The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]


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United Gordonopia
Posts: 4029
Founded: Aug 04, 2008

Postby United Gordonopia » Tue Sep 13, 2011 9:04 pm

[ PT ]

The Wanderer

Since my birth I have wandered.
The rise of the Emerald Kingdom forged a clan, my clan.
A clan of nomads.
For nigh a thousand years, we walked the plains, the mountains, the rivers.
Now, none wander but I.
The lineage of old has ended; my kinsmen have faded as dust into the wind.
Since my birth I have wandered.

My sword is my only companion.
Forged by my father, it has been with me all of my days.
Its blade never dulls.
The instrument has spilled the blood of a hundred men.
Their cries echo upon the wind.
It rests calmly at my side, waiting for my call.
My sword is my only companion.

Today I passed a city upon a hill.
Its walls stood firm; shelter from man's raging storm.
Watchmen greeted me at the gate.
The town was pulsing with life; endless men moved before my eyes.
I see few such sights in my travels.
With gold, I found a new shield; strong iron.
Today I passed a city upon a hill.

The moon is red tonight.
Tomorrow, the essence of men shall spill to the Earth.
I sense I shall take part.
Long has it been since I met an army on the field of battle.
The clouds move to the East.
That is where I shall go to meet my fate.
The moon is red tonight.

I came upon a village.
Men in glowing armor stood at the last house.
Their faces revealed impending doom.
Many a house was empty, their inhabitants fled.
Only the elders remained.
On this day, the end of these people approaches.
I came upon a village.

The captain bid me aid.
Sword ready, I awaited the sight of the enemy.
My blade shone in the sun.
At midday, a great column crested the far hill.
The spirits of my comrades sank.
The end of this clash rests in my hands, that I know.
The captain bid me aid.

The arrows covered the sky.
Their great cloud descended upon the men of Gordonopia.
My shield protected me well.
Like porcupine spines, the shield bristled with death.
Other men had lesser luck.
Blood and flesh covered the cold green ground.
The arrows covered the sky.

My sword soon had its fill.
With a yell, Kjeldor bore down on the ragged living.
Waves of men charged the line.
Thrusting, my weapon claimed a new life.
Warmth left his eyes.
Withdrawing the blade I prepared for a new clash.
My sword soon had its fill.

The battle raged on.
Countless men soon fell to the hardened sword.
Their bodies piled high.
My thoughts went blank as the iron shattered bone.
In a trance, I fought on.
Fear soon entered the mind of my surviving foe.
The battle raged on.

They fled across the plains.
Before the sun left the sky, my enemy fled in retreat.
Victorious, Gordonopia cheered.
On the overlooking hill, a lone archer stood tall.
Arrow drawn powerfully.
The bolt pierced my heart; dug deep into my chest.
They fled across the plains.

The darkness is taking me.
My father stands peacefully in front of me.
His hand reaches out.
Soon I shall join the the ancient members of my clan.
I fall to my knees.
My companion falls to the earth with a soft thud.
The darkness is taking me.

OOC Note: This is designed to be very different from my usual writing style. It is meant to be an ancient Gordonopian heroic poem, somewhat of my nation's equivalent of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in terms of its place in literary cannon, though obviously very different in content and style. Any comments in the form of TGs would be appreciated.
If you ever have an RPing question, please TG me about it.
Also Known as Kazmr

Host: Baptism of Fire 51, 53
Third Place: Cup of Harmony 56
Semi-Finalist: World Cup 63

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Romanium Imperium
Posts: 613
Founded: Mar 15, 2011

Postby Romanium Imperium » Wed Sep 14, 2011 8:50 am

[ PT ]

From The Tallest Mountains

Anatolia | The Second Roman Empire of Byzantium - 1458

As the Julian calendar registered it had been five years; half a decade from the time of the failed siege of Constantinople; the most recent in a long string thereof whence the barbarian hordes threw themselves on the blades of Rome's finest soldiers. The tables had turned since then; and the Roman Legion took the fight to the Ottoman hordes; the thunderous charge of their armored cataphracts shook the earth beneath their advancing columns, not hordes like so fielded by the Moslem barbarians. In shadow of the advancing Legion there was a scene classical to that of Roman warfare.

Nothing remained standing save the burning wreckage of where once there were townships and cities; nothing more than rubble and strewn bodies of man and beast alike; all was pillaged and destroyed. This was the price of war with Rome; everything one held dear died. Now, the walls of Edirne; Adrianopolis rose here from the subtropical plains; the stolen capitol of the Moslem hordes.

From the tops of the tallest mountains, knolls and structures heralds bellowed the coming of the Roman Empire; and the Moslems were afraid for the first time in a long time. Yet; they were a stubborn lot these barbarians, like the Goths, Visigoths, Huns and Franks before them they were stubborn as rocks; and took to the field and the bastion of their stolen city. The Romans encircled their stolen city and the engineers plotted against the strong walls while the Turkish horde consolidated their defenses; calling out to any Arab brethren who would dare to stand against the might of Rome's Legion. None did come to their aid; not even the Persians whose hate of Rome was well known the world over; as all the world recognized this as what it was; a feud of blood and anger that the Turks had begun, and the Romans were going to finish.

The Great Siege of Edirne lasted for many weeks and months; the Legionnaires took the city on the Idles of March in 1459; nearly one year after it began. The City was Purged of all manner of living thing; the men and the old were slain without exception and the womenfolk and the youngfolk were thrown down into bondage; the Turkish State and People were undone as their last capitol fell; and history would only remember them as the third-class of the Second Rome...
Imperium Romanum
The Most Efficient Military Force In The History of Man

By The Grace of The Gods, and Might of the Roman Legions; Romulus Aurelius Augustus, Emperor of Byzantium, Dictator of Nicaea, Kaisar of Greece, Consul and Princeps, First Among Equals, Beloved of Jupiter, Pontifex Maximus of Roma - Rightful and Only Caesar of Rome

Slave State and Proudly So.
And you STILL need a better reason than the above to invade.

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Posts: 337
Founded: Mar 09, 2011
Democratic Socialists

Postby Eladvisio » Sun Sep 18, 2011 3:11 am

[Three-Way Succession of the Throne]



Eladvisio's history is a sad despicable waste rife with lies, deceit, danger, and dictators. At least they're now trying to be more democratic. This chronicles a story of a quick succession of the throne by two dictators and a democratically-elected emperor. Not much of Eladvisio's recorded history is accurate, but Vladimir Von Vanhurst, Dimitri Voronezh, and Marvin Tecarious are three that made a huge impact on Eladvisian society in the 31st century.

Vladimir Von Vanhurst: An ex-admiral turned emperor, and then turned into a dictator. Something may've happened to his brain after his military service and that's why he should be relocated to a loony bin. No explanation how he came to power in the first place.

Dimitri Voronezh: Well educated congressman turned into a power-hungry dictator. Self-proclaimed Communist. Also very smart with money. He used Imperial Congress bribe money to invest in vastly superior weapons for his guards and a force field around the palace.

Marvin Tecarious: Young revolutionary and once a Speaker of the Congress. First democratically-elected emperor in ages. Has military experience and a self-proclaimed homosexual. Loved by all the citizenry, even by this century's standards.

Royal Palace
Two Years Ago

Vladimir Von Vanhurst was being as loony as ever. He just kept breaking all the stuff in the palace like they were useless toys. He should've known better, for they were priceless antiques chronicling much of Eladvisio's 3000-year long history. "Servant! Clean this mess up! Another useless vase was in my way when I knocked it over!"

Sighing, Maria Stellas, Vanhurst's personal servant, was growing tired of all of his antics. "Another vase again? Your Excellency, why can't you learn any better? You know these things you're breaking are priceless artifacts! Have you no sympathy!"

"Of course I have no sympathy Maria. Then why did I become a dictator in the first place? Just to break artifacts? No! I wanted to control this empire, and I have the backing of my personal armies to help me! Now where's my DeLorean. I wish to drive it."

Maria sighed once again. "Your Excellency, you know you're in no condition to drive anything and besides, the Imperial Congress sold most of your vehicles a few weeks ago."

Ah, fuck the Imperial Congress!" Vladimir shouted. "Their heads should've been chopped in the first place! Maria! Go tell them that their services are done. I'm sending my personal armies to dispose them at once." He then stomped on the floor maniacally like a man fully loaded with LSD in his system, and then ran off somewhere.

Imperial Congress Building

Maria entered the building to find it busy with congressmen running to and fro everywhere, most of them holding a strange magenta paper in their hands. She was too busy to stop and ask, so she moved on to the main Congress holding room. As soon as she entered, a whole group of congressmen turned towards her, all with worried faces.

"Has everyone heard the news already?"

"Yes, unfortunately we have," spoke Dimitri Voronezh who was Speaker of the Congress at the time. "These magenta papers tell the truth."

"WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!" shouted a random congressman, but Dimitri's face did not seem worried.

"No we are not, because I have a plan that will both save our asses and bring about the fall of Vladimir Von Vanhurst. Listen up everyone: We will simply bribe his personal armies to take him prisoner, then I'll come in and save the day and liberate Eladvisio from this evil being. Sounds good?" All the congressmen nodded in agreement at his plan, and they set off to get to work.

Royal Palace
Four Hours Later

"Maria! MARIA! Where are you?!?" Vladimir was being more hectic than ever, and was being very antsy. "Maria, show yourself this instant or I'll take it upon myself to get rid of you and dump your body in the river!"

From a nearby room, Maria finally presented herself in front of Vladimir just as he expected. "There you are," Vladimir said, "Now clean this mess up." He then pointed to another destroyed artifact, this time a rare imported rug from Planet Sharia-7. Maria then took it upon herself to finally state her independence from him. "Your Excellency, I don't have to take care of your messes anymore because I no longer have to serve you. You are no longer ruler of the Eladvisian Empire."

Hearing this, Vladimir clenched his fists tightly and spoke with a sinister voice. "What?!? This is blasphemy!!! You have no right to say that, because I am your lord and master, and you can't do anything about it because you have no army that can defend you. I laugh at this. Guards! Dispose of her immediately."

From several rooms and hallways came Vladimir's personal armies, each equipped with laser assault rifles. "Now then..." Vladimir paused for a bit and then continued, "Guards, get her out of my sight." The guards were unmoving and seemed to not hear his commands. "Well, what are you waiting for? Dispose of her!" His guards then aimed their weapons towards him, and then Vladimir had a terrible thought. "Oh no, you're going to kill me now! Oh, why Flying Spaghetti Monster why?!?" He went into fetal position as the guards closed in on him tighter and tighter until they grabbed him by his shirt collar and propped him up.

From the main hallway then came Dimitri Voronezh and some of the congressmen. "Oh poor you," cried Dimitri smirking as he said so. "Look how your actions have befallen you. You sure aren't smart when it comes to political science aren't you? Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and your oppressive ways have brought your downfall along with it."

Vladimir started cowering in fear of him now that he was powerless to defend himself. "N-now w-what are y-you going to do w-with me?"

"Simple really. We just keep you locked up in the deepest, darkest, most isolated cell in Maxwell Maximum Security Penitentiary."

"No! Not Maxwell! Anything but Maxwell! Just kill me right here if you have to, but don't send me to Maxwell!"

"Oh yes Maxwell! Boys, take him away." The guards then grabbed Vladimir and stuffed him into a prison truck waiting outside the palace. "As for you Maria, your services are no longer needed. You are free to live your life as you wish.

After hearing this, Maria had a moment of joy filling her. "Oh thank you Voronezh! You are a saint!"

"Anything I could do to help."

For the next few months, the regime change was smooth and uneventful but Dimitri soon became the very dictator that Vladimir was, but even smarter and more authoritarian than ever. The citizens of Eladvisio were living under an even more harsh rule than before, all because Dimitri became power-hungry. For the next year onward, the Imperial Congress tried to turn Eladvisio more democratic, but Dimitri's policies kept them from doing much about it, so they had to resort to bribing him large amounts of money to loosen his regulations more. This strategy worked for sometime until Voronezh had quite enough and stopped accepting bribes all together.

Devastated, the Imperial Congress turned to off-world support to help support their cause. They gained political favor with another world and let them use one of their weapons factories for weapons development to armor the little army they had compiled. This part chronicles the ultimate downfall of one of the most horrible dictators in the Eladvisian Empire, Dimitri Voronezh.

Imperial Congress Building
One Year Later

"Alright, his reign has to stop now. We can't take this from him anymore." Marvin Tecarious, now the Speaker of the Congress that replaced Voronezh, spoke in a stern tone. "Since we have our revolutionary army ready, I say it's time to raid the palace and finally take the asshole as prisoner!"

His fellow congressmen nodded in agreement, and then one random congressman spoke. "But how should we attack? He used all our bribe money to armor all his soldiers with primo weapons from some galactic superpowers and got himself a strong force field around the palace. There is no way and no hope!"

"Oh but yet there is! We can still infiltrate the palace easily. You see, those force fields can protect against surface attacks, but that doesn't repel anything that goes underneath it."

The congressman nodded in agreement and then laid their plan into motion. "Operation Groundhog Day is a go; I repeat, Operation Groundhog Day is a go." Marvin and a few congressmen loaded themselves unto the Drillmaster Mach-5 along with a large company of rebel soldiers. Their plan was to distract most of the guards outside with a straight offensive attack on the north side on the surface, allowing some time for the drill team to infiltrate inside the palace on the south side.

Under the Royal Palace
Outskirts of Visione

"Alright, we're now reaching the surface underneath the Royal Palace's south lawn. Alright boys, get ready to sweep the area for hostiles." The Drillmaster finally broke through, and opened its doors. The troops came out first and swept the area of hostilities. "All clear," the corporal spoke. Now Marvin and the congressmen came out second and scanned the palace in front of them. "Okay everyone, he'll most likely be hiding in the main office, so let's check there first."

The company then went through the deserted south entrance and slowly made their way through. They cleared the first set of rooms near the entrance, allowing the congressmen to enter unharmed. The main office was much nearer now, and the whole company could see what was beyond them. There was another company guarding the office doors, clearly indicating that he was hiding there.

"We attack in 3, 2, 1." The company made a full assault on the enemy, and when the enemy realised what was happening, half of their men were already laying on the floor with no pulse whatsoever. The opposition was easy to handle though, and the last of the guards were defeated easily. "Time to break down the door boys." Now, this was the moment Marvin was waiting for for years.

The doors cracked open as they broke them down, and it seemed that Voronezh was nowhere to be found. But, from under his desk, Dimitri stood up with an L-7 Laser Pistol in his hand and started firing multiple rounds at the soldiers. "Your pathetic coup shall never prevail!" yelled Dimitri, with an insane look in his eyes. "I will see to myself that your rebellion will be crushed and all of the Imperial Congress executed for their disloyalty!" The soldiers were fine though, because before Dimitri started shooting at them, they turned their deflector shields on to provide cover for what Marvin was about to do next.

With a stun-ray in hand, Marvin aimed it at Dimitri and pressed the trigger. A small blue circle came out of the weapon and hit Dimitri directly in the chest, thus paralyzing him and making him unconscious. He dropped to the floor, and all was silent. The corporal then picked up Dimitri and asked Marvin what was next on the agenda. "M'Lord Speaker, what should we do with Voronezh?"

"Just lock him in to the same cell that Vanhurst is in over at Maxwell. They'll sure be having fun when he arrives. Alright now, 1/3 of your company will accompany me, the congressmen, and the unconscious Dimitri Voronezh back to the Drillmaster. Another 1/3 of your company will shut down the force field generator up on the tower, and you'll regroup back here and unite to help the rest of the army on the north side take out the rest of Dimitri's men. Got it?"

"Sir yes sir," proclaimed the corporal and they went on their way to their assigned duties. In less than a half hour all of Dimitri's soldiers were finished off and the palace cleared of surviving hostiles.

The next few months went off much smoother than ever thanks to the coup. Eladvisio had it's very first democratic election in a very long time, and Marvin Tecarious won imperial status in a landslide victory. To this day, Emperor Tecarious sets a shining example of imperial democracy to all planets in the galaxy, and will become a powerful force for good for the future of Eladvisio and its citizens.
The Imperial Republic of Eladvisio
Factbook: viewtopic.php?f=23&t=149087
Our National Anthem, The Internationale
DEFCON LEVEL: 6/5/4/3/2/1
Economic Left/Right: -0.75
Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -2.15
-- gay asian nerd :P
-- likes wearing scarves, ascots, and flat caps
-- plans to become a powerful corporate entity in the future
-- avid cat lover
-- conspiracy theorist at heart
-- interested in outer space stuff -_-
-- this nation was FT before it was cool

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-The West Coast-
Posts: 2555
Founded: Dec 17, 2010

Postby -The West Coast- » Mon Sep 19, 2011 1:22 pm

Sikye'Estaw Ha'ako'n [7 Men] (Mod. Tech.)

Excerpt taken from official investigation of the killings at Salt Creek and its environs on 18 June, 1860. Message details related to Major General P.G.T. Laramie by the only known surviving member of the 7th Texas Rangers, Captain William Cutler, less than a month after the incident. Details of the missing six men have yet to be declassified for public viewing.


RECEIVED : 3 JUL 1860 (MOD. CAL. 2010)
SENT : 25 JUNE 1860 (MOD. CAL. 2010)


[ DATED : 25 JUNE 1860 ]
Last edited by -The West Coast- on Mon Sep 19, 2011 4:09 pm, edited 3 times in total.
THE GRAND CONFEDERACY OF THE WEST COAST // “Sequitur prosperitas obsequium!”

"There is no safety for honest men except by believing all possible evil of evil men."
— Edmund Burke; Reflections on the Revolution in France


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Political Columnist
Posts: 3
Founded: Sep 22, 2011

Postby -Ohio » Thu Sep 22, 2011 5:23 pm

An Succession


His heart sunk at the thought, he looked beyond the window into the cool September breeze. He closed his eyes and thought of beaches in Hawaii, he remembered going there as an kid but he could never afford traveling there again. He looked over his shoulder into the parlor where customers were already arriving.

He sighed, things had not always been what they used to be. He could remember the Succession Movement very clearly, his mind traveling to thoughts of watching the President gaze into a different place when he was told during an election speech that Ohio had legally succeded from the Union with approval from the Supreme Court.

It all came so quickly, he could remeber the NFL,NBA,MLB,MLS, and other prominent sports leagues close down the franchises that called Ohio their home. The NCAA could no longer support College Dynasties such as Ohio State and its in-state football hegemony the University of Cincinnati. Peoples seemed alot more serious.

Less and less people came to the parlor because no game was on, unless it was "foreign" you could see it in their eyes that they wanted to be American again. With all of their citizenships revoked that possibility looked bleak. Nevertheless everyone seemed to trudge through life with no real goal. All because of an succession.

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Posts: 1667
Founded: Feb 04, 2011

Postby Drackonisa » Sun Sep 25, 2011 9:42 am

[ Under the Starry Sky, together in death ]

[ MT ]

Under the starry sky, the cool mountain breeze gently caressed the Abram's turret. He could feel everything around him with perfect clarity, having just come fresh from maintenance. However, the beauty of the scenery could not compare with the one beside him. His one true love, the beautiful challenger. Guns nuzzling, demonstrating their mutual affection, they trundled closer to each other, engines rumbling in pleasure at the intimate contact. As their hulls touched, the abrams savored the smoothness of the challenger's hull plating. The composite armor groaned with the grinding of the armor plates. With a sigh, the abrams regarded the challenger through the thermal optics.

Her rear armor plates glowed brightly in his scans, warmed by their close proximity and her running engine. Their excitement was visible now, the shuddering of their hulls and the gentle release of fumes from their exhausts. The Abrams was a grizzled war veteran, he had seen too much killing, taken too many lives. All he wished now was to be left in piece with his lover. He knew too, their time together could only last so long.

It was an ephemeral experience, fleeting and sweet. He knew all too well such peaceful days would not last. Good things never do. Tomorrow they would be separated. She had reached the end of her operational service and considered obsolete. This would be their last night together. They were machines born and bred for war. Forged steel and tempered in the flames of battle. For 12 years, that was all he knew. He rode through hostile lands, fearing nothing, feared by all. Blood, thunder and fire ran in his veins, together with his comrades, shaking the ground with the force of thousand guns. He loathed to see her gone, the ache reached deep into him, beyond the engine, deep down into his ammo racks and hull. There was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable. Tomorrow, the ones who had created him, the Creators, would ruthlessly take the one he cared about most from him. She would be no more, not so much a recognizable piece of scrap as they crushed and tore her mercilessly apart to build more things. Perhaps she might be turned into other newer tanks, or other weapons of war. Such was their fate. He knew too, that would be how he would eventually end up.

His thoughts went back to the events 2 years ago. It was in a nameless war in a godforsaken country whose name he cared not to recall. He and the challenger were on opposing sides, serving different masters. They had ran into each other at point blank range, he knocked out her turret with a APFSDS round, and her return fire had disabled his gun. Desperate, he rammed into her, disabling her and breaking both their tracks on impact. Forced to an uneasy stalemate, they had little choice but to spend the night together. Low on gas, cut off from communications with the rest of their comrades, hope for rescue seemed bleak. For the first time, he lamented dying ignoble and alone, forgotten in some nameless desert far from home. She too, felt the same way perhaps. Sensing a kindred spirit, they spoke of their worries. Haltingly at first of course, neither trusting the other as an enemy.

As the day went by, he shut down periodically to conserve fuel. He was running out of gas, and lapsing in and out of consciousness. It was only her presence that kept him going. Eventually, ARVs from his company arrived to drag them out of the rut. By then, the sparks of a mutual bond grew between the duo. She was captured and pressed into service as his company took heavy casualties in the battle which disabled the two of them. He was overjoyed, of course. Over the course of battles fought together, their bond of friendship and camaraderie grew into something more. For the first time in his life, he knew what it was like to truly want to fight for something. He had something that he needed to protect and fight for. It made them stronger, for the first time in his life, he found what countless others like him spent all their service life searching for. He had a purpose.

As he snapped out of his reverie, he noticed her L30 gun resting on his frontal hull, as she was prone to do. Her engine was still, she had drifted off into a merciful, peaceful sleep. No doubt taking respite from the fate that awaited her tomorrow. His sensors picked up several objects coming in and the glow of search lights began appearing over the horizon. They were discovered. They were here to drag them back, him into the depot where he would be shut down and shipped off to another battlefield. Her, to the scrap yard.

He moved slightly, jerking her from inactivity. They both knew what was coming. None would stand to be separated from the other. Below them, was the loud roar of crashing waves, picked up easily by his acoustics. He needed no nightvision to know the escape that this presented to them. They had discussed it long and hard. If she was to be scrapped, so would he. As they nudged barrels together for the last time, they revved their engines and made a dash for the cliff edge just as the first helicopters appeared over the ridge. In a roar of defiance, the Abrams fired his main gun, heat round sent hurtling through the air just as the two lovers plummeted towards the jagged rocks and crashing waves below.

Together in death.
Last edited by Drackonisa on Sun Sep 25, 2011 9:45 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Founded: Oct 10, 2010

Postby Syvorji » Sun Sep 25, 2011 10:43 am


The Harmony
Nov. 11, 1996

This country of Syvorji is quite vast. On its own subcontinent in Illuscinora, it is surprisingly modern. Ruled by a unique religion, it is now emerging as a socialist state, by Sozialistweg, adopted just a decade ago, in 1986. Key industries, like electricity, and water are nationalized. Communes are forming, the monarchy is now a figurehead, with a tiny bit of power, but not a lot. The High Council can now make laws and pass it, not requiring the consent of the Empress, currently Empress Sadako I. The economy is now booming, with computers, internet, TV, radio, and cinema all booming, but the people still follow Huynmism.

It is all part of the Harmony, since nothing can be the same, it is important to preserve tradition, but at the same time, introduce new forms. Today, Huynmist style buildings stand alongside European classical design, modern buildings and even a post-modern pyramid, completed 5 years ago in Syvori, the capital of the Imperial Empire. It is not imperialist, but it is sovereign, and always will. Immigrants come here for freedoms, and to flee from oppression in their homelands, in which they are welcomed.

The Harmony, sadly will eventually be damaged by globalization, for eternity, unless if we do something about it. It is important to respect Huynmist conventions, without making it a theocracy. We must encourage freedom, and encourage people that they won't go to hell if they convert from a religion. The Harmony links all things, and all things belong to it. The Harmony is why we are existing, because every human, regardless of ethnicity, are the same, but different.

And that is why we must respect The Harmony.

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Posts: 2001
Founded: Jul 20, 2009

Postby Abruzi » Sun Sep 25, 2011 11:13 am

Getting Some.

Time slowly withers even the greatest of things. Silently rusting the innards of the most mighty machines, time flows without end, running only in one direction. It makes proud men senile, it makes strong men weak, it destroys nations and cripples Empires. Time is a wonderful thing. The slow creep of time on the old clock that hung over the over-crowded classroom however was infuriating if anything else. The silent flow of time seemingly slowing down for the duration of the desperate student's Literature and Novaya Bolshevist Theory Class. The Instructor at the front of the room was pacing back and forth, lecturing on the dangerous of Revisionist Thought and being generally boring, the class was the same every day after all, fear the Revisionist, the Opportunist, the Traitor, etc. He risked sweeping a glance across his fellow students and his eyes stuck to a particular Comrade Female across the room.

Her body curved in just the right way to make the student slightly nervous every time he saw her. She surely was the most beautiful Comrade Female he had ever seen, despite not seeing her face. One of the standing rules within the, “Center for the Preparation of the Next Generation of Novaya Bolsheviks” was never to remove your Gas Mask outside of dormitories. Realizing that he was staring, the student swept his head back to the front but only just after making eye contact with his object of affection. Just then the bell sounded, a dull roar that was almost similar to the howl of a thousand people, the roar of the mob. Rising from his seat the student made his way from the first of five classes and hurriedly walked to, “Algebra and Novaya Bolshevist Theory Class”. The hallways were chaotic and crowded, something that students the world over are familiar with. The sea of Gas Masks that made all of the students appear little more than animals however was a uniquely Abruzian Touch on Public Education.

Mindlessly walking, he arrived and sat down, ready to bear the brunt of an hour of mathematics. To his surprise the class proved to be surprisingly “Dangers of the Revisionist” free and only a short fifty nine minutes later the bell again rang. Again he slowly and mindlessly made his way through the chaos, the wet sucking breaths of his Gas Mask the only thing keep him conscious. With a long sigh he endured the mind numbing lecture and near brainwashing that was, “Chemistry and Novaya Bolshevist Thought”. Again fifty nine minutes later he was released, yet this time he walked with a spring in his step towards the locker room, his third class of five was, “Physical Education and Basic Military Skills”. A decent break from the mind numbing memorization of facts and statistics for the glory of the State. As he entered he saw that not only were a few of his known Comrades already dressed, but the Comrade Female he secretly pinned after was as well. In a pair of gym shorts and a tight tee shirt, she was even more devastatingly beautiful; the light reflecting from her lenses in just the perfect way. Lost in his sea of standard teenage hormonal distraction, the student failed to hear the grizzled instructor roar out,

" Tovarishch Studenty , segodnya vy dolzhny bytʹ zaregistrirovany v sootvet·stvii s fizicheskoĭ podgotovki i kvalifikatsii sAK- 74U ! Vam budet dano naznacheniĭ yedinitsy i otpravili na front vo imya iz slavnoĭ Rodiny! "
“Comrade Students, today you are to be registered according to physical fitness and proficiency with the AK-74U! You will then be given your unit assignments and dispatched to the front lines in the name of out glorious Motherland!”

If the student had been allowed to follow the flow of information, he would've noticed that only a week ago the offensive into Yanavograd was a major success, with the Novaya Bolshevists reclaiming the city and surrounding territory. He would've also noticed that the casualties suffered were horrendous and that the entire First Class of every Public Education Facility was being drafted as replacement officers to the newly raised, “Glorious Vanguard Conscripted Division”. This Division was to be given two weeks of training and thrust directly into a gap in the lines, so desperate was the Novaya Bolshevist position that the sacrifice of the Division was the best course of action. Since the Student did not know this however, he applied himself to the activity with gusto. It was not that bad, the entire course designed to single out the halfway decent to be employed as line officers while the rest received postings in supply and logistics. The student was among the ones to be given the Line Officer posting.

The class ended, and he slowly trudged into his next class; “Novaya Bolshevist Theory”. This class was the most obvious of the brainwashing classes, with his attention forcibly fixed on a small monitor that played a never ending loop of propaganda posters and patriotic slogans. He had no memory of the time passing, it just passed, silently leaking away, silently carrying the unknowing student closer to the hellish battlefields of Yanavograd. He rose from the monitor and obediently made his way to his final class of the day, “Basic Armored Tactics”. The student had for the past three point five years studied armored engagements and weapons systems, being promised a spot in the Novaya Bolshevist Tank Corps. Instead he was being thrust into the Infantry, the battered and muddy infantry, without a day of instruction in their employment.

This final class was his favorite, and he was animated enough to earn the attentions of the instructor who had led a Tank Squadron in the flight from Utopia. With his teacher's approval and his work completed, the Student again looked out across the classroom and saw his chosen Comrade Female. She too was destined to be in the armor corps, she too was to be leading the Vanguard forth in a metal beast, impervious to many of the dangers of combat. His Comrade Male to his right saw his looked and after patting him on the shoulder said,

" Tovarishch Pervyĭ klass Studencheskiĭ Semyan 01586 , ya videl, ty smotrishʹ , chto tovarishch Zhenskiĭ kruglyĭ god. Vy podozrevaete, chto onaOtherthinker , chto li? "
“Comrade First Class Student Semyan 01586, I have seen you looking at that Comrade Female all year. Do you suspect she is an Otherthinker or something?”

Smiling at the joke, Semyan leaned over to his Comrade and replied,

" Net tovarishch student vtorogo klassa Yuriya 11597 , ya hochu yebatʹ yee . "
“No Comrade Second Class Student Yuri 11597, I want to fuck her.”

Yuri tilted his head to to the right quizzically, a particularly alien motion in a Gas Mask. He stopped writing for a moment about the proper way to go about conducting Armored Operations in Radiologically Contaminated Terrain and responded,

"Yesli vy hotite yebatʹ yee , to yebatʹ yee. Ty pervyĭ chelovek klassa , u vas yestʹvozmozhnostʹ ustanovitʹ , chto do ".
“If you want to fuck her, then fuck her. You're First Class man, you have the ability to set that up.”

Nodding, Semyan softly mumbled,

" Vy pravy ".
“You're right.”

Yuri returned to his writing and finished the conversation with,

" YA znayu. No snachala vy dolzhny pogovoritʹ s nyeĭ, priglasitʹ yee progulyatʹsya v lesu vo vremya lichnyh razmyshleniĭ vo imyaNoyvaya bolʹshevist·skoĭ Idyealʹno segodnya Time, datʹ yeĭD v lesu ".
“I know. First though you should talk to her, invite her to take a stroll into the woods during Personal Reflection in the Name of the Noyvaya Bolshevist Ideal Time tonight, give her the D in the woods.”

Smiling beneath his mask, Semyan rose from the dining hall like table and nervously made his way across the classroom. His Comrade Female was done with her assignment it seemed and when he sat next to her she gave regarded him with what he hoped were smiling eyes. They sat in silence for a nervous moment before Semyan slowly asked,

" Tak mm ... tovarishch .... kakovo vashe naznachenie ? "
“So uh...Comrade....what is your designation?”

The Comrade Female slid a bit closer to him and softly whispered,

" Lili ".

Semyan blushed at her closeness, grateful that the mask concealed his facial features for once. He slid a bit closer to hre and softly asked,

" Lilya, Vy hoteli by vyĭti na progulku pozzhe, vo vremya lichnyh razmyshleniĭ ? "
“Lily, would you like to go for a walk later, during Personal Reflection?”

She tilted her head and seductively responded,

" YA budu nositʹ chto-to legkoe , chtoby vzletetʹ. U nas yestʹ tolʹko odna nochʹ v kontse kontsov , poka my ne prisvaivayut·sya. "
“I'll wear something easy to take off. We only have one night after all until we're assigned.”

Dismissing the last part, Semyan hurriedly responded,

" Velikiĭ, YA budu zhdatʹ vas v sadu Revolyutsionnoĭ oktyabrya okolo 1700 chasov. "
“Great, I'll meet you in the Garden of Revolutionary October around 1700 Hours.”

The bell rang, ending their quiet conversation and giving the nervous Semyan an excuse to flee. Since his classes were concluded he made his way to the designated study hall and read over the notes and texts which he had memorized five times over. Around the time of his tryst he stole away to the Garden of Revolutionary October, eager to meet what he was convinced was the love of his life. Love was a very strange thing within the Novaya Bolshevist Union, it was permitted between Military Personnel, Students, and Academics, while the Workers were forbidden from loving. It was reasoned that a Worker in love would be more apt to question the quality of life, while a Military Officer or a Factory Overseer would simply accept it, in love or out. Semyan and Lily could very well marry, they would in fact be among the hundreds of, “Unions for the Ideal” that were celebrated as model Novaya Bolshevist Couples.

He spied his lover standing beneath a mighty edifice of Otet, her eyes drawn upwards to his powerful forehead and the small chapbook he held in his hand. Glancing all around to ensure they were alone, he walked up behind her and slid his hands around her waist. She turned and quietly whispered,

" Ne zdesʹ ".
“Not here.”

Both of them eagerly walked into the woods, moving with a sense of urgency that is only brought on by the thought of intimacy. Finally after ensuring that they were as far from the Academic Institution as they dared to go, the two resumed what had begun in the garden. Semyan slowly undressed his Comrade Female, realizing that this was really happening just as he slowly slid off her Gas Mask. The two stared at each other for a moment, Lily's eyes full of love and Semyan's full of horror. Lily was in a word, hideous. Suddenly the months of longing seemed to be wasted, the hours of quiet fantasying all to be broken by a crooked smile and excess acne. As she began to undress him, Semyan whispered,

" Eto stranno s nashyeĭ Maski ot .... vozmozhno, my dolzhny polozhitʹ ih obratno na tolʹko radiObshchie pravila ".
“It's weird having our Masks off....perhaps we should put them back on just for the sake of the General Rules.”

Lily nodded and replied,

" Vy pravy, eto takzhe pomozhet napomnitʹ nam, chto nezavisimo ot togo , naskolʹko my naslazhdatʹsya tem, chto vot-vot proizoĭdet , u nas yestʹdolg pered gosudarstvom nachinaya s zavtrashnego dnya ".
“You're right, it will also help remind us that no matter how much we enjoy what is about to happen, we have a duty to the State starting tomorrow.”

Smiling beneath his Mask, Semyan recalled what his Comrade Yuri had said on many occasions,

" Tovarishch , kiska yavlyaet·sya kiski i , poka ona ne umerla ili radioaktivnyh , vy dolzhny bytʹ schastlivy, vy poluchaete nekotorye iz nih. "
“Comrade, pussy is pussy and as long as she isn't dead or radioactive, you should be happy you're getting some.”


Standing, shivering, in the pre-morning darkness, Semyan was surrounded by the rest of his class. Before them stood a great number of officials from the Party, the Ministry of Contentment, and the Military. They had already said several oaths of service, and were now being separated into their sectors. Semyan already knew that he would be going to Yanavograd, he had received the notice that his posting in the Armored Corps was being delayed and that he would instead be taking command of a Conscript Platoon outside of the City of Iron. It came as no surprise when the beetle like Staff Officer shouted as much and directed him to an olive drab covered truck. He was shoved inside along with two dozen other new Officers and driven overland to Yavanograd.

The city was still in ruins, fires still burned in some areas, but the Black Banner flew proudly over it again. The Officers were given some bread and coffee after being pulled out of their trucks, as well as a new Uniform that was suited to the region's colors much better than their Training Uniforms. Upon examination, the digital camouflage trousers were quite faded but comfortable while his olive drab quilted jacket was still stained with the previous owner's blood. The dark brown overcoat he was issued however was brand new, and he wore it with pride. His Kalashnikov was well maintained since it was the same one he had been issued at the School, though now it was accompanied by an Officer's Makarov PMM.

After eating the hot food he slipped his Gas Mask back on, the rubberized material covering his skin like a familiar blanket covering an infant's body. Standing tall he was guided by a man from the Ministry of Contentment to his Unit who all had also finished eating. They were as green as green came, their two weeks of training only enough time to teach them assholes from elbows and Kalashnikovs from genitals. They stood in disorganized ranks when they noticed Semyan's Officer's Overcoat, only to be waved into a horribly undisciplined parade-rest. They had twenty minutes until their rotation to the front, and in that time Semyan was able to spread his name to his NCOs who all had some prior service in the Railway Troops (Logistical Troops). The Front was a desperate region, a battered network of trenches that faced a similar network. Aerial and Artillery Support ensured that any massed movement was decimated before it closed with the enemy, so Generals were forced to commit units piecemeal.

Semyan's group had just settled into their dugout when the first whistle blast that signaled, “Stand Ready” sounded. The conscripts fitted magazines into their AK-74Us, slotting them in then jacking them back with relish. Semyan loaded his own rifle and took his place at the front of his unit just as the second whistle blared. With a great shout of,

"Vpered kgosudarstvu ! "
“Forward for the State!”

He sprang up over the lip of the trench and charged across the razor wire thicket of “No Man's Land”. Artillery rounds burst above them, and mortar rounds amongst them as the Conscripts tried to break through hell and into the enemy position. The shrapnel accounted for about ten percent of the unit, killing indiscriminately. The enemy machine guns and snipers were the next to engage the already bloodied conscripts, precision rounds tearing into chests and heads just as the heavy caliber machine guns blew apart torsos and severed limbs. The Conscripts managed to endure several minutes of the enemy volley before Semyan concluded that he could no longer advance. Around eighty percent of his unit was on the ground either dead or dying and the remaining six or so men were too shell shocked to do more than just hug the ground. Turning, he gathered his men and said,

" My dolzhny ot·stupitʹ ! "
“We must fall back!”

They ran the way they came, amazingly losing no more men. They staggered into the Novaya Bolshevist lines and immediately say down heavily in the dugout. Semyan alerted his commanding officer who informed him that a Ministry of Contentment Officer would be along shorty to debrief him. Within minutes the promised official arrived, walking through the trenches seemingly careless. He made his way towards Semyan and stood before him for a moment before simply asking,

" Tovarishch lyeĭtenant , pochemu vy ne napadayut liniiprotivnika? "
“Comrade Lieutenant, why are you not attacking the enemy's lines?”

Semyan looked around him in disbelief before responding,

" Tovarishch spetsialist, ya stradal bolyee vosʹmidesyati protsentov zhertv v moe podrazdelenie , my borʹbe s nyeef- "
“Comrade Officer, I have suffered over eighty percent casualties in my unit, we are combat inef-”

The crack of the Ministry of Contentment Officer's handgun silenced Semyan with a bullet through his right eye lens. The late Officer's brains began to mix with the blood that leaked out of the ragged hole in his skull. The Ministry of Contentment Officer lowered his still smoking pistol and slowly turned to regard the shocked conscripts. He tiled his head to the right and slowly said,

" YA tovarishch Ministerstva Udovletvorennostʹ mladshiĭ sotrudnik Yuriĭ 11597 , i vash sotrudnik byl obʺyavlenOtherthinker iz-za yego ot·sut·stviya revolyutsionnosti . Yesli vy ne hotite prisoedinitʹsya k nemu , vy budete vozobnovitʹ shturm liniiprotivnika. "
“I am Comrade Ministry of Contentment Jr. Officer Yuri 11597, and your officer has been declared an Otherthinker due to his lack of Revolutionary Zeal. Unless you wish to join him, you will resume your assault of the enemy's lines.”

The conscripts paused for only a second before scrambling back into the hell of No Man's Land. Sure that he was out of sight, Yuri sank down next to Semyan's corpse and softly whispered,

"Vpered kgosudarstvu tovarishch .... po kraĭnyeĭ mere vy poluchili nekotorye do kontsa ".
“Forward for the State least you got some before the end.”
02:01 RomanEmpire Because I dont know about you
02:01 RomanEmpire But I want to monger some fucking fish

Forward for the #Sanc!
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Postby -The West Coast- » Sun Sep 25, 2011 6:52 pm

The Coyote and the Llano River [FanT]

ONE DAY COYOTE was walking along alone in the forest. The sun was shining brightly, and Coyote felt it, he began to sweat and pant heavily. "A cloud would be nice," Coyote said in between pants. A small cloud soon formed over Coyote and shaded the tired beast from the blistering sun. But Coyote was not satisfied with single cloud. "I'd like more clouds," he said enthusiastically to the sky. Coyote continued to walk, shadowed by the cloud. Soon more came along, and the sky began to look very black and gray. Stormy. Coyote was still hot, he still panted and sweated under the clouds.

"How about some rain," said Coyote, howling to the sky. The clouds obliged and began to sprinkle rain onto the baying Coyote. "More rain," Coyote selfishly demanded, he hadn't had his share. The rain quickly became an unending downpour. "I would like a creek to put my tired feet in," said Coyote. As he walked under the rain, a creek sprang up beside him, and Coyote quickly sprinted into it, cooling off his tired paws. "It should be deeper," Coyote said to the cloudy sky.

The creek surged, deepening and expanding into a swirling river. Coyote was quickly swept away and rolled over and over by the rushing water. Finally, nearly drowned, Coyote washed ashore on the high river bank far, far away. When he roused from his violent sleep, the buzzards were flying above, circling him, watching him, trying to decide if he was dead. "I'm not dead yet," Coyote howled at them. They flew away disappointed and hungry. That's how the Llano River began.
Last edited by -The West Coast- on Sun Sep 25, 2011 7:22 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby The Fanboyists » Mon Sep 26, 2011 12:05 pm

On Watch

"What was that for?!" I called around the corner, practically snarling. I'd managed to dive behind a convenient brick wall just in time to avoid getting turned into something's dinner. Apparently I'd made the thing unhappy, and that meant chow time. But I like to keep my blood in my arteries, thank you very much. An answering, unearthly screech almost made me jump, especially from the apparent proximity of its source.

Oh, hell, and things had been going so smoothly, too. I adjusted the grip on my staff, pulled my greatcoat around me, and stepped around the corner, into the dark alley to face my adversary. As I stepped, my left hand rose up, fingers stretched, palm perpendicular to the ground.

"Avlede!" I snarled. As the alley came into view, so did a pale, vaguely bat-like creature in mid-leap towards my throat.

At this point, a translucent half-bubble erupted into the air directly in front of me, blocking the creature's progress. It smashed into the shield, forcing me back a few steps (it transferred at least some of the force of the impact to me), but sending the thing crashing back several feet and into a really, really embarassing faceplant. I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"Will you just give it a rest now?" I asked it. "I mean, really. I just came to chat." An utterly inhuman voice answered. Looks like the whole disguise was coming apart, and the vamp had decided to just ditch it wholesale.

"You know entirely too much, wizard. What guarentee do I have that you won't screw me in the end?" it half-shrieked as it rose from it's little heap on the ground. Damn the thing was ugly.

I shrugged. "Too messy, Bat-Ugly. Way easier to leave you happy. Unless you feel like giving me a reason to make this personal. Then I'd be happy to oblige."

"See? You do seek violence!" it crowed. "Humans are all the same!"

I raised an eyebrow, readying a spell in case it tried to jump me again. "You tried to rip out my throat. We're not exactly pals." It broke into an almost incomprehensible rage, and started gibbering. If simple logic defeated them this easily, why weren't they all dead?

Then it leapt at me so quickly I barely had time to react. The only benefit I had was that thoughts are faster than pretty much everything else. "Lyn!" I snarled, loosing bolt of electricity from my gloved left hand. Bat-Ugly took it full in the chest and fell back on the ground, twitching, apparently not-quite dead. I walked over and kicked it in the face. "Last chance, Batboy. Tell me what I need. Or I'm adding a new recipe to my collection of interesting meat dishes."

It spat out a shattered tooth at me. Lucky me he missed my face, or it might have actually accomplished something. "The hooded wizard has his workshop three blocks from here, in one of the old storerooms. He has been building his army. Be aware of that, lest you join his legions." I sighed as he told me. Lovely. I was dealing with a necromancer.

I started walking away, only for another shriek to follow me. "This isn't over, Haanryk!" the vampire hissed. I spun around. I stomped back over to it, holding my staff threateningly over its face.

"Wrong, Ugly. It is over. If I catch even a whiff of you or yours around me, ever, for any reason other than for a friendly talk in the most literal sense, I will find you, and I will make sure you stay dead. I will make sure you stay so dead that your last five victims all make miraculous recoveries. Got it?" The air around me crackled with the energy that I'd inadvertantly called up as my temper had flared. Ugly nodded meekly. I smacked my staff on the ground about an inch from its face, then whirled on my heel and started walking away. I had work to do.


When you're going in against an uknown number of enemies in a confined area, of unknown strength, without backup, kicking down the door and shouting something obnoxious is the last thing you should probably do.

So naturally, that is exactly what I did. The rusted hinge gave way under my boot, delivered with the balance of a tripod; staffs are good for more than just spell-casting. They make handy walking sticks and crutches in a pinch. As the door clattered to the ground, I shouted.

"Boom, baby!"

Now the thing about zombies is that they range anywhere from the useless mooks that you mow down by the hundred in video games to the damned terminator, depending on how much effort a given necromancer decides to invest in reanimating them and how complete the corpse is. These ones looked pretty complete. And they all turned to face me, all say, sixty or seventy of them or so. And these looked like strong ones.

Well shit on a fucking stick. This could have been thought-out considerably better.

Just kidding. What, you thought I'd be dumb enough to not bring back-up? Nope! I glared at the front line (about nine or ten zombies) and they simply...disintegrated. Fell into piles of dust. A cloaked figure looked down from a rusted-over catwalk above and gave me a jaunty wave before returning his attention to the zombies. A ball of fire dropped from his hand into the midst of the undead, and several fell down, incinerated as five or six more stared dumbly as fire ate their rotting flesh.

Then they attacked. I growled, thinking violent thoughts. "Høst," I said irritation showing. With that, a section of the ceiling, about eight by ten feet all told, collasped onto the approaching mooks, crushing them under a pile of steel, concrete and other assorted construction materials.

Less than a minute, about half--no, more than that, since the other man dropped another fireball into the crowd-- of our out for the count. I laughed. "Is that the best you got?" I called to the room in general.

A voice projected through the building answered me, and I was so shocked that I almost didn't notice the collapsing ceiling in time to put up my shield.

"Not at all!" the voice, somehow deep and nasal at the same time, said with a gleeful inflection. The next moment was pain. Just because I deflect something doesn't mean it doesn't damn well hurt. You're going to get bruised and impacted from falling ceiling, no matter what you do. The shield just kept me from getting killed, distributing the impact over a greater area.

I felt another surge of energy in the air, and a different voice entered my head. I'll give chase. Catch up when you can. I'm leaving beacons. You're alive, right Waalturs?"

I nodded, then realizing the other wizard couldn't see me, projected a thought to him. [i]I'll live. I'm gonna feel it in the morning. I'll be with you in a sec, Morgraine." I scrambled up out of the small cave of rubble that had formed around me, pulling out my staff, and dashing after Morgraine's retreating form, my ears and head still ringing.

I put in a little extra effort into my sprint and caught up with Morgraine, who immediately started sprinting. I caught up again, and popped a thought to him. [i]Anyone we know?

Doubt it, Morgraine replied. Too weak to be Melagius or one of the Society. Probably a bush-league necromancer doing some of their dirty work for 'em.

We found out soon enough; after perhaps a thirty-second chase, we found a room full of various nasty acoutrements. Y'know, the ones you find in the lair of a dark wizard. Who was standing right there, looking quite ready to go down fighting us.

Well, shit.

Morgraine took the lead. As well he should have. He was the senior investigator here.

"Warlock, your work here is over. Stand down, and we will take you without any harm to yourself. Resist, and we will do all in our power to end any threat to ourselves or others."

His response was, naturally, to hurl his nastiest curse at us. Lucky us, I'm really good with shields.

The thing you have to realize about magical shields is that most of them simply dissapate energies, or give a larger spread for impacts and their like. Most don't bounce things back at their users.

Mine are known to do that. About one second later, the unsuspecting necromancer was doubled over, wheezing, spitting up blood, as his curse had rebounded against a more-than-solid-enough deflecting shield. Damn, I'm good. Morgraine and I rushed over to see if we couldn't stop the bleeding. Sure, the bastard had tried to kill us, but still...

Well, we started approaching. Apparently that hadn't been enough to get the guy to comply. He shot off another nasty spell at us. Fire, this time. What an amateur. Morgraine almost lazily threw up a water-based shield that dissapated the fire completely. In that time, the warlock had stood up and started preparing for something really nasty; we could both feel the spiritual and emotional pollution in the air as he drew up power for his next spell.

Enough was enough. We were supposed to avoid killing if possible, but even if this guy were captured, he'd be a bitch to transport and would be a constant escape hazard. I threw as much effort as I could, even as I was fatiguing more and more, into disrupting his drawing of energy.

Bad call. Doing that, while being the thaumaturgical equivalent of a bitch-slap, is tricky as hell to do without wearing yourself out. I'm not much one for finesse, so needless to say, I did exactly that.

It got his attention though. He snarled, turned to me and began drawing up power to finish me off, now for real; I couldn't stop him. He began mouthing an incantation...

And he crumpled to the ground, as his head twisted a way his joints were never meant to go. He fell limply to the ground and I looked over in shock at Morgraine, who had his hands in a gesture that suggest neck-snapping. Damn. That was scary.

He helped me up, dusted off my shoulder. Growled. "Let's get outta here. There's more to do. Always more."

I nodded. It was true. Come by to Dunnmaar sometime if you need some help with stuff from the paranormal side of the block. You can find me in a directory. Haanryk Waalturs. Just give a ring. I'll probably be up; my work just seems to never be quite done.
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Postby Abruzi » Wed Sep 28, 2011 2:36 pm

The towering apartment complexes that lined the roadway to her Fortress were all as gray as the skin of the people who dwelt within. Silently flapping in the breeze, a colossal Novaya Bolshevist Banner flew above her fortress, reminding all onlookers who she represented. The wail of the Speaker as he droned on with his endless rotation of patriotic slogans and statistics was almost so normal it was ignored, yet like an annoying insect it was just loud enough to be detected. To the average worker it was nothing, it was life, in this life one could only take their blows and move on; he however was not an average worker. His dark brown overcoat and cap was enough to mark him as some sort of official, but the fully enclosed Gas Mask-Helmet he wore and the Kalashnikov he toted clearly marked him as a member of the, “Extraordinary Commission”. The Workers and even other Government Officials around him shrank away, unwilling to risk the ire of the most secretive and lethal of the Organs of State Security within the Chuvash Republic.

The capital city of Chuvash was itself relatively peaceful and ideologically orthodox. Other Thinkers and Counterrevolutionaries had always been few and far between within and today he was merely out for a stroll. The Extraordinary Commission was always working, and while he was obviously not acting in the most covert manner, he was still gathering information enough for his Comrades back within the fortress. Standing alone in the street like an island in the midst of the sea of confusion that was the usual flow of workers to and from the massive Factories and Forges and the Residential Apartment Blocks, the lone Extraordinary Commissar (commonly called “Commissars”) swept the crowd once more before entering the nearest apartment.

Squatters moved aside as he threaded his way through the chaos of the lobby, his Kalashnikov moving as many people as his uniform. The housing “problem” as the rapid flood of refugees from the Novaya Bolshevist Republic of Abruzi and the surrounding Republics that was threatening to overwhelm Chuvash had been termed, was ignored by the Extraordinary Commission for the simple sake of logistics. The relatively small Commission could hardly monitor all of the Other Thinkers in the Rural Zones without the aid of their larger brother, the Ministry of Contentment, let alone watch out for Counterrevolutionaries and deal with Squatters. The staircase was no better, the vile stink of humanity, unwashed humanity, infiltrating past his Gas Mask's filters due to the enclosed space.

He ascended the crowded stairs to the tenth floor, the highest floor. Walking down the least crowded corridor yet, he stopped outside of Room 1011. Raising one hand slowly he barked out,

" Chrezvychaĭnaya komissiya ! "
“Extraordinary Commission!”

In the voice and tone of the Speaker. He quickly rapped his hand against the door to empathize his call, taking a calculated peak over his shoulder. The corridor was empty, the State deprived of it's best informant; the scared Civilian. A beautiful woman greeted him, taking a nervous peak of her own before ushering the lone Commissar inside. He went from room to room, ensuring they were alone. Finally he slid off his mask and set his AKM down on the kitchen table. The woman grabbed hold of him and quickly kissed him, softly whispering a greeting. He returned the greeting and kissed her again before saying more firmly,

"Eto bylo slishkom dolgo dorogoĭ ".
“It has been too long dear.”

The woman merely nodded and began to prepare a meal for the two of them, leaving the Commissar sitting on the sofa. The Commissar stared straight ahead, savoring the feeling of air upon his skin, savoring the scent of a meal that was not freeze dried, savoring the presence of his wife. He slowly looked over at her and ran a hand across his head, whipping away the sweat that had accumulated after nine hours of patrolling. He sat silently for a moment before saying,

" YA nenavizhu eto . YA nenavizhu , kak my dolzhny skrytʹ nash brak so storony gosudarstva, kak my dolzhny vesti o tom, chto milliony bolʹshevikov Novaya sdelatʹ publichno, v taĭne. Brak ne drugie Podumaĭte , eto ne kontrrevolyutsionnoe , eto ne zapreshcheno , odnakochrezvychaĭnoe polozhenie oznachaet, chto my dolzhny ostavatʹsya vteni. YA syt etim po gorlo , ya bolen Materi , ya nadoelo bytʹchertovski vintikom vmashine! "
“I hate this. I hate how we must hide our marriage from the State, how we must carry about what millions of Novaya Bolsheviks do in public, in secret. Marriage is not Other Think, it is not counterrevolutionary, it is not prohibited, yet the State of Emergency means that we must stay in the shadows. I am sick of it, I am sick of Mother, I am sick of being a fucking cog in the machine!”

His wife turned, startled by her husband's anger. Walking over, she took his head in her hands and pressed it against her stomach, forcing him to remember why they must not be discovered and deported. Within her body was a new life, the life of their daughter, a life that would be almost guaranteed to be short should they be pushed out of the relatively civilized Republic. The reminder had the desired effect, and the Commissar slowly cooled, allowing his anger to be pushed back inside. Taking a deep breath, he slowly rose and sat at the table, eating the meal his wife had laid out. It was mostly shit, thin soup and old meat, but compared to the usual rations it was heavenly. After dinner he had a mere half hour with his wife before he had to return to the Patrol, a mere half hour that was spent wishing he had more time.

Time and tide waits for no man however, and he was forced to leave. Sliding his Mask back into place, he placed his Kalashnikov on his shoulder and silently left, forcing himself to ignore the heartbreak that he felt each time he had to leave. The hallway was crowded this time, and the sight of him leaving was sure to raise some suspicions, so he shouted over his shoulder,

" Ne uehatʹ iz goroda. "
“Do not leave town.”

It was hoped that this would make the passers by think that he was merely checking up on a known Criminal or Flight Risk. Lowering his Kalashnikov and using it to clear the way through the throng, he silently walked back the five kilometers to the perimeter of the Fortress. The Speaker's wails were still audible despite being in the most secure and quietest part of the city. The thick Razor Wire-Steel Bar fence was drawn back and he was admitted after a brief contaminant scan by two Hazmat Suited Guards. Her presence was overpowering, what usually was a slight tingle was instead an almost overpowering sensation. Threading his way through the stone corridors, he finally reached the barracks where he managed to sit for exactly two minutes before three of his Comrades entered under arms. Everyone stood silent, he knew why they were here, and they knew why he said nothing. Finally the Commissar arose and was escorted at gunpoint to her room.

Unlike DMITRI, she was an elegant sphere instead of seven scientific looking nodes. An elegant sphere of obsidian that obscured an identical albeit smaller machine. The chamber was awash with electric fields, most of which were held up by the force of her will. Standing before her, the Commissar knew that the end had come for him, he knew that his family was already dead and that he would soon join them. The others left him with her, knowing that there could be no escape. She was silent at first, a mere background sensation, slowly however she began to gain volume. After thirty minutes she was a roar, an unending shriek that tore at his sanity. He began to bleed from his ears and eyes, he began to shudder violently, yet she would not stop, she would never stop. Falling to his knees, the Commissar began to cry, he began to weep tears of blood as he felt his very mind being broken down and consumed by her.

As he died, he screamed one word, one name; “Mother”.

She was Mother. She was angry. She was in control.
02:01 RomanEmpire Because I dont know about you
02:01 RomanEmpire But I want to monger some fucking fish

Forward for the #Sanc!
Nationstates 40,000, In the grim darkness of the far future there is only retcon -Oz
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Postby Abruzi » Fri Sep 30, 2011 3:23 pm

Deleted due to inconsistencies with Amerika.
Last edited by Abruzi on Fri Sep 30, 2011 8:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
02:01 RomanEmpire Because I dont know about you
02:01 RomanEmpire But I want to monger some fucking fish

Forward for the #Sanc!
Nationstates 40,000, In the grim darkness of the far future there is only retcon -Oz
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Postby Layarteb » Fri Sep 30, 2011 3:38 pm

OOC: This topic may or may not contain mature content. You take that risk when you read my work. If you are easily dissuaded by mature content, faint of heart, eager to run to moderation and complain that something isn't "intended for all audiences" or that "you are offended," overly critical, afraid to read long posts that might be in excess of two thousand words, or a crybaby, please do not continue. You're under no requirement to read anything that is written below. If, of course, you are none of these then I invite you not only to read through what is below but also to telegram me with your thoughts, opinions, critiques, and constructive comments, regardless of their positivity or negativity. Please enjoy this and thank you for getting through this semi-satirical disclaimer.

[ MT ]

The Sworn, the Free, the Betrayed


Imagine a place so serene, so beautiful, so magnificently unspoiled that in and of itself it registers on your brain as a utopian and majestic fantasy perhaps too beautiful for even the high-definition film of your own homeland. It could be a place so unique that the existence of God is proven through the very presence of it. It could be a place so indescribable that not even Heaven is as appealing. It could be a place so perfect that within it the most lethal poisons and venoms that have ever graced the Earth would be impotent to harm even the most fragile of creatures. It could be a place devoid of any notion of death or decay, a place so bright with life that it would maybe even be a mirage in which not even the most gullible of people could not accept. It could be so extraordinary that fathoming the limitless possibilities of its infinite splendor would take all of the lifetimes any one person has in both life and eternal salvation. It could very well be the Garden of Eden as described but even more graceful than that described by biblical authors.

That is not where our story takes place. Such a place never existed and could never be. Your imagining of such a fantasy is feeble, futile, and pathetic. Your hopes and dreams will be crushed as they ought to be as punishment for imagining a place so unrealistic could ever exist anywhere in this or any life, in this or any existence, in this or any dimension. Misery is truth.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

Oh my God, what have I done? His hands trembled, the right around the bloodied knife that his fingers clutched so tightly that they had grown white from lack of blood flow. His skin was clammy, cold and moist with a sticky, filmy sweat. His heart pounded loud in his chest and his breathing was labored and intense. He had the chills. His feet tingled and mouth was dry and cottony. His ears echoed with the throbbing of his pulse and his nose was burning from the sensation of a dry, sharp booger in one of his nostrils. Yet his eyes were locked on the floor, rather on an object on the floor. It was a person or rather what used to be a man, a casually dressed man, sprawled face down in a pool of thick, dark, red blood that increased in diameter with each passing measure of time.

What have I done? The thought entered his consciousness once more and he turned a pale white. The color flushed from his lips as if a massive drain had been opened underneath a miniscule pool of water. The knife fell from his grip and clanged on the ceramic tile beneath his feet. The blood splattered and further spoiled the seemingly bleached beauty of the floor. His legs, formerly firm and immovable suddenly became weak and gelatinous. His whole body twisted to the right and he reached out with sudden precision to grab a hold of the kitchen counter. His face shot into the sink with immeasurable speed and his mouth began a spigot for the liquids and solids that had rested within his stomach. His face turned red as blood flowed with the vomit that came out of him with demonic-like possession. He coughed, gasped for air, tried to breathe.

His muscles strained and relaxed, strained and relaxed, as his diaphragm heaved up the contents of his stomach. What he ate for lunch, the snack he had between breakfast and lunch, breakfast, all of it came up without impediment. He ran the water and watched it head towards the drain, the reeking chunks caught before the flush and force of the water pushed them through and towards the town's sewer system. He cupped his left hand and brought some of the cold but not refreshing water to his mouth until he realized that his hands, both of them, were covered in blood, the man's blood. The vomiting instantly resumed and he repeated the process, opting for a glass this time rather than his bloodied hands. He turned to look at the corpse and could smell death in the air though this man had been dead maybe six minutes at most.

The initial shock was present but waning. The feeling of dread and disgrace was ebbing just the same as the corpse sat eerily still. The knife loomed on the floor, a reminder of what had been done. He turned back to the sink and fervently and viciously scrubbed his hands clean, using an industrial-quality soap that had been present. The soap was coarse and turned from a pale white to red as the blood came from his clammy skin. He scrubbed and scrubbed, with a sense of OCD, continuing even after they were clean. The water was hot and steamed but he felt no pain in his hands and they steamed just the same as the water. Finally, he stopped and looked at his still red hands and believing them to be covered in blood still and not red from the warmth of the water he dove underneath the sink.

What he emerged with was bleach and with its pure concentration, he dumped it on his left hand and then his right. The stinging was incalculable and he screamed in pain as he washed them off with the water. This made his hands redder but he stopped, his chest still heaving, out of breath. What have I done? The question returned to his consciousness. What have I done? Terror came over him once again but it was all psychological and not physical. He wouldn't be emptying his guts into the sink anymore nor did the sink ever appear to have been used as a toilet thanks to the combination of searing hot water and bleach. He eyed the corpse once more and tried to move but his feet were set in stone blocks. They grew heavy and weighed him down and the world around him suddenly grew faint and blurry.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

The voices were indiscernible and inaudible at first. He felt a sense of coolness returning to his body but he wasn't sure if it was real or not. Clarity slowly came to the audio that he was hearing and within seconds, he could distinguish that there was not one but two voices. They were close, maybe five meters, maybe one meter. They weren't whispering but they weren't yelling. He opened his eyes and found himself slumped quite uncomfortably against the refrigerator door. His back hurt and his ankle was twisted the wrong way. His hands were palm up and his head was tucked into his right shoulder. He fainted but it wasn't until now that he realized he had. "Good, you're awake. We thought you were dead for a few minutes." One of the voices, a familiar voice said. He moved his head but no other part of his body and eyed his brother standing over him.

His brother wasn't particularly tall but from this angle, he towered like a giant. "Help me up," he requested and his brother reached down with a smile and lifted him skyward, up the beanstalk until he saw that he was taller than his brother. The other voice was his other brother and the three brothers stood in the kitchen, looking at the corpse. "It's done, I did it."

"We see that but we also see that you didn't handle it quite as well as we expected."
His other brother said. He knelt down over the corpse and held a hotplate that was connected to the wall by a long extension cord. It glowed bright red and he put the corpse's right hand and then his left hand onto the plate, burning off his fingerprints.

"Why are you doing that?" The killer asked. "We were just going to kill him."

"There's more to it that you don't understand brother. Just be quiet."
The killer was the middle of the two brothers and the older was taking the lead here. "There's more we have to do." Both of his brothers wore latex gloves and he realized that in the rush to do the deed he had forgotten his in the car. "You forgot your gloves didn't you?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

"We have a contingency plan. Help your brother."
The youngest of the three led the killer out of the kitchen and towards the garage. It was better than the killer not see what was to happen next. The eldest reached behind him to a small duffle bag and removed two items, a Tupperware container and a pair of Channellocks. Roughly, he flipped the corpse over and ignored the splash it made in the pool of blood. He eyed the plastic bags on his boots and shook his head. "Did he have to make such a mess?" He asked himself, not expecting an answer. He opened the lid on the container and put it on the bloodied chest of the corpse. He examined the stab wound in the center of the chest and the next underneath the chin. "Well he certainly killed him." He said to himself as he yanked the corpse's mouth open, breaking his jaw in the process. From there he systematically and surgically ripped out every one of the corpse's teeth and dropped them into the container. With a pluck, the first one landed and then the next and the next and the next until all thirty-two teeth were sitting in the container. He counted, "Twelve molars, yes. Eight premolars, yes. Four canines, yes. Man, this guy had cavities. Eight incisors, yes." He stood up and walked over to the sink, trailing the blood with him. Using the bleach and a rag, he wiped off the container and its lid and dried it off with a towel. He repeated the methodical process with the Channellocks next and returned them to the duffle bag that he brought.

At roughly the same time as he did that, his younger brothers emerged from the garage. The killer was carrying a drum of gasoline and the other two cans of paint thinner. "Good, now spread them all around the house but concentrate on the body here and the kitchen. Glad to see you picked up gloves. Whatever you touched burn it." He removed the plastic bags and dropped them on the body before he left, taking his duffle bag back to the car. Outside it was dark. The combination of the power outage, the desolation of the neighborhood, and the early morning hours made seeing the distance to his car quite difficult and taxing. He shut the door quietly because he couldn't be sure that every house was vacant despite having watched them all day long. He knew three were vacant as they were newly built and unoccupied but the other two could be occupied though, he had to assume.

He hadn't seen activity in them all day long, no lights, no television, nobody opened the front door, the mail was piled up, and the drapes were open. Still, someone could be inside, sick and bedridden. He had to accept it and accept the chance and risk he was taking so he took every precaution that he could. The air was utterly and inescapably silent around him. That was unnerving. When he returned inside, his two brothers were done and together they left the house. The drapes were drawn shut, the windows locked, and the door shut behind them. They had rigged a unique but simplistic timed ignition device that burned and when it burned out, it would start the conflagration that would consume the entire house. They were going to wait around to make sure but not where it was so obvious, so they returned to the outside, and all but the youngest got into the car. The eldest, the driver, released the emergency brake, and gave a whistle through the open window. He dared not start the car yet, they had a plan.

His youngest brother gave a push and the car inched forward but came right back. He gave another push and the car inched forward again but it came right back but this time with more momentum. He gave a third and final push and the car began to roll forward. He darted around and jumped into the passenger seat and slowly closed the door as the vehicle moved forward, gaining both speed and momentum as it descended a slight hill. Being in neutral, the vehicle ultimately rolled to the bottom of the hill before the driver used the emergency brake to bring it to a halt, keeping off the actual brakes, which would have lit up his taillights. They waited five minutes before the scene behind them took on a faint, orange glow. There were no sirens in the chilly, night air but that wasn't a reason to stick around and so the driver started the car and didn't wait for the tachometer to stabilize before he pulled forward at an easy pace. He took a right and turned on his headlights as he turned onto a main but empty road. They passed the hill where the house stood and looked up to see flames dancing in the black, starry night. "You both did well. Now we can go report. My brothers this is the beginning of a new era for the Children of Luna."

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

The structure was musty and smelled stale. The air was damp and the walls seeped with moss and moisture. The ground was hard and had seen its fair share of feet and the walls were stone and had seen their fair share of hands. The structure was a thousand years old if it was a day and it was nestled deep in the forest that was once called the Forest of Niap. That was thousands of years ago though, in the ancient times, when life was controlled to a small village and under the watchful eye of the elder and his mammoth scribes, who acts as police, bodyguard, and executioner for the elder. They were also the only other people in the village who could read or write along with the elder. They spoke the ancient, forbidden language that conjured the spirits of the gods and goddesses every full moon.

This structure was a place where those ancient rituals, rites, and incantations happened. Even in this modern day and age it still held the same degree of intimidation that it had fifteen hundred years ago. The walls still spoke secrets in the ancient language and the floor still held the blood of those who had been sacrificed for the great goddess Luna for their sins or for the harvest or for whatever reason the elder managed to procure. Of course, since his word was the truth it could not be argued with and those who were sacrificed often had no say in the matter. Their families parted them farewell and blessed them and their spirits drifted into the afterlife, or so they hoped they would go to the afterlife rather than either the middle world or the underworld where torment awaited them for all of the time remaining in eternity.

The three brothers stood at the entrance now, eyeing two guardsmen who towered over them. Like wrestlers, they stood as brick walls, as the scribes of ancient times did. Despite their size though, the ancient scribes would have won in a match against them as mankind was significantly tougher fifteen hundred years ago when they used their muscles everyday of their life. Farmers today were the best equivalent. The men looked down at them and listened to the earpieces for orders. "What is the password?" One of them asked as he leaned down towards the eldest brother. The eldest brother drew close to his ear and whispered it. The other two followed and they were allowed entry. "They're coming in now." The guardsman said. The three brothers walked through the corridors and towards the center of the small structure, which was the ritual room. There was standing room for fifty.

Inside of it, they found an elder and a dozen of their fellow observers. This was the Children of Luna, a religious sect or rather cult that observed the ancient ways. The Children of Luna was small with less than three hundred total members and they were all part of the same part of Layartebian society. They were the families of the wealthiest of the wealthy. There were the true societal elites, the families that had been around since the ancient times and amassed such wealth that it rivaled the wealth of the Roman Catholic Church. These elites were CEOs, university board members, owners of massive amounts of land, controlling stakeholders in massive companies, bankers, oil merchantmen, and whatever else generated the most amount of money in the world. These were the oldest families of Layarteb and each one could trace their ancestral lines back to the days of Comhghall.

When the Second Layartebian Civil War turned the Republic into the Empire, they weathered the storm. They offered some of those amongst them who were weak and risky as cohorts for the corrupt and inept government of the Republic. They were tried and put in jail and the other families survived. It was a bit cutthroat but these were families that had survived everything, including Father Time himself. They had a long future ahead of them and though many were favorable of the Emperor they saw no reason to allow him to destroy what their ancestor's ancestors had amassed. They survived the legislation prohibiting their kind of worship and held onto the traditional, barbaric ways of the ancients. Regardless, they looked up the Emperor and upon the society he created and the Empire that he formed as a bit of a burden. The Empire was massive, perhaps somewhat too massive.

The Empire could fold at any time despite its stability, its strong military, and its bulletproof economy. It could collapse and if it did, the Third Layartebian Civil War would be so brutal that no war in Layartebian history could compare whatsoever. The bloodshed would be tremendous and the Children of Luna would likely be in the crosshairs of many. They could survive, they were sure but they didn't want to test the theory. So now, they continued upon their old ways but they infused new methods and new politics. Their desires were still as old as the Heavens though, power, wealth, and domination. Unfortunately, some of those within their ranks didn't feel that way and they had a traitor amidst their ranks. That traitor had gone to a prominent journalist, a man who now lay dead, a burned and disgusting mess in his barren, torched shell of a home.

"Gentlemen, how have you fared?" An elderly voice asked. It was a voice that had weathered time just as much as this structure. "Is it done my sons?"

"Yes it is father."

"Then we will survive another season. Luna will bless us with this traitor soon enough."

"Yes she will father."
This was the elder of the Children of Luna, their leader and also the boys' father. "How has Luna blessed us with this name?"

"Details that are need-to-know my son. I am sorry but you cannot know. We need not idle chatter inform the traitor amidst us. He will reveal himself soon. He has to now that his story is dead."

"We recovered the documents, the notes. The laptop as well."

"Give them to those in our presence and they will be reviewed for this traitor and destroyed."
The youngest brother handed over a backpack and one of the people in the room took it. They were all dressed in cloaks that hid their faces and the three brothers couldn't be sure to whom they gave the materials to, despite knowing who was in the group. They knew only their father, who had given them the task and who had been the only one of them to speak. "We have a sacrifice being prepared my sons. For your success you will join us tonight."

"Thank you father."

"Clean yourselves up for the ceremony."
The three brothers bowed and left for an adjacent side room, where they did as instructed.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

Thirty minutes later, as ceremonial music was being played, the three brothers returned to the sacrifice chamber. Incense burned in the air and removed the musky, stale odor that time had imparted on the structure. The music was ancient, ominous, and dark. It was difficult to discern but it pushed a chill down their spines. Wearing robes, they were faceless now and joined the twelve of those present and their father, who would lead the ritual as the elder of the Children of Luna. A scream suddenly echoed and it was the scream of a girl, they were sure. The three brothers had never been part of a sacrifice and they were all excited but knew enough not to appear in such a way. They would keep quiet throughout the entirety of the ceremony, observing with their eyes and not speaking with their mouths. This was the way of Luna.

Two guardsmen, dressed in hooded robes like everyone else came in, dragging a young girl with them. She too was in a hooded robe and she struggled against them but it was futile. She was a tenth of their size and no matter how determined she was she wouldn't be escaping this fate. Her voice was muted now, her mouth gagged with something. Her face was invisible beneath the hood. Her body twitched and squirmed but the chains that held her in bondage were just too strong. She mumbled but her speech was inaudible and indiscernible. The elder mumbled incantations to himself and aloud as the girl was brought to the altar. The two men held her in front of it and for the elder to see. He continued to mutter incantations without paying them any mind. The fifteen observers watched in silence beneath their hooded robes, their faces masked.

"Is this a sacrifice for the worthy Luna?" The elder suddenly asked, without facing the two men rot he girl.

"She is my elder."

"Is she worthy of patronage to Luna's kingdom?"

"That is for Luna to determine."

"Should she not will you accept the wrath of Luna?"

"We shall my elder."
They responded in unison, each one giving a specific response until now, as if this whole ordeal were scripted and they having memorized it ahead of time.

"Is she of proper age?"

"She is."

"Is she pure?"

"She is."

"Is she a believer of Luna?"

"She is."
The girl mumbled her resistance and struggled again but the two mammoth guardsmen held her tight. It was obvious that they were the scribes for the elder, their father. None of the three brothers recognized them from their voices nor could they surmise who they were. Within the Children of Luna, there were two dozen guys their size.

"Has she been prepared and cleansed?"

"She has."

"Then we will begin."
The elder walked around the altar and stood in front of the girl. She trembled but instantly grew quiet as she felt his presence in front of her. She was shivering. "My child," he said in a hushed whisper. "You are a tribute to our goddess Luna who watches over all of Layarteb and the people of Earth. She shines her light at night to allow us all to see in the darkness and when she so desires, she invades the day and commands Ra the god of the sun and her once counterpart.

"In the ancient times, Ra and Luna were husband and wife. Luna watched the night and Ra during the day. They still do. During the lunar eclipse, it was Luna, our goddess, who gave us forgiveness, absolving us of our sins. Those among us who had sinned the worst or who were the weakest were sacrificed in her honor. When the solar eclipse occurred, it was because Luna overshadowed Ra and commanded his presence at her will. Luna is all-powerful as you can see. These things meant much in the past unlike today where they are viewed with atheistic science, a great affront to our goddess Luna. They have reasons for the blue and the red moon but not the true reasons. The blue moon was a blessing for our people. So rare did it happen that when it did, it meant true good was in store for our people. The red moon was an omen, the opposite. A full moon was Luna at her brightest and most beautiful. That is when we worshiped her the most. Those who worship her still should know this is truth.

"Tonight is a lunar eclipse and it is our duty to sacrifice to Luna in celebration. You will be rewarded and if found worthy by Luna herself,"
the girl listened rather than struggled. His voice was oddly soothing but she was still scared out of her wits. She wanted to go home and crawl into bed. "Luna is blessing us tonight and we, the Children of Luna, who worship her as she commanded so long ago will do right for all of the people of Layarteb and Earth. Reveal yourself to me now my child." He reached forward and uncovered her face. The three brothers could not see her face but they saw her flowing, straight brown hair. She was thin and if her hair was any indication of her beauty, a goddess herself. Her face was red and her cheeks stained from her tears. Her mouth was gagged shut.

She mumbled again and continued to cry. The gag was tight and she coughed underneath it. "You must be quiet my child. You must accept your fate to Luna; you are beautiful my child, created in the likeness of Luna herself. She will accept you with gentle, open arms. You have nothing to fear. " He turned her around and the middle of the three brothers held in a gasp. He knew her, instantly recognizing her face. She was the sister of a girl he had dated in high school, only four years earlier. She had grown into a beautiful young woman and at eighteen years old, she was a woman now and at the beginning of her adult life. It would be cut short this morning. With sunrise growing near, the hour of her death was rapidly approaching. The middle of the three brothers, the killer, looked into her eyes. They were her sister's eyes, big, bright, and brown. Her skin was soft, just like her sister. She looked a lot like her sister, who had vanished only four years earlier, without explanation. It took him months to move on and put her memory to rest. Now he wondered.

Her sister had just vanished one evening, not on a full moon or eclipse though. A note had been left on her computer and it was as cryptic as it was telling. I am sick of this life. The wealth, the power, the everything means nothing to me. None of it means anything anymore. I want to be my own woman. I want to live life on my own. Goodbye. That was four years ago but not to the day. The killer wept inside now as he looked at her sister. She was so beautiful that it pained him greatly.

The elder turned and stood in front of her now, blocking her from view. He lifted the robe off of her body and revealed her flesh. She was naked and her skin was covered in goose bumps. She looked exactly like her sister. Her chains were released but the two men held onto her arms and their fingerprints were outlined in red on her skinny, pale arms. "Lay her down." The two men picked her up and put her on the cold altar, which was simply a slab of stone. Cold wasn't the word and she struggled more until both her arms and legs were clamped down at the wrists and the ankles. She was spread eagle. "My child, now is the time, now is the time for you to be one with Luna." There were more incantations now and all in the ancient language. The killer began to hyperventilate.

He held a large knife in his hands now, high above his head. She struggled, squirmed, cried, and did her damndest to break the bondage that held her to the stone. The killer was barely able to contain himself and he put his hand to his mouth, to keep himself from blurting out a sound. It was noticed by half of the room but nobody dared say a word. He continued to recite incantations and then, with amazing speed and precision, drove the knife down in the center of her chest, right into her heart. She let out a piercing scream that echoed off of the walls even through her gags. He continued to slide it down and then withdrew it quickly. He continued to recite the incantations and put the knife down as he pulled up his right sleeve. To the killer's shock, he reached into the wound and with great force, burst back into the air but with her heart, the very source of her life. He held it for all to see and then dropped it into an urn that burned the incense. The heart burned with it and the scent filled the area. "Luna take this soul! Be gentle to her and be her guide in the afterlife." The twelve around the three brothers said, all in a creepy, unison drone. The elder turned to all and ignored the body.

"It is done. Luna will bless us now. Go forth amongst the world," the elder concluded.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ||| ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

The Layartebian Chronicles
Part I
Last edited by Layarteb on Sat Oct 01, 2011 7:00 pm, edited 5 times in total.
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• The Empire of Layarteb •


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United World Order
Posts: 4041
Founded: Jun 16, 2011
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby United World Order » Sat Oct 01, 2011 3:27 am

[ PT ]

The Battle of Sturmburg (TBOS Part I)

Ob's stürmt oder schneit,
Ob die Sonne uns lacht
Der Tag glühend heiß
Oder eiskalt die Nacht
Bestaubt sind die Gesichter
Doch froh ist unser Sinn
Ist unser Sinn
Es braust unser Panzer
Im Sturmwind dahin

Mit donnernden Motoren
Geschwind wie der Blitz
Dem Feinde entgegen
Im Panzer geschützt
Voraus den Kameraden
Im Kampf steh'n wir allein
Steh'n wir allein
So stoßen wir tief
In die feindlichen Reihn

Wenn vor uns ein feindliches
Heer dann erscheint
Wird Vollgas gegeben
Und ran an den Feind!
Was gilt denn unser Leben
Für unsres Reiches Heer?
Ja Reiches Heer?
Für Deutschland zu sterben
Ist uns höchste Ehr.

Mit Sperren und Minen
Hält der Gegner uns auf
Wir lachen darüber
Und fahren nicht drauf
Und droh'n vor uns Geschütze
Versteckt im gelben Sand
Im gelben Sand
Wir suchen uns Wege
Die keiner sonst fand

Und läßt uns im Stich
Einst das treulose Glück
Und kehren wir nicht mehr
Zur Heimat zurück
Trifft uns die Todeskugel
Ruft uns das Schicksal ab
Ja Schicksal ab
Dann wird uns der Panzer
Ein ehernes Grab. - Panzerlied

Chapter I "Road To Battle"

Corporal Allison Gooring was meerly a corporal at the time. The year was 1942 and his 115th Panzer Divison was on the road to battle agaisnt the GLF who were postioned in Sturmburg and the surrounding area including its forests. Allison was in a halftrack his Kar98k was inbetween his lap his helmet was fitted to his head. His fellow comrades were his platoon, Seargent Ethan Gruber was there platoon leader. A great leader he was by the time he was shipped out he was a Seargent and is working on a Officer postion and would prove he deserved it in battle. The halftrack was speeding on down a road in the countryside near Sturmburg the thick black smoke in the distance showed how close they were. That scared some of the newer recruits straight out of bootcamp some from Officer training school.

Along with there halftrack. There were several tanks and half tracks. The tanks were original Mark III tanks fitted with the menace 88mm main gun. The Tanks engines roared throughout the whole ride which was only about 2 hours according to Ethan who was sitting near the driver with a cross beed necklace in his hand. Ethan was a catholic straight from St.Paul in Berlina where his mother raised him as a church boy. Now Ethan is no more a church boy, he is a pawn in a game of war.

There commanding officer of the entire Armored Coloum they were apart of was sitting in the leading halftrack reading over a map which was percise in data unlike other maps that were as old as 25 years. Captain Dimitri Chuykov was a UWO-Russian born in the province of Georgia. He was first recruited in the first three years of the rebbellion by the GLF. He was also a good leader and liked to motivate his troops through making speeches and such. Dimitri also had a sense of humor and let it show in battle. An example was in the Germanian front where Dimitri cracked jokes while defending a ridge that looked over a main road to Berlina when GLF had more momentem.

The Coloum stopped in it's tracks as Captain Dimitri stood up on the seat. Dimitri made sign language orders with his hands which singaled that they were 200 yards from a GLF outpost. Allison opened the hatch exit door to the Halftrack and hopped out along with his platoon. Other platoons were already rushing to postions several yards away in the brush. Ethan waved for his men to follow as they did and layed in the brush as the Mark III tanks moved into formation with the Halftracks behind the troops feet apart. The first shots were approaching.
23:53 Moka "When GamePlay sends its people, they're not sending their best. They're not sending you. They're sending people that have lots of problems, and they're bringing those problems with us. They're bringing Trolls. They're bringing Raiders. They're rapists. And some, I assume, are good people."


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Postby Layarteb » Sat Oct 01, 2011 8:36 pm

OOC: This topic may or may not contain mature content. You take that risk when you read my work. If you are easily dissuaded by mature content, faint of heart, eager to run to moderation and complain that something isn't "intended for all audiences" or that "you are offended," overly critical, afraid to read long posts that might be in excess of two thousand words, or a crybaby, please do not continue. You're under no requirement to read anything that is written below. If, of course, you are none of these then I invite you not only to read through what is below but also to telegram me with your thoughts, opinions, critiques, and constructive comments, regardless of their positivity or negativity. Please enjoy this and thank you for getting through this semi-satirical disclaimer.

[ MT ]

Laurent's Lament


Blut gerinnt auf dem Asphalt

Paul Laurent had just finished correcting the way his name was said. "It's Laurent. Say it with me. Lao like the way the Chinese say it. Good. Then rent but the 'T' is silent so it's just wren. Do you go it? Now say it again, Lao-wren. Thank you." The phone call had been from a solicitor wanting to sell him some magazine subscription to something obscure and bogus that served him less purpose than a balloon filled with sand. Getting his last name wrong was the first strike, offering to give him the "deal of a lifetime," was the second, and the third was when they already had his address. That was when Paul decided to get snippy with the minimum wage caller. By the end of the conversation, in which he never grew too rude, forcing the caller to stay on the line, he could hear some sniffles. With a smile, he hung up and continued to rummage through the boxes in his attic.

Paul Laurent was in the prime of his forties but divorced and paying child support twice a month. He detested his ex-wife, the daughter of a police chief who had believed she was entitled to a level of privilege he simply couldn't provide. Materialistic and fickle, he had caught her cheating on him not once but twice and yet he still lost in court. He was convinced that the judge had received a bribe or at least a call of a favor from his father-in-law. He hated the man and couldn't wait for the day he died. A smoker his whole life, emphysema or lung cancer were definite and strong possibilities. In truth, the only thing Paul won in the divorce was the house and only because it was his before he ever met his ex-wife. Devoid of both his ex-wife and two, rotten daughters, it was a quiet and eerie house that went back to his great-grandparents. The house had been passed down through them, to his grandparents, and through his father to him. It was the only thing he still owned anymore.

Why Paul was in his attic, he couldn't remember but he decided to focus on a closet that hadn't been opened in forty years, let alone disturbed in at least eighty. The dust smacked him in the face and he coughed as he swatted at the cloud lingering in front of him. He reached up to a string that dangled in front of him and gave it a tug. Nothing happened and he realized that the filament in the light bulb had likely disintegrated with this much time. Minutes later, he changed it and bathed the closet in a warm, yellow light. The closet was full of old nonsense but oddly enough, there was a large box in the corner that instantly caught his attention. "Is it?" He asked aloud. It was an old phonograph, probably one of the first ones ever made and he knew who had owned it, his great-great-grandfather, also named Paul.

Paul dragged it out and sat down in an armchair that was also as old as the hills. The phonograph rested on a dresser in front of him and he was surprised to see just how pristine it still looked over a hundred years later. It was a cylinder phonograph and that there weren't any cylinders loaded. Paul went back to the closet and sifted around. There were boxes and he opened each and every one of them but there were no phonograph cylinders. He wanted to hear it work, it was a relic of history and this was an opportunity he could pass on to his grandchildren, if they turned out normal unlike his daughters. He blamed himself for spoiling them but he also blamed his ex-wife for turning them into unrepentant bitches. Determination had let him down and now he looked at the mess of boxes he had to put back into the closet. "Well it's not going to put itself away," he said to himself as he picked up the first box and stepped into the closet, which was so empty it could accommodate his entire, linebacker frame. That was when he heard a creak underfoot and looked down, his attention drawn to the floorboards below. He moved his foot and the floor creaked again but this time, the floorboard moved entirely. He knelt down and examined it momentarily before he yanked it up, revealing a hidden compartment with a cylindrical case.

What Paul found was the phonograph cylinder he had been looking for although, of course, he had been looking for any and not one specific cylinder. Paul fidgeted with the phonograph for the next hour, careful to ensure that nothing was damaged on either the cylinder or the phonograph. Insofar as he knew, the only piece of history he had from his great-great-grandparents was a photograph of the two of them. Now he had something else and he wondered what it was. Was it a song? Was it a news recording? Excited, he had no clue what it could be.

The sound came as static at first and then, with a level of clarity that impressed him, then there was fiddling. Someone was adjusting the equipment. There was going to be a voice soon and it came without warning. "The date is the ninth of May in the year eighteen hundred and ninety-seven. The time is one-forty-two in the morning. My name is Paul Laurent and I hold the grade of inspector for the police department of Layarteb City." The voice was of his great-great-grandfather and at the time, he was in his early forties, not much younger than his great-great-grandson was on this rainy, miserable, humid, and chilly afternoon. His voice was dignified and educated and he had pronounced his last name just the way Paul had instructed the irritating caller just a little over ninety minutes earlier. Paul wished his grandmother were alive to hear this recording today.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

The recording continued and Paul left his thoughts alone and returned his attention back to the voice of his great-great-grandfather, Inspector Paul Laurent. He knew that he had been a police inspector but the details of his life were more or less elusive. His family hadn't kept the past records and most of the ones that he had were oral, from his grandmother who seemed to know the whole family history. This was her grandfather, whom she never met. "For the past two years, four months, and nineteen days I have been working on case number one-eight-nine-four-one-two-two-one-zero-one. I am the lead inspector assigned to this case and there have been others who have assisted me. This case is our only unsolved case, to date, and it remains a thorn in the side of our department.

"On the twenty-first of December in the year eighteen hundred and ninety-four, the Layarteb City Police Department received an alert from one Chester M. Perkins, a blacksmith by trade, concerning the location of a woman's body outside of his store. The body was located in the rear of the store and showed little signs of decomposition. The coroner estimated the time of death to have been the previous night, perhaps only one to four hours before dawn. Mister Perkins was not a suspect and he is not under suspicion either nor has he ever been.

"Mister Perkins found the body when he opened his shop at six-fourteen ante meridiem. He did not touch the body at any time during this morning and he alerted a patrol constable immediately. The first inspector, myself, arrived on scene at seven-thirty-four ante meridiem. The method of death was the use of a straight razor used to slash the victim's neck. The victim was identified as one Martha Hennington, a prostitute. Her chest was mutilated and the number one was carved into it with said knife.

"Since the discovery of this body, we have found an additional twenty-nine bodies. They are all of young women aged sixteen to twenty-six. Their hair color is not consistent. Their body figures are not consistent. All of them are killed with a straight razor slashing across their neck and each one has had a number carved into their chest.

"Originally, we believed that the numbers denoted the victim number and many still do. I do not and I have advised all inspectors working this case that the numbers are random. However, I have been rebuffed constantly. The first six victims contained the numbers one, two, three, sixteen, twelve, and thirty-one, in that precise order. The last three were in such a state of decomposition it was difficult to determine when they died thus this is when I first suspected that the numbering was a ruse. Our department has hired mathematicians and numerologists to determine the meaning and significance to the numbers. They believe that we will solve this case through the numbers; I do not. I believe it is a waste of time. My warnings are ignored and the department continues to rack its brain determining what significance the numbers have. They are unsure if the numbers are meaningful.

"In all victims, the number has been carved through their clothes into their chest. No victim appears to be alive when this takes place. Originally, we suspected that this was a serial killer and nothing more but the autopsy on the twelfth victim revealed that the victim had been brutally sexually assaulted and raped. We know our killer is a male but we have revealed that all twenty-nine victims have been raped before their murder. There are no eye-witnesses and nobody can reveal any details. The victims were originally prostitutes but there have been wealthy, well-to-do, and average girls involved as well. In short, there is no consistency across the board whereby we cannot form a profile for our rapist-killer's victims.

"Our rapist-killer is very steady of hand and from his carving we can ascertain two things about his penmanship. He is left-handed, he is well-educated, and he is patient and unstressed when he is doing this. Our rapist-killer could be a doctor or he could be an academic educator. We have absolutely no suspects."
At this point, there was an inaudible commotion in the background and the phonograph cut off abruptly. Paul was a bit turned off; he wanted to hear plenty more. His great-great-grandfather's voice had been mesmerizing to him. There was a lot more to hear and he was suddenly very interested. He was so enrapt by the recording that he ignored the fact that the cylinder was still turning and he almost stood up to remove it when the commotion returned and he could hear his great-great-grandfather clear his throat. Suddenly Paul thought to himself, Why is he recording this at this hour of the morning?

"That is all we know at this point about our rapist-killer. The department is determined to catch him but I do not believe we ever will. There is no spacing between his victims and the last was found just eight days ago but it had been deceased for at least three days. Yet again, the body was well hidden but ultimately our rapist-killer wanted it found. He believes that he is toying with us and newspaper articles speak of horror and terror to the people of our great city. Young girls are scared to walk outside at night alone. It is apparently to me but not all inspectors on this case that our rapist-killer is patient in his killing. He is not doing this out of need, which the prevailing opinion is. I believe that he is doing it out of boredom; perhaps, out of some wanton desire to play with the police department. I admire and respect this rapist-killer because he is cunning and patient. I doubt we will ever solve this case because our rapist-killer is at least two moves ahead of us. Perhaps he will die of natural or even unnatural causes and we will never connect him to all of these killings. I suspect that there will be many more victims before that time comes too.

"This case has already forced two inspectors into early retirement. One was due to mishandling of evidence and the other was because of psychological strain. Nobody has ever seen this in our department's history. It is stressing beyond any reasonable doubt and I too have experienced a considerable amount of stress to this case but I understand now, more than ever, that we will never solve it. My only desire is to provide a proper case file for my successors. If this case is still being reviewed in the year two thousand than I would like my own notes to be decisive in solving this case. This is, in some ways, my life's work and I will be retiring in just four years from now.

"In closing, I would like to state that this case will be historic for this department. It will be the first case whereby the perpetrator of the crime was not a common street thug. It is a police inspector. I state this because I am the rapist-killer of Layarteb City."
The recording abruptly ended and Paul's heart skipped a beat. He was in utter and total shock of what he heard. He knew that this was recorded on May 9, 1897 and suddenly it dawned on him that his great-great-grandfather had shot and killed himself with his weapon only five days later. His grandmother had told him that the police determined it was because of the stress from the case. His great-great-grandmother was awarded his pension and he received full honors on his burial. The case remained unsolved to date but Paul didn't know that. He wondered if it was still an active case file and whether or not this cylinder and its recording would solve the case. Had his great-great-grandfather gone insane? Paul wondered.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ||| ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

The Layartebian Chronicles
Part II
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Postby Abruzi » Sat Oct 01, 2011 10:34 pm

You Must Keep What You Kill.

The roar of combat was always new, it was always surprisingly loud, and it always reminded Pyotr of his first battle. At the age of ten he had first walked to war alongside his father, armed with a simple slug firing rifle, and outfitted in a tight leather combat vest. They fought and killed a rival band of survivors on the eastern continent, over what was now long forgotten but he was sure it was something suitably important. Either way his first taste of war came at a very young age, and within him it awoke something dark; and hungry. By the age of fifteen he was already a bloodthirsty killer, fighting for any Warlord or Paymaster just as long as he could keep what he killed. By twenty he was easily the most successful murderer outside of the Pred and soon even the Tsedentov had learned of his prowess with a blade and rifle.

Now however he was not a violent minded adolescent, but a century old veteran. Adamantine and Plasteel armor replaced a leather combat vest, and a Bolt Pistol and Chainsword replaced his old rifle and knife. Pyotr scanned the battlefield, his Armor's Autosenses helping his genetically enhanced vision pick out the handful of enemy combatants who all hid among the ruined buildings and shattered street. At his back came a dozen human soldiers, support assets to aid the blunted but still deadly speartip.The defenders fired a volley of lasrounds into his supporters, but Pyotr merely shrugged off the impotent ordinance. Grinning within his helmet the mighty warrior raised his Bolt Gun in reply and simply popped one of the enemy soldiers, coating his Comrades with his internal juices. Revving his Chainsword, Pyotr raised it over his head and roared out, “Death to the False to the Emperor!”

He took long strides across the blasted street, his enhanced stamina and physical ability propelling him through the enemy's kill zone before they could target him with anything more than lasfire. From six meters away he jumped, easily rising above the makeshift sandbag and rockcrete barricade the enemy's commanders commanded from behind. With a wet crunch he landed, his metal boots smashing a man's head and upper body with almost comical ease. Swiping his chainblade about him in murderous arcs, he quickly was coated in the blood of what once was an enemy command squad. Howling with blood lust, he took aim and killed a few more of the enemy's soldiers before they fled. The ashen fatigues they wore allowed them to escape the worst of the fire from Pyotr's own soldiers; who had just caught up to their leader. Still, camouflage or no they managed to clip a few of the fleeing enemy.

Steaming with rage, the blood coated leader turned to his mortal companions and quickly said, “Sargent, what is the Combat Effectiveness of your unit?” There was a brief pause as the Sargent in question took a quick headcount and was informed by his Corporals of each man's ammo count. As soon as he knew both how many men he had, and how much ammo they had, he responded with, “My Lord, we stand at roughly sixty two percent combat effective!” Pyotr turned away from the man and gazed off into the distance, his Helm's optics allowing him to visually see the still distant target. Overhead the Legion's Hell Blade and Hell Talon Aircraft dueled enemy Lighting and Marauder Craft, casting wild fireballs into the chaos that was the world spanning battle below. Just as the Astartes gazed off towards his objective, one of the enemy's Marauders twirled downwards only to smash into an Administratium Building. Turning back to his startled warriors, the blood coated warrior slowly said, “Forward, for the Imperium of Chaos!”


The human warriors at his back were tired, it had been four hours since the last engagement with the enemy and since then they had covered miles upon miles of ground. The Hive they were currently fighting for was the largest on this world, big enough for them to fight for days without even seeing the massive perimeter walls. The Legion's advance had been swift and brutal; grinding forwards south to north on a wide front. Due to the undermanned status of the Tears of Darkness the majority of the fighting was being done by Traitor Guardsmen and other scum; with the Astartes forming only the Spearhead and Leadership of the invasion force. Pyotr and dozens of warriors like him were saddled with human squads and platoons; forced to lead them to targets of opportunity or strategic importance before breaking off to have their own bloody fun in the ruins. Pyotr's target was a Departmento Munitorium Warehouse Complex that intelligence suggested held enough munitions and weapons to outfit the “Legion” for years to come. He and his squad of twelve humans were to mark a landing zone in or near this complex to allow for an entire company to be airlifted in via Valkyrie.

Scrabbling over ruins walls and sprinting across wide open streets; the humans at his back surely were questioning the importance of this site in relation to their own lives. Of course, Pyotr mused; their lives were actually meaningless since he himself could handle this task alone. Just as soon as he let his focus slip, an enemy sniper fired a single round from his longlas; a round that promptly entered Pyotr's Sargent's frontal lobe. The mostly headless corpse fell forward and the other humans dived for cover. Pyotr too slid into the shadows and waiting for the sniper to fire again. Not surprisingly, the sniper was a novice, quite possibly PDF, and he fired again soon after without repositioning. Pyotr's helm locked onto the muzzle flash but he sat quietly, content to let his human warriors prove themselves.

After the initial confusion of having their leader killed, the Guardsmen's training kicked in and they quickly located the shooter themselves. Discreetly they waved forward one of the crude but potent anti armor weapons that were known the Galaxy Over as, “Tread Fethers”. With a shout of, “Ease!” the gunner fired, sending the heavy rocket up into the sniper's window-hide. The entire exchange took a little under four minutes; too slow by Pyotr's reckoning. Rising slowly from the shadows he boomed out, “Forward mortals, you waste time!” before he turned and began to jog off through the chaos. His mighty footfalls just loud enough to motivate his followers to hurry.

The aerial battle above was still raging when the squad neared their objective. Gathered in a molding Hab Block, they watched as the opposing pilots weaved in and out of a chaotic firestorm of air to air and ground to air munitions. The roar of the artillery that landed in earth shaking waves some ten miles distant was also loud enough to disorientate all but the most seasoned veterans; who simply looked on grimly. The sun was setting magnificently in the west, orange and fiery, casting a blood red tint upon everything. Pyotr himself was coated in blood, both from the sun and from the enemy. He stood before his warriors and simply looked down upon the Warehouse Complex. Disappointingly it seemed that the enemy had left the defense of the complex to the PDF, probably keeping the proper Imperial Guard on the line.

He slowly positioned each of his twelve men in the hab block, happy that they were in a position to provide him covering fire without the threat of shooting each other. Once he was satisfied that his men were as prepared as they ever would be, Pyotr quietly gave the order to fire, and all hell broke loose. The roar of twelve lasguns and one heavy stubber filled the hab, and the growl of Pyotr's armor only added to the confusion. The enemy was caught completely off guard, the green PDF troops paying dearly in the first few seconds of the one sided engagement. Pyotr himself picked off no less than four NCOs and an Officer as they desperately tried to reign in their already broken unit. The dust settled slowly after two minutes, the entire PDF Platoon tasked to defend the Munitorium Complex massacred by the Tears of Darkness Supporters.

Eagerly they moved into the Complex, placing several beacons on the parade ground between mountain sized warehouses. As soon as the support company was in the air, Pyotr's Vox quietly blipped and the voice of a fellow Astartes growled, “Assets in the air Brother. ETA five minutes. Blood for the Blood God!” Pyotr nodded and responded, “Understood. Skulls for the Skull Throne!” His human warriors all were informed of the situation by their leader, and one by one they took up positions facing the only viable entry point; the street they had just crossed. In good time too, for just as the Chaotic Soldiers had taken up their post, five squat Chimera Personnel Carriers blasted through the smoke at high speed. The Squad brought up their lone “Tread Fether” and fired as quickly as they could load the device. For all of their zeal however they were rewarded with only two kills. The other three enemy vehicles opened up with their multi-lasers and quickly suppressed the human warriors.

Pyotr however stood calmly in the open, quietly conversing with the pilot of one Hell Talon Aircraft that came shrieking in. Hovering over the Warehouse Complex, the craft fired seven missiles into the three vehicles and hosed what infantry had survived with it's massive nose mounted cannon. Tilting it's wings the craft made it's way off; only to be brought down by an enemy Hydra battery hidden just behind some buildings to the west. Pyotr slowly turned back to the complex when out of the fog of war came the shout, “Stand and face me, traitor!” Smiling, Pyotr turned and bellowed back, “Lapdog of the False Emperor, it is you who is the traitor!” Out of the confusion came a lone Loyalist Space Marine, his armor the brightest yellow. Upon his shoulder was the mark of the Imperial Fists, in his hand a majestic Power Blade. Turning back to face this challenger, Pyotr raised his chainblade in a salute before charging. The loyalist returned the gesture and charged as well; the two demi-gods racing to do battle.

They met with a loud crash that shook all around them, their initial blows moving too fast for the unaugmented human eye to follow. Parries and feints all blended into one another, to the point where even Pyotr and his century of experience was only enough for him to do little more than guess and trust in the Dark Gods. Amazingly, the Loyalist found a hole in his guard and stabbed him painfully in the side; the powered blade biting deep into Pyotr's core. Snarling like a beast, Pyotr snapped his arm down on the Loyalist's, trapping the two together. With the fury of a man possessed, the Tear smashed his helm against the Loyalist's in a violent and powerful headbutt. Again and again Pyotr brought his head to bear against the Loyalist, slowly breaking apart his enemy's faceplate. Finally the cermite gave way and with a victorious howl Pyotr began to smash his enemy's skull. Desperate to break free, the Loyalist released his sword and fell back, free but armed only with a combat knife.

Pyotr reached up with one hand and removed his helm, clamping the ancient bit of wargear to his belt. Without a hint of emotion he pulled his enemy's sword out of his side, the blood already beginning to clot due to his enhanced metabolism. With a smile the Chaos Marine switched his own chainblade to his left hand in favor of his enemy's sword, swinging the pair in murderous yet masterful move sets. Slowly he closed on the Loyalist who sizing up his options decided on the seemingly most far fetched. With a mighty growl the Loyalist Astartes threw his combat blade end over end, only for Pyotr to turn his head at the last minute; turning what would've been a killing blow through the eye into only a scarring blow through the cheek. In retaliation Pyotr closed with the Marine and cut his legs off, then his arms, then his head; savoring the Marine's defiant howls even as his head left his shoulders.

Standing over the despoiled corpse, Pyotr looked back to his warriors and roared,

“His armor and Gene Seed are mine; you must keep what you kill!”
02:01 RomanEmpire Because I dont know about you
02:01 RomanEmpire But I want to monger some fucking fish

Forward for the #Sanc!
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Postby 1000 Cats » Sat Oct 01, 2011 11:02 pm

Oh hey. I guess I can throw this here. If this is to be linked in the OP, I'd prefer the link to be to the original thread (below the spoiler) rather than to this post.

[ PT ]

The Sun's Children

"Sun and Jealous Moon", or "The Sun and the Mane", or other similar variants, is a popular story particularly among the NHX, but is well-known around the world as one of the best ÀRÜKKXK ("Old Stories", mythology) to be heard from passing ÀRÜE. The only areas of the world that cannot be reliably called upon to recount the tale are the ZˑYÎ:- and CCXHZˑYÎ:-dominated areas of North and South America, although it is interesting to note that certain western areas that are familiar with the desert tell a very similar tale.

The story itself is a creation myth, though how seriously it is taken is another matter; religion is a transient thing at best in such societies. Perhaps more importantly, it paints a tangible picture of the verbal NHX culture (from whence it probably originated) that, despite the veiled ethnocentrism, is relevant and enjoyed across generations and geographical regions. Indeed, even as far from the Sahara as KÉC in the Andes can be found individuals who claim the tale is evidence for the species originating in southern Africa. The story also reflects culture on a larger scale, and the astute reader may find implications surrounding social norms, gender roles, and other aspects of society that permeate not only NHX culture but every existing cat culture across each continent. For this reason, the story of the Sun, the Moon, and the primal cats is of great interest to those interested in a brief but descriptive look into generalizable felidology.

Long ago, the world was covered only by salty sea, and the sky covered only by clouds, which then were not at all different from the sea either. In a shining place there lived Hý: (Sun), Hý:âˑ (Moon), and their children, who are the stars. Sun is the most gorgeous of toms, big and golden. He has a mane that radiates out from his face, and makes him seem very regal indeed. Moon is the loveliest of queens, bright and heavy-lidded, and ever-watchful. The stars were beautiful children, pure white with shining eyes, and they were smart, never wandering far, and they were strong, sure to live through even the harshest winter; and Moon was very proud of them. Each month, she would go into heat; Sun would love her, and she would bear more sparkling children. Here is she becoming full and new once more.

One morning, though, Moon saw how many children she had. "Sun," she said, "in loving you, my children have become far too plentiful. I cannot feed them all; they cannot stay here any longer. Is there nowhere in the world that they can go?"

Sun, awakening, blinked at his mate. "There is a wide world. Our children can live there."

That day Moon begged the eldest ones of the stars to leave their home by the sea. They protested long, and cried as even children then would. "Look! The clouds!" said their father. "There will be a place there for you to live and hunt. Go there!" So the stars left their home range and went into the clouds.

The next month, Moon became pregnant again, and just as she was at her fullest, her largest and eldest male children, called Hý:î: ("Young Sun" - Venus), returned once more to her shining home with the Sun by the sea. "Why have you returned?" asked Moon. "I am nearly to give birth again; you cannot stay here!"

"Noble dam," replied Young Sun, bowing, "I have returned from nowhere at all. There is no home to be had in the clouds. I cannot see through them, and so I have nowhere that I can live. Nor have my brothers and sisters. Nor have your younger litters. We are wandering alone and afraid for ourselves."

This upset Moon greatly. She called over her tom, and before a fight could break out, she told him what Young Sun had told her. The Sun sat and regarded his son, and then said, "I will clear the skies for your brothers and sisters, and then for the younger of your kin. But first will I clear the skies for you, for you are the bravest and strongest of my young since you have returned to me rightfully. Let no offspring of a tom be at war with his father."

And so the Sun, great cat as he is, with striking claws and warm breath, cleared the skies of clouds, all but a few, for his children. They rose in turn to the open skies, but none before Young Sun, who to this day retains his royal position.

One month passed, and then a half-month, and Sun and Moon had not smelled, heard, nor seen any of their children from their home by the sea. Sun, remembering what he said to Young Sun, decided to leave and seek him out, in case his favoured children was unwell but too frightened to confront his father. He found Young Sun in the range he had chosen for himself, but he was just lying down and watching the swirling sea below. He looked up as Sun approached. "Young Sun, my visit is friendly," said Sun. "Neither Moon nor myself have caught your scent for one and a half months. Are you well?"

"Noble sire," replied Young Sun, bowing his head without getting up, for, Sun noticed now, he seemed far too weak to do so. "I would have approached you, if only I knew my kin fare as poorly as I. The sea is salty, so I have little to drink. There are no deer, no humans, no birds that live in the sea, and the fish are too far down, so I cannot hunt. I fear I will not last much longer here, but see first to my kin."

The Sun left to find the other stars, with great trepidation. None of them fared better than Young Sun, for though all had chosen their ranges, none had much at all to eat or drink. He returned to his home to tell Moon what he had found, and then went to the sea. With his breath, he dried up the water, leaving bare land. With his great claws, he shaped the world, leaving grass. With his tongue, he scraped away the salt in the lakes and rivers, and forests grew. And with his deep, rumbling purr, he called all the creatures of the world: the deer, the bird, the human, the rodent, the elephant; all went their way on the newly shaped Earth and became populous. No longer after this were his children hungry or thirsty, and so we say, it is lucky that Sun is a kindly sire, for Young Sun thought too much of his kin to save himself; it is better not to think at all of one's brothers and sisters.

But while Moon was happy, and loved being with her children in the darkened sky, and hunting with them in the forests and the plains, the Sun saw that there were too many animals for only his queen and her offspring to control. This distressed him somewhat, for he knew that were he to have made fewer animals, they would not have lived at all, and his children would be dead. Though the world he made was shining and beautiful, like his own home with Moon by the sea, it was wild and unbalanced.

One day, he went to the new world, and it is said then that he made out of shimmering sand a beautiful queen of golden hue, her eyes of globules of tree sap, her tail of a young savanna bush, and he spent three days with her. When he at last returned to Moon, the queen was pregnant, and her children became the first cats of the Earth. They were slender and raw like their mother, but glowed with the flowing mane of their father, far grander even than those of the stars. Although they were not smarter or stronger than their half-kin, they far outshone them, and for this reason Sun vastly preferred their company to the children of Moon. Moon became very jealous of this, and so decided one night to visit the Earth.

She came upon one tom, who reclined, bathing in the warmth of the sands after a full meal. "My prince!" said Moon, alluringly, "I have come from high up, watching you from afar, and I am smitten by the beauty of your mane. I wish to present myself to you."

The tom did not think to smell her or ask from whence she came. If he had, he would know that she was not in heat, or he would know that she meant to trick him. But, being foolish, he mounted her without doing either of these things, and as he withdrew, Moon lashed out at him, snatching up his mane. "This is the neck fur of Sun," said victorious Moon, "and so of yourself and all your kin. So shall you never have it back, and never again be as beautiful as my own children."

Upon hearing what Moon had done, Sun became furious and left her, only to return to his home in the sea at night. It is said that he so loved his children that he spent more time in the place that he had come to make them, and even made a home for himself that remains golden and shining, just as those first cats' manes were before the intervention of deceitful Moon. This, he guards from us today, keeping out anything that flies or crawls or swims, and making it so hot that it burns the feet of any who tread upon its ground, and we call Èˑs:söhý:nhú: ("The Desert of Powerful Sun" - the Sahara), so that he can be close to the cats that most resemble him and the queen he made of sand. Moon still prefers the company of her own children, lingering in the sky at night to watch them, but even as she goes into heat once per month, she is never mated, and so there are rarely ever new stars. Only during those days that Moon, in apology, and Sun, in forgiveness, so briefly acknowledge the love they had before for each other does she abandon the skies of her children, and does he place himself behind her, high above the land for all to take notice.

In some places, it is said that Moon, in truth, still pines for Sun, for even in the daytime, she may be seen watching far off in the distance, wishing that someday she would regain his affection. So, too, does Young Sun stay with his sire for a while, remembering that he once said a father should not forsake his son. But forever will Moon and Sun be separate, for though they be great, they have faults just as we, and no cat is more stubborn. Truly, there is nothing that can ever repair this ruined love.
Last edited by 1000 Cats on Sat Oct 01, 2011 11:04 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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United World Order
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Founded: Jun 16, 2011
Psychotic Dictatorship

TBOS Part 1 Chapter 2

Postby United World Order » Sat Oct 01, 2011 11:29 pm

[ PT ]

The Battle Of Sturmburg

Chapter II "The Begining of A Bloody Day"

Allison was in the brush with his Kar98k rifle in his hands the sights trained on a GLF solider on patrol. The other soliders also had there weapons trained on different targets. Allison squeezed the trigger on his rifle as the GLF soldier was struck in the chest and fell over. Gunfire erupted as Allison rushed for a different positon in the brush. He looked off towards the others as one private stood up trying to peak over and was quickly shot in head and collapsed falling backwards into the arms of a medic who laid his corpse down.

Dimitri was behind the halftrack with his MP40 in hand. Several other men were with him as the gunner on the halftrack let loose with the MG42 mowing down three GLF soldiers trying to flank. The halftrack moved foward as Dimitri and several men advanced behind it and traded fire with GLF Soldiers. Allison was the closest to the outpost as he shot another GLF Soldier in the shoulder and shot him again in the jaw which tore it apart as the soldier collapsed near the entrance of the Outpost. Allison was on a ridge off to the side of the entrance as three other men in his platoon joined him.

Brian Hasselhoff mounted his MG42 on his tripod and trained his iron sights on the entrance fireing a burst directed at a group of GLF emerging from the entrance. Most collapsed but a few made it past. Allison trained his rifle on a GLF peeking his head out of the entrance. He sighed and pulled the trigger, Brain matter and blood spewed about as the soldier collapsed slumped agaisnt the wall. Allison then scurried down the ridge and to the side of the entrance and readied a grenade. Several men from his platoon advanced from infront as they gave covering fire. Allison cooked the grenade and chunked it inside. Three GLF were blown apart as they tried to rush for cover.

Ethan caught up with Allison and smiled as they were the first inside the outpost and took cover behind a wall. Brian went prone infront of them from the corner of the building and unleashed a burst of fire on the GLF soldiers inside the outpost. Allison gave covering fire towards a window as Ethan rushed foward and chunked a grenade inside the window, The window exploded sending glass everywhere. Ethan rose to his feet and kicked the door down but as he did a grenade rolled several feet from him and blew him straight out of the doorway and into the street.

Allison slid towards him almost tripping on some bricks. Allison picked Ethan up and got him to cover. The remaining GLF soldiers gave up and raised there hands as the outpost was theres. A Bloody Day Was Done.
23:53 Moka "When GamePlay sends its people, they're not sending their best. They're not sending you. They're sending people that have lots of problems, and they're bringing those problems with us. They're bringing Trolls. They're bringing Raiders. They're rapists. And some, I assume, are good people."


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Postby Dejarno » Mon Oct 03, 2011 4:09 pm

The Corruption of the Broken Soul



Edward Wilson was nothing but a mere sophomore in high school when he began having strange dreams that left him screaming in his sleep at night, bringing worry to his parents. Almost always, these dreams were vivid and real, as if Edward was there himself. They always depicted the same thing too: hundreds of dead bodies floating in a pool of blood that Edward was standing in, smirking as his eyes tracked each of the bodies and identified their disfigured faces. The councilors could not crack his spirit, and often just attributed his dreams to lack of sleep. But, in reality, the dreams were the source of hatred, lust, jealousy, and contempt that were all building up in Edward's soul and devouring away at his very being.

No one would guess that he was feeling these emotions either, not even his parents. His attitude was more than sufficient to back up anyone's case if they tried to call Edward a success in high school. He had an interminable list of friends, and was beloved by everyone, except one lone girl and her group of friends. Edward never payed much attention to this girl, and her group of friends who turned out to be quite a powerful and influential group of gals. Every now and then, he would look back on the times when he enjoyed the girl, laughed with her, made her smile, and lusted for her with all of his heart. But that was the past, and it mattered not.

Maybe it was this girl that finally would drive Edward off the edge. No matter how hard he tried, she would never leave his mind. In his dreams, he would always find her body in the rising pool of blood, and grasp her petite, smooth body in his blood-soaked arms and weep. In reality, he thought of nothing more than watching her hang from a rope with her arms severed and blood seeping down her sides with a look of satisfaction on his face as he made her pathetic group of elitist bitches watch her bleed and strangle to death.

If only the councilors had been clever enough to know that Edward was acting his entire being throughout high school. If only they had known that his soul had been crushed when the anonymous girl said "No" with a monotonous voice. If only they had known that Edward Wilson had died over a year ago, and, in his place, a vengeful, bloodthirsty murderer had risen. If only they had, but they hadn't.

Baseball season had finally come to the high school of Arovia Falls. Freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors alike celebrated with one another as news that they had made the team reached their young and focused ears. Edward was the most joyous of them all, being the first sophomore in school history to making the starting lineup on varsity. His self-esteem boosted to monstrous levels, but it was still not enough to hold together his very being from giving in.

It was a gloomy Thursday morning. Thunder clouds could be seen in the distance, it was chilly, and there was a stuffiness in the air that made one itch at his noise incessantly. Edward walked into the building, dressed in the casual uniform of a white polo shirt and tan shorts. He had a baseball bag that was making him heavily favor one shoulder, which was odd for baseball players. He walked into his favorite teacher's room, dropped the bag off, and then left.

When the clock struck 10:30 AM, Edward was excused from class to go to the bathroom; but he wasn't going to the bathroom. No, he was going back to that teacher's room that he had dropped his baseball bag off in. The teacher from his present class was pacing after him, screaming his name as her face turned bright red. She could not catch Edward in time, however, and he entered the classroom, interrupting the Spanish teacher's class. He unzipped the bag, and pulled out two full-loaded and cocked pistols, and began firing in every which direction. The students were slaughtered instantly, and the brains of the teacher were splattered across the blackboard and began to slowly slide downwards.

The bell then rang, and students, who apparently had not heard the ruckus, began to fill out into the hallways. Edward walked out with his bag, now substantially lighter, and carried a full-automatic rifle in his hands. With a cold and evil look on his face, and no depth within his eyes, he fired blankly down the hallway and grinned as the bodies fell to the ground in hordes. Blood soon covered the floor in mere seconds, and began to flow down the stairs. Edward took out a knife and began to gut those who were still breathing, manually pulling out their intestines and shoving them in every hole in their body he could find.

As he walked down the stairs with caution, he opened fire at the next group of students who still stood at attendance for locker period. They scattered for the nearest door, but Edward pulled out the pistols again and began to pick them off one by one. The students were mustered at the door that exited the building, and few were actually getting out. Edward caught up, and rolled two grenades down the staircase and watched from a distance as the once intact bodies blew into bloody pieces. Edward looked at what he had done with a sense of contentment.

As he walked down the hallway to the main door in order to exit the building, he eyed out a single arm that was erecting from the from the bottom of a group of lifeless, bloody bodies. He immediately identified the girls on the surface of the pile as "The Bitches" that had befriended the girl that he had once chased. His heart sank to his stomach and he pulled the bottom body out, revealing the still beautiful face of the girl. Edward grasped her body in her arms as he stood up, weeping. His tears washed away the dried blood on her face. He soaked a rag, cleaned the girl, changed her clothes, and lied her down gently. As he walked out the rear door to the high school he turned and whispered, "I'll always love you."
Last edited by Dejarno on Mon Oct 03, 2011 4:10 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Postby Novo-Rossiya » Mon Oct 03, 2011 4:18 pm

[ PT | Fantasy ]

[ Mature ]

The Gray People


It was a sad and creepy little sight indeed; rising up from the ashen broken plains around it the choked gray cityscape was horrifying to look at if you were into living, or life; or generally not being eternally depressed. Broken and ragged hills rose up around the cityscape; seven in total like the ancient city it was built in the perverse paradox of. Atop the largest of the hills stood a castle unlike others, and yet so similar to some. Tall and dominating battlements commanded a view of the countryside for miles in all directions; ancient stone walls ringed the emplacements and strong gates of oak bound with iron rested in entrance houses; thick with dust in homage to how often they were never opened.

There was no sense of hope; not a sliver of such feeling. The Sunlight in it's near-immortality could not penetrate the thick billowing shadows that rose around the castle and consumed the cityscape below with it's grayness. People; if you wanted to call them that scurried in the grayness and shadows, they were pale and gray; as though lifeless and their eyes were wary of all things around them. Their muscles weak and they were gaunt as though half-starved, yet oddly seemed healthy at the same time in some sort of paradox.

The Graypeople milled about in the factories, bringing to perverted life harsh things of brutality; they milled about in the fields growing false plants that mocked the Heavens and all within them. These plant-things were as gray as the Graypeople were; sustaining and yet unsustaining as paradoxical as their farmers. The Graypeople milled about everywhere, every task conceivable by the human mind being done along with the factories and the farming, mining and herding of sick-healthy grayanimals like the graypeople.

It was not a place of life; or light and around them they marched. More horrible than all the minds of men could conceive together. In the shadows of the factories and the buildings which billowed thick black smoke to join the grayness of the air they were there; unseen enforcers to the Unseeing. They were as men, but terrible; their auras suffocated and dominated, a single gaze could crumble the strongest of wills. Their eyes were as red as fire; wicked and merciless, unrelenting in their untold cruelty. Their shoulders were narrow, and they looked thin as though a strong wind could snap them, yet at the same time they were many times stronger than the mightiest of men.

They were the eyes and the ears and the muscle of the ruler of the great castle in the distance; and the ruler of all the lands it looked upon and some that it did not. It was a diseased but beating blackened heart of power in the middle of something so insignificant to the outside; but so omnipresent within. The Different were stamped out; the ones who thought, and could think, the See-ers with no foreseeable difference in any known foreseeable future.

The Graypeople would never know change, there would be nothing but Grayness for millenia, neigh, eons; there would be nothing but the Grayness and The Graypeople in their grinding into the dust themselves to give perverse dark life to machinery of wicked design for a cruel unseen master...
Last edited by Novo-Rossiya on Mon Oct 03, 2011 4:21 pm, edited 2 times in total.
The Empire of Novorossiya

Extensively designed for Fantasy-RP
It should be noted that despite the name this nation has nothing to do with Russia, the Conquests of Catherine the Great or Slavs. Thank you.

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Post War America
Posts: 5747
Founded: Sep 05, 2010
Left-wing Utopia

Postby Post War America » Mon Oct 03, 2011 4:59 pm

[ PMT ]

[ Mature ]


On A Pale Horse

April 22nd, 2075, Somewhere in the badlands of the former South Dakota

The young woman approaches a small hut in the heart of the badlands. This is the home of her grandfather, a veteran of the Revolution, who was blinded by the gas attacks there. She is part of the history commission on task to find out about the more sordid aspects of the revolution. She gives the somewhat decrepit door a knock. A small male nurse in mid-forties opens the door. In the room ahead sits her grandfather, who attempts to look in her direction.

"I could smell you a mile away."

"I know."

"So what are you here for?"
, the wizened man asks.

"I need to find out about the revolution."

"You know all the stories."

"No, I want to know about the gas that took your sight."

"All right then, take a seat."

June 13th, 2030, Western South Dakota

I was there, during the awful period of trench warfare. The feds wanted to push us into the sea, but because of recent events they had very little mechanization to spare for the rocky ground of the North Front. As you know, the international community took this revolution as a sign of the weakening of America and supported us, cutting fuel away from the fed. We were stopped just short of the badlands. I thought this to just be a quick ride, as we had vehicles, and were racing across the plains.

We should have known trouble was brewing when a flight of JSFs flew over head. I knew this to be trouble, and leapt clear of the truck in just enough time to be jeered at by my comrades, when the first of the JSOWs landed. My truck detonated sending body parts blasting clear, I saw Johnny's head fly right past me as I dove behind a rock to shield me from shrapnel. More JSOWs exploded blowing most of the troop trucks one landing on a civilian truck (as you know, as we advanced columns of civilians headed to the west to get away from the fallen fascist government of the east). I looked to the face of my rock as the shrapnel stopped flying overhead, it was covered in blood an ear, a complete ear was plastered to it.

The JSFs screamed around and began strafing the column of spooked civilians. tearing their bodies apart sending blood spatters and small bits of flesh flying. Of course this was just the vanguard of the army, who would be our bane. The survivors, and reinforcements managed to push ahead a bit, before running into the army. At first we thought, "No tanks, oh we'll just mow through these guys". We got months of trench warfare, of course, I only got a week into it before they used the gas.

Now, we were under equipped, a bit of an understatement. We were equipped with surplus equipment from the Great War, IN 2030! Over a century later, anyway, we we stuck, but the first attacks came at night. I remember that night. It was midnight and we were simply firing in the direction of the enemy. The only lights were the flares of muzzles. Then, floodlights flashed in our faces, at first it seemed they were just using targeting lights. Then came the scream of artillery shells. I instinctively ducked. But the shells didn't hit us, looking up I saw a smoke screen. But, why would they do that, realizing the truth, I struggled to remember what the boys in the great war. I then remembered, and pissed into a cloth that I had, certainty needed the piss gone with all that had been going on.

The gas hit as I put the piss rag over my mouth. This was no previous gas, I saw that when I saw flesh dissolve, literally the men around me screamed as their faces bubbled up and flowed down their uniforms in pink rivulets. Luckily, the minor wounds I incurred , for the most part protected me from the worst of it. Little did I know that was the last thing I would see, as the men stopped screaming as their vocal cords melted with the bone beneath. At last there was nothing left but skeletons seeming to shout in pain to an uncaring sky. It seems I was somehow partially immune to this gas, otherwise I wouldn't be here right now. But, it took my vision, first I felt immense pain in my eyes, then my sight went black.

Present Day
"Thanks grandfather."

"You're welcome."
the wizened old man shakes a mechanical hand, also taken by the gas in the general direction of the woman. She gets up and walks out.


Authors Note: The gas used during the revolution was known as Ahriman A, it was not a gas, rather a mutagenic vapor that causes soft tissues to rupture and dissolve. However, it seems as that some genetic patterns have been partially immune to Ahriman A, only losing a few limbs, or a sense.
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Postby Novo-Rossiya » Mon Oct 03, 2011 6:03 pm

[ PT | Fantasy ]

[ Mature ]

The Grinding Gears


The Factories of Novorossiya were always pounding out machines and machinery. The never ending black smoke clouds that came from them a testament to the new-found industrial might of the fallen empire that they served. Day after day, night after night they billowed their poisonous fumes as the Graypeople worked within them and within their shadows. None of them could truly think; robbed of their freewill and general intelligence by their Watchers; and by the thin blue-white strands of energy that whipped away from their bodies, invisible to the naked eye only the See-ers, those who could bend magic, could look upon them.

The Factories were not always part of Novorossiya. Before thirty years before they did not exist; when the rest of the world was undergoing their 'Industrial Revolution', Novorossiya was left out; extremely isolated they were just catching up. The stamp of the leather press for boots, the grinding of the gears that turned massive furnaces hot that produced molten iron which was stamped into steel; which was then turned into swords and muskets. The sound of needles and sewing machines working tirelessly to fashion clothing and uniforms for the Graypeople's army. The sound of the canneries canning the graymeat and the graywheat for the graypeople's food.

The sound of the shipyards which held the sounds of the iron hammer and the blow-torch, the rivets and the steam-drills which fashioned great amounts of iron into Ironclads and fashioned wood and iron plates into Ships of the Line. The sounds of the heaviest factories making cannons and shot for the army, and the sounds of the pastures training grayhorses for the cavalry of the graypeople.

All of these and more, these were the sounds of progress, the grinding gears of industry to which the natural world bowed it's head and died a silent unspoken death as trees were uprooted to fuel the fires. Everpresent was the Grinding though, as the gears turned and the factories churned out more for Novorossiya, more for the graypeople.

Ever grinding, the grinding gears for the machinery and the tools and supplies for the cruel unseen master of the graypeople...
The Empire of Novorossiya

Extensively designed for Fantasy-RP
It should be noted that despite the name this nation has nothing to do with Russia, the Conquests of Catherine the Great or Slavs. Thank you.

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Postby Layarteb » Thu Oct 06, 2011 4:48 pm

OOC: This topic may or may not contain mature content. You take that risk when you read my work. If you are easily dissuaded by mature content, faint of heart, eager to run to moderation and complain that something isn't "intended for all audiences" or that "you are offended," overly critical, afraid to read long posts that might be in excess of two thousand words, or a crybaby, please do not continue. You're under no requirement to read anything that is written below. If, of course, you are none of these then I invite you not only to read through what is below but also to telegram me with your thoughts, opinions, critiques, and constructive comments, regardless of their positivity or negativity. Please enjoy this and thank you for getting through this semi-satirical disclaimer.

[ MT ]

Unlock the Guilt


Delerium's Silence

Each and every morning we go about a prescribed routine. We wake up to the buzzing of an alarm clock and whether we embrace it or curse its unrelenting incessantness is a matter of who we are as a person. We might hit the "snooze" button for an extra five, six, nine, or twelve minutes, depending on our alarm clock or our own desires. We might plant our feet upon the carpet or hardwood floors of our bedroom and struggle to make our way to the treadmill, the bathroom, the kitchen, or the television. We do the same thing every day yet it always feels as if today is different from yesterday when nothing has changed, especially not us. We make our way into the bathroom and take a piss, take a shit, make our way into the kitchen and start the coffee, begin a morning workout, or look at the traffic with our head's in our hands cursing the snooze button because now we're going to be stuck in traffic all down the highway.

We shower, we brush our teeth, we get dressed, we grab a coffee or protein shake to go, and if we have them, we kiss our loved ones goodbye for the day and trot out to the bus, the train, the car, or the bike. The lucky amongst us get to walk to work and walk home, avoiding all that rush hour brings to bear. Monday through Friday, day-in and day-out, we do the same thing. Sure, there might be minor differences but those details can be overlooked like anything minor and inconsequential. Who are we to dwell on that which doesn't matter when so much is going on around us? We're busybodies with a million things to do and only thousands of seconds available.

There are those days when things don't go according to the schedule though. We might hit the snooze button one extra time and sleep those extra nine minutes, throwing off our entire morning routine. We might have eaten late the night before and have an extra special time on the toilet as our stomach's churn through the extra carbohydrates we know we shouldn't have eaten at half past ten. We might take a little longer in the shower, whether by design, lethargic movements, or our lover's friskiness. We might get lost in a commercial on television or we could just not be able to find our keys, our wallet, or that new necklace we got for birthday that is going to make the women in the office jealous. Pick your reason, your poison, or your excuse but whatever it may be; it's usually a cascading effect. We're late getting out of the house, late getting to the bus or the train or onto the highway, we've got to speed, we get a ticket, we miss the train, we miss the shuttle to work, we miss the water cooler talk, we miss breakfast at the cafeteria, we miss that early meeting.

Usually things like this are minor when they start, I mean would anyone consider a nine-minute delay on an early morning departure to be major? Nine minutes is but a miniscule figure in a lifetime that spans thousands upon thousands of nine-minute increments. Rarely could nine minutes actually translate into something so major that the very future of our lives is altered beyond reasonable recovery. What boss is going to fire you for just being nine minutes late? You'd have to have a history of lateness and even still, what human resources department is really going to fault you on nine minutes? Even if you're late an hour a day, nine minutes is a drastic and measurable improvement. It's hard to fire someone for improving bad behavior. Think about just how short of a time span nine minutes is. Sure, you can do a lot in nine minutes, who can't? Nevertheless, imagine all of the things that you can't do in nine minutes. Previews at the movie theater are probably longer than that so don't worry you won't miss a thing but advertisements to turn off your cell phone and buy overpriced popcorn and drinks or those wretched 3D glasses.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

Bob O'Reilly was running nine minutes late. He thought to himself, What's nine measly minutes? as he rushed to get himself dressed. He had a fifteen-minute window to get out of the house and get into his car to make his morning train. He didn't have to stop for coffee along the way and he didn't have to kiss anyone goodbye. Bob lived alone; he had ever since the divorce and his daughter moved in with that pathetic, sleazoid of a boyfriend that she called Tom. He had no job, no education, no direction, and Bob was convinced that he sold mushrooms to high school kids just to afford his apartment, which was by all standards, a dump. He doubted that even cockroaches wanted to live there but that's where his daughter ran to when his wife of nineteen years took off with the neighbor, another sleazebag who used to molest his own son. What his wife saw in him he didn't know but that was Bob's luck. He doubted she had ever been faithful and the contempt he felt for her was nothing short of blind, homicidal hatred. He knew his daughter blamed him but why should that be surprising? She had been blaming him for everything from her period and acne to surprise exams since she turned thirteen.

Bob knotted his tie and put on his newly polished shoes only seconds before he darted out of the front door. "Hey Steve," he said to his other neighbor as he bolted down the walkway to his car, which was unlocked the moment he stepped foot outside. Steve waved back. Steve was the good neighbor, the one who watched his house when he was away, the one who took in the mail, and the one who borrowed tools and actually returned them. But everyone has a secret. Bob thought as he started his car. Steve was retired but he was only forty years old. He amassed a great fortune on the stock market but he lived in a relatively modest, suburban home just north of Layarteb City in a neighborhood populated by snobbish and smug leftists who thought that the world could be a nice place if it weren't for the free market. If anyone looked in their houses and saw the lavishness inside and then listened to their leftist garbage they would be utterly and irreproachable confused by them.

Bob sped away, flying up to the speed limit and stepping hard on the brakes at the stop sign. He barely looked both ways before he turned to the right and then made another left. He shot through the road in between the park, traveling thirty kilometers per hour over the posted speed limit. There weren't any cops and it was too early for children. He was alone on the kilometer-long stretch of road and then he was at another stop sign that he slowed to and rolled through, checking to his left as he turned onto the one-way street. Barely a hundred meters later he was accelerating up to a hundred kilometers per hour as he went down the absurdly long onramp to the parkway. He merged into traffic, checked the time, and cursed to himself as those nine minutes were now becoming decisive in his early morning commute.

Of course, as the cascade began it was instantly beyond Bob's control. He was on the parkway nine minutes late and stuck in a pack of steadily moving cars who were all daydreaming instead of driving. The right lane was moving below the speed limit, the middle lane was barely at the speed limit, and the left lane was somewhere in between. No lane was moving faster than the others were and boxed in Bob had nowhere to go. He revved his V8 engine a few times, hoping that someone would get out of his way but nobody seemed to be paying attention. This one was putting on her lipstick, these two were on their cell phones, and another was fidgeting with the dials on his radio. Nobody was paying attention to the road in front of them and he lost three more minutes by the time he exited to the highway, already stressed out.

He sped forward at first and then slowed down; knowing that over the hill was a favored spot for state troopers. "Figures," he thought to himself as there was no one there. He sped the car up, going forty kilometers per hour over the speed limit, weaving around two slow moving cars in the middle lane. He was desperate to make up time but that wasn't on his side much this morning. The stress continued to pile as he rapidly had to brake down to the speed limit. There was an eighteen-wheeler in the middle lane and the two drivers alongside in the left and right lanes were petrified of passing him. On the right, the driver kept in the truck's blind spot, which was about as smart as smoking a cigarette after siphoning gasoline. On the left, the driver was constantly applying the brakes to keep herself just behind the truck. Bob beeped the horn for both but neither passed the truck. The two women were huddled close to their steering wheels, their chairs uncomfortably straight, their eyes afraid to look into their mirrors. "Women fucking drivers!" Bob cursed as he watched himself lose another minute, then two minutes. He was now up to fourteen minutes and he continued to curse as he lost another two more by the time he finally got around the truck and the two scaredy-cat drivers.

The road ahead of him was open and he opened up the engine, flying around the turn, exiting off the highway minutes later, unable to make up more than a minute. He whipped around the turn but caught the yield sign and had to stop. There was a steady flow of traffic coming towards him and thanks to the rising sun; they were driving more stupidly than usual. He slammed his fists against the steering wheel and finally pulled in, cutting off a businessman in a Cadillac. He watched the man's middle finger and heard the horn but all he said to himself, aloud was, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, life's tough." He didn't return a gesture. Traffic moved quicker now that their angle wasn't directly to the sun but all Bob could think to himself was Visor and sunglasses, how complicated is that? The light was red and he caught it. On any other day, Bob never got stuck at the yield sign and he breezed through a green or newly yellow light. This morning it was red and it was read for a solid three minutes. In the distance, he heard the train's horn. Time was against him and he finally saw the green and cut the left turn, ignoring oncoming traffic, which had hesitated enough for him to get the jump. He was stalled from taking a right thanks to a particularly slow pedestrian. He looked at the pedestrian, who was on his phone, walking with a thug across the street, against the crosswalk sign. "Fucking moron!" Bob yelled as he sped around him and pulled a left into the garage.

The blast of the train horn was close and it was obvious that it was pulling up to the station. People were getting on and he saw men and women running through the parking garage. All of the close spots were taken but he found one and pulled right in, dropped his permit onto the dashboard, and jumped out of the car, briefcase in hand. The car locked with a beep behind him and he sprinted towards the stairwell. He went around a slow-moving woman who was paying more attention to her nails than the stairs in front of her and then he burst through the door only to see the train pulling away, hearing the electric motors charging up as the train pulled forward. "Aw shit!" He looked at his watch. He was at the station twenty minutes later than normal. The next train wasn't for another half hour and he would have to take it but that would mean he would be late for the morning meeting. He shot an e-mail to his boss from his phone and said that there was police activity outside of the parking garage and that they wouldn't let him in and thus he missed the train. His boss would read it in forty-five minutes, when he stepped into the office. He wouldn't be in trouble, he wouldn't be fired but he was still late and he had missed his train this particular morning.

Bob eyed the rear car of the train as it pulled into the distance. That was his car, where he always went because it was closest to the exit at Central Station when it pulled into the platform. "Fucking figures," Bob said aloud as he took a seat on the bench, realizing that he was out of breath. The ground rumbled and shook underneath his feet and he thought it was just the departing train until the sound snapped and his eardrums began to ring. Mystified, he looked up and then watched everyone on the opposite platform turn to his or her left. He turned to his right and looked at a fireball ascend into the skies. He could barely see the rear car of the train anymore. It was engulfed in a bright, red fire and there was thick, black smoke rising into the air. Bob was speechless, unable to comprehend what happened as a station announcement urged everyone to be calm and remain where they were. Police and fire sirens echoed in the background and grew sharper, louder, and closer with each passing second. Bob looked down at his watch and then thought to himself, only nine minutes.

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The Layartebian Chronicles
Part III
Last edited by Layarteb on Sun Oct 09, 2011 9:27 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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• The Empire of Layarteb •


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Black Century International
Posts: 38
Founded: Sep 03, 2011

Postby Black Century International » Fri Oct 07, 2011 8:24 am

[ MT / PMT ]





         Nø sacred spaces;
         Nø aførementiøned places.
Nø sublime grace;         
Nø dandeliøn lace.         

A carcass øf a base,
Shattered nøw før a prølønged grace.
Singing the søng øf eternal malaise
Før a wayward bullet's graze.

                  Cast døwn
                  Trødden and beneath
                  The purple maze
                  Øf scarlet pumpernickel
                  And axle-grease haze.


Patience and calm,
Dancing øn the brim
Øf an untriggered bømb.

                           A cardinal psalm
                           Før a cardinal's eye,
                           Weary and førlørn
                           Øn the spicket's palm.

                                                      They see the drain
                                                      Øn greater beasts
                                                      Øf burden's mane.

                                                                                 As peaceful trumpet's bane
                                                                                 Shøøts as swiftly as the rifle;
                                                                                 Cast the call øf perditiøn
                                                                                 Tø the innøcent's rivaled pain.

                                                                                 Nøt a freightner's lance,
                                                                                 But a dancing shøe,
                                                                                 A fleeting life at-glance.

                                                      An endless and deathly expanse,
                                                      Drawn øn-and-tø the galløws
                                                      Øf a single man's breath,
                                                      Nøt an acølyte's trance.

                           Seen nøt the martyr,
                           Undøne and løst tø be,
                           But Death's ebøny garter.

A missive løst in transit-barter,
Seen nøt førever until they,
Førgøtten and degraded,
Are løcked in Tragedy's armør.

Children and child
Søldier and faun,
A tragedy yet-undøne,
Tø see this day unføld,
Dawning and pure,
Løst amøngst the wild.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        We are the
                                                                                                                                                                                                                        with nø faces.

Out-of-Character: In short, this is up for interpretation. In truth, it may actually have no meaning at all.

It is a series of words that decided they needed to be written.
Last edited by Black Century International on Fri Oct 07, 2011 8:27 am, edited 2 times in total.
"Humanity was burning too slowly..."

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Posts: 2090
Founded: Feb 02, 2011

Postby -Deus- » Sun Oct 09, 2011 4:53 pm

I'm Back Bitches
It stinks on the streets, with the smell of urban decay and filthy people. Running these streets reminds me of every other city I’ve gone to; all the dead bodies piling up on Sunday, the sirens wailing and your furs drenched in the blood of some everyday cat. But there’s no place like home you know and as I step out of my fine shinning white and purring machine of pure style, I take in the piercing cold feeling I loved so much about my home city that you can only get as 10 mph blizzard winds smack up against you.

I love my city so.

There’s a bitch on my right arm and a ho on my left. They both wear crimson dresses that highlight their gorgeous asses and pompous busts, the one of the right darkly skinned and the one on the left distinctly Asian. They’re my top girls, you know. They’ve never let me down to date and I make sure to treat ‘em right at the end of the day. One gives me a quick peck on the cheek as we begin to walk slowly towards the tall, forbearing building that shines like gold. My old HQ.

We walk on the red carpet with the swag only one of my profession can muster. I mean, how can I not be bitchin’ as I stroll down the carpet wearing a white fur coat over my naturally purple suit? My momma told me to take pride in yourself and I’m determined to follow her word. One of my girls strokes my hair under my matching hat and I make sure to flick the thing off my lushes black locks with the butt of my silver cane.

By the time we make it to the door, a tiny Asian kid with gapped teeth has already opened the door, his red coat dingy and reeking of icy sweat. I wink at him and step through the glass doors, smiling at the shocked faces as I lift up my arms and go wide eyed. The bitches are grouped together, clustered around assortments of fat Asians who wouldn’t even pay them for shaking their asses so gloriously. No one wants to speak to me as I walk in a bit more, my arms still up and my smile still there. One of my girls takes out her piece and fires at the ceiling, the fat cat Asians running from their position mid-thrust, their package flapping all over the place.

I turn to them as they run, and yell out “I’M BACK BITCHES!”

It's really good to be back. Heh, it’s real good.



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