The North PacificBoard

March 17, 2024. Bir Hawijah, Hawija Provence, Northern PRK.

Major General Lāyêntchêk Zâvôrâ was very confused. For two days he had marched unopposed through one of the most populous regions of the PRK. After the resounding success of the Bīrkên Al-Riyam counter offensive, he just kept… going. His army travelled so quickly, that he had outrun his supplies, and all Kurzak communication systems had been destroyed by he himself a few months earlier. So, for the last two days, he and his army of 43,000 men had been walking blind through enemy countryside. However, he was now nearing Bir Hawijah, one of the most important cities in the PRK. There, he had been invited by the Kurzak General Theodosius Al-Sinjar for a meeting. Although wary of his counterpart’s intentions, he accepted the invitation.

Even more odd was the reception. There were people lining the streets, tossing flowers at the soldiers and shouting what seemed to be thanks at them. At the end, in the steps of Hawijah provincial courthouse, there was a marching band (seemingly at half strength) playing the Fehranian patriotic song “March to Victory, Oh Men of the Salt” and flying a red, black, and… white flag? Something had clearly changed, but he had no time to waste. He had an appointment with a General.

“Ah, General Zâvôrâ, I am so glad you could make it.”

“It is a pleasure to be here, Strōyāê Sinjar.”

“There is much that you have to catch up on.”

“Indeed it seems so. Such as, what flag is that out front and why is your band playing an anti-Romanov song?”

“We’ll get to that soon.”

“Well then what do you want to get to first?”

“I want to get to the fact that that wretched Nikolai Romanov is now dead.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was… personally executed by Elena Markova.”

“Excuse me?”

“He got us into this evil war which we could not possibly hope to win! No matter how much I try, that ***** keeps launching us into disaster after disaster! When Elena proposed a revolution, what choice did I have? To remain loyal to a skeleton with no intellect, or some one who actually wants to build a future for this country and knows how to do it too?”

“Woh woh woh, slow down there. Romanov is dead and the defense minister started a revolution?”

“Our navy is also gone. Just gone. At Fort Hassir.”

“Oh that’s amazi-”

“And Al-Mikhah is now in your hands.”

“That’s great. Well, does that mean the war is over?”

“Not quite. Follow me.”

Zâvôrâ followed Sinjar into a back room, were they could be alone.

“So, I am assuming you are Bâhāêhên?”

“No, actually, I am Classical Kâījhūên.”

“Do not ask me how I know this, but Ophinojira has re-awoken. Of course thanks to that buffoon Romanov.”

Lāyêntchêk’s eyes widened. This meant more then Sinjar could have possibly known.

“I just thought I needed to tell you.”

“Well? What do you expect me to do about this!?”

“I’m not sure. I just know that you needed to hear about that. Come, I have something waiting for you outside.”

Dutifully, Zâvôrâ followed Al-Sinjar back outside, where the crowd had now tripled in size, and the half-staffed band was now playing “Below Mount Gôrdīyâ”, the Bīrkên national anthem. It was as if the whole city had turned out for occupation.

“Proud and mighty Kurzaks,” Al-Sinjar declared, “I have with me the man who will set the Eagle free! The Coalition is now arrived to bring liberty and justice to Kurzakstan. Do not see them as occupiers, but as liberators for the nation! Long live Bīrkââl! Long thrive Kurzakstan!”

While Sinjar was speaking and the people cheering, Lāyêntchêk could not take his mind off of Ophinojira. For, what Sinjar did not know, was that this would lead to a great and terrible war, a possibly one of the worst tragedies in the history of Bīrkââl.