised her flask of water and drank deeply, before passing it to her comrades.

We're staying, lads. Got to cover the grunts on the ground.

All nodded, as the Astorra now braced itself for all comers. The 185mm gun boomed rapidly, with Hendricks losing count how many shells were disgorged or whether said such rounds were effective. On high, she knew what was about to drop..

The Bearcat began raining down death, bombs striking those that attempted to make their way. A field of fire, a whirl of steel, began creeping forward for nearly 400 meters. Nothing in the open could survive, and she saw those who were out of the storm's eye coming under Killercraft quads and incendiaries.

Hendricks lifted up the hatch and looked around with her own eyes at the desolation, seeing multiple craters where once rolling fields had remained. Too focused on the lunar landscape, she did not hear the crack of the Mylorran carbine at close range. Hendricks clasped her throat, a bloody ruin. She fell back into the craft, spewing forth blood. In her last moments, she heard the roar of the quad...

[Royal Frankia]

The gods among us

As the cycles came and went, the ancient rites were performed which reinvigorated the Faithful to stick to the narrow path of light. The Eternal Flame was carried from one end of the Citadel to other by laymen who had transgressed ancient law. Mercy was shown to those who had committed minor offenses, who would normally be punished with the lash or long exile in the mines.

Upon such festivities, the Elect of the Mater Most High held greater prominence than the Dread Sovereigns who were at the very least the Defenders of the Sanctuaries. New initiates were baptized by the flame and were required to recite the Scripturas, as well as to swear to the authority by which the Mater Most High had established before her faithful. Testimonies were heard of converts made in distant lands, of strange priests accepting the Whole Truth, and of apparitions that had appeared to those Chosen by the Mater Most High.

Mosaics depicted the early history of the Faith, a Faith that had saved a race that had nearly succumbed to the Abyss. The appearance of the Mater Most High before the Faithful and her walking amongst them revealing that which they could understand of the nature of the Cosmos. Scientists were perplexed with her revelations, though they were frustrated in her refusal to devolve mysteries which might benefit the nation materially. The Magisters of that time were seen with flushed faces, as the Origin of the Whole denied them the arms of the Heavens.

Know this, those I have chosen amongst the folk.
You shall not be great through wonders that will fade,
Or by arms that will inevitably rust.
Empires have I seen, rise and fall.
I desire not an empire built on death and blood,
But a Kingdom built on Righteousness.
Walk the Path of Enlightenment,
Look to your Redemption above all.
Know the Light, Shun the Darkness.
Yield not to that which the daemons might tempt you,
Your time within the Cosmos, live honorably.
-Scripturas 2:330

Incense burned constantly, rising to the great dome that nearly all Sanctuaries possessed. The cries of the Faithful arose, in the tongue of old which had become the language of liturgy.

Notana Mater Atkana,
Norvana gibis omanas.
Sal hamar stryk ves daemons,
Et ves daemons no sal mare.
Ve Abyss, fron selles kamm.
Sal no mare fructana evel baar.

Fron va vest, fron va ost.
Sal ves servantes vela mater kamm.
Kyrra, kyrra. Vu Mater ves Cosmos!
Kyrra, Kyrra!
Vu Mater Atkana !

The statue of the Mater Most High followed behind the Eternal Flame, glad in gold with red hair gathered from those of her followers. All made the sign of the Mater Most High and chanted the statement of Faith as the Mater Most High was placed upon the onyx altar. Her green eyes, from a distant quarry where the Mater was said to have wept, followed the worshippers with approval. It was thought that at times the gods would appear from time to time within the Statues, though to the Elect this was peasant superstition not supported by the Scripturas.

The Mater Most High watched with approval, sensing the rising of the souls of her children to the closest that those of mortals could reach the Heavens. She smiled and then took her place amongst the worshippers, though she fumbled with the beads at her side and sang in a tongue much older than the liturgy. Even the Mater Most High, she that had wrought the Cosmos, would not break what determined the destiny of all within the Cosmos. Gods and mortals abided by the Fates, who were indifferent to rank or wealth or plight.

Her daughter took the form of a dove and entered the Sanctuary through a door which had opened to allow in the Guardsmen who were to stand watch. In a rapid transformation, her daughter appeared at her side in martial array. She removed her helm and bent her knee, though none of the worshippers could see that the highest of the highest were amongst them. Atkane gave permission for her daughter to rise, and ran a finger through her long black hair.

Mother, I have been working with my own hands with the Faithful who knew me not.
Raising forth Sanctuaries where your name shall be forever acclaimed.
Where the peasant and lord shall all bow down before the eternal.
That the Truth might ring out across the land, the Truth that shall never die.


Atkane removed her hood, loosing her red hair that gleamed in the torch light.

I am glad, daughter, that you prefer the path of peace than that of blood.
In this age when the daemons know only the Abyss,
Where the practitioners of the Darkness have been swallowed by it.
A thousand daemons upon spikes cannot compare to such work.

Atkane and Norva left the Sanctuary upon the conclusion of the rites, blessing all that had attended who knew not that they were there. They rose to the Heavens, the Mater Most High and the Bane of the Daemons who sought to bring down the Creation of her mother. They entered their familiar Hall, where their servants and saints bowed before those who were the highest of the highest. Messengers from different deities waited outside her audience chamber, seeking to bring forth their honors and their demands of she that had raised them above the mortals.

Not all gods were aware of the True Origin, and not all those who possessed said knowledge such to acknowledge the Truth. As with the mortals, the Mater Most High had bequeathed the immortals with the choice between the Light and the Darkness. Some deities she abhorred, for they had strayed into decadence and cruelty. Others were honored in her Hall, as a mother might welcome a son who had been just returned from a faraway land.

Dressing in her crimson robe, crafted by the vani of the Mountains with great skill, she sat upon her throne and bade the Faithful to rise. She took up her silver scepter upon which was a single gemstone, a sacred stone by which the Mater Most High could observe all that might take place in the Cosmos. Such was not fit for mortal eyes, with what the Mater Most High sought to reveal coming through dreams or through visions in the flames.

Arise, my children who shall never know death within my hall.
Arise, ye messengers of the very immortals who acknowledge the One Truth.
Rejoice, for She that is the Fount of Wisdom has returned from the mortal realms.
Let the songs of the vani be heard once more,
That have sung my praise since the very beginning.

[Royal Frankia]

Men of Vreizh

Upon the Hill of Mak Marr the Vreizhan clans assembled, to hark to the word brought from the distant manse of their Sovereignness. The clan leaders suspected that fresh honors would accrue to their halls, though at the price of many kinsmen who spilled their life's blood upon the frontier. The need for men was pressing, more so that the Royal Army was more often on the march these days to bring order with fire and sword to rebels from the Pure Isles to the Sandrek Quadrant.

The Royal Herald and his retinue stood out, in their green cloaks and fur hats that sheltered them from the harsh winds below. A harsh land, this country of Vreizh was, attracting few settlers of Frankian stock to make it fit for civilization. Then again twenty cycles before Gerwannia had not been thought of supplanting Neustria as the capital of the Realm, let alone surpassing her in industry with the shifting of the manufactories.

Tea, brought from the far south where the Pillars of Insight soared to the heavens, was poured for those who had made the ancestral trek. Guardsmen stood to attention as the Herald unrolled the parchment and read forth its contents in a hard voice, a voice which was more used to ordering bondsmen around than free men.

I, Guardian of the Sanctuaries and Wielder of the Scepter bestowed by Atkane, call upon all that are able to do service to the state. My enemies are your enemies and your enemies are mine. In secret they have made foul pacts, desiring the destruction of all that is sacred. Your homes they desire to upend, your household they wish to carry off into bondage.

Shall your daughters know their beds? Shall your wives scrub their floors in shame? Shall your sons take up pick and spade rather than the noble arms that you have bestowed? Are you not men of Vreizh, those that have fought in the regiments of many a Sovereign beloved by the Mater Most High?

Mennach Attar bra Mosrek ran his fingers through his black beard and thought. He then stood, as his fellow chiefs watched on, and drew his sword. All part of an act, but then tradition was tradition.

Aye, I of the bra Mosreks, do pledge those of my hearth and heather to those regiments that carry the standard of the Noble Ram. Far shall they venture, to win fame and glory that shall never die. Men of Vreizh are not cowards, even if the very armies of the Abyss should dare march against us.

As this the warriors of the Mosreks beat their swords against their shields, which bore markings of the distinctive tribes who followed their lord. Cries rang from the women and children in jubilation, masking the sense of dread for those who were once more to sail the turbulent void. Only the Frankians remained silent, their banner rising with the wind to reveal the banner that many had fallen for.



Far from home

Artorious bra Estannch and his comrades had been marching through the wasteland made by the fleets, bypassing the wreckage of craft that had been brought down from orbit. A few survivors had barricade themselves in the ruins, utilizing the remaining guns aboard their warships to some effect. This only drew the ire of the great guns, who did not hesitate to finish that which they started.

Those who had not wished to die by shellfire had fled into the open, though here they were hunted by the Voltigeurs. Of these men bra Estannch had heard much, of how they hit hard and hit fast. Few would likely be left for the 33rd Mak Marr Regiment to mop up, though one could never discount what desperate beings might do when cornered.

The 33rd had been building up the bastions where most of the future garrison would shelter, when this system was brought into civilization's light. The Army plays and ballads spoke of glory won, but little of spadework. Many had grown hungry for action, of any sort, to save their backs from another day's labor.

Probes had brought reports of the enemy in strength, near Sannach's Bastion where cursed banners had been raised over the settlements. Cries of horror were heard in the distance, which would unnerve few but whose duty it was to do or die. The enemy was foul, but mortal, and many the Vreizhans pledged to the Mater Most High to send to the foul Abyss.

As if the Vani had shouted their warcry, a loud war was suddenly heard which instinctively forced the Vreizhans to scatter. They had been in loose order, the best to preserve themselves in the case of ambush. Now some paid for sticking too close, with those which were of their clan rendered into that which could not be discerned. Estannch did not look back, but followed his captain behind the lorry which belched forth smoke and death.

Its quads were opening up at something, and foul napha began hosing down anything that dared fire upon the soldiers of the Sovereignness. In the distance Estannch could hear the batteries opening up upon the hills in the distance, upon which great clouds of smoke and fire soared into the sky. The shelling was constant, with death pummeling upon the enemy shielding array attempting to pierce it and bring ruin. Such a rain of steel was only temporarily, however, for the batteries were too busy with the raiders above or the stricken craft below.

It was the siege mortars, kept for battering down enemy bastions or blotting out enemy cities, that went to work on the sites where the enemy possessed their mobile guns. They were slower than the quick firing guns, but Estannch had to shield his eyes as one mortar round passed through the weakening array. The hill vanished in an instant, sending forth a great cloud in which contained broken bodies and enemy craft rendered into molten scrap.

Estannch said a silent prayer as he ducked and bade his platoon scattered. The villa ahead was still intact, with some smoldering wrecks hinting that which had once been enemy armor. The lorry ahead brought its quads upon the villa, unleashing a metal storm upon the balcony where several figures were in an instant ripped apart. He noted just ahead a few Voltigeurs working in twos, bringing accurate fire upon the emplaced heavy weapons that were returning fire.

The lorry rolled over as it was struck, spewing forth napha upon those that had trod too close. Men burned and cried as the napha cooked them within their armor alive, with little the men unharmed could do but put an end to their misery. Blood rushed to Estannch's head, a man beside him hurling his breakfast into the mud even as the Captain's horn blew.

Come on, Hach..

The Vreizhans rushed the villa, leaving the wounded to be attended to their medics. Estannch noted some of the Voltigeurs were covering those who tried to assist those ghastly wounded or attempted to comfort the dying. The Mylorrans had a reputation for killing medics and even field clerics..

Estannch dropped to his knee and leveled his rifle, firing a short burst into a number of Mylorrans racing out of the doomed villa. One dropped, crying in agony as Estannch finished him with a round through his helm. The Vreizhans moved by twos and threes, to best preserve their numbers in case the enemy still had operational mortars. Explosions rang all around, sending the good earth in clumps several feet into the air.

Training kicked in, with the Vreizhans assisting one another and setting up quads which poured fire as the company advanced. Few lorries had reached this stage, though a few brave lorry drivers had raced ahead of their companies to lend assistance to the poor bloody infantry. Just then Estannach noted a barrel which protruded from what had been a stable..

Get down!

The gun boomed, dispatching a lorry which had just passed the wreck of a Mylorran craft. It had no chance, as the shielding caved and its thin armor was penetrated. Its crew had no time to bail out, though Estannch noted one of the crew racing away miraculously before being mown down by the storm of steel.

Get down, get down...

The Vreizhans found shelter in shell holes or dug rapidly as the Mylorran tank broke through the stable wall. The structure came crashing down, obscuring the craft which now spewed death incessantly. Estannch ducked, avoiding the autocannon which was devastating in the open. He looked up, noticing Mylorrans racing before the craft that was supporting them.

To his left, he noticed two armored lorries bring their quads to bare, though it was an uneven fight. Their 90mm guns roared, aiming for weakspots if they should penetrate the shielding around such hulks from the Republic.

Estannch looked up and cursed..

They might as well being firing spitwads, by all the vani!

The turret glided and the gun leveled, sending forth death in an instant. The lorry raced forward, narrowly avoiding certain death as it unleashed a salvo of missiles. Estannch radioed his operators to see if their burrowers were ready, not bothering with the Jarid crews who were sending their missiles at the craft.

A voice crackled over the comm.

Burrowers on the way...

Estannch clung to the earth as the Mylorran tank rolled past, before he heard the earth shake as the round went off. Some of the Mylorrans who had stuck to close to the armored beast were sent hurdling into the air in pieces. It was a moment before Estannch raised his rifle and peered through his scope, trying to make out if the craft was still...

The gun boomed... A lorry brewed up upon taking a hit, with nothing save in the power of the divine capable of saving the crew.

Vani damn it...

A withering storm of steel whipped above his head, forcing the Vreizhan to cling to the earth. His comrade at his side was not so fortunate, rolling back into the crater with a ruined skull. Estannch did not look back, but checked on the status of his operators..

Craft is still operational... Knock it out.

Two legionnaires appeared before the crater, with their carbines rising to send Estannch to the Hall of the Mater Most High. Estannch brought up his carbine first and fired, sending shards ripping through the armor of the youth at such close range. A round impacted his shoulder plate, forcing the Vreizhan to curse as he fell back.

The Mylorran smiled and jumped into the crater, ignoring his mate who wreathed in agony. He drew his knife and attempted to remove the helm of the Vreizhan, for which purpose Estannch knew too well. He reached for his bayonet on his hip and plunged it into the calf of the Mylorran, who toppled over in anguish.

A bloodlust came upon the Vreizhan, who even as pain gripped him drew his bayonet from the Mylorran and proceeded to stab the wretch repeatedly. He did not count how many times, with the point of the bayonet at this times nearly breaking upon the youth's armor. He spat upon his enemy and fell back, signaling his HMD to begin sending forth drugs that would numb the pain.

It was then that Estannch rose, feeling the drugs kick into gear. He ran up, his boots sinking into the mud and filth. He raced to the next crater, finding it filled with a number of his men. He accepted an offered flask and drank the water deeply, wishing it were something harder.

In the distance he saw the Mylorran tank, now a wreck upon multiple Jarids had stopped its wild charge. Its crew lay around it, brought low by withering shardfire.

We've got them on the run, Sarge..

No, we don't.. They'll just come again. They are of our blood, they are of our kinsmen. Persistence is in their nature, until they are know victory or they know death.

Estannch had been in nearly a hundred such scraps since he had joined the Army, with many of his ancestors falling in action against the Legions of Mylorr. A hard lot, who possessed only a desire to exploit and enslave their fellow kinsmen, though they were in competition with the sons of Blackfyre. Dead and dying littered the plain, as in the waning sun arose pyres for the fallen who would ascend to Atkane's Hall.

[Royal Frankia]

Arkhana District

With the revival of Frankian power within PW-1, she had turned her attention to establishing an emporium for her wares. Where merchant caravans first had blazed the trail, soldiers had followed.. This District, so far from Frankia proper, had been fortified intensively lest hostiles with no love for the righteous should descend with fury.

Oceans dominated much of this world, with floating citadels offering respite from the ferocious storms that constantly raged. Despite the hazards, the abolition of duties and tolls had ensured a lively traffic in commerce between the Realm and her colleagues in the Emerald Pact that still remained in this part of the Cosmos. Vessels from the Despotate and the Krekt League unloaded their wares and embarked laden with the vast bounty that was PW-1.

Two other systems existed within this District, though these had been turned over to the Magistrum to do with what they will. These were made fortress worlds, with great structures above proclaiming a realm that intended to remain in this part of the Cosmos in perpetuity. Just as great were the structures underground, capable of maintaining a presence even should the surface fall before the legions of the foe.

Reinforcements were unlikely to arrive, should the Citadel come under siege. Apparently, the Magistrum sought to relieve the burden of its defense by relying on its allies and appeasing former enemies who had given the fleet as good as they had gotten. Still, they had heavily fortified this District as though it was a Core District. The shattered wrecks of Mylorran craft were left where they had been destroyed, to signal to all what would be the fate for those who sought to bring war to the children of Atkane.

The Dux of Arkhana had been allocated the VIII Armada for the defense of the District, a force whose Frankian character had been diluted with the flow of landless exiles. Tamed barbarri, hardy Austrasians, fickle Talestrians, money grubbing Atkans, stoic Neustrians, and pious Urlannans dominated many of the divisions of this force. Perhaps this was fitting, for this was the last bastion of Frankian power in what was a decaying Universe.

Beyond the frontier, little in the way of contact was established. It was desired that Frankian intervention would be limited, save for the occasional raid on the holding of the cousins or the destruction of a Sith Realm. Only caravans and missionaries ventured forth, perhaps with more success than those that carried arms.

The merchant fellowships were more ruthless, having seen an influx of Atkans in their ranks who had lived off of trade rather than industry. Monopolies were established, markets cornered, and foreigners driven out of the developing realms that became part of the informal empire. The Dread Fleet turned a blind eye to these activities, for revenues flowed into the Fleet treasury that would go towards offsetting the cost of the garrison.

This new ordering of the developed realms would coincide with the abolition of slavery and usury, securing the latter as a racket for Kirk emissaries. States that had not ventured beyond their system would see their governments heavily indebted to the Faith, with the only way out of the debt trap to be mass conversion. It was only natural that Triarchates should arise with mass conversion to the Faith, though their contact with the Kirk was limited due to the vast distance between the twain.

Sanctuaries arose instead of Fortresses, with the local gods bowing before the Scepter of the Mater Most High. The Eternal Fire would spread, lighting a Path for those who were doomed to the Abyss. Diverse philosophies and traditions were studied by the Faithful, with some incorporated into the Kirk within NS-1 to aid in the spread of the Faith. Martyrs and saints were recorded for posterity, though unfortunately where were more of the former than the latter.

Religious minorities, however, were respected by the Faithful so long as they acknowledged the merits of the true religion. While the realm proper did not tax the infidel, it was only a matter of time before the Kirk desired to fill its treasury with those that did not follow the Path. Such extortions were modest, with even the infidel benefiting from the charities and educational institutions of the Kirk.

Cities were tolerated in the lands under the authority of the Kirk, though they were required to respect the Mater's creation. Waste was virtually eliminated and great parks were maintained to give the few Frankians among their number a respite from an urban environment they believed to corrupt the soul. Those that lived among the newly won to the Truth were either clerics or bureaucrats, often forcing the local governments to abide by their will.

In this manner the Frankian presence was established once more in NS-1, though it was but a shadow of what it had once been. The Urlann quadrant still was dominated by the slaving realms, multiple worlds were under the yoke of the infidel, and there was no certainty that war might erupt once more between the Great Powers. Still, no great war had come in all these cycles, with what wars that had been waged being necessary to maintain civilization from the forces which always imperiled it.

[Royal Frankia]

You have no great fleets above you or citadels below, but the enemy are afraid of you. You men that fight when all is lost, for honor and for holy Martyrdom!
-Dux Attan vra Corvus before the Pillar of Lament



Gerwannia

The great boulevards were closed off to all traffic, for the performance of the ancestral rites of the armed forces. Triarchs blessed the soldiers who marched lockstep through the square, with their banners fluttering in the morning breeze. The fire, upon this cold day in the mountains, warmed the flesh as well as the hearts as the Seers chanted sutras in praise of the Eternal Mater and her Blessed Daughter.

Ynga stood upon the balcony of the Dome of the Great Ancestors, where lie in the state the mortal remains of those who had served the Realm. Those born high and low were buried here, regardless of what rank they had possessed when they were felled, to rest side by side until all should pass away. The great Feylor lay beside his Guardsmen who had been with him in that fight made legendary by the bards.

Beside the Dread Sovereignness where the Great Magisters and Marshals of the Realm, who often tried to avoid one another's company unless it was truly necessary. The Dread Sovereignness had put more interest in achieving her goals internally, though even she must play the part as Defender of the Realm. Still, she awaited the Day of the Guildiers which would not force her to choose her words with care upon the achievements of her folk.


Soldiers of the Royal Army, sailors of the Dread Fleet! I salute you upon this day my forefathers gave to you, though it shall never be enough to commemorate your sacrifices in the field. For over a thousand cycles you have fought and bled to protect the Throne and the Faith, against all who might challenge our growing power. As the other realms decay through decadence and resting on their laurels, our folk know what might rise from the Abyss to blot out the light of civilization. All of you know our laws regarding discipline, upon the right manner of living which maintains a strong realm even in the face of unforeseen disasters.

Our enemies tremble at the very thought of coming to grips with you once more. Their bones you have left strewn across the Cosmos, great factions you have destroyed with but the roar of your batteries. Your ranks grow once more, your duty to your comrades who have gone before you have not forgotten. You yearn to reclaim the lost citadels, you yearn to plunge your dagger into the heart of the Apostate Laptev. May those that are false burn in the everlasting fire, may those that fight without honor know what lies in the Abyss.

Yet what my father lost we have regained, for is not PW-1 our verse? Do not distant lands acknowledge my Scepter, do not distant lands know of our banners? Mylorr has dispatched fleet after fleet to bring about our eradication as a folk, but only wreckage remains of their great fleets. Those that have glutted themselves on the blood of the innocent have died drowning in their own blood. Their arms you have carried to our Sanctuaries, the slaves they brought you have restored what Atkane had so freely given them.

To the holy martyrs, to my forefathers, I call upon you to pray those that march in the Path of Righteousness. That defend the Kirk and the Crown, across the known Cosmos. May I never be forced to send, these my sons and daughters, to die in wars that are inglorious and are not in the Way of the Most High.

Soldiers of the Royal Army, Sailors of the Dread Fleet! I salute you!

At that moment dispensers on high began dropping tulip petals upon the helms of those below. Musicians struck up their instruments and played the songs of old, with which all such festivities had been marked. Gifts were distributed now, by royal favor, to those who been marked by their officers as stalwart men.

The Great Mater looked down upon her children and smiled, for these sights pleased her as did the supplications within the Sanctuaries. She walked before her, her red hair flapping along with her white robes woven by the Vani.


May the Fates be kind to you, my children. Trust not in the workings of the Cosmos, but trust in the Most High. Thrones shall come crashing down, the great fleets shall return from whence they came, and only I shall remain. Trust in me, trust in Righteousness.

Some saw her, but they could not discern her words. Others shouted the cry with which had sent their ranks crashing into the ranks of foes innumerable.

Durra! Durra! Durra!


Upon the Path

The riders rode swiftly, carrying the message to the Magus in the ancestral manner. They passed villages and communes, passed the great manses of the lords and the Great Sanctuaries of She That Brought Forth Creation. They only stopped to change horses and talk of the affairs of the country, so far distant from the underground citadels that most had spent most of their lives in.

The crop was expected to be good, praise the Mater Most High the Sower! Her children that labored in the fields did so, as the Scripturas had commanded, that the old ways might never die. That the sons and daughters who served as the champions of the Faith might have their bodies disciplined by work as their minds disciplined by scholarship. Books were available, in multiple languages and by writers no one might expect on the back of the beyond. Classics from nations that had once graced the Void were available, in tongues that Attan vra Resmond was not familiar with.

He took a number of poetry books and exchanged gifts from below, fine liquors that one could never tell were created in a manufactory. He mounted his mare, and bade his companions be prepared to ride as the sun proceeded to rise. He spurred the horse on to a trot and maneuvered through a village past the clucking chickens.

He broke off a piece of bread and raised his flask, filled with the Sacred Waters of the Nystarr River that flowed underground. Resmond and his companions were dressed in fine tunics, with yellow cloaks fluttering in the wind as they rode through a countryside that teemed with life. To his right he saw great herds of cattle and sheep, being led up to the mountain slope where good grazing land might be found.

He focused on his task, the bringing of the message from the Great Citadel on the future of the Realm. His men rode harder, pushing to their mounts to the limit. In the distance, they saw the onyx pillar with carvings of the vision of the 12,000 upon the day the Mater had appeared before those that were tilling in the fields. Her red hair and emerald eyes were obvious from this distance, as well as the Scepter in which all the Cosmos could be viewed within its orb.

Within a great fire, kindled by the Mater Most High, burned as it had for three hundred cycles without requiring anything to fuel it. The Frankians dismounted and mounted the steps, kneeling in supplication before that which shall never die. A Seer, a greybeard who had been a young man when Feylor first ascended the throne, was muttering sutras as he stared into the flame for a sign from the Most High.

Mater Most High, the Creator and Mistress of the Cosmos! Sala!
You that brought forth all that shall ever be,
And whose daughter drove the devas to the Abyss.
All the Vani shall sing your praise,
And our ancestors strode with pride in your halls,
Mater Atkana, Sala!

Resmond did not look up at the Seer, but reached for the parchment at his side from a world cut off from the sky and the gentle valleys. A world of metal and heat, which maintained that which civilization required above. His companions brought their offerings, goods made with the skilled craftsmen and rare works brought from beyond this Citadel.

The Seer did not look behind him, his eyes were focused on the fire. He then spoke.

Arise, Jan vra Resmond. Beloved of gods and of men, walk ye always in the Path of the Light.

He turned round and reached for the parchment, reading its contents as the messengers still were upon their knees. The greybeard chuckled and spoke these words, which brought the attendants bringing a girl of nineteen cycles. Her eyes were as white as cloudy as the mountain peaks, her hair as black as the void.

My child, those that attend the marvels below desire to know what the Fates intend... What the Mater Most High wills.

A tremor gripped the girl, who proceeded to chant a tongue that was spoken by those who had gone before. She rose from the ground and levitated above the flame, speaking rapidly to those children of Atkane. The Seer listened closely and smiled.

The vra Resmonds are destined to prosper greatly, as well as the citadels that work marvels below the surface. This District shall know peace, until in another time a force that knows not the Light shall arrive to contest with you my Children. In that time be strong, in that time know only that steel shall prevail in this contest.

Such be the will of the Fates. It is the will of the Mater Most High that you atone for your divergences from the Path and put away with sacrifices when your hearts are darkened. Put away from you all defilements and aid your brethren, even though they are not of your folk. My daughter took up my hammer to save you from the Abyss, will you let your neighbors be claimed by those who can only sate their hunger with blood?

Resmond nodded.

I swear to atone for my sins and the sins of my fathers, and to bring the sacred flame to those who know not its warmth. I shall request discharge from my duties, that I might trod the ground of great cities and poor villages for seven cycles.

The Oracle smiled and spoke in Frankian.

This be the will of the Mater Most High, Sala!


The girl then fell, being caught by a number of his attendants. As they saw to the girl, Resmond approached the fire with a knife at the ready. He opened his palm and cut. Blood began dripping from his hand, into the fire that shall never die.

[Royal Frankia]

Precious Insight

The Vrasha strode across the parapets of the Citadel, deep in thought for what the future might hold. The sole citadel within NS-1 was not a position he had wished to be assigned at court, but to lead the charge against the enemies of old was what duty called for. The enemy was slowly, but surely, preparing his strength to take the war into PW-1 where the chief citadels of the Realm lay. Word had reached his ear of a major shift towards rearmament and calling for volunteers to take part in the wars abroad that had always waged.

Below was a pastoral landscape, whose lands were unpolluted by all but communes and honest craft. The dorms below were comfortable, for a member of the Frankian folk, but the fresh air free from pollution was sought by all. The surface was where most of the Shrines and Sanctuaries were, for which many a man of the Faith had laid down their life rather than seeing their treasures carried off by unbelievers.

He had seen to the organization of the defenses, a review of the coffers, and had glimpsed at the productivity rate of the yards and industrial zones. In the event of lengthy siege, which was likely to take place, such matters were of importance. Stockpiles were organized, with entire systems beyond the frontier facing extractions to sure up the larders of this precarious zone.

Conscription of non-Frankians, those who had barely ascended the technological ladder, was called for to bulster the number of fighting men under the Scepter of the Marshals. Training would be harsh, though those that survived the harsh discipline of camp life would be allowed to serve amongst their brethren rather than being scattered. Conversion to Atkanism was stressed, with mass Baptisms by Fire being conducted by the Seers within the Royal Army when time permitted.

The new converts would be instructed that they were in the stage of servitude, a period which could give way to Follower of the Path upon the conclusion of their service. Those conscripts with potential were promoted, though their officers that frequent readings of the Scripturas would remold their hearts as well as their minds. Stellar shock, first contact with an advanced race, was a condition recognized by Frankian medical authorities which shattered all previously held beliefs of the primitives.

Still, arrayed in the crimson armor of the Legions, said primitives looked as though they could storm the frozen wastes of Tnem-Fragg. They marched in lockstep, their bayonets gleaming in the fair light of this world. The Vrasha walked before them, checking their arms and seeing that their posture. One youth stared at the Frankian, whose facial scars bore the mark of a katana.


Servant of the Eternal One... Name and rank.

Artois, Ranker First Class...

And Artois, Ranker First Class, do you believe in the Mater Most High and the Authority of the Kirk?

Aye, Vrasha.

And Artois, Ranker First Class, who is the protector of the Sanctuaries of the Most High? Who is the Defender of the Faith?

Dread Sovereignness Ynga Feylorius Wulfius... The Second, Vrasha!

The Vrasha nodded and examined the conscript's bayonet.

And will you kill many unbelievers with that?

Aye, Vrasha!

The Frankian moved on, the sight of the 16th legion raised so far pleasing to his eye. Lads, mostly, but within a generation they would rise to greater positions within their societies that had advanced from the Bronze Age to the Void Age in a matter of a quarter cycle. Aye, a new nobility would be forged, with Atkanism being spread through the legions.

The Kirklands sent forth their contingents under their own officers, but these were drilled only in the Scripturas. The Regulars of the Army regarded such as regiments which had marched more on paper, until the Vrasha had called for men to fill the ranks. The fields of slaughter in the Urlann demanded replenishment, and with the Frankians a minority outside Arkhana such troops would require being brought up to date before being sent against Fraconian Regulars or Mylorran Legionnaries.

The Vrasha sighed and moved on, taking the hoverlift which brought him hundreds of stories to the peak of the Pillar of Insight. Such names were frequent for these structures, which marked like the great domes the telltale signs of Frankian civilization. He had not opted for any of the manses which floated above the green plains of Arkhana, for he did not wish to waste time going up and down in hovercraft. Such hands on approach was what the Vrashas were known for, invested with powers that gave them command of Magisters and Governors alike.

The seal he carried had been given to him by the Dread Sovereignness herself, was much too busy with administering the Realm to bother with traveling to the Universe which held the lost lands. As he reached his chamber he stripped off his robe and sat upon his bed, in a rather modest room for someone who could command the coffers of an entire District. Vrashas were drawn exclusively from the Norvati sect within Atkanism, whose stress on austerity and antimaterialism had made them all but pariahs within court circles.

What was the meaning of desire,
But to enslave the mind to things that will not last?
Our bones shall return to the earth,
Or our ashes upon the pyres shall be blown away by the wind.
Nothing is all,
All is nothing.
Only the Mater Most High is one,
For she shall reign when all the gods are no more.
-Sanna Estanna vor Ruthanna

The Vrasha lit a fire in the hearth and sat on his knees before it, chanting sutras holy to Her That Brought Forth The World. He had fasted strictly, even though his position allowed him to escape the Long Fast called for upon the Practitioners of the Truth. Other Atkanite orders were more lax on such matters, though a Norvati was expected to subsist on bread and water. Even coffee and tea were prohibited, for they were regarded as stimulants which undermined one's insight.

[Royal Frankia]

A sudden change of course

Gerwannia

Director Vrus appeared before Vrantrille, perspiration upon his brow. He had been outflanked by the Magistrum, whose desire for a greater share of resources for the Fleet Planning Bureau could no longer be ignored. The Magister Navigum was smoking a pipe, apparently ignoring the civilian that stood before him as he looked at the latest reports.

His aide brought him tea rather than the whiskey his predecessor had taken to, for only tea could calm the minds of one whose mind dealt with a thousand possibilities.

Well?...

Would you like some tea?

No, that is not what I meant.

What did you mean?

Vrantrille was dressed as though he belonged in the Royal Hussars who pranced outside the Magistrum's Hall. The Director, who the day before was the most powerful man in the Realm, had been brought low at long last by the real authority. Charges had been filed by the Assembly, with Guild leadership bribed with lucrative contracts much, much closer to home.

What is my purpose, now that the Magistrum is once more in control of this Realm's future?

The Magister Navigum smiled.

You are to remain in your position, Director... But you are to instruct your Economic Planners that a Great War is on the horizon.

Is there? Shall you fools start another war that will cost the lives of tens of billions? It is no wonder why the Pords have not obliterated you, you serve them so well in your incompetence. Without you, they could not justify their massive expenditures...

We might have one if we are not prepared... As we used the UMS to justify massive expenditures of this sort, we cannot sit idly by.

We have not.. Our systems are fortified as never before, our industrial capacity as increased since the Exodus within PW-1.. Entire quadrants are we presently denuding of resources to..

Enough to reinforce the Prasental Fleet and the Defense Fleet.. We must have ships and men, defenses are not enough. The Dread Fleet must expand and maintain a force capable of bring the scourging fire to the citadels of our many enemies.

Does the Sovereignness support this drift towards militarism?

Heard you not her speech on the subject the other day? The Magistrum is in full support of my decision..

A Magistrum which still contains glorified flunkeys and drunken fools.

Such have been removed, since my tenure.. Royal patronage is both a blessing and a curse within our system, for the Sovereigns of old respected the right of those nobles who maintained ships of war. I do not, if you cannot maintain a ship of the line, let alone a Corps, I will give your job to the cook!

Vrus admired at least that trait of Vrantrille, the Dux of Texcoco, who had emerged with an unblemished war record. Major commanders had not escaped court martial and exile, though many of them had been given the choice of enlisting in the infantry to redeem themselves. This was a supreme disgrace for those who had served in the Fleet, but for those who longed for their bones to rest in their native land this was the only way to return. Many had fallen upon the parapets of the Mylorrans or the Fraconians, even if they were thirty cycles older than the Rankers at their side.


The Magister Navigum sighed deeply and drank of tea brought from his estate. He said a silent sutra under his breath, as his erstwhile rival rattled on. He caught only a gist of it.

You have the men and materiel at the moment..

Suitable for our defense, not for measures to alter the balance of power.

The peace has served us well..

Shamefully. The daughters of our Fair Mother lie under the yoke of unbelievers. Our Shrines and Sanctuaries are polluted with their presence. They must be driven from them.

This will cost many lives, much materiel, much time..

Think you nothing of shame, Director?

No, I think of resources that could better be put towards strengthening our Realm for the future. We shall last unto the end...

And then what? Allow our daughters to be violated? Allow our descendants to know that we allowed parts of their Patrimony to slip under the dominion of the foreigners? There can be no true peace so long as the lost lands are under foreign dominion, until the foreigner is driven back to his own lands!

I had no idea, that you worked for the Ministry of Propaganda... With what will you smash the Pordish formations? With what will you lay waste Ingen? I have the power...

You had..

Vrantrille opened his desk and produced a piece of parchment with the royal seal.

Vrus read the contents in disbelief.

I, Ynga the Second of my Line, call for the Magistrum to prepare the Realm for a total war footing. The enemy is gathering his strength and will soon be upon us, so say the Oracles before the Sacred Fire. Not a moment can be spared, nor a Wulffig. I hereby transfer all emergency powers of the Economic Planning Bureau to the Fleet Planning Bureau, given the great uncertainty which exists within the Realm. As in the time of Gerwann II,..

Vrus stopped reading and looked up.

This is madness. Peasant superstition! There are no signs that...

Vrantrille dismissed the notion with a waving of the hand.

Please, Director, you surely were not born yesterday.

A hologram flashed, showing multiple yards scattered across PW-1. Heavily defended to best scatter industry in the event of a major war. The mobility of industry had been useful in both wars, allowing Frankia to rebuild rapidly. Should an enemy come again, he would be taking on an industrial titan the likes of which the Cosmos had never seen before. The Battle for Production, after much pain and sacrifice, had recognized its primary goal of a string of systems capable of supporting a much larger fleet.

The transformation of PW-1 in the absence of serious rivals had turned vast portions into a Frankian Void, with the means to fund what was the obsession of the Magistrum. A force capable of winning glory, of leveling the citadels of Tnem-Fragg. While the other powers had rested on their laurels, the Frankians had labored intensively to build back better. Great citadels had taken shape beneath the surface of multiple worlds, while great orbital factories and yards produced everything that was required for a Fleet that was never at rest.

These yards and factories were meant for peace, to raise the standard of living of the folk!

And they have, according to National Syndicalist guidelines. Surely, Director, we cannot tolerate decadence to weaken our folk while Wolves roam our mountains.

Has the Magistrum agreed to war?

No, even this shameful peace is useful in the long-run. Our folk have labored hard, let them enjoy the fruits of their labor. But you cannot buy our folk off with trinkets and titles, when their honor as a folk is at stake. This is what the Ingenious do not understand, for their betrayal broke bonds which had stood for a thousand of our cycles.

Yet, we fired upon the Pords off Rastho Prime.

Who were aiding Neo-Barlatists while making common cause with a Sith Lord.

Please, do not repeat the established line to me... What is my role?

To prepare the economy for total war, but you must do so gradually to prevent economic dislocation... The Fleet's allocation of resources will rise greatly, so the Economic Planning Bureau must meet the quotas of the Magistrum.. I mean, the Fleet Planning Bureau. I expect you to behave as though you are a man of the Fleet, even though you are not a man of the Fleet.

And if I resign?

You may, but I will find another who is up for the task. Such an individual will only care about results, not say what might happen to the economy as a whole. You will not be able to favor your constituents and those that desire influence would be without.

The Director contemplated and nodded.

It is agreed, then?

Aye.


Vrantrille breathed a sigh of relief as his old enemy left, a beaten man. One battle was over, another battle was about to begin. This battle would involve in building up a strike force ready to take on whatever coalitions might rise against a Ram risen from the ashes. It would take time and patience, as new craft whose prototypes had not been constructed were now flooded with resources. Many craft would have to undergo costly retrofitting, while others would be scrapped and see their crews reassigned to newer craft churning off Frankian yards at a rapid pace.

The Magister Navigum refilled his pipe with Austrasian tobacco and smiled. He watched as the smoke reached the ceiling, though his ancestors of old were of the habit of referring to smoke as the essence of the Vani. May the Vani, the spirits who attended to the Mater Most High, aid our dockworkers and foremen in the Battle for Hulls.


Astarra

What had once been Urlannenbourg had been rechristened in honor of the mind of the Most Divine, the sacred fount of wisdom that had beget all Creation. Here, was a world that was heavily populated by those that had become subjects after much intermarriage with the Frankians. The Urlannans were sturdier than the other races that acknowledged the Dread Throne, even capable of initiative independent of the dominant folk within the Realm.

Most were reluctant refugees, who desired to see the Urlann Confederation rise once more to dominate the Quadrant. Most sought the protection of the royal banner, for the enemies of that banner either repaid Urlannan assistance with indifference or with the yoke. Urlannan had fought Urlannan in the last war, for which the loyalists had been granted the status of full subjects while the Franks had been demoted as second class folk.

Their Frankian cousins watched the Urlannans practice the Arts of Sacred War, with the bayonet at the ready. Atkannar fanned out amongst the companies, eying their posture and testing their reaction with a staff that such masters always kept. They had been up since the rising of the sun, and would not return to their bunks until its set.

Excellent, most excellent.

The Zarathas instituted by the Education Authority had included more martial training, much to the chagrin of the Triarchs and Seers who sought respite from war. Some of their lot were more eager to take up arms in defense of the defiled Sanctuaries and the ravaged daughters, and as such many prelates instructed the Youths on the best manner to counter the swing of a katana or running through the procedure how to operate a quad manually should its automatic system fail. Some bore the scars of battle, though where and when did not matter to the officers of the Dread Fleet.

The Urlannan formations were growing once more, with rumors of retaking the Urlann from those who had carved it up upon the Exodus. All had been told that this was the destination, but their Frankian officers kept their reservations to themselves. Any gain in the Urlann would only be temporary, while the real issue of hegemony within NS-1 depended on who was left standing. Against the enemies of old, Faith was a weapon that had yet not been employed.

The slaughter of clergy and captives had not been forgotten, nor had Pordish acquiescence. Then, the Realm had been beset on all sides by the Great Powers, but one by one they had withered. Those who boasted of standing for a thousand cycles had fallen by the wayside, their memories but dust which passed over the columns of the Dread Fleet.

Each day the Frankian ranks grew stronger, as more craft rolled off the shipyards to bolster the ranks. The Dread Fleet was growing, rapidly, as the industrial might of the Great Realm was brought to bear for the forging of the sword of war. As the many stars in the sky, so the Magistrum had announced would be the number of craft within the Dread Fleet scattered across the Void.

Propaganda broadcasts proclaimed the fall of the Great Apostate, those who followed in the unholy wake of the blizzard.

Soon, soon, beloved children... You shall take up the sword against our enemies of old, to bring down the realms that now wallow in decadence. The strong will overcome the weak, and the Apostate Laptev shall offer her neck to the coming Iskandra.

Sala, sala! May the Fates be merciful upon the unbelievers on that day! Sala, Sala! Iskandra!

Rhetoric of this sort was employed, while facts and figures predicted that the Dread Fleet was growing at a modest rate. The issue lay with the ships and the tacticians, and the manner of war that the Frankians had unleashed upon the Void 32 cycles before. Rationalization came before rapid expansion, so the craft might fulfill their roles as guardians or avengers of the Realm.

DKS Atkana's Crown was one such example, a destroyer that had seen her ordinance and hull modified. Survivability was the buzzword, though the smaller craft the more expendable it was in the eyes of the Magistrum. The lesser craft were to be manufactured according to the mass production principle, with some models even capable of being rolled off the mobile yards which were now to follow Frankian formations.

The Wulfrum destroyer fired upon moving targets within the Void, veering right to avoid ordinance which only the sensors depicted. The key was steering the craft out of harm's way, while downing incoming munition with the wall of flak and laserfire at its disposal. "Hits" were registered, with the crew within a condemned ward moving as though the Furies were upon them.

The Shiplord Estann vra Krevil eyed the monitors and noted the reaction time. He scowled.

They move to slow.

They have rested to long, their bones are made stiff Shiplord.

Their bones might crack and their marrow be the supper of Wolves, if they do not hurry up.

The captains had worked their men hard, though the long peace without a real war had caused bad habits to set in. The Realm Defense Fleet was more lax than the Prasental Fleet, as it was assigned the task of defending what the Engineers had proclaimed were impregnable strongholds. Krevil thought otherwise, that given the tenacity of the Pords they might conquer as they had conquered at Septimania should they descend upon the Frankian systems within PW-1.

Move, move! You wish your sons never to lay eyes on you? Do you wish for your bones not to rest beside your fathers?

This did the trick, as the Frankians moved like automatons. Singing as they worked, some secular tunes from the days of sail and others of the holiest psalms. Most of the men under Krevil had served for some time, while a smattering of Cadets had been allowed to train them for the art of Captaincy within the Fleet. It was an organized chaos, though under Krevil's tenure efficiency rates had spiked.

To the Planning Bureau, this might be a means to test success... For a Krevil who had come under the withering fire, only ensuring that his craft was not scattered across the Void was his only measure of success. Sending the enemy to his gods was in his eyes a bonus, though there would always be enemies to fight.

Krevil's mind raced back to his youth, when he had been a Cadet serving at Septimania under the Dread Sovereign's banner...

[b]Across the Void lay the wrecks of Frankian and Pordish craft, with the fighting edging back and forth in sheer ferocity. Krevil's father had bid his son not to worry, as the DKS Atkana made due course with her sisters for the battle contested system of Vras. This was a battle for the ages, dwarfing those which had come before in FB-1.

The Realm had mobilized greatly to defend this District, even as she was preoccupied with the Great Battle of Yamsai and the renewed War in the Urlann. The Frankians came out of their fortifications and battered the Pords at every opportunity, wearing down their opposite number even at high costs to themselves. There was little recourse, for the Pords had cleared the first belt and were with several hundred leagues now of Vras.

The fighting in the open Void was the most dangerous for the formations, though individual craft stood a better chance of survival. Krevil remembered little, save that when his father's craft returned to Port nearly a third of the formation had been lost. Ceremonies for the fallen martyrs were held, while other formations went into the firing line to bloody the nose of the Wolf from afar.

The Greenclad fought like lions, contesting every parapet and every underground fortress. Their guns took a number of the lighter craft of the Pords, that dared enter the orbit of fair Vras. Below the sky everything was on fire, with the Pordish positions being constantly bombarded by the mobile batteries. Quads ripped apart any man that dare expose himself, with turrets placed seemingly at every yard.

The River Saas had been rechristened the Bloody Fragg, for the number of wrecked craft and dead Pords that lie close to its embankments. Dug into the hillside, the Frankians watched as parties on both sides retrieved their dead and wounded. For a moment, the firing had ceased in this section of the frontline, but elsewhere the fighting waged with an unremitting fury.

Within Krevil's desk lay the last letter from his brother, before Vras fell to the banner of the Trident. He had been wounded horribly and bled to death as the Pords had carried him to their hospital facilities.

Dearest Brother Estann,

Things are truly terrible here.. I have not slept in many nights, for the shells bursting upon our shielding creates much noise. The men of my company have withered away, each day sees fewer of us return to our underground lair.

Each day brings death... As certain here as in the Void. A bursting shell or a craft rising from a crater is as likely to bring about my end as a sniper. I cannot remember how many Wolves we slay in a day, but each day we grow weaker while they grow stronger.

The Regulars that remain aim to sell their lives dear, for the honor of the Sovereign, the Realm, and the Faith. I have witnessed acts of bravery that will be recounted in the Annals, should their tales be told of those who defended a Fortress that never should have fallen to their last breath. I trust you in the keeping of the Mater Atkana, and I wish you tell father that I did my duty as a man of the Greenclad.

-Ranker Jann vra Krevil,

[Royal Frankia]

Ye have been baptized by fire,
Souls aflame with love of the Mater Atkana.
The Vani aid you in battle and bestow the gentle rains,
The Vranni pray to their devas to grant you the victory.
The Realm shall endure, even unto the Last Age.
When the Pillars shall be brought down,
When not a mighty Citadel shall remain.

The Pord will fall upon his Trident,
When he sees Tnem-Fragg invested by forces great and old.
The Ingenious will howl, as their katanas are broken.
And their greatest scholars led into royal captivity.
The colonies of Aldia will burn, one by one that do not bow.
The peace entrusted to superior firepower would be broken,
Nor will the Katasian's tricks avail him in this hour.
Iskandra, come, and vent your wrath upon our many enemies.
-Frankian proverb

Stirring Words, still much work

The Great Prasental Fleet had been organized on the principle that the Dread Fleet must possess a force more mobile and less dependent upon established bases than its predecessors. It must be able to endure the rigors of Voidkampf, and be able to make good its losses in a prolonged conflict within the heartland of the enemy. Battles were expected to last for a quarter of a cycle or longer, and given the expenditure rate the Magistrum was of the opinion that a greater emphasis must be placed on support detachments.

Orbital factories, which had enabled the Realm to recover rapidly after horrible defeats, were to be attached to the formations in the Void. Yards were to be towed and maintained, even under appalling conditions, to manufacture ships of war and the supplies which could not be manufactured aboard. There was much influence from the Economic Planners, who sought to make an expanding fleet less likely to drain more resources from their Plans.

Many Corps of the Prasental Fleet as yet sailed on paper, but much work was being done to transform the ad hoc formations into fighting formations that would make the very foundations of Tnem-Fragg shake. Officers and men were combed throughout the Dread Fleet, to determine those capable of leading men who were to be for the vanguard for the Realm's future reconquests of the lost lands. Transfers were made available within the Realm Defense Fleets, as there were many incentives such as pay and fresh honors to be won against the enemies in the Void.

Vrantrille sought to rebuild the offensive arm of the Realm, which had languished with the long peace. Even the Axis had not been matched with the full might of the Realm, so distracted had the Dread Fleet been with the Pordish assault that they had regarded the Battle of Legacy as more a skirmish than the Ingenious annals might dictate. Even as such a focus on offensive capabilities was rammed through, the defense of the existing borders was not forgotten.

While the Director regarded the fortification of the Realm against external threats as a means of providing work recreation for the Guildiers, such fortifications were not sufficient for what was expected to emerge from NS-1. The Realm must be reorganized rationally, to ensure that vital systems were not as open to assault from the enemy. A withdrawal from the borderlands was thought practical, which would leave many of the marches exposed to internal intrigue or the wrath of the barbarri flotillas.

Each vessel was to be blessed by the Kirk, so that all aboard who as yet were not baptized might venture together as Brethren of Light in the next life. The veterans had remembered that the rapid rush to arms had not allowed time for these blessings to occur, leaving much doubt for those who had fallen in the war who as yet had not been initiated into the Faith. Baptism by the eternal fire was only performed once one had reached adulthood, with many who had gone off to war being mere lads of 15-16 cycles.

Vrantrille was pious, though he did not preach to those aboard his craft. While acknowledgement of the Faith's tenants was expected, personal belief was allowed for each of the Children of the Mater Most High. There were some who doubted the existence of the gods, others who doubted that the Mater still cared for her Children after the endless rivers of blood. Some had claimed that the fall of the Lost Lands was payment in full for breaking of the Blood Pact with the Pords, with the notion of the Sith infidelity being not a valid pretext.

Your wars please me not,
The unbelievers are as much my children as are you.
Defile not the Sanctuaries of their Devas,
Nor abhor their rites to such Bearers of my Mantle.
To the Devas who have risen from the Cosmic Ether,
I bestow gifts crafted by the Vani.

As far as statistics hinted towards the Rearmament Plan, all was going well. The Yards were frantic with activity, to meet the requirements of the Magistrum. Dromonds were being crafted in the Great Yards, their guns being mounted as the Magister Navigum's pen moved against the parchment preparing for their allocation. Heavy battalions within the regiments were to be strengthened, while Voltigeur detachments would see their number of capital ships allocated rise threefold.

This had led to some conflict with the Guards of Novoronda, who had been established in honor of their service to Feylor as a force outside the control of the Magistrum. Their Yards had received considerable royal largesse and talent, as they were viewed as an elite fighting force capable of fighting on land or in the Void. The Commander of the Guards had created considerable ill will amongst the Magistrum for boasting of the expansion of the number of the Corps under his command... Vrantrille took some joy in the discomfiture of his rival, but he would require the Novorondons should he wish to operate in hostile lands far from the Magistrum's oversight.


Work was plentiful, with most of the work was automated which was too laborious. There was still the need for craftsmen to see to the interior or to the spiritual comforts. Mosaics were inlaid upon the walls of even the modest bunkroom which depicted agrarian landscapes, glorious battle, and the events of the Cosmic Origin. Devas were seen raising their cups in honor of the Most High, while the Fates cast the fortunes of beggars and great nations.

Around Vrantrille similar scenery was on display, with an Ingenious daimyao bestowing his katana upon the Magister Navigum cast in bronze upon the fall his citadel. The Dux of Texcoco was well aware that such had never happened, for poor Dreggten had been called to the Hall of the Most High shortly after the Second Great War had begun. Still, Texcoco's fall was still celebrated as well as that of Kressnia, for all great nations must hold high their victories while downplay their defeats. Perhaps that was why Victory Days were so few, with many days simply left blank in the Royal Calendar.

The Magister Navigum expected to lead forces against the Ingenious, though not likely in the lifetime of the Dread Sovereignness who as yet reigned. She had kept the peace, despite the cries of the Lost Daughters for return of the Realm. Vrantrille placed his hope in her son Attan, who already interested with everything which was martial. Perhaps he would be Gerwann II come again? Perhaps he was the Iskandra, who would bring all of the Cosmos under his Scepter and inaugurate the return of the Mater Most High to dwell amongst her mortals?

So far as Vrantrille was concerned, the youth was more pliable to the will of the Magistrum. In time, the Prasental Fleet would set sail to remark the boundaries established by shameful truces and broken treaties. Then NS-1 would know the coming of the Furies, and of a red dawn which would herald the end of life as they knew it. The Devas would not aid them, nor would their Citadels withstand the coming of the Frankian folk with steel in their hands. Even should the Iskandra not come to the aid of the Dread Fleet at such an hour, it still would not matter as the decadent realms would be swept aside.

Still, so long as the Dread Sovereignness preferred peace he could not lead his forces against the enemies of old. Still, there were attempts at diplomatic overtures, to drive a wedge in the old alliances of the Pords and perhaps to alter the balance of power by developing new realms. Even the Ishii might be made amendable, should they be promised the desolation of Tnem-Fragg, though Vrantrille knew that in all likelihood the Frankians would have to go it alone should they recover the Lost Lands.

Neustria, fairest of the daughters of the Mater Most High!
Emerald of the Realm, you have been defiled by heathen batteries!
The sacred mountains are sent skyward,
The fertile fields are blackened by their scorching shot.
O Mater Most High, why are you deaf to the cries of your Children?
We have always honored the Rites you have inaugurated!
Grant us the courage to meet what the merciless Fates have ordained,
And allow us to meet our foes that descend with noble steel
May we end the life of many with the bayonet,
And bring fire upon those who abide the Blizzard!
For our honor and glory we commend to you,
For now the enemy is near and our sight is clear.
Forward, even if it means certain death!
Forward, for our women and children cower in the citadels below!
Forward, even if the Devas should join the battle on the side of the foe!
Forward, even if all the realms should descend!
Many of us will fall, but so many of the enemy.
Fight, fight, fight!
Fight for every league of ground, for every yard!
Let the batteries work their deadly work upon our enemy,
And may they be mowed down by our turrets that line our positions.
Fight like heroes of old, fight like men of the Realm that shall never die!
Our bones will return to the earth, our flesh will rot!
But what we do this day shall never be forgotten!
Men of the Royal Army, men that call themselves Greenclad!
Forward, for do you not seen our Dread Sovereign in the vanguard with the Guard?

[Royal Frankia]

Coming of the Urstanna and the rise of Khymer

The Fallen were returned to Frankian soil, where they were honored as Martyrs of the Realm and of the One True Faith. As a realm which faced threats from the benign powers as well as the Great, rivers of blood being spilled on the frontier were not something unheard of. Traditionally, the Frankians had gotten the better of their foes, but the rising of the Urstanna within the Great Kingdom of Khymeria had led to clashes much bloodier than as yet seen.

The war between the Orthodox Atkanite and the heretical Urstanna had been waged for some time, with the Prophet triggering a great rising within Neustrasia some three cycles before. Urstannism had spread within the disaffected realms who could not embrace the great truths espoused by the Kirk. Urstannism was a much humbler faith, which based its authority solely on the Scripturas and the word of the Prophet Urstann who was the last. This had led to a split with the Kirk and attempts at slaughtering the Vranni(unbelievers) wherever they might be found.

Neustrasia had been reduced to rubble and was in the process of reconstruction, for the Franks of old had embraced the new faith. Their clerics of old they slaughtered and against the Frankian garrison they rose like men possessed. The Prophet Urstann had proclaimed the rise of a great empire and the coming of the Iskandra, who would decide ultimately the Fate of the remaining Realms. This was at issue with the tenant that the Iskandra would fulfill the will of the Fates, not upend what the Mater Most High had decreed.

Great forces had flocked to the banner of Urstann, with those who had been made weary by the Exodous rising in the name of a New Order. Frankians were untouched by this wave of religious hysteria, and moved in to crush this challenge to royal authority and the Faith. The Prasental Fleet was dispatched for the first time, to crush the great fleet of the Urstanna that lay above the besieged Fetters of Neustrasia.

That great battle had attracted numerous outsiders within FB-1 and considerable assistance from enemies of old within the Urlann, though the disciplined ranks of the Dread Sovereignness overcame those who believed the gods would assist them. Time and again the craft of the Prophet made course for the ranks of the Dread Fleet, only to return with one half scattered across the Void and the other fleeing for their lives. As the Urstanna had showed no quarter to Atkanites and the Vranni, no quarter was shown to those who profaned all the gods and the Mater Most High by their fanaticism.

As the Great Host of the Prophet was scattered across PW-1, the Frankians retook Neustrasia and ensured it would not rebel for some time. The Urstanna upon the planet fought the Atkanites street by street, house by house. The cities that the ancestors still preferred were leveled, one by one, by the great batteries of the Royal Army. The descendants of this folk fought their living ancestors to the knife, with nothing the former could do to persuade the latter. The number of slain, both Frankian and Frank, were too numerous for the Chroncilers to count.

Urstannism had failed within the Realm blossomed, for similar scenes repeated themselves throughout the Realm as the fanatics attempted to throw down the Kirk. Their Prophet was captured by the Guards of Novoronda while fleeing the open Void and summarily executed for causing immense strife not seen since before the time of Wylus.

You have executed the Seal of the Iskandra,
And I shall return with the Red Mist.
All of the Dread Realm shall be dispatched,
And the devas shall aid the Urstanna in bringing down the Authority.
Your Throne means nothing to me,
Your Kirk is a blasphemy!

The Prophet died screaming upon the pyre, though his Disciples were to prove more of a nuisance. The Disciples of Urstann fled, beyond the Realm, to those realms that were still in the process of upheaval. Here, they overcame the old cults and established militaristic theocracies. Conversions were forced, with those Vranni refusing to acknowledge the Prophet subsequently executed in horrific manners to ensure a speed of conversion. Zarathas were established to mold the minds of the Conversos, to create more Urstanna who would take up arms against the Atkanites and the false cults wherever they might be.

Even those who acknowledged the devas, but not the Mater Most High, were persecuted by the Urstanna while the Kirk favored respect for the many paths to the One. Perhaps no greater was this persecution than the Realm of Khymeria, where the Urstanna had converted the royal family which presided over an oligarchy of shiplords. The Disciples had brought great knowledge, which had allowed Khymeria to grow at the expense of her many rivals. The Disciples of Urstann personally led the Fleets of the Great Lord, often ensuring that the worlds of unbelievers were converted or decimated depending upon their decision.

With the rise of Khymeria, the need for rearmament had grown. Perhaps more pressing was this threat than the enemies of old, or the cousins in the Urlann. Emboldened by success, the Disciples of Urstann had led fleet after fleet against the Districts and Marches of the Realm. Vast battles were fought, and often won by the will of the gods for the Disciples had learned the lessons of Neustrasia. The Dread Sovereignness had been forced to take up the sword, as Defender of the Faith, and ready the Prasental Fleet for great campaigns to destroy these bastions of heresy.

The Urstanna who came to defile the Sanctuaries were met in the Void, and upon many worlds with the whirl of steel. Each cycle more and more was called for to suppress the rise of Khymer, which threatened to displace the Dread Realm as the leading power of PW-1. It was then that the Atkannar sect arose, to challenge the new threat from afar, which led to greater militarism within Atkanism than had been seen. Many Vranni enlisted to fight the Urstanna, who knew no quarter and sought only the Iskandra's coming bloody reign.

The Mater Most High,
Grant us victory in this hour.
Against those that defile your Sanctuaries,
And ravage your Daughters.
Sala, Mater Atkana!