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"An Evening To Forget"
November 8, AH 1
Is-Taash, Kolch
[Recommended listening while reading: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7rxl5KsPjs]
"As always," said Captain An, standing to his full six-foot-two height, "we enjoy this bounty with the treasured history of our empire and the importance of frontier matters deeply in our hearts." As he finished saying those words, honed by the input of dozens of governors throughout Kolch's history, Captain An's eyes lingered on one guest, the impressive figure of the black-bearded man dressed in chainmail. "We are also honored by the presence of one of our territory's great Orders, this time the Knights of Soax." His lips retreated as he attempted a smile.
Though the black-bearded Grandmaster's smile was less false, it was no less familiar. "The Knights of Soax," said the Grandmaster (whose name was Grygor Blane), "are honored to be here." His smile strengthened as he turned in his chair, to face the column of knights that lined the wall behind him, "and it is my privilege to be the first Grandmaster of our most noble order to represent it in a feast!" He bellowed into a laugh that would be intoxicating in another setting, "truly we are honored... Honored by this great show of unity between Is-Taash and our modest slice of the Frontier!"
The knights along the wall applauded. Among them and closest to the Grandmaster was a boy whose name was Osgar Rikard, a drummer. Without his rods, his mind stammered to celebrate. By the time he had joined the clapping, it was just about over.
"Applaud when we do, Brother Osgar!" whispered the man to his left, a tall one named Brother Keeper Joseph, who was usually quiet except in matters pertaining to Osgar.
"My apologies, Brother Keeper."
"Quiet," said the Brother Keeper, and Osgar lit up red with shame.
Grandmaster Blane's cackle tapered off. Captain An forced a smirk in response: The only thing he could do when faced with such humiliation. "Now," said Blane, clapping his hands, "shall we eat, or is there anything else?"
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Osgar slept every night in a castle, but the Arman-al Citadel of Is-Taash was an entirely different beast: Its outer walls towered over the capital, and at night the chirping of batbugs was only tempered by the occasional call of the lone vulture that prowled the night skies. Needless to say, the boy found little rest beneath his Brother Keeper Joseph's bunk. Throughout the room laid more knights, still half-dressed amidst their slumber in spite of the heat. The Knights of Soax had been split in two, and Osgar's group had the misfortune of sleeping with the Grandmaster, in the Old First, as it was called: The site of the original citadel. Osgar had little understanding of this, though, except that compared to the dining hall, the floorboards sagged painfully with each step, the furniture was dustier, and the walls were so dark on their own that at night it was like staring into a starless night sky.
What do you think you hear? His rational mind wondered, as his eyes scanned the darkness. Perhaps the creaking of the floorboards whenever Brother Damian turned in his roll, You are with the knights, no harm can come of you. His eyes turned to his satchel, his drumming rods sticking from the top. You're not a little kid any more. Regardless, Osgar swept silently forward toward his rods.
Yet, as he did, a shape in the corner of his vision stopped the movement. He turned, slowly, while his other hand gripped for the rods. It was that alcove there, where the dark was ever darker. Perhaps Osgar had only imagined it. Regardless, he slowly came to his feet, and the floor beneath let out a disquieted sigh.
As Osgar approached the alcove, he wondered its purpose. A closet? A storage locker? From here, its arched roof looked ten feet up, and the darkness within was daring to creep out, into the rest of the open chamber.
As quick as his silence would allow, Osgar slipped inside, preparing for the worst—Preparing to scream and wake the others!
Yet there was naught inside, but the tiniest sliver of shaking light, shrinking, until it was gone. Swallowing, Osgar dared forward, to where the light had originated: A piece of the wall. He motioned toward the segment, and found it loose. His own hands shaking like the light that had escaped this way, he pried it open, revealing a dark chamber, and steps reaching downward.
Tell the others, he turned toward the alcove's arched exit. He shook his head. He would look a fool if he squealed over something that could come out to very little importance. And besides, that voice had not been right yet.
Taking the first step down, Osgar thought he heard a whisper, far beneath, and stopped. On reflection, he remembered the sound as the squeak of a distant mouse. Thus, he continued, down the dark, winding stairway of stone hidden inside the castle. Spiders' webs crowded the sloping ceiling. Eventually, light began to peek in from below.
When he reached the bottom, Osgar found a torch upon the wall. Swallowing, he progressed. More torches, yet there was always some place in this hall untouched by light: Sanctuaries of the demonic, no doubt.
He didn't know where he was going, or if he was going the right way, but soon he was granted a guide: The sound of over one hundred voices, singing some strange melody, deep within the bowles of the Citadel. At this, he stopped, and that voice of reason piped up yet again: It's time to leave. You've had your fun, but you must run. Fun, then run!
"A knight fears nothing," whispered he, and he progressed, further and further, the voices louder and louder with each step, until he found it, a lone passageway where the stones were looser, more haphazard in placement. After his short journey through, he found himself at the rear end of a large hall of stone. At the front, a woman, draped in black, her hands reaching out each side. Her voice was the strongest among the group, and its echo spawned the fiercest goosebumps in the young soldier.
Yet, behind her was the true terror: The stone face of a monster: An onyx, its horns reaching so far as to pierce the ceiling, and its eyes a sandy, slanted dark.
"Watcher, Watcher!" cried the woman, her hands twisting and contorting with each vile word, "your two faces may always see...! In your flesh, harmony!"
"Mother Vigilant, Mother Vigilant," called the crowd, "does he watch?"
"He watches and waits," cried the woman, her vigor forcing her to her knees, her fingers contorting further as she reached up toward the gray darkness above. "For the one, he watches and waits!"
"The one, the one!" responded the crowd.
"We watch and wait."
Suddenly, her twisted passion ceased. She found her footing, as the boy Osgar watched with the utmost interest.
An outstretched, monstrously long finger reached out, and she hissed like a snake. Osgar was so enthralled in the event that he only realized she was pointing straight his way when the rest turned to look. "Od-pahr!" cried the woman, "Od-Paaahr!"
It's time to go, said the voice of reason, and Osgar finally agreed.
Osgar turned and left, as quick as lightning. He passed through the dark halls, his footsteps the only sounds in the night, the rest apparently masked save for the quiet pant of lost breath, or the tapping of rock, deep in the dark behind him, yet growing closer.
When he found the steps from whence he came, a smile crossed Osgar's lips. Up he ran, past the mice and the scorpions and the spiders. His breath grew quick and uneven, his face soaked with more sweat than he'd ever produced, yet he kept running, until he reached the upper landing, and through the alcove wall.
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The place was darker than Osgar remembered it when he left, and Brother Keeper Joseph stood awake at the room's center, his face scrunched by his sleep. "Brother Osgar," said a furious Joseph, trying his best to remain quiet, "where have you been? You're drenched in sweat!"
"What happened, Osgar?" and only when he heard the voice did Osgar recognize that the Grandmaster was awake also, and turned to face him. Joseph was similarly surprised, straightening his back at the sound of the Grandmaster's voice. "Are you alright, young one?"
"N-no," said Osgar, and he only thought then how ridiculous this would all sound. But the stairs, thought his voice of reason, and the door. It's still there/ He resolved to speak the truth: "There was... some kind of ritual... in the..."
"Speak up!" said Joseph, gesturing to the rest, "we're all awake anyhow."
"My apologies, Brother Keeper." he folded his hands together, and kept them at his middle. "There was a ritual, down there..." he pointed to the alcove. "There's a hidden door. I... They were... praying to... the wall. The face on the wall. The two faces."
"You're not making sense, boy!" said Joseph, brushing past him and into the alcove. Now, thought Osgar, he will see the door inside and believe me. After a moment inside, the older brother re-emerged. "There's nothing in there."
"What?" cried Osgar, "but... but there is!" He rushed inside too, and came to the wall. He pushed hard against it, but only found the tough face of a stone wall. "I swear it was a door," he told the others, but those awake enough laughed or derided his foolishness.
The Grandmaster, however, was quiet. "Look at us," said he, smiling, "locked in a crowded chamber, listening to a tall tale, far from home. I can't stand it any longer." He gestured toward the door as if throwing something over his shoulder. "Come, let us go to the market and spend some coin before dawnbreak."
Yet Osgar still was looking toward the alcove. The torches were lit, yet it still seemed so dark. He could not wait to be out of this place, though he truthfully had no coin to spend...
Temris, Tangwen, Greater Atris, and Alopan
White Flag Over Celaguun Bay
January 18th, 1913
Calamintha, Celaguun
Collab with Celaguun
The SMS Kaiser churned ahead through the waves, its mighty guns aimed ahead yet dormant. The flag of Reichskrieg's Kaiserliche Marine and of Reichskrieg itself flew high on her masts. To either side she was flanked by smaller cruisers, and the small flotilla sailed past the battle lines of the Kaiser and the Celestials as it pulled into port, being guided in by local tugs as the cruisers set anchor nearby. The gangway clattered onto the port from the Kaiser and a line of gray uniformed Reichskriegers stamped off, faces bearing a neutral expression set in stone. They formed a wall on either side, and then the Kaiser himself, Fredrich VI, stepped onto land. He glanced around, hands behind his back as he walked with an arrogance only seen in Valmerian nobility. The soldiers clacked their heels and followed the Kaiser.
The ornate wooden hull of the Salvus broke through the towering waves of the Celagian sea with ease, expertly commandeered by the great captain Teeig across the Celagian sea. The vessel was the largest and most expensive of its kind; sails woven from azure silk, masts cut from deep ebony, a speckling of silver emblems all over the ship, and many other symbols of the Duchy it represented. Its immense value and lack of strength reserved it to only setting sail during festivals and the most prestigious of excursions, like coronations and royal weddings. This day, however, it was to be used by the Agul as a show of wealth to the barbarian invaders, in the hopes of making a good impression on their imperialist leader.
As the ship continued hugging the Celagian coast, a collection of silhouettes slowly cut through the dense grey fog. “They have arrived early, it seems.”, Her Most Esteemed mumbled to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. She was wearing a long, layered, blue-and-black dress accented by silver buttons, bracelets and necklaces; a historic attire of the royal family often worn on diplomatic missions.
“Hum. I doubt they’ll try anything funny given their current position. The town is full of our finest men, and we have the port surrounded on all sides.”, the Minister remarked with a slight smirk.
The fog obscuring their vision of the ships had thinned, providing them with a better look at the Reichskriegian engineering. “I can’t imagine that’s their Emperor’s vessel, it must be trailing behind.”, the Agul commented while pointing at the big foreign ship in the distance.
The Calamintha port had been fully vacated in anticipation of its notorious guests; only a few fishing boats remained docked at the far-off docks of the bay. The governor looked out his window at the approaching ships. One of them he was intimately familiar with; in fact, the design was in part a product of his own ingenuity. The others appeared to him more blunt and aggressive, lacking the beauty and form that made the Salvus so enchanting. The foreigners were the first to dock, their revolting men spewing out of the hull like sludge from an iron mine. A singular figure he assumed to be their leader emerged from the mess, who was promptly followed by his soldiers after they performed a strange gesture with their heels. He loathed the atmosphere this “Kaiser” of theirs brought forth, it felt like he thought himself everyone’s superior. Hiding his disdain to the best of his abilities, the governor swiftly left his post to meet the Kaiser on his way to the Legia.
Fredrich VI glanced around the port he found himself in, scrutinizing it silently. It paled in comparison to the ports of Reichskrieg, or even the city of Falkenberg, its construction being distinctly celestial. As he inspected the city, his gaze shifted down towards the approaching minister of some variety. He pushed his way ahead of the soldiers, not offering his hand.
"Are you who I am supposed to be meeting with?" The Kaiser spoke, his Reichsrkieger accent as thick as they come.
The governor shook his head whilst wearing a fake smile. “I am but the governor of this port, sir. If you would please follow me to the Legia, Her Most Esteemed will meet with you shortly.” He turned around to face the hall, relaxing his facial muscles into a more natural frown.
The Kaiser didn't respond, simply nodding to himself as he began forward, his entourage of soldiers following behind. He would meet this 'most esteemed' and get this over with as quickly as possible. Every minute spent at the negotiating table was a minute spent not taking Nhasa, and a minute where it could be getting reinforced.
All safety precautions were taken to not damage the intricate patterning of the Salvus. A team of 50 men had to slowly guide it along the coast, making sure it never once brushed against the docks. After finally reaching its destination, the vessel was securely attached to the piers and the gangway was lowered to allow the ship’s passengers to disembark. The Agul was the first to descend, followed by a group of ten well-dressed lords and ladies. They walked to the Legia in a rather casual and disorganised fashion, which was customary for non-ceremonial travel. To a foreign agent, it could prove quite difficult to distinguish the party from any other group of well-off Cellagians in a crowd.
“Welcome to the Legia, mister Kaiser.”, the governor told the foreigner with the same fake smile as before. He whispered something to the two guards guarding the door, who nodded in response. He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a comically large bronze key, inscribed with the town’s coat of arms. “The visitor’s area is this way, sir.”, he remarked as he entered the hall.
The Kaiser marched his way along, eying the Celestials around himself with suspicion. "When are the people I am meant to be meeting arriving?" He spoke, the impatience coming out strong in his voice.
“Their ship should be presently docking at the harbour.”, the governor responded, showing the man to his seat. “Could I offer you a drink? Lime syrup is currently in season.”
He raised a hand as he shuffled into his seat, posture rigid. "I'm quite fine."
As the governor poured himself a glass of the cloudy yellow liquid, the muffled sound of tapping at the door caught his attention. “Ah, if I am not mistaken, that would be our host.” He hastily put the crystalline bottle back in the cupboard, before hurrying out of the room.
The sound of muddy boots sloshing around in the hallway filled the chamber, followed by the dancing of the flames atop the tall candles carefully placed across the table. A tall lady with jet-black hair was the first to enter, closely followed by a sizeable group of male and female Celagians. The lady at the front seemed to recognise the Kaiser, and assumed a stern but overal friendly expression. “Kaiser Friedrich of Reichskrieg, I presume?”
"The one and only. So you're this 'most esteemed' I've heard of." Suppressing his distaste, he motioned for them to sit. "It is time to talk business."
The Agul nodded, and took the chair opposite to the Kaiser.
He put his hands together. "Ma'dam Agul, your province has proved itself well in the ways of war. Not like those 'Knights' of Teicher, or the rest of your lot. You have shed blood-for-blood." He spoke, slightly relaxing into his seat. "So we may talk terms once again. Not over telegram, but face to face."
The Agul smirked. “Celagia thanks you for your kind words. We must congratulate you on your victory at the Gate as well; the Knights have been a thorn in our side for far too long.” She once again took on an air of severity. “Speaking of… our first requirement for any treaty would be unrestricted access to the Mouth of the Empire, whether military, diplomatic or economic.”
“However!” She interjected before the Kaiser had a chance to respond. “We have no interest in the Gate itself. You could use it as a port, a navy-base, or whatever other projects you have planned, without expecting Celagian interference.”
The Kaiser squinted. Making demands of me? Who do they think they are? He cleared his throat, moving past. He just had to get through this meeting and he'd be in Nhasa. "Unrestricted? A bold demand, Agul." The title came through gritted teeth. "Reichskrieg would expect a commitment to its war effort from your fleets for such a thing. Atop access through..." He paused. "Cellagun, to the capital."
“A bold demand?” A slight sign of impatience shone through the Agul’s neutral facade. “Doesn’t Reichskrieg realise how dangerous a position this betrayal would put our nation in? While the armies of a single province may prove trivial to beat, I doubt the empire would let treason of this order pass without serious consequences. We would at minimum be completely barred from trading with any other province under the emperor, severely weakening our economy.”
"Such consequences are irrelevant when my flag is raised over Nhasa. When I am victorious, consider the position your province could hold in the new order... what would you give to Reichskrieg, if not what I've asked?"
“Access to the capital, and no more.” She paused. “The empire would sign lucrative trade deals and perhaps even grant us significant territories along the coast if we proved our loyalty in battle. No matter what side we choose, the Celagian harbour will end up tinted red with blood. If Reichskrieg wants to solve this diplomatically, they will have to significantly alter their demands.”
"Or perhaps you'd be shot as a traitor for even sitting across from me. You have been promised nothing from the Celestials. I have. Guarenteed overlordship of the Harborlands, with the exception of the Sea Gate. Commerce and military travel through the gate. What have the Celestials offered that I haven't, Agul?"
The Agul paused for a few seconds, staring at her hand. “Perhaps you have a point.” Her eyes turned back to the Kaiser. “Whatever deal we strike, my province will have to defend your fleet at sea regardless, for the sake of our own protection. We may as well cooperate by means of a treaty.” Her eyes narrowed. “Besides, the Celestials have not been kind to my state in the past, especially at the battle of Nhasa, where countless Celagian towns were turned to rubble by their carelessness.”
The Kaiser allowed himself a slight grin. "Precisely." He placed his hands onto the table. "Then let it be signed." I can almost see the gates already.
The Minister of Foreign Affairs handed Her Most Esteemed an ornate pen, while whispering something in her ear. She nodded, before moving to sign the papers.
Kolch, Celaguun, Greater Atris, and Alopan
With Friends Like These, Who Needs Enemies?
January 19th, 1913
Coast of Alopan
Collab with the Ever-Pious Alopan
The rowboat hit the shore from a gunboat waiting off the coast, filled with five occupants all decked in Reichskrieg military attire. The most senior, denoted by his peaked cap, barked orders to his men who pulled the smaller craft onto shore. He had been told to await an Alopan delegation on this beach following an outreach from their government, and was sufficently low rank to where if it was a trap the loss would not be missed. He dusted himself and glanced around.
Just ahead of him, a small group of men stood amidst dilapidated shacks, conversing with the locals who lived in them. One of the men, who was dressed in a cassock noticed the beached delegation and alerted the man to his left, who was standing ramrod straight and was wearing a grey suit. The man in the grey suit bid farewell to the locals he was speaking to, who retreated back into their homes. Led by the man in the grey suit, the small posse began approaching the Reichkrieg’s delegation, and once they were close enough, the man in the grey suit offered his hand in a handshake and chuckled, “Welcome to Alopan. You’re a little late, but we forgive." Behind him, the man in the cassock was staring at the foreign delegation coldly, but quickly was distracted trying to keep his fascia down at his waist as the wind tossed it around.
"I came as quick as I could, once the Kaiser recieved your message," the young officer spoke, adjusting their cap and shaking the man's hand. "Captain Johann Radnitz. I assume you have travel already prepared for?"
“Of course, Captain Radnitz. We have a carriage up in town that will take us to Lanwei. It’s only a forty minute ride along the coast – very scenic. Also, I believe I forgot to introduce myself. I am Yao Zixin, the envoy of the archbishop. The man playing with his cassock is Fr. Paolo Aioletti. And the other three men are also Jesuit priests, just here to ensure things stay on track.” Fr. Aioletti, while staring daggers at Zixin said, with an obvious pang of annoyance, “Let’s stop wasting time. The archbishop awaits us expectantly.” Aioletti led the men up into the town, and into their carriages.
The Captain nodded and barked at his soldiers in Reichskrieger, spurring them into action by lining up behind him. "Lead the way."
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Some Time Later
Lanwei, Alopan
As the coaches finally rolled through the ancient gates of Lanwei, it became evident that the city was straddling between two worlds, one where the ancient heartbeat of the Celestial Empire was alive and well, and the other standing as a testament to the centuries of work the Reeman Church had accomplished in that far-off land. Stone-paved streets, narrow and winding, were a symbol of the seemingly chaotic cultural balance in the city. The citizens of Lanwei, their backs bowed under the weight of bamboo poles laden with goods, navigated the throng of richly dressed merchants in traditional Celestial garb and farmers in straw hats, with their hair in braids.
As they got deeper into the city the towering spires of the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception began to come into view. “There it is. The cathedral.” He turned to Radnitz and said with a glint of pride in his eyes, “When I served in the Imperial Army, I saw many large cities and many beautiful buildings – all in the various styles of the Orient, of course – but I have never, in all my life, seen a structure as magnificent as that cathedral.” He paused, taking in the site of the church as if he were a child, who had never seen it before. “You know,” he said, “it’s a scaled down version of the cathedral in Karnin. I have a deep affinity for the architectural patrimony of your people. It manages to reflect the mysteries of God, which pagan architecture could never capture the way us Christians can.”
"It's impressive. You've managed to replicate the style well." He said, looking up at the towering peaks. "Perhaps you should see the real thing in person one day. I'm sure once this war business is over it'd be easy enough." The captain spoke, seemingly unable to get their cap to sit firm on their head. "The man im too meet is just inside, yes?"
Zixin, thrilled at the prospect of visiting the cathedral in Karnin begins to stutter out a few words before remembering there was greater business at hand. “Yes,” he said after regaining his professional demeanor. “His Excellency, Archbishop Ignatius Navarro awaits you in the cathedral’s rectory. He has been looking forward to this meeting. Also, might I suggest getting a smaller, better fitting cap?”
He shot daggers at the Celestial. "My uniform is of no importance to you." He cleared his throat and regained himself. "I suppose my subordinates will be waiting outside. Let us begin."
Zixin smirked at his accidental embarrassment of the captain and led the man into the rectory. Once inside, he led Radnitz into the archbishop’s study where he was found sitting on a small sofa reading a book. Upon glancing up from his reading and noticing the arrival of the Reichkrieg’s delegation, he smiled and said, “Welcome to Lanwei. I hope Zixin and Fr. Aioletti treated you well?” He extended his hand to the men, beckoning them to reverence his office.
"It was fine, yes," He leaned down, doing as instructed before rising again. "The Kaiser is eager to hear what you've called me to your capital for." Radnitz spoke, placing both hands behind his back. "I am Captain Johann Radnitz. I have been appointed to act on his behalf, you understand."
“Yes, of course. I’m very glad you could come.” Navarro’s kind, blue eyes looked the man up and down before continuing, “I believe I should be frank with you as time seems to demand it,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. “With the Celestial Empire not taking the proclamation of our independence lightly, we find it necessary to find a deterrent to their aggression towards our nation. And, seeing as you are the one Christian state who is also without allies and drastically in need of one,” he paused to correct himself, “I mean that with all do respect that is. I believe it would be beneficial for us to form an alliance. A union of Christian States in the Orient if you will.” He looked the captain up and down again, glancing at his cap. “Also, captain, I believe you may be in need of a smaller cap.”
"Lacking allies in the region, perhaps. I'm sure the Kaiser will be more than glad to have your armies on the side of Reichskrieg." He did his best to ignore the second Celestial to comment on his uniform, simply fiddling with his hands behind his back. "Naturally the question beckons to be asked-what do you desire in return for this pact?"
“Well, we would first like to clarify that we do not offer our armies for the advancement of the interests of your nation, but for the advancement and security of the interests of the Christians living within the borders of the Celestial Empire, whom my priests have served loyally and lovingly for centuries. If our mission to defend the Faithful, and of course bring the rest of the empire to Christ, is lost, then Alopan is no longer a legitimate nation as that is the one requisite of our independence – to spread the Word. With this out of the way, I will allow Fr. Aioletti to read you a list of our demands.” With this, the archbishop sat down and pulled out a jade rosary and began praying as the list was read.
Fr. Aioletti pulled the paper from the pocket of his cassock and began reading it, his cold eyes never meeting Radnitz’s. “The first demand required to establish a bond of mutual assistance: The Sanctity of Innocence: The Reichskrieg is to vow to protect all non-combatants within the territories it occupies. Under no circumstance shall civilians be intentionally harmed, nor will acts of wanton destruction be permitted against civilian infrastructure. All occupied peoples will be treated with fairness and justice, regardless of their allegiance or former political affiliation.” Aioletti looked up, still avoiding Ratnitz's eyes, instead staring at the painting of the Ascension on a nearby wall, asking, “Captain, do you have any objections to this demand?”
"Our interests are one in the same, I have it on good authority." Radnitz spoke, to nobody in particular. "An army must live off the land, especially one as far from home as ours where ships may take time we can ill afford. However, we can guarentee that no unneeded harm will befall the civilian populace. It's the nature of war, unfortunately."
Aioletti sighed and continued, “The forces of the Reichskrieg are to acknowledge the profound historical and cultural significance of the Celestial Empire and all of its associated sites, artifacts, and traditions. Upon this recognition, a strict prohibition against the desecration, destruction, or appropriation of any Celestial cultural property, including but not limited to temples, monuments, scriptures, and artistic works.” Again, he looked up at the painting rather than Radnitz and asked, “Captain, do you have any objections to this demand?”
The Captain looked to the side for a moment. "I can offer Reichskrieg's best attempts in the matter. Was that all?"
“Our final demand is this: In the event of a direct military assault on Alopan, the Reichskrieg is to pledge logistical, strategic, and in limited circumstances, active military support to repel the invading forces. The nature and extent of said support will be determined by the joint assessment of the situation. That, captain, is all.”
"Reichskrieg will offer all the support it can to Alopan. It is time for a demand of my own, from the good Kaiser... in return for all of this, Alopanian troops are to begin moving men and material to join with the primary Reichskrieg front via land or sea-whichever is easier-with the most haste in preperations for the assault on Nhasa. I'm sure this is no problem, given your outreach."
Fr. Aioletti, his cold eyes finally meeting Radnitz’s, began to speak “Why, in GOD’S GREEN WORLD, DO YOU THINK-”
Archbishop Navarro interrupted Aioletti, flustered by his sudden outburst, “I apologize for my colleague. Please forgive him. So long as these demands are met, we will provide troops for the assault on Nhasa. And please, in Pope Benjamin XIII’s peace-seeking goals, let us remember that the primary reason we go down this path is to establish order within the Celestial Empire. The people of this empire are still my flock, and I refuse to let them fall to the chaos around them.”
The Reichskrieger looked to Aioletti, squinting at the Celestial, but quickly returning his attention to the Archbishop. "Of course. I'm sure the Kaiser will be pleased with the results of this meeting." The captain offered his hand.
Navarro took his hand and again implored the captain, “Don’t forget about Alopan’s goals. I am simply here to spread the faith, not war. If Alopan’s presence in the war brings order back to the Celestial Empire quicker, then so be it. But, do not forget about the Faith. That is our goal.”
The Cult of Speed
Ten Months before the Fall of Horizon City
Macsen knew he shouldn't have left the house this morning but he couldn't bear it anymore. For almost two years, he and his family been cooped up in their little hamlet. Afraid to leave cause of the violence. Violence that had been ongoing for about two years. He didn't understand the situation, his parents barely able to explain themselves. A revolt? Against what? Everyone still shouted praise for the Empire. Freedom? Under the Raels, they have freedom. Perhaps the Rael of Ken Harlen was right. Greed and desire for power was what destroyed the generations of relative peace. Even then, the conflict wasn't an excuse to sequester themselves in the backwater of the Empire's backwater. And today. Today Macsen had enough.
He took his bike and rode out of the hamlet, unto the dirt road. It was bliss. For the first time in months, he was free. The open air, surrounded by the valleys. Life was good. Then he heard the sound. An sound of muffled thunder. It got closer and closer by the minute. He looked back and saw people. People on what looked to be bikes but sounded nothing like them. They were clad in three colors. The words of his mother echoed in his brain, "If they aren't your kin, they are your enemy." And so he pedaled. Pedaled as fast as he could. Yet the strange men got closer and closer. Chasing him. Macsen looked back ahead towards the road. Two paths laid ahead, the one he always traveled by to the next village and the road that declined rapidly, the one he was warned of. He bit his lips and veered right towards the declining road. He raised himself up and placed as much energy as he could. Laughter and cheers boomed from the pursuers but strangely not mocking. Encouraging. One of their number accelerated fast. The muffled thunder growing ever louder until the stranger was next to Macsen.
The stranger was clad in an orange-bronze jacket, his pants a vivid burgundy. An outfit accented with a golden scarf. His eyes obscured by goggles, his light brown hair blown back by the wind as he rode what seemed to be a bike with a weird thing attached. It was the weird thing that made the muffled thunder. Perhaps it helped in making the bike move so rapidly. So quickly compared to Macsen's manpowered bike. But Macsen did not give up. As the road curved, he increased speed as much as he could. Letting gravity do the work for him. He moved fast. Faster than he ever had before, at moments he felt that he lost control as he moved quicker and quicker. The Stranger grinned as he matched speed, he gave Macsen a jovial salute. Just as Macsen was flung from his bike, watching the Stranger pass him by as he fell into a nearby pond. He emerged drenched to the sound of the Stranger approaching.
"You always make such a splash?" The Stranger dismounted his vehicle, kicking a stand to keep his motorbike upright. A grin was on his face as he raised his goggles. The Stranger was young. Younger than Macsen expected. He extended a hand. Macsen took it. "Most would have slowed down."
"Most are hardly chased." Macsen gritted his teeth as cold enveloped him. But mentally he was warm. Burning with the flame of curiosity. "Whats that you have? Never seen anything like it."
"A motorbike. Fascinating thing." The Stranger moved back towards his mount. "The modern steed for the modern man."
Macsen gave it a long look. He had never seen such a thing. His village barely had any machinery at hand. If only he had one for himself, he could travel all across the province and be back for dinner. If only. The Stranger seemed to catch on quickly.
"Say, you want one?" The Stranger gestured towards his bike.
"Really? You're going to just give me one?" The urge to grin broke out on Macsen's face. This had to be a dream.
The Stranger laughed. "You're going to build one. With our help of course. Besides, from what I see. You want to push the limits with these motorbikes. Me and my band are the same."
Macsen nodded. He was beyond ecstatic. "I'm Macsen Harlen."
"Owain."
"What Ken?"
Owain chuckled. "Ken don't matter with us. Such archaic things are part of the old world. "
The rest of Owain's band approached on their bikes. The young man waved his hands. "This is Mascen. He decided to become one of us!" Cheers broke out, some revving their engines. A cacophony of sound. Macsen halfheartedly waved and he noticed many were young like Owain and himself. It reminded of the old tales. The gallant bands of youth that fought the foes of man and king. Myth turned into reality.
"Welcome to the Alicorn!"
Homeward Bound - Part VII
Castle Cavan, Temris
November 13, 1910 - NL 15
Spencer twisted his hands against the chains that kept them bound behind his back. His wrists cried out against the movement, no doubt raw from many dozens of times he’d tried to twist the iron with willpower alone. The iron carriage he, Gavin, and Missus Tartara shared rattled with every pothole and pebble. His back ached from the constant rocking, his head pounding with every movement. Squinting as he hung his head was all he could do to keep from hurling what little remained in his stomach.
“Here,” Gavin said, motioning with his chin toward his lap. “Would be better than han’in’.”
Spencer’s head drifted sideways before he could protest. At this rate anything would be better than setting his head against the hot iron walls of his newest prison. Gavin’s lap was only marginally better. He was a thin, though well-built man and there was little to shield Spencer’s skull from Gavin’s femur. The pain pulsed through his head, shifting with the blood as it pooled on the side resting on Gavin’s lap. Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, the total darkness bringing only momentary relief.
Scoffing soon echoed through the wagon. “I didn’t know you lot shared a passion of the cut sleeve,” Missus Tartara spat. Saliva moistened chapped lips as her tongue flicked across them. “That’ll get you killed, it will. ‘Specially with where we’re goin’.”
“Where we goin’?” Gavin’s voice was soft, weak. Spencer knew his shoulder still stung from the wound he gained in Cigallo almost a month ago.
Missus Tartara cackled through Spencer’s self-imposed darkness. “My boy, I’d have figured you woulda worked that out by now.” The wooden bench she sat upon creaked, groaning as she sat forward. “Castle Cavan.”
Spencer couldn’t remember falling to sleep, just that he awoke to shouting and blinding torchlight. Missus Tartara had already disembarked the iron wagon. She stood fearlessly amidst the near twenty guards who’d shown up to welcome Castle Cavan’s newest guests. Some of the guards jeered from a distance, others were restrained by friends. Spencer grimaced as the men on either side of her wedged the butts of their rifles into her ribcage. Four more joined to spit on the aged woman as she collapsed to the ground.
“There’s more where that comes from,” one of the guards said. “Killed my brother, you did.” He knelt by her, taking her roughly by the ponytail she wore. “We’re going to gut you like the pig you are.” The guards nearby laughed menacingly, yet the old bandit said nothing, did nothing. As she was hauled to her feet Spencer suddenly realized his head was still in Gavin’s lap.
“Alright, sleevelets,” another of the guards said as he climbed into the carriage. Spencer was halfway upright when the guard’s gloved fists closed around his shoulders. He was promptly half thrown, half escorted out of the carriage. The air exited his aching lungs as he collided with the cobbled pavement. Gavin soon joined him, his own pitiful yelp eliciting several scoffs from the nearby guards. The same man who’d thrown them from the carriage jumped down atop them. The heel of his boot dug deep into Spencer’s back as he tried to remain balanced.
The surrounding laughter suddenly died as much heavier boots thudded against the cobble. “Get off them, Stephen,” the newcomer commanded. Relief flooded Spencer’s chest as he took an unlaboured breath. More thudding, and soon the man’s polished boot filled Spencer’s vision. Gritting his teeth as he prepared for the worst, Spencer squeezed his eyes shut.
“You two aren’t with the Missus, are you?”
Spencer shook his head, his eyes still shut tight. “No, sir.”
“Some of O’Malley’s men, then? I’d heard some of their lot were what started the shootout in Shepherd.”
“We’re not gan’sters, sir,” Gavin said. “I’m Gavin Murphy, son o’ Isaac Murphy, and this is Spencer MacDarcy.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the assembled host. Spencer opened his eyes, almost indignant at the slight. The newcomer’s hand had raised, silencing the lot. Kneeling, the man took Gavin’s face roughly in his gloved hand. Turning his head one way, then another, the newcomer grimaced. “Can’t say I can place you.” He glanced at Spencer as he released Gavin’s face. “Either of you. Besides, I’ve heard rumors that Spencer MacDarcy died aboard the ill-fated Aftalia. Why would a ghost lost at sea be a Castle Cavan?”
“I’m going home to my son.” Spencer rose to his knees, his tone perhaps a bit too defiant. “I have suffered at the hands of strange foreigners and travelled across the Empire. I will not be stopped from going home by even the most notorious prison in Temris.” Spencer lifted his chin slightly, defiantly. “ I am Spencer MacDarcy, and I demand you let me and my friend go.”
“He demands it, Captain O’Rourke,” one of the men said. “Shall we oblige?”
But Captain O’Rourke waved the man off, his eyes narrowing slightly now that Spencer was upright. “If you are Spencer MacDarcy, then prove it.”
Spencer’s mind raced. He had no identification, and hardly looked himself. His clothes were tattered, dusty, possibly blood-stained in places. He knew his face was dirty, and now bore several scrapes from his unceremonious exit from the wagon. There was nothing about his person that would help. His eyes wandered for a second, catching a glimpse of a wire escaping one of the castle’s highest towers. “Let me phone my father in Chasewater,” he said after a long moment.
Captain O’Rourke nodded once. Flicking his hand, he rose to his feet as the guards nearby forced Spencer and Gavin to theirs. Ushered inside the mighty fortress, Spencer was led to a small room with a single telephone in the far corner. His hands were unbound, and with some hesitation he began to phone the MacDarcy Estate.
“Mrs. O’Brien?” Spencer winced at the shrill of excitement from the other end of the line. “Castle Cavan. Yes, I’m fine. It was a misunderstanding. I’m with Gavin Murphy. Please, have father send someone out to get us.”
______________________________________________________________________________
A Week Later. . .
Spencer should have known his father wouldn’t have bothered to make the trip himself, yet as he climbed aboard the carriage meant to take him home he found he cared very little about that. There was his own son to consider now, and he wasn’t going to let anything stop him from getting back to him.
Gavin climbed in after. He grimaced as he settled in. His wound had been formally tended to by the prison doctors, much to his disdain. The sling had been readjusted and the stitches replaced after a thorough cleaning. With his characteristic grin he gave the castle a hearty salute. “May you remain dust in my travels,” he declared.
“I don’t suppose either of us will ever come back here, gods willing,” Spencer said, crossing his arms as he settled in. The carriage lurched forward, its four horses guiding it steadily down the hill from the castle. “Turges is only a couple of days away. After that it’s just two more and we’re back in Chasewater.”
“Would only be a day and a half if your father’s line used the 4-6-2 engines instead of the slower 4-6-0s.” Both men laughed, relieved as much as they were entertained. “Are you excited to be goin’ back? What with baby Kayden and all.”
Spencer nodded as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His arms drifted slightly apart as if holding Kayden already. Just a few more days and he’d never let his son go again.
The Sailor Who Started the War
Question 4- By Falkenberg
August 31, 1820- SS 5
Port of Camber, Atris Province
The Endeavour cast out its mooring lines, as a brigade of Imperial dockhands helped the Tarstic merchant ship into port. Casper Barton, an unimpressive Atrian, was one of the dockhands, and he watched as the Tarstians came streaming off a gangplank, carrying crates of goods; priceless silver bullion, emeralds, and textiles.
Of all the ports across the Empire, the Tarstians preferred to trade in Atris. Partially because the Atrian and Tarstian languages were so similar they were practically the same, expediting the trade process, and partially because the scrying eye of Ren Osarrus and his imperial customs officials was less powerful in the southern Empire. That, in turn, made it easier for the Tarstic merchants to skim a few dozen sols off their tariffs.
Yet this morning, something was wrong. The Tarstians usually respected Celestial culture; they went about their business peacefully, were cordial to the locals, and paid reverence to Ren Osarrus XXI when appropriate. Not today. The Tarstians seemed drunk, almost; they deposited their wares at their company office, and then poured into a Celagian teahouse, talking loudly and making obscene jokes.
"Come," Casper's coworker, Edmund, said, patting him on the shoulder. "The next vessel won't arrive for a while. Let's have a few drinks while we wait." The two entered the teahouse.
Instantly, Casper noticed the tension brewing in the room. The various workers sitting around the low-set tables evidently didn't appreciate how disorderly the Tarstians were. Some of the foreign sailors were bickering with the bartender over the price of tea. Others were swaggering around the room, harassing the female patrons. The rest of them took up a third of the available tables, swearing and joking, resting their feet on the tabletops, letting out loud laughs.
"Ugh." Edmund swore under his breath. "Let's find a better teahouse. Leave the Tarstians be." They swiftly left the teahouse, only to find a similar scene of disorder on the docks. The rest of the Tarstic sailors were lumbering around the port, dipping in and out of shops- but never buying anything. Mild annoyance from the shopkeepers soon turned to frustration as the Tarstians tracked mud and grime into their shops, and left without spending a single sol.
Tempers were rising, Casper thought. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in a brawl between the locals and the Tarstians, but such a scuffle seemed all-but-inevitable at this point.
Now, brawls- they were common, and the Tarstians didn't mind. Amends were usually quickly made. But the Tarstians had never been this disorderly while in port.
The two returned to the docks nervously. The Tarstians did not stop their rowdy behaviour, and more and more irritated locals started filing out onto the streets, giving the Tarstians hostile looks.
Casper jumped at the sound of a loud crash. One of the Tarstians had knocked over a stone bust of Ren Osarrus, standing vigil outside a private residence. The man was evidently inebriated- he walked unsteadily, slurring his words. He didn't even seem to notice that he had destroyed the bust of the Emperor.
The sound drew a small crowd of spectators. The owner of the residence, a portly man, emerged, and scowled at the sight of the destroyed bust.
"Hey!" The owner grabbed the Tarstian by the shoulder. "You have to pay for that, you know. That cost me five hundred sols!"
The Tarstian spun around, a haughty look in his eyes. "I don't have to do anything," he slurred, wobbling on his heels, struggling to stay upright. "Piss off." He gave the owner a small shove.
There was a collective gasp, then a flurry of indignant calls as the bystanders watched this scene unfold.
"I'll call the constables," the owner threatened, still not letting go of the Tarstian's shoulder.
The sailor scowled. With a huff, the Tarstian strode over to the other bust of Ren Osarrus, standing on the other side of the doorway, and knocked it, and its pillar, over with a powerful punch. The bust fell to the ground and split into several pieces.
What happened next took only a matter of seconds. The owner of the residence cursed profusely, and punched the Tarstian in the face. The sailor's friends, hearing the commotion, pushed their way through the crowd and began to throw punches at the owner.
A handful of locals who were at their limit stepped in, and began to trade blows with the Tarstian sailors. Casper swore and backed away.
The altercation only grew. More Tarstian sailors came running from nearby shops and teahouses, rushing to the aid of their friends, and more locals joined the brawl, having had more than enough of the foreigners' distasteful behaviour.
Amidst the chaos, Casper saw the flash of metal. The original Tarstian sailor who had started the brawl pulled a flintlock pistol from his pockets.
"No!" Casper shouted, trying to run and rip the gun from the man's hands, as he aimed it at one of the locals.
The gun fired, and the sound of thunder split the air. Angry shouts turned to screams as Tarstians and locals scrambled back.
One of the locals was lying facedown on the floor, a pool of blood growing underneath them. The Tarstian sailor who had fired the shot looked mortified, as if he had only just realized what he had done.
There was a long, terrible silence, as the town constables came running at the sound of the gunshot, tailed by a group of soldiers on break. The constables and soldiers gawked at the scene before them.
"Kill the bastards!" someone shouted. The crowd roared, and the Tarstian sailors began to flee, frightened looks on their faces. But some of them were too slow, and were caught by the mob, dragged down by a flurry of blows, beaten to death with cudgels, tackled to the ground by soldiers and constables alike.
The sailor who had started it all was backed into a corner by two soldiers, their swords drawn. He fell to his knees, pleading.
One of the soldiers seized him by the hair and pushed the sword through his eye. The sailor fell to the ground, unmoving.
It was over as quickly as it had started. The Tarstians scrambled back onboard, leaving some of their brothers to die, and cast off the gangplank and mooring ropes. The Endeavour, their ship, began to pull out of the harbour haphazardly, chased by a furious mob throwing rocks and bottles and any objects they could carry at the retreating ship.
"By the gods..." Casper said tremulously. The dockside streets were littered with the broken bodies of Tarstian sailors. "What have we done?
...What the hells have we done?"
EVENT POST
EVENT QUESTION 4
============================================================================================================
A Very Tarstic Summer
July 22nd, 1822, SS7
Cigallo, What Will Become The Harbor District
'Burning.' That was the only way to describe the situation. In the harbor and on the now destroyed forts that surrounded the city's harbor, flame. If one was there, like how many injured and surrendered prisoners of war were after the white flag was raised unconditionally, 'Burning.' is the only word that would be given to explain what all their senses sensed.
The tactile sense of touch was rendered in stinging pain as scorch marks and burns of all degrees touched almost everyone of the former Celestial Garrison. All the eyes could see in entire directions was smoke, ash, heat, and an orange-red wave that flowed back in forth on charred war junks and collapsing stone brick and wood construction. Eyes often watering as stinging and pain rendered many blurry if not shut completely, some forever. sulfur, ash, and brimstone wafted amongst the roaring winds surrounding the all-consuming flames, making it hard to breathe as some gasp for air as their comrades carry them to safety, and to a designated medical post. Near the medical post, the smell of alcohol and blood mixed with the other stenches and created an atmosphere that undoubtedly would cause many who would wander in without preparation to vomit and gain a headache at how overwhelming it all was. The ears heard all, from the cracking of wood on fire, the screams of pain, the tears of sorrow, the blasts of gunpowder barrels igniting in now destroyed stores, or for those near the harbor, the waves. The waves and water stained red and covered in black spots and corpses as the Tarstic armada that came that day turned what was supposed to be a killing position into an executioners platform. They could shoot in any direction and they would strike true, and even now, the bubbles of unfortunate souls drowning could be heard. And lastly was taste. Blood, pain, ash, smoke, and more. It didn't matter where, it didn't matter how, they just did, for it was in the very air.
As the Tarstic marines rowed ashore, instead of what remained of the garrison ready to fight, they instead saw what could only be described as a scene from hell itself. Fire, death, and wails of pain and anguish. Some just sat there, frozen like statues. Eyes wide open as they could only stare in front of them. A banner sat on the ground, stained red by the blood of the man who tried using it as a bandage to keep the blood in. It didn't work. Captain Marcus Brivingstone of the Royal Marines could only watch as his rowboat slowly beached itself next to a crumpled dock of wood.
"Corporal, signal the fleet, tell them to send every available medic they can. And as for the rest of us, I know we came here to avenge the wrongful death of our brothers at sea, and I say we have done so to an ultimate degree. No looting, keep the civilians safe and treat them with respect. We have already proven ourselves this day, no need to spill blood unnecessarily, we aren't butchers nor brutish savages." The Captain half heartedly yelled at his men, most of which were stuck staring in shock at the sites before them before their commanding officer spoke, and discipline from years of service took hold.
4 hours later and the final flames sputtered to an end. By then, what little of the garrison could walk and work were walking alongside Tarstic Regulars coming ashore, still armed, but not fighting. There was no reason too, they had barely any powder to shoot with anyhow. Many Cigallans waited outside their doorways and watches as red coated men of Valmere marched in formation, a flag occasionally fluttering in the dwindling wind. Many had expected looting or songs and chants of victory. Instead all they saw was grim determination as outside the governor's palace a ceremony was held. The flag of the Celestial Empire was honorably lowered as both Rear Admiral Irving and Governor Lei Fu Schow stood next to each other at attention. Soon after the Tarstic flag would wave high at the top of that pole. It would remain flying there until the end of the Sailors War a few years later. And in that time, the Harbor was rebuilt and expanded to accommodate the city turned key port of the Tarstic 4th Army camped outside and did business within.
By the end of the war, when Celestial units ceremoniously raised their banner once again outside the governor's palace, what was previously a model city of the empire had changed. Gone was the uniform designs of Celestial architecture, but instead a mix of it, Tarstic, and even mixed design. The city forever changed, improved, and yet scarred by the war. Never again would Cigallo allow its people to die on mass at the hands of foreigners, they claimed. For Cigallo was now a city for all to do business in and be respected and treated equally before the law! An idea that would last nearly 2 centuries before dieing at the hands of the Falkenberg Garrison in 1913 after an utterly crushing and surprise defeat to the forces of Cigallo, and its provincial allies that answered its calls of aide.
The Cult of Speed Part II
Though it had simply been hours, Macsen felt the Alicorn to be lifelong friends. They joked, laughed, raced each other despite his tech disadvantage. A band of brothers always trying to one up each other. He quickly learned they were all speed fanatics. Constantly trying to push the limits of their motorbikes. This mismatched speed enabled them to arrive at Macsen's village as the sun fled from the night. The villagers quickly ran into their homes, the more braver folk rushing to gather their arms.
Macsen pushed to the front, calling out to his kin. "They're my friends. Nothing to worry about." No one was reassured. The conflict of the era bringing uncertainty. He looked to his new friends and gave an apologetic look. None of them looked pleased at what they saw especially Owain who looked like someone destroyed his motorcycle in front of him. The leader of the Alicorn muttered under his breath. An awkward silence took hold until Macsen realized he was hungry. "How about we all go to the ale house? I think we can all do with a bit to eat and drink." The youth gave voices of agreement as Macsen led the way to Meri's Alehouse. The band took majority of the seats and it still wasn't enough. Members of the Alicorn made their own circles outside, laughing and joking. Meri didn't seem pleased at all despite having more business in years.
"You sure you know them, Macsen?" Meri questioned as she pour more ale, her daughters bringing drink and food to the gathered youth. Macsen gave a reassuring smile but his eyes held uncertainty. True he only just met them today but the Alicorn didn't seem violent. Weird and highly enthusiastic but not violent.
"Kind of." Macsen sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "I only met them today. They care more for racing than anything I seen." Meri gave a disapproving look and almost spoke until the voice of Owain called out to Macsen. He excused himself and made his way to the table where Owain sat with several flagons of ale. He placed them on the table and took the only seat he could find. Donna, one of Meri's daughters, came by with a platter of bread and cheeses along with some choice meat. She gave Macsen a bright smile. His cheeks turned red as he blushed, he always had a sweet spot for Donna. When she left to return to the kitchen, some of Alicorn began to tease Macsen. Joking about when he's going to get married.
"Well. I know it's not much but this is home." Macsen took a drink from his flagon. Owain sat silently, an island of solitude among the loud youth. Macsen frowned as Owain took off his gloves. "Not to your liking?"
"No." A singular answer without elaboration but Owain took a piece of bread and dunked it into his ale. A key characteristic from someone born in the South of Deheudir. "What do you see Macsen? What do you see around you?"
Macsen thought about it for a while but couldn't get what Owain was trying to get at. "My home. My new friends."
Owain shook his head. "Friends yes. They make life better but what I see sickens me. This village is simply part of a great sickness."
The statement built a fury within Macsen. Sure his village may not be wealthy or have the most recent thing but it was still his home. "It's-"
"How many generations lived like this? Stuck in a past when the world rapidly pass them by. Marching under their old hereditary leaders. So it was in my ancestors time and so it is in mine. Meanwhile the forces of 'progress' dwell in their high castle. Hoarding everything and letting those on the outskirts wallow in archaic ways. Until they had enough and decided to fight back. Two years and no resolution. Nothing but chaos." Owain's face showed no sadness. Instead a feral grin was prominent. It felt like Owain loves how the province had turned out. "But chaos. Beautiful chaos enables growth." He stood up on the table, capturing the attention of the Alicorn. "Chaos allows a generation of heroes to be born!" Cheers broke out among the tri-colored youth, Owain's voice building louder and louder. "A generation of heroes not of the past. But heroes of modernity, knights of the future! The old order is collapsing, many have seen it. Those aligned to us calls us to arm. The time is now to act. To conquer the past and unlock our true potential. Forward against Reaction, MAX SPEED!"
"MAX SPEED!" Alicorn shouted at the top of their lungs.
"So Macsen." Owain looked at him, eyes of madness that unnerved him but Macsen couldn't help but be caught up in the excitement, his anger quickly forgotten. "Does this pitiful time capsule sicken you?"
"Yes." The words quickly left his mouth, Macsen getting up from his chair.
"Does the speed of modernity entice you?"
"Of course."
"Do you have the courage to push forward?"
"Yes." The answer quicker than he thought. An answer that caused the Alicorn to cheer. They really were an excitable bunch. Many thumped him on the back in fraternal glee. From the corner of his eye, he could see one of the Alicorn bringing his bike to the alehouse. The crowd made way as his old bike was brought forth. A hammer was offered to him.
"Prove it. Smash that obsolete thing you used to call a mount." Owain said with utmost certainty. "Destroy this old relic of yours."
The hammer felt heavy in Macsen's hands. Could he really destroy his old bike? The bike his father and the headman of the village bought for him from Horizon City. The only reminder left of Macsen's father, the man he idolized and grieved when he passed away. He reluctantly started to hit his old bike. Thunk. Thunk. Barely any damage.
"Fast." One of the Alicorn called out. A word that began to be chanted. Macsen picked up speed, uncertainty giving way.
"Faster!" He smashed the bike. The rear wheel warping under percussion.
"Faster!" The chain broke off.
"FASTER!" The metal bike breaking under his force.
"MAX SPEED!" The bike became totaled. Smashed into bits beyond. The ferocity of which even surprised Macsen who did not relent until he can hit nothing anymore. Cheers broke out again as many of the Alicorn congratulated him, pushing a flagon of ale into his hands while taking the hammer away. The youth looked at Owain whose smile matched his eyes, pride evident. However one was not proud. Meri stood at the back of the crowd, a disappointing stare. A feeling of guilt hit Macsen but it did not last long. Especially as he was lifted onto the shoulders of his new friends.
Remember When - Kalquen’s Question
Memorial Gardens - Barricus
The memorial gardens were a vast, sprawling space consisting of endless rows of plants and assortments of trees, ponds and ducks. One particular duck approached a man on a bench in a Navy Officer’s uniform. He watched it approach him, with his hand on his sword he reached out to gently pet it. However, the duck startled by the sudden movement flapped its wings and flew away.
Carlton sighed as he watched the bird soar in the skies, partly wishing he could join it. He heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Jessica slid herself beside Carlton, letting him place his arm around her shoulder. “Harry said you would be here.”
Carlton turned his head to examine Jess. She was still in her pristine white work blouse and black skirt. “I come here to think, sometimes.” He said. “No one bothers to come find me here, I am merely alone with my thoughts.”
Jess rested her head upon his shoulder, letting her hair pool upon his lap. “Why here, the Memorial Gardens of all places, there are far more quieter places, without the noise of the city behind you.”
Carlton rose to his full height, “Do you want to walk?” he asked, extending his hand out to help her up. She gently grabbed his hand with the tips of her fingers and let herself up. The pair walked down the many ornate paths of the extravagant gardens. Lying on the outskirts of the city, the gardens centre contained a man-made lake, with a path that led to a central cenotaph. Around the circular-shaped lake, lay stones upon stones arranged with battalion, military and Kushmiran state flags scattered around like snowflakes thrown from a child’s hand.
Carlton and Jessica slowly drifted towards the central lake. “Do you know what this place means, Jessica?” Carlton asked.
Jessica sucked in her breath. The crisp evening air made her pull Carlton closer. “It's our military memorial.”
Carlton grunted but carried on. “They say that there are two moments when a man dies, the first is when his heart stops, the second time is when his name is whispered for the last time.” He stopped in front of one of the first stones placed. “The Memorial Gardens were commissioned after the end of The Civil War, to ensure all the men who died in service of our country are never forgotten.”
“Everytime I feel myself wondering what my purpose is, I come here, whether or not my name ends upon one of these stones, my actions today can only be carried out due to the lives of the ones who came before me. If I never need to think…” He looked at Jess who was staring at him with a blank expression on her face.
“Sorry,” he said preemptively. “I get pretty carried away sometimes.”
Jessica smiled softly as the pair carried on. “I asked my father about you, he said your family has a long history in the navy.”
Carlton held his breath as Jessica mentioned his family. How much did Commodore Fairweather tell her? He wondered. “Yes, starting with my great-grandfather in the age of sail, we have the longest line of continuous family servicemen in the history of Kushmire.” He let the last words roll off his tongue. He looked down at his feet, his polished leather shoes reflected his face.
Jessica noticed Carlton’s switch in mood. “Is everything okay?” She asked, placing a hand on his arm.
Carlton let out a sigh. “Everyone talks about my family’s service, what a proud household it must have been.” He stopped, remembering the day he waited for his father to come home. Swallowing the building feeling in his throat he carried on, “No one bothers to mention the sacrifice it took for us to get here, everyone, from my great-grandfather to my father, was killed in action, which when the one after him was a young boy.”
Jessica stopped leaving Carlton to carry on. When he realised she was no longer in his arms he pivoted to face her. “I’m sorry.” She said, almost choking on tears, “I didn’t know.”
Carlton returned a gentle smile. “It's okay, out of everyone to ask, you seemed to be the only one to have cared.” He pulled her closer and wiped the forming tears from her eyes with his sleeve. After composing herself and readjusting her long dress Jessica carried on.
The pair made it to a clearing where the cenotaph was clearly visible. There were several stones with engravings depicting the stories and actions of notable naval officers. Carlton guided Jessica to one stone, containing a gracious slab of granite carved ornately into a figure wielding a sword at an unclothed enemy. The namestone read “Captain Richard H Marshal.”
Jess gasped softly and gently held Carlton’s arm as she scanned down the contents. Carlton started speaking, “His vessel was suddenly attacked by drug traders and gunrunners posing as fishermen, they surrounded the vessel he was on and boarded, they were repelled but not before he gave his life taking a bullet for his second-in-command, the officer in question spent the rest of his life raising me.”
He paused, pulling out a coin that depicted a lady bathing near a river, “his death ruined my mother, she would spend the rest of her life wearing nothing but black, and all but absent in my life apart from ordering me to not join the armed forces, doing everything in her power to make sure I never got any ideas, when I was young, I never attended any national ceremonies or military marches.”
Jess traced her hand up and down his upper arm, “Yet here you are. How?” She asked.
Carlton sighed, a deep heavy sigh, “I guess sometimes, duty calls. The navy came to my school one day, in their uniforms I imagined my father, then myself. I remembered all the times he came home, chest adorned with enough medals to fill a trophy cabinet.”
Jessica let the silence hang before saying, “I remember when my father would return from tours before he followed Mansfield to the KFP, I know that feeling, waiting, would he himself walk through those doors, or would it be another officer, carrying his medals and a ‘Legion of Service’ as a pitiful thank you for the sacrifice he’s made.” She leant her head on Carlton’s shoulder, “What did your mother say when she saw you in a cadet’s uniform.”
Carlton held the coin in his hand once more, “I haven’t talked to her since.” He said, flipping the only memory of his mother he had left into the air and letting it fall into the palm of his hand.
Jess held him tighter, “I’m sorry, I can’t imagine what that feels like.” She sighed, as she let Carlton cradle her head.
“This is why I come here when I wonder what my purpose is, what my family went through, their sacrifices, my father’s death, and his ancestors before him, they died so I, you, the people around us, the military as it stands today can carry on their legacy, as a reminder of their sacrifice we built this sacred land, to keep their legacies intact, legacies they sacrificed so we can forge our own.”
He looked ahead to the central cenotaph, where the sun was slowly setting. Sliding down the cenotaph it casted its warm glow over the headstones. “For that is The Kushmiran Way.”
EVENT POST
EVENT QUESTION 2
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The Oldest Thing In The Union
If you were to ask someone what the oldest and most important building in the River Union is, what would you think they would tell you? Well most will tell you a plethora of answers, but most would say either the dockyards given their history and importance. Others more educated on local history would say the old statue of Emperor Ren Osarrus IX. And occasionally one would say the remains of the ancient walls of the city from even before the statue, probably because of that one restaurant built into it and famously visited by most foreigners.
Well they're wrong my young apprentice, they are so VERY wrong... For inside the deepest parts of these swamps, hidden to all who do not know the secretive way and the requirements to access it. It's not a grandiose temple or the grave of an ancient warlord so old time itself has forgotten their very existence. No, it's a simple Obsidian Obelisk. Every BANE has upon ascension or upon gaining an apprentice who has proven themselves worthy enough of being trained to be their master's replacement are taken here for a... special ritual. Come, take this dagger and do as I do with it.
Yeah, like that, but not too deep to bleed yourself out, but enough for your palm to be stained. Now, clench your fist above the obelisk but below mine, like so... Ah, you can see it now, can't you, the ancient channels within? You can't read them? Well of course you can't, it's an ancient script, long forgotten by all but us. Every time a new Bane ascends... Their predecessor's final act is to create a new Obelisk and input their own. This was the work of my master, and his master's is over there. If at any point you must know of any secret or gain knowledge the likes of which even the wretched pathetic Magi shy away from, come here, and let the red ichor flow.
Now then, I do believe the time is upon us to finish this ritual, to ensure you're worthy of a title. Take these daggers, and harvest the ichor of those you most HATE. I will know when you're complete by the headlines and the lack of daggers in your possession. From then on, we shall meet back here, and your first studies of these... dark alchemical arts, shall begin...
hmmm, and there he goes... It's such a disappointment that the world has begun shying away from the ancient arts. But I suppose that's why there shall only ever be two. A master, and an apprentice. For someone needs to know how to Burn them to ash and cinders to allow the cycle to begin anew, so it has since time began.
Ethan Livermento Speech
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They Will Burn
March 21 1912
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it seems they don't understand Hexlans does not surrender. And Hexlans will never betray the empire.
Alopan, Reichskrig, Celaguun—these are not just names. They are the enemies of this land. And no matter what lies they spread, no matter what force they use, we will not let them rewrite history. These lands do not belongCitizens of Hexlans, today is not a day of defeat—it is a day of resistance. We stand here, not as broken people, but as a nation united, a nation that refuses to be erased from history. The enemy believes that by taking Nhasa, they have won, that they have crushed our spirit, but they have made a grave mistake. Hexlans do to invaders. They do not belong to tyrants. They belong to us, and they will be restored to their rightful states. That is not a wish. That is a promise.
They think they can take our cities, raise their banners over our government, and silence our voices. But they do not understand the spirit of the Hexlan people. We are not weak. We are not afraid. And we are not going to let our country be torn apart without a fight. We will rise, we will push forward, and we will take back what is ours.
Let them believe they have won. Let them believe we are finished. Because when we strike back, we will strike with the force of a people who refuse to be erased. We will not let our flag be trampled. We will not let our identity be stolen. We will not let them decide the future of The Celestial Empire they don't get to do it
This is not the end. This is the beginning. The beginning of our resistance, the beginning of our fight, and the beginning of the day when we reclaim Nhasa, when we restore The original state of the land, and when we remind them that Hexlans is loyal to the empire NO MATTER WHAT
Stand strong. Stand united. And never forget—we are Hexlans,WE SHALL TAKE BACK NHASA AND WE WILL NOT BE BROKEN!. GLORY TO THE EMPIRE FOREVER
"They think they’ve won. They think by storming into Nhasa, by taking our capital, they’ve broken us. But let me tell you something—they have done the exact opposite. They have awakened something far stronger than they could ever imagine. They have taken Alopan, they have invaded Reichskrig, they have occupied Celaguun, and they expect us to stay silent, to bow down, to accept defeat. But we will not! We will never accept this!"
"History will not remember us as the generation that stood by while our homeland was ripped apart. It will not remember us as the people who gave up. No! We are the ones who will fight, who will resist, who will take back what is rightfully ours! Nhasa is our capital. It belongs to the people, not to those who took it by force. Alopan, Reichskrig, and Celaguun are part of our land, part of our history, and no invader, no foreign power, no enemy can erase that! No matter how hard they try, no matter how much they destroy, we will never let them win!"
"They think their weapons, their armies, their occupation can scare us into submission. But they don’t understand that we are stronger than fear. They don’t understand that we will never stop fighting until every last inch of our land is free again. This is not just about borders. This is about who we are. This is about our identity, our families, our future!"
"I know some people are afraid. I know some wonder if we have a chance. But let me tell you—if we stand together, if we refuse to give in, then nothing, nothing can stop us! They might have taken Nhasa today, but Nhasa will not belong to them tomorrow! They might have occupied our cities, but they will never own our spirit! They will never own our will to fight! Because no matter how long it takes, no matter how hard the road is, we will restore what was taken. We will bring back Alopan, we will bring back Reichskrig, we will bring back Celaguun, and we will make sure that our nation stands proud once more!"
"They have stolen from us, but we will take it back. They have tried to break us, but we are unbreakable. They have tried to silence us, but we will make our voices louder than ever. Today, we make a promise to ourselves and to each other: We will not stop. We will not back down. We will not rest until every last flag, every last building, every last street of the empire is RESTORED again!"
"This is not the end. This is the beginning of something unstoppable. We are coming for what is ours. And mark my words—we will win."
Sede Vacante
A wave of scarlett-dressed men emerged from the doors of St. John Lateran, conversing with each other in low murmurs. The Princes of the Church had celebrated their last Mass with the Faithful before they were to be thrown into seclusion as preparation for the first round of voting for a successor to St. Peter.
Thomas Cardinal Lin Shuyao, barely five feet tall, was almost lost in the group. Compared to the imposing figures surrounding him, he was a songbird amongst eagles. He was a Prince of the Church, yes, but one who felt, at times, like a footnote in its grand, western-dominated narrative. Shuyao pulled himself out of the crowd and made his way to the Lateran gardens to pray before the beginning of voting.
As Cardinal Shuyao wandered through the gardens, the scent of blooming roses filled his lungs. The well-maintained lawns and ancient fountains provided a stark contrast to the chaos that came about after the sudden and mysterious death of Pope Benjamin XIII.
“Cardinal Shuyao, may I have a moment of your time?”
Shuyao turned, attempting to find the source of the sonorous voice. He discovered that the voice belonged to Cardinal Alfonso di Mercurio. The Reeman cardinal was a towering figure, his presence radiating authority. Shuyao responded, with an evident look of surprise in his eyes, “Oh, Cardinal Mercurio. It is a pleasure.”
"The pleasure is mine," Mercurio replied, his dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, fixed on Shuyao. He gestured towards a stone bench shaded by a cypress tree. "Shall we?"
They sat in silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of gently chirping birds. Mercurio spoke first. "A heavy responsibility rests upon our shoulders, doesn't it, Cardinal? To guide the Church after the death of Benjamin XIII…” he paused for a second, “He was a good pontiff.” Mercurio said.
“He was a good pope,” responded Shuyao, reminiscing. “He worked tirelessly to try and bring peace to my homeland… it was a shame to see him pass before his work could be accomplished.”
“You know, I was particularly grieved by the attack on Alopan. The Church in the orient is very inspiring to me. You lot are completely unwavering in your commitment to the Faith, even going as far as creating a homeland for yourselves. But of course, the pagans tried to tear that away from you.” He looked at the sky and sighed, “it’s a shame how quickly our brother cardinals abandoned the situation in the Celestial Empire after Alopan affiliated itself with the kaiser. Even Alessi called you and your people, ‘irrelevant.’ But, Cardinal Shuyao, let me tell you this: the affairs of Christians in the orient are not irrelevant to me. In the words of our late pontiff, ‘Whoever lays his violent finger on these young believers, does so against God and His Church.’”
Shuyao looked inquisitively at Mercurio, “Cardinal, why do you say all of this to me?”
“I tell you this because it’s necessary. As the Church in the west marches further and further away from the Commission we received from Christ Himself, we march further away from the believers who still care – and among those believers are the Christians of the Celestial Empire. We need to have faith like that of the people of Alopan. Many call me a reactionary for these beliefs, but I disagree with that terminology. The proper term for men like you and I is ‘Christian.’”
Shuyao sat deep in thought before saying, “Cardinal, many people say you have a good chance at becoming the pope. You approach me with the concerns that me and the Christians of the Celestial Empire have and then say that you share them.” He looked up at the tall cardinal and continued, “It seems to me that you are asking for my support. Am I correct, Cardinal?”
Mercurio gave a rare smile and said, “I am not permitted to ask for your vote, but letting you know that if the Holy Spirit happens to guide you to vote for me, that I have your interests at heart.” After saying that, Mercurio stood up and looked down at Shuyao, “I bid you farewell, Cardinal. I will see you at the Conclave.”
He is truly a master of his craft, thought Shuyao. He began to consider Mercurio’s comments, perhaps he holds the key to the future of the church back home…
At the conclave
The river of red-dressed cardinals was slowly flowing into the stunning Josephite Chapel, where they were overlooked by stunning art of Biblical mysteries, chanting the Litany of Saints. Once the cardinals had settled into their seats, they once again began singing, but this time the Veni Creator Spiritus, which was passionately sung by Shuyao in his thick Celestial accent. As the song came to a close, the dean of cardinals, the elderly Vincenzo Passero, one-by-one invited the cardinals up to swear their oath of fidelity to the Church and to total secrecy of this electoral process.
“Extra omnes!” echoed though the Josephite Chapel as the doors were slammed shut. The voting had begun. Shuyao picked up his pen and slowly spelled out the name, D-i M-e-r-c-u-r-i-o, and with every letter praying that his vote may be serving the Will of God. He looked at his paper, reading it in his mind, Eligo summen pontificem Alfonso Berardo Cardinal di Mercurio. After reviewing his slip of paper, he got up from his seat and slowly approached the altar, and declared, “I call as my witness, Christ the Lord who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who, before God, I think should be elected.” With that, Shuyao placed his slip on a small paten and tipped it into the chalice.
Once all the votes had been cast, the College sat in silence as the votes were read out. Finally, the Dean of the College announced the results of the first ballot:
di Mercurio: 30
Alessi: 28
Aberthaw: 12
Fulvio: 10
Loud sighs erupted throughout the hall. No majority had been reached. The votes were thrown into a furnace and black smoke went up.
The second ballot
After a brief recess the princes of the Church formed into their respective groups and began negotiating with one another. Fulvio had agreed to step aside and throw his votes with Mercurio’s camp. Now, it was simply a battle between Alessi and Mercurio for Aberthaw’s votes. Shuyao remained a quiet player through all of this, quietly arguing for Mercruio’s cause.
As voting for the second ballot concluded, a winner had been announced – “Alfonso Berardo Cardinal di Mercurio. Habemus Papam.” The chapel erupted in applause. White smoke went up, and outside the faithful could be heard cheering.
The master of ceremonies approached Mercurio and asked, “Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff?”
“I accept.”
“By what name do you wish to be called?’’
Mercurio looked around the chapel at his colleagues and said, “In the spirit of the man who allowed me to be here among you, I take the name Issachar X.”
Response to Question 2
What started with a single candlestick hitting the dusty floorboards of the local bakery, soon turned into a raging hellfire, bolting through the densely-populated slums like a hound after a pudding. As the ember spread, it left behind a trail of agony and destruction. Those who were lucky enough to escape the calamity flocked to the upper-city, from where they could be safely evacuated to the countryside. The less fortunate were consumed by the flames, or worse, choked to death by wood-ash.
Not only the lower-city fell victim to the disaster, as the fire forced its way through the historic city walls into the cultural centre of Calaga. There it ripped through the museum, destroying countless works of art in seconds; turned the old palace to rubble, burst through the walls of the temple of Asriaja, leveled all the priceless harbour property it could find, until the City of Thyme had been fully painted over with a thick layer of pitch-black soot and a billowy blanket of smoke.
Only a singular building dared to stand erect while all of its brothers and sisters’ charred remains lay scattered across the ruined hills of Calaga. It was a miracle really, that while the others’ cement crumbled under the immense heat of the flames, the expert masonry of the Gerbye clocktower protected it from the hellish conditions of the blazing calamity.
The following year, an expansive graveyard would be dug to honour all the innocent Calagans who lost their lives in the disaster, the charred tower standing at its heart, weeping. The lone structure would become a symbol of hope; of regrowth and renewal; of loss and despair; of a city once great; but perhaps most importantly, of Calagan tenacity and perseverance.
For years it stood, alone on that hill, with only the bones and crosses to keep it company. It occasionally saw company from a stray survivor or descendent of a victim long gone, but these visits grew further and further apart as the decades passed. The memories of that horrible incident gradually faded into obscurity.
Around the mid-nineteenth century, the political climates of the province started to shift. It started with a popular nationalist campaign in the capital, encouraging well-off citizens to show their pride through the wearing of anchor-shaped pins on the brims of their hats. As the movement picked up pace, a few bright minds of the Celagian elite saw an opportunity to significantly increase their influence on provincial politics. The Aguls, which had been gradually losing power to the imperial throne over the years, would enjoy significant backing by the rich tradesmen, allowing them greater freedom from the empire by means of bribery. They once again assumed their traditional and administrative roles, while at the same time providing the bureaucrats with immense political and economic benefits.
This rise in power of the bourgeoisie and newfound fondness of provincial history prompted the construction of a gargantuan administrative and commercial complex atop the hills near the edge of the city, where once lay the centre of Cellaan culture and art. The structure formed a ring of marble and limestone around the old charred clocktower, still weeping for the lives so tragically lost, but proud of what the city had become.
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