All the Little Angels (Semi-Closed)

[Waldenburg 2]

Fantasia In D Minor

I remember the little sapling.
How small and fragile they appeared.
It is now mighty tree.
I remember the tiny stream.
How it ran over tiny pebbles.
They are now deep rivers.
I remember the beautiful child.
How small and precious he seemed.
He is now a mighty soldier.
I remember the night.
How long and cold it appeared.
It is now day.
I remember the mountain.
How strong and immovable it seemed.
It is now nothing.

Ludwig Graf Shöne von Niebbel


Little pebbles; that was what it was about, little pebbles rolling big stones and then bringing down mountains. Legend began in such inauspicious places, tragedy drew its inspiration from the most mundane affairs and the feeling of blithe normality that one feels proceeds regularly until the point where it collapses into the reality of the nature of things.

Most people could remembered the wind whipped banners as Waldenburger troops marched of the fight the Picitsh; most people could remember the behemoths of men, shoulder to shoulder as the frost crystallized on their silver helmets and the cold wind snapped their regimental banners. Everyone remembered when they returned that summer; everyone remembered the parades, the flowers, the singing as the recently flexed muscle settled to peaceable amiability.

It was a peace not destined to last; through no fault of Waldenburg, it was always held, through no fault of the recently returned soldiers or of the statesmen whom behind closed doors, in salon parlors demanded concessions be made to the hawk. So when the LION roared and menaced the Hegemony a plan was made, the Hegemon was arrested, his cabinet detained and flown to Waldenburg by former diplomats and the LION heads of state invited to interrogate and flaunt their perceived power as the Hegemon was chained before them at Bad Amburg castle.

“Julliette’ was played through the Empire, through all the MU, as the Hegemon, stood, brushed off his chains and unleashed the arrayed fury at his disposal. A very few men, left alive in the world, saw the haggard, beaten, and tired little man stand up, but when he did it was sent shivers down the spine of all present, sent piercing white hot light through their soul, and lit in their hearts a flame which was never put out. There was something later to be said of that little man; with his little mind, and little country that changed the Empire more than all the prophets and hierarchs of the Church.

That very same night there poured from the Waldenburger continent a rain of destruction that lit up the dark and dreary world from Easen, where supposedly allied battleships to Greston threw shell after shell into the enemies of the Hegemony, to Barronia where the faithful strapped bombs to themselves and embraced the host of angels. As Waldenburger ships shelled Greston and Lux Aeterna saw the death of LION across the globe, Amburg became a byword for treachery and the death toll in Greston was catastrophic, as civilian bodies began to pile up under the unrelenting rain of shells. There was perhaps bred in that moment the last glimmer and shimmering of hope for the Waldenburger people. Hafenstadt was struck and almost obliterated, opening again in years to come, generations of hostility with the Leistungi.

Everyone remembered though, the flyovers, the roses, and the speeches; everyone remembered the exhilaration of victory, and for a moment, and if only for a moment, the glories of Empire.

Such victories last for moments only, and the frenzied enthusiasm was bit once more by the sharp bite of reality. Ghogoloth, with Grestonian assistance, with traitors and thieves, came to Waldenburg; and as the continent stood alone, the last bastion of defense against the irony of defeat and ignoble slavery.

Against all reason though, against all hope, against everything that should have been there was one more roar of defiance left in freedom, the last headlong charge to suicide, as Greston rose occupied and outnumber and bit the very throat of the invaders. In one confused day it all changed; it all changed again, and traitors rediscovered their courage, steeled themselves once more and flung themselves forward.

As the Kreigian fleet lay burning in Blünderburg harbor, the city too in flames, the defenders raised the Grestonian flag over the WIS Machiavelli, all across the Empire. Everybody, of all nations, remembers that night and what in meant to the world. The Empire could not forget though what it had cost them, and when Greston was finally subjugated there was hardly a whisper to be heard of liberation.

As war weary soldiers removed themselves from their bunkers and wiped the grime from their face, history had indeed been kind to Waldenburg and her people.

There were other plots, other secrets, other wars; great and terrible tragedy; but nobody remembers them.

--

It was cold up on the battlements, the usually chill air of the mountains not helped by the stiff breeze that snapped the pennants of Waldenburg; the Imperial banner bedecked with gilt and heraldic pomp, and the much more Spartan Grestonian banner that cracked alongside it.

There was of course something to be said of the correct drama for the moment, but the small party of Waldenburgers waiting in what promised to be a thick fog later on, could feel only the condensation dripping on the back of their neck and the breeze slip through their silken formal wear. One could, if the imagination was so suiting, see a string of black limousines on the winding mountain road that eventually terminated in the ample courtyard of Bad Amburg castle.

Every step up here had been agony though, on old knees, most things were; and the steps were treacherous no matter how many times the servants had swept the dew from them. The stone was chilly and damp; the same could be said of the Grestonians but….

That was the most treacherous thought of all, and as the weak sun poked through in the west the fresh stones of the castle glittered with an optimistic sheen. They were so new, replacing the old castle that had stood for centuries on the same spot. Perhaps this time it would be built to last. And maybe the cold winds weren’t so cold after all, and maybe the sun was slightly brighter than one would first perceive.


OOC TG for entry; slight history of events before RP.

[New Greston]

Cello Concerto in C Minor

History had been carved by tragedy; every little movement, every aspect of modern Grestonian life had been paid for through the nose. The price being millions of lives, bodies in the carnage filled battlefield that entire cities turned into. Victory had been wrought with much risk, there was no singing or praise; victory has never been used as such a device for tragedy in all of history before.

No disdain could be seen as Grestonian, Alogorthian, and Waldenburger soldiers alike marched through the muddy fields, trudged past the snowy mounds of soils, and charged with the valor and ferocity that one only sees inside the most patriotic of armies. No disdain was wasted on eachother, only on the souls of every last Pict soiling the good land of Mediterranica with it's presence. That summer there was no funerals, no piles of deceased, nameless people heaped into the Westminister Strait; back when there was peace, when there was no greif.

And there was no sorrow on the early November morning as the silver clad warships graced the water for their collision course for Sumgaia. There was nothing in the world that they thought could silence the LION's roar. The beast had awoken and a light was shining once again, in the eyes of every boy who boasted of their fathers' and brothers' bravery as they were shipped off to fight. There was a twinkle and a kick to the walks of every boy who was convinced that their fathers' and brothers' were responsible for the capturing of Lord Sumguy.

The cubs flocked to Bad Amburg, and chained there was the near lifeless body of one of the most powerful man in the world. By the end of theday, that power was shown when entire Empire's collapsed at the sight of his tired rising body and the news of the deaths of all of the delegates.

There was grief as the Waldenburgers sang; there was sorrow as the Waldenburgers died faithfully in the name of their Church across Barronia; there was sadness as shells rained down upon Easen, as if rain drops, when Lux Aeterna saw it's darkest day. There was tribulation as the same boys once striding were manning turrets they had never seen before in their lives. There was woe as families saw their friends and family tossed into the river and aside, wantonly, in means of clearing the streets for the defenses. There was anguish as business eyed city blocks collapsing, city blocks they lived on. There was heartache as fires streched across business places and people ran for their lives, with no hope, no where left to go.

There was no glory when the Waldenburgers were finally repelled and their sailors left to drown in the burning Westminister Strait.

For seven days Easen burned and survivors of the air battle, the hail storm of flak, and the naval battle in the Strait still were dying; drowning in their war machines, trapped like mice beneath the glimmering blue waters that were then sullened and soiled by tragedy. For seven days Easen burned and for two years so did Mediterranica.

Not even victories at Isthmatia, Courbournia, Corslak, and Serstabele. At Bad Amburg and Islay, the Aliquantian or Nuevan Seas; no such carnage was wrought that was comparable to that of Easen. The traitors burned, their colonies razed and their people punished. Isthmatia had been stormed and the final resting place for all but one LION representitive was now in ruins from a Vetakan missile strike. The days of old, bearueacratic Mediterranican Union ran Mediterranica was no more; the Imperial Republic's flag for once was seen above all others. The waves had nought but been claimed as Grestonian, nothing could stand against the Imperial Navy. Nothing could stand against a Grestonian's cammraditity.

Gholgoth came, by then Easen repaired and Mont-du-Plame became the resting station of the Freekish army. Ponentia laid in ruins, it's empire under siege from all routes. Warships flew towards Waldenburg, Yallak and Aschenhyrst falling for a Gothic Mediterranica one by one. Administrations came and went, from Yallak to the Imperial Republic itself, a new President was sworn in; the nation finally nearing the end of it's mission.

One faithful day changed it all; June 3rd would forever be remembered as the day Greston broke it's chains. June 3rd; the day that Easen once again rose in infamy. June 3rd; the day that Mont-du-Plame found it's bravery and bore arms, causing the end of 150,000 Sentinels in a hellstorm of fire and force of arms. June 3rd; the day the Grestonian flag was raised all over the region, and not due to imperialist force, rather due to the bravery displayed.

Liberty was upon them, no dark approaching terror ahead; war torn soldiers, tattered and tired, tredged out from the ruins of Solenia, out from the ruins of the Mont-du-Plame country side. Victory had been gained; the tragedy of history over for the mean time.

Madoc talked, and he plotted, he did his job to the fullest but nothing would ever live up to his compassion and work on June the 3rd.

---

A castle once stood were he stood now. A drizzle was the only thing that reassured Madoc he was alive, he was awake, he was safe. There was none of the sorrow of the Grand Alliance War in the eyes of the on-lookers; no one had not been affected by such a catastrophic war. The carnage and death tolls could still be seen in a regular Grestonian's eyes from time to time.

But the Waldenburgers were harder people.

The flag flickered, the wind giving the two standards a feeling of patriotism. No man could stand there and watch the flags and not see the poetic feeling it harboured. The flags Madoc had his back to, his hands burrowed in the pockets of his coat. Music floated gently to his ears from behind the crowd, the anthems of both nations thundered above the clammer, above the occasional, misplaced drop of rain that landed on the microphone.

There was tragedy the entire nation shared, the days of a bloody capital, the wars spread across the region, and the constant rising death tolls were witness to the national tragedies. Then there was every day tragedy; tragedies that would not make it in the history books. Tragedies like one flag being slightly lower than the other at a meeting, tragedies like the death of a relative of a leader. Tragedies like a white peace being made between Greston and Waldenburg on the belief that perhaps an official peace would end the generations of hatred and racism that would be shared against each other.

Such was the ways of the day.

[Waldenburg 2]

Care Selve

Heels clicked, and sabers gleamed in the line of grenadiers that stood ready to welcome President Madoc of the Grestonian Republic; there was odd irony to it all in that even a few weeks ago the swords would be poised to strike and kill the man who was in equal parts savior and enemy of the Empire. Dignitaries and diplomats stood shivering in full ceremonial dress, their ermine trimmed collars doing little to push off the November breeze.

Amburg had been redecorated specifically for the occasion, and the dark green bunting of the Empire was in equal parts with the red and white of Greston, which hung between the avenue created by the pillared courtyard. The silver of ornamental halberds glittered with a fake sincerity, and everywhere one turned they could see soldiers.

It took hardly any time at all, though it felt like ages for the train of long black limousines to pull through the front gates, which themselves had not be replaced and hung open at odd angles, and disgorged two dozen or so black suited men, and amongst them, though hardly the most imposing, President Madoc could be picked out.

‘….Smile…. maybe it will console that poor man… for what we’ve done to him.’ Like galleons under full sail, the Waldenburgers approached, two deep, their dark green robes sweeping the fallen leaves from the single gnarled maple tree of the courtyard, which had surprisingly survived the onslaught earlier. In perfect, almost mechanical precision all but one of the Waldenburgers bowed low, their tall stockings emerging from their ornamental mantels.

‘I wonder how he does it? How he stands there… and looks me in the eye…’ the official herald began his duties of calling out the names of guests and hosts alike; and the list continued on and on as the two parties, after exchanging handshakes and other terse insincere greetings the parties were escorted through a set of wide double doors into the main keep of the castle. The light grew exponentially as what appeared to be most of a tree was burning on the hearth set aside in one wall. From outside one could hear the faint whisperings of the two or three thousand people whom had camped around the castle to hear the speeches being piped outside from within the castle.

Servants dipped low bows as the party strode past; in every step, in every piece of meticulously chosen furniture and ornamentation the eloquence and ostentation of the Empire was constantly assured. The floor, itself a map of the Tyrrhenian continents, had cities picked out in great opals, while rivers in seas were great slabs of lapis, and the compass rose inlaid with garnet and rare woods; ringed with period, and stamped with silver. The ceiling above was a painted and stylized depiction of the Battle of Mont-du-Plame; with Madoc himself, twelve feet tall wrapped in the Republican banner, and directing a battery of artillery at the far removed mountain and Gothic positions. The room itself was cavernous and a statue to the Emperor; in full regal robes dominated the center of the room, directly under Madoc’s painted glare.

‘Yes yes…. Look at me…. and look at you, look at everyone, and see it all’

The party continued into the building pushing through ornate corridor after another until, after sometime, they arrive in a small inner room; where two podiums could be seen arranged around a central dais, behind which a much smaller fire provided a pleasant glow.

‘For what it will be worth Mr. Madoc, for everything that we did, and everything we were going to do.’

Around the various corners and formally arranged upholstered chair the various dignitaries took their places until approximately fifty people were sitting politely; Madoc and the Emperor took the two podiums in purposeful and regal strides.

‘And what do they want from us? So many faces, hmn, its still so hard….’

“I wanted,” The Emperor began when the general hubbub had died away and he cast his sapphire glance around the room, “to give a stirring speech; to in some way explain matters. I wrote things down, but….” The Emperor faltered; something he very rarely did. “They aren’t enough, never enough, there is ultimately only one avenue of discourse available, and that is to forget. When, for those is this room whom remember my late mother, she lay dying in Battenburg I asked her what it was like to be a monarch; how she lived with the fears of the unknown, the guilt of choice, and in the shadow of the after. She said she didn’t and was perfectly happy to die with them. She did of course.

There may be no absolution, there may be no forgiveness, but time may bless us with the realization that our faculty to do destruction on to one another has far outraced our hearts and we will, we have, all paid the price. Though this castle, this treaty, Easen itself may last for a thousand years and perhaps it will outlive our pettiness and animosity there are no guarantees as to our future besides our stern commitments and promises to a true and lasting peace.

In the ruins of Blünderburg, in the blocks of Easen, in the shell of the MUIZ, in the heart of every man, woman and child let us take the tired and weary labors and instead of the cadence of war let us beat up a mirror factory, and for the next year turn out nothing but mirrors, and for the year after that do nothing but look into them. We shall find all the humanity we have ever needed in the wreckage of our misplaced pride; and perhaps then, maybe then we will learn that it is not enough to survive. There are still unburied Imperial soldiers in Pondderborg, in Hemlichstern, and I can think of no more suiting epitaph than to forget their struggle; to bury it under a shroud of paper; and hope they find their own remittance as we build our own. Afterall what Mr. Madoc, what are we here for?” The Emperor placed his hand on the stiff leather of the treaties’ presentation folder, felt the silver threads of his embossed seal, the very coolness of their poignant silence.

Madoc straightened his tie slightly, wet his dry throat and opened his mouth, “Peace my friend…” the room went white and the lights went out, as the podiums were pitched headlong across the room in the blinding explosion. Chairs were overturned, and the down of their stuffing clouded the smoking room; the treaty, unsigned, burned merrily and was wafted about on sudden updrafts as men thrown to the floor screamed in pain or confusion. Blood was everywhere and what little was left of the front dais was primarily in the ceiling and scattered about the opposing wall.

Bodies lay everywhere, and soldiers were filling through the outer doors at a run, adding to the confusion.

‘I see angels…. So many little angels…’

[New Greston]

"Für Elise," Bagatelle in A Minor, WoO No. 59

A coloumn of grenadiers, on either side of him, were what guided the President through the door and into a grand hall, dignitaries and royalty lining the inside. Ermine trimmed collars, thinly laced dresses, red clad felt shirts and flannel jackets, the dread of ceremonial clothing in as faithful a month as November.

There were more soldiers in the room then people, and with an even more concerning ratio; more Waldenburger's than Grestonians. The full extent of Grestonians present were what clung to Madoc's presence, the aides, the coffers, the workers, the advisors, the guards. Men, and women alike, with guns, eying the weaponry that stood fast against the walls and at peoples' sides as dress. It was a different culture.

"Mont-du-Plame," Madoc's lack of words were upsetting to all, to say the least. He had not spoken a single word the entire rid to the castle and little to nothing throughout the day; he even neglected to recite his speech in front of the mirror earlier in the morning, waiting for breakfast.

His eyes were set on his likeness in the mural above of him, a majestic, wavering banner of the Republic, artillery depicted thundering behind him. Futher down on the wall was what looked like dieing Freeks, and to their left an onslaught of Grestonian soldiers, bayonets fixed and ready. He pulled his head away to see a grim likeness of the Emperor, foot adjusted and robes and garments on, in the form of a large marble statue.

As names floated back to him from out side the doors, he could not help but stare deep into the cold, marble eyes of Wyatt; ever waiting for him to blink, hop up, and start conducting the speeches. But no statue would do such a thing and Madoc was not himself as of late. When he finally came out of his transe, he found himself surrounded by servants who would not walk past him without stopping to bow. He looked down to see his feet planted somewhere in the Bay of Ruckinia.

He was greeted by formality after formality, every single symbol ever know to held as sacred within Tyrrhenia was being thrown at him, non chalantly, in the form of furniture, decorations, food, and even the floorings. The red and white of the flag would stick out in the corner of his eyes ever so often, pointing, telling him that they were there. That Greston was not forgotten.

With a shake of his head, he continued to follow the ever moving crowd into a smaller room, crowded with furniture and ornate chairs and nobody seemed to be sitting in. Finding his spot on the dais, he strode towards it, making the final steps look especially regal, for the crowd to absorb him. The truth was he was born of an anarchist and a drunk; turned now the most powerful man in the free world.

The guests had seemed to appear in their chairs as Madoc did not witness the movement step, simply witnessing the room go from chatting to intense listening as Wyatt placed his eyes across the room.

Tormenting scenes of dead, burning bodies piled on the side of roads in Easen kept reappearing in Llywelyn's eyes. The precious, formal, ceremonial setting with the fancy soloist playing in the background would quickly turn into a scene of carnage, the only visible feature being fierce fires raging across the span on the view. Madoc closed his eyes, washed the thoughts from his brains.

“I wanted to give a stirring speech; to in some way explain matters. I wrote things down, but….” A quick fumbling for words appeared, something that would be skipped over in the history books but Madoc would never forget. “They aren’t enough, never enough, there is ultimately only one avenue of discourse available, and that is to forget. When, for those is this room whom remember my late mother, she lay dying in Battenburg I asked her what it was like to be a monarch; how she lived with the fears of the unknown, the guilt of choice, and in the shadow of the after. She said she didn’t and was perfectly happy to die with them. She did of course.

There may be no absolution, there may be no forgiveness, but time may bless us with the realization that our faculty to do destruction on to one another has far outraced our hearts and we will, we have, all paid the price. Though this castle, this treaty, Easen itself may last for a thousand years and perhaps it will outlive our pettiness and animosity there are no guarantees as to our future besides our stern commitments and promises to a true and lasting peace.

In the ruins of Blünderburg, in the blocks of Easen, in the shell of the MUIZ, in the heart of every man, woman and child let us take the tired and weary labors and instead of the cadence of war let us beat up a mirror factory, and for the next year turn out nothing but mirrors, and for the year after that do nothing but look into them. We shall find all the humanity we have ever needed in the wreckage of our misplaced pride; and perhaps then, maybe then we will learn that it is not enough to survive. There are still unburied Imperial soldiers in Pondderborg, in Hemlichstern, and I can think of no more suiting epitaph than to forget their struggle; to bury it under a shroud of paper; and hope they find their own remittance as we build our own. Afterall what Mr. Madoc, what are we here for?”

For whatever reason a flash of Easen floated through Madoc's head; the majestic, lined court yards, fluttering doves who flitter off as people approach. It had rained the last time Madoc was in Easen.

Madoc straightened his tie slightly, wet his dry throat and opened his mouth, “Peace my friend…” the room went white and the lights went out, as the podiums were pitched headlong across the room in the blinding explosion. Chairs were overturned, and the down of their stuffing clouded the smoking room; the treaty, unsigned, burned merrily and was wafted about on sudden updrafts as men thrown to the floor screamed in pain or confusion. Blood was everywhere and what little was left of the front dais was primarily in the ceiling and scattered about the opposing wall.

Bodies lay everywhere, and soldiers were filling through the outer doors at a run, adding to the confusion.

His vision was flared, all that was visible was the beady sweat and white streaks blinding his sight. Blinking relentlessy gave his eyes a break enough for him to wish he had not done so; he could not hear any thing but the ringing noise you get when you hear something loud. Without sound and with out missing a step, a nameless aide in the bearuacracy that is the Grestonian Government was on his knees next to Madoc, his jacket torn from off his back and used to beat out the fire.

Madoc could feel the scorching heat on his right leg, his fleshing twisting and turning and boiling; a pool of blood surrounded what was left of his left leg. Aides had rushed in upon him, beating out the fire, gripping his hand that clawed wantingly at the sky.

With his last breathe, a dabble of blood at the tip of his mouth, "Oh Eason! How I will never see your spring again."

[Waldenburg 2]

Sarabande

November 8th, 2013

Smoke and ash cluttered the air as the Waldenburgers picked themselves off the floor and felt for their wounds; guards were doing what they could to evacuate the more seriously wounded and make an impossible attempt to fight the small localized fires that engulfed the formerly ornate furniture.

One figured moved with a define purpose, his uniform half charred, his braid blown away, and most of his eyebrows missing towards the front of the room and the wreckage of the first podium. He stepped over the groaning form of President Madoc; treading on his fingers with the immaculately polished boots of the Imperial Army.

A pair of rough hands were laid on the lapels of the Emperor, who attempted with kitten weak hands to bat the arms free.

Prince August Ludwig pulled his head closer to the Emperor’s reclined form and whispered frantically in his ear, “Who inherits father?” The Prince’s breath was hot on the face of the old man. There was no response but a pained groan from the reclined Emperor, “who inherits?” Ludwig now bellowed.

“Inherits?” his father’s voice was porcelain thin and quavering.

“Yes, who takes the throne, father?” Ludwig began to shake the lapels of the tattered robe, “who becomes our Emperor?”

“Ah…”

“You stupid old bastard!” The Prince screamed as he pounded his fist against the ground, and another against the bleeding chest of his father, “Who takes the crown?“

“…Whomsoever can pull it from my poor graying head…” he said no more, and his eyes faded till they were starting at nothing in particular.

“He’s dead,” Ludwig stood, brushing off his uniform, “he said I will be the next Emperor.” No one paid him any attention as the wounded capered about the room in what appeared an aimless pantomime, “aren’t you listening, convene the electors? I am to be your Emperor! He is dead! Can’t you hear me? He is dead!”
--

November 10th, 2013


Rumor and treachery moved faster than any army, and the flickering of discontent ignited faster than any flame. From the castle at Bad Amburg there moved, in no tangible fashion or with any measurable speed, the certainty that everything had changed; that in a moment and a twinkling of an eye everything that was certain was now open for conjecture. Considerable effort had obviously been placed in the assassination and removal of the Emperor and perhaps the perpetrator would be somewhat vexed by the way the rumor spread, “The Emperor Is Dead,” no one said it, no one would say it, out loud as gossips and rumormongers who knew a friend of a friends had been in the castle, and said he was dead, would.

The government was unnaturally silent on the matter and the next morning had only posted a yellow coded curfew banning public demonstrations and meetings above five persons. The notice had been nailed to the door of Leipziger Hall, and the bureaucrat disappeared, ashen faced behind the oak doors of the administrative ward of the Ministry of the Interior. Normally bustling administrative avenues, compacted normally with seas of ministerial grey were emptied of all but a few lost and bewildered civil servants whom did not seem responsive to the gentle, then furious probing of curious individuals.

No one would say it for fear of it becoming true.

There had in the past few months been a great upward leap by junior ministers as their seniors were lined up before a firing squad and shot for a number of crimes, ranging from once prevalent corruption, to downright dirty treason. 13,000 officers of state and military had been put to death, and promotion had come rapidly for those with little or no experience in the ministries, till the head of most departments were red faced interns, whom if nothing else were loyal to the Emperor. Such inefficient distribution of power was an entirely expected situation when the Emperor wielded the mace of state with absolute and unflinching control; now however there was a great question as to what would happen to the fresh generation of leaders.
--

Patent leather clicked in the way only leather could on marble; and courtly robes billowed as only they can. It had been decided by Cardinal Joachim the moment was an indispensable one to make amends for the past; he lead the delegation himself. ISS agents shadowed the columns cautiously as the dozen or so men pushed their way through the Imperial Palace, brushing through the elaborate doors and rooms with not so much as a glance at the elaborate tapestry and furnishings.

Striding through the Portrait Gallery where the ebony and gilt busts of previous Emperors stared through stoic eyes at the procession, one could almost perceive the changes to the Empire over the two thousand years of her existence, as style, fashion and the turn of brow indicated. A keen observer would note a fresh white pillar had been trundled out and placed at the end, which sat empty, and brooked a worried glance from those assembled.

A pair of French doors was opened at the end of the hall and the delegation fanned out through them.

“Your Highness,” Cardinal Joachim began; the cleric noticed the black band around the young prince’s arm; noticed the medals glistening upon his chest, and noticed the gentle rain that was plinking at the Pontean windows that opened unto the vista of the Imperial Gardens, “in consultation with the Magisterial Council….”

“Is it true?” Prince Lucious Cato von Waldenburg only titled his head to send one red rimmed eye over the dozen or so courtiers that stood across the Imperial Study from him, “ he said ‘whomever can rip it from my fingers?” There was a silence punctuated only by the patter of rain.

“It is our considered opinion, and that of the Church and assembled burghers, and nobles , and electors of the realm that we offer you, Prince Lucious Cato von Waldenburg, the Divine and Illustrious Crown of Waldenburgers and Her Domains across the World.” From a purple velvet pillow the silver circlet glinted invitingly. It was a normally contemptible looking thing, misshapen and crumpled on one side, faded on the other; but when one took into consideration the history and portents of power, the single sapphire glinting from the circlet invited a great deal of internal speculation.

Cato turned at last and cast one imperious eye downwards at Cardinal Joachim, who as custom had fallen to one knee, and consequently now very much regretted doing so, “I accept with all my heart the duties and dignities of the Kingdom of Waldenburg, Margrave of the Border Marches, King of Ibblesguard, and Margrave of Paloni and all peoples over which God has given me dominion to govern.”

The crown was raised in slim pale fingers and pressed gently to Cato’s head gently before being returned to the pillow.

“And what shall you take as your regal name?”

“By the Grace of God His Most Imperial Majesty…” the Prince paused slightly before pressing on, “Cato II.”

“So God wills it!” The delegation chorused and rose to their feet, only to bow again. With the ceremony over the Cardinal Joachim approached the Prince and laid a gloved hand upon his shoulder while speaking into his ear, “The Electors will meet later today and officially elect you, and we will announce the Emperor’s death and begin the interregnum.”

Cato nodded slightly. “Thank you Your Imminence. Please convey my respects to the Council of Bishops
--

The day past in confusion; or rather the marked lack of it, as the cogs of government ground on with apparent ease, and at five when the Imperial Mercantile Bank closed, there had been no rush on the till, at six when the Imperial Flag was lowered over the Ministry of the Interior there was no angry mob demanding information, and when at seven the Imperial Guard took the salute of General von Solf that seemed to be the end of anxiety. When at nine the Emperor was declared dead, there was hardly a whisper.
--

Defying the most sacred traditions, which in this case had been tossed aside in the jubilation felt after the end of the Gothic Wars, a carnival had been set up in the Königplatz, and a ferris wheel, along with a great many numbers of other rides illuminated the dark grey square long past the curfew should have taken effect. Children, some of whom since the start of hostilities had never seen a carnival, stared in wonder at the explosion of color light and sound.

Happy parents were lead at hands length by children wanting to ride every ride, to test every treat, and see the few captured Kreigians that the government had put in glass cases, though on this particular night they had lost their snarl.

Steam whipped up off the ground as the rain of earlier was evaporated by the thousands of tightly pressed bodies, and vibrant naphtha lamps with their multicolored panes, and by the diesel engines of the overcrowded rides.

There was a rumble, unnoticed by the spectators and carnies alike that shook the colorful lamps on their taught lines. There was a drone, which drove the monkeys to shriek, and the children to shriek even louder.

From the mist came a pair of eyes, glowing bright red; they were followed shortly by a body; and armored body carrying a bayoneted rifle. Behind him hundreds of pin points of light were slowly clicking off as hundreds of soldiers, their night vision suddenly entirely unnecessary, flipped up their goggles. Behind the first column the rumble resolved itself into a leopard tank, on which four hooded inquisitors sat carrying between them the red and white, Orophont, flag of the Church. No one spoke for a moment; a silence was prevented by the now catastrophically inappropriate music blaring from the Ferris wheel.

His dress uniform done up badly, gloves sticking from epaulets, an officer detached himself from the crowd and stiffly marched towards the nearest soldier, whom he noted had a red cross emblazoned on his chest plate.

“What is the meaning of this?” Colonel von Bröz asked as imperiously as he could manage; a situation which was not helped by kitten whiskers painted over his face.

“We have orders from the Cenobiarch to arrest Crown Prince Cato, we have the appropriate warrants.” The soldiers voice was distorted by the gas mask he was wearing, and sounded to Colonel Bröz slightly troubling.

“The Cenobiarch? The Cenobiarch is dead. A new one has not been elected, your papers are either false, forged, or incorrect.”

“His Imminence Cardinal Throm disagrees with you on this,” the soldier noted levelly. “I have a warrant to serve, and you are impeding my path. Stand aside.” Bröz struggled for words; he did not intend to correct an armed man, an always-unwise career choice, but still felt it his duty to correct such blatant ignorance.

“Cardinal Throm?” He said weakly.

“Correct,” the soldier nodded his head slightly and held up his hand, signaling for his column to move forward. They did so, sliding through the fairgoers link black drops of ink through a sea of color; the tank had slightly more difficulty, but eventually a path was cleared, and the soldiers passed through without incident, besides an unfortunate cotton candy debacle, which left a hand full of children rather unhappy, and a carnival act much more amusing.

Bröz stared at their retreating backs as the column disappeared into the night towards the Imperial Palace. He tilted his head slightly, before jogging to the emergency police phone on the far left of the square, as the fair returned to its previous life.

“General Solf’s office please.” The phone was dialed quickly and Bröz waited patiently as the call was routed. “Captain Mainz? Ah, good. What this I hear about an arrest warrant for Prince Cato?” There was a moment of confused speech, before Bröz stood stiffly to attention, “Sir it is an honor! What? Oh, yes, some soldiers just passed through the Königplatz, claiming they had an arrest warrant for the Crown Prince…. About 200, heading up the Imperial Avenue. No sah! I am unarmed and off duty…. Of course sir right away….” The phone was slammed into the cradle and Bröz applied a whistle to his lips, which shrilly cut through the general noise. “Grenadiers!” He bellowed, “on me!”
--

Dark hoods passed under the faintly rustling leaves of the magnolias that acted as shade trees along the Imperial Avenue, the Imperial Palace lay directly ahead, a small blue light gleaming from the guard house.

Lieutenant Unz, peered through a set of binoculars at the mustering grenadier guards, “about twenty so far. No need to be skittish I think; corporal, open the gate.” A hooded inquisitor nodded and rapped twice on the hatch of the tank, which revved its engine experimentally. They began to roll, forward gaining momentum as it powered down the cobbled street. Floodlights were lit fifty meters before the guard house, where the Imperial Grenadiers were already raising their rifles to open fire.

Breezing past like a galleon under full sail, the Leopard tank smashed through the wrought iron gates, irrevocably smashing them open and crushing some of the more slow moving guards. The inquisitors calmly fired their Sten guns as the remaining guards dove to cover, and were subsequently mown down. Slowly slightly, the tank allowed the four inquisitors to jump down, robes flapping about their legs to continue with their extermination. Barely pausing for a second the engine revved again, and the leopard was propelled down the raked gravel path, scattering cranes from the ornamental lakes, and flinging gravel against the fine French window of the front of the building, which it subsequently ran head long into.

Marble and glass exploded inward as the ornamental masonry gave way to iron bulk which leapt over the foundation and crashed down into the Palace annex completely demolishing the 16th century fountain that had gurgled away for centuries. Iron, marble, glass and wood splinters clouded all vision for minutes as the debris settled; as it did soldiers poured through the breech.
--

“General Becker…. What? How many? Where is General von Kimnitz?..... General Pine? Where is the army?” After a few more moments the phone was thrown down and General Becker, head of Ministerial Security, grabbed his command cloak from his hat stand and motioned for his aide de camp, “The Divine Legion is attempting to storm the Imperial Palace. General von Kimnizt has abandoned his post and taken the 17th Brigade to the Königplatz where he is halting a police battalion from coming to the aide of the Crown Prince. Call Vice Admiral Tierhoff, present my compliments and order him to put Operation Kleidungstücke into effect.”

“What sir?” His aide looked bleary eyed up from a memo, “The Emperor is dead!”

“Yes they announced that some hours ago; get on it man!”

“…The Legion… its…” General Becker snarled furiously at the man and grabbed his command baton; as he strode by his office window he turned his head slightly to see a sea of flame out in the harbor, as the silhouette of a drifting and aflame destroyer disgorged sailors into the oil slick water. The 20 inch cannons by the harbor mouth, were furiously firing on one another; their automatic loaders, screaming to keep up with the demand as the behemoth guns blasted away at the other side of the harbor, or into the city itself.

“Call Admiral Tierhoff! Do it!” Becker bellowed and stalked out of the office; staff officers were poking their heads into the corridor and gawked plaintively at General Becker as he strode purposefully towards the exit. Telegraph paper was waved in front on his face, all of which he swatted aside, until a relatively short paragraph caught his eye. Without breaking step, he grabbed the paper, and jogged into the quickly chilling night. In the marshalling yard outside a battalion of Foot Guards, clicked their heels and came to attention.

Becker paused, took a breath, and held up the paper to eye level, “earlier this evening soldiers loyal to Cardinal Archbishop Throm began to storm the Imperial Palace in an attempted coup,” the General paused for a breath which came to him in a cloud of chilly steam, “they were routed by a flying column of the 18th Dragoons, and pushed back down the Königplatz.” There was one sharp unified bark of fraternal approval from the assembled battalion.

“Where the 17th Infantry Brigade, under orders of General Kimnitz has, repulsed the dragoons and is marching towards the palace once more.” From this vantage point, some half-mile south of the Königplatz, and a few miles from the harbor, the thundering of the heavy shore guns was a tympanic rumble shaking the foundations of the ministry buildings.

“We attack. Platoon commanders; you have your orders! Fallout!”
--

Through the delicately frosted windows, fires that in actuality consumed entire buildings appeared to be mere twinkling lights, framed between the elegant cypresses of the Imperial Gardens.

Of course the interior of the study was not untouched by the chaos, as the single black phone perched casually on the desk, rang constantly of chaos outside.”

“I don’t Goddamn care what Field Marshal von Metz said! Crown Prince Cato is alive; no, no, you will follow my orders…. Move the Third Army Group to Cruxhaven and seize the railhead… no… confirm!” General Solf was livid with rage as the call terminated and flicked without reprieve to the next one. “Third Battery will cease fire! The WIS Archon has been hit! No…. No, no chain of command is compromised; Operation Kleidungstücke is in effect, yes arrest Colonel Holmes, yes do it now!” Solf’s face fell as he held the receiver to his lips and blew into it.

“They’ve cut the telephone lines Your Highness.” Prince Cato himself did not seem to hear this, as he sat, thumb delicately tracing a line from Rex Carnium, the leather book sitting foppishly in his lap. “Your Highness, Your Highness?”

“What is the disposition of my armies?” Cato’s voice was far removed and he did not look up from his book.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Ah…”

Solf gulped, “There has been word though that the Fifth Army Group has mutinied and is marching on Blünderburg under the command of Cardinal von Mishenburg.”

“Quite a lot of men in the Fifth Army Group, isn’t there?” Cato asked blithely.

“Six million, Your Highness.”

“Quite a lot…” he licked his finger delicately, and turned the page in an infuriately calm manner. “Quite a few… What do you suggest General?”

Solf licked his lips delicately; this was a moment he had thought of for sometime, but the idea had only occurred to him, and the magnitude of his sudden whim, struck him; the general found himself sweating. “Flee.”

Snapping closed the book was tossed to the desk, “our situation is impossible?”

“At the moment I see no way of retaining control of Blünderburg without its destruction.”

“Then call… send a runner for the Imperial Steward, and the Chamberlain; find the Imperial Seal and send a runner for the treasurer; the treasury will be transferred with me.”

“As you wish sire.” Solf sprang from his chair, and as he strode to the door, he could feel his hands shaking.

“General?”

Solf turned slowly, nervously, “yes sire?”

“Make sure these animals do not disgrace my father’s domains.”

“To the death sire.” Solf turned and burst thankfully into the hall were household servants were, in the absence of other orders, finding things and polishing them. Field Marshal Gröning, whom was covered in dust himself and nursing a small wound on his arm halted in harassing his aide and bustled up to Solf.

“We just retook Cruxhaven, where is the Prince?”

Solf frowned, “After hearing news that the Fifth Army Group has mutinied; he has chosen to flee.”

“What? When? Field Marshal von Kleinder would never do that? Let me talk to him.”

“Unfortunately communications have been cut, and Fifth Army Headquarters has stopped responding to our hails on the wireless. “

“How could this happen?” Gröning collapsed into an ornamental chair and dusted lint and detritus from his leather overcoat.

Solf laid a comforting hand on his superior’s shoulder, “His Majesty was a most charismatic leader.”

“It all happened,” Gröning muttered bitterly, “too fast. Everything changed too fast.”
--

Voi Che Sapete

A timeless eloquence dictated to the pages of history hung over the Strein, it cities, and cathedrals, waning and waxing as they had in grandeur and style as the fates of the Empire were buffeted by reality, but always growing, spoke of a much simpler dictum than many outsiders perceived of the Empire. No matter the trappings, no matter the garb, or the barriers of civilization and pomp the Imperial Government had arranged, there was one fact of politics that pierced even the most blocked conscience; in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye we can be changed; and the dead are so rarely raised.

To the few pilots still in the sky with any clear purpose, Blünderburg was strangely, indifferent to the strife that multiplied through her streets. Smoke from the factories obscured most of the ground, but framed a scattering of stars through the inexplicable gaps in pollution through which a pilot could glimpse the flames, that looked from so far above like penny candles in a scattering of toy houses.

Cathedrals were glittering silver eggs, squares and parks squares of green and grey; and every cannon a sparkling ornament. From here there was no sound, the cannons were miming their intentions, and the mass movement of troops, like black waves, stormed silently down this street or another. One could feel, so far removed and distant from the tormented streets, a leaf blown by the wind; but war so rarely offered that serenity. And the pilots, those who did not feel the current of history upon them and simply turn to the east and increase speed, clung to their wireless’ in rapt attention….

“Ladies and Gentlemen, from the Blünderburger State Opera House we give you Dame Georgina Frühgluck and the Imperial Symphony presenting for you Voi Che Sapete…. It has been an honor playing for you….”

“Cease fire, cease fire, this is Rear Admiral Sm….”

“17th Infantry Division has seized St. Peter’s chapel in Hofburn St…”

“Voi che sapete Che cosa è amor…”

“Who is in command? Please, please? This is the 7th Foot Guard requesting orders? Repeat…”

“….by firing squad,”

“Lord Kainstins will be arrested and removed by the police…”

“Donne vedete S'io l'ho nel cor….”

“Surrendering our colors to the Divine Legion….”

“…Casualties mounting in and around 3rd Defense Quadrant. Where is our air support?”

“Who is firing upon us… No Legion presence reported…

“Quello ch'io provo Vi ri diro E per me nuovo Capir nol so…”

“Artillery probing positions around the Mall…”

“For the love of God, cease fire!

Sento un affetto Pien di desir Ch'ora è diletto Ch'ora è matir….”

“Second company has been wiped out….”

“…hold the line captain..”

"Gelo e poi sento L'alma avvampar E in un momento Torno a gelar….”

“Oh, God… help us….”

“Ricerco un bene Fuori di me Non sochi il tiene Non so cos'Ã….¨

“….”

“Voi Che Sapete!”

[Third Spanish States]

Berceuse and Finale

There was a caged beast, whose master have mistreated it for too long. But the beast was afraid, blind, seeing only what its master pointed ahead, and nothing more. The beast was wounded, suffering, without hope, but unaware of it, for it thought it was being put at such predicament for its wellbeing. The beast master pointed to the stars, the lifeless, thoughtless lights brighting, and the beast looked up. The lights gave it hope, as the master raised the beast up, and pointed again, to the heavens, then hanging it down and lashing it. But the beast still was thankful. It has lived in peace, submitting to the masters desire in the hopes of reaching heaven, until the master was gone, his limbs eaten by the wild beasts he couldn't stop, beasts lunging relentlessly, no matter how many of them perished, and then, the tamed beast looked at his master, naked, shredded, without worth, weak, and ate its head, moving on with the wild beasts through the forest as the wild beasts left, never looking again to the stars, and then, as the eons passed, the stars themselves died, to never be seen again, but new stars would still brighten the skies with the darkness of lies, new masters would yet show the lies to the beasts, and many caged and tamed beasts would still look up to them as their masters gave them a life of misery, and would be thankful. But eventually, the wild beasts would move on, and eventually, the cycle would be broken.

It has been two years now, and the struggle was not yet completely over, when the voices of compassion and forgiveness where changed by the continuous treachery of those they have forgiven and spared. The former Principality of Kell, amidst the northwestern borders of the old Paloni, was bathed in a crimson light as the evening beckons, red hues of blood through the lands, through the shattered ruins of the last chapels, churches and cathedrals dedicated to a forgotten God and his forgotten prophet, now only scorched remains of a fallen social order. The candles no longer burned, only burned the ashes of profaned sacred symbols set afire in the pyre of reason and anarchism that now have been erased, as many guilty and innocent in their ignorant obedience to the orders of their masters alike, have also been consumed, as the fury of those Edward, the Black Prince has inspired went beyond all limits of ethics, and sometimes, even morals. The revenge of the people for all the ruthless cabals the Church of Ceno has attempted against their newly gained freedom in the last two years has been the most merciless, savage and cruel three months ago. Father and Inquisitor were now forgotten titles other than for decayed, sad and hopeless piles of headless skeletons thrown to the depths of the very catacombs inside their churches. Young women proven to be collaborating with a regime and Church that murdered perhaps millions of political prisoners vanished, and never were heard of again. It was clear that those seeking to oppress them for egotistical advantages would taste how it feels to be oppressed, as Kell became far more pragmatic than idealistic, with no piety, no forgiveness given to the enemies of the people, only death and agony.

It was becoming even clearer that Edward was not afraid of resorting to all means necessary, at once, to crush the last remains of the old regime, while the only one who opposed verbally such acts, Felicia Jaumann, has changed after realizing that there was no way to stop the bloodshed forever than to completely wipe the Church of Ceno from Kell. Manhunts became common, bounties were placed, even entire families were murdered, in a show of how far the Black Prince believed that his ends justified any means, so the sons of those killed for being enemies of freedom would not live to seek personal revenge later, and eventually, all conspirators would be forced to run away to Paloni or Waldenburg for the number of allies inside Kell were constantly diminishing, and many were killed in their getaway. Then, for two months, no more incidents happened. And thus, while good actions have been building up gradually, improving the economy of the proving and bringing better life standards for most, a great evil was now done at once, so great that the enemies would perhaps never again have a chance to return and seek vengeance, and killing an even greater number of innocents, for some people were predestined to become scum... or perhaps not, but it was better to not risk another revival of the Year of the Long Knives, of the terrorist strikes, assassinations and brutalities their enemies resorted to in their despair as they were cowered like rats. Edward and even Felicia have smeared their hands with innocent blood, but, although there was still regret, they tried to think on how many future innocents that would otherwise die have been saved, that perhaps hundreds of thousands of deaths for saving millions of lives could be a moral trade in this dilemma. But even then, even though the acts influenced by their voices led to a death toll that paled in comparison to that of tyrannical States, they have lost something for each innocent they believe that was necessary to kill to save a greater number of innocents in the future. And sometimes they wondered if they have betrayed their own political ideals, if they were nothing but cleverly disguised tyrants now, and with doubt came guilt.

----------

"As far as I can tell, this is the death count of the two years of the civil war." a phantasmal apparition of Abbot Trezo spoke from behind a desk with a resonant voice that echoed in an eerie way, inside the same room where she once met him, months before she called the people to kill him, and it was not a small number. "I heard their confessions you know, both of the rebels and the reactionaries. They begged me for mercy in the confessional, they told me of the people they had killed because they were told to, or because they had wanted to, or simply in the passion of the moment, and they begged me for some sort of peace, and all I could give them was damnation. Then the people stopped coming and the killings continued, and the parish dwindled until Mrs. Romani was killed in her bathtub three months ago, and then there was no one to come and light the candles or say the prayers, and that, that is very wrong. So I do have one question, it has burned in me for some time."

Felicia ran for the door out of the room, and as she moved her hand to its knob, she forcefully tried to open it, but it didn't budge, as the Abbot continued, and his eyes began to bled, and his voice became eerier:

"What do you know about us? Our Church that vindicated you in its destruction? What do you really know about the Book of Ceno, and of the billions who hear his and God's word everyday? You came here, and hand full of you, and by the end of the year hundreds of thousands of blameless people are dead all in the name of freedom, and justice?"

Then her weary eyes witnessed as she uncontrollably began to pull her finger towards the trigger of a pistol she held, and ahead, in the dead end of an alley she was at, a desperate child, no older than seven years old, wept. She began to struggle against it, and began to shiver, as her finger only pressed further the trigger of the gun pointed against the innocent child. Felicia couldn't stop it, she only heard the pop, and saw as the dead child fell over the ground, and some blood began to cover the sidewalk.

Felicia shrieked, jumping out from her bed as her skin crawled and she trembled, and beads of sweat were all over her face and her eyes bloodied red from continuous lack of good sleep. Still holding the blankets with her hands, she swung to the side of the bed, and looked at her alarm clock. It was three o' clock, and turned to the doorway. Walking through her simple house, she headed to the bathroom, and showered herself, trying to forget. However, the image didn't come out from her head. She began to try everything to distract herself, and time passed as she didn't manage to go back to sleep. Her tenseness didn't ease, and eventually, morning came as she was still feeling desperation. It has been happening for so long now that it was difficult for her to remember when it started, only why it started.

A phone number was dialed. After six rings, finally the call was answered.

"Felicia, why are you calling me so early in the morning?" the voice asked, but seemed not truly annoyed about the fact, but understanding. It was him, the very men who suggested for her to come with him to Kell, to fulfill their ideals, their lifelong dreams. Edward, the Black Prince of Kell, the man who started everything, the man she has, for some time opposed for his ruthlessness. The man who taught her how to murder for a cause.

"I am guilty of genocide. I deserve death." Felicia answered in a desperate way, as her torment drove her to.

"What the hell are you talking about? You never did anything wrong my friend!"

"One million of human beings!" Felicia cried through the phone, "we killed one million of human beings! We are murderers!"

"Stop this Madness Felicia! Hadn't we done what we had to do, dozens of millions could have died!" Vaughn shouted impatiently

"Wrong! We cannot predict the future! We have killed people just because they might kill others in the future! We are murderers! Murderers! We'd deserve Hell if it did exist!" Felicia shouted, and threw her phone against the floor, crashing it and ending the call."

"Hundreds of thousands of blameless people!" the voice echoed in her head... the drawer was open, a pistol placed over her trembling, wrinkled hand, she was barely holding the weapon, as she dropped it over the mattress for one moment, and took a piece of A4 sized paper and a red colored pen from another drawer. She then began to write.

Nietzsche wrote that if you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes back at you. Now I understand, I have dreamed of a day I'd see what I believe at become real for much time of my life. Since my father died in war, fighting for what he believed at, I stopped fearing death, all I feared was to die for nothing, to live for nothing, and that I would be alone and forgotten during my last days, but such is not the reason I have written this message for.

I have learned much since that time I was barely in my adulthood, I have learned the virtue of patience, of perseverance, but I have lost much from the times I was younger. I have lost my innocence first, as I saw the cruel reality of this world, as I saw that being merciful with those whose beliefs made them enemies was rewarded with attempts to stab against my back. I have been for these two years in Kell, fighting for what I believed at, and then I finally lost the most important thing I have: my humanity.

Now I am a monster, for in my hands lie the blood of one million human beings, guilty and innocent alike. The cause of anarchism will never progress through the emulation of the acts of tyranny, and no human being will ever find peace if he is to use cruelty, regardless of whether he believes it is for a greater good or not, as now I realize how it is to become an assassin, to become a murderer of millions, and I feel more pity than disgust for those who have once followed my path for less noble goals, not that the fact the ends I have done my crimes for are noble make them less monstrous.

It is too late for me, for I will never be in peace again. According to some religions, my fate shall be Hell, and if it exists, I shall embrace it, knowing that for all the suffering I have caused in this world, for all the helpless I have murdered, for all the innocents I have tainted, I am deserving. And thus, I shall embark in one last journey to either damnation or nonexistence. I am sorry for all that I have incited people to do, for all the burden I have placed in the consciences of many. I cannot accept to live further, because if I do, I'll only become a worse monster and lose what I still have of humanity, for I have sacrificed enough of my humanity already for ensuring you shall live in freedom. Good luck, and goodbye, Free People of Kell.

Felicia Jaumann

Looking at the message, Felicia then was suddenly assaulted by the memory of other words from the same man she has killed.

"And in time when all vestments are ripped away you shall be so mired in blood that you shall no longer see your heart."

And once again, her weary eyes witnessed as she uncontrollably began to pull her finger towards the trigger of a pistol she held with her trembling hand. A part of her which wanted to still live began to struggle against it, and she began to shiver, as her finger only pressed further the trigger of the gun pointed against her own head. Felicia's instinct of survival couldn't stop it, and thus, she pressed the last inch of the trigger before activating the action of the pistol.

The sound of gunshot echoed through her neighborhood.

[Leistung]

OOC: I had almost forgotten how engaging of a writer you were, Waldenburg. Geez, time to break out the big guns.

Prologue

There was only one religion not permitted to be observed in the Federal Republic. It was, by most people's standards, a rather minor one anyways, and one which with the quiet passage of the Bundestag measure banning its practice would likely fade into relative obscurity. Its number of followers worldwide peaked in Tyrrhenia and Tarquinia, but in Haven, Waldenburg Catholicism was considered something of a sham when its similarities were compared to those of the Doomani Catholic Church; in Leistung, it was seen officially as nothing more than the foreign affairs office of the Waldenburger government.

It had taken three nights and the lives of seven Leistungi agents whose role in the fall of the Cenobiarch and the internal collapse of the Waldenburger Church had never officially been acknowledged by Falkenberg to topple the beast, and even then, it remained in the shadows, never fully eradicated, always moving to threaten the stability of the Waldenburger Emperor's secular government. It was that government which some three hundred thousand Leistungi soldiers had died to protect, in a time not so long ago. The civil and social reforms of Wyatt von Waldenburg, the man LNC had dubbed "the last just man in Waldenburg", and the treaty which had been struck between himself and Chancellor Ziegler's predecessor made him a hero in Leistung, in a land where to be Waldenburger was to invite prejudice.

This prejudice was by no means unfounded -- it was also not so long ago when, on a crisp autumn day in Leistung's largest city, Vice Admiral Thousis of Waldenburg had led a force of marines, thirty thousand strong, through the city in a rampage which would later see him tried in absentia in Falkenberg and sentenced to sixteen different counts of the death penalty. Years of searching through contacts in dozens of nations, allied and otherwise, had yet to turn the elusive Waldenburger up from the rock he had hid himself under. And it had barely been a year since photographs of the twenty nine thousand Leistungi members of the Waldenburger Foreign Legion had begun circulating in the Falkenberg Times, uncensored. The images of the men, crucified en masse, had the immediate effect of turning any sympathy for the Waldenburger state, arrayed against the forces of Gholgoth in a titanic struggle for the future of Tyrrhenia, into hatred.

And so, with iron resolve and a navy forged in fires of the city so recently visited by Thousis, some three million Leistungi men and women embarked on their vessels, bound for Blünderburg and baying for the blood of their Waldenburger counterparts. One hundred days was all it took. With casualty rates peaking at nine thousand men per day on the Leistungi side, and ten times that for their enemies at the worst places on the line, a desperate thrust was made by the Leistungi front line, driving deep into Waldenburg, but revealing to the General Staff and government in Falkenberg that victory could only be achieved with monumental bloodshed. There was not a man in Leistung who believed the citizenry would support the war for much longer.

When Wyatt von Waldenburg made his offer to the Leistungi government -- a peace so favorable to Leistung that Chancellors and those privy it still sleep with a copy next to their pillow, there was considerable suspicion. He revealed to Chancellor Ringkampf his reasoning for forcing Leistung into conflict with his nation; the Church, menacing as it was already, had become too powerful, and was threatening the liberties of the Waldenburg people and their secular government. Only foreign intervention from the comparatively tiny Federal Republic could stop it while preserving the secular government in a way that would avoid civil war. It was on that day that a bond was struck between leaders which would endure for the rest of the men's lives.

In return for keeping the treaty completely secret, the upper echelons of the Leistungi government would agree to participate in a purge of the Waldenburger state, sending thousands of KSK agents into Waldenburg to eliminate Church leaders and topple it from the inside. The result would be a Waldenburg the Leistungi government could only dream of -- one with that civil, political, and social liberties identical to those that they had been fighting for. And moreover, justice would be served for those Leistungi soldiers killed by the fanatical agents of the Church and those loyal to it in the Waldenburger government.

So, as Leistungi and Waldenburger soldiers continued their struggle on the fields of the nation, a separate war was waged, with those in the flecktarn of Leistung and the dull green of Waldenburg joined together in common purpose -- to destroy the Waldenburger Catholic Church from the inside. Three nights and seven agents. The months following those three nights saw the Bundesmarine continue its bloody stay in Tyrrhenia, but this time on a much different mission. Along with the Imperial Navy and forces from Yallak and other key Tyrrhenian nations, a titanic effort was made on the seas of Waldenburg. The trap which had been set between Leistung, Waldenburg, Greston, Sumguy, Yallak, and dozens of other nations was sprung, and in a single hour a massive assault was launched on Gothic forces across the region.

By year's end, a newly resurgent and newly Church-free Waldenburg, now bound in secret agreement to the Federal Republic, had emerged from Gothic clutches. A great debt of gratitude was owed on both sides, and since the end of the Grand Alliance war, the two nations had never again taken up arms against each other. Mutual respect between leaders and the absence of the fanatical Church had seen nicely to that.

OOC: This little prologue is to be quickly followed by a present day post from me, which will likely be up tonight.

[Leistung]

OOC: Woo, double post.

Chancellery Building
Falkenberg, Leistung
Present Day

"Perhaps you are mistaken, Eichel -- the Crown Prince has assumed the throne, made effective by the word of the elector counts." A brief pause ensued, the howling of the autumn wind through the Chancellor's open window juxtaposed with the silence of the room of officials, both uniformed and otherwise. "Yes, I understand completely that your information comes from the field, Colonel, but I can assure you that the secular government remains intact. Your credentials frankly mean quite little to me, Colonel, and I would appreciate you addressing me as Chancellor Ziegler in the future."

A door closed in the back of the room, and there was a look shot from them that the Chancellor caught even in his beleaguered state. It was not so much the look itself as the man who had given it which caused his spine to tingle; Admiral Beckenbauer did not scare easily, yet the eyes that now bore into Zieglers' were filled with fear. "Let me call you back, Colonel," Ziegler said, placing the phone down onto the receiver slowly. "Welcome, Admiral."

"I'm afraid it is much too soon to begin demoting Colonel Eichel, Chancellor," Beckenbauer gasped, obviously having run from Bundesmarine Command to the Chancellery Building. "My contacts in the field have reported soldiers on the grounds of the Imperial Palace." There was a hushed silence from a previously quiet room. "Divine Legionnaires and Inquisitors, Chancellor."

Ziegler turned from the room of advisors and officers to the enormous window that lay at the back of his office. A dusting of snow had already covered the cobblestone streets below, and Falkenberg's old town had turned in for the evening, nights of subzero temperatures and blustery winds having been predicted for some time now. The blue and white banner of Leistung flew at half mast above the Bundestag in memoriam of Emperor von Waldenburg, and it had been reported that a candlelight vigil was to be held in Osterwieck that same evening.

"Wyatt von Waldenburg was willing to risk death to purge the Church of its military arm," Ziegler finally said, his voice low. "And now it returns once more to make good on its claim to the throne." Hushed whispers were exchanged between the General Staff, every member of which seemed more frantic than the last. "He turned to the spires of Falkenberg for aid when he needed it most. And now his successor must pay for his, and our, actions.

"Our final casualty report was published only last week for the Hundred Day's conflict. General Gerber, what was the final tally?"

"Three hundred seventy thousand, Chancellor." He bowed his head as the number escaped his lips, and the others in the room followed suit.

"Three hundred seventy thousand..." Ziegler breathed, taking a moment to allow the number to materialize in his mind. "Not to mention those on the other side, who, in the end, fought for the same thing we did." There was an uncomfortable shuffle of bodies in the Chancellor's office as the secret agreement was mentioned. "Gentlemen, my predecessor did not allow those thirty thousand poor souls who died in Waldenburg to die in vain. And so nor I will allow the men who laid down their lives in freedom's defense, on either side, to die in vain. All that we and the late Emperor have worked for has begun to come unraveled, but for no longer. Admiral Beckenbauer?"

The Admiral clicked his heels and saluted. "Yes, Chancellor?"

"Make ready the ships."

--

OOC: I will in fact be supporting the current secular government as an extension of von Waldenburg's regime, though I believe you had me down for the Hegemonic side on the Tyr boards. Just as an fyi.

[Waldenburg 2]

Let Thy Right Hand Be Strengthened

November 11th, 2013

Scarlet robes billowed with a freedom they had not enjoyed for some time, as the cardinals stormed down the passageways of Scant Cathedral, the Basilica of St. Ambrose. Unlike the Basilica in Blüderburg this building was old; nearly 1200 years older than the seat of the Church, and cut directly from the cold grey stone of the mountains of Scant.

Everything about the behemoth building radiated a cold aura; the passages were cold, the stone was cold, and there was a certain cold defiance in the growing amount of clerics that were thronging the halls. Like all tyrants of the midlevel, their exercised their new found power in bursts of enthusiasm that despite the ever increasing flow of officers of the state phoning the growing Bureau of Allegiance and proclaiming that units as small as platoons had mutinied and were prepared to follow the proclaimed Cenobiarch Throm.

Scant was bristling with its new importance, and the highly conservative population of the city were already digging tank ditches on the southern reaches of the city limits, which were some dozens of miles, and thousand meet below. Built in the time when the last word in defense was a sizeable hill, Scant rode two large mountain peaks up at a gentle inclination, with the cathedral dominating the upper limits of one of the spires (the other being the old and uninhabitable fortress of Weißburg.) The city was an impressive one, and had become home to the sprawling factories and establishments of the Scant Consortium the singles largest industrial conglomerate, amongst a field of giants, that now spread down into several glacial valleys sprawling off of the center. Iron, silver, copper, coal, and oil, was pulled from the mountains and seas, refined in Consortium factories then shipped via an impressive railhead to Blünderburg where it was thrown into the perplexing array of final factories,

The city, the entire region, once the Kingdom of Ibblesguard, was entirely different from the Strein river valley and Waldenburg as a whole; the mountain clans still held court and appointed the justices and enforced the public good. Once of course the mountain people’s had been subjugated in a cruel series of crusades some 1400 years previous the Waldenburger Church had built either a fortress or chapel on every mountain top and the Ibblesguarder had become a bastion; both of faith and firepower; two items which are usually inclusive.

The small rebel government of Throm, and Admiral Blünder had declared it their seat and moved their growing staff there from disjointed commands, or in the worse cases, individuals on the plains. And support had been arriving ever since.

“Allow me a moment of,” Throm paused and ran an elegant laced glove over the burn marks on his cheek, “of stunned introspection.” The deacon that had drawn the unfortunate straw to deliver the news to the Cenobiarch sweated noticeably despite the freezing air. Throm’s faced flicked dramatically until he held a finger to his check in comic perplexity, “so explain to me how I sent 22,000 men to raid Blünderburg, and I hear a day later, I have pockets of soldiers under my command numbering up to 50,000? Explain to me, why Blünderburg is on fire, and where the Crown prince is?”

“Apologies Lord, but I have none of those answers; however reports from our field commanders suggest that Imperial positions are still firing on one another; and independent reports from the Sixth Army suggest armed police battalions have been arresting one another all night…. And that Field Marshal von Metz has the body of a snake and eaten several under butlers…. Although that is generally discredited.”

“So who is in command of Imperial forces?”

“General von Kiminitz announced early this morning that he had assumed the regency on the radio; however Field Marshal von Nürath has announced the same thing, as have several dozen people including the Lord Mayor of Streinlikstern.”

Throm tapped his two immaculately clean front teeth pensively; he was walking amongst a crowd of followers apparently aimlessly though vestibule after foyer, picking up the occasional hanger on until the group had become more of a mob than convocation. “We are well disposed to effect the balance of power in the upcoming days.” A pair of highland clansmen, whom had been showing up all day in small groups flung open a set of wide double doors leading to the nave of the cathedral down which the party walked.

“However sir,” a nameless brigadier general voiced from behind an enormously waxed mustache, “we do not have nearly the man power to effect a battle. I have been reviewing the dossiers prepared by our generals in the field; and we have perhaps two million of the old Imperial Armed Forces, another million clansmen, and all the militia we can scrape together. No more than five million effectives; not even a fifty-fourth of the old Army. We might be able to hold here by dint of fortification and treachery, however on the plains or in offensive…”

“God will,” Throm approached the front alter, gesticulated, and took his seat in the plain wooden cathedral set slightly aside the great alter; itself a slab of white marble where it was said St. Amborse had been martyred, “provide fro us everything if providence is correctly… manipulated to favor our… liberation. I will, in several days, offer crown and anointing to another candidate, hopefully bringing those who wish a smooth transition of power and those who simply require the correct application of authority squarely into our ‘camp.’”

“And what,” a mousey may in a crisp white coat and thin wire spectacles spoke clearly from the back of the ground gathered around the cathedra, “happens if Prince Cato is, despite all the evidence, still alive?”

“Then it will expedient to remedy that state of affairs; however it will be entirely irrelevant as the authority I intend to wield will be supreme and command nothing less than the utter ruination of anyone who would so dare to raise a finger against us. We must move quickly, balance the situation before external powers intervene and exploit the situation of Prince Cato’s death.” The Cenobiarch rose and was framed by the weak light streaming through the rose window behind him, “convene the Council.”

Arms of Cardinal Archbishop Throm Elector Superior and Primate of Waldenburg

“Per Deus quod Vir Supremus Totus”

Your Highness acting on the suggestion of the Council of Bishops, operating under the Dictum of Scant, and in perpetual grace with the Mother Church; I have been directed by the convened electors to announce and offer you, Prince Chancellor Kaidan Valorus of Hörenburg, and the Infinite Empire, the Imperial Crown and realms of the Most Divine and Illustrious Empire of Waldenburg.

There has, as you may be aware, been started in Waldenburg a great conflagration of civil war, death and assassination, most notably of the late Emperor His Majesty Wyatt von Waldenburg IV, and his heir apparent the Crown Prince Lucios Cato von Waldenburg; the alienation and schism of the Church, and the military coup which has overthrown an otherwise stable government. There is no greater power in the world than that collectively wielded by yourself, and this power would be most auspiciously used and applied in a manner to alleviate the suffering of the Waldenburger people, and to glorify your house.

In perpetuity we thus request of you and your descendents a covenant of lordship over our people. I must beg you to come. I must beg you to relieve of us our bondage and suffering, and once again return the light of civilization to the continent. There is encamped at Scant a gathering army, which awaits a commander to liberate the Strein Valley, Blünderburg, and the peoples of the Empire from the tyranny of the military demagogues that falsely covet Imperial power.

We have but one condition, and that is the Hörenburg be added to the domains of Waldenburg such that it become a province directly tied to the Empire, and in turn to your family, as it should be. Your children shall rule both directly, and so long as you see fit to govern over these realms it shall be so.

Should you accept this nomination, a delegation will be in Hörenburg in two days to invest you with the Imperial Regalia that still remains in our hands, and your coronation shall take place on a date of your choosing once you have chosen a regal name, in Scant Cathedral.

This is great time; where our ancient enmities may be put aside, and trust restored between our two peoples: peace restored in the Empire and throughout the region.

Signed:
His Imminence and Highness Cardinal Archbishop Throm Elector Superior
His Ducal Highness Heinrich Stiemel von Stimmerhoof, Elector of Scant
His Serene Highness Joseph Weinbecher, Abbot Elector of Plotz
His Highness Erik Brüne, People’s Elector
General Erik Mandfred Horst von Bleibenbruck Commandant of the Divine Legion

OOC Yallak is sadly out of town atm, but i'll pu this up none the less to move time along. Flattery will get you everything Leistung <.<

[Augarundus]

((Retconned out of existence))

[Waldenburg 2]

Caro Padre

November 11th, 2013
Blünderburg

“General Solf?” The man did not look up from his small writing table where his fountain pen flicker furiously across a page of paper; the general’s tongue hung out slightly and his eyes glowered furiously with apparent labor.

“General? Good morning?” Field Marshal von Gröning having lost his untidy look of the night previous, despite not having slept more than five minutes as his staff car propelled him through the city on no end of inspections. His green uniform was presented immaculately and the his baton was at its peak of glimmering ostentation. With a slight flick of his mustache he noted how his junior did not rise to attention, but in a mental calculation not customary for his rank, he decided not to mention the fact to a man who could have any single person on the continent killed given an hour’s notice.

“And what are we working on this morning?” An ornamental chair was pulled to the other side of the table and Gröning straddled it, his aching body molding into the soft cushioning with apparent relish.

“All the world’s problems, Field Marshal, all the world’s problems.” Solf muttered distractedly as his pen paused for an anxious moment before diving for another line of text.

“I hear Field Marshal von Metz was shot by his chief of staff early this morning, along with seventy or so other officers.”

“That’s good,” Solf bit the lid of his pen, “a shame though.”

“Fabulist” Field Marshal Gröning uttered mildly.

“What?” General Solf’s head shot up as if on a spring.

“Twenty across, you’ve misspelled it its: an ‘u’ rather than an ‘o.’”

“Oh,” the pen was lowered slowly and the offending letter crossed out, “thank you.” Apparently with his mind drawn back to the small study; formerly the property of the Vice Chancellor and now taken over by the General Staff to act as a ready room to the larger conference room next door. “I have had a most trying morning Field Marshal,” Solf reclined slightly in his chair, and to Gröning’s growing distress seemed prepared to launch into an exposé of his troubles. “Brigadier Stoffer reported to me early this morning on the final disposition of the Armed Forces after… last night. It is supremely displeasing.”

“I toured Cruxhaven this morning with my staff; most of the terminals have been entirely destroyed and trains are backed up for miles: those that haven’t be derailed anyway.” Gröning attempted by his own tangent to defend himself against the oncoming.

Solf apparently did not hear it, “Though things have generally quieted down but I have yet to hear reports from over thirty divisions within Blünderburg itself, and two full armies have been wiped off the map outside. Guns on the Strein are still shelling their opposites with alarming alacrity.”

“Most of our destroyer forces guarding the river mouth have either been scuttled or abandoned their posts,” Gröning pressed on; damned if he’d listen.

“Half of my staff has either abandoned their posts or defected; Colonel Timnoz had the audacity to attempt to arrest me, early this morning. Can you believe it?”

For a moment to the two men’s thought processes seemed to collide, both looked up and into one another’s eyes; Gröning spoke first, “What’s happened General?”

“We have been the victims,” Solf’s fingers clenched slightly under the table as he spoke in slow concise tones, “of a common, garden variety coup. Divisions within our military have unfortunately shown through and we lack the necessary centralization to fully control the situation. If only, if only…” Solf searched for words, “we had…. Proper communication, this could have been avoided. I am sure half my officers are simply neglecting orders for fear of them coming from the wrong source, or in the best interests of not butchering their commands.”

“We must form a new government,” Gröning said confidently.

“Under whose authority?”

“Fifty Million men at arms have thus far seemed to curry favorable opinion.”

“With respect Field Marshal, we are in no position to form a military dictatorship,” there was in Solf’s eyes a slight trace of smugness; his command of the ISS, the Imperial Special Services, had been considered a brilliant one, “without the authority of the crown the civil power will be rightly afraid of the Army installing a government. There is similarly no power that can enforce a civilian government, and I think you will agree with me when I say that I will be damned if this is the time to bow to civilian oversight.”

“Agreed,” the Field Marshal angled his mustached about his face; it was a trademark of his rank, and nearly all of his colleagues maintained similarly imposing facial accessories, “However that does put us at a loss as to whom will form a new government.”

“Well assuming that Cato is dead, God forbid, or that he will be incapable of returning in a timely fashion to end the crisis we have three options; find a new monarch, the great families would be happy to provide a suitable candidate, accept the Cenobiarch in Scant,” the cities name sounded like a curse when it came from his mouth, “or install our own government and face the possible repercussions.”

“Well,” the Field Marshal visibly balked, to the personal amusement of General Solf at being offered a share of responsibility, “our hand must be shown either way. A firm response is needed; there are still pockets of resistance around the city and we have yet to hear of the rest of the country. You will excuse me General however,” showing unusual deference Gröning bowed, “in truth I only came to inform you that it appears the treasury has been emptied of almost 800 billion Reichmarks, at our best estimates, of materials and bills. Including three of the royal scepters and the consort’s crown.”

“Ah…. Very well, I shall alert the ISS and Admiral Sloan as to the possibility of recovering it.” Solf watched the man as he retreated from the room clicking the doors closed softly, reverentially behind him. The General knew very little about the his superior officer, a look through the official records put him near the top of a class of some three thousand, and gave him a brilliant, if bare combat record of victories first in the Anagonian War, then the War of the Grand Alliance. In his personal life he was a plodding man basing most of his tactics of great consideration; and a trait unusual for Waldenburger officers with consideration to casualties. In a word, or so General Solf believed, the Field Marshal was slow; slow to action and slow to thought.

Ticking away, even though it had not been wound the night before, the wall clock clicked seconds off the world. Solf tented his fingers nervously and glared at the single phone. After some time he picked it up, and asked to be connected.

“Grand Admiral Sloan? This is General von Solf, commander ISS and 12th Army; orders have down if you are prepared to accept them?” Solf waited; he had met the Grand Admiral some time before, once when he had been a commodore, and had been impressed by the looming figure of the ‘Old Man of the Sea’ approaching 70 and with 55 years in the naval service, he was the most decorated man in the Empire. “Good. Field Marshal Gröning and what’s left of the cabinet have picked a target WSS Tudor, a diplomatic cruiser that departed on… the night of the incident. We believe it to be carrying enemies of the state; whose destruction…. Must be assured. You will have written orders within the hour, however I would like a flight dispatched now…. Thank you Admiral. Good day.”

The receiver was gently placed down and picked up after the tone had died, “General Becker, this is Solf; the ISS has issued an arrest warrant for the Imperial Chancellor, and Steward. Arrest them both; and detain them in the Naval Security Building. A warrant will be issued to you momentarily. Thank you, good hunting.” It was a cruel thing, reality, but then again so were people.
--

November 11th, 2013
WSS Tudor
Kymeian Sea

It truly was an amazing ship; Cato had never seen the interior though he had designed personally, under his official rank of Third Sea Lord; and the smooth teak walls were hardly a contrast from the Imperial Palace. Oil lamps gave an unnaturally cheery glow to what was an otherwise dismal scene, as ministers of the government, what few had fled with Cato sat wrapped in cloaks and dripping with water as a nervous clerk riffled though sheets of paper laid out on a wide cheery conference table.

“General the Lord Smythe Ruxton; Rhodesia?” A piece of paper was passed along the table from freezing hand to freezing hand until it came under Cato’s icy glare.

“Offer him the honor of the motherland, ten billion Reichmarks, and the Duchy of,” a list was consulted, “Hammersmark.” There was a great deal of scribbling as the Deputy Foreign Minister Adam von Manchwald scribbled out an official letter; poured a dollop of hot wax, and sealed it with the eagle of the Empire.

“Um, Viscount the Rt. Hon. Lord Dagon Earl of Easen… of Yallak.”

“Um, Prince of Kell, King of Saxe-Blünder Augsburg; his weight in gold, and of course the grateful thanks of the nation.” The list was a long one and contained most of the notable generals and politicians in Tyrrhenia; that would be offered considerable sums to come to the assistance of Prince Cato and his cause in routing the Church.

“Field Marshal the Earl Bather of the Imperial Republic…” Another paper was passed down the table to Cato who turned it over a few times, rereading the simple name several times.

“I think… We are done for the night. Try and get some rest everyone, good night.” Gratefully the assembled minister rose, bid their good nights and removed themselves from the room rather faster than was strictly necessary.

“Rupert?” Cato cast one weary eye down the table; his voice had lost some of its commanding tone when not in the presence of his numerous subordinates, “you have something to say?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Rupert Fry the most Senior minister to escape Waldenburg and the longest in its service, “we have had garbled contact with the mainland since our departure; the situation seems to deteriorate by the minute, and I don’t know what good we will find by running to Djellyi Beybi and gathering what is bound to be a feeble army. The continent is unassailable, you know it better than most, and in time there will be little consideration for your throne.”

Cato smiled, a rarity in itself, “I have no intention of seeing my lovely wife despite what I told General Solf, we will, with the permission of the Pontean government put ashore there; where we will link up with the Levantian Legion.”

“And assume command?”

“No Rupert, I fully intend on stealing it; it will form the nucleus of our new army.” Gas lamps flickered as the ship hit an unfortunate swell.

“Your Majesty,” a naval officer poked his head round the door, “there is a slight problem.”
--

“This is Flight 118, WIS Mehrud, requesting engagement orders for WSS Tudor, repeat.”

“Flight 118, you are cleared for engagement, missiles hot, and good hunting.”

“On final approach, take point Wills, salvo fire on my mark…”

“This is His Highness Prince Lucious Cato von Waldenburg onboard the WSS Tudor, we stand down, repeat we surrender; we are an unarmed diplomatic cruiser. This is Prince…”

“Flight 118…. Belay orders…”

[Waldenburg 2]

The King Shall Rejoice

November 12th, 2013
‘Heiligburg’ Scant

Cardinal Throm lowered himself into the mock up of the cathedra; in reality of course it was a simple white kitchen chair hauled into the communications center for the purposes of ostentation and then rhinestone hurriedly glued to the back into the sigil of Ambrose.

“Your Imminence,” a deacon held up five fingers from behind a bank of monitors and began slowly ticking them off. There were of course a million things to do, and the resurrected Church had been sending off diplomatic memos all day, digging trenches in the high mountains and beginning the process of turning off the water flow from glacial lakes and reservoirs to the Strein valley, in a mass attempt at siege warfare.

“Three, two, one… the office of His Majesty and Excellency Otto Vitali… Chancellor and Emperor Augarundus… His Imminence Cardinal Buniface” The deacon closed his mouth as the features of Throm’s faced attempted to congeal into an even more benign appearance; of course the horrible scarring from the attempt on his life during the purge meant he could only manage menacing.

“Your Imminence,” Throm bowed his head as was customary; even amongst his own fold he was considered only ‘first among equals,’ and the respect was considered mandatory. Two deacons were at his shoulder, eyes hidden amongst voluminous cassocks; in truth anyone who could hold a pen was furiously scribbling about a thousand errands, and these two were in fact butlers who were otherwise not devoted to laboring in the name of the Church.

“I understood you wished to speak to me, I am at your service, however first allow me to say that I have great need to speak to you; a brother of the cloth, and Prince of the Church, regent in His name. There is a great winnowing upon this continent, as the faithful are butchered in the name of secular authority, and the Church is torn down stone by stone and thrown into the sea. On this mountain, I, and my brothers, represent the last bastion of two thousand years of human history.” Cardinal Throm had always believed subtlety was an over flaunted virtue. “If there is any assistance you could extend, if there is any force you could render upon this land you would do us a great kindness. But, I am inconsolably rude; what may I do… for you?” The last line was left, with only the skill a former inquisitor could manage, dangling as threat, chastisement, modest submission, and gentle reminder.”

November 12th, 2013
Blünderburg

“Of the remaining 1,234 surface vessels remaining in our service after the decommissioning of the old fleet, 319 on detached service across the world, 216 have failed to report in; while another 91 have defected, and 13 scuttled in Blünderburg over the course of the night of the 10th.” A nervous looking captain reported to the circular table, which contained most of the remaining high command of the Empire, and a majority of the cabinet.

“And how many,” newly promoted Admiral Tierhoff asked quietly, “does that leave at our command?”

“Um,” the captain made a quick check of his notes, “In and around the Strein, 301 surface combatants, 257 under Commodore Petz at the reserve station in Thule, and the Fifth Fleet composing 57 ships under Admiral Gliender is returning from detached service.”

“Five hundred ships, last year we had nearly 8,000,” Tierhoff sounded as if someone had just shot his dog. “and what of the rest?”

“About half a dozen have attempted to sail to Oseato, Yallak, or Fictions each or have defected to Admiral Blünder’s growing rebel factions; most have simply disappeared. Oh… the carrier count is at eight fleet, ten assault. If that is all Admiral, sirs?”

The captain was dismissed with a wave of the Admiral’s hand, “our fleet is utterly crippled. We will be needing one.”

General von Solf nodded his head slightly at an aide, “begin to ask seek quotations for contracts,” He flipped over another sheet of paper, which signaled the assembled officers to do so as well, “to more pressing matters…. I have had reports from our chief foreman on the Tingsburg Project, that water flow from the Ibblesguarder mountain chain has been cut by 90% which will…” he arched an eyebrow at the marginally bewildered chief of staff General von Gemmer.

“Um, lead to the deaths of an estimated one billion persons in the Strein river valley before supplies stabilize, by the end of next year. One quarter of the population… one in four people,” he added to ram the point home. He had been a colonel up until yesterday.

“Then we must take the headwaters back,” Field Marshal von Nürath slapped the table lightly with his baton of office, “before they have the chance to dig in.”

“They are dug in sir,” Solf rubbed his forehead as he flipped through his file folder looking for a particular paper, “the mountains have been our national redoubt for some centuries, and though I dare say Blünderburg is equally well defended; we do not have automated flak guns on every mountainside. The fortifications were designed to draw the enemy into a land-based assault and reciprocate massive casualties as they are forced to storm mountain after mountain.

“You suggest we wait?” Adam Luttern, Minister of the Interior spoke incredulously, “our food reserves will fail in a month, never mind the water. We do not have the luxury of time.”

“We also do not have the luxury of fighters, bombers, warships, tanks or bullets.” Lord Kenton, whose role at the meeting was defined only by his refusing to leave his chair, “you would risk a mutiny to attack in any other way? We see at least three million men defect due to confusion, what will slaughter do?”

“Then we use someone else’s men!” Nürath interjected happily, as he leaned forward, “you have undoubtedly read Cardinal Throm’s open letter? Offering the throne to that Chancellor fellow? We have come to what we, in the military like to call, a bloody buggrance. If one Yallakian boot steps foot on this continent we are finished. There is no navy, there is hardly an airforce; and if we must fight them on the bridges we have already lost.”

Solf, perhaps the most intuitive of the assembled, bit his lip.

“We have a rock, and we have a hard place,” Nürath stood pressing his gloved hands on the table till the leather creaked in protest, “as a people, as a nation we must survive. We have done this is the past, we have all had to do things we regret, I was there; I’ve seen it all. I suggest, gentlemen, a little vote.”

November 12th, 2013
Austerbeck, Oseato

“I’m sorry gentlemen, but the Senator is in conference,” the girl was a pretty one, had probably been hired for that, and the desk she sat behind did wonder at exposing the severely plain blouse she wore. Colonel Bernard Öten had to admit, the man, however foreign, had taste. The office was a subtely decorated one, without the ostentation of Waldenburg, but with overtones that hinted of subtle, secret power: the type of power associated with dark green leather desks, black coats, and patent leather shoes.

“That’s alright, we’re in delegation,” Colonel Öten swept past the girl as she cocked her head trying to figure his remark for sense. Behidn the colonel there was a clatter of shoes as ten additional Waldenburgers; dressed in full ceremonial attire swept the floor with livered cloaks of green velvet. Any inch of cloth that had not been lovingly embroidered had been conquered by a plume or aiguillette.

“Um sir…” Öten didn’t listen to the woman as he pushed open the doors to the interior office where two men were seated around a table, one wearing tiny half moon spectacles and droning his way through what Öten knew would be a very complicated document with more sub clauses than periods. He felt a pang of sympathy for the senator; it was a cruel life. ‘This however will be a cruel trick’

Öten strode forward locked eyes with the bemused but completely at home senator, and then dropped to one knee. His comrades behind him did the same. As the colonel looked up into the Dieter von Hanner’s eyes he noticed just a hint of smugness; just a twinkle of knowing satisfaction.

“By dint of your great great grandfather the Earl von Hanner, and after due consideration with the Electoral College and the clerics of the Holy Church; it pleases the Electors to confer upon you the title ‘Emperor Elect of Waldenburg and Her Dominions Across the Seas.’” It was a strange world dominion over Oseato had ended quite some time ago, and despite the diplomatic equivalent of a birthday card slipped under the door every year, Waldenburg and Oseato had existed in amicable apathy of one another for decades. Öten had no idea how the man, the country would react, but he knew, from experience, that inside every man is that little spark that says ‘try me, try me on, see how I fit your head? Doesn’t it feel natural?’

“We have,” another Waldenburger spoke up, “come to offer you the crown of Waldenburg, the throne of the Empire.

“This is perhaps a little… sudden…” the Colonel said to a man whom had most likely never set foot in Waldenburg, “but your blood dictates your roll. You have cousins and second cousins in the Empire already in the service of her armies in the field; you have uncles in Her ministries and brothers in Her fields….” Öten paused not exactly sure where he was going with his speech, “this may help.” A folded document was removed from his coat and proffered gently.
--

“I shall be blunt with you sir, as I have no more patience with subversion. As I am sure you know; after the flight of Luciuos Cato von Waldenburg we are without a sovereign; we are lost. I appeal to you, both on behalf of the nation and on a personal level to take the responsibilities of your bloodline. I am equally aware that you may have no desire to do so, no inclination to royalty, no time for the trappings of Empire.

Then I bid you not accept this offer for your own gain, however glorious, accept for your duty to your fellow man; to those who will suffer should government fail. Accept to pull a belabored people from bondage. Accept for the elevation of your own nation; bring us peace as we shall grant you the treasures, which have availed us to nothing. In twenty years I ask you, where shall you be? In ten minutes will you go home, or will you lead an army?

I will tell you one great truth, and leave the rest to conscience; there is a crown beside me as I write this letter; tyrants, butchers, and saints have worn it alike. But when they die, in glory or in peace, some hand is always ready to pick it up again and enshrine upon another head. Ponder truth, as you will but follow thought with deed.”

Signed:
General Ludwig von Solf, Commander ISS
His Imminence Joachim the Cardinal Mirenhoff,
His Highness Prince Henry August von Waldenburg

[Waldenburg 2]

March of the 'Internationale'

November 13th, 2013
Mese-Fon-Delerexu: West Ponente
Encampment of the Levantian Legion 1st Army ‘The Internationale’


“I thought they had tents?” Rupert Fry commented in apathetic manner as he gently held open the flaxen curtains of the Pontean engine that slowly ground to a halt in the makeshift train station. The arrival of Crown Prince Cato, on the coast some days earlier, had been greeted, and this fact set life to a tiny flame of hope in the Prince’s chest, with a military band and the decorum of state.

“In their first year of deployment,” General von Haider responded with a hint of resentment in his voice, “most of them have admittedly gone home in the year and a half after their commitments or enlistments ended. They built themselves block houses through the winter.”

Cato himself sat stoically, not taking part in the conversation since the train had begun to build up steam nine hours ago; his breath condensed on the chilly windows at intervals, which worried some of his companions that the man had stopped breathing entirely. The train was pulling into the small wooden outbuilding that served as a stationhouse.

“Major Soufrir?” Cato pulled his caked lips apart and slightly startled all but the Pontean officer sitting across from him in the crisp grey uniform of the Legion. “How far it is to the Yallakian border from here?”

It was easy to understand the plutonic love affair, which the Waldenburger people expressed for the Pontean officer class; and which was assumedly not returned. Major the Marquis Soufrir had been loaned to Prince Cato as an aide, interpreter and it was assumed, as the young Prince was working with the Ponteans, a highly formal spy. The sort of spy in fact that had the dynamic in fact to spy openly that abounded in many diplomatic circles.

The Major himself was elegantly tall, slim to the point of emaciation, and undoubtedly had the word ‘aquiline’ designed around his face. His cheeks were high and laid open his eyes that not only spoke volumes of intelligence but a cold malevolence that was held back by only the good grace and social breeding of their owner. Elegant pianists hands wrapped around a swagger cane twitched slightly signaling an oration, “Approximately,” his accent was one of impeccable German but with overtones of his more elegant native tongue, “150 miles to the mountains. As the Legion moves,” his eyes closed for a fraction of a second, “47 hours.” There was not a man in the compartment that doubted the figure.

“If you will translate Major,” the Prince continued, “I have phoned ahead and General Williams,” he spoke the name of the Grestonian Chief of Staff with barely a hint of disdain, “has agreed for the army to be ready for inspection. If you will gentlemen will gather you things,” with a shrill whistle the stationmaster signaled the train ready for offloading.

About twenty or so officers and diplomats disgorged from the train onto the wooden platform where they were immediately accosted by four Chukaconian honor guards; who snapped off a crisp salute; their breath coming in great clouds of steam as the autumn air bit through even the heavy moleskin command cloaks of the Waldenburgers.

“Your Highness I was worried that Waldenburg had forgotten us,” General Williams strode up offering his hand in a misguided attempt at levity.

“General,” Cato saluted, neatly avoiding the man’s hand while giving him a stare colder than January. “Quite on the contrary, I will address the men with your permission.” Cato did not wait but strode down the tiny platform, pulling his staff with him in a large wake.

“I was hoping perhaps…” Williams was driven to silence by the lack of response as the Waldenburgers too buoyed him through the crowd as they picked their way across the precarious amenities associated with rail lines.

Behind the curvature of a small brick house stood the Levantian Legion at full parade attention and dress. Delerexu had been a small country town, which had mostly certainly had appeared on millions of postcards. As it was the inhabitants had left based on the principle of ‘large sacks of cash slipped under the door.’ The few stone buildings around a massive cobbled square had been commandeered by the high command.

What was left of the foliage of several maple trees blew about the cobbled squared as the gnarled and ancient trees whipped about in a light gale that streamed the otherwise immaculate hair of Prince Cato; whom himself noticed that on Major Sufrir not a lock was out of place.

Boots clamped on wood as the Prince and his retinue slowly took a bunting covered platform at the head of the army. There were at least five thousand Legionaries in the square; pennants and flags marking out every regiment in the army through a small delegation.

“My Levantian Legion,” the words were very slight and were scattered to the winds with only the first few ranks hearing a scattering of words. Cato was most certainly not accustomed to public speaking by any account. Major Sufrir was naturally so; and his elegant words carried to every ear. “I have news only recently arrived from the continents… and though I am aware I am not every man’s Prince; I am all your brother.”

Cato paused and for a moment felt what it was to be the late Emperor, he bit his lip and eschewed an unusual slime, “Early on the morning of November 11th forces under the Viscount Dagon, and backed by forces of the Divine Empire made a naval salient up Strein estuary to bombard Granzimmerburg. Casualties have been catastrophic…” There was a heavy murmuring set about in the assembled soldiery.

“Grand Admiral Sloan was killed as WIS Fin of God was struck by seven torpedoes; and estimates of the dead are rising towards two million….” With his staff standing sullenly behind him Cato continued. “They were beaten back,” there was a quick bark of confused approval, “Ships of the Fifth Imperial Fleet performed a suicide run early last night and have managed to scuttle themselves in the river mouth. We await reinforcements.” With a sigh Prince Cato continued.

“On the morning of November 11th the Yallakian Chancellor delivered to the Office of President Madoc papers demanding the annexation and subversion of Grestonian sovereignty directly to the Yallakian Emperor; reneging the treaty signed with the Gothic puppets. Commodore Quin Mannes onboard the GMNS Mercury delivered the President’s response six minutes later… a missile salvo lasting for twelve minutes at the Yallakian Sixth Fleet.” The mutter had strangely stopped, and as the Crown Prince stared into his army, he could see every soldiers face turn as grey as their uniform. His voice gained strength.

“Three hundred Imperial Ships have begun to push their way up Westminster Strait, where they were greeted with fierce resistance by combined Waldenburger and Grestonian surface combatants. We have not heard anything in the last six hours… but in our last communiqués… Easen was on fire.”

He could feel the wave of angry sentiment, and he himself, despite the lies, felt history repeat itself. “I have asked so much of my Legion; to stand against the largest armies on the planet, to leave their homes and defend foreign beaches, to sit and wait for years for the blow that may cripple us and be the anvil on which it falls. I have asked so much of my Legion, yet I demand so much more. The war, which began three years, is finally coming home and I ask you to once again be the spear. Remember Easen? Remember the city and her people; remember Blünderburg, it’s churches and streets? I will not ask you to fight for me; I will not order you into combat to preserve my throne, I request you to die with me for the shred of honor that can be preserved for our countries, and the glory in doing so.

Today, in a moment I will ask for volunteers to lead an assault on a numerically and tactically superior enemy with only the rifles in your hands and the flame in your heart; and should I not have enough men to support an army, I will lead a division, and should I have not enough men for that, a brigade, failing that I will use my very teeth in the attack. I cannot promise you treasure, or eternal salvation, or even victory; what I can promise is that Easen will never be forgotten, and the brave men who defend her even now will weep in sadness that they had not the chance to kill half as many Yallakians as you here today. Anyone who wishes to attempt such a mission take two steps forward.” It would have been nice to say the assembled regiments moved as one man forward; this was the end result, but it could be seen from the dais that those unwilling were being dragged along by those with more martial enthusiasm.

“That is my Legion…. For the last three days all communications to this camp have been cut by Yallakian intelligence; all incoming communiqués have been screened or planted by foreign agents they believe this army has no knowledge of happenings of the outside world. And will send a Grestonian officer, a traitor, to assume command and lead the army to its own capture with a minimum amount of bloodshed. We will go into Yallak ‘for redeployment’ and end languishing in prison cells. No! We shall go to Yallak, turn on our ‘captors’ and lay waste to the traitors. I don not know what tomorrow holds, or the exact plans of our enemies, but let me tell you this, they shall be winnowed, they shall be brought so low that worms will have to bend to spit on them. Report to brigade commanders for your orders. Legion… Dismissed!” There was a thundering of applause and bellows of both rage an anxiety and sergeants had to ball their private soldiers from raising their weapons to the air and letting off a volley.

As the applause crescendoed Cato turned from his speaker’s podium and pulled General von Haider and Major Sufrir close to his mouth, “The Yallakians will be told by General Williamson’s office that they are prepared to march to Yallak and fight for their claim to the throne, and have been ordered to do so. A Grestonian officer will then lead an detachment of 250,000 men into Yallak under the pretense of my outlined plan here and lay waste to the country as best he can, which I suspect will be rather thoroughly, if shortly.”

Sufrir nodded gracefully as Haider raised an eyebrow, “Shall I accompany the army?” Sufrir asked.

“Oh, God no,” Cato stepped down from the platform and fought his way through a milling crowd of officers whom buzzed with excitement, “I have use of you.”

[New Greston]

[url=http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/Con_te_partir_/10455818]Con te Partirò
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November 13th, 2013
Calve Executive Residence
Easen, Greston

The knocks were light and airy in sound, three in number in a one-two quick one beat. The knocks were quiet as the creator of the sound did not want to be there; no man wanted to be in Calve, a near sane sancuatary atop the greenest of knolls in the whole greater Easen area. No man wanted to be in the grandest of bedrooms, with Scalamandre "Quadri" custom silk luxury drapes of numerous shades of green and pink, and a Nizam Kirman Ruby Rug, a brilliant contrast to the center of the room; king sized Velvet Couture "Red Chateau" Bed Linen atop of an even more comfortable bed. Above the bed perched a "Queen Victoria" bed crown made of hand-cast resin with an antiqued golden finish. Symetrical windows, on either side of the bed, made of hand blown glass from Ghermara, Fictions.

Across the room from the foot of the bed a Mirrored Mantel fireplace, made of antique-silver wood and finished with a black granite top, reflected the dim glimmering light from the luxury Versailles Crystal Chandellier, etched hurricane shades, full lead crystals, and antique gold finish being the cause for why it cost upwards to £b2,750 marbles for its creation and shipment, via rail, from Vetalia.

And amidst all the granduer lay a weary man; a once strong man, wanting of a left leg. The leader of nation, the leader of the free world. No one would want to be in that room, as that room housed no hope.

But it was necessary, men and woman of all backgrounds were forced to see his crumbled, ruined mess; and then binded, by oath, not to speak of it with any one, the press or whomever. For some men, they came of their own accord; the seat of power hung in the balance, where in Waldenburg the government of old crumbled in minutes, centuries of a way of life was dependent upon if the next line on the machine recording the President's heart rate beeped or not.

The door gently swung open, slow enough for the man in the bed to fall asleep for a moment and when he open's his eyes again the door still not be fully opened, or the enterer inside yet. Madoc breathed slowly, to make himself and his body as comfortable as it could get with tubes strapped to his arms and face. He had his eyes trained on the door, the television was still behind the mirror above the mantle and he did not wish to call in some one to take it out and turn it on when in ten minutes he would be having a conversation.

A man finally walked in, closing the door behind him. Subtle actions, such as not looking into his eyes as some one spoke or closing the door behind them seemed to send Madoc into a paranoia induced panic. He seemed to forget of the some odd hundred guards and staff on the premise, the numerous friskings and metal detectors at every entrance, the multiple cameras that covered every inch of the room he lay in, and the two armed guards just inches outside the door.

"William Nigel Theobald Stuart-Wettin," Madoc let out what he hoped was a smile, the truth of the matter was that those five words took more energy out of him than it would've have running a mile before the Bad Amburg trip.

"No, please, Llywelyn, rest. Let me do the talking, answer only if you feel you must. I have the day cleared," it was apparent that William had taken notice of Madoc's effort in speaking.

With a sigh and turn of the head, "Fine." William placed a wooden chair, golden and silver sculptures etched into the sides, next to the bed, which, when sitting, was nearly as high as he. William opened his mouth and nothing came out, he let it hang there in contempt and before he could fancy something to say, Llywelyn went into a fit of coughing.

"Jesus is that blood?" Dabbles of blood sputtered onto Llywelyn's silk, blue pajamas as he could not reach his henkerchief. William quickly pulled his out of his suit pocket and handed it to Madoc. When Madoc was through with it he held it up to William he waved it off after seeing that his embroidened initials were stained red.

"One of many, my friend, you can keep it. Although I don't think your initials are WNTSW." He let out a chuckle, it was awkward but it had to suffice.

"I'll have you another by tomorrow. William, I have a question, and I'm hoping you can fancy me and give me an answer."

"Why of course, Llywelyn. What's the question?"

More coughing ensued, the henkerchif coming in handy, "Has a regent been picked yet? For the leadership?"

William sat there wide eyed, gawking at his President, "Llywelyn, you pick the regent. And if you didn't and wanted the Parliament to choose, you would have had to give them suggestions."

Madoc gave no reply, he was staring intently out the window to his right. Grassy, rolling hills, not a real road for miles; a beautiful sight but not satisfying for the man whom was raised in the city. He did not turn to face William for many more minutes, not until another thought popped into his head, "Do you know how many men died in this house? Seven; five of whom died in this very room. All but one of them died in the bed. Of course the bed dressings and matresses they died upon have been gotten rid of; donated to museums, kept in this very home some where, what have you." Madoc turned, a tear running down his cheek, "Calve is hopeless, William, I am hopeless."

"By god that is a lie!" William was out of his chair now, "Llywelyn, you are the best damn leader this nation has seen and don't lay there feeding me this bullocks when you know damn well the people love you and that Greston is failed without you."

"Do not kid yourself, Will, they couldn't have a woman President; how can they possibly stand for a paraplegic? I need to take my face off of the man scene, I need a front man, William. Look how Greston survived without a concious President for three days? God damned rioting and three illegal political organisations created to gain the title."

William was once again seated, listening intently, "And what do you say we do, Llywelyn?"

"The constitution gives me enough leeway to appoint another person of title, that hold less than or equal power with myself. It also states that I can do so without Parliamentary permission, only if they agree to said institution within a year of it's creation. I do not want a regent as I do not plan on dieing, nor do I plan on leaving my office. William, it is time that Greston sees the institution of a Prime Minsiter."

"A Prime Minister? Like in Prestonia and Vetalia?"

"Precisely; and William, I wish you to be my Prime Minister."

William gripped Madoc's hand, his nuckles white from tight grasp upon his hand. He shook it feveriously, "Llywelyn, like a dog to his master and a boy his father, I will follow you down whatever path you lead me. I will take the position, my friend, and together a new age of freedom will rain down upon Greston like a tidal wave."

"Good then," Llywelyn was already sitting up before he finished his words, he lifted the layers of blanketing off atop of him and folded them to the side. Twisting his body to face, he sat up, his one leg left attached hung on the side, "Then follow me to that dresser, I need a drink."

Sliding off the bed his first foot touched down, he fell foward from his lack of a second leg and grasped William's shoulders, William also now standing. William refrained himself from saying 'First time on your new legs?' and put his one arm over his shoulder then slid his other arm underneath's Madoc's. Madoc and William hopped to the counter against the same wall with the door and Madoc broke free, using the counter to keep his balance. He retrieved two cups and a bottle of scotch.

"Make sure Brennan doesn't come in here." Llywelyn kept shooting glances at the door, hoping the guards wouldn't decide it was time to make a check in on them.

Llywelyn slid William his glass, two ice cubes and all, and William started sipping. Madoc's glass was empty before it reached his mouth. "So what made you choose me, eh? For, you know, Prime Minister?"

Llywelyn looked at him crossed eyed through the glass he was lifting to his mouth; he was a sight to see, a one legged men in a silk, blue and white striped pajama shirt, and matching boxers, leaning against fine furniture with a glass of scotch to his mouth.

"You want the honest answer?"

"Yes, what other answer would there be?"

"Well, to be honest, I was sick and tired of those foreign media's cracking jokes at the expense of my long winded name. So I remembered your favors for me in Grammar School and the backbench days, so I said to myself, 'If ever there was an unlucky bastard with a longer name then he, I would give him a concession and a title on the spot.' So here we are today, two fine men and a fine bottle of scotch."

Llywelyn topped off his drink while staring at William intently, it was a trick he learned when serving as a Parliamentary. It took a few seconds before the two of them let out an uproar of laughter.

[Yallak]

November 13th, 2013
Imperial Administration Centre
Walerdorf, Hörenburg, Waldenburg

News of the death of Wyatt von Waldenburg had caused a stir of commotion in Walerdorf that hadn't been seen since the arrival of the Imperial Chancellor several months earlier when ownership of the Hörenburg territory in Paloni was transferred to Yallak. There had been memorial services, gossiping in the streets, church services and endless news broadcasts. It had now been five days since the explosion that killed the Waldenburger Emperor but that event was still the main interest to the people and in the early morning there had even been a small protest that the Chancellor had yet to appear at any of the services or even make a statement for the news.

The Chancellor, Kaidan Valorus, still remained quiet though and had not left the Administration Centre since the affair at Bad Amburg. As was usual he was discussing the affairs of the province over a late breakfast with Garviel Leidos, the Provincial Governor-Militant of Hörenburg, in their joint office on the top floor of the building.

'No, Garviel, I won't....can't become involved in this debacle,' delcared the Kaidan, who was by Waldenburg standards also the Prince of Hörenburg. 'These people may still consider themselves Waldenburgers, and who could blame them, but this is an Imperial Province now and they are Imperial citizens under my governance, it is not our concern to be involved with whats happening in Waldenburg.'

The larger military man grimaced. The Chancellors stance, which he knew was based solely on principle, would allow for potential increase in public disorder. He considered briefly his next statement so that it would convey his meaning without making his Praetores sound like they couldn't handle any trouble that arose but just as he began to reply there was a short sharp knock at the open door.

'Letter for you, Chancellor.'

Kaiden waved the administrative aid in, who crossed the office to his desk and handed the sealed envelope to Kaidan who was reclined in his brand new black leather chair. He flicked out a letter opener from his desk drawer as the aid left the room and sliced the envelope open, flipping it onto his desk as he unfolded the letter. As he read the letter, he slowly sat further and further upright until he was actually leaning forward with his elbows resting on the piece of furniture.

'Who's it from?' inquired Garviel. He received no response.

When he had finished reading, Kaidan lowered the paper in bafflement, something akin to shock adorning his face.

'Hmph'

'Well, who was it from?' Garviel asked again, 'What did it say?'

'I think you need to read it yourself,' said the Chancellor. Kaiden offered out the letter and Garviel arose from his own chair and walked over to collect it. He read it while standing before the Chancellors desk. When he was done he lowered the document and handed it back to Kaiden, who gave him a quizzical look in return.

The Governor-Militant wore a surprised look himself, a very rare feature for him, when he voiced his opinion on the letter.

'Hmph'


November 13th, 2013
Imperial Palace
Arrandin, Yallak

The holographic image of Kaiden Valorus flickered ever so slightly from out of the silver hub built into the massive mahogany table that sat in the centre of the High Council Chambers. The Emperor and the High Council were arrayed around the table, having been convened to hear of the letter from the Waldenburger Church.

'We can't seriously be considering this?' snarled Sollonaal, 'We should have destroyed the accursed lot of them months ago. At best we will gain nothing from trusting them to keep their word.'

The Emperor smiled. Sollonaal was always aggressively extreme in his beliefs, and Balor couldn't help but find it amusing, even occasionally when he was in agreement with the man.

'The Waldenburger clergy is a scheming, manipulative collective of spies, agents and power-seekers. Of course we won't trust them, not even slightly, but Waldenburg itself is a very dominant nation in Tyrrhenia which has caused more than its fair share of trouble for us and this may prove to be the perfect opportunity to bring them to heel under our control.'

'Not to mention,' interjected Caracas, 'that should the church seize control of the nation in their own right, they will be a larger problem than before.'

A few more concurring nods and comments from some of the other High Councilors and the deal was agreed upon. The Emperor returned his attention to the hologram of Kaiden who stood waiting patiently. 'Congratulations your most Exalted Highness,' he declared with a grin, 'your going to be Emperor of Waldenburg. Send them an acceptance as soon as possible.'

'At once, my Lord.' Kaidan nodded and the hologram dissipated.

The Infinite Empire of Yallak
Official Imperial Transmission

To: Cardinal Archbishop Throm

A significant void of mistrust and animosity has developed between our nations through various situations and events in the recent past it is true. Things were not always so however and the Empire still remembers the time before this where we stood strong together at the height of the Mediterranican Union. It also acknowledges the part Waldenburg played as the bulwark to stem the advance of the Gothic invasion into our region recently. Now Waldenburg is in need and the Empire will answer, for what greater hope could two neighbors hold than to see pastamicable relations restored. With the blessing of the Emperor I accept your nomination.

Signed
Kaidan Valorus

[Waldenburg 2]

Adagio in G

November 15th, 2013
Ministry of War
Blünderburg

It was the most impressive of maps; the Strein a veritable sea of sapphires, and various cities of Waldenburg picked out in pearls. It was perhaps the downfall of the Empire, in that all the cunning shown in its foreign affairs and internal matters completely disappeared when choosing interior decorators. It was inlayed in the floor, and twenty meter across.

“Loosing control of Flüstern and the surrounding area to von Kleinder and his 5th Army Group,” General von Solf paced out the area mentioned to demonstrate to the convened officers just what a swath of territory had fallen away from Blünderburg. About forty officers watched the general deliver his monologue of gloom, as tiny flags were placed over provinces of Waldenburg still under the control of the government in Blünderburg. The best that could be said for the distribution of ground was that it was erratic, “almost a million square miles, not including the Ibblesguarder Mountain range.”

Three field marshals were the focal point of the meeting and stood stoically to one side, only occasionally asking a brief and terse question of General Solf or his staff. “The honorable field marshals represent all units that have responded to our calls and proclaimed their loyalty to the cabinet and,” Solf paused slightly relishing the moment, “The Emperor.”

“Where is Field Marshal von Blünder in all this?” Field Marshal Nürath asked pointedly of General Solf, “have we not tried to reach him?”

“Yes Field Marshal,” General Solf took a few forward steps and landed at the city of Scant, in the Mountains, “We are afraid he has defected with his brother the Admiral von Blünder. He office has not been answering our calls, and our messenger was shot by General Kemnitz’s men in West Blünderburg.”

“What is the disposition of the fortress and forces at the Lüftburg?” Marshal Gröning asked; he had been accustomedly silent all morning, however this was, to General Solf’s suspicion was do to a thought blooming in his head.

“Air Marshal Rø,” A brigadier general spoke up from southern Paloni, “has answered the hails of the Ministry of Defense, and however has refused to acknowledge the coded orders presented to him. However under his own authority, he ordered a paratrooper division to seize to the fortress of Bad Glücklich, after a minor skirmish with the Divine Legion.”

“Do we know the disposition of his forces?”

“Manifests indicated that the Southern Aerial Command was in possession of 1,900 fighter aircraft, 600 bombers or various designation and approximately 1,000 auxiliary or specialist aircraft. Of course he is stuck on a mountain…”

“Undoubtedly then his first objective will be to obtain fuel oil then; he is sitting on sizeable reserves however they are not limitless.” Marshal Gröning paused slightly rubbing his almost identical mustache compared with his fellow senior officers. “Maybe 500,000 personnel altogether in Lüftburg….”

“A counterbalance?” Marshal Kleinder asked pensively to the bemusement of all but the three Field Marshals.

“We cannot divert sizeable forces well General Kemnitz holds a foothold in Blünderburg; at any moment he could push in.” Field Marshal von Palitz was undoubtedly the most experienced officer present and the only officer present to have fought an offensive campaign against the Gothic Lords in Hemlichstern; albeit a long one.

“Excellenices?” Solf asked hesitantly; it was unwise for the commandant of the ISS to ever be in the dark; also he realized too late to appear in the dark.

“The Yallakians still have an Imperial Legion in Pondderborg; dug in no doubt and with naval support that we cannot hope to match.” Palitz continued. “We cannot mount a siege of the city until we push out the navy, and while we could from Blünderburg with the missile defense grid, I am hesitant to authorize the use of our ammunition in an offensive.”

There was a thoughtful silence. Which continued. “We are surrounded,” Solf stated flatly.

As if all struck by the same sudden idea, every senior officer jogged to Pondderborg on the map; a slab of hematite in white marble with a name glittering in Peridot.
--

November 15th, 22:00
92nd Mechanized Grenadier Division
28 Miles Southwest of Pondderborg

It was a force possibly never before assembled in the military history of the Empire. Most of the vehicles of the 92nd Mechanized Division had been destroyed, defected, or stripped of parts by enthusiastic looters. Field Marshal Palitz had then ordered the commandeering of almost five hundred civilian vehicles, to transport the three divisions required for the perceived attack on Pondderborg.

The city itself was a nightmare for armored command; its streets were crooked, narrow and angular, with steep and irregular paths, which made driving a vehicle around the occupied city a hellish occupation. Conversely, the desert and steppe that rolled out before the city were as flat as flat could hope, and open for hundreds of miles on a side. Not that Palitz had managed to scrape together more than ninety full tanks, but it was surmised by the ISS that the Yallakians would be even more deficient in armor due to the lay out of the city.

A plan had thus been created in the twenty or so minutes before the launch of the operation, and on the six hour ride out of Blünderburg-Granzimmerburg. 60,000 men would attack the most inland point of the city in three flying columns lead by an armor detachment hopefully sufficient in each point to smash through any perimeter defense, while small enough to allow speed and make for inaccurate fire from any Yallakian naval or ground artillery.

The vehicles would be abandoned once the perimeter had been breached by the main force of the attack, mostly grenadiers and shock troopers, who would proceed house to house, street to street in an attempt to storm the city. Tank crews would become useless should the attack manage to force itself down hill to the waterfront, and would thus abandon their vehicles and provide mortar support. The matter of any ships in the harbor would be a difficult one however and from past experience the Waldenburger officers knew quite well that their Yallakian counterparts had no qualms in shelling civilians and would probably laugh while doing so. It was hoped that they would at least be conservative while shelling an area with their own forces present.

“It would have been nice,” Field Marshal Palitz who had volunteered to lead the mission commented from the back seat of a commandeered station wagon which smelled faintly of incontinent cats, “if it could have been dark,” he face was pressed against the window that looked out across the hundred or so miles to Granzimmerburg, which lay on the land like a hellish volcano, the fires of her forges a constant nightlight and cause of much insomnia.

“Field Marshal,” the driver asked peevishly, while trying to bat a pair of fuzzy dice out of his eyes, “Colonel von Feldman reports that we have reached the rear command post, and wishes to take command of the Army?”

“Tell the good colonel,” the car was pulling up beside a line of others which were disgorging officers, and supplies to create a command post, “the army is his. Good hunting.” As the Field Marshal stepped out onto the sand of the desert, the coldness of the night struck him and whipped his command cloak about his heels. The armored detachments and troops carriers were streaming past him; he threw up a salute. “Two hours, you hit the city in two hours!” he bellowed at passing APC, which managed to look affronted. It was slightly reassuring to see the Imperial Eagle emblazoned on the side, and from the top the flag of the Empire still standing. “Don’t give the bastards a second!”

[Augarundus]

((Retconned out of existence))

[Yallak]

November 15th, 23:52
Legiones Imperatorius III
Outskirts of Southwest Pondderborg

The sound, the indisputable sound of vehicle engines, was a dead give away that something was wrong. In the silent calm of the night there was no masking the mechanical chorus that grew steadily from a faint whisper on the cool breeze to a persistent growling ruckus as the machines approached closer to the city by the minute.

‘Contact at Southwest Perimeter, Sector 4.’ Legionnaire Zevran Loryr spoke calmly into his comm. unit even as he swept his night-vision enhanced helmet slowly across the horizon searching for the source of the disturbance. Greens and blacks melded together before his eyes forming a near daylight view of the flat land stretching off into the distance before him and it took only a few moments before he caught sight of the veritable horde of cars and tanks racing towards the city.

In the name of the Emperor. ‘Vehicles on approach, several hundred cars with armoured support. Sound an alert, city wide.’ With a trace of panic in his voice Zevran relayed the astonishing sight before him through to the Legion command post setup deep within the city before raising his rifle and flicking the safety switch from on to full auto.

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‘Imminent threat, all Legionnaires report to defensive stations,’ repeated the vociferous voice through the megaphone again as the man wielding it moved through one of the buildings that the Third Legion had taken adopted as Barracks for its forces. The man paused briefly, kicking a Legionnaire who had somehow managed to sleep through the boisterous megaphone announcement. ‘Get up already.’

Across the city, the entire legion was roused, even the crewmen who tanks or vehicles was still aboard the fleet offshore. The thud of heavy boots on stone soon echoed through the street as men poured out of the barrack buildings into the low-lit streets.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Four days, four short and uneventful days was all that would have made the difference between what might have been and what would soon unfold. The Imperial occupation of Pondderborg during the Gothic invasion of Mediterranica had never been intended to last, in fact it had initially been planned to level the city entirely and then pass through to seize Blünderburg-Granzimmerburg. The city was spared that fate in the end though for the most part and when the war ended a few months previous there had been five full Legions in encampment. Over the months these had been withdrawn one at time as a peaceful state was restored between Waldenburg and Yallak, until only the Third Legion remained. They had been scheduled to depart Waldenburg in just four days when through some strange turn of absolutely inconceivable events the Empire had accepted an offer, from the Waldenburger Church of all entities, that would turn the rule of Waldenburg over to Yallak. Now, just two days from the set date, that departure had been cancelled. Reinforcements were several days away by sea leaving the Third Legion to hold back any Loyalist Waldenburgers, intent of keeping their country from its soon to be rightful rulers, on their own.

Knowing what might have been in store for them, the Legion had spent the previous forty eight hours preparing the city for the eventuality of an attack. The damage dealt to the city in the preliminary bombardments at the outset of the Imperial occupation by some coincidence assisted to bolster the defences that were put in place. Rubble, and there was plenty to be found around the city, was used to block off most of the streets, in some cases even houses were collapsed into the street with tactically placed C4 explosives, the residents relocated into the secured centre of the city. On the southwest side of the city, only three streets into the city were still open…

[Waldenburg 2]

Zadok the Priest

November 15th, 2013
Basilica of St. Ambrose
Scant, Ibblesguard

There was a way great men imposed on history that left their shades burned into the retinas of anyone who had been graced to see them. It was in the same way when one walked into a cathedral, or great hall of government and the neck bends backwards instinctively and the hearts says ‘this is power, this is everything there will ever be.’

Pillars stretched to height once thought impossible for stone to stretch, gold glittered where gold not ought to and the very angels of heaven were picked out in bas-relief on the dome of Scant Cathedral. From every alcove of the chilly stone building one could feel the moments of the ages, and a chill was shot down every spine that had nothing to do with the sinking temperature. The thousands of figures scurrying below on the marble floor could feel it; the pent up beliefs and emotion of ages, the coronations, the deaths, the speeches and their associated feeling had been shrunk down and hammered into the stone of the walls and the wood of the pews till it was almost palpable to the touch, and from every surface a hand stroked there was a feeling of expectation.

Scarlet robes whisked about the dust as a flock of cardinals attended to the last minute details of the coronation, arranging the banners of Hörenburg, the Infinite Empire and the Holy Church in turn. Deacons were already taking up their stations around the alcoves and shriving the building of evil spirits; while the Divine Legion was doing approximately the same, although in it’s case it involved sub machine guns rather than incense.

There was little of the pageantry of Imperial coronations, those in Blünderburg, involving the High Basilica; and the robes of the deacons were plain in comparison; a somber black only contrasted by the white of the choir now gathering in the stone cut lofts above, and the malign red of the cardinals who gathered now towards the front. Of the first few guests that had wandered in, mostly mountain chieftains and Scant Consortium executives the dress was sober: universally in black.

“So,” the distinct movement of air indicated to Cardinal Throm that a figure was standing just beside him now, “we mortgage our freedoms for a quantum of security?”

Throm did not need to turn, “Your Grace,” he inverted his head slightly at a slightly frightened passing alter boy bearing the brunt of the Holy Chalice, “I have never been one for high finance metaphors.”

“We chain ourselves to this monster in the hope that it eats us last?”

“Nor the classics.” Thorm did turn now, irritation almost palpable in his notched and scarred face, “what we are doing is crowning our Emperor, our sovereign lord and king, whom may reign over us forever and so forth. And we will applaud and we will smile, and then we will have some people killed.”

Bishop Smaling was a tremendously fat man, whose grossly misshapen body was only hidden by the generous robes he wore and the miter, which in normal circumstances put observers in mind of an unfortunately inverted ice cream cone. His eyes though were bright, tinged green and fast about his piggish head and, Throm noted with little surprise, never blinked. “It is not right,” the man sniffed hugely creating audible suction that in the hall must have carried for yards. “They will certainly bury us before the end.”

“They may attempt to do so, but smile Your Grace smile, we have successfully orchestrated the last three regional wars; it will take no great mental stretch to bury this man should the need arise. His leash shall be a tight one,” if Throm was to give Smaling anything it was that he could take a hint; the man bowed to the protest of his clothing and waddled off towards the alter.

“My lord,” another figure pale and fidgety appeared at Throm’s other shoulder as he saw the Bishop off; it pulled in, foul breath moistening Throm’s neck. “He has arrived at the Vorgreiten airport; his motorcade is approaching.”

“Very well,” Throm extricated himself from the man and strode towards the alter
“Come gentlemen, we have a king to make.”

“And we have our first view of His Majesty, of course we do not have his name yet, as his motorcade pulls out of Vorgreiten airport. An estimated three million people line the route from the airport to the Basilica and despite the cold the jubilation is ecstatic.

Divine Legion Horse Guards mount an honor guard and make a spectacular sight in the morning light; their brass polished to gleaming, and their sabers drawn.”

“God save His Majesty!”

“A hand has extended from the limousine and is waving to the crowd along the Waldmark straße; this is a gesture not repeated by an emperor since Heinr…”

“VIVAT REX IMPERATOR AETERNUM!”

“In light of the usurpation of Imperial power on the plains, the pomp and regality of this moment has not been put off, and His Majesty can be seen taking the salute of the 105th Grenadier Gua…”

“The Fifth, the Fifth!”

“The crowd shouts for the Chancellor to take the title Wyatt von Waldenburg; founder of the Empire and the Imperial Dynasty with the prophet Ceno….. And the limo is pulling up outside the Basilica through the assembled deacons and bishops… and we have our first glimpse of our new sovereign as he steps from the limo to thunderous applause… how regal he looks, how like a king.”

Incense, it was perhaps the greatest of all clerical devices and when one stared into the cloud for long enough one could see anything; and the voices that pierced it reminded everyone present of a angelic laundry. It was moving it truly was. Cardinal Throm stood flanked by bishops under the alter, the regalia sitting beside him on a velvet cushion; the Divine Legion in heraldic tabards lining the pews in which swam a sea of humanity. There must have been ten thousand faces squeezed into the pews and with a click from the opposite door there was a rustling of clothes as the multitude stood.

“His Majesty approaches the throne through the assembled dignitaries. His mantel carried by eight earls as is…” Kaidan Valorus himself looked like an ancient stormtrooper general, his black uniform added only the regality of his twenty-foot mantel, which dragged behind him, and the silver star of Hörenburg, which gleamed maliciously at his chest. If there was not a mind in the room caught up in the spectacle, they would have noticed the little smirk on the man’s face that said ‘I own you all.’

He approached the throne through a see of bowing knees, and dipping dresses; and looked directly into the eyes of Cardinal Throm whom for the first time is some years, bit his lip in nervousness.

Throwing off the cloak, Kaidan approached the ancient wooden throne, formerly that of the High Kings of Ibblesguard; itself all dark wood and inlaid garnets. He sat and smiled.

“Are you prepared to have received upon you the titles and duties of Emperor of the Waldenburger people?” Throm said, waving of his previous nervousness; which came flooding back when he caught the dark specter of an Imperial Praetor hovering in the choir loft.

“I am prepared.”

“Then be thou anointed with this sacred oil,” Throm felt a slight tinge of embarrassment; the sacred oil, distilled from olives on Mount Blünder had of course been in the Cathedral of St. Micheal when he and his staff had fled, and this oil was Italian salad dressing removed from a curette in the parsonage and decanted into a suitably impressive looking jar. A dab was taken from it and wiped on Kaidan’s forehead.

“Are you prepared to take the oath?” Throm continued as his Bishops looked on passively.

“I am prepared.”

“I, Kaidan Valorus take upon myself the duties of Emperor of Waldenburg, High King of Ibblesguard, Elector of Paloni, Margrave of the Border Marches; Defender of Faith and Lord of Heaven. And to this duty I pledge all my being and forces at my disposal for the protection over the people, which God has given me primacy to govern, such that I rule justly, equally and with the constant grace of God. For now and forever.”

Kaidan repeated in a fairly weak voice that those towards the rear of the cathedral strained to hear. “I, Kaidan Valorus take upon myself the duties of Emperor of Waldenburg, High King of Ibblesguard, Elector of Paloni, Margrave of the Border Marches; Defender of Faith and Lord of Heaven. And to this duty I pledge all my being and forces at my disposal for the protection over the people, which God has given me primacy to govern, such that I rule justly, equally and with the constant grace of God. For now and forever.”

Throm nodded to himself and turned to the pillow on the alter, “Then accept this scepter as the fealty of your Church.” A golden scepter, the one authentic piece of the coronation regalia that had escaped to Scant, was one of tarnished brass set with garnets that had been used only once previously and yet for all its meanness fitted so naturally into the hand of the Yallakian Chancellor.

“Take ye this orb as you take the lands and people over which you have been given dominion to govern,” a golden orb, previously a gyroscope from a ancient bomber, brushed in gold leaf and with jewels ripped from local pieces glued to its side.

“Then in the sight of all ye here gathered take ye the regal name,” two lace gloves were lain upon the crown, a piece of work that glittered far more than gold or diamond did, as it was paint and glass.

“By the Grace of God His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Alaric I,” the man’s eyes darted hungrily upward at the thing which perhaps in ambition he did not notice the still white interior.

“And be crowned for all time, under the eyes of our one true lord, Primarch of Waldenburg; and her defender against the world. Für alles leuten, für alles zeit.” The crown descended and gracefully ringed his skull.

“Vivat,” it was only a whisper from the hoarse throat of the Cenobiarch, but it carried up the curvature of the building and began as always the rolling of little pebbles.

OOC I had some music arranged but iz inept :>{

[Yallak]

November 16th, 2013 - 08:00
The Fortress of Weißburg
Near Scant, Ibblesguard

Who knows how long it has been like this, thought Kaidan as he traversed the deserted corridors of the fortress, years, decades...centuries perhaps? Now the Emperor of Waldenburg he could easily have stayed in the Basilica or commandeered any myriad of other mansions or buildings within Scant, so he could not say exactly why he had chosen to come to the abandoned fortress. Well that was not entirely accurate, he had a reason of course but it could not leave the confines of his mind for it was a dangerous thought. The simple basics of the matter was that he did not trust the Church, and certainly didn't want to find himself making home in the heart of their lair. There was something more though, something symbollic he guessed, about the old fortress. It was a two layered castle with low dark walls built into, and partially carved out of, the side of the mountain opposite the Basilica, it wasn't fancy or even upgraded with electricity yet, but it was solid and still splendid in its own right. No more though. The fortress would serve a different purpose know, it would be the cornerstone of a new era in Waldenburg, from here Kaidan would orchestrate the end of the civil war and with luck and time a final fall of the Waldenburger church, whose manipulations and falsehoods seduced so many people and gave them the power to start this catastrophe in the first place, and not for the first time in the regions history either. He would rebuild the fortress and the nation with it.

It took only a few minutes from the castle's main gateway before Kaidan arrived at what he believed had once been a great hall, which in past times was likely host to drunken lords basking in their own importance over enormous feasts and dancing girls. The hall itself was in ill repair now; small piles of ceiling or wall lay on the floor where they had fallen from age, unimaginable amounts of dust covered the few pieces of furniture or art that remained and many of the windows were cracked or missing entirely, but there was life within its cold stone walls again as Kaidan's score of Praetores, dressed in their blue and gray casual fatigues, worked diligently to restore the hall. He noted that an elegant table and chairs had been requisitioned and placed out of the way at the far end of the hall and made his way over to it and sat opposite the man seated at the right end.

'Your Highness,' the voice was accompanied by a large smirk.

Kaidan scowled at the use of the words, though the Emperor himself had sent him off to take the Waldenburger throne, he still somehow considered it to be an offense against the Emperor to be addressed in such a manner. 'I thought you would have been heading back to Walerdorf, Garviel?'

'So did I,' admitted the Govenor-Militant, previously head of the Praetores in Hörenburg. 'It seems though that you and I both have already been replaced.' That brought a smile back to Kaidan's face, the Empire could be too efficient at times it was true, though better too much than too little. 'Reports from the Third Legion at Pondderborg last night indicated that they have come under attack from loyalist forces. The withdrawing Fifth Legion have been re-routed back to assist but further forces are being marshaled in Yallak now to reinforce us here and retake Waldenburg from the so-called Loyalists. I've been placed in command of an entire Praetorius Legion that is to be shipped here soon.'

Kaidan heard anticipation in his tone, but also a disguised hint of disappointment. 'Well...,' he began, but was never able to finish the sentence.

'Custodians!' proclaimed Garviel, his face glowing with excitement.

The way he had just blurted out the word seemingly randomly, obliterated Kaidan's train of though and the best response he could muster was a confused, 'What about them?'

'They're behind you.' Garviel motioned with his left hand to a point somewhere over Kaidan's shoulder.

'I doubt that, I think I would know if the Emperor was here Garviel.' Nevertheless, he twisted around to have a look and nearly fell out of his chair when he saw that the Governor-Militant was indeed correct and a squad of Custodians were striding down from the entrance of the great hall towards him.

Custodians. Guardians of the Emperor and the Imperial palace, each one a perfect specimen of martial prowess and keen intellect, and always a sight to behold. The last time Kaidan had seen one was in passing at the Imperial palace, but that had been some years ago, before he became a Chancellor so he took the time now to study the warriors as they came to stand before him. They were adorned in golden armour, not dissimilar in design to that worn by the Legions. The armour was perfectly polished to give them a glowing sheen and each armour plate was meticulously wrought with skill and care. The cuirass was engraved with intricate details, the Imperial Emblem being foremost amongst the decorations, emblazoned across the front of the chest piece, but among the other patterns and depictions Kaiden could also make out an artistic view of the Palace of Arrandin and what could only be a heroic styling of the First Emperor of Yallak, Karrig Raudhar. The shoulder plates bore the Custodians Insignia, three swords crossing blades behind a skull centered within a wreath with a banner below that read, There is only the Emperor in Yallakian. Their helmets had plumes of the same deep, dark blue colour used by the High Council of Arrandin that flowed down to just below shoulder length, blending in there with a floor length cloak of the same colour which was fastened to the armour behind the roundels attached to the inner bottom corner of the should guards.

'The Emperor is here?' questioned Kaidan, standing from his chair as the lead Custodian removed his helmet and bowed his head in the traditional Yallakian way.

'No, my Lord,' answered the Custodian.

'I don't understand then.' The Custodians role was to protect the palace and the Emperor, they never left the palace grounds if they were on duty unless it was to accompany the Emepror himself. 'Why are you here?'

'I am Captain Aramis Balhaan,' the Custodian declared, 'and to paraphrase the Emperor's orders, Waldenburg is the largest and most unstable territory of the Empire's territories with you as the only link to allow us to salvage this situation and end a threat to the Empire. I am here to make sure nothing happens to you.'

Kaidan was speechless. The Emperor had gifted him the protection of his own elite bodyguards. Thankfully Aramis continued speaking and an awkward silence was avoided. 'He also said if something did happen to you I'd be sent to labor in the prison mines of the Cloudspire Mountains for a dozen lifetimes. I'm sure that was more of joke than a threat but I can guarantee that I don't intend to test that theory.'

'It's an honour, Captain.' Kaidan nodded and Aramis thanked him and turned to speak with his squad. He had no doubts that the man spoke in earnest but knew that some of his orders had gone unspoken. He of all people knew that the Waldenburger Church would try and use him as their tool, a means to take power for themselves, this was after all why they had asked him to take the throne. It occurred to Kaidan however that the Emperor also understood exactly the same thing and that the presence of the Custodians was not only for his protection but also a way for the Emperor to have someone of uncompromising loyal nearby to confirm the truth of information relayed to the Empire and to ensure that should something transpire that somehow compromised the Imperial position in Waldenburg, Balor could take control of the situation without delay.

As Kaidan observed the Custodians fanning out to search the fortress and assess its layout for security purposes he felt no concern or anger at the situation, it was a precaution he couldn't begrudge the Emperor given the events transpiring. Besides he knew that he served Emperor and Empire as faithfully as any other and he would never give a reason for the Emperor to question him.

'Well, we've much to do today,' Kaiden said turning back to Garviel, 'Seeing as you've nothing to do at the moment, how about going and summoning Cardinal Throm here for me. Have him bring whichever commanders or officials are currently responsible for leading the church's forces.'

[Waldenburg 2]

November 16th, 00:03
Southwest Pondderborg
92nd Mechanized Grenadier Division

Signaling the charge forward the armored detachment shot across the final approaches to Pondderborg, spitting sand in columns behind the tanks as they pressed towards the city. Resistance had been light so far and small arms fire, interspersed with squad support weapons. The armored spearheads had so far suffered no casualties, as the forward vanguard sucked up most of the fire.

Pulling to a halt; gears ground, and the leopards began to lay down a withering fire into various outbuildings. The forward observation officer, from the cockpit of the lead tank, raised a pair of red flags and flicked them about the air; from the column behind a light heliograph flickered out a message back to Field Marshal von Palitz ‘HAVE ACHIEVED SURPRISE: THE BREACH.’

As the infantry support vehicles approached along with the unarmored civilian vehicles the small arms fire became deadly as the headlong charge became a muddle around the armored spearhead as grenadiers poured out while the tanks attempted to smash the enemy base of fire.

“Captain!” Major Jacon Hartlieb pulled his helmet down over his ears as he watched a grocery van across from him, parked in the lee of a scented cypress was peppered with machine gun fire, “We need those buildings!” A finger was pointed at two apartment buildings, “Establish machine gun posts. 180 degrees of fire; take a platoon.” A whistle was put the captain’s lips and blew recognition signal for two of his platoons, drew his sword, and shot to his feet, as did about fifty other men. From this central point it was a long jog down Vesterbro street, the main thoroughfare of the city center; a causeway that would have to be controlled to take the city. The second spear was flanking to the west and moving down the Sonderbro, to hopefully create a solid line, while the third group acted as a lynchpin to the east.

Hartlieb’s spear would first have to clear a series of gardens, and orchards before obtaining Vesterbro street and their avenue to the center of the city; undoubtedly there would be heavy resistance, or rather a single squad could pin down entire regiments on the advance while sharpshooters and hard positions could spray the grounds with fire. There had been no forward planning of the attack, no reconnoitering and the extent of intel on the situation was from field reports from six months ago.

Each spear was provided with three regiments of light infantry. When needed a regiment would provide covering fire as grenadier or storm trooper companies secured individual builds with an indiscriminate and excessive use of grenades. This was one item that was never in short supply, and the albeit ancient fragmentation bombs were distributed sometimes ten to a man.

At every street corner, in an appropriate building or awning a squad with a machine gun was posted to hold that location and organize any volunteers or deal with any Yallakians that had been missed in the mad rush forward.

Civilians were another problem and officers had been sent in every spear of the assault to assure the civilian population with reaffirming statements such as ‘stay in your homes, you shall no be injured.’ The more daring were demanding of every citizen that they signal the presence of Yallakian soldiers by hanging colored cloth outside their windows. Undoubtedly after six months of occupation liberation would come as a relief.

Mortar teams, along with a few recoilless guns and grenade launchers available to the forces would position themselves along Ostre Street and have excellent firing angles into both the parks, and down into the center of the down, as the city sloped to the sea.
--

November 16th, 2013 - 08:22
The Fortress of Weißburg
Near Scant, Ibblesguard

“Give a mouse a cookie,” Throm muttered under his breath as he followed a Yallakian introduced to him as Garviel, along with most of the senior Church officials. They had been roused from their beds, or duties with little ado under Yallakian orders, and several felt rather put upon as they struggled into court attire while hopping down the hallways of St. Ambrose Cathedral.

Throm’s slippers kicked aside an ancient set of scrolls the almost disintegrated at the touch. Paper kept up in the mountains and when Waldenburg had conquered Ibblesguard in the first Pontifical War and thrown down their idols, they had, in spite of tradition, left the heretical material intact. The Church had left every statue, every holy book, and every prayer been intact, meticulously categorized them and then dumped them in the ancient fortresses and sacred places of the Pagan religions. It was an unabashed sign of superiority; ‘do not give credit to this, it is below our notice’ and so the assembled heretical materials of the ages, had simply piled up. Of course the kids would pick through the piles, stealing anything that glimmered, and making hats out of scripture, or whatever it was kids did.

“Should have burned them too,” he muttered under his breathe earning no more than a sideways glance from Admiral Dietrich who strode next to him, a preoccupied look upon his face.

Two double doors were opened: opened was perhaps a generous term as their hinges had probably ceased to move more than several inches years ago and Throm pushed into the great hall. His eyes strayed upwards as he strode across the grime-covered floor; somewhere up there he could see the dark wood, and the carvings that always came back to him… History had a most malicious way of repeating itself and always found the little cracks where no man could otherwise probe.

“Your Majesty,” Throm pulled his convoy to a halt before Alaric, whom he noted fit all to well into the great hall, and for a moment Throm could see the Pagan splendor, the old lords in their furs, shields hanging…. “If it please Your Majesty, you have summoned me.” The dozen or so Waldenburgers bowed, with the notable exception of Throm who held his chin as high as any Prince.

“With your permission,” the Cenobiarch did not wait, “Admiral Dietrich Glück-Manchwalder von Blünder, commander of your naval forces should it please you,” The man saluted fiercely, “his adjutant, the Vice Admiral Thousis is currently at his post in the Chauesy Islands I am afraid.” Throm continued down the list,”

“Horst von Bliebenbrook, Commander of our Divine Legion,” his heels clicked to attention. “Dr. Atillo Cornis.” This man looked somewhat bewildered and compared to the Yallakian looked some sort of dwarf. His neat spectacles were perched on a face so symmetrical and small as to be frightening, which was only ornamented with a small van dyke, “Your Minister of Information.”

“His Grace the Archbishop Ciro Vernando,” a figure in white dipped an elegant courtesy, “Minister of Munitions and War Materials. And this is Walter Smitz, former Minister of Propaganda, at your disposal. My personal aide Deacon Francis von Später, acting head of the inquisition and loyal ISS.”

The line was growing ever shorter as the Cenobiarch went through the courtesies, “Commander of the First Army Group Field Marshal Heinrich Moltke von Blünder.” A white mustache waggled with a crisp salute.

“Dr. Atillo Cornis,” Throm touched him lightly on the shoulder which elicited not even the slightest reaction from the man who stared intently at Alaric with barely concealed hatred, “Head of the,” Throm paused for a moment, “Battenburg project. And lastly Dr. Retirun whom has been of some great service to the Church in past. If it please Your Majesty than so shall it be."

[Yallak]

November 16th, 00:07
8th Battalion, Legiones Imperatorius III
Southwest Pondderborg

The sweet sound of automatic fire chattered in the distance as the perimeter guards engaged the charging Waldenburger forces with machine guns and assault rifles. Captain Garrus Vakarian observed smoke and fire already emanating from several buildings on the outskirts as the Waldenburger armour hammered away at the perimeter defences, two hundred brave soldiers who stood defiant before the horde of enemy to buy time for the remainder of the battalion to get into position.

'Captain...,' Garrus' comm. unit crackled and he barely made out the voice over the sound of weapons fire and explosions.

'Is that you Zevran? What's the situation?' The thought pained him, but he was acutely aware that many of perimeter defenders would likely be dead when it came time to count causalities, but he pushed all such thoughts aside, now was not the time.

'Yes, Sir.' There was a muffled scraping noise and then a four second burst of automatic fire. 'Hostiles are swarming our positions and we are under heavy fire from armour, we need to pull back.'

Garrus checked the time on his helmets HUD quickly. 'We are sixty seconds from engagement. Hold position until it begins and then pull back under the cover-fire. Vakarian Out.'

Garrus scrambled over to the nearest window and peered out into the darkness of Vesterbro Street two stories below where his combat helmets built in infrared allowed him to easily see the Waldenburger troops beginning to push up the street only a few buildings down from his location. Of the Imperial Legion roughly half remained in the city while the others remained aboard the fleet due to space restrictions in the city itself and the proximity of their date of withdrawal but of those only a single Battalion defended the area currently under assault leaving the Waldenburgers outnumbering the Legion six to one. Each Legionnaire had superior training, equipment and was clad in their shock armour which helped to even the odds, but still left a void that only a well executed defence could hope to fill. It was now the moment of truth, the point that they would uncover just how well they had prepared their defences, and everything hinged on that discovery for it would be the deciding factor in this fight.

Garrus checked his HUD clock again. Not yet. He remained still, his men with him, waiting patiently for the longest sixty seconds of their lives. The Waldenburger troops moved further up the street, gunfire continued in the distance. Not yet. The rest of the Eighth Battalion was in position but they too remained in hiding, allowing their enemies to move into the city. The HUD clock changed silently and in an instant, but the moment it showed eight minutes past midnight was like a blaring siren to Garrus. 'All units released to engage.'

It had been clear from the first moments of their planning that if the city came under attack they could not hope to hold the outskirts and so any notion of this had been discarded. Instead, they had made all preparations for keeping the enemy out of the inner streets by holding a ring of defences around that area roughly followed the Southwest cities two railway lines, with additional skirmishing units deployed between this area and the perimeter watch teams. Now the signal had been given and the Imperial troops intended to make the Waldenburgers pay a price for this real estate that they couldn't afford.

'Fire mission at Sector Four. Grid Reference Delta Two through Delta Seven. Armour in the open, fire for effect.' Garrus called in the first part of their defences, a concentrated artillery fire upon the armour and surrounding vehicles and troops engaged against the perimeter guards. Batteries of two hundred and fifty five millimeter guns located within two parks inside the central district began to rain down a devastating barrage of fire upon the land just outside the perimeter. The attack was so violent that the building Zevran was in began coming down around him and with all haste the survivors began to flee back towards the city. To assist their escape and confound the Waldenburger troops a large number of buildings along the outskirts of the city had been wired with C4 charges and these were all detonated as the attack began. Any Waldenburger troops inside was a bonus, the main effect desired was to sow confusing amongst the attackers as dozens of buildings collapsed around and upon them. Garrus hoped that the smoke and debris would be enough to cover the escape of Zevran and his company for there was nothing else he could do for them now.

From the buildings and positions within the street behind sandbags and rubble, the Legionnaires fired on anything that moved within their sights. To add to the copious amounts of fire from the buildings, several companies had been deployed across rooftops around the defensive line and used thermal scopes to snipe from the high ground, everything appeared in various shades of grey through the scopes except the heat signatures from people not behind objects which appeared as bright white silhouettes allowing the snipers a simple job of targeting the Waldenburgers below. Orders were simple though, kill anything not tagged as friendly in the HUD. Civilians had been warned of what could happen if the city came under attack by rebels and the majority had been relocated into the central district, those who remained knew the consequences of their choice.


OOC: Thought i'd have more time tonight to do this but no such luck so excuse any mistakes or stupid things i may have done. I will edit a response to the events in the Fortress into this post tomorrow hopefully

[Third Spanish States]

Wadrers Nachtlied II

Several Kilometers west of Acreburg, Highland, Waldenburg border approach, 2:17 AM

Tall cliffs climbed from the shadows left by the scant moonlight, the scrublands being no longer easy to spot among crevices and valleys, hostile lands, places where all but the most desperate would try to travel through. There were distant outposts around, as it was in Kell's best interests to keep a watch on their undeclared enemies, even after all the changes of government Waldenburg currently had. Creatures flew through the skies at night, when a large metallic door was lowered like the gate of an ancient castle, a dark, clumsy airplane flying in Kell's airspace, but very close to Waldenburg, and yet, neither Waldenburgian or Kell radars would have much of a chance of spotting it. The black aircraft, as small as a F-5G, quickly vanished through the horizon returning to whichever base it came from. Its purpose, as much of a mystery as the real name of such aircraft.

It was a strange feeling, as if she was falling, but suddenly someone tried to hold her over, and Felicia, still with her eyes closed, began to feel like if she was floating, somehow. However, although now she realized she didn't meet oblivion, there was a primal fear of what she would see if she opened her eyes. After all, no religion had good fates in the afterlife for suicidals.

"Am I dead?" Felicia thought, as it was a bit strange the fact she felt hunger and cold, and that someone was holding her. The fresh air however, gave to her the temptation of opening her eyes. Perhaps all they wrote about were lies to scare the sheeple, perhaps it was indeed, the "Opiate of the Masses" or a mere tool of governments to keep the populace obedient and submissive, and perhaps all those religions were lies, with no divine inspiration.

However, there was still fear, and thus, she remained with her eyes shut. Until she felt a crash, and finally, her feet touched over a ground. The shock of the sensation prompted her to open her eyes, seeing the darkened night horizon, and two gloved hands taking her out of what seemed to be a parachute.

"What happened? Who are you?" Felicia immediately asked, surprised when realizing what her feelings were about.

"I am nobody, so you must already know where I came from," the paratrooper, using black clothes without identification marks, replied, as he continued, "and most people inside Kell think you have died, Felicia."

"How do you dare?" Felicia suddenly became enraged, realizing they were once again trying to use her, "after all I've been through, how do you dare to come now, drag me to the end of the world and ask for me to help you as a pawn for your shady operations? Look at what you pulled me to do you son of a bitch! Look!" she touched the bandage on the side of her temple, "it's all your fault and now you want for me to go all over with this again? To kill another million of people? Or will it be ten millions this time, considering how obvious is where we are now and why?"

"You are dead Felicia, you don't have a choice," the paratrooper replied back in a cold manner, not showing any reactions to her anger, "and besides, nothing would happen if the official became real as well," he threatened.

"You think you can make death threats work against someone who just tried suicide? Are you an imbecile as well as a worthless scum?" Felicia replied caustically, "you are making me think that I wouldn't regret killing you either, because at least those scumbags didn't hide under a supposed greater good like you do."

"Think logically, Felicia. What would benefit you from killing me? Or what would I gain from killing you?" the trooper suddenly shifted his tone and way of dealing with her, realizing threats wouldn't work, "Please, listen first to what I have to say, then make your decision. Waldenburg is in a civil war, as you already know, and if this Civil War was ended, millions of lives would be saved. This is our chance, or will we be under a shadow for all time? Look around you, there is nothing, nothing but a harsh nature. Yet, even here, life could be grown. Felicia, we just ask one thing from you?"

"What? I won't meddle in Waldenburg or in your cabals anymore! I am sick of this! You, you became monsters and I almost became a complete monster as well! Sometimes it is better to not meddle, and this is a case."

"You don't get it, do you?" the paratrooper replied, "we want you to leave Kell."

"What?" Felicia's neck bulged as he said it, "is this how you are going to compensate for all the sacrifices I have made, for all I have done? Are you going to betray me? Is it not enough to drive me to attempt suicide? I knew you were ruthless, and never trusted you entirely, but I never thought you would go far enough to betray a friend." she looked at him cautiously, and realized she had something in her pocket, picking it immediately. A pistol, which somehow ended in her hands, but she was too angered to think on how it did.

"I should kill you right now you son of a bitch!" Felicia drew her pistol and retreated to avoid giving him a chance to try disarming her. Her finger gripped the trigger tightly, yet she hesitated in pulling it. The man was the symbol of everything that ruined her, a symbol of "friends" who, in her eyes, used her as a pawn, and never bothered to ask her feelings, on how it felt to know one's actions led to the deaths of thousands. Yet, he seemed stoic and not afraid of dying. For a moment, the scene maintained, as a tension drew, from Felicia trying to predict moves of the paratrooper to subdue her and from him wondering about his fate right now.

Then, after many minutes, she released her grip, and holstered the gun, sighing, "I will let you die from inside instead, like I did, and once it happens, once you killed as many people as I have, perhaps you'll understand. Now, why do you want to banish me? Why? I have nowhere to go but..."

"Waldenburg," the paratrooper added, "yes, we know that, but we will do something terrible to you if you refuse. We will not kill you, but make sure you become tetraphlegic for the rest of your life, forbidding you from suicide as well. Do you understand that?"

"Scumbag!" Felicia spitted, extremely frustrated about the betrayal.

"Wait! I will escort you through the border, and beyond. I have been tasked as your bodyguard!" he mentioned.

"Now that is funny. You care enough about me to send a henchman to watch my back, but still betray me by demanding my exile from the place I have adopted as home. What the hell are you doing with me?"

"We know you can pull through everything, we will also have a ready identity once you reach the border."

"I see, you need a sleeper agent."

"Perhaps," he motioned to the horizon, "now look, if we spend the whole night talking, we will lose the cover of night. Could you follow me? I know the safest path towards the other side.

"Very well, and I hope you aren't tricking me with this talk."

"I assure you I am not."

The journey was difficult for an aging person like Felicia. The place was not very good for old people to take a hike, but Felicia was lucky to have had some decent physical workout during most of her life. Covered by shadows, to which the trooper seemed as familiarized as if they were his brothers, both began their small, but long journey towards the border, Felicia's mind shrouded in doubts and suspicions, as she wondered what they were hoping to use her for this time. The obvious guesses included taking the role of the Pastor she persuaded to lead a revolution in Waldenburg before, but there were some holes with such idea. The first the fact Felicia was culturally too foreign for them compared to the Pastor.

But most of all, she hoped they wouldn't get caught. However, for now, they were still in Kell territory, thus it was safe to move on. Fifteen minutes would still pass according to what the soldier estimated, before they reached the border.

"How did we came here. I know you paradropped with me, but from where?" Felicia suddenly whispered along the way

"From a Pidgey." the soldier answered, "nearest beauty we got."

"Are you joking me?" Felicia asked then, "Pidgey?"

"Yes, Pidgey. Sounds a stupid name, but that is how it was named. It's a small stealth transport airplane, that can house no more than four fully equipped paratroopers but is probably the stealthiest aircraft our friends from the other side of the worlds ever made. Another gift from overseas."

"I see, maybe I can stamp "puppet state" very widely in Kell." Felicia remarked.

"Not really. The Confederacy has little influence here, we formed our own branch of sorts, we just happen to have similar goals with them, nothing more." he then gloated, "in fact, we have won the war with little direct aid from them, didn't we?"

"Yes, but still," Felicia pondered, "there is only one Network>"

"Wrong, Felicia. The Network is a concept first, an organization last. There have been a few different incarnations of the idea through the world. They have only common goals, like I said. Any form of central authority inside the network would mean ruin to everyone, as you already know."

"Aren't you afraid of speaking way too much about it? I would expect no better from a grunt anyway."

"All right, lets move on Felicia, I'd say we have about five minutes before reaching the border," he said, as they were about to leave the cover of a valley, "be careful and watch out for anything suspicious."

"I'll be more careful about the traps you might be laying for me," she snidely remarked, pointing the fact she still didn't trust him.

Soon they would make the crossing. But that was yet to happen, and the consequences, far away from being understood.


OOC: I'm back. More coming later. I'm intentionally delaying the advance of this as it'll involve Waldenburg.

[Waldenburg 2]

Overture to the Royal Fireworks

November 16th, 00:10
92nd Mechanized Grenadier Division
Southwest Pondderborg

From the sleeping, fragrant gardens and terraces of Pondderborg the Yallakian dragon felt the prick of the Waldenburger lance and opened its mouth in reply. Palitz watch in glum derision as visions of his army oscillated in and out of his vision with the flashing of the heavy guns.

“We’re too close, we’ll be under their heavy guns in a few minutes,” he paused and slapped his baton against a card table which had been dragged out for his rear command post, “however the coordination of any of our artillery will be harried.” He motioned back to the hazy glow of Blünderburg, “the artillery train will be some time in coming.” He didn’t add to his staff officers ‘if they come at all.’ “if we are to break the naval forces stationed in the harbor, which we have sacrificed in an attempt to eliminate their beachhead, we will have to control the incline.” He tapped his hands on the map as a radioman pushed miniatures representing the columns into Pondderborg.

“Will the Yallakians shell the city should they lose control?” A junior staff officer, quite junior apparently, asked politely.

“They are Yallakians,” Palitz felt his forehead, he was nursing the smallest of hangovers from his nightcap, and the thundering of heavy guns was making him irritable, “why there is a city left at all is a fact equally startling as why we give a tinker’s damn about it. We must eliminate the foothold or otherwise make Pondderborg unsuitable,” he waved his hand generally at the guarded harbor below, “for the landing of troops. If we can hold their attention till the artillery arrives…” he needn’t finish the sentence.
--

Jacon Hartlieb wiped a patrician hand across his face, more evenly spreading the dirt over his stern brow, “3rd Company…” he paused biting his lip, “advance!” he motioned with a hand at a much depleted group of men, who without question rose and dashed across a poorly lighted street. Though the Major could not see what happened the peppering of bullets which struck this covered wall and the screams which suddenly permeated the air were no good indication.

The original mad dash towards the city had been comparatively peaceable, surprise had for once been achieved, but as the Yallakians began to pull themselves together at the edge of the city, and the weaknesses of the impromptu fleet of transport vehicles became apparent casualties had taken a sharp spike for the worse.

Hartlieb and 92nd Grenadiers has joined the far right speak attack the south of Pondderborg, with the responsibility of driving a considerable way into the city, and creating a pocket, which the center spear would close off. As it was Hartlieb was at least twelve blocks from his objective, and the insanity of the dash may have broken a line in the Yallakian defenses, or perhaps simply passed through a section not fully mobilized, but now most certainly left the spearhead facing probable troops on all sides, although the rear guards and holding positions would hopefully keep open an avenue of escape.

Any dream of cohesion was lost, and the largest unit that could be scrapped together for any offensive was at battalion strength. Companies wandered the city, their captains taking it upon themselves to either win heroic accolades or falsely shoot down civilians in the streets.

Hartlieb, and a mixed matched group of men from three different regiments, hid under a shallow garden wall as a cypress tree above them was slowly whittled down by small arms fire. They had, just moments before stormed the house in which garden they were sitting. For their efforts they had received six dead and nineteen wounded, to wipe out the
four man forward observation team inside.

“Corporal?” Hartlieb leaned over to bellow into the ear of his radioman, who looked up dazedly, most of his ear was hanging off, “Get Sergeant Feldman!” he unrolled a thin piece of canvas which he had taken from, the brim of his tin helmet; it was overtly sweat stained. Luckily for the Waldenburgers the exact topography, and every back alley and street had been mapped by an overly fastidious government, and the calling of mortar strikes would be child’s play. “Fire support on grid section….. 572a, looks like a villa of some sort, thirty rounds please.” After a sharp elbow into the kidney the radioman began relaying the message…. After a wait punctuated by the fall of cypress leaves… nothing happened.

“Damnit!” Hartlieb bellowed, “a’right, grenades!” he reached down to the bandolier on his belt, “second platoon smoke, everyone else with me.” The impromptu unit, backs still to the wall, pulled the pins from grenades and waited.

“Two… one… now!” As one man the unit rose over the wall and lobbed the grenades, none too accurately across a wide cobbled square at the white stone front of some summer palace, some seconds later the square went white with shrapnel and smoke. “Bayonets!” Hartlieb screamed, pulling his own pistol from his hip, “advance!” His men threw themselves over the wall. All over the city it was the same.

[Yallak]

November 16th, 2013 - 08:31
The Fortress of Weißburg
Near Scant, Ibblesguard

Kaidan studied each man carefully as they were introduced by Throm, taking mental notes as he assessed their posture, expressions and actions. He didn’t seek anything in particular, instead he just simply filed information away in his memory for use later should the need arise. And he was fairly sure the need would arise eventually.

Despite what it looked like, this was no alliance, no partnership, and no friendship even. No, this was simple convenience, and was all too apparent in the cold stare of Atillo Cornis. The church would tolerate his leadership so that the Empire would see their coup completed successfully, after which he did not doubt for a second that they would seek to have him replaced by someone more controllable, someone not Yallakian.

Kaidan raised his arms in a gesture of welcome. ‘Thank you for attending, Gentlemen,’ he said with a smile, then motioned to the table behind him, ‘Please be seated.’

As they sat, the custodians in their shinning armour stood sentinel around hall, impassive and unmoving.

When everyone was settled Kaidan spoke again. ‘I’ll get right to the point then. I’ve called you here because I believe we cannot afford a protracted war and thus we must move quickly to quell the rebels, to strike at their heart before they can gather into an effective opposition.’

Imperial Legions are on their way to take the fight to the rebels but in the mean time we must not let up the pressure. Our first objective is to relieve the siege of Pondderborg, the enemy has moved against it and we must stop this attack dead in its tracks. What forces are nearby?

Secondly, we must reclaim the capital. What progress has been made in that regard?

And lastly, Price Cato. What is being done to find him? If we can find him it could end the war right then.’

_____________________________

And as the hand of death,
Descended upon them in vengeance,
They looked on what they had wrought,
And despaired.
-Theocalese 5:8

November 16th, 2013 - 00:15
8th Battalion, Legiones Imperatorius III
Southwest Pondderborg

As the grenades exploded outside, blood splattered across the wall as a large piece of shrapnel smashed through the visor of a legionnaires armour as he fired into the smoke, a red hot metal fragment embedded in his face. Equerry Nyssa Aziel rushed to the body and pulled it to cover, but by then he was dead.

‘Here they come again!’ called out one of the remaining legionnaires of the squad. He opened fire moments later, spewing bullets into the smoke filled street. Nyssa left the body and moved back to the remnants of the buildings front wall, which now served as their defensive line. Three of the squad were dead and the latest casualty being the sections Lieutenant left her in command now.

Frak! With her helmets thermal imaging she could see the charging Waldenburgers too despite the thick cover smoke. There were a lot of them. She raised her assault rifle and pressed the trigger hard and the metallic singing of her rifle joined the symphony of gunfire. Their defence wreaked frightful havoc amongst the Waldenburgers, blasting sprays of red blood into the air, but despite the carnage it wouldn’t be enough to stop them.

When Nyssa’s gun clicked loudly and fell silent, she didn’t bother reloading it, instead casting the weapon aside. ‘Prepare to defend yourselves,’ she called, drawing her pistol and combat blade. The blade was similar in shape and design to a standard issue knife only it was thicker and much longer, essentially making it a short sword and thus the weapon of choice for a melee fight. The rest of the squad did likewise as the Waldenburger soldiers reached the wall firing as they jumped over, trying to push the Legionnaires back.

It couldn’t end this way. A lifetime of honour and service to the Empire couldn’t end at the hands of some Waldenburger rebels. She had fought side by side with some of the Emperor’s finest soldiers and there was no way she was going to die fighting a foe as inglorious as this rabble. Unfortunately she thought wryly, they didn’t seem to know that.

The first two Waldenburgers over the wall fell dead, each with a bullet buried between their eyes. Another fell before a backhand sweep of her blade. All shape to the battle was lost as each warrior fought a vicious private war to survive. Equerry Aziel parried another thrusting bayonet and then skewered the attacker on the point of her blade. She saw one of her men go down clutching at a wound on his leg and quickly raised her pistol and shot the Waldenburger in the face just as he poised to deliver a killing blow.

The impact that followed the momentary distraction from her own defence sent the Equerry reeling backwards to the floor. The Waldenburger bayonet had failed to pierce her armour but she was at a terrible disadvantage now. She tried to regain her footing but her assailant pressed the attack and knocked her down again with a blow from his rifle stock. Nyssa raised a hand to fire her pistol but with was met with a painful dread as she saw she must have dropped the weapon. The next moment her vision was filled with the barrel of a Waldenburger rifle and the sound of the shot that followed rang in her ears.

The ringing abated. She wasn’t dead. She opened her eyes and saw the Waldenburgers body falling backwards, his head a bloody mess and barely recognisable as human. Legionnaire Alesius’ pistol still smoked inches above her head as he cut another opponent open from shoulder to stomach with his blade. The man went down with a scream.

With a moments space to breath in the fighting, Nyssa grabbed an assault rifle from a fallen Legionnaire and without even standing opened fire on the Waldenburger soldiers between her men and the wall, gunning four of them down. The assault finally faltered and any remaining enemy quickly withdrew, Imperial pistols firing at them as they fled.

Nyssa clambered up and recovered her own assault rifle and pistol. She looked around briefly and took count of her squad. Two standing, three wounded. ‘Time to fall back to the next position,’ she declared, helping her men pick up the wounded, ‘Alesius, finish up here.’

They pulled out through the back door as Alesius recovered the fallen soldier’s dog tags and set several motion activated claymore mines among the ruins of the building before following the rest of the squad out. In the distance the thudding of the artillery grew louder as the barrage crept closer to the city, forcing the Waldenburgers troops to choose between being destroyed by shell fire if they remained were they were or to keep attacking forward quickly and facing Imperial defenses.