The Dominate Civil War (MT, Closed, Ordis)

by **Khornera** » Wed Apr 01, 2020 2:13 am

CHAPTER I - KINGS AMONGST WOLVES

"It is thus necessary that the individual should finally come to realise that his own life is of no importance in comparison with the survival of the Dominate"
Major-General Count Remus S.A. Cato-Decimus, 2020

The Duchy of Grizen
18-03-2020
THE PROVISIONAL PARLIAMENT

"What the fuck was all that?" Horus demanded from the man sitting opposite the table. Horus Nestor, 'prime minister' of the Provisional Parliament in Grizen, stood with his suit buttoned and his tie hanging loosely around his neck. His eyes betrayed a complete lack of sleep and the obvious signs of a man under a lot of pressure.

The figures around the table, fellow ministers or holders of high office in the provisional government, all turned to the man Horus' vitriol was directed at most: Clemens Felix Ellerius, 'minister' for labour and industry, and leader of the Imperial Workers' Party. The social-democrat sat there with his hands clasped together, his visage unmoving as the cabinet's primus inter pares demanded an explanation. Horus slammed his palm on the table and leaned forward, his tie swerving to the side as he did so. "We were on the verge of greatness. We were this close-" Horus held his thumb and index finder a millimetre apart from one another "-to bringing peace and freedom to Khornera."

Finally Clemens opened his mouth and spoke, in a calm and measured style. "I will not apologise." Clemens spoke. "We had to show our constituents we would defend their interests." Alaric was sitting next to Clemens, and uttered quietly under his breath. "Oh would you believe this fucker.."

Alaric DesBateaux, head of the Centre Party, was seething with rage that far eclipsed whatever Horus was feeling right now. The man had been appointed as 'deputy prime minister' of the Provisional Parliament and as such managed to affairs of the rebellion while the others were in Meriad negotiating with the Arcadis government. It meant that when all of a sudden his colleagues expanded their entire lists of demands, he had to hear about it not from them but from the news. Needless to say, he was not happy with the whole affair. "erThose we your constituents, Clemens, not ours. Just because you're too incompetent to keep your own party together gives you no right to sink our fucking collective efforts."

"Calm down Alaric." Horus spoke. Truly, Horus hardly had any right to tell others not to be angry, especially not after how they disregarded Alaric entirely at the conference. Horus was seething with bitter fury himself, but seeing a colleague of his also give in to his rage, proved to him that he more than anyone had to reign in his own feelings for the good of the committee. He had to be their leader after all, and he had to stand above it.

"You are right, we screwed you over." he spoke towards Alaric, the red flushing from his face as he went from livid to genuinely apologetic. "I'm sorry, we should have kept you in the loop throughout the conference." Alaric's anger, while not gone completely, seemed to subside somewhat

The room where the 'cabinet' had gathered was a small conference room in the government house of Grizen, an old stately structure built in that imperial style that so exalted retro-gothic opulence and vanity mired in depressive spires topped with leering gargoyles. The interior of the room reflected its exterior aesthetic: vaulted ceilings supported by stone columns built in the walls. One half of the room featured grand glass windows which overlooked the city centre. On the other half there was a fireplace whose flames licked the air at irregular intervals. Above the fireplace hung two flags, that of the Duchy of Grizen and that of the Dominate. Above the flag there was a small portrait of the Dominus, full in royal and imperial regalia, gazing proudly from his stoic perch above the fireplace. The 'cabinet' sat at an elongated black table bathed in the light of a grand crystal chandelier strung from the ceiling.

Coriolanus Mark, chancellor of the Duchy of Grizen and technically the Provisional Parliament's gracious host, was also attending the meeting. Yet the man hardly ever spoke. He had gone from a vanguard of the parliamentarian cause to a more passive enabler of their revolution. He realised he simply did not have the credentials to lead a national struggle and was content to assist it the best way he could, and to keep running the government of his beloved province. Clemens was just about to open his mouth yet again, probably to say something that would only get on his colleagues' nerves even more, but he was stopped from doing so.

Magnis Helbrecht, the provisional minister of defence and a member of the Progressive Party, interjected. "I think Ellerius was right to raise the issues." Clemens grinned smugly at this. "-but-" Helbrecht continued "-we should not have played hardball. Your temper tantrum, Ellerius, made everyone's day a lot harder." Clemens' smile disappeared from his face as quickly as it appeared.

"Horus... Prime minister." Helbrecht corrected himself. "We have to accept that we are on a war footing. We do not know how the imperial government will proceed. In their eyes, we walked away after they made major concessions." he turned to face the entire room. "We have support from a small faction of the army, we have militias that have pledged their support to us. But we have to get ready for an all-out conflict now."

Horus Nestor unbuttoned his jacket and sat down in his own chair. He leaned forward on the table as he took a deep breath and exhaled, the room eerily quiet as he did so. This was the first time any of them actually addressed him as prime minister. "You might be right. We have to prepare for the worst. But I will not ignore the possibility of a peaceful resolution." as he said so, half the room nodded in agreement and the other half grunted audibly in objection. Alaric rose from his seat and raised his voice. "We have to strike first. There's no chance they will return to negotiate with us with this whole mess going on in the South. They'll want to take us out quickly so they can focus on them, so we have to make sure they will not be able to." A few voices rose in support, another few in objection.

"Alaric, sit down. I will call to Arcadis later today, hoping to schedule something, anything. Right now Martinius will want to reach some agreement, precisely for the reason you mentioned." Horus responded.

"Prime minister, I propose you do that." It was Helbrecht's voice. "If that doesn't work, then I propose we strike first, we are in a reasonably advantageous position right now, at least compared to where we'll be if the loyalists strike first."

Horus sighed deeply. "Alright then." he said as he took a notebook and a pen, and began to write down three columns: for, against, and abstaining. "Let's put it to a vote. All those in favour of reaching out to the imperial government, and if that fails, we initiate hostilities." a few cabinet members nodded. "Shouldn't those be two separate proposals"?" a minister's voice came out, but a series of dead glares instantly discouraged him from pursuing this particular line.

"All those in favour, raise your hand."

Arcadis
19-03-2020
THE LOYALIST GOVERNMENT

"I'm going to have to put you on hold." Baron Martinius-Leon said, pressing a button to switch to another line. "What is it, Laurent?" he asked. The voice on the other side was Marcus Laurent, deputy-prime minister. "Prime minister, we have another declared belligerent, a 'revolutionary council', it seems the the FNS has found allies."

In his head Martinius cursed the vilest of obscenities, outwardly he maintained his stately composure. "I see, send me their declaration immediately." before Laurent could respond, Martinius switched back to his other call.

Prime minister Baron Lucas Victor Nobis Martinius-Leon, only recently having been appointed to his office to resolve the mess left by his predecessor. The peace negotiations in Meriad were a disaster, and the prime minister had only just returned to Arcadis to pick up the messes and prepare for the next phase of the standoff. At this point, not all hope of a diplomatic resolution was lost. No consensus was reached in Meriad, but it became clear that 'prime minister' Horus Nestor of the Provisional Parliament was just as willing as Martinius to find a peaceful resolution, even if he was limited by his own recalcitrant constituents. Still, it was Martinius-Leon's duty as prime minister to keep the realm together at any cost. This naturally included military action against the Grizen government, which became increasingly likely by the day. Not only that, but in the south the FNS, the syndicalist movement, had declared a rebellion against the state and had already risen up in arms. Their movement was small as of yet, but the likelihood of a civil war on two fronts complicated the situation and called for a swift response. The prime minister was sitting in the backseat of a black-tinted car used for carrying around state dignitaries. They drove in a convoy of three, the other two carrying a security detachment, with all three vehicles being escorted by four policemen on motorcycles.

"Apologies, general. You have permission to take whatever measures you deem necessary to take out the FNS and their allies. You have free reign. Interpret that how you will." with that, Martinius hung up the phone. The young secretary sitting next to him handed him a digital tablet "Your Lordship, the declaration from the syndicalists." Martinius took it with his right hand as he put his phone back in his pocket with his left.

Atop a large piece of text there was the symbol of four red stars arranged horizontally, beneath it in black letters "The Revolutionary Council of Khornera". The prime minister audibly groaned, thinking to himself: well this is bound to be a mess. The declaration was nothing but a massive piece of rhetoric: part communique, part manifesto. "We declare the formation of a people's state" it read, "founded on socialist brotherhood and the liberty of the worker", it proudly proclaimed. It was signed by a large assortment of names, each representing some faction of the larger alliance: anarchists, syndicalists, totalists, socialists, and a few hybrids that Martinius had never even heard of before.

The prime minister was on his way to the Ministry of Defence, where he was to meet with the general staff to discuss an eventual invasion of Grizen. He handed the tablet back to his assistant, when the security officer sitting next to the driver turned around. "Your Lordship, there has been a change in our route. Protests are blocking Valian Street." Martinius asked who were doing the protesting this time. Apparently it was a rather rowdy gathering of liberals and reformers, blaming the imperials for the failed negotiations. The car slowly drifted to a halt, from where he was sitting, Martinius could not see what had caused the convoy to stop. "Riot police, they tell us this street is not clear, Your Lordship." the prime minister sighed, clearly the coordination between the capital police and his own security detachment had been rather amateurish today. He told his aide to remind him to look into the matter at a later point. Considering the tense situation, such a lack of professionalism would not suffice.

The car slowly backed up and turned around a corner, when suddenly his vehicle accelerated. "Prime minister, get down!" the security officer yelled to the back. Martinius-Leon had no idea what was going on, but before his mind could make sense of the situation he already heard the sound of gunshots. He could not make out whether they were from police officers or whether they were directed at the convoy. His secretary let out a squeal of panic as both ducked away from the windows as far as they could. The prime minister could not see anything but he felt the car accelerate and drive past a variety of street corners. There was frantic radio chatter in the background.

He could not restrain his curiosity and briefly raised his head to look outside. The police was aggressively beating back what seemed to be a particularly militant strain of protesters: black masked hooligans wearing hoodies and lobbing stones and fiery Molotov cocktails. The response was expectedly brutal, and for every protester on the ground in the fetal position at least two officers were standing next to them kicking until they no longer seemed capable of getting up in the next five years. "Sir, I'm going to need you to keep down." the agent shouted. Instinctively Martinius-Leon ducked down, but not before catching a final glance of a singular individual stepping forward from the crowds. The man did not wear the almost uniformly black garb of his fellow protesters but was dressed in a much more casual manner as if he had just gone home from work. He didn't even bother to hide his face. In his hands however, he held a small package, which he lobbed at the black car in front of the prime minister's vehicle. A second later, an ear-deafening blast rang as the car in front of them erupted in flames. Pieces of debris flew around, some making their way into the now screaming crowd, and a few bouncing off the car's window and leaving cracks in the glass.

"Back up! Back up! Back up!" the agent kept shouting to the driver. The husk of the car in front of them blocked their path, and it took a few seconds before the car behind them had also switched gears to go in reverse. Meanwhile, the police on the streets was forming a perimeter around the black convoy, it's safety now becoming their prime objective. The police on motorcycles circled around, sliding by the masses to discourage them from getting any closer. At this point, the police officers on the ground took their firearms from their holsters and started firing at the ever more aggressive and riled-up crowd, several dropping dead as the crowd was divided between those running away in panic and those rushing the police in anger. The man who threw the device was nowhere to be seen.

The prime minister's car reversed, but another figure ran forward from the crowd and towards the prime minister's car. Her arms were pressed close to her body, cradling a package eerily familiar. Only a few meters away from the car did she fall to the ground when she was felled by a policeman's bullet. But she was not dead, for the bullet had only hit her lower body. Several police officers rushed to her, prepared to pin her down to the street. While two cops surrounded her, her right arm jerked up to the sky, pulling the detonator of her package.

Then another explosion.

The blast wave shattered the left side of the prime minister's vehicle. With it, the prime minister himself was thrown into the lap of his secretary, along with a blizzard of shrapnel and shattered glass that propelled itself into his body. He let out a brief gasp of agony as a wave of fire erupted from the car. The vehicle along with its inhabitants was reduced to a smouldering husk amidst a bloodstained Arcadis street.

The Duchy of Grizen
20-03-2020
THE PROVISIONAL PARLIAMENT

The situation had become dire. Horus Nestor leaned forward on his desk, his hands in his hair. An empty glass of whisky sat next to his cellphone and the assortment of confidential files that littered his working space. Baron Martinius-Leon, having been prime minister for less than two weeks, had died in a series of ultra-violent brawls in the capital. They might not have seen eye to eye, but Nestor knew his loyalist counterpart was the best hope for a negotiated agreement. Now, the man was killed by radicals acting in the name of the Provisional Parliament.

All the while, in the south, the far-left was taking advantage of the situation by declaring a revolution of their own. A quiet invisible veil of melancholy had covered the entire provisional administration, he could sense it. The death of the loyalist prime minister represented a new phase in the stand-off between Grizen and Arcadis, and all knew this. When Horus walked away from the Curia with his Progressive Party he had never been so sure of anything in his life, this was his divinely ordained goal. Now there was only doubt; was he responsible for all this madness? Before this, there was always the knowledge that they could just compromise, take the offer of the Arcadis government, and quietly retire. Their rebellion had a peaceful way out. But that time had passed, with a conflict in the south brewing and a prime minister dead. Horus knew that next time he would set foot in Arcadis it would either be as a victorious leader of the Provisional Parliament, or as the honoured guest of the Dominus' executioners.

"Sir, the chancellor is here for you." an aide who walked into Horus' office announced.

The prime minister's office was located in the government house of Grizen, where the Provisional Parliament was living side-to-side with the regional government of Grizen under the leadership of chancellor Coriolanus Mark. Here he was now, their hospitable host, strolling into an office that technically belonged to him but which he had graciously allowed for Nestor's private use. "Prime minister." Mark began. It wasn't often Horus was addressed by his title, although it had started to increase in frequency as of late. He had been nothing but the 'first among equals' in his cabinet, only taking the central position because everyone else either did not want it or was unable to represent their collective interests. Coriolanus Mark held a bundle of papers in his hands, which he placed on Horus' desk as he took a seat. "A new statute of autonomy."

"What are on about?" Horus asked.

Mark leaned back in his seat, clasping his hands together. "I have had to make a few decisions. If we make it through, the old 1938 statute of autonomy will be restored."

The news took Horus aback. So far Mark had been a rather passive supporter of the Provisional Parliament, allowing them use of their facilities, observing their meetings, but never truly sharing his opinion or making any demands whatsoever. The 1938 statute granted a significant amount of autonomy to the Duchy of Grizen, which was later revoked in the 50s under the then ruling fascist coalition. Even after the Imperial Fascist Party collapsed due to its own internal divisions, no subsequent government reintroduced the statute.

"We can talk about this later, but not-" Mark cut him off. "I am sorry prime minister. But we seem to be heading towards an actual war now. The greater good of the crownlands is great, but now I have to think of Grizen as well. I don't need an answer right away, mention it to your cabinet. But this is non-negotiable." with that, the chancellor stood up and excused himself.

'Non-negotiable', in a situation such as this it meant only one thing, the chancellor was getting afraid. He wanted something, a promise from the Provisional Parliament, something to make the risks all worth it. Horus didn't want to imagine what the chancellor might resolve to do if he didn't get his way. At this stage, the Provisional Parliament's base of power was still firmly in Grizen, apart from a few mainland provinces that declared in favour of them. The truth was, they were at the chancellor's mercy. Horus briefly glanced at the document and instantly recognised it as the original statute of 1938, with dates and names adjusted to suit the present day. He grabbed his pen and signed it. The cabinet would likely throw a fuss, but that would be his burden to bear. Right now, he had to ensure the movement didn't collapse in on itself.

His next appointment entered the room: Magnis Helbrecht, minister of defence. He walked in wearing his old uniform, still bearing the insignia's of the Dominate. "Prime minister, may I sit?" Horus nodded with a warm smile. After Coriolanus Mark's much more presumptive manner, such manners were refreshing. Then again, Coriolanus Mark could hardly be blamed for entering the room like he owned it, after all, he did.

"You remember the vote we took the day before yesterday?" Horus knew exactly what the bearded minister was referring to and nodded solemnly in response. "Helbrecht, are we ready for this?" He knew the answer was likely to be somewhere in the range of "I don't know, but we have to act now.", but had to ask regardless.

Almost as if reading from a teleprompter, Helbrecht responded: "I don't know, but we have to act now. If we strike first, we can take the initiative from the imperials. If we leave it to them, we'll be put on the defensive and that's a war we will not win."

"Very well, minister. When can our operations begin?"

"Tomorrow at 1100 hours we will attempt to encircle the pockets of loyalist regiments in Grizen. At that same time, our forces on the mainland will engage imperial forces."

Arcadis
The White Palace
23-03-2020
THE LOYALIST GOVERNMENT

Remus Serrano Auric Cato-Decimus, Count of Marium, and Major-General in the Khorneran Royal Guard. Being summoned to the imperial palace was not a first for him. Like so many highly ranked officers of the Khorneran military, he had at one point made the trek to the Dominus' seat of power to receive some commendation, knighthood, and swear eternal fealty to the throne. For those with an accomplished career in the army it was a pilgrimage of sorts, a token of recognition, and a sign that the eyes of the Dominus were upon them. Yet walking up these stairs to the welcoming open doors of the palace was under vastly different circumstances, for now was a time of war. At the entrance a foursome of white-robed attendants escorted him inside. They were an eerie sort, heads shaven bald, almost never speaking save for simple affirmations or instructions, or when they quoted scripture.

Two walked in front of Cato-Decimus, and two behind him. Of the two in the front, one of them carried a carrier of incense which left a trail of lavender-scented smoke behind them. Any visit to the Dominus was accompanied by pomp and ceremony, based on ancient traditions long forgotten. Yet the White Palace was an equal pompous structure. The black marble floor was polished to perfection, practically acting as a mirror for those who walked its celebrated halls. Many antechambers of hallways served no purpose but to house grand statues of previous Dominii, depicted with their associated attributes and small shrines for sacrifices. Of course, this was but the wing that was revealed to invited visitors, meant to impress. The layers of history were visible, even in the shading of the walls. The columns that supported the grand ceilings were of a noticeably whiter shade of marble, a sign of their comparatively young age.

The attendants took the Major-General away from the grand reception through a series of hallways, briefly passing the throne room where the grand seat of the Dominus sat empty. They brought him to one of the many chambers of the structure. Marble floors, immaculately shiny tables of cured wood, portraits of great statesmen and Dominii. There was a subtle coolness in the air that came in through the open windows overlooking the romantic gardens of the imperial compound. There was the scent of roses and freshly plucked flower, and a sense of warmth and calmness. Gazing out of the window stood His Divine Majesty, the Dominus. The sovereign stood as a living testament to two truths. First, that not even the Son of Jove was immune to the ravages of time. Secondly, that it was yet possible to face those ravages of time while maintaining one's dignity and stature. The locks of Ignatius VIII's beard had once been vibrant with colour, but were now in their winter, taking on a silver hue. He still still stood tall, his chest pressed forward with the confidence of a much younger man. He wore a simple black three-piece suit with white chalk stripes, black leather shoes, and a dark blue tie that was thickly knotted.

"Your Divine Majesty." Cato-Decimus spoke as he bowed before his sovereign.

"Count Cato-Decimus." the Dominus spoke as he turned around and a thin smile formed on his lips. "I regret that I could not show you hospitality under more joyful circumstances."

"I am honoured to accept your invitation, regardless of the circumstances."

"Charming." said Ignatius VIII, there being a subtle note of amused mockery in his voice. "Tell me, Major-General, what are your thoughts on our current predicament?"

Cato-Decimus has spent the entire way here thinking of how to respond to such a question. It was obvious that any discussion with any officer of state was going to be focused on the civil war. It was only yesterday that the forces of the Provisional Parliament opened fire on loyalist forces, sparking the beginning of the conflict. Cato-Decimus was on his way to one of the eastern pockets of rebel activity, assigned to lead a counterattack, before he suddenly received an invitation from the Dominus himself.

The Major-General was a dyed-in-the-wool aristocrat. Like any second born son of a noble dynasty he was bound to become an officer in the imperial army. Cato-Decimus was no different, opting to serve his fatherland directly in the Royal Guard that held loyalty to Khornera instead of the broader Dominate. He was a patriot, a devoted father, and when it came to politics he exhibited that typical military attitude which cared little for the nuances of ideology and instead exalted order, discipline, and getting results. Yet it was offset by a certain gentleness of character, and a genuine compassion for his men. While he was not given to intense emotions, he harboured a sense of militaristic romanticism deep within. The kind of attitude that believed that at the end of the day it was guts and steel that would slay the proverbial dragon.

"We have a conflict on several fronts. This crisis is no longer political, it has become a military situation. Our troops at the southern border with Almia are sandwiched in between a syndicalist country and syndicalists insurrectionists to the north. They are immensely vulnerable until Zusean reinforcements arrive. Meanwhile, small pockets of insurgent activity litter the countryside and will likely gain in strength as we need to redirect our forces to sweep them up. We got a foothold in Grizen, but if we lose that they can use the geography to their advantage and wage a purely defensive conflict." Cato-Decimus gave his analysis. Throughout, the Dominus' face remained devoid of any reaction. "We should mobilise the entire country for war. Declare a state of emergency, sire."

The Dominus pointed to a piece of paper on the table, with a fountain pen next to it. Cato-Decimus moved forward and looked down, it was an imperial decree appointing him as prime minister and giving him emergency powers. All that was missing was his own signature.

"Prime minister. You have my blessing to take whatever means you deem necessary to restore order."

by **Toishima** » Wed Apr 01, 2020 4:07 am

LOW ORDIS ORBIT
ABOVE KHORNERA, ORDA

Princess Kaguya was discovered as a thumb-sized baby in a mysterious, glowing stalk of bamboo by an old childless woodcutter. Eventually, word of her beauty spread and a series of princes attempted to marry her. She gave them five impossible tasks to complete, which naturally none of them could. Even the Shogun of Hinomoto fell in love with her, but she rejected him. Eventually, it was revealed that she was truly from the moon, and one day, she returned to the moon to be with her people. Some say Princess Kaguya still looks back at Ordis, thinking of the wonderful childhood she had with her adoptive parents.

In a certain way, she does look back at Ordis. Just in a different way.

A long, 12.8 cubic metre cuboid covered in the typical reflective gold foil, with two solar arrays sticking out of the sides, KAGUYA-3.4 maintained a quiet watch over this corner of the planet, its affiliation made plain by the Yamataian Radiant Sun on the maintenance panel. Part of the Greater Empire of Yamatai's global intelligence satellite system, KAGUYA-3.4 was just one of many sisters. How many was another question about that inscrutable Escaric nation that intelligence agencies around the world wanted to know. Her designation of 3 meant she was of the IMINT (Imagery Intelligence) series, but did the 4 mean she was of four IMINT satellites or the fourth of the Moon Princesses?

On the bottom of the satellite, or at least the part facing Ordis, a high resolution camera manufactured by KANON clicked away, capturing dozens of high-resolution images of the action going on down in Orda. Yamatai may have been on the other side of the world, but the modern world was so interconnected that when a butterfly flapped its wings in Orda... A cyclone would form in Escar. The plummeting Escaric stock market and panic-buying gripping Yamatai were testament to that. The Wanshi Development Summit was calling for an emergency meeting to figure out what Escar would do to mitigate the shocks emanating from Orda.

KAGUYA-3.4 naturally slipped silently out of her window on her circuitous orbit, preparing to transmit whatever she had seen back to her masters on that archipelago on the other side of the world. Hopefully Orda could solve their problems before it got too out of hand.

Because while the world has been fixated on Orda for now, another butterfly on the other side of the world may be preparing to emerge from its cocoon.

OOC: Essentially a high-class tag so this shows up in my view your posts page.

by **Nerotysia** » Wed Apr 01, 2020 3:02 pm

Altzarch
Schloß Volkspeer
23 March 2020

Wolfgang XIX always hoped he’d miss his war. Indeed, he'd spent the first decade of the new millenium perfumed with joy, as the end of his reign approached with naught but peace in sight. He’d never been a good shooter. His aim was terrible. He'd once dropped the family’s famous flintlock during practice and shot a rabbit by accident. He stared at the tufts of fur tangled with blood and cried until his father strangled his shoulder and barked at him to stop. Kaisar Arkadius had no patience for “cowards,” and he had even less patience for scratches on his precious Scharrbach flintlock, sheathed in whirling gold damascene, among the most expensive single rifles in the world.

Every Scharrbach, all the way back to Alexius, fought at least one war. Arkadius had positively relished his Endwar, until the end, of course. But now, Martinius-Leon had been killed, a general had been appointed in his place, and gunfire rattled the streets and fields of Khornera. Civil war crept ever closer, inevitable and irresistible, like a tsunami towards the shoreline, like the tumor in his brain, eating.

Wolfgang groaned and circled the dark room with his eyes. Bright dots of light freckled the left half of the circular wall, pale orange and dark red, strings of synthetic stars, each representing a single city in the massive map of Ordis carved into the black marble. On the opposite wall was another carved map, this one an intricate portrait of Zusea, with all the ancient cities and towns of the young nation similarly marked in bright orange lights. Overhead hung a gargantuan circular lamp, filling the room with soft light, stamped with the state seals of Zusea – four stylized black Valknuts, positioned at each cardinal point, glowering down on the assembled men like imps.

Wolfgang hated this room, this awful black room, couched within the glimmering peak of the gargantuan Volkspeer. But this was Zusea’s war room, so duty demanded his presence.

“Your Majesty?” came the patient voice of August Baumann, leaning over the heavy black-marble roundtable, webbed with veins of white. “Are you alright, Majesty?”

Wolfgang shook himself, refocused on the discussion. “Yes, my apologies. Continue.”

Baumann studied his Kaisar like he was an insect. “You’re sure? We can always –”

“Just proceed, Herr Baumann,” snapped field marshal von Schötzau.

Baumann’s lip curled ever-so-slightly in disgust, but he nodded nonetheless.

“As I was saying, Your Majesty, the Provisional Parliament aligns far closer with the values of our Serene Imperium than the loyalist government in Arcadis. We have long wished for a genuine friend to the east, a friend which shared our love of liberty and our hatred of tyranny, and the Provisional Parliament represents our best chance yet to reach that objective. As such, the Scriptorium has assembled a policy proposal, which we call ‘Strategic Readjustment,’ for your –”

“This is absurd,” Schötzau interjected. His jawline stuck out, like the edges of a sharp rock.

A brief silence. Baumann’s lip curled further before he answered.

“I will graciously pardon Herr von Schötzau’s poor manners, Your Majesty, so that I may –”

Schötzau didn’t care. “These are our allies, Herr Baumann.”

“Allies of convenience,” Baumann breathed, looking down and shuffling his papers as though the very idea of loyalty was beneath his consideration.

“In the Heimwehr, we call this treason, Majesty. Though I suppose the Scriptorium might not have the same concept.”

Baumann snorted. “Excuse me?”

“Gentlemen.” Both men turned towards Wolfgang, who remained slumped in his seat, his frown entrenched on his face. His eyes burned. “You speak in the presence of your Kaisar. Conduct yourselves accordingly.”

Baumann breathed slowly through his nose and nodded an apology.

Schötzau kept glaring. He’d never liked the leftist Baumann, really. As far as he was concerned, there was no difference between unionists and socialists. He still couldn’t believe a parasite of the FZG had clawed his way to High Consul, the chief of the Scriptorium – the supreme leader of Zusea’s foreign policy apparatus. A damned unionist!

“As I was saying, Your Majesty,” Consul Baumann continued, adjusting his glasses, “the Provisional Parliament represents our best opportunity for true security in the east. The Scriptorium thereby recommends a careful, gradual pivot towards their interests in the Dominate.”

Schötzau barely waited for him to finish. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, the Heimwehr firmly believes that the diplomats and activists of the Scriptorium are wildly incorrect on this matter.”

Baumann leaned back in his seat, trying to restrain himself from biting at the veiled insult. Turns out, he hated the war room, too.

Silence reigned.

“I do not want to pick sides,” Wolfgang growled at last.

“We will be forced to, eventually,” Baumann insisted.

“I refuse to believe that.”

Another silence. Wolfgang sometimes spoke like this in his old age. Ending discussions quickly was among his favorite pleasures nowadays. Unfortunately, it didn’t always work.

“Might I suggest a third option, Your Majesty?”

Wolfgang swung his eyes around to find the voice, as if he needed to. More than a dozen military leaders and diplomats ringed the marble table, all the members of the Hofkriegsrat, Zusea’s supreme foreign-policy and military committee. The new speaker, as Wolfgang already knew, was an unpaid advisor to the Scriptorium, recently hired to attend the conference in Meriad, mostly to give both himself and his son experience in foreign affairs.

After completing his perfunctory sweep, the Kaisar finally rested his eyes on Alfred Wilhelm, Prince-Consort to his niece, Archduchess Angela, and father to one of his potential heirs, Archduke Maximian.

“A third option?”

“Indeed. In fact, I cannot even take credit for it. May I defer to my son and nephew?”

Wolfgang’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Alfred’s bronzed face, decorated with a thick, sharp goatee and bright blue eyes, remained serene. Wolfgang sighed and nodded.

Seemingly together, the whole roundtable shifted to face the back wall. All around the seated members of the Hofkriegsrat stood dozens more minor officials, stenographers, bodyguards, advisors, and various others, all watching the proceedings like some silent, circular mosh pit. Near the back wall, between the two carved maps, stood Archduke Maximian, clothed in the sleek dark suit and matching vest favored by the FZG, and his cousin, Archduke Alixander, clothed in his military uniform. Slowly they shifted to the front of the crowd, and bowed before their great-uncle.

Alixander spoke first – “indeed, Your Majesty. His Grace the Archduke and I have drawn up a third proposal, if you wish to indulge us.”

Wolfgang remembered his own first time speaking to the Hofkriegsrat, as the presumed heir. The ritual was normal, designed to train the ashborn princes in statecraft before they took the throne, but rarely did they begin the training quite so young. Rarely, also, did two rival candidates cooperate.

“Please enlighten me,” Wolfgang said.

Maximian glanced nervously at Alixander, who nodded firmly, tilting his head in encouragement – clearing his throat, the younger Archduke began:

“We must hermetically seal the Dominate against our enemies.”

Another, planned silence to let the words sink in, just as the two had practiced.

Then, Alixander – “there is currently no need for us to pick sides. Insead, Zusea should act as an impartial referee, enforcing the boundaries, and ensuring the conflict does not spiral out of control.”

Maximian – “first and foremost, we must seal the border, thereby preventing certain foreign actors from aggravating the conflict, and freeing the Khorneran border armies to crush the communists.”

Alixander – “secondly, we must urge the Dominus to close Khornera’s air and sea ports to CODEX member states entirely.”

Maximian – “and, if necessary, we must impose a no-fly zone over Khornera and other afflicted regions, in collaboration with the Khorneran government or governments.”

Alixander – “in doing so, we create a protective sphere within which the communists and radicals can easily be crushed by our allies.”

Maximian – “and we would free Khornera to resolve the dispute between the Provisional Parliament and loyalist government by itself, insulated from hostile interference, its ultimate sovereignty guaranteed.”

Alixander added a final, spur-of-the-moment flourish – “and so, picking sides would be ultimately unnecessary.”

Wolfgang stared at his two grandnephews, eyebrows high on his head. Then he sighed and slumped back in his chair.

Quiet stretched like play-doh over the committee as the proposal simmered in the councillors’ minds. Baumann trapped Maximian under his eyes. He studied the prince while he cleaned his glasses. A few generals sifted through their folders to read over the archdukes’ proposal. Alixander, for his part, kept his eyes fixed firmly on the far wall, this one sporting not a carved map, but a digital one, shining from a floor-to-ceiling touchscreen, depicting the entirety of Orda, matted with detail and crisscrossed with railroads, highways, military positions, and other gunk.

“I think their proposal is a good first step, Your Majesty,” Schötzau said, smiling. “His Grace makes a good point – under this plan, no picking sides is necessary.”

Prince Alfred, rubbing at his goatee, leaned forward to whisper in the ear of his uncle-in-law – “and, this proposal comes from the family, not the government, Majesty.”

Wolfgang sighed again, and then wondered if sighing would become his trademark.

“Well, one problem remains. Part of the border is controlled by rebel army units, loyal to the Provisional Parliament. How do we seal that part?”

Baumann leapt at the opportunity. He was so excited that he also leapt forward on his seat.

“Let me reach out to them, Your Majesty! I can send an emissary, we can discuss terms, maybe help bring the two sides back together.”

“Those rebels are criminals, Your Majesty,” Schötzau said. “Guilty of treason against Khornera.”

“Half that damn country’s guilty of treason,” Wolfgang grumbled, shaking his head, his thoughts percolating towards a conclusion. “My nephews are right. We cannot pick sides at this juncture. A - what was it? - yes, a hermetic seal is the best way forward.”

“The Scriptorium can be discreet at first, Majesty. We’ll talk to the rebels.”

“No. I do not want to go behind our ally’s back, only to have that blow up in my face next week. I will speak personally with the Dominus. We won’t be supporting the rebels, we will only offer to relieve their soldiers of border patrol duties. That way, Zusea can guard the entire border with Almia, and seal the country completely. Additionally, should those rebels fall to the syndicalists, they at least won’t hand over a direct land border with Almia.”

“That will require more troops, Majesty.” Schötzau leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

“Of course, of course. Transfer two more rifle divisions to the Almian border, drawing from the 22nd Inspectorate. That’ll be, what, roughly 30,000 troops, including the 14th Rifles?"

Maximian interjected before Schötzau could answer – “approximately 45,000, Your Majesty.”

Wolfgang chuckled. “Thank you. This would provide suitable manpower for our needs?”

“Yessir, it would,” Schötzau said.

“Excellent. All we’re doing, then, is providing temporary border security, no more and no less.” Wolfgang licked his lips, paused a moment, and sighed again. “We should also prepare for direct intervention, in case it becomes necessary.”

“The 18th Inspectorate shall be combat-ready as soon as possible, Your Majesty,” Schötzau said.

Wolfgang nodded, shifting his eyes away from Schötzau. “Of course. Herr Baumann?”

“Yes, Majesty?”

“Contact the loyalist government and request that they allow the 18th Inspectorate to move into Montnoir. Such a forward position would be vastly helpful should the 18th need to intervene, or move rapidly to reinforce the border with Almia. I shall mention that to the Dominus as well.”

“Yessir, of course.”

Wolfgang turned to Günter Engel, President of the Verzei, for the first time – “do you have channels to the rebels?”

Engel’s vast suit hung from his shoulders like a shower curtain. He never seemed to speak at these meetings, preferring instead to keep his concrete face blank and watch from one corner of the table. Which was rather fitting behavior for the chief of Zusea’s secret intelligence service.

“Covert channels? Yes, we have a few,” Engel said.

“Put out some feelers, quietly. However, there is to be no official contact, from anyone, until the Dominus agrees to the plan. Understood?”

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” Engel said, nodding slowly. Baumann nodded too.

Wolfgang slumped in his chair again.

“This Council is dismissed. I shall invite the Presidium again, and we shall reconvene for final discussions when they arrive.”

Even the two greenhorn archdukes could hear the relish and relief in the Kaisar’s voice.

by **Escalan Corps-Star Island** » Wed Apr 01, 2020 7:24 pm

”The question, comrades, is organisation. An open leadership does not hold back; that received is given, to the benefit of our brethren. To fight one’s brother shows
our priority is our own pride! and thus, by no means the will of the people. We squander the trust placed in us! Without accountability, there is no socialism.”
~Francisco Áviles

Altamira, Distrito Federal
Confederación Popular de Gran Altiplano

15 de marzo, 2020; 05:30

”Buenos días, pasajeros estimados. Llegamos pronto a Altamira. Por favor manténgase los cinturónes de seguridad abrochados y asegúrese que su silla está en posición vertical. Gracias otra vez por viajar con Aire Escalón.”
The young man in the window seat blinked against the sudden cabin lights, opening the shade. The wing still floated serene amidst the predawn darkness, somewhere above the Varunan.
”Yteriná sékilyd̪-ri-tuma, tokir Áskalo praleshát. . .” The captain repeated his message in halting Riadálu, and Junior Commissar Mauricio Albariño shifted to one side to take his laptop out from under him, where it had sat most of the flight for security purposes. Long overnight flights, while far from pleasant, were at least made better by free wine. His wife, still on holiday in Sahil, would likely be awake by now if their three-month-old had let her sleep at all. Albariño would phone her as soon as he landed. As a figure of some relevance on the Khornera desk at CAI, the Altiplanero Comisaría de Asuntos Internacionales, the formation of the Provisional Government had mandated his immediate return from what he felt was a well-earned holiday. The weather in Sahil had been gorgeous as well. A muffled whine came as the aircraft’s landing gear began to shift into position, and Albariño began to long for some coffee.

~ ~ ~

Thanks to the early hour, the Altamira metro wasn’t yet packed, and it took Mauricio a mere fifteen minutes to ride the Yellow Line down to Plaza de Marzo and the CAI’s principal administrative building. By the time he made his way through two rounds of security checks and had stopped to straighten his tie and splash some water on his flattened hair, there were scarce three minutes to spare before the first emergency session of the day.

Some thirty people filled a space normally occupied by fifteen, if that. At the head of the table in the Dominate desk’s main office sat the Commissar himself, Nálinas ka Myheli, and to his left the PPA’s Secretary for External Relations, María Elena Kuznetsova. His coworkers stood around the walls, the more senior filling in other chairs where they could be jammed around the rickety table.

”Mauro!” called one. “We saved your seat.” He smiled gratefully, and flopped into it a bit more noisily than he’d intended.
”How’s the wife?”
”Gloria’s well. I spoke to her on the metro, and would you believe it, Elisa let her sleep for a whole four hours!”
”A minor miracle, then. How up are you on the Provisional Government and constituent factions, Mauricio?”
”I’ve read every memo you’ve given me, Paco, and more besides. This feels like the worst-case outcome, though.”

Ka Myheli pounded on the table with one hand, stilling the clamour and drawing all eyes to his bulky frame. “Comrades. In the interest of time, I will keep this brief. As of now, 0600 VST, the possibility of a purely internal diplomatic solution to the Khorneran crisis shall be assumed off the table. A brokered compromise is still possible, though we are not positioned to lead such an initiative ourselves, and it is increasingly likely such a compromise will entail a ceasefire between both sides if relations continue to deteriorate.”
”Of primary importance is analyzing the Provisional Government. The Járnfjördur Conference has demonstrated they are not a unitary actor, and our projections must account for power shifts within that body. I want to meet with Junior Commissar Albariño and Junior Commissar Pereira immediately following this briefing to discuss overtures.” Ka Myheli’s dark eyes sought out each of them in turn, and they nodded their understanding.

Kuznetsova spoke after, her melodic voice a striking contrast to ka Myheli’s gravelly one. “The Party wishes to stress that loyalty to the ideals of the Revolución Unificadora entails seeking the best interests of the common people, the workers, and the mothers and children of our comrades within the Dominate. Do not let their arbitrary political lines cloud your understanding of their motivations. Speak truth in your work, and dare your counterparts to respond with the same. Crisis bares the shape of one’s character, comrades.”

A flurry of organisational directions followed, and a few minutes later, Albariño found himself seated in his own office, standing beside Junior Commissar Pereira, a slight Sierreña woman, as ka Myheli stood in front of the window. The man was one of the last old-guard Marchists in the Commissariat, and his diplomacy and cadence were shaped far more by Áviles’ spirit and temper than the relative measuredness of the Gutiérrez- and Menéndez-era diplomats that made up the bulk of the office. He was also full-blooded Aleterykan, and tall. Albariño was a bit cowed.
”Comrade Albariño. How was your flight?” Ka Myheli was quieter now as he paced slightly, looking out the window at the capital waking up.
”Long, sir, and I slept poorly,” he confessed. “Thank you for flying me on Escalón, though. I am sure that was not inexpensive.” He cleared his throat, longing desperately for another cup of coffee, but reluctant to push past ka Myheli to the machine in the corner. “What would you like me to focus on?”
”Before I answer that, I need your opinion, Mauricio. First, will there be a war?” The Commissar stopped pacing, hands folded behind his back as he stood facing away from his subordinates.

”Honestly, Commissar? Yes. The Provisional Government wasn’t stable enough to make their demands and play a strong hand– they were scared to compromise. To me that was the wrong call, with Martinius-Leon obviously willing to make some concessions. The Grizen government has individuals who have seen this as an existential crisis from the beginning. You’ve also got active insurrection in the south in Styrgia, which will spook citizens and help hardliners in the Imperial government. So yes, there will.” Albariño looked down at his feet, frustrated with what he felt was weak justification.
”I’m glad I’m not the only one who sees this.” Ka Myheli paused, then asked, “May I sit? Pacing begins to hurt your feet at my age.”
Mauricio tried not to smile. “Go ahead, please.” The Commissar sunk into his leather seat with a sigh.

”Let me explain something,” said ka Myheli at length. “Monarchy– the institution– is a powder-keg. You ask people to believe someone is more fit to rule by blood, or divine appointment, and then treat other things as business-as-usual. There’s a stiltedness to founding your institutions, even only formally, on empty self-aggrandisement. So when stability, and what you count on from the state, begin to decay, you don’t trust the bastards who cling to titles before truth. And if you try to speak reason, you’re scapegoated or shot.”
”Second question,” he said. The air in the room was very still, a distant siren and the furious click of keyboards from the main office the only sounds. “Who in Khornera tells the truth?”

Arcadis
Khornera, Dominate Crownlands

15 de marzo, 2020; 16:40

Click. The phone went back into the receiver, and the slight woman at the desk rubbed her eyes with the back of her knuckles, delicately, so as not to smear her mascara. Dark-brown hair, still unmarked by gray threads, cascaded around her wide face and delicate cheekbones. She drew it up into a bun at the nape of her neck, sniffing in the damp air of the office. The Special Envoy felt drained already, and this was no more than a courtesy call. Two days ago, the most pressing thing on her agenda was helping the Ambassador and a delegation from the Commissariat of Trade negotiate an electronics deal in Waloryum.
A phone call from the Commissar of International Affairs and the Prime Minister had earned her a midnight flight on a military plane to Arcadis. She despised the speed and cramped quarters of fighter aircraft, but that was the economical choice at the time, and she’d had no other option. She had, at least, been able to take a nap during the drive from the military airfield they’d landed at. A small mercy.

Someone knocked at her door. “Come in, please,” she called, straightening in her seat. The door swung open, and an elderly man with a cane and impeccably tailored gray suit entered, shutting it neatly behind him. He bowed slightly.
”Comrade Ribas. An honour to work alongside you again,” he told her, sitting opposite her desk and leaning his cane against the wall.
The Special Envoy exhaled roughly. “That word still seems almost profane coming from your mouth, Comrade de Ribarroja. Rest assured I don’t give a damn about your family title, and neither does the rest of the country.”
Her visitor was unfazed. “Just so. It is a useful piece of political theatre in this country, and I would never expect any countrywoman of mine to pay heed to my title– or rather, any save that of Ambassador to the Dominate Crownlands.”

”What was the response?” Special Envoy Ribas asked him.
”We’re in luck, it seems. The Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs has moved another meeting to make time for us, provided we hurry over summarily.”
”And your staff?”
”I have a driver,” he reassured her. “How is your Khorneran?”
Ribas winced. “I can follow along well enough, but cannot speak it, and would be ashamed to try.”
”Commendable, in truth,” said the Ambassador graciously. “Your specialties lie elsewhere, and you are quite kind to come here and leave your own duties behind for a time.”
It’s not as though I had any choice, she ruminated. There may well be no need for more trade deals if this goes awry.

”Very well,” she told him. “Are you ready, then?”
”Certainly. I instructed that they pull our coach around the front.”

~ ~ ~

Despite the thin spring drizzle, an attendant still opened their doors in front of the Ministry building. The Ambassador remained somewhat dignified, drawing an umbrella from the car alongside his cane and stepping around its rear to offer her an arm. Special Envoy Ribas ignored him, as casually as she could manage, then stifled a yelp of surprise as her heel caught between two of the flagstones. Extracting it and stepping alongside him, she made no comment. Ribas hated heels.

Justinius Hall was on par with any of the royal palaces around Puerto Yunque in grandeur, if not in taste. Too many staffers crammed the halls for it to be truly dignified, but this was a crisis, after all.
“Your Honour,” offered one, bowing slightly before the ambassador. “This way to the Deputy Minister, please.”
“My thanks,” he rumbled, following. Ribas trailed one step behind, thankful that she had no reason to play at such obeisance. They were ushered into a smaller, panelled room, where a damp wind blew in through windows cracked open over wooden sills sodden with rain. The Altiplanero diplomats sat opposite one another at a table to one side as the double-doors to the hall closed dully, muffling the noise of the commotion beyond.
Moments later, the Khorneran Deputy Minister entered from the adjoining room. She herself was slight, middle-aged, and dressed fully in black. A small Khorneran flag on her lapel stood out beside her freckles and chestnut hair.

”The Altiplanero Ambassador, Duke Manuel de Ribarrojas, and Special Envoy to CODEX, Elena Villahermosa Ribas, Órden de Áviles, Defensora Honrada de la Revolución Unificadora”, the staffer said before exiting.
The Duke stood, bowing slightly. Ribas did not. "Thank you for finding time on such short notice, Deputy Minister Praxis. You've taken on a great deal of responsibility.”
"Your Grace,” she addressed the Ambassador, sitting. It has certainly been a busy few days. Now, what can I help you with?"
The Duke glanced at Ribas, addressing her in Hyspanic. "If you feel need something translated, ask." She nodded curtly.

"In short," he began in Khorneran, "we have come with reassurances. Doubtless some in the Imperial Senate believe our government is behind actions taken by socialist and syndicalist organisations this past week." Ribas, brow creased as she listened, drew a briefcase from under the table and produced a thin folder, which she slid to Praxis.
Nodding to the Duke, she explained, "Our Commissariat of International Affairs and Commissariat of Defence have conferred, and we can state plainly that our government has no intent of fomenting revolutionary dissent within the Dominate, least of all during such a crisis." De Ribarroja translated faithfully. "Domestic terrorism," continued the Special Envoy, "cloaked in ideology or otherwise, is a grave threat to your citizenry and to the safety of millions across the globe."

The Duke finished rendering her statement in Khorneran. "We fully expect that individuals, at least, will claim affiliation with or support from various members of CODEX in an attempt to legitimise themselves. While we remain sympathetic to the interests of labour and secularisation initiatives broadly, and will not attempt to conceal such, the People's Confederation retains some faith in your institutions' capability to effect reform. God willing, we are not misled."
Praxis appeared surprised. "This certainly comes as a surprise to me to be sure, but a welcome one. Do you mind?" she asked as she took the thin folder and glanced briefly through its pages. "I can say for certain, His Lordship the Prime Minister will be pleased to hear this. But I must ask, I take it this statement does not necessarily reflect the positions of other CODEX members?”

Ribas looked uncomfortable at this, and drew her lips tightly. "Several of our comrades remain reticent to engage in Ordan affairs. Others may view instability in your state as an opportunity. Neither the National Federation of Syndicalists or Socialist Unity Party have made overtures to our government as it stands, but I know nothing of other ties, realised or potential."
"Interesting. In any case I must thank you for your honesty. It is refreshing to see such sincerity. That being said, is there anything you need of me?"
Ribas shook her head. "Assurances channels will remain open. I am flying imminently to Sahil for negotiations there, however, His Excellency the Duke de Ribarroja will remain in Arcadis so long as public order is maintained."
"Thank you. I am quite certain that will not be a problem. So far the capital has been spared the worst of this situation."

"And may it remain so," offered the Duke. He stood again, leaning slightly on his cane, and this time looked pointedly at Ribas until she followed suit. Praxis also stood up, shaking both of their hands.
"Your Grace, miss Ribas. I thank you for your time. Miss Ribas, have a safe flight."
The Special Envoy thanked her as the Deputy Minister took her leave. On cue, the hall doors swung wide, and they were beckoned out.

~ ~ ~

Halfway back to the embassy, Ribas broke the silence. “You do realise, Comrade de Ribarrojas, that I am flying to Sahil in a few hours to meet with other CODEX leadership? And that I shall have to defend this stance?”
The Ambassador was nonplussed. “You assented to this, regardless of whether or not you felt you had a choice, and you, as I, are a public servant.” She avoided his gaze. “What do you believe, personally?”
”That none of us are qualified for this, perhaps,” she told him. “And that we may well not realise that until a great deal of blood is spilled.

by **Kolintha** » Tue Apr 07, 2020 3:30 am

Place Bettencourt, Senon
Republic of Redon, within the Eternal Dominate

25-03-2020
09:21

Marshal Leclère took a long, final drag from his cigarette as he watched the ongoing demonstration from the window of an elegant Senonese café. Opposite him was his subordinate, Deputy Controller Paisoux, and a little handheld radio, which the younger man fiddled with incessantly, listening intently to the scattered chatter of the riot squads.

Jean de Paisoux, by Leclère’s estimation, was the enthusiastic, yet simple type: the twelfth son of a high ranked excellence with a lot to prove but few to prove it to. His father had evidently pulled some strings to ensure a decent, out of the way appointment for the boy. But Leclère didn’t mind him so much. His initial reaction, when he had first been assigned the lad some months back, had been one of mild annoyance, but he had grown to tolerate the boy’s excitability. It was at times a welcome distraction from the banality of work.

And to his credit, the combination of consistent semi-competence and a semblance of a moral backbone were tough asks for the average Redonaise gendarme.

“Controller, I should think that the officers do not require your constant doting.”

Paisoux flinched at the mention of his rank and pushed the radio aside for a moment.
“My apologies, sir. For the fidgeting. It’s an unfortunate habit,” he said, just a pitch too high, before eventually meeting Leclère’s eyes, “Although I must ask, sir, why are we even here?”

From the café’s first floor window, the both of them had a pretty good view of the Place Bettencourt – that once glitzy, now slightly decaying old square at the heart of Senon's old city centre that had become the favourite haunt of various demonstrators in the last month or so, as the situation in the Dominate grew increasingly strained.

Today it had been occupied by a sizeable host – nationalists, progressives and socialists who had descended on the Redonian capital in the early hours of the morning, readily armed with flags, banners and all. There were some 3,000 assembled when the police deployed, and more had slipped in before the square was fully encircled.
Their planned march - legitimately filed - had been planned to start at the square and proceed down the Rue de la Mairie until they reached the Grand Assembly, before moving along to the Consular residence. Alas, only a day after the route was approved, the Prime Minister of Khornera was blown to hell by radicals, and authorities in the Republic had immediately responded by 'indefinitely postponing' all public gatherings.

It was all rather a mess, as Leclère saw it, but that was politics.

"As the badge says, son. 'Special Authority for the Maintenance of the Peace'." He growled in response, looking back to the square. The demonstration for now remained peaceful. Most of those assembled were older, calmer types, with a few youngsters mixed in, and they had yet to directly provoke the dark wall of riot police that had assembled to fence them in. "They're harmless, but the brass want them off the street. The folks in Arcadis were harmless old libs too."

He stubbed out the cigarette on the metal coffee table - to a displeased but silent glare from the lone barista - and stood to leave, with the Controller shooting up to follow him.

"But in that case, shouldn't we just clear them off now?" the Controller asked, "The longer we wait, the more agitated they'll get."

"We'll clear them off, but you've got to do it just right. Believe me, boy, I know what I'm doing."

Stepping out of the café, the sounds of the protest became far more audible. There were some messianists in the crowd, as was common in these nationalist rallies, and a group of them had started up some old Anglian hymn as they milled about with uncertainty. Another group - students mostly - were closer to the police positions and seemed to be attempting to argue with one of the Special Authority officers on the line, though he gave them only a bored look in response.

Suddenly however, the messianists hymn was joined by another source of song, this one from beyond the east side of the square, and some of the SA men began to shuffle around the police lines in response.
Paisoux heard a crackling tone from the radio and answered immediately, while Leclère attempted to light up his fourth smoke for the day.

"What's the matter, Controller?" He asked irritably, repeatedly pressing the switch of his lighter to no avail, "Fuck, the damn thing's busted."

"Ah, Sir. It seems there's another party - counterprotesters. It's Flambeux de Jove. " Paisoux stuttered, "Sir, this is why I really think we need to clear the square. Bégnan's people are trouble. They'll start a riot if we let them anywhere near the main demonstration."

The messianists had stopped their hymn entirely now, and the shouts of the Glorian zealots could be clearly heard. The ‘Torches of Iovis’ were known trouble-makers, particularly of the sectarian sort. Leclère hesitated for a second, but quickly made his mind up.

"And they'll riot right where they are if we don't. Let them in and tell Controller Bonnot to call over the Freya squadron."

"Sir! I-"

Vicêtre
Republic of Redon, within the Eternal Dominate

Three days earlier,
22-03-2020
21:21

“The Workers’ and Soldiers’ Army has risen close to our borders, Comrades. We are at a turning point. As of this morning, I hear Grizen has opened fire on the Khorneran governments. This is why I have gathered you here.”

A bead of sweat worked its down Lazard's head as he addressed the fifteen leaders of Redon’s socialist and social democratic parties assembled before him. Said assembly might be impressive, were the attendees not dressed in a wild array of outdoor coats, sleeveless vests, sleepwear and crumpled suits, and crammed tightly together onto a 30-year old sofa and an assortment of wooden stools and plastic chairs in a tiny apartment of a nondescript residential block somewhere in Vicêtre. Many had eyebags, and seemed to have slept little since they had arrived in the little southern city.

He himself spoke from a standing position, next to another gent – a stranger to the assembly. Both of them looked far more put together than the rest: Vincentius in a well-worn blue three-piece suit, with the little red pin of his Front Totaliste attached at his lapel, and the stranger next to him in a pristine uniform of the Imperial Army Land Forces.

“Does said turning point involve you getting me shot, Mr. Lazard?”

The sour quip came the owner of the apartment, a short, hazel-haired, middle-aged woman with a habitual scowl. This was Rosa Sylvestre, former deputy leader of the Fédération d'Humanistes Socialistes – now the interim leader, following the arrest of her superior, Nicolas Bachet. She glared at the stranger with suspicion.

“At ease, Ms. Sylvestre! This man is a comrade as well!” Vincentius declared loudly, patting the soldier’s shoulder and encouraging him to introduce himself.

“Lieutenant Colonel Alixandre Maillard, of the Cercle Rouge CMLC. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Comrades.”

“Central Military Liaison Committee?” Another voice perked up. This one belonged to Ymbelot Dumont, of Redon Libre, the Assembly syndicalists, “I wasn’t aware the Cercle had worked it’s way that far up the Imperial ranks.”

“My organisation has its power base in the national forces, yes.” The Colonel replied, “And I served there, as an NCO. I entered the Land Forces by transfer. It is easier in the Redonian regiments – they are short on officers, and do not make the proper checks.”

“If the army of the Dominus himself is not making proper checks, I dare to think Mr. Lazard is capable of the same ineptitude.” Sylvestre added, “I do not trust you, Mr. Maillard, to be frank. It doesn’t matter whether or not you are with the Cercle, because I do not trust that little band of conspirators either. So, I ask you what you are doing here, in person and in uniform.”

Lazard grimaced. Spiteful old cow.

“Comrade Sylvestre, Comrade-Colonel Maillard is, as he has said, a liaison from the Cercle and its military chapters. He has come to inform us of developments within the Imperial and Republican forces, and the plans of the Cercle in organising a general revolutionary struggle.”

“We are being hunted down, Lazard. All of us barely got out of Senon. The Special Authority raided our headquarters and seized Bachet before the PM’s death was even public info. We are not in a position to organise anything. And at this rate, your uniformed friend is probably going to give us up before we can even cross the border into Almia.”

“I would like to hear what the Colonel has to say,” Dumont said, dabbing at his bald head with a handkerchief, “We have already put ourselves at risk merely by coming here. Given our situation, I feel it may be even more crucial we take action – but we must consult the membership.”

“There will be no crossing into Almia, and there will be no consulting the membership,” the Colonel cut in, “The Capital and the borders have both been placed under lockdown, and you are right, the Consulate wants to make sure there aren’t any repeats of the Grizen situation in Redon. However, my organisation can guarantee your safety providing you cooperate with us. We are in a position where we can muster a significant number of troops-“

“Colonel, be very careful of what you’re going to say next.” Sylvestre warned.

“We can muster a significant number of troops – Republican army mainly, a handful of regiments from the Land Forces, loyal to the cause. And we can seize key parts of the capital, the railways, the power stations. We can cut the Redonian lines of supply to the Imperial Army. They cannot move to challenge us if they lack the fuel and the rail carriages.”

“To the people, this will look no different from a coup d’etat, Colonel.” Dumont trembled a little, while the other representatives muttered excitedly. “Are you sure they will not rally by the Consulate?”

“The Consulate is a paper tiger, backed only by the manipulation of the aristocracy, and the Gendarmerie’s monopoly on force.” Ferrant Cazal – an Anarchist, one of Dumont’s own circle – spoke up, “The Cercle are snakes, I will agree with Ms. Sylvestre, but the people are firmly with us. And the fact they come to us for help suggest to me that they believe so as well.”

“Precisely, Mr. Cazal.” Lazard looked squarely at Sylvestre and Dumont, “You understand, Comrades, that this will be our only chance. We can begin the operation on Friday. Our Comrades have made the necessary arrangements on the military side of things, and the takeover shall be quick and bloodless. What is crucial however, is that we, as elected representatives, muster the People to strike, and take to the streets.”

Maillard gently pushed aside the transparent curtains of the apartment window, as an argument could be heard from outside. The room went quiet, as the representatives listened anxiously to the rapid-fire streams of profanity.

“Stand aside! We will search the building. This is our jurisdiction.” One of the voices outside barked.

The order was followed the sounds of truck engines and heavy boots on concrete, answered in short order by a sudden rapid burst of gunfire, from somewhere within the building, a few floors below.

“Fuck, they’ve got gunners up in the windows. Stand fast!”

The Lieutenant Colonel nodded at Vincentius as the gunfight below ensued.

“It is time, Comrades.” Vincentius said finally, producing a small pistol that he had concealed beneath his waistcoat, “The Colonel’s men will not hold the Authority forever. There is no more time for debate. We vote now.”

Office of the Redonian Consuls, Senon,
Republic of Redon, within the Eternal Dominate

Two days earlier,
23-03-2020
17:15

The Gagnon Building had always been a funny place for the Redonian Consulate to make its home. It was a gaudy little palace of a residence, filled with gold and velvet furnishings, and it’s façade was a neo-classical assault on taste, with ten marble pillars carved in the forms of pre-Glorian deities and a great set of wooden double doors, framed by gemstone-encrusted platinum.

It was all the epitomy of the ‘Luxuria’, that little period of the 19th century when many Dominate architects discovered a renewed fetish for ancient Arcadian aesthetics, at the same time as many Imperial aristocratic and business magnates had grown into the idea of spending their wealth freely and frivolously on such grand projects. This prosperous era of decadence was no less prevalent in Redon, and it was especially appreciated by the dictator of Redon at the time, Galterus Bettencourt, who constructed the Gagnon and several other fine town houses as gifts for his many mistresses. After his passing however, the Gagnon would eventually become unoccupied, and fall into disrepair, until many decades later it was again returned to the State. During the Endwar, the Hyspanic fascist army had seized Senon by force, and while the capital was largely spared the complete devastation that met the rest of the country, the old residence of the Consuls – the dual heads of government of the Redonian Republic under the semi-democratic constitution that had followed Bettencourt’s death – had been entirely razed. As a result, the elected leadership of the Republic now resided in the gaudy estate of the mistress to an old tyrant.

Nevertheless, they had a great view, figured Clérisseau, as he looked down from the building’s rear balcony onto the silent streets below.

Clérisseau, as the essentially powerless Premier, did not officially have quite such luxurious furnishings. He himself, and his family, lived in a little townhouse in the business district, though he spent little time there, and little time in Redon full-stop. Far more often, he was at the Imperial Court in Arcadis, acting as the representative of the Republican government before it’s suzerain, His Divine Majesty.

But Arcadis it seemed, had gone to hell. A Prime Minister dead, and a new one from the military – supposedly by Royal & Divine Appointment. The streets in anarchy. Even the military had felt the shocks, as a handful of brigades declared their allegiance to the Provisional Government following the first few successful strikes from Grizen. And then there were of course the revolutionaries, rising up on the Capital’s door.

Clérisseau’s position in the cabinet meetings had been clear. He vocally opposed the crackdowns on the opposition, and he had called for the People’s protests to be allowed to proceed. As far as he saw it, the measures would only serve to push divided militant factions, previously easily controlled, to unite.

But it was a meaningless attempt at protest. The government had barely been run by civilians since the very start of the crisis. It was the little circle of generals that ruled now. The day after Decius Florent found himself deposed by the Dominus, a group of Gendarmes and Army officers had stormed into the Consulate, and into Clérisseau’s home. Their demands were simple – they would be given full authority to maintain order within the Republic, including complete control of the Special Authority and the armed forces, or they would award themselves said authority. And so the secret coup had occurred. The cabinet continued to meet, Clérisseau continued to address the public, and the Consuls continued to table emergency bill after emergency bill in the Grand Assembly. But it was the ‘Sabres d’Argent’ (as they seemed to call themselves) that pulled the strings now.

Suddenly, his phone began to vibrate in his back pocket, and he checked to see who it might even be. It was an unknown number, with a Redonian area code.

“Your Excellency, I am glad you answered. I would like to discuss with you a matter of great import.”

It took a second, but he quickly recognized the scratchy baritone and the ancien anglie accent on the other end of the line.

“Who-? Balthazar? You crazy rat-bastard, how did you get this number? This is a private phone.”

Balthazar Marinet Boutroux, Marquis de Bégnan. When Clérisseau had known him, the Marquis had already been penned as eccentric by Senonese high society. But his reputation had ascended to new heights in the last decade. Proclaiming himself a prophet, he founded a new religious movement – the Flambeux de Jove. It called for, in essence, a return to old glorian rites, and the creation of a true theocratic state, beyond even the inquisitorial extremism of the Imperial dark ages.

This in of itself straddled the line of crazy and heretical by Redonian standards, but what troubled the powers that be about Boutroux’s movement far more was the Iovists’ radical edge. They did not want an autocracy of the aristocrats or the ecclesiarchy; their slogan was ‘no masters before the princeps’, and they saw the traditional dukes and counts of Khornera and Redon, as well as the entire priestly hierarchy, as worldly restraints upon the manifestation of Immaculacy.

The Marquis and his populist prophetry evidently struck a nerve in the Redonian population. Redon was a stagnant country, with a lot of anger to spare.

“Time is of the essence, Premier. I will speak quickly. I have friends in high places, you see, and I understand that certain factions are currently at work, manoeuvring swiftly to respond to this crisis. These factions, Your Excellency, are maledicti. They are heathens and traitors who cannot be trusted.”

“The Sabres? They’re autonomists, that much I know…”

“Yes, but not only them. It is the opinion of my sources, Your Excellency, that Senon will soon become very dangerous. The Army, the Gendarmerie – they have been divided between some powerful interest groups. These groups will make their move soon; no, they have already made their move, as you can see with your current situation.”

“Balthazar, you have been a fountain of shit since long before you started your damn cult. Where are you getting your information?”

“This is a phone call, Your Excellency. If the Special Authority was not already monitoring your communications, they shall be soon. I cannot give you more details. What I will say is that it is paramount for the cause of all true servants to the Glory that you escape the capital unharmed.”

The Premier paused. What was so important about him? He and Boutroux had been friends and more, once, but that chapter of their story had been closed quite firmly many decades back, when Clérisseau entered politics.

“I can tell you are confused, Your Excellency.” The Marquis seemed to pick up Clérisseau’s thoughts from his silence alone, “Be assured, I have no desire to rekindle old flames. This is a pragmatic arrangement. You are devout enough man, and a potent symbol – known to His Divine Majesty and his court. Exactly the piece I and the People need to assert our true loyalty in the face of this mess.”

“Okay…” The Premier resolved himself, “Fine, let’s say I want to join up with your little loyalist front. I still have SA men on me and my home at all times. Azéma; that’s one of the Sabres men, a General. He attends all the cabinet meetings. I have no access to the Consuls.”

“The Consuls be damned. They were puppets before the Sabres even launched their coup. As for yourself, there will be a distraction soon, very soon. Around 10, tommorow or the day after. You'll know what it is. When you see the signal, take your family and make your way immediately to the Rue de Courtet. My people will take it from there. We've got a car to get you out of the city.” Balthazar said finally, and then hung up, before Clérisseau could utter a single further question or protest.

Place Bettencourt, Senon
Republic of Redon, within the Eternal Dominate

25-03-2020
09:51

As Paisoux predicted, and as Leclère had hoped, the arrival of the Iovists had quickly escalated the situation in the square.

It had all begun with a standoff, as to the demonstrators’ surprise the black wall of police abruptly parted for the newcomers, armed with torches in one hand and little wooden figurines depicting the Dominus in the other – commonly burnt as a form of symbolic sacrifice in Glorian ceremonies.

The messianist contingent and the elderly quickly moved to the rear of the crowd, already expecting the worst, while the more hotblooded moved to meet the zealots.

“The Freya squadron is here, Sir.” Paisoux reported, referring to the Army armoured personnel carriers, painted in digital urban grey, which had lumbered in to position themselves on the crest of the Rue de la Mairie, looking down on the square at the bottom of the hilly street. “Shall I order them to move in?”

“Not yet, boy,” Leclère chided, taking the squad radio from him, “For now, we watch.”

Scuffles broke out, though the two groups remained a few meters distant from one another, almost as if daring the other party to make the first move. The progressives, outnumbering the Iovists, quickly encircled them, but were kept at bay by the lunging of the torchbearers in the front ranks.

Eventually, one of the students moved forward to take a swing, and his fist finally successfully connected with the nose of one of the Iovists with a light crunch and a spray of blood.

Immediately, this provoked a frenzy, and the protesters suddenly collided in earnest. The demonstration became a battle, and then a disorganized melee.

“Now,” Leclère barked into the radio, dropping the cigarette he had clamped between his teeth, “All squads, move in. Bonnot, bring the gas and water cannons down here.”

The police lines finally began to advance, slowly and deliberately penning the melee in at the centre of the plaza, around the base of the stone monument depicting the square’s namesake. As some of the protesters – progressives and Iovists both - moved to retreat from the frenzy, they were quickly plucked from the crowd by the SA officers among the regular riot cops and pinned to the ground. Some tried to break through the lines with brute force but were quickly beaten to the ground with telescopic batons.

Soon, the APCs had rumbled their way down to the base of the hill, and the few dissidents still brawling with each other began to panic as well, as with a series of soft pops metal canisters trailing stinging, white vapour began to descend in an arc from the sky.

Then, equally suddenly, Leclère heard a noise from behind, and looked back, searching for the source. He quickly found it: the screech of tires on concrete, as an unmarked white van crested the hill where the APCs had been just a few minutes ago at full speed. It flew through the air for a few seconds, before landing roughly and nearly spinning out of control. Yet the driver regained his balance, and continued speeding – directly on course towards the square, and the rear of the police blockade.

“What the FUCK happened to the rear checkpoint?” He yelled into the radio, before thrusting it at the Controller, “Alert the sniper team! We’ve got a fucking idiot aiming up for a hit-and-run. Shoot the bastard. Shoot him!”

The SA gunners, stationed beforehand in buildings overlooking the square, quickly responded, and three bullets cut into the van in sequence. One, in a spray of glass and viscera, shattered the windscreen. Two plunged into the engine, unleashing sparks and a thin tongue of flame. Three missed, taking off only the side mirror.

As the van continued to barrel downhill, and both Leclère and Paisoux dived for cover, one of the Freyas rolled backwards to block its path.

The van met with the APCs armour at 50 km/h much as a water balloon connects with a wall, and finally, decisively, came to a halt. The driver, or what was left of him, was propelled through the remnants of the shattered glass before him as a wild blur of whirling limbs, tangled together in the impact, while the thin metal at the vehicle’s front crumpled, melted, and turned to shrapnel, caving in like a battered skull and erupting with flame from the engine.

The Freya was overturned, and one of the crew desperately threw himself out of the top hatch, his back covered with glass and plastic, as the engine fire engulfed the gas canisters mounted on the vehicle’s armoured flanks – causing the compounds to activate, the gas to escape out with a loud hiss, and in brilliant bursts of flame, transmute into phosgene and cyanide from the excess heat.

Finally, the van’s package had been delivered. And in the heart of Redon’s capital, the package exploded.

Republican Army Base RRA Duchemin, Arriane Province, Close to the Khorneran border
Republic of Redon, within the Eternal Dominate

25-03-2020
13:51

Roheisia Rigal’s personal office in Duchemin’s barracks was relatively modest, bordering on spartan. It was small – barely sufficient to fit more than three people – and minimally decorated, with a rather unergonomic wooden desk stacked high with paperwork. Besides a set of two small flags – one, the lightning banner of the Dominate, and the second, the Redonian bicolour - the only major indication of the personality of its occupant, the commander of the 48th Independent Cavalry Battalion (Redonian Republican Army 3rd Divison), was a single small cactus positioned next to a portable coffee machine, which also rested on the desk.

Today, the office was additionally occupied by a surprise visitor, who sat opposite from the Lieutenant Colonel, holding a mug of cheap instant coffee.

“…I have come to say that, regrettably Colonel, you are being relieved of command of this battalion.” The Major General began calmly, his grey moustache twitching as he took a long sip from his cup, wincing at the taste. He was a gentle old man, surprisingly enough for his military occupation, and a retiree from the Imperial Army who had chosen to continue his service for a few more years in the Redonian national forces, always hungry for experienced officers. Roheisia had served under him for some 4 years, or more or less since she was first assigned to the 48th.

“This is rather sudden, sir,” Roheisia straightened up, remaining perfectly composed and keeping her grey eyes firmly on her superior, “Might I ask the reasoning? This is a strange time for downsizing, if that’s what this is.”

The General sighed and leaned back in his plastic chair, putting his misery coffee aside. “It isn’t… downsizing per se. You know very well Colonel that if it came to cutting nonessential officers from the brigade, you would not be among my first choices.”

“So, it’s a decision from above.” The Colonel pushed, “Would this be related to the cordial visits I have received from the Special Authority?”

The General remained silent, biting his lip.

“I understand that, even as a soldier, I have at least a nominal right to free exercise of my views in private.”

“Things are complicated right now, Roheisia… I was in the capital just yesterday. General Azéma met with me in place of the Marshal when I went to appeal this order.”

“I’m well aware that things are complicated, sir.” Roheisia replied, resting her head on her hands, “I am somewhat upset however, that in light of this complication, you appear to have informed the reactionaries in charge of the army right now of my political leanings. You know full well this isn’t going to end simply with a dismissal for me, sir.”

“I have done all I can to protect you, Colonel, and the rest of the men under my command. But I can’t refuse direct orders. You know how this looks to Azéma’s lot. You might just be a messianist who hangs around with union types, but that’s practically a badge with a hammer and sickle on it as far as they see it. They think you’re Cercle Rouge.

Suddenly, the office phone rang, causing the general to jump.

“Do you mind if I take this, sir?” Roheisia asked, picking up the receiver and rolling her chair back to look through the office blinds, out into the courtyard of the barracks. The General gave a shallow nod.

“Rose, change of plan.” The voice on the line spoke quickly and urgently, and the Colonel could hear the rustling of wind in the background, alongside the whine of emergency sirens, “There’s been a bombing in the capital. Lots of people dead. Fuck. It’s – it’s a mess. Gendarmerie and SA are swarming in. It was a protests. Police, civilians, some Iovists or something…”

“I’m, uh, occupied right now, what do you want me to do?”

As she spoke, she watched the scene unfolding below in the courtyard, as several of her officers chatted with the escorts that the General had brought with him, planted at the entrance. One snuck glances up towards her window every few seconds.

“Fuck. Okay so, we’ve got our people at the stations. Those are mostly locked down now. Commander of the 5th Artillery tried to rat us out – the men caught him and locked him in a storage closet at the garrison. But I think the Sabres are onto us, we’re moving out now. We’ve also seized the radio building – we’re going to broadcast the declaration from there. What you need to do is spread the message. Get the battalion ready to move as well. We’ll need reinforcements in the capital.”

“Got it. I’ll get people on it then.” Roheisia finished, putting the phone down with a clunk. She nodded to the officer outside. It was time.

“Who was that?” The General asked, looking slightly anxious. Perhaps he had heard something.

“It seems something terrible has happened in Senon, sir.” She spoke slowly, reaching into her desk, “A terrorist attack.”

He turned pale and stuttered as the Colonel pulled out a 9mm Zusian pistol.

“It’s not for you. Don’t worry, sir. But I’m afraid I will have to reject your dismissal.”

An alert sounded on base. Another quick glance out the window revealed the General’s escorts, now in cuffs, being led away by a group of Rigal’s officers. They were not the only ones. Several others from the Battalion itself – identified beforehand by secret lists – were also dragged out of the barracks, cursing and spitting as they went.

“This is treason, Roheisia. You’re going to lead us into the same damn situation as the Crownlands.”

Roheisia stood up, motioning with the pistol for the General to produce his wrists, as two tankers entered the office, one with a pair of handcuffs, and the other with a loaded carbine.

“I was personally fully content doing nothing, sir, until this situation forced my hand.” She growled, pushing past him and the pair of enlisted men, “Sergeant, pass along a message to our contacts in the other commands, and only our people. We don’t know who we can trust. And make sure we secure the rail depot. We must retreat to re-enforce our Comrades in the capital.”

by **Valourium** » Wed Apr 08, 2020 11:00 am

4th Support Battalion Headquarters, 12 km West of Altaterra, Almia
15:58
21 March, 2020

Dymitri Pitrovič swung his legs onto a cheap industrial cot. Heaving a most sincere sigh, he lazily pushed a soft paper pack out of one of his breast pockets. His first restful moment in two days--the flight over on the P-28 didn't count--a blissful fuzziness started creeping into him from the furniture. Settling in, a whole hour before he had to see anyone, he pulled a smoke out of his soft pack. As he took it, loose hemp spilled all over his chest, evoking a muffled string of curses as he swiped it all off of him like a cat. "Fucking embarrassing I still get this much shake each pack," he said, bitter about the subpar packing.

Finally he lit the smoke, sticking up from his mouth like a monument to the question "why do I put up with this shit?" Inflating his lungs to capacity, he held in all the smoke for a moment as his mind flashed with images of how much his job is about to suck. Exhaling with a light sigh, as if to say he was over it, he had determined he couldn't afford to give a shit. An ideological devotee and a Valourian patriot, he was eager to contribute however he could to the organization of the Khorneran proletariat. And especially right now, he had to get over the shit ahead. He had to decompress while he could.

Then, as if Jubog had a personal grudge against him, into the tent burst his immediate underling, nearly yelling “Sir! You have an Almyran visitor!”

“Fuuuuuuuck, didn’t we tell them 1700?” Dymitri said, putting out his smoke, not technically allowed inside the tents in the first place.

“Yes sir, this is someone else, though. A Captain Rizzo.”

Now the Valourian commander’s eyes opened wide with excitement, though their bags suggested he was dead inside. “Well don’t keep him waiting!” Pitrovič jubilantly exclaimed. Then his deputy left with a nod, and after a short moment the tent fluttered open again. Even more quickly than it fluttered open, a rather bouncy medium sized man made his way towards Petrovič, barely sitting up on his cot at this point, crying “Mitri! Mitri! It’s so great to see you after all these years!”

As the Almyran captain embraced Petrovič, the Valourian struggled to say “Hey now, it’s only been a couple.”

“OH you know that’s far too long!” holding him out at arm’s distance now, Rizzo asked “How have you been? Are you excited to be back in Almia? Have you found yourself a woman yet?!”

“Whoa! Whoa!” the Valourian went. Slow down a second. I’ve been all right, but no woman yet. I’ll save that for after my service. And I would be excited to be back in Almia, if I were going to spend more than approximately two more days here.”

Rizzo’s face contorted with confusion. “What do you mean? Is this not the support battalion we were promised?”

Pitrovič remained quiet. He looked from side to side slowly and diligently. “I can trust you with a secret, right?”

“O-of course!” Rizzo answered with his typical bombast.

“Hush down, would ya?!” Pitrovič snapped back in a hushed, pretend yell.

“Oh, pardon me!” Rizzo said back as quietly as he could.

Pitrovič exhaled roughly through his nose. “Yes, Rizzo, this is the support battalion Valourium promise. But I’m not here for border support.” He paused, and fidgeted a little bit with one of his breast pockets. “I’m here to lead a team through the provisional parliament’s South holdings, make a delivery to the Revolutionary Council, and make it back here undetected. Or, at the very least, undetected by anyone who cares. The Proletarian Union sees that the Council is in a frighteningly weak position to sustain itself in a war. Its goal is to issue directives and promises to the Council that’ll keep ‘em going. A socialist ally in the Dominate is a wet dream for Valourians.”

“Oooooh good god!” Rizzo began. Pitrovič attempted to hush him again, but it was not happening easily. “So that’s why you are here! Oh my god!” Again, Pitrovič attempted to keep his volume down. “I should have known something was up when I heard your name! Wait… Do we know you guys are up to this? I mean senior command, of course.”

“Yes. In about an hour, my team and I are meeting with some of your guys to go over the details of the mission.”

Rizzo started tapping his foot on the ground rapidly. “You realize, if you are caught, this is going to cause a huge fuss.”

“Well, that's what we train for.”

by **New Spanishland** » Thu Apr 09, 2020 5:28 am

Imperial Assembly, Nuevo Horizonte
20-03-2020
09:00am

Aurelio Zabala wrote seriously on his desk. He was in an office designated for the Parliamentary Committee on Foreign Affairs, although that was no longer his place as such; It had been about four years since he had been in the role of assemblyman and even so the Head of the Commission decided that he would allow him to have said space as many times as necessary as long as he notified him at least three days in advance. "When you sow good relationships you can reap good fruits even if it is not a season," he thought.

As he continued writing, there was a knock on the office door. He gave the voice of "go ahead" without waiting.

―I understand that it was somewhat hasty; however, I see that you could sleep.

―I slept until 5 am. I started writing everything on the way here.

Who was in his office was a mature woman. She wore a dark blue dress, black heels and a pearl necklace, her most usual clothing.

―I really would have preferred another order of events. I have enough business to attend to here.

― And what did you expect, Your Excellency? The situation was already at a loss since just over the beginning of the year! The dismissal of your counterpart is still recent.

Just remembering it meant a sting to the head.

―I do still not agree. But I consider it to be the best, Crown Minister.

―And I continue to assert that this is a useful way to proceed. Keeping silence and maintaining a hypocritical facade while chaos and suckers gain ground is the method of the Social Democrats! Also, Your Excellency, this is my way of helping you out with the Crown Minister of the Interior. Everyone in the Cabinet is already aware of everything that happens.

East Garden, Palace of La Velena
19-03-2020
11:30 pm

He hated those meetings; he hated those meetings with all his soul. And the worst of the case was going out at those unpleasant hours. "All for the good of the Nation and its best destiny" he reflected as he went to his car where the driver was waiting. He was walking, briefcase in hand when a voice called out to him.

―Wait a moment, Mr. Crown Minister.

It was Monserrat. It was a little cold, so she was wearing a gray trench coat.

―I'm on my way home, Your Excellency.

―The Emperor requests your presence. He has also summoned me, you must come with me. Now.

Zabala twitched a little. It was not conventional to call the Head of State by his title, much less for her, who kept the forms and ways. This kind of thing was not common and if His Imperial Majesty requested so quickly to two of his representatives it is because the matter was not a petty thing.

Aurelio decided not to delay the appointment with arrogant questions towards the Prime Minister. He followed her without saying a word.

Imperial Palace
11:47 pm

They were made to pass immediately, all the security of the palace was informed of the arrival of the Prime Minister and the Crown Minister of Foreign Affairs. They were ordered to escort them with His Imperial Majesty as briefly as possible. So it was.

He received them immediately. He has dressed simply: A gray dress suit without a tie and his custom-made black shoes.

―Please have a seat. I have some biscuits, tea and I also have a good cognac. Make use of what you please.

A little-known fact about the Emperor: His good ability to host.

Both Monserrat and Zabala took seats in comfortable and fluffy armchairs placed next to each other, there was another armchair in front where they assumed that the Emperor would sit. This room was the size of a small game room, with no windows and a 42-inch plasma screen. There were no pictures, no art, not even a family vase; It looked more like a moving room than an imperial room.

―I know it is late at night and you will want to go rest. I was watching the extraordinary session of the Assembly and also the last Council meeting, both very loaded so I will not waste your time and I will go straight to the point: The Dominate. What are we going to do?

The one who spoke first was Zabala. The matter of truth brought him quite attentive.

―Arcadis is the one who counts with the lawfulness. It is they who must count at the moment and, at least in word, with our support. Later that we’ll see what can move under the table.

―Helenna? ―The Emperor asked, looking her in the eyes.

―Your Majesty, this is already something extraordinary. I had to spend the whole day with the Crown Minister of the Interior and there are too many matters to put in order, not to mention the attempt to strike with the farmers and fishermen. If this is mishandled by us, protests will break out and it is what we all need the least. I would rather wait to see how events unfold further.

―Wait?! Aurelio exclaimed. ― Prime Minister Martinius-Leon was assassinated! Died during a damn mob of those supposed Democrats. It is an alert; we must prepare to assist Arcadis as soon as possible.

―I am concerned about the advance of the lefties in the south. They are a potential threat but what are we going to do? I'm going with my hands full. Helenna wailed.

―Excuse me. ―His Majesty intervened. ―But it seems to me that Aurelio is ready to lend a hand to you. Or not?

―Of course, Your Majesty.

There was silence for a moment, for Helenna, it seemed eternal while Zabala was thrilled. The Emperor turned to Aurelio so that he could speak to him.

―Then it is settled. Aurelio, you’re commissioned to attend the crisis, address the Assembly in the Session tomorrow and offer statements in accordance with what was discussed tonight. We'll see each other again in two days. You both are dismissed.

Imperial Assembly
09:20 am
20-03-2020

―You have a plan, don't you, Crown Minister?

Zabala could not be clearer on the whole matter’s perspective. This was the type of plays that, despite liking him, had little maneuver, and if he wanted to have a free hand in his actions, he needed to play his cards well in that speech.

―I understand what is at risk, Your Excellency. You will see that I can perform well in this first round.

―Good. Let's go to the Chamber, the session starts in ten minutes.

Chamber of Sessions
12:05 pm

―As the next item of the day, Mr. Zabala, Minister of Foreign Affairs, has the floor.

Prime Minister Helenna Monserrat was chairing that day's session in the Imperial Assembly. It was one of the few jobs that gave her a lot of fun in her duties as Head of Government of Hyspania and that she would surely continue to perform when the time came to leave her post to order. At that time, he thought that he would also like to return to the idea of dedicating himself entirely to his profession as a civil engineer since that gave him much more pleasure and personal fulfillment.

Zabala walked steadily towards the podium to offer his address to the Assembly. Elegantly dressed in a slim-fit black suit, tailored pants and shoes, and a dark blue tie, he not only felt imposing but comfortable. He was carrying a folder with some papers in his hand, which he proceeded to place on the podium lectern. Next, he adjusted the microphones a little and directed his gaze to all the members of the camera present. The Chamber was completely full, everyone was in their place.

―Thank you very much Madam Prime Minister and thank you very much members of this honorable Assembly. He started to say. With his eyes he panned again, in order to measure the spirits of the room, only to conclude that everyone was aware of what he was going to say, many of them were party mates and the others who belonged to the conservative Republican bloc seemed expectant, but with a clear idea of the kind of speeches he used to give to parliament.

―Honorable members, representatives, correspondents of the press who are present today in this extraordinary session of our national parliament. He intoned, savoring every word.

―It was a day like today, exactly two years ago that I was entrusted with the noble task of leading the efforts of our Ministry of Foreign Affairs. A great challenge that I decided to take on as a diplomat knowing that would succeed to one of our best experts in the field, Dr. Luís Holt-Valdivieso. A man who devoted his entire life, without exaggeration, to the study and practice of political science in the international arena, achieving during his more than 40 years of distinguished service in different departments great successes for our Nation, our institutions and each of the professionals that integrate them. I ask applauses for him.

The chamber was then filled with warm applause and gestures of approval. Aurelio Zabala was known for his sense of humility and his unforgiving character. A character that they would know much more in the minutes to come.

―I wanted to make a brief oral report on the most immediate and tangible results that the Ministry staff, making use of all the human potential, was able to achieve. I must also admit, for all those who still do not know me well, that pragmatism and simplicity are rules which I try to fully comply with. I did not come to His Imperial Majesty's Ministry to do tourism at this point in life No sir! In these two years, I have only made about five trips abroad. Only five.

The minister intoned the last two words with force. He wanted his voice to resonate in every corner of the chamber.

―In Gyunghwa, for example, our team managed to sign various commercial economic agreements so that our companies, brands, and franchises could develop in that country. These agreements represent around 15 Million Solar for each company. When I had the opportunity to visit the city of Eito and we met with the Chancellor's top advisers to discuss the agreements for the development of infrastructure in the transport sector, we did it on very good terms, and now both countries are working together for the construction of trains and roads.

The representatives seemed happy. They had already read the Ministry report and the results were gratifying.

―However, I must also admit and with some degree of regret, that in these two years there has been little that we have been able to achieve within our Orda. During this time, our team was able to sign several agreements in agrarian matters in Altzarch with the approval of the Zusea authorities, also thanking the kindness and hospitality of its officials. But of all our good allies and friends I cannot forget to mention, which in my humble opinion becomes our oldest and closest: The Dominate.

The loyalist bloc of the Assembly stood up and applauded, those of the conservative bloc only applauded and only a few members of the opposition allowed the same with the look of contempt in the majority towards Minister Zabala.

―Although I am sure that the liberals and social democrats are not very happy with what I have just said, I do not reproach them for that, but if you want them to have a minimum sense of belonging to their own country, remember that they swore an oath, okay? Said the Minister in a sublime tone. He had accomplished his mission: Steal some mocking laughter for the opposition.

―Lordships. The Crownlands has been established for centuries as an important ally of our nation in Orda and the rest of the world. I do not intend to give a history lesson but you must remember that when Hyspania saw herself devastated by the terrible scourge of Eutanism and the barbarities that the Legions committed against their own brothers and compatriots in addition to the terrible and unspeakable insults to neighboring countries, it was Khornera who bravely collaborated with our patriots to restore the honor and virtue of our land.

―No country is exempt from going through a crisis. Call it "providence’s challenge", "historical circumstances", or as you like, but crises are inescapable situations. Our peoples suffer, react and assume these extraordinary situations. Overcoming the crisis to improve as citizenship and as a nation is what marks the difference between peoples. Recently, the Dominate has been experiencing a series of events that have tested its capacity at both the institutional and civil levels. He paused briefly to adjust his voice. ―I take this opportunity to regret and send my heartfelt condolences for the unfortunate loss of Prime Minister Martinius-Leon, who, despite not having known him, we understand that he tried in good faith to lead his government and citizens towards a prompt and satisfactory resolution of the crisis.

Again, Parliament applauded.

―What will happen to Khornera? What will happen to the Crownlands? These are the questions made by the international community. As everyone present must know, the entire country seems to be dividing into different factions in an internal struggle, just as the entire society is mobilizing in a reflection of what happened in each of its regions. This is an opportunity that certain destabilizing factors have taken advantage of to uncover sad and unfortunate schemes against the Arcadis government, which, in case one forgets, continues to be the lawful government of the Dominate. It is interesting to see how those who yesterday used to be part of state ceremonies and ecclesiastical rites today decide to oppose their former authorities. He said and snorted. ―In part, crises have their positive side. They help us see who our true friends are in times of dire need; crises are good indicators of loyalty, don't you think?

―On the other hand, there are usually radicals. Those with over-stimulated ideas and lack of sleep. I advise everyone to sleep and sleep well, or they may end up like the unionists.

The majority of those present laughed. The rest only looked annoyed or were directly offended.

―Considering all events so far and understanding the implications that circumstances represent, I request your endorsement. To all. I remain silent after saying that, I needed to see how those last words fell on the members of the Assembly.

―I will say the following with all the responsibility that goes with it: The Dominate of Khornera and its people are at present latent and increasing risk. This is the time to show our appreciation to all the noble people of the Dominate. Again silent, he prepared to drop the bomb.

―It is the will of His Imperial Majesty, Manuel XVIII and Her Excellency Prime Minister Helenna Monserrat to extend recognition to the legitimate government of Dominus Ignatius VIII and its Prime Minister Remus Serrano Auric Cato-Decimus. We extend our hand to help you in this difficult situation as much as possible. Khornera You are not alone!

Applause and cheers were heard. The vast majority of the members of the Assembly supported the words and intention of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, while the representatives of the opposition were left with a look of disgust, others preferred to leave the Chamber.

by **Nerotysia** » Fri Apr 10, 2020 1:33 pm

Vicêtre
Parc LeMahieu
27 March 2020

I.
Es hat so lange mir gedräuet…
(It has been looming so long inside me...)

He was shaking. His blood was heating his skin. His heart quivered. He could feel his energy popping in his veins and muscles. The revolution had arrived, collapsing into dust the pretense of the old regime. Washing the streets with blood, so to speak. Now was the chance. Someone needed to orient this country away from the violence. Someone needed to guide things. The invisible hand. Redon needed an invisible hand.

An invisible, Zusian hand?

François Levett laughed to himself. Nothing could possibly seem more disgusting to the Redonian palate, he thought, than an invisible Zusian hand guiding the rebellion from above. Nonetheless, one would be necessary. He knew it. He could feel it.

He sat jittering on the stone bench as it cooled his buttocks. The sun prickled his nose. Normally he’d lean back into the hedge behind him, like he used to do in bushes as a kid, feel all the delicate leaves and branches embrace his cranium, tangle his hair, a spidery pillow of greenery, which never failed to relax him. Normally. He didn’t do that today because he needed to focus, and because he suspected nothing could relax him.

The coastal port of Vicêtre had avoided most violence, and enjoyed a bloodless takeover by the Cercle Rouge, the ringleaders of the socialist revolution, and Alixandre Maillard’s current bosses. François briefly recalled his first meeting with Alixandre, still an aspiring Commandant in the Dominate military, a few years back. He’d known every damn thing there was to know about Maillard, right down to the size of his dick. Facility 44, the foreign intelligence arm of the Volzi party, trained its sleepers well. Nonetheless, François had been surprised. He’d not expected he’d like Alixandre.

The saying always went that sleeper cells in Redon had it easy: a (relatively) friendly country, a familiar culture and language, and a highly cooperative government to boot. François himself had obtained his position next to his beloved Alixandre with the covert assistance of the Special Authority, who’d happily fabricated his entire life for Facility 44. According to all official records, François was born in a little suburb on the border with Zusea, and lived in Redon all his life, speaking both Redonian and Zusian, and interacting with both cultures. Everything had been so easy. Really, too easy, for someone like François. That’s why he was jittering, really.

“Monsieur Levett?” The voice came out of nowhere, deep and coarse in the soupy Vicêtre air.

François glanced up at the jagged-faced old man. He wore a ridiculous striped vest and clean dress shirt, walked with a shiny cane, and evidently had dropped out of the 1920s to join François in the hedge maze. Flashing a hint of practiced annoyance on his face, François removed a headphone and tilted his head. Waiting.

“Excuse me?”

“Monsieur Levett? Have you done your sweeping?”

François shifted into autopilot. “Indeed I have. How many times?”

“Forty-three sweeps, darling.”

“Forty-four, actually,” François corrected.

“Excellent!”

With the coded conversation over and their identities confirmed to each other, the old man took his seat next to François. The hedge maze of the Parc LeMahieu offered unparalleled privacy in the Redonian port, and François made sure to visit the hedges weekly to sweep for bugs (and, secondarily, to take a walk, which was his excuse for Alixandre). His handler was never the same person, but the language followed familiar patterns – the coded introductions, themselves the products of a vast network of covert communication, were the lynchpin of Facility 44’s sleeper network.

“Updates?” The old man said.

François slid a flash drive across the bench without looking. The giant hedges perforated the sunlight, dappling the curly flagstone pathways with spots of gold. Overhead the clouds drifted lazily. Not much wind today. The air clogged your nose, thick with heat. Rather fitting weather for a rebellious city sandwiched between loyalist territories – the source of Alixandre’s most recent headaches (and most recent sexual energies).

The old man picked up the flash drive. “Problems?”

“I have a proposal, actually.” François straightened.

“The Facility is not interested in proposals at this time.”

“Listen. We have an unprecedented opportunity in Redon. The revolution –”

“Presents a grave threat to Zusian interests, and thereby must be combated.”

“The Redonian government has always been awful. Now is our chance to acquire a proper ally.”

“You are not paid to play geopolitics, François.” The old man didn’t look at him as he spoke. It would be against protocol.

“I’m not. I’m proposing we take advantage of the coup, and the coming violence. My partner Alixandre is close with the civilian left, and could be pushed towards the socialist humanists, who are already soft on Zusea. Not only would his access be magnified along with his power, the humanists could very easily be tilted towards a pro-Zusian position.”

“Your partner Alixandre?”

François grunted his annoyance. “My target.”

“You have grown too attached to him. Would you like to be withdrawn?”

“No. I’m the best man you’ve got in the whole fucking –”

“Good. Then keep your head down.”

François growled. “Alixandre Maillard could be a radically effective asset. If, and only if, the Facility takes advantage of the situation.”

Briefly, Alixandre’s wonderful, thick, sculpted, downright imperial nose interrupted his thoughts. But only briefly.

The old man considered for a moment. “I’ve heard you’re close with the unionists.”

François’ hands clenched. How had he known this would happen? “Oh, really?”

“Yes. I seem to remember an internal investigation into your politics, right before your current assignment. You’d even obtained an audience with August Baumann, once, during your training. Quite remarkable.”

“I’m a free Zusian citizen.”

“You are an operative of Facility 44. You are apolitical. You are a fucking machine.”

The sudden curse nearly made François look over. Nearly. The word sounded alien in the old man’s mouth.

François shook his head. “You’re right. I serve the Fatherland, and the party. My politics are irrelevant. However, this proposal –”

“Good. Then drop this silly idea, and follow your orders. Redon is of secondary importance to the Facility. We will be shifting resources to deal with the crisis in Khornera over the next week. Your job during this transition is to follow orders, and keep the boat steady. Not to get creative. Understood?”

The old man left without waiting for an answer. François pursed his lips.

Morons.

by **Khornera** » Sun Apr 12, 2020 2:41 pm

04-01-2020

Arcadis had been changed.

It had not been a subtle transition. It started with the protests, while the constitutional convention was ongoing. Then, as both parties sat down together in Meriad, things seemed somewhat more calm. But then the violence surged to biblical proportions, ending in the violent and brutal death of the prime minister, Martinius-Leon. Ever since then, Arcadis started to reflect the fact that the nation was at war.

Political rallies were still a daily occurrence, except they were uniformly supportive of the government and the prime minister. A culture of collectively self-imposed terror had taken a hold of the city. The excessive violence of the riots that led to a Prime Minister's death had firmly moved public opinion in the city to the side of the loyalist. Even the once so vocal socialists and radical liberals now knew better than to speak up. To do so would mean death at a mob of Arcadis citizens trying to prove their loyalty.

And all that was not even taking into consideration Cato-Decimus' appointment as the new prime minister, with emergency powers nonetheless. Militias were forming even in the capital, all under the watchful gaze of an omnipresent military police garrison which patrolled the streets. Every street corner was now plastered with a series of propagandistic posters, either posted by the government itself, or by a variety of loyalist parties.

Taking a sip from a cup of tea, Lucius Amadion overlooked from his balcony the street his apartment was located at. The sun had already set, and a veil of darkness had fallen over the city. A curfew was in effect. The only people still outside were the occasional constables or militiamen with special permission from the government.

Walking back into his apartment, Lucius put down his cup on the glass coffee table next to his couch. He sighed and sat down in front of the tv, which was still tuned to a foreign news channel. After all, nothing from Khornera could be trusted now. The news broadcast by the Grizen channels was unapologetically biased towards the Provisional Parliament. The imperial news media was hardly any better, and while it was less propagandistic, it was obvious how censored it was.

Elena, Lucius' girlfriend sat next to him on the couch reading some news article on a tablet.

"-arliament forces report initial successes after combat engagements with loyalist forces near the northern border." the news anchor's words entered Lucius' ears but he wasn't really paying attention. "I think I'm going to go to bed." Elena said, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek and brushing her hands through his hair. "Alright honey, I'll probably be awake for a little longer."

Leaning back on the couch, he was only half tuned in to the news still going on. His vision was blurry, and most of his mind was occupied elsewhere. Despite the civil war going on, if one lived in the capital, life continued relatively uninterrupted. People still went to their jobs like normal. The only differences were the curfew and the soldiers. Elena was more worried than Lucius, and she had temporarily moved in with him since the riots that killed Martinius-Leon.

Half-asleep on his couch, Lucius heard the noises of vehicles pulling up coming from outside. It was nothing significant, probably. Most likely just a police patrol or some military shipment. But then Lucius was ejected from his half-sleep when he heard the sound of car doors being slammed shut. Rising from his couch, and still half-groggy, Lucius skulked over unenthusiastically to his balcony, gazing down at the scene below.

A large bus and several police vehicles were parked in front of his building, and over a dozen police officers disembarked hurriedly. Lucius still was not processing everything, until they, shouting orders and with nightsticks drawn, started kicking in the door to his apartment complex. His eyes widened, and whatever residual sleepiness was still in his system was replaced by a surge of adrenaline. He rushed into the bedroom shaking Elena "Wake up! We're being raided!" slowly she awoke, while Lucius stood next to the bed panicking trying to think what to do. The realisation suddenly hit him and he sprinted towards his working desk, where he pulled out several drawers to find the object of his search.

In the background, he heard boots rushing up the stairs. Elena looked up at him from the bed with her unkempt bed-hair covering half of her face "What the hell is happening Lucius?" she pleaded. Lucius was too focused to pay attention to her. Then, they heard several loud knocks on the door. "Police, open up. You have ten seconds!" Tears rolled down Elena's cheek "Lucius, what is happening?" she demanded as her voice cracked. Then, Lucius found what he was looking for: an expired membership card of the Socialist Party. It had been a whole year since he had been a member, and a fairly active one at that. He hadn't guessed it would come back so soon to bite him in the ass, but clearly things were changing. "Lucius!" Elena repeated, but he was already gone, rushing to find a lighter.

"We're coming in!" he heard the voice on the other side of the door shout. The knocks on the door ceased and were replaced by the thumping of a policeman's boot hitting wood. The wood shattered and splintered and three officers rushed inside. Two of them carried nightsticks, the third a handgun. When Lucius looked up and saw them he already had a lighter in one hand and his burning membership card in the other. "Drop that!" an officer shouted and Lucius complied, instinctively raising his hands as police officer rushed over to handcuff him. Upon getting a closer look, he saw that while they wore regular police uniforms, these officers carried a white armband on their right arm which read "Auxilary Police", whatever that meant. "Lucius Amadion, you are under arrest under section 4 of the emergency management ordinance."

"There is someone else here!" one of the officers shouted as he glanced into the bedroom with his weapon drawn. Elena screamed in terror. "Elena!" Lucius shouted and tried to break free from his police handler, but instead had his facial features brutally rearranged by the strategic application of a nightstick. He grunted in pain as he felt blood dripping down out of his nostril. "Bag her!" an officer shouted as the other dragged Elena by her hairs out of the bedroom, who by now was hysterically sobbing. Rage swelled up in Lucius. He wanted to reassure her, but he was too angry at this point to say anything that couldn't be interpreted as a threat that would warrant another baton strike. "Rest of the apartment is clear!" an officer confirmed.

Lucius and Elena were rushed outside, along with several others from his building, one of them being his downstairs neighbour. Outside, there were several other people in handcuffs, faces he did not recognise. But a large group of police officers surrounded them, and even some soldiers in uniform, who wore the same "Auxilary Police" armband as their law enforcement compatriots. Lucius had never heard of such an institution before. This close by, Lucius could see what the bus was about. It was a re-purposed bus, metal bars added in front of the windows, and the letters "Auxilary Police" in bold letters on the side. A dozen or so people were already sitting inside.

"Move!" Lucius heard a voice shout as he stumbled forward after being pushed. He and Elena were both herded in the bus, where he was pushed in a seat next to a middle-aged woman who was crying and frantically praying. All around him, the people all suffered the same kind of disbelief that he did now. Some responded by sobbing, others simply stared blankly in front of them. All the way in the front of the bus an officer, eyes them cautiously while holding a cattle prod in his hands. Elena sat in the seat in front of him. He wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, but they were both cuffed. As soon as he tried to even reach out to her, the police officer in the front walked down the aisle charging up his cattle prod "no touching!" he shouted, and Lucius instinctively pulled back his hands.

The doors to the bus closed and the bus took off. "We're going to be alright. This is all a misunderstanding. They'll let you go, I promise you." he whispered to Elena, but she almost seemed to be in shock. It was a few streets later when it became clear their situation was not an isolated incident. Their bus joined a convoy together with two other busses, headed towards the highway out of the city. The woman next to Lucius was still praying, her recital of scripture becoming ever more frantic and drowned into panicked sobs. The Auxilaries had mentioned something about 'section 4' of the 'emergency ordinance'. This was the first Lucius had ever heard of it, and it was the first time he had ever seen these 'Auxilary Police'.

The ride took almost two hours. All the while, the officer at the front never eased his gaze on his prisoners. Lucius tried to exchange a few words with Elena, but it seemed every time he did the policeman's gaze turned to him. The bus stopped at what seemed to be an old industrial complex away from the city. The kind of old building made of red bricks with large chimneys, almost the archetypical depiction of a factory. But it had been re-purposed into a makeshift prison camp. Fencing had been erected around the perimeter, along with rows and rows of barbed wire. Meanwhile, floodlights illuminated every corner of the facility while wooden watchtowers with soldiers in them provided overwatch.

"Out!" yelled the officer as the bus came to a standstill and the doors opened. "Hurry the fuck up."

Outside, the other busses were also being unloaded. A male voice over a loudspeaker, a pre-recorded message most likely, could barely be made out amongst all the noise. "Welcome, to the Alexandros-2 Internment Facility. You are here because you have been designated as a potential threat to the safety of the public. Do not fear, your stay here is merely temporary. Your guilt or innocence will be determined as soon as possible. Follow all instructions by security personnel, and remember: the Dominus protects."

Two rows of barricades had been assembled to form a kind of pathway that led into the facility, while guards with rifles patrolled on elevated platforms on the side. As they were herded into the crowd that was slowly entering the facility, Elena held firmly on to his sleeve.

The broadcast repeated: "Welcome, to the Alexandros-2 Internment Facility-"

In the distance one could still hear the sound of the occasional gunfire, or an imperial jet flying overhead. But apart from that, the village was eerily quiet considering it was at the frontlines. It had been under FNS control for half a week, and it had been the place where their insurgency first met organised loyalist resistance. The siege had lasted ever since. Loyalist militias, of Hadrian Cesare's Populist Party, had held the line while the army proper mobilised. The FNS quite simply did not have the manpower or mobilisation right now to push through and hold more territory.

Admittedly, Cesare's militias were not exactly first-rate military. In many ways, they were a mirror image of the FNS. Cesare started out as a particularly firebrand element of the Imperial Workers' Party, albeit of the ultranationalist persuasion. His followers reflected this, mostly blue-collar workers for whom allegiance to the Dominus trumped class consciousness. With the exception of their devoutness and social conservative attitudes, people like them constituted the recruiting pool of the FNS. They were hardly trained for war, fighting with an assortment of hunting rifles and old hand-me-downs. Yet, they were good enough to hold the line against the FNS, who was only marginally better equipped. They had bought time for the 4th Royal Rifles to appear, and now, the FNS soldiers on the front were in a tough position.

The FNS was in a tough spot. On one hand, they'd have to buy time, hoping CODEX could find a way to support them with much needed ammunition and supplied. On the other hand, that was exactly their problem. They did not have solid supply lines or large reserves of ammunition. Most of the Revolutionary Council simply lacked the technical knowledge to transform the factories they captured into facilities which could churn out bullets on a large scale. What ammunition they did have, tended to be spent rather quickly as the words 'trigger' and 'discipline' were not found in the FNS' dictionary.

Xavier Castelle had been particularly infuriated by his fellow syndicalists' ignorance when it came to war. Certainly, he had not expected them to be experts, but at the very least, he had hoped they would prove at least willing to learn. Instead, they stubbornly held on to the idea that revolutionary zeal alone would win the day. But Xavier only saw that zeal emerge when the militiamen of his unit had a few drinks, singing the songs of the international socialist movement. When it came to the boring side of war, such as sentry duty, rifle cleaning, or even basic logistics, they could always be reliably counted upon to be sleeping somewhere in a corner, or sleeping somewhere in a corner with someone.

The Workers' and Soldiers' Army, reportedly, was faring a lot better. While they lacked military skills like their FNS allies, they were significantly more disciplined and organised. For one, they actually had officers, which the FNS insisted on electing. The anarchists didn't have any at all. The Workers' and Soldiers' Army were the authoritarian Totalists of the Revolutionary Council, and it reflected itself in their stronger sense of hierarchy.

Xavier had been elected as 'first' of his unit, which basically amounted to the role of sergeant, but even then, he could not really go beyond what practically amounted to polite suggestions, as his commands were followed about as well as a rebellious adolescent follows instructions from their parents.

To worsen all their problems, the supply problem was especially prominent here. This bulwark of the FNS was isolated from its main stronghold in Styrgia, only being connected through a patchwork of territory held by other factions in the Revolutionary Council, notably the Totalists. Whenever the FNS actually managed to arrange a semi-regular delivery of supplies to depart, half of the time they got stopped by the Totalists who confiscated most of it for their own forces, leaving nothing for Xavier and his men. The anarchists were doing even worse. Their dogmatic rejection of authority meant that any supply run was on a purely voluntary basis, which, even with motivated volunteers, meant the process was irregular and chaotic.

Xavier and his men were stationed in a farmhouse just outside the centre of the town. The farmhouse was surrounded by wide stretches of farmland ending where the forests began. He knew that in those woods, the 4th Royal Rifles were planning something, along with whatever factions had joined them. According to the rumours, both Cesare's Populists and the Grey Legion were out there.

The entire village was of little strategic value, but it had served as the frontline for the conflict between the Revolutionary Council and the loyalists. The only thing that had kept the imperial and royal armies from shelling the village wholesale was the still significant civilian presence. Still, Xavier wished they would just abandon it, enthusiasm with the FNS' presence was rather lacking in the local community, and their 'liberation' had not led to as many new members signing up as they had hoped. What few men and women had taken up arms for their cause, still had to be properly trained.

In the distance it almost seemed as if Xavier could see something move. He grabbed a pair of binoculars to get a closer look. At the edge of the woods, a series of armoured vehicles started their charge towards the village. "We got enemy APCs, coming in!" his 'subordinates', if they could be called that, immediately jumped up from their game of cards and scurried for rifles. Actual armoured vehicles were going to be a problem, apart from improvised explosives Xavier and most of the FNS had no heavy anti-vehicle weaponry. One of his men immediately started opening fire in the general direction of the loyalist vehicles, at a distance where it would objectively have no effect. Xavier gave him a look of pure disappointment. The militiaman hardly even aimed down his sights, in what seemed to be what the Totalists had jokingly dubbed the "Styrgian death blossom".

"Save your ammunition you fucking idiot!" Xavier shouted. A bunch of voices went up. "What do we do?" one asked. Another raised his own voice in singing some socialist chant while another shouted at him to shut up. "Quiet!" Xavier shouted. "I'm hearing something..."

Indeed, he heard a whistle in the distance, something coming closer. Oh fuck...

"Get the fuck down!" he barked as he jumped in the ground and covered his head. All his men but one followed suit, the one remaining standing not yet realising what was happening. A split second later the roof tore open as a mortar shell entered the farmhouse and exploded. A load of rubble flew through the air and came down on Xavier's back.

He didn't know how long it was, but he assumed he must have been knocked out when his back was crushed. He still could barely move, having almost no feeling in his legs, not to mention the heavy rubble still pressing down on him. The gunfire that used to be a distant cacophony was now very close by, only a matter of a dozen meters or so. From where he laid on the floor, he could not see his squad mates, or whether they were alright. But he heard several voices coming from outside.

"Moving in!" a voice shouted. From the corner of his peripheral vision he could see several soldiers burst in the remains of the building, checking the corners with at least some modicum of professionalism. But their uniform was neither Royal nor Imperial. Instead, their faces were hidden behind balaclavas, and they wore grey helmets depicting the monogram of the Dominus. They were Grey Legion, the barely legal paramilitary of Faith and Fury. How they got professional military equipment and uniforms, Xavier had no idea.

"I got a survivor over here." one of the legionnaires said as he noticed Xavier. The man in grey knelt down beside him and held his rifle next to him. "What do we do with him?" the man asked. Xavier knew it was pretty hopeless, desperate, degrading even, but he nevertheless could not help but beg to live. But as he tried, nothing but gurgling noises and blood came out of his mouth. "Just kill him." the legionnaire's commanding officer said nonchalantly, as if he were instructing his son to take out the trash, which, in all likelihood, was how the fascist viewed the matter.

The legionnaire pulled a combat knife out of his chest rig and held it up for a second in the light, before plunging it into Xavier's throat.

by **Nerotysia** » Sat Apr 18, 2020 10:59 am

Urbalion
Inside the Aircraft Kardinal-1
2 April 2020

The fat silhouette of Kardinal-1 wandered the skies over Urbalion, spinning lazy contrails through the clouds like an airborne spider, the black dragons stamped on its flanks iridescent in the midday sunlight. Inside the gold-and-white shell of the massive airliner – a custom G&K A340-500 – dwelt not rows of narrow seats, but one of Zusea’s famous flying palaces. Kardinal-1, the leader of House Scharrbach’s fleet of private jets, boasted three individual bedrooms, plush seating in soft khaki or muted crimson, and interior walls accented with gold. Between the bedrooms sat the twelve-person dining room, all bright polished mahogany and blue-gold China, and the common room, featuring several crimson couches and three desks, for board games or serious work. Flatscreens dotted the walls.

Kayserling Maximian could hardly believe his eyes when he’d first climbed aboard earlier the same day. His parents, always fiercely independent, had always foregone the family’s jets in favor of commercial airlines.

“No reason we can’t fly economy,” his father would say, utterly assured of himself, whenever Maxi and his siblings found themselves rotting and whining in an airport terminal at five in the morning. Prince Alfred also liked early flights.

“Couldn’t we at least fly business?” Maxi would growl, curled around his favorite pillow.

“When you’re older, you can fly business. We shall not be wasteful.”

And that would be that. Maxi never bothered to argue very long with his father. There was never any point.

Once it became clear that Maxi might inherit the throne, however, Prince Alfred had relented, mostly to keep the House happy and protect his son’s interests. But even then, he’d insisted on the smallest jets of the Scharrbach fleet. The recent death of Rupprecht Wilhelm crumbled the last of Alfred’s resistance. Maximian was pulled fully into the campaign machinery of House Scharrbach as the family prepared for the death of Wolfgang and the subsequent royal elections, and Prince Alfred could no longer refuse the largest jets.

And so, a little more than two hours ago, the dazzled teenaged Kayserling had at last set foot on the famous Kardinal-1, to make an important visit to the Kyrosso-Zusian metropolis of Urbalion.

He’d only spent about the first twenty minutes of the flight being awed, though. He'd spent the next two hours reading legal memoranda.

That is how his cousin, Kayserling Alixander, found his fellow heir at the end of the second hour, as Kardinal-1 circled Urbalion in a holding pattern. Still reading.

Alix slid into the seat opposite Maxi and leaned forward with a smile, his shoulders straining the fabric of his sharp white dress shirt. His top button was loose – his neck had been too thick. He’d need a larger shirt.

“So. Are you reading the entire history of Urbalion, or something?”

Maxi glanced up with the barest flicker of a smile, bags crusted under his watery blue eyes. “No. Ossintoria.”

Alix snorted. “Maxi, that’s not necessary. They won’t expect a position so early. The protests just began.”

“Not anymore.” Maxi gestured at the television behind Alix.

The muscled princeling spun and stared, wide-eyed, as the broadcaster spoke:

– four injured, maybe more, and the situation is still developing – more police are arriving as we speak, the protesters have been fully trapped in Károlyi Square now, and we believe those mounted officers are the Ossintori State Police, and – oh dear – another round, it seems, another round into the crowd – more panic –

The camera swirled around the smoke-choked Károlyi Square as the Ossintori officers forced their way through the crowds: undulating, chanting, screeching, muffled by static through the television. Even from up high, tiny specks of blood glinted in the sunlight, staining the smooth white marble.

Rubber bullets, of course, outlawed in nearly every other state, but the Ossintori police are among the few remaining users – no official statement yet from the Privy Council or the office of the King, but, well, injuries continue to multiply….

Alix twisted back to face Maxi, incredulous.

“Fucking already?”

“They’re Ossintori, Alix. What the hell’d you expect?” Maxi fought the urge to stick out his tongue.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the slightest bit of restraint?” Alix groaned and chewed his lip – “we will indeed be asked about it, then.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’ve been reading.” Maxi pushed the first packet across the table, giggling weakly. “The entire legal history of rubber bullets in Zusea. Read up. I think we should formally support a nationwide ban. There’ll definitely be cases after that mess in Károlyi Square. The Kaisar’s vote could tip the Court, too – some of the conservatives have historically voted for police reform. It’d be a good wedge against House Ambrózy.”

House Ambrózy – an ancient name, far older than Scharrbach – not that the age helped when the Leninists overtook Ossintoria in the 20s, declared independence, and slaughtered half the royal family. Mátyás Gustávusz VII, the current Ossintori King, lost his father and two elder brothers to the communists. Rumor even had it that one of his cousins had been raped before her execution.

After Zusea’s reconquest of Ossintoria, Kaisar Arkadius returned the Ambrózy family to the throne, and allowed them to do essentially whatever they wished. The native Nerotysian dynasts had come to blame the communist revolution on democracy itself, and acted accordingly once returned to power, molding Zusea’s most autonomous kingdom into a reactionary stronghold. Modern Ossintoria remained an authoritarian blight on Zusian liberty, one which Wolfgang had repeatedly tried and failed to stamp out.

And so, the archconservative House Ambrózy always fought the Scharrbachs tooth-and-nail during the royal elections. They despised the Scharrbachs’ populist heritage, reformist inclinations, and largely pragmatic nationalism. Mátyás Gustávusz himself called for war with Valourium at least once yearly. Nonetheless, the Ambrózy family retained the support of the vast majority of the Ossintori middle- and upper-classes, thus making them competitive in every royal election. The saying went that the Scharrbachs held the nationalist right, and the Ambrózys held the Ossintori right.

Which is why Maxi had spent those two airborne hours reading about rubber bullets instead of napping.

Alix sighed and scanned the first page of the packet. “Have you spoken to your –”

Maxi nodded. “Yeah. He’s been back-and-forth with Drachenau and Altzarch. The family’s deciding.”

“And the protesters?”

“Two factions, primarily. The Ossintori Socialist Party – the local affiliate of the FZG – and the Neptic Congress.”

Alix blinked. “Isn’t the FZG banned from participating in Ossintori elections?”

“Yeah, that’s why they need an affiliate. The Presidium just announced an emergency meeting, though. Rumors are that the Inner party might finally crack down on the rebellious leadership in Ossintoria.”

“Any word from uncle?”

“Not yet.” Briefly, and despite his own lack of sleep, Maxi felt a twinge of pity for said uncle, the ailing Kaisar. The old man couldn’t catch a break.

“He should send in the Heimwehr. Ossintori police are breaking Zusian law.”

“No, they’re not, not technically. Not yet, anyway. See, this is why you read before you speak, Mister Let’s-use-the-army-to-solve-every-problem.”

“Oh, shut up, cream puff. Don’t make me whack you.”

Maxi giggled and whacked him first. “You can’t keep calling me that.”

Alix grinned, fingering his robust jawline. “I suppose the link with Khornera is unavoidable.”

“Well, it’s more probably Redon. No one likes any of the Khorneran lefties, but I’m pretty sure the protesters sang some Redonian hymns earlier. I just hope the backlash doesn’t tip us towards war.”

Alix shook his head, almost more for himself than Maxi. “Protests in Ossintoria are nothing new, especially if Neptic folks are involved. Everyone knows how racist that place is. No need for a backlash, no need for war.”

“You know the Ambrózys are going to trot out all the old conspiracies, though.”

“Oh, come on. No one ever takes those seriously.”

“First of all, yes, some people take them very seriously. And secondly, the Dominate’s collapsing right now, Alix. And now, suddenly, at the same time, protests in Ossintoria? That old Anglo-Valourian plot to destroy Zusea suddenly seems rather plausible.”

Alix snorted. “Oh God, spare me.”

Maxi chuckled. “I’m going to start believing it, just to annoy you.”

At that very moment, an explosion burst to life on the television screen and rippled through the speakers.

Alix spun his head – the two princes devoured the news broadcast, now clouded by more smoke as the camera pulled back – pitched screaming overwhelmed all other noise, vibrating the speakers, and below, the thousands of protesters churned in terror and split apart as another explosion rocked the square, this one close to the police barricades. Four horse-mounted officers disappeared underneath the spurt of flame, along with several fleeing protesters. The blood on the marble was clear now. Maxi even thought he could make out limbs. The screaming intensified. The stampede trembled the marble.

The two princes just stared at the screen for the next few minutes as police lines buckled under the onslaught of panicked crowds, and the protests broke apart like dried-out play-doh. Nearest the flames, still burning, a few brave officers approached the smoke to rescue the injured – the rest stayed back, wary of more bombs. Riot police flooded the far end of the square, beating and arresting stragglers, and building a perimeter around the two blackened epicenters.

Maxi’s breathing grew ragged. “God damnit. Fucking God damnit. What the fuck.”

Alix turned back to him. His eyes, a brighter Arctic blue, tunneled through Maxi’s. His skin had paled. “Do you remember – when were the last bombings?”

Maxi swallowed. “The ‘70s, I think. During the Hehlkrieg.”

Alix coughed up a sigh and dug his fingers into his temples. “God damnit.”

Prince Alfred, Maxi’s recalcitrant father and House Scharrbach’s newest campaign manager, strode into the room, cellphone glowing in his hand.

“Boys, the Committee wants to speak with you. We need a coherent position on Ossintoria.”

Maxi gestured dryly at the screen – “better get yourself up to date first, Vati” – and before he’d even finished speaking, Alfred had caught sight of the chaos on the television. His eyebrows tightened in shock. His phone buzzed angrily in his hand, forgotten. Two election staffers trailed behind him through the door, and they too were soon transfixed by the narrated broadcast:

We don’t know how many casualties, yet, but – but it seems these would be the first civilian deaths during public unrest since the Hehlkrieg – assuming there have been deaths, but, of course, those bombs went off right in the middle of the crowds – still no word from the Privy Council or the King….

Another stunned minute passed, and then came two suited bodyguards, their lapels affixed with bright, stylized silver skulls – the emblem of the Totenkorps, House Scharrbach’s private guards regiment. Maxi could hear their earpieces squawking. They didn’t bother checking the screen.

“Our landing plans have just changed, Majesties.”

While the Scharrbach jet altered its course for a more secure, private airstrip just outside the city, their prospective hosts awaited their arrival.

Somewhere down below in the sprawl of Urbalion, inside the top floor of the gleaming Scharfenstahl tower, the princelings of House Hohenthallen scurried through a vast window-walled penthouse, preparing tables and wine for their exalted guests. A few of the more senior princes already occupied some of said circular glass-and-gold tables, sipping at their wine, tapping their feet, idly admiring the pearlescent chandeliers that hung from the ceiling.

Meanwhile, near the corner of the vast room sat the city’s elected High Prince, Viktor Wilhelm, the fossilized head of House Hohenthallen and longtime ally of Kaisar Wolfgang.

Opposite Viktor sat another old man, similarly wizened and pockmarked, narrow eyes crouching behind square spectacles. His name (Lindolph Schmidt) didn’t matter much, as he was not a public figure like Viktor. He represented the Vordic Fellowship, one of the more powerful secretive political societies which funded Zusea’s royal campaigns.Though overtly religious, the Fellowship rejected Church funding. They took money only from individuals, citizens and businessmen alike, in order to maintain their independence.

Lindolph checked his phone. “Seems there was a second bomb, Highness.”

Viktor tried to laugh, but instead started coughing. His shriveled hands dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. “I told you to expect this. The Ambrózys couldn’t run a kingdom of brainless rats, much less thinking people.”

Urbalion, the gem of the southern coast, bordered Ossintoria, though it had always been fiercely independent. Nowadays it counted among Zusea’s gleaming Free Cities, and its ancient ports counted among the largest in the world.

“Your House still doesn’t plan to run a candidate?”

The Hohenthallens never ran a candidate for the infernal imperial throne. They preferred instead to cultivate their bountiful city, aloof from the ravages of national politics, and protect their position as the richest family in Zusea.

“No. Your questions become tedious.”

“And you still think the Scharrbach boys deserve your support?”

“They don’t. We’re neutral. As I’ve said, I’m merely hosting our beloved Kayserlings, while they perform their little dance for your people.”

“Actually, the Fellowship has begun to doubt House Scharrbach’s rather, er, assertive nationalism. We might prefer a calmer, more liberal candidate. Conflict with CODEX threatens our supporters’ business interests, not to mention the economy of Zusea. Besides, violence runs counter to true Messianic values. Perhaps a more diplomatic man, such as yourself, might be better suited to succeed His Majesty.”

Viktor tried to laugh again.

“No. Some of us still value things beyond politics, Lindolph.”

The old agent of the Fellowship raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

“I grew up with Wolfgang. We spent whole summers together. We negotiated with Sahil and Nakgaang together. I’m supposed to protect his grandnephews, not fight them.”

Lindolph’s voice caught an edge of steel. “These bombings will radicalize the administration, Highness. The protesters were singing Redonian hymns. War approaches.”

Viktor swallowed more wine. “So be it. Revolution is bad for business anyway.”

“So is war.”

“House Hohenthallen has friends in the Khoreran Round Table.” Viktor laid an icy glare on his companion. “Currently fighting for their lives against communists and anarchists. We also have friends in Redon. Frankly, we’d not mind a swift Zusian intervention. So, for the last time, my answer is no, Herr Schmidt.”

Lindolph sighed and swirled his drink.

by **Meriad** » Thu Apr 23, 2020 6:31 pm

Office of the Prime Minister
918 Andeverstraat, Havenstad, Zeeduyn
April 2, 2020

At 10:30 in the morning, the traffic outside was always noisy, but the fifth floor of the State House was usually distant enough from the rumble of traffic to allow Prime Minister Krommendijk to work. Today was different; not only was the traffic outside louder than normal, but the typically quiet halls of the refurbished colonial manor bustled with activity, the Executive Council's bureaucratic hard at work to make sense of the Dominate's steady descent into chaos. Beyond the panelled oak door, Krommendijk could hear both of his secretaries speaking furiously into their phones — the volume of calls that they normally handled had gradually increased for the last two weeks, and now an extra staffer had been recruited to try to make sense of the tangled phone lines. While he could tell they were trying to keep their voices low, Krommendijk still couldn't focus; the memorandum in front of him was just a few degrees too dense, the language just a touch too flowery, and his lower back was starting to tingle. The Prime Minister shook his head, and looked through the window over his shoulder. If he craned his head just right, he could catch a few of the harbor, the ferries and pleasure craft criss-crossing the Ilber and darting into the canal system. If only he had time to watch the boats.

But today, everything was chaos. Khornera was descending into a civil war, Redon was a bloody mess, CODEX was getting uppity, and government ministers were clamoring for his attention. Not to mention the fact that his coffee was cold and his stash of chocolate in the pencil drawer was nearly depleted.

Krommendijk shook his head, and stood. "I need a walk," he muttered, and made his way around the desk to the door. In contemptibly bad timing, as he reached for the doorknob, there came a knock. The prime minister opened the door, surprising the woman on the other side, who took an involuntary step back.

"Ah, Minister Vandevelde," he said, pulling his weary face into a smile. "I was just going for a walk around the floor; would you care to join me?"

The Vice Minister of Internal Affairs grimaced. "I'm afraid what I had to say is confidential, Prime Minister. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes of your time."

Krommendijk sighed, and stepped back, beckoning his colleague into the office. While he regretted the distraction from his walk, he understood its likely importance — Vice Minister Elisabeth Vandevelde was a ruthlessly competent stateswoman, and would not be bothering him personally if she could avoid it. Given her authority over a great deal of the state's internal security, she very well knew that unnecessary meetings were the prime minister's bane.

"Very well, Elisabeth," he said, walking back to his desk. "What can I do for you?"

"Prime Minister, I am actually here in an unofficial capacity. What I have to say is not the official advice of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, but something that I think is worthy of some serious through." The Prime Minister inclined his head, and waited for her to continue.

"I'm going to cut straight to the chase. Right now, Arcadis has a hell of a lot on it's plate. Senon does too. We've been miraculously unaffected by this whole debacle, and while I'm not entirely convinced it will stay that way, I think we should use our stability to our advantage. Zeeduyn has been an outlier of the Dominate for decades; we're stable enough that the Dominus doesn't intervene in our affairs, and small enough that the bureaucracy has bigger fish to fry. This might be an opportunity for us to leverage that status, and pull away from the Dominus' direct political control."

Krommendijk's eye's widened, and he sat back in his chair. "Are you suggesting that we somehow leave the Dominate, just as Khornera is descending into a civil war? Like it or not, we are at the very lease allies, and we can't afford to stab our neighbors in the back."

"No, I'm not saying we jump ship entirely. But I do think it might be wise to reconsider our position on our executive. We have been butting heads with Khornera and Redon on progressive reforms for years now, and now could be a chance for us to get just a bit more room to enact some of those reforms without the Dominus exerting executive authority. That could mean allowing the Dominus' decrees to be vetoed by parliament, maybe a bit more independence for the navy in terms of budget and operations."

"Vice Minister, that is a dangerous suggestion. We could have a riot of our own any day, the anarchists deciding to capitalize on Khornera's distraction and take to the streets. We don't have the capacity to deal with that sort of unrest on our own."

"That is certainly true, sir, but we also have closer ties to Zusea than the rest of the Dominate does; culturally, economically, politically, you name it. And while it will take a catastrophe or biblical proportions before Khornera will let Zusean troops cross that border, we have collaborated with Zusean troops in military exercises for twelve years; we can ask for their assistance if anything occurs that we can't handle."

Krommendijk leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Distancing Zeeuyn from the Dominate had been part of the Democrats' platform for decades, and they had been in the governing coalition for much of that time, but not concrete progress had every actually been made on that front. Even if such a motion could pass the parliament, which he doubted, the Dominus would never hear of it, and such a reform would have to be approved by the Dominus himself in order to take effect. So the result had been an unhappy status quo, an increasingly liberal country under the executive thumb of a composite state often seen as stuck in the past.

He looked back at the woman across the table, a career politician who had served in Internal Affairs for twenty years, a ruthlessly competent bureaucrat who knew the political leanings of the country like the back of her hand, and studied her expression. He sighed, and shook his head. "I know this is something that is a source of frustration for a lot of people, but I don't think this is the time. We have a responsibility to Arkadis, especially now that half of Khornera is embroiled in open factional fighting, and I think using this to our advantage at the expense of millions of Khornerans would be a very bad long-term strategy, even if we managed to wrest some political authority back from the Dominus."

Vandevelde nodded. "I fully understand. I thought this was something that I should bring to your attention either way, since this situation is likely to be constantly changing for quite some time."

"I appreciate your openness, Elisabeth. I just don't think it would fly."

The Vice Minister stood. "I understand. Now, I'll let you get your walk, and I'll head back down to my office."

"Thank you," Krommendijk said, still sitting in his chair. He was lost in thought before the door closed, the report on his desk and his walk both abandoned.

by **Greater Allidron** » Thu Apr 30, 2020 8:00 pm

April 1st, 2020

Gaangi Consulate, Altaterra, Syndicalist Union of Almia

"Foreign Secretary, it is a pleasure to hear from you."

Jaidev Shastri paused to adjust his coat, allowing for a bit of breathing room in his stuffy clothes. Shastri hated wearing his formal attire, the worst part of his career in the Foreign Office. The suite itself was well furnished with a scenic view of downtown Altaterra, and a mahogany table that stretched the breadth and length of the suite. A vase of fresh flowers, likely grown in southern Almia, adorned the center of the table. Sadly the economizers in the diplomatic mission to Almia were keen on keeping their AC bill down as a gesture of fiscal responsibility, and this meant the upper suite was ever so slightly warm, enough to cause discomfort for the deputy.

"I assume you're calling for an update on the situation in Styrgia?" he continued, the phone call crackling a bit in between words.

"You're assuming?" a hint of irony was in her voice. "Tell me Shastri, are we in the business of assumptions? That shit is for Wanshi stock traders."

Jaidev rolled his eyes. Luckily Foreign Secretary Sangeeta Ghatak couldn't see him.

"No ma'am, uh-sorry-excuse-." Jaidev gave a moment's breath. "For what do I owe this call ma'am?"

"Where's Roshan?"

"He's with his staffers, very busy."

"Too busy for the Secretary huh?"

"He can call back if you like, it's just the meeting is quite involved and-."

"No, no, you'll do fine, I guess."

The Secretary disliked Ambassador Roshan Majumder ever since the two met, sometime around 2015 or 2010 or... Jaidev couldn't remember when precisely, but he did remember their mutual rancor. Maybe Secretary Ghatak hated Roshan because his personality reflected Sangeeta's. Strong willed, abrasive, direct. Or, it was that Majumder flouted the Foreign Office as frequently as he networked within it, using the institution as a means for his own gain. Whatever the case, Roshan Majumder was a professional bureaucrat who served at the pleasure of the Premier, not the Secretary, much to Sangeeta Ghatak's dismay.

Lieu's little prostitute, the Secretary was well known for remarking to her underlings, in complete trust that it would leak.

And now Jaidev was stuck playing phone relay between the two.

Ghatak was infamous for her frequent battles with other Front members. Secretary Ghatak and Premier Lieu were firmly entrenched in their own rivalry as sitting members on the Central Committee, as was usual in Mahesawar politics. The Premier had a background in the Foreign Office, he understood the institution better than most of the sitting members, as most of them came from military or security service backgrounds. Military men don't understand the bureaucratically proud Foreign Office. Jaidev mused, internally of course. Sangeeta was made of this diplomatic beef stock, although she had her own self interested reasons to oppose the Premier.

"The Premier wants to reiterate his position on Khornera," Sangeeta explained, "and I want to reiterate my position on Ambassador Majumder's role here. As his deputy I am certain you are aware of the precarious situation we are in. The Revolutionary Council is pressed by Loyalist troops in the north, while their Totalist allies continue with their offensives into Major-General Marius-DuCoeur's territory just south of Styrgia itself, reckless bastards. Reckless..." the Secretary trailed off a bit then resumed with vigor, "not to mention the Zusean deployment which could compl-"

Jaidev sighed. He already knew this information. The Valourians had just briefed the Ambassador and his staff, himself, Commander Goswami, and his entire staff on the situation in the Dominate. The Valourian intelligence network was far more developed in this part of the world.

"-first batch of armor from 4. Heavy Division arriving sometime next week," Sangeeta ended in a half-question.

As if he was oblivious to the Secretary's presence, Jaidev interjected.

"Dymitri Pitrovič is certain, ma'am that if supplies don't reach the Revolutionaries within the next couple months-"

"I'd say sooner."

"-their position will crumble ma'am," said Jaidev.

"Of course, of course," one could almost hear Sangeeta laugh, "Valourians are an optimistic people," Sangeeta continued, "but translated to Gaangi, they have a month at most, I got their report this morning. Situation's grim."

"We've barely a presence in north Almia despite it being a week since the summit ended, but," Sangeeta gave a long emphasis on the last conjunction, "Prisceas and his gutless commander are doing the best they can. We'll have the whole corps in by the end of April, that's what the General Staff promised the Committee."

Now it was Sangeeta's turn to sigh. "So about getting supplies to the revolutionaries...."

"We'll cut a deal with the General, you have the Ambassador's earnest guarantee." Jaidev assuaged, but really, mostly to himself.

"A big promise from the Ambassador."

"The Ambassador likes big promises, means he can deliver big." Jaidev said with a hint of pride.

"Cato-Decimus has already secured Hypsanic support. Nestor is consolidating in Grizen and is expanding his mainland position. Redon is already fracturing, the damned Vordic Messians are moving south. Now is the time to move, and I want results, for the sake of the Almighty. Styrgia mustn't break," with that the line went dead. Jaidev nodded in silent and belated agreement.

Bianchi's Meat Cooperative, Altaterra, Syndicalist Union of Almia

"He's almost here, Mr. Vict."

Jaidev Shastri adjusted his buttons vainly to make himself more comfortable. Luckily the packing plant was far cooler than that damned-by-the-Almighty suite.

The plant had a noise that made the most sane of men lose their faculties. The squealing metal against metal brought the hanging halves down the row as workers unlatched them, putting them onto tables where the beeves would be processed by skilled butchers, most of whom had fifteen or more years of experience. Despite being in one of the many service rooms separated from the main floor, it was still a racket.

Bianchi's was a high class operation, run by a board of less than classy worker-owners. Luckily Vict knew a guy in the business, probably one of the worker-owners. Probably a friend from his past dealings. Lucas Vict was not a man of impeccable character.

Neither was the Ambassador.

Lucas Vict had just entered the well lit room, and was immediately patted down by the security. Stacks of black crates that were used for packing cuts for shipment adorned the standards on their left and right, allowing for a modicum of privacy. No employees were around, but one could see the occasional shadow pass by the entry doors, never to stop. Lucas Vict. The man who now represented the National Federation of Syndicalists to any CODEX state willing to vouch for them.

"Mr. Vict?"

The Ambassador strutted towards Vict, wearing a burgundy sherwani with gold buttons, and a burgundy and gold scarf that had several beads at the tail. The formal attire of an Ambassador of the Foreign Office. Roshan's beard and eyeglasses hid his youth. One could guess he was in his 60s, but really the Ambassador was 46. Not that Vict cared much.

"Pitrovič has told me much of your recent-how should we put it-'exploits in north Styrgia.'" jested the bearded man, slapping Pitrovič's back slightly too hard, causing Dymitri to wince.

"Ambassador, this is Lucas Vict." said Pitrovič belatedly, still recovering from the friendly gesture.

"Mr. Ambassador!" Vict firmly shook Roshan's hand.

"I can speak on the behalf of our comrades in Styrgia that this is a friendsh-"

Roshan interrupted, "A friendship?"

Vict gave him a bewildered look.

Roshan smiled a bit, but pulled back just before it broke a crease in his face. He then lowered his tone to a hoarse whisper, leaned in, cocked his head, and met Vict's eyes.

"Is that what you think it is."

The Ambassador broke gaze, smiled again, looking Vict up and down, and then gestured towards the aisle. "Shall we?"

Jaidev could sense the tension between the two men. Lucas Vict was a well built man. Stocky, medium height. He had eyes that cut. Despite the towering presence of Roshan, Lucas had a certain presence to himself. Lucas stared deeply at the Ambassador for a couple seconds.

"Sadly our position isn't as precarious as you would wish, Mr. Ambassador," Vict said in an almost sarcastic tone.

Roshan snorted.

"But, Mr. Ambassador, our forces are being hammered by the Loyalists," Lucas continued, "we need ammunition, we need supplies, support from the international comrades such as yourself."

"I speak for Nakgaang, and I assume Valourium." Roshan emphasized.

"Diplomatic recognition, then?"

"Moral support only. Not official recognition of any claims. The situation is prickly as is."

Vict looked at Dymitri, who was in the process of lighting his second smoke in the last hour.

"Valourium too?"

Pitrovič nodded in between puffs.

A door opened and two employees came in. The three stopped talking momentarily, impatiently awaiting their exit. After a couple minutes they left with a dozen crates on a manual cart.

Vict resumed with a vengeance, "This doesn't suit my allies well. The FNS wanted broad support, the Council wanted it."

Roshan stopped in his tracks and rested his arm on a stack of scarred, used crates. The sign above read 'recycling'.

"You and me both-"

"No good."

"-but our hands are tied by greater forces than us."

"Ammunition and fuel then? Did I travel all this way for platitudes from the Front?"

Previously content to simply listen, Pitrovič entered the conversation, "we'll supply not just ammunition, but fuel, Valourian anti tank weapons, medical equipment... at least eight hundred tons of supplies every day once we get the whole operation rolling. But in the near future you'll see maybe that much in a week." His odd smelling cigarette wiggled in his mouth as he spoke.

"And how," Vict pondered aloud, "does the plan on getting the supplies into Styrgia? General Marius-DuCoeur is deeply loyal to their cause, not a fan of the revolutionaries."

Roshan shook his head. "You've done a fine job of convincing him for us."

Vict gave him a glare, and then took his shoe and nudged a black crate still wet with swine's blood.

"I don't represent the Totalists."

"I don't represent the Altiplanerans, but they're still my allies, Lucas."

"With all due respect Ambassador-"

"Do you respect me? After all I only met you three minutes ago."

"You're the one with a title."

"Yet you don't respect the Dominus, heh." Roshan seemed to amuse himself.

"Look, what do you want Roshan, do you want me to kiss your feet or something?" Vict was getting impatient with the Ambassador's word games.

"Tell your Totalist allies to stop their offensives against the General and we'll cut them half. The FNS will get the other half."

"And the others?"

"Maybe in time. Don't get greedy."

"You know I'll have to bust their balls to get it done, and the FNS wanted more. A lot more. We are as valuable to you as you are to us. Don't take the Council for granted Roshan."

"Look, Vict, if the Council doesn't get the bullets and bandages and gasoline it needs to survive the coming months, socialism is finished in Khornera, you know it. More importantly they know it. I'll deal with my end of the bargain, but the council needs to stop the offensives for everyone's sake," Roshan again lowered his voice and touched Vict's tense shoulder, "it would be a pity to find your severed head as the property of Cato-Decimus."

Dymitri couldn't take it anymore, he was on his third cigarette, and the sun hadn't even set. Extracting a VIP through hostile territory was less stressful than listening to these two proud men trying to be diplomats.

"OK OK, comrades, shake on it, will ya?"

by **Khornera** » Fri May 08, 2020 8:49 am

The Workers' and Soldiers' Army
Near Montnoir

The directive had come in a flurry of massive confusion. First, a decree by the Revolutionary Council telling them to cease their activities against the rebel army units to the south. Then, came a declaration from the Permanent Committee of the Workers' and Soldiers' Army, telling them to disregard the order, only for it to be rescinded half an hour later, only for another Revolutionary Council decree to arrive. They even ordered them to stop a completely non-existent military campaign to the west into Montnoir.

Needless to say, the Totalist forces were confused as hell. So, in that confusion, they kept to their usual schedule. The occasional military incursions in every direction, firing a few shells, and firing from the hip in the enemy's general direction. It was only two days later that a very urgent, and actually cohesive, decree came from on high to tell them that they really had to stop what they were doing. And so they did. At this point, they didn't particularly feel obligated to follow any directives of the Revolutionary Council, but they could hardly turn their pack on the Permanent Committee. Truthfully, the Totalists despised the other factions for their complete lack of military discipline. It wasn't that the Totalists were significantly more competent, but at least they knew to march in line before getting killed. In turn, the other factions rightfully distrusted the Totalists' intentions. It didn't help they openly 'taxed' supply routes to the other factions, taking necessary munitions and supplies for themselves.

Major Cecil Bâton was one of the few in the Workers' and Soldiers' Army with a proper military background, granting him a comparatively high rank. Even then, when he was actually with the Royal Guard he had only been a sergeant, having little experience commanding so vast an army unit. He did however, have a degree in law, having studied it at a mid-range university back in the day. And so it was, that under the watchful eyes of his superior offices, he had been declared 'Presiding Judge of the Revolutionary Tribunal'. His 'courtroom' had once been a temple to some long dead Dominus, his edifices having been struck down by the revolutionaries in an act of supreme blasphemy. Now, the red banner of the Soldiers' and Workers' Army was draped over the altar, behind which Cecil sat enthroned. To his left, sat a lowly clerk keeping minutes: to maintain the facade of proper procedure. To his right, a 'co-judge', who similarly was just there to uphold the tenuous claim to judicial legitimacy of the Tribunal. For his fanaticism to the cause and his insignificant legal background, Cecil had been entrusted with dispensing revolutionary justice.

Offensives had halted, and the Totalists were sitting here, awaiting their death at the hands of either the Provisional Parliament, the Loyalists, or starvation. Every minute the ground trembled as an artillery shell struck some building and took another few soldiers' lives. Occasionally a Loyalist jet flew over on a strafing run, leaving a few craters and strung body parts behind. There was a purpose behind the Totalists turning sedentary, but on the ground no one knew why. But the revolutionary fervour still hung in the air, looking for a target. Such zeal was not to be squandered and left idle the Permanent Committee decreed, declaring the creation of a Tribunal. Up until now the Totalists had been content with summary executions of priests and the occasional landowners, but apparently it became time to expand the scope of their efforts.

The first man brought before Cecil had, clearly, been badly beaten and bruised. Blood was dripping from his nose and lips, and his eyes were swollen. According to his file, this man had been Julius Aegotrix: a successful local shop-owner. Even Cecil had to admit to himself that this was hardly the kind of quintessential capitalists that deserved a bullet to the neck. But his file was quite clear, Julius had also been a member of the Royalist Party. Besides, to admit in a court of socialist law that they had made a mistake in arresting and beating this man would do great harm to their cause. So, after only the bare minimum of what could hardly be called a trial, Cecil's gavel struck the altar before him as he bellowed: "Death!"

In the distance Cecil heard the echoing of the gunshot while he was already dealing with his next 'suspect'. A young woman, in tears, whose father and younger brother had both joined the Grey Legion, and who was now suspected herself for supporting the fascists with information.

"Death!"

Cecil would be saying that word a lot that day.

The 2nd Royal Montnoir Rifles
Montnoir

It seemed that in Redon, things were even worse than in Khornera. At least in Khornera the fighting only took place in several pockets of activity. Yet, in Redon, it seemed the chaos and bloodshed was much more widely spread. It showed how far everything had gone to hell. At least there as well as here there were still Loyalists. Some of them, trying to regroup after being pushed out by the far-left made their way across the border to Montnoir. In Montnoir at least, their language was spoken.

Montnoir had been spared the worst of the civil war so far. Its government had acted quickly and the guard had been mobilised. It was a Loyalist stronghold, geographically in quite an advantageous position as well, and unlikely to ever fall. On the province’s borders there may have been violent clashes with the Totalists and the Provisional Parliament’s forces, but the interior was seemingly secured.

There was only one other concern, and those were the Khorneran enclaves in Redon. All this made a dangerous mixture that forced the Loyalists to act quickly. The order had came, and the 2nd Royal Montnoir Rifles departed for the border, into Redon.

Redon will not fall, not yet.

The Ducal Army of Grizen
Grizen

His Grace, Duke Othello Grizhernn of the Duchy of Grizen, had been a constitutional monarch within the bounds of Khornera. This made him a one of a kind. Still, he never did have much to say about the policies of Grizen, even if every law was passed with his nominal consent.

Grizen’s rebellion wasn’t such an act. They didn’t bother to ask him because they knew exactly what the Duke’s answer would be: no. Othello was a staunch imperialist, conservative to the point of reactionism. Now, his own government had sided with the reprehensible Provisional Parliament. In fact, Grizen was the seat of the rebellion.

It infuriated the Duke beyond reason, and he wasn't going to stand for it.

So he and his Household Guard barricaded themselves in their manor alongside with whatever loyal servant decided to stick by his side. When the Provisional Parliament came to secure him, they opened fire. After that, the Grizen government send a much larger detachment, prepared for an actual fight. What they found was that the woods around the Duke's manor were filled to the brim with booby traps. The siege of the manor would take three days of constant fighting, until suddenly, the firing stopped. When investigating, the manor was abandoned, the Duke and his forces having escaped through the tunnels underground the estate.

That had been it, for a while at least.

Then the 'Ducal Army of Grizen' emerged again, in the outskirts of its fiefs, seemingly larger than before. No longer it was just the Household Guard. Now, it also consisted of defectors from the army units that declared for the Provisional Parliament. The Duke now had an army of loyalists in the heart of Grizen, and Grizen didn't like it.

But they laid low, only occasionally harassing supply lines, and sticking to the coastline. It was clear why: when the Loyalists would invade, the Ducal Army will secure the landing zones.

The Dominate Civil War (MT, Closed, Ordis)

The Dominate Civil War (MT, Closed, Ordis)

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