«12. . .8,1888,1898,1908,1918,1928,1938,194. . .8,2698,270»
Tranquil Tuesday - The Life of Caryton
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Wi7RfGKugw
The distinct ringing of an alarm clock resounded through the Gibson family's household- an exceedingly plain pastel yellow-colored ranch-style house which sat in a sleepy dirt-road suburb on the right flank of the town of Peachbee.
Peachbee itself was a brick-and-wood town consisting of ranch houses, single-story shops, and the white steeples of the Gospel Church of Caryton. Upon the first glance, Peachbee seemed to have no major industry- but the adjacent Birchstead Oil Fields brought in enough laborers which kept shops alive, hotels full, and diners abuzz. Peachbee was built on the service industry- even if those services were simple in nature. Birchstead was a small city of around 120,000 people- while poor neighboring Peachbee only serviced 7,000. All the young people were moving to Birchstead for jobs, leaving Peachbee a stereotype of sleepy retiree suburbs, geriatric medical care facilities, grandma's houses, and quiet families with kids raised with embers of small-town purism. In short, Peachbee like many other satellites of major cities reeked of butterscotch candy and antiquated perfumes.
However- a town like Peachbee had a certain charm to it- a precious charm that only either young children or an adult in their midlife crisis desperately reminiscing of long-passed relatives and a longer-passed childhood could appreciate.
The alarm clock's shrill ring found itself silenced by a begrudging finger. The sunrays of the 7:00 AM glory shone into the bedrooms of the Gibson residence, illuminating golden shadows of light on the wallpaper featuring small blue tulips and pink orchids mingling with one another. The creaky and springy floral-print bed groaned as the youngest of the Gibson residence set his feet on the soft beige carpet. The birch dresser stood in its elegant carving, the now dormant red alarm clock softly ticking down the seconds until its next call to arms. Price Gibson, 15, took a swig from a glass of water, the outer surface painted with puppy-eyed cows whose smile always greeted the youngest for three years.
Despite Caryton being only four years old, the antiquated state could certainly give off the impression that it saw Price through his childhood- even though it wasn't the case.
After adorning himself in a white polo and black slacks, the trudging teenager trailed into the adjacent bathroom through a narrow hallway cluttered with brass-framed family pictures. The bathroom was simple, with a black and white checkered tile floor, bathtub, toilet, and sink. A white curtain was now illuminated yellow as sunlight tried its best to pour into the cramped bathroom as Price went about his morning routine which included tasteless toothpaste, hair grease, and a spray bottle of water mixed with a solution meant to clear the skin from acne.
The raven-haired Price trailed down the rest of the memory-cluttered hallway into the living room which featured a clunky box TV buzzing with a static-filled concerto of the local philharmonic. Under the television would be the dark mahogany dresser which also had compartments for a VHS player, tapes, and DVDs. On a firm wooden table near the television would sit a knit covering guarding decorative porcelain statues, fine china, and a simple portrait of Jesus Christ. There would be a coffee table in front of a rough-fabric sofa, sitting in front of the beige and quilt-covered seat like stars in binary orbit.
A little walk, and the living room opened into a kitchen. The yellow tiles on the wall greeted birch fixtures, stainless steel appliances, and windowsills of dandelions. The sugary sweet smell of baking wafted into Price Gibson's nose as he sat down at the elongated dining table, draped with a simple white lace tablecloth, cute canaries sewn into the trim. Typical. Mother and Father were gone. His mother- an innocent and curly haired blonde who reminded him of Georgine's operatic singers- had already left for her little fruit preserve shop in the city center. His father- a stiffnecked and strict man who hardly spoke to him in an informal way- had left for the oil refinery in the neighboring town.
It looked like it would be a day with the grandparents.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjVydZf9fw8
Pearl and Gordon were two simple yet loving people who formed the eldest generation of the living family. Pearl was a sweet old hunched-over lady with a bonnet concealing white locks. Gordon was a balding man with a black broom mustache. Together, they laid out a bounty of breakfast for Price.
One of the many typical Carytonic breakfasts awaited them: Oatmeal, toast with fruit conserve, thumbprint cookies, fresh fruit, and an oat pudding dusted lightly with cinnamon. After a prayer of gratitude, they ate to a program of telenovels in the background. Halfway through the meal, the voice of Pearl cut through as she set a hand on Gordon's shoulder.
"We need to go to Hank's and pick up the piping."
Gordon took his glasses off and huffed. He knew they couldn't put off that project anymore, with the downstairs bathroom sink out of commission. Price knew that he'd have to come with not only to help transport the material- but also because if he didn't, he'd be set up for an incredibly boring day. As he lifted a heaping spoonful of oat grain pudding into his mouth, Price reflected on his past three years in the Peachbee house, the delectably sweet dessert wrapping up a simple and hearty breakfast.
Some minutes later, the doors to an ancient white pickup truck clunked shut. The engine sputtered to life, and Price and Gordon were rolling down the arched dirt road of the driveway towards the sparsely tree-lined street. Summer blossoms on the trees accompanied dark green leaves, yellow flowers brightening up the morning glory as the wind slowly swayed branches. They passed many a neighbor- their next door neighbors half the street away, the plump and jovial Barleys- Donald and Edith- watering their gardens. The widow Mabel sitting out on the porch with her glass of iced tea, her yellow sun dress illumining a contemplative face. The new single couple- the Lonnies- moving their boxes in, a sight to behold for a town like Peachbee. The Miller girls still trying to sell hose water and diluted lemonade at a stand made from cardboard boxes- the innocent blondes not more than eight years old. Occasionally, Pearl and Gordon felt compelled to buy some so the poor children wouldn't be disappointed.
Merging onto Walnut Street, they passed their church, the Gospel Church of Caryton, it's simple brass cross standing on a white wooden steeple. The young deacon was setting letters on the sign board amid rosebushes and pine trees. They passed the tiny town police station, the miniscule clinic, the cinema, and the farmers market. Outside of the farmers market, a Carytonic flag fluttered in the faint breeze. Very conservatively dressed townspeople- mainly men in suits or polos or women in plain dresses- waved along to their neighbors as they turned onto Main Street at the corner of the assisted living facility.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5MzoUG0vYA
Main Street consisted of spherical amber lightpoles hung in clusters, guarding rows of establishments and shops. The rickety pickup turned right near the end of the road, pulling into a relatively spacious parking lot. A wide brick store greeted them, a red sign awaiting them, declaring to the whole town that it was "Hank's Hardware". A logo of a balding man with thick-rimmed glasses, a bloated head yet a jovial smile giving a thumbs-up to the town hung to the right of the sign.
The squeaky automatic doors pulled back, hitting the duo with the smell of fresh lumber, automobile oil, and butter. Behind the counter laid the man himself- Hank, currently ringing up a tired-looking middle aged woman for a power drill and some screws. Gordon beckoned his grandson to follow him down the labyrinth of aisles. How Hank managed to maintain this massive place with only two other employees baffled them. Naturally, at any hardware store- it took an absurdly long amount of time to find the right kind of piping, but when they checked the corner of the aisle they were greeted by their holy grail.
"God bless you! My favorite customers!"
Hank laughed heartily as he took the piping from Gordon's hand and set them on the cash register. Everyone was Hank's favorite customer, but even despite that knowledge- his words always seemed genuine. Scan by scan, he set the items in the basket. Gordon slid a few yellow bank notes and a couple of brass coins across the counter, paying the exact fare in Cary Credits.
"Nice weather we're having, huh?" Hank idled as the cha-ching of the archaic register opening cut through the silence.
"Yeah. We're expecting some rain next week but oh, thank God we're not Bridgeson!" Gordon responded, chuckling as he mentioned Bridgeson. The mountainous town had it rough rain-wise. It was often among the few places in Caryton that received objectively "bad" weather, with a humid monsoon-ridden summer and a chilly blizzard-ridden winter.
"Bridgeson, Bridgeson. We are /not/ Bridgeson." Hank responded, putting the items in a cart. Price remained silent, mainly because he had no interest in small-talk like this. There comes a certain point when one appreciates the small things in life- when one appreciates humility and humbleness. That point is unreachable to a fifteen year old.
"How's Pearl?"
"Ohph... same ol' same ol'. Doctor Steinbauch put her on prova... her hip...co-pay..."
"Bless her heart... my niece... marriage... went out to Carynesia... honeymoon."
Price snapped back to reality when Hank directly addressed him. The familiar sound of rustling triggered a childish excitement deep within both the adolescent and his grandfather.
"It wouldn't be a hardware store without free popcorn!" Hank chortled, handing over two red-and-white striped bags filled with golden goodness. He drizzled on a squirt of melted butter over both bags, and gave a hearty shake of his personal seasoning salt on both.
As per tradition, Price and Gordon would sit outside on the curb of Hank's Hardware and enjoy their popcorn, sharing tender conversation and forming pleasant memories. The mourning doves would coo among the chirping, the sunrise having been completed. Morning dew would make the grass glisten and the golden glories of sun would bow down to a more subtle shine. A family would pass, a little redheaded girl toting a green balloon. Oh, how the two talked about that balloon.
When the car pulled back into the Gibson residence, it would already be a comfortable 10:30 AM. Pearl would already be working on the laundry, the floral-dressed and rose-cheeked grandmother hanging up clothes on the line in the side-yard. As for Price and Gibson, they would spend the fleeting hours of the morning fixing that busted pipe. It was time well spent, for their lunch would be hard-earned.
Their lunch? Courtesy of Pearl. Plain oatmeal, homemade deer sausages, mashed potatoes, and broccoli and asparagus casserole. Not a slimming meal, but still healthy regardless. It put hair on the chest and strength in the body. After saying grace, the three dug in as the (american) football game blared in the background. The Abraham Strikers versus the Rainfall City Mariners. A tight game, won only by an ambitious defense on behalf of the Mariners' cornerback Timothy Ezekiel, blocking what could have been a tie-breaking and game-winning touchdown from the Strikers' offense. The Mariners' victory brought some hope to the Gibson family that Rainfall City could make it to the Super Bowl this November.
When lunch ended, the family split up to cover their own tasks. Pearl indulged in quilt-making. Gordon read. Price called up his friends on the landline and prepared for a trip to neighboring Birchstead to go to the water park. By the time he got back, his own parents were home as well. The Gibson family reunited one last time for a turkey dinner before each antique amber light in the house flickered off, one by one.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3aWoq5ZSYY
[END]
Collectivist germania, Peoples republic of the german states, Artarum, and Island Zero
OOC
This is an important message from the Regional government of Altay:
We have just installed a new embassy policy. It's loosely based on the old one but with many important changes.
2. The ammount of embassies shall not exceed 75, not including the embassies with Altay's Colonies and Protected regions.
3.
a) An embassy is perceived primarily as a means of easy communication between two regions regardless of interregional relations. Therefore, prohibition of embassy posting may be a great limiting factor in the process of establishing an embassy
b) By opening an embassy in Altay, a region automatically subscribes to Altay's propaganda broadcasted during Altaic state holidays and other important occasions and milestones. The embassy region's competent officers are free to adjust the details of their region's subscription, or fully end it, via Altay's RMB or via a TG to Leader Eastern Tatarstan.
4.
a) Any region seeking to establish an embassy in Altay is entitled to a R/D non-aggression pact between it and Altay. To establish the pact, an agreement has to be made between the embassy region and Altay either via Altay's RMB or via a TG to Leader Eastern Tatarstan.
b) The agreement lasts even after the embassy is abolished and has to be revoked by one of the sides either via Altay's RMB or via a TG to Leader Eastern Tatarstan.
c) Those non-agression pacts obtained prior to the 25th of July 2021, which have not been rendered invalid by that date, remain unaffected except for clause 4, letter b of this paragraph.
5.
a) An embassy may be closed only by the competent officers of the embassy region or by Leader Eastern Tatarstan.
b) Altay may close its embassies only to maintain the embassy cap or during states of emergency declared by the RGA or by Leader Eastern Tatarstan.
c) When maintaining the embassy cap, embassies with regions which do not have a non-agression pact with Altay and/or prohibit embassy posting and/or have had little to none diplomatic/casual engagement with Altay are to be abolished primarily.
d) Such an embassy may be spared if deemed important enough by either the RGA or by Leader Eastern Tatarstan.
Written by Leader Eastern Tatarstan on 26th February 2019. Passed by 66,67% on 1st March 2019.
Last ammended by Leader Eastern Tatarstan on 25th July 2021
Vistulange, Peoples republic of the german states, Spiritual Republic of Caryton, and Island Zero
The damage to the rebuilt Ponyville was severe. The area around the warehouse had been completely devastated in the fighting and the artillery strikes and the Tatzlwurm had collapsed several buildings during its final desperate rush to the cathedral. Civilian death toll was in the dozens, with many more dead soldiers. Some civilians were likely still trapped in collapsed buildings, and hundreds had suffered injuries of varying severity. It would take weeks to repair all the damage and longer still for the traumatized civilian victims of the battle to recover.
Despite Maple's fears, no other attacks came before the dropship sent by Lord Skia arrived.
After she and Shield had been escorted to the landing pad by Black and his guards, Pearlescent turned to the Major.
"Thank you for everything, Black," she said. "I'm sorry this happened to your town because of me, but I know in my heart that we will get our vengeance some day soon. I don't know what games my Father is playing, but I think he's just tying the noose around his own neck without even realizing it."
Rainbow had to suppress a shiver as she observed the hellish, warped landscape the techno ghost had conjured up from her memories. The chocolate rain, the pink clouds and the twisted animals... They were all familiar to her, but not like this. This was clearly the work of Discord, but not the goofy, mischievous Discord she had known. No, this was the work of a warped madman who enjoyed torturing others and destroying any last traces of their sanity.
"Are you absolutely sure your Discord is a 'daemon'?" she asked. "Our Discord never mentioned any gods he served, and Her Immortal Ladyship repeatedly called him primordial spirit that was not bound to anyone or anything. She has also tried to study the 'Warp' of your universe, but apparently it just doesn't exist here, or at least we've never had any contact with it. Could it be that your Discord was once like ours, before he was somehow... I don't know... corrupted by the Dark Gods you've fought against?"
After a few moments of silence she added, "Also, how did you survive your mission on Mouillé?"
Rumlew, Artarumen Empire
The sound of thunder cracked in the busy afternoon. End of July? It may as well have been the end of October, with how overcast the weather was. The dreary weather was a staple for Artarumen, whose only respite from the constantly cloudy and rainy weather of their country was to go abroad. 
Spiritual Republic of Caryton, in recent years, had become a very, very popular tourist destination for Artarumen who wanted more sun and a more relaxed atmosphere. While they considered Carytonites simple, crude, and in less kinder terms, primitive; the Artarumen had also developed an understanding and even an appreciation for their simpler lifestyles.
Stanley lit a cigarette while out on a large balcony, on the 33rd floor of a massive skyscraper, overlooking the vast cityscape and port of Rumlew. This was Artarum's largest city, the jewel of the empire, and its economic heartland. The building itself was the headquarters of the Artarumen News Network, the national broadcaster whose army of journalists, analysts, interpreters, and countless other staff made up the foundation of the Artarumen state media presence. Funded by the government and recently given total editorial independence, the ANN was in its golden age. With editorial independence, the quality had skyrocketed as they no longer needed to toe the government line. It had, in the recent years, started to churn out sitcoms, documentaries, serials, late night shows, and all the things that modern Artarumen audiences demanded. Once a droll channel dealing solely with news, the ANN had become the go-to channel for everybody in Artarum. Its commentators viciously attacked government policy, both with humour and with seriousness, it poked fun at government officials, and its reporters asked bold questions.
Which got it views. Furthermore, non-political aspect of things had also picked up. Its sitcoms were funny, reflecting the somewhat dry Artarumen humour; its serials, engaging and highly entertaining to watch. Nowadays, the ANN was experimenting in expanding to other markets, to see if it could gain a foothold in other countries. It had already begun preparations for a proper Echassi channel, with "ANN Echass" being the proposed name of the channel. It was meant to produce content in Echassi, for the Echassi population who now resided in Artarum, fleeing from the civil war. Another team had been entrusted to work on Artzharut, with "ANN Hebrew" already operating, albeit only with news as content for the time being. Diversifying was the more difficult part, Stanley thought as he took a drag on his cigarette. News was simply a matter of translating, and having somebody who spoke the language well relay it to the viewer.
Comedy, sitcoms, and more serious serials were a different beast. After all, not every culture found the same things to be funny or engaging. His department was responsible for foreign outreach, and thankfully, Stanley was aware that Artarumen humour was dry, dark, and built on understatement; attributes which many other cultures' humour did not share. He spoke fluent Hebrew and passable Echassi, enough to know that such content would fall flat in their respective countries and communities.
"Hey," a sound came behind him, snapping the man out of his thoughts. "Somebody's doing something they shouldn't be." A brunette woman, tall and fair like practically every Artarumen, wagged a finger at his cigarette.
"Ah, yes. Nasty habit, I'm aware." Stanley clicked his tongue and snuffed his cigarette on the railing, tossing the bent butt into a nearby rubbish bin. "What about you? Not getting lunch?"
"Actually, I was hoping we could get lunch together."
Stanley blinked. He and Anne did seem to flirt, but he could never be sure whether he was making it up, or if it was really the case. "Uh, yeah. Yes. That would be great. Actually, I know this, this great restaurant just down the street. Bergsehuisan, if that's your fancy?"
"Sure. You seem like you know your taste," Anne commented, smiling. "Shall we?"
It took them ten minutes just to get down to the first floor, where they passed the security barriers and headed outside. Both were smart, and both had brought their large umbrellas. Any Artarumen adult worth their salt knew how to navigate streets filled with similar large umbrellas, as everybody carried one. It was a delicate art of knowing when to lift and lower one's own umbrella as somebody else passed. Weaving their way through the bustling Rumlew streets, the pair managed to get to the aforementioned restaurant in another five minutes. That, combined with the time they had already spent, gave them just about an hour to have a meal and get back to work.
"Table for two." The waiter was not as fair-skinned as most Artarumen were. Echassi, Stanley thought, or maybe Bergsehuisan, considering the cuisine the restaurant dealt with. Regardless, the waiter smiled and nodded, guiding the two to a table roughly in the middle of the restaurant, which was similar to the streets outside: Crowded and noisy, albeit a pleasant noise of people chatting and enjoying a meal. A light music played in the background, foreign to most Artarumen ears, belonging to Bergsehuisan native instruments and tunes. Overall, it was a pleasant environment—good spot for a first date, perhaps?
"Any recommendations?" Anne asked, looking over the menu. The menu was small, specialised, and its presentation was simple: all the signs of a good place to eat.
"Oh, yes. I rather like the boerewors—sausage, basically—and the braai. Barbecue, really." He pointed to the respective items as he mentioned them. As if on cue, the waiter ended up right beside them after a minute.
"Have the lady and the gentlemen decided?" Definitely Bergsehuisan, with that accent. Neither Stanley nor Anne cared; they mingled with other nationalities frequently. "Yes, I will be having braai, and she will be..." Instead of speaking for her, Stanley decided to let her speak, and instead gestured to her. Anne appeared to appreciate the courtesy.
"...and I will go with the boerewors." The waiter tapped his tablet twice, nodding. "And drinks?"
Stanley remained silent, seemingly thinking, but Anne spoke. "Just water is fine." Stanley spoke immediately. "Yes, water as well."
"Very good."
With that, the waiter departed and let the two chat. The chemistry between the two was fairly good, and topics flowed like water. Artarumen people had gotten accustomed to talking politics since the last three years, though doing so with women was somewhat risky, as they had only recently gotten the right to vote. Just like millions of other Artarumen women, Anne had also voted for the National Party, as it was thanks to them that she could vote in the first place. Stanley understood, and this did not present a problem for him, either, since he had also voted National.
It took only ten minutes for their respective meals to arrive. This was not a particularly high-end place, especially judging by the general customer profile and the prices on the menu. It was a middle-class locale that did its job very well, seeing it was packed full. They dug in. The end result was a success: Anne seemed absolutely blown away by her boerewors and Stanley enjoyed this particular braai. "I have to admit," she said, wiping her mouth with the napkin on her lap, "that was utterly delicious."
"Yes," Stanley agreed. "It was. But," he frowned slightly, looking at his wristwatch, "we've only got about half an hour before we need to clock in." The woman pouted dramatically, eliciting a chuckle from Stanley, causing Anne to chuckle with him. Once their chuckling had subsided, Stanley caught the eye of a waiter and made that universal gesture which was interpreted as "check, please!".
The bill was £34. Quite normal for a proper meal for two, in downtown Rumlew, at a middle-tier establishment. Anne made a move for her purse, but Stanley had already placed two £20 bills into the small box, wagging his finger. Anne smiled and shrugged, while the waiter took the box. It returned with a £5 bill and a single £1 coin, with Stanley taking the former. "I'll take care of the tip, then," she brunette quipped, planting two more £1 coins into the box before Stanley could respond, then started to get up. Stanley did the same, and the two left the restaurant after having left their tip.
The return to the office was not eventful. It was difficult to chat in the street anyway, having to dodge fellow umbrella-bearers as well as their umbrellas. Still, both were happy with how it turned out. Unfortunately, the continuing workday meant that they needed to part ways in the lift: Stanley worked on the 34th floor, while Anne was on the 39th. As Stanley turned to exit the lift on the 34th floor, Anne spoke. "Let's do this again sometime."
Stanley stuck his arm out into the photocell, to make sure the lift doors didn't close. "Good idea. Let's. Have a nice day!" And with that, he left for his own little desk, grinning ear to ear when he sat down.
Der Reischsbrotkast - 2021 Elections Underway!
Enthusiasm is brimming throughout the Holy Reisch as the first democratic elections are being held since Reinhardt was coronated, marking the end to almost two years of military rule via Inquisitor Order No. 265 and the transition of power back to the people. Whilst many are expecting that the Imperial Front for Islamic Germania will be securing firm majorities in Bosnia, Chernoyskistan, Sharkir, Mhurabi and Ahouni, and the Communist Party of Germania securing another overwhelming victory in the semi-autonomous People's Republic of Vienna, it is the political race between the Social Democratic Workers Party of Germania and the Reisch Conservative Party that is looking to shake up the political scene for the next four years to come. Many in the political race are even choosing to leaflet in areas that have historically been independent or firm supporters of the Alliance for Free Imperial Cities, such as Volksdorf, Seerath, Welthauptstadt Germania and Bohlen-Dassau. Time will tell if any of it will pay off.
The following candidates are expected to lead their respective parties this year:
The Communist Party of Germania (KPG) - The Honorable Premier, Otto Krenz
The Social Democratic Workers Party of Germania (SAG) - Luther Ehrenstein
Reisch Conservative Party (RKP) - Hugo Felsenbaum
The Alliance for Imperial Free Cities (AFR) - Sir Klaus Möhring
Imperial Front for Islamic Germania (KFIG) - Hasan al-Shahid
Montane, Alorgaze, Artarum, and Spiritual Republic of Caryton
OOC: Public reminder! People, when asking me for a map space, please, please, please, please, please be specific about it. I can't help you if all you tell me is "can I have a map space". Of course you can have a map spot, but I need to know more specifics so I can plonk you down. Just the name of a continent and a cardinal direction is enough if you really don't want to bother with it—just give me something to work with so I can actually do it, instead of blankly looking at the telegram and the map.
Thanks!
Peoples republic of the german states, Grossschwaben, Sanctuary Point, Alorgaze, and 2 othersSpiritual Republic of Caryton, and Island Zero
“It will be a long rope that hangs him, My Lady.” Major Black replied as they walked along the road to the spaceport. All around them, ponies were rebuilding what had been wreaked in the attack and while those Equestrian refugees seemed quite shaken up by the events, the Novumequines worked with a grim determination. Bells tolled throughout the city as the numerous churches held their services, giving the dead their rites while priests roved the streets besides Everfree soldiers. One such group stopped as they recognised Black and his charges.
“Bishop Pie, good to see again despite the circumstances.” The Major greeted as the other equine dipped his head and greeted the three notables. “Major, Ms. Wind, Earthquake. Hello again. Terrible business, this monster attack. Still, we have survived worse and we shall do so again by the grace of the Sisters and the Laughing Saint.”
“Nay, the Warper has always served the Changer of Ways. That demented creature revelled in the madness its master would cause in their mortal servants.” Shadow’s words were filled with scorn for the chimera or perhaps it was for all of Chaos’s monsters and minions. Alula looked quite pious beside Rainbow, whispering some prayer to the Sisters. “As for Mouillé, though it might be blasphemous to say, Chaos can be the best weapon against itself some times.” Their surroundings changed as they were moved to what use to be an intersection, rubble blocking the north as faceless Elysians took cover behind it. Others fought overhead with creatures that had been equines once but now had great bone claws and insect or bat wings. “The heretics fought by literal tooth and nail, the corruption wrought by their fell patron plain for all to see as well as their crimes.” Shadow pointed behind Rainbow where a small, burnt body was impaled on the eight-pointed star of Chaos. Beyond it, two adults had been strung up with their own entrails. Entrails which had far too many eyes strewn along their length, all of which were staring at Rainbow.
The line of Elysians started firing their weapons as a great blur of pink ran towards them, iridescent flames being lobbed at the pegasi that transformed whatever they hit. A large chunk of masonry became a screeching lizard that snapped at those nearby until a officer severed its neck. The lesser daemon cackled with mad glee as it threw more fireballs at the entrenched Elysians before Shadow’s voice called out from somewhere above. “Mors expectat in tenebris!” A dash of red and white bisected the pink monstrosity which turned into blue duplicates of it. “Ahh! Blue! I hate blue. I hate you!” The left one leapt at the past Shadow who slashed at it again as well as its sibling. The four halves bursted into flames which took on lives of their own if briefly as the Elysians in cover blasted away at the remnants. “Gale oft said I was too fond of making grand entrances.” Shadow remarked as they watched her past self bark out orders to the Elysians as a dark laughter rang out. Alula and the past Shadow tensed at the sound as did Rainbow seemingly, the Equestrian perhaps recalling when Discord was far less friendly to her and the others. The trio watched more scenes of the past Shadow aiding other beleaguered Elysians agains daemons or aspiring Chaos champions until great metal pods rained down from the sky.
“As we soon learned, we were not the only ones who wished the Discordant Sons be removed. A rival band, the Coming Slaughter, wanted to kill all the sorcerers as their existence offended their master, the Blood God.” Another pod slammed into the ground near them, unloading equines in heavy armour carrying heavier axes who screamed their anger to the heavens. “Berserkers, ponies who have reduced themselves to little more than rabid beasts for favours from the Lord of Skulls.” Shadow said with great disdain in her voice as they watched the newcomers set upon Elysians and cultists alike, coating themselves in blood and viscera.
"Another successful test. At this rate, the weapons we will field will outdo anything the North could throw at us." The scientist continued to marvel at his work of the past few weeks, which had resulted in an armored vehicle capable of using repulsorlift. Its unusual shape allowed a focus on maneuverability with strong forward-facing armament. While the main turret rotated, the focus of the firepower was on the newly developed missile systems and the ion cannons on either side of the hull. So much experimental technology in a vehicle was a massive worry, but the tests proved that it was battle-ready and capable in all terrains. "Get the results and the final prototype to the dictator." While developing the repulsorlift tank, they had also designed an infantry transport that utilized a turret slightly more powerful than the rotating turret placed on tank. Because of the shape and capabilities of the vehicle, they were able to modify the inside to allow a great deal of troops to be transported inside. The side doors allowed safe deployment and the turret was strong enough to give strong and effective infantry support.
On the front lines, the regular troops were receiving the newest equipment. The soldiers under Lilie continued to grow more certain of victory and many men celebrated their surprising progress in industrial development. Meanwhile, the North faced much different circumstances, a great deal more civilians and conscripts fleeing the North to the South. Marlene was quickly losing face and none of her secret police or propaganda could prevent it. The effects of the desertion and flight of the civilians were devastating, a great deal of the Northern industrial capacity, once the greatest in Westbeech, now was dwarfed by the seemingly infinitely more powerful industrial strength of the South. The cities became more and more empty and the number of open supporters of the North seemed to have dropped to nothing. Marlene feared these issues and her command staff did as well, knowing full well the capabilities the South now boasted. Even so, Lilie never ordered a killing blow, granting Marlene more time to prepare.
"The issue with our offensive in the North, ladies and gentlemen, is where to go afterwards. I would be satisfied with the unification of Westbeech, but there is something of greater importance - the defense of all we know. I will not discuss the details with you or your staffs, but you will know what we are doing when the time comes." The focus Lilie had was no longer just the unification of Westbeech, but the furthering of her protection. She no longer just wished to protect her people and allies, but all there was on Terra. Many teams of scientists that once focused on the development of their equipment were now working in an entirely new field of research for Westbeech, the development of intergalactic travel. The scientists were all brought in for different reasons, all leading up to their capabilities of developing ships that not only could travel through deep space, but could also serve the purpose of self-defense. The work ahead of them would be long and hard, but they were already drawing up plans for a smaller precursor project. One that would reshape the Westbeechian Air Force.
And although Lilie's mind as a leader was so focused, her time off allowed her mind to wander to places new to her. She constantly visited the boy that helped before. Those who knew of their time together would describe their relationship to be more than a friendship, but none spoke of it. The entirety of the South truly believed that Lilie was married to her nation and, in all reality, she was. However, she took a particular fascination in the boy. They were both still young, but had great responsibilities placed upon them at their age. The boy now was undergoing training with the guard and showed some promise. The boy's name was largely hidden from the military because of his relationship with Lilie, but to her, he was Karl Braut, the man she would secretly love.
The only sound in the dormitory was Alirir Paler's foot tapping on the floor as he stared at the bleak mandate on the desk next to him.
The diplomat had been nervously pacing around in his room for a good few hours. He knew this had to be acted upon today, and for good reason, but a part of him not-so-deep down was extremely apprehensive about the idea of Satross opening itself up to foreigners again so soon after freeing itself from foreign rule.
They needed help. Alirir knew this as much as anyone else. Satross was still reeling, economically speaking, from the relatively recent coup d'etat, and to rebuild alone would be a long, arduous, painful process... but this very much felt like painting a target on the back of the nation.
There were safeguards, of course. Foreigners were now prohibited from holding office and from entering most other governmental positions, and the new border was a lot safer. With the former colonial president imprisoned, it was extremely unlikely that a second colonization - this time an insurgence from acquired lands rather than an outside invasion - could occur, now that the head of the proverbial snake had been eradicated. There was no way loyalists still existed... right?
Trying to remind himself of this, the nervous diplomat finally sat down and began to type out a response. Satross was about to take a big leap into the world...
-------------------------------------
Relatively fresh out of the fiery crucible of colonial oppression, Satross officially raises its flag high to the world stage.
The Satrossans are a race of vaguely lupine creatures best categorized as aliens. Satross itself is an authoritarian state with progressive social policies, a strong police force, and a relatively large government led by Supreme Leader Vargas Istred and his personal cabinet - not much political freedom, but personal and economic freedoms are relatively high. Every five years elections are held in every province to select representatives for the National Council (the Satrossan parliament) but these representatives are approved by the central government.
Satross has a vibrant culture kept thriving by its passionate, patriotic citizens, especially its food. Specialty cultural desserts are particularly renowned, but have yet to be exported. As a people, Satrossans are hardy and cautiously optimistic - fiercely protective of their rights, and generally a bit guarded around foreigners, but proud and more than happy to educate others about racial customs which others tend to find strange and archaic.
Satross is an MT nation. In the post-colonial renaissance of Satrossan science, it has begun to build towards the foundation of advanced medical practices and controller-based virtual reality.
Currently the nation is in need of aid rebuilding in the wake of a politically effective but economically and structurally devastating coup d'etat. The Satrossan government has done away with the isolationism of its former colonial owners and has carefully revealed itself, opening its borders, communications offices, and embassies to leaders, diplomats, and tourists alike.
((OOC: Factbooks are in progress, will have better information soon!))
Peoples republic of the german states, Westbeech, Grossschwaben, Spiritual Republic of Caryton, and 2 othersIsland Zero, and Pahana
OOC: Map updated!
-Veradax, Umbraen, The eurasian steppes, Polysandria, North dictoria, Ocultus, 
Vakunithia, Acriae, Maximillian jethro, Big broth and The grand authoritarian empire of juu whitespaced.
-The autocracy of pacifica and Satross added.
If I missed any requests, please notify me by telegram or through a message from the regional Discord channel, preferably at #cartographers-office.
Grossschwaben, Island Zero, The autocracy of pacifica, and Satross
does anyone have the link to the new map
OOC: Map updated, again, because I dun goofed. Anyhow, changes are below.
-
Alorgaze and Valeurie added.
The autocracy of pacifica, the map link is available, publicly, at the World Factbook Entry, where it says "Regional Map". That's a link. Click on it, and an image of the current map will pop up.
Liudan, Artarum
Another stormy night. However, Artarumen were fairly well-versed in sleeping in stormy nights. Insulation, both from the cold and the noise, was commonplace in Artarumen buildings. As a thunderstorm raged outside, the Prime Minister's bedside telephone rang. A light sleeper since his days as Ambassador to Bergsehuis, Prime Minister Lambert Faulkner's hand went immediately to the receiver.
"Yes?" His voice was sleepy, still.
"Sir, I have Artzharutan State President Galit Halevy on the line."
Galit Halevy? At this time of night? What on Earth was going on?
"Put her through."
The line went silent for a moment, before crackling back. Faulkner cleared his through.
"Madame State President?"
Galit Halevy's voice came through, slightly garbled and somewhat panicked. Her Artarumen bore a heavy Hebrew accent, but it was still legible.
"Mr Prime Minister. We need your help. We believe there is a coup attempt."
Faulkner blinked, now awakened completely and at attention. Behind him, his wife Evelyn was also waking up. Accustomed to her husband being woken up by the telephone, she said nothing, instead getting up, pulling a nightgown on, and placing a hand onto her husband's shoulder.
"A coup attempt, State President? Forgive me, but how are we going to help?"
"We need the assistance of the Imperial Navy."
Faulkner blinked again. Was Halevy actually asking that Artarumen forces open fire on Artzharutan forces?
"State President, you are aware that we just signed a peace treaty, correct? You are asking my people to open fire on your people—surely you understand the ramifications of what you are asking for? Is your government aware that you are calling me?"
"Yes! Yes, we are currently in a bunker with Mr Stern and Mr Ben-Itamar, and the rest of the cabinet. The 1st and 2nd Armies have defected, while the 3rd Army is on our side. Elements of the 1st and 2nd are with us, but they are largely isolated. We've lost Yerushalayim. The 3rd is trying to hold Bethlehem and Hevron. We've escaped to Givatayim."
Putting his hand over the receiver, Faulkner swore loudly, eliciting a slight smirk from Evelyn. Though, the message had been received: The woman got up quickly and started to prepare a suit for the Prime Minister, placing it over a nearby chair.
"State President, I need you to make a public announcement. I cannot send the Artarumen Armed Forces to bomb Artzharutan forces without a public reason. I simply cannot—I'm governing a country here, not a private militia! I need to be able to explain it. And, to be honest, I need to cover myself, too. How do I know you're not simply trying to reignite the war because of falling popularity?"
There was no response from the other side for a good minute. Then, Halevy's voice came back on. "Fair enough, Prime Minister. I understand. We'll do what we can for that public request for help. I hope your assistance will be worth the humiliation."
"Madame State President, if things are as you say, I do not believe that you are in much of a position to worry about humiliation. Chalk up my distrust of your policies and intentions to your late predecessor and your own political career beside him, Ms Halevy." With that, Faulkner slammed the receiver, getting up. It took him a minute to get out of his striped pajamas and to get into his suit, the man finishing up his tie as he went down the stairs. The relevant government ministers had already started coming in.
"Mr Herzog." The Minister for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs nodded, but Faulkner's mood had soured already. "Why were we not aware of a coup attempt in Artzharut?"
"I—" he began, but Faulkner cut him off. "Nevermind. We'll worry about that later. Ah, Mr Vorster," he gestured to the Defence Minister, "what does the situation look like?"
Vorster had barely managed to take off his coat when Faulkner asked. "Mr Prime Minister, uh, we did observe some out of the ordinary movements in Artzharut, but chalked it up to an exercise, since our Hebrew friends aren't the most transparent bunch and asking them what was going on would most likely be met with silence."
"Did you ask, though?"
"No, sir. No."
Faulkner swore again. The Minister of State for Homeland Security, Pieter Verwoerd, and the Director for National Intelligence, William Hargreave, entered the meeting room, the latter of which closed the door behind him.
"Mr Hargreave. You and Mr Herzog—you better have a good reason as to why this went completely under our radar. I will come back to that later. Now, what is going on, and what are our options?"
Herzog shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Mr Prime Minister, with the intelligence we currently have, it is plausible that there is a coup d'etat occurring in Artzharut."
"Shelefist hardliners, or another group?"
"We don't know just yet, but our guess is somewhere in between. With Moledet's political position weakening, the hardliner Shelefists had started making contact with left-wing elements, particularly the Mapam party. The United Workers' Party," he added for clarification. "An unholy alliance, if you will. The primary goal is most likely to get rid of Halevy, displace Moledet, then do as they see fit."
"And if that happens? What do we have to gain by supporting Halevy right now, especially considering it could be another armed conflict?" Then again, Artarumen foreign entanglements had subsided. The war in Talarus seemed to be dormant, with the lines static; the Echassi situation deteriorated but Artarumen soldiers weren't deployed there.
"For one, the hardliners will reignite the war. The left-wingers will gravitate towards less-than-optimal spheres of influence, though Mapam is not particularly far-left. However, intervening can allow both us and Halevy to take out multiple birds with one stone. She will stabilise her government, purge the hardliners, purge Mapam and maybe even HaAvoda, leaving only the centre-right opposition, such as Kadima, on the political stage. With the process of opening she has begun, defeat in the elections is inevitable. Ideally, Kadima would win a majority of the seats up for contestation."
Faulkner nodded. "Right. Alright, let's say we intervene. What can we do? Mr Vorster?"
The Boer also shifted uncomfortably. "We...do not have too many options. This is not a war—we cannot simply bomb the Artzharutan Armed Forces back to the Stone Age—but instead a more precise operation. Once the State President publicly asks for our assistance, we can deploy aircraft from the HMS Silban, along with a detachment of Imperial Marines, to secure the State President."
"Givatayim is a coastal city. Naval support should be easy enough?"
Vorster nodded in affirmation. "Yes, sir. But beyond that, I do not think we can engage in a ground assault against the putschists. While we outclass them, if they are motivated well enough, it could turn into a meat grinder in the cities. Bethlehem, Yerushalayim, Rehovot—these are not small cities, sir. Furthermore, the more we fight the Artzharutan Armed Forces directly, the more we risk putting more loyalists into the putschists' hands, as it turns into another war on the ground."
Faulkner drummed his fingers on the mahogany meeting table. "Right. Well, this is royally screwed." Leaning back, he shrugged. "Then, I'd like everybody to keep their eyes open. Let's not miss if Halevy manages to get in front of a camera and asks for help. Keep the aircraft aboard the HMS Silban at the ready, and prepare the marines for deployment. I want her and her people safe the moment she asks for help."
Herzog leaned forwards and cleared his throat. "And, sir, if Halevy is incapacitated before she can do that?"
The Prime Minister swallowed. "Then...draw up plans for surgical strikes. I want to be able to decapitate the incoming Artzharutan government, if it's not Halevy. We might not be able to commit to a ground invasion, but we can make them fold."
Peoples republic of the german states and Spiritual Republic of Caryton
A diplomatic missive was sent by the Swabian Grand Ducal Ministry of Foreign Relations to Marlene, the Dictator of northern 
Westbeech
His majesty, the Grand Duke Ottwald von Staufen, has recently recovered enough from a minor health complication to be made aware of an ongoing situation within your country. As the Ministry of Foreign Relations and his majesty understand it, you appear to have fallen victim fo a violent albeit failed coup by your younger cousin Lilie. However, even if her initial strikes may not have been successful and the initial attempt at seizing power thwarted, it seems that her supporters and the armed conflict they have unleashed may yet prevail.
Every day the numbers of those blinded by your cousin's guile swell. Every day more and more of your own abandon you. As Westbeechians, they have lingering attachments to your cousin and the people following her. And as more and more join her, so too the bonds and attachments between those who still see your rightful claim and those who have been blackmailed by your cousin, threatened or coerced with the help of their friends and families already under her fist, deepen. Few can withstand the pressure your cousin exerts upon them.
As such, knowing full well your situation and sympathizing with another rightful head of state having to struggle to maintain their reign, his majesty the Grand Duke, long may he reign, has decided to aid you in your efforts against your foul cousin. His majesty offers to lend you, and solely you, for your government too could be coerced to betray you, military hardware as well as tactical and strategic advisors to oversee the correct deployment of said hardware and to ensure that the increasing number of traitors among your ranks cannot turn the battleplans against you. These military advisors with no ties and no love lost for your traitorous kin will remain absolutely loyal and as such there is little risk of them joining the cause of your cousin.
His majesty, the Grand Duke, suggests considering his offer long and well for such a decision cannot be made lightly, yet he trusts in your decisionmaking skills as you are the true, lawful and better option for the leader of Westbeech.
Written by
Herbert Alois Peter zu Goisbach
Signed
Ottwald von Staufen
A letter from Marlene Korban:
Apologies again for the abruptness and shortness of my message.
Regards,
Marlene Korban
Givatayim, Artzharut
"Fellow Hebrews," the crackled radio broadcast came through, "it is with the deepest reservations that I ask for assistance...from the Artarumen Empire...in order to put down this insurrection."
However garbled it was, State President Galit Halevy's voice was unmistakable. "Elements of our military have defied the will of the Hebrew nation, and have risen up against its rightful government. Their sabotage of our defences have made it necessary to request the Empire's assistance in maintaining the position of the legitimate government of this country, with the Moledet party in its vanguard position."
In Givatayim, the coastal port city, the broadcast was met with cheers and applause. In cities such as Bethlehem and Hevron, the guns quietened as both sides tuned in to hear what Halevy had to say. When the broadcast ended, the woman's tired voice cutting off, reactions were mixed.
The loyalists were happy, of course—but what would this mean, with Artarumen soldiers helping suppress the rebellion? Would that mean that Artarumen soldiers would fire upon Artzharutan soldiers? At least they did not have to shoot their compatriots, but still, was it really worth it? Perhaps Halevy had indeed sold the nation out for personal, or political gain. On the other hand, a wave of dismay overwhelmed the putschists. With Artarumen support, it was impossible for them to succeed, not with the HMS Silban so close, ready to provide air support across Artzharut. They were finished.
"...therefore, I order that every rebellious element lay down their arms, stand down, and surrender to the Artzharutan Armed Forces. There will be clemency and pardons involved for those who act in the interest of their nation and their country. Thank you."
The coup attempt had failed.
Liudan, Artarumen Empire
Prime Minister's Office
"I think we did it."
The Foreign and Commonwealth Secretary, Matthew Herzog, lit a cigarette as he listened to State President Galit Halevy's broadcast. "There is no way they can continue fighting after that. Unless they think it's a bluff."
Defence Minister Schalk Vorster butted in. "They won't. The Navy has been flying sorties over Givatayim for the last two hours, but hasn't bombed anything. They'll know we're behind Halevy." Herzog nodded in satisfaction, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
Prime Minister Lambert Faulkner's voice interrupted the silence. "I think we need to seize this chance."
"Sorry?" Herzog and Vorster asked at the same time.
"You both know what I mean. We've been drawing up plans along these lines ever since 1998." He leaned forward, opening up a conveniently placed dossier in front of him. "They are in no position to resist."
"I understand your intentions," Herzog said, "and I sympathise with them. However, thinking of the political aspect, I'm not sure if we can sell it to the public. We'd be looking at, what, two, three, maybe four years of constant presence."
Vorster, having gotten over the shock, scratched his chin. "I have to say, Herzog. It's not a bad idea. It really isn't a bad idea. Bold, but not bad."
"Didn't we pull out of the colonies, under Rorschach and Bishop, exactly so we could avoid situations like these? We were all in favour of those policies, back in the day. Now you want to form the Artarumen Realm again?"
"Nothing nearly so dramatic, Matthew," Faulkner waved his hand, indicating for Herzog to take a seat. "I have no intentions of establishing Artzharut as a protectorate again. But, as it stands—" he pointed at a map, "—Beyt, the Islamic terror state, is on the border. Artzharut's military is in shambles, particularly so thanks to this very recent event. If those lunatics go into Artzharut, they might as well wipe the floor with the Hebrews. Then we'll see Halevy thrown off a roof, or beheded, or stoned."
Herzog sighed, shaking his head. "Well. That's one way of looking at things. On the other hand, the Islamists might see our action and call it an invasion force, and that'll provoke them to attack, making things worse." Sitting down, he tapped his cigarette over an ashtray. "Let's say we revised the 1998 plans for this current situation and implemented an occupation and restructuring of Artzharut. And let's say that the Imperial Armed Forces hold the place down enough for us not to get dragged into a conflict. What is the bloody plan, anyway?"
Faulkner nodded in sympathy. "No, you are right to have doubts. That is why you're in my government, Matthew." He paused for a moment. "The plan foresaw radical restructuring under military occupation, and the eventual instalment of a liberal democratic regime. Of course, it was planned for when Amnon Shelef was leading Artzharut. Of course, it does not simply involve instituting free and fair elections," he continued, but Herzog cut him off.
"...because our people in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office came to the conclusion that that would not work, and the regime would be weak and could possibly collapse, yes. I am familiar with the reports and the revisions." He sighed again, leaning back in his seat. "It could work. It could work." Picking his cigarette up, he put it to his lips again. "It could also backfire and get us in the arse. How much planning time do we have?"
Vorster looked at Faulkner, who nodded for him to talk. "We can stall. To be blunt, Mr Herzog, the Prime Minister has a point. They are in no position to resist. The HMS Silban has no other obligations at the moment, and it can stay there for a long time. We can start sending detachments of the Imperial Army under the pretense of short-term security and stability."
Herzog winced. "Oh, they won't like that. The Moledet apparatchik, I mean. Also, it won't look good in the international arena." Then, he shrugged. "Then again, who exactly is going to involve themselves? The socialists, screw them, nobody cares about them. The oat-brained yokels? They couldn't send a ship halfway up Aurelia." The room broke out in small snickers, after which Faulkner shook his head. "I trust that the Foreign and Commonwealth Office's official stance will be far more diplomatic in nature?"
"Of course, Prime Minister."
"In that case, let us start making revisions to the 1998 plans," Faulkner said, getting up from his seat, "and call for a larger cabinet meeting. This plan, if we are going to implement it succesfully, will require practically every ministry. Also, we may need to hold back on some aid to Spiritual Republic of Caryton. What we have already agreed on, fulfil," he instructed, "but others, stall them. They have not been particularly forthcoming in their economic restructuring, and it would do well if they see that we can well divert our resources elsewhere."
"Understood, Prime Minister."
Peoples republic of the german states and Spiritual Republic of Caryton
Adristo, Cabinet Found Guilty on All Charges
by Gidea Stalzome
Emotions ran high today at the National High Court in Zleles as deposed tyrant Valentine Adristo and members of his original cabinet sat at trial for crimes against the Satrossan people. After an extensive information-gathering campaign led by the SIA that spanned the entire nation, Adristo and his officers - the men and women from whom the infamous Asvar Mandates originated - were found guilty on every single atrocity presented by the state, pending sentencing by the Supreme Leader himself.
Joyous celebrations are sweeping the nation, not out of a sense of uncertainty regarding if he would be found guilty, but rather, an officialization of what we already knew. Virtually all Satrossans have had first-hand experience with the old Ascean regime, and many have been victims of unnamable brutal atrocities, including multiple witnesses and jurors, as well as myself. It is widely believed that the Supreme Leader is intending to obtain some form of reparation from the disgraced remnants of the Ascean government.
The verdict seems to have inspired a new wave of patriotism within Satross - and perhaps too much of it. Stigma against Asceans, already at a massive high, has skyrocketed yet further, and while not entirely undeserved in some cases the police have begun to further increase their vigilance in an attempt to ensure that overzealous revelers don't disturb the peace, as well as protect tried and innocent Ascean civilians still within the country. What is to be done with Ascean loyalists and Adristo himself remains to be seen, but one thing is certain: Satross is truly free at last.
Vistulange, Peoples republic of the german states, and Spiritual Republic of Caryton
Liudan, Artarumen Empire
Prime Minister's Office
"You know, one of the bureaucrats had an interesting idea yesterday morning, in a meeting." The Home Secretary, Michael Sharpe, chimed in. "These folks from Echass, how to put them to use. With how we're thinking of deploying into Artzharut, we could offer them a deal."
Prime Minister Lambert Faulkner lifted an eyebrow. "I already don't like where this is going, Mr Sharpe."
"Neither did I, Prime Minister. But, basically, the idea was to use the Echassi as auxiliary troops in Artzharut, and put less of our boys in danger. We could offer them Artarumen citizenship in exchange for, say, one or two tours in Artzharut."
Faulkner stared at Sharpe, dumbfounded. Sharpe was about to speak, when Faulkner put up a hand, silencing him.
"So you're telling me," he began, "that one of your bureaucrats had the absolutely brilliant idea of deploying refugees, refugees fleeing from a civil war, into a place where there might be high numbers of casualties, depending on how the locals like our plan?" His head tilted to the side. "That bureaucrat does realise that those people fled from a conflict, yes? And they aren't mercenaries, and that merely suggesting such a thing in an Echassi refugee camp might get one beaten up?" Shaking his head, he stood up. "What an idiot. If that's the sort of bright ideas the Home Office comes up with, these days..." He shot a scathing look at Sharpe, who seemed slightly disturbed by the Prime Minister's reaction. "Anyway. Mr Sharpe, we will need extensive policing in Artzharut once we have deployed. Essentially, the plan envisions overtaking all state functions over and a process of reconstruction and state-building over two years."
Sharpe nodded, relieved about the change in topic. "I would like you to work with Mr Matthias," Faulkner continued, gesturing at the Justice Minister who was also present, "to come up with a long-lasting and sustainable justice and policing model in Artzharut. Once concluded, your ministry will be in charge of recruiting and training new Artzharutan police forces. Mr Matthias, your ministry will also be responsible for the same, though with barristers, solicitors, judges, and prosecutors. Furthermore, there is another issue, one that concerns the cabinet at large. We intend to engage in a de-Shelefisation campaign."
Sharpe and Matthias nodded in unison. As they did, Foreign and Commonwealth Secretary Matthew Herzog came in, nodding his head to the others before sitting down. He was followed by Chancellor of the Exchequer Elizabeth Prater, who did the same before sitting down.
"This de-Shelefisation process will involve every sector of Artzharutan society and government. From the education system to the party structure, the remnants of Amnon Shelef's legacy will need to be repudiated."
Herzog lifted a hand. "Mr Herzog, yes."
"And what about his status as Father of the Nation? Upon becoming State President, Galit Halevy made sure to venerate him as such on every possible opportunity. Who do you put in his place? The man's dead, but that doesn't mean he wasn't a hero in the eyes of practically all of Artzharut."
Faulker nodded slowly. "Fair point. There is little reason to be maximalist in our approach. In fact, we need to be as pragmatic as possible. We can allow him to be venerated and respected, as long as we dismantle the whole ideology he's espoused and so on. So long as we eviscerate the substance, we can allow the veneer of Amnon Shelef to live on."
Clearing his throat, he gestured at Prater. "Ms Prater. We will need to conduct an extensive review of the Artzharutan economy. See what can be improved."
"We have already done some work on that topic, as per your circular," she began, "and it is our belief that the Artzharutan economy is highly inefficient and too rigidly controlled by the Moledet party. Unleashing corporate structures from party control should allow for economic growth to some degree as managers are permitted to make decisions not in line with party interests. Furthermore, the country lacks a skilled workforce. As it stands, their standard of living is lower than Spiritual Republic of Caryton, which is saying a lot." The whole room snickered. However, Prater continued. "Without an overhaul of their economy, it is difficult to see any political order in Artzharut being sustained. Large amounts of unemployment, gross inequality, and chronically high inflation are the primary problems. We can solve the last one by establishing a new central bank and giving it total and complete independence."
"Including goal independence?"
"Yes, Prime Minister. The Artzharutan Central Bank must be permitted to set its own goals and independently use its tools to reach those goals."
"Very good, Ms Prater. Continue."
Adjusting herself in her seat, Prater continued. "We can offset the unemployment through large-scale infrastructure programs for a while," she stated, "but eventually, jobs will need to be provided for Artzharutans over the long-term. While it will be the problem of the Artzharutan government, following our departure in two years—let's say four years, adding in unexpected problems—we will still need to lay down the foundations for a job-creating economy. Therefore, establishing the necessary educational framework for skilled labour is of utmost importance. With its limited resources—thanks to the reports by the Ministry of Energy and Natural Resources—and population, the only logical path the Artzharutan economy can take is production of high-quality and high-demand products which can be exported abroad. Consumer electronics, white appliances, armaments, possibly shipbuilding, to name a few sectors that can be focused on. Agriculture is another sector that is promising, as has been reported to us by the Ministry of Food, owing to large tracts of fertile farmland. Notably, we would be a natural market for Artzharutan agricultural produce, which is also advantageous in that they would have a default trading partner on that front. Finally," she took a drink of water, "inequality will need to be handled gradually. Artzharut does not have enough resources to sustain a large-scale welfare state without serious debt, and it is impossible to attract credit due to their economic problems. Therefore, immediate privatisation is not viable in Artzharut. The large wave of unemployment that would be triggered could cause significant political turmoil and could upset our efforts in various other areas. In light of this situation, the Imperial Treasury strongly recommends that large segments of Artzharutan economy be kept under state ownership but under independent management."
Faulkner interrupted her. "Ms Prater, is that even possible?"
"We believe that it is. Under correct supervision and correct policies, ones which we believe we can provide, it is possible to simulate market conditions while maintaining state ownership. The goal is to cultivate a healthy and prosperous private sector at the same time, to allow for gradual withdrawal of the state from the Artzharutan economy. It is my belief that we can do that. Anyway, Mr Prime Minister. That concludes the details of my report. Overall, the Imperial Treasury envisions that this process will cost the Artarumen Empire approximately £600 billion to £900 billion over three years."
Some of the ministers in the room whistled at the number, while Faulkner winced. "Damn. Damn, damn, damn. My appetite for this endeavour just soured, ladies and gentlemen." Prater smiled politely, flipping the dossier in front of her shut. "I am afraid that this is quite an adventure, Prime Minister."
Herzog grunted, pulled his cigarette away from his lips, cleared his throat, and spoke. "Again, I'd like to ask—why are we even doing this? With such a bill, what even is the point beyond posturing?"
Murmurs of agreement came in. With the massive bill Prater had set out, the whole endeavour was a lot more questionable. Even Faulkner and Sharpe, the proponents of the occupation in the first place, seemed hesitant. "Because we would ideally like to keep Artzharut as a stable state, one which is friendly to our interests, Mr Herzog," Faulkner stated, "but your point is taken. We will need to review the ambitions of this project, and consider the benefits more clearly. £900 billion is...well. A lot. Mr Vorster," he turned to the Defence Minister, "what about troop deployments?"
"Assuming that there is no conflict and no insurgent efforts, Mr Prime Minister, the Ministry of Defence foresees the deployment of 50,000 personnel in Artzharut, including heavy weapons and aircraft. Givatayim, the major port city and Artzharut's primary harbour, will be the primary headquarters. Bat Yam and Ashkelon, both of them smaller cities but with good natural harbours, will be the secondaries. In the event of conflict, we expect that this deployment could increase to 70,000 to 100,000, depending on the size and scope of the conflict." Another whistle and groans from the assembled ministers came.
However, Faulkner appeared to find that more acceptable. "50,000 over three years? Or every year?"
"Over three years, Mr Prime Minister."
"That is far more acceptable than the bill, I have to say. Have the military costs been incorporated into that bill, Ms Prater?"
It was a non-question, but Faulkner had to ask. Prater smiled and nodded. "Yes, Prime Minister. Naturally."
Naturally. "Well, I suppose that wraps it up. We'll have another meeting on this in...two weeks, everybody. I'd like some updates and plans. Mr Vorster, I would like to hear from you more often, depending on how the situation on the ground develops over there. Good work, everybody."
Murmurs and clapping were heard in the meeting room as the assembled ministers filed out. Faulkner leaned back, sighing deeply.
Spiritual Republic of Caryton, Echass, and Satross
Satrossan Global Line (SGL) News Network Headquarters, 11:43 PM
Ludine, 13th Province, the Most Serene Dominion of Satross
"I'm sorry. You don't have much of a choice."
Gidea Stalzome sat fuming at the other side of the Supervisor's desk, holding back tears. He had taken some crazy leads before, but nothing had come even close to this. How could they be sending him to this place after everything?
He was a monstrous man in his late thirties, grizzled and broad-shouldered and looming at almost seven feet, freakishly huge even for a Satrossan. His pelt was a dull grey color, with just a few silver streaks going through it in various places, mostly around his facial scruff that could be considered the canid equivalent of a five o' clock shadow. He was muscular, but not absurdly so, enough to give the impression that he worked hard and ate when he could - a strongman's physique, lacking the chiseled definition of a bodybuilder but missing little of the power behind it.
Yet, despite this, his expression held the desperation and sorrow of a tiny mouse drowning in a cesspool.
"I- sir. I'm telling you, I can't go there," Gidea growled. He didn't sound convinced of himself, and he gradually raised his voice to mask this. "Why the hell do they want more? The SIA got everything they needed. The man is gone! Why can't they just burn the place to the ground?!"
"I understand. But you're not naïve, Gidea. You know as well as I do why they want more, and we both know you're the only one who can do this."
The journalist fell silent as his muzzle contorted into a grimace. He did know - and deep down, he felt a morbid attraction to the place, certainly not in the sense that it was a place he wanted to visit again, but rather, a feeling that he had to finish what he started. "... I know. I'm just... I wish it didn't have to be me, damnit. It was painful enough testifying, and now they want more, gods help me." Gidea slipped a hand in his pocket and gripped a small, oblong talisman which looked like a dream catcher. "This is ridiculous. I don't think I can take it."
The Supervisor, a patient and weathered man in his mid-sixties, folded his hands on the desk and continued calmly. "If it helps, you can bring your partner. You may want an extra pair of eyes."
"You know how I work," Gidea replied with a defeated sigh. "I still don't know why you assigned me one. Gods bless him, he's a glorified intern. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he is, he couldn't write his way out of a 3rd-grade Aygesh exam. Besides, you said it best. I'm the only one who can do this, and I need to do it alone."
Normally such language was not permitted, but the Supervisor understood exactly where Gidea's agitation originated. The two of them had built a strong rapport over the years. He knew Gidea was an upstanding, resilient man, more resilient than almost anyone he'd met, and that in the end he would pull through despite his rage - that this was something he needed to do for himself, too, not just the press.
Gidea exhaled and slowly rose to his feet with a grunt. "I'll call you tomorrow morning, get it over with and make a day out of it. I swear, the things I do for this damn paper," he grumbled, and shook the Supervisor's hand. "I'll bring my camera, too. I doubt we'll need the footage, but you never know."
"Thanks, Gidea. Talk to you soon. Get some sleep and take your time, okay?"
"Mhmm." With that he lumbered out of the office, wiping his face and steeling his nerves. He could already see the unhallowed walls of that place in his mind's eye, smell that godsawful mix of hate and blood and death, the ghosts of the masses disposed of like trash, but as much as he despised the mere memory of the place's existence, he had a job to do.
And just for a moment, Gidea could have sworn that the huge scar under his shirt throbbed.
...
SGL digital timestamps show that Gidea sent in the final revision at 5:03 AM the next morning along with a strongly worded message detailing exactly how he felt about this godsforsaken stupid place, and showed up the next day to work four hours late and completely exhausted. Of the footage that he sent with it, footage of a panic attack had to be stricken from the record at his request.
----------------------
Ghastly Findings Unearthed in El-Deginia Lab
by Gidea Stalzome
(translated from Aygesh)
One can only imagine what SDSA officers must have been thinking about that cold morning as they finally unlocked and unboarded the New Deginian Health Center within the city of El-Deginia, in 8th Province.
As part of a missive from the Satrossan Division of Scientific Advancement, the NDHC, long believed to have been shut down by the Ascean regime in the early 1950s, was entered for the first time in over 65 years and cleaned out. It was expected to be a simple task - clean it out, take some notes, see if the place could be salvaged and modernized. What was found there, however, was one of the most disturbing things the nation has ever seen.
Records found in the building tell a story of cruelty and tragedy. The hospital was being used in secret by the Ascean government to conduct under-the-radar experiments on Satrossan subjects, secure behind closed and locked doors and barred and boarded windows. Medical records here read like autopsies, doctors operated like butchers, and and there was even footage found that is still under review by the SDSA. Satrossans were taken to this place healthy and returned from it bearing horrible scars, missing or extra organs or limbs, missing tails and ears, mentally incapacitated... or they weren't returned at all, their remains crudely dumped into an incinerator that, towards the end of the regime's lifespan, stopped working, leaving a pile of dozens of corpses to be found by SDSA officials last week. Exact numbers have not yet been released, but it is estimated that over six thousand Satrossans died in this place, and countless more still with us today bear the scars and marks inflicted by Ascean doctors turned torturers.
The findings represent a growing wave of national melancholy, fear, and anger in the grim wake of the Asceans. Satross is anxiously awaiting governmental policy regarding Asceans still within the country, as well as Valentine Adristo and his cabinet's sentencing by Supreme Leader Istred and the rebranding of places in Satross still bearing their accursed names.
[LIVE]: Der Reischsbrotkast - 2021 Elections Coverage
Reporting is coming in tonight, the Volksrepublik of Vienna has already certified their votes with a certain majority going to the Communist Party of Germania, with Premier Otto Krenz expected to remain in office for another four years. Elsewhere, projections are showing an early lead for the Reisch Conservative Party in the Kingdoms of Rugaria, Burgundy, Holweck and the Archduchy of Upper Saxonia, historically right-leaning territories that may very well carry across a victory for Hugo Felsenbaum. The Free Cities of Volksdorf and Seerath are, as usual, expected to have the Alliance for Free Imperial Cities in the lead, whilst votes for local reverend Elijah Barnet - running as an Independent - is being reported in the Duchy of Bohlen-Dassau.
Reischskommissariat Nevarran and Crimsonia however are tallying up votes for the Social Democratic Workers Party of Germania, as well as the County of Fleming and the Principality of Florstedt. The Social Democrats and the Conservatives are currently neck-and-neck in the County of Rolandia, with Luther Ehrenstein in an early lead for now. This night is shaping up to be a real nail-biter, stay tuned.
"Is there truly still a place for Laughter in this world built on pain and suffering...?" Pearlescent mused, mostly to herself. "I want to believe there is. I wish you the best of luck, Bishop Pie."
Having said that, she boarded the dropship with Shield Wall loyally following her. As the dropship took off and rose to the sky, the fugitive noblemare watched Ponyville recede until the hatch closed completely and they were left in the sterile ozone smelling hold, the roar of the engines drowning out all other sounds. Pearlescent noted that despite all the carnage she had witnessed during the attack and while travelling through the town, the damage didn't look nearly as bad from above. The vast majority of Ponyville was still intact, and the wounds caused by the fighting were already healing. The Novumequines were working tirelessly like ants who quickly repaired any damage inflicted on their hill, uncaring of the prospect of failure or the inevitable future hardships and suffering they would face.
"Are you alright, Little Miss?" Shield Wall asked, having noticed Pearlescent's contemplative mood.
"Yes, Shield," she replied. "I'm just a little shaken, but I'm feeling better already. I think I'll try to get a little sleep before we reach the fleet. Please wake me when we get there."
The fighting was indeed brutal, but ultimately not more so than what Rainbow had already witnessed during the Demon Invasion or during her years as Twilight's top commander, or later the supreme General of all Equestrian forces. Soldiers getting wounded and dying in horrible pain, whispering the names of their loved ones with their final breath... In the end, it didn't really matter whether they were killed by bullets, spells or axes wielded by crazed cultists.
"So this Chaos you've fought against for so long... they're not a unified force?" she asked. "I guess I should have guessed as much, given their name... Do you know anyting about their origin? How did they manage to corrupt the first Ponies? I don't understand why anypony would worship them or willingly side with them. I looks like to me that the only things they can offer are pain and suffering..."
Abiding and Simplifying
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dDMgs0BGGXE
Dorothy Shirleyton's plan seemed to work. As small towns were finally starting to grow and large cities were finally rebuilding proper metropolitan areas, the amount of people living in any settlement larger than a small city (100,000+) grew from 12% to 38% over the past year. It was not enough to compromise their agrarian customs and lifestyle, but the impact on Caryton's unremarkable and stagnant economy would be dramatic. The private sector in agriculture would be given much needed breathing room and family farms could finally purchase more land and grow their crop output.
The previously-aforementioned Man's Best Friend Automotives have released modern agricultural vehicles from tractors to thrashers and harvesters to replace obsolete models or in some cases- hand labor- in farming. Similarly, the government of Caryton has incentivized the private sector to build crop distribution centers to maintain crop quality while in transport.
Both agricultural companies and family farms alike would have increased their landmass and modern tools at their disposal- easily making Carytonic crops more populous, with the intention of out-producing the world in agricultural products.
In the case of especially remote hamlets, family farms who refuse to cooperate, or other specific situations that make modernization, conglomeration, or organization difficult or impossible, the Gospel Church of Caryton has offered another option in the form of theological communes, meant to bolster crop production and keep small family farms above water and surviving to keep the agrarian culture alive. These communes, named "Relief Communities", are organized according to local leadership from a mere couple of houses to a neighborhood, all the way up to town and province-sized units. Relief Communities are intended to be self-sufficient and to garnish/be the cherry on top of the increase of agricultural production, but the voluntary primitiveness of several of the hardliners' farming techniques and reluctance to communicate with any other entity than the Gospel Church of Caryton may pose a danger to their long-term economic viability. The Relief Communities are simply a way to milk agriculture from the Carytonic people for all it was worth while simultaneously preventing the upset that would come from small-time farmers being priced out. However, with the correct guidance from the GCC, they may prove to be vital for the internal cohesion of the lower classes of society as for the first times, farms grow and agricultural production skyrockets.
The Congress of Caryton has passed a new law regarding agricultural goods. Passed with 203 of 301 house votes of the sortition-based Citizens Council, Passed with 16 of 25 regional representative house votes, and passed with a unanimous 11 votes of the gospel house, strict tariffs will be imposed on all agricultural goods attempting to be sold into Caryton. The government of Caryton is attempting to make it clear that its agricultural goods are meant to be bought, and there is no desire to sell back to Georgine what is already in abundance.
Man's Best Friend Automotives has seen success in reproducing vintage cars and selling them within Caryton, forming reliable and aesthetically-pleasing vehicles with decent gas mileage and lifespan for an astronomically low price. MBF Corporate is offering to build dealerships in other countries, intending to appeal to the lower classes of foreign nations and vintage car enthusiasts alike.
The momentary halt of military supplies from 
Artarum had sparked concern in the Spiritual Republic of Caryton, especially with the threat of not only the Militant Church of Cary but now the new fascist regime on their borders. Caryton's air force was primarily comprised of overwhelming numbers of overwhelmingly archaic numbers of F-11 jets and similar planes with a minority of Artarumen F-16 jets. The Carytonic Arms Industry was not yet at a time where it could reverse engineer or replicate the parts to an F-16, and it seemed that the pilots under Artarumen training were not yet skilled enough to teach others themselves.
The main military ground force, reserves, and even sections of the Home Force of Martyrs Paramilitary were armed well with both Carytonic weapons and Alta Military Surplus, but the parts to those weapons were scarce, especially for paramilitary fighters and common civilians, who often armed themselves with either hunting weapons or obsolete assault rifles to improvised mortars or archaic MLR cannons depending on circumstances.
Therefore, the Ordained Combined Forces would be sent into a scramble to sign a new deal with Artarum for the release of maintenance parts, intellectual property (such as blueprints and training handbooks), ammunition, and training for local gunsmiths to better maintain the heavier weapons kept over from the Altan Regime. Similarly, the state of Westbeech and 
Island Zero would be approached with similar deals to bring in as many parts, knowledge, and skill potential as possible to arm it's last lines of defense as well as possible.
It would do well for the oatmeal-eating fundamentalists to do defensive drills that did not involve grandmothers with clunky sniper rifles.
With oil coming in from the islands of Carynesia and the warm fields of the Southern Gospel Authority, fuel would soon not become an issue.
With Dorothy Shirleyton rumored to be in her last few months in her career, the grandmotherly reverend would see to it that her fledgeling nation would be in as stable of a situation as possible.
"... Artarum?"
Lon Algin, Minister of International Relations, leered at the sheet in front of him. The proposal was so strange, it just might work. "I don't quite understand, Mr. Paler. I can see it on a basic level, but why are we focusing on a distant superpower instead of our neighbors on Otenia?"
"Well, we need not focus on it, necessarily," Alirir Paler replied. The nervous diplomat was sitting at the other side of the desk, shuffling papers in front of him absently. "I'm sure you believe as well as we do that Satross must start off on the right foot. This is the first communication with another nation that this country will have under its own power, its own flag, and its own leadership. In a word, it is momentous. We can additionally reach out to the other Otenian nations, but I believe that we would do well to first contact a nation that is more... distant, physically speaking."
"So, then, why Artarum?" Algin asked, folding his hands in front of him and turning his gaze directly to Paler. He was almost ignoring the other diplomat sitting next to him, Giciel Chernais, whose expression was completely stoic and calm as opposed to the practically vibrating Alirir. "It's a veritable superpower. Significantly larger than Satross, a human nation, and very religious. The risk is quite considerable. If you insist on reaching overseas, why not contact a different nation?"
"As outlined in the proposal note, we are of the belief that Artarum would have at least a superficial amount of interest," Chernais interjected, breaking his minutes-long silence. "It maintains relations with almost every country on the planet, and Satrossans are practically starved for information about other countries. We believe that, at the very least, any form of cultural exchange between Satross and Artarum would be beneficial to both states. Artarum has a new market of ravenous Satrossans, Satross has a new cultural avenue to discover, and we both have the basis of what could be a long-lasting and prosperous relationship."
"Very well. But what is it that Satross actually has to offer?" Algin continued. "We are in a very vulnerable position, Mr. Chernais. The nation is still in the early stages of rebuilding, and the Ascean regime has left a grim stain on this country which I can imagine is easy for a foreign nation to find disagreeable, even appalling. Of course, we are not at fault for the legacy our oppressors left, but the point is it's touchy. The economy and the military is not exactly stellar. Our science is moving well, but it's not enough on its own beyond mere novelties. Furthermore, you still haven't addressed the religious aspect."
At this, both Paler and Chernais fell silent. They were well aware that the vast differences in religion had a good chance of being divisive, though they hoped for the best. Satross was almost entirely agnostic, and Christianity was unheard of; the only other religion within the state was the Communion of Deshi, the polytheistic occult religion that was perhaps the furthest thing from any form of Christianity.
Algin continued after another second. "There is another point of possible contention." He motioned to his own body in a general sweeping motion. "To be completely blunt, gentlemen, we bear a striking resemblance to demons, monsters, extraterrestrial beings, or what have you. We are alarming to most. There is a very good reason why we have not yet reached out to other nations long after our independence. On what do you base your confidence that Artarum would be interested in anything we have to offer, with that being said?"
"Simply put, Minister, we believe that there is no harm in trying," Paler meekly replied, pushing up his glasses. "Other nations which exist in contradiction to Artarum remain standing. We feel like the worst that can happen is a return-to-sender of our initial correspondence. To be frank, it would look terrible if they actually retaliated over a simple attempt to communicate. I understand your concern, but I believe that there is a degree of national paranoia when it comes to international contact, and contacting Artarum successfully would be a great step in the right direction, so to speak. The divisive differences can be addressed in the future, if and when they arise."
Algin glanced at the paper before him again. He glanced at his watch, then glanced between Paler and Chernais, then back at the paper. The silence was deafening, and remained so for a handful of seconds that felt much longer than that to the two diplomats. Finally, he looked back up at the two of them and exhaled, seeming cautious yet convinced. "I'll forward this to the Supreme Leader's office and report back to you two with the result. It just might work out, but between us three, I wouldn't get your hopes up."
Paler and Chernais nodded with their respective thanks and good-byes and got to their feet together, each giving a handshake to Algin and exiting the office. That went better than expected.
---------------------------------------------------------
To the esteemed Prime Minister Lambert Faulkner,
I hope this missive finds you well. I am the Minister of International Relations of the Most Serene Dominion of Satross, a nation which has only recently found independence and dismantled the walls of isolationism established by the now-exiled Greater Ascean Republic, the existence of which you may or may not already be familiar. Our Division of International Relations is in a position to begin making contact with other nations and integrating Satross into the global stage.
The Supreme Leader has taken interest in reaching out to your state and humbly requests to arrange a meeting to discuss the possibilities of a diplomatic relationship. Such a meeting would be hosted wherever you see fit and would be between myself, the Supreme Leader, and/or a team of diplomats, whichever best suits your convenience and necessity.
Attached will be found a small overview of the Dominion and its unique racial situation to aid in your consideration.
At your service,
Lon Algin
Post self-deleted by The greater antipodes.
«12. . .8,1888,1898,1908,1918,1928,1938,194. . .8,2698,270»
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