A Flicker of Light (Closed)

by **Tiami** » Sat Nov 02, 2024 11:17 am

"It takes but one spark."

Naval Base Kariun, the Grand Ocean

18:12 hours local time

"I know not where the path may lead, but only that I must walk it."

Sea spray and wind buffeted the hull of INS Siriya, a Naga-class nuclear strike cruiser in the employ of Amador’s Imperial Navy. The vessel, the flagship the Fifth Fleet stationed in Kva Norale, cut through the calm ocean waters like a knife through butter, offering nothing but a resplendent view of its gray hull and slim and sleek facade. But she was not the only vessel in the vicinity - the entirety of the Fifth Fleet, thirty six ships in all, had come to bear upon the naval base, offering a display of naval might not unlike what was typical for Amador. Amaterasus and Damballa-class frigates followed suit with their supply and logistics ships in tow. Beneath the waves, Strix lurked silently, ever the patient predator.

At the helm of the Siriya was Admiral Gailarius Eltierel, a veteran of the War of the Leaves who saw command during Amador’s naval blockade of northern Hakulic-held Seclya thirty years prior and engaged Hakulic ships in combat - the last time Amador would fire in anger at another sovereign state until the Laefold Wars ten years ago.. The one-eyed half-Alfar, beset by now graying hair and a slight wrinkly complexion, had long served the Imperial Navy, his voice offering a sort of comfort for the areas in which he commanded. Long had he stayed in the waters of Kva Norale, his vessels keeping the grand trade routes of the imperial overseas territory safe - from raiders, void creatures, or other nations, he was known to always be at the forefront.

At his front, the Siriya, a Marquesan designed yet Amadorian constructed Naga, among the strongest and most capable ships of the Imperial Navy. It was not often that a Naga was deployed to such a far-flung territory like Kva Norale, yet in the wake of newly declared conflict, two Naga strike groups had been deployed, with his bearing down upon Kairun in anticipation of a monumental technological achievement for both Amador and the Marquesan people. Yet he loved the way his flagship cut through the wave - he loved its look - the sleek and slender frame, but well-defended and armed to the teeth - it was not a ship anyone would want to mess with. And with the other Naga deployed near Scailand, Gailarius imagined that the Lothic babies posturing up to Amador would squeal in terror once it opened its salvos, while Scailand would be on the receiving end of a barrage unlike anything it had experienced since their exile from Seclya thirty years prior.

As the admiral looked out to the horizon, Kairun was coming into view, yet his train of thought would soon be interrupted by a plethora of voices.
“Admiral, due course is set, approaching sector 4, station Kairun,” spoke a voice, identified soon after to be the Helmsman, Borisn.

“Excellent, change trajectory slightly, due northeast by four degrees,” Gailarius spoke sternly, yet with the confidence of an aged veteran. “Prepare to take up a position around Kairun. Relay to the fleet.”

A quick nod and soon radio was alive, relaying orders across the fifth fleet as it began to take position around Kairun. The Marquesan delegation, transporting the hardware for the test, would be arriving in short time under escort of Amador’s imperial navy, though the admiral knew this was but a formality, as their Marquesan allies could and would easily defend themselves.

Long had Amador employed its own unique military industrial complex, yet it always found solace in the purchasing of platforms from its closest military ally, the Marquesan Imperium. Through Marquesan’s national storefront, Royal Marquesan Exports, Amador had long acquired state-of-the-art equipment, in particular, naval power that could not be replicated by many nations across the world - not even Alfar shipbuilding techniques compared to the sea-worthy platforms of the Marquesan people.

For Naval Base Kairun, the arrival of the Fifth Fleet offered comfort. Not only was it there to offer a show of force and power projection, it offered a defense against Amador’s enemies in the coming hours. For in the far reaches of the Great Ocean, the island, no more than forty kilometers across, would house one of the most instrumental tests in modern history: the launching of a MBF.100 “Kalantaka” ICBM across the length of the Badlands regions - tens of thousands of kilometers across. For Amador, it in and of itself was not launching the ICBM, but rather the Marquesan Imperium would be through the use of Naval Station Kairun - the test being held just west of the station on the far western edge of the island.

Kairun was abuzz with incessant noise and screeching as orders were carried out to the letter - the arrival of the Fifth Fleet not only warranted a tidy ship, but the base was also expecting the arrival of countless observers from numerous nations abroad to witness the launch zone. Other observers would be ferried out to the strike zone itself, though far enough away to be safe, yet still lay eyes upon what promised to be a game changing weapon. The normally steady base, usually housing only a dozen ships or so, would soon be the center of world attention - with this warranted an increased defensive perimeter around the Kvan islands.

Only recently had Amador found itself embroiled in war with Scailand, Hakulic remnants of a bygone era that believed they had the right to challenge a twenty thousand year old elven empire. Strikes on Seclyai and ultimately, the Seclyai consulate bombings and the Tragedy at Glymerhall that saw the death of Prince Aenor, originally threatened to delay, if not cancel, the Marquesan test in the immediate future; however, the impetus was that such a test would be deemed suitable in threatening not only Scailand, but the Lothic fleets that had come to its aid - not that they were deemed a major threat by Alfar High Command. The launch itself, scheduled for 0600 hours the following morning, offered such a chance to force out a prey who believed itself a predator without having to suffer needless bloodshed - Amador minded not either route that was taken.

Just north of Kairun was the small town of Iros - no more than seven thousand resided here… many of which were family members of the servicemen and women of the Imperial navy. Its small streets, largely devoid of vehicular traffic save for the occasional military truck, had filled with persons of all backgrounds and species in anticipation of the launch. Numerous military and political leaders from across the world would be present here - a somewhat unsettling twist on a normally quaint Alfar town. There would be posted guards, compliments of the Order of the Crimson Rose, a joint Marquesan/Seclyai/Amadorian military contractor that has long flourished in the three country, throughout the town, while Amador’s arriving fleets and the ground presence alone was already something not to be trifled with - the monarchy was taking no chances here. There would not be a repeat of the weeks prior - not with so many people in attendance.

In preparation for launch, the Alfar delegation had arrived three days prior, with the Heir Apparent and soon-to-be ruler of Amador, Princess Aleriel, having already made herself comfortable in a villa on the outskirts of town that rested atop the Merciel Hill. The villa itself was quaint, if not small by royal standard - it was comfortable, adorned with the basic necessities with mahogany furniture and stone finishes to the exterior, while marble floors sprawled the course of the first floor before transitioning to a dark oak for the second floor. Aleriel’s room, guarded by elements of her personal guard, had an overhanging porch that offered a crystalline view of Iros’ town center, where a grand dragon-head carved fountain gathered numerous crows around it. Further beyond, in the distant horizon, silhouettes of Amadorian ships could be seen, their hulking figures casting a shadow against the now-setting sun. It almost looked as if the imperial navy was blockading the island - it certainly felt that way.

The princess had moved to the balcony, her hands grasped firmly against the cold stonework. Wind swept through the crevices in her hair, twirling in and around as the cool sea winds soothed the weary-eyed elf - darkened eyes hinted at sleep deprivation. The wind soon found itself sweeping against her body itself, gently nudging her red and black-laced dress from side-to-side, though in a manner not unbecoming of royalty. Her ocean-blue eyes stared out to the beyond as a solemn tear gently crept down her left cheek. She found herself reminded of her nephew’s demise only weeks ago now. War was not something Aleriel was new to, but the loss of family had been something she had little experience in, having only recalled the loss of Lorhis seven centuries before and the death of her grandfather almost three thousand years ago now.

Yet this death stuck with her - Aenor’s dying breath was spent protecting her. Her. Her of all people. Magics coursed through her veins - she was strong… stronger than all but her mother, Maeralya; however, not even her powers could save herself, let alone her nephew. It was her own ineptitude that Glymerhall saw the loss of a prince and suffered its worst attacks in decades. Her being here, in the remote areas of Kairun was not a mistake - it was an atonement. Atonement for her failure to prevent destruction at the very heart of the Imperium.

The gentle rays of the orange sun glimmered against her thinly but pristine complexion, offering itself as a healing radiance to the trials and tribulations the princess had undergone in recent weeks. Alfar, despite their immense lifespans and vibrant vitality, were still susceptible to what they believed human feelings - sadness, grief, depression. She mourned for Aenor and the hundreds of Amadorians who died… the days moving forward would go towards rectifying this situation. A vivid display of technological and military prowess would go towards alleviating the prospects of total war - however much it may be.

The sun's ray slowly diminished over the horizon, bringing with it the empty night - a cold darkness that beckoned the weary to rest upon their pillows. The Alfar's eyes were heavy with exhaustion - perhaps hints of dread and grief too. Sleep called fervently, to which the queen-to-be gave in, falling with a plump thud upon the soft mattress that she called home over the past few days. As her eyes slowly closed, the thoughts of the last few weeks flooded out - not a worry to be had, but a dreamscape of vivid pleasantries to come... a sudden knock would shock Aleriel back away. An unexpected change in her nightly routine, one could assume. With a weary and unpleasant breath, she let loose but a single word.

"Yes?"

The light flickered brightly once more, refusing to fade into the void.

by **Marquesan** » Sun Nov 03, 2024 8:57 am

T - 72 Hours

Pushing through the frigid waters of the Grand Ocean, an unlikely trio of Marquesan warships plied their way toward a tiny spec of land in a vast, blue abyss. Lady Lovibond, a Mary Celeste class escort destroyer was accompanied by a squadron-mate, the Chasse-galerie, also of the Mary Celeste class. Sitting between them, the Qarin-class amphibious landing ship Iblis churned away at its cruising speed of fifteen knots. Aboard the fast catamaran destroyers, this pace felt almost torturous; the crews were quite accustomed to an operational tempo twice this speed; they drilled and trained, reviewed and retrained until the functions of the warship were extensions of the men and women who served aboard.

This was a different kind of mission than the typical high speed patrols and cavalry-like movement fleet problems the crews of Lady Lovibond and Chasse-galerie were used to undertaking entirely--this was to be a live test, out in the wilds of the Badlands, at a distant allied outpost in Amadorian Kva Norale. Aboard Iblis, a ship typically brimming with vehicles, soldiers, equipment of all shapes and sizes had instead been packed to the gills with containerized fuel tanks. Turning an amphibious landing ship into a floating gas can was a necessity to provide fuel enough for the Qarin-class landing ship and her escorts, to cross the massive distances between regions. Chained down to her deck and covered in Marine Royale-blue camouflage netting to disguise its silhouette from passing satellites, the hardened mobile launcher for a Kalantaka ICBM sat, waiting to fulfill its purpose. For weeks now as they sailed, Iblis' crew paced around it, chatting among themselves about what was inside the box.

"You suppose it's really gonna do what they say it can do?"

"They've never tested a live one like this before."

"I hear they can fly unmanned for years in the right orbit."

"Yeah, well, this one isn't gonna do that."

"How long did they say the flight would last?"

"A hundred minutes, opposite ends of the region."

"That's crazy work."

When the missile was loaded aboard Iblis in the railyard dock at Huahine, it had been done in the dead of night, with an ancient Hercule steam engine from the Strategic Steam Reserve pushing it from the dock onto the ship. The veil of secrecy around this mission had been unusually high; even in home waters, radio silence had been strictly enforced, and the crews of the three ships had been communicating with signal lamps between each other, and by laser to the orbital station by satellite relay. For some years, Marine Royale had insisted on developing robust visual communication channels and training in their use. When crossing the interregional spaces, warships broadcasting their locations might attract attention, but this mission called for the tiny flotilla to pick up her submarine escorts leaving Esvanovia and then to maintain strict radio silence throughout the duration of the voyage, only to be broken when linking up with allied fleets in the Badlands. Using lasers to communicate with command meant that the ships were kept informed and command the same; transmissions were minimal, but the ever-present link back to Marine Royale headquarters was always there, a 21st century echo of the heliograph towers that bound together the cities of the Marquesan League for hundreds of years.

The flotilla's submarine escorts had fallen into stations that kept the nuclear boats sitting almost directly under the ships they were escorting, allowing the wakes of the submarines to mingle with the surface ships above. Satyricon and Paradiso were Strix-class attack boats; swift and silent predators of the deep oceans. They'd fallen into slightly leading positions beneath Lady Lovibond and Chasse-galerie, a couple hundred meters below and just forward enough that Mary Celeste's propulsion didn't flood the sensitive sonars aboard the attack boats. Between them and three hundred meters of dark, cold seawater beneath the keel of Iblis lurked the insurance policy the Imperium sent in case anything went legitimately wrong, the Ravana-B class ballistic missile submarine, King Sugriva. The -B type Ravanas carried a complement of twelve supersonic, sea-skimming "Witiko" anti-shipping missiles--some with nuclear tips--and eight Block II "Hydra" exoatmospheric interceptors, capable of shooting down ballistic missiles and low-orbiting satellites. The need for King Sugriva's presence on the mission was debated, but ultimately it was decided that the threat level in the Badlands required an additional layer of protection for the launch site.

They'd spent weeks and weeks traveling. The silence had been of some comfort to the command team attached to the missile, who for weeks and weeks prior had been assaulted with meetings after briefings after presentations, after round-table discussions. Finally, the time for talking was over, and the Marquesans were coming to the aid of their ancestral Alfar allies. The situation had deteriorated in the Badlands, from terse to tense, from tense to raucous, from bad to worse. Hot words had turned into hot lead and shattered stone, steel rent open, blood and tears flowing in the Glymmerhall Palace together. Though Kva Norale was very far away, its importance to the Alfar couldn't be understated, and Marquesan interests also needed to be defended. It was for this reason that a full scale test of the Project JOYEUSE skip glide vehicle had been decided on. It had been the product of decades of flight testing; from the first manned capsule flights of the late 1950s through three generations of winged spaceplanes, and the Meduza supersonic drone program, through ICBM's and SLBM's to the Summanus program and finally to Joyeuse, the mythic flaming sword of the emperor. Joyeuse, the culmination of roughly 80 years of research and development was the most advanced autonomous re-entry vehicle ever designed by the Marquesan Imperium--it was simply massive. Carried within it was the dread weapon at the heart of the Kalantaka ICBM program, the A284.520TAu thermonuclear warhead.

Albertine Fabron and Roselle Lévêque stood on the bridge of Iblis, sipping tea in the pre-dawn light; the ship's bow seemed to shove aside the water, Roselle thought, while when she glanced to her right to take in Chasse-galerie slicing through the water like the upturned blade of a razor-sharp sword being pushed through water, the Mary Celestes hardly seemed to perturb the water at all. She loved being at sea like this. As the Inspector General for Nuclear Test Safety, Capitaine-Lieutenant Lévêque had the dryest desk job in the Imperium, she'd think most days--not today. Today was the day that this tiny flotilla was scheduled to link up with Alfar escorts in preparation to make landfall at Naval Station Kairun in three days time. Roselle found herself recalling a briefing she'd given the friday before the flotilla departed Huahine.

"Esteemed members of the Alfar Council for Kva Norale, it is my pleasure to introduce Capitaine-Lieutenant Roselle Lévêque, Inspector General for Nuclear Test Safety, Marine Royale Marqiesienne. She has traveled a long way to be here with us this morning, would you all please direct your attention to the podium at this time."

"Capitaine-Lieutenant, thank you for coming. Would you please edify the Alfar Council present here today on what, exactly, it is that your government intends to launch from our island? Are the ancestral tombs on the western side of the island in any danger from debris, or from smoke?"

"Certainly, your Reverence." Roselle tapped a button her smartwatch. Behind her, a display screen wall switched from the beach scene background it had been showing to a graphic presentation, showing the rail-mobile hardened launcher deploying its side-spades to dig into the earth on either side of the rail track. Lowering itself down onto the track and folding down the outer panels of the railcar revealing the framework and the missile canister, which begins elevating to the launch position.

"The Kalantaka intercontinental ballistic missile has been the backbone of Marquesan ground-based nuclear deterrence for nearly sixty years; it is is the mainstay of our orbital program, with several thousand successful launches on the books, it is the most reliable long range delivery platform we have for a weapon of this size. Kalantaka has two ballistic stages; the first will carry the stack quite far downrange, our engineers report a zero likelihood of any adverse impact to the structures your reverence and other esteemed members of this council requested we examine."

The graphic changed behind her as the missile in the image is ejected from its canister by a gas generator. The missile, painted a dull gray with a helical maroon stripe hovers seemingly suspended in midair for a long moment before its rocket motor fires, met with high-pressure streams of water to cool the mobile launcher during takeoff. The missile rockets away on a blue-white plume of smokeless rocket exhaust, shock diamonds forming as it soars upward, the winged spaceplane clasped at its tip.

"The missile is solid-fueled; we use an ammonium perchlorate and nitrocellulose double base propellant, which has been aluminized. This is an extremely reliable and efficient propellant; the stack weighs roughly fifty five tons at launch, and we can throw five and a half tons into orbit. The exhaust plume will be largely smokeless; there will be steam generated at the launch site, but drifting toxic fumes are not a hallmark of the Kalantaka program, so structures and local populations are in no danger."

Behind her, the missile in the graphic jettisons its first stage; the graphic shows what this will look like from the ground in Kva Norale; the expanding plume of translucent plasma against the glittering predawn sky. Rocketing away on the second ballistic stage, the missile continues to climb higher and faster.

"Burnout of the second stage occurs at roughly twenty six times the speed of sound." Roselle says to the briefing room. "The missile is designed to carry a huge array of different payloads, we launch several a month to Orbital Station La Phantome in support of our manned space program, the missile has been crew-rated since its inception. In this case, the missile is carrying an autonomous vehicle of our design, which has been tested without a live strategic payload, but this will be its first test delivering live ordinance to the surface, at orbital speed."

Behind her, the graphic shows second stage separation occurring, leaving the skip-glide vehicle to perform the rest of the flight.

"From the 2nd stage jettison point... here..." She tapped another button on her smartwatch, which caused a small red laser pointer to emit from a small lens on the side of her watch. She deftly pointed it toward the map displayed behind her, indicating a point to the west of Kva Norale, in the Silent Sea.

"The missile will travel along the S-shaped double curve you saw in earlier presentations. Joyeuse will spend the majority of the flight over international water, but as we requested, your eminences have dutifully cleared our projected flight plan with all potentially affected nations, and Emperor Felix thanks you for your diligence, long may he reign."

Several people in the room spoke up to echo her. "Long may he reign."

"Capitaine-Lieutenant, I have a question."

"Yes, your reverence."

"Can you describe this vehicle to us?"

"Certainly. Joyeuse is a three-and-a-half ton fully autonomous spaceplane, roughly twenty two feet in length, with a wingspan of eight feet overall. We indicate to the missile the specifications of its required flight plan, and the weapon calculates all aero maneuvers required to achieve a circular error probable in actual testing of twenty meters, meaning that we expect the missile's point of detonation to fall within roughly a circle sixty feet wide, from more than thirty thousand miles away."

Some murmurs were heard from the briefing room.

"And the weapon itself, Capitaine-Lieutenant?"

"Yes, your eminence. A284.520TAu is a two stage weapon; this means it has a fusion stage and a fission stage; we use several technologies to enhance the blast pressure of the weapon while miniaturizing the weapons; this one is roughly 1.8 tons in weight, and we rate its power as nine and a third megatons of TNT; it is the largest thermonuclear physics package in the Marquesan arsenal."

The graphic behind her shows the flight of Joyeuse across the region; an elegant, gentle curve traveling southwest across the Badlands. Sped up to turn the hundred minute spaceflight into a hundred seconds, the room full of Alfar elders and specialists watched entranced by the demonstration graphic. Soon, the graphic cut to a simulated view of Island 2, the fleet of test ships gathered around it. The sound of waves lapping idly on a beach was played over the room's speakers; the plaintive calls of seagulls. Soon, glowing white against the night sky, like a bolt of lightning, Joyeuse comes into view. The graphic cuts again back to Joyeuse, now re-entering the atmosphere at more than twenty times the speed of sound.

"The weapon's optimum design burst altitude is roughly 12,500 feet above ground level, and since Island 2 is somewhat mountainous, the upper portions of the island's mountain range will be inside the fireball, which we expect to produce some minimal fallout; it is for this reason that the observation fleets must be located south-southwest of the strike zone, as prevailing winds will carry airborne dust to the northeast. We anticipate the detonation producing an airblast sufficient to destroy warships and reinforced concrete buildings over an area of roughly 28,000 acres, or just over 110 square kilometers. Fallout will be minimal, but the blast will be devastating locally, and we have concluded terms with the government of Island 2 to commence radiation mitigation operations at the island within the next ten years."

"This is sending a very strong message, don't you think?"

"We hope to make your enemies blush at it, sir."

The graphic behind her showed the instant of detonation. Glowing angry, blue-white like an unholy second sun birthed in the planetary air, the fireball hung in the air, terrible and bright, its light searing the eyes of the Alfar delegates attending the briefing, who held their hands in front of their eyes for a moment, recoiling from the simulated blast on the screen. The blast wave hits the island first from above, with the tip of its highest peak completely obscured by the fireball. A wall of dust and boulders radiates down to every corner of the island, like an avalanche of earth shoved aside by the tremendous force of the blast. Surrounding ships nearest the island are pelted with boulders and debris, many overturn, many break apart into thousands of pieces of high speed shrapnel, some seem to be shoved down into the water, others go spinning off through the air, hurled like children's toys. As the fireball dissolves, the heat of the blast surges the dust of the island's apocalyptic destruction upward, mingling the still-glowing plasma with the upheaved earth, then falling softly back into the ocean as radioactive fallout hours and even days later. The graphic clicked off, and Lévêque looked over the silent, stunned crowd.

"Any further questions?"

The bridge crew of Iblis snapping to attention broke Roselle's concentration.

"Capitaine on deck!"

Roselle smiled as she set down her teacup. With a shock of bright red hair she kept tied up tight, pale green Imperial eyes and freckled skin, Capitaine Esmé Pan of the Iblis was an old friend from the Kimo Yaguruma Grande Ecole.

"As you were." Capitaine Pan briefly touched Roselle's shoulder as she walked by, the two of them exchanging a let's catch up later glance.

"Have we made contact with the Alfar yet?"

"Negative, Ma'am."

"They're out there. At six bells, break radio silence and signal them. We're expecting our own ships here, there's no reason at this point to suspect we've been detected by anyone. Let's find our friends."

by **Minstekko** » Sun Nov 03, 2024 10:05 am

Come a day before the test, with logistics pushed to the limit, the local airship docks that had popped up almost overnight saw the launch of a rather small yet well armed airship, her metal hull painted with a dull non-reflective grey, as the props which drove her turned slowly, the large inflated bladder holding up the odd craft. Margaret had taken the time to borrow equipment from her benefactors in the KTO, as the rather odd but eerily modern cannons were pulled into the hull before the props folded, with rocket motors used to push her to speed before firing off like missiles to dissolve into the air. The burst of speed was only necessary to overcome inertia and allow a headstart on the journey, cutting back fuel costs, though when it was realized thst range would still be lacking, with time running out, a portal was instead used, as the craft would glide into position with the grace of a jellyfish.

Even then, a slow turn and the re-deplpyment of props to circle around was needed, before the craft settled into its final position to observe the island from afar, with binoculars used to survey the area and telescopes to spot out the island. This was a monumental occasion, as Margaret would only need to sleep a day aboard before the next morning, when the others should arrive to witness the test. Yet, the targets should already be present long prior, as more direct witnesses to this apocalyptic event.

by **Gonswanza** » Mon Nov 04, 2024 12:50 am

While the others had taken their sweet time to arrive, taking up months, years, or mere days (or hours) to cruise to the test site, the first to arrive from the Gonswanzans was a lightly modified Lattoy class hulk, outfitted with scientific research equipment, transmitting readings and able to be operated remotely, for the sake of gathering data and relaying it for scientific study. This massive shell of a corpse was even built just for something like this, being one of the cheapest ships in the Gonswanzan arsenal, though used almost exclusively for export or target practice despite no real ships of hostile nations sharing anything in common with it.

But as the craft was towed into place, markings were placed upon it to help it be monitored more easily from a distance. Easy marks to spot, as it was placed partway into the target zone, offshore, and well in the line of fire.

A mere few days later, using portals from Minstekko's KTO Joint Occupation Zone, and Foggycap's own logistics, the River class cruiser from Gonswanza soon arrives with the leader in the bridge, looking over the crew and captain, and looking out to sea, before heading down to the helipad to board a waiting Ka-29TB which was unarmed, though along with Ortiz would come a few of her detail numbering three in all, as they clamber into the small (yet fat) helicopter, soon taking off for the main cruise ship where the observers were meant to reside and enjoy the show. A sort of casual meeting, truly, though it also could mean a chance at diplomacy or hashing out arms deals, as the helicopter gently rides along to drop them off at the ship. It was a short(ish) ride, after all, though she wasn't expecting much, given it was quite early.

by **Palmyrion** » Mon Nov 04, 2024 8:09 am

En route to Samara International Airport, Samara, Kva Norale
Air Force Alpha (Callsign RPC10001) - 2035

[Listen.]

Air Force Alpha.

A command-and-control fortress in the skies, the main aerial transport for Her Majesty the Lakambini.

Fitted with accommodations fit for Palmyrion's monarch and her family as well as those onboard, this sleek, aerodynamic chariot in the skies was a fusion of practical functionality and stylish elegance appropriate a sovereign of state. State-of-the-art command and control equipment allowed Her Majesty control of the Palmyrian military - and to an extent the nation - from skies, especially when she was out in state visits both official and unofficial, both public and private. Air Force Alpha's accommodations were a blend of modesty and elegance, offering top-tier comfort while avoiding obscene ostentation as a flying chariot and symbol of the Palmyrian monarchy's position in the global community as an equal among a brotherhood and sisterhood of nations.

The Lakambini sat in the Sovereign Operations Room as she began the first shift for the day, or whatever passed as one as Air Force Alpha passed multiple time zones en route to Samara, in Kva Norale. Their location in the vastness of the Grand Ocean had been broadcasted in real time to their Marquesan and Alfar friends for quite a time now, for the sake of blue force coordination and interaction, regularly maintaining contact with them through secured diplomatic channels.

She thought of the Marquesans and the Alfar in the light of jovial friendship; from their presence at her coronation back in 2025, to their participation as wedding guests when her brother Gerard married Holy Roman Empress Neda III back in 2030, and her state visits to both countries in between, often times with her children, both at the time within and and without her womb, in tow, sometimes with Gerard (at the time still in the Air Force) for military exercises and occasionally with her now sister-in-law the Holy Roman Empress, on top of their participation in Palmyrion's peace process with its long-raging insurgencies, and the vast array of international cooperation agreements Palmyrion enjoyed with either nation.

The fact that she would be present to witness the Marquesans' nuclear show of force was no mere trivial presence; it was a symbol of the deepening ties the Palmyrian nation had with both countries. While she would remain safe at the launch zone, CARSTRGRU Martin, led by the Sovereign II-class aircraft carrier the RCN Martin, would bear witness to the 9.3 MT blast at Island 2 from a safe distance. Onboard CARSTRGRU Martin sailed her brother, Prince Maxwell, as a commander of his own ship, the destroyer RCN Serafin Pierce, escorting the Martin as it sailed the vast frigid azureness of the Grand Ocean.

An idle thought pushed her to open on the interactive table a C3I interface displaying the locations of Palmyrion's naval combatant formations, as the Chancellor and the Vice-Chancellor of National Defense entered the airliner's operations room. After a brief exchange of pleasantries appropriate their stations, they started their day of running the state from aboard a flying can of metal and composites, skimming their way through their own copies of the Sovereign Daily Briefing, pages rustling as they skimmed through the no more than ten pages long report and summary on important events that the Crown would hold dear.

Her Imperial Majesty Neda III was expecting a third child with her stud of a brother. Grabe ka, Gerry, naka-ilang abono ka na, Jilliane thought, amusingly. She had never seen her brother this happy in the arms of a woman; well, she sort of has, having seen her own brother date the Holy Roman Empress, but after two toxic relationships and Annika's sneaky link attacking the Monarchy itself last 2024, it gave her a sense of satisfaction to see this one end well. Two kids (with their eldest being the future Holy Roman Emperor) and a third on the way was strong evidence of their marriage's continued passion, a love that transcended both title and rank.
The Senate Permanent Committee on Defense and Dual Use Technology Exports was debating about the sale of fifth-generation MRFs to a member-kingdom of the Holy Roman Empire. Well, every member-kingdom of the Empire had a 20% discount on Palmyrian military and dual-use hardware, but selling a sensitive piece of equipment remained contentious nonetheless, even amidst warm relations between both crowns in the light of her brother Gerard's marriage to Neda III in a marriage of state after a period of courtship and discernment.
And, finally, the meat of the matter. Why on God's fair earth did they place the importance of this trip last, Jill thought with exasperation as she read through the summary brief of the upcoming test. Everything that she knew - from CSG Martin's deployment to observe the strike zone from a safe distance, to what is known of the toy the Marquesan Imperium wished to show off - was summarized clean and fair in this report. But what she didn't know, or probably only had an idea of, was the probable advance presence of other nations in the strike zone, with those nations having almost no official presence at the launch zone itself.

"Ma'am, why are we sending an entire carrier strike group and a naval squadron in the AO?" Defense Vice-Chancellor Hansard inquired, his second thoughts about such a show of force - and quite the ostentatious royal escort - made palpable. He had been briefed about the situation in the Badlands, the region in which Kva Norale was in: herein lies one of Palmyrion's arch-rivals, the Imperial Principality of Arakhkhar, a slaver state with a Lirvittian supremacist agenda that sought to enslave every sapient species under the auspices of the Lirvittians, if their Imperial ideology was to be believed. It was thus only appropriate that Palmyrion show its readiness to defend itself and its allies by sending an entire carrier strike group and an escorting naval squadron - but at the same time risked the prospect of provoking the Royal Commonwealth's enemies and drawing weary glances their way. Not since they sent Gerard, now happily married with the Holy Roman Empress, into a war did they send a royal in a deployment, in this case Prince Maxwell; that one deployment of Gerard into an active warzone and a contested airspace caused strain between her and her now sister-in-law, and between the two prospective lovers back when they were dating. It was the charge of a royal bloodline with a lineage of warrior-chieftains: to charge into the line of battle, alongside their subjects, warrior-leaders who lead alongside their subjects.

"A show of force. Let them know the Royal Commonwealth is a force to be reckoned with, ten years after narrowly surviving an internal security crisis." she replied, calmly, as if to defuse the Vice-Chancellor's doubt about this major show of force. Typical Jilliane, with a militaristic mindset shaped by 8 years and a near-death-experience in the Navy, a militaristic mindset inherited from Royal House Roseguard's origin as a clan of military aristocracy in the 11th Century CE, the warrior-chieftain legacy of maharlikas - martial nobility who, by their rise to royal ascendancy into datus, have since lent the name of their caste to the modern-day Palmyrian term for royalty - running red and hot in the veins of every Roseguard.

"Everyone's going to be looking our way when we strut into Kva Norale with that big of a stick, ma'am." the Chancellor replied, concerned about how the world would see a Crown resurgent when one of the first things it did in the ten years since it resolved an internal security crisis, brokered a marriage of state between it and another powerful monarchy, and repaired and reaffirmed centuries-old ties put to the test by the internal crises of the dawn of the 21st Century, was to wave a big stick in front of the international community, and especially in a region where a Palmyrian arch-enemy held sway as the local hegemon no less. There was no way to look at this other than a provocative show of force to everyone involved.

But the Lakambini, a former Navy officer, was used to force.

She was born of an ancient household of military aristocracy gone royal; Jilliane adopted the profession of arms, and in the line of duty was almost splattered to the four winds and the deep azure; and now, she stands as the Commander-in-Chief of a powerful military force.

And in a might-makes-right world, a queen like her needed to wear a heart of gold wrapped in a thick armor of steel. Besides, this nuclear test was a show of force, was it not?

"Let them look." dryly replied the monarch, before turning back to her intelligence digest. "Besides, this nuclear test is a show of force on the part of our Marquesan and Amadorian allies, is it not?"

The Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth prided itself in being a maritime archipelagic nation - and what better way to assert this maritime heritage, of using the seas, oceans, and insular waters in and around its home archipelago as wide open roads and battlefields, plying the azure aboard boats long before the wheel's advent, than sending an entire carrier strike group? And what of its Lakambini, her military aristocracy heritage flowing strong in her blood as a Roseguard, a former Navy officer and now the banner-bearer of the Palmyrian civilization-state? If a nation with a strong maritime heritage wanted to assert such, it would do well to send a symbol of naval strength.

Balikan kung bakit ka nagsimula...

Two Jasons looked at each other at the mirror, as the burly, early-40s man adjusted his tie and combed his hear with the help of an aide that they brought with them as part of their supporting retinue for the trip.

Ano ang iyong trabaho, Jason?

The conversation he had with his mother-in-law Agatha a day after the nation bid Alexander I a final farewell ten years back in 2025 echoed in his psyche as he dressed himself for the trip - and show of force - to Kva Norale. It had been 10 years since he had become the Consort Royal, 17 since he started a relationship with Jilliane and 13 since he married her, not knowing that she would someday become the Palmyrian sovereign. His new job, as he recalled answering his mother-in-law, was Consort Royal.

Bago mo sabihin na ayaw mo na...

Consort Royal?

But that was just the title, forhis mother-in-law would soon remind him of the weight it bore, of the purpose it held, of the essence that was its beginning and end.

Iyan ang titulo. Ano ang puno't dulo ng iyong trabaho?

...Jill?

He and Jill had shared 13 passionate years - and three children - of matrimonial joy and harmony, one they shared from when they married in December of 2022. Jason was a Marine Corps major who married a Navy officer, a village rascal from a family of humble fisherfolk who then courted a princess and married into the Royal Family, their paths intertwined by fate as they met in military academy. Amidst the stresses of her job - first as Navy officer, and now as the sovereign - their marriage has seen ebb and flow, triumph and tribulation, conflict and reconciliation, tested by time, reinforced by love, and fueled with passion.

'Wag mong sosolohin, di ka mag-isa...

Siya ang trabaho. Siya ang tungkulin mo.

Jason had been Jilliane's rock and strong stay through these years - from the first flickers of their love back in RCMA Cavite, to their reunion as lovers thanks no less to her mother's efforts (of course, Agatha had taken the unofficial title of matchmaker royal for her children, her magnum opus being the marriage of Gerard to Holy Roman Empress Neda III in 2030), and their marriage in 2022.

Mahalin mo siya; ipagtanggol mo siya.

Their love had seen it all: from enduring the molding stresses of military academy, to the fires of war (including their respective brushes with death), to her older brother Alexander II's assassination and the succession crisis that ensued when it was Alexander II's wife (and not Jilliane) that rose to the throne through his last will appointing her as his successor.

Ikaw pa rin ang susi sa iyong tadhana...

Iyan ang dapat mong gawin para sa ating bayan. Iyan ang layunin mo ngayon, Marine. Panghabang-buhay ang iyong tungkulin bilang asawa niya.

The answer to Agatha's question had, thus far, taken crystal-clear and ironclad concrete form in the past ten years of it all. He understood the assignment well - and if the past 10 years of soldiering through fatherhood, royal duties, and PTSD from his time as a Marine were any indication, he was thus far carrying out splendidly the lifelong mission given to him.

Not bad for the son of a family of fisherfolk.

by **Seclya** » Sun Nov 10, 2024 2:54 pm

Musical Accompaniment: Gnosis by Russian Circles

Aboard Seclya Air Flight 1012 En Route to Kva Norale

1450 Hours Seclya Time

Unlike the movers and shakers in Syva Aethel, who preferred their private flights in seclusion from the public, Kuskyn Illiven liked to sit with the hoi polloi and get a feel for the general mood of the people. He was, after all, a masochist that enjoyed tormenting himself and bringing about the most consternation that he possibly could upon himself, and as a noted misanthrope it was almost like being penetrated with a flaming hot poker up the ass to sit still among the denizens of Seclya crammed into the aluminum tube in the clouds making its way to Kva Norale in the Badlands. Kuskyn did not get paid to feel comfortable, however, he got paid to keep his ears to the ground and keep on the lookout for any super duper secrets of un-impossible grandeur and size. And so it was that he found himself sitting beside his underling, Lusha Zindi on the flight, sitting in economy and waiting for the madness of this plane ride to be over and done with. If he intended to keep what was left of the color in his hair – or his hair in general for that matter – he needed to land in Kva Norale.

Speaking of his traveling companion, Kuskyn stole a glance over at Lusha, wondering what she was getting herself into. As it turned out, she was getting into the pants of the woman sitting beside her, the nimble elven fingers unsnapping the button to her pants and plunging her hands deep into her underwear. Kuskyn immediately turned back to facing forward, unable or unwilling to contemplate how bored someone must be on a flight to screw a complete stranger in the middle of the public. Lusha must have sensed that Kuskyn had stolen a glance over at her, for when she had finally found what her fingers were probing for, she turned her head back towards Kuskyn and gave him a sly grin, one that was apparently reciprocated by the young woman seated beside her, albeit for wholly different reasons. “What? It’s free real estate!” Lusah replied, feigning innocence as her hand continued in its machinations to her right. Kuskyn did not utter a single word in response, but merely sighed and looked over his left shoulder to see if anyone in the adjacent aisle was watching.

Kuskyn felt a heaviness weighing on his shoulders – not because of what was happening in the seats beside him, that was par for the course with Lusha – but because of the immense pressure that was on the Order of the Crimson Rose to keep things moving in Kva Norale while the Seclyai royals were in the country. At present, Ruven and Issarel were already nearing their destination, having beaten the commercial traffic to Grand Azura by several hours. Members of the Seclyai military and the Order had already posted security guards along the way for the two regents of the Saahein Sovereignty, but the responsibility would soon fall to Kuskyn when he arrived to continue the security protocols along the way to the secure viewing zone for the nuclear test detonation that had everyone flying to Kva Norale in the first place. It was not a job he was looking forward to, mostly because he had never been to Kva Norale and had never been properly vetted on what to expect there. Not to mention there was a war on with the Scailanders in the Silent Sea nearby, for chrissakes.

Kuskyn arched an eyebrow as the woman seated beside Lusha softly moaned, her breathy whispers becoming conflated with heavier breathing and squirming in her seat. Lusha was whispering sweet-nothings into her ear as her fingers probed for paydirt; really, the woman had no shame. Kuskyn was known for imbibing special confections in his own right, but he generally had the wherewithal not to go about fingering a woman in public, at least not while sober. Yet here he was, betrothed to an adjutant who was exploring the womanly pleasures of her attractive twenty-five year old co-passenger. There was little he could do but wait for Lusha to finish her off, then return to annoying him with questions about their journey and when it would be over with. Lusha was no stranger to this process, she knew everything already; she merely liked to torment Kuskyn over his distaste for other people, and she was an apt pro at it to boot. She knew where to push his buttons and how to get his goat, and there were few people alive that he wanted to smack in the face more than her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Lusha brought her fingers up to the other woman’s lips, silencing her before she got too loud as their personal business concluded. She leaned over and gave the woman a slow, passionate kiss on the lips, her hand moving up and out from her, ahem, personal space. Kuskyn merely shook his head, realizing that now was the time in the flight when she would usually begin needling him as to when they were going to land. Though she did not readily reveal it, Lusha had a bit of a fear of flying, and keeping busy was her way of dealing with the concern of it all. Of course, her dalliances were a little more lurid and vivid than most who struggled with a fear of flying, but nonetheless. Kuskyn gave her some personal space to conclude her affairs, then crossed his fingers over his lap as Lusha turned to sit back into her seat, smiling as though she had won the public lottery or some such nonsense. Whatever was in her mind space, Kuskyn could not say, nor did he really want to plunge into the depths of that depraved madness.

“Well, that was fun,” Lusha remarked, not even bothering to conceal her voice from her fellow participant. “Next time you should join in, Master; see if two people can go at it on someone without drawing attention to themselves, eh?”

“I think half the plane knows what you were doing,” Kuskyn replied with a shake of his head, feeling as though he were going to sink into his seat and fall through the floorboard. “You know, most people have the decency to go to the bathroom to fuck each other.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in privacy?” Lusha responded, blowing another kiss back at the young woman beside her. “If you were not so uptight about everything, I could make your flight more pleasurable too, Master. Honest, I could!”

Kuskyn shut that thought down immediately, shaking his head even harder. “Do not start in with me, woman, now is not the time. I am cold, I am tired, and I am traveling to a strange land through a warzone to guard the Seclyai royals. I am verklempt right now.”

“You need to relax a bit, get your bearings,” Lusha said point-blankly, leaning over in her seat to hear him better. “See, when I get fearful over something, I do something fun and pleasurable. We all know you hate people, so why not find some fun way to pass the time?”

“Your idea of fun is plowing your way through every man and woman on this flight before we get to Kva Norale; I lack that kind of stamina to keep up,” Kuskyn laconically answered. “Besides, there is work to be done on the trip over, studying timetables and maps and all that jazz.”

“Pish-posh, it’s a security run in Kva Norale, big deal,” Lusha had no illusions about the job at hand or its difficulties; her words were dripping with sarcasm. “Protect the royals, ride shotgun with them, watch a boom-boom go off over the water, go home. Easy-peasy!”

“You jest, but I really to believe there could be trouble on this mission,” Kuskyn tried to remind her that not all was well in the Badlands, even in their own home territories with the recent terrorist attacks in Grand Azura and in Glymerhall. “We need to be on our toes.”

“What we need is a stiff drink,” Lusha responded, pressing the service light over her head to draw the attention of a flight attendant. “I do not understand the trepidation, there are going to be security personnel galore from a thousand different agencies at this test.”

“And does that mean that we let our guard down and hope that the other guys catch bad actors trying to sew discord? Nonsense!” Kuskyn was perplexed by Lusha’s laissez-faire attitude towards everything. “Why are you not taking your responsibilities more seriously?”

“Hey, I think I fucked that flight attendant,” she said ignoring him completely, watching as a young man in a suit approach their seats. “Yeah, I am sure of it, I did him in the bathroom of a plane one time, back before I had no shame! Damn it, what was his name…”

“Can I help you?” The flight attendant asked politely as he approached, blushing a bit as he saw Lusha sitting there; he obviously remembered her company.

“Yes, my good man, we would like two bourbons neat please!” Lusha inquired of him, putting her hand upon his hand and squeezing it tightly. “Be a good lad and hook us up, will you? We are both parched and in need of a beverage to soothe our rankled feathers.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the flight attendant grinned like an idiot, nearly stumbling backwards into another row of passengers before he turned on his heels to head back to the galley.

“Sometimes, you drive me crazy, you know that?” Kuskyn said after a beat, watching as the flight attendant turned the corner out of sight down the way. “You have that poor man twisted up like a slinky right now, and for what? Over a rendezvous in the bathroom to fuck?”

“Sometimes those who fuck have a connection that cannot be described by the mortal means of man,” Lusha chided him, elbowing him in the arm with a horsey grin on her face. “That man will remember me for the rest of his life, and I cannot even remember his name.”

“Aleric,” Kuskyn replied. “The name on the tag was Aleric.”

“Hmm… Yeah, that does nothing for me,” Lusha replied, turning to sit sideways in her seat to face him. “But enough about my personal conquests, what has you so down about this mission? I rarely see you smile, but I also feel the confidence in you usually. Not this time.”

Kuskyn thought for a moment over whether it was wise to go into his personal thoughts on the mission, then decidedly thought the better of it. “I am confidence, I also just know that there are metrics at play that will make this job more of a chore than it usually would be.”

“Metrics? What metrics? The war?” Lusha pushed on his shoulder gently, trying to get a rise out of him. “Do you really believe the Scailanders will attempt to pull some shit on us at the nuclear test site? They are already sweating out the revenge coming to them, they have no balls.”

“Do not be so sure of that, my young adjutant,” Kuskyn inhaled deeply, exhaling just as sharply before speaking again. “Scailand is a rabid dog right now backed into a corner; it would take little for them to jump at the chance to hit Seclya or Amador where it counted.”

“As you say, Master,” Lusha said, deciding to drop the whole thing. She turned back to sit squarely in her seat, shaking her own head this time. “I still think you are giving them too much credit. I think that you should relax a little bit, try to calm your emotions.”

“And I think you should shut that cockholster of yours,” Kuskyn replied, just as the young flight attendant was approaching with the two glasses of bourbon. “Now, get focused on your work and let us be prepared to do our damn jobs when it comes down to it, alright?”

Kuskyn politely took hold of the glass that was offered to him by the flight attendant, watching as Lusha used her hands to caress the hand of the attendant holding her glass, giving him a wink. He nearly dropped her beverage into Kuskyn’s lap, which would have sent him spiraling into a dimension of pissed off hitherto unknown to modern science. He caught himself in the end however and delivered Lusha’s drink to her as well before scarpering. There was little else that needed to be said, as short of a conversation as it was. There was a job to do in Kva Norale that was not necessarily dangerous, but required a good bit of extra caution given the circumstances. Kuskyn would not be able to rest until after they had finished the mission to the nuclear watch site and safe zone, after which he would power his nose with enough drugs to tranquilize a horse. Until the mission was over however, he would be on high alert, ready for any and every threat to pose itself to the Seclyai royals. He would make sure to punish any interlopers that got into his way, too.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice over the intercom spoke clearly, "this is your captain speaking. We are on final approach to Kva Norale now. We should be landing in fifteen minutes."

by **Tiami** » Mon Nov 18, 2024 1:05 pm

"To walk the path less traveled is to learn"

Kairun Western Reaches, Kvan Far East

12:03 hours local time

Saturday

The Kvan Far East is a series of four main islands scattered throughout the Grand Ocean in the Badlands Frontier. Hundreds of tinier islands, no more than coral atolls, littered the region, but were largely uninhabited. Kairun was an exception, as were the other three inhabited islands. For Kairun, it was a fairly modest island, possessing moderate humid-tropical climates - mostly due to warm ocean currents moving north. Its remoteness from Kva Norale and many of the civilizations of the Badlands marked it as a perfect location for ambitious and oftentimes, explosive displays of power. Not many nations would purposely sail so far out of their way to sneak a peak on the inner workings of Amadorian military machinations. Nor would any nation be daring enough to engage with Amador's Fifth Fleet that had earned renown in the Laefold War almost eleven years prior.

The test site itself was located on the far western edge of the island of Kairun, about 13 kilometers from Naval Station Kairun. Outside a scattering of villages, there was little in the way of infrastructure to support much more than a few hundred permanent residences in these areas of the island. Their only lifeline: the Kairun Rail System that circled the island. It was these rails that would allow for the transportation of the Marquesan A284.520TAu thermonuclear warhead to its testing site. A split-off construction for the test would allow the train carrying the warhead to come to a full stop, before a diamond rail lane would allow it to return to its tracks. For the arrival of spectators, both foreign dignitaries and those who received clearance, be they press or otherwise, the test site itself would be spartan in nature - very little in the way of luxury would be present. Bandstands had been set up prior on either sides of the rail - enough to accommodate the mass of bodies soon to be flowing in while refreshments of local Alfari delights, alongside a few international selections would keep grumbling stomachs at bay while a catering service from Iros would bring in afternoon lunch Of course, alcohol would be present too, with Alfarian wines and vintage whiskeys being prepared. In preparation for higher ranking officials, the INS Alquacir, an Abraxas Cuirassé rapide, would be just off the coast, operating as a command center for the launch due to the variable lack of permanent installations in the area.

For Aleriel, she was touring the site in preparation for the arrival of her Marquesan allies. Her weary eyes, beset by an even darker shade of purple around her eyes, offered little in the way of life, but she functioned nonetheless. The site itself was wide and expansive, perfect for the test - the launch platform itself was visible at the center, while workers around the site were finishing up any final touches that needed to be done before the arrival of the asset in a few days' time. It was, for better or worse, a veritable buzz of noise and excitement, to which pounded the Heir's head. Tension headaches were no joke and her failing health in recent weeks only exacerbated it; however, her clouded eyes yielded an almost unseen spark - to be ignited upon the release of such a weapon of mass destruction as to deter her enemies from continuing their pointless wars. Perhaps the explosive party would attract a modicum of attention - the positive kind the heir so desired?

She was expected to greet the mass of flesh arriving, as well as greeting her dear sister and brother, Issarel and Ruven respectively. Though it had not been too long since Aenor's funeral, it had felt like an eternity for her since she had embraced her adopted siblings. She could only wonder how Issarel was doing in the wake of witnessing such a gruesome scene in Glymerhall just weeks prior. For Aleriel and the two Seclyai, as well as other royals and important figures attending the the test at the launch site, they would be aboard the Alquacir on the bridge with Captain Deflorin and his staff alongside a large swath of the Marquesan delegation. While everything looks well enough, Aleriel had but a few minor events left to attend to, such as welcoming the Marquesan fleet to Iros and the Kvan Far East. It was known that they would be arriving soon alongside their Amadorian escorts.

Kvan Far East, the Grand Ocean

06:00hours local time

Two Days Prior

Captain Grellin of the Sirabella was a callous, if not intimidating figure - his command over the Mary Celeste-class Escort Destroyer was rewarding - to sail the fruits of decades of state-of-the-art technological prowess compliments of Amador’s Marquesan allies. The wizened human captain had long enjoyed his command alongside the dozens of sailors. They had belonged to the Fifth fleet, but had broken off alongside their sister ship, Kalentiraz, to join up with the Marquesan warship, the Iblis and her retinue of vessels transporting the necessary equipment to conduct the test in three days time. The approaching Marquesan vessels did not need the escort, but tradition and ongoing hostilities in the Badlands warranted the Amadorians giving their ancestral allies a welcoming they deserved. Tradition would be served.

Yet, the Marquesan would not be found, not until they themselve allowed it to be so. For Captain Grellin, he understood this all too well. Such a design had to be protected until the last possible moment - only the Amadorians would know the Marquesan location, but the signal had not yet been received. That would change soon, as radio silence would soon be broken, alerting the Amadorians of the Marquesan presence - the two small armadas would soon link up, with the Alfar leading the way to Kairun to witness what was promised to change the world.

"Sir, communications have been established. The Iblis and her squadron have hailed us."

"Excellent, return the signal - set due course for an easterly heading. It's time to find our friend," ordered Grellin with a smirk. "Signal the Kalentiraz and let the Marquesan commander know I am coming."

Samascotiel Air Force Base, Grand Azura, Kva Norale

04:00 hours local time

Twilight beckoned forth the sun, its shape yet to crest above the far off horizon. The glittering skyscrape of Grand Azura rested in the background, illuminating the night sky with a vivid display of light. A gentle sluice of snow fell from the heavens above, melting as it struck the void-black tarmac at Samascotiel. Even in the darkened night, the roar of turbine engines wrought screeching hell to many of the nightlife that lived off base, offering little in the way or proper sleep. Hangars were littered throughout the base, housing Divine Winds, Super Revenants, Headhunters, and various other crafts. Air traffic control was not far off, offering a resplendent view of the Kvan air base and its assets, while also commanding and overseeing all incoming and outgoing flights.

With the Second Blood War escalating, Samascotiel was to see extensive action as a forward base for not only defensive measures against the Hakul and their enemies, but also for offensive operations far from Kvan shores via extensive bombing runs once the Lothic dilemma was addressed. Any outgoing Scailander ship that even approached the general vicinity of Kvan waters would be met with an explosive present.

Yet, for all its importance, it housed an even more important mission - welcome the Ostrax and Miax of Seclya, Ruven and Issarel respectively. To welcome important leading figures in Amador’s closest ally, Seclya, and its various allies throughout the world required substantial security measures, especially in the aftermath of the sinking of the Virabella and the tragedies in Shen Borgisk, Syva Aethel, and Glymerhall. What better place than at the edge of action in Samascotiel. Hakul would not deign to be ballsy enough to drop its load so close to the capital of Kva Norale - that much was certain.

The presence of the Archon on the tarmac was not unsurprising, as Hypario was a member of the royal family of Amador and a nephew to Ostrax Ruven - the pomp and grandeur of a royal visit would have normally been implemented, but security had been prioritized. Issarel had already bore witness to the tragic decimation of Glymerhall and Hypario was determined not to have a repeat of the event. He was not going to bury anymore of his family or allies this year.

Accompanying the Archon was his son, Ryul Erri, a sprite boy no more than ten years removed from his birth. His blonde, luscious and wavy hair matched his father’s, though he bore fruit the crystalline blood-red eyes of his mother, Varilla. For her part, the Issalfar Duchess was not in attendance as she prepared to welcome another royal into the House of Amador. Guards were stationed throughout and around the meeting point, one of the primary barracks just off the runway to welcome the royals. It was certainly spartan, but nonetheless necessary.

“Father, would we welcome uncle with flowers normally?” Questioned the young princeling as he revealed a singular black rose. “I brought a flower!”

The archon chuckled, bringing his hand to Ryul’s head in an expression of compassion. “Normally, yes, Ryul - circumstances permit us more… simplified greetings.”

“The war?”

“Indeed son - we are being cautious in the face of the enemy right now.”

“But Amador is the greatest country that has ever existed? Why would we cower?”

“Even the greatest countries can be caught with their pants down, son,” Hypario continued compassionately. “When we are so blinded by our arrogance and divine mandate, the greater our fall will become. If the Hakul have taught us anything, it is that we are still flawed beings striving for greatness.”

Ryul thought for a moment, his lip puckered and his head craned enough to look as if he was a philosopher contemplating life. “What about momma? She is perfect!”

“She is the exception. Don’t cross her path or she will tickle you!”

The archon brought his hands up, expressing his intent to engage in a tickle war with his son, though he would be imminently interrupted by the arrival of his guard just outside.

“Your highness,” spoke the guard before looking at the young princeling. “My prince -the first arrivals have landed. Seclyai officials and allies across Gholgoth. We are to welcome them immediately.”

Hypario sighed, looking at his son before patting his head once more. Tender moments were far too few for the royal family and even further between in the course of war. He would have to make this up to his son at a later date.

“Remember Ryul, straight posture, head held high - you are a member of the House of Amador and you will give the house its respect. Do not bow your head to any of our friends - they visit us and should show the proper decorum - we will reciprocate as per the wishes of the Queen.”

“Yes, father,” Ryul giggled before composing himself in the manner a royal would. “I won’t let you down.

“Then shall we be off?” Questioned the dark-clad guard.

“Lead the way, soldier.”

The two royals stood up, proceeding to follow the soldier while their shadows casted against the walls of the structure before simmering away as the darkened sky strangled the light away. Out on the tarmac, the arrival of their allies was soon to arrive - decorum would be given in an appropriate fashion given the ever increasing dangerous situation arising across the Northern Badlands. For young Ryul, it would be his first taste of royal duty. For his father, it was but another day at the office. He truly cared little for anything outside his family, but his poker face at least hid this facet of his character from discerning eyes.

Samara International Airport, Kva Norale

04:15 hours local time

A voice echoed out into the square room housing imperial authority.

“Your grace, our Palmyrian allies are due to land soon.”

“Aye, thank you, Galfred. Where’s my coat?” Elsa questioned sadly.

“You left it in the car, you grace?”

“Was that a question?”

U-uh, n-n-no ma’am,” he stuttered, before recollecting himself. “Matter of fact, I brought it back with me to save you some embarrassment.”

Elsa sighed, a slight chuckle escaping from his mouth. “What would I ever do without you, dear? She spoked, soon coming up next to Galfred and leaning to his ear seductively. “Should I reward you later.”

“Hard pass, you grace - I’m not into children.” Galfred scoffed, letting loose a secondary laughter in the process.”

“I’m only 433. I am an adult - and your boss. It would be best for you to listen.”

Galfred and Elsa stared at each other in silence for several seconds, their stares could have caused a tear in time and space had it went any longer than it did; thankfully, a burst of laughter from both broke the silence, sending the Archon of Ilethlean to the floor, her legs to weak to stand from laughter.

The now teary-eyed Archon was helped up by Galfred, her long-time friend, sometimes lover from the brutal tish tropical climes of Ilethlean in Levanora where she ruled in the name of her grandmother, Maeralya.

“Let’s go, Elsa” he ordered as he aided the young Alfar back to her feet. “Jilliane awaits.”

“So does Jason,” the Archon quipped. “I liked him.”

Her Majesty Jilliane, Lakambini of the Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth and a close friend of Elsa through their regencies as leaders of two nations. For Elsa, she bore witness to numerous Palmyrian monarchs throughout her nearly century-and-a-half rule in Nilena Thalor. Jilliane was definitely her favorite. She recalled attending Alexander I’s state funeral and followed later that month, Jilliane’s coronation. She remembered the vivid display of pageantry and regalia that the coronation brought - to the congratulatory toast Elsa led in honor of Her Majesty, both as a friend and as an attendee of the Amadorian Imperium. Elsa fondly recalled her brother, Gerard’s, wedding to Neda III five years prior, and even remembered the baptism of Jilliane’s children Alicia and Theodore several years back.

The two were close friends to say the least and often found comfort in their quips and natural charimsas that drew the two together as stalwart friends. In the wake of tragedy, seeing the face of a long-time friend would be the perfect medicine for the young princess of Amador. Elsa, of course, always had other machinations. While the Palmyrians were allies of the Imperium, it was still questioned as to why they felt the need to present themselves as a show of force in the Badlands via their navy. Sure, they were allies - allies defend one another always; however, even with Amador reeling, it was still more than capable of handling its affairs in the Badlands even far from Kvan shores where the strike site was. She would need to find out and report this back to mother, though Elsa knew that Jilliane would likely pick this up with relative ease. After all, the two knew each other far too well to hide secrets.

Strike Site Scaigard, Tazanthrian Sea, Badlands, Days Prior

13:00 hours local time

INS Ancalogia, a Huracan-class carrier in the employ of the Imperial navy, was the designated command ship of Operation Scaigard - Amador’s name for the build up of target vessels being accumulated throughout the world for the Marquesan nuclear strike test in the Tazanthrian Sea. She, alongside her fleet, would guard against intruders and would-be aggressors, while also offering a platform in which attendants to the watch party may witness the test as it struck the area. In the coming days and hours, hundreds from across the world would be watching from a safe distance as the test reset the world’s opinion on weapons of mass destruction.

The carrier, headed by the Alfar Admiral Morgaen, and his retinue of vessels had made the trek from Kva Norale with dozens of Amador’s own mothballed or barely-seaworthy vessels that had long been due to be scrapped until the Amadorians and Marquesans agreed to the experiment. The aged vessels would be Amador's gift to the test alongside its hosting and protective details throughout the course of the week that had led up to what was presumed to be the first of its kind test. For the native gothic Amadorian Morgaen, it was his first time in the Badlands, having long served as a close ally to Marquesan military command - close enough in face that he was educated in Nuka Hiva proper to prepare himself for the rigors and blessing that commanding a Huracan brought to the Imperial navy. The man's chiseled face, beset by a scruffy blackened beard offered him a sense of normalcy amongst his crew - he did not stand out physically, but rather through the deep and hoarse voice. His helmsman, a little known Alfar nicknamed "Snips" set the course, his carrier sailing alongside and above Amador's Black Fleet, one of the worlds most impressive and powerful surface fleets. The radio chatter and constant ringing of communications echoed throughout, indicating every precise movement the fleet took as it circled around the strike site in the Tazanthrian Sea.

Alongsider the Ancalogia was her sister ship, the Resolute, which had served in the Laefold Wars before being transferred back to the Black Fleet following its conclusion. Several vessels, ranging from the Shadowfax of the Yaotzin class, to the Delfarel of the Nataraja class, or the mysterious Strix-class submarines lurking deep beneath the ocean's surface, made up the Black Fleet. All in all, the fleet possessed fifteen warships in the area offering protection alongside its logistics and resupply vessels in the vicinity. The arrival of the Black Fleet was Amador's show of force and a critical message to Scailand in the far north - to not fuck with the Elven Pact.

“Admiral, sir, command has indicated the last of our test ships have been placed - we’ve not one more to spare, I reckon.” Spoke one of the many voices in the bridge.

Amador’s contribution to the test had been more than just hosting and military, but also through the use of its old vessels, ranging from just a decade old, to more than fifty years in age. More than 30 vessels of various designs and purposes had been assembled, including obsolete Kiriah-class Carriers, of which two had been towed to the site. They had long been staples of the Amadorian navy until the introduction of its domestic Akagi and the Marquesan-designed Huracan. For Maegren, it was a somber occurrence, as he had served on the Kiriah Galshrial until the turn of the century as a first mate.

“Good work, sailor,” spoke the admiral as he turned to Snips. “0.8 degrees due west Snips. Let’s continue our path.”

For the Black Fleet, it was conducting a simple mission: patrolling the Tazanthrian Sea as a deterrent against potential enemies. The Ancalogia and the Resolute had split from one another, taking with them each a contingent of ships to assure adequate coverage was to be given during the duration of their mission. Their mission also had another goal: show the incoming Palmyrion fleet that the Badlands was not its domain, nor would it ever be. While allies, Amadorian central command was baffled that their allies would even attempt such an endeavor so far from Levanora. While the Imperial Navy knew that there would be no aggressions amongst Palmyrion and Amador, it could not rule out aggression against other naval forces in the area for the test. To that end, the Black Fleet would also use its muscle to deter Palmyion naval command from posturing more than it already was.

With the sun setting beyond the horizon, the fateful day was rapidly approaching - the countdown was beginning. In short order, the world was about to witness change on an incomprehensible destructive scale and Amador was yet tagging along for the ride, itself comfortable in knowing one of its oldest allies possessed the capabilities to change the world’s fate.

Further away, in the ruined courtyard of Glymerhall in the ancestral homelands of the gothic Alfar, the ancient queen of Amador, Maeralya, stood like a statue overlooking its charge. Far below, the eternal city of Ifa Serine glittered against the twilight sky, capturing the ethereal glory of Amador. Soon, the light would be shared amongst the world. The cogs were once more rolling, its machinations creeping ever forward as she saw fit. Would this be a new beginning? Or would this be something else? The Book of Amador was still being written, its author ever vigilant focussed on continuing its story. Perhaps this chapter would offer some semblance of radiant light?

by **Palmyrion** » Tue Nov 19, 2024 11:18 am

Samara International Airport, Kva Norale
Air Force Alpha (Callsign RPC10001) - 2035
0500H Local

"So, manang Jill, you're basically going to see a nuke launch, and Max gets to see the fireworks?" Gerard asked through a video feed straight from Belgrade Fortress, with a visibly drowsy Neda III sitting beside him as the brother and sister duo chatted of Jilliane's visit to Kva Norale.

"Yep. Though, Chancy and VCDef were concerned that it could be taken as a provocation." Jill replied, reminded of the apprehension of the Chancellor and the Vice-Chancellor of Defense about the purpose of bringing an entire carrier strike group to the occasion. A show of force, it was that much true - but if they had questions as to why the Palmyrians would walk in brandishing a big stick, she would answer them, quite simply: Palmyrion is a strong ally with a strong maritime heritage, ready to stand with its Amadorian and Marquesan allies.

"To which I'd answer: why, a show of solidarity with our Amadorian and Marquesan allies, a reciprocation of their trust and commitment. A recommitment and rededication of Palmyria's readiness as an ally, a decade after narrowly surviving an internal security crisis."

"Some would speculate you'd be trying to upstage them - or..." Neda trailed off. Well, five years of being married to a Roseguard, of marrying someone whose blood was of warrior-chieftains that were familiar of and hardened by the crucible of war, of warrior-chieftains that navigated the world's machinations, somewhat gave her an understanding of the brutal workings of war and the cold schema of geopolitical realpolitik; after all, the circumstances leading to her marriage-of-state with Gerard were influenced also by real-geopolitik in as much as it was by emotional and romantic compatibility. The Holy Roman Empire had eschewed war, upholding the Peace of God as one of its tenets, a sentiment reinforced by Neda almost losing Gerard, Palmyrion's most vaunted fighter ace prince and now the Holy Roman Empire's much-respected Prince-Consort, to war's licking flames many times - and here they were, seeing one of their faraway allies take front seats to a nuclear test.

"Or?" Jill inquired, seemingly sensing Neda's apprehension of the Palmyrian monarchy taking first-row seats to a nuclear test.

"...they'd think the Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth would attempt an interception."

An attempt to intercept the warhead would be provocative across the board - and spoil the show that their allies wanted to put up, ultimately ruining relations with them. It would be the ultimate upstaging of their allies, on top of their deployment of a carrier strike group to witness the test from a safe distance.

Samara International, this is Air Force Alpha, Romeo Papa Charlie 10001, requesting clearance to land, over.

The aircraft, having taking a holding pattern over the rather busy skies of the Amadorian territory at the behest of air traffic control, took its liberty to establish contact with Samara International, carrying its precious cargo of intelligence and state dignitaries onboard as it circled back and forth in the bustling skies at its specified altitude, taking care not to collide with other aircraft and gingerly weaving its way through the clouds above the territory. This aircraft was, like the Lakambini, a tropics girl, built in the tropics and made mostly for navigating the skies of its home country Palmyrion, and to find a tropical bird this far out from its natural habitat, of the sweltering humidity of the tropical archipelago it called home, was like finding a fish swimming out of the water. However, even the Palmyrians knew that, at some point, one way or another, they would have to travel to lands bitten by the winter cold, and while the aircraft's air conditioning system was tailored for the tropics, it proved sufficient to prevent its innards - and its charges - from freezing in the winter. It was capable of keeping the biting frigidness out, in as much as it was capable of keeping its innards at a comfortable cool.

"We wouldn't want to spoil the show and ruin it for everyone else, would we?" Jill quipped in response. "Besides, we'd briefed Carrier Strike Group Martin and Naval Squadron 17 to not attempt an interception. Our Marquesan and Amadorian friends would be majorly pissed at us if we tried to do so."

"Give my regards to Max for the fireworks. I figured I've had enough of that." Gerard forwarded, wishing his much-beloved younger brother Maxwell

Sus, ano ka ba, mahal— Neda quipped with surprising mastery of Palmyrian that could be picked from 5 years of being married to one (despite it being barely used in the Vojislavljevic household) —I know you like the fireworks of Reformer Day.

Well, not thermonuclear fireworks anyways. And I've had my fill of blowing people to bits in my time with the Palmyrian Air Force.

"In either case, the Empire's just glad to see its Empress bearing heirs and being taken good care of by a loving Prince-Consort." Jilliane interjected, with warm enthusiasm of Gerard and Neda's marriage. Little Rado stood to become Holy Roman Emperor Radovan III down the line, and Princess Sofija was a bundle of daughterly joy for the couple - and with the Empress now within 1-2 months with child, the Imperial Family stood to welcome more scions into its ranks.

"Gerard's been an amusing Prince-Consort, I'll tell you that. Granted, he still gets lost in the Fortress time and again, and has difficulty learning Serbo-Croat, but the rest of my relatives have taken kindly to him - and so has the Empire." the Empress quipped, reminiscing with amusement - and a slight, subtle, imperceptible tinge of horror - the many times that Gerard was found lost in the most unlikely (and in many cases dangerous) of places in the Fortress, from long-forgotten halls and secret rooms, to air-deprived catacombs and stuffy maintenance shafts.

"I heard Gerry boy's trying to learn Spanish and Serbo-Croat." Jill remarked, having been briefed by her private secretary - and of Neda's - that the Prince had been trying to learn Spanish on his own. What was the name of that app again, Duolingo? - Jill thought, trying to recall that one small detail of the Prince trying to teach himself a language.

"Ah yes, that one time the Spanish King looked at him with horror and offense when he mentioned the word for Palmyrian steamed rice cakes." Neda replied, joined afterwards with light laughter about that one time Gerard practically offended the whole Kingdom of Spain when he said that. It didn't take long for Gerard to correct and clarify right after, that puto in Palmyrian meant a type of steamed rice cake and not a male whore as it did in Spanish.

"And the one time he naughty-talked me..." the Empress added with a mischievous, naughty sparkle to her eyes, much to Gerard's flush-faced embarrassment followed by a self-deprecating chuckle from the man.

"...in broken Serbo-Croat."

The whole conversation descended in laughter, with Jilliane shaking her head in amused disappointment of her brother's linguistic misadventure. Of course, the Palmyrian Royal Family had a penchant for off-color humor, at least in private, and Neda had a vise grip on it - in more ways than one.

Roger, Samara International, we copy, landing.

"Ma'am, lalapag na tayo." one of the aides in their retinue said over the INTERCOM to her room, followed by a ping and a short announcement over the aircraft's PA system of their imminent landing.

All passengers, this is your captain speaking, please put on seatbelts and prepare for landing.

"Alright, we're landing - ayan, Gerard, magpaka-buot ka dira, ha? And, Your Imperial Majesty..."

The Lakambini paused to put her seatbelt on in preparation for the landing, the roar of the ambience slowly picking up volume as the plane started its landing descent upon the runway.

"...do keep us posted. Best of luck on the coming baby. Farewell!"

The Lakambini exchanged her farewells with Gerard and Neda, already at least an hour past their midnight bedtime after an exhausting day of public engagements in the Empire, before she stowed away her laptop.

The landing had been a smooth, uneventful bounce and gentle thud, followed by a smooth-sailing taxi towards an empty jet bridge slot at an exclusive terminal at the airport.

The couple and the entourage had been briefed earlier that they would be greeted by Elsa herself at the terminal, a reunion of two close friends who, since Jill's ascent and coronation in 2025, have shared a close friendship with. The Einheitswelt blockade in 2025, the respective baptisms of Jill's children Alicia and Theodore in 2025 and 2027, the renewal and recommitment of centuries-old treaties in the past 10 years, the marriage of Gerard to Neda III back in 2030 - a friendship tempered and refined by triumph and tribulation, an alliance both personal and political.

The Lakambini, dressed in a simple, chic khaki coat she had bought years past in Belgrade (when she visited with Gerard in tow) covering an informal under-ensemble, disembarked from the aircraft, making her way from her quarters and past the airplane's corridors and through the jet bridge, alongside her husband Jason, Chancellor Castañeda and Vice-Chancellor Hansard, and their retinue of close protection bodyguards and aide-butlers. There, at the terminal, she would meet Elsa and her respective retinue of aides and bodyguards, with the two exchanging pleasantries - bows, curtsies, and greetings - appropriate royal protocol.

by **Seclya** » Sat Nov 23, 2024 9:08 am

Kairun Western Reaches, Kvan Far East

1450 Hours Local Time

The weather was clear when their plane had landed in Grand Azura, but the promise of an afternoon storm in Kairun was creeping towards them on the horizon. Ruven Rothilion-Ermys looked upwards into the sky, his hand shielding his elven eyes from the brightness of the sun that peaked through sparse gray clouds, lamenting not having better prepared for the climatic change between Kva Norale and Seclya. The land was a many splendored piece of real estate, Kairun serving as a form of waypoint between the capital and the testing site out to sea. It had been a long ass day and Ruven was very much in favor of getting out of his formal attire and into something more comfortable with his wife by his side, but that would have to wait for the time being. Aleriel was on her way to greet the royal couple in Kairun, and there was little time for dalliances before the important meeting was to take place. Their benefactor was more than worthy of the best the Saahein Sovereignty had to offer, and Ruven would be remiss in not bringing his A-game to meet with adopted family.

Having had some time on the plane to prepare remarks for the press that may have gathered in Kairun for the rendezvous, Ruven was partially relieved that the press, what contingent there was in Kairun, had been cordoned off from the airfield where they had arrived at after flying in from Grand Azura on a short hop. They had already rendezvoused with their Crimson Rose accompaniment and were on their way figuratively speaking to the testing site for this important showcase of allied firepower. The prosecution of the new war with the Scailanders was never far from Ruven’s mind, even as he straightened his high-collared, ruffled white shirt and blue velvet vest. The news that one of their warships had attacked the dummy ship being brought in from Seclya-proper to the testing site had been the talk of the aircraft while they were approaching Grand Azura. That it had apparently been destroyed in return by the warship screening it was a relief, but also a reminder that they were not exactly safe in the Badlands. They would need to be cautious in their time in Kva Norale.

As he stood on the tarmac with his security from the Order of the Crimson Rose surrounding him, he became acutely aware of his wife’s approach from the aircraft. Issarel had remained behind with her ladies-in-waiting to prepare her attire for the trip, having decided in Syva Aethel not to bother with wearing her formal gown on the aircraft. She was, in hindsight, smarter than Ruven, who had been stuck in this get-up from the jump. Issarel was wearing a long, flowing white gown with diamonds sewn into the fabric, causing the dress to gleam with a high sheen anytime the sunlight hit it. Her hair was done up in a bun, an unusual but not-unwelcome hairstyle aesthetic, especially considering all Ruven had managed to accomplish was not looking like a ruffian with a five o’ clock shadow. He motioned for his two senior Rose adjutants to escort the Miax over to where he stood, their obeyance of his command understood without a word being said. If he were going to be standing on the tarmac, he wanted to at least be standing beside his beautiful wife and not some schlub.

Once again, his thoughts turned towards the war that was developing between the Hakulic survivors in Scailand and the Saahein Sovereignty, wondering if the nuclear test in conjunction with the Amadorian and Marquesienne Imperiums would be enough to deter the Scailanders from further folly. There was little concern in Syva Aethel over what the outcome of a new war with the Hakul would be – they were far too diminished of stature to pose a significant threat to the elves of Gholgoth anymore. Still, a battle between them would get a lot of Lashein, Lushein and Saahein soldiers killed, and that responsibility to prevent unseemly death fell directly on Ruven’s shoulders. He had not prosecuted a war since the War of the Leaves, and had thoroughly hated the experience just as he had all over battles he had fought. Warfare was the bane of his existence; it was the purpose to which he was originally bred, but now in his enlightened absolution he felt it a relic of a bygone era without need of existence in the present. He must tread very carefully if he meant to avoid disaster.

Ruven sighed, exhaling sharply as one of the Rose accompaniment, Lusha motioned for the security personnel to convalesce around their position on the tarmac. Things were moving in the wrong direction right now for the Saahein Sovereignty, and even though there was a macabre sense of anticipation at seeing a nuclear fireball go up in the sky over the waters of the Badlands, Ruven could not find it in himself to enjoy what was happening, or what was about to happen. His thoughts were a tempest of death, struggle and violence – a cacophony of noise dipped in the blood of his people. If he meant to navigate the treacherous headwaters and find an off-ramp from war, he would need to shape up and fly the fuck straight for a change. For too long, they had left the Hakul to their own devices in the Badlands, convinced that they were going to rot there and embrace their icy fate. It was foolish to not expect an attack of some sort in hindsight, and Ruven had purposed in his heart not to be caught off-guard again. For now, self-recrimination over the incident was all he could afford.

Issarel moved up from the plane to join him at his side, smiling at him coyly as she approached. In many ways, Issarel was his salvation; the salve that he had been liberally applying to his soul in order to stave off the worst excesses of the age. Though they had only been together for thirty-five years now – a pittance in the life of an elf – they had already experienced a lifetime’s worth of memories. She was his helpmeet, his comforter, his rock awash in the tumultuous surf. Without Issarel by his side, Ruven was nothing but a punk elf that had gotten in over his head and led a revolution against the ruling caste of mankind. She was the lynchpin that held him to a higher standard, tethered to a higher calling than that which he had been bred to experience. If he meant to honor her in the way that a beautiful soul should be honored, he would have to dig deep within himself not only to shower her with his affections against the backdrop of his anxieties, but also to be the kind of partner she deserved wholesale. Issarel deserved the very best he could offer, and he would make it so.

“You look nervous,” Issarel said as she came near to Ruven, shaking her head at him. “Loosen up!”

“You loosen up,” Ruven responded, straightening his vest for the third time in as many minutes. “This is my adopted sister, the daughter of Maeralya; I owe her my allegiance and my support, and I will be damned if I do not give her due reverence.”

“Oh, dear husband of mine, she is but an Alfar; a highborn, royal Alfar, but still, just an Alfar. She owes you as much respect and reverence as you owe her as the Ostrax of Seclya.” Issarel had a way of cutting through the fluffy sentimentality Ruven often got lost in with cold, hard logic.

“You seriously mean to equate my station with that of Aleriel?”

“Yes, you dork,” Issarel laughed, putting her hand on Ruven’s cheek. She leaned in and gave him a peck on the lips, a kiss meant to demonstrate a loving embrace, but also one of bemusement and joviality. Issarel was having fun at the expense of his discomfort. “You are both children of Maeralya in your own way.”

“She is of the blood; I am of sacred oath only,” Ruven replied to her, his lip curling as he spoke. “There must be a difference between the bloodborne of Maeralya and her adopted son. It simply must be so.”

“Such a distinction exists only in your head; she’s your sister!” His wife was flummoxed by Ruven’s insistence of subverting his own station in the grand scheme of things. “You think she will have you flogged for insolence or something?”

“Might as well give her that authority, yes,” Ruven nervously chided, looking directly at Issarel as he spoke. “The Amadorians are our salvation, remember? Without their interference in the War of the Leaves, you and I would be skeletons chained to a cross in Haanthemar.”

“Ruven…” Issarel softly cooed, trying to calm the nerves of her husband by placing her hand on the side of his arm and rubbing up and down gently. “You need to relax; she will be happy to see you! You are every bit her brother as her bloodkin are.”

The Ostrax of Seclya was unconvinced. “I wish I could believe that, I do.”

“All it takes is a leap of faith,” Issarel remarked, removing her hand from his shoulder in order to hold his hand. “I have made the leap successfully; what stays your feet from doing the same, my love?”

“I have not the first clue,” Ruven admitted after a pause, looking up at the sky. “Maybe some greater force is pulling on me, who knows? All I can ascertain is that Aleriel is my superior in life, and if I mean to find my place in her family, I must acknowledge this.”

“You underestimate the care and concern the Amadorian royal family has for you, Ruven,” Issarel answered him. “You think yourself a burden upon them, when you are an incredible asset. You lead one of two elven nations in Gholgoth; that counts for something!”

“It counts for dick,” the Ostrax muttered as he looked back down towards his wife, his eyes sharp and focused. “The Amadorians have no need for the Saahein; we are a charity case to them.”

Issarel was beside herself; “that is not true!”

“Oh, but it is,” Ruven challenged her directly, crossing his arms across his chest. “Do you know how much blood and capital they poured into Seclya over the last thirty-five years? Do you have any notion of how much a drain we were on them?”

“Not a drain, dear; an investment.”

“An investment in what, exactly?” Ruven was confused, uncertain. “What exactly is the return on investment here for the Amadorians, for Maeralya? They already have the Marquesiennes for allies in the Gothic south. What good to we do?”

“We stand guard against the Gothic Lords who would challenge elvenkind, my dear husband,” Issarel tried to reassure him. “The Amadorian Imperium is powerful, but not invincible. We are their valued allies in the protection of elvenkind in the north.”

Ruven thought to interject, but the commotion ahead of them signaled that Aleriel’s entourage was approaching from the east to meet them. Whatever he would have said in response to Issarel’s prodding was lost on the breeze. He stole a quick look at his wife, who merely winked at him and smiled devilishly; she knew she had gotten the last laugh in their little tête-à-tête, and further knew that it was going to burrow under Ruven’s skn like a burr he could not remove. And she was right, of course; no words need be spoken about it to understand Ruven’s silent consternation. But now was not the time for rapprochement with his wife over it; he needed to get his game face on. The crown princess of Amador was approaching and required his full attention. His adopted sister was one of the most important members of the Amadorian royal family, the family that he in fact owed his life to, and he would be damned if he were not prepared to meet with her this day in Kva Norale. Issarel too seemed to understand the significance of this moment in time, moving to stand directly beside Ruven.

Aleriel was absolutely stunning on the tarmac, her radiance knowing no earthly bounds that Ruven could ascertain. She was wearing a flowing, cerulean-colored dress embellished with gold and silver trim around the edges of the fabric in the Alfar custom. Her choker was adorned with blue pearls that were inlaid with encrusted jewels. Her fair skin and white hair was the spitting image of their mother, Queen Maeralya. Yet she was also her own woman, soft of countenance yet brimming with a type of quiet strength. His sister was the kind of person that could command respect with the movement of her hand and the gentleness of spirit but could simultaneously command armies in the field with the fierceness of her heart. This duality made her unique, and it gave Ruven the pause necessary to collect himself and present him and his wife to his sister as respectfully as he could. This was the heir apparent to the Amadorian Imperium, after all – their benefactor on the world stage. He would protect the life of Aleriel just as quickly as he would his wife or his own children, for that matter.

The Ostrax of the Saahein Sovereignty bowed at the waist in unison with his wife, the Miax, showing reverence to his adopted sister. "My grace, it is a pleasure to see you."

by **Marquesan** » Mon Nov 25, 2024 7:56 am

"Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming, in thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove. That, if requiring fail, he will compel." - W. Shakespeare, Henry V

Western Reaches, Kairun Island
Kvan Far East, The Badlands
Local Time: 0920 Hours

T - 48 Hours

Flying swiftly over Kairun's west harbor, a Marine Royale Hellcat helicopter arced gracefully over a glass-calm harbor. Commandant-Lieutenant Valère Gardinier and the launch zone retinue were flying together from the Iblis as it approached the tiny island of Kairun with its escorts. Painted the same cool ocean blue as the ships, and emblazoned with the "Rising Sun" roundel, the long, downward-tapered stub wings of the helicopter were carrying additional fuel today instead of the dizzying array of weapons available. Looking down at the fuel tanks through one of the passenger cabin windows, Gardinier had been making note of the warships they passed above; it had been a vast array amounting to a grand naval revue surrounding the launch site.

Cruisers, destroyers, frigates of Marquesan and foreign makes had assembled around the island; the area around Kairun was abuzz with small boats and helicopters transiting to and from the warships further out to sea. The Marquesan fleet, still a day away, began to relax in its operational tempo once Alfar escorts had picked them up. The submarines had broken off once surface ships made contact, taking up patrol points far outside the restricted zone. For them, there was to be no celebration, only the duty of ensuring that nothing had the opportunity to sneak up on the launch zone unintercepted beneath the waves.

Valère Gardinier was a recently-promoted OF-5, young for her role as Director, Missile Flight Ops for the test, but she had spent the past twenty-five years working on the Marquesan ballistic program, and the test had been her brainchild. A brilliant, driven woman with straight, sandy brown hair, an almost-gaunt runner's physique and the energy to match, she had tied her hair up in a tight knot, and was wearing her dress Terai akimbo, with a black and red sash. Her dress uniform was a fine charcoal-black merino wool, with a mandarin collar and twenty gold double buttons, french cuffs with brilliant gold cufflinks and her rank on her epaulets. A tightly-fitting ankle-length skirt and brightly-polished patent leather boots completed the ensemble, which was the same uniform worn by her subordinate, Julienne Thibault, sitting across from her on the Hellcat flight. Julienne was a platinum blonde and a quarter Alfar by blood; her otherworldly almost golden eyes and high cheekbones, pointed ears and elegant physique somehow made her superior officer look plain and conservative.

"This is a sharp change from the secrecy we left Huahine with." Gardinier said as she glanced over to Julienne Thibault, who had been scrolling through the latest briefing on the launch zone attendees.

"Aye, ma'am. It's a good thing to have traveled in secret, but the secret is out, now. The Palmyrian Lakambini and her Royal Consort have already landed; it reads like a royal party on the ground." Thibault said, adjusting the overcoat of her sharply-pressed dress uniform.

Lieutenant-Chef Raimond Noyer had been staring out the window at the ships for the whole hour they'd been flying. Noyer's uniform resembled the others, but wore sharp charcoal gray slacks with a blood-red stripe down the outseam. With thick black hair that required constant maintenance and deep brown eyes, his olive-toned skin showed some Palmyrian heritage in his breeding, making him a natural choice for public relations on this end of the mission.

"I'm told the Lakambini and her consort both speak Marquessa fluently."

Both female officers looked over at Noyer with some surprise evident on their faces.

"Really? That's remarkable."

He looked away from the window, sitting up a bit straighter.

"The Palmyrian royal family values our strategic partnership highly; both of them consider it a sign of the seriousness of their commitment."

On the overhead, the pilot's voice was heard. "LZ in ten minutes. LZ in ten minutes." The helicopter began to bank to the right, allowing Gardinier and Thibault a close-up view of the KS Kongō, (CG-60) a brand-new Nataraja type frigate, one of the first of its class released initially to foreign militaries, rushed into action due to the threat level in the Badlands. Its sleek and angular silhouette, inverted from the traditional Gothic Bow of the older generation gave the first-rate frigate -- rated by its new owners as a guided missile cruiser -- a menacing visage that was drawing crowds of smaller boats as it closed the distance to Kairun Island. The officers and their retinue were all transfixed for a moment as they passed over Kongō; the pilot leveled the helicopter off, beginning his final approach to the landing zone. They'd taken the helicopter to allow the officers time to get settled at the launch zone, while Iblis and her escorts would take another day to maneuver into position for the launch.

"Such an imposing design."

"That's really the future we're looking at."

A few moments of silence passed as KS Kongō fell away from the view of their windows.

"I'd bet Commandant Leclair's not thrilled with all this attention on his launch site."

"Oh, I'm certain he's not thrilled. Just yesterday he was complaining that his whole calendar was nothing but galas and briefings for the next week on the command channel."

As the Marine Royale Hellcat pitched its nose up over the landing pad, the unmistakable buxom silhouette of Lusha Zindi could be seen, cradling a VP-6 assault rifle in her arms, facing outward and watching the throng of gathering press, their cameras flashing all around the helipad. Gardinier sighed heavily as Noyer stood, sliding the helicopter's side door open and hopping out, ducking his head under the spinning lower rotor disc as he exited the helicopter, running toward a throng of waiting press, their cameras flashing brightly. When the Hellcat touched down and the pilot throttled down the engines, Gardinier and Thibault stood from their seats and exited the helicopter, making their way toward Commandant Leclair, who had come to meet them, accompanied by Alain Le Tigre, head of private security for the event, which was being handled by the Order of the Crimson Rose.

Alain's close-cropped silver hair and well-groomed moustache stained amber from cigar smoking belied a life spent in luxury; he was wearing to this event a silvery-white dinner jacket and slacks with a white waistcoat, a crimson necktie and handkerchief, and a shirt of the darkest purple, almost black. Piercing hazel eyes were held steadily on the helicopter as it landed. Le Tigre was the stuff of legends; half paramilitary crime syndicate boss and half corporate CEO; the Order of the Crimson Rose had existed nearly as long as the Marquesan League, an ancient chivalric order that blurred the lines between a cult, a cartel and a private army. Le Tigre was the latest in a long line of men to hold the position, fluent in many languages and wanted in a number of foreign countries, his reputation was a fearsome one. It was often reported in the news that he had a penchant for violence and brutality, but standing there dressed in white, he had the look of a refined gentleman, redolent with the scent of tobacco, good whisky and expensive cologne.

Next to him, Commandant Leclair's brilliant pale green eyes and soft, silvery moustache belied a much more stern, reserved persona. Leclair was dressed in his finest olive green dress uniform, holding onto his kepi blanc with a white-gloved hand against the blast from the helicopter's coaxial rotors. Basile Leclair was a career military man in line for ennoblement with his next promotion; standing arrow-straight, his broad shoulders and imposing presence made him instantly recognizable. Commandant Leclair had a well-deserved reputation as a hardass, rumor held that he'd been given the Kva Norale command to terrify the Hakul, and the Commandant had been given full latitude to deploy as he saw fit anywhere in the theater. Leclair's first general order to the theater had been to capture Hakulic personnel caught on Marquesan installations alive, only if live capture was more expedient than prosecution of the target, which had been widely regarded as carte blanche by soldiers and sailors. So far, no Hakul had tested the policy, but there was always today. The two men, who on paper couldn't be more different, saw eye to eye on the necessity of the test.

"Permission to approach, Commandant?" Gardinier said as she stood up straight after having ducked under the turning Hellcat rotors.

"Granted; thank you for coming, Commandant-Lieutenant, Capitaine-Chef, welcome to Kairun."

"Thank you, monsignor."

"Iblis is?"

"--About a day's sail away still, Sir. We thought we might distract you from the royals, if you don't mind being pried away?"

Le Tigre and Leclair exchanged a glance, le Tigre nodded, and gave a nod to Kuskyn Illiven, on the other side of the helipad, who began to speak up.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please."

As Illiven gathered the attention of the members of the press mingling about the helipad to a press tent, Leclair, Gardinier and Thibault stepped off in the opposite direction to speak privately.

"We saw quite an array out there. I am surprised to have seen the KS Kongō steaming toward Kairun. We're really showing the flag."

"In more ways than one. How was the journey?"

"Not much to report until we made contact with Alfar escorts. We heard there's been trouble here, though?"

"A ship being towed in for the test was attacked, its escorts--a Nataraja--eliminated the ambushers. We aren't clear on the why, yet, but it certainly speaks to the threat level."

"Well, we've brought a little treat to put these skirmishers in their place."

Leclair smiled a wry little smile.

"We've spent quite some time working on the dock arrangement. Would you like to see it?"

"Yes, we were hoping you might offer, monsignor."

"Excellent, let's be off, then."

Leclair clapped his white-gloved hands twice.

"DRIVER!"

From the press tent, a distant reply.

"Sir!"

A young Caporal-Chef appeared, running.

"Take us to the loading dock."

"Right away, Commandant!"

The young Caporal altered the trajectory of his run toward the motorpool, and arriving a few minutes later driving an Ambassade 800 "Hermès" limousine. He parked near the helipad, and got out to open the rear door for Commandant Leclair, Commandant-Lieutenant Gardinier, and Capitane-Chef Thibault, leaving Noyer and le Tigre to manage the press. The limousine was absolutely silent as it pulled away, its powerful electric drivetrain and armored, sound-deadened chassis allowing the three officers to relax comfortably in the rear compartment, isolated from the driver and replete with the finest of comforts--fine doeskin leather, burled wood and polished silver appointments, its windows electrically tinting against the fierce morning sun. They were off, with just a few minutes between locations, passed mostly in silence, as the three of them looked out on the array of ships near the island, the idyllic scenery of this otherwise remote locale which had suddenly become the focus of all eyes in the region and many in the wider world.

by **Tiami** » Mon Nov 25, 2024 5:30 pm

"The only impossible journey is the one you never begin"

Kairun Western Reaches, Kvan Far East

14:51 hours local time

Aleriel knew it. She absolutely called it as she smirked in the direction of her five Rose-clad guards following in short behind her as she approached the Ostrax and Miax of Seclya on the tarmac in Kairun. Ruven looked downright out of place in his ruffled white shirt and blue vest. This caught Aleriel sporting a shadowy smile as she chuckled with the appeal of a little girl. This was far from her adopted brother's usual attire and it showed rather splendidly. Her gaze fixated upon Issarel, denoting her long white growth with diamonds having been sewn into it - Aleriel made note of this as well. She was far better to stand before the Heir Apparent of Amador. She loved her sister dearly and her beauty was close to her own. The regality of her hairdo - a simple yet elegant bun - was charming, especially compared to the hairy ape bowing beside her that was the Ostrax.

The Heir was pleased to bear witness to her family arriving in Kairun. It had been a long few weeks - miserable if anything for the queen-to-be and their arrival brought a shimmer of life back into her darkened soul. As she approached the two, their bows of respect would be reciprocated, as the princess bowed at waist level herself as a sign of respect and equality for the station they each sat upon. The travel had been long and arduous without the gates to transport the royals across the Imperium, but it had been a necessary precaution nonetheless. While Kairun offered little in the way of elegance befitting royal elves, she would see to it that her siblings were at least made comfortable.

"The pleasure is mine alone, dear siblings," Aleriel spoke sweetly as she rose up from her bow of respect as she peered towards Issarel. "I thank you for coming all this way to witness a treat for the eyes. And no, I am not talking about brother Ruven's poorly executed choice of attire either."

Aleriel stepped further towards Ruven and Issarel as they now stood straight, taking note of Ruven's towering height over the two female Alfar. She looked at both directly, making eye contact with the two - she was sure to have given the two Seclyai at least some inclination that the princess was not fully mentally present - her darkened eyes were likely to give such a notion away. However, she would skip formalities and royal protocol as she brought her arms around the Ostrax and Miax, with her hands each taking the back of their heads as she brought them in closer to her own. The three, in a picture perfect scene as the sunlight dipped out from the clouds onto the tarmac, caught Aleriel in a tender embrace with her family - all three Elves' foreheads touching one another. A solemn scene, but not an unwelcome one - such tender moments were far and few between in this inherently evil world.

Aleriel spoke, a tear gently escaping its confinement before streaming down her face like a roaring river. "It is good to see you two. I trust the flight went well, Hîn Vennala?"

That guard that accompanied the heir bore witness to the embrace, but offered not emotional response; rather, they offered their respects to the royal blood that stood before them. Their left arms pounding their chests with great force as a single "Hyup!" left their mouths, as they stood at attention.

Samara International Airport, Samara, Kva Norale

05:04 hours local time

"You know, Galfred, I could try and hook you up with Jill? What do you think?" Elsa questioned slyly with a playful smirk sprinting across her face.

Galfred was walking side-by-side to the Alfar princess, his towering figure blotting out the slim-framed Archon. He sighed, letting loose his minor frustrations with the princess. "You know, princess, I have a fiance.'

"And? More is better, if I say so myself," spoke the princess, her head pivoted to the skyscraper-sized man. "She is quite the attractive fruit."

He sighed once more, his head pivoting to the ground he tread on as the guard and princess followed through the corridors to welcome their Palmyrion allies. "Regardless, I do not have the desires that the royals of your caliber have. I do not think I could manage it."

Elsa chuckled at the obvious joke towards the Alfar Royalty's propensity to welcome into their beds more than just their spouses. Though she did not respond to his joke, she would get him back later following their meeting with the Lakambini. She certainly hoped her dear friend would forgive the breach of royal protocol per the location of their meeting. Normally, the welcoming of a close ally would warrant their arrival to the Faenen Palace in Grand Azura, or Glymerhall in Amador, but the war had turned protocol on its head, forcing a change in plans. Elsa, with Galfred and guard in tow, would soon enter the small receiving room at Samara International to greet the Lakambini with open arms. Perhaps she would even question Jilliane on why her nation suddenly grew a large pair of balls and sent a carrier strike group into the Badlands region.

The terminal had been closed off to civilian passengers for security reasons prior to the arrival of Elsa or Jilliane. It was nothing special, save for some intricate paints hung gracefully into the large atrium above and the crystalline lighting that braced the sides of the large domed terminal. Near the entrance/exit of the terminal to the tarmac, the Lakambini and her entourage were waiting for the princess and Galfred, to which Elsa steadily approached, her welcoming eyes and presence indicating her enthusiasm at seeing her old friend. Stepping forward as the group paused in front of Jilliane, Galfred would announce the arrival of Alfar princess.

"Presenting the Princess of Amador, Her Royal Highness, Archon of Ilethlean, and Dragon Lord to Celeys, Daughter of Aleriel, and the Lady of Isinor, Esla Lan Roqoiuniel."

Elsa stepped forward, giving the Lakambini a curtsy as a symbol of respect.

"My dear friend, your grace, I welcome you to Kva Norale," she continued. "I apologize for the lack of decorum in welcoming you to the Imperium. Do forgive this transgression."

A smile crept across the Archon's face as she continued to speak.

"Though I suppose I should forgive you for your little show of force in the Tazanthrian sea?" She quipped, referencing the carrier strike group Jilliane had sent to the strike zone for the testing site. "And do not tell me it is simply a show of force or you are here to support allies. I know you well enough to know you always have an ulterior motive."

"Always to the point..." Sighed Galfred as he muttered under his breath. His charge had always been straight-to-the-point - so much so that her personality often insinuated an obvious superior and a higher intellect in regards to what the Alfar considered 'lesser species'. He would need to try and attempt to keep her in check - a tall order for a mere ‘friend.’

"Oh, this is Galfred by the way," Elsa spoke, waving to her friend. "Won't you be his friend?"

Hotel Iridigant, Iros, Kairun

09:24 hours local time

Though Iros was but a small town of no more than seven thousand, of which little in the way of the extravagant luxuries existed, it still had its charm. Traditionalist Alfar architecture spread throughout Iros. Wood and stone buildings shaped in a manner to promote the natural beauty of the environment made their presence known - their antiquated appearance belied the sophistry of their construction and the modern elements installed within. Kairun, and by extension, Iros, had existed for centuries as a forward territory of Amador - their advanced technologies even reached the fringes of civilized Alfar spaces such as the Kvan Far East. Its charm belied the military presence of the town, though even with the swarming masses of flesh flocking to the islands, it still possessed a status as a far-reaching tourist destination for many of Amador's families due to its warm weather and pristine sandy beaches. Hotels, ranging from the dank to to over-indulgent, offered plenty that most of the town could not hope to provide.

Sitting perched atop one of the roofs of a twenty-story hotel building constructed in neo-Alfarian romanesque style, a kicked-back Admiral Gailarius Eltierel smoked a cigar, huffing several rings into the warm breezy winds buffeting his gray-haired features. Shore leave had been granted by Alfar High Command - a day, but better than nothing at all, in preparation for what was to come. A little relaxation was something all could agree on, especially in a paradise such as Kairun. He watched as the silhouettes of Amadorian, Marquesan, Seclyai, and allied warships filtered around the islands, their armaments squarely entrenching them in a defensive perimeter. Though he missed his Siriya, he appreciated the cigar and the comfortable deck chair that he found himself resting in, as well as the endless cocktails compliments of the hotel staff.

He was not alone though. His stature warranted a guard - the Order of the Crimson Rose. The best of the best for a long-time friend of Le Tigre, whom the elder Alfar had known as a child. In particular, three men accompanied the admiral - Dirmitz, Farkier, and Ilinas, all friends with Gailarius through their shared history of battle in the War of the Leaves and during their stationing during the Laefold War. While they were not able to enjoy the relaxation unlike their Alfar friend, they spared no expense in throwing a few jabs toward the admiral.

"You know Gai, if I were relaxing like this, I'd at least have a lady with me," Ilinas quipped, snickering at Gailarius. "Or is your one eye a turn off?"

Gailarius retorted quickly, flipping off the Rose. "This eye has seen more than yours ever will, asshole. "

"At least Le Tigre is interesting. Did you hear about the time he -" spoke Dirmitz before being interrupted by Farkier.

"Speaking of Le Tigre, we've got confirmation from him that Commandant-Lieutenant Valère Gardinier, Julienne Thibault, Lieutenant-Chef Raimond Noye, and the remaining Marquesan delegation have landed via the Marquesan Royale Hellcat ahead of the Iblis and their Amadorian escorts."

"Oh, yea?"

"Indeed sir," Farkier continued. "They are en route now."

"And is Alain with them?" Gailarius questioned jokingly. "Please tell me he is not handling the press?"

"Afraid so sir - at least he'll handle it better than you."

The Admiral rolled his eyes mockingly before posturing up to stand and taking a swig of his cocktail before returning his cigar back to its perch at the right crevice of his mouth.

"Well, then shall we be off? I suppose I shall greet our dear friends."

The work of a high-ranking imperial never ceased - Gailairus' vacation would have to wait a little while longer.

Glymerhall Palace, Royal Residence, Ifa Serine, Amador

04:52 hours local time

Though the grand courtyard and a large portion of Glymerhall was left heavily damaged in the wake of the gate explosion, the private residences of the imperial family were left unharmed - a somber reminder that anything could change in a moment's notice. The intricate white stonework, overlaid with red satin and velvet draper and grandiose portraits of Alfarian royalty, from Tal Vashok, to the despot King Idinor Farska, and the dragon king Irulien Shiral of the Tiami Kingdom's First Dynasty - it all called to attention the luxurious setting that the Amadors lived in. The Royal Wing as it was known as, held sway as the sleeping quarters of the princes and princesses of Amador that reside within Ifa Serine and its mainland - this was true for the queen herself, Maeralya and her husband, the King Consort Ailred, who could both be founded in one anothers warm embrace at the far end of the wing in the Queen's private chambers.

Resting her head against the stone-hard chest of her husband, the queen, with a satin white sheet barely covering her modesty and her husband's, nuzzled Ailred - her flirty side showing as she stroked Ailred's chest. In all the millennia that the two had spent together, their private life was never questioned and was arguably stronger than ever. The twenty-first century had brought many trials and tribulations to the married monarchs - the Lost Prince, the War of the Leaves, Laefold, and now the Second War of the Leaves was unraveling. They were stronger than ever, with the years having nourished their vitality to truly divine-like perception. Afterall, there were few individuals in the world that had obtained effective immortality like Maeralya, both in physical and mental capacity, but also in the legacy that she had created for herself, her family, and for her nation.

"Are you sure we need another child?" Ailred joked, his hand resting atop Maeralya's forehead. "Dagon is surely enough."

"I did think about giving Dagon a little sibling," she joked back, referencing their youngest child, Dagon, who was only ten years of age at the time. "It would go a long way in helping to recover this family, no?"

"You think tragically, my queen. We have suffered a setback and an unfortunate and sad loss. We will gain back our losses. You will it so."

"I suppose, though another little one running around with one of those Se'la Shock Plushies would be enthralling at best. Maybe one of the gerbils?"

"Se'vana and Lira both have my ire for those dolls..." Ailred looked away with frustration. "Why can't they make one of me? Hell, at least arm the gerbils!"

Maeralya sat up slightly, readjusting to a position in which she herself was directly on top of Ailred, embracing him as she gave him a peck on his forehead. "You worry too much dear. The Mae doll does the job for both of us!"

"Fine..." he sighed, but returned the tender embrace.

A short while later, as Maeralya threw over her body a white satin gown, a knock at the door beckoned a few attendants and a member of the guard into the chambers. Ailred, being the gruff man he was, was fast asleep, ignoring the entrance of several bodies despite the noise. One lady-in-waiting, Elrika quickly motioned over to the queen, offering a curtsy before motioning a compliant Maeralya over to her dressing table and its oak and silk embroidered finished chair. She would then take the queen's hair into her hands before producing a brush to smooth away the roughness of the past few hours.

"My queen, you certainly like to keep interesting, " Elrike chuckled as she peered over to the slumbering king. "Interesting enough that His Grace is um... how do you say it... indisposed?

"You would be welcome to join us, darling," Maeralya insinuated with a smirk.

Elrike blushed, her hands briefly shaking from the offer as she resumed to brush Her Highness' hair. "You would break me, your grace - but alas, I do come bearing news."

"Oh? Share."

"Prince Hypario is greeting officials arriving in Kva Norale currently, while Princess Elsa is greeting the Lakambini Jilliane at Samara International under a protective cordon," Elrika paused as she strained to brush out a knot in the queen's hair, which caused Maeralya to every so slightly flinch. "I'm told Elsa and Jilliane are close friends. Is this true?"

"My granddaughter has attended a great deal of events for Jilliane in recent years since the Lakambini's coronation. Weddings, coronations, tea... other desirables. She's been there for her friend."

"Of course, thank you, your grace. The Marquesan delegates have arrived and our escorts are due to arrive with the Iblis and her package in tow shortly. Signs indicate not Hakulic forces in the area nor any risk of strike at this moment."

"And what of the strike zone?" Questioned Maeralya as she readjusted her chest and pitched her crystal blue eyes around to look at Elrika, whose ruby red eyes and freckled face gave her the appearance of a well-off noble Alfar.

"Admiral Morgaen has entrenched the Black Fleet around the site and the remaining Amadorian ships selected to take part in the test have been towed into place - the admiral is finishing up the last few pieces to put in place as allies finish delivering their sacrificial ships. No threats to the site have been indicated so far."

The queen now waved off Elrika, while the other attendants stepped forward, quickly standing the queen up and offering her a chalice of win, to which Maeralya complied, before taking a long sip. She looked down, pressed her hand upon her stomach and a low grumble creeped out from her mouth as her sudden annoyance came on quite strong.

Elrike asked promptly. "Is something the matter, your grace?"

"Yes, I believe I need to clean up - I do think my husband might have been the rougher one for once."

Elrika and her two ladies-in-waiting nodded compliantly offering to draw a bath for the queen.

“And wake that lumbering buffoon up while I am in the bath. We’ve a busy day ahead of us.”

Over on the bed, a coarse grunt and an obnoxious echoing snore billowed out from the beast that was Ailred, his face wearing the visage of a pleased man.

by **Palmyrion** » Mon Nov 25, 2024 9:54 pm

Samara International Airport, Kva Norale
Air Force Alpha (Callsign RPC10001) - 2035
0500H Local

A humble, yet tasteful airport in the middle of Bum Fuck Nowhere, Jilliane and Jason thought. At least the island had good accommodations for a distant outpost - which was appropriate, local comforts helping ease the tyranny of distance with regular supply routes shuttling in supplies every now and then.

Jill returned Elsa's curtsy with one of her own, with Jason giving Elsa a light bow as well; it was only appropriate to return the hospitality. And, for a close ally, they would be well familiar with Palmyrian royal protocol: on foreign soil, the sovereign would give a bow or a curtsy, to pay homage to the host's hospitality, and on domestic soil, the sovereign returns the same as a sign of hospitality to an alien sojourner, the head of the house welcoming the traveler into their abode.

"Thanks for the welcome nonetheless." the Lakambini responded. "And, well, I don't take it as a transgression, either."

Elsa then skipped straight to one of the points she'd want to address with Jill: why they have an entire CSG - and an Escorting Naval Squadron - going to the strike zone, to include Palmyrian royalty: Jill's youngest brother Maxwell, commanding a destroyer of his own. And Jill could sense that Elsa wouldn't be satisfied with 'show of force' or 'support for allies' as an answer; ten years of close ties have pretty much synced both on the same wavelength for the most part.

If it were either, it needed to be backed with something more substantial.

"Ten years ago," the Lakambini began, "the Royal Commonwealth emerged victorious from an internal security crisis that it barely survived."

She took a pause, to let the context simmer and sink in. It was 11 years since she went full Rambo aboard the RCN Desmond Beckett when a swarm of motorbancas and drones launched a focused attack on the destroyer, for which she was conferred the Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth's highest military honor. It was 10 years since the Einheitswelt blockade of Palmyrion, ten years since a criminal almost shook the monarchy asunder with terror attacks and a torrent of sexually violent deepfakes, and some 25 years since Palmyrion's post-Reunion teething worries simmered over from civil discontent to armed uprising and sparked the first fires that would burn for the next 15 years.

It had been ten years of recovery and rejuvenation, ten years of renewing centuries-old ties with the Amadorians and brokering new ones (including a marriage of state between Gerard and Neda III, now blessed with two heirs and a third currently a month or two in the Holy Roman Empress' oven), and now a recovered Palmyrion seeks once again to reassert its position in the global stage as a power to be respected. If an archipelagic nation that took pride in its maritime heritage wanted to do so, it would serve it well to use its navy - and one of its navy's most prized aircraft carriers - to do so.

"Now, amidst national rejuvenation, we seek to recommit and rededicate Palmyrion's position in the global community as a respectable, upstanding nation - and that includes our readiness as an ally to both the Marquesan and Amadorian Imperiums."

At a surface level, it probably would have sounded like a rehashing of "show of force" and "show of support" or even a superficial fusion of both - but really, it was more than that. It was both of them in one package, and yet larger than the sum of its two halves: it was, as Jill said, a rededication and recommitment of the Royal Commonwealth's standing as a global power among a fraternity and sorority of nations.

by **Kozakura** » Wed Nov 27, 2024 6:56 am

KS Kongō (CG-60), Kongō-class Guided Missile Cruiser
Flagship, 5th Expeditionary Squadron, Second Home Fleet
Approaching Kva Norale, Amadorian Province

"High Command asked us to observe this weapons test. To see if this weapon would strike fear to the hearts of our enemies." Vice Admiral Igarashi told him.

"Another fossil dreaming for the return of the mainland." Rear Admiral Kimura Noriaki scoffed at the remark. A 57 year old naval flag officer of the Kozakuran Navy walked the open deck aboard his flagship. The Kongō rolled and pitched with the waves of the extraregional oceans, spraying the deck with sea water as they exited the Esvanovian region. He held on to the wooden, resin-impregnated hand-rail as the tumblehome bow pierced the waves and powered through the rough seas. Kimura looked to his starboard, watching the cruiser Hyūga and their escorts go through the same waves the Kongō easily powered through.

The Kongō is one of the newest ships acquired by Kozakura, part of the Shogunate's plan to increase the navy's size and reach. The Home Fleets were the first to received the Marquesan-produced cruisers, painted a light shade of gray in contrast to the dark blue hulls of their Marquesan counterparts.

Admiral Kimura never liked departing the Esvanovian region, preferring the seas of home with all its cutthroats, enemies and friends. Outside the region was the unknown, and his government preferred not to include themselves in the matters between extraregional powers.

"We just received contact with Naval Base Kariun, Admiral Kimura." Captain Tsunoda Yuzuru, a 41 year old commanding officer of the Kongō stood beside the Admiral offering a cup of tea from his flask. Kimura graciously accepted the cup, sipping the cup as he walked into the bridge closely followed by the captain. Setting the cup on the central display table before them showing the map of the region before them.

Standing to Kimura's left and wearing the white and gold Type 1 naval flag uniform stood Vice Admiral Igarashi Osamu, a 61 year old naval officer of the Kozakuran Navy. Admiral Igarashi is the Deputy Chief of the Navy, and is expected to succeed Admiral Kupu Jare, after his retirement. He stood out on the bridge with his uniform, in contrast to the black and greys of the naval service uniform worn by Captain Tsunoda and his ship officers and crew and the navy blue and gold Type 2 naval staff uniform worn by Admiral Kimura.

"Send a coded message to Commander Hiromatsu and request a status report on the Seiryū in the strike zone on the next communications window." Admiral Kimura told Captain Tsunoda, who nodded and walked towards the communications officer on the port side of the bridge. Finishing the cup of tea Tsunoda offered him, he observed the display, noting the ho-hums of the instanced heuristic controller managing the systems of the ship.

"U-KI, stop that noise." Kimura told the heuristic controller, expecting a haughty response from the sentient program.
"Admiral! I'm bored though!" U-KI responded, it's virtual avatar of a circular waveform scrambling, resembling a sea urchin. "These Marquesan-designed systems are so business and stuff to the point that they don't seem to need my help, and the combat management system doesn't seem to like me!"
"Is this going to be a problem?" Kimura asked. He has observed reports from his fleet commanders saying that the instanced Heuristic Controllers not liking the new Marquesan-designed systems. He hopes that the interfacing engineers back home are working on a solution.
"Of course not!" U-KI replied, the child-like voice continuing. "It's when we're outside alert conditions that are so boring!"

"Admiral Kimura, U-KI." Igarashi spoke across the display table and cleared his throat. "Where are we now?"
"Ah, right." Kimura tapped the screen on the table clearing the various GUI windows and showed the current positioning with the second display indicating the link with the heliograph towers, another Marquesan technological marvel.

"We are a few hours out from the rendezvous point." Himura pointed at the island "The cruise ship which will carry the delegates watching the launch are positioned here." he then pointed at the dot a further ways out. "The delegation at Kva Norale requests that we meet them at Samara in Kva Norale proper before meeting the rest of the launch crew in the island."

"Very well." Igarashi nodded, looking towards Captain Tsunoda, "Prepare our transport to Samara. We will rendezvous with the rest of the fleet after the protocol and all."

At the aft end of the Kongō, a quadrotor transport was wheeled out from the hangar bay still attached to the bear trap keeping the quadrotor from being thrown overboard. The quadrotor transport unfolded its engine nacelles, with the pilots entering the cockpit and prepare the transport for launch. With launch preparations sorted out, Admiral Igarashi, escorted by Admiral Kimura and Commander Sude Kurupo, an Orinami naval officer, serving as Chief of Staff to Admiral Igarashi emerged from the hangar and entered the quadrotor transport.

It's four engines powered on, spinning the four rotors to full power as the bear trap slackened, allowing the quadrotor to lift off from the deck. Once on a sufficient high altitude, the beartrap let go, falling into the deck as the quadrotor flew off towards Samara.

"Samara Control, this is Kozakuran Naval Air Transport designated as Falcon One-One, requesting flight vector to Samara Airport."

As Falcon One-One approached Samara, the rest of the 5th Expeditionary Squadron moved on, with the Kongō's captain sending a message to Naval Station Kairun:

"Naval Station Kairun, this is the Fifth Expeditionary Squadron of the Kozakuran Navy, requesting permission to position our naval assets in the launch area and the strike zone for observation purposes."

by **Marquesan** » Wed Nov 27, 2024 1:10 pm

Bridge of Pha.544 - Iblis,
Qarin-class Amphibious Landing Ship
Approaching Kairun, Kvan Far East
1640 Hours, Local Time

"Depth below our keel, mister."

Capitaine Esmé Pan spoke, as her eyes followed the rocks they passed by on the port side. Alfar submarines had sounded these approaches, but one never knows in places like this. Used to be, this part of a map would say here be dragons, she thought.

"One hundred meters and holding, Capitaine."

"Acknowledged. Adjust our track, let's go... five degrees to starboard."

"Oui, Capitaine."

The amphibious landing ship wasn't fitted with the stability gyros common to virtually all Marquesan combat vessels; that meant it was far more subject to the whims of the sea than her escorts. The pitching, rolling, yawing deck of Iblis took some getting used to even in the calm waters of the Sea of Arrack, but out here in the wilds of the Grand Ocean, the journey had been a test of the strongest of stomachs. She'd gotten the hang of following the currents here, and she'd managed to calm Iblis' roll with careful management of the current and the waves. Still, she hadn't had the stomach for food at midday and now, she was starting to feel like it was time to step away and get a bite.

"Very well. We're not expecting to hear from the port authority for another few hours. This all appears in order, I'm going to step away. Major D’Aramitz has the conn."

The bridge crew snapped to attention.

"Oui, Capitaine!"

"Carry on." She said, stepping through the hatchway, and into the hall. Stepping past the closed hatch to the CIC, she considered stepping in, but her goal hadn't been to work but to get something to eat, so she pressed on. Turning right to the officer's mess, Capitaine Pan found she wasn't alone.

"I was hoping to run into you here, Esmé." Roselle said from her seat across the officer's mess from the door. Esmé smiled delightedly as a young Specialisté-Chef Mauger Marchand attended her.

"Something to drink, mon capitaine?"

"Oh, le vin de glace merci. Et du baguette, s'il vous plaît?"

"Oui, capitaine." He bowed sharply as he stepped backwards once, before executing a crisp about-face and stepping away. Roselle Lévêque had been reviewing the launch site preparations on her tablet when Capitaine Pan had walked in. She put away the device in her bag next to her seat and waited patiently, then gestured for Esmé to join her table.

"Won't you come and sit? I was just thinking that tonight will be our last night on the ship. Should be a clear night, maybe we could have a little celebration for the crew tonight? Put on some music and some lights under the netting on deck; what do you say, Esmé?"

The capitaine chuckled as she sat down in a chair across from Roselle, letting her shockingly bright red hair down, which fell in soft ringlets about her shoulders. She unbuttoned the top button of her collar as she sat, looking in an instant much more like a cadet in a Capitaine's uniform than the authority figure that it was her job to be. In an instant, her face relaxed, and she sighed deeply.

"You know what, Roselle, I could use the time off; I'm sure everyone else could too. I suppose you're quite right. Besides, the royals in attendance probably all think we're sticks-in-the-mud for not bringing any non-mil personnel to this thing."

"Think we should prove them wrong?" Roselle nudged Esmé's leg under the table, and Esmé's left eyebrow shot up with intrigue.

"Oh, you do have a bug up your butt, don't you, Roselle? You're not thinking about what happened in---"

They both spoke in unison.

"Umatac." Both broke into giggles, which they stifled as Specialisté-Chef Marchand walked back in, a curious expression on his face, though he said nothing.

"Voici votre vin, madame, et une baguette fraîche au beurre pour la table. Bon appétit!"

Both women said nothing while Marchand was in the lounge. Once they were by themselves again, they giggled as Esmé took a long sip from her glass of chilled, amber-hued icewine, the two of them making eye contact throughout. Without saying a word, Esmé kicked her shoes off, and put her feet in Roselle's lap. With a wry grin, Roselle began rubbing Esmé's tired feet through her thin black dress socks, which caused Esmé to groan softly with relaxation, sinking into her seat, the wine glass still at her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment and her mind drifted back to the beach at Umatac.

Glittering white sand, the warm sea breeze. She was under a palm tree listening to the calls of seagulls and the lapping waves. A mojito in one hand, laying on a beach towel in the thinnest pale blue swimsuit, tied at her hips and behind her neck in a halter top. Her reflective-lensed sunglasses hid her eyes, but Roselle felt her gaze while she laughed and played in the surf. Roselle was wearing a bright red one-piece bathing suit that was deeply cut between her full breasts and covered her voluptuous figure, but not too much. Her auburn hair was braided into pigtails, and she was drenched from head-to-toe as she frolicked. She turned to look in Esmé's direction, and while she stopped laughing and put her hands on her hips expectantly, her smile never faded. She didn't need to say the words; Esmé sucked down the remainder of her mojito, tossed the cup aside and ran into the surf, to bouts of raucous laughter as a wave caught them both and sent them tumbling into the sand together...

"I don't know that we should get into that much trouble out here." Esmé said, setting down the wineglass and reaching for the bread.

"Maybe just a taste then." Roselle bit her lip softly, continuing her footrub, watching as Esmé tore into a piece of baguette with her fingers, steam rising from the freshly-baked bread. With a silver knife, she delicately spread the creamed butter onto the flaky interior of the bread, then bit into it with a crunch.

"Maybe." Esmé grinned, as Roselle picked up Esmé's wineglass and took a sip, both ladies blushing deeply.

"Maybe."

by **Anagonia** » Thu Nov 28, 2024 10:23 am

Eastern Territory Ashilosan Airbase
North of Embercross, Territory of Ashilosa, CSA
Two Weeks Before Planned Detonation

Colonel Marcus Drennan entered the briefing room at the Eastern Territory Ashilosan Airbase, the muted thud of his combat boots echoing against the dull concrete floor. The room was quintessential military utility—bare walls painted a forgettable shade of beige, a single fluorescent light fixture hanging overhead, and a wooden table with edges worn smooth from years of elbows and papers resting upon it. There was a whiteboard along the far wall, markers in a sad pile on the tray, next to a half-clean eraser. A couple of folding chairs were scattered about the room, their legs slightly bent from frequent use.

This airbase wasn't the typical kind of place one might imagine; it was a specialty installation for experimental aircraft, a hub for classified projects and clandestine aviation efforts. Marcus had been here before—enough times to know that whatever they had for him today wasn’t going to be straightforward. The air smelled faintly of jet fuel, drifting in through poorly sealed windows from the tarmac outside. It reminded Marcus of the kind of work they did here—work that was always pushing the boundaries.

At the head of the table sat Lieutenant General Allan Riggs. Riggs was a square-jawed, no-nonsense officer whose years of command were etched into his lined face. He had an air of authority that was tempered by a quiet confidence. When Marcus entered, Riggs looked up from a thick folder of documents, his piercing gaze locking onto Marcus like a missile tracking its target.

“Colonel Drennan,” Riggs greeted him, gesturing for Marcus to sit. His voice was gravelly, the kind of tone earned after years of shouting over the noise of engines and artillery. “Glad you could make it.”

“Sir,” Marcus responded, taking a seat across from the Lieutenant General. He sat upright, folding his hands on the table. He knew better than to lean back or show any sign of complacency.

Riggs flipped open the folder, a slight breeze of paper rustling as he shuffled through the pages. “I trust you’re familiar with the 747-AMRO project?”

Marcus gave a curt nod. He knew all too well. The 747-AMRO—Anagonian Military Reconnaissance Observer—was a unique beast. Once a commercial airliner, it had been purchased by the Confederate States Air Force and then transformed over the course of the past year into something altogether different. The civilian shell now hid advanced observational technology, sensor arrays, and reinforced structural elements designed to withstand things that ordinary passenger planes would never encounter. It was a one-off, a true experiment born from necessity. The result of a whispered conversation between allies—in this case, the Imperium of Marquesan—which led to a shared need to observe something few others had the audacity to consider: an atomic detonation in the Badlands Frontier.

“Yes, sir. Familiar enough,” Marcus said, his tone neutral. He knew the aircraft had been outfitted to monitor a nuclear test, but the full scope of the mission was still under wraps. Until recently.

“Good. Then let’s get to it.” Riggs slid a map across the table, a sprawling chart of the flight path. He pointed to a point on the map near the edge of Esvanovia. “You’ll be taking Eagle Eye One from here to the Badlands. It’ll be a two-day flight, with refueling handled by a stratotanker just past our territorial boundary. After that, you’ll be meeting tankers from allied nations—one from a brokered source, and another from Marquesan assets before the Badlands leg.”

Marcus leaned forward, studying the map. He traced the line in his mind, calculating the time, the fuel, the risks. The Badlands weren’t exactly a Sunday drive—they were a familiar stretch of land and wilderness, unpredictable at best. “And once we’re in position, sir?”

“You’ll be there to observe the detonation,” Riggs said, tapping the folder. “It’s going to be historic. Marquesan hasn’t done anything like this before, and it’s one of the few atomic tests to occur in the broader region. This is why we need you in the sky, with that platform of sensors. Your job is to make sure every piece of data gets collected. Every reading, every nuance—you gather it all.”

“Understood, sir,” Marcus said. He had figured as much, but hearing it from Riggs made it real. The stakes were always high with nuclear observation—every mistake, every miscalculation had consequences that rippled far beyond the here and now.

Riggs cleared his throat, a sound like gravel grinding beneath a tank tread. He looked back down at the folder, then back at Marcus. “There’s one more thing, Colonel. You won’t be alone up there.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, but kept his face neutral. “Sir?”

“You’ll have a civilian onboard. Dr. Evelyn Ross. She’s a physicist—specializes in radiation and blast dynamics. Civilian contractor for the military,” Riggs said, as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “She’ll be there to assist with interpreting the data from the sensor suite. Think of her as your lead analyst.”

Marcus let the silence linger a moment, the tick of the wall clock filling the room. A civilian. It wasn’t unheard of, most civilians if not all in Anagonia had some prior military experience, but it was never ideal. Civilians, especially retired ones, didn’t usually appreciate or understand the risks like active duty personnel did. They usually pushed around their experience from bygones before, unrelated to current methodology and procedures. Despite his reservations, he kept his thoughts to himself, only offering a nod.

“Understood, sir,” he finally said.

Riggs leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady on Marcus. “I know this isn’t exactly standard procedure for missions like this, Colonel, but this is far from a standard mission. You were chosen for your flight experience, and I expect you to bring her and the rest of your crew back in one piece. Am I clear?”

“Crystal, sir.” the Colonel replied. "And my crew?"

"I'll forward the dossiar to your office for your review. Take time to acquaint and then inform me of any changes," General Riggs replied. "All good, Colonel?"

"All good."

“Good. Dismissed.”

Marcus stood, saluted, and turned to leave the room. As he stepped out into the narrow hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above, he couldn’t help but think about the mission ahead. Eagle Eye One, a modified civilian airliner, a team that included a civilian physicist, and a trip to observe a detonation that was once in a lifetime. Regardless of his musings of protest over having a civilian on board, that alone would make the trip worth it.

He made way out of the main complex, ferried by jeep across the base to his office down the runway. There, he reviewed the promised dossier, arriving electronically, as he reviewed the reports on his issued laptop. He pondered, and planned, the best way to get an early gathering of his crew as soon as possible.

by **Tiami** » Tue Dec 03, 2024 12:26 pm

"The Bulb Flickers Ever Ominously"

Samara International Airport, Samara, Kva Norale

05:07 hours local time

Elsa appreciated the reciprocation of decorum from Jilliane and Jason, nodding warmly in response. Gailfred, on the other hand, looked as if he was internally facepalming himself as the result of the princess’ little charade - ever the prudent one she was, he oftentimes found himself on the receiving end of her debacles. If not for her station of Archon, perhaps he himself would find interesting ways to deal with his charge’s antics - a more direct approach perhaps. In truth, he harbored a great deal of affection for the Archon - he chose not to show it though, as he knew Elsa would never reciprocate on an emotional level. Physically, however, was a different case, yet the two had never ventured far from the shore in that regard. For both Alfar, the two were stalwart friends, having centuries of companionship formed through fire and brimstone and hardships.

Gailred though, was at some level, attracted to the Palmyrian Jilliane. Her visage was appeasing, as were the scars she wore indicating years of hard work to reach her station. He offered a simple yet formal greeting.

“Your grace, welcome to Kva Norale - your presence illuminates the eternal flames that have brought warmth to these cold and barren lands.”

As for Elsa, she noted the appearance of Jason, the longtime friend of Jilliane. An extensively trained military man, having served in the Palmyrian Marine Corp as a major for many years.He was particularly muscular, possessing a stocky build that many among the Alfar would salivate over, though she perhaps was a little too keen-eyed for her own good, with the ripe opportunity to jest at the expense of Jason having been presented.

“And of course, my dear Jason, a pleasure as always,” Elsa spoke with a sinister smile as she braced to launch her onslaught. “Has Jilliane been overfeeding you? You look a little worse for wear.”

The years of 2010 to 2025 were years of fiery agony and pain for the Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth, to which Ilethlean and by extension, Amador, had paid close attention, oftentimes aiding where appropriate for their northwesterly allies. Elsa had directly supplied the Palmyrian government during the decade with intel from its Imperial Bureau of Investigation (IBI), as well as arms supports through the Alfar Lease Act of 2022 that warranted the sending of non-lethal and lethal weaponry to Palmyrion in exchange for future trade benefits when the crisis was averted.

The Mindanao-Sulu and Cordilera-Cagayan Succession Coups between 2021 and 2024 saw Amadorian riot police personally land in Alexandria and various cities throughout its ally’s lands - the first instance in centuries in which Amador had put aggressive boots on the grounds in Palymrion with the missive to dispel and return the government to its proper pedestal. Through various means, Elsa had also directed the enacting of a humanitarian corridor between the two nations as a means to supply its civilian populace as well as a means to evacuate citizens should the means be necessary while the corridor also acted as the main transit line between the two nations in terms of the military aide Amador had managed to send it.

For the two Alfar present, both had received extensive briefing in the buildup to their meeting with Jilliane - Elsa herself, needed very little, for her presence during these events warranted very little in the way of reminding her of the actions she had taken. Elsa had listened intently to what her longtime friend had spoken of with her nation’s intent to recommit its friendship to Amador, with the princess noting the extended truth being spoken, while also noting that there was more to her words than what was being said.

She would soon beckon along the group, once pleasantries had been discontinued, to follow her along the path to where her personal transportation had been waiting: a simple black SUV, much larger than normal to accommodate everyone, had been parked out front on the snow-covered road that wrapped the main terminal. A selection of vehicles all around indicated to the group that it was part of a convoy for protective measures. Elsewhere, various plowing vehicles were making their rounds, revealing the deep black pavement below where the vehicles typically drove.

“Do forgive the terrible weather,” Gailred continued. “It’s dreary in the north.”

Elsa chimed in. “I do hope you are all warm.” She would continue shortly after as the entourage entered the vehicle.

“A decade of strife beset by a now prosperous future that has seen its success as a result of your stewardship of the steering wheel, your grace,” spoke Elsa sternly. “Yet, the answer to my question remains: Why the Badlands, nin lach? Surely Levanora would benefit from your reemergence onto the world stage?”

Samara International Airport, Control Center, Samara, Kva Norale

12:07 hours local time

The afternoon succeeding the arrival of the Lakambini saw the arrival of the Kozakuran entourage to Samara. Control had been a veritable buzz with the countless arrivals of the foreign dignitaries. In truth, decorum dictated that high-ranking officials of foreign governments first be met and present with the proper respect due to both the hosting and the attending nation(s). It could have easily been said for the Kozakuran delegation to travel straight to the strike and launch zones that they were keen on attending, but it was nonetheless appreciated by the Archon Hypario and his young son, Ryul, that they had heeded Kvan summons to Samara itself. The arrival of Admiral Igarashi, Admiral Kimura, and Commander Sude Kurupo was welcomed with little fanfare, as indicative of the current state of affairs for Amador - wartime did little in the way of decorum.

The Archon Hypario, alongside his son, Ryul, stood at the read to greet the Admiral, having traveled to Samara only recently following their stop in Grand Azura- such was their missive over the past few days - greeting all who would be attending the internationally broadcasted event. A personal guard of four armed men, their armaments hiding beneath those black overcoats they sported, stood at the ready. For Hypario, he knew little of the Kozakurans, save for that they had an established relation with Amador's Marquesan allies. Ryul knew even less, with his inquiring eye gawking at the differences in appearance between the two parties as they came before one another. Hypario would nudge his son along, offering his turn to greet their new friends.

"On behalf of my father, Archon Hypario of Kva Norale, I, Ryul Amador, welcome thee to Samara," he continued, offering a bow of respect. "We apologize for the mediocre welcome. Do forgive our transgression."

"The pleasure is mine," spoke the Archon, extending a bow before returning to posture. "My mother welcomes all friends to the frigid north... we would like to offer our sincere gratitudes for heeding our calls to Samara before heading to Kairun. Rest assured, the vessels approaching have had their requests granted and respect given for its brave sailors facing the fury of the eastern Baldans seas."

Kvan Western Reaches, Kairun Island

09:34 hours local time

The drive itself from the hotel was not uninviting, as it offered serene fews of the tropical flora and dense rainforest growths in the island's uninhabited interior. The road was winding, yet the speed limit was high, offering relatively quick access across the island. For Gailarius, he was hunkered down, expressing his dismay at traveling on four wheels rather than feeling the cool windy breeze and salty taste of the ocean air that a ship offered.

"I cannot wait until we get out of this thing," he said, offering his personal opinion on the matter. "It is too restricting."

"Or you're just too fat," spoke Drimitz mockingly. "Perhaps lay off the baguettes, sir."

"This fat man would still kick your half-baked, pink-eyed butterface with little effort."

"Well, you are an Alfar, sir." I reckon just making fun of your ears is a win for me."

"Better yet," chimed in Farkier as he craned towards Dirmitz. "I'd pay to see a slugfest between you too. Granted, the admiral would win easily - I just want to see you fucked up in fifty different ways."

"Fuck off Fark-ass," Dirmitz restored, flicking his fellow Rose on the forehead. "Before I carve my initials onto your eyes."

Gailarius let out a hefty laughter, his bellowing howl bringing to attention his three Rose guards. "I swear, I thought you all were professionals, yet here we are, my friends - this fat ass is going to have to teach you all a lesson once this is all over."

"As if, Gail-" The driver of the vehicle interrupted the display of posturing going on between the men. "Admiral, we are arriving. It seems your friend has quite the crowd around him."

The admiral sighed. "Great, thank you. Bring us in... another time boys."

The arrival of a second Ambassade 800 "Hermès" limousine to where the Marquesan delegation had originally departed from sent riveting jolts of electricity into the press corp and various organizations that had arrived on scene to see the Marquesans. Unfortunately for those in attendance, muscular Admiral Gailarius had exited the vehicle alongside his Rose guard, much to the dismay of everyone save for le Tigre. As he approached his old friend, Gailarius jokingly assumed they were here for the most interesting man in the world - as such, he offered his compliments to le Tigre.

"I knew you were endowed in certain fame - but to make a boast of it? Shocking!" Gailarius exclaimed as he approached le Tigre, offering his hand to shake in return. "If I knew any better, this was all for you, no?"

by **Seclya** » Thu Dec 05, 2024 12:39 pm

Kairun Western Reaches, Kvan Far East

1452 Hours Local Time

The embrace that Aleriel had shared with them was a tender moment, only slightly lessened by her apparent distaste for his wardrobe. He was used to playful banter of course from his adopted sister, who had always taken a liking to poking the proverbial bear. This was certainly an occasion for merriment given everything that was happening elsewhere in their erstwhile empires. So much had gone wrong, so much had gone tits up over the last few days that it was nice to have a moment like this with his sister and his wife on the tarmac in the Kairun Western Reaches. Stress weighed heavily on the Ostrax and the Miax of the Saahein Sovereignty given the circumstances of their appearance in the Kvan Far East of the Badlands; the ship that was being brought in for the test demonstration had been fired on by a Scailander ship, and only through the grace of foresight was an even more interminable tragedy avoided thanks to the screening ship. He thought to bring it up in conversation with Aleriel, but soon thought the better of it; now was not the time for sadness.

Aleriel put her arm on Ruven’s shoulder, looking concerned; she could sense the uneasiness in him. “Dear brother, whatever is the matter? You look as though you have seen a ghost. What troubles you?”

Ruven sighed; there was little point in hiding it at this point he surmised. “The prosecution of the war has me flummoxed; I really thought we were done with the Scailander threat, and now an entire new war is ramping up in the Badlands. It has me beaten down.

“No need to let that trouble you here, we are quite secure from any threats now thanks to the efforts of the Imperium to shore up security in Kva Norale and its territorial holdings in the Silent Sea,” Aleriel sald boldly, patting his shoulder. “We’re going to be fine!”

“My husband is something of a worrier,” Issarel added, smiling warmly at their host. “If you told him there was a rabid dog on the loose in Syva Aethel, he would be hiding behind his desk until the animal control officers cornered the bugger.”

“Now that is a gross overstatement of my cowardice, thank you very much,” Ruven challenged his wife, looking incredulously at her. “For your information, I resemble that remark only slightly; I would hide in the study, not behind my desk.”

Aleriel laughed boisterously, her feminine grace still full of charm and elegance. “Silly brother, you and your dalliances with the Scailanders will be sorted quickly enough. Once our test is concluded, they will come to the negotiating table. It is a mathematical certainty.”

“Do not be so sure, my sister,” Ruven warned his Alfar counterpart, concern creeping back into his eyes. “The Scailanders lack the restraint necessary to keep from waging war on us. They have tasted blood and have taken a liking to it.”

“If they are so bloodthirsty, then we shall feed them their own blood in kind,” Aleriel flatly stated without emotion. She was like a machine in her efficiency with the spoken word: “We will not suffer the Scailanders to bother us for more than a short season.”

by **Anagonia** » Fri Dec 06, 2024 8:03 am

Colonel Drennan’s Office
Eastern Territory Ashilosan Airbase
One Week Before Liftoff

The gentle hum of the air conditioning was the only sound as Colonel Marcus Drennan sat at his desk, his fingers resting on the keyboard of his laptop. Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the tarmac, the shimmering heat waves distorting the distant hangars and parked aircraft. Inside, the cool, sterile air of his office offered a brief reprieve from the reality of the mission he was now preparing for. There was scant picture frames of paper awards and commendations through his career. A display case in the corner had small pin-boxes for his ribbon bars, the chest candy on display spanning multiple decades, though Marcus felt most of it was simple bookmarks along his career.

The digital dossier sat open on the screen before him as Marcus focused back on task. Its contents were divided into neatly organized sections: crew profiles, mission objectives, technical schematics for Eagle Eye One, and logistical schedules. Marcus leaned back in his chair, the worn leather creaking under his weight, and reached for the cup of coffee sitting beside a stack of reports. The liquid had gone cold, but he sipped it anyway, his eyes narrowing as he began to read the personnel files. He had a large selection of files that he had already sifted through, the remaining candidates were presented before him neatly on screen.

The first profile was of Major Alan “Tex” Harrison, the aircraft’s designated co-pilot. Tex was a veteran pilot with over fifteen years of flight experience, most of it spent in the cockpits of military cargo planes. His personnel photo showed a man with a weathered face and a broad smile, his cowboy hat tilted at a jaunty angle—an image that contrasted sharply with the meticulous discipline described in his evaluations.

Tex hailed from Arkansis, a state known for its sprawling plains, rich traditions, and no-nonsense, hard-working culture. He grew up on a modest cattle ranch just outside of Barrow's Creek, where early mornings spent wrangling livestock and fixing fences instilled in him a strong work ethic. Even after joining the military, his cowboy roots remained evident in the way he carried himself—steady, reliable, and unflappable, no matter the situation. His colleagues often joked that Tex’s calm demeanor came from years of dealing with stubborn cattle and unpredictable weather.

Marcus nodded slightly as he read further. Tex’s reputation for keeping cool under pressure was well-earned. One report detailed a harrowing mid-air emergency during a supply mission over the Badlands Frontier, where Tex’s quick thinking and steady hand saved both crew and cargo. Marcus could see why Riggs had chosen him—Tex wasn’t just a pilot; he was the kind of man you wanted in the cockpit when things went sideways.

Next was Captain Miranda “Mira” Khalid, the mission systems officer. She was younger, in her early thirties, but her record was impressive. Khalid had made a name for herself working with advanced sensor systems, her expertise honed during multiple deployments in electronic warfare units. Her file highlighted a pivotal mission involving a modified Lockheed Martin C-130J Super Hercules, nicknamed “Golden Horizon,” an experimental platform for atmospheric sampling and thermal imaging.

During the mission, a catastrophic power surge caused a cascade of failures in the aircraft’s systems, jeopardizing weeks of critical data and the crew’s safety. Khalid quickly improvised a power reroute to save the data stream while coordinating with the flight engineer to restore partial system functionality. Her actions not only preserved nearly all the mission data but also enabled a safe emergency landing. Though “Golden Horizon” was deemed unfit to fly again, Khalid’s performance earned her commendations and cemented her reputation as a decisive and innovative problem solver.

Marcus noted her sharp gaze in the personnel photo, an intensity that suggested she didn’t shy away from challenges. If anyone could manage Eagle Eye One’s complex systems under pressure, it was Khalid.

Then came Senior Master Sergeant Louis “Lou” Vance, the flight engineer. Lou was an old hand, nearing the end of his service career, with decades of experience etched into his gruff demeanor. A Marine Corps transfer to the Air Force, he had made the switch to deepen his expertise with airframes. The hard-edged mannerisms of the Corps never left him, but neither did the work ethic that had carried him through a career marked by resilience and ingenuity.

Hailing from the Territory of Thuaria, a region known for its economic hardships, Lou’s journey had been anything but easy. He worked his way up through sheer determination and an unmatched aptitude for hands-on problem-solving. His record was a testament to his skill, filled with commendations for innovation in aircraft maintenance. Lou had earned a reputation for keeping even the most temperamental aircraft running, and his subordinates often joked that if it had wings and could break, Lou could fix it. Marcus chuckled at a line from a peer evaluation: “You could hand him a wrench and a prayer, and he’d give you back a plane ready to fly.”

For a mission like this, Marcus knew, having someone with Lou’s experience and resourcefulness on board wasn’t just a bonus—it was essential.

Finally, the civilian: Dr. Evelyn Ross. Her photo showed a woman in her mid-forties, dark hair pulled into a practical bun. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, hinted at someone used to solving problems under pressure, though there was a weariness that suggested she had seen her share of the world’s chaos.

Evelyn’s file detailed her mandatory four years in the Confederate States Air Force, where she used government tuition benefits to springboard into a remarkable academic career. With degrees in nuclear physics, engineering, and a doctorate in theoretical physics, her résumé spanned breakthroughs in radiation detection and a career balancing academia with military contracting. Commendations from colleagues described her as “the kind of mind you want when failure isn’t an option,” though her no-nonsense approach made her as demanding as she was brilliant.

Marcus couldn’t hide his dislike for retired civilians on missions—they didn’t usually respect military discipline, and their priorities rarely aligned with those of the crew. But he begrudgingly respected Ross. She had followed her ambitions, excelled beyond expectations, and clearly earned her place on this mission. He just hoped she wouldn’t complicate things when the stakes were highest.

He closed the file and leaned back, his thoughts drifting. Each member of the team brought something critical to the mission, but together, they represented a puzzle Marcus would need to solve. Leadership was more than assigning roles; it was about understanding people—their strengths, weaknesses, and how they fit together under stress. And this mission promised stress in spades.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, then tapped a quick message on his laptop summoning Tex Harrison to his office. If anyone would serve as a sounding board for the plan’s finer points, it would be his co-pilot. Marcus wanted to get a measure of the man, not just from the file but from the way he carried himself when stakes were laid bare.

A few minutes later, a confident knock echoed through the room. “Come in,” Marcus called, sitting up straighter.

The door opened, and Tex stepped inside, his ever-present cowboy hat in hand. “Afternoon, Colonel,” he drawled, offering a nod. “You called?”

Marcus gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat, Major. Thought we’d take a moment to get acquainted. After all, you’re my second in command on this mission, and I don’t like surprises.”

Tex grinned, taking the offered chair and resting his hat on his knee. “Fair enough, Colonel. I reckon that’s a good policy, especially for what we’re about to get into. What can I do for you?”

Marcus folded his hands on the desk, his tone conversational but probing. “Your file’s solid, Tex. Fifteen years in cockpits, commendations for quick thinking under pressure. But I need to know more than what’s on paper. What’s your take on this mission?”

Tex leaned back slightly, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. “Well, sir, it’s not every day you’re asked to fly a civilian airliner on a military mission, let alone one involving a nuclear test. That’s a whole new kind of responsibility. But from what I’ve read, Eagle Eye One’s built for the job. She’s a beast, and I reckon she’ll handle fine as long as we don’t push her too far. As for the mission itself—” he paused, tapping a finger against his hat brim, “it’s rare, no doubt about it. Most pilots never see anything like this in their careers. But I’ve always believed missions like this come down to problem-solving. You tackle each issue as it comes, one at a time. Keep doing that, and you make it back in one piece.”

Marcus nodded. “Practical mindset. I like that. And your experience working under pressure? How do you handle high-stakes dynamics?”

Tex chuckled, his easy demeanor returning. “I’ve worked with all kinds, sir. Some crews you gel with, some you don’t, but the job gets done either way. I’m not much for drama, though—I leave that for the birds. Long as folks pull their weight and don’t mind the occasional bad joke, we’ll get along fine.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Bad jokes, huh? Care to share one?”

Tex’s grin widened. “What do you call a co-pilot with a map?”

Marcus tilted his head. “Go on.”

“Lost.”

The colonel let out a dry chuckle despite himself. “Fair enough, Major. But let’s make sure that’s not the case this time around.”

Tex nodded, his expression turning serious. “Of course, sir. This isn’t my first rodeo, but I know this mission’s different. Bigger stakes, bigger risks. I’ll make sure I’m ready, and you can count on me when the chips are down.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the exchange. “That’s what I needed to hear. We’re going to have to rely on each other out there, and I need a co-pilot who’s steady. I think I’ve got that in you.”

Tex stood, placing his hat back on his head with a casual flourish. “Appreciate the trust, Colonel. I won’t let you down.”

Marcus gestured to the chair again. “Hold on, Tex. We’ve got a bit more to go over. Flight plans, contingencies, and a few other points I want your perspective on.”

Tex nodded and sat back down, his expression attentive. “Alright, sir. Let’s dig in.”

The two delved deeper into the mission details, discussing everything from the expected flight conditions to backup procedures in case things went south. Tex’s insights brought a practical edge to the conversation, his years of experience evident in the thoughtful suggestions he made. The banter lightened the mood occasionally, but the weight of the mission remained at the forefront.

By the time they wrapped up, the clock on the wall read close to midnight. Tex stood, stretching slightly before tipping his hat. “That was good, Colonel. Got a lot to think about now.”

Marcus offered a rare, small smile. “Same here, Tex. Thanks for sticking around. We’ve got a long road ahead, but I feel better knowing you’re in the cockpit with me.”

Tex gave a quick nod. “You can count on me, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As the door closed behind Tex, Marcus exhaled deeply. It was a unique mission for sure, a rare once-in-a-lifetime mission considering current geopolitical restrictions. Lt. General Riggs recommendations were on point, considering the extending discussion he had this evening with the Major. The hours of discussion had clarified more than just logistics; they had solidified a budding trust between two men who would need to rely on each other when it mattered most. Another piece of the puzzle fit into place, leaving Marcus with a clearer picture of the overall mission—and its stakes.

A Flicker of Light (Closed)

A Flicker of Light (Closed)

In this sleep of death, what dreams may come.

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