Aftermath (IC|Post-Apocalypse|Faction|Open)

by **Anowa** » Sun Jul 18, 2021 9:35 am

_{Canon James Orion}
_{Head of Public Works}
_{Trinity Council Chamber}
_{New Jerusalem}
_{Week 1, January 2223}

"Last week, 14 injuries occurred when a portion of the still setting mortar on the eastern wall gave way under strain and collapsed. 3 were injured when the motor on a concrete mixer gave way and detonated after a reported 17 hours of sustained use. Another died after inhaling carbon monoxide in an unventilated room with three generators. Four were inj-"

"We get the point, Orion."

James looked up from the binder to the 30 others assembled, most looked about fed up with the reports of damage and injuries on the Third Temple's construction. yet he simply sighed and closed the book, it wasn't incredibly important to tell the council of said casualties explicitly, they already knew there was damage.

The patriarch seemed sad, but the look in his eyes had been seen before. He didn't care... or rather he cared more about the completion of the temple over the health of it's workers. It was demoralizing to put it simply.

A voice spoke up from the rear rows, "Orion, how are we on the logistical side of things?" the man looked up at the sole woman in the room, the head of the Hospitaller, Mosaic. She was simply staring down the patriarch.

Orion sighed as he grabbed another binder, "Well um. Everything is still pretty much the same as last week, bricks, fuel, and, you know, general construction materials are all things we're running out of. All of it is still pretty strung out between the Temple, the Canal, and the Dam... Again, we have to drop one of those projects. I would say the Dam... but...."

At mention of that, every head in the room turned to him, and for a moment Orion felt very small, "But?"

"But... we're going to run out of fuel for the reactor."

Silence reigned. For seconds everyone was silent as they looked at one another. The sole nuclear reactor the Order had was... barely a reactor really. Sure, it generated heat that boiled water and spun a turbine, but it wasn't made efficiently, the nuclear fuel could barely be considered fuel, and it had to be supplemented by stocks of wood burning and biofuel burning generators to keep up. But it was still the vast majority of power generation during the winter when the solar panels taken from Arizona and Utah had snow on them, and when the water screws were locked in place with ice. For safety the reactor didn't even run in summer, and the parts for it were hard to obtain. They hit the motherlode when they found that construction site for it in Utah, but that was close to 80 years ago. They needed to find a way to produce proper reactors if they wanted to stay here. And most definitely a better way to obtain fuel than mining it like the are now.

Orion spoke up, "This winter, was notably harsh. While the normal power draw from homes and emergency services was, well, normal for the most part, having the Temple be worked on all year round caused the reactor staff to ramp up fission rate quite a bit due to all the power tools, lighting and whatnot. While they're starting to catch up now, there'll be a period in..." the man checked the paper, "About March where what we'll have to replace the fuel and there won't be enough rods to replace those we take out, and brown outs will be inevitable."

The patriarch was silent for a few moments, "So, cancel the Canal then?"

Orion rubbed his brow as a few folks in the room muttered to themselves, this was one of Curtis' main problems. The only time he was truly decisive was in regards to the Temple, and it was always in the project's favour. It was becoming tiresome.

The logistician took in a deep breath and was about to speak, when the sound of Mosaic standing up took center spot in the room. The woman was... abnormal, the whole of the family line of the Khan was, men and women, children. All had the piercing blue eyes that seemed unnatural, all of them were extraordinarily tall, and hardy. Seeing them at a doctor, or hospital, or even with the sniffles... it just never happened. It was known the Khan had lived in Denver for some time before coming to the order armed and with a wealth of military equipment... but he never divulged why exactly he was as he was.

The woman then spoke, with a tone that was delivered with finality, "Patriarch, I'm giving you two weeks to decide which project to shut down, put on hiatus, whatever, that includes the Temple. Three public works projects of that size working at once are killing our economy, our infrastructure has fallen in to disrepair, and our workers are getting injured, in some cases crippled, because you're having your foremen rush a job that's not even ours. If you haven't decided by then I'm locking off the Temple's work site and putting it under Sentinel guard until one of the other projects is done. Even if it takes years."

It was somewhat ironic. The Dam and the Canal were supposed to help the economy, not drain it like a vampire. The Dam would provide proper year round electricity after it's reservoir filled, the turbines would be deep enough not to be affected by the top ice layer; and the canal would finally connect the Rio Grande and Colorado basins, meaning a passage from the Pacific to the Atlantic would once again be viable after the absolute loss of the Panama Canal, and inability to traverse the Northern Passage, both of which were now unreachable for one reason or another. Of them all, the Temple was the only true vampire, as heretical as it was to say.

While normally, the rest of the council would at least silently nod to whatever it was Mosaic would propose to get the Patriarch to relent for at least a few weeks, this was the first time she'd gone for the jugular, and exerted the authority she had in order to force his hand. Was it illegal? Perhaps. Did it get a reaction? yes. Definitely yes.

The moment the words left her mouth, the chamber descended into some mild bickering for a moment on both sides of the argument, before the almost shrill holler of the Patriarch cut through the room like a sword.

The older man was red in the face, his finger projected like a bullet at Mosaic, and spittle flying from his mouth. "You can't do that!"

As the yelling continued and the ambient volume in the chamber rose to migraine inducing levels, Orion simply stacked his things, grabbed his cane and left. Today was going to be brutal, he could tell.

Summary of Events:
- The Order of St. John of Jerusalem takes no actions.

NEW EVENTS

A White Winter

In times long gone, a blanket of snow over the land was seen as a blessing, a sign of a holiday season filled with joy and cheer. That was a long time ago, now all snow brings is a sense of dread. Humans don't hibernate, so the first sign of snow means the first sign of grabbing whatever food you can and hunkering down, anywhere from 3 to 5 months. Sometimes, people don't make it, and end up doing the unthinkable...
Not to mention the floods that sometimes occur afterwards.

This event slows population growth and troop movements by half, and outright ceases crop production. Poor management can lead to widespread starvation.
This Events Ends in the Second Week of February
Affected Factions: Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, The Purified Republic of Amerika, The State of Harvard, Mississippi River Trading Co.

Dormant Signals

The world after the downfall of man is not always easy to ascertain. Things sometimes weren't easily understood, some times things were just outright nonsensical in nature, even to the educated. And sometimes they have an explanation, but are still just... odd. This is one of those times. Someone, somewhere is sending a repeating radio signal that isn't much more than garbled static and sometimes discernable numbers.

Triangulating it wouldn't be especially hard, but actually knowing to do that would be for some.

This event ends when the source of the issue is dealt with
Affected Factions:All Factions with a Working Radio

by **Cybernetic Socialist Republics** » Mon Jul 19, 2021 3:38 pm

Week 1, January 2223, Neosparcticist Army Base in Old Ojinaga

Xiomara Zavala lay on her bed, covered in a sheet, in her room in an old building, reading a book lying flat in front of her head on the bed, lit only by a candle on a desk beside, with dark red hair partially covering her face. Looking at the scene one would be mistaken in thinking she was no different than what one would have seen in any young woman her age from a time past, before the fall of the old human civilization. But if one looked around the room, signs she was anything but a regular young woman lay around the room. In one corner, a compound bow, in another a longsword. On a the top of a coat tree away from her bed and by her door, sat a cavalry helmet, with a large plume the color of her hair and on each branch a different piece of armor and what looked like the clothing of a warrior.

Looking closer still, it'd be that clear that these weapons amour and clothing weren't props or collectibles. They had scratches and marks the indicated heavy use. Most had tinges of red on them, with a colors remarkably consistent with what would would expect to see with stains of blood. It was clear, from this, when combined with her physique which could be inferred from the way her sheet rested on her body as she lay on her side, it was clear that she was some type of warrior. But the fact she was reading a book at candle light in the morning, in a grim free room suggested that she wasn't someone's grunt. A mercenary, perhaps? But soon a knock on the door came, it removed all doubt as to what she was and who she was.

"Strategos Xiomara, may I come in?" Said a male voice, addressing the young woman by a title that meant military general in Greek.

"If I wasn't expecting you, my guards would have kicked your shit in, what do you think, Gaspar?" Responded Xiomara with annoyance.

Gaspar opened the door and looked in, the clipboard carrying man in his mid 20s, seeing Xiomara, still lying on her side reading her book.

"Are you even dressed? Maybe I should just wait a few..." Begun Gaspar before he was interrupted.

"Gaspar, get over here, right fucking now, or I will get out of this bed and drag you over here in: three, two..." Xiomara said, counting down.

Gasper rushed to Xiomara's bedside. He knew that Xiomara was utterly serious in her threat.

"Open the curtains." Xiomara said, lifting one hand to point them out to Gaspar.

Gaspar complied, opening then wide, the window providing a view to a small balcony over looking a town square. He remained standing at the window has he turned around.

"Sit here" She said, stretching with her right hand to grab at the seat in front of her bedside desk, awkwardly trying to pull it out while remaining under the sheets.

"Come you can come closer, I'm not gonna pull you into a headlock this time, I promise. You said it made you uncomfortable, you know, besides the fact that it hurt." Xiomara giggled, hoping to relieve the awkwardness of the moment.

Gaspar walked over and sat on the chair in front of Xiomara's bed.

"So, tell me, the scouts confirmed the rumors, correct?" She said, looking up at Gaspar.

"Yes, the clan of bandits up north of the Rio Grande are indeed under going a time of internal strife and weaknesses. I have the specifics of what we know ritten down here if you want to read them." Informed Gaspar, releasing his clipboard to put down the set of notes on Xiomara's table.

"Excellent, couldn't be any happier. I haven't killed someone since dad died, I'm fucking bored. You can only use training as an excuse to kick the shit out of people so many times before it gets tiring, I need to put the boots to someone struggling for their life sooner rather than later or I'm going to lose it." Said Xiomara, with a darkly humorous description of her not entirely exaggerated feelings.

"You could always restart the tests?" Suggested Gaspar sarcastically.

"What? and lose even more people? You're only still alive because my 16 year old self decided to challenge up, not only someone 4 years my senior, but a male." Xiomara reminded him.

"I would have been fine, I went easy on you, didn't want to crush your spirit and have you lose to a less intelligent psycho girl after." Gaspar responded.

"I distinctly remember you calling me an overgrown piglet." Xiomara said, thinking back

"Doesn't change what I think of you." Sai Gaspar with an absent minded slip

"Excuse me?" Xiomara narrowed her eyes and Gaspar, giving him a murderous glare that he had managed so far to be far more successful and surviving receiving than most.

"Thought, thought, I mean thought." Said Gaspar with more than a slight hint of dread at his sincere mistake. Xiomara gave a satisfied smile for a moment at his look of fear, before being brought down to earth by remembering that she did particularly want him to fear her that much, leading her to instead return the subject of the original point of his meeting her.

"Anyway you've got your clipboard and pencil, I need you to copy down what I say, three times, then you hand the clipboard to me and then I'll sign them, then you have them delivered to those 3 small enclaves." Xiomara explained.

"Got it." Said Gaspar, making sure he was ready to record his Strategos' words:

"Dear Harmless Neighbor:

You live in fear of bandits.

We are subjugating bandit clans.

They will be under control

You will have me to thank."

Xiomara waited for Gaspar to write the three letters. Despite her abuse, a product of not really knowing how to show affection properly, she looked up to Gaspar in ways she didn't show. After he finished. He handed the clipboard to Xiomara.

"I'll sit up away from you since you're such a sensitive soul. You've seen me kill people and it's my body that offends you." She said with a mix of annoyance and humor.

Xiomara leaned up, with a back turned to Gaspar that convincingly belonged to woman warrior, though it was notably absent of scars.

'Xiomara Zavala, Strategos of the Neospartacist Army.'

She wrote in her signature cursive below the sardonic message, She wanted her message to signal that she was as capable of the brutish as she was the sophisticated and thrived at accomplishing the ends of the latter with the means of the former. She lay back down under her sheets, as she turned and handed the clip board back to Gaspar.

"Another thing, I need you to gather the whole clan at the meeting house as soon as possible. I need to make an announcement. Don't need to tell my subordinates specifics, Now go on your way." Commanded Xiomara, in preparation for what she was as the political power play she needed to secure both the position of the Neospartaicist Army and her own as it's leader.

"Yes, Strategoes" Gaspar said as he turned to head to exit Xiomara's bed room.

"Before you leave, thoss me my armor and clothing?" Xiomara said, in a tone half mixed between order and request as she pointed to her clothing rack at the front of the room.

"Sure thing." Gaspar said, taking each article of armor and uniform and throwing sliding it near Xiomara's bed, some of which she begun stretching off the bed to grab.

"Except the--Ugh.." Xiomara was interrupted by her helmet hitting her in the head. Xiomara wasn't really hurt, but she was still significantly annoyed,

"Sorry, sorry, sorry..." Gaspar begun preemptively apologizing, even as he threw the last articles of armor and clothing.

"You dumbfuck, I don't need my helmet for this. You're going to pay for that later today." Xiomara growled.

It was a few hours later, the Army had already had breakfast at the mess hall and Xiomara already got her morning workout, helping clear her mind for the speech she was about to give. The Army, soldiers and supoort, was in the auditorium of what had been a school in the time before the collage. Since then the building, particularly this oart had been patched up several times over, mostly the serve the purpose it would today.

Xiomara was back stage, with a few of her guards and Gaspar. She was in her full armor, which served to enhance her more than convincing warrior's frame. She had long looked the part of Lady of war, the type one could imagine not only pulling a bow, or aiming a crossbow, but running someone through with a spear or sword, or battering someone with a club or fists.

She stepped out from the back stage and out on to it's middle, before she began speaking, projecting her voice across the room.

Soldiers of the NeoSpartaicist Army. I gathered you all on this day to inform you that every armed man and woman, including myself, will be traveling up the Rio Grande. We will travel for around three weeks. We will meet a clan of bandits. We will engage them in combat, we will defeat them and we will make them our vassals. These bandits, I assure you, think themselves strong. We will show them what real strength is. We will demand that they kneel to us. Anyone who refuses, will be viciously cut down and trampled into the dirt, their battered, broken bodies reddening the ground, the hooves of our horses, our swords, our spears, our clubs and our fists!

These men and women, have known only how to communicate through the language of violence, the philosophy of strength and the morality of brutality. We should do well fit their standards when we engage with them, show our selves fluent in their speech, understanding of their way of knowing and their complete and utter moral superiors!

I inform you, ahead of time now, that when we meet them in combat, we will be far greater than them in numbers. This is not necessary for victory, a few of ours are worth dozens of theirs. I do this simply because our larger numbers will make it easier for us to focus more on painfully crushing them rather than simply defeating them in battle. It takes one horse-rider to kill a man, but four to quarter him! Only after crushing victory, can we induct the worthiest of their numbers into our ranks.

NeoSparticists! I know in your hearts you still feel the death of our leader, my father, Felipe, so recently last year. But remember, to best serve his memory, we should remember He planted this army as one would a tree. It is our responsibility to water it with blood wrung from our foes!, Tomorrow, we march to victory and let us make it the first of many triumphs as we establish control over this region, of which only we are strong enough to govern!

The crowd then burst out in spontaneous cheer's, eager to participate in the letting of blood that Xiomara promised would only be the first of a new era. She raised her fist, before heading backstage. She made this declaration without consulting, even for a moment, with her father's commanders who saw to her accession to Strategos with the idea that they could control her equally. But with the enthusiasm of the camp for this expedition so high, was she spoke, there was no way they could contradict her declaration. Tomorrow, they'd begin their trek, within a month they'd be fighting and dying on the behalf of a girl barely out of her teens. Put that way it sounded ridiculous, but looking at her, hearing her speak and seeing her move, it wasn't too difficult to understand. She had her father's powerful frame and commanding voice, her mother's cleverness and gracefulness, with her own expressive youth and enthusiasm for violence.

Regarding the latter two, she had no choice in them. She'd been a constant target as a result of her father's system of rigorous physical tests for men, women and children alike, for there was much to be gained from seeing to the defeat of the eldest child of the Strategos moving her closer to exile with each defeat, if she wasn't outright killed in single combat. It was such that when she wasn't eating, sleeping or otherwise being educated, she was usually in or between a formal duel, or in an informal brawl. By necessity, education and fighting became her recreation, leading her mind and body to be crafted around both in addition to innate inclinations. As for her youth, it was either be enthusiastic or succumb to indecisiveness due to lacking the wisdom life experience provided. The correct choice was clearly the former.

"Nice speech, Xioma-ooof" Begun Gaspar, before Xiomara's right fist drove hard into his gut as she passed him. It wasn't the hardest she could hit, but it was a solid punch, enough to cause Gaspar to bend over. Despite Xiomara's mockery, he wasn't by any means soft, nobody in the Neospartacist Army could be, but unexpected punch as a punch not braced for.

"That was for the helmet this morning." Xiomara said, smugly, her hands on her hips as she turned back to watch Gaspar catch his breath.

"I didn't throw it that hard..." Gaspar wheezed.

"Anyway, I'm going to need you to appoint few scouts to keep an eye on the other bandit clans when we march out tomorrow, ok? Along with runners to update us while we're on the march, we'll need to know if we should immediately march back or if we can pick another target before returning." Xiomara said.

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Tue Jul 20, 2021 9:20 am

“From the ashen pillars of the York;
To the Ever Glades of Cannibalistic Pork;
Past the Cursed Bayou, where the rivers fork;
Forever and ever and ever on.

The Meztec be drinking from your skull;
Zavala’s men the rich will cull;
The ocean’s bottom’s the only place dull;
Forever and ever and ever on”

“Yet, Jerusalem holds riches wild;
The Kaintuck’s treasure guards be mild;
We sail we sail, by gold beguiled;
Forever and ever and ever on”

The sea was calm enough, and the wind sufficiently gentle, for the Forever Song to be carried all the way to the crew of the Saint Marc, feverishly squeezing every last inch of speed from their galley.

It was not enough.

What in the morning had been a pale dot against the blue sky, marked only by the black plume of smoke rising high into the air, was now fully visible, and had unfurled its banner: the dread Crescent Sword, standing out bright red; a token that those who resisted would not be spared. The banner was as big as a lateen sail, and its flutter seemed to melodically accompany the song from its blood-thirsty crew.

Captain Jonas gritted his teeth as he watched the Silver Hand draw nearer and nearer. There was no doubt in him or his crew which ship this was; while many sailed under the Crescent Sword, this ship had been polished to an almost mirror shine, and the noon sun flickered brightly off its hull. Only the top of the smokestack was tainted black. The wooden galley of captain Jonas was no match.

“We’re slowing down, lieutenant” he said, his irritation serving to mask his own consuming fear. Lieutenant Octavian, sweat dripping from his brow as he peered through his looking glass, momentarily didn’t answer. As he lowered it, he sighed.

“The crew have been rowing all morning, sir. We’re working shifts, but they don’t have the time to properly rest”

The captain kept staring at the encroaching ironclad steaming their way, and shook his head.

“Tell them it’s either my lash or their cutlass for them if we don’t keep going”

He turned around and peered in the direction of travel. Far off, the Louisianan coast was rising above the horizon, but it was still a few hours away. Hours that the Saint Marc did not have. The captain only had a moment to come to his most consequential decision, but he made it with the experience of a seasoned sea-captain, and one who was not giving in to Freehold scum for the life of him.

“Lieutenant, those who are not rowing should arm themselves. Bows and crossbows first, and start collecting swords and axes”

“We won’t be able to row as hard, sir” the lieutenant responded. The captain shook his head.

“We would not make the coast with two full crews and four times the oars, Octavius” he responded.

“Now, quickly, damn your eyes!”

What would they do to him? Captain Jonas turned around again, transfixed by the glimmering steel and the fluttering banner, big enough to cover a house. Officers could be held for ransom, he knew. They would give him quarter and trade him away to the Company for a pretty penny. The company would grumble, but they would pay. Same for all the other officers, though whether young lieutenant Octavius would be worth the ducats was another matter. Though the man came from a wealthy family, who might be willing to pay in the company’s stead. The crew, though… Worthless to their captors. They would be worth most as crew or enslaved. A terrible fate, honestly, and one captain Jonas was happy not to share. It gave him the calm he needed to exude calm command, as was expected of any sea-captain. Even if it was just of a lowly merchant ship.

He spotted movement on the ship’s bridge, which stood like a building on itself amidships. It was close enough for him to make out the woman taking up position in the signalling nest, holding two flags. A life on sea had taught Jonas to learn the semaphore positions by heart.

“Surrender or be destroyed” he muttered.

“No harm to those who surrender”

Bowmen and crossbowmen were already taking up positions along the ship’s castle, placing down quivers of arrows and bolts behind the thin wood panelling that formed the castle’s fencing. Terribly thin, the captain now recognised, thinking back of his days during the Mountain Wars.

“Last warning. Comply now” he muttered. Captain Jonas pondered for a moment; then, he noticed with a start that he was not wearing his captain’s uniform, and that the enemy might not recognise him as such in the heat of battle. Quietly, and with grace and purpose, he walked down the stairs of the castle towards his own quarters. Just as he was putting on his coat, he observed the Silver Hand through his stern windows, and was just in time to see a white puff of smoke bellow from her aft deck, accompanied by the sound of rolling thunder.

“Take cove…” he could hear Octavius yell, but he was cut off by the low base thump of a projectile hitting the water surface, and the shrieking splash sending a large plume of water spray skywards. As the captain buttoned up his shirt and found his signifying hat, he heard the crew let out an elated cheer upon realising the enemy ship had missed. Premature; it had been just a warning shot past her bow. The pirates had no intention of scuppering a ship they could capture intact, but they would if the ship would otherwise escape. A destroyed ship, even when unsalvageable, would send a message at least marginally more profitable than remaining entirely empty-handed.

“Crew of the Saint Marc. Surrender”

The Silver Hand was now just 200 meters behind the galley, and so had come within range of its loudspeakers. The voice that crossed over was calm, and methodical; it spoke slowly to allow every word to be heard, and the patience in it was what startled captain Jonas the most.

“The next shot will not be a warning shot. This is your last warning”

Jeers and shouts went up from the crew; men trying to show their comrades how especially brave they were, each one shouting harder and more profane than the next. In other situations, the captain would have quieted down such obvious machismo mewling, yet he had not the spirit to do so. Hiding his staking hand behind his back, he stepped onto the deck, desperately trying to remain and emanate calm. The deck was now filled with armed rowers, and the galley had slowed down as a result. They brandished bows and crossbows, even throwing spears, and most were armed with blunt blades, axes, and knives. Those who could not find a weapon instead had procured billhooks or clubs. They were untrained in their use, and already, the ship’s cutters were busy stitching up a man who had accidentally cut himself in the thigh.

The jeering and hollering quieted down as another plume of white vapour rose from the Silver Hand’s deck, almost immediately accompanied by the sound of rolling thunder and a thin, shrieking whistle. Before the officers had time to respond some chain shot, two round balls connected by a thick chain, whirled through the salty air. It hit the ship’s railing around midships, and the thick chain tore through it as if it were grass to a scythe. The old adage remained true: it’s not the cannonball that gets you; it’s the splintering of the ship’s hull. The railing blasted into fragments, burying a spray of splinters in the crew that had stood there. Some were thin and sharp like needles, others were thick and blunt as a man’s arm. No matter; they killed and maimed all the same. In seconds, the deck amidships turned onto a gory, bloody mess, wherein it was hard to tell where one men began and the other stopped. The cutters sprang into action, dragging those who were still moving away through the slick spill of red. Crew with buckets of sawdust began spreading it over the deck to soak up the slippery gore.

“Sir, run down the colours, I beg of you”

Lieutenant Octavius had appeared without warning; or, more likely, the ringing in the captain’s ears had masked his approach. Even now, Jonas could only hear his lieutenant’s voice as muffled noises, making out the words through context. He slowly shook his head, and drew his thin rapier from his belt. Only then he realised that a 50 cm long splinter, thick as dice, was protruding from his own upper arm. Instead, he gripped the sword with his non-dominant, left hand.

“As long as this ship continues to move, I…”

The next chain shot embedded itself lower, straight into the hull of the ship. A spray of wood junk, both from the hull and the protruding oars, bellowed from the side with a terrible crash. When the hull settled, the screams of the dying, amplified by the ship like the notes of a guitar, emanated from the lower decks, mixing with the cries of those being tended to on the deck. The oars, before still desperately crawling against the water, now fell still, and those which were intact now slowed the ship down even more.

The thick coal smoke of the Silver Hand blotted out the sun, as its hulking figure drifted alongside the galley. Small portholes, covered in steel plates, opened and closed quickly. Quick, staccato whisps of air, like birdcalls, were the only marks of the enemy air-rifles being fired. The crew returned fire with bolts and arrows, but they could not penetrate the steel hull. Their aim was off regardless, and many flew wide and over. The firing of the Silver Hand was murderous, though. The hollow tack-tack of balls hitting the deck was interspersed with the thump of bodies slumping onto it, some letting out a cry, others just collapsing where they stand.

“Captain, I beg…” began lieutenant Octavius. His plea was cut short by a ball striking him against the jaw, cracking his skull and sending him spinning to the floor, to remain motionless. The deck now largely cleared, with crew members hiding on the castle or taking refuge belowdecks, the first boarding ropes from the Silver Hand began to drop, and both riflemen and swordsmen dropped to the deck. Their vicious looks added to the dread of everything that had happened. Jonas dropped his blade and fell to his knees, for the first time beginning to feel the pain of the barb protruding from his biceps.

“We… we give up!” he whispered. “We give in! Surrender!” he yelled. The birdcall whisps died down, as more and more boarders came aboard his ship.

“We give in…”

Blood began to trickle from his sleeve onto the ground, already slick with blood.

…

Only the doctors, too busy tending to the mangled patients aboard the galley, did not look up when the heavy leather boots of the Mariner hit the deck. His sharp features were accentuated by his neatly-trimmed goatee and precisely kempt moustache, matching the sharpness of his narrow eyes. The natural tan of his skin was very much distinguishable from the sun-tan of most others, especially the mostly Anglo crew of the Saint Marc. A long, weathered overcoat swung from his shoulders like a cape or a mantle, and his gloved hands were hidden beneath it, his right hand grasping his wrist behind his back.

With a straight back, he wandered around the many make-shift beds of straw and planks the doctors and their assistants had put together atop the deck. The light of the three o’clock sun was a far more reliable source than the dim hurricane lamps belowdecks. Furthermore, a dead man could easily be toppled over the railing and make room for a former comrade.

Captain Silesias silently came up beside his quartermaster, Catherine Halo, who shook her head as she checked the captured ship’s manifest.

“43 wounded out of a 100 man crew, with 20 dead. The cutters expect ten more to join then before the sun’s down”

She made her way down the decks, with Silesias silently following behind. The rowing deck had been hit especially hard, and the captive crew of the Saint Marc was still rummaging through the bits of torn wood and metal in search of body parts. Below that was the cargo deck, which was of most interest to the captain and his crew. The quartermaster opened up one of the hatches and climbed down into a room full of barrels and crates. Some had been opened, revealing their contents to be mostly corn and barely, as well as oats. From the ceiling hang rows upon rows of cured meats. The most valuable cargo was made up of barrels of curing salts, precious and almost worth their weight in gold. Those were already being hoisted up by way of netting.

“A food transport headed for the Mississippi delta, it seems” Catherine said, pointing out the destination on the ship’s manifest.

“I didn’t know barley ships from the East Coast were profitable” Silesias said, his distinct and uncommon accent penetrating every word.

“Normally, no. Apparently, shortages there have jacked up the prices of cereals, enough to make them profitable. Though, this ship had orders to lay in wait this side of the Black Bayou until prices had reached a maximum”

“That’s a way to have your ship ravaged by locals” Silesias answered.

“Apparently, it was worth the risk” the quartermaster responded. Silesias turned away, towards a crate where five crew members were digging through the ship’s mail compliment. Mail being light-weight and valuable, every long-distance cargo ship contained at least some amount. Some personal letters, some business letters, and a few precious items hidden in envelopes or packages. Those were left mostly undisturbed; Silesias had no use for intercepting love letters.

“This one’s for some newlyweds in David. Pagans, by the looks of it” said one of the crewmen, holding a drab-looking beige envelope. “From family along the Hudson”

“Please add my congratulations, and a bit of silver for their trouble” Silesias ordered, and the man began writing a note to add to the envelope. This was all inconsequential. There true treasure was in academic correspondence, in manuscripts, in book transports. There seemed to be very little of that here. Silesias sighed.

“These light ships usually have something” he said, exasperated. Catherine pointed her pen at the barrels of salt being hauled up through the cargo doors. “The salt goes a long way to making us break even, at least. Three more of those and we are in the green, at least with our current coal stocks”

“True…” Silesias said. He could not help feel disappointed, though, and wishing there had been at least some books among the heap of letters and notes.

“Take all the letters that we can use to anticipate future shipping, and leave the rest” he ordered plainly, before taking his leave and climbing above-decks again. Instead of going back aboard the Silver Hand, though, the Mariner paced towards the captain’s quarters, where captain Jonas was being kept under guard, and attended by Silesias’ personal physician. He strode through the doors, immediately startling Jonas, and walked towards a cupboard with an array of expensive-looking bottles in them. He picked one, poured himself a tumbler, and sat himself behind the captain’s desk. Jonas, who was laying on one of his recliners in the middle of his room, tried to stand up, but doctor José was quick to lay him back down again, so he could continue his stitching.

“Argentine wine?” Silesias asked aloud, swirling the dark liquid in his mouth. “You have an expensive taste”

“A man must have his pleasures” Jonas answered, moaning as José pulled tight another row of stiches. The damage to his right arm had been worse than thought, with multiple shards of wood imbedding themselves in his skin.

“So indeed…” Silesias answered. “And allow me to indulge mine” he added, standing up again and pacing past the bookshelves that formed one of the captain’s walls.

“Tell me, captain… How familiar are you with Old World legends?” the Mariner inquired, sliding his finger past rows upon rows of adventure novels and biographies. Jonas shifted uncomfortably, trying to keep an eye on his captor, prompting the doctor to allow him to sit upright.

“Not… not much more than most, I think” Jonas answered. Silesias substantiated the claim with a quick scan of the book cases, none contained any literature whatsoever on the world before the Fall, the Great Deluge, and the Fire of Fires, just to name some of its descriptors.

“A pity” Silesias said truthfully. This action was turning out to be one big disappointment. Luckily, there was one saving grace; a moment of catharsis, as those of the Old World called it.

“Captain, are you then familiar with ‘democracy’?” Silesias wondered aloud. Captain Jonas tried to answer, but before he could, the Mariner continued his monologue.

“It’s an ingenious system, apparently invented across the Great Sea in the Elderlands. Not much left of their temples and cathedrals, last time I was there, but their ideas survived. In a democracy, it’s the masses that decide the course of action, instead of just the one.”

“Apparently, in the Old World, it was customary for a panel to decide the fate of a criminal; whether he was guilty of a crime or not. This made people feel invested, gave them an idea of power. And made sure the powerful always obeyed the will of the majority”

“Sure, it was somewhat idealistic, and fell prey to petty squabbles and, in the end, mass hysteria. But I believe that, in most instances, the basis of democracy was sound. Hence why I am elected, and you are appointed”

“What…” Jonas tried to interject. “What does this have to do with my ransom?”

“Ransom?” Silesias asked, a mocking look of confusion sliding across his face.

“Captain, I hope I have not given you the false impression that I am holding you for ransom. You are my guest”

Jonas sighed with relief. At least the company would not fault him his own blood money.

“No, sir” Silesias continued. “I’m going to hand you over to your crew for sentencing”

The room fell silent.

“Sentencing?” the captain finally asked.

“Yes!” Silesias answered, elated. “Captain, you failed to strike your colours against a superior foe with no hope of escape, and thirty people paid for it with their lives. You made an error of judgement. Your company might commend your bravery, but it would only be fair if, before that, the crew get their say”

“But they will kill me” the captain said.

“Maybe they will ransom you. I heard you are worth a pretty penny. Then again, the Hudson is far away, and the crew might have no intention of going back there. But that will be their decision. As soon as my carpenters have repaired the worst damage, I’m handing the ship over to them”

Another moment of silence, before a large standing clock against the wall behind the captain struck four. Silesias checked his wrist, where an ancient-looking time keeping device was attached like a piece of jewellery.

“If you excuse me, there are some errands I must run. And I have to confer with the new captain of this ship, when the crew elect him. Or her, as I understand there were at least ten girls posing as men among your crew. Their bravery was at least more constructive than yours. See you later, Jonas. In this life or the next”

With that, Jonas was left alone with José, carefully tending to his patients wounds. The ticking clock and the sound of the rushing sea outside were the only things to pierce the silence.

“I hope they ransom you” José said, finally.

“I would hate to have stitched you up for the noose”

by **Tayner** » Tue Jul 20, 2021 12:43 pm

Johnathan McBryde
Mississippi Trading Co.
Week 1, January 2223

The winter was setting in, harsh as it could. This meant business for the trading company. While there weren't many factions to the south on the river to trade with, the company had stockpiled some reserves, and income from the casino boats gave them a cushion of funds to expend on food. It was also common practice for employees to fish when sailing, and to hunt when caravanning to provide for themselves, saving some of their paychecks to pay for other things. Most of the merchant fleet was berthed in the capital right now, but that wouldn't last long. Johnathan would assign three of them to fishing duty until the winter broke, three would go north to the lakes region to trade with them up there, bringing some food, but mostly pelts and firewood. The bandit clans were probably going to be hit harder than they were, and food would be more valuable in their dealings.

Four ships would sail south, two heading for each of the small factions on the rivers that branched west. They would more likely than not have more provisions to spare, and these ships would be carrying a surplus of ammunition to pay for their hauls. Security details would be doubled however, as resources dwindled it was always shown that banditry became more commonplace. This would draw guards from the capital and it’s businesses, however even with the drawn back numbers they would have enough to hold out until help would arrive from their neighbor. A caravan would also be sent east, for rumors of a larger nation existing had reached the company, and perhaps they had prepared for the winter, allowing them surplus food that they could trade for ammunition and winter clothing.

Summary Of Events

Trading fleet (4 ships) sent north to Great Lakes Region
Trading Fleet (4 ships) sent south to free holds
Caravan (8 wagons) sent east to The Church of Crist in Kentucky

by **Mandicoria** » Tue Jul 20, 2021 1:37 pm

WEEK 1, JANUARY 2223
"HALEY'S TRAIL", AMERIKAN BORDER

It was a another long trek through the trail for Erik and his crew. Typical trading run to Fort Rockwell turned into a nightmare with winter suddenly bringing out its full might. It was gonna be worth it though. Whole bunch of slaves to get rich off of. It was rough though, with a slave being lost to frigid temps every few miles or so. They were lucky, considering who they were gonna be sold to. The Amerikans were never considered to be "good" masters to be sold to. Even the traders themselves knew this, and almost even felt bad about... But money was money.

The wind howled throughout the entire valley the trail went through. The only noise able to break it being the clanking of chains from the slaves, and the clattering of other goods carried by the pack animals. Everything came to a stop though when one of the men in Erik's crew shouted out. Pointing ahead to a checkpoint with lights and smoke coming from it. They were nearing Fort Rockwell, after all this trudging through snow and rough terrain. It was a relief to everyone. Well everyone except the slaves of course, but they didn't matter. The road up to the gates was well cleared with Amerikan troops standing at both sides of the road. The gazes of their masks falling upon the caravan fast approaching.

"Hail gentlemen!" Erik called out, waving to the men as the Caravan finally drew close enough to the gates. "We come with valuable wares and wish to partake in a simple barter!"

"Why you talking to them like that, they're clearly not a buncha proper boys." Whispered one of the men to Erik.

"Shut up you fuckwit, they like the punctionality stuff when talkin'..." Erik turned his gaze back to the Amerikans. "We're more than willing to submit to an... examination!"

Two armed men approached the caravan from the gates. Each giving the hand sign for the group to stop, both upholstering their rifles as they approached. One of them letting out an audible cough as they stopped right in front of the caravan. With him pulling out a small handbook and pencil, and scribbling into it.

"You're right on time gentlemen. Nelson." The troop gestured at his comrade. "Inspect the wares."

Erik could only look in a little bit of bewilderment as one of the troops began examining every last slave the caravan had. More disturbingly, inspecting members of Erik's crew. A loud grunt came from Erik as he gestured to the men. "My workers aren't for sale, sir! The ones in chains ar-"

"Will you shut the fuck up and let my comrade do his job, please." The Trooper responded, not even shifting his gaze from the notebook. "Swear to god every one of you traders act like we owe you something." The Trooper slammed the notebook shut, and gestured over to his comrade. "NELSON! How are the wares!"

"Adequate enough, Preston!" Nelson responded, making his way back. His gaze shifting between members of Erik's crew, and the slaves the whole way back.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Now, do you happen to have your sale papers gentlemen? It makes the whole process so much easier." Preston approached Erik, holding his hand out expectantly.

"Erm, papers? We never had to have papers-" Erik tried to respond, but would immediately get thrown to the ground. A boot being placed firmly on his back.

A loud shout came from Erik as he was forced down. His crew immediately for their weapons. Only for them to stop due to the realization they had rifles pointed right at them already. Trooper Preston wove his finger at the group, gesturing for Nelson to come over.

"Now, I'm not going to make you go all the way back through all that snow for your papers." Trooper Preston softly remarked to Erik, his boot getting tighter on the man's back. "But you should realize that no papers means we can't confirm you're not just another runaway slave posing to be a trader. Now, I trust your honor enough to not believe that, but we simply can't take any risks. So, here's my proposition. Your slaves there, we'll buy them off of you. With a discount of course. Then your men, we'll buy half of them. You agree to these terms, and we let you all go. I'll let you think for a little bit, but sir, I must let you know that if you yell I will assume you're hostile. If you're hostile, well, we'll either have to open fire or take you in with all your equipment." A light chuckle would come from Preston as he kept his boot on top of Erik.

"Fuck fuck fuck, okay! Deal! Deal!" Erik panted out to the man above him. Tears actually managing to come from his eyes.

"OH TO HELL WITH THIS-" One of Erik's men tried to shout out, but would be interrupted by a loud thunderous crack. His body falling face first into the snow.

"Thank you for your generosity." Preston smugly grinned under his mask as he took his boot off. Turning over to Erik's men. "Anyone else wish to end up like your buddy there?" He paused, but was met with no response. As expected. "Good. Now all of you step forward with the slaves. Half of you are going to be very lucky men today! The other half, well, you'll be stuck being some degenerate outside of our borders. Incapable of morality, feeling, trust... Forgive me for deviating. Nelson! Check them."

"Aye sir."

GENERAL REPORT
FORT ROCKWELL GARRISON, JANUARY 2223

22 Degenerates have been acquired at a discounted price. Expect no further business with "Happy Erik's Caravan Company" in the future. Trooper Nelson is to be commended for loyalty. Trooper Preston is to be commended for shrewd business tactics.

May the future forever be pure...

GIVE THIS MESSAGE IMMEDIATELY TO COMMANDANT GEYERS
ANY UNAUTHORIZED VIEWING OF THIS MESSAGE IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH

by **South Americanastan** » Thu Jul 22, 2021 3:33 pm

Week 1, January 2223
SENTRY POST EASY
ARLINGTON MEMORIAL BRIDGE
WASHINGTON, D.C

Private Jason McCleary sits in his sentry tower. Fashioned out of a planks of wood, and held together by duct tape, nails, and prayers, the tower is nothing to brag about, but it's home to him. Sentry duty is one of the most dreaded jobs in the army; You had to sleep, eat, and effectively live in a single sentry tower, not being allowed to leave except for extreme emergencies or when his assignment ended. He vividly recalled what his CO had replied when he asked where he would pee.

"Then piss off the side and into the Potomac, dumbass."

Despite the negativity surrounding the job, it was home to Jason. Five times he had been offered an end to his assignment, and five times he had declined. He had a VHS player and a collection of tapes he scavenged from a home on the other side of the Potomac, back when they had a foothold there before the Second Civil War. They were nearly untouched since the collapse due to the presence of the mutants. He listened to music to pass the time in his little tower, only 20 feet wide and 20 feet long. He had even brought the rack the tapes had been on up to the tower, even though it took hours and resulted in multiple scrapes and even an arm fracture. He had a repair manual he had scavenged from another house, allowing him to keep the thing in working order. His tower was full of scavenged stuff, now that he thought about. The only things in the tower he had been issued were a pair of binoculars, a radio, and an M14 sourced from the armory near the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Despite being a ceremonial rifle, the gun actually worked, though he found it near impossible to control when he attempted to fire it automatically. Soon enough, the tape in the VHS player ended, and he slid in a a new one, with "Paint it Black" scrawled on the front of it.

"I see a red door
"And I want it painted black
"No colors anymore
"I want them to turn black"

As he leaned back in his chair, he fell, hitting a dial on the radio, changing it's frequency. The radio began playing static, though he could make out a few numbers in it. He memorized the frequency, before radioing back to command.

"This is Sentry Easy to Command, do you copy?"

"Yes, you got something to say, Sentry Easy?"

"My radio was knocked over, and the frequency was changed in the process. Instead of the normal silence, the radio started playing static. You might want to check this out."

A new soldier is sent to temporarily replace Jason while he shows his commander the frequency. His commander forwards it to General Mike Rogan, the leader of the United States Armed Forces.

"Your CO says you've got something important to show me. What is it?"

"It's a frequency on the radio, it's playing static and some numbers. CO thinks it's above his paygrade so he sent it to you."

"Alright then, play it."

Jason turns the dial on the radio, and sure enough, radio static starts playing along with numbers.

"Try to communicate with them, that's what our radios are for."

Jason lifts the radio's microphone up, and General Rogan grabs it from him.

"This Five-Star General Micheal Rogan of the United States Army, you are broadcasting on an unauthorized frequency. Please respond so we can sort this out."

No response is given.

Meanwhile, at Sentry Tower Easy, things are going just as bad, if not worse.

The replacement sentry, Private First Class Andrea Gomez, arrives at the sentry tower. Climbing up the ladder leading to it, she notices a distinct... stench. Sentry Guards, unfortunately, do not have any way to take showers, though this has the benefit of masking the stench of the Potomac, which has been heavily polluted by radiation and debris since the collapse. It also masks the stench of the corrupted on the other side of the bridge, Who will occasionally attack over the bridge, it being the only remaining one spanning the Potomac in this area.

Just as Private Gomez sits down, a rumbling can be heard from the other side of the bridge. She readies her improvised Assault Rifle, and a horde of corrupted begin running across the bridge. She fires at the attacking horde, downing corrupted, but more keep coming. She radios the threat in, and a platoon of 42 men arrive to help. The loud gunshots attract more of the corrupted, and the horde floods through the bridge. A wall of corrupted bodies are created, yet the horde climbs over, nearly overwhelming the bridge. A request for a mortar strike is lodged, but is decided against, as it could possibly destroy the already damaged bridge. A Green Beret is sent over, armed with an HMG, but the horde continues to flood through the bridge. After 5 hours of fighting, the horde finally stops. In the end, 15 soldiers are dead, the largest American loss of life since the Second Civil War. Congress begins debating about whether or not to move in on the Corrupted controlled areas.

Summary of Events:
United States of America loses 15 soldiers in a Corrupted attack

by **Transoxthraxia** » Fri Jul 23, 2021 2:11 pm

Walkerton, Capital of the Kingdom of the Valley
Camila Walker, crowned as Camila I Walker, Queen of the Valley and all her Constituencies, sat in her father's throne room, her husband next to her, sitting court. It was her father's throne room - not hers. He had built it, he had reigned in it. His son Elijah tried to do the same, but failed. She felt out of place, sitting where her father had. She felt as if she didn't belong - not just in the room, but in the family, as the queen of the monarchy. And she didn't like it. It was a long, waking hell for the woman, who repeated the process day in and day out, for many hours at a time.

She was woken up with the sun, was dressed in outfits that her husband chose for her, forced to sit and listen to problems that she often couldn't weigh in on, and watch, seemingly helplessly, as her husband Jaimesson First-Finder essentially ran the kingdom for her. It wasn't disrespectful - it was insulting. She was treated as a child by her supposed lover despite her being well above the traditional age of majority. The truth, that had become exceedingly clear to Camila, as it had to many other members of the court, was that her husband was not the so-called loyal servant of the crown, but an ambitious power-hound, interested in attaining for himself the amalgamation of the crown's power - and, by extension - its profits.

There was no coincidence that following Camila's accession to the throne, she quickly discovered documents signed by her - that she had never seen - granting Jamiesson and his progeny significant estates throughout the kingdom. His progeny, not theirs. He couldn't even pretend to be monogamous to Camila, some decades his junior. But she respected him outwardly, as much as the court politics made her do. Her father worked extensively to build a new culture throughout the kingdom, to act as a unifying force among the people and the court. New fashions, new traditions, new faux pas.

Little did she, or most others realise that what Walker had been building, supposedly anew, was simply a reimagining of the old - centuries before the collapse, based off of old tales and books that he had read. Most had forgotten, and those who hadn't, were too invested in Walker's movement to want to change it. When he died, his system endured, if only barely. But with three of four children dead in the matter of years following George I's death, Camila felt immense pressure as the last scion of her father's legacy.

Would things remain as they were should she meet an untimely end? Would everything that he had worked so hard for endure? Certainly, George Walker's legacy was only in part what he had built. It was also what he had left behind - his children.

The queen had become so lost in her own thoughts that she didn't realise that her husband had deferred to her. The teenage monarch raised her eyebrows. "I-" she began. Silence followed for some moments. Camila tried to ascertain what the subject of conversation had been about, but she couldn't. Her husband hadn't let her get a word in edge-wise for any important issue, so she often completely stopped listening for hours at a time. "... I apologise. What are we talking about?" she asked. There was some nervous laughter throughout the court. The viziers, nobles, and other significant members of the realm crowded around the throne. She could barely even see the petitioner's on the other side of the room.

"I... think it's time to close the court today." her husband interceded. "This weather is bad for the queen's temperament". Camila's cheeks were blushing a bright red. Despite her protests, she was 'helped' up off the throne, and whisked away. Being quickly brought to her quarters by a menagerie of servants, her husband was quick on her tail. She was barely alone before Jamiesson appeared in her doorway.

"What was that back there?" He asked her, his voice full of venom.

"What do you mean? Sitting there like your puppet?"

"Watch your tone." Jamiesson half-ordered, half-threatened. "Like it or not, you're the queen here. It's your duty to give these people your guidance."

"I would if I could. I'm not a child, Jamiesson. How do you expect me to pay attention to everything when you won't let me speak on any of it?" the queen responded, words spoken through gritted teeth.

"It certainly feels like you are a child, sometimes, Camila." Jamiesson said, roughly grabbing her wrist and pulling her towards him. "Remember who got you here. Who protected you. Don't forget what happened to your brothers."

Camila didn't bother to respond, rather just tried to pull herself away from her husband, ignoring his obvious threats. He eventually let go, and withdrew to the door. "Perhaps if you act like a child, you should be punished like one. Goodnight, my loving wife", Jamiesson spoke, despite it being in the middle of the afternoon. His voice was filled with venom. "I will see you tomorrow." he said, swinging her door shut. She didn't have the time to run towards it before she heard the look on the outside click. Trapped again, Camila was stuck in the 'luxurious' box that she called home until the next day.

The City of Owensville
The city of Owensville always had a unique relationship with the Kingdom of the Valley. Owensville had been a free city and a beacon for civilization in the Californian wastes for decades. It was a prosperous, bustling town and one of the few trade hubs in the region. Its population was high enough and organized enough to mount a concerted defense against the continual harassment of the Sloughmen to the city's south. More than this, however, the city was significant to the Kingdom because it was the originating point of George Walker and his survivalist group, who were exiled from Owensville over half a century ago.

Since then, Walkerton had gradually overtaken Owensville as the region's trade hub, and Owensville's economic and political importance had gradually declined. Over the years, the city's population began stagnating, and the long war of attrition that they had been fighting with the Sloughmen gradually shifted against them. It was primarily because of this that the city's council - an elected body - opted to reach out to the Kingdom of the Valley's government, which had promised protection from the Sloughmen on some conditions.

The city would be sublimated to the Valleyan kingdom in all foreign affairs. While local political systems would remain in place, the Valleyan authorities reserved the right to ensure that the laws were in line with the "morality" of the Kingdom's laws. Similarly, the government would be allowed to continue to exist, but a guaranteed representation of the so-called Guild Front, a pro-Walkerton party in Owensville, would comprise a significant minority in the city's parliament. Further, the citizens of Owensville that lived outside of the city's urban limits would be subjected to Valleyan law, rather than Owensville's law. All of these conditions would persist in perpetuity. In return, the Kingdom of the Valley would end the threat of the Sloughmen to the city, and protect it from any encroachments to its "sovereignty" - though some cynical citizens claimed that there wasn't much to protect anymore. Further, the Kingdom of the Valley would get access to Owensville's legal records.

The negotiations were highly controversial. Two different mayors of the city had resigned following public outrage at the conditions. However, the Sloughmen, emboldened by the ongoing war, had continued to raid the city, eventually forced Owensville into a corner. The citizens of the city, unhappy as they were, had little choice between thinly-veiled vassalization and the threat of being ruled by bandits.

As the bill was being signed in the Mayor's Palace in Owensville, a decrepit old man sat outside it. His wife had died long ago, and his two sons predeceased him. One died fighting the Sloughmen, and the other of disease. Neither had ever married. The old man knew his time was coming. Even the warmest winters still chilled his bones. His memory was slipping. His name, his address were foggy to him on the best of days. He no longer worked, and could barely remember where to get his food. But one memory was clear as day - an ancient memory, buried far into the man's consciousness. A memory of a verdict - not guilty - a plea deal that he had negotiated. He bought his innocence by selling his co-conspirators out. Almost exactly fifty of them. He remembered the betrayal on George Walker's face as he stepped up to provide his testimony, and the shame of ratting out those he had worked along with. He could no longer remember what they had done. What he had done. He had thought it was the right move. Now, as the monster George Walker had created swallowed up what little the man had left, he could do nothing but grimace, alone, on a bench.

Near the Sanwakin river delta opening into the Pacific Ocean

To tens of thousands of people who lived along the river, the Sanwakin was lifeblood. It created a large, alluvial plain that allowed for highly fertile soil to produce very high crop yields. The Sanwakin, by extension, was not just the lifeblood of tens of thousands of people, it also supported the prosperity of the Kingdom of the Valley. It allowed ships to sail up and down, where they would meet trading contacts along the river and bring back exotic or needed goods to fuel the kingdom's industry. Part of this river, however, branched westwards into the vast Western Ocean that many of the educated class of society knew as the "Pacific" Ocean.

This Pacific Ocean once housed untold hordes of people before the Catastrophe, and vast cityscapes were constructed on its coast. Most of those cities, still well-within reach of the Kingdom of the Valley, were barely more than steel and stone scrapyards, with bone-like structures pointing into the sky. These were "dead zones", filled with radiation, plague, and gods-know-what-else. The dead zones were to be avoided, but there were also locations where life thrived in very asymmetrical ways. Some called these places "the corruption". Areas where nature had been changed by the Catastrophe, where men often went and never came back. And while the dead zones were devoid of any true value, these corrupt zones were quite the opposite.

Despite the mutant animals and plants - or, sometimes, worse - these zones were bountiful and plentiful of old world tech. Not to mention their strategic value.

Captain Carlton Sworde had been placed in charge of the latest expedition ordered by the Kingsguard toward The Maw. The Maw was an area marked by the old world. Geographically-speaking, The Maw was a shallow bay with two peninsulas jutting into it from both the north and the south. In the south, the bones of an ancient city rose over the ground as its irradiated ruins fought against the reclamation of nature. The northern peninsula, however, was a different story. Choked by vast, rampant plant growth and housing untold amounts of mutated animal life, the northern peninsula had been known as North Maw by many traders. Most Valleyan sailors avoided the area like the plague. Ships went missing, civilian vessels never being seen again, and military patrol boats reappearing months after they disappeared, devoid of any life. That meant that, unless you were a part of one of the wealthiest trade guilds, the lucrative "Western Coastal Trading Zone" was virtually off-limits - some of the better-funded guilds could afford airships to circumvent the virtual necessity of marine travel. Those that couldn't, however, were cut off from incredibly profitable and, more importantly, wide-ranging markets.

Sworde, an accomplished officer of the Royal King's Own Army, had been assigned a task force to not just scavenge the area around the North Maw, but begin clearing it out - for good. He had been given a small navy and one of the crown's own airships, complete with a full complement of troops. And while he normally hated flying, he insisted that he get an aerial view of the location. And a view he got. He could see the area clearly, and the stark difference between the grey, dead territory on the South Maw, and the vibrant, almost unnatural pallid green and yellow colours of the North. He could see his ships below, in the Maw, and the remnants of what was once some sort of man-made structure - perhaps a bridge? - that crossed The Maw, only naked steel beams and concrete remained, leaving it as an archaeological fancy.

It would be some hours before Sworde and the airship would be cleared for landing. The ships had to offload their soldiers, slash-and-burn a suitable landing site, and then secure it, to make sure that none of the hostile, mutated wildlife had the chance to attack the expedition. As the airship landed, and the beginnings of a camp were created, the expedition sponsored by the Royal Development Guild had begun in earnest.

Colony of spangle, Provisional Governorate of Pass Elton
The Colony of Spangle was named after David Spangle, a notable and wealthy merchant from Walkerton who had funded the the expedition to found the eponymous city - designed to be the capital of the new province Pass Elton. Pass Elton had been an area that was, generally, sparsely populated. It was along the lower part of the Sanwakin, and, as a result, had a number of very rich farms. However, the population was few and far between, especially considering the area's proximity to the Sloughmen. Spangle's settlement had been difficult at first, and certainly not without losses. The Sloughmen were particularly dangerous - their poisoned weapons typically felling most guards pretty easily.

The arrival of the Colonial Development Guild assuaged some of the difficulties, since it not only put the settlement under official Valleyan protection, but it also gave it teeth - Spangle became the CDG's headquarters in the region, and the well-equipped half-garrison, half-ranger force helped ward off would-be attacks. Difficulties were not uncommon, however, as disease and nature took their toll on everyone. But farming was profitable, and birth rates were already starting to rise. The actual settling of Pass Elton would take some time, but it felt as if the first tendrils of peaceful civilization were beginning to worm their way back into the locale.

Somewhere near Tulare, "capital" of the Sloughmen Bandit Clan

Captain Ericka Ernandez mulled over her rough map of Southern California, known to her and most other Valleyans as The Reach. The Reach was one of the regions that the kingdom paid most attention to, mostly because of the presence of Owensville and - more importantly - the Sloughmen. Designated as a desirable expansion path by the kingdom's administration, Ernandez had been put in charge of a joint expedition. She wasn't familiar with the politics behind the decision, but she had been curious. Owensville, a long-time economic rival to Walkerton and the kingdom, had recently fallen under the jurisdiction of the Kingdom of the Valley. Owensville had, for some time, been fighting a war of attrition with the Sloughmen, a notorious and surprisingly well-put together bandit clan that had been terrorizing Southern California for generations.

Apparently, in exchange for ending the threat of the Sloughmen to Owensville, the Kingdom would get themselves a new vassal - not dissimilar, Ernandez reflected, to how the Kingdom's grassroots formation happened - from confederacy to kingdom. Ernandez, in her mid-30's, had grown up within the noble castes of Valleyan society. She, like her five elder siblings, received a full education. She was literate and well-versed in the Kingdom's history and prehistory. It interested her naturally, but, knowing that the Kingdom's guilds wouldn't make a rich woman out of a historian, she instead volunteered for military service as an officer.

While not a natural leader, Ernandez worked hard during her tenure at the Valleyan officer college, and, because of her background, was quickly given a number of important assignments, where her skill shone. She received rapid promotions, until her mid-30's, when she was finally assigned the lead of this expedition against the Sloughmen. Her interest in politics was only piqued following the news that Owensville was to sublimate itself to the Court at Walkerton.

Ericka continued to examine the map. There were some locations marked by local scouts and Owensville rangers. Each mark represented a safehouse or bandit camp used by the Sloughmen, and there were dozens. Burning the Sloughmen out would be a long and costly campaign. She recalled learning everything she could about them during the expedition southwards. They had existed as a coherent force for as long as anyone could remember. Perhaps they were formed in the early days following the collapse. They had gone through a number of leaders, and, as far as anyone could tell, it was a rule-by-might sort of government. Dissention was discouraged through intimidation and, when that failed, brutal killings. The average Sloughman may be as terrified of their betters as other civilians would be, according to the intel. Generally, however, the clan acted in a decentralized nature. Various camps formed de facto tribal organizations that then answered to the central group of Sloughmen located at what could be described as their capital, Tulare. According to what she knew, calling Tulare a town was too kind. Apparently it was somewhere between a barracks, a mud hut village, and a slave camp, with most of the population either slaves or bandits - or merchants tough enough or unpopular enough elsewhere to need to go through Tulare.

The Sloughmen themselves were rough-going. They were generally lightly-armed in battle, and they lacked worn armour. However, this made them hard to distinguish from civilians at times, and, worse still, it allowed them to operate as an effective guerrilla raiding force. Part of the reason that Owensville stopped trying to annihilate the Sloughmen is that anytime they'd chase them beyond the lengths of a settlement, they'd melt into the environment. They used poisoned tools, arrows, spears, and other various melee weapons. Technologically, they were no match for Ernandez's force. With mortars, flamethrowers, a few machineguns, and relatively effective firearms for all of her soldiers, she was mostly worried about the Sloughmen's ability to melt into the environment.

Because of this, Ernandez was glad that she had been put in charge of a joint operation. Diplomacy first, she had been told - and more than happy to oblige. Force only if necessary. She couldn't find a single diplomat crazy to go into Sloughman territory without an entire Valleyan army behind them, but, once she included the fact that the armed forces would be keeping them company, a few brave souls had volunteered. So, with a significant portion of the Royal Army, Ernandez now marched into their territory, large, white banners flying alongside their flag to represent their desire to talk. She hoped that, with the show of force, the Sloughmen would at least be interested in hearing diplomatic solutions to the kingdom's problem.

Summary of events:
The Kingdom of the Valley Vassalizes the City of Owensville. It formally retains its governmental structure, but the controlling political interest in the city's democracy is the Royal Trading Guild, meaning that it is effectively directly sublimated to the Kingdom's policies.
An expedition of 500 men from the Crown's Military alongside the Royal Development Guild begin an expedition into the area that was once San Rafael, CA, a corrupt hold across from the dead zone of San Francisco.
Valleyan soldiers under the direction of the Kingsguard expand into the province immediately south of Owensville. Once the area was secured, settlers are begun to be brought in and what people are present are integrated into the local jurisdiction.
A joint diplomatic-military expedition is sent to the Sloughmen, the bandit clan to the south of the Owensville free hold, with 1,000 soldiers present. The Valleyan expedition attempts to come to a peaceful solution with the Sloughmen, but the Valleyans are negotiating with Gunboat Diplomacy.
The Kingdom of the Valley begins attempting to triangulate the signals coming from the radio broadcast.

by **Romaniche** » Sat Jul 24, 2021 2:09 am

Dallas, Dallas Warband

It's been a while since Ethan's victory against the former Second Texan Republic and Lone Star Front. Right now he stands as Absolute Warlord of Dallas and Fort Worth with local lords of different sectors overseeing the land as fit as long as they don't directly defy him. Even though the power was secured, remnants of the Lone Star Front still remain and fight a guerillas war against the new establishment. But not for long, as the bandits wage a War of Terror against the dissidents. The Texan Civil War was a bloody one killing almost 10% of the population that it had, the people fought for the Freedom and Prosperity of the common man only to fail against an even bigger despot. A New Order has been established, more tyrannical and more assertive than the older one, where a new form of slavery has been created, raiding and plunders of dissidents is a common struggle that the sympathizers and members of the Lone Star Front have to go through.

Ethan woke up in his room of the Dallas Townhall drowsy from the party he organized with the local lords in the night. As he went to eat, he remembered he had to meet with Local Lord Noah of the Wolf Creek. He finishes up his meal, dressed up, and went outside to get his car. At the entrance, two bodyguards saluted him before leaving the vicinity of the building. He had an armored modified Ford F150 Raptor, with a bigger engine and a gun on the top. He started the engine and went to Wolf Creek, but once he reached there, he saw why Lord Noah called him. The place was a mess with dead bodies lying around either from the Civil War or a recent fight. Nonetheless, he eventually meets him who looks a little stressed.

"Good morning, Lord Noah! How's your day going?"

"Not so good. As you may have seen the corpses, a few Lone Star supporters wanted to take control of Wolf Creek, but luckily I managed to contain the situation."

"Well, I see. Quite unfortunate we have to face them. Are there any left?"

"Probably not."

"Then why in the hell have you called me?"

"Because some of those mfers managed to free some slaves who most likely have fled Dallas into the wilderness. I want them back."

"Do it on your own, idiot. I gave you freedom for a reason. Use your own forces."

"But if I do it, my garrison will run thin, and what if they won't return from the wasteland?"

"Not my problem, ask the other lords. Now if you excuse me, I have other things to do."

"Thank you for coming here! ~~Thanks for nothing!~~"

"Cya."

And with this, Warlord Ethan got in his car and left the Wolf Creek, going back to Townhall in Fort Worth. Meanwhile, the Lone Star Front continues to fight in both Dallas and Fort Worth with freed slaves either going into the wasteland or joining the fight against the Warlord's rule. As for Local Lord Noah, he eventually got some support from the other lords nearby to help in his mission to recover his lost slaves and reinforcing his district.

Summary of events:
- Approximately 13 slaves have escaped into the wasteland after a Lone Star Front attack on Wolf Creek
- Warlord Ethan refused to help Local Lord Noah in his mission to recover the slaves
- Local Lord Noah managed to get the necessary support from the other Local Lords for his mission
- The Warband's struggle against Lone Star sympathizers continues in the whole of Dallas and Fort Worth

by **Endem** » Tue Jul 27, 2021 5:31 pm

In The Hallowed Halls of Harvard
Meeting of the Collegiate Council

On a small stage what was once an audience chamber there stood a small stage, before which approximately sixty seats have been assembled, on which sat the members of the council, an exclusive club of the top-of-the-top, creme de la creme of the two thousand strong caste of the Majors.

On the stage, a podium of debate there sat an embellished table, whose hand-carved walls spoke of the history of the Harvardians, behind it sat three people, like judges, the Grand Rector, Provost, and Vice-Provost, the people holding the de facto executive power of the state. Allan Lowe struck his gavel against the desk, he was the arbiter of the Sacred Debate, and held one-third of the veto power.

"My fellow esteemed, we meet to discuss the course of our nation for this week, and next months, many issues are facing our state, but I trust that with your voice being heard, you shall provide only the best solutions to the maladies that plague us, let us begin, who shall first take the stand, and who shall be their opponent?"

He began, now came the tense waiting, who first shall take voice, who first will speak up and engage in combat on words that have always been so honorably fought in these buildings. One of them stood up, his hand straight up.

"Yes?" Allan asked.

"As my fellow honored are aware, winter has once again came to these lands, and I believe I have a solution, we could farm every day of every year, not stopping for winter, if we set up indoor farming." He spoke, before making his way to one of the debate stands.

Then another member stood up, proclaiming:

"I shall be his opponent!" She said, also making her way to one of the debate stands.

"Very well, you two may begin." The Rector proclaimed.

"As I previously said, my project is incredibly simple, to set up indoor farming plants, we have the critical heaters and lamps to accomplish this task, and we have a multitude of old buildings we could refurbish to become dedicated farms, no longer would we need to rely on traditional farming and would be able to free up hundreds of brute hand and assistant minds."

"You may have the necessary resources, except one critical, you lack electrical energy, whatever old world plants we could repurpose, and those of our own creations are already working full time."

"Couldn't we just build more powerplants?"

"The rapid winds of the bay don't stretch for long near the shore, unless you find a way of colonizing Dead Salem."

"Hmm, yes, the space is quite limited, however, we have access to a powerplant which generates enormous amounts of energy from the old world, surely, we could awaken it."

"The station is on a reservoir, we may awaken it, even operating a skeleton crew for a short period of time, but we lack then the power to pump the water back in."

"The Barbarians that raided us have in their possession a nuclear powerplant that was deactivated just before the collapse, they won't use it, why won't we take it and reawaken the fission."

"The Collapse took time, we don't know its makeup, we don't know if it is even operational, the barbarians may just be sitting in empty buildings that used to house these instruments of fission."

"Then what do you propose?! We starve!"

"We should have enough supply, we still have hunting and fishing until the bay fully freezes over, even if not, we could still fasten our belts and ration our food."

He looked like he still wanted to say something, but was taking a painfully long time to do it, eventually, the Grand Rector buried his hopes, striking his gavel, announcing the end of their duel.

"Mr. Kowalski, I must side with Mrs. Ellis, your project may not proceed, you may bring it up again to convince us if we should allow you to run a test plant, however, you may only do so in the summer."

Provost and Vice-Provost then gave a short.

"Aye."

Both opponents went back to their seats, one debate was over, many more to come.

Life is Slow, on the Freezing Water
A Fishing Boat

He enjoyed the swaying of the boat, he always liked it, back and forth, back and forth, he closed his eyes and rocked to the tune of the swaying, it was like mother's comfort, gently hugging her son and rocking with him to calm him, back and forth, back and forth, back and.

He got woke up by a slam before him, and a voice he knew telling him.

"We caught fish!"

His friend then put a crate of newly caught fishes, he, in turn, started to take them from the crate, and with his cleaver, he started chopping the fishes head before with a couple of swift motions he also descaled the fish, with the scales flying everywhere, gutted it, and then made it slide to another container, that one full of ice.

He got done by around the same time his friend came back, with another crate, he sure was lucky to be able to be on a ship with his friend, it really made the work fly easily.

"Hey, what was that you were doing previously?" He asked

"You know, no work, so I nodded off, the sea rocks here so gently I imagined it was my mama that was hugging me again."

He replied, while gutting, decapitating, and descaling yet another crate of fishes, as they were chatting mid-work. Suddenly a horrible, ear-splitting sound could be heard from the left side of the ship. Both of them raced there.

Looking over the edge, they saw a chunk of frozen ice scraping itself by their ship before finally leaving them alone. Then so suddenly as to be even more sudden than the sea ice showing up, the Dean-Captain got out of his cabin.

"Aye, get back to your work!" He commanded

"Sir, there's, there's sea ice!" Somebody from the back of the crowd shouted.

"Ice?! Dammit! Well, we've got a couple of weeks of fishing, so let's make the most of it, everyone, to their station!"

Everybody cheered along with the captain before going off to work on their station. The captain walked back to his cabin, these Brutes were all supposed to be half-idiots, he thought to himself, then why does he keep noticing as if something brighter within them was shining through, from his room he looked at the Brute that was previously rocking back and forth, yes, he was sure he notified a glimpse of something in there."

In The Hallowed Halls of Harvard
Continued Meeting of the Collegiate Council

Fruitless debates were waged for hours, mostly on the continued preservation of knowledge, neither one being promising, neither one leading anywhere, Allan was tired of this, endless debates on how to best preserve paper, and which department actually should keep the tomes of preserved knowledge and schematics, both preserved, and reverse-engineered. Then finally someone stood up, who had a more interesting idea.

"My fellow honored, I'm sure you too have started picking up something on long-dead radio channels, it seems, the Endless Radiophonic Silence has finally been broken, I propose we triangulate from where the signal is coming from, from my entry calculations, it won't be particularly hard."

Allan knew this man, the leader of the Department of Applied Mathematics, as the name implies, tasked with preservation, continuing, and furthering the mathematical thought of yesteryear. Another man then also stood up, Allan recognized him as the head of the Eugenics Programme.

"What do you want to triangulate it for? To break the policy of Pure Isolation, idle curiosity? Both reasons are outrageous!"

Vice-Provost signaled the two men to take their stands, before a fight would break out amongst the Collegiates, breaking the policy of Pure Isolation that has been the core tenet of the Eugenics Programme and the effort to increase human intelligence to its limits has always been controversial, no one would yet dare allow for anyone to enter their border, let alone migrate, that could mire what they were constructing for generations, but many have since felt that not allowing on-border trade and research and trade caravans was choking them, that movement has been invigorated recently, nearly every Major remembered the tragedy of those few bullets striking the bricks of Harvard, horror of horrors, one bullet even broke a window.

"I want to triangulate it to know how far away it is, and if it may be a threat, additionally, perhaps with the Rector's blessing, we could send an expedition to there to know the message, and know the sender, and gather knowledge."

"So you want to break the policy! Do you not understand what that entails, no, we need to preserve what is already in our borders."

"There is nothing more, we cataloged everything, unless we stumble onto something that even the old world knew nothing of, then our purpose will be for naught as we will be preserving nothing, knowledge not applied is knowledge wasted."

"The risks are too great! What if they will want to come to us, or any of the Brutes or Assistants you'd take on such journey would be seduced by the outsiders, it would ruin everything."

"And if we don't do this our genetics will soon look less like a tree and more like a circle, this is why we still allow for peak specimens to settle in our borders if they find us, but our standards are too high for anyone outside the Programme to be able to complete them, you will doom us eventually."

"Do you not hear what you speak! Do you want your children to be idiots because you found out there some half-savage woman, and your faulty hormonal impulses made you think you fell for her?!"

"Every pursuit comes with an inherent risk, by not risking you don't progress, and we vowed to only progress."

"Some risks are too big!"

"But this one isn't!"

The debate was quickly devolving into a screaming match, seeing the writing on the wall, the Grand Rector banged his gavel.

"That is enough, this project shall proceed unhampered."

The Grand Rector decreed, thus breaking for what may be the first time, a long-held taboo. The Provost and Vice-Provost looked at him with uncertainty, but after a period of deliberation during which a tense silence stretched over the hall, but eventually, they went back to their normal position, seemingly not objecting, but not approving either.

Border Control, Intelligence Passport
Border Guard Station on an Old World Asphalt Road

"Hey, what ya' doing after our shift?" He begun rather awkwardly, he was on border guarding duty with a new person stationed in their force, the border here was calm, very calm in fact, there weren't many visitors around here.

He rather liked it like that, he could just enjoy the nature, he really liked how the nature looked, though he wouldn't dare tread into it without company, 'foaming at mouth, shoot on sight', he recited in his memory one of the many short nature-warning poems that he was taught during training as a young boy of no more than 10, apparently, they were supposed to help him remember things, though, quite ironically, he couldn't remember how the assistants called it.

"You know, nothing much, just going to eat, I don't really know anyone here." The woman, draped in the same uniform as his replied.

"Well, you could come to my barracks." He proposed, before feeling a bit hot and going red on the face as he realized what he's said. "I mean, I-i have the, uh, poker night with some friends, and, maybe you, um, could join, you know how to play poker?"

"Not really, but I'd love to join, if you'll teach me how to play poker." She replied with a smile.

"Oh! Great!, I'm sorry if I sounded, a bit, you know."

"Yeah, don't wo-" she got cut as both of them heard a noise, a snap of a branch.

In a moment the jovial tone of the two border guards vanished, as they grabbed their rifle previously swung over their shoulder, and turned towards the direction of the sound, pointing their guns there. Their instincts snapping into place, a strange mixture of dopamine and adrenaline was being released by their body into their system, they, of course, knew not of it.

"Who's there! Show yourself!" He shouted.

"You have trespassed onto Harvardian territory! Show yourself or we'll open fire!" She added.

Soon enough some brushed rustled as a young-looking man with tattered clothes and a backpack emerged with arms up, he was incredibly dirty. Seeing that the trespasser was not hostile, he lowered his rifle.

"Follow me." He ordered, soon after they were walking in a column with him up front, the man, and her closing it.

"I do not know who you are, but we will subject you to a test to see if you can settle here." He told the man a line he was trained to tell.

"Settle? I-i, I just want to trade, my family is living near a river, please sir, we've heard of what the Harvardians have done, we wanted to just humbly ask for help, it's winter and we can't gro-" He cut his pleas off before finishing with another line trained to a t.

"You've come here, it means you are here to either settle, or attack."

Back at the forward outpost they lead the man into a room with only one entrance and a window through which he apparently could not see them, but they can him. She went to guard the entrance while He reported to their dean-assistant.

"Ma'am, a settler has came.,"

"A settler? Well, that's new here, I'll do the test, you can go back to your duties, someone else will carry them out if needed." The dean replied, already searching her drawers for something.

They've went back, no sense in hanging around, especially to see the test results, from what he heard nearly no one succeeded it, maybe for the better, he had a feeling any outsider would feel lost in their country. Going back to their post up on the road, he started telling Her about how to play poker, as if nothing had happened.

In The Hallowed Halls of Harvard
Continued Meeting of the Collegiate Council

For a while no one said anything, the taboo's power, long-held by this council, was at last broken, Allan didn't know if he should be happy, that at last what he felt crippled them for so long, yet as a Grand Rector he could do naught for that, but merely wait until the Collegiate Council so proposed, unless they are stuck in grid-lock for two meetings straight, only then could the Rector and Provosts have both executive and legislative powers.

Allan wasn't sure, if he should thank the bandits that came so close to The Harvard, if not for them, perhaps this anti-isolationist movement would now be in its dying throws, instead of the blossoming it currently experienced. As soon as these thoughts clouded his mind, someone stood up, one of their generals, once an assistant lifted to a major for repelling a multi-clan bandit attack.

"I would like to propose something" he begun, without any pleasantries. "As we all know, the accursed banditry has been plaguing our border since the beginning of our rule, and year after year, seeing we do not strike back, are getting bolder, more vicious, the bounty that we present with our technology is too great for them not to lust for."

He took a breath.

"I propose we eliminate the root cause of the problem, simplify one piece of the strategic calculation, as have fuel, and ammunition, I propose we first smoke them out with flame-throwers, and shoot at anybody that tries to escape the carnage, move methodically, with gun coverage and overwatch being present to guard against their potential guerilla attacks, as you know the terrain is mostly flat forest and overgrown ruins that would easily catch fire, they have nowhere to run and thus I propose to split their territory in the middle, to drive one group to the corrupt zones of mutation to die in there, and the other half to drive to the peninsula, where they would have nowhere else to run, preparations for it should take two months, thus we would not have to do it in wintertime, I nicknamed this operation 'Savage Burn', and I will say this, May Cape Cod Burn."

It seems that some people for a second to object to this, before yet another person stood up, yelling, "May Cape Cod Burn!"

That person was followed by another, then a few, and then the majority of the hall, the few that wanted dispute were probably too terrified to dispute anything. Allan was horrified, he did not expect such knee-jerk reactions to a wrong dealt a month ago in December, this scorched earth tactic, yet the support was overbearing, he looked at the Provosts, with the hope that they may yet veto this.

His hope was shattered when the Grand Provost stood up to join the rhythmical chanting of "May Cape Cod Burn!"

The chanting lasted for three excruciating minutes, Allan counted each and one of them, his previous euphoria at a taboo shattered, was washed away as he realized what fueled by anger the anti-isolationist ideology had become, yet having no choice, he banged his gavel and simply said.

"This operation may proceed if there is no other opposition." He quietly hoped some opposition would now stand up.

May they Never Break-in Again
Border with the Cape Cod Bandits

Her heart was racing, even though the sounds of a gunfight were slowly fading, the bandits probably got to some kind of a cache of a major, probably deservedly if said major was stupid enough to keep their stuff here. She slowly peeked out of cover, being followed by her 15 men strong squad, thankfully they didn't sustain any casualties, though she didn't know what happened to Nick's squad, hopefully, he wasn't dead.

She immediately saw a large metal square some 30 or 40 meters before them, with a gun poking out of it that as soon as she got her head off out cover started to buzz and slowly rotate.

"Duck!" She jumped backwards, landing on her back next to another cover before quickly slumping over, some concrete from that cover landed on her head, as just centimeters over her head a small hole was being carved by bullets.

Suddenly she heard a battle cry, unmistakably of one of the many bandit clans that ruled Cape Cod, it was coming towards them, she aimed at the line of her cover and shot in the eye the first bandit that showed his ugly head over the cover, she was used to it, these bandits attacked semi-regularly, anywhere from two weeks to three months, but during winter they always got worse.

The bullets from the machine gun were still flying as her squad of brutes shot and killed physically, she tried to help as much as possible to those that were struggling, but at least 5 men were wounded if not dead. She looked at a brute near her, Frank.

"Throw them a 'nade!" She screamed, before placing her hand out of cover but from the path of bullets, a distraction so Frank could aim, it worked spectacularly.

After that gun was silenced they lunged out of cover, trying to shoot the retreating bandits, this whole attack was a distraction, she jumped through her cover, and was about to jump through the last layer of cover, before she noticed the new guy, Charlie, who had just wrestled his opponent to the ground and was standing over him with a pistol pointed towards him.

"Good job Charlie, shoot him!" She ordered, but before she saw the deed she refocused on shooting the retreating people, it wasn't very honorable, to shoot them in the back, but everyone shot had the potential of more tech reclaimed.

Just as she thought the last bandit fell, suddenly she heard Frank behind her pushed to the ground and felt someone, also try to push her, she resisted and the opponent started running, that's when she saw an unwashed, filth covered, bandit, revolting at the smell she instinctively shot, the bandit dropped to the ground, she shot two more times until he stopped wriggling.

She rushed to Charlie, only to see him crying and on his knees.

"I-i couldn't, he wasn't carrying anything, he looked at me, and his eyes, he looked so scared."

She placed her hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna blame you, but you'll still gonna need to go somewhere, don't worry, you'll be back soon enough."

She then walked away, so that Charlie couldn't hear her, before activating a two-way radio. "Company command? Private Charles has a fault, you're gonna need to pick him up for further Pavlovian, thanks."

Suddenly someone gently tapped her shoulder, turning around she noticed it was Frank. "Ma'am, your hand." She looked at her hand, indeed there was a bullet hole, must have not noticed over the adrenaline, she was starting to feel the pain, it will be tough to heal.

In The Hallowed Halls of Harvard
Ending of the Meeting of the Collegiate Council

Silence even more overbearing had been laid over the council, though under flowing emotions would be visible even to the idiotic minds of the Brutes, Allan was scared of what next may even be said, before the seemingly youngest member of the council, whose head has not even yet shown the signs of a grey hair that typically adorned the heads of the Collegiates.

"It seems to me, that we are still mired of not keeping our oath, for, we may know everything that has happened in our borders, and what happened before the Collapse, yet we know naught of what happened in the past two hundred years after the Collapse, this, gap can be rectified with constructing of three expeditions, one small airship per expedition, only minimal crew and supplies to last two months, and the mission to map what has arisen in America after the fall, one expedition heading northwest, one expedition heading southwest, and last one heading south, to minimize risk, the only landings and contacts with the locals are allowed only in the event of resource shortage"

Allan was relieved to hear what the young man has said, it would obviously require the construction of airships, but they still can be made, and crew only assigned what they would get if rationing of food was placed so that their expedition would not be a drain on the food stockpile other than what they would already get.

"This project is approved."

He said before anybody rose to the opposition, though it wasn't like anybody would try, even the Director of the Eugenics Programme who was nearly in tears from his previous defeat.

"Any further propositions?"

He asked, and when he was met only with silence for the next consecutive thirty minutes he then asked.

"Should this meeting be formally ended?"

He was met with an "Aye" from all of the Collegiates, and thus the meeting ended, leaving him conflicted over what had happened, though one thing was obvious to the listeners, what has happened would be a change to their whole society.

Summary of Relevant Events
- State of Harvard starts attempting to triangulate the signals position.
- State of Harvard begins the building of three airships.
- State of Harvard begins preparation for Operation "Savage Burn"

by **Anthocosm** » Sun Aug 01, 2021 1:13 pm

Eastern Former Quebec

A dense snowfall befell upon the Canadian wilderness. Across the vast taiga, rolling plains, rocky cliffs, and winding rivers, snow and ice blanketed everything. Occasional fauna, such as, stoats, rabbits, foxes, wolves, caribou, buffalo, and polar bears, trudged across the landscape, taking advantage of this calm, cloudy January morning as much as possible.

Deep in the Laurentian Mountains, there was a bandit outpost hidden in the caves and the treacherous hilly taiga surrounding it. Their leader, Dean Bart, had been conducting caravan raids and kidnappings from this location. Contesting this area were remnants of the Montagnais tribe, who, despite fierce resistance, made no progress locating the outpost.

Fortunately, there were two people in the region that knew how to find it.

Dressed in white tunics, trousers, boots and puttees, peaked cap, ski masks, and camouflage hooded ponchos, Tanja and Slfa were cautiously trudging through the foliage. Thanks to the dim morning light, the two female Tampallakama were invisible so long as they kept to the rocks, trees, and bushes. In their hands were their flintlock rifles, each donning white burlap, a double trigger, and long narrow telescopes.

Eventually, Slfa, the leading combatant, crouched and laid prone behind a snow-riddled bush. Tanja did the same on her left, where she hugged her rifle close to her shoulders. At this point, the duo were 'swimming' in the snow, crawling a few inches forward before Slfa stopped and brought her rifle forward.

Slfa was careful not to protrude the muzzle too far out, but she positioned it just enough where her scope was peering through a leafy loophole. By contrast, a huge shadow from the surrounding trees and an adjacent two story boulder concealed Tanja's silhouette. If anything, Tanja would be taking the first shot, not Slfa.

Halfway on a steep slope downrange, several bandits were sitting behind a simple, crude scaffolding, masterly concealed by a jute netting. To the average passerby or untrained eye, the bandits were invisible, and, when nobody was stationed there, the scaffolding was nonexistent. It was the perfect vantage point ... so long as no one was trying to be stealthy.

No more than 750 yards away, Tanja was making her final adjustments, compensating for a rightward 8mph breeze plus three and a half mildot bullet drop. Ready to fire, she swiftly clicked her tongue a few times, where Slfa promptly parroted the signal. Depressing the rear trigger, the front trigger unlocked with a faint click, allowing Tanja to rest her right fingertip on it.

Three seconds later, a .50 caliber lead bullet smashed into the right bandit's chest. He managed to gurgle once before slumping forward, where rigor mortis almost instantly occurred, courtesy of the frigid ambient temperature. His partner barely had a chance to stand up and grab his shotgun when a .50 caliber bullet slammed into his left ear - none of the men knew what hit them not even in death.

Ten minutes would transpire until footsteps were heard ten yards to the left of the lookout. A tanned-skinned with a gas mask, brown fur-lined overcoat, pants, and skis was making his way to the lookout, not realizing his two compatriots were already dead. Just as he stopped and dismounted, a .50 caliber bullet zipped through his neck, entering from the left and out through the right side.

"E, Adam? Tu as raison?" A voice hollered nearby, followed by a pair of footsteps crunching in the snow.

Coming into view was another bandit on skis, but as he was closing in, a bullet smashed into his forehead. Immediately losing consciousness, he skid past the lookout, where he eventually disappeared into a shallow tree well. A few minutes later, Tanja and Slfa trudged by, unfazed by the frozen bodies left in their wake.

Upon reaching the top of the slope, both Kampallakama fell prone again, masking their profile to absolutely nothing. About 920 yards away their position, there was a cabin with a fallen log on its southern and westward sides. To any lost wanderer or adventurous explorer, it was an oaisis in the middle of the winter wasteland, but it was also the perfect place for lumberjacks, hunters, and bandits.

Thanks to the low lighting and distance, Slfa turned her head left, glaring at Tanja before pointing leftward, a ‘walking’ gesture, and then a throat-slitting motion. With a curt nod, Tanja momentarily slid down the slope, concealing herself from view and make her way along. For Slfa, she crouch-walked rightward, keeping herself hidden behind the slope as she relocated to a better firing angle.

Downrange, a few bandits were held up in the cabin, one of them still fast asleep in the wee hours of the morning. The second bandit was sitting next to the fire while his friend went outside to chop down some wood. Before long, there was the lingering crackle of wood, before an entire pine tree fell; however, the bandit who cut the tree was laying in the snow, opposite of the tree stump … with his throat slit.

Meanwhile, Slfa watched from 770 yards away, having already seen Tanja slit the man’s throat before vanishing into the snow. Ten minutes later, the second bandit came outside, carrying two mugs as he made his way to the fallen tree. When he was approaching his unknowingly fallen friend, Tanja peered from behind the cabin, sneaking up behind the bandit and slitting his throat.

Without any further ado, she rushed to the cabin, gently cracking the door and entering without a sound. Swiftly and deeply slitting his throat, she exited, turned to Slfa’s direction, and saluted - it was all clear. For Slfa, she turned around, aiming her rifle upwards at an insurmountably steep slope, effortlessly acquiring her sights on a humble rock formation.

Until something appeared, Tanja sped ahead, racing towards a more navigable slope nearby. Once she was climbing her way up, a bandit popped out of the formation, where, a couple seconds later, a bullet smashed into his left jaw. Despite the encounter, Tanja was unfazed, because she and Slfa knew very well that this was all part of the plan.

With the threat eliminated, Slfa slung her rifle and brandished her knife, dashing towards Tanja’s direction. Meanwhile, Tanja scaled the slope, assuming a vantage point at the near top and spotting the cave entrance 550 yards away. Thanks to a jute netting with pine needles and snow, the entrance was impossible to spot, but through a trained eye, the minute difference of lighting underneath the netting was a hidden giveaway.

Fifteen minutes later, Slfa lingered into view downrange, appearing in the right side of the entrance. Spotting her fellow huntress, Tanja exchanged her rifle for her knife, where she went into the taiga to her left and sprinted. En route, a bandit exited from the entrance; however, just when he was hearing Tanja’s footsteps, Slfa pounced, quietly slitting his throat and dragging him out of sight.

A moment later, Tanja appeared in the entrance’s left, unopposed by anything when Slfa returned as well. Nodding to each other, Tanja took the lead, but barely a few seconds later, a female figure appeared around a distant left corner, brandishing a flashlight. Reflexively, Tanja grabbed and yanked the woman by her throat, exploiting her victim’s forward momentum to stab her in the heart and hide her from view.

While she was squeezing her neck, Slfa swiftly holstered her knife and encased the victim’s mouth and head with her hands, muffling any noise. Moments later, when Tanja removed her knife, Slfa laid the corpse face down and removed the flashlight. With a pair of inaudible metallic clicks, the flashlight was extinguished, allowing the duo to refocus their attention,

Removing her hood, Tanja peered her head around the corner, spotting no one else except a dozen bandits huddled around a camping lamp. Aside from the mixed French and English chatter, no one was aware that their cavernous camp had been compromised. Realizing that it was the only light source in the cave, Tanja waited for Slfa to peer over her, where a whisper slivered into her left ear, “Kalafota saa.”

Brandishing her rifle, she waited until Slfa slipped past her and vanished in the shadows. A few seconds later, Tanja pulled the trigger and, with a sharp echoing bang, the lamp burst into sparks and glass. Engulfing the cave in complete darkness, the bandits verbosely grumbled and cursed, immediately panicking to the sudden loss of light.

Fortunately, a few of the bandits had flashlights, almost instantly spotting the plume of smoke at the entrance. Alerted, the bandits aimed their weapons, frozen and scared senseless as they awaited for the impending threat. Unbeknownst to them, Slfa snuck past them, locating Dean Bart, who was clambering into his overcoat and running out of a passageway.

He never got to say anything when Slfa waited for him to run by and slit his throat. Unaware of their leader’s assassination, the bandits kept their eyes fixated on the entrance, allowing Slfa to individually sneak up and slit the throats of each bandit. One by one, any bandit not brandishing a flashlight was stealthily killed off, but eventually, when Slfa began to target the first flashlight-wielding thug, a high pitch whistle left her lips.

Alerted to her presence, the five surviving bandits pointed their flashlights upon her, who had a clothed meat shield in her front of her. Intentionally cornered, it allowed for Tanja to pop around the corner, blast a bandit, and distract the bandits again. Shoving the corpse onto the closest bandit, Slfa sliced into a dark-skinned man’s chest. From the poor SOB’s view, the last he saw before losing consciousness was a white genderless ghost before it whooshed into the dark.

Meanwhile, a bandit with a hunting shotgun and flashlight rushed to the entrance, only to find it empty. Realizing his compromising situation, he wisely retreated, but upon doing so, his throat was slit open. He was the last bandit alive, as the two others were already dead - one was his throat slashed and another stabbed in the liver and Adam’s Apple smashed.

In ten minutes total, fifteen bandits and Dean Bart were dead, with the eight others dead 45 minutes ago. Brandishing flashlights, the duo began to search the empty cave, especially Dean’s quarters. Aside from some canned goods, Native American possessions/relics, and a collection of maps, there was not much else; however, just when the duo was about to leave, there was rustling and whimpering in his sleeping bag.

Frowning at each other, Tanja cautiously unzipped the bag, finding a baby girl wrapped in blankets. For a moment, the ruthless duo stood in appalling silence, shocked by the fact that the bandit leader was trying to safeguard his baby. Though their ski masks hid everything except their eyes, the duo kept looking at each other, silently wondering what to do with the newborn girl.

But eventually, a decision was made.

Tanja scooped up the baby and its blanket, following Slfa’s lead as the drop the flashlights and left the cave.

While their mission was over, getting the baby back to Kampata was an entirely new mission in of itself…

by **Anowa** » Mon Aug 02, 2021 1:57 pm

_{Canoness Mosaic de Khanum}
_{Hospitaller at Arms}
_{Hospitaller at Arms Chambers}
_{New Jerusalem}
_{Week 3, January 2223}

Five Hospitaller stood in her office, four of them men, one a woman. Harling, Cross, Tamerlane, Peter Grom and Gehenna.

"I suppose you've already heard of your assignment?"

Harling spoke up, "Trader escort." a pause, "Though if I might ask. Why?"

Mosaic shrigged, "The boat's captain didn't feel safe the last time he went down the river to trade. The Sickorros near White Sands was less than friendly during bartering, and he spoke of concerning signs of -and I'll quote him- "Savages" near El Paso. One of his guards died of an infection around Big Bend and he was paranoid the whole way back apparently. I'm sending you three and a GAU to mount to the bridge roof to act as insurance. Hopefully the Sickorros will be a bit less impatient with your presence. And hopefully it's give Mister Elling and his crew the stones to forge on to Terrell if they're still there, maybe talk with the so called Savages."

Gehenna sighed, "That's about all we do nowadays."

Mosaic could only nod silently. In her childhood, her father used to tell her of the varying conquests and battles the Hospitaller took part in to tame the Colorado river and put the fear of God in to everyone within it's basin. Now they were trapped in fucking escort duty.

"Hopefully that will change soon. If the Patriarch ever gets his head out of his ass. You five are dismissed, get ready, you'll be leaving tomorrow night."

Not too long after the Quintet of soldiers exited the room, there was a knock.

"Enter."

In came a younger man, likely not much older than 17, the mailboy for the leadership of the Order, "Canoness, I bring a message from the Sky Kettle Tribe."

"The settlements to our west? You're kidding."

The young man simply handed a letter over, the woman gave a questioning look to the letter, signed and sealed by the Sky Kettle's Chief. It was... odd, for such a message to be put in written form, usually they dispatched a personal runner to give the message orally. They had stuck to such a delivery system for close to the 40 years they'd been in the valley to the west.

Opening the letter, it was both a shock, and something expected. The Winter had been hard on the tribe, and they felt it was unlikely they would survive another. They were petitioning to become a part of the Order's area of responsibility. Sadly, the Patriarch would be unlikely to sign off on it.

"Any word from the patriarch regarding my ultimatum?"

The boy nodded, "It seems he's signed away orders to halt construction on the Colorado Dam."

"Good." a pause, "Send orders to Commander Fawkes. Have his troop collect supplies from the ration and send them over to the Sky Kettles, if anyone asks I'm exercising my right to act in defense of the realm. A refugee crisis in Spring isn't a prospect I enjoy."

Summary of Events:
- Vassalization of the Sky Kettle Tribe begins (10+ Weeks)
- Scouting and Trading Mission down the Rio Grande, begins (10+ Weeks)

NO NEW EVENTS

by **Transoxthraxia** » Wed Aug 04, 2021 9:17 am

Week 3, January 2223

Walkerton,
Kingdom of the Valley
About a week ago

It wasn't often that the Queen of the Valley was left alone. During the days, she was surrounded by courtiers, guards, and, most intrusive of all, her husband. During the nights, attendees, servants, and entertainers accompanied her from her dinner until she got into bed. Thus, it was unusual for the reigning monarch to actually be alone.

Set sat in one of the many palatial gardens that she had ordered constructed. Her father hadn't ever cared much for nature, and care for the palace grounds was one of the few things that the queen's husband had actually entrusted her with. He believed it to be beneath him. And so, with little oversight, Camila had been able to transform the palace in Walkerton into a large monument to natural beauty, with large garden complexes, greenery in all rooms, and the general beautification of the vast series of structures that encompassed the administrative nucleus of the Valleyan Kingdom's government.

However, out of all the gardens, the one that memorialized her deceased brother Elijah was her favourite. A large statue of the late king dominated the rectangular, open-air garden. Colonnades on all four sides of the garden led towards the interior of the palace, while the rest of the area was organised into a winding path through artificial ponds, lush, natural ferns, vines, and natural flowers. Unlike many other gardens in the palace, which were neatly tended to with flower beds and trimmed grass, Elijah's Garden was natural and overgrown. It also had very few visitors on a normal day - and at night, even fewer. It did, however, have a standard complement of guards - two, to be exact, that patrolled the garden at regular intervals throughout the night.

It was here that the queen, disguised as a Palatial Guard, stood watch, feigning the behaviour of those she was imitating. The ceremonial armour of the guard weighed on her chest, and her feet were sore from standing so long, but she waited - and while she did, she couldn't help but think how lucky it was that Jamiesson had moved his Kingsguard with him when he departed for Owensville just a few days prior. Not just inspecting the new vassal, Camila thought, but likely visiting a mistress or two. Walkerton was generally described as one of the safest places in California, and while the Kingsguard had the duty of protecting the monarch-regnant, the low risk of Walkerton and the usefulness of the Kingsguard meant that Jamiesson often absconded with them, leaving the mostly-ceremonial Palatial Guard in their place.

Unlike the Kingsguard, that answered directly to Jamiesson, the Palatial Guard answered only to the regnant. It was generally a vestigial organization, which had been founded by her father decades ago but gradually lost its importance during their rivalry with the Kingsguard. Camila took advantage of the ambitious head of the Palatial Guard, John Ramirez, to organise her current meeting. It wouldn't be long now, the queen reassured herself, as her aching legs trembled in the metal armour that encased them.

At least when Jamiesson was away, she was free to roam the palace at night - in some sort of clandestine way.

Soon enough, a dim light of a torch illuminated three figures - another guard, and two others. If she didn't know who they were, she'd have assumed that they were an entertainment act. One was short and portly, and the other exceptionally tall and thin. They both wore the robes of esteemed diplomats, each of them skilled schmoozers and negotiators that had served from well before her time as queen. The portly one was Elton Sinjin, a jovial but aging man who had been in the crown's service since he was in his twenties. The tall and thin one was Erik Coalsen, less experienced than Sinjin but with a romantic sense of loyalty about him.

The two were visibly confused, but as the queen removed her helmet that obscured her identity, and explained to the two of them what she wanted them to do, it became clear to each that her assignment was more than clandestine - it was actively opposed by the "official" administration. For now. But both had been chosen not for their skill, but their loyalty. Sinjin was the natural choice, being both a hardcore loyalist to the Walker family, and Coalsen, while a relatively new addition to the diplomatic corps, had a strong notion about the role of the royal family.

The pair of diplomats were to travel with official Letters of the Crown to the powers to the west and south of the Valley - the State of the Vale and the Nation of Imams, each of which were integral to Camila's plans. While Jamiesson was all sabre-rattling and intimidation, the queen wanted to approach the pair a bit differently. She had in mind a vision of California - united in political alliances, and working together for the future. A place of peace and prosperity, where different states worked together for mutual benefit and aid. Jamiesson's path of conquest had been offset by complications with logistics and trade to the west and distance to the south, but if the queen could get both nations on board with more advanced diplomatic relations than the pleasant, if unofficial connections enjoyed during the reign of George Walker, then she'd secure the inability of Jamiesson's dreams of war.

Each diplomat acceded to the queen's requests with only cursory questions and no resistance. Each set off with a small retinue, one to the west, and another to the south. As Camila undressed and returned the Palatial Guard armour to Ramirez, she couldn't help but hope for good news from her missions.

Coin Story
HMMRAS Sublime,
Royal Airship,
Kingdom of the Valley,
In between Walkerton and Sutter

Camila Walker wasn't often removed from the capital by her husband when he went to deal with the various administrative things that he "handled" "for her". Usually, he liked to act alone - having Camila there risked undermining his authority and, more importantly for Jamiesson, it meant that he had to act in the most proper ways, as his wife was around, and the court was thus watching. However, the city of Sutter was unveiling a new monument to George Walker, a massive harbour along the Sanwakin that was overlooked by a statue of the deceased king. While Jamiesson loved to handle the nitty-gritty of the realm, Camila simply needed to be present for more official, visible ceremonies. Thus, with a little reluctance, Jamiesson had brought her upon the Sublime, the royal transport airship, and began a pondering journey towards Sutter.

For Jamiesson, this had provided the perfect opportunity to confront the woman on something that he had learned just a half-week prior. For Camila, she had guessed that her husband would talk to her about this. In fact, she had bet on it. Camila had been sitting in the Sublime's study, reading a new history on what was known of the Kingdom of the Vale when her husband entered. He didn't offer the courtesy of a knock, which wasn't irregular for the man, but, without looking up from her book, the force at which the airship's door slammed shut behind him meant that Camila knew exactly how he felt. Lying on the couch in the room, she watched as Jamiesson threw a grouping of coins on the floor in front of her.

She raised an eyebrow in faux surprise, and closed her book. "Husband, you've dropped some coins", she started. Before she could continue, Jamiesson interrupted her.

"Look at them", he demanded. "Tell me what you see."

Camila sat up, but didn't stand. Bending over to pick the coins up off the rug that covered the metal floor, she described them. "Well," she began. "On one side is my likeness. Very nice printing, the cast came out well, I think". Her voice was a little timid, and cracked a bit as she continued to speak. The teenager struggled to stay brave in the face of her red-faced husband, whose normal cool composure often dissipated in private. "And on the other... it's exactly as I ordered. A little indistinct, maybe? But it's my two brothers, Elton and Elliot, each with a crown, facing away from one another."

"Exactly!" Jamiesson hissed. "Why? Why did you order these to be put on coins? And how?" Interrogations were common between the couple.

Camila tried to formulate the words, but she felt meek. "I'm the queen, it's my duty... besides, were my brothers not members of my family? Were they not rulers in their own right? Coins have been minted since my father's time of all members of the Walker family. My mother even had her likeness on coins before she passed away, it's not new."

The queen knew, in actuality, why this struck a nerve with Jamiesson. Elton and Elliot had never been enshrined as official kings, just as co-rulers with Elijah. Camila had no love lost on either of them, unlike her eldest brother, with whom she had adored. She knew that either of the pair would have used her as a tool to secure their own rule, but that wasn't the point - it was beyond honourific, Camila had meant it to be intentionally antagonistic. The pair of brothers were pretenders, simply put, and by enshrining them on currency, it helped officially legitimise them as rulers, bringing to mind their suspicious demises, and how convenient it was that an entire civil war was avoided by their deaths.

Camila knew that her husband wanted to grind their memories into dust. She also knew that, in order for her ruse to continue to be successful, she had to keep passing off her actions as good-intentioned but childish. For the young queen, it was incredibly difficult.

"It doesn't matter if it's not new or not, Camila", Jamiesson said, virtually spitting his words. "Don't you get it? Elton and Elliot were rebels. If they entered Walkerton, who knows what they'd have done to you, and I'd have certainly been killed..."

Jamiesson launched into a tirade, and Camila stared wide-eyed. She wasn't a good actress, but when she tried to fill a role that someone expected her to fill, perhaps the fit could be better. And perhaps if she wasn't entirely acting, it'd be easier. Camila was young. She was inexperienced, and she was painfully aware of this. Her strategy to undermine her husband's authority hadn't originated from a desire to usurp him, but rather to embarrass and discredit him. But as her plan evolved, it took on a different purpose.

Not that Jaimesson would know.

He advanced on her, rounding the table, and grabbed the woman's wrists. She gasped in pain and dropped her book. "I told you. Anything that you think you want to do should always be run by me. That way I can make sure that nothing like this happens. Got it? Now, we have to go to the mint, find out who agreed to do this for you, and strike all of the coins."

Camila nodded, the fear in her eyes genuine. He released her, apologised for his actions, the contrition terribly transparent, and left. Camila's heart was pounding, but at least, apparently, he had taken the bait. He seemed to be none the wiser to the pair of diplomats that were missing from the capital.

Sunnyvale,
Capital of the State of the Vale
The Valleyan "embassy" to the State of the Vale was present in their capital, but it stuck out like a sore thumb. When George Walker had initiated contact with The Vale some decades ago, relations were quickly built up between the two powers, though no official diplomacy ever took place. The Vale granted a small, semi-official diplomatic building. Over the years, it had been transformed to be closer to Valleyan architecture, making it seem alien and out of place among the other, more "normal" buildings.

That didn't stop Elton Sinjin from making the building his base of operations shortly after arriving in Sunnyvale. From there, he prepared a diplomatic outreach to the State of the Vale, which was, for all intents and purposes, a kingdom - much like his own. The diplomatic offer was passed off to the State's diplomatic machine, with which Sinjin was somewhat familiar. From there, he'd hope that the offer would reach the Vale's Secretary of State, who would then either accept the offer or pass the request along to the Governor - the effective king.

For Californian diplomacy, the offer was somewhat revolutionary, but not unheard of. A non-aggression treaty, where each power promised not to attack the other, be it in a military or economic manner, was proposed. Similarly, formal recognition and embassy creation was offered - to make the official diplomatic ties between the two nations much easier to maintain. And finally, the invitation to a border conference - a conference between the two powers to determine what their future borders would look like, was offered. Sinjin's orders were to stay in Sunnyvale for as long as possible, and he had a long, long agenda to get through. That being said, diplomacy was done in small steps, so he had to play his time and space cards very carefully to ensure that his mission would be accomplished.

Tulare,
Nation of the Imams

While diplomacy with the State of the Vale had been somewhat extant, relations with the Nation of the Imams was virtually non-existent. The Kingdom of the Valley was aware that the Imams existed, and they had some idea of the tribal confederation's history and general disposition. But no relations, even informal ones, beyond peaceful contact when relevant, had ever been established with them.

That's not to say that the Imams weren't forthcoming with peaceful obligations, of course. The Valleyans had been surprised, and generally taken aback by the Imams' general cordiality when they were able to see it. But theoretical ideas of what the Imamite territory might look like were shattered when Erik Coalsen reached Tulare.

Coalsen didn't know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn't what he saw. His journey from the lands of the Valley, along the Sanwakin, and into Imamite territory took him through some dangerous areas, and despite some close calls, the mercenaries that had accompanied him ensure that he had gotten to his location safely. But as he finally reached Tulare, Valleyan banners unfurled, he was taken aback at the difference between Valleyan and Imamite lifestyles. The two most obvious disparities were that of technology and culture - the Imamites lacked the advanced tech of the Valley's most advanced cities - the cities that he had grown up in. Similarly, there seemed to be a preacher on every corner, each proselytizing in languages that he both understood and didn't, which piqued his interest.

The Faith of Manifest & Destiny was something most people practised in a personal way, with the scholarly parts of the faith generally prevailing over the more dogmatic, doctrinal versions. The religion tended to go hand-in-hand with the culture, rather than the other way around. Because of this, it was unusual to see any sort of missionary of Manifest & Destiny.

After hiring some local interpreters, to ensure maximum linguistic clarity, the diplomatic mission, small as it was - partially to ensure survivability, and partially due to its internally-clandestine nature - eventually reached the Vizier, and, after explaining why they were there, asked to schedule a visit with the High Imam, hoping to bring to him an identical offer that Sinjin was making with the State of the Vale - formal recognition, non-aggression treaties, and a border conference.

Summary of Events:
- Diplomatic Expeditions are sent to the Kingdom of the Vale and the Nation of the Imams

by **South Americanastan** » Wed Aug 04, 2021 6:54 pm

WEEK THREE, JANUARY 2223
WASHINGTON, DC

CAPITOL BUILDING, SESSION 57 OF THE 228TH CONGRESS

Senate Majority Leader Paul McMahon steps up to the podium to begin the session. The Senate has been debating whether to pass the Military Authorization Bill allowing the United States Armed Forces to take action against the corrupted on their border for 2 weeks. The Survivalists, with their staunch isolationist agenda, have been blocking the bill from coming to vote. Meanwhile, the Reclamationists, with their expansionist goals, have been drumming up support for the bill with a series of anti-corrupted propaganda campaigns. A crowd of about one hundred protesters gathers outside the capital to support the bill.

"Today, we face an enemy greater than we have ever faced. The Corrupted horde attacks our homes, outposts, and families. The attack on Sentry Post Easy just two weeks ago proves they will not let up. We must stop this threat befor-"

A voice calls out from the Senate chamber.

"BULLSHIT!"

Another voice comes out from the Reclamationist side of the chamber.

"NO IT'S NOT! IT'S PROTECTING OUR COUNTRY"

Another voice from the Survivalist side of the chamber.

"IT'S A WASTE OF RESOURCES!"

A voice comes out from the center of the chamber, from the single Tolerance Party Senator.

"CORRUPTED ARE PEOPLE TOO!"

The chamber quickly becomes a mess of people yelling over each other.

"NO THEY AREN'T"

"FUCK YOU! YOU HIPPIE!"

"THE CORRUPTED SHOULD BE STAMPED OUT WITH MIL-"

"NO! WE SHOULD STAY INSIDE OUR BORDERS!"

"FUCK YOU!"

"FUCK YOU TOO!"

"BURN IN HELL, MACREADY!"

"GO FUCK YOURSELF, JOHNSON!"

"SUCK A DICK, MICKENSON!"

McMahon wiped his forehead. This was the 10th session in a row that had devolved into a state of chaos. He made a decision. One he didn't want to make, and could hurt his reelection chances, but a decision nonetheless.

"KELLY, YOU MOTHER-"

"ORDER! ORDER!"

The room fell silent, all eyes on the Senate Majority Leader.

"As Senate Majority Leader, I have decided to use my power to dismiss Senators Johnson, Macready, Kelly, and Mickenson.

The silence in the chamber spoke volumes. Four senators, three Survivalists and a Tolerance, had been dismissed, putting the Reclamationists just over the amount of votes needed to bring the bill to vote.

"All in favor of voting on the Military Authorization Act, say 'Aye'"

The vote count came in, and sure enough, the Reclamationists had enough votes.

"Now, all in favor of passing the Military Authorization Act, say 'Aye'"

The bill passed.

THE BUNKER, SECTION ALPHA-TANGO "ARMAMENTS AND ORDINANCE DEVELOPMENT"

As the ruckus in Congress is in full gear, Bunker Section Alpha-Tango is hard at work attempting to reverse engineer an M1 Carbine to be produced in Section Bravo-Kilo.

President Micheal J. Keaton walks in the room to check on the scientists progress.

"Any progress?"

A scientist responds.

"We've been making some progress, but not much. We just can't figure out the intricate details of the bolt and chamber."

"Well keep working, we're going to need a Service Rifle if the Military Authorization Bill pa-"

An aide taps him on the shoulder.

"Mr. President, we have reports of a unauthorized radio signal, they have not responded to our attempts to contact them."

"Why is this matter being brought to me? Triangulate it, for fuck's sake."

He turns to the scientists.

"Keep working, we need those designs with 4 months."

SUMMARY OF EVENTS
-The United States of America begins military preparations to invade the South Maryland corrupted territory (~13 Weeks)
-The United States of America attempts to triangulate the radio signals.

by **Cybernetic Socialist Republics** » Fri Aug 06, 2021 8:42 am

Week 3, January 2223, Neosparcticist Camp in the hills above Old Derry

As Xiomara rode her horse alongside her troops along the Rio Grande, on their way north to attack the Sickkorro Bandit Clan, as the sun headed toward the horizon, she sighed. Capable fighters the people around her were, but most were little more than that. Despite pretenses, they were not all that much better than the bandits that they'd engaging within a week or so. But, she was determined to change things and launching this attack was a critical part of her plan to do so.

With the sun about to set, Xiomara gave orders to halt for tonight. Just like they had every day of the weeks they'd been on march, they'd build a quick encampment, sleep with a few people taking shifts on guard duty, then get up early to continuing marching for another day.

Xiomara sat in her tent alone, going over her 'grand' plan, such as it existed, yet again. At this point, it was only a matter of time before they engaged with the Sickorro tribe and at the conclusion of the battle she had to be ready to use the triumph of victory to get the troops to swollow the vision whole before it could be paired back by her commanders.

First, of course would come the defeat of the Sickorro Clan, but contrary to her rhetoric, her intention was not to brutally crush them. She'd be satisfied with killing the most intransigent of their numbers, while leaving their forces mostly in tact. For after making the Sickorros pledge loyalty to her, she intended to include them into her army for another three week march, this time east, towards the Spurned. There, a similar battle would occur, with the intent of dragging them to, into the fold.

But it was after that, where things would take another turn. She'd have another target after the Spurned, but it wouldn't be another set of bandits, but the peaceful vullage of Terrell. If possible, battle would be avoided in it's entirety, they were not a people who lived by the sword and, probably didn't need to be given a bloody nose to be convinced to neel not that she had any qualms about giving them one, if necessary.

After that her army, would continue southward to the Terrores del Desierto, with the aim of dragging them into the fold as well. After that, her army would conclude their circuit, by forcing the towns of Fuerte Rosalía and then Silverton to bend.

Xiomara would then, at that point, have a Hegemony over the south east Rio Grande. Each one of the 6 subjugated encampments forced to contribute 50 of both their best men and women on a monthly basis to the Neo-Spartacist Army. The bandits would be expected to hand over, the best equipment they had to the Army as well, particularly that which came from before the collapse. Silverton, Fuerte Rosalía and Terrell would be treated somewhat differently, tools and equipment though of course not weapons, would be provided to them and they'd be tasked with providing the material base for this Grandean League, allowing her to her army without constant raiding. Of course, her soldiers were unlikely to be satisfied by a simply sitting on top of a hegemony, but she had little interest in engaging in much warfare after the formation of the league, at least not immediately. So instead, she'd send off the most restless of her forces to clear away the plagued and corrupt regions near and far, shipping the spoils back to their base for distribution to the rest of this future Grandean League.

But at this point, most of what she was considering was still weeks months away, if they ever happened, with countless forces in between that could slow or obstruct her progress. Not to mention the sightings of scouts from the Order up north that she'd been hearing about. Right now, All she could be focused was reaching and defeating the Sickorro Clan, from there, in addition to any information she received about her other targets that could be gleaned from scouts that'd been sent ahead, of course, not yet knowing her intentions, she'd be able to know if her plan remained feasible and what needed to be adjusted if not.

One adjustment she would already be making, would be figuring out if the Order had any intentions in the region that'd potentially obstruct her plans. As frustrating as it was, she knew that for the time being, it'd be unwise to go directly against the Order's interests, for their capacity for war was well beyond anything the Neo-Sparatacists had, regardless of what they wanted to believe for their prowess in personal combat. She hoped that the most they'd be doing was attempting to engage in trade. Next morning, she'd give orders for her runners to make inquiries on the Order's intents as delicately as possible, should they ever come in sight again, whether it be of her field army or Neo-Sparatacist territory. If trade was their aim, they'd be expected to ask what their inventory and rates looked like.

Summary:

- Neo-Spartacist Amry continues 500 warrior march to the Sickorro Clan with the intention to demand their surrender to Neo-Spartacist protection and engaging in combat if necessary to force a surrender.

- Maintains scouts around the three free holds and three bandit clans nearest to the Neo-Spartacist's territory, in addition to looking to make contact with the Order and really anyone approaching this region.

`

by **South Americanastan** » Fri Aug 06, 2021 11:04 am

WEEK 3, JANUARY 2223
RAVEN ROCK

A group of four US special forces operators approach Raven Rock Mountain, looking for the source of the radio signal. The search the mountain for 2 hours before finding a cave. The twisted rebar and concrete walls make clear that it is manmade, and at the end of the cave is a rusted blast door, slightly ajar. The group attempt to pry it open, managing to move it a few inches before giving up. Chunks of rusted steel fall off the door as it creaks open, inch by inch. They move through the gap, reaching a large room.

Directly in front of them is a large Cadillac, clearly belonging to someone important. In front of and behind it are two Humvees, with M2 Brownings still in their armored turrets. The tires on the cars are deflated and the windows are covered in fungus, but the rest of the cars are in remarkable condition. The smell is rancid, reminiscent of burnt plastic and dead bodies. The team dons gas masks to keep from inhaling whatever is in the bunker. The group calls an extraction team before moving through another blast door.

The hallway is covered in dust, and cracked concrete and broken lights litter the hallway. Not as bad as the vehicle tunnel, but still in very bad shape. The team advances through two more blast doors. The first one has fallen off it's frame, and the second one, while not wholly rusted, has clearly seen better days. Next to the second door lies a desk, covered in moss, with a metal glint shining through.

Wiping away the moss reveals an old metal punchcard, still in impeccable shape after 200 years. Next to it lies a SIG Sauer P226, it's metal components rusted, and it's tan coating gone. The pistol will not work anytime soon, but it is a good sample to analyze and reproduce. Behind the desk is a monitor, keyboard, and slot just big enough to fit the punch card.

The team attempts to type on the keyboard, but it falls off the wall, practically disintegrating in the process. The computer whirs, sparks, and growls as the punch card is inserted and the computer finally dies. The sound of screeching metal and and snapping gear teeth echo down the hallway. A door at the end of the hallway opens, with a resounding screech of metal grinding against metal. A dead body fall out of the door, mummified, with it's head, hair, clothing and fingernails still undecayed. The rancid smell permeates through the post-collapse filters.

The team enters the pathway in front of them, moving past rooms to reach a command center at the back of the pathway. Inside is a wall of monitors, desks, and the occasional dead body. In the center, a body sits upright in a chair, his lapel decorated with pins of the US Flag, Department of Labor, and the seal of the USMC. Whoever this man was, he sat here until the end, waiting for something. In front of him is a pile of empty water bottles and a monitor with a warning flashing under a thin veneer of dust. The team ignores this, thinking it to be a warning regarding a lack of utilities. A tape recorder lays inside a vacuum sealed bag, and the team plays it.

"I've erased everything else on this tape. None ----- matters. My name is Michael ---- Irons, as of September 18th, 20---- I am the acting President of ----- States. Or at least I am here. Forme ----- of Labor, and before that, US Marine. We have been locked down ----- 11 months. Food ran ----- days ago, and water is following suit. For the pa-----I've been staring at this a goddamned screen waiting for something. Our comms died not to ----- the complex sealed, but we still ----- related junctions. Hoping for some kind of answer, I've sent ----- to Looking Glass and Cheyenne Mountain, hoping they'd respond, but now I'm not sure either of ----- It's too late to help now. As it stands, I'm holding the last bottle of water in this ----- hold off until I get an answer, at least then I'll have the clos ----- yone else is dead. If you're listening, you certainly took your -----me. I don't care where you bury me, but get me out of this fucking tomb."

The team pockets the tape recorder and returns to the hallway. There are three doors on each side, their labels weathered away by time.

In the second room on the right, they find a duo of M4 Carbines, along with 5 P226s, in much better shape than the one found in the hallway. All of the weapons are loaded and ready, some missing a single round. The team look for more armaments, but find none.

On the second room from the left, they find more bunks, with a small office in the back. It is barren except for a desk, pencils, and a red folder. The team takes the folder, it's wax seal long broken. Inside the folder are documents showing the locations of military installations and maps of foreign lands.

On the third room on the left, the team finds a storage room full of office supplies and some maps, up to date on the day of the collapse. They take the maps and leave the bunker.

The team leaves the bunker, within hours, the extraction team arrives. the two humvees and Presidential transports are surveyed. All in repairable condition.

Plumbing is examined and marked for study later.

All surviving cots are moved out for usage back home.

Over the next few weeks, bodies are moved out and given proper burials

In the command centre the last remaining screen in working order goes out, it's 200 year watch finally ending, bathing the room in darkness. The vital message flashing on it's screen missed, the remnants of the United States Government knows not of the catastrophe ticking down.

SUMMARY OF EVENTS:
United States of America finds the source of the Raven Rock signal
United States of America begins an unknown event

by **Anowa** » Fri Aug 06, 2021 12:15 pm

Sins of Dead Ideas

What used to be a rhythmic, if random pulsing along radio waves long since abandoned, is now a constant droning. Those seeking it may find it infinitely easier to triangulate to two different sources in what used to be Colorado and North Dakota, but the sudden onset of change doesn't bode well.

This event will end on Week 2 of April 2223
Affected Factions:All Factions with a Working Radio

by **Guuj Xaat Kil** » Sat Aug 07, 2021 2:45 am

Ummat Al'ayima, Tekapiyya
January 2223, Week 3, Quarter to 5

There wasn’t much noise to wake the High Imam from his slumber, especially so in this hour, and yet unbroken habits kicked in, and he awoke to the quietness of his room, punctuated only by the sounds of a city in its early waking hours- that is, little to no sound. “I think I’ll lay for a little while,” Zakariyya thought with a small smile; he had taken care of every little thing yesterday, all that was left for him today were things that didn’t require immediate attention, and could be held back for a few days at most, “Yes, some rest would be… Nice.” His smile quickly disappeared, it appears that sleep would not be returning to him at this moment, due in no small part to the late January chills. And with that in mind, he arose from the bed with a sigh.

“Might as well use this time to do something…” He thought with a certain nod. Spending a few moments dressing himself, he left for the hallways outside. As chilly as ever during these months, the hallways were, but he’d pumped enough blood around and fast enough at this point to not let it bother him. “Warm bath, warm bath it is.” Zakariyya thought as he saw the majority of servants begin moving about, giving him courtesies whenever he was seen. Not much change from yesterday, however. Other than perhaps, the larger amount of people within the palace. That was to be expected anyway, he was doing many things, and today, not that much.

Or that’s what he would’ve had thought, if not for the Vizier approaching him all of a sudden, right before he entered the gardens. He wasn’t able to speak his surprise before he spoke up, “Your excellency, I come bearing news of both a certain and uncertain kind,” he said, but not before making a quick curtsy, “Visitors, diplomats to be exact, from our neighbors to the north. They’ve come seeking an audience with you, would you like to entertain these notions?” And all that spoken while Zakariyya was simply standing there with both eyebrows raised, and hands behind his back, all notions of mock surprise.

“Hmm, so they’ve come huh.” the High Imam thought with a frown, “Well, I think those raiders have something in mind, let’s give them something else entirely.” He turned to the Vizier.

“Umar, I assume the certain news is related to something more… Domestic, perhaps?” But then Umar had to answer in the negative, the day surprising the High Imam more; such was Umar’s way of speaking, with ‘certain news’ meaning things that were predictable, therefore good, and ‘uncertain’ being the unpredictable that was bad. The Vizier quickly followed through with an explanation-slash-clarification of what had transpired with the visitors that he apparently was certain about. It seems that more civilized neighbors had come to visit, bearing what was essentially, positive news. It was expected at this point, another civilized state within the Valley would come to establish relations with them.

“Our fellow civil Valley dwellers have come to visit us in peace, and a peaceful time they will get.” he nodded with a small smile; today was a surprising one, and a good one, at the same time, “Go, Umar. Tell this, Erik Coalsen, that the High Imam is willing to see and hear him and whatever offers he may have. But before you do so, what is this, ‘uncertain news’ then, that you speak of?”

Vizier Umar quickly nodded, “The Imams by the Corrupt Zone, they have been… Banding together.” He said with a frown, and Zakariyya quickly understood; those particular Imams had been snubbed, hard, by his political maneuvers back when he was merely a regent for the aging High Imam Joseph Tubrog. The regent before him was one of theirs, and he essentially positioned the man for the chopping block later down the line with his initial moves. And when they had inevitably tried to get another of theirs into the position, he was there to stop them, and became regent instead.

Needless to say, these, along with his ascension as the High Imam of Alayim ensured that a majority of the southern Imams by Socal would be unhappy with him. “To hell with them, they would’ve held the Imamites back, pure and simple.” He thought with certainty, that regent of theirs back then was embezzling funds, among other things, he was simply there to cut the rot. And he would meet whatever “vengeful comeback” that they had with extreme prejudice.

“In that case, schedule another set of runs into the Zone, make sure to be discreet about putting as many of their men into them.” Umar nodded, his face remaining ever so neutral, as it always had when he and Zakariyya met. Runs were dangerous missions, intending on establishing a route past the Socal Corrupt Zone and into the rest of southern America, and as of current, they hadn’t even reached whatever was left of Las Vegas, and the trove of riches that was rumored to be located there. He himself was also interested in exploring that particular area, but for an entirely different reason.

“There is another legend about that place, a dam they say, one that would last for millennia.” And with a dam like that, technology was sure to follow. He shook his head, these were distant goals, for now he had to focus on the present. Umar had now left, his footsteps barely audible at this point.

He looked at his clothes, “I definitely should get to making myself presentable.”

Ummat Al'ayima, Tekapiyya
January 2223, Week 3, Noon

The throne room was filled with the faint scent of incense, enough to make an impact, and not too much as to overpower everything else in the room. It was lit only by a few stained glass windows, with all other dark areas being illuminated by sets of candles. At one end of the room was the entrance, and on the other, a slightly raised platform, shrouded by a pair of translucent green curtains; if one had a sharp eye, the faint outline of a man sitting cross-legged could be seen, casting a shadow via the candles within the platform. On the left and right side of these curtains were servants holding a rope, ready to part the shroud at a moments notice.

The doors slowly swung open, revealing five people. The shadows they cast were long thanks to the light outside.

A pair of guards on the leftmost and rightmost side, and between them stood Vizier Umar on the left, and their strange visitor from the north, Erik Coalsen, the Kingdom of the Valley’s diplomat. The middlemost man was a herald, here to announce them both. “Presenting to his excellency,” began the herald in a loud voice, “the Vizier Umar and our esteemed guest, Diplomat Erik Coalsen.” And with that, the man retreated back to the entrance and left. Leaving nothing but the four and the High Imam in front of them both.

Zakariyya raised his hands, and like the Red Sea, the curtains parted. Revealing him in some sort of golden garb with green textures, and with no crown, as was tradition for all High Imams. Their mind by the head was all the crown they needed, the anointment of oil and water their coronation.

He spoke up, “Erik Coalsen, diplomat of the Valley Kingdom,” he said in a cordial tone, with a warm smile to match, “May I be the first to formally welcome you to our humble Nation of Imams.”

Summary of Events:
- Alayim receives the Valleyan diplomats.
- Alayim sends four 25 man expeditions into the Socal Corrupt Zone to map a safe route to the east, clear portions of the Corruption, and salvage tech whenever possible.

by **Tayner** » Sun Aug 08, 2021 9:46 pm

Jack

Jack rode down the trail, headed into the jungle he spied far off, hearing tales of a corrupted land within. Tales of riches beyond one’s wildest dreams were told of corrupted areas, Jack didn’t believe them. What he did believe however, is that despite the tales, the areas were dangerous, and that would keep most scavengers away. He’d been traveling for some time now, and came across a few less than friendly people on the trail, but he and Juno, his trusty steed, had finally made it. An old, faded sign sat on the side of the road, the letters 25 and the word Casper barely intelligible on them.

Jack rode into the jungle, the foliage growing into a thick canopy, parts of the highway having been suspended by the plants that grew up through it. Wildlife chirped, echoes bouncing off the canopy as Juno brought him into an urban area that the jungle had claimed. Jack had seen a ruined city before, but nothing like this, vines and trees clutching onto and holding up some buildings, rooted in the ruins of another. He finally came to an intersection, a building that looked mostly intact and clear from vines, unlike others around it stood tall, with an armored car sitting out front of it, sunken into what could only be plant matter.

Jack dismounted Juno, petting her as he did before going over to the armored car. Dirt and grime had covered the windshield, so Jack wiped it away for a peek inside, barely able to see inside. He noticed the outlines of something inside before heading around to the back of the vehicle. He tried the handle, stiff, but tried again. It gave, but the sounds of breaking metal were heard from the inside of the door, along with some scuffling. Jack pounded three times on the door, and more stuff broke off on the inside. It became apparent he would not get in this way.

He drew his blade, slicing at the vines that restrained the side door, they peeled back as he did this, some slithering back into holes in the jungle floor. Jack watched this, before opening the door. “This is a bad fuckin’ idea.” He thought as he climbed in, the smell hitting his nose like a freight train. A skeleton, half of it melted away in the collected water in the vehicle, a helmet on it’s head and a revolver, one bigger than his own, in its hand.

Jack crammed the pistol and helmet into his ruck, before looking into the back of the truck. Vines that had grown through the windshield had reached back, and three skeletons were in the back, clothed in burnt and frayed camo clothing. They were Army, or so they had been called. They each had a rifle, and a pistol, and Jack was quick to climb in the back and collect the gear. The water burned some leather off his boot as he stepped through, but he was quick and didn’t pay any mind to it.

He packed the weapons into his ruck and was about to climb back out the front when the door slammed shut. Jack was trapped, 9 feet away from death as the acidic liquid began to rise. He turned around, and tried the handle. It was stiff, but gave a little, and upon trying again it gave too much. It had become apparent that hundreds of years of rust, exposure to the elements, and whatever was causing the acidic liquid to rise, caused the mechanism of the door to simply fall apart.

Jack pushed the doors, and a sliver of light peeked through, he pushed harder, and harder, as the water finally rose enough to his heels, he stepped back, and full of adrenaline and fear, Jack threw himself against the rear door of his would be tomb, in a stroke of luck he broke through, the doors flying open as he came tumbling out of the truck, the acid spilling over onto the ground and burning back the vines on the forest floor. Juno came over to Jack as he breathed in fresh air, now beginning to calm down.

He smiled and pet Juno before going into a saddle bag and pulling out some cloth rags that he had boiled not long ago. He peeled his boots and socks off, before cleaning them out and putting the clean bandages on the wound. He slipped his boots back on over the rags before loading his haul into a larger saddle bag Juno carried. He had a good haul, some good weapons that he could trade for food and water for him and Juno. He looked down, however, his boots were ruined.

Jack looked back up to the apartment building, if he could find new boots sooner than later, that would be helpful. It wasn’t a good idea to drag bandaged wounds across the ground. He grabbed Juno by the reins, and led her up the steps to the front door of the apartment building nearby. She pulled back, spooked by something. Jack took out his zippo, striking it and looking into the darkness, a fishing line barely catching up a slimmer of light at knee level. A tripwire, Jack followed the string to a grenade, before carefully disarming the trap.

He looked inside, pocketing the grenade that looked rather, well, well made. To his left was a path cleared through vines, to his right was blocked. Jack told Juno to wait as he went upstairs, Juno fading into the background, camouflaging herself as best a horse could against a wall covered in vines. Jack followed the cleared out path, slowly walking up the stairs as he drew his pistol, wincing with every step and hoping that the creaking of the floorboards could be attributed to wind. He ascended three flights of stairs, before the vines were done being cleared.

A path of dirt and mud led through a fire door, and Jack followed it through the door, and towards another door. He peeked through the cracked door, but couldn’t see much. A few wrappers, maybe a ruck, the orange glow of a stove maybe. He opened the door slowly, announcing himself as he entered. “Hey, friendly.” He walked down a short hallway that the door fed into before turning into the main room of an apartment. Jack paused for a good 20 seconds as he took in the sights of everything the room held.

Two robotic dogs, one in a state of disassembly, exoskeleton parts, ammo cans, explosives, rucksacks everywhere full of goods. This hideout belonged to someone who had a lot more blood, sweat, and tears in the career path of S.T.A.L.K.E.R. then Jack did, and after taking a few seconds to gawk at the cache of goods, specifically the robo dog, he searched for boots. After all, it was why he was here. He did see a fancy looking set of tennis shoes poking out of a ruck, but decided against those.

In fact, Jack decided his best bet would be to leave and pretend he was never here. Someone with this much stockpiled supplies, this much tech, was dangerous, obviously more dangerous than Jack. They could afford to leave more guns and ammo behind than Jack had ever held. He turned around to leave, and that's when he heard it, heavy metal clanking coming up the very stairs he came up. One way in, one way out… Jack thought as he considered his options.

Shit, uhhh, drop the grenade on him? No, that’d probably drop the building on Juno. Ambush him? Fuck that, the dude’s probably wearing armor and an exoskeleton. Hide? Yes. Hide. Jack found a closet, as his internal monologue shot through his mind like lightning. He was already in the closet when it dawned on him, There’s no way he doesn’t notice I disarmed his tripwire, and it’d be a miracle if he just walked past Juno without noticing her. Jack peeked through the slats in the closet door, and eventually an armoured frame walked through the door, taking a few steps and pauses. The armour was reminiscent of The Order's hospitaller, but lacked any of the symbols usually associated with them. There was also an integrated exoskeleton, and some form of over the shoulder launcher. He wore a bergen that looked to be filled to burst, and in his grasp is an old M249. Turning back, the sound of a door being closed and locked echoed through the room.

A voice calls out in a low, hushed tone, "One chance."

“Please don’t shoot.” Was all Jack could say. What else could he do? Cornered, out of options, maybe the man with a weapon that made his six shooter look like a sharp stick in comparison wouldn’t murder him the instant he saw him.

Even if he did, he’d find Jack sooner or later anyways.

“Leave your ruck, then get out of here, STAL-”

“Hey, friendly.” A voice rang out behind the stranger. He turned around, pausing. It was Jack's voice, but it didn’t come from Jack, and it was flanged. The stranger turned back to Jack, and spoke.

“Kill anything that comes through that door.” With that, the man began working on the open panels of the second robot. Multitasking with strapping the ancillary rucks around the room to it. The stranger went to work on the robotic dogs, Jack obliging and drawing his pistol and watching the door. In a few minutes, the dog was fixed, and electronic motors came to life. He handed Jack a rifle, a well kept FN FAL. “You have 20 shots. That’s all there is. You lag behind, you get left behind.”

And with that, the man kicked down the door to the fire escape, before mounting one of the robots, their name tags showing them as Lewis and Clark. Jack followed, sprinting down the stairs. He saw 14 infected animals, deer, dogs, humans, surrounding Juno. “Shit! Juno!” Jack yelled, before firing a round at the nearest creature, center mass.

"They aren't animals anymore, aim for the limbs!" The stranger yelled. Jack obliged, as one of the robots jumped down from the fire escape, between Juno and the infected, plowing a clear path through, as the second landed on a bear, creating an inhuman crack. Jack shot out legs as he brushed through the horde, and he mounted Juno. Juno was a smart beast, quick as a whip both in speed and brains. As soon as Jack was mounted, all he needed to do was calm her down before she followed the path the robot made without the need of a command. The duo of S.T.A.L.K.E.R.s would escape Casper, and eventually the canopy would be left behind them. They traveled quietly for another kilometer before they stopped, the stranger turning to Jack.

“You fucked with the vines, didn’t you?”

"Yeah, did you not? I saw the path to your hideout that you cleared had vines hacked apart."

"Cauterized them. Vines have some sort of hive mind, like ants. You take a knife to them, they feel it. You burn away the ends, they don't seem to care." a pause, "You're new to this, aren't you?"

Jack nodded. "Yeah. Thanks for not shooting me."

"Word of advice. Don't fuck with the vines up here. Pacific Northwest all the way to Minnesota has the fucking things. They set up fucking trailers, and whole buildings as some kind of fucked up fly traps, strangle people to death with vines, or infest them. Don't know hoe but they mimic people too." a pause, "Heading down to Colorado. I'd strongly suggest you follow, Hospitaller usually have a wide selection for trade." the man leaned down and grabbed a ruck from the side of Lewis, and offered it to Jack, "That's yours. I've made my fortune, I'm really only doing this for the knowledge part of things. It should get you started for a career like this... Or it might be enough to join The Order's ranks. Up to you. Keep the rifle too, a six shooter isn't gonna do jack to half the shit you're gonna end up fighting in your lifetime."

"I found out the fly trap thing the hard way." Jack chipped in before thanking the man for the advice. Then the man offered him a ruck and the rifle. "I, uhh... Thank you. Most of the people I've met have been less than kind. What's your name, stranger?" Jack said as he took the bag.

"Call me Knight. I'll call you Cowboy." a pause, "Another word of advice is not to get attached to things that can die easy. That's what I learned the hard way."

“Well, mister Knight, have you got any spare boots?” Jack joked.

by **Mandicoria** » Sun Aug 08, 2021 10:15 pm

WEEK 3, JANUARY 2223
OAK HILL FARMING Camp, AMERIKAN GARRISON

"Do I sound like I FUCKING care about the slaves not wanting to work?!" Screamed the Camp Officer, slamming his fist down on a desk. Causing his men to jump back from the gesture. "If they don't work, you SHOOT them!"

A long silence overtook the room. Each man in there clearly tense from being chewed out by their commanding officer. It was hellish for everyone to say the least when they could see their CO's gaze scan across the room. Peering deep into the soul of each man there. The silence would be eventually broken by two more men rushing in. Both clearly worn out from getting there.

"Oh what the fuck is it now? More slaves refusing to-" The Officer tried to mockingly ask, but would get cut off by one of the men.

"N-no sir! We..." The man took a second to gasp for breath. "The slaves they, t-they just took a rifle and... They shot five others!" The Man let out a few coughs as he wiped sweat from his brow. "We killed them, b-but the other slaves. They're getting uppity.."

The Officer stared for a long few seconds, before shifting his gaze between everyone else in the room and the two men. He took a deep breath, and clenched his fists. "This.... This is what happens when you let the slaves get complacent. You lazy.... IDIOTS were too easy on them... Men. Shit like this is why I put in the requisition for cloud samples..." The Officer sighed, rubbing his temple before continuing. "Get the slaves rallied up. Get a third of them into the hole, and dump that fog gas shit that kills them good. Got it? If you fuck this up, I'll have you thrown in there with the sorry degenerates..."

The men stood up with a series of grumbles and coughs, and all shuffled out in a line. All relieved they were finally free to let loose their anger on those pesky slaves. Yet that wasn't what they were gonna get. With them immediately getting visual on all the slaves congregated together. The bodies of the other outside guards beaten and bloody at the side. The crowd was dead silent in front of the men, waiting for their oppressors to take notice.

Then the men cocked their rifles and began screaming at the slaves. Threatening to shoot if they didn't back away. But then... Then the slaves began to hum, and chant together.

"SPAR-TA-KUS!" The crowd began to chant, louder and louder with each cry and voice joining in. The boom of their voices together shooting some of the guards back.

The door slammed open behind the men, and their Officer walked calmly out. Looking even more aggravated as he calmly pulled out his pistol. "Men, are we really fucking frightened about... slaves?" he snarkily asked, before turning around. Aiming his pistol at the front of the crowd. The muzzle of his pistol gazing over men, women, and even children. "All of you! Return to your quarters or we will shoot you down, and whatever family you have left in the slave quarters! We can easily replace you a-" He was immediately cut off by a swarm of heavy rocks flying at him, one of which hitting him square in the eye. Spraying a small dash of blood onto the snow, and sending him down. Discharging his pistol into the air as he fell.

The other men shouted as rocks hit them too, each one moving into position as rocks flew past them. The chants of the crowd drowning out whatever directions were being barked out by various men. SPAR-TA-KUS was all both sides could hear before a deafening symphony of gunfire took it over. The snow being sprayed a dark shade of red within seconds, and the gunfire ending just as soon as it began. The crowd of slaves were all dead, slaughtered for their resistance.

"Jesus fucking christ!" Shouted one of the men. "Fucking slaves man, fucking SLAVES! Get the Commander up. We need to report this to the Fathers!" The same man gestured for his comrades to pick up the camp's CO. "This is what happens when slaves ain't farming, they're gonna resist. Fuck this snow..." He mumbled to himself, wiping sweat from his brow.

4 HOURS LATER
FORT PROSPERITY, FATHER ROCKWELL'S OFFICE

Father Rockwell kicked his feet up on his desk as he read through various papers. Sighing with each turn of a page, and taking periodic breaks to drink from his glass of whiskey. "Another Spartakus affiliated revolt... Just north of here too..." Lowering his feet from his desk, Father Rockwell leaned into the papers. Reading every last word with extra attention. "These are getting quite.... troublesome..." He mumbled to himself before leaning back, and looking out his window. Taking note of the settlement outside.

The area was on alert already. Troops mobilized all through the fortified streets. It was safe, protected against those Spartakus supporters on the outside. This made Father Rockwell a happy man. Absolutely nothing would disturb his operations in Fort Prosperity. Which is of course something he wanted. With his latest assignment to this location, given by Father Phoenix themself. To "Quell slave unrest." It was something Father Rockwell was very accustomed to as a duty, handling the slaves. Yet why couldn't Father Phoenix have recruited that one Geyers fellow? That sure would scare the slaves into being compliant.

But this Spartakus fellow. Nobody knew who they were, nor what they were. The more superstitious types called him an avenging spirit of the slaves slaughtered by the Amerikan purity efforts. Others say he's a rogue Amerikan. Father Rockwell knew better. All the information is kept in Father Phoenix's records, and was shared graciously to Rockwell. Spartakus is flesh and blood, not some ghost. Hell, could even be was. With all the reports of insurgents killed in the wilderness? It's just the idea of Spartakus that needed to die. To be cannibalized and used to scared the degenerate slaves.... Yes... Cannibalized....

"Yes, yes... Cannibalize his memory, his identity. Rip it apart, make all fear the Wendigo..." He murmured to himself as he began writing on a document. "FINNEGAN!" Rockwell screamed, raising the documents with one hand.

The door to the office flew open with a small lad, no older than 16 rushing in. The young boy nervously hurrying over to the front of Father Rockwell's desk. The boys eyes locked firmly at the floor. "Y-yes, Father Rockwell?" They timidly asked, their gaze shifting between their superior and the ground.

"My, you've gotten faster... Good thing I chose you. This document, I want you to have it relayed over to Father Phoenix." Father Rockwell then extended his arm, limply holding the document between to fingers for his assistant to grab. Rescinding his hand when Finnegan reached for it. Wagging his free hand, and with a smug look on his face. Father Rockwell chuckled. "You're a good young lad, Finnegan. Full of energy. You need some development socially, but other than that.... Tell me, Finnegan. Do you have plans tonight? Some girl you're eyeing up?"

"N-no, Father Rockwell." The boy meekly responded, taking a light gulp.

"Hm. I don't take kindly to lies, a young lad like yourself should have... Plans..." Father Rockwell leaned back, biting his lip for a second before shaking his head. "Just take the document, and relay it... You can have the rest of the night off after. Just, tomorrow try to have a better attitude. It makes you look more... appealing." Rockwell leaned forward once more, extending out the document once more.

"Y-yes, Father Rockwell. Thank y-you Father Rockwell." Finnegan responded, nodding his head as he took the document. The boy turned around and tried to rush out as soon as he could, he couldn't risk any way of angering his superior.

Rockwell just stared at Finnegan leaving. His eyes scanning the boy up and down as they departed. A deep sigh escaped the man as he rubbed his temple. "Degeneracy, how tiresome. How can a man such as myself fight these temptations the weak put on me every day..." He murmured to himself, looking out the window once more. "That boy's no Degenerate, but he... He could be a beacon of Degenerate interests... How is one to go about this... I know I'm no degenerate, I'm a beacon of purity. I, am pure. These temptations go through me, because if I act upon them they are purified. If I choose not to act on them, then they stay degenerate... The boy..." He continued mumbling to himself incoherently. Eventually getting so into it his face turned a bright red from anger, causing him to let out a loud scream. A few deep breaths followed his scream before he returned to normal volume. "I. Am. Pure." He said as his last words to himself, before going back to reading other documents.

GENERAL REPORT
FORT PROSPERITY ADMINISTRATION, JANUARY 2223

Concerning the report from Oak Hill. 15 Degenerate slaves have been fired upon and killed for acts of aggression upon the Commanding Officer. The Commanding Officer is in stable condition, but will lose their eye.

Requesting slave transfer to Oak Hill on behalf of Father Rockwell.

Spartakus likely dead, requesting future council on the matter in the Capital. We must show to the Degenerates that their memories will be consumed, and destroyed by the Wendigo.

Purity is our moral duty...

GIVE THIS MESSAGE IMMEDIATELY TO FATHER PHOENIX
ANY UNAUTHORIZED VIEWING OF THIS DOCUMENT IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH, AND ENSLAVEMENT OF CLOSE FAMILY

by **Endem** » Wed Aug 11, 2021 4:42 pm

May she smoothly sail
Air-Shipyard in Pittsfield

Allan Lowe thankfully for once didn't have to spend his whole week keeping in-check any of his collegiates, and decided to take a trip out of Boston to the nearby Pitssfield, perhaps irresponsibly, but he wanted to get his mind away from the preparations for the invasion of the clans of the cape, or rather, extermination.

He instead wanted to see the much more pleasant fruits of the broken isolationist ideal, though still evident that the corpse was shambling on, no one was brave enough to propose open king and broadcasting on our radio channels, or sending out trade caravans, to the rest of the world, Harvardian space would still be a zone of radio silence.

He entered the shipyard, constructed somewhere in the forging fires of the Harvardian state, initially used mainly for trade expeditions to the rest of New England, it has been mothballed for over 100 years, truly, remarkable that it had not been scrapped, perhaps the generations of collegiates saw some use in it in the future.

And the future it seems have arrived, at last the previously dormant hall was filled with signs of work being done, one of the three airships commissioned being built, resources, through the Harvardian palace-like economy, being transferred here powered the forge that constructed a new proud and joy of the Harvardian cause. And to his eyes, it was only a matter of maybe a day or two before the ship would become airworthy.

He perched himself on a railing overlooking the construction work, to wonder at the work. Unfortunately, someone decided to interrupt this quiet moment, understandably so, the matters of state, after all, needed to take precedence.

"Grand Rector?" Meekly asked the major that approached him, most likely overseer of the facility and foreman of the working here brutes and assistants. "A radio call just went in, on Grand Provost's authorization, they asked for you."

The major led him to what appeared to be a control room, with some assistants overlooking the brutes working down below, probably checking if order is still there, safety regulations are being upheld, and one of them operating the radio. Putting on the headphones the assistant handed to him.

"You have been granted audience with the Grand Rector, please, speak your mind."

"Grand Rector? I am the Collegiate that has volunteered for the triangulation of the strange signal, the locations my team pinpointed correspond to roughly two known old power military installations, and a seemingly unknown one, but the signal, it's changed, instead of pulses it's now constant droning, like an alarm, I fear something has happened, if in his wisdom the Grand Rector feels the same, may I suggest that one of the expeditions soon to launch be redirected to one of the sites."

"The ship will be launched in two days, at minimum." The overseer of the shipyard interjected, trying to appear to be helpful, though it was clearly visible that he was out of his depth.

"Very well" Allan said to the collegiate on the other side, ignoring the overseer, "I give you my blessing to change the scope, goals, crew, and any other parameter of the Northbound expedition."

"Thank you, Grand Rector, I will present plans when your excellency is back in Boston." The collegiate then disconnected, courtesy was that radio calls be kept short and on-point.

Allan gave the headphones back to the assistant, a grim uncertainty of what he had just learned about was nearly crushing.

Summary of Events
- The State of Harvard launches an expedition to the North Dakota radio site with 12 weeks worth of provisions and instructions to move through the Great Lakes region

by **Vacif** » Thu Aug 12, 2021 1:37 am

Week 3, January 2223, Alameda Harbour, State of the Vale
Agent Adelle Dupont

Adelle watched her breath condensate as she leaned against the railing at the port. The city was quiet, as it always was during the winter. Not many people had much to do outside during the winter, most spent their days working inside, studying, or whatever else they could do until the winter was over. Hydroponics and aquaponics were the State’s main sources of food during this time outside of the food stockpiles. They didn’t quite need to ration, not yet at least. This wasn’t their first cold winter. That being said, the government didn’t like just getting by, especially when it came to food. Thus, the second fleet had been launched prior in the day on a trading mission down south with their partner in Oaxaca. Three Galleons, two Carracks and a Heavy Frigate. It was the usual deal, the Vale’s refined goods and art for Oaxaca’s raw materials, food and spices. Cocoa beans and coffee beans were also luxury goods that the two traded for.

It was a good deal, a fair deal. The only issue was one of the Carracks had been blown off course. Now this didn’t hurt the mission too much, the Carracks were mostly there for security but the loss of a ship period was unacceptable. The VSS Odysseus had been taken off course either due to instrumental malfunction, wind, or something else and had found itself stuck on Treasure Island. An ungodly fog surrounded the island. It was impenetrable, almost like it was living. She just prayed that she could get there in time. Now it was her mission to get the Odysseus and her crew back. Though more likely than not, it would be up to the crew to rescue themselves...

Week 3, January 2223, Valleyan Consulate, State of Vale
State Secretary Konroy Neuman

The Valleyan consulate indeed stood out amongst the combination of Victorian-Modernist buildings that lined the streets. Neuman sat at his desk and enjoyed a nice fresh pot of coffee. It was a rich and robust blend from their friends in Oaxaca. As he savoured the flavour he examined the contents of the letter given to him by his department. The Kingdom of the Valley was proposing the formalization of relations, something Konrad figured the two should have done some time ago. A fairly standard non-aggression pact, but what really caught his attention was the border conference. As both states began to expand their domains, it would be important to carve up the land beforehand as to not create any kind of border tension.

Konrad began drawing up a formal acceptance of the Valleyan proposals to be relayed up the chain to the Governor’s office for final assessment. Neuman looked forward to the border conference and already had in mind who he’d send as the dedicated ambassador to the Kingdom of the Valley.

Week 3, January 2223, Treasure Island, The Dead Zone
The Captain

Treasure Island had long remained an Enigma to the Vale, the Valley, and really the whole of California. While the rest of the Bay Area had been combed through and looted over the past 200 years, Treasure Island remained somewhat untouched, that is to say, people went there. They never came back though. The whole island was covered in a thick fog that only the most determined light could breach. The same could be said to Alcatraz, but people had actually come back from the prison.

So when one of the vessels escorting a trade craft suddenly had a full engine seizure and began drifting towards the Island faster than their engine and sails could move them, fear and a mild state of panic washed over the crew.

A pitt quickly began to form in the Captain’s gut as his ship was seemingly being sucked into the gravity of the wall of fog. “Pop red flares! We should still be in visual range of the harbour and the fleet!”

A number of crew begin firing flares into the sky. Yet within a moment of being launched, they sputter and die as the vessel is claimed by the fog. In normal circumstances of entering fog, you can still see the sun, the sky, and tell it was day time.

Now, it was black, as if night had fallen in an instant. Soon, a red light washed over everything. For a moment, the thought that a flare had successfully been launched crossed a few folk's minds. But looking up, all that was shining through the fog was a massive crimson red ring, as if an eclipse had occurred in a red sun.

"Helmsman! What's our course looking like, is there any way we can break course from the island?" The Captain asked urgently.

"Everything is off Captain! I can't tell!"

The crew made quickly, one moving to the side of the deck and tossing the lead line. Looking somewhat puzzled as the water forming around the ship looked odd. "Seven fathoms!"

The man at the rear let out a fearful cry "32 Knots!"

That was, almost double the speed of racing sailboats, and the craft had no power. They were currently traveling at four times the Odysseus’ top speed towards the island.

"Four fathoms!"

There wasn’t enough time. There simply wasn’t enough time. The Captain gripped onto the railing and held on with all his strength. “ALL HANDS, BRACE FOR IMPACT!”

It was short order before the sounds of wood meeting rock echoed through the hull. At almost sixty kilometers an hour, men and women were thrown from their feet, the hull all but snapped and the boat crumbled and rolled into the ground. Leaving the sea, it skidded maybe forty feet on to the shore before resting. Cries of pain broke the silence, a few corpses lay strewn about, dead from internal injuries impaled by chunks of lumber, or with necks and back twisted at awkward angles.

Many survived, but almost as many were notably hurt.

"Damage control! Triage the wounded and police the dead, get me the marines and secure the crash site! Get the quartermaster or whoever else is still alive to police the cargo before something explodes!" The Captain was fairly certain there was nothing explosive on board but in the case it was, he wanted to avoid another mass casualty event. "Helmsman, if you're still alive I need a damage report on the ship."

The helmsman, cradling an obviously broken arm, walked over to the side of the vessel and looked down. Besides the obvious few who had been thrown from the deck, the remains of the mast, the poor sod manning the crows nest being dashed across the rocks, and massive chunks of wood from the ship's spine. The signs of loose boards along the sides and splitting metal plates indicated one thing.

"Ship's fucked Captain! Our spine is broken and the hull is torn!"

The Captain's worst suspicions had been confirmed. "Get yourself treated Helmsman, I'll check the lifeboats, see if we can get word out to get us some transport out of here. The wounded need urgent medical care." With that, the Captain moved to explore their options off the island to save his crew. Hopefully the Marines were still alive.

While some marines had gathered, many marines were wounded or dead, less than a dozen remained in a condition to fight. Around them, people were being tended to as they were delivered on to the beach. Many not at all feeling comfortable with the creaking coming from the ship. All but one of the lifeboats had in some way been thrown loose or outright wrecked in the crash. Around them, the fog lifted a little, though only the fog facing inland, if anything the fog outwards was getting thicker. The only light available to them was the blood red halo above them, lighting the area like an eerie blood red flare.

"Alright, first order of business. Headcount, who's walking, wounded, and dead? Second, the fleet and home couldn't not have seen us drift off course which means rescue will come soon! However we need to secure some means of transportation back immediately. The lifeboat doesn't look like it'll last long in those waters. I need volunteers to come with the Naval Infantry and I to find a way off the island, preferably able to hold our wounded. We can't stay on the ship, as some of you have rightfully steered clear of. Third, Quartermaster, how's the cargo look?" The Captain wasted no time in taking control of the situation and dispensing orders. His crew, while shaken, hastily responded.

"Most of the cargo is in less than stellar condition. Most of it got thrown around, some of it was soaked by water. There's not a lot left." Reported the Quartermaster.

Next was the Helmsman. “Of the 86 we left port with, roughly 38 are alive, and 16, including you, Captain, the Quartermaster and marines, are in any condition to fight sir.”

“Right. I’ll take eleven of the Marines with me to find us transport. The rest of you stay behind, tend to and protect the wounded and recover our dead. We are not leaving them behind here. Get squared away so we can leave immediately. Helmsman, I understand you are in rough shape but you’re in charge until I get back. I’ll see you on the flip side.” The Helmsman saluted briskly with his non broken appendage and hastily began dispensing orders to those who could move. “Marines, fall out!”

“Sir!”

The Captain, and 11 Marines took to the island, with the fog now clearing the inland of the island was more clearly seen. The Lighthouse was standing tall, untouched by centuries of weather. Above it, the bridge that had sat irreparable and decaying for almost two centuries was... in mint condition. It's silhouette against the pitch black sky was visible only just, but the fog cut it off; they could not see beyond the Island they were on regardless of the lighting or the structure's condition.

Ahead was what used to be the Coast Guard Station, further beyond it what used to be a torpedo station.

"Alright let's stick together. Looks like there's some kind of dock down there, let's hope we're in luck."

The former Coast Guard station is in impeccable condition given that it would have to contend with over 200 years of damage both from the sea and the weather. It's dock was still standing under its own weight. A few trucks were parked out front, and their rear cabins were open, revealing multiple crates of what looked like supplies.

Moored at the dock seemed to be a boat, a riverine patrol craft with an enclosed cabin, but peering at the windows indicated something was wrong.

The actual offices and barracks themselves upon closer examination also had something worrying about the windows. “Sir, something’s wrong.”

“One thing at a time, Sergeant. What’s your assessment of that riverine craft?”

"Seaworthy... Not sure about the state of it's engine or controls though. I think the windows may be blocked by something inside. Curtains... or boards?"

Had someone barricaded themselves inside the PT boat? "Alright lads, back up. Take up positions, I'll knock on the door, see if anyone's home. If they're hostile, you lads know what to do. If there's no response, we check what's inside. Remember to check for traps."

The walk over to the boat itself was quiet. Deadly so. Not even wind, the only sign that they weren't walking in a vacuum was the sound of waves crashing on the dock walls. No birds, no crickets. *nothing*.

Arriving at the boat and stepping on to it, the Captain knocked on the door.

The sounds of a scuffle from inside, a cry of unrestrained fear, and a single gunshot followed by a muffled thud followed. Every part of the Captain’s body tensed.

"Hello?! Are you alright, we're coming in! We're friends!" The Captain knew what had already happened, but he could hope, pray. If there was someone alive on this cursed island, he didn't blame them for what they'd done. And he'd only been here a few minutes. Carefully, he tried the door, checking for traps. If this man was scared enough to shoot himself, he (or she) may be willing to booby trap the vessel. The door was unlocked. Opening the door led to the stench of unwashed everything. Unwashed human, unwashed clothes, unwashed bed, unwashed cutlery, rotten food, and most importantly, blood. It was to goddamned dark to see anything that wasn't illuminated by the demented sun from the now open door. And there was no noise, except for a raspy breathing coming from deeper within.

Breathing. "Are you alright? We're coming in, please do not shoot!" He could feel the Corpsman approaching behind him, the man was eager to save lives, but the Captain needed to ensure the safety of the situation before he put any more of his men's lives at risk. The Captain extended an arm out and whispered to the man behind him, "Get me some light sailor." The man behind him obliged and turned on his lantern. The Captain almost wished he hadn’t.

The room was a haunting reveal. Every available square inch of space on the inside that wasn't covered up windows had the phrase 'THE DARKNESS LIVES' repeated again and again and again. The room outside of a single muck caked mattress was covered with wrappers, cans, and empty bottles. On said mattress, a man who's fingertips were bare to the bone, had obvious skin infections from a lack of changed clothes, a beard nearly half a meter long, and... missing his skull from the forehead up. It's previous contents now covered the ceiling above him, while the desert eagle in his hand lay in his bloodied grasp, it's slide locked back.

Perhaps above all else the most terrifying thing, was the man's continued breathing, and that his eyes were still looking around, conscious, despite the almost complete lack of any remaining brain matter.

The Captain had witnessed botched suicide attempts before, but this was unlike anything he’d ever seen. The man almost gagged as he brought his scarf over his mouth and nose. Regardless he had men who were still alive, depending on him. He lowered his arm to let the Corpsman pass as he approached the command console, doing his best to ignore the gore and filth. “Secure the ship! I don’t want any more surprises. What’s the condition of the engine?” he called out.

Meanwhile the Corpsman crouched beside the man, examining him before breathing out a question. “Who…. What are you?”

The only response from the man was the still wandering eyes. They moved, back and forth between everyone in the room, until the excess movement, and the lack of anything anchoring them in from the rear caused the left eye to simply flop out of the socket and onto the floor. That garnered still no reaction from the man besides a more frantic look around the room.

"C-Captain. The uh... engine looks alright."

It came from the rear, past the still filthy bunk rooms and into engineering.

"Fuel gauge still says full even. Uh..." a pause, "Captain, with due respect. I don't think taking this boat is a good idea."

The Captain breathed shallowly, trying to filter the stench through his scarf and nose. "Aye. Let's check out that Coast Guard building. Sergeant, take some men and check the trucks, then meet up with me near the Coast Guard barracks. Maybe we'll find something useful. Maybe a ship manifest or something."

As the Captain and his men filed out, the Captain breathed a quiet apology to the dead(?) man in the boat. He never had any hope to begin with. Wandering into the Dead Zone was practically a death sentence in of itself. And now, he didn't know what he had. Just what kind of hell had he marched his men into? He reached down and freed the weapon from the dead man’s hand.

The trucks were the new hotness for the US military, that was for certain. They weren't the typical 5-ton long nose beasts. There was a small crane at the rear, a massive flat bed, and a cabin with room for 3. The duo of 8x8s were mint. Wheels were fine and waxed, paint was clean, even painted serials were still legible.

The cargo they held had been broken in to however. Within were many multiple canned goods and old MRE packages, also in pristine condition. No weapons, and no Ammo besides a locked M4A1 in the cabin of the lead vehicle.

The office door required a lot more oomph to open than it should have, three Marines ramming their shoulders into it resulted in it finally busting off its hinges, and leaving them close to the center of the main room.

The inside of the offices were in a state of disarray judging from the 'sun' light alone coming in the front door. Only tiny beams of light could be seen shining through tiny gaps in the paint, cloth and boards covering every window.

Scattered around were dozens of horribly emaciated corpses in a similar state to the man from the boat. Once again, hollow and dried out eyes struggled to move and watch, as chests rose and fell with the sound of stretching leather.

"Are... are they even *alive?*" This felt wrong, why were they all boarded up in here? What were they hiding from? The Captain carefully moved inside to survey the area, they needed to find something from this, was this his greed? Desperation? They needed information, information on a way out, or rather, information on what the hell was going on here. Or maybe they shouldn't find out. He acted before his mind could and made a decision.

"Corpsman, check them, I'm gonna search for a manifest, see if there's a ship anywhere on this island we can use other than that PT boat."

Searching corpse after corpse, the Captain didn't find much else but journals, date books, some dog tags, and a tourist's map.

Though as he was searching a laying body, an outstretched hand pointed across the room from the floor caught his eye, as if it were communicating and following it, a similar corpse with a captain's uniform was found. In his grasp, a book.

The Corpsman found no proof of life, outside of the breathing. He could feel the breath on his ears when he went to listen, and he could hear it, but there was no pulse, and no warmth to their skin. This was not death rattling. This was something else. No one needed to state it was unnatural.

"Apologies Captain." The Captain from the Vale plucked the book from the corpse's hands and moved back outside with the Corpsman. The Captain gave a cursory glance through the journals, checking for dates, and what the hell had these men seen. He wasn't going to make the men read these journals, fearing that they may find something so disturbing it would break them. Even though they’d already witnessed something quite disturbing. Meanwhile he had the Sergeant go through the book he'd found on the Coast Guard Captain's corpse.

What he found chilled him, confused him and then, made his blood boil. The Journals all told of the same thing. The flash of light from a nuke, the people on the island when it happened being trapped by fog, the sun turning into something hellish. And then the sea turned to blood, and everyone caught outside was slowly turned into goop over the course of their time outside. It took at least a day for it to happen, and the piles of muck were gone the next morning. Some marines and Sailors provide the context that all the goop and other bodies caught in sunlight were mysteriously amassed near an old park.

Meanwhile, the Sergeant didn't have to look far.

Whatever had been written on the inside cover was frantic, weak, but very plainly obvious.

"The light will dissolve you. The Darknes wither you. Kill the mass. go home. BB wl hpl"

“Kill the Mass. Go home.” The Captain parroted as he looked over the Sergeant’s shoulder.

He looked off into the distance. In another life, in another time. He knew where that beast was. The Flesh. The Captain's fists clenched. He consulted with the Sergeant and the Marines about their findings. If they were to get off this island, nay even survive the day, they had to deal with this mass. Whatever it was. He broke off into a brisk jog towards the Army Engineer Torpedo Station, Marines in tow. They had a mission, something to fight. They and everyone on this island, past or present would be damned if they didn’t put this nightmare to an end here and now.

The Marines and Captain would arrive in a good time. The door to the torpedo station was not as hard to open now that the marines knew the score.

Within, everything had been cleared to the side. three withered men stood facing away from the door, leaning on various items to keep them up, their arms outstretched, pointing to a hole in the far wall looking almost directly north. Below the hole, a simple 'BB' was scratched into the wood.

The Captain had the marines secure the room as he and the Sergeant moved to look at what "BB" was. A bomb? Big Bomb? A torpedo head? Peering through the hole, his question was answered. Although the fog was still quite thick, the silhouette of a large ship, either docked or by chance run aground along the Island's edge, was less than two kilometers away. BB rang in his mind as he surveyed the silhouette.

"BB." He whispered to no one in particular. Why hadn't they already dealt with the Mass? Had it already been too late by the time they'd realized what needed to be done? These were questions that ran in the Captain's mind as they raced towards BB. "Did you men find anything else in that station?"

The men looked between themselves, general consensus was a solid no.

Much like the race to the Torpedo station, they made it to the vessel. As they approached a better look was acquired. On its prow, a large white 61 was emblazoned. The red line indicating where the waterline was supposed to be was above the water, and a cursory glance showed that it had in fact nestled itself on the beach. Every gun on it, from the massive tree sized barrels of the four main batteries, to the 127mm guns, was oriented to it's west. And as eyes tracked, they saw what it was aimed at.

A grotesque hulking mass of what looked like many arms, many legs, meat and bones laid amidst a field almost a kilometer away. How many had been taken as part of this monstrosity? The entire island’s population? Everyone who had accidentally wandered into the Island’s- no this monster’s hunting ground? Them? No. Not them, they would not join the mass, they would end it and its hellish cycle.

As they arrived, the fog was starting to clear up fully on the island.

For a moment, there was a hope for the Marines.

And then the Captain felt a drizzle along his face. His hand went up to wipe away the sweat, but his cuff came back bloodied. Around him, the Marines also had similar looks on their faces, as sweat was slowly being replaced by blood. They were running out of time.

"Move! Now!" He was sure he didn't need to tell the men. Right now they had to move. The men back at the crash site didn't even have the luxury of knowing what they were dealing with. It was up to them. The men bolted and raced towards the ship, running faster than any of them ever had towards the bridge. They didn't exactly know how these old stations worked, but they had the Hornet back home. He had a rough guess of how these things worked.

A surprise was how well kept the ship was, all things considered. As they arrived on the bridge, there was a similar situation to the Torpedo Station.

A collection of bridge staff, mummified, still breathing, still watching stood assorted through the room. All of them had a hand pointed dead at a book in front of every station on the bridge, these books each held simple instructions. Post it notes stood marking each station, near the front windows, a row of 12 Marines stood, Arms outstretched with their service weapons offered to whoever had come to finish the job. The one in the center held a note "Semper Fi".

The Captain stood at his station, his hat still gleaming, and in front of him, both hands were pointed straight at a page in his log that was blank sans a single phrase. "Only ammo is for Battery #1, at front closest to bridge. Magazine jammed. Path is marked with pink paint. No energy left to unjam. God Be With You."

Across the field, the sound of hundreds of voices bellowing at once as the mass of meat and bone began to rise.

"Fuck. Marines, follow the pink line, we're unjamming the magazine!" The Captain wasn't sure if he should leave a man behind to man the gun the second it was ready, but he figured they'd need all the manpower they could get to unjam the weapon.

The bellowing continued as they moved deeper into the ship. It was occasionally emphasized by an unholy thud, signifying some form of foot fall.

53 seconds is how long it took. various sailors also standing guard on the way directing like statues. Until they finally reached the magazine.

It was something that looked unsafe at a glance. There was yet another sailor on station, the book in front of him had a series of diagrams explaining what had happened.

The magazine loaded rounds onto the hoist, which brought it here, which loaded the projectile onto the casing and powder, before carrying it upwards to the gun. Much of the system appeared automated, but there was a snag.

The pictures explained that someone was likely going to have to climb in to the hoist, risk dismemberment, knock the shell back into its place with some sort of pry bar, and climb back out, all while a shell weighing upwards of 2500 pounds was dangling from a hook and chain system above them.

After that was done, someone would have to input commands from the gun room itself, while someone gave commands from the bridge.

He knew what had to be done. The Captain began to climb inside when he was abruptly yanked back. "What the hell do you think you're doing Captain? You need to lead the men and kill that thing! Get to the bridge and get this gun firing. I've got the magazine." It was the Sergeant. His face was stony and steadfast, mixed with blood, sweat and grim resolve.

"Get back in one piece Sergeant." The men clasped hands and made their way towards their objectives. "Signal me with a whistle blow if there's no intercom. Corpsman, stay on station here, Corporal, take some men with you to the gun room as well. The rest of you get ready to load that gun!"

The Sergeant made it about half a foot into the hoist, putting his left foot on a hook to begin his crawl upwards, when there was a clunk from above, and the hoist had a very favourable amount of give to it. A simple shove was the greenlight that so little had done so much.

As the marines arrived above and began the absolute struggle bus that was loading a 2700 pound shell into a barrel. The Captain arrived on the bridge to find that the mass of flesh and bone had made it halfway to the ship. A mere 500 meters away.

Time ticked by, seconds turned to a minute, until there was a voice near the fire control station.

"Loaded!"

The man at the gunner's station rapidly corrected the sight of the battery, and after a few moments of eyeballing it, he began to pray. "Target set!"

They awaited the Captain's command.

They didn’t have to wait long.

“FIRE!” His voice boomed through the command room.

For a moment, the Captain and the Marines aboard thought their ears had finally melted or withered away.

But it was not the case. The open doors to the bridge meant that the full force of the 16 inch gun's recoil was felt in their ears, their chests, and as the ship rumbled, the rocky beach below.

The vessel began to list as rock on hull grinded across the ears of those who could still hear. Until eventually the ship no longer had the chalkboard-esque echoing, and instead the sound of waves could be heard, by recovering ears and gunners alike.

The ship, now afloat, leveled out, as the sky started becoming blue again. The Mass of flesh and bone was now turning into a bubbling puddle. A hole in it bigger than most boats the Vale had was a smouldering and burnt mess.

After a few minutes, the fog had cleared fully, and the sky was blue again. The Bodies around them crumbled into dust and were swept away with the wind. The Mass turned into steam and fog, dissipating in the winter breeze.

The leaky feeling each of the expedition's members had been feeling stopped. Everyone with a visual of the bay would see the fog around Treasure finally fall, revealing an island that very rapidly began to weather and rust.

The ship that had fired the massive round slowly had paint peel off fall into the sea, and rust form around it's railings, doors, hinges, and anchors. The then pristine battleship slowly showed it's true age. Though as seconds passed, then minutes, and as a rescue boat arrived, hours. The massive vessel remained afloat.

The USS Iowa had regained her sea legs. But all the Captain could do was stand and stare.

Then an almost familiar voice chimed in behind him. “Captain Moreno. I’m Agent DuPont, I'm from StateSec. Do you have a moment?”

Event Summary
Diplomatic Proposal from the Kingdom of the Valley is accepted, formal resolutions begin drafting.
The Second Fleet is mobilized to do trade with Oaxaca
VSS Odysseus is grounded on Treasure Island and exorcises it
The First Fleet is mobilized to rescue the Captain Moreno and his crew as well as scavenge the island
State of the Vale begins research on industrialization

by **Anowa** » Wed Aug 18, 2021 12:15 pm

_{Canon James Orion}
_{Head of Public Works}
_{Public Works Offices}
_{New Jerusalem}
_{Week 4, January 2223}

Orion had slowly become more and more adverse to meetings every day, especially since they usually ended up being hours long processes with little to no actual news. Just progress reports on the agonizingly slow progress on the canal, and even more depressing reports from the Third Temple's construction site.

"Orion please wake up, we have actual news this time."

Orion sighed and opened his eyes, "Well?"

Horatio nodded and a bundle of what looked like maps was produced, "A STALKER dropped these off at the depot a week ago. At first we thought they were just maps and simple survey reports. Cross referenced with our lands and found nothing, however one of my serfs found something I had ignored. The SKy Kettles."

Orion sat up straighter, "And, our mines already produce enough steel and whatnot, hell we basically have a monopoly on it as is wh-"

"Oil."

"Excuse me?"

"Oil." the man was smiling, "Apparently the STALKER started digging through a building that used to belong a drilling company. the Sky Kettle Tribe's lands are apparently sitting on not only a non marginal oil deposit, but they also have dilapidated wells from the pre-collapse."

Orion slowly started smiling, they'd finally have something to feed the dozen helicopters they had mothballed away. Moving building supplies wouldn't be reliant on carts or refurbished trucks, or horses, raw manpower. His mind skipped over an old term 'sky crane' and just as his joy reached a peak... it died.

"The Patriarch isn't going to let us expend any resources to build actual infrastructure that way. It was a feat to even get anything for the Dam or Canal, and the Dam has essentially been cancelled." a pause, "Keep the maps... but it won't happen in our lifetime. Not unless something drastic happens."

Horatio smiled grimly and stored the maps back in their tubes. "By the way, the Temple is making actual progress now. It's not a lot, but there's been no injuries in 2 weeks now."

"Don't jinx it."

Summary of Events:
- Vassalization of the Sky Kettle Tribe begins (10+ Weeks)
- Scouting and Trading Mission down the Rio Grande, begins (10+ Weeks)
- Third Temple Reaches 8% completion (+3%)

NEW EVENTS

Doomsday Prophets

To many, what some soapbox preachers do is fearmonger and drive already pitiful morale further and further into the ground. A good majority of them simply don't have a building to hold mass in. Every so often though, a crazed madman with a strong case of paranoia takes to the square's little wooden box and starts preaching about how the end is nigh, that some figment of evil is going to start yanking the souls out of people, and how Heaven and Hell no longer exist, and have merged with our own mother Earth...

But one has to wonder if they have a point.

The chance of public dissent in a player faction held county increases, until the source of the event is removed.

This event will continue indefinitely
Affected Factions: US Remnant Government

by **Dnoristan** » Sat Aug 21, 2021 9:53 pm

A pair of boots crunched snow underfoot as a weary hunter approached the snare. Hand-stitched buckskin pants and a patchwork parka did their best to keep the cold out, leaving only the hunter’s eyes exposed.

The winter had been brutal for their clan. They’d lost 30 goats this month to the cold alone, and while nobody was starving, rationing was certainly not a very popular concept. The snow had also dropped the number of refugees from further east who made it to the region, which, although it meant fewer mouths to feed, meant that they weren’t getting much news in from the outside world. Barring the occasional caravan sent out to purchase salted meats or refined metal goods, most of their news came from outsiders fleeing past.

A rabbit lay motionless underneath the snare, cord wrapped tight around its neck and swaying gently with the breeze. The hunter reached down, carefully loosening the knot to free the carcass, which they packed away with the rest of their kit before resetting the snare. Out of the dozen or so traps along this route, the hunter only had two rabbits to show for it. They hadn’t seen a deer in days, either. Was the weather really that harsh, that even the animals couldn’t withstand it?

On the trek home, the hunter froze in their tracks, before quickly and quietly slipping behind a nearby tree as they drew their bow and nocked an arrow. Less than a hundred feet away, a dead body lay directly in the middle of the path. Their eyes flitted from side to side, looking for the slightest signs of any movement. After several cautious minutes, the hunter approached it. From the residue on the face and the calloused hands-- both exposed, the hunter noted, this man wasn’t dressed for winter-- it seemed they might’ve been a coal miner. The skin around their wrists was irritated with the familiar signs of ropeburn. An escaped slave, then. Pulling the body’s tunic open, a brand on the chest confirmed the hunter’s suspicions. Other than the tattered rags on their back, they had nothing.

…

“Cass is back! Cass is back!” A bright voice chirped out as the hunter approached camp. Several children poured out of a tent excitedly, rushing to meet the new arrival. The butcher’s daughter took the rabbits and scampered off to her father, and the rest followed the hunter who tugged their hood and scarf out of the way before approaching the campfire.
The kids knew this hunter by the name Cassidy Harlow. They loved Cass, because this particular hunter had all the best stories. Cassidy’s parents-- outsiders-- came from up north, further north than the New Congress had ever seen, and with new terrain came new stories. Some true, most exaggerated or retouched for entertainment value.

Eventually, the gathering around the fire grew, with several members of the camp coming out to hear the story, and others coming to contribute to the impressively-sized pot of stew currently brewing over the flames. Meat from the hunt, vegetables foraged or bartered for, even some highly sought-after spices made their way in.
Even with the brutal, oppressive winter around them, even with rationing in place and the kids’ grandfather buried a week earlier thanks to pneumonia, the atmosphere around the fire wasn’t one of dread. They still had each other, and as long as that was true, they had hope.

Summary of Events:
10-20% of all livestock held by members of the New Congress died due to cold.
Decreased travel in the region due to the harsh winter leaves many bands unaware of foreign developments.
Escaped slaves seeking sanctuary-- a large contributor to the tribe’s population growth-- are being found frozen to death before reaching safety.

by **Vacif** » Sat Sep 04, 2021 4:43 pm

Week 4, January 2223, Santa Clara, State of the Vale
Captain Mateo Moreno

There was a celebration being held in Santa Clara in honour of the young Captain and youngest son of the Governor. The Governor's house would be extending its personal stockpile for the occasion so public resources would not be expended. The air in the city was electric as people could only talk and theorize about what had gone down. His remaining crew were showered with praise. The last week had been spent recovering the Odysseus and its fallen crew, as well as scavenging every inch of Treasure Island, which lived up to its name, at least from freeing up The Iowa. On the note of, the scholars were going through every inch of it, documenting everything they could, and learning each and every single one of its secrets. He however wasn't particularly interested in the results of the salvage, he'd been hailed as a hero as practically everyone in the State had seen and heard the shot ring out, and the fog lift from the island. The naval infantry were also to receive commendations for their valour and heroism. But Mateo wasn't feeling very jovial, half of his men were dead and he'd peered behind the veil of the unknown. Perhaps he got more than a glimpse but it was more than enough for a good long time. He wasn't sure how his father's agents could stand against whatever he'd seen on a regular basis. He still felt drained from the incident and felt his life span shorter for it.

It wasn't a chilly day today, the sun felt warm on his skin as the snow flakes fell gently. His father was giving a speech to his right, something about courage, heroism and sacrifice. He was sure it was well written and well delivered, his father took pride in writing his own speeches. He was damn good at it, which was why he was the Governor and not Uncle Jules. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as each one of his men took to the stage one by one to receive a handshake and a medal until it was finally his turn. Mateo felt a strong force on his right shoulder. It was his brother Ben. "Hey little brother, it's time to wake up now." And like that, the world seemed a little more in depth, more defined. Sound seemed to return to him as he was brought back from his thoughts.

"And it is with my utmost pride that I present to Captain Mateo Moreno Suen with the Medallion of Bravery, Order of Merit and the highest honour that the state can award, the Legion of Honour for leading your crew through hell and back and putting yourself at life threatening risk for your fellow man and country. You are a credit and hero to the nation son." A warm genuine smile was met with a somewhat surprised look. As if things had really just started to don on him. True pride gleamed in the older man's eyes, but at the base of it, he was just glad his youngest son was still alive.

The young Moreno shook his father's hand and addressed the crowd as they settled down. It wasn't a prepared speech, more of an in the moment thought. "For us, we may savour the bounties of our exploits, live comfortably knowing that the menace just off of our coasts have been vanquished, that our land remains unmolested by fear and the monsters that lay below. While we praise those still alive, I'd like to give a moment of silence and proper acknowledgement to those that gave their lives, not for the mission they thought they would embark on, but for the one that they did. A story of survival that ended up a story of triumph. Today we celebrate and cherish those that we have today, but we stand in silence for and mourn tomorrow. We still alive can rest easy knowing full well that our sons and daughters died making a real difference for our State. Thank you." There was an appropriate pause and respectful silence as The Captain exited left, and the attention was back to the Governor.

Event Summary
The Second Fleet continues their journey to Oaxaca
VSS Odysseus and Treasure Island are picked clean of salvage
Research on the USS Iowa and industrialization of The State of the Vale continues
Using the USS Iowa's long range radios, The Vale begins looking into the strange radio signals
Construction of a monument to the Odysseus begins

Aftermath (IC|Post-Apocalypse|Faction|Open)

Aftermath (IC|Post-Apocalypse|Faction|Open)

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