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SR RP
Following negotiations between the Princely Government of Sihnagra and the government of the 
Solaria Alliance on behalf of many of its esteemed industries, the two nations are to enter into a shared age of economic and diplomatic cooperation. Most importantly to the many parts of the Princely Federation, the securement of an internet infrastructure agreement with the ONSC is expected to provide an additional 6 million of Sihnagra's rural population with quality internet. Accompanying this is the updating of Sihnagran government servers and reevlation of the preexisting internet infrastructure of the country in hopes to fix any problems before they arise.
Furthermore, the Sihnagran government has agreed to open the country to the many of the Industrial and production-focused businesses of the Solarian Alliance, hoping to attract them with the country's tappable cheap and overall unregulated economic markets as a means of linking the two nations closer economically and diplomatically.
The internal politics of the Cadetist Front were progressively more and more fractured, as the self-proclaimed "technoprometheans" were starting to contest more and more the leadership of the "defense forces" to the more "moderate" Karborists.
When it came to foreign politics, the cadetists were divided between two choices: aligning with the League of the Willing, or with the Sibylline Confederacy. The karborist "old guard" was in favor of taking part in the League, which provided the perspective of a military alliance that would respect Merilian autonomy, and the deals they made with 
Pandoska and 
Fujiwara Tochi this perspective. The "young guard", however, the self-styled technoprometheans, were vastly more in favor of joining the Confederacy. They had both ideological and geopolitical reasons to do so.
The Cadetists had strong ties to 
Great Jenovah due to the cadet king in exile, Johan II, and due to having deployed auxiliaries in Fletteland. They were more prone to align on the foreign politics of the Peninsular Empire as a result. Even among the Karborists, some feared the Peninsular Empire could react strongly if the cadetists decided to break their alliance. Some others, especially in the circle of Bondarev and Kozlov, knew about the Jenovachi promise to provide the merilian purple forces with the Yugobatanian Manticore biological weapons. With Jenovah soon leaving the League, even the most moderates understood they could be forced to follow suit. But it would also mean the scales would tip even more in favor of the Technopromethean conspirators of the Purple Army and the Kombinats.
When it came to mutual aid, the Cadetists were also keenly aware of the fact the confederacy was geographically closer to Merilia, and therefore could more easily help a potential Cadetist government crush internal rebellions. They doubted the ability of the league to do the same - the Sumori "events" threw the league sycophants into quite a disarray -, and with its ever democratizing tendency, they started to realize it may not be the ally they were looking for. Many Cadetists also understood they were more useful in the hands of the Confederacy as a Sibylline wedge into the Saldanha, while some members of the league - the britannians and the lunghayuns - appeared to seek some sort of appeasement between both factions.
Ideologically, the Technoprometheans additionally felt more connection with the Jenovachi nation - its cyber-positive, techno-utopian nature, coupled with its planned economy and its aristocratic values. They shared their view of building something "bigger", going beyond national borders. Merilia had to take its place as a cog of a new world or would perish. The Confederacy could provide Merilia with such a role.
Finally, the matter of the Seissish coastal provinces held by multiple league and SSTO members was used as a weapon against the Karborists by the Technoprometheans. Cadetists kept buried deep in their hearts and minds the dream of Panmerilianism and an uncontested Merilian corridor between the two gulfs of the Saldanha and the Seissmeer. The imperialist colonies that existed in west Merilia had to go.
Following very tense internal negotiations, it was decided that the cadetist front would officially send envoys to the Confederacy, and ask what would be the modalities of a Merilian membership. At the same time, King Johan II himself made clear his intentions of sharing his concerns with the Peninsular Empire, "to seek guidance in those troubled times". At the same time, envoys would also be sent to Pandoska, a nation that had ties to Merilia while being also a full member of the League.
Low effort post else I won't be able to write a thing and I need to get the ball rolling
“Breaker, breaker, this is Serpent-Reaper-One-Six-Six, Charlie-Dog Actual do you read me? Over.”
“Serpent-Reaper-One-Six-Six, this is Charlie-Dog Actual we read you loud and clear. Whaddya need today? Over.”
“Charlie-Dog I need an update on aerial traffic in sector Tuesday-Seven-O. Over.”
“Serpent this is Charlie-Dog. You're lookin’ all clear except for some civilian air traffic off the coast a couple hundred miles. What aircraft are you flying today? ‘Cause I don't see nothin’ on radars. If you don't mind hangin’ around a second I'll tune it so I got it on the right frequency, I don't know how it got dialed up. Over.”
“No need Charlie-Dog, y’aint s’pposed to see me. Over.”
“Serpent-Reaper-One-Six-Six I ain't sure I understand your meaning? Over.”
“You will in a second.”
…
“This is Charlie-Dog Actual to Serpent-Reaper-One-Six-Six. Are you done transmitting? Please report. Over.”
The lone AWACS aircraft flies above the Inland Sea. No aircraft in sight for miles.
“Serpent-Reaper-One-Six-Six, this is Charlie-Dog Actual please respond. Over.”
In the cockpit of the CDAM-3 AWACS plane, the pilot looks out onto the horizon. He sees nothing in the skies.
Suddenly a black mass appears at the left corner of his cockpit window. His heart jumps into his throat, he quickly looks over at the mass. What he sees completely baffles him.
“This is Charlie-Dog Actual. Is that you Serpent-Reaper-One-Six-Six? Over.”
“Roger that Charlie-Dog. Over.”
“What in the hell is that thing?”
“I can't tell ya, but I'm sure you'll get a kick outta this.”
The black aircraft, which itself looks more like a spaceship than a conventional aircraft, slowly begins to pull away from the CDAM-3. The pilot of the CDAM watches as two low burning engine exhausts come into view. The aircraft is very odd, with 2 inward slanted vertical stabilizers, and a long, narrow, flat shape to the fuselage. The aircraft is almost all black, the only other color being a red trim around the midsection.
“What in the hell is that?”
“Charlie-Dog, thanks for the help! Over.”
The black obscure looking aircraft accelerates more and more, pulling away from the CDAM-3 faster and faster. As it becomes faster, the sound of what are clearly its jet engines overtake the roar of the CDAM’s propellers. Suddenly, the engines begin to produce a bright orange glow and the black jet rockets off into the distance, accelerating faster than anything the AWACS pilot has ever seen.
“Holy sh*t…”
1100 hours, February 9th, 2024
Conference Hall, Konstaht Palace, Konstaht
“Thank you all for attending this press briefing.”
The noise of the reporters in the room quiet down, only the sound of a few crisp camera shutters echo.
A man in a well-pressed M51 dress uniform stands behind a wooden podium on a stage. He removes his cowboy hat and sets it on the podium next to the microphone.
“At this time the Emnarian government would like to announce decisions upon matters regarding the currently unfolding internal conflicts in the formerly unified nation of 
Merilian Plains.
Three days ago we received aerial reconnaissance photos from Operational Sector Tuesday-Seven-Zero. These pictures made us aware of the state of civilian life in the country. After thorough investigation, and discussion with military planners, a decision to, in a limited capacity, involve Emnarian forces in peacekeeping operations has been made.
The claimed territories of multiple warlords host themselves within rural regions of Merilia. These warlords have neglected the well-being of civilians, and there is more-than-reasonable belief that if this behavior is allowed to persist, the livelihood of innocent civilians may be threatened.
In discussion with our Emperor Wilhelm I yesterday, it has been decided that to protect civilians in rural areas of Merilia, who have greater difficulty procuring necessary provisions for daily life, the Emnarian military must step in to aid in protecting commonly traveled roads and supply lines. This peacekeeping mission is hoped to help rural Merilia catch up with more urban centers once the internal conflicts there have settled. It is also in the interest of Emnaria to support a well-organized, and capable government to control those territories once the peacekeeping mission has ended. Considering the current parties within Merilia, the Loyalists have been deemed the most capable of running a government to protect those regions; and they will be entrusted once Emnarian forces have left, to maintain a good standard of living for Merilian civilians in those regions.
Considering the heavily armed nature of the local warlords, the Imperial High Command has deemed it inevitable that Emnarian military forces will engage in conflict with the local warlords. However, this has been deemed a necessary price to pay so innocent civilians may be protected.
Food, water, tools, vehicles, and construction supplies will be shipped over to the Operation Sector by the Emnarian military, and they will be given to rural communities to help develop the region and improve quality of life. Larger projects such as water pipelines and smaller localized airports are planned, to hopefully open smaller communities to the rest of Merilia. The most important project is the development of roads, where highways will be built and back roads will be improved, to allow for easier commute.
However, these projects cannot be pursued until the regions in question are secured from militant warlords in the area. Which is why it is necessary that a contingent of 90,000 soldiers, 6 divisions, will be sent to secure the sector.
Thank you, I will be taking questions now.”
The reporters in the room erupt with questions.
“Why does Emnaria feel it is necessary to aid Merilian civilians?”
“We feel it is in the best interest of Emnaria to help innocent people everywhere, and to prove Emnaria no longer supports its own selfish interests of territorial expansion, but rather to maintain peace and stability in the world.”
“Has the military made contact with these Loyalists?”
“As of right now, we wish to get a hold of them to negotiate an accord. But, the information presented to you today all results from planning solely in the high command.”
Then the most difficult question came.
“How did you obtain these intelligence photos? Merilia is a whole continent away.”
The Colonel stood there. Thinking about every little detail of what he would say. The sweat began to drip down his brow.
“I cannot disclose how we obtained these photos. I intend to protect the identity of those in Merilia who have helped us.”
He let out a heavy sigh. Crisis. Averted.
SR RP:
Outskirts of Zoltan, Grand River Tribe.
June 12th, calendar year 1521.
Music for this portion of the post: March of the Serpants and Madonna’s Undying Love for a Dying Child — Pecos Hank (https://youtu.be/60ALcfK2WIg?si=HMLjWLqC-Q4z8OvW)
A tall figure carefully stepped her way through the thick vegetation of the forest she found herself in. Her bright, blood-red eyes scanned her surroundings, seemingly looking for something specific, as her silver wolf-like ears rotated around the top of her head akin to a radar dish, picking up every small noise made by the rustling of leaves, chirping of birds, and buzzing of cicadas. Her silver wolf-like tail swished back and forth, and her shin-high, brown leather boots carefully stepped only where noise would not be made by the vegetation that littered the forest floor. Matoimaru moved in graceful silence like an expert scout, despite being clad in a dark green military officer’s uniform that almost blended in with her surroundings, if not for the dark red and silver accents around the stitching and epaulets. Her brown pants worked better at blending into the forest, however her very long, thick, and scruffy silver hair made her stick out like a sore thumb in the midst of the sea of green and brown. Around her waist was a leather belt, which held a sheathed longsword on her right hip, and a few small pouches on the left. Suddenly, the silver-haired Woltsu stopped in her tracks, and crouched down. She closed her eyes, and tilted her head up a bit, her nose twitching as she sniffed the air for a few moments.
“…That is definitely an aura…” The woman spoke quietly, seemingly to herself. She opened her eyes, and tilted her head back down to how it was before.
“…With such anguish, there is no way that is not him…”
She raised her body slightly, outstretching her right hand, clad in a brown leather glove, onto the tree beside her for support. She then slowly crept forward, each step more careful than the last so as to not make a sound. Coming up to a small clearing, she peaked through a gap in the leaves of a bush, only to find a large wolf pacing in a circle around the middle of the clearing. The wolf looked to be roughly one meter tall at the shoulders, and two meters long excluding the tail, which hung downwards idly. It had a slender build, but looked a bit thinner than a wolf of its size should be. His scruffy fur was a beautiful mix of a white undercoat, with light brown and stone-grey shaded into its body and face. A long scar ran diagonally across its face, possibly from an old fight. Suddenly, the large wolf stopped in its tracks, and sniffed the air, before slowly turning towards the bush that the Woltsu was hiding behind, and growling.
“Mmm…” Her voice trailed off.
“…You intend to take all of your frustrations out on this one?”
Matoimaru slowly stood up straight, and walked around the bush and into the clearing. Her tall, and sleekly toned 178cm frame looming over the tricoloured wolf. The wolf replied by puffing up its fur and tail, as well as increasing the volume of its growl, and bearing its sharp teeth. The silver-haired Woltsu responded in kind, puffing up her tail, and moving it back and forth rapidly. Her bright red eyes seemingly glowed as she stared directly down at the large wolf’s own light blue eyes. She also bore her own sharp fangs, and produced an audible low-pitched growl, increasing in volume as the wild wolf in front of her continued to not yield to her attempt to display her own dominance. This continued on for what seemed like an eternity, before Matoimaru stopped growling, but kept her eyes firmly fixed onto the eyes of the wolf.
“…You will not yield even to this one’s overwhelming aura?”
“An interesting individual indeed…” Her voice trailed off, as she slowly moved her right hand down to her hip, and untied the leather strap holding the sheath to her belt. The weapon fell to the ground with a loud thump, which detached the wolf’s gaze from her own for just a moment. Taking advantage of this minute distraction, the silver-haired Woltsu suddenly lunged at the wolf. The large canine was caught by surprise, and was subsequently tackled to the ground by the Pureblood. It snarled angrily at Matoimaru, before clamping its jaws around her right forearm, and shaking its head back and forth violently. She wrapped her legs around the rear part of the wolf’s body, who was now on its back, and pinned to the ground. Using her other free arm, she clenched her hand into a fist, and punched the side of the wolf’s long and slender snout.
“…Submit…”
“…To this one…”
Her voice was laced with frustration, as she continued to pin the wolf’s body to the ground, which was now larger than she was. She reared back her arm, and gave the side of the wolf’s snout another punch, as both of the wolves locked eyes once more, growling at each other loudly. After a third punch, the wolf released her arm from its jaws, and spit out a bloodied tooth from its mouth. The silver-haired Woltsu used this opportunity to shove the tricoloured wolf’s head backwards by his chin, pinning it down to the ground with her uninjured arm, as she used a moderate amount of strength to grip the now exposed fluffy neck of the large wolf.
“…Submit to this one, and she will not kill you…” Matoimaru growled with authority. After a few struggles made futile by the woman slightly increasing the strength at which she gripped his neck, the wolf finally laid dormant, breathing heavily.
“This one knew you did not want to die…” She slowly released the grip she held over the animal’s neck.
“This one will release her hold on you, and sit down next to you. You are permitted to roll over onto your stomach, but do not stand up or attempt to flee, understand?”
The wolf softly whimpered in reply, as Maru slowly released her legs from pinning down the lower half of the wolf. Pushing herself up, she sat next to the wolf, who then rolled onto its stomach, and prostrated its scarred head onto the dirt before her. She looked at it for a moment, before holding out her right arm, and pulling up the sleeve of the dark green uniform coat that now had a large bite mark firmly stamped into it. Pulling it back revealed a wound on her arm in the shape of the wolf’s slender mouth that was bleeding in a few places. She glanced at the large wolf, and scoffed, before reaching into one of the pouches on the left side of her belt, and pulling out a small, corked glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. Biting the cork with her front teeth, she pulled it free from its apparent glass prison, before turning and spitting it out into the bush she had previously hid behind. She then poured the clear liquid onto the wound, her right arm shaking slightly as her hand clenched into a fist. She winced in pain, and bit her lip, the oddly normal taste of her liquid red lifeforce slowly waxing onto her tongue. Once the bottle was empty, she tossed it into the bush, and quickly opened up the other pouch, and pulled out a small roll of white bandage cloth. She proceeded to wrap it tightly around the wound, before tying it off, and pushing her sleeve back down over it. She turned her body to face the prostrating wolf, as her own wolf-like ears twitched and rotated around like radar dishes seemingly as a lookout for anything attempting to sneak up on her from behind.
“Now that you have submitted yourself to this one…” Maru spoke with a more calm voice, but one still painted with authority. She studied the slender figure of the large, tricolour wolf. Its size is a fair bit bigger than the normal wolf, which stands at roughly 90cm tall at the shoulders, and 183cm long, but its build was much skinnier than one would expect from a wolf this size.
“Judging by your size, you should be the alpha male of a wolf pack, however…”
“…You are all alone out here…”
“…Hmmm…”
“…Is it possible that you were defeated and kicked out of the pack by a stronger alpha male?”
The wolf whimpered, and looked away from the woman.
“Mmmm…”
“…Seems this one was correct in her assumption…”
“This one knows how embarrassing it must be for you to have been beaten, then forced to submit to a female who is smaller than you,” she pulled off the glove on her left hand, and stuffed it into her pocket. She then moved it close to the wolf’s head, as it quickly shut its eyes seemingly out of fear.
“…This one will not hurt you as long as you do not move against her wishes…” She began to slowly stroke the soft and fuzzy fur of the wolf’s head and ears. A small smile crept up onto her face, as she felt the once tall and proud ears of the wolf become floppy and limp in her hands like those of a domestic dog.
“Do you promise not to cause problems for the people here?” She asked, while the wolf opened its light blue eyes and looked at her with a distant expression. He snorted for a moment, before softly growling a reply.
“Mmmm…” Matoimaru mused, running her hand down the upper-back of the wolf’s scruffy, multicoloured fur, before giving it a couple of hearty pats.
“Alright, well…”
“…This one ought to get going back home…” She slowly stood, putting the brown leather glove back onto her right left hand, before grabbing her sheathed longsword with her right hand.
“This one will leave you to whatever you need to do. Just remember to not cause harm to the people of this city…” Her smile slowly dissipated back to her neutral expression, as she tied the sheath back onto her belt, and began to walk back in the direction that she came from. After taking a few steps, she heard the wolf stand up, and four large paws begin to follow her. She stopped in her tracks and turned around, only to find the wolf standing behind her.
“This one told you that you were free to go…” She remarked as she looked down and saw the beady, light blue eyes of the large wolf staring back up at her.
“Do you want to go with this one?” She asked.
The wolf began to wag its tail back and forth with no hesitation to this inquiry.
“…Okay, then sit,” she commanded, and the wolf sat down on the ground, its tail still wagging with joy.
“…Give this one your paw…” A small, devilish smile invaded her face, as she leaned forward, and held out her left hand out to the wolf, palm up. The wolf shifted its weight to its left, and lifted up its right paw, before placing it into the hand of the silver-haired Woltsu. Maru lightly grasped the paw, and moved it up and down as if she were shaking hands with a peer.
“Mmm…”
“This one does not find an issue with you coming along…” Her voice trailed off as she let go of the wolf’s right paw, and straightened her posture.
“…She could use the fluffy company, anyways…”
Matoimaru began to retrace her steps back through the way she entered the forest, but this time with an unexpected companion joining her. The pair made their way out of the forest, and back onto the path leading towards her family’s manor. As she approached the gated entrance, she saw the usual security force of two guards donned in light plated armor, and each armed with a polearm. The guards noticed the approaching familiar, silver-haired Woltsu, then seemingly tensed up at the sight of the tall woman being trailed by a large, tricoloured wolf.
“Be at ease,” Matoimaru’s voice commanded.
“This wolf only follows this one’s will.”
The guards looked at each other nervously, before stepping off to the side, and pulling open the gate enough for the pair to step inside, closing it behind them. Once inside, they continued down a stone path, walking towards a small group of soldiers seemingly milling about on their day off. As Matoimaru came near, they suddenly stopped what they were doing, and came to attention, saluting her as she walked past and saluted back. As she continued onwards, her wolf-like ears rotated around and twitched as she heard a conversation between two soldiers.
“Damn…I didn’t know they made them that big…” One soldier remarked in disbelief.
“What, the female Commander, or the wolf?” Another asked, jokingly.
“Both!” He laughed.
“Sh*t, she just might be a wild wolf herself, given how she just seems to disappear off into the woods sometimes…”
“You got that right.”
“…Man…I wish I was that wolf right now…”
“…What the hell is wrong with you?” The soldier gave the previous one a hearty punch on the back, before they both laughed it off.
Matoimaru continued to walk with authority towards her destination, as she opened a door, and led the large wolf inside, before going in herself. The canine stopped and sniffed the air for a moment, before sneezing, and shaking its body rapidly as if to rid itself of something. This caught the attention of some wealthy women in the hallway, who began to spin the gears of gossip once more.
“…Is that…”
“…Yeah that definitely is…”
“…As if she couldn’t get any more strange, she goes on to bring in an actual wild wolf into the manor…”
“She’s more of a brutish animal than an actual lady…”
“Mmhmm. She’s squandered all hopes of courting a fitting man, bringing a wild animal into this elegant estate.”
In response to the increasingly annoying chatter, the one meter tall canine began to loudly growl at the women, who then recoiled in fear and let out a small shriek.
“Hey, ignore them,” Matoimaru commanded in a low and authoritative voice. The wolf ceased its growling, and kept close to the one he chose to follow. The women also went quiet, as Maru’s mind began to wander.
“This one does not understand why they are against her wolf…”
“If you want something to act as your guard, would you not want the best that you could get?”
“…A wolf is bigger, stronger, and just better than any Orion Husky—Especially for this one’s being an ex-alpha wolf.”
“All you have to do is physically or mentally dominate it and make it submit to you. It’s not that arduous of a task…”
“…But, whatever…”
“…This one sees that they do not value the quality of their product for their money…”
Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a familiar dark wooden door appearing to her left. Stopping in front of it, she took in a deep breath and sighed. The large door creaked when she opened it, before the silver-haired Woltsu stepped inside, followed by the large wolf. Closing the door behind her, she untied her sheathed longsword from her belt, and stood it gently against the wall, before undoing her belt, and setting it down on the floor next to her longsword. She then unbuttoned her officer’s uniform coat, ridding herself of it by draping it over her wooden desk chair, as well as taking off her brown leather boots, which she then placed by the foot of her large bed. Maru pulled her white undershirt out from the clutches of her pants, making the bottom stitching loosely reach down to her hips. An odd melancholy feeling washed over her being, as she flopped down backwards onto the bed, her long silver hair surrounded by light blue, satin bedsheets. She stared blankly at the ceiling—Painted white and void of any sort of decoration, until her wolf-like ears twitched at the sound of the large wolf whimpering slightly on the floor, next to the bed. Matoimaru slowly sat up, and adjusted her position so that she was sitting up on top of the sheets, easily able to lean backwards and rest her head onto her pillows if she wanted to.
“…You can come up…” She said as she patted the bed next to her. The entire bed then shook when the wolf with a body larger than her own, followed her suggestion and jumped up onto the bed.
“Wait…This one never named—” Maru’s voice was quickly interrupted, as the wolf began to lick her face affectionately, its tail wagging seemingly with joy. The tall woman put her hand up and attempted to gently push away the wolf’s face, but his persistence eventually led to the large canine pushing her upper body backwards, with the back of her head landing on her soft pillows. A look of surprise flashed across her face, as the wolf laid its body down overtop her own, almost completely covering it with its larger size. It then let out a small snort, before nuzzling its large and slender head into her shoulder. A slight smile began to dance across Maru’s face, as she began to idly stroke the wolf’s majestic, soft, tricolour fur. This reminded her of how her adoptive mother used to describe her hair the same way when she was younger. Her mind began to wander for a moment, before she was slowly brought back to reality by the itching thought that she never completed her sentence from before.
“Hmm…” Matoimaru mused.
“…This one has not named you yet…”
“…” Her mind pondered various possibilities for a while, before eventually a name pirouetted at the tip of her tongue.
“What about…‘Ace’…”
The large wolf let out a soft and passive growl, before licking her face once more in approval. The smile on Maru’s face grew wider, as she began to chuckle slightly, a sort of joy washing over her at the wolf’s display of affection for the name she had just given it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[UNKNOWN], Forrest Clan.
June 12th, calendar year 1521.
In the infinite darkness of night, thousands of tiny, white specks dotted the sky. Some believe these to be distant worlds—Completely detached from our own reality. Others believe they are the homes of the Gods and Goddesses of realms near and far. It was under the gaze of these distant worlds that the sounds of chatter, and fire cracking filled the air. Over one thousand tents were arranged like a small town around hundreds of different campfires. Groups of soldiers in signature Black Cat Tribe grey uniforms milled about as they were—Drinking alcohol, eating food, and talking to their fellow man.
“…Man, am I glad to finally be out of those god-forsaken mountains…” A black-haired Katsu sat on a large log a few feet away from the fire, and poked some of the logs and coals repeatedly with a long stick.
“You got that right…” a brown-haired Katsu replied, sitting on a log opposite the fire from the other man.
“You think that we actually got over the mountains undetected? I mean, it took us a month to cross those mountains in the middle of the mud season.”
“Mmm…I’m not sure, but the lack of resistance by the Forrest Clan that was supposedly really ramping up patrols in the area has me confused. Don't get me wrong, I’m glad we didn’t lose any more men than we already did to the f*cking sh*ty terrain.”
“Eh, I’d rather not question it…” The black-haired Katsu took a sip of a drink that was next to him, as a song is crudely sung in the background by soldiers of varying levels of sobriety.
“They seem cheery,” the brown-haired Katsu chugged most of his drink.
“Mmm… I mean I would be too, if not for the fact that I lost a good friend in that last storm.”
“Ah, sorry to hear that.”
“It is what it is… We lost what, 500 men out of the 6,000 we marched across the mountains with? Seems like a fair trade…”
“If you look at it that way, then yeah, it kind of is…”
“…” The black-haired Katsu chugged the rest of his nearly-full drink.
“…” A silence lulled over the two for a moment, before the black-haired cat began to speak once more.
“…It just sucks that they’ll never be able to see their families again. That friend of mine left behind his wife with four children…”
“Yeah…I feel that honestly… If I am to fall here, my wife and six children would be without their breadwinner. I could only imagine what would happen to them if they didn’t have my income to sustain their meals.”
“I guess that’s the one thing I don’t have to worry about if I fall here…”
“You don’t have a family back home?”
“Other than my parents and a sister, no, I never had a wife or kids.”
“You currently seeing someone you fancy back home at least?”
“Nah…Been away from home too much. Either due to the army, or whatever else comes up…”
“You ever think about trying your luck with Commander Hailey?” The brown-haired cat smirked.
“Absolutely f*cking not! While she is attractive, her overall demeanor would make me rather attempt to seduce Death itself…”
“Haha! Isn’t she already Death itself?” The brown-haired cat laughed, along with the black-haired cat, until a third soldier sitting near them chimes in.
“Both of you should put a sock in it, lest she hears you…”
“Haha, alright, sorry…”
“Sorry…”
Both men apologized to the third, before the brown-haired cat continued.
“Speaking of that, did you hear the rumor about her recently?”
“Which one?”
“Haha! The one about how she supposedly disappeared for three days last month, only to return with her clothes soaked in blood.”
“Oh yeah, I ‘eard about that one. Apparently the Chieftain of the Red Tree Clan and his wife were also brutally murdered by an unknown figure during that time.”
“Mmhmm. Apparently that also caused a power-vacuum inside of the clan, fracturing it into several pieces…”
“Damn… Man, am I glad she’s on our side…”
“Haha, me too…”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Zoltan Manor, Grand River Tribe.
June 13th, calendar year 1521.
Music for this portion of the post: Slumber Party (Adagio) — Southern Backtones (https://youtu.be/RoT90xVOxmU?si=1vwc-wifaN_qAkR8)
The early morning sun danced across the clear glass window of Matoimaru’s bedroom on the second floor of the manor. Small droplets of dew glazed the lower edge of the glass, as nought a sound was heard, but the steady breathing of the sleeping silver-haired Woltsu, and her large, tricolour wolf companion. Maru’s face was unusually peaceful as she slept with the large wolf laying across her lap, perpendicular to her. This harmonious lack of consciousness was suddenly interrupted by a knock on her bedroom door. The wolf was the first to awake to this disturbance, and snorted, before adjusting his body in order to turn and lick the woman’s face seemingly to get her attention. This action succeeded, as the silver-haired commander’s bright red eyes slowly opened to find her cheek being licked repeatedly by the soft tongue of the beautifully large canine.
“…Mmmm…”
“…Good morning, Ace…”
A soft smile arose onto her lips, as she greeted her companion with a deeper, and slightly raspy voice, due to her mouth and throat being somewhat parched. She gently nudged the wolf’s snout away from her own to cease his relentless offensive attack on her face, which worked, as Ace licked his nose and snout a couple of times, before opening up his mouth and letting out a large yawn. A nearly silent chuckle escaped Matoimaru’s nose, as she too let out a yawn, before stretching her arms, and resting them on top of the ex-alpha wolf. A knock was heard on her door once more, this time a bit louder than the last, which resulted in Ace quickly turning his upper body to face the door, letting out a soft growl. Maru’s silver, wolf-like ears twitched
“Ace, quiet…” She softly commanded the wolf by patting its rear. He snorted, before ceasing the growling, and softly wagging his tail back and forth.
“Who is it?” The woman called out to the door, using one arm to slowly push her upper body up, and the other to adjust the pillows behind her so that she could sit up while leaning back onto them.
“…It’s me, your mother, Maru…” The voice of a familiar mature woman replied, muffled by the door.
“May I come in to speak with you?”
Maru’s face took on a more neutral expression, as she yawned for a second time, rubbing her eyes free of a rogue tear and some gunk, before replying.
“Yes, that is fine…”
The brass doorknob turned with a clack, and the wooden door itself creaked open, before a middle-aged Woltsu woman with dark red hair stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her. Her gaze soon landed on the tricolour wolf laying directly next to her daughter, whose body was seemingly larger than even the tall, younger woman in bed. She blinked a few times as if to confirm what she was seeing, before her eyes widened in shock, and her mouth hung slightly agape for a few moments.
“…Wha…” Zara began to speak, but seemingly couldn’t find the right words to express her surprise.
“…I…”
“…You know what, Maru, I don’t even want to know…”
“…”
“…Actually, I do want to know.”
“Why is there an actual wolf just casually snuggled up with you in bed, like it’s something that just happens?”
Matoimaru stared blankly at her mother for a few moments, before seemingly putting two-and-two together, and realized what her mother was asking about.
“Ah…”
“He is this one’s companion, Ace!” She beamed a proud smile at her mother, while petting the wolf, who proceeded to growl passively, and wag its tail happily.
Matoimaru’s mother stared at the pair blankly, before inquiring further.
“…Annnd how exactly did this massive wolf become your companion?”
Maru’s proud smile continued, before she began to explain.
“Ah, so this one heard rumors that there was a large wolf harassing the locals who go into the forest for hunting, and other various reasons.”
“So this one decided to go and check out what was happening with the wolf, in order to see if she could help.”
“When she encountered Ace, he did not yield to this one’s aura and intimidation, leading to a duel, which this one won decisively, with honor!”
“When Ace was defeated, this one learned of his story of how he was the old alpha of one of the local packs, and was defeated by another wolf, then subsequently exiled from the pack.”
“This one told him to not mess with the people, and be free, but Ace decided to accept her as his new alpha, and follow her.”
“This one felt bad for the wolf, and wanted a fluffy companion, so she obliged his request.”
“…And how could you ever say ‘no’ to this adorable, fluffy, face!” Maru chuckled with glee as she wrapped her arms around the wolf’s upper body, rubbing the side of her face against the top of the wolf’s head.
The dark red-haired Woltsu looked at the passive and happy body language of the large wolf, as her eyes wandered to the large, diagonal scar running across the animal’s face. She studied it for a few moments, before her eyes eventually landed on the white bandages stained in dark red, that were wrapped around the pale skin of her daughter’s right arm.
“…Maru…”
“…What are those bandages for?” She asked, her voice laced with concern.
Matoimaru quickly sat back up, before looking at the bandages on her right arm for a moment, then idly stroking Ace’s soft and scruffy fur with her other hand.
“…Oh, this?” She lifted up her right arm slightly as if gesturing to it.
“These are just from this one’s duel with Ace. They should be back to normal by now…” She stopped petting the wolf, and slowly unwrapped the bloodied cloth bandaging from her arm, revealing only pinkish skin, and a bit of scarring where the wound used to be.
“By the gods…” Her mother took in a deep breath and sighed.
“…You seem to bring me a new surprise every time we speak…”
“…Why did no one tell me of this?” Her surprised tone was ebbed away by a bit of frustration.
“I…”
“…Haaaaaaaah…”
“You know what? It’s fine…”
“…Everything’s fine…”
“…”
“…What the f*ck…” She muttered to herself, before pausing for a moment to regain her composure.
“Ignoring…that…” The middle-aged woman gestured to the wolf, before continuing.
“…What I actually came in here for, is to notify of a letter we’ve received calling for our help from the Forrest Clan.”
“…Allegedly, a large Black Cat Tribe army numbering roughly five and a half thousand has been spotted making camp after just crossing the mountains into their territory.”
“I have some personal inklings as to how they slipped an entire army through the furious Forrest Clan patrols undetected, but that is besides the point…”
“…We have two options here…”
“One; we decline their call for help citing poor relations, and let them fall to Hailey’s army. Or two; we accept their call, and hopefully trounce her army before it has a chance to fully recover from the long march over the mountains, and gain a supply foothold in the Forrest Clan territories.”
“One means delaying the inevitable, and the other means confronting it.”
The proud smile slowly faded off of Matoimaru’s face, as a more serious and neutral expression took its place.
“Tsk…” Matoimaru furrowed her brow for a moment while lost in thought.
“…Mmm…”
“…There’s no other way…” She took in a deep breath, and sighed, her bright red gaze became somewhat distant, refocusing as she spoke.
“…We’ve been betrayed…”
“There is no possible way that they could have slipped an army that large through the mountains undetected like that…”
“The Forrest Clan must be colluding with Hailey.”
“…That’s the only way this could have happened…”
Zara closed her eyes for a moment, and nodded, before herself speaking.
“That was the personal inkling I was referring to before…”
“…With how thoroughly the Forrest Clan have been patrolling the mountains, there is a minimal chance a group as small as twenty could slip past the border undetected…” Her voice trailed off, seemingly losing her train of thought, before her silver-haired daughter chimed in to finish it.
“…And unless we can instantaneously transport our army over there, we will not catch them fast enough to where their recovery from the long march over the mountains will make a difference in the battle. It takes too much time to properly raise an army, and march it all the way down there.”
“Either way, Hailey is forcing us to make a tough decision. Do we fight her when she’s much stronger and has a solid supply base here, all for the sake of letting traitors fall?”
“…Or do we fall for her risky trap, and attack her on her terms, when she has a weaker base and supply line position?”
“Hmmm…”
“…”
“…As much as this one dislikes falling for Hailey’s dastardly trap, it would be wise to go after her as soon as possible, in order to catch her with as weak of force as possible. We mustn’t let her get any stronger of a foothold on this side of the mountains.”
“…Haaaaaah…” She sighed, letting out some of the frustration that was built up inside of her.
“…This one will lead the army south. The time for us to showcase our training has come sooner than this one would have liked, however, trusting our old enemies in the south was a mistake on our part.”
“This one will be out to address the army in roughly thirty minutes, have someone bring them out to the training grounds.”
Regarding concerns raised in relation to currently ongoing LOTW operations in Merilia. Emnaria's independent operations there are not in conjunction with other currently ongoing LOTW operations.
Good evening and thank you for tuning in to Haicheng News Eye on the Globe with host Marie Nyulang. My name is Bradley Wing passing it off to you Marie.
Thank you Brad, Tonight’s ‘Eye’ is pointed squarely at central Osea where a brutal civil war is taking place in the former nation of Merilia. The country is in a state of chaos as warlords, bandit kings and brave freedom fighters wrestle for political and military control of the arid plains. This decades long conflict has in recent times grinded itself into a standstill a semi-permanent war of attrition that has fractured the nation into factions based on ideology and loyalties. This conflict with no end in sight has been seen by the Republic as a massive proxy war where the global powers, SSTO, SC, and The League vie to expand their sphere of influence in the region.
With each merilian faction front stabilized it seems only external intervention can lead to important or decisive breakthroughs. In this massive war of attrition hundreds of rockets and bombs are lobbed over military lines each day. The worst of these artillery strikes occur in the eastern theater where Cadestist strongholds persist with their relentless attacks against the freedom fighting coalition known locally as The Shield. As see in these clips the east has been reduced to a shouldering wasteland where basic resources such as clean water and medicine are extremely hard to find for civilians. The naval blockade imposed by the Solarian Alliance, while successful in preventing mass qualities of munitions and weapons from reaching Cadetist shores is also blamed by locals for the extreme hardships faced by civilian caught up in the now everyday violence that surrounds them.
With so many refugees from the conflict, the Republic has begun to offer civilian evacuations via Lunghan amphibious flying ships from the east to Rovengrad a prospering western city where the conflict has remained farther to the interior. Refugees are offered shelter as well as employment in the new industrial centers opening their doors. Agreements between the Green army and the Republic ensure that refugees will not be kept in camps on the outskirts of Rovengrad like is seen in so many countries where Merilians have fled. With the opening of the Chenlong Memorial hospital the City of Rovengrad is better equipped than ever to support the numerous refugee mothers and children fleeting the east as well as providing world class mental health treatment from the Lunghan volunteer group Doctors without Borders programs. The program is funded primarily through donations and has seen success in training local peoples to preform medical roles as well as educating the public with ‘Best Health lifestyle’ practices and daily hygiene practices. The various volunteer groups working in the green army territories have been strong advocates for modernizing utilities to provide ample sewage and potable water services to all residents of Rovengrad. While these utilities improvements are integrated in Lunghan construction efforts, restoration and modernization of public utilities in the old city has been slow to keep up.
While the west has remained at peace respective to the continuous conflicts of the east. Disaster could strike anytime, such as in the case with RRK protectorate an independent faction controlling the large port city of Zapanoblast one of the most populous cities on the west coast of the merilian plains. In the early morning last week a large bulk carrier unloading synthetic fertilizer caught fire in the port, sinking and preventing the ship from being towed to sea. With a general lack of emergency responder, the fire raged for hours engulfing the ship and the loading warehouses in smoke until near 08:20 nearly four hours after the initial fire, the contents of the bulk carrier and the warehouses ignited in a massive pillar of fire and smoke sending a cloud of smoke and dust high into the atmosphere. Shockwaves from the blast produced an equivalent 3.2 magnitude earthquake and tsunami advisories have been sent out to areas surrounding the Inlandus Sea. Hours after the blast Lunghan trained Green Army Navy Personnel on their small coastal patrol vessels arrived escorted by Republic drones to survey the damage. The explosion completely leveled buildings surrounding the port and damaged almost all buildings to a degree within the inner city. Ships anchored in the port are now burnt-out hulks making ingress of cargo vessels impossible. A large crater flooded with seawater is all that remains of the warehouses and the bulk carrier. After the fires burnt out initial inspection of the blast site and beyond shows evidence that ammunition was the primary cause of the massive explosion primarily ammunition. Poor standards, absent regulations and monstrous negligence what is being blamed. Lunghan operatives under the direction of the Green Army stormed the remains of the RRK headquarters looking for those responsible. The RRK board members have yet to be found for statements however books have been found detailing the smuggling of foreign weapons to the various autonomous warlords and Shield opposition forces. A spokesperson for the Green Army along with their Lunghanyun counterparts vowed to find the board members of the RRKp and make them stand trial for their abuse of the Merilian people and their treasonous collusion with the forces opposing democracy.
With so much destruction of property, countless injured civilians are now displaced, in this dire situation Rovengrad appears to be a beacon of hope for those in need…
The TV flipped channels images of the city’s destruction played on loop.
A single bare lightbulb illuminated a dark room.
A dozen men knelt on the floor in a straight line their hands and feet bound in rope, foaming at the mouth their eyes pointed to the glowing screen. Black camouflaged men wearing thick armored exoskeletons stood behind each bound man. The mercenaries each held a pistol to the prisoners head their arm raised in total cold stillness. Out of the corner of the room cloaked in shadow a woman slowly walked forward. Wearing white steel soled high heels she approached with booming steps, her white silk dress adorned with albino peacock feathers flowed as she walked the softness of her cropped fur coat swayed with every breath. Her golden jewelry draping her pinned up hair twinkled catching the spot lights.
“I’m happy you all could witness my handywork, I had them air this little piece last minute, it’s a bit rough but it gets my message across. I was actually surprised at the amount of ammunition you were keeping in that facility. But I do understand that playing both sides can be very profitable, but I had no idea you were so willing to sell out your own people. No wonder you’ve enjoyed your independence. Now gentlemen, I’ve been patient, but that beautiful gift of mine ran out long ago. Do you remember the days of our little games? Your monopolies would compete against mine in friendly competition, why I thought we could have been friends. I even offered to buy your silly little companies and set you and your families, and your mistresses up in paradise. You all could have retired to Neilang and been fabulously wealthy enjoying yourself...” She lamented not even giving these important men before her even the slightest dignity. Refusing to speak their names she strode to the center of the room.
Several of the men began to struggle. The armor-clad mercenaries pressed pistols to their heads quieting them.
“Still trying to resist my offer? Well, I have a new offer to propose. You can die an honorable death by your own hands and your families will be taken care of or I can turn you over to the tribunal. Think on it gentlemen.”
She turned her back to the men and removed a golden chopstick from her hair. A mercenary from the far left of the group lowered his gun and stood at attention.
“YOU” the woman yelled voice booming as she swung around, her dress flew around her as she threw the golden chopstick with rage filling her eyes. It sailed through the air penetrating both bound hands of the guard-less prisoner. He began screaming as blood dripped from his hands.
“I could never give you such a merciful deal. How dare you get to escape humiliation before death? How dare you take away the only thing I truly loved in this world. My brave darling kitten, I didn’t let the servant, I raised he she came from me. My precious Ping” Her voice broke. She took a moment.
“She went to you to negotiate, to do business and instead you beat her, defile her, flay her and take her ears as a trophy. You will face not only my justice but my wrath.” The mercenary grabbed the bound man head grasping his jaw tightly prying it open. The woman in white walked over to the bleeding man pulling a knife from her white alligator leather handbag. He stabbed through the man’s gag the knife removing his tongue in one quick motion. She pulled out the golden chopstick from his hand and spoke gently to him as he screamed.
“Everything you knew and loved is gone, when the tribunal finds you guilty you will be paraded through the streets, quartered and drawn. This I have ensured.” She backed away
“If you’d like the same fate gentlemen it’s time to choose. I am an honest woman and I intend to keep my end of the deal.”
Several butlers walked into the room carry silver trays with various items.
“Honorable death gentlemen, parchment and pen to write your families farewell and a poison capsule. Or you can follow your brave leader have your tongue removed and have you and your families face justice. The choice is yours.”
The men were offered the set and many accepted nodding. They were freed from their hand restraints and given their utensils. One of the more rotund men seized the opportunity. Knife in hand he lunged towards the woman in white. Mid lunge the mercenary slammed down on the man’s head with the pistol, the bound man’s face smashing into the concrete floor.
“It looks like you wanted to follow your leader after all. Please ensure that he keeps to his end of the bargain and bring his mistresses to the tribunal as well.”
The mercenaries visor lowered to cover his face sealing it in the helmet. He holstered his pistol and with one arm lifted the heavy man by his feet dragging the man’s unconscious face on the cold floor.
SR RP
In a conference with the government of the United Republic of Sumoriant, the decision has finally been made to dispatch humanitarian aid to the Merilian nation amidst its ongoing civil war.
Sumoriant has planned to supply food, water, munitions, shelter, and many other supplies in order to assist the civilians of the Merilian state, and urges the rest of the League of the Willing to pursue a policy of pure humanitarian support rather than direct military intervention in Merilia.
What is this place
Cooking up a post like I'm the hash slinging slasher
At the gates of the great city, the first Orchuulaghcs [Priests] see the dead Khan. Prayers are recited and his body is quickly looked over by a medically-trained Orchuulaghc, who confirms the worry and the reality they already knew to be true.
His body is unwrapped from the blankets to its original layers, his winter uniform still beautiful if not somewhat tattered by the great journey through the snowstorm. White, like the painted canvas that took him. He is placed onto a small Ceremonial cart and decorated by every flower of Utocistite-ancestral color that grew outside the Tentsüüist Sanctuary at the foot of the capital. Colors of Light blue, Red, Green, and White; the colors of the four stages of life.
The party departs up the hills towards the capital. It felt like all of the world looked upon them, as they passed through the Eketsgoughin gate to come to crowded sidewalks and a terrible, soul-crushing silence.
The Chan’s Palace looms over the capital, and from the main avenue, it reigns true in absolution over the city streets. Standing in monument to the exigence and power of its rule, the ancient stone bulwark, is one and the whole. The true breathing domain of Utocistite Dominion and statehood; From which authority descends down the highest hill in Chan’Kogalnikeau to the masses.
Gazing up towards the Chan’s Palace, past the masses that line the street, Costin felt defeated by its presence. Its very existence seemed like a monument to his father, whom he now hauled behind him. He imagined it’s stone; cold and dead to the touch, like his father’s skin, now absent of all the heat and welcoming it once presented.
The group of men continued onward, a heavy cloud looming over all of them. They could feel the weight of Lucian’s death, and the responsibility they held to help the Vu’duce when he needed it the most. Costin, the forebearer of it all, felt mortified at the horrific stares and quiet weepings of the gathering crowds. He, as his first son and heir, should have done more; and now he would bear the pressure and power of Vu’duceship.
Their horses' heads hung low, and the party’s faces cold emotionally and physically. Each man looked tattered and torn as they headed up the steps of the capital. They slowed further as the hill pitched further upward and the weight of the cart was felt upon Costin and his horse, but nonetheless made it pass the sharp hill on the road to the Chan’s Palace. As they neared, the streets became cleared and upon the final turn, came lined with the ready ranks of the army.
The Palace had been relayed news of the Vu’duce’s death upon their arrival at the foot of the capital,, and was hurriedly readied for the party’s return after half a month upon the start of their journey. While the workings of government had not been absent, with the many ministers and advisors tending to provisions, none had foreseen this. Now, the process had already been started, and none held doubt in Costin’s ascendency.
The gate to the inner courtyard opened, with a great procession of soldiers and government officials draped in black clothes and uniforms. Black, the color of grief, everything in contrast to the Utocistite colorized conception of life. The party came to a slow halt and the Ketchenak [Future] Khan dismounted his horse.
He fixed his jacket, and spoke his first command within his domain.
…
An engine starts, and ruminates as it begins to warm up. From inside the bulky but secure blacked out sedan interior, the driver cannot hear the conversation going on outside. Nor can he see the figures, one in red and another in black. The windshield remains iced over, with the windshield cleaner doing little to bite away at the hardy frost.
The figure in black pulls the figure in red in for a hug, the two forms convering into one behind the blurred translucency of the frosted window. He can tell it's a tight and meaningful hug. With the figure in red pulling and walking away quickly, semi-huddled, as if hiding tears. The woman in black stands still for a moment, before opening the rear door of the sedan, and climbing inside.
The car gets put into drive, and slowly departs the outer barracks of the Chan’s Palace, heading west, deeper into the Chubvlai Mountains.
…
The old Vu’duce was dead, and the new Vu’duce must rise and secure his state.
Costin pushes open the door to the East Study, followed closely behind two of his father’s must trusted advisors whom he’d known since birth, them residing within the personal bulwarks until the Palace, and four soldiers with guns slung at the ready but nonetheless hoping to never be forced to use them.
The large spruce doors creak open, rust sunken into the hinges. Costin’s heavy and plated winter boots, the same ones that treaded across the south, stepped onto the lacquered floor with a distinct thud; followed closely behind by more sets of reverberating footsteps as they pushed past the study’s front room and toward its larger library.
Costin’s face was emotionless, and his vision, near-blurry as he went through the whirlwind. He had witnessed his father’s death and carried him hundreds of miles home, and now did what was necessary to secure his Vu’duceship at the advice of his father’s many favors and personal lessons. He had no more tears to shed after a day of weeping, and even as the pain stabbed at him, his eyes were no more than just cold and dead.
He shouted their names.
“Nadezhda! Daciana! Gheorghita!”
His voice boomed through the study. He already knew they would all be there. It was their personal commons within the Chan’s Palace, with its beautiful and quaint nature, adjoined by comfortable and lavish furniture and lighting. They lingered there in their free time, and were commonly traveled through by all members of the dynastic family.
Going through the archway separating the adjoined rooms, he came face to face with Daciana, who looked at him from across the room. She sat next to Gheorghita, rubbing her back as she sat huddled over with her hands up to her face, quietly crying. The orchestra of boots came to a halt, and tense seconds passed before Costin aloud, breaking the silence.
“Where is Nadezhda?” He said.
Daciana’s eyes refused to waiver, but he could tell she gazed at the advisors and soldiers over his shoulders. She spoke, her voice slightly breaking as she refused to cry. It seemed so frail; “Gone.”
Gheorghita continued to weep, her sniffles and crying filling the silences between Daciana and Costin. Costin’s eyes shifted to Gheorghita if only for a second before returning to her older sister. “Where?” He spoke lower and softer than before, as if speaking to a cowering child. Costin took a step closer to his sisters.
Daciana’s eyes welled with tears. “She didn’t tell us. She told us… She told us it was for the better that way.” She quickly wiped at her eyes, refusing to be seen crying. She looked up at Costin with fear in her eyes, who returned her gaze. He took another step closer.
Costin hugged his sisters. For a split second, the itching feeling of crying returned to his eyes and his mask started to slip, but he fought the sensation and filled his head with other miscellaneous thoughts; hugging his sisters out of grief and need. His father was dead, and no one had asked him if he was okay. They all breathed a quick sigh of relief.
Costin soon pulled away, getting the attention of both of his sisters, Gheorghita’s crying coming to a momentary stop.
“What matters at this moment is that we are together… Our family is one.” Costin spoke softly. “It is a confusing time.” he looked between them, “We must honor our father, and our roles as a dynasty.”
He thought about his elder sister’s escape, but moreover his younger brother’s reaction. The news of the Vu’duce’s death spread quickly through the capital, and for sure spread to other corners of the country in a matter of an hour if not minutes.
The news would have definitely reached Lahovnbagüi; the fortress capital of the Inner Chubvlai’s. His younger brother, Florin, callous and influential among the ranks of the army, would be informed of his father’s death… Costin remained unsure of whatever path his opportunistic brother would take.
Nadezhda… Heading away from Chan’Kogalnikeau, Florin… Heading towards Chan’Kogalnikeau.
Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZCIej45ER4
“Thank You”
The Paulistian delegate rose, looking to the many other representatives before him. Though he maintained a calm demeanor, it’s clear the diplomat was tense. Those who paid attention would have noted him exchanging notes and whispers with other members of the Euro-Paulistian diplomatic staff prior to the opening speech, with an almost desperate or pleading expression. This uneasiness ended up leaking into his posture, the representative fidgeting his thumbs as he began to speak.
“Gentlemen I would like to begin addressing two things, before the main point i’m sure is on all our minds. The Euro-Paulistian Union, first and foremost, believes it irrelevant for this committee to discuss the rate of conversion between the Osean Standard Unit and the Metalvian Dollar. Such a discussion is best left to economists and bankers, and later formalized here. Should the Mittelanean delegation already have a revised conversion rate, we would invite them to present it for discussion and ratification. As for the mint, the Euro-Paulistian Union believes that, with the departure of the Waupunese isles alongside Mittelanea, it would be the best interest of the alliance to decentralize the minting of new currency - all or most states should be capable of minting the OSU, in the interest of reducing the burden of replacing Waupun in its role to all nations and allowing for a more modular system which would not be gravely affected by any future departures as it is currently.
The main issue at present, however, is the second point brought by the Mittelanean delegation. Mittelanea is host to OSEAN’s main deposit of OSU, and, as one of its best performing economies, is an important actor in stabilizing the OSU’s value and preventing inflation trends from devaluing the currency. This is so apparent that, as I'm sure all present representatives are aware, the value of the OSU has depreciated by 2% against the Britannain Pound over the last month. This is accounting for the fact Mittelanea still utilizes the OSU. If our currency has already been affected to such a degree by sheer market speculation, the process of retiring the OSU from Mittelanean circulation, if done haphazardly, will inevitably crash its value and take our economies with it. In the EPU, census data on poverty, hunger, homelessness and unemployment, metrics which have been stable for the past 50 years, are already experiencing a rise. Though our analysts assure us the situation is manageable thanks to our sturdy economic model, it doesn’t change the fact that every member of OSEAN will face harsh socio-economic challenges due to the fallout of Mittelanean withdrawal.”
The Paulistian delegate would stop for a moment. He still maintained a calm and stout demeanor, but he looked upon the representatives before him with fearful eyes. He still fidgeted with his hands, now hidden behind his back so as to not detract attention from his speech. His balding head reflected the light of the meeting room, and, impossibly discrete as it may be, almost seemed to be sweating. He kept his poker face however, and after the brief pause he continued.
“Therefore the Euro-Paulistian Union sees two possible manners to avoid or minimize the risks of this potential crisis. The first one, either transfer the Mittelanean reserve of OSU to a member state who still operates the currency or create a new reserve of equal size and value in a new nation, a process that would likely take years or decades in order to reduce the OSU’s volatility. The second option we see is for Mittelanea to reconsider its policy and still accept OSU as a legal tender alongside the Metalvian Dollar, or otherwise implement a system in which both currencies can coexist for an indefinite period. Due to Mittelanea’s vital role in maintaining the price of the OSU, we do not see their departure from OSEAN and subsequent removal of membership to be an impediment in its use of the currency. It's also important to note that these options are not mutually exclusive, and, in reality, we believe the best option for the health of the OSU is a mixture of both. Thank you chair, this delegation yields the floor.”
Minuda, Waupun Island, 5 Kingdoms of Britannia, Great Jenovah, and 6 othersThe Greenlandic North, Emnaria, Solaria Alliance, Sumoriant, Fletteland, and Pandovska
I feel like posting something...
SR RP
Today the rain woke me up. The wind blew it so hard I thought someone was pounding on my window. Awoken and not ready to accept the morning light, I pulled out my SAOMAU(TM) smartphone and browsed SAOMAO HUB(TM). At the top of my feed I saw there was a new milk tea shop that had opened near my apartments. I had been curious about the brown paper covering the window and had thought it would be another stationary shop. A new pen would be nice.... The irresistible call of nature forced me to throw aside my down comforter and rush to the restroom..... why is the bidet so much colder in the mornings?
I brush my teeth and changed putting on my tohai (sandals) and rain coat. Exiting my apartment I checked the bubbling clouds in the sky. Dark grey wisps past overhead revealing bouncing white puffballs. The rain stopped. Naively I put down my umbrella leaving it by the door. I locked up and walked down the four flights of stairs into the courtyard. A brisk walk and I was on the commercial avenue below. I waved hello to the gaochoi Autie and dimsum uncles while I caught the electric tram that stopped a block away. I tapped my phone on the SAOMAU PAY(TM) spot as the tram whisked me away. Two stops later and I hopped off.
Standing their glowing in front of me, the brand new milk tea store, windows full of light and advertisements. Fruit teas of every kind and their 'famous' cheese cap milk foam tea with black sugar tapioca boba pearls. My excitement took a slap to the face as I noticed the line flowing from the front door. WHY IS EVERY MILK TEA PLACE SO CROWDED. I screamed in my head. The allure of sweet and salty milk tea steeled my weary heart as I stood in line. Time seemed to slow as the line crept forward. Soft opening troubles no doubt. I sighed looking up at the darkening sky. A single drop of water bounced off my nose, the another and another... Why did I leave my umbrella at home?? The sky unleashed its fury as the people waiting in line took out their umbrellas fully prepared.
In front of me a young lady struggled to open her umbrella. "Do you need some help with that?" I offered. She nodded and passed me the umbrella which I popped open somewhat easily. The large yellow umbrella had white lace all around the edge and white polka dots. She thanked me and asked if I wanted to share the umbrellas protection. I accepted without hesitation. We made small talk about the rain and our chat shifted into conversation as we shared our excitement for the milk tea. She said she's tried every milk tea shop in the Saijia District and marked them all on MAOMaps(TM) making notes on everything he tried. We talked and talked and the time melted away. We were served our milk teas and we found a spot inside to sit and talk about our tea. She said the cheese foam cap was just salty enough but the 60% sweetness was too sugary. I told her I thought the brown sugar was what made it too sweet for her and she laughed forgetting she ordered the black sugar tapioca boba. We exchanged SAUMAO Place(TM) usernames and became SAUPals(TM). She asked me if I wanted to meet up again to try another milk tea shop. I agreed and she smiled... a smile sweeter than the black sugar in my drink, warmer than freshly made tapioca boba...
She waved goodbye and walked away with her yellow polka dot umbrella.
It is still raining....
Why did I put back my umbrella?
SR RP | Approaching the Superstate of Fusea
Following fierce negotiations between President Al-Hafez and the National Assembly of Sumoriant, it has been agreed to send a delegation to the Peninsular Empire to establish relations, with a message attached:
To Your Most Mighty and Eternal Leader, Gullimere of the Peninsular Empire,
On behalf of President Jazaar al-Hafez of the United Republic of Sumoriant, we wish to reach out to the Peninsular Empire to establish diplomatic relations. Recognizing the splendor and power of Jenovah, we find it necessary to send forward this message as a gesture of goodwill to your power and might on the continent of Fusea.
Our detachment shall consist of ten diplomats and five soldiers, and should arrive within the next 24 hours in Strallé.
Vive l’Empire péninsulaire, vive Jénova!
تحيا إمبراطورية شبه الجزيرة، تحيا جينوفا!
Graciously and Humbly,
The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the United Republic of Sumoriant
Near the hotly contested border between the Jenovachi and Flettish states, nested between swamps, plains, and drylands, laid a bastion known to locals and foreigners alike as “Camp Festing”. A fortress built into the environment, rather than on top of it, this amalgamation of barbed wire fences, machine gun posts, and hardened buildings seemed much out of place compared to the once-idyllic nature of this peaceful country - and yet came to be accepted as reality by virtually every one of the residents in and around it.
The seemingly standard array of anti-ground and anti-air defenses was augmented by an extensive network of underground facilities, hidden through clever groundwork. Layers and layers of decoys and even fake tunnels - like a matryoshka doll of deception - deterred both man and machine, with spies getting lost in a labyrinthic environment while satellites struggled to pinpoint any fine details about the encampment. Through this all, many soldiers became acquainted with the uncomfy and claustrophobic insides of the subterranean garrison. A young lieutenant roamed the halls beneath the base, waving to his subordinates and saluting his superiors.
“Hey! Morning, sersjant!” called out the man to an enlisted comrade, who rested on a folding chair plopped down in the entire complex's only lounge. “Rise and shine! Haven’t charged up your batteries yet?”
The older soldier grumbled awake, his field cap pushed over his eyes as he glanced up at the officer. “Hearehitskes, jim Solariërs… give me a break about your << rising and shining >>, I don’t praise the sun, it’s not a cardinal offense if I wake up late…” The sergeant, who simply went by his family name, Bleeker, served as adjutant to the lieutenant - Denis Nowak, commander of one of the many “foreign unit” detachments formed after the ceasefire agreement at Sjerdaal.
“Ack, those are the pesky Olympians over in IV Corps, friend! How many times do I have to tell you this?” the man said, chastizing him in a friendly manner. “One day, I will give you a full history lesson…”
“-and that day won’t be today!” Bleeker interrupted, “We have our weekly readiness drills today. Hope you’re ready for another dull shift…” he said as he got up, dusting off his dark khaki uniform. A war veteran, he had spent nearly a decade in the service of Fletteland - having gone through its darkest hour, it was still difficult for him to adjust to this “peace” that they’d found themselves in.
“No such thing as a dull day in the Army life!” Nowak exclaimed, reciting a recruitment poster word for word. His attitude was more lively - reflective of his youth, but also his inexperience. He had not taken part in a single conflict so far, only trained for one. “You should hang around the base more often instead of just your quarters, pops. You’re missing out on the social action! Yesterday, private Fokkens finally went up to corpsman Adkins to ask her about the…”
“Spare me the gossip,” the sergeant said, disinterested. “I already hear enough blabbering next to my office as-is… don’t need a daily briefing on who is being lovey-dovey with whom on base.”
“Eh, actually, he was going to ask her about the missing medical supplies in section D-6, not ask her out. He’s one of the military police cadets, remember?” the lieutenant asked, with a small, dumbfounded grin.
“-oh.” was all that Bleeker could say out of embarrassment, twiddling with his fingers for a bit before they reached the preparation area of the base.
Much less space-deprived than the rest of the facility, this area was made to fit an entire company of troops, and then some. Several officers idled around or sat down in plastic chairs, all facing a whiteboard where a high-ranking officer with a stern gaze stood.
“Lieutenant Nowak! Fashionably late, as always.” the captain called out, leading the rest of the staff around to glance toward the duo with amusement - or irritation - for their delayed arrival. “You know damn well I’d love to chastise you right now, but we have no time. Listen up. Just a few minutes ago, our air defense command got a few pings on its radar screen and determined a large formation of drones was headed our way. To date, this is the largest Jenovachi aerial incursion after the ceasefire, so we have been ordered to assume this is a provocation attack to try and stir up an international incident. As such, from today, Camp Festing is now on very high readiness alert. Everyone here is to take their men and assume defensive positions around our base’s perimeter.” the high-rank man turned around to the whiteboard and began pointing at all the inscriptions and drawings he had made. “Alpha Platoon, you are to head out to…”
Before he could finish his sentence, a siren obnoxiously rang out throughout the entire complex, its pitch rising and falling each time, catching the attention of everyone in just a matter of seconds. ”Warning! Warning! This is not a drill - this is NOT a drill!” wailed out the voice of the facility’s chief through the PA system. ”Cruise missiles detected on an approach route towards our base. All units, move out immediately to intercept enemy attacks! I repeat, this is not a drill, Camp Festing is under attack…”
All of the officers jumped from their seats, racing to the nearest exit as the captain yelled: “Dammit- You heard the man! Get moving! Defend our base, people!”
Nowak and Bleeker both sprinted to reach the surface, with the former adjusting his radio while the latter struggled to keep up. “I think you just jinxed us, sersjant!” the lieutenant exclaimed, to which the older man simply exclaimed: “Not now!” They reached a protective blast door built into the side of a hill, which had been promptly opened following the air raid alert. Vehicles packed with troops rushed outwards, moving to take up their assigned posts, all the while contrails and heavy tracers dotted the sky, with drones and missile parts crashing down into the swamps and forests around the camp. Rotors whirred close to the ground, as vulnerable helicopters quickly left into the air, not wanting to be shot down on the ground.
The two dashed forward, moving closer to the main structure of the base: the old fortress, its dated walls serving as the first line of defense for the troops around. On the battlements, soldiers with heavy weapons and launchers fired away, trying to help with the desperate situation up above. At the top of the castle, lay a rare symbol of resistance: the red-green-blue flag, hoisted proudly, still fluttering, even in these conditions. As they were moving, a friendly soldier called out to Nowak: “Incoming missile, Sir! Get your head down!” Complying reflexively, they hit the dirt; a loud boom followed just a few seconds after, tearing a huge hole into one of the outer fortress walls. The troops standing atop the fortifications shook and rattled, while a plume of smoke emerged from the affected area. ”Did they just hit the tank depot?! Damage report!” cried out a voice over the radio. All around, the defenders looked on in dismay, anger, rage.
Sergeant Bleeker exclaimed, with a heavy heart: “Och, nee! Net wer… Us festing…” Nowak looked behind at him. The old man’s face twisted painfully, as memories of his first years of combat flashed in front of him.
“-don’t worry, sarge, don’t worry… we’ll get back at them for this,” the lieutenant said, trying his best to put on a reassuring appearance despite the circumstances. Then, looking back to the front, he yelled: “Now come on, let’s move out!” Far above, missiles continued to pound away at the ground and each other - a dance of angels and demons in the sky, protectors and aggressors. Hell had been raised… what will come now?
Missiles hadn’t stopped falling from the sky by the time the Central Command back in the Alliance had been informed of what just happened. In a command bunker buried beneath one of the smaller cities on the Sagellan border, laid the general in charge of the entire Solarian deployment in Fletteland; hooked up to numerous satellites, radios, and even a runner network, he could run the entire military from the safety of the underground and barely have to leave it, if at all. Rather appropriately, the bunker had been nicknamed “Hell’s Keep” - representing both the working conditions, as well as what the officers inside would be presiding over, were war to break out.
In the war room of the sheltered command post, a group of advisors huddled around at a table with a beveled, geometric design. Made out of an advanced alloy, it felt both comfortable to the touch, but also hosted powerful technology that enabled it to project a high-resolution hologram in real time. Right now, they were looking at a map of airbases, depots, docks, and other encampments in the Fusean area - both those of the SSTO, and of the sinister Vermillion forces.
General Ernest Augustyn stood at the head of the table, resting on it with one of his arms while using his other one to adjust the display parameters of the projection. He was a man who had to fill in some big shoes: following in the wake of General Krueger’s legendary ground career and his “Alette Defense” strategy that remains the subject of debate today, he needed to be even better; not only to hold Fletteland, but give it a hope of reconquering itself.
It had been a busy six years ever since he took charge of the Fusean Command, but this would prove to be perhaps the most tense day of his career up to his point. However, the General, a mountain-born Mithran, seemingly paid no attention to the pressing nature of the situation, as he went on with his operations in a distressingly calm manner. “Lieutenant-General Hancock, in how much is McKinnon going to be seeing us?”
“2 minutes, Sir,” the answer promptly came. “An addendum from the latest wire: the Flettish chief of staff is currently on the line with McKinnon, as well. They’re discussing the situation and our current options.”
“Understood… Alright. I want the briefing AI started, promptly,” he demanded, which led to one of the officers adjusting some settings at a separate terminal in the room. Suddenly, the hologram switched and morphed, as it began showing off a brilliant multi-colored ball, faintly reminiscent of something you’d see from a phone’s digital assistant. A harmonious vocalization, sounding more like a choir of men and women, spoke up:
”Digitial Artificial Tactical Assistant is now ONLINE. Last data update was: 3, days ago. Proceeding with automatic dataset update…
…
…
Update complete,” the voice rang out melodiously. ”Threat parameters updated. DATA estimates that current conditions warrant raising the alert status of all forces under the command of the Alliance of Sovereign Solarian Nations Forces in Fletteland to: DEFCON, 2.”
A few of the staff present raised their eyebrows at this. Augustyn appropriately asked: “Only condition 2, DATA? How come not higher?”
”Current data feeds do not indicate that the Jenovachi Armed Forces are prepared to conduct a continental-level combined arms strike against Fletteland or the wider SSTO. More specifically, intelligence collected by units formerly associated with C-6 or currently under the Strategic Intelligence Division suggests that only 6.5% of frontline units are at a readiness condition that would allow them to move out within the day and conduct sustained operations,” the AI dictated in its rigid terminology, which contrasted oddly with its rather peaceful inflection. ”Additionally, no units within 10 kilometers of the Alette River have reported enemy movement, and the missile attack only overwhelmed 37.2% of air defense units in targeted areas, barely causing minor damage to ground and air facilities. The most affected segments are several production facilities responsible for small arms and combat vehicles - but target selection and missile allocation suggest that this strike was not intended as a crippling opening blow. If it was, my only conclusion would be that the Jenovachi are: irrational.”
The general nodded to the hologram as the officers slowly took in what was said. On one hand, the news seemed reassuring: the Empire wasn’t capable of currently starting a war, so one was unlikely. But on the other hand… They had been struck. And this, of course, could only prompt one logical thing in response.
“We must retaliate,” Ernest stated fiercely, with a determined look in his eyes, imposing obedience into his subordinates., “or else we will make fools of ourselves, the Alliance, and the entire SSTO. I know what you all are thinking right now, but this is the uncomfortable situation we find ourselves in. I will not waste time deliberating the worthiness of such an action. If you feel you cannot deal with what we are about to discuss, please step out of the room.”
A few seconds passed. Tentative glances were shot across the room, but ultimately no one flinched. “Good,” the general said with a hint of satisfaction. “DATA - prepare the analysis module.” He pondered for a second or two, going through a mental list of the plans he and his predecessor had made. Inheriting a wealth of war plans, Augustyn had learned every one of them by heart; some were more lethal, others demonstrative. A balance had to be found.
“DATA… Analyze Naval Plan Red,” he said with a foreboding voice. One of the more junior staff tentatively raised a finger, but, unable to find any words, slowly reared their hand back down.
”Analyzing… Current conditions suggest a 93% operation success probability using the latest revision model of Naval Plan Red. Carrier Strike Group 2 is currently returning from an extended patrol of the Emerald Ocean and is available to commence strike missions within the next forty minutes. Civilian and League naval traffic is permissive enough to allow an attack course that would allow all participating aircraft to land back at their carrier or perform in-air refueling. By sortieing all available air squadrons within the carrier group with a 4-to-1 ratio of anti-ship to air-to-air missiles, the attack force would be able to penetrate the enemy’s defensive bubble and inflict precise limited damage to the facilities targeted under the plan, as well as retain sufficient speed on return to avoid sortieing enemy aircraft.”
“... Understood,” came the bitter-sweet reply of the man. Before it could add anything else, DATA’s hologram suddenly disappeared, instead replaced by a singular line of text: “INCOMING TRANSMISSION.” As one of the assistants in the room replied to the call, General MacKinnon, highest-ranking officer of the SAF, appeared on screen, visibly furious:
”Ernest. I really hope you have a plan right now because in the next twenty minutes, I’m going to have the First Representative, the Alliance Council, and the entire world media busting down my door."
“Don’t worry, Commander… I have something in mind.”
The hour was 08:47. 6 minutes and 23 seconds had passed from the Jenovachi attack.
---
A nervous pilot shook in his cockpit as he flew over the skies of the crystal-clean seas, heading over to attack the Peninsular Empire under orders signed off by the leader of Solaria himself. The mission briefing had been succinct; the last message he received before radio silence was even more so. “Sink the enemy in harbor. Damage their shipyard facilities. Return to base. Godspeed.” Fifteen words was all he was afforded before he was cut off from the rest of the world; the only thin reassuring him being the sight of the other aircraft around him, their sleek, sharp black exterior protecting all of those involved from the repercussions they would normally suffer.
Flying high up in the atmosphere, the aviator was wholly disconnected from the world below. His only focus was himself, and his aircraft: the autopilot mostly kept it level, with him making small, bit-by-bit adjustments wherever the plan he was following demanded them.
He was just a regular pilot flying for the Alliance - defending his homeland and defending his liberties, as an official would put it. This mix of nervousness and ideological belief blinded him to the carnage he was about to inflict on those unable to retaliate against him - or even see him.
As he looked at his radar and GPS, he clinched his weapon controls, waiting for that single right moment when he would release his payload, discard his other weapons, and then bug out. Meanwhile, in the port, a similar, equally young man went about his day, looking out at the clear blue sky. He wasn’t carefree, but he was hardly stressed, either, taking a bit of time to admire the sunshine…
”Weapons release!"
The cockpit voice sounded out. Instantly, a flurry of missiles departed from the weapons bay of the craft. The pilot broke his flight route, and with a hard turn to the right, immediately began wheeling back to the carrier. His eyes were glued to his warning receiver, expecting an alert to go off at any minute. He flew like this for a solid ten minutes, each one spent in terrified silence as the prospect of a singular lurking Jenovachi aircraft was enough to highly increase his chances of death.
But no attacks ever came. The hour was 9:58. 1 hour, 17 minutes, and 36 seconds had passed from the Jenovachi attack.
Back at the port, things went on as usual, with the young sailor handing off the guard to another comrade, whom he invited to drinks after their shift. As he headed through the tight metal corridors, a siren rang out on the ship: ”General quarters! All crew to battle stations! We are under attack!” the voice of the captain exclaimed. In the sky, hundreds of missiles flew straight toward them, like a rain of meteors unleashed. The lad ran towards his post, unphased: the sound of a counter-salvo roared from the ship’s racks. Not unlike the attack just a bit ago, the first few shots had found no way through, decimated by a wall of fire. The system proved surprisingly resilient in its defense: for a solid minute, the port had not even been scratched.
Then, suddenly, a fireball. A lucky missile had found its way through to its target, and in the docks, ships rattled and buildings shook. A fuel tank had been blown up. Another shot lands - one of the construction yards responsible for military vessels is torn apart. More, and more, and more find their way in… Not all at once, but one by one: playing it by the numbers, they slowly rack up damage. An infuriated ensign shouts out: “This is a disgrace!” He is promptly silenced by a new alarm, this time from the vessel’s own computer: ”Incoming! Incoming!”
Having spent its munitions defending the port, the ship now lay vulnerable to the other incoming projectiles. A nearby frigate sails to its defense, whirring up its own, smaller batteries. A touching display of valor; and yet, it is abruptly squashed, as two missiles, faster than any of the others before, smash into it. The hull ruptures entirely; the small vessel splits into two. Its oil reserves gush out, filling the bay with smoke, flames, and sickly black petrol…
The venerated captain of the destroyer looks on in dismay at his situation, and, with a quick decision, calls out: ”All hands, abandon ship! I repeat - all hands, abandon ship!" Not looking back once, the bridge lock themselves in their chambers, accepting their fates while gunners, cooks, medics, and marines pour out onto the top deck. The young sailor is huddled between dozens of his fellows, all rushing toward the lifeboats. Flames filled the gulf, as a tear ran down his cheek - what had become of their prized jewel? In the distance, planes took off with haste from a carrier, seeking to exact some revenge on their dastardly enemy.
All of a sudden, a faint thunder was heard. Its echo roared and roared… a jet black missile had made it all this way, seeking to claim the lives of a few more crewmen. Reflexively, the sailor shouts: “EVERYBODY, GET DOWN!” As he pushes those next to him away toward safety, a tremor rocks the boat - and the young man falls off the ship.
The hour was 10:05. 1 hour, 24 minutes and 17 seconds had passed from the Jenovachi attack.
In the hangar of the SAS Sonia Timko, the returning aircrew were met with cheers by their fellow pilots, deckhands, and the sailors onboard the ship. The admiral of the fleet pompously declared “victory,” proclaiming those who took part in the strike as “aces of aces,” but the young Solarian pilot was merely glad to have escaped with his life. Within a few days, he’d be back at port once more, and hopefully, all of this would have been a bad, bad trip…
Meanwhile, in the flaming remains of the Jenovachi port, a team of doctors, all suited up with coats and medkits, paces desperately through the different docks. A small motorboat arrives, with two old trawler staff - volunteering to help in the face of such desperate odds - pulling up the body of the young sailor, and laying it down on the hard concrete. “Please, docs, tell us there’s something you can do…”
The medics run a quick look and lay two fingers on his chest. His face is charred, incinerated by burning hot fuel. Lesions and other wounds cover everything from his legs to his face. With a hopeless, clinical tone, they simply declare: “Dead on arrival.” The body is covered up with a small, white sheet, as they quickly move on to the next.
The hour was 10:21. 1 hour, 39 minutes and 58 seconds had passed from the Jenovachi attack. 5 minutes and 21 seconds had passed since the death of this young sailor.
Somewhere, within the hallowed confines of the ICPJ Headquarters, in a lounge nestled in between the General Assembly and the Security Council chambers, a middle-aged, well-dressed man with a slick haircut and a pair of reading glasses laid alone on a sofa. His glance was pensive as he looked on at the TV blaring out the latest news at full volume:
”Today’s missile attacks over the Flettish border have killed at least 57 people and wounded hundreds more as rescue personnel still fight with the flames 12 hours on…”
”Just a few minutes ago, the Solarian Armed Forces released an updated statement confirming the destruction of the missile destroyer << Guingelot >> along with two other vessels, with satellite imagery reporting that…”
”The Imperial Administration has not yet released a full casualty list, but government officials have described the counter-attack as a << major escalation >> in a tenuous year for Fusea…”
The tone of media coverage was obvious and alarming. “A continent on the brink” were the words of one of the commentators speaking for prime-time Solarian news. Blood-thirsty generals and their bull-headed subordinates chose to build up a conflict, piece by piece, up until it reached a breaking point. And now, it was up to diplomats to solve this matter again.
The door to the lounge creaked but didn’t fully open. The Solarian stood himself up, muting the news channel as he did. ”Entre!” he called out in a language other than his own.
An elderly dignitary appeared, veritable white hair strands covered up by a gel solution that gave it a more grey, mellowed look. On his chest laid a pin with a great bear on a royal orange background. “Monsieur Brisbois… Your countrymen have made a grave error,” he called out with a severe inflection. “Do you understand that we stand hours, if not minutes away from war?”
“That’s for the Alliance Council to determine, not for me,” the diplomat replied, shortly and dryly. “I just carry out their orders. To that end…” he approached the Jenovachi emissary slowly, “I have something for you.” Raising his hand, he extended a letter, its plain white envelope masking the true contents of the message inside it. No one but a few men in the governments of the two rival states would know just what type of impact the communique had on this crisis…
…
At yet another extraordinary meeting of the National Security Council, the leading figures of the Alliance stood tense as they waited for more news about the situation on the Flettish-Jenovachi border… Orders had been issued and re-issued, and backup plans had been made, but deep in their hearts, all the men present knew that even one rogue factor could spiral this thing out of control.
Finally, as General MacKinnon entered the secret command post, the news came: Jenovachi formations, initially in stand-off positions, had retreated to their initial positions, farther away from the border. A sigh of collective relief was breathed as a new command was issued: “Tell our units to stand down,” were the words from the First Representative’s mouth.
…
Back at Camp Festing, a beleaguered sergeant Bleeker looks through his binoculars as Imperial tanks drive in reverse, distancing themselves from the front. Through lieutenant Nowak’s radio, the order came in. Startled, he checked in twice before executing it, surprised at this sudden development. But no one complained that they didn’t have to die that day.
…
General Augustyn stood alone by the side of DATA’s hologram as it vocalized an assessment: ”The operational situation has returned to the previous balance. I recommend lowering threat status to level 3.”
The officer nodded to himself, contemplating silently. “... What have we gained out of this, tactical assistant?” he queried.
”Nothing that would significantly affect the balance of power in the region,” it answered bluntly. ”The partial elimination of the enemy’s future carrier strike group escort force and the crippling of their ship production facilities has slowed down Jenovachi upgrade efforts to their Navy, but this would only be noticeable in the very long term. Equally, the Jenovachi missile attack, while having shut down several tank and ammunition production plants, is unlikely to have a significant impact given the majority of our factories are located in the Solarian mainland.”
“I see…” Ernest rubbed his forehead tiredly. “-so, the status quo has been preserved.”
”In large part? Yes,” the AI concluded. ”Besides a few opportune guerilla attacks in the wake of our operation, no further offensive actions have been taken.”
“Understood… Well, then. That settles things, for now, DATA. Update your data matrix and stand by for further instructions.”
”Received. Until next time, Commander.” The hologram shut off with a harmonious sound, before fading into the darkness of the pitch-black room. Augustyn looked back one last time before shutting the door on the war room and sealing the bunker, returning to his post at the base above it.
”Until next time…” the words lingered in the General’s mind. An innocent phrase, and yet, oddly foreboding; because, deep inside, he knew… there would be a next time.
And perhaps, unlike today, level heads would not prevail.
Lungha, 5 Kingdoms of Britannia, The Greenlandic North, Canineia, and 3 othersFletteland, Merilian Plains, and Pandovska
SR;RP
Canineian Command Camp, Outside Sjeerdal, Fletteland
The Canineian camp set up outside the Flettish Capital was only that, a camp. A small settlement set up in a field surrounded by a wire held up with wooden posts, powered by massive Biodiesel generators and populated by a mixture of cloth buildings and shipping containers. The Canineians were there to clean up Fletteland similar to what they had done in Osaka. Which was why the camp was very underdefended much to the dismay of General Bellfield, who now was in the middle of an active warzone.
Despite peace talks and deals the Jenovachi still attack Fletteland, sparking international condemnation and retaliatory strikes from allied forces. However, she was not there to help with that, she was simply the Trash Dog, gathering all sorts of rubbish from overflowing landfills and shipping it back to Canineia. Although she had taken a battalion for protection of the Canineians, 120 troops would not be enough against a full enemy assault. Despite pleading with Canidae Harbour for Anti-Missile weaponry the Senate would not grant it believing that the Solarian and SSTO forces would have sufficient defences to at least cover the Canineians as they move towards the ports. The General was under strict orders to issue Protocol 13 if any invasion were to take place, to defend the lives of the majority non-combat Canineians.
The only thing the Security Council sent the General was a Medical Corps Colonel and some emergency vehicles, to show good faith.
The General sat in the command tent having just got off the phone with Admiral Hampton, who told her the bad news that the Senate would not be committing anymore resources to the Flettish Operations especially so soon after the recent Jenovachi attack.
That’s when Colonel McVenison walked in, the newest arrival to the Camp.
“What is it Colonel” The General asked rubbing her eyes
“I was letting you know that I’m about to go meet with some of the Flettish first responders, see what they have to deal with here” The Colonel spoke
The General looked at them with annoyance.
“Didn’t General Redwater tell you NOT to do that? ARFI is telling me that anyone could be a spy and there’s you going to meet with firefighters”
“Why would the Jenovachi disguise themselves as firefighters?”
“I Don’t know” The General sighs “Look go speak to Captain Wolfer he’s got an ARFI officer with him, they’ll go with you”
“Thank you General” The Colonel leaves
The General puts her head on her desk and sighs more
“I really need to get myself whiskey”
SR RP | The Sumori Stance
In a public statement by President Jazaar al-Hafez broadcasted to the public just a few hours ago, he delivered a short but fierce statement affirming Jenovachi claims to Fletteland. Attached below is the full message.
"Good afternoon to all, and I wish you a kind welcome.
I have come to broadcast this message to all of Fusea, and by extension the world, to affirm that the United Republic of Sumoriant officially supports the annexation of Fletteland into the Peninsular Empire by righteousness of the Jenovachi cause in their defensive war against the Flettish, and to ensure Peninsular superiority by asserting their full command over Fletteland for the security and peace within Fusea to be maintained.
Thank you, and stay safe, people of the world."
"im kill u"
- flettish gov idk
SR RP
2894 words
“The [Prince] must die so that the country can live.”
- Maximillien Robespierre,
...
The days were always hard to count in the north. Sunset and sunrise washed the same doughy oranges and blues, and the stars were obscured behind tall cement towers; miles of cramped housing that ran on through each borough. Not that it mattered since nobody looked up. Yards of telephone and electric wires were tacked in a web meter above the bustling wave of people. It was a suffocating, immovable thicket for most regulars. Three men – though they were really teenagers – pushed their way through the fog of poverty. Wearing a set of wet uniforms, cotton-mixed in deep Prussian blues, the pervasive heat amplified by the compact alleyway forced them to sling their coats at their sides. Sweat ran off olive skin, rashed and burnt. To their benefit, they slinged Kalashnikovs around their shoulders, and it held as a sufficient crowd-parter. “Out of the way!” the tallest man sang, tapping the edge of a small pocketknife fastened to his belt. Slowly people pushed against each other, bodies against bodies, to make a small walkway of space for the travelers. Their presence was sign enough to keep moving, and the looks of their uniforms and armament hinted that they were not peacekeepers.
Baron clutched his garrison cap, squeezing tightly so that his veins popped on his rugged skin. He was presumably the youngest, but there wasn’t much of a leap in age. They were all teenagers; you could tell it by the eyes. Irises resembled lumps of coal on a cool cut slab of jasper. There was something drained from them, child-like glint slowly shaped out by the harsh reality of their world. “Why does Maxime make us parade around in a platoon all day?” his voice low and monotone.
“Cap’n said it’s about preserving the peace, collecting information. I say that is fatra, but there’s no room for me to complain” replied Renaud. A revolutionist from Torezeau, he chided the other two in his knowledge of Piyonése, with every choice of word his voice ran sweet like rum.
“BAH!” said Néo, the third musketeer, “He just wants us to get out of the camp! The new recruits always have ‘ta earn their place, always has been like that.” Baron remained silent. He generally chooses not to speak, especially in such a visually and stimulatingly confusing environment. It was also not his choice to be paired with both a loud and smooth talker, but their lack of surrounding awareness made Baron’s scan pattern work overtime. His eyes jittered around the crashing waves of fabric, matching eyes, children peering from windows and barred balconies. It brought a sense of dread, but that was the general consensus when working with the Berfrijer-MFF, that feeling stained your life whether you were affiliated with a family or not. That was the brooding sensation of being a Flettish national.
The stomp! of their leather boots against the quilt of pavement and gravel that made up the street began to grow faster, with an indignant swing as the crowd dissipated at the edges of the pathway. Though the displeasure did not alleviate as the lack in choking crowds was supplemented by tight arched passageways, the argument between Néo and Renaud fell when their hot faces stopped hairs away from a pair of closed gates. “Looks like we’ve gotten back,” said Baron, rubbing at the purplish sores on his cheeks – scars of his skin-picking habits. There was a small slot within the door, a hulking vault made out of scrapped cargo metal, they noticed two sadly washed eyes staring back at the three scruffs.
“Namme? Oarder fan saken?” the Door asked as if it was their millionth time saying it this evening. Néo scavenged through his pockets and pulled out a thin card, letters indescribably painted on the front.
“On orders of kapitènni Maxime, you know the drill, Frederick.” The door slowly moved, like it was being lifted and heaved to the side. Behind the opening stood two men, one a ‘stached muscleman brandishing a rusted MG, and the other presumably being the sad-eyed Frederick. The two nodded as they stepped aside, offering a quiet salut! as the three shuffled into the opening. The narrow walls smoothed out into a large courtyard, an abandoned luxury of their living accommodations. Grecian benches surrounded a mossy fountain, all chipped marble white, but clear of obstruction so that you could stare up and out into the cloud-parted sky. It was a moment of thoughtful relaxation, to hear the soft hum of computer panels, the trickling of water pipes, and whooshing of sturdy oak trees. A supple harmony that fell into the hands of a misfit militia. The silence was not as deafening as the rapid-paced movements of a frizzy haired woman wearing a patched Lanaliksberskemer jacket off her shoulders. The epaulets on the tip of the creased uniform danced in the summer breeze as she fixed to find a cigarette in her pocket.
“Baron! Max wants you in his office!” She made quick snaps as she fixed her choppy bangs. Her tone was commanding and bullish, paying no attention to the other cadets as they left Baron’s flank to head for the mess hall. She hadn’t been waiting to meet Baron, though it happened to be a good time for them to arrive. Her posture perfectly echoed her mentality while on duty: she had no time for chit-chat. Though she tended to make time for Baron.
“Nice coat,” he jerked.
“Thanks!” The girl, Lottie, replied, “found it while raiding the rummage of an arms depot.” And just as she entered onto the courtyard, she sped for the staircase on the back right side, the force of movement making the boy wince. Lottie was an individual with confidence, you could see it in her stride. And that was something which made her valuable to the MFF, a confidence in her movements and in her work. She ran a tight network throughout the camp, the small wrinkles and streaks of gray a timeline of her stress. But her stern tenacity did not fade with coaxing, and that could be assumed by her image alone. Baron found very few at the camp bearable, but she was one who clicked within his dynamic of processing. She refused to carry a whim of overachievement, an ego that festered like a common rash amongst the other cadets, leaving him with a bitter distaste at the slightest of interaction. It was a relationship which did not hold much stable foundation, but for connection in the environment he was not opposed to relinquishing his moody shell.
Baron headed for the open metal panel left behind Lottie’s exit from the “Coop”. The string of offices hobbled around the central garden gave a mildewed, slanting sate. Some doors painted, windows boarded and broken, some flooded with troops and most deserted. The quarters continued on and around the casted mosaic of staircases, a metal spine holding up the decayed grounds. He crouched, underestimating the ill-sized “blast-hole” that acted as a port of entry for Maxime’s office. A dim light bulb, hanging desperately to a chewed wire swung above his clammy forehead. For the office of their head commandant, it was a great understatement, a depressed mule that was still on par with the rest of the surrounding area. A washed copper tilework completely covering both sides of the wall, a scene of struggle and patriotism that once stood insignificant in the lobby of a luxury apartment. Unnoticed. There was no doubt Maxime chose this flat for his base of operations, a man of symbolism and art he was. Two older men, one trying to smoke a loosely compacted Majkenuuke, and the other one rolling them out. Their callused, boil-heavy fingers shook as they dispersed a thin line of marijuana over the paper, an attempt at airy craftsmanship hobbled by the labored hands. Their caps drawn far down below their eyes their heavy breath of alcohol flushed down Baron’s nostrils and hijacked his nerves. “He’s in the room to ya’ left,” grumbled the Roller, a slow slur with his words from inebriation or an inherited pattern of speech. The guard next to him did not move. The boy jerked forward to thank them but decided to give a small nod – the courtesy of Frederick – and hobbled over to the door.
“Leave the gun in here,” the Smoker, now twisting a bowie knife in his right hand, dug up a plume of dust tapping his foot on the cold stone floor. Instinctually, Baron dropped the clunky weapon at the foot of the man; a soft pang of numbness arose from his shoulders, tender pink where the straps dragged along exposed flesh.
.. // SQN-LDR D’ABOVILLE: MY MEN ARE POISED FOR A RAID ON THE BELLADÉRE DISTRICT MUNITION DEPOT. WAITING FOR CLEARANCE FROM CAPTN MARCHAL. CAPTN MARCHAL: STANDBY, WE DON’T WANT TO DISTURB THE SITUATION TOO SOON AFTER THE JENOVACHI AIRSTRIKES. - - - BrAmpzzt - - //..
A hulking piece of machinery, coated in a sandy gray wash, whirred and clicked at a speed too fast for Baron to account. A large panel displayed the recorded transmissions in an illuminant green, blinking. Attached rather crudely were streaking wires feeding into walls, an antenna, and a small detachable radio. The ancient transmitting system was a testament to the engineers who kept it running. A relic from some shelled-out government office, tweaked and pruned, it served no purpose but computation. On the bottom corner of the metal giant was a smudge name: EBA, Computerized Relay System. “Don’t mind it, just come in,” spoke a husky voice, Maxime, from deeper within the office. It was an overturned suite, appliances ripped from their holdings and replaced with desks. Piles of paperwork, statistical reports, and speech recordings sat amongst the fray and many hugging the damp carpet Baron walked all over. With each movement he took farther into the room, EBA puffed smoke and small sparks into the air, racing to replace the next set of commands. Max sat opposing the entrance, taping the mahogany desk he propped himself against. Attempting to form thoughts away from the sound of mechanized squeals let out by the comms system. It’d be the first time Baron had been directly asked to see the kapitènni in his court, but Maxime’s eagle-acuity was cluttered by the tainted confides of his war room.
More peculiar was the individual sitting – but not by choice – in a cushioned chair directly in front of Baron. Eyes met eyes, that was the first thing the cadet generally made contact with when scouting out his opponents. You could tell a lot by the eyes, and there was a lot to hide behind this person’s unpolished jades placed far back in their sockets. Their demeanor did not immediately arouse fear, but being captive generally won’t bring feelings of joy either. “Wullem’s squad found em’ loitering around one of our operations on the east side. Civilians can generally be curious, but the bud was not deterred by brute force. Nasty fighter of a thing. Nearly killed one of my servicemen before being contained.” He stood up, slightly limping as he turned to face the sullen face of Baron. “Generally, I don’t bother with these things, but something about their étrange demeanor doesn’t warm me.”
“Tch,” mummed Baron. They were ambiguous. Angular features, curled hair, cool-toned skin; those were genetic markings scattered so viciously and loosely through the continental palate. They could have been any other Fusean. Wasn’t much of a stern distinction from many of Baron’s compatriots. “Do you have a name?” They looked down, scrunching their faces to reflect on if they should choose to reply. They chose to remain silent.
“We’re not going to end up letting you go if you don’t comply,” Maxime flashed his yellowed teeth, “And besides, I have a liberal approach to getting what I want from my prisoners.” That last part fell from Max’s lips like a sizzling drop of acid right onto the temple of their captive. As the captain he sought appeasement through being reserved, a diplomat, and an avid entertainer of revolutionist idealisms. But it was not unknown that the man could use a feral tone if the situation provoked him. Baron saw him like a viper of sorts, intelligent, indulgent, and violently unpredictable. It was key components which allowed him to muster a force and exist under the extension of the Croisés-Pensuerists. His hazel eyes flickered under dim orange lighting, waiting to devour any reply from the prisoner. It was as if their lips were sealed under a spell, their thoughts boiled and rushed, almost bursting from their flared nostrils, but the contempt could not easily be broken.
“Ou pale Piyonè? Kammos?” Baron had an adequate-enough understanding of the ethnic dialects in the Metropolitan area, enough to get by was the minimum anyone could prepare for, but unlike Renaud he did not flaunt what little he offered. Maxime frowned.
“He doesn’t want to open up. Baron, your pocketknife,” He did not take any concentration away from the captive, largely to see if there was a crack he could manage to wriggle through. Despite the tone of his words, Baron knew Max was not going to threaten violence (as of yet), a squirrely attitude could not ease their already worsening conditions. He wanted to see the walnut crack. And there! So slightly did the glint of the blade hit the man’s offsetting eyes, a shimmer that cast a mosaic of colors and emotions inside them. Their yellowed sclera, soft and fleshy like a boiled egg, began to tremble. Tremors and soft pangs of sudden realization made them feel coldly unwelcomed as if their initial kidnapping had not stirred into them until now. It was conceivable that this brute, whatever low in their ranks, had transpired much worse and the hands of both ally and enemy. This flinching anticipation of pain can almost be more unbearable than the stab, and they were not willing to be at both ends of this tool again.
“Arrêt! I will obey…” vomited from their lips, a spilling of liquid gold to both Baron and Maxime’s ears. They readily observed for the next response, Max choosing to twist the blade between his forefinger, running its rusted edge along the fingertip. “What little I can know is not worth the pain I could endure. My name is Dimitri, born of the Boreal. I’m a perpetual mover, settled in Kerslan but I go where the work takes me. It’s not my choice but that is the life of most Fuseans.”
“And why did you attack my men?” Maxime flowed with much more patience, but he withheld something from Baron. Dimitri had a consistently torn demeanor, eyebrows sagged, eyes turned down; it was hard not to pity such a puppy-face.
“How was I to assume which banner they flew under? They could’ve been peacekeepers or mercs for all I saw. Merely trying to raid a station of supplies. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out here, no less.” Dimitri had an air of superiority that posed liability to his storytelling. His manner could’ve been more off, but the fluidity of his speech gave a genuine-enough response. ‘I don’t like this guy… There’s not a complete picture.’ Baron thought, ‘He says he’s moved around but never gave a lick of his origins. He’s a skilled laborer but with a tongue like that he could’ve come from any Fusean University. And what was that thick, glossy, undertone in his speech? It was unfamiliar and foreboding. People in Fletteland spoke out of necessity, but Dimitri spoke turgidly, mincing words and forgiving others.’ Baron had no doubt that Maxime sensed it, too. But he could no longer hear any other words that flew from Dimitri’s mouth, nor did he sense the rapid-fire typing of the EBA that had previously vibrated up his spine. It was all a translucent stream of thought that separated him from his surroundings, too far concentrated on his own voice to notice Dimitri twisting his delicate arms wrapped by thinning rope, cautiously removing a long, nearly translucent needle.
Maxime redirected his attention: “You shouldn’t take me for a fool, ogre.” emptying two shots into Dimitri’s abdomen from his méridien action-pistol. Weakly he slouched forward, the ting of his stowed assassin’s needle fell in a pitter at Baron’s feet. The smell of poor gunpowder smoked upwards, the rich blood flowing into a damp puddle.
“Jenovachi agent?” Baron, enervated from the sharp system of events, asked his captain; who had still remained a stern frown at the now dead prisoner.
“More than likely, but he wasn’t after us. Probably scouting the area of his deployment, an animal caught in the trap. Shame, if he kept his act together it would’ve been believable. I do not like meddling in the affairs of espionage.” Baron sat there silently, nothing he could say to alleviate the chaos, anything would offset the incomprehensible depressed kapitènni. ‘What the hell made him tick?’ was all the cadet could think of as the blundering officers – far more concerned with their drinking habits than to do their duty of guardianship – swarmed the cramped office space.
Lungha, Great Jenovah, The Greenlandic North, Emnaria, and 4 othersSolaria Alliance, Sumoriant, Merilian Plains, and Pandovska
SR RP Naragian Protest against the Annexation Of Fletteland.
From the Fortress Narag Senete or Kristan in the Naragian language two people stand before a camera. The two consuls of the New Republic, Sol Cerium Narag and Sarlum Aura, the cameras are broadcasting everywhere including what little they can in Fletterland.
We The Sublime Naragian Republic, Must offer protest less to the annexation and more to the violence committed against The flettish people. We will not break our neutrality and pick a side But Any Flettish people seeking a way out are free to come to our Nation. A Nation is not a place but a people. As long as your race exists your people can never truly die. We have set aside land for a city to be built for anyone seeking a peaceful life away from conflict. This goes for all oppressed peoples in the world.
Remember Honor, No matter how dire the Situation, never Forsake it.
The Broadcast Ends playing the Naragian National anthem.
A lone XSUAHM-59C flies low across the Merilian Steppe. It flies just high enough to stay above the clouds of dust it kicks up. The helicopter is painted a matte black, different from the standard gray or olive drab of the IEM. It is a peculiar sight, an Emnarian helicopter in the middle of Merilia.
The helicopter flies for hours, its cargo highly secretive. The soldiers on board the helicopter have been sitting in it for 28 hours. The 3 pilots on board have been taking 8 hour shifts flying. Nobody inside is in any way, shape, or form comfortable. The infamous vibrations caused by the main rotor shake the fuselage constantly.
0700 hours, February 17th, 2024
68 miles from Rezicanesti, Merilia, North Osea
Inside the cockpit of the UAHM, the pilot, 25 year old Benjamin Harris, sits at the controls. He does his best to stay aware, he becomes so desperate he starts questioning why glass is see-through. Suddenly, the RWR indicator comes on, the high pitch ringing of the RWR audible awareness indicator and the flashing red warning light quickly startle him. He grabs the aircraft intercomm set, “Brace, brace, brace!”
Harris drops the helicopter to just 20 feet above the ground, a challenging maneuver for the young pilot. The RWR silences itself. He levels out the helicopter, and waits for the RWR to scream at him again. He waits, but it never comes on. They fly once quietly once again, the sprawling grassland filling the pilot's view.
0730 hours, February 17th, 2024
12 miles from Rezicanesti, Merilia
The helicopter managed to fly undetected the rest of the journey, likely thanks to the stealth modifications it received for this mission (the “XS” part of the XSUAHM-59C designation). The men on board exit the helicopter, they immediately observe their surroundings, looking for anything suspicious, a hole in the rocky terrain, a random car or shed. The helicopter is hidden behind a rock formation which forms a sort of protected half-circle. A man in black leather cowboy boots, distinguishing him as an officer in contrast to the brown cowboy boots of the other soldiers, hops down from the side door of the helicopter. With each heavy step he takes, the gravel crunches beneath his feet, creating puffs of gray dust around his boots. Simultaneously, the jingling of his heavy metal spurs fills the air.
As he slowly walks forwards, the rest of the men stop and look at him, as if waiting for something. He looks each of them in the eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing from his squint; some look confused, some harbor a wild look in their eyes, ready to do anything. The officer in the black boots stands there, still, his face stone cold, hiding what he's thinking. The brim of his black felt cowboy hat just barely clears his line of sight. His mouth twitches only slightly as he puffs on a cigarette. He reaches into the left breast pocket of his flak jacket, pulling out a small silver watch. He flips it open and looks at it for a second, closing it and storing it in the pocket once again. He then grabs the cigarette and tossed it on the ground, breathing out a cloud of smoke.
His chapped lips, as if breaking a century old seal, open. In a deep, rough voice he says, “I reckon we're here boys.”
The men stare into his eyes, trying to figure out what he's thinking, but as usual his face hides all emotion. He unclips the flap on his holster, and withdraws his pistol. He tilts the gun and racks the slide, watching the chamber as it loads a round. He looks up once again… “Merilia.”
He walks ahead of the group, they watch as he passes. Without a word, he begins to walk up the gradual slope, covered in small pieces of gravel. It doesn't look like something that's been crushed by a machine, it looks natural. As he begins to walk off, the rest of the squad begins to follow him.
1127 hours, February 17th, 2024
2 miles from Rezicanesti, Merilia
The squad of men lay stop the gray stone cliff. It overlooks a narrow, but well traveled paved road. The officer looks over at a man to his left, “Stevens, you got the box?”
The soldier responds quickly, “yessir.”
The officer hands him a piece of paper, “put it in.”
The soldier opens the wooden box and puts the slip of paper inside.
1842 hours, February 17th, 2024
It's been hours. The men lay there, waiting for any vehicle to come by. Just as the officer opens his jacket pocket to retrieve a cigarette, he hears a low rumbling around the corner, “everyone shut up.”
A small cabover box truck rounds the corner. The truck screeches to a halt, almost hitting the box. The officer watches as the driver gets out. He walks over to the box and examines it. After a good minute or so, he picks it up and rattles it around. The officer watches as the driver opens the box to find the paper. After looking at it for a second, the driver's eyes widen, and he quickly runs and climbs into the box truck. The engine whines as the truck quickly accelerates, shifting through several gears as it speeds up. The road is empty once again.
The officer slowly crawls back from the ledge. He gets up into a squatting position and carefully looks around the terrain. The group is filled with nothing but the emptiness of silence, emptiness, yet it leaves room in their minds for anticipation, suspense. The officer quietly says to the group, “alright, let's move out.”
The group crawls back just as their officer did, and follows him away…
Contents of the note:
“This is addressed to any person(s) in a commanding role in the Merilian group known as the Loyalists.
The information we wish to present you must remain confidential. We cannot disclose who we are in this note, nor how we know each other, nor the reason for this note. Please tune into frequency 148.755 on any long distance VHF radio between the hours of 1300 and 1900.”
Merilian Plains
SR RP
The sound of machinery drummed on in the background the factory floor was loud with the sound of work. Here they were build the body of the new Paladin class jet fighter. The body of the plane itself was interesting design, interesting not in a very complex and requiring far more man hours then a plane of its size should, more in relatively simplicity of it. Each part had been angled and fitted in such away to reduce radar reflection though it wasn’t truly the body that gave the plane it’s stealth ability. That part was the series of advance chemical costings that was one of the final steps Of manufacturing such an aircraft. It was for the price alone one of the best fifth generation aircraft in the far east currently still in production. Yet perhaps some many qualifying statements gave away much, after all the design for the majority of the plane was not kingdoms in origin, but Germanic. Though many components from the radar to the operating system was British in nature it had been an Germen design team who had come up with design which had been initially rejected by the AGU government. Yet the kingdoms had seen the potential in the platform and after what little involuntary technology sharing had produced the British Knight, which was for a time the best fighter the British had built... It was clearly time to go to the source. The plane itself was heads and shoulders above what Yemetian had field last year in Second Mysorean Yemetian war, though only two early models would see combat, with them being used in destruction of Listovian rebel AA the plan attributes had been proven a wise decision. Yet with further wars on the horizon and the now Selvennic union a friend the kingdoms had other threats to fights. These threats had in one way or another been a threat to the kingdoms for merely three years.
Starting back to when the Shah war fleet headed for Greenwich, and the humiliating defeat as well as peace had followed for the kingdoms. Backed by the goths, the kingdoms had tried at first to drive a wedge between them and the Shah this failed. Even with the destruction of the Shah realm the rise of the league to a dominate Useona power the kingdoms remained fix upon the gothic threat. It was a such an unpleasant surprise to find out when joining the league how favourably they looked upon the goths and their vassals in the SC. The kingdoms would have to change this. With the painful slow departure of Jenovah the kingdoms had been so close to handing the first defeat to the goths. The jenovahian departure would see much of the gothic influence thrown out, and though the league would remain most likely friendly they would not at least out right join them. Kingdom influence within media would help spread the word of the atrocities that both the goths and Jenovah would commit, thought it’s affect would be small it would help dissuade an alliance between the league and SC. Yet as the newest model of Paladin left the assembly line it was clear who their main foe would be.
Codenamed the TU16 by British intelligence and armed forces, this Great Jenovah fighter was clearly sixth generation designed for close combat against other sixth generation fighter. Limited SSTO combat data in the flettland war had shown it had good stealth, great integration with drone systems, and a wine to shoot down due to its agility and plentiful decoys. It had done a number on SSTO fighters yet the kingdoms had found flaws in it’s design and use with new simulation tech they were able to test their pilots and machines against the TU16, despite higher losses it was clear the kingdoms stood a chance. But only with the paladin the previous knight class which was a half way decent decoy and little else when fighting the TU16. So the kingdoms began to prepare, as the first hundred batch of paladins left their noisy factory, British pilots were quick to gain experience on this new platform. Yet it was not just the RAF seeing the sweet fruit of this year military investment. As a few destroyers dropped anchors for the first time, the Army was the section filled with the most glee. From the 300,000 new faces in their ranks, and already the hundreds new tracked machines, the British army was roaring into the 21st century finally as a truly mechanised force. As new APCs, IFVs, tanks, and Artillery rumbled off the factory floor and right into the hands of their assigned regiments. Parades and wargames was soon all these new units could do. Minster of War Harrison was determined to install, pride, discipline, and unity in these new units. Even as dark storm clouds gathered in the north, the kingdoms would be ready for the coming war. Yet would it stand alone?
Fujiwara and the kingdoms, both had been bitter enemies over a century ago. The kingdoms had fallen far from its height of empire, and Fujiwara had rose, faltered, and strode to a new height. Now both had something in common a growing northern threat on Fusea. While this threat had been contained to merely the north of the continent saber rattling at Dieteger and 
Fletteland while trying to expand it’s diplomatic influence neither nation cared much for it. Yet with a now growing air force, navy and Territorial control it was clear that they were becoming a threat. As Fujiwara own fleet expansion would soon see it become the fourth strongest naval power in the far east, it was not too pleased with a power stealing it’s hard own position. This is were the kingdoms stepped in.
The kingdoms and Fujiwara Tochi had been drifting closer together ever since the end of the 19th century and with the kingdoms isolation and neutrality ending at the start of the 21st had seen ties grow stronger. A plan would be floated to marry a member of Fujiwara household to the previous dishonoured king child. That previous king brother to the current king Edward had after his abduction met the fate of a socialist bullet on distant shores... Or well that was the agreed upon lie by most. The child mother had disappeared soon after it’s birth leaving the child all alone in the world, yet the royal family still protected their own. Brought back to the kingdoms now king Edward sore this child as a much needed heir as if himself or Victoria stayed childless this child would be what carried on their family legacy. Yet this meeting between heads of state would beat fruit more then just a future marriage to bind the two family’s together. With the northern Fusea threat still clear as the Fujiwara state would be courted to join the kingdoms coalition against the hostile Jenovah influence who’s tendrils had spread unchecked for too long. Yet even with that signed and done for now the kingdoms had others to reach out too.
The kingdoms despised the fusean fascist movement and disliked the communist as well, yet desperate times created strange bed fellows in this time of crisis. Room 404 would reach out via old merchant contacts, flettish resistance cells and what ever criminal contacts the Imperial Cooperation and associates were willing to burn. An offer would be floated to both rebel originations within Jenovah, when the time came the kingdoms would give both groups arms and ammunition to do with what they wanted in return for what ever intelligence they had agasint their common Jenovahian foes. This would not be trigged yet but could prove useful if a war drew close and the kingdoms needed information, as pulling such a trigger would see within a month war between both nations as there was no were that such a massive injection of equipment would go not noticed. Yet that time was once again not now, the kingdoms for now would keep their powder dry and merely watch from the shadows and wait.
“Your Holiness… we have waited long to respond since our diplomatic opening. Three countries await your response.”
Fylkir Beinlaus sat calmly in his throne, the weight of his golden, Eagle-adorned crown slightly bending his neck downward, leaving his facial expression in a sort of grim glare. Nevertheless, his demeanor did not express any form of malevolence or cruelty. However, it held a spark of impatience, queuing his diplomatic servant to continue,
“…I shall now proceed, your holiness.
Three nations have responded to our outreach. The first was 
The Austro-Germanic Union. Their offer seems… bold, if you would allow me this boldness myself. They seek many things at once: governmental recognitions, trade deals, and most interestingly, a protective pact that would effectively guarantee our independence… may I continue forth?”
Beinlaus took the strength to lift his head upwards, his state shifting from piercing to lofty. He began to speak,
“So much they promise and so little they ask… it strikes me as suspicious. This could be entirely unfounded, so pass this forward to the Departments of Offense and Defense. I wish to see their thoughts on these proposals. In the meantime, send them a response with a willing, but reserved offer of invitation for further discussion. I dare not to sign anything that is vague. Continue on, then.”
“Blessed are you, Your Holiness. This is the second outreach we received, from 
Minuda, signed by the Minister of Foreign Affairs himself. I shall read this in full to you.”
As the diplomatic servant recited the letter, Beinlaus stoic disposition somewhat stumbled. His normally angular expressions became sharper in concentration, listening to what was effectively old speech (what would be Middle English to us English speakers). His servant took notice, and after a couple of repeated sentences, Beinlaus’ default stern look softened. His tone was underlined with a subtle eagerness, speaking as soon as his servant was finished.
“Dr. Kirkland… an academic as well as a servant to his state. I am complimented by his interest in us. Send him an invitation to Hvithaar Hall at once. Inform him that we shall participate in his ‘exchange’ and trade with him our national gifts. Now, the last correspondence please. I grow restless and in need of a hunt or a sport.”
“With due speed. 
Vyerossia is the most recent outreach to us. I am afraid to inform you, however, that this diplomatic outreach is just as much of a threat as it is an olive branch. They threaten us with political involvement and aided insurrection. If you will allow me, let me show you the telegram itself for your eyes and interpretation.”
Beinlaus raised his hand and gestured the servant forward. The servant then scurried up to the Fylkir, bowing onto his knee as he outstretched his arms for the Fylkir to take the letter. Beinlaus bent forward, gently kissing the knuckle of the servants index finger before pulling the telegram into his hands.
Reading the telegram, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips tensed against each other in frustration. As soon as this irritation arose, however, Beinlaus consciously relaxed his facial muscles and exhaled slowly, handing the letter back to his servant. He began to speak, almost as a justification for himself to hold.
“They simply do not understand the way of the Svips. The last Heilagur, Grjotgard, peace be upon him, ordained our familial line to rule all of those who accept the true faith. To rebel or to dethrone the Fylkirate is to offend the will of Hvitakristr and all the layers of Heaven,” Beinlaus paused for another moment before resuming, this time directly responding to his servant, “Take this letter along with the first to the aforementioned departments. See to it that they investigate whether this threat of theirs is real, and if so, tangible. I will keep my patience with them in the meantime.”
SR RP | A Golden Offer
Following consideration from the Sumori Armed Forces and approval from the office of the President of the United Republic, it has been accepted to reach out to the Britannian Kingdom for the construction of four new battlecruisers to the Sumori Republican Navy. A message has also been dispatched to the Kingdoms, attached below:
To the Britannian Government, and to whomever it may concern,
On behalf of the United Republic of Sumoriant and the Sumori Republican Navy, we wish to propose for Britannian construction of four battlecruisers based off our present battlecruiser in operation. From our approximate calculations, this should net-cost the Republic 4.5 billion, which we shall pay up-front.
Respectfully and humbly,
Office of the Sumori Armed Forces and the Office of the President of the United Republic of Sumoriant.
5 Kingdoms of Britannia
SR RP | A Much-Needed Product
On behalf of the United Republic's Ministry of Foreign Affairs, President Jazaar al-Hafez has approved a congressional motion to purchase semiconductors from the Republic of Lungha continuously.
It has also been agreed to reach out to Lungha for the potential purchase of several other similar products, including cell phones, personal computers, and other associated telecommunication mediums.
Lungha
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