Divided They Fall [The Fourth Sovereign Charter Only]

by **Asgareth** » Sat Mar 21, 2020 2:00 pm

She was gone. Queen Marie-Colette, the last bastion of the old age, was gone. The great figurehead of Archon, who had overseen the liberations of so many fallen countries while keeping her people safe from attack. Many hoped she would eventually recover, as she had done years before, but alas the great queen had breathed her last and, having left no clear heir, the Royaume totters on the brink of uncertainty.
For many, however, the choice wass clear: Jacques de Guise, the late Queen’s nephew, was generally considered the strongest candidate. His closest rival to the throne, Duke André-Deion de Valenciennes, the son of King Thomas, had passed away three years earlier while overseeing an ill-fated live firing exercise. His only daughter and heir, Isabella de Valenciennes, was generally believed to be too young to bear the weighty responsibilities of rulership at the tender age of 19 and had been mostly discounted from the succession. With that said, her family had managed to retain their strong links to the military and were clearly prepared to use them. Some believed that the late Duke André-Deion’s death may not have been entirely accidental…

For his part, Jacques did not actually want the throne. In the eyes of his supporters, this made him perfect for the role, but in the eyes of his opponents this simply made him weak. Following the terms of Queen Marie-Colette’s will, Jacques has overseen the organisation of the state funeral, and is expected to play a key role in it.

Yet the kingdom has threats from within. In Meridia, the fallen state of Cervidas has re-emerged and requested independence from the royaume. The council, busy with both preparations for the funeral and their own internal conflicts have so far ignored this request. Meanwhile, rumours have begun to circulate that the industrial heartlands of the kingdom have been infiltrated by communist spies, backed by the nation of Greater Slavacia, who seek to dissolve the Royaume entirely and replace it with a hard left republic on their own model.
But even these crucial matters of state are of little concern to Jacques de Guise, as he makes the preparations to lay his beloved aunt to rest and assume her throne…

***

Gaspé, Nouvel Acadie
12th May 2082AST

The death of Queen Marie-Colette had hit Jacques de Guise in a way he had never expected. His aunt had always been one of his favourite people, and her sudden passing had saddened him considerably. In the week since, he had been unusually quiet, spending most hours in his office. His sister Iona had only seen him once, and that was by sheer luck. He had been busy planning the funeral of his aunt, believing she believed the best send-off possible. A simple state funeral did not simply seem enough to commemorate the life of someone as important as Queen Marie-Colette. If Jacques had his way, she would have the greatest funeral of all time.

The sun shone brightly in Gaspé on the day of the funeral, in stark contrast to the mood of the nation. The once joyful streets of the capital were shrouded in a general sense of dread and fear. The peoples of Acadie were scared for the future. There had been growing political tension across the nation, as the Houses of Guise and Valenciennes both began to prepare to make power grabs. Talk of war among countrymen, among friends was prevalent within the crowd, with several old men telling young boys that they'd best pick a side now, and get ready to die.

The streets of Gaspé were lined with thousands of civilians, all hoping to catch a glimpse of their fallen monarch. A 6 horse carriage slowly made its way through the city, heading towards the state cathedral. Queen Marie-Colette’s body lay on the carriage in an open casket. Flowers had been gently laid beside the beloved Queen’s corpse, with more being thrown onto the streets by the citizens who shared a deep sense of mourning at the passing of their Queen. Behind the carriage, a procession of royals followed. Jacques de Guise, Duke of Guise and nephew of the Queen led the way. It was widely suspected that Jacques would be crowned King in the coming days, but for today Jacques’ mind was solely on his dearly missed aunt.

Behind Jacques followed Henri de Saulteaux and Jean-Michel de Charbonneau, two of his oldest and closest allies. The pair had already given him their assurances that they would back his right to rule, naturally assuming that in turn he would grant them additional powers and lands. Then followed Sylvain de Picardie alongside Daniel de Bourbon and Iona de Guise, along with her son Gérard. De Bourbon had already unequivocally announced his support for Isabelle de Valenciennes, but de Picardie remained neutral. Adele de Vermandois, Yohanna, Dronnig af Yolki and Diego Cortés de Castillo then followed, representing the various states that the kingdom had consumed during the reign of the Queen. While there were rumours of succession within Cervidas, Cortés remained committed to the Acadian project. Dozens more followed through with Isabelle de Valenciennes being relegated to the rear, before they were followed by representatives from across the globe. Yulta Ross was in deep conversation with his estranged brother Luxus Ross, though both were clearly not enjoying one another's company. There were dignitaries from Heartfilia, Slavacia, Kaiserrealm, Jiqaz, Aurum, Myraxia, Iryllia, Valyrien, Chargren - in fact someone, anyone from every nation in the charter. The loss of the Queen had had a significant ripple effect across the charter.

The procession arrived outside the church, where the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Slowly, the dignitaries made their way inside. Henri and Jean-Michel oversaw the seating - ensuring that sympathetic allies were near the front, while Isabelle de Valenciennes reluctantly took her seat towards the back. The ceremony occured without a hitch. Broadcast live to the nation, and to the wider world, the eyes of billions of people fell upon Jacques as he delivered the eulogy. In it, he reflected upon the life of the Queen, mentioning her ability to unify the nation and her gentle nature. He reflected upon how the world would miss Queen Marie, bluntly stating that few other rulers could ever match her greatness. He kept the theme surprisingly light, making jokes at the expense of the Valenciennes. Poems were read, firstly by Henri de Saulteaux, and then by Sylvain de Picardie, before the coffin was finally taken away to lay in the ancient tombs.

It was then that Jacques invited his fellow dignatories to return to the Grand Chamber. A feast to celebrate the deceased Queen had been laid out, consisting of many various foods. Delegations had brought their own traditional foods, with vorka cheese seemingly being so popular that it had been eaten within 5 minutes - though other accounts suggested it was later found floating in a toilet. Guests mingled with one another, expressing their sympathies to the various houses of the Acadians. Yulta Ross was busy in discussions with Iona de Guise. The pair had not seen each other for 15 years, but seemingly enjoyed a catch up to the surprise of many, given the way in which her marriage to Axic, and subsequent relations with the Ross family had deteriorated. She offered him praise for killing his father, and he in turn praised her for raising Gérard by herself, with the mere help of 6 nannies. For his part, Jacques watched on in the background, with Henri de Saulteaux and Jean-Michel de Charbonneau. The three smirked between each other. All was well.

by **Romae in Perpetuum** » Sun Mar 29, 2020 5:27 pm

Octavius Trajan: Proconsul of Gallia
Ante Diem Ides Aprilis, 2140 AUNC

The Queen was dead. Her throne was empty. Her people were in mourning.
Perfect.
The whole world had its eyes on Gaspé that day, but no one was watching the seas; least of all the Acadians themselves and whilst they busied themselves with pomp and ceremony, Octavius Trajan had quietly begun to summon his forces.
As the magnificent funerary procession made its way through the cobbled streets of the capital, disguised Praetorian Agents had already placed themselves at key strategic positions throughout the grand old city: communication hubs, infrastructure nodes, power generators… anything and everything that the Acadians needed to function.
Even as Jacques de Guise made his grand speeches and poignant obituaries, Imperial fleets had slipped their moorings in Gallia and Britannia; making straight for Île Principal and the Acadian ships which defended it. The defence fleets did what they could, but caught totally off guard and with their communications being blocked, they soon fell before the relentless advance of the Roman Imperial Navy. Likewise in the air, hampered by the comms blackout, the Royaume’s air bases in the east found themselves under a swift and decisive aerial bombardment- grounding their aircraft and leaving the skies, for now at least, the Imperium’s domain.
With aerial superiority achieved, the critical blow could now be struck: Vallée-Pastorale, the principal port of the Flotte de défense de l'Est- mostly returned to its home port for the funeral. The subsequent attack was as devastating as it was unexpected, a combined aerial and naval assault that wreaked havoc on the Acadian fleet and left the port-city itself in utter disarray.
In a matter of hours, both the skies and the seas of the eastern approaches were firmly in the grip of Prince Trajan. Now was the time for the coup de grâce.

A more cautious commander would’ve gone for a less ambitious target: Terá Shandi, maybe Port-Liberté at a stretch. These- among others- we’re even suggested as alternatives to the Prince, but he just laughed and chided his underlings for a lack of vision. He wanted to deal a decapitating blow to the Gaulish nation, and he wanted them to know by whom it was struck. There was only ever one objective for Octavius Trajan.
Gaspé.
As soon as conformation of the Imperial victories reached the Acadian capital, the final phase of Operation Peremptus began; The network of Praetorian Agents embedded within the city began to seize or destroy their assigned targets causing widespread chaos and disruption, impounding the already severe information shortage being felt around the island.
Before the local authorities could even begin to grasp the situation, streams of reports started coming in of military aircraft in the skies; large transport planes escorted by jet fighters, the former of which had begun deploying what some onlookers described as ‘silken handkerchiefs’, but what most knew to be paratroopers.
To their credit, the undermanned and disrupted garrison did their best, but what few orders they received we’re garbled and ill-informed and many of them were still in their ceremonial uniforms from the funeral. Meanwhile the Roman Paratroopers we’re moving with deadly purpose through the narrow streets, securing marked targets in tandem with their Praetorian counterparts and battling a beleaguered mixture of ceremonial guards and gendarmes.
It was not long, however, before the paratroopers had secured their primary objective: the famed Gaspian dockyards. In hardly any time at all the terrified civilian population could see squadrons of naval transports which began disgorging tens of thousands of Roman Legionaries, in their distinctive ceramic plate armour, into the city.
In a paltry few hours, the fiercest of the organised resistance had been crushed, all key sectors reported clear and Gaspé was in the clutches of Prince Octavius Trajan, the Malleus Galliarum.

Isabella de Valenciennes: La reine en attente
A few hours later

Sacrilege! Utter sacrilege!
That was all Isabella could think as she marched into what was...what had been...the Royal Throne Room; only to see a dark haired man in his late thirties lounging on the Acadian throne, legs crossed over an armrest with a wicked grin on his comely face.
She swallowed nervously and continued to walk towards the royal seat, the distance made ever longer by her own anxiety and determination not to seem afraid.
“Be careful with these Romans, ma chérie.” Her mother's throaty tones echoed in her head. “They are vicious, cruel and capricious...this one more than most.”
She had been fortunate enough to be with her mother when the soldiers had stormed the palace, detaining everyone they could find and executing anyone who resisted. Them and their attendants had been unceremoniously shoved into one of the Royal apartments while the Legionaries began their search for the rest of the Royal Counsellors.

Isabella was vaguely aware of some functionary announcing her presence, but could hardly hear anything over the sound of blood rushing through her ears and the clattering of her heels on the marble floors. Her focus was firmly fixed on the Roman prince, her hazel eyes locked onto his.
“Above all, they’re slavers.” Continued the voice. “I know slavers, petit, better than most. You cannot show weakness to the slaver, cannot show vulnerability or doubt or they’ll seize upon it and snap you like a twig! You must think and act with total authority and confidence, if you hope to survive.”
“But maman...” She had asked. “How do I make myself think something I don’t feel?!”
“You must learn, child. You must learn.”

The young duchess suddenly found her path impeded when two large armoured men, sporting wild beards and vicious looking axe-shotguns, stepped forward off the dias.
“Gaulish filth.” Intoned a youngish man, in a Roman officer's armour. “You stand before his Imperial Highness Gaius Octavius Trajanus; Descendant of a god, Guardian of the City, Lord Protector of Cambrius, Hammerer of the Gauls, Prince of Rome and Conqueror of Gapsé!”
Isabella couldn’t help but notice the man smirk slightly out of the corner of her eye at the latest of the Roman’s excessive titles and felt a fresh wave of rage bubble inside her, the arrogance of these people! The sheer nerve! She found herself biting the inside of her lip. Hard, and her tongue recoiled at the ferric taste.
My blood. She thought. Royal blood
She took a deep breath, but her carefully crafted speech deserted her, frightened off by nerves and rage.
“You are in my seat.”

The silence was deafening, and Isabella could feel small beads of sweat materialising on her forehead but kept her attention squarely on the Roman atop the dais, determined not to look away. Unexpectedly, though, Isabella could hear light tittering coming from her left, at the very edge of her peripheral vision she could just about make out a woman making a half hearted effort to cover her mouth.
She was undoubtedly beautiful, with luxurious spun gold hair, a soft heart-shaped face and large chocolate brown eyes gleaming with mirth. Isabella recognised her from the funeral- or to be more accurate she recognised the big fluffy lavender dress that clung to the older woman’s slight frame- some Heartfilian duchess or other.
Isabella briefly wondered what she was doing here, but when she returned her attention to the Prince she could clearly see that the two had nearly identical eyes, as well as a few similar facial features. One of the Roman Emperor’s bastards then, giggling at her!
As Isabella seethed, Trajan suddenly joined in his sister’s amusement, a loud boisterous affair that rang out across the room, soon echoed by his assortment of sycophants and thugs.
“I beg your pardon?” He asked incredulously, still laughing. “What did you just say?”
Offended and outraged, the young duchess straightened her back tighter and felt her manicured nails dig into her palms.
“I am Isabella de Valenciennes, daughter of André-Deion de Valenciennes and granddaughter of the great King Thomas de Valenciennes.” She announced, doggedly fighting to control her emotions. “Suo jure Queen of the Deuxième Royaume and you are in my seat.”
The Roman briefly looked down at the throne he was lazing on then looked back up in mock horror.
“It appears to be occupied, Votre Majesté.” He declared, before breaking out into fresh peals of laughter.

Octavius Trajan: Proconsul of Gallia

The Proconsul of Gallia had barely been paying attention when the young Duchess was brought before him, all he knew was that some of his officers had reported that her and her mother were making a fuss and demanding some sort of audience. Frankly, he could do with the distraction, he was fond of Eleanor but if he had to listen to yet another round of ‘juicy gossip’ from the Heartfilian court he was going to shoot himself.
He wasn’t to be disappointed, the young woman was both personable and seemed to have nerve at the very least...Trajan had known venerable men to shuffle to him on their knees begging for his favour in the past, and the Acadian duchess’ self-assured pace was a welcome change.
It was her eyes that intrigued him the most, however, fierce with an unmoving gaze that seemed to be trying to pin him to the wall then, all of a sudden, he felt his age hit him like a lorry as he judged the Valenciennes girl to be a good bit closer to his dear daughter’s age than his own and let out a barely audible sigh.

In truth it wasn’t her eyes, or even her shapely figure, that continued to draw his wandering mind like a moth to flame. In fact it was a rather vitriolic conversation with his brother Drusus that was turning over and over in his head.
“You have such a narrow perspective, brother mine” repeated the insipid drawl in his thoughts. “You haven't even considered the reasons why father himself didn't invade them. Mull that over whilst you, strike deeper.”
Trajan felt his anger build as he remembered his little brother's malicious smirk, even when they were children the little shit had always known how to get under his skin. Despite his best efforts though, he couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. Why had Gemellus Caesar never ordered an outright conquest of the Acadian Gauls? Even at the zenith of their Queen’s reign, they had never had the martial might, the sheer aggression needed to resist the Roman Eagle! He had studied their military potential for years, examined their defences from every angle...there was no way Acadia could’ve stood! Their resource rich and sparsely populated lands would’ve propelled the Imperium to unknown heights...yet Caesar had done nothing, why?!

He was so absorbed with this problem, that he didn’t even hear Isabella’s bold statement, and it was only his sister’s giggles that roused him out of his trance, that he quickly joined in with. When the Prince had asked for clarification, it was less out of mockery than genuine ignorance.
Trajan maintained his amused veneer throughout Isabella’s little tirade, but the humour in his actions masked the furious inner workings of his mind as it assimilated this new information. He had heard that the Valenciennes heir was an insignificant slip of a girl, a mere shadow of her illustrious predecessor and totally unsuited for even the most ceremonial of powers; but the prince was beginning to suspect this was untrue, whether deliberate propaganda by her enemies to deny her the crown or a smoke screen setup by her allies to protect her from her father's suspected fate was unclear and frankly irrelevant. It was time to test his hypothesis.

“You say this throne is yours, duchess.” He said lazily, mirth subsided. “But as I say, it is occupied; just like your capital is and your kingdom will be...maybe I’ll do you a favour and let you keep the diadem itself, if you can think of a way to...incentivise me.” His Skjoldurians and a few of his attendants howled derisively at that one, with some fixing the duchess with fresh leers. Still, Trajan could hear Eleanor tut with barely concealed disgust and he privately concurred, thinking again of his teenage daughter...but it was expected of a victorious general with a captive in his power.
Isabella surprised him however by shrugging slightly.
“You don’t have the men.” She stated simply.
“Oh don’t I?” The prince replied sardonically, looking to his nearby companions with a knowing grin, though internally he raised an eyebrow. “I have countless legions and fleets at my back! More than enough to overwhelm your pathetic armies.”
The young woman shrugged again. “In your provinces, maybe, but you can’t have more than a Cohort or two in the city itself, a hundred thousand? If that?”
With all whimsical pretence abandoned, Trajan sat up and appraised her with narrowed eyes. “What pray tell?” He asked, voice barely more than a whisper. “Would give you that idea?”
Isabella sighed softly. “Because even a man of your reputed tallents, couldn’t sneak entire legions across the sea without someone noticing...even someone as unobservant as that oaf Jacques de Guise. Not to mention your eagle over there.” She pointed at the gold aquilla standard embedded behind the throne, beneath which hung the emblem of the Legio XXX Trajana Victrix. “Yes, you brought the Legion’s eagle, but where are the individual cohorts’ banners? You’d surely be parading them as well, if they were here...no you brought the First Cohort on it’s own, the legionary crème de la crème to be sure, but a hundred thousand at most.”
Trajan opened his mouth to respond, but the young duchess just crossed her arms and showed a smirk of her own. “But most of all, Imperial Highness? That look on your face confirmed it beyond a doubt.”

The Proconsul of Gaul leaned back in the throne and lolled his hand in acknowledgement. “Your father taught you well, Duchess de Valenciennes.” Maybe a little too well, he thought and he cursed at such an obvious slip in his demeanor, he’d underestimated the little filly, that wouldn’t happen again. “But the fact remains, I have your throne.”
“And with me and my mother’s support, we’ll both get what we want.” The Prince could see the hunger in her eyes, as Isabella worked herself up to another tirade. “Announce to the people of Nouvel Acadie that you’ve come to restore the House of Valenciennes to their rightful position as monarchs, and we in turn will reveal that Rome does not come as an invader, but as the newest ally of the Acadian crown, who drove the Guise snakes out of the capital and will punish those filthy traitors for their usurpation of power!”
To this, Trajan said nothing, letting her emotions finally overspill.
“Our allies on the Royal Council are more numerous than Guise and his bedfellows believe, and with your military and political support, those on the fence will soon see sense.” She snorted. “The nobles and magnates make grand speeches about honour and justice, but in the end they’ll either follow their wallets or move to save their necks...either way.” She took a cautious step towards the dais. “And then, when my enemies are subdued and the kingdom is united under my rule...we can discuss how to heal the rift between La Royaume and the Imperium.” She made a brave attempt at a seductive smile. “Is it true that you remain unmarried after the unfortunate death of your wife?”
The mention of his late spouse made the Roman grasp the armrests a bit tighter, but he kept his face impassive. At the very least portraying his conquest as a ‘liberation’ would negate the inevitable backlash his seizure of Gaspé would cause...it might even give him more fodder to play with. Still... he did not fully trust this girl and her supposed allies, and she would be a fool to trust him…
“I think.” He said, flashing a contented grin and slowly getting to his feet. “I am sitting in your chair, Majesty.”

by **Harren Island** » Sun Mar 29, 2020 5:51 pm

‘Something Fishy’ – Autreterre

Fig. 'Something Fishy' Radio Station Emblem

Kal swore vociferously as he rooted around in the mini-fridge under the metal desk, his large hand shoving sandwiches and wrapped packages aside, moving bottles and feeling around at the back. Irately, he came back up to a position, shoved his thick black mop of hair back and looked out the grimy glass pane in front of him to his technician, Lanek. depressing the intercom button next to his wrist as he did so, “Who in the flying fuck drunk my last can of Roi?”.

A tinny voice soon came back over the low-quality audio system, “I have a bottle of Melys if you want.” Lanek was looking through at him to see if he was interested and then raised his watch to check the time, “We have about forty seconds though, so say now or forever hold your peace.”.

“That’s Cambrian, you know they helped invade us? Throw that piss over the side.” Lanek had only been a young boy when they’d left the homeland and didn’t remember much of it and so didn’t harbour as much hatred as the rest of them. Sometimes Kal worried that the newest generation of Harrenians in exile didn’t much care about their struggle to return or the fight against their conquerors, finding too much in their new lives and new homes but then in other moments he would curse himself for having such a selfish point of view and wondered if they had the right of it…. moving on and forgetting the pain and anguish of that time might be the best thing for everyone.

A red light flashed on, signalling the ten second warning and he realised he’d zoned out again. He picked up his headset and put it on, making himself comfortable and promising to any god who’d listen that he’d find whoever stole his drink afterwards. The light blinked off and he laid his hand on the transmit button. It had once been cool blue but the paint had flaked off and now it was patchy and pale. He began to speak, his voice relaxed, practiced and comfortingly familiar to many, “This is the Free Harrenian Radio Station, 'Something Fishy', broadcasting to you from Autreterre, where the sea is calm, the breeze is cool and… ”. White noise and static pierced his eardrums and he swore, yanking the headset free from his head and looking questioningly up at Lanek, “What…?”. He didn’t finish his question, instead going silent and waiting as Lanek tested multiple frequencies, switching between channels and gingerly listening in, holding one side of his own headset a few centimetres away from his ear and still sometimes wincing.

Lanek shook his head and pouted his mouth before looking up at Kal, “I’m getting nothing, and all the channels seem to be flooded. I’ve put us on a backup playlist though in case people can still hear our broadcast or if we suddenly get back on the air.”.

An ever so slight tremble vibrated through the deck beneath them which Lanek appeared to have missed but Kal did not. He paused, straining his ears and holding his breath to see if there was anything else he could perceive. Nothing. His heartrate was increasing and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why but he felt there was something off about this situation and he had the urge to get up on deck. The ship rolled minutely to port by mere fractions of a degree; it could be nothing, such as a large wave coming in or another vessel passing close by but his stomach seemed to think otherwise and roiled along with an influx of some anxious fluttering. He stood up, throwing his headset carelessly onto the metal table and opened the door into the technician’s room, finding Lanek fiddling with his dashboard and trying to amplify their signal. “Come on, boy.” Kal placed a large hand on his shoulder and didn’t give him the option to say no, ushering him out the door, not forcefully but with a concrete grip that couldn’t be refused. “We’re going to find the Captain and get to the bottom of this mess.”.

Climbing the metal stairs three at a time, they swiftly ascended through the belly of their ship but before they even got to the top deck, they could hear a muted air raid siren and the dull thump of faraway detonations. Lanek soon outpaced Kal, who was grumbling at the effort of dashing up the steps, leaving him behind to slam into the rusting door that led out, spinning the wheel and hurling it open in a near-panic. Kal then heard his cry of anguish and put on another burst of speed, using the muscles of his hands and arms to pull him up faster. He surged out of the hatch and grabbed Lanek by the arm, “You alright?”. Then he saw where the kid was looking.

The DRN Aigle, an aging yet renowned destroyer which had been part of the constant naval presence in these local waters for the past few decades, was now capsized with its keel plainly visible and illuminated above the waves, surrounded in a flaming pool of burning oil which bathed the harbour in its red glow. Men could be seen in the water, some lucky enough to be free of the deadly slick but others were screaming as the fire stuck to them. As he watched, he saw one man come up in the middle of a burning patch to get a lungful of the blaze and then he noticed a few more, coated in oil, swimming as fast as they could away from their wrecked vessel. “Move, boy!”, Kal clapped Lanek on the back, knocking him out of his dumbstruck state, “We’ll launch the tender and pick up as many of those lads as we can.”.

“Belay that.” A loud voice boomed down from the exposed bridge wing above as a shriek of jet engines rumbled across the water, Captain Eiji stood there with a pair of binoculars in one hand and his crumpled hat in the other. “I’ve given the order to make way and we’ll be under steam in twenty minutes.”.

Kal clutched the pitted metal railing and gazed out at the port, taking stock of billowing columns of fire and acrid smoke in Autreterre itself and the rumble of jet engines echoing menacingly in the darkening sky, “Fucking Romans sensing weakness and making a move.”, he spat before raising his voice and bellowing up to the Captain, “Then we have twenty minutes to pick up survivors.”.

Eiji nodded, his voice now barely audible, “You have fifteen.”. Then he was gone and orders blared out via the ship’s tannoy but it took a practiced ear to be able to make out the words through the distortion in the crappy speakers. The duo rapidly made their way to the starboard side of the ship, avoiding a large tangle of smelly nets and the decomposing body of an orange deep sea perch before sliding out the tender on its crane and clambering aboard. Winching it down to the obsidian-black water below, the tender’s engine ticked over and then spurted to life, chugging as it slowly accelerated and curved around the bow to head towards the seaborne conflagration that had once been a proud warship.

In short order, they were picking up dozens of sailors, too many for their tender to carry and so some of the mariners who were uninjured jumped back into the water and swam for the shore instead, freeing up space for their injured comrades or those who couldn’t swim. When they’d taken on as many as they could, Kal very slowly motored the tender around to make sure he didn’t collide with anyone who might still be in the water and then headed back to the ship. They left behind more than he’d wanted to but they simply didn’t have the capacity to rescue anymore, they’d already made the sailors discard their bulky lifejackets to squeeze as many as they could into every nook and cranny. Once they were free of the floating wreckage, Kal motioned for Lanek to take over the controls and then he carefully stepped over the mass of legs and prone men, steadying himself by leaning over them and grabbing the edge of the boat, making his way to the stern where he’d noticed a wounded man in an officer’s uniform. The man was missing his lower right forearm but apart from that, seemed remarkably cogent and was avidly talking with his men.

Kal cleared his throat and was about to ask if the officer had any more information about what was happening when thunderous booms interrupted his effort, sending concussive waves of air which then bounced off the surface of the sea, causing secondary thunderclaps, heralding the arrival of more supersonic jets to the area. Everyone gawked skywards but nothing could really be seen in the inky-black sky apart from the occasional wink of a missile rocket motor, then there was a cascade of flares like the tail of a peacock and a blazing white flash as something exploded in a scream of tearing metal. Bits of debris rained down, some splashing into the water and others smashing into harbourside buildings or ricocheting off roofs. Without knowing who’d just been shot down, no one knew whether to cheer or cry and a muted silenced descended upon them. Maybe a minute or so later, the white bloom of a parachute could be discerned in the gloom as it descended, with the figure of a person seen swinging safely underneath. The whine of a jet engine increased in volume and then the form of a glistening black, triangular, spear-tipped or wedge-shaped aircraft was momentarily lit up as it fired its nose cannons. The short burst of fire wasn’t aimed at the fabric, it was directed at the man himself and the thirty-millimetre shells blew him to pieces, blasting limbs apart and free from his body and then disintegrating the torso itself. The jet was gone, leaving only the roar of its passing and the limply swaying chute, now carrying only the shredded upper torso and lifeless head of the pilot in the harness underneath.

There was no more conversation until the sullen band got back to the ship and the winch had brought their boat up to level with the deck. Water dripped from its wooden hull as it rocked, with uninjured men disembarking first to make it easier to recover the wounded ones next. A stretcher was brought over, a hard plastic one that was fluorescent orange and hollow so that it could double as a flotation device, the only stretcher their fishing trawler had. Others were swiftly cobbled together using fishing traps or fabric and rods. The medbay on board was a tiny closet with a single padded cot and entirely insufficient for the job at hand, so the mess was converted into an adhoc hospital with sheets spread out on the twin metal tables and benches unscrewed and carried out to make room on the floor. The engine rumbled to life before they were done shuttling all the injured, sending heavy vibrations through the decking and groans to creak from fatigued metal and sailors as both the ship and the men aboard adjusted to the acceleration.

Once he’d done all he could, Kal gently guided Lanek away, “You did well there, saved lives. Now look to yourself, get some grub and grab my bottle of Teshio Gold, we’ll pop the cork and celebrate the rescue of those sailors.”. A grin crossed Lanek’s face and he darted off, the woes of the moment briefly forgotten. Kal didn’t want the boy to dwell on what he’d just seen but he knew that those kinds of sights stick with you and lamented the loss of his innocence. Kal slowly climbed the stairs to the bridge, now suddenly feeling the ache in his muscles and a deep throbbing behind the bone of his left calf which he paused to rub at absently, applying pressure and massaging the area. When he pushed open the wooden door and entered the bridge, he wasn’t surprised to find it filled with cigarette smoke and enjoyed taking in a deep breath of the scented second-hand air. “Two dozen.”, he cleared his throat before continuing, voice now a bit raspy, “We were longer than fifteen.”.

The Captain acknowledged that with a nod and a weak smile which didn’t reach his eyes, “We’re not out of the woods yet and GPS has been jammed, so we’re navigating the old way.”.

“Where to?”

“We have to consider Soissons on the mainland lost and the run to Chuuk would be suicidal with the blockade. South around Strei-Ar takes us through a lot of hostile waters and it doesn’t help that I didn’t top off the bunkers, so we don’t have the range for such a journey anyway. As I see it, we only have the one option, north to Eristys and beg for asylum from the Nocturnalians.”

Dazzling argent light unexpectedly shone through the forward windows, filling the bridge and blinding everyone, causing people to cover their eyes with their hands or duck behind consoles to protect their sight. Captain Eiji’s cigarette dropped from his hand and smouldered on the floor. An amplified voice blared out, clearly speaking Harrenian. +++ This is the HISSS Massasauga, shut down your engines and drop anchor immediately. Failure to comply will result in the destruction of your vessel. +++ Kal cursed and limped his way to the door, leaving Eiji to inevitably signal their surrender, and headed down to the main deck which was now in chaos with crewmen and sailors who were either considering putting up a fight or abandoning ship to the lifeboats, or, merely standing at the gunwales and looking down at the warship which threatened them. It hugged the water like an angled black beetle with no masts, railings or protrusions marring its shadowy surface apart from a turret and a searchlight which had quite obviously been raised on stalks from hidden ports. As they watched, another port slid open and a squad of troops in glistening blue and black carapace armour clambered out. Kal didn’t stay to watch, he asked around to check if anyone had seen Lanek and then he made his way inside, heading towards his room and hoping to catch the boy on the way.

Fig. One of the 'Fang' classes leaving Argos. Possibly the HISSS Gloydius.

Kal threw open his door. No Lanek. Checking his side table, he confirmed that the bottle was gone so the kid had already been and gone. Knowing time was short, he paused only to grab his eight-millimetre pistol, the first time he’d done so in over a decade. He checked the magazine and cocked it with a snap, feeling more resistance than he remembered but maybe that was because he was getting older. It was only then that he wondered if he should have been maintaining it all these years, whilst it hadn’t been kept in nasty conditions, he hadn’t oiled it either and they had been at sea a lot which generally degrades metals and equipment quite quickly. Ah well, nothing he could do about that now. Where would the boy have gone? Probably ship’s stores but after going there he’d come up to the bridge and he’d have redirected to head that way earlier if he heard what was happening up on deck. Kal cursed himself. He had most likely delayed their rendezvous by coming down here but on the bright side, now he had a pistol… but then again, it’s not like he’d take on a squad of fully armed and armoured HISS troops by himself with an old and anaemic sidearm. Fuck. He’d just wasted a lot of time. Panting for breath he clanked up the stairs again, fighting the strain he felt in his leg and using the handrail for support. When he burst out onto deck, his knee was kicked out from behind and he collapsed forward roughly, scraping his arms raw on the pitted steel and letting go of the pistol which clattered across the metal. A heavy weight pressed down on his back before he could rise and his arms were wrenched up behind him. “Fuck you all.”, he managed to angrily spit out as metal clasps were fastened around his wrists.

He was hoisted to his feet as one of the HISS soldiers picked up the pistol and handed it to his superior who looked it over, then looked at Kal up and down before remarking, “Got to admire his Achaean spirit. Well past his prime and wielding a popgun like this and he was still going.”. He tossed it dismissively over the side to splash down into the sea with a plop. Kal was then frogmarched over to the line of other captives. He surveyed the group, making eye contact with Eiji and noting all his fellows and the french sailors but of Lanek, there was no sign. He didn’t ask in case Lanek was still at large and he didn’t want to tip the HISS agents off that there was someone missing from the group. A series of gunshots reverberated from deeper in the vessel and Kal bowed his head, praying that the boy hadn’t been among those shot. When his men returned, the HISS officer began separating the prisoners into two groups; Captain Eiji and the French sailors were separated from the rest of the Harrenians who were then escorted off the vessel, down a steep gangplank to the waiting warship below. As they walked across its coated outer hull, which felt rubberised beneath their feet, another salvo of bullets rang out from the deck of their trawler above. There were two wails of agony which were silenced in turn by a couple final gunshots.

“NO! You bastards!”, Kal shoulder-charged the nearest HISS agent who bounced backwards and toppled, off-balance from the impact and the angled slope of the hull. The agent dropped his rifle as he fell and whilst he cushioned his landing, his momentum carried him onto a steeper section and he was unable to recover from his downward slide, scrabbling at the hull with gauntlets before disappearing over the side, his cry followed by a loud splash. Kal himself was tackled down by two of the other agents, only being let up once all the other prisoners had been safely transferred and the man in the water had been recovered from his impromptu swim.

By that time, the HISS Officer had come down the plank from the trawler. “You’re the actual presenter, aren’t you? I recognised the voice. You’re quite a good catch for us, I must say, if you can forgive the pun. Free radio ‘something fishy’.”. He laughed haughtily and looked back at the trawler, “Good name. You know, you’ve all been on a list for quite a long time…. Why did you all just stay here? Why not move on or join the other rebels? You must have known this wouldn’t be safe forever.”. The officer turned back but when it was clear he wouldn’t get a response, he shrugged and continued, “My name is Major Pancros and it’s totally up to you but you might prefer answering my friendly questions now…”.

Commonwealth of Harren – Immediately west of Altair’s Alps

Lieutenant Ioannis Amano blew air from his nostrils as he gripped the top of the mask, clearing the puddle of water that had trickled in to obscure his vision. Taking in a deep breath from his regulator, he rose slightly as the buoyancy changed, adding kicks to the upward momentum to aid in his ascent towards the surface which swelled alarmingly above him. The sea was rough and on this side of the island, there was no shelter from the wind and the currents; waves crashed into the cliffs a few hundred metres away, a dull rumble he could hear through the water. He released some air from his buoyancy-control-device in a surge of bubbles to come to a neutral floating position a couple metres beneath the roiling ripples above.

Swimming up alongside him was his buddy, Corporal Toumbas, who matched his movements and stuck near to him as they waited for the second two-man insertion team which soon arrived, followed finally by their squad drone handler, Corporal Veronica and her three marine droids. They were tubbier than their fully terrestrial cousins, with water jets built into their torso compartments and a flattened disc-like head which allowed them to engage targets from the surface whilst presenting a much smaller target.

When they were all gathered, Ioannis signalled for them to breach the surface and begin looking for any stretch of the cliffside where they could approach without being smashed apart on the rocks. As they looked, he couldn’t help but go over the plan again in his mind and marvel at the sheer reckless stupidity of it. Infiltrate Harren Island, a veritable fortress occupied by the enemy and near the heart of their Empire’s power, to somehow locate and rescue a resistance fighter who no one had been in contact with for years. All for some political goal, maybe to raise morale or show their allies that they’re still committed to the war on Harren which had been cold for over a decade. He wasn’t quite sure as to the intended upside of the plan but the risks were quite clear; torture and death for any of them captured, the potential loss of valuable military assets worth millions – the electric midget submarine that waited below them and their mothership sitting beyond the Kingdom’s sonar grid and not to mention the potential resumption of open hostilities with strong foreign powers. He knew he wasn’t alone in that assessment of the situation because his own superiors had expressed their doubts but, just like him, they too had to follow orders mandated by the civilian government and so… he was here.

It was one of Veronica’s droids who first found a safe ingress point, a tiny cove sheltered by a jutting out spit of rock in which the currents swirled lazily instead of churning against the cliffs themselves. It took them quite a few minutes to safely cross, with each person making the final dash one at a time, waiting for a wave to pass before sprint swimming in at maximum speed. When they’d made it, Veronica moved her mask to the top of her head whilst treading water and cleared her throat, “Units one and two, climb up and affix your lines for the rest of us to ascend. Signal down when it is clear and safe.”. The two designated drones confirmed acknowledgement and then bobbed over to the rockface, scanning to determine their route before arms lifted out of the water to grab handholds and pull themselves up. They moved with sudden, sharp movements, not pausing like any mountaineer would to assess routes or take a breather, merely skittering up the rockface like a spider darting up a wall. They made it look easy. That was until a rock gave way under the weight of unit two and it slipped from the precipice, entirely ignored by its compatriot which kept climbing as if nothing had happened. Unit two didn’t pinwheel its arms or cry out, merely extending one leg and looking like a weird, rotund ballerina as it fell. Ioannis and the others scattered to avoid its impact area but movement in the cove was hampered and they wouldn’t have made it in time but it arrested its own plummet by jamming its extended leg into a recess which it had identified on the way up, breaking it in a shower of smashed alloy and polymer and causing its torso to slam into the cliffside underneath. Before it could dislodge itself in an attempt to comply with its previous orders, Veronica yelled out countermanding instructions, instructing it to secure its position and await further updates. Not long after that, Unit one crested the ridge and then subsequently threw down a line which slithered down the rocks before the tip splashed into the surf.

Whilst they took off their weight belts and flippers for the day's climb, they didn’t discard them, attaching them to their backpacks to ensure that they had all the equipment they might need in case they didn’t come back this exact same way. That made the ascent quite an arduous affair, even with proper harnesses and the line provided by the first drone. The rocks were wet and encrusted with salt and grime, scraping their knees and elbows despite the rubberised suits they wore and the sharp edges pressed into their hands as they fought gravity, pulling and pushing themselves up, clicking their harness with each upward thrust to prevent them sliding back down. By the time he was at the top and pulling off his thick diving gear, Ioannis was panting and a slick sheen of sweat had caused him to stick to his clothes inside the suit. Like the others, he wasn’t wearing a uniform and knew that if captured, they would be disavowed by the Commonwealth. Veronica was the second to last and her third unit came up behind her, taking only twenty seconds to go from the sea itself to the top of the cliff. Once everyone had clambered out of their gear and stowed them in bags, they opened sealed cases to draw out and assemble weapons and body armour.

Ioannis rubbed at his wiry hair, pulling tangles free from its matted mass which had clumped after its exposure to the sea and rubbed his drying face in the dying light of the sun. He pulled out a laminated map, laying it flat on a rock and orientated himself with a compass. “A couple klicks off where we planned to be but close enough.”. He looked up at the other team, “Fuck your orders; avoid entering Agalia itself if you can, it’ll be a death-trap and I doubt he’d have stayed in the city so focus your efforts in the nearby catacombs and bunkers. Rendezvous back here in six days, with or without the VIP. Stay safe.”. He turned to Veronica after the others had exchanged farewells and smiled wanly, “If we’re not back by the end of the sixth day, consider us lost and get back to the sub. Do not stay a moment longer because if we fail to use our cyanide capsules and end up captured, we will end up revealing your location and you’ll be on the chopping block like us.”. She nodded, extending her hand to shake his. He grasped it resolutely as his thin smile became a proper grin, “It does feel good to be home though.”.

Corporal Toumbas chose that moment to clasp them both in a hug, hairy arms draped around their necks, “Come on, Lieutenant, we haven’t got all day.”, he playfully kissed Veronica on the cheek, “See you later Ronnie.”. With that, he let go and lugged their gear onto his back, making his way toward the treeline as Ioannis slung his own carbine and lifted the map to check they were headed the right way. It was then that it all finally hit him. Here he was, walking on the shores of his homeland for the first time in over a decade… and in that moment, it was now all worth it, the gambles and the oppressive danger they were in. The salty sea air smelled right and it was tinged with the faint scent of wild hyacinths, triggering memories from his youth. He’d been a student at the University of Prokopios when war broke out and had volunteered, serving in the Heartlands army, if it could even be called an army, until their defeat and his evacuation along with the few thousand lucky others on Aurumite airships. He’d only heard about the destruction of Prokopios on the radio but now he’d get to see what had become of his city first-hand, if only at a distance.

Fig. Local terrain in the jungles near Altair's Alps

Forging their way down through the dense jungle with machetes, they deliberately made sure to circle towards the north-east to avoid all the known roads from Tsuru or any villages that may lie in between. Keeping to the stony heights as long as possible before descending into more arable land which could have been settled after the war. He still thought this was a futile fool’s errand. After the war, the first resistance strongholds to fall were those in Asama’s eminence, they were starved and bombed out within the year, with units specialising in counterinsurgency sweeping up the survivors. The Natufians gained a rather grim reputation there which still stained Commonwealth relations with them. It took a few more years to wipe out all resistance in the cities, with constant HISS crackdowns and the development of an extreme surveillance state foiling all organised efforts, culling the numbers of active rebels and punishing those who supported them. After that, the last holdouts had been camps in the jungles which were little more than a nuisance, occasionally mining roads and sometimes attacking convoys or railways. Despite the minimal impact they caused, they were hunted relentlessly and after a few more years without aid from Aurum or the Harrenians in exile, most dwindled away to nothing or were captured and publicly killed. Through all this, one name rose to prominence, topping a HISS hitlist with exorbitant rewards offered for his capture and who is still allegedly active to this day.

Qylvel the Blue. A goblin mech pilot who’d been part of the Galatean relief force and who’d survived the destruction of that army and their subsequent flight, abandoning their heavy equipment and fleeing into the jungles and catacombs of the Heartlands. Unlike the Harrenians who had had a chance of slipping back into compliance under Drusus’ rule at the end of the war, no such offer had been made for the greenskins and even if it had, they wouldn’t have trusted it. They were forced to stay on the run, in hiding, or face brutal torture and death. For a while, his band of greenskins had supported local resistance groups and conducted operations against the occupiers but slowly his numbers shrank and the local backing dried up. He dropped off the radar for a year but when he returned, he soon started attracting attention for his bold and brutal assaults and acts of sabotage, earning his epithet, ‘the Blue’, from the bits of HISS carapace he recovered from their corpses – only selecting blue segments to make up part of his jury-rigged armour. It was said that he chose to keep the blue pieces as a reminder of the traditional blue worn by Harrenian militaries in the past and to signify his commitment to a free Harren, inspiring new waves of anti-Roman sentiment with each attack which necessitated violent clampdowns. The last time the Commonwealth or Aurum had been able to make contact with his cell was three years ago through a fisherman who had passed messages between them but he’d since disappeared, assumed captured by HISS, and so communications had been lost. In recent years, his raids had either become less and less frequent or the news of them had been suppressed. The Commonwealth was no longer sure he was even active, with a concern being raised as to his advancing age, however, an aviation fuel depot had detonated spectacularly in Agalia a month ago which was then followed by a nationwide activation of HISS assets which hinted at an extensive manhunt.

They trudged through the night and only made camp at dawn, on the lowest slope on the eastern side of Altair’s Alps. Thick foliage obscured their view of the sky above but the glint of light began to filter through the leaves, beams shining through at a steep angle to gently illuminate the grey of rocks and the thick layer of leaves that covered the ground. Specks of dust or tiny insects drifted in the beams, lit up like glowing dots which seemed to disappear as they passed out of the shafts. Toumbas started setting up the camouflaged tent, orienting its opening towards the west as Ioannis slid two MRE packs from their bags and lit a miniature camping stove to begin heating their food. Not for the first time, he wondered about their mission as he stared into the tiny blue flame which was accompanied by a faint high-pitched keening. In less than a week, four men were expected to find and retrieve a guerrilla who’d eluded the full might of HISS for over a decade. It was ludicrous. Toumbas thumped down heavily next to him and he passed over the first hot tin of steaming grub, a curry of some sort, before starting to warm his own. “Once you’re done, get some sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”.

République Acadienne - Colonie de l'Anse

Jessé de la Montagne cut quite a striking figure in his tailored navy blue, double-breasted suit as the studio lights focussed on his upper torso and sharply bearded face as he spoke into the camera, calling on all citizens of the nation to back his peaceful initiative to bring about a representative government of the people. Rather unsubtly, he was also wearing a bright red, patterned tie on top of a brilliant white shirt. He had the full set of the national colours. He finished his speech with the national motto, “Je veux le droit”, ‘I want the right.’, a common saying that was now gaining new meaning. When the cameras flicked off, he unbuttoned his suit with one hand and then downed a tumbler of chilled whisky with a slight grimace, followed by a relaxed sigh. The media teams moved the equipment and lights away and he sat back down at his desk, pulling folders out from the draw, without looking up he called out, “Arielle, please show my guests in.”.

Commodore Eddard Quillan walked in, pausing to scan the room before he smiled at Jesse and moved forward to shake his hand, his uniform plain and unadorned apart from a sidearm in a holster at his waist. He was escorted by a dishevelled looking man in a tweed suit who was acting as an interpreter between the Harrenian and the Frenchman. The Commodore took off his hat and bowed his head, his words translated as he spoke, “Mayor La Montagna, the Commonwealth offers its sincerest condolences, not only for the loss of good queen Marie-Colette, but for the unfolding situation in Gaspe. We hope that the supplies we bring won’t be necessary in the end but our own experience leads us to believe that the Romans won’t stop until all of you are under their heel.”.

“Your support is greatly appreciated, especially in these critical opening days of the revolution when both King Jacques and the Romans will seek to crush us.” Jesse slid three sheets from his pile of folders and fastened them to a clipboard before handing it over to Eddard, “We have the following needs. Can the Commonwealth cover any of them?”.

Eddard slipped a pen out of his lapel pocket and carefully went through the lists, ticking some and putting crosses by others and then handing it back with his explanation, “We will not sanction the deployment of active troops in any engagement against the Romans but if you do need mercenaries, we would recommend the Aurumites. They have proven steadfast when hired. Most of the rest we can supply but you’ll have to prioritise your requirements in the interest of capacity; until and unless we can guarantee the safety of these waters and our surface transports, we’re only authorising the use of blockade-running submarines.”.

“Regarding payment,”, the mayor said as checked through the list, “I don’t have access to much of the national reserve here but even that limited quantity of gold should cover a few convoys of essentials. Beyond that, would you be willing to lease equipment to us for future repayment?”.

The Commodore considered the question for a long while before responding. “To be entirely honest with you, yes and no. We would but only to an extent. We cannot afford to lend out much and if the situation is looking grim, we will cut our losses and reserve what we have for our own defence.”.

“I appreciate your honesty and let us hope then, that our situation does not ever look grim. I shall have the first shipment of gold brought down to your flagship within the hour along with the updated list of our needs. Good luck on your voyage home, Commodore.”.

He didn’t say the first response that had come to mind, ‘Our true home lies on Harren.’, merely nodding and saying his goodbyes before leaving and heading down via armoured car to the smaller dock near the marshes where he’d brought in his own vessel. The other two submarines in his flotilla had each made port at a different berth and at staggered times to reduce the risk of Roman interception.

Fig. Tiny berth near the marshes, one of many ancillary docking areas at Colonie de l'Anse

by **Haja-Mishu** » Sat Apr 04, 2020 5:58 pm

The Duchy of Houraçachetoux was a gift given as a reward for the spilling of Roman blood in the name of the Deuxieme Royaume, a beacon to all Shurayu; the promise of open skies, a fresh start outside the endless forest of sky-piercing spires and ancient complexes of Shuraya. At first, the only inhabitants of the new duchy were the Thunder Shark mercenaries who fought for the Acadiens, and their families along with a handful of French settlers and hermits. But word of this new home away from home quickly reached the Grand City, and eager Shurayu settlers fell upon the duchy in droves, leaving the Old City just a little less crowded. In only a few decades the desolate red land of Houraçachetoux rocketed to three million inhabitants from only a few tens of thousands initially. The Acadien Shurayu proved an industrious lot, as industry boomed, or more accurately, began, with their arrival, particularly in the spheres of military manufacturing and the production of construction materials.

Namtar dol Zorudef, Commander of the Thunder Shark Mercenary Company, was elected the first Sagān* of Houraçachetoux and remains incumbent. Extremely active in the duchy’s military industry and the various small militias that dot the crimson duchy, guiding Houraçachetoux policy-making with a quiet, yet firm hand. Politically, the internal politics of the duchy were undramatic and unified, the vast majority of politicians deciding to allow their new home to grow before any real political competition began. Externally, the duchy was rather isolated from the rest of the Royaume, the Shurayu rarely concerning themselves with the affairs of their countrymen, more focused on the construction of their own duchy. Their countrymen acted much the same and this arrangement suited all parties involved perfectly fine.

In the beginning of a cool night, on a balcony on the south end of a great mansion built of limestone and lapis lazuli wreathed in verdant plants and a covered in a motif of statues and colorful reliefs on the outskirts of the Houraçachetoux capital of Eššūrāya lie three men, each of them reclining sideways on their own loveseats, dispassionately watching a flatscreen television while taking the occasional puff from their joints followed by a sip from each of their respective glasses of Murphy’s Champagne. The man in the middle looked the most important of the three, he had to be in his early-to-mid fifties, with tranquil dark eyes and long black hair that was waved and frizzed impeccably coupled with a long, orderly beard. He wore fine red robes made up of a separate top and bottom section, the two parts being brought together with a leather belt just above the waist with an intricately engraved holstered revolver serving as it’s buckle. To his right reclined a younger man with lighter, shorter hair, with two far-apart periwinkle eyes, and shorter slightly blockier beard wearing an elegantly fringed shamrock-colored tunic reminiscent of the plants all around them. And to the left of the ruddy-robed man lie someone much different than the former two. He was younger than both, mid twenties at most, with a handsome, lightly bearded face and an athletic build. His clothing was a strange and extremely revealing web of intricately tied white rope and cloth that accentuated his well-groomed physique. In the middle of his chest, the ropes and cloth found an origin point in a golden disc slightly smaller than a tea saucer that bore the eight pointed star of Ištar, the Shurayu god of love and war.

“The suit’s a bit on the nose, ain’t it?” the right man muttered in a low, flat tone, taking a drag from his joint and exhaling it softly. The middle man’s eyes crinkled almost imperceptibly, a grin by Shurayu standards.
“I don’t know, it’s kind of cute how hard he’s trying…” the left man replied in a lighter, sultry voice.
“Atraḫasīsušāru*,” the right man muttered back, rolling his eyes, “Is there no person on this earth you don’t wish to bed?” The middle man loudly clicked his tongue, silencing his companions, his gaze pointedly focused on the TV. They watched the rest of the address in silence.

“Je veux le droit.”, and the address ended. The middle man drank the remainder of his champagne in one gulp, keeping his eyes still pointedly on the TV that was now playing some inane commercial about some brand new Heartfilian-style spa in the east side of the city.
The two men on the flanks of their senior looked questioningly at him, knowing better than to speak out of turn with him.

The middle man spoke up in a soft voice, “Jessé is doing a good thing in this declaration, republicanism can only improve the conditions of the Acadien people.”
The right man raised his brow, “It were the Royaume ‘gave us this duchy, not this ‘republic’. Why should we support this treason?”
The middle man lazily turned his eyes to the man on the right, “It is because, Ṣeḫru* Turram, we are good subjects of this nation that we should support this republican idea, the monarchy is already very permissive and constitution-bound, but it enshrines certain individuals based on which family births them. We should stand against this feudal system, and support the creation of a national republic where all individuals are bound by their own merit and ability.”
“Like back home…” Turram remarked quietly, a distant look in his eye.
“Enough of that,” the senior’s eyes drawing Turram’s gaze back to him, “This is home now, your loyalty is to the Duchy of Houraçachetoux and the Acadian Nation, not Shuraya.” Turram was one of the duchy’s first settlers, a major in the Thunder Sharks and close confidant of the mercenary company’s owner, Namtar dol Zorudef. While he’d been living and raising his family in the Shurayu Duchy for decades now, he spent the whole of his adolescence in the Old City, the unflinching sense of nationalism the city gave off left a serious impression on him. Turram nodded in response, taking a puff from his joint.
“Bāltānum* looks like something of an opportunist to me…” the left man remarked, sipping his champagne.
The middle man's eyes crinkled again, “He absolutely is, Danātu, all businessmen are, I’ve been doing business with him for years, even before this duchy was gifted to us. He knows a good opportunity when he sees one. We’d do well to trust in his judgement.”
“I know I am a mere Šamḫatim*, but what do you plan on doing with this, Namtar?” Danātu asked in a feigned tone of humility, his attention fully on the Sagān.
Namtar rolled his eyes, “Yes, you are a Šamḫatim, but I know you well enough to know there’s nothing ‘mere’ about you,”
Danātu giggled loudly, Turram schoffed and looked pointedly away while Namtar gave him a severe look that dared him to keep giggling.
“Besides…” Namtar continued slowly, “You are an entrepreneur the likes of I’ve rarely seen, one of the biggest military investors in the duchy, a general, and not to mention a close friend. I will gather my chief supporters and we will go to the Statue of Atraḫasīs Šīlāni* and ask for good fortune before bringing the issue of whether we should join the Republic or not to the Bēlūtam*.”
“Ah Namtar, always the Dog of Atraḫasīs!” Danātu grinned, his eyes twinkling in a way that would have been attractive to anyone less annoyed.
“Yes, I am the Dog of Atraḫasīs, Whore of Ištar.” his voice weary from the trifling he-slattern.
The trio naturally fell into silence, quietly enjoying the rest of their night.

Later That Night

Namtar sat on his bed and grabbed his phone. His companions had left only a few hours earlier, leaving Namtar to his thoughts, and he had a lot to think about. It seemed each day the Charter became more and more chaotic, more difficult to live happily in, he hoped the dawn of La République Acadienne would bring about a break in the tide of chaotic misery the world was experiencing, though he knew it’d require even more chaos to be wrought in order to ensure the new state’s safety. He pressed the contact that read “La Montagne” and waited for his counterpart to answer.

“Namtar? Bonsoirrrrr!” Namtar could clearly tell by the slurred speech of the little revolutionary that he’d been well lubricated, rather irresponsible when beginning a revolution, Namtar drank tonight but even he knew his limit.
“Bonsoir Jessé, I watched your declaration earlier-”
“You diIiIIiiIiiid? Naturellement! WeeEEeeeEll? Are you with us?”
“Yes, I will convene with the Bēlūtam tomorrow to discuss joining.”
“WOooOOooOOO! I-”
“Bonne nuit, Jessé”, Namtar hung up, annoyed by his colleague's inebriation. Mayor La Montagne was an extremely intelligent and dynamic politician and businessman with a good heart, but whenever the man drank he always ended up putting himself in a mean stupor befitting some frat boy, rather than the mayor of one of the most important cities in the country. A good disciplined Atrahasian like Namtar had no patience for it.

The Following Morning

Namtar strolled through the well-manicured floral paradise of his manor’s garden adorned in a new extravagant robe that toed the line of tasteful resplendence and Heartfilian-style ostentatiousness. A conservatively dressed young woman popped out of a bush right in front of him and saluted him, handing him a cerulean envelope and walking away. Namtar did not break stride, simply nodding to the woman and continuing on, envelope in hand. As Namtar left the view of the young woman he leaned against a wall and tore open the envelope.

Sagān.
Ur-Emrupagū* have seized Gaspé. Officially the seizure is being referred to as an alliance between Isabelle de Valenciennes and Octavius Trajan.

The left side of Namtar’s jaw popped restlessly and his beady eyes burned with hate. He knew as soon as the Queen died, (May She Rest In Peace), the vultures would descend, everyone knew that. The fact the vultures in this instance were Romans was only marginally surprising. Romans were a race of feral warmongering slavers with undeniable martial skills whose designs were to subjugate the four corners of the world. Of course they attacked, the Roman Eagle had a casus belli and a fat, vulnerable target. He would persist in his initial plans for today, but he knew his thoughts would be dominated by the Roman “Alliance.” He crumpled up the paper and tossed it in a nearby brazier.

An Hour Later, Atraḫasīs Šīlāni

Namtar stood before a line of his most ardent political allies before a great statue. It was a depiction of Atraḫasīs, A giant of white marble standing proudly atop a red mountain overlooking Eššūrāya, in it’s left hand was an open book, the other hand open and outstretched, like some great proselytizing alabaster titan keeping vigil over the desert. It was a beacon that could be seen from all around, showing once and for all that Houraçachetoux was the Shurayu duchy, and it’s new inhabitants had no intention of leaving. Namtar brought his left hand across his waist and raised this right straight up, before bowing before the statue, his followers following suit.
“O Atraḫasīs!” Namtar bellowed, “Great Ancestor! Father of Shuraya! Greatest of all Men! Legendary Shepherd of the South! Hear our petition! May our countrymen see reason, may we have the strength to overcome all foes, and may the Emrupagû scourge be annihilated in its entirety!”

Hours Later, Ur-Bēlūtam, Eššūrāya

The Ur-Bēlūtam complex was massive, excessively so for such a small population. It was a giant tiered cross-shaped building surrounded by elaborate carved lapis lazuli pillars, accented with statues spread intermittently throughout. The interior was much the same, high halls with walls covered in detailed reliefs all leading to a central circular room. On the outer section of the room there were tiered rings of seats, populated by a hundred Shurayu legislators, their apparel possessing a superhuman magnificence and their faces bearing the majestic countenances of weathered stones. In the center of the room was a small circular platform a foot lower than the lowest tier of seats, in the center of it stood a stone podium manned by Namtar himself.
“Abarakkū*,” Namtar bellowed to his serene colleagues “All have heard the declaration La République Acadienne. Many cry treason and betrayal to this, I do not think so. It is because we are loyal subjects of Acadia that we should join this Republic. This republic could improve the lot in life of the whole of the Acadien people. As citizens of this nation, our loyalty is owed to our fellow everyday countrymen, not the undeserving nobility who reign over us. Every single person in this room spent their adolescence in the Shuraya, we all know the great potential of republicanism more than any other group of beings in the Charter. It is because of this that I propose the Duchy of Houraçachetoux joins La République Acadienne as soon as possible.” Namtar lowered his head slightly in deference to his placid fellows before stepping away to his own seat as the vote began.
After an hour the vote had ended. 68 votes FOR joining the Republic and 32 votes AGAINST it, all Abarakkū seemed to agree it was a vote far too important for any abstentions.

Namtar sat alone at one of the small arterial balconies of the Bēlūtam and dialed up La Montagne.
“Namtar?” Jessé’s voice was sober and questioning
“The Duchy of Houraçachetoux would join the Acadien Republic, if you’d have us.” Namtar replied, his eyes glinting in the distance.
“This is great!” Jessé’s voice was charged with excitement, “You've voted on it and everything?”
“Yes, old friend, officials are en route to Colonie de L’anse as we speak to formalize our admission. You can expect me over there in a week. Anyway, I must go. I have to attend a meeting over the Roman invasion in the east. Au revoir, mon ami.”
“Au revoir!”

The Following Night

Namtar was in a large rectangular room standing beside Turram and tens of officers representing the Houraçachetoux armed forces and cadre of different local militias, they all surrounded a large rectangular table in the center of the room with a built-in detailed holographic map of the Royaume. Turram used his fingers to zoom in on the duchy. It showed the various roads of Houraçachetoux, from the largest highways to the smallest trails, detailing all military installations and industries along with just about everything else.
Turram spoke up to the room, “We’ve already sent our standing troops to our borders, and a contingent of 20,000 men, artillery, and armored vehicles under Mu’irru* Danātu dol Šungallam is heading to Colonie de L’anse as we speak.”
A younger militia officer spoke up, his voice and face projecting an apparent lack of confidence. “Bēl*, are you sure it is wise to send Mu’irru* dol Šungallam as our vanguard leader into non-Shurayu territory, given his background as a Šamḫatim and his age our tappū might not be inclined to treat him with the proper respect afforded to a military general.”
Turram’s brows raised ever so slightly at that. “What do you know of Šamḫatū, Ṣeḫru?”
The young officer’s voice was slow and cautious “They’re prostitutes, Bēl.”
Turram’s lips raised amusement at that. “You youngsters who’ve forsaken our gods have an unfortunately limited understanding of them. Dol Šamgallu is many things, chief amongst them a Šamḫatim and a Mu’irru. You forget carnal pleasure is but one aspect of Ištar, you really think the only things occurring in the Ištaric Temples are sex and prayer? Ištar is the god of war, for Atraḫasīs’s Sake! To a Šamḫatim, excellence on the battlefield is as much a holy prerogative as excellence in the sheets, and as for the perceptions of our tappū, they’ll take what we give them.”

A deadly storm was coming for all of Nouvel Acadie, and Octavius Trajan, Proconsul of Gallia was it’s herald. But, the Shurayu would resist. All Acadiens with an ounce of decency and self-respect would resist.

by **Skjoldur** » Sun Apr 05, 2020 6:09 am

The Skjoldurian battleship Forsegle, Dead Man’s Straight just outside Skagafjoror

Flavius Aurelius Constantinus was not in a good mood. Three days ago, he had been in Caerleon enjoying sweet wine and the company of Prince Trajan’s women. Now he was on a Skjoldurian battle cruiser sailing down the Skjoldurian coastline in the dead of winter. Flavius shivered; he was huddled next to a radiator that wasn’t even working. He sighed, he had payed the Skjoldurian captain quite a few Denari to secure a nicer cabin, now he was certain that the captain had tricked him. He sighed, at least he could claim the money back on expenses. He looked up at the ceiling were icicles were forming, this was all Trajan’s fault. He remembered Trajan’s face when he told Flavius that instead of going to with the main army to Nouvel to join the military expedition, he would be sent to Skjoldur, the land of savages to talk to their king. He swore to himself and stood up, stepping away from the radiator. He could imagine the fun Trajan would be having with torturing the staff, and whilst he was doing that Flavius is stuck on a Skjoldurian battleship freezing his ass off. Flavius opened his cabin door and looked down the corridor. He was in the bowls of the ship at the very end of a long corridor, on each side there were 4 doors, the officers quarters, he was at the very end, he had taken the quarters of the former gunner’s quarters who had mysteriously disappeared in Skagen (Flavius’s pick up point). He glanced around all was quiet, two of this guards who were guarding his door were huddled next to each other struggling for warmth. Flavius wondered where the other four were, probably drunk in the crew’s quarters. The Skjoldurians seemed rather lax on what their crew did in their off hours. He coughed and his guards jumped out of their skin, then suddenly gained their composure when they noticed their commander looking disapprovingly at them.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Said Flavius in his best authorative voice
“Sorry sir” said the older soldier, a man called Caius Sallustius Maius, a 13-year veteran of Trajan’s personal legion, “it’s very cold sir” said Maius trying to explain, “we were just trying to keep warm”.
Flavius glanced at the younger soldier, a rookie less than a year’s military experience behind him . There were drops of ice forming on the young soldier’s armour. Flavius felt pity. He had never been any good at commanding soldiers, administration was more his thing. Flavius shook off his moment of pity, it would do no good for a roman soldier to see his commander take pity over something as minor as it been cold.
“if I see this again” said Flavius trying to add a touch of menace to his voice just like Trajan “I will send you both to Harren island” both guards gulped, the people of Harren island were not known for their hospitality towards roman soldiers, it had become something of a death sentence for soldiers who annoyed their commanders.
Flavius smiled, so they did fear him.
“how long to we arrive in Skagafjoror?”
The young soldier looked at his watch
“just under an hour sir” he said
“good” said Flavius “get the others and make sure your armour and weapons are in order, I want to look good in front of our hosts”.

Skagafjoror’s Port, just over an hour later:

Flavius was angry, he had been expecting more of a welcome, a member of the Skjoldurian royal family to greet him, or an important mister at least. Instead they had been greeted by a disinterested Skjoldurian driving a limo. The driver didn’t even greet Flavius, rather sighed, put down his copy of Valyrian and Auruum an abusive relationship? by the now banished roman historian Lucius Annaeus Sencea and gestured for Flavius to get in. To Flavius dismay his armed guard were not allowed to join him but told to wait for transport to take them through the palace.
As the limousine drove through the streets of Skagfijoror Flavius wondered such a city existed. Skagafijor was the capital of the original Skjoldurian empire. After the original empire had collapsed Skagafjoror had been left for ruin. However, near 500 years later Kartjan had moved back to Skagafjoror and rebuilt the capital. Renovations were still going on and Flavius saw a wonderful mix between modern houses, ruined villas and traditional Skjoldurian huts. It was fascinating.
As the limo pulled up at the palace Flavius was glad to see that he had some sort of escort, eight members of the Skjoldurian royal guard flanked a thin dark harried man, dressed in a traditional roman toga. As Flavius exited the car the dark-haired man bowed
“Tribune Flavius Aurelius Constantinus chief aid to his Imperial Highness Prince Gaius Octavius Trajan” he said in perfect Latin “it is an honour to have you with us, I apologies for the lack of recognition when you arrived, you don’t know who’s watching now a days, and we would hate to displease anyone in the roman court”
Flavius nodded
“you speak excellent” said Flavius “are you roman?”
The dark-haired man grinned mischievously
“not officially” he said a knowing smile on his lips
Flavius understood at once. The dark-haired man bowed deeply
“my name is Appius; I am here to greet you and take you to my lord”
Flavius nodded and gestured towards the palace
“take me to him” he said, a grimace on his face

Royal Palace- Throne room hall:

The hall was massive, Flavius braced himself, he didn’t want Kartjan to see him sweating, the king might of mistaken it for nervousness rather than the fact Flavius hadn’t done a single bit of exercise since he was 25 years old, and that was almost thirteen years ago.
As Flavius began his long walk towards the throne, he was struck by how cold the room was. The palace was built into a mountain and even the two great fires built into two sides of the wall did little to heat up the place. As Flavius approached the throne, he noted the statues on either side of the wall. Each one stood at 10 meters’ tall and portrayed a great Skjoldurian ruler. From Freya the mother of Skjoldur to Orlof, the man who united southern Steri-ar. It all felt very intimidating
Luckily the man sitting on the throne was not. The first thing Flavius noted was how fat the king was. It was obvious that Kartjan no longer cared for his body, the only thing that remined Flavius of the old king was Kartjan’s long bushy beard. Apart from that it was clear for all to see that the fight in the man was gone.
Appius bowed gesturing for Flavius to do the same
“your majesty, may I introduce Tribune Flavius Aurelius Constantinus chief aid to his Imperial Highness Prince Gaius Octavius Trajan”, the was no acknowledgment that Kartjan had even heard him but Appius carried as if this was to be expected “he comes from Trajan’s court to present you with an offer”
Appius smiled and gestured for Flavius to speak, Flavius bowed deeply again, “you majesty as you know the nation of Nouvel has fallen into turmoil, after the death of Queen Marie-Colette the houses have resorted to infighting and my prince Trajan has stepped in to restore peace”. Again, no reaction, “we would like to enlist your help” said Flavius not deterred by Kartjan’s silence “to help secure the land of Nouvel and secure peace in the region”. As Flavius finished, he glanced up at Kartjan, the king wasn’t even looking at him but instead was staring into the fire to the right of them.
Appius smiled “I’m sure the king would like to know how much you would……contribute to this war effort?” Flavius smiled “of course Trajan is willing to contribute to the Skjoldurian economy, a significant contribution, enough to buy several new palaces” Appius smiled “anything else?” he said. Flavius sighed, “of course anything u find you keep, we are also offering you land in Nouvel when the war’s over”. Appius smiled seemingly satisfied “how will Caesar react to this” came a quiet raspy voice. Both Appius and Flavius turned in surprise to see Kartjan’s eyes on them. “How will Caesar react to us getting involved in an obvious power grab against Nero?”. Flavius recovered quickly “Caesar is old and tired, he’s content to watch and see who wins”. Kartjan nodded and looked at Appius “show our guest out” he said, “we will discuss your offer”.

Port of Kungahalla 5 Days later:

Fleet Adrimal Veschmick had a headache. At 57 years old and was contemplating retirement. Most of his comrades had already retired and were living quiet lives with their wives around Skjoldur. But that was not Veschmik’s way, he loved the military and loved his job. He was in command of the 6th fleet, the most modern fleet in Skjoldur. Veschimick was put in charge of overseeing the building of the fleet and making sure the men and officers were ready. He did this on board the most powerful ship in the fleet, the Valkohai. He had made it his own complete with a highly trained staff and his own comfortable cabin, where he ran most of his fleet which he had decided to call the Salamalaivat. A tradition among fleet admirals in Skjoldur.
The reason for Veschmik’s headache had arrived 2 days ago in form of a message from the capital. It had told him to prepare the fleet to move out in three days and meet up with a Skjoldurian raiding group. Not only that but he had to accommodate a Skjoldurian war band. All the planning and preparation had gone on way into the night and now after all that they had also been informed they needed to established a supply line and expect trouble from Greater Slavacia. Overall this was going to be a long night, but all this preparation was worth it, for the war that was about to come.

by **Heartfilia** » Sat Apr 11, 2020 9:50 pm

Le Grand Saint Michel Hôtel - Gaspé

As the sun rose over the horizon, it basked the city of Gaspé in a warm and gentle glow. The melodies of the birds and the smell of salt from the sea truly made for an immaculate day. Eleanor stood on the penthouse balcony of the Grand Saint Michel Hôtel, admiring the beautiful and historic city. She could have stood there for hours, but a knock on the door reminded her of her duties.

E: “Come in.”

Tom, her android, opens the door.

E: “Oh, it's you, Tom.”

“Sorry to disrupt you, madame, but you have an hour before the car arrives.”

Eleanor smiles at Tom.

E: “Oh, okay, thank you for reminding me. You may go.”

Tom nods and closes the door.

Eleanor turned back, looking to the quiet streets once more and went indoors. She walks straight to her dress, which is on the mannequin, Admiring the beauty and coloring of the dress.

“Lavender,” she thought.“what a lovely color!”

Eleanor on the cover of GW wear her dress

Once fully dressed as well as her hair and makeup complete, an hour had passed. She hurried to the hôtels valet and entered the town car.

Acadian Orthodox Church - Gaspé

As Eleanor stepped out of the town car, she was unsure as to what she had done until she heard someone scream her name.

“ELEANOR!!”

She quickly turned around to see her friends from Heartfilia.

E: “Addie? Wesley? What are you doing here?

Adelaide and Wesley Van Der Woodson are younger siblings of socialite Diana Van Der Woodson and children of Lillian and Seneca Van Der Woodson. Adelaide and Wesley have been one of Eleanor's closest friends since the age of five. For the event, Addie dressed in a pastel pink gown Accented with a lovely white lace while Wesley wore a dashing periwinkle tuxedo with a navy blue floral tie and white rose boutonniere.

Adelaide and her dress

Wesley and His tux

W: “Our parents didn't want to come. they made the excuse that it's good for us to learn diplomacy, so they sent us.”

All three let out a light laugh.

E: ”Jeez, why are people staring?”

Addie and Wesley look around

A: “Supposedly, we have to wear black to funerals here.”

“Eww,” Eleanor replied.

After a few minutes of reconnecting, they made their way to the church. Once inside Eleanor peered around the nave and stated its simplicity, the twin responded with the fact that it lacked the crushed velvet drapes, the gold and crystal chandeliers, and the white marble that’s very customary of a church in heartfilia. They quickly sat together as the ceremony began and as speeches were delivered Eleanor and her friends were in a different world, they chatted, gossiped, and quietly laughed.
Eleanor congratulated Wesley's relationship with Prince William of Heartfilian, even asking if anything intimate had happened.
The girls giggled much to Wesley's embarrassment. Wesley responded with a post from Gossip Weekly that Adelaide shared a room with the Duke of Kent. Even when Jacques de Guise stood to speak his eulogy for Queen Marie the three continued to not pay any attention and ignore the baffled stares of the other guests.

Once the funeral came to an end the guests were invited to the grand chamber for a feast.

Once the funeral comes to an end, guests are head to the grand chamber for a feast.

A: “A feast? In front of people?”

W: “Strange”

They awkwardly made their way to a table to sit down. There was a moment of silence between them as they didn’t know what to do as eating in front of people is a big taboo in Heartfilia. They instead continued their conversation.

A: “You know what!”

E: “What is it?”

A: “We saw a homeless person! I never knew they existed!”

Eleanor laugh uncontrollably

W: “It’s true! We also saw a sick person. They had something called a cold, isn’t that awesome!”

The fall of Gaspé

As time passed so did the fun, Eleanor and her two friends had nothing else to do, things would soon fall apart as Wesley was about to call over the help to bring more champagne, an explosion in the distance silenced the event. Many stood baffled on what just happened, and before anyone could say anything, a seconded explosion followed by the city sirens made everyone panicked.

This once elegant and classy event fell into chaos, tables and chairs knocked over, food spilled onto the floor, glassware shattered.

People pushed and shoved as they flocked to the chambers exits. Using her brain, Eleanor noticed that not many were using the doors to the nave. Being quick, she grabs both Adelaide and Wesley's arm dragging them to the nave

It was dark and quiet though the faint sound of gunfire and commotion was heard, they made their way down the pews to the main door, and they exit through them.

Once outside the situation was far worse, the sound of screams and gun fires ravaged the city, and the once quiet and orderly streets were filled with hordes of people, pushing and shoving to find a safe location. As Eleanor contemplates what to do, two jets flypast shattering glass from the surrounding buildings raining it upon the people below. She quickly grabs hold of Adelaide and Wesley's hands, which are trembling. She pulls them down the steps of the church to the street.
She spots an alleyway and proceeds to head towards it, and as people step on her dress, it partially rips. As they walk down the alley, they find them themselves in a small courtyard.
Eleanor tries to reassure her friends that everything will be alright, but to no luck, they still tremble.
Eleanor pulls out her phone, trying to contact her mother, but there is no signal.
She grabs their hands again, walking them down the alleyway, as they reach the end, Eleanor spots three police running past.

Eleanor let's go momentarily and runs to reach the policemen, but before she could ask for help, gunfire erupts.
Eleanor falls to the ground covering her head, once the gunfire stops, she looks up and sees the policemen lifeless on the ground.
She stumbles back up slowly, backing away. It wasn’t until two soldiers turned the corner that they saw her.

She picked up her dress and ran back Into the alleyway as fast as the soldiers went after her. She stops in her tracks as two more soldiers loom over Adelaide and Wesley. It wasn't until Eleanor really paid attention to the soldier's uniform.

“Roman,” she said out loud.

As fear turned to the anger, she grew confident.

“Untie them now!”

There was silence until the two soldiers from before grabbed Eleanor's arms.

“Unhand me now!”

Eleanor screamed as she pulled her arms away, releasing them from their grasp.

“Do you know who I am? I’m Eleanor Plantagenet! Daughter of Caesar of Rome and Queen of Heartfilia! Now do as I say and untie them or so help me god I’ll have my father hang you for disobedience!”

Unsure of what to do the soldiers took Eleanor and her friends to the Palace.

1 hour later

As Eleanor walked down the hall to the Royal throne she couldn't help but let out a scoff.

E: “Really brother! you couldn't have told me you were planning on attacking! I could have died! Also one of my friends has a bruise, he's never seen one before, he thinks he's going to die!”

“Dear sister it's great to see you again,” said Trajan

Coast of Soisson

Off the coast of Soissons, Heartfilian Fleet's inch closer and closer to its shore as a thick layer of fog loomed over the sea. Two fighter jets pierced the wall of fog and headed straight towards the naval base striking communication towers. War was about to begin.

by **Greater Slavacia** » Mon Apr 13, 2020 3:17 am

RS-172 Pamyat Pobedy, 20km off the Coast of Soisson

"Conn, sonar, contacts 1 through 10, presumed carrier strike group. Performing target motion analysis."
"Sonar, conn, keep track of them. Inform of any changes in enemy active sonar activity. Navigation, change course bearing 2-9-3, depth 2-5-0, continue silent running."
"Exactly so comrade captain, changing course to 293, depth 250 silent running aye."
"Conn, sonar, enemy active sonar ping, bearing 084."
"Dammit!" the captain exclaimed.
The RS-172 was tailing the Heartfilian squadron for only fifteen minutes and so far they had shown little indication of anti-submarine activity. But they must have woken up, for two more pings followed closely. The sonar operator, a serious man in his fifties calmly read out the directions of the incoming pings. But his subordinates seemed less composed. One pf them nearly knocked over his tea cup.
"Lubomir, sit down and stop acting like a school girl. Focus. I need TMA data to relay to conn."
"Exactly so comrade Captain-Lieutenant, only. This is it, is it not? "
Borisov ignored the young man beside him and continued the read outs.

"Torpedo room, ready tubes one through four. Targeting parameters - ships with active sonar. Navigation, emergency dive maximum speed. Sonar, before we go to maximum speed, I need you to go active sonar. We need as much data as we can. You'll only have a minute or so before the noise gets too loud."
"Affirmative conn, torpedos standing by."
"Yes comrade captain, decreasing pitch, flooding tanks, increasing speed. We will submerge below the thermocline in approximately 70 seconds."

The submarine emitted a ping. To every Heartfilian sonar, it would have been a prime target. But the RS-172 was too fast. Submerging below the thermocline and reducing speed. Quiet as the rest of the ocean.

Somewhere off the Coast of Acadia

Dragoon Concept

They had been preparing for months. Hidden caches. Large imports of horses. Many in the General Staff openly mocked the idea of cavalry. Envisioning doomed charges against machine gun nests, using pikes and spears against infantry fighting vehicles. But General Solotov, the man in charge of the proposed Acadian army stood firm: "We do not have the manpower to challenge the Royalists in an active conflict. But, a well formed cavalry division is perfect in a guerrilla environment. Horses require no fuel, they are easy to hide in forests and most importantly still able to give our guerrillas the mobility we need." He drew up plans for an entire division. He knew it wouldn't be the case of course, far too few people knew how to ride. He'd have to settle for small squads. The 1st People's Cavalry had a headquarters much before the unit existed even on paper. The general staff settled on four types of units: dragoons, mounted rifles that would be the equivalent to the loyalist motorized infantry; grenadier Dragoons, the elite assault units, those brave men who would storm fortified lines. Next, would be the horse rockets, a squad of men centred around an ATGM launcher to be drilled tirelessly to dismount their horses and set up a firing position in under a minute and finally, the horse towed artillery. Capable of supporting the infantry with a barrage, but ready to quickly pack up and retreat in case of counter battery fire.

There was a knock on the door. A man in a submariner uniform came in.
"Comrade General, we're as close as we're going to get. The insertion team is ready, your general staff, the body guards, we are ready to make landfall."
"Thank you comrade lieutenant. I will get dressed. Have the documents been securely packed?"
"Exactly so, they are in waterproof, self destructing bags. If Push comes to shove - you are a Slavcian diplomat and th.." the lieutenant was interrupted.
"Thank you comrade lieutenant, if that is your actual rank, I have been briefed."
The 'lieutenant' smiled broadly.
"You got me there comrade General. But. I'm afraid I can't disclose much. Only that all of Slavacia is counting on you."

by **Harren Island** » Sat May 16, 2020 5:28 pm

‘Something Fishy’ - Autreterre

Shrill shrieking echoed in the small chateau and out the open door which hung at an odd angle, swinging on its bent hinges which protested noisily at each errant movement. Lanek sprinted awkwardly up the drive, his sodden shoes still filled with water and squelching as he struggled to run with his wet clothes weighing him down. His throat felt raw from the exertion of his heavy breathing and the salt water which he’d swallowed on the swim over from their ship but he did not stop, pushing himself even faster as the screams continued.

Still clutching the bottle which by now felt like a block of lead in his straining arm, he burst through the doorway even though his entrance looked more like a drunken man falling over the threshold. Immediately inside, he came face to face with a surprised soldier of the Harrenite Royal Army who was standing watch over his fellow who was having his way with the source of the wailing on the kitchen table. Not pausing to think, Lanek swung the bottle which made contact with the man’s face with a sickening thud that barely disguised the crunch of breaking bone as his nose caved inwards and he instantly crumpled to the floor, a nerveless mass. Lanek was amazed that the bottle hadn’t shattered, taking it as proof of its quality, and struggled to lift it again for another swing, this time going for the second man who had thrown himself away from the table and had half pulled up his trousers at the front.

Forgetting his trousers, the man let go and threw himself forward at Lanek as they dropped around his ankles, batting the bottle aside with his forearm and wrapping his large hands around Lanek’s throat. Collapsing under the weight of the assault, the two of them sprawled onto the floor as Lanek kicked desperately and tried to grasp out for the bottle which he’d lost somewhere on the floor. The damp stink of sweat filled his nostrils as his lungs burned for breath that would not come and spots of blackness started to cloud the corners of his vision. Thrashing in an attempt to knee the soldier somewhere sensitive, he clawed at the man’s face, trying to go for the eyes but his fingers found only the mouth and then teeth descended upon his right-hand ring finger, clamping shut and increasing in bite strength as he tried vainly to scream but the only result was his tongue lolling out grotesquely. He was still conscious and aware when his finger joint snapped under the pressure, severing the digit which wetly came away with a strip of skin and torn muscle, to be spat out by his assailant. The pain or the lack of oxygen or possibly even a combination of the two, pushed him over the edge and he mercifully blacked out.

He awoke with a start as freezing cold water cascaded onto his face, some of which had shot up his nose and caused him to splutter and snort. Sucking in a deep, pained breath of air, he clutched at his tender throat and looked around. The man who’d been on top of him was dead, with five bullet holes in his back and more than a few to the skull, which was now a mangled, unidentifiable mess. He winced as his hand was pulled away from the sticky pool of blood at his side by the woman who was now preparing bandages for his finger stump, “Are you okay, Mrs. Pelletier?”. His voice sounded squeaky and ragged in his own ears but she only tutted and then poured some iodine on the wound which caused him to loudly howl and clear his throat.

“Oui, thanks to you. What about Kal, where is he?”.

“HISS took him but he was lucky, they shot some of the others including the old Captain and some sailors we rescued.”.

“Perhaps they were the lucky ones.”. He winced again from her ministrations but once she was done, she helped him to his feet. “We cannot stay here, they will kill us if they find us like this.”. She dashed around the chateau, avoiding the bodies on the floor whilst picking up a wicker basket by its handles, filling it with food and bottled supplies, and then shrugging on a couple jackets including a long waterproof overcoat and topping it all off with a wide-brimmed hat. “Lanek, move.”. Darting into the back bedroom, he stripped out of his bloody, waterlogged clothes and pulled on some of Kal’s things, a few sizes too big but they were at least clean and dry. Coming back out, he washed his face quickly in the sink and then picked up his fallen bottle which had rolled under the table, using only his left hand as he held his wounded one stiff at his side.

Cleaning the already congealing blood from the bottle, he then gestured at the guns on the floor, “Shall we take those?”.

“Non, they will do us no more good.” She grabbed a faded blue beret from a hook on the wall by the door and planted it atop his head. “There. Now, you are my son and I will call you Javert, understood? Speak no more Harrenian, Javert.”. Lanek nodded and they left.

It wasn’t long before they joined a stream of disorientated and dazed locals who’d been abruptly evicted from their homes or dormitories and roughly herded in the direction of the port by Harrenite soldiers who were even now searching each building and shepherding them along. A massive armoured vehicle rumbled up the small street with water still sloshing out of vents along its sides to splash down on the road and run into the gutters and drains. The soldier manning the pintle mount on top ordered them all to the side and kept his watchful gaze on them the whole time as it rolled by. The port was packed with people, covering every inch of ground and squeezed into nooks and crannies as military vehicles edged through. A loose cordon of soldiers monitored the perimeter and ushered stragglers into the mass of people. There wasn’t any room to sit, let alone lie down and yet more kept flooding in for the next few hours. It was inevitable that some would fall into the water but when they did, they were treated as attempted escapees and shot where they swam.

Eventually, once the transport ship Chios had offloaded its entire complement of troops, equipment and supplies, it was manoeuvred around by tugs to take up a position along their nearest quay and dozens of gangplanks extended from the length of its flank. A HISS officer appeared on the deck up above them all with a megaphone and began to speak in french but Lanek was still able to recognise him as Major Pancros, the one who’d boarded their vessel and had his friends shot and family kidnapped. “He’s the one who took Kal!”, he whispered to Mrs. Pelletier who sternly hushed him before looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

+++ People of Autreterre, you are now prisoners of the Kingdom of Harren and will be relocated from this strategic location to be interned in Harren until such a time that a deal can be made with your government, for your release. Make no attempt to escape or hinder our efforts and you will not be harmed. Disobedience will be punished with death. Now, board the vessel in a calm manner and follow the orders of any Harrenite without question. +++

Fig. The Royal troopship, Chios.

Harrenite Internal Security Service – Acadien airspace over Soissons’ coastal waters

An explosion marred the horizon, a bright white spark against the glimmering orange sea which effervesced in the dying light of the setting sun. The blooming burst monetarily disappeared from sight as the wedge-shaped aircraft slipped into a clump of clouds, the cockpit cocooned in a cold blanket of condensation as beads of moisture streamed over the canopy in rivers. When it punched out the other side, the bulb of the detonation was shrinking to be replaced by a growing coil of thick, occluding smoke. Banking towards the south, sunlight poured into the cockpit and glinted off the console, a stark contrast to the absorptive properties exhibited by the black coating on the external hull which was visible from the co-pilot’s seat.

The console beeped as another vessel was marked and soon after, the spear tip of the aircraft’s nose gently traversed a few degrees to the left to adjust to the target’s bearing. Onboard computer systems calculated the optimum drop position for the 900kg bomb which then clunked out of its internal bay, causing the craft to bounce skyward as the weight dropped away. The long device wasn’t entirely round but flattened to form a lifting surface which provided some semblance of gliding capability, with fins both at the nose and tail to assist in corrections and guidance towards its destination. Swiftly reaching terminal velocity, the bomb soared down at a steep angle and almost immediately lost sight of its parent bomber which had swung northwards after dropping its payload. Its fins changed angles occasionally to correct the course of its descent as the surface of the sea rose up to greet it. As it grew closer to the water below, it passed down from the high-altitude calm into a chaotic storm of a full-blown battle.

Fig. The 900kg bomb after release.

Missiles streaked around, trailing white billowing lines as rainbows of flares, shimmering curtains of chaff and rippling waves of point defence tracers formed fantastical aerial walls. Shipboard guns added their own voices to the fray with muzzle flashes lighting up the sea which were then followed by spurts of water or the screaming impact of hits. Invisible to the naked eye, lasers stitched across the sky, intercepting munitions which seemed to spontaneously explode whilst radar and signal jammers filled the air, battling to disrupt sensors, communications and weapon systems on all sides. Helicopters hugged the water, hoping to avoid focus or stray fire, either adding their own missiles and tracers to the hurricane of violence or dropping sensor buoys and depth charges on top of subsurface detections. Jets screamed around above them, trading fire and chasing one another through the pandemonium.

Countless aircraft and dozens of vessels were either on fire, sinking or had already been swallowed by the waves, leaving hundreds of fluorescent orange inflatables bobbing on the surface among the flames, waving survivors, bodies and wreckage. The crew of the RHV Hydra desperately fought to keep what remained of their ship afloat after both the front and rear halves were violently separated, the result of being rammed by the nuclear-powered, Acadien fast Battleship, DRN Richelieu, which had led the breakout from Soissons, leaving all of the slower vessels behind as it headed for the open ocean at speed.

With a hiss and a flash of reddish fire at the nose, the bomb started to roll uncontrollably, losing its fins which were torn off by the excessive force. Only just missing its intended target, it smashed into the flickering water and detonated but the proximity of the blast still managed to crumple the nearby hull with its concussive force however it wasn’t a killing blow.

The bomber itself, after having left the raging fight, arrived at the aerial staging point above ‘Saviour’s Pass’, also known as, ‘Ralsaren’s Passage’, the strait between Soissons and Autreterre. Two ‘Aspis’ fighters maintained a cordon around the motley collection of aircraft; a maritime patrol plane which was currently refuelling via a long hose that trailed behind an aerial tanker in a large and slow, circular holding pattern, an AWACS with a huge rotodome and a flight of ‘Dory’ strikers awaiting mission assignment. After clearing their departure, the bomber headed for Harren and home, a journey that would only take them two more hours across the Sea of Arashi. After discussing the recent developments at length and recovering from the adrenaline rush, their conversation turned towards more mundane matters.

The pilot toggled his intercom, “You don’t hear much about Agrippa any more, I wonder what happened to him.”.

“He’s retired.”.

“Oof”, he had kind of expected it though. That man could never have returned to a life of peace after Harren.

The voice of his co-pilot broke his train of thought, “What? He's gotta be pushing ninety. He retired on Kos.”.

Thinking of the military base up in Eristys, he nodded even though he knew his buddy couldn’t see that physical movement, “'Retired on Kos', understood, say no more.”.

“What? No. He's alive and has taken up gardening, as far as I hear.”.

“'Taken up gardening'”, he smiled to himself, it was a rather romantic euphemism, “I see, providing nutrition to plants I take it?”.

“I'm...I'm not sure you're understanding”

“No no, no, I do.” He thought the fatigue must be getting to his co-pilot after such a long and strenuous day.

“Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, is alive.”.

He nodded again, this time smiling as if in on the joke, “He's 'alive' and 'retired', on 'Kos', and is 'taking up gardening'.”.

There was a long sigh over the intercom, “Yes… but why did you place emphasis on almost every other word?”.

Harrenite Internal Security Service – Royal Embassy in Gaspe

Fig. The Royal Embassy in Gaspe.

The hacking cough echoed wetly in the small, dingy office which was lit only by the dim glow of a table lamp, its weak bulb obscured by a frosted glass shade in the shape of an upturned flower bud. Faded curtains had been drawn over the cobwebbed windows, resolutely shut and blacking out all possible light from the glorious day outside. “No, I quite like it the way it is,”, the weedy man wheezed out from within the padded folds of his cushioned seat, not even bothering to conceal his sarcastic dismissiveness, “but I thank you, very, very much, for your consideration.”. A wispy hand emerged from the shadows, trembling as the wafer-thin skin of its fingertips made contact with the paper envelope which bore the Commonwealth’s official stamp, dragging it backwards into the gloom. “Did you at least have the brains to properly dispose of the messenger’s corpse?”.

Agent Sica hadn’t been spoken to in this way for quite a few years and he wasn’t sure if he found it annoying, refreshing or unsettling. HISS generally commanded more respect and fear, even among the Kingdom’s high-ranking diplomats. He cleared his throat, an overbearingly loud noise in the hushed atmosphere of the office. “Of course.”. Spica prepared himself for further questions or comments but there was no response at all and no indication of an acknowledgement either. The silent stillness dragged on and he felt almost frozen there, unwilling to shatter the ambience. The sudden glint of a blade startled him and he took a half-step back and placed a hand on his hip’s holster before the sound of paper tearing allowed his brain to catch up and he steadied himself. The damp smacking of lips filled the air, soon followed by a hoarse puff of scornful laughter which resulted in another suppressed fit of gurgled coughs. Sica winced, that cough sounded quite unhealthy and he didn’t think the old man had much time left and he wasn’t sure if he was glad about that or not. On the one hand the guy was a total cunt but on the other, he was a piece of living history - he’d been serving as an ambassador here in Gaspe for just over sixty years, since way before Balthazar and the Harrenian Hegemony, having originally represented the City-State of Ruri. Trying to reignite the conversation, he spoke up, providing more information to the previous question, “The body is now in the city morgue, labelled as just another John Smith who was unfortunately caught in the crossfire from the liberation a few days ago.”.

“Oh shut up, fool, do they teach you nothing on Naxos? Never you mind, I’ll deal with that problem for you later, this information is critical.”. A heavy scrape of wood heralded the opening of a draw, then the ratcheting clack of a rotary dial on an antiquated telephone. “Get me a priority line to the Foreign Office………. Okay, in that case, get me the Roman Embassy, direct to the Ambassador, I think his name was Sisenna Didicus or was it Attius Simplex? Whatever, their names are all ridiculous, just get me the line.”. He sucked on his teeth for a few long moments as he listened to the full response before dropping the handset back onto its stand with a clatter. “The stupid Romans have cut all communications over some trumped-up nonsense about Guise traitors.”.

“What is it?”

“Time sensitive.”, he said as he feebly slid the letter back into its torn envelope and then tremulously handed it over to Sica, “Take this information to the new Roman administrative centre near the palace. The curfew is not for another hour or so, so you should make it across the city in time. This is for the Tribune’s eyes only, do you understand?”.

Harrenite Internal Security Service – HISS Headquarters, Naxos

What had started as a temporary command and control centre during the troubled times, fourteen and a half years ago, had grown and developed into the centre of HISS administration and training. The lonely island in the bay had become a fortified hive, spiky with radar and communication towers like a black sea urchin revealed in a stony pool at low tide. Underneath this forbidding exterior, networks of hardened bunkers extended down into the bedrock, one complex belonging to the department of Sensors and Signals Specialists which hosted a vast, water-cooled supercomputer that occupied multiple levels at the heart of the facility.

Fig. Part of the HISS Supercomputer.

The door to Brigadier Karras’ office opened with a hiss, letting in an increased volume of the omnipresent ambient thrum of servers that exemplified this part of the base, through which hurried an analyst who hastily toggled the door behind him and swiped its electronic lock with his card before grabbing the cord to yank down the shutter over the door’s tiny porthole-style window.

“Specialist Quinn?”, Karras’ bewildered amusement soured as he noticed the nervous behaviour and concerned expression on his subordinate’s face. He refocused his full attention from his computer screen and put his cup down on a deep, shiny blue marble coaster with a resounding clink. “Specialist, what’s the matter?”.

The analyst came to attention in front of the desk and held it a moment too long as if unsure how or perhaps unwilling to continue, “Sir.”. A bead of sweat was visible on his forehead and he seemed unable to completely draw in breath. “Sir, I, uh….there’s no easy or even safe way to say this.”.

“You’re making me anxious, spit it out.”.

The man took a deep breath and steeled himself, “Praetorian Intelligence lied to the Basileus, they omitted information requested directly by Drusus himself.”.

Karras scratched at the stubble on his chin before removing the glasses from his face and massaging the bridge of his nose, hand sliding up to the side of his bald temple. “Walk me through what you have.”.

“Eighteen days ago, the Basileus sent a direct release of information order to the head office of Praetorian Intelligence in Rome, Castra Praetoria, demanding the disclosure of all their assets, equipment and personnel on Harren. The official response at the time tallied with the dossier provided locally by the Regional Prefect, Caelius, in Cyma. However, we’ve finally finished decrypting their internal communications from that period and have been able to trace the request in its entirety. Considering how high profile it was, it was forwarded directly to the First Praetorian Prefect Aelius Sejanus, who then filed an information request with his own office. Now here’s the key point. The request specifically did not ask for a list of their own holdings but to determine exactly what Caelius knew and had informed Drusus about, that filtered information was then sent as their official report. That alone is cause for concern but in addition, from cross referencing more of their internal communications and comparing that with what we have been able to crack about their regional budgets, we currently estimate that report to represent approximately ninety-six percent of what they truly have on Harren. It seems like the complete information is reserved to a very select few, even above that of a Regional Prefect and uh, I suppose in this case… an Imperial Highness.”.

Immediately grasping the implications, Karras picked up his phone and was about to press one of the speed dial options before he paused, considering the potential results of that action. He held the receiver over its cradle and then looked up at the man in front of him, “Who else knows?”.

“Uh, my whole section was working on the decryption but they only have parts of the intel, only you and I have the full picture.”. Predicting the next question, he went on, “The data is secured at my access level and backed up offshore.”.

Karras’ finger moved away from the speed dial options and keyed in a specific sequence of numbers before placing the receiver back down once he heard a confirmatory beep. “We have to operate on the assumption that we, as an organisation, are compromised. If I put the base on alert, we’ll tip off any agents operating here that something is amiss. If they know that we know, they’ll try to suppress this knowledge and inform Castra Praetoria that we’ve been able to crack their communications. Neither of those outcomes are acceptable, so I’ll head to security and initiate a silent lockdown but you need to ensure that this intel gets to Speros and through him, the Basileus. Print off a hard copy and take a digital backup on an external drive.”.

“Yes sir, but uh, where is Archon Speros at the moment?”.

“On the mainland, overseeing security preparations for next week’s arrival of the Skjoldurian King Kartjan, Lord Yulta Ross of Asgareth and Dumnitoras Edvard Valyun of the Noctish Realm, for the restoration victory parade. This whole mess has to be resolved before then or there’ll be hell to pay.”. Karras pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked one of his desk draws, revealing an oiled, black and blue service pistol which he picked up, holding it by the barrel as he extended the grip towards the analyst. “Take this, Specialist. Consider yourself a target and act accordingly, trust no one.”.

Commonwealth of Harren – New Galatea

Rainwater coated the windscreen in a thick slick despite the constant thrashing of the wipers which sent liquid spraying out with every thump as she manhandled the steering wheel, fingers tightly gripping the ribbed cover whilst her car yawed to the side. She couldn’t make out the crackling voice on her dashboard radio over the drumming downpour and the wailing of her siren but she didn’t need to, she was already-route and she doubted that much could have changed in the last minute or so.

As she rounded the bend, a glass bottle trailing a flickering flame careened out of nowhere to smash against the bonnet, shattering in a shower of glass and coating the metal in a swirling sheen of burning petroleum. Billowing black clouds of acrid smoke erupted forth, permeating the cabin through the air vents and occluding her vision. Coughing, she slammed on the brakes as the wafting heat grew in intensity, scorching her face and the arms she instinctively raised to shield herself with. In rising panic, she frantically snatched at her belt release, yanking the strap away and fumbling at the door handle before throwing herself out and sideways before the jeep had even rolled to a proper stop.

Splashing belly down into a puddle on the asphalt and scraping her elbows and hands raw as she did so, she barely registered the rear wheel as the rubber of its tyre spun by within a few centimetres of her face. For a few long seconds she lay there winded before a gulp of clean air flooded into her lungs. Gritting her teeth and blinking the haze away from her eyes, she struggled up on to her knees without using her trembling arms for leverage, hugging them tightly to her chest as blood dripped down, helped by the rain which had already soaked through her clothes and caused goosebumps to rise across her skin. Fighting through the pain with a grimace, she peered around but couldn’t see much through the deluge and the sopping wet, saturated locks of her black hair which hung down and clung to cheek. Gingerly wiping the offending clump away with the back of her hand, she clambered to her feet as the muscles in her abdomen strained to comply with the instruction.

The flashing blue and red strobes from the front grill of her jeep still pulsed blindingly but they were being drowned out and consumed in the orange glow of the blaze which had grown to envelop the front half of the vehicle. Rain sizzled and steamed as it landed in the roaring conflagration, dimming it slightly and generating a small cloud in the immediate vicinity as both fire and water fought one another for dominance over the stricken vehicle. It had come to a stop after mounting the curb but the faint idling of its engine could still be heard.

Fig. The burning police jeep.

Two men jogged out of the gloom in waterproof jackets and balaclavas, both carrying shotguns and moving with a degree of purpose. The first covered the burning jeep with the barrel of his gun, checking the rear seats for any passengers whilst the second advanced on her. She backed away and tried to unholster her pistol, face contorting in pain as fresh blood welled out from the deeply grazed digits. The second man froze when he saw her movement, barrel centred on her chest and finger tightening on the trigger before relenting once he saw that she wasn’t capable of being a threat. Closing distance, he slung the shotgun and drew an old eight-millimetre pistol in a practiced motion, firing twice centre mass. Breath was driven from her lungs once again and she collapsed backwards into a frigid pool of water, painfully gasping for air. The man used the opportunity to secure her weapon, pocketing it in his jacket, before dragging her up to her feet by the twin straps of her kevlar vest. He then grasped her by the hair in one hand, pulling it tight in a ponytail and yanking her sharply towards the side of the road, using it to direct her movements and ignoring her pained yelps of protest. “Why are you doing this?”, she managed to hiss out when they’d negotiated two alleyways and entered a concrete apartment block through the reinforced steel front door.

The only response she’d received was the hand roughly shaking her head and a terse, “Shut the fuck up, pig.”. The man bringing up the rear had remained resolutely silent. It was only a few minutes more until they reached their destination, first entering a rather slow lift which was illuminated with harsh white fluorescent tubes and then being escorted the final dozen or so metres to another steel door which opened ahead of them. A ginger haired woman ushered them in and sealed the entrance behind them with a resounding clang, the sound of the bolt and the full realization of her situation slamming home. The man finally released his grip on her hair and pushed her forward, gesturing to a tinny, aluminium chair behind a foldout table made of plywood. She pushed it gently out with a foot and then sat down, crossing her wounded arms over her chest. She forced herself to take deep breaths, calming her pulse despite the thoughts racing through her head and the adrenaline that was just starting to wear off, leaving a stinging ache in her arms. It reminded her of a time back on Harren, fifteen years ago, when she’d suffered very similar wounds on the asphalt of a Heartlands road. A grim laugh escaped her throat and she actually smiled because this, this was nothing and could be nothing in comparison to that awful day.

“You’re in fine spirits.”, the redhead said as she sat down opposite with a small bundle of bandages to wrap her injured arms with, more of a statement then a question. At this range, she looked to be in her forties with thin streaks of grey and wrinkles starting to form by her eyes. The voice was level and carefree but it didn’t carry much warmth, “You will not be raped, tortured or killed, however, you will be our hostage for the foreseeable future. As of right now, you will read a script on camera and then you will be fed and shown to your room. What is your name?”.

She saw no reason to lie or make things more difficult for them, “Rhea. Rhea Ettanis.”.

“Rank?”.

“Constable.”.

A slight pause where she wondered if perhaps they’d hoped to snag someone with a bit more clout, “Very well, Constable Ettanis.”, the redhead nodded and then stood up to fetch a glass of water, helping Rhea to sip from it by holding the container to her lips at an angle. A faint smile crossed her features as she brushed back the errant crop of hair that had fallen across Rhea’s face, “I don’t have any makeup available, I’m afraid, so you’re going to have to face the camera as you are.”. She took the glass away and then brought over a wafer-thin sheet of printed paper, placing it flat on the table in front of her, the text large enough to clearly read and in a plainly legible font. “When the red light goes on, read it out.”.

She briefly skimmed it over, not surprised by any of it, before the light flicked red and she cleared her throat. +++ This is Constable Ettanis, of the New Galatean Police Force, and I am a hostage of the Harrenian Liberation Front until the demands of my captors are met… Asgareth bombed civilians, obliterated the city of Prokopios in nuclear fire, massacred people in the streets and on television, declared us property and enslaved us, stole and murdered our children and what do the sycophantic traitors in our government do? They cast aside the memories of all those taken from us and get into bed with these mons .. +++

With a sudden detonation, the steel door blew inwards on its hinges as pieces of the shredded bolt careened into the far wall in a deafening clash. Before the smoke cleared, a hulking figure darted into the gap, its form silhouetted by the light outside. The thunderous report of a shotgun blast sent it collapsing backwards with a vast hole blown through the centre of its torso but before it had finished its fall, a second dark figure had shoved it aside, filling the entryway and surging in. Rhea saw a blur of green and brown digital camouflage and then the outline of what looked like an oversized assault rifle. Three more explosions followed in rapid succession, each accompanied by a gout of fire from the gigantic muzzle and a splattering of warm liquid. Rhea tasted iron on her lips and she knew what it was. When the smoke finally cleared and the ringing in her ears was receding, she saw the bulky droid emerging from a back bedroom, having checked the whole apartment for any other hostiles. It loudly beeped an all clear alert and its handler soon entered the residence, stepping over the downed drone which whirred and clicked on the floor despite the gaping chasm in its front ceramic plate. The handler ordered the drone to cover the door and then awkwardly made his way over in his cumbersome armoured suit, at one point catching the toe of his boot in a gory mess of cratered ribcage, that of the redhead who was now staring blankly up at the ceiling, “Constable, are you hurt?”.

Commonwealth of Harren – Outskirts of the Ruins of Prokopios

“I think that’s a train coming from the south-east.”. In response to Toumbas’ directions, Lieutenant Ioannis slowly panned his vision across and adjusted the zoom on his heavy pair of binoculars which were mounted on a monopod, finding the huge locomotive as it emerged from a copse of trees and thundered along one of over a dozen tracks, hauling a long freight train behind it. The image bounced as he followed it, zooming in on the side to make note of identification markings and clicking the shutter button on the inbuilt camera.

“Even the train is actively guarded by HISS, looks like a whole platoon at least. They must be expecting trouble from Qylvel.”. They continued watching as the train passed through two sets of automated gates, gaining access to the Prokopios Exclusion Zone, the remnants of the city which was now surrounded by two concentric chain-link fences with triple concertina wire barriers outside and infrared security scanners on top. “Doesn’t this all seem a bit, over the top?”.

“Well, HQ assesses it to be a railway hub and freight handling facility now and if they are struggling with an insurgent problem, it doesn’t seem that excessive.”.

Ioannis chewed his lip as his magnified gaze returned to the train which was now screeching to a halt underneath a wide sheltered awning affixed to the side of one of twelve vast warehouses. The HISS guards dismounted and moved aside as fences slid from ports in the warehouse side to mate with the train’s freight cars, creating secure channels between each container and the open doors leading into the giant structure. Lights above the channels lit up green and then hatches unlocked along the flank of the train, raising up on hydraulic arms to disgorge a flood of anxious and disorientated passengers. Ioannis was surprised to note that some wore the uniform of Acadien military personnel, but most wore civilian clothing and clutched packages of food or treasured possessions. As he watched, he saw one of the acadien seamen try to grab the fence but then suddenly recoil sharply with a pained grimace. “The fencing is electrified. It looks like a prisoner of war camp of sorts but they’ve got non-combatants too.”.

Fig. The fence surrounding the entire complex.

Commonwealth of Harren – Letter handed to the Big Six of Aurum and through them, intended for delivery to the Empress of the Valarisk Empire.

Dear Anasthasja Sonja Casshandrhia von Ulvfstadt-Sfvarthoff af Valakhia, High Marshal of the Valarisk Krigsmakt's branches of Sjôkrigsmakten, Landskrigsmakten and Luftkrigsmakten, Empress of the Valarisk realms of Valyria, Ôstmark, Vastmark, Sydmark, Jarnhamnen and the Aurummite territories of Kezan, Gadgetzan and Ratchet,

I write to you today not only as the elected leader of the Commonwealth, acknowledged as the one true legitimate government of Harren Island, but also as a concerned Harrenian and a staunch speaker for the dead, for those who are unable to petition you for the justice they deserve.

We do hereby request reparations from the Valarisk Empire for the unsanctioned and gratuitous nuclear annihilation of the city of Mariastadht, formerly known as Elias, and the lives lost there; according to estimates, civilians deaths numbered almost one hundred and ninety four thousand. Whilst we acknowledge the moral and ethical qualms about attaching monetary worth to a thing as precious as sentient life, we feel that compensation to the value of six hundred and twenty million and eight hundred thousand Harrenian ruons, would adequately assuage the grief of those of us who still mourn and grant hope that one day, we may all see our homes again.

We ask this not with ingratitude, for we do acknowledge the sacrifices made by Valarisk forces and appreciate the contributions made towards the war effort during the Troubled Times, rather it is asked as a voice for those who are gone and in the hopes of gaining both closure from the horrors of the war and funding our efforts to reclaim our homeland and stand once again on the shores of Harren Island.

Yours sincerely,

Eryu Ariti
Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of Harren

Commonwealth of Harren – Hetia, Asgareth

Nineteen-year-old Hieron leapt to his feet and stood to attention when he heard the front door slam. His owner was home early which was rare and whilst that didn’t bode well, he only began to quiver and quake when he realized that the man was sober. Sober was bad. Very bad. The sober times began to flash through his memory as his pulse raced and beads of sweat erupted all over his body; first the branding when he’d first been taken by Asgareth fourteen years ago and then been claimed by his owner, followed by a period of many long weeks where he was abused every which way until his will weakened and broke, then the time a few years after that when his owner had come home with a gelding kit and spent a pained hour permanently preventing the onset of puberty.

“Thing, here, now.”. The silky voice commanded as Hieron scrambled to obey, rushing over and taking up position to await further instructions. His owner ripped open a plastic bag and spilled its contents on the floor, a thin t-shirt emblazoned with the title, ‘Downtown Abbey’, in large, garish font above a handsome man wearing an Iryllian officer’s uniform, a baggy pair of tracksuit bottoms and a worn set of wellingtons. “Get dressed.”. Hieron struggled to comply, working out how to balance and pull the trousers up without falling over, then awkwardly clambering into the shirt. The material felt heavy and oppressive against his skin, almost claustrophobic as it stuck to his sweat. “I’ve sold you to a man called Ḫarḫaru Azaraḫim, a Shurayan businessman of the Ur-Durāribrūtamso. This is where we say goodbye…. Thing, say, goodbye.”.

“Goodbye.”.

République Acadienne - Colonie de l'Anse

“Messieurs, we are not sitting at a table and playing chess with a friendly rival, downing a bottle of Côtes du Rhône whilst nibbling on a cube of cheese, non. Now is not the time for caution.”, Jesse stood up from his chair at the head of the cabinet table, pushing it back with the scrape of wood on the old planks underneath their feet, whilst straightening his waistcoat with a sharp downwards tug, “We must inspire the people and attract more duchies to our cause by taking bold action whilst we are in a position of strength, supported by foreign nations and backed by our fellow countrymen from Azawad, Kouadalie, Houraçachetoux and Pointe D’Est.”. As he named each duchy, he pointed to and bowed his head in deference to the representative of each sitting at the table. He paused there, revelling in the silence that had descended in anticipation of his coming words, holding the moment and then extending it by striding over to his drinks cabinet and the row of decanters within. He questioningly gestured to see if anyone else wanted one before he clinked some ice into three tumblers and started pouring, “My fellow révolutionnaires, we must rescue Isabella from the clutches of Rome before their red hordes and Skjoldurian lapdogs land upon our hallowed shores. Until she publicly denounces their presence, at best our military will remain paralyzed… but at worst, the Romans could use them against us.”.

Fig. Jesse's drinks cabinet. The first addition he made when he took office.

“Madness.”. The muffled voice belonged to Mayor Otto Van Tuyl, who had himself travelled from Pointe D’Est to attend the first Republican cabinet meeting, its deep timbre emanating from within his epic handlebar moustache which even covered his lower lip with its vulgar size. “How do you propose we do such a thing? I can barely trust my national guard as it is and as you yourself have said, the military will do nothing!”.

Jesse smiled; the flash of white teeth visible in the grin that somehow perfectly matched the contours of his well-maintained beard. “With your local Groupe d'intervention de la Gendarmerie nationale, hostage rescue is in their remit and your unit is the closest to Gaspe. The Romans are attempting to maintain at least a façade of normality there with regular business and traffic throughout the day. That makes insertion simple enough, a few tactical units will be able to get in but whether or not they can get out, with Isabella in hand, is concernant.”.

A clean-shaven, barrel-chested man who seemed a tad uncomfortable in a suit, loudly cleared his throat before speaking, his french stilted and heavily accented but understandable, nevertheless. “You need distraction. Draw Roman strength away, threaten critical location. They need port and repair port now. Destroy port. I say truck bombs.”.

Jesse mulled over the suggestion and then slowly nodded in agreement; he knew it would result in further destruction in the capital and civilian casualties but he’d always known there would be deaths on the route he chose, forming the Republique against the established system and standing against Roman imperialism. This was just the first time that he would be directly responsible for fatalities and he found the moment rather profound even though he somewhat disturbed himself when he realised that he didn’t feel disgust, distaste or even reluctance. He’d thought that he’d feel worse but this was easy, too easy. His treasurer cleared her throat and broke the fragile silence which had descended as everyone had contemplated the Slavacian’s suggestion, “Certainement, this plan has the element of surprise but this comes with significant danger, the whole affair has been relatively bloodless but Rome could use this as Cassus belli.”.

“Rome has demonstrated time and time again that they have no need for cause.” The woman who had spoken up in response was the Tuareg representative who wore dark brown, almost black lipstick and had three mini spears tattooed on her chin, tips pointed up towards her bottom lip. “Enfer, if this pushes them to open hostility before they are ready, it may even unite the people behind us in time to prevent their takeover and galvanise the military into action. Azawad stands behind Monsier La Montagna, in support of this course.”.

Guise - The Nowell Detail (TV show)

The camera focus zoomed in on the upper body and face of an older black man with grey streaks in his hair, wearing a navy blue suit with a light blue, twisting floral patterned tie, and a brilliant white handkerchief in his top pocket above which was pinned a tiny flag badge. He was backlit by an orange-tinted light and behind him, in the background, there was a floor to ceiling greenscreen which at that moment was displaying the entire Acadien nation, at night, as seen from orbit. The dots of cities and lines of roads crisscrossed like a webbed network of lights.

A tiny microphone clipped to his lapel picked up his speech crisply as he spoke forcefully at the lens, “The witch of the Valenciennes, the bitch of Rome and the first to spread her traitorous legs at Trajan’s … arrival … she, says that they are not here as invaders but as our allies!”. He laughed raucously at that before suddenly wiping the grin from his face, instantly replaced with a stern, hard glare that seemed to pierce the viewers’ very souls before his voice grew in intensity and volume, “I wonder what the people of Autreterre, Soissons and the proud city of Gaspe, would have to say about that. THEY mourn their loved ones, THEY are forced to bow to arrogant occupiers in the streets and THEY toil like slaves to recover the ships lost and repair the damage caused by ROMAN bombs.”.

His hands accentuated each point, backed by visuals which appeared on the green screen behind him including mobile phone photographs from Autreterre showing the DRN Aigle aflame in the harbour and shaky video feed of Roman Paratroopers opening fire on Gendarmes in the capital. “THOSE MEN, the brave few, who stood up and fought for our freedom, against what is quite clearly a Roman invasion.” A picture of Isabella Valenciennes appeared on the screen and he gesticulated angrily at her face as a little spittle escaped during his diatribe, “She betrays their sacrifices and thinks that all of you are stupid by calling the Romans our FRIENDS and thinking we’ll swallow her bullshit.” He stood tall and thumped his fist to his chest as the flag of le Deuxième Royaume de Nouvel Acadie began to billow across the screen behind him, as if slowly rippling in the wind, with the melody of the national anthem faintly playing in the background. “To those brave few, I say, we will not forget you, we will not accept her lies and we will resist her Roman puppet masters until they no longer crawl upon our soil.”. He stood there and let the tune of the anthem finish before he lowered his arm and let out a deep breath, “We have a video clip to play for you all, a heartfelt message from a true patriot, the man of the people and our future King.”. He stepped aside as it began.

Unlike the television presenter, Jacques was simply dressed and unshaven, looking much more seasoned than he had been in front of the cameras at the funeral and this time sitting behind an old desk, “I must admit that these last few days have passed as a blur to me, first the memorial and then the attack… I barely made it out of Gaspe, an escape that was purchased with the lives of fellow Acadiens.” He raised his chin, making eye contact with the camera lens, “To all of you, I must apologise for my own failings for I did not foresee or prepare for the opportunism of Rome and now all of us are paying for that failure. I will not make that mistake again.”. Standing up, he knocked his knuckles on the wood of the table and continued, “I want it known that I hold no hatred for the poor girl, Isabella, for I am sure that she has no true say in the matter and that if she could, she would speak out against the despicable assault and the lives lost at Roman hands. Isabella, if your captors are letting you watch this, I want you to know that it is okay, I understand the situation you’re in and forgive you.”. Moving around to the front of the desk, he leaned against it, “I do not want war but a war has been thrust upon us nevertheless and it is a war for the freedoms we enjoy in a world so mired in oppression and cruelty. To the military I say, this is your hour, perhaps even your finest hour; Nouvel Acadie is facing its most dire threat ever, this is our darkest moment and we call for your aid. Will you stand by and do nothing or will you protect the people and the constitution upon which we were founded, as is your mandate, your sworn duty, your very purpose for being?”.

The video faded out to be replaced by proudly enthusiastic clapping from the presenter as he walked up to centre-stage, “I know that some of you may believe that this kind of thinking is dangerous, that if you sit back and do nothing, nothing bad will happen to you but I tell you now, if you do not stand up and defend your civil liberties, they will be taken from you. I for one, will not bow to these bullying imperialists… Nouvel Acadie is now and always will be, the greatest country on the face of Origin! I am Patrice Nowell, goodnight.”.

Fig. Patrice Nowell after the cameras turned off and lights reset to normal.

by **Haja-Mishu** » Tue May 26, 2020 10:02 am

The City of Colonie de l’Anse had within the space of a fortnight, changed greatly, the sleek economic center was fortified and became the new home of many, burgeoning with soldiers, mercenaries, militiamen, and armaments from all across the Royaume, come to aid in the forging of the new republic. Morale couldn’t be higher, the citizens of the new republic possessed within their hearts a hopeful determination to rid Nouvel Acadie of the imperialist cancer known as Rome and dismantle the archaic and redundant monarchy which had dominated the land for centuries.

The Republican leadership had been in agreement, there’d be no direct confrontation with the Romans until Isabella was captured… Or rescued, it really made no difference to many; However, that didn’t mean the Republic would just sit idly by until Isabella was reclaimed, they would stab the savage foreign interlopers with a hidden dagger. Le Port de La Rochelle, the largest, most important port in the Royaume would be the object of their fury. Bombs would bring about the violent destruction of the great port of their caligulae-licking countrymen, crippling trade and damaging the Roman-Royalist supply-lines.

At an isolated pier on the outskirts of Colonie de l’Anse, a small cargo-ship slipped out of it’s dock and began its journey westward.

SHURAYA
Hieron stood on the bow of a great container ship, he’d been inhabiting the ship for a few days now, it was a strange place, the hold was populated by slaves, like him, in various stages of trauma and injury. Their new owners were an enigmatic lot, tall, bearded and queerly dressed, with a marked disinterest in their cargo, similar to how Hieron’s old master regarded him, minus the tenuous but very real undertone feeling of imminent abuse and despair. The Shurayu were very brief in telling their cargo of their fates.
“You are being taken to freedom in Shuraya, you will be fed regularly in the dining hall, Make daily use of the showering facilities.” That was it. Hieron’s liberators had about as much interest in him as he did in Asgarthi women’s football. He mostly kept to himself through the journey, as did many of the other former slaves, he needed time to himself to think. Over the horizon, he saw myriad glittering towers in the distance stretching across the entire span of the eastern horizon. Shuraya, he figured, bigger than any city he’d been to.

A loud blaring of the ship’s horn heralded it’s stop in a large harbor, countless ships of all sorts moved in and out in a practiced dance as longshoremen dutifully loaded and unloaded cargo with trance-like skill.
“All passengers to the deck.” A passionless voice spoke over the intercom, soon hundreds of ex-slaves slowly shuffled with bowed heads up unto the deck joining Hieron and the few others lounging up top. Once they were all gathered, a well robed man exited the bridge and slowly walked down the steps leading to a small balcony, flanked by two mercenary-looking men. He cleared his throat and spoke in rough Harrenite
“You are now in Shuraya, creatures. Get your war-losing, hut-inhabiting, low-iq, ugly, barbaric asses off my ship. I spent a fortune on the sardine curry I fed you depressing bastards. Shoo!” The captain pointed to a ramp on the side of the ship leading to a small section of shore surrounded by busses. The passengers silently complied, shuffling off of the ship and into the busses on shore. After an hour of driving through the dense megalopolis, the convoy of busses arrived in front of a large facility with a large basalt statue of ATRAHASIS standing watch over the building’s front. The ex-slaves left the busses under the grimaces of their drivers before being met with a woman standing in front of the statue. Her height suggested Shurayu lineage, but she wore a soft smile on her middle-aged face.
“Welcome to Shuraya,” she said in a soft, kind voice, “This building will be your home for some time. We will rehabilitate you, train you, and teach you to be strong so that you can ensure no-one can ever hurt you ever again. All under the wisdom of ATRAHASIS, Honored Be His Name… Come, let us show you how to be great.”

by **Skjoldur** » Tue May 26, 2020 12:51 pm

When preparing for battle it is important to study your enemy, find out his weakness, his strengths learn everything you can and then when you know all there is to know and he his feeling safe and comfortable…...kick him in the balls
Stefnumorkun Skjoldurian god of strategy

]Montcaret Farmhouse, outside the city of Port Saulteaux, Saulteaux region, Island of Iles-de-Feu

Gaspard Allais was not able to sleep that night; he had been toiling away on the fields looking after what little was left of his crops, yet he couldn’t sleep, he was worried. Ever since Queen Marie-Colette had died the military and the police had been uninterested in protecting the people, especially if they lived in rural areas like Gaspard did. They were too busy choosing between Jacques de Guise and Isabella de Valenciennes, to stop the bandits who were praying on the now defenseless farmers who populated rural Îles-de-Feu. Since the turmoil had started and the capital had fallen these bandits had grown bolder, attacking the smaller towns and taking what they wanted.

They had come to Gaspard’s farm the other day and taken what little remained of his livestock, leaving him with barley any income, he had considered leaving Iles-de-Feu and heading somewhere without all the political tensions and threats of invasion, it wasn’t like anyone would miss him anyway, his wife had left him for a merchant in the capital shortly after he left the army and his son had left shortly after, the last time Gaspard had seen him he was joining soldier’s loyal to Jacques de Guise, however all dreams of escape had died when those bandits had taken the last of his livestock, now Gaspard couldn’t afford a plane ticket out of the country, and now he was stuck. He had briefly considered trying to sell his farm to the military airport nearby, but he realised that if they truly wanted his land, they would have taken it by now.

All these thoughts whirled through his head as lay in his bed listing to the sounds of insects and the occasional plane and helicopters flying around the airport. These sounds were drowned out around 3am, when Gaspard was awoken from his sleep by the sound of a car engine. This was strange because Gaspard lived far away from any of the main roads, so the only way, he could hear a car’s engine was because a car was coming to his house. He swore outload, not again, rising from his bed he hastily put on a shirt and a pair of jeans and grabbed his shotgun. If it was bandits Gaspard would not let them take anything else, he opened the door just in time to see a car’s headlights coming into the driveway. Gaspard cocked his shotgun ready for a fight but to his surprise it wasn’t a bandit who got out of the car, instead it was a young man wearing black jeans, stylist trainers and a white t-shirt and a sports cap saying I love Port Saulteaux on it. Indeed, this man looked more like a tourist then a bandit, Gaspard relaxed his weapon slightly but still kept it trained on the young man who was approaching him.

The man smiled as he approached trying to look passive and calm all though it was obvious, he was nervous, not surprising considering he hand a shotgun trained on him
“Hello” said the man in broken French “we are sorry for disturbing you, we were driving from Port Saulteaux to Qismet and it looks like we got a bit lost”

Gaspard sighed “your miles of kid, your nearer to San Alo then you are to Qismet”

The man smiled “yea that seems about right, my friend Galen said that we shouldn’t buy a Sat-Nav because it’s more of an adventure, a look where that got us”

Gaspard smiled and lowered his shotgun “you guys tourists?”

“yes”, replied the man “we are from Harren island, were having a tour together before we go and get real jobs”

Gaspard smiled “I did that with my friends before I joined the army, nearly 25 years ago now, we went on a drinking tour of Skjoldur, lost two friends to bar fights”

The young man smiled and lowered his hands “my names Atlas” he said shaking Gaspard’s hand

Gaspard shook his hand “I’m Gaspard, this is my farm, listen Atlas, I have a Sat-Nav in the car that I never use, you can have that if you want”

Atlas nodded “thank you so much Gaspard, you really are a life saver”

Gaspard shrugged “I never leave the farm anyway” Gaspard glanced at his watch, “my god its 3am you guys shouldn’t be driving at this time, stay the night, I’ll make you breakfast in the morning and you can head off on your adventure”

Atlas laughed “you really are a good man, thank you so much” he turned and gestured for his friends in the car to get out

Gaspard turned back to his house and started to unload his shotgun, Atlas started to light a cigarette and offered one to Gaspard, he took it

“so” Atlas asked as he lit Gaspard cigarette “do you work this farm by yourself or does anyone help you?”

“no” sighed Gaspard as he took a puff of his cigarette “this is a family farm, my farther wanted only family members to work on it, however everyone else is gone so it’s just me”

That’s a shame said Atlas stepping behind Gaspard, “so no one’s coming to see you in the next few weeks?”

“no” replied Gaspard and he turned around just in time to see Atlas’s knife cut his throat

As Gaspard lay on the ground slowly dying, he noticed Atlas’s “friends” bringing in bags into his house, even though he was dying he was still able to notice the assault rifles poking out of the bags. As his vision began to darken, he thought about his son, training with Jacques de Guise men, he realised that it was more than likely that his son would join him soon. In the last few seconds of his life he turned to Atlas and tried to ask him to have mercy, instead all he could do was gargle.

Atlas smiled apologetically “I am sorry, you are a good person, but you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, please forgive me”

He voice was sincere, but it was his eyes that gave away the joy, he was enjoying watch Gaspard die. Gaspard decided to spend the remainder of his energy to raise his middle finger to Atlas’s face. Atlas laughed and the last thing Gaspard ever saw was Atlas’s happy smiling face.
Atlas watched as Gaspard hand fell, he watched as the life left his eyes and then when he was sure he was dead he gestured to one of his men to move the body inside and another one to clean up the blood. He didn’t feel sorry for the man, he was here to do a job.

He was an Oheioarlegur, a group of harrenites who joined Skjoldur when the war ravaged their land and were trying to earn their place for the thousands of harrenites who were in Skjoldur. So, everything he did was for a reason, it was justified.

Atlas turned towards the house, his uncle had taught him to be tough, strong and resilient. Many people his uncle, the Premier Balthazar had been a sick evil man and had wanted Atlas to follow him in leading Harren. But Atlas had wanted to learn the ropes of the spotlight and had opted to join the army, after a series of disastrous circumstances he ended up in New Yanni, he knew he had to escape Harren after his uncle’s murder and had escaped to Skjoldur. Now he had to earn his place for him and the harrenites on Skjoldur.

He finished his cigarette and went inside, he looked at his squad, all harrenites, all eager to prove themselves, this was the first outing of the Oheioarlegur, and all the units were eager to prove themselves.
Galen, the youngest of the squad gestured for Atlas to join him,

“the radios operational sir” Galen said

“ok” said Atlas gesturing for Galen to give him the room, as he left Atlas grabbed the speaker “red falcon is in place, I repeat red falcon is in place”

He waited a few seconds then the reply came “copy red falcon, prepare, movement soon”
Atlas smiled, he wouldn’t have to wait long

City of P’Aubenpine, Saulteaux region, Island of Iles-de-Feu

It was a sunny day in the city of P’Aubenpine, all the residents were out enjoying the sun and the beaches, all the cafés were full, and everyone was enjoying the last day of the weekend. In the Cafe Laurent the young newly promoted Captain René Daucourt was entertaining his date. Éliane Rousseau was an attractive young secretary who had joined the office about two weeks ago, although it hadn’t been very long Rene had fallen hard for her, he had already taken her of four dates, he had pulled rank on several occasions, taking her on romantic walks along the military port, a date along P’Aubenpine’s trenches and he had even manged to book a private meal on the governments office private balcony, he was going all out for this girl.

As the date wore on, he began to believe that maybe tonight was the night, she was been extra flirtatious, and was even pretending to be interested in his boring stories about the training drills he was doing that day. As they finished the meal Rene decided to impress his date even more, he told her about his new job, supervising the soldiers building the defences on the eastern side of P’Aubenpine. He boasted about how important he was in the defence of P’Aubenpine, and how he was a rising star in the military. Eliane smiled seductively the whole time and listed to his boasting. When the meal had ended Rene paid the bill and then called a taxi, he opened the door for her and was about to join her in the cab when she stopped him

“I’m sorry darling” she said softly “not tonight”

And with that she was gone, Rene started the long walk back to the barracks, feeling dejected, he would just have to try harder next time, perhaps he could take her on a romantic boat ride of Saulteaux’s coastline, that would be romantic, wouldn’t it?
As he walked home, he would have been heart broken to know that Eliane had no intention of sleeping with him, instead she was talking to her cab driver relaying everything Rene had told her that day. And in return the cab driver was relaying everything into the radio hidden in the back of his cab. And about 150 miles away a young Skjoldurian military officer was typing up everything he said, ready to pass it up to high command.

100 Miles of the Coast of Iles-de-Feu, Command deck of the Valkohai

“I just don’t understand it, it makes no sense” Fleet Admiral Veschmick getting angry, his fleet along with his invasion force were slowly heading towards the island of Iles-de-Feu. For the past few weeks he had been dropping Oheioarlegur squads and spies throughout the island Iles-de-Feu. They had been setting up shop and reporting information for the past few weeks. The report on ground defences were unsurprising, they had little to no defences on the ground and they reckoned they could smash through the entire region of Saulteaux in one swoop. What worried Veschmick was the navy …. there was none. For the past few weeks he had been sending out ships looking for the fleets, and they had found nothing. It was frustrating Veschmick because it made no sense, there had to be a fleet hiding somewhere in Iles-de-Feu.

“send out more scout ships” said Veschmick turning to one of his officers “tell them comb the entire island, we have to find this fleet”

The officer began to turn towards the door, but a more senior officer stopped him. The senior officer turned towards Veschmick “sir” he said saluting “we have been combing the entire island for weeks, we have spy’s everywhere, ships who have covered every inch of the ocean” he then turned to the floating hologram of the island that was floating in the centre of the room “we know we can crush the entire island within a month, are initial task force alone could take the island” he turned back to the Admiral “the fleets not here sir, with respect we should commence with the invasion”.

Veschmick turned away from Junior Admiral Gunnarsson and the rest of the admirals who were watching him intently. Annoyingly Gunnarsson had a point, that little upstart had been a problem since he had joined a month ago. The son of the newly appointed Jarl of Jään Maa, Gunnarsson had taken to his newly appointed position like a fish to water and was already making a name for himself. The problem Veschmick had was that Gunnarsson had a point, there was no evidence that a fleet was ever there, the problem was he didn’t want to give Gunnarsson’s argument any legitimacy. He pondered for a second trying to work out a way out of the situation he was in.

He decided that there was no way out of the situation and his best cause of action was to try and take the credit. He turned around slowly scanned the room, looking at each officer in turn. He eventually turned to Gunnarsson and looked him directly in the eye. “Junior Admiral Gunnarsson” he said with a touch of scorn in his voice “you are right, we cannot wait forever, however charging in without any idea if the fleets anywhere near is a bit dangerous don’t you think”

Gunnarsson opened his mouth to speak but Veschmick interrupted him “here’s what we are going to do, we are going to send these scout ships out one more time, and move towards the island at half speed” he turned towards the door without waiting for a response “were done here”.

50 Miles of the Gulf of Preobrazhensky, International Waters
The icy winds chilled Uday to his very bone, he long for the warmth of his cabin but they were coming up on the target and he needed to concentrate. He examined the screen again, it showed an aerial view of two ships heading straight towards them, underneath them were two red dots keeping speed. Uday picked up his radio, “hunter 1, hunter 2 are you ready” a slight pause and two green lights appeared on his screen, they were ready.

As they approached the small group alarms started blaring, Uday glanced at the screen and noticed that the two red dots were still red, he nodded, these subs really were inexperienced. He got on the radio again, all frigates fire, there was several seconds of silence and all four frigates began firing only one or two of the shells hit doing minor damage, but it had the desired effect, the inexperienced crew panicked and the opposing ships set tail and ran, Uday nodded approvingly, their intelligence had been accurate, these guys were not prepared for a battle.
Uday looked at the screen, the red dots were starting to fade, he shook his head, they didn’t stand a chance. He picked up the radio again, “hunter 1, hunter 2 go”.

It took under 30 seconds for the two hunter submarines ships to be in action, after another 30 seconds Uday could here explosions and vibrations shuddered the deck of the ship, Uday waited patiently, he knew that his team would get the job done, five minutes later a submarine emerged from the water, Uday grinned, prisoners.

He checked the screen one more time, the second red do was slowly disappearing. He got on the radio “hunter 2, the second sub has it escaped”?”

“negative sir” came the reply, it was hit several times, its sinking to the bottom of the ocean”

“any chance the crew survived?” ask Uday

“possibly” was the response “but there dropping around 8000 feet 50 miles from the shore, there’s no way they can survive”

Uday sighed with relief “good, set a course for Endelave we will pick up the prisoners and meet you there”

Uday was about to leave when he remembered, he grabbed the radio “don’t forget to blindfold the prisoners, remember were pirates”

Skjoldurian Military Base Endelave, several hours later

https://imgur.com/a/w3sPXnQ
Location of Endelave base

Uday was in a good mood, his mission had been a success, not only that but they had captured four survivors from one of the submarines, three rebels and a poor slavacian engineer. The three rebels were in the torture room at this moment, they weren’t going to be allowed to live so there was no need for pretence, as soon as they had realised they were in a Skjoldurian military base they had really began to panic, now they were been slowly tortured. The engineer on the other had was a problem, in theory he could just be thrown in with the rebels tortured until he gave away every single piece of information he knew then dumped in the sea just like the others, however he was a member of an allied nation although he was aiding rebels. Right now the engineer was under the impression that he was been held hostage by pirates whilst the higher ups worked out what to do with him. He shrugged not his problem, mostly likely the Skjoldurian military would probably take a while to decide, so he was going to get comfortable.

3 Days later:
Uday couldn’t believe it, here he was standing in the ice waiting for a roman helicopter to land. He turned around, four men stood behind him flanked by several prison guards, three of them were naked and blindfolded, there were cuts and bruises all over there body and they were all missing fingernails and fingers. The other man was wearing a thick jacket and jeans, he looked relatively unscathed although it was hard to tell with a bag over his head. Uday swore, if these romans didn’t arrive soon the rebels would die of hypothermia. After what seemed an age a helicopter appeared in the distance. Uday sighed finally, as the helicopter landed Uday gestured for his guards to grab the prisoners, he wanted this to be quick.
The helicopter landed but didn’t turn its engine off, a young officer stepped out flanked by 4 guards, without a word these guards stepped forward grabbing the prisoners and started to drag them towards the helicopter.

The young man walked up to Uday and saluted “my name is Captain Augustus Marrillias, I am here to take these prisoners off your hands”

Uday saluted back “its lucky you called when you did” he said jovially “we were halfway through torturing them when we got the call” he pointed towards the Slav “this one hasn’t been touched, he’s dehydrated and starved but we haven’t hurt him, also he thinks that he’s been captured by pirates so do with that what you will”

Augustus turned to the naked men; a wrinkle of disgust appeared on his face “what about them” he asked

Uday smiled “oh they are under no illusions about where they are and what’s going on, but again we haven’t fed them of given them water, and we’ve been torturing them for the past three days so don’t expect any sought of fuss”

Augustus nodded and was about to turn away when Uday grabbed him “I almost forgot” he said grinning “here is the information we dragged out of them” he handed Augustus and file “it’s not much but we were getting there, when you guys arrive at wherever your going you might want to finish what we started”

Augustus nodded and stepped into the helicopter, Uday waved goodbye and gave a sigh of relief, finally he could get back to the griftball game.

by **Heartfilia** » Wed Jun 03, 2020 5:46 pm

Heartfilian Imperial Navy - coastal waters of Soissons

white flashes blanketed the sky, overpowering the sun itself, each burst sent ripples through the air, and metallic birds crashed to the ocean surface. Arcadian forces met with Heartfilian and Roman Ships, they gave it all they had, but with the might of Heartfilia, Rome, and the Kingdom of Harren, Soisson fell.

"How many ships did we lose?" Geoffery said in a stern tone.

"We lost three ships, sir, this is a good outcome." The android smiled at Geoffrey, "To alleviate your stress, I have ordered the arrest of civilians of category 1-2 for you."

"Anything new?"

“Yes! The Areas are currently under defense protocols, and Rome has ordered for the occupation of the Arcadian colony in Epilo."

Gaspé - Day after capture

Gaspe was once again blessed by beautiful weather, the sun glowed with such warmth, and the sky resembled that of an aquamarine. There was a pleasant breeze, and in the mind of Eleanor and her friends, yesterday was a forgotten memory.

On the gardens of the palace, Eleanor and her friends enjoy a late morning brunch.

"Eleanor!" Adelaide Jumped, "have you seen what gossip weekly posted!"

"What did she say?" Eleanor smiled

"Well, supposedly your Brother Henry, burned down the Trinity Cathedral!" Adelaide giggled

In shock, Eleanor responded, "what?"

"Reminds me of the time he mowed down the gardens in Aries palace!" Wesly Added

Eleanor took in a deep breath and smiled "Who cares what that savage does!"

"ooh, Gossip Weekly just posted something" Eleanor opens the new article, reading the summary. "hmm Something about new travel restrictions to the Areas and military movement."

Oh, who cares about the silly and trivial matters that the military is doing, have you seen these trendy cute hairstyles?!"

As time passed, the day turned to dusk, and the moon was full, Eleanor readied herself for an important meeting. Eleanor wore a custom dress that sparkled heat to toe, the dress a full bodice cut-out, an open back, and a halter necktie. She accessorized with an elaborate headpiece that featured feathered wings, a diamond headband, and strands of zircon that draped from one ear to the other.

"where are you off to look so gorgeous?" questioned Wesly.
Eleanor looked at him, " I'm going out to make a new friend."

Once again, Eleanor Walked down the halls of this ancient palace, its dulled paint, and aging wood reminded Eleanor of the historical Castles of Heartfilia. Eleanor had all the prying eyes focused on her, but she didn't care for the attention. Eleanor came up to Isabella's door, which had Guards protecting it.

"I wish to have a meeting with Her Majesty."

The guard to the left nods, opening the door for Eleanor.

Isabella was reviewing documents, with her back to Eleanor.

"What is it?" She turned, making eye contact with her guest.

Your majesty." Eleanor bowed

Isabella looked up and snickered. "Weren't you the woman who laughed at me in front of all those people?"

Eleanor lowered her voice, and in a sweet tone, responded. "Your Majesty, may you forgive me."

"It's just so amusing for someone to be so bold and stand up to my Half brother like that." Eleanor tittered

"Your apology is accepted," Isabella returned in a stern tone.

Eleanor's smile widened, "Great! Now the true reason as to why I'm here" Eleanor focused on Isabella's face "I want to be friends!''

by **Greater Slavacia** » Tue Jun 09, 2020 7:04 am

Submarine Facilty 204, Mito Island, T: -5D; 0230 Hours

The black stealth submarine sat quietly on the dark waters of the underground shelter. Back when Slavacia realised that the base on the island would stay for quite some time, a number of secret underground rearming stations were built. Of course, they couldn’t be used for servicing the large SSBNs, or even the smaller SSGNs. They were instead designed for housing interceptors, which would be able to deal catastrophic damage to enemy fleets, even if the Slavacian port was wiped out. However, they also housed a small contingent of the newest Slavacian electric submarines, which were planned to be used in a number of questionable acts.
A dozen or so men, in black uniforms filed onto the submarine in total silence, each carrying a heavy load of equipment on their backs. Just as the last one boarded, the submarine submerged and began it’s journey.

Cheremushevskoye Airbase; Mito Island, T: -5D; 1130 Hours
“405th You are clear to taxi to runway 04; hold short of runway for departing traffic.”
“Ground, 405th, clear to taxi, hold short off runway 04”
Alexander toggled the radio and gently steered the aircraft onto the taxiway, his copilot was still busy performing pre-flight check lists, veryfing the myriad of gauges and switches.
“Navigation, enginering, report readiness.” He asked through the intercom.
“Navigation is ready, course charted.”
“All flight systems are check, fuel is full”
“Weapons and sensors, check” the captain asked again
“Defensive turrets standing by, power is stable.”
“Hydroacoustics standing by, MAD standing by, SigInt is operational”
He turned to his copilot once again, who gave him a big thumbs up – all systems nominal, flight was ready.
Alexander gently rounded the final turned and brought the collosal aircraft to a stop, just short of the runway. The previous aircraft, another MPA much like his own was starting it’s take off run. The gigantic aircraft took nearly the entire length of the runway to accelerate up to speed, triumphantly pulling into the air at the last moment.
“Ground this is 405th holding short off runway, request takeoff.”
“405th you are cleared for takeoff, runway 02, wind speed at ground 5m/s bearing 067, have a nice flight.”

…

5 Hours. 5 Grueling hours. It took them that long to even arrive at the recconaissanse zone, let alone perform the patrol and return to base. The first and even second inflight meals was gone and the gruelling work of careful data collection had long began.
“Captain, can we detour left 50?” his reconaissance officer asked hoepfully?
“Out of the question comrade captain, that’d put us right in the firing line of those friendly jets over there.” His defense systems officer piped up
“But sir, just 50 more kilometers and I’ll be able to count every ship in port via optics!” the first man pleaded
“In just 50 more kilometers, the only thing you’ll be counting is pieces of the plane as you paracute down!” Alexander’s copilot exclaimed angrily.
“Enough comrades. We got what we came for. Now, let’s get out of here. Those Harrenites are making me nervous. Instead, you better tell me how the data rellay is going.”
“All data synced to the satelites, shouldn’t be any issues, I'll just double check the feed to be sur...”
Then, out of nowhere, a piercing tone rang out.

“Captain, we are being tracked by an udentified surface target. Where the hell did he come from?!?!” his defensive systems officer swore “Shit, they have a lock, they have a lock!!”
“Crew, prepare for emergency manouevers, discharge chaffe, activate the ECM jammers!”
The silver plane banked hard to one wing, but the slow, lumbering bomber was no match for the latest in Acadien missile technology. The pair of missiles launched from the DRN Richelieu easily found their mark. Some half an hour later, the captain and the wounded weapons officer stood in front of the silent Acadian captain. They were the only survivors

OPERATIONAL REPORT №1054 – REAR ADMIRAL PIROGOV, LEONTIY VASILYEVICH

Date: 14/04/2031
Operation Mercury
Report №1054

The first phase of the operation was an overwhelming success. The noise of the 5th capital ship flotilla was sufficient to allow a fast exit from port and also allowed submarines to navigate without issue. All vessels held appropriate depths to preserve the box formation and prevent lagging behind. We held this formation for 3 days until the capital ships signalled the passage through the Harrenite sonar network with the aforementioned sonar pulse. My submarine, the RS-200 continued on present heading and speed, while the interceptor submarines accelerated to arrive ahead of the main strike force to lay a trap as ordered. However, one of the interceptor submarine was clearly heard to be lagging behind, due to a potential problem. As per the orders, no communication attempts were made. At the time, nothing suggested that the SP-86 was lost.
No further issues were observed by hydro acoustic operators aboard the command submarine. After two more days of largely uneventful silent running, our submarines arrived at the mustering point. No communication was possible, so I was unaware of the 3 missing submarines. (Not counting the SP-86). As was later relayed to me, the older submarine had issues with their navigational computer arising from targeting computer failures. As such I recommend not using Project 899 submarines for frontline service unless absolutely necessary.
Hence, after a day of waiting, we began the operation, first, 5 of the 6 torpedo attack submarines made their sortie undetected, successfully destroying the enemy escorts. Reports indicate that the escorts were partially damaged by unknown explosion and were unable to use sonar, most likely due to the mines laid by the special operations forces the day prior. However, the missile attack that had planned to destroy the rest of the transport ships and cripple the enemy was a colossal failure. After receiving acoustic confirmation of the destruction of the escorts, only 3 out of the 6 submarines were able to fire. However, the misfire of the 2nd cruise missile aboard the last remaining Project 899 submarine rendered the rest of it’s armament unusable, and the submarine had to emergency dive and retreat at full speed.
The retreating attack by the four Project 899-1 boats at the port infrastructure went relatively unhindered. Preliminary estimates say that approximately 60% of the missiles hit a target. As such, the submarine force was in no state to remain and fight, and I gave a brief radio transmission to open Order Packet 7B, which ordered a full scale retreat of all submarines, barring the interceptor and the 899-1s back to the Slavacian mainland. Thus, I accept responsibility for the reduction of the fighting efficiency of the Slavacian Navy and understand that I will be held accountable for the consequences of my actions.
Signed,
PIROGOV, LEONTIY VASILYEVICH,
Rear Admiral

Gaspe, Near to the, Temporary Roman Administrative Center
Agent Sica was going over the meeting with the feeble old man again and again in his head. How could that! That frail shell of a man, critize him, an officer of Hiss!! He was deep in thought, but his special training kept a watch for him. That’s when it hit him. A strange man was following him. The man was odd in his plainness, absolutely featureless face, light blonde hair, and some sort of plain clothes.
Sica instinctively reached for the pistol holster and turned around to face the strange man. But before he could open his mouth, he felt something sharp press into his back, a gruff breath echo in his ears. And then Sica’s world went dark.

by **Oceanion** » Sun Jun 14, 2020 2:00 pm

Two days ago

Crew Dorm, OSS Fighter, Eastern Home Fleet, Meridian Passage

The metal door thudded open and shocked June Oao awake. She recognised the black and purple uniforms of the two figures standing in the doorway instantly. Oceani Military Police. The people who, a few days ago, had taken away the ship's captain. What the hell did they want now?

"First Officer Oao." Shit. One of them shone a torch beam at her. "You're to come with us."

There was no way that she was going to go with them unarmed. God knows what they'd done to the captain. Luckily she'd kept her gun by her for the whole voyage and it was currently in her shorts, balled up at the end of the bed. The Military Police afforded her no privacy, keeping the torch on her at all times, but she managed to pull the shorts on with her gun still inside, tucking it into the waistline without them seeing. She was hardly dressed for combat, in a pyjama t-shirt and shorts, but at least she'd be able to go out with the semblance of a fight.

She clambered down from the bunk. And they swiftly marched her out of the dorm, down the corridor and out onto the freezing cold of the deck. She'd expected to be led to the brig, but they instead too her up to the captain's quarters, Joe's old quarters. Seeing a figure sat at his desk as they marched her in, she half-hoped that it was him, but realised instantly that it couldn't be. This man was far too old.

"Have a seat officer," said the old man as he turned around. And then she recognised him instantly. It was the Admiral. Athé Barracudas. He looked at the Military Police. "You can go now gentlemen, thank you," he said, before turning to June. Before he could open his mouth to greet her, however, she cut him off.

"What the hell have you done with the captain?" she spat, not caring that this was the Admiral.

Barracudas didn't flinch. "I am afraid," he said calmly, "that Captain Joseph van Riversmeet has been executed. This was not the unanimous decision of the Admirals on this expedition, however, the Emperor felt that Imperial authority had to be..." He broke off as he looked at her. "I understand that this is not what you wanted to hear."

June said nothing. She'd known he must be dead. That didn't change anything about how she felt now. When orders had arrived that the Icarion naval garrison would form part of a fleet that would fight a war on the other side of the world to aid the Romans, the great Empire next to their tiny province which many in Icarion felt threatened by, Joe had refused to let the Icariite ships take part. After all, wasn't the purpose of the Eastern Home Fleet to defend the Eastern territories? Eventually, Imperial ships had arrived from the naval base Sharkpoint to force them to join the fleet. Joe had been told they would face no negative repercussions for their rebellion if he joined the fleet but, when their fleet rendezvoused with the rest of the mission at Makad, he was arrested by Military Police and the crews of all 23 of the Icariite ships had been fearing for him ever since.

"June, I would like you to assume command of this vessel and of the Icariite legion of the fleet." She had almost forgotten the Admiral was still there, let alone what he was saying to her. It took her a moment to process.

"Will you kill me too if I step out of line?" she finally manged to say.

Barracudas was silent for a moment. "It was not my decision to kill your predecessor," he said at last, "but I expect that the Empire would not tolerate such rebellion again. Your entire crew, and that of the other Icariite ships may be in danger if there is another rebellion, Captain." With that, he turned and left the captain's officer. Her office.

June looked around. She'd a great wooden desk, an electronic map on the wall showing the fleet's location in real time, her own private sleeping quarters... She stood up and felt something dig into her hip. She pulled it out of her waistband: her gun. She said it on her desk. This is not how she had expected her night to go.

***

Now

Orleans Suite, Royal Palace, Gaspé, Nouvel Acadie

Duchess Isabelle d'Orleans had a lot on her mind as she entered her suite in the Royal Palace. War was breaking out across the Royaume and, while Orleans lay enough from the Guise-supporting Duchies, if war did reach Orleans it would be a difficult Duchy to defend. Much of the population live in villages and towns, there were few natural defences, and its good rail network could be an asset to invaders. She had been discussing her options with Lax Iberra, her chief of security, and the evacuation of the population to the defendable island of Tol Brandir could be the only possible course-of-action if the fighting turned dirty.

Entering the bedchamber, Isabelle saw her husband, the exiled former-Prime Minister of Oceanion, Harris Vmon, stood at the window. She recognised the severity of his manner right away. Stepping up behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and placed her head on his shoulder. She followed his line of sight and there they were: four grey warships a few short kilometres offshore.

"Is that them?" she asked, though she didn't need to. She knew those ships. She'd know them anywhere.

"It's them."

The Federated Republic of Oceanion had once been a prominent democratic ally of Nouvel Acadie, and the two nations had supported each other on many occasions. Their relationship had not been uncomplicated, however. When the first Royaume of Nouvel Acadie collapsed, the Oceani politician in charge of giving aid - the infamous Guy Dufort - went rouge and took over the Duchy of Orleans as his own private dictatorship. Though he had been overthrown and the Duchy restored, democracy in Oceanion had also been overthrown and Dufort was now among the key figures in the new Oceani Empire.

Isabelle looked out on the four ships in the bay: an ambassadorial party of a few ships sent ahead of the main fleet. She recognised the flagship, a hulking aircraft carrier: the OSS Order. It had been among the ships which had betrayed Orleans all those years ago. It was flanked, as expected, by two battlecruisers but it was the smaller ship which accompanied them that caught her eye. "Do you recognise that destroyer?" she asked Harris.

"I was confused by that," he responded. "It's Author-class which is hardly what you want to bring along to impress people, but note the flag." Underneath the large Imperial flag, a smaller flag fluttered. it was black, emblazoned with a crimson saltire. "That's the flag of Icarion. You saw the news that the Roman Empire has now reached the shores of Auldhafen bay, didn't you? Right where the Icariites were planning their railroad railroad to connect them to Proctor. I'd imagine they wanted to bring the Icariites along to show the Romans that there's no bad blood between them over their expansion there. Still," he continued, "they are not necessarily going to be the most reliable of troops for largely that reason..."

Isabelle could tell by how he went on about the details that Harris had worries elsewhere. Since his exile, he'd had little contact with his homeland. If the Oceani were coming to fight on their side, it would be strange for all of them.

She watched as a helicopter took off from the Order and began to fly in their direction.

***

Throne Room, Royal Palace, Gaspé, Nouvel Acadie

Admiral-Director Constantine Marconi felt somewhat uneasy about the situation. He had arrived in the Royal Palace in the capital city of Nouvel Acadie and the first Acadian he had seen was the Queen. Roman officials had met him from the helipad and Roman guards had escorted him to the Throne Room. It may have been Queen Isabella sat on the thone, but Athé had no doubt as to who was really in charge here and who Sieger really wanted to help. Though stood a little to the side, Trajan somehow managed to be the most imposing presence in the room.

"Your Majesty and your Imperial Highness," he began, "salutations from the Oceani Empire. I am Admiral-Director Constantine Marconi of the Oceani mission to aid the legitimate government of Nouvel Acadie and their allies in keeping control of the Royaume. What you see offshore is but an advance party. We bring another 357 ships under the command of three of the Empire's finest generals to support you. Admiral Freya Luft commands the 134 ships of the Eastern Expeditionary Fleet, Admiral Athé Barracudas commands the Eastern Home Fleet, 124 ships from our provinces on Strei-Ar; and Admiral Guy Dufort commands Imperial Fleet IV, 99 fine ships which have come directly from Imperial Command. Where can we best garrison to ensure the security of your rule?"

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sat Jun 27, 2020 4:16 pm

New Jericho, Uki Square, Government Building, Office of the High Chief

Private meeting, attendees as follows:

High Chief of the Natufian Nation - Nathaniel al-Shuqba
Roman Proconsul for the Natufian Nation - Cincius Titianus
Councilor of State and Diplomacy - Reginald (Reg) Takalwan
Councilor of Finance and Treasury - Dagan Maizondi
Under Councilor of Agriculture - Dalia an-Gathwa

The High Chief looked out his office window on the fifth story of the drab concrete government building overlooking Uki Square in the capital city of New Jericho. Nathaniel al-Shuqba had been High Chief for almost 17 years now and his eyes showed the wisdom, maturity and patience of a man who no longer had anything to prove in life. He aged gracefully over that time and looking at him it would be hard to believe he was turning 73 in a couple months. He had a tall, lean frame, darkish olive-toned skin, was clean-shaven with a thick head of white hair neatly combed back over his scalp. His manicured nails and sleek, dark blue pin-striped suit accented with a colorful tie of overlapping geometric shapes, stood as a symbol of modernity in stark contrast to the ceremonial robe and headdress resting on a wooden rack near his office door made from Aurochs hide and adorned with beads in the shape of the ancient tribal symbols of the Natufian people.

The High Chief was very aware of his suit at the moment. Although the younger generation of Natufians imported the ever-changing styles of Heartfilia, he and his generation preferred the timeless style and elegance brought in from Nouvel Acadie. As he looked down at the young children scrambling around the playground in the park below or begging their parents for an ice cream, the High Chief's thoughts were far more distant, concerned about the recent events in Acadie, the shifting balance of power, and how the Commonwealth may be affected. Sadness for the departed Queen, may her ancestors welcome her to the spirit world, quickly turned to alarm at the news of Prince Trajan's violent arrival in Gaspé.

His secretary knocked slightly on the mahogany door, opened it ajar and announced the arrival of the key Councilors he had summoned. The Roman proconsul, Councilor of State and Councilor of Finance made sense, but he wasn't sure why his Councilor of Economy had requested to send the Under Councilor of Agriculture. Quite unusual but the High Chief decided to honor the request. He deftly moved from the window to join them at the circular meeting table positioned between his desk and the main door, set off to the side near a wall adorned with a whiteboard, monitor and various maps. He greeted each in turn, sat down and the rest followed suit.

"Well," the High Chief began after a heavy sigh, looking at the Councilors in the eye one by one, "we know why we're here. Nouvel Acadie, once a bastion of civility and stability in Archon is now in a state of chaos. She lost her Queen and now Prince Trajan is in Gaspé to achieve, we know not what." After a brief pause the High Chief spread his hands and said, "Nothing in Nature is static, is it not? So the questions I ask is, what do we know and what do we do?" and his gaze darted directly to Titianus. "Proconsul, is there anything more you can tell us about Rome's intent here? Prince Trajan went with only his own units, and not all of them at that. Is he acting on his own or at Caesar's bidding?"

Proconsul Cincius Titianus, sticking out in his official toga, leaned slightly forward in a slightly tense demeanor, "Well, as I stated to the Council of Elders earlier, his Imperial Highness Prince Trajan always acts in complete concord with his brother and august father in all things. Where one acts, Rome acts." Titianus started to say more but his lips aborted their movements as his eyes rounded on the assembled Councilors. The High Chief noticed this and considered that the proconsul may not feel at ease to say more; he never was quite comfortable around high-ranking female Councilors and officials in the Natufian government. He would have to get Titianus in a more friendly setting to discuss this more informally.

The High Chief then turned to the Councilor of State, "Reg, how do you see the situation? What's our interest in Acadie?"

Reginald (Reg) Takalwan wobbled his head while collecting his thoughts, eyes looking at the ceiling, then promptly addressed the group at large, "Well, we never really had good relations with Nouvel Acadie. They always denied our attempts to establish formal diplomatic relations."

"Pompous, stuck-up truffle munchers" Dagan muttered. The Councilor of Finance was a bit of a firebrand and always ready to share his opinion. But the High Chief valued his honesty as much as his ambition. The Finance Councilor was nothing less than instrumental in navigating the Natufian economy to the robust state it was in now. He was also one of the strongest supporters of the treaty with Rome and had become a personal friend of Prince Nero. That made him the only member of the Executive Council that Proconsul Titianus considered almost a peer. Almost.

"As I was saying," Reg exclaimed with a slightly raised voice, eyes on Dagan, "Diplomatically, we only have an informal presence, a seven-man team in a cramped apartment in Gaspé. We can't even call it Natufia House; it's called “Natufia Condo” by my team. The only semi-formal talks we ever had was with low-level bureaucrats in Iron Harbour. Not even the bean-counters would have anything to do with us on Acadien soil. As far as State is concerned, we have no interest. Let Guise, Valenicennes, Orléans and Pontchateau fight it out, let Trajan..."

"That's Prince Trajan, let me kindly remind you," interrupted Titianus in a formal but friendly voice.

"yes, let Prince Trajan do as he will, we simply have nothing to gain or lose from my perspective".

"Not necessarily" began Dagan smugly. "High Chief, this is a golden opportunity for us. Nouvel Acadie is in disarray. It's not only Prince Trajan" and he looked sideways at Titianus to make sure he caught his use of the title, "but a number of nations of the Charter have descended to stake claims".

The High Chief raised his hand dismissively, "We are not a nation of vultures, Dagan. I have no interest in leading the Commonwealth into untenable colonization or land grabs. We have enough to focus on internally. Besides, I can't raise the militia for an offensive campaign, you know that; even I have to observe the statute that the militia is for defense of the Commonwealth only."

"No, no, with respect, High Chief, that's not at all what I mean"

"Ok, so what do you mean?"

"Dalia and I have been going over some figures, that's why I wanted to invite her to this meeting. It's best if she explains it. Dalia?"

The young, professional Natufian lady, dressed in a white blouse adorned with her tribal lapel pin and dress skirt no less formal that the suits the Councilors wore, looked around nervously at the senior figures gathered around the table. She had never had to speak directly with the High Chief, Proconsul or any other Councilor aside from Dagan before. As Under Councilor of Agriculture, her work was usually funneled up through the Councilor of Economy who she reported to. It was a bit of a coup that Dagan invited her to speak instead of the Economy Councilor. But then again, nobody knew Natufian agriculture better than her.

"I, um, yes, let me see..." she stumbled

"Relax, Under Councilor" soothed the High Chief, "you're among friends here. Well, except maybe Titianus" he chided and everyone gave a chuckle. Even the proconsul raised his arms in mock outrage.

"Oh, for Jupiter's sake, please. I've lived here for over three years now. I have become accustomed to your silly notions of female leadership." he said with a wry smile. "Yes, Ms. an-Gathwa, please, as the High Chief says, we are all friends here. Please continue".

Feeling more relaxed, Dalia began again, "The Natufian Nation is one of the biggest agricultural producers in the Charter and the biggest exporter if you count the provisions for the Roman army we make under treaty. It’s our chief industry and we have significant market share in the Charter in all areas of production." she stopped and looked around the table for any questions.

"Yes, of course," responded Reg dryly. "But what has this to do with Nouvel Acadie?" At this, Dagan gave Dalia an energetic nod to continue.

"Well, there is one market we have simply hit a wall in. Dairy. Specifically, high-end gourmet dairy products. Our Aurochs milk products dominate the mid-tier product range, but we have really struggled with the top-tier dairy market. Nouvel Acadie leads there and has for years. Our Aurochs just don't give the light, subtle milk needed to compete with Acadien heifers. Their cows and processing technology yield better creams, butters, ghee, yogurts and cheese. Especially cheese."

There was a pause and the High Chief sat still looking at her intently, Dagan looked at her pleased, Titianus looked at her quizzingly and Reg looked at her with some annoyance. He was the one to break the silence.

"So? What, by the ancestors, does that have to do with the near civil war breaking out in Acadie or Trajan's..."

"Prince Trajan!" Titianus interjected less politely and more formally.

"...Prince Trajan's invasion?"

Titianus leaned forward again, "It's not an invasion if the noble Prince is welcomed as someone to maintain order."

"Right!,", exclaimed Dagan, "Worthless country of backbiters. They would sooner eat their own children than see a rival house on the throne. Bring on the Pax Romana, I say!"

The High Chief raised his hand for silence, "Please continue, Dalia. How is this relevant?"

"Well, High Chief," Dalia began again, "As I was saying, our Aurochs just don't produce the quality of milk needed for the high-end dairy market like Acadien cows. Even if we did, we lack the processing knowledge to get the Acadian level of refinement. For years we have tried to get Nouvel Acadie to work with us on a hybrid between their milking cows and our Aurochs as well as to collaborate on dairy processing technology. But they have always flat-out refused. But now we have a chance to change that!"

"How could we do that?" asked the High Chief.

Here Dagan spoke up, looking around the table with a conspiratorial look on his face. "The largest dairy company in Acadia is Fermes des Groupe Alendyre. It essentially owns the high-end dairy market we are after. Those buggers have been blocking us right and left and have the best breed stock in the Charter. If we get control of that company, we can have access to their bank of genetic stock reserves. We’re talking samples from some of the best producing Acadien heifers in the past decade kept on ice."

"Wait, what?!" exclaimed Reg. "You mean to tell me with the most powerful nation in Archon is failing and other nations are swooping in like kids who just broke a piñata to grab anything they can, and what you want to get out of it is.....frozen cow sperm?!"

"Hey, that stuff is white gold to Agriculture," Dalia responded excitedly, "I'd do anything to get my hands around a tube of top-notch Acadien bovine semen!"

With that remark, an uncomfortable silence descended, Dalia's cheeks blushing in embarrassment as she lowered her head and muttered, "You know what I mean"

"It’s more than just that" Dagan said seriously. "I'm talking about control of the post-conflict Nouvel Acadie economy. You see, when Dalia approached me about taking over Groupe Alendyre, I began thinking about how that could be accomplished. The Natufian Central Bank and private investors have been buying up shares of Acadien companies trading on the overseas markets since Prince Trajan's "arrival" in Gaspé caused prices to collapse. The Acadian market remains closed so we've been buying what we can on the foreign markets; mainly in Valyrien, Kyrene and Aurum."

Titianus visibly winced at the casual mention of these sworn enemies of the Imperium but didn't say anything.

"But the float is really small on these markets and we can't acquire a controlling share. BUT," and Dagan paused for emphasis, "it turns out Groupe Alendyre is highly leveraged, and the majority of their debt is held by Banque d'Etat de Nouveau Acadie, the state bank. It's not only the Acadien prime lender, but is also the central bank, setting monetary policy and bank regulations. The Banque d'Etat owns 65% of Alendyre's bond issues and 90% of their lines-of-credit." The Councilor of Finance was now openly salivating and paused to take a drink of water from the glass in front of him.

"OK," the High Chief cautiously responded, "I'm with you so far, but I don't see how we can take advantage of this"

"You see, the Banque d'Etat is a state-owned institution and led by a Board of Governors that is appointed by the monarch or head of government. If that happens to be our illustrious friend and ally, Prince Trajan, I propose we approach him and ask him to name members of a special committee I will form in the Natufian Council of Finance to the Board of Banque d'Etat. Then, you see, we will have massive influence over the entire Acadien economy. In particular, we can cut the credit lines and invoke the acceleration clause in the Alendyre bonds, demanding immediate payment. Given the present state of the company and the tottering Acadien economy, this will push them into insolvency."

"Wait," Reg said with a concerned look on his face. "Wouldn't those bonds have a Force Majeure clause, allowing the company to legally reject liability of payment in the event of war?"

"Well, yes, but if Prince Trajan's claim is either uncontested or supported by a major House, like Guise or Valenciennes, it would not meet the legal definition of war in the bond. Even if it did, it would be resolved in court. A judge that is, shall we say, "persuaded to see things the Roman way", will rule in our favor. And that's assuming Roman law isn't enacted across the Royaume, in which case we wouldn't even need to go that far. Anyway, once Fermes des Groupe Alendyre is declared insolvent, the company goes into receivership. Under Acadien law the creditor, in this case Banque d'Etat, appoints an official to take control of the company and manage its affairs, like, say, setting up joint-ventures with Natufian agriculture businesses, signing knowledge sharing agreements, intellectual property transfers and outright sale of assets. All in the name of preventing bankruptcy and restoring the company to solvency! And that's just the beginning of what we could do with control of Banque d'Etat."

Reg let out a low whistle in praise. "I have to hand it to you, Dagan, that is downright cunning." He then sat straight and addressed the table in formal fashion, "State has no objection to the plan. The only problem will be convincing Prince Trajan to agree to appoint our people to the Board of the Banque d'Etat des Nouvel Acadie."

Dagan promptly replied, "Well, first and foremost, we are friends and socii of Rome, loyal to Caesar and his sons. Secondly, it looks like Prince Trajan is using his own resources. If he's on his own budget, he will need to maintain a stable economy and tax base in Acadie and we are uniquely qualified to help him do that. Right now the Royaume is on the brink of a disastrous collapse. If we can keep businesses happy and money flowing, his claim will be accepted and consolidated much faster."

"He'll probably want more than that”, replied Reg. “He's not quite as pragmatic as his eldest brother. He's more a man of action and will want more tangible support, I am guessing."

The High Chief chose to speak at this point, "I think I can help there. If our government has control over Banque d'Etat and all its branches, they could be deemed Natufian state assets and that would allow me to deploy Natufian Guardsmen to protect those assets, including deploying counter-insurgency units in the immediate vicinity."

"There are bank branches in every town of significance in Nouvel Acadie!" Reg replied in wide-eyed awe.

The High Chief simply nodded and said "I am sure Prince Trajan would appreciate the extra eyes, ears and guns throughout the countryside. Any risks or concerns?"

Dagan bobbed his head and tried to get out his next statement as casually as he could, despite the seriousness he felt about his concern, "No, well, yes. I asked my friends at the Chamber of Commerce to use a backchannel to Prince Nero and find out where the Prince stands. I would also want to advise him on our plans. I just don't want us to get on the wrong side of that rivalry."

Although the rivalry between the princes was common knowledge, it was never discussed, mentioned or acknowledged publicly. At this perceived faux pax by the Councilor of Finance, Titianus forcefully placed his hands on the table and pulled himself half-out of his seat, staring hard at Dagan. "There is no rivalry between..." he began, before the High Chief cut him off.

"Titianus, my friend, please be seated and at ease," and he made the Natufian sign for appeasement touching his fingertips to his brow, then extending his palms face up before him. "This is a private meeting, what is said in this room stays here. And we speak truth here to each other."

Titianus considered for a moment and took in the sincerity of the High Chief's stare. He simply lowered his gaze, gave a quiet, dignified nod and sat back down. Over the years, Titianus learned to trust Natufian trustworthiness, a trait that puzzled him at the beginning. In many ways, the High Chief was the opposite of Caesar. That meant he would never get nearly as far as the great emperor, but he also knew that wasn't what mattered to Nathaniel al-Shuqba.

The meeting concluded with the resolution that "Natufia Condo" in Gaspé would seek an audience with Prince Trajan and present the Natufian proposal.

As the members gave their salutations and left the office, the High Chief motioned for Titianus to stay behind. The room remained silent until the Councilors finished leaving and the door was shut by an aide.

The High Chief silently crossed to a long bookshelf along the opposite wall from his desk adorned with history books, cultural crafts, and photos and memorabilia from the High Chief's life and career. The bookshelf was divided into two sections by a modest, mirror-backed wet bar. The High Chief sighed heavily, produced a bottle of fine Natufian mezcal and poured some into two crystal glasses. He dropped a couple ice cubes into one, as he knew the proconsul preferred it, and added a twist of lime to his own. He crossed back to Titianus who remained near the meeting table, offered a glass which was accepted and in unison the two men took a long draught of the strong liquor. Titianus would have preferred a Roman Rhaeticum wine but Natufian mezcal was no longer quite as unpalatable to him as when he first arrived. Still, he was not overly fond of the drink.

"Titianus," the High Chief said gravely, "Getting involved in this business in Nouvel Acadie makes me uncomfortable. I really need to know if Trajan's actions are sanctioned or not. You'll tell me if you hear anything from Caesar or Prince Nero, right?"

"Yes, of course, High Chief, that's why I am here, to advise and guide you on matters of the Imperium", Titanus replied, somewhat surprised at the question.

"Please, call me Nathaniel, how many times do I have to tell you that?"

"That would not be appropriate, High Chief" was the response, but the smile under his Roman nose was clear enough. Letting down his guard just a bit, here alone in the room, he continued, "I really don't know what he's up to or what Caesar has to do with it. Prince Trajan has never done anything this audacious before. Publicly, the Senate is calling him a hero of Rome and passing resolutions of adulations. Privately, and I say this in confidence, mind you, some Senators are expressing concern over his brashness. They are afraid things could spiral out of control. They don't want to get into another war so soon after the conflict on Harren Island."

The High Chief clasped the Proconsul's shoulders in a friendly gesture and smiled. "Why don't you and Claudia come out to the ranch this weekend? I have some aged Aurochs steaks I want to grill up and Marwa is eager to see Claudia again. She says she's been practicing that Roman card game your wife taught her and wants a rematch. She invited a couple other ladies and their husbands out to play as well. While they play we'll get some horses from the stable and take a ride down to the river and you can catch me up on what's been going on in the wider world. I feel like I've been out of touch for months."

The proconsul gently sat down his unfinished glass of mezcal and politely replied, "I'll bring the wine".

Modern milking parlour in the Natufian Nation

The dairy industry is a growing part
of the Natufian agriculture portfolio

After the arrival of Prince Trajan, depositors line up outside
the Banque d'Etat des Nouvel Acadie, threatening a
destabilizing bank run

Three of the seven current governors of Banque d'Etat,
target of the Natufian plan

Divided They Fall [The Fourth Sovereign Charter Only]

Divided They Fall [The Fourth Sovereign Charter Only]

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