«12. . .3,2643,2653,2663,2673,2683,269»
The Rains fall lightly on the Zinnia
Akane Ármann sat down with a hot drink to relax in front of her telescreen. The dimly lit apartment and the dreary weather outside stood in stark contrast to a brightly colored and vibrant scenery of the nature documentary that played out on her telescreen. Her home sound system making it sound like she was surrounded by animals and nature. Her mind wandered as she laid back on her old recliner. Yesterday when going out after work with her colleagues she had run into an old acquaintance. They had almost gone past one another without noticing and she didn’t even remember his name to begin with. They had greeted and asked how things were before parting once more. She wondered if she should call him. Tomorrow maybe.
Her phone vibrated as if reading her mind and she smiled unknowingly to herself. Reaching for her phone she didn’t notice that the sound system had gone silent. She awakened the dead screen and was faced with a red letter shaped notification. Her telescreen displayed the same sign before she pressed it open.
The national emblem appeared followed by the Wehrmacht insignia and her heart sank. Her eyes darting down the text as she groaned. It was a summoning for military duty. A mandatory exercise and here engineering company was up.
She put the phone away. Around her the sound of running gazelles could be heard once more. She rubbed her temples and contemplated the news. Within 64 hours she had to report to base. Someone at work would have to take over her current project. It would set the office back at least a week if not more. At least one day of freedom remained before she had to get her stuff in order and head out. She grabbed her phone and called her old acquaintance.
**********
Olev Jaagup undid his linen shirt the moment he was inside the door and the cool temperature of the apartment embraced his dark skin. The fur on his body removed by laser years ago. In the living room is teenage son was drowsing in front of the telescreen that was set on some news channel for pop culture.
”This is the biggest joint Roman-Aatelisian film production to date!” exclaimed a confident man that Olev thought he recognized. “It blows any previous project out of the water.”
Moving over to the kitchen to see what was left in the fridge the telly could still be heard. ”..it’s going to be radical. We got an all star cast and crew with Carol Leone doing the directing, the script is written by these two legendary Aatelisian brothers. Some of the real top of the line Aatelisian actors are with us like....”
Olev heard his tablet vibrate from a notification on the kitchen sink as he closed the door to the abyssal fridge. He walked over only to be faced with a bright letter shaped icon covering the screen. Reacting on the unusual design of the notification he pressed the icon which revealed a letter from the ministry of foreign affairs.
Dear Olev Jaagup, son of the Union.
Your birthplace of Aatelisia stands threatened by the ever increasing threat of national populism. In the times to come Aatelisia will go to vote and should their missguided citizens be all too fooled by empty promises then so tightens the populist noose.
Should it be that you still have familial ties to Aatelisia then please, both for your new home, and for those innocent lives that remain at your old one, consider writing to those left behind. Consider warning them of the impending danger.
We’re all ultimately responsible for our actions, but it is all too easy to fall prey for the sweetest of lies.
Olev looked up from the strange letter and at his son dozing off in the sofa. He thought of his parents. He hadn’t done that in a long time.
**********
Broad shouldered and notoriously grumpy, Tierra Lygia, Chief Inspector of the New Genéve Metropolitan Police Department. The massive table in front of her was one big telescreen displaying a series of crime scene pictures. Camera and drone footage played on screens on the walls alongside muted sound uptakes. Hovering above the table was a high definition hologram of the district mortician on duty which had just finished explaining the death of John Roberts and David Milisen in gruesome and dreary detail.
Captain Julius Korneli of the National Gendarmerie Service stood next to Lygia, having heard the same report from the mortician. His face was a strained blank slate.
“Are we done now? Had your little fun yet?” Lygia grunted. She was a head shorter than Korneli but with twice the presence.
“Would you like it if I said no?” Korneli asked while fighting off a sigh. His presence had been an unwanted one and then he hadn’t even counted in the chewing out he had received from the fire department.
“No, I’d call you a prick.”
“Then I didn't say it.”
“Prick...” Lygia’s face morphed as she stoped herself from spitting on the floor. She had damages and a ripe mess on her hands thanks to the NGS and whoever got away with doing their thinking for them. “I sure hope this horse dung of a farce was worth it.”
Korneli sighed. Looking at things now he fully agreed with her. But that was neither here nor there. Instead he put on a stoic face. “I just had word that we’ve retrieved the culprit. Before the mortician called I mean.”
“Not apprehended?” Lygia asked with venom.
“Our agents tried to tranq him without being noticed but he still managed to chew on a suicide pill. He’s being brought in for autopsy.”
“It’s bloody austonding that they would even have the brains to carry the pills. What da frakk did they even suspect would happen playing cloak and dagger in the middle of the city?” Lygia was really getting her steam going. “We wrote the bloody book on mass surveillance for frakks sake. Some Ruzalkan hillbilly without an interlink stands out like a sore thumb. John Roberts death was identified by the network within an hour. We have every sensory reading and GPS log from the Voyagare ever since the Ruzalkan entered it. We could have arrested him before lunch and for frakks sake why wasn’t Milisen locked up in some facility?”
“It got our John Doe to reavele and liquidate himself.” Korneli remarked offhandedly as if commenting on the weather.
“The bloody tapestry in that burned out apartment was worth more than some bloody self inflicted liquidation! The moment he had tried to get near some a restricted area or if the Ruzalkans finally decided to take leave of their senses and declare war the KBP would have put a bullet through his head!” shouted Lygia. “I’m going to make it excruciatingly clear in my report what I think of this entire farce.”
And here I thought we were getting along so nicely, Korneli wanted to say. The sarcasm tasting like acid on his lips but he kept his mouth closed. At least now the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had gotten plenty of ammunition.
Homeland Defense Initiative, Part III
Director Wells could hear the kind doctor that just woke him up screaming outside. It came through in bits and pieces, perhaps because he wasn’t fully awake yet, but one part was clear for him: a name.
”...Morin. You’re not even a nurse, you’re…”
Morin was not the name of a nurse. Director Wells already knew that much, though. He paid a woman by the name of Morin every other week for basic PR duties, and she told him dozens of times over as many cocktails that she was an only child. She was unusually proud of that fact. All the same, though, Morin was not a common name, and this nurse’s name was Cambrian, not Sarah, and the two bore almost no resemblance. As quickly as it came, the thought vanished from his mind. His fatigue grasped him once more, and he fell back asleep.
~
Cambrian Morin twisted the key to her apartment the wrong way as she tried to unlock it after getting home from work. Swearing lightly, she turned it correctly and opened the door. To anyone else, such a mistake would be an accident, but as a doctor-in-training, such a mistake could mean life or death in the operating room. She laughed at the title she gave herself: doctor-in-training. Ever since her sister’s seizure, she hadn’t set foot on a university campus, much less attended lectures. Studying medicine was difficult. After doffing her coat and hat, Cambrian set the bags of groceries on the glass countertop. Her reflection stared back at her.
Studying medicine is difficult.
The bags contained various culinary odds and ends- a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs, a head of lettuce, three pounds of meat, a few tomatoes, avocado, some wine, a few bananas, and some spices. She’d make bacon, eggs, and toast tomorrow morning to celebrate the start of the week. She smiled just a bit, imagining the way she had perfected her breakfast cooking. After a brief moment of excitement, Cambrian swore again. Her sister hated eggs. She began to empty the bags into the refrigerator, locking eyes once again with her reflection, this time in a mirror on a magnet.
The yolk needs to stay runny to flavor the toast…
Two bedrooms adjoined to the kitchen and living room area in her apartment. One was hers, the other her sister’s. Together, they could make rent in a decently nice place, and they had always been relatively close. Over the years, staying together just… worked. The hardest part, of course, was the seizure. Beforehand, her sister had worked long hours in a factory to make rent while Cambrian used the life insurance money from her mom’s recent heart attack to pay tuition to the College of Medicine at a local university. Afterwards, the roles almost reversed- Cambrian used the remainder of the insurance money to pay for nursing certification and accepted employment at the first clinic to take her. Meanwhile, her sister stayed in her hospital bed watching online political science lectures. Her sister would graduate three years later despite the excruciating course load of her accelerated graduation timeline, but she would stay in the same clinic the whole time- and would, in fact, never leave.
Cambrian entered her room, leaving her sister’s door closed. A desk covered in various makeup trays greeted her, as well as an open closet filled with fancy clothing. Several worn political science textbooks were strewn about on her bed, some covered in notes. Exhausted, she tossed them off onto the floor, collapsing into her bed. Eventually, she decided to roll over and turn on the TV.
”...The Council has officially declared voting in the Congresses of the Military, Economy and Interior on the topic of an ambitious new bill, dubbed the Homeland Defense Initiative. This program would seek to secure the Councilship from any foreign threats by increasing defense spending, redoubling attempts to reconstruct the Idginkers C.R., and repositioning key orbital assets. Critics claim that the inexperienced Director Wells is jumping at his own shadow here; Celoniae has always been safe from international turmoil, and has long held the title of the greatest power on Arpalia. There are no threats, critics claim, that would justify the additional expenses of a bill such as the Homeland Defense Initiative in peacetime. This, of course, raises an important question, one posed by Chairman of the Military Congress Jackson Rayburn in the most recent session: ‘Does Director Wells know that the Councilship is at peace?’ To some, however, the Councilship is not. The recent claims and actions of the expansionist Ruzalkan state intimidate some Celoniaens, who believe that the Initiative may be the shield that the Councilship needs to protect itself.
Idginkerian representatives are understandably more eager to pass this bill than those from other parts of the nation; the Centraelis metropolitan area and most of northern Celoniae is predicted to vote against the bill. The future of the bill is still up in the air- whether it passes or fails, it will do so just barely. David Greens, a political scientist for the Centraelis Sentinel, will elaborate after the break.”
Cambrian’s eye twitched at the mention of the name. David Greens was in many of her sister’s classes, and in fact dated her sister for a few months. That short-lived relationship was a point of perverse pride for Cambrian- the night after they broke up, David slept with Cambrian and left quite the essay on her sister’s door about why Cambrian was so much better in bed. It turned out to be just a one night stand, but it satisfied Cambrian’s competitive side.
Cambrian sighed, grabbing a bottle of wine from her nightstand. She shouldn’t think back to those times. The bottle was empty, but she could not summon the energy to go to the kitchen and get another. Instead, she opened a drawer in the nightstand, revealing a bottle of cheap Aatelisian vodka. She grabbed the bottle and took a swig. Almost immediately she felt better. The sounds of the advertisements faded away as she had another drink. The world was still fvcked, but at least she could satisfy herself. Her sister would often go out drinking when she was in school, despite the warnings on her medication. Perhaps that’s what brought about the second seizure, the one that nobody heard-or would ever hear- about. Perhaps that’s what brought Cambrian to stop just supporting Sarah Morin, and to fully become her.
Perhaps that in itself was why she drank so much. Living the lives of two people was quite exhausting.
Cracks
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>>>SYSTEM ONLINE
>>>LOGIN|CODEWORD REQUIRED
>>>TRUTH IS BURDENED BY DECEIT
>>>USER AUTHENTICATED
>>>ESTABLISHING SECURE CONNECTION. PLEASE STANDBY
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>>>SECURE CONNECTION ESTABLISHED
>>>A-5 IS NOW IN ATTENDANCE
>>>CURRENT MEMBERS IN ATTENDANCE: A-1, A-2, A-3, A-4, A-5, A-6
>>>ALL MEMBERS NOW IN ATTENDANCE
>>>CONFERENCE MAY NOW COMMENCE
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A-1: It has been a long while since our last discussion, but I am sure you all know exactly why we are here, no?
A-3: You’re going to have to refresh my memory here because we’re dealing with many issues that have, quite frankly, blindsided this council. Are we here to discuss the ongoing demonstrations in the capital? Or how about the fact that there may be elements within Atlexil that seek to overthrow the government?
A-5: That last part isn’t that much concerning, to be honest. What is concerning though is the real possibility of a fifth-column among our citizenry, and the events ongoing in the capital is just further evidence of national populism being a danger to this country.
A-4: Fifth-column? Are you seriously considering people who are rightfully dissatisfied with the current state of things to be fifth-columnists?
A-5: I'm correct in my assertion and fully stick by it. I've said it before in prior meetings but national populism is a threat that must be quashed in this country before it escalates.
A-2: The people are only acting this way because this country is now facing a crisis of identity and has been in the past pulled into the petty squabbling of children. We were a republic, then a populist state during the revolutions, and now we're part of a dual-monarchy. A dual-monarchy that is looked at by segments of the populace as a betrayal of populistic values.
A-6: If I may interject but can we please focus on the potential coup? Compared to everything else that's the most concerning matter.
A-3: What about it? The only things that provide any existence of this "coup" are subversive materials that call out the hypocrisy of the chancellor and the "betrayal" that is the Mediastrum. There is nothing to be worried about and jumping at the shadows during a time like this will help no one at all.
A-5: I think the fact that these subversive materials exist in the first place is more than enough evidence to begin jumping at the shadows. For all we know, these dissident elements could be responsible for the demonstrations and I strongly believe that this council should field an investigation.
A-2: Is this going to be exactly like Rozalia again? I thought having egg on your face would've made you more humble after that, but I guess I was wrong then.
A-5: Rozalia was only a disaster because the proper resources weren't allocated to the operation. Dina.
A-2: No. It was a disaster because your little eyes jumped the gun and ended up getting good people killed due to your department's bullshit excuse of "OPSEC". Thirty-five people died that day due to arrogant stupidity and I would rather not see it be repeated.
A-1: Enough. While I am quite aware of how charged the subject of Rozalia is for the few that were involved but I will remind you all to maintain a modicum of decorum while we're here.
A-6: Shall we call a vote concerning this matter? At the very least, a cursory investigation should be satisfactory for all in attendance.
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>>>A-1 HAS CALLED FOR A VOTE: CONDUCT CURSORY INVESTIGATION
>>>YAY VOTES: 3 TOTAL, NAY VOTES: 2 TOTAL, ABSTAINS: 1 TOTAL
>>>VOTE HAS BEEN PASSED
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A-1: We will return and have further discussion on how to properly address the demonstrations. This conference is now adjourned.
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CONFERENCE NOW OVER
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(Author's Note: Well, I have a few things to start getting ready for Atlexil...Dear god the plot bunnies aren't gonna leave me alone now. Hope everyone is having a good time though.)
National News
This is Mediastrum News, bringing you the latest updates
“Good evening, I’m Kurt and this Mediastrum news”
“Today the government announced it will be drafting up plans to start expanding and developing the lands east on the island. All we know for now is that some sort of ‘lottery’ will take place somewhere in the near future.
In other news the Emperor has announced it will visit Atlexil to speak with its local parliament and discuss its future and development as well as discussing Atlexil plans to unite its two separated parts on the northern continent.
Furthermore tensions are still rising across the globe between the alliances of The Axis and The SFA and an arms race seems to be developing. Here to join is Peter. Peter could you inform us a bit about the situation?”
“Certainly Kurt. As we know countries became more alert after the Populist Revolutions across the globe. Especially the Ruzalkan Civil War and its war with Valyria, which we supported. In response to that, some nations formed the Sovereign Free Assembly, SFA as its known, was established. Hostilities kept growing but that’s most of the intel we have so far.”
“Thanks Peter, And that all for tonight. We’ll be back tomorrow”
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Hey folks, sorry for the short story. Private life is keeping me pretty occupied, I'll do my best to get more post up soon.
The Title Is There Is No Title
“Hello, and welcome journalists and reporters to this week’s press conference, as you may know I am Moises Valentini, Nysidan Palace Press Secretary. During this time you may ask questions to our Generalissimo, Hugo Cojocarus directly on a variety of topics. Do note that being allowed within the Nysidan Palace Press Room is a privilege, so do tread carefully.”
Cojocarus scanned the room as Valentini began his introduction. Several people were fanning themselves with their notes in their seats, apparently bothered by the humidity that accompanied with this time of year. The muggy feeling in the room was not helped by the amount of people currently present, the ceiling fan above barely serving its purpose, instead only giving a buzzing ambient sound.
Press conferences have always been his least favorite part of the job. He always kept his personal interactions with journalists both foreign and domestic to a minimum, or at least tried to. The desperation for the next big scoop and the constant repetition of questions made him slightly uneasy, especially when it comes to the international press. However, with the advent of more and more crises within Marossia and the international community need for them has risen quite considerably. The presence of his press secretary has made things considerably less agitating, at the very least, most of the nonsense of that particular variety may be passed on to him to deal with. However, at the very least Cojocarus himself would have to be present for questioning at a fairly regular interval, lest he become known as the “Hermit Generalissimo” for years to come.
His press secretary did not necessarily put out the image that Marossia wanted to project to the world, at least physically. The man was rather heavy, was nearing old age, and had a pattern of balding that gave his hairline a peculiar “M” shape. The state tended to choose candidates for appointed office that would represent the physical superiority of the Marossian people, those that would actually fit Military criteria. However, Valentini’s saving grace was that he was damn good at his job, there was a tipping point where being able to excel at the particular duty was far more important than appearances, which allowed him to beat out the younger, more fit options on the shortlist for that cabinet position.
“Is the Generalissimo ready to receive questions at this time?” Valentini asked, turning back towards Cojocarus. Cojocarus nodded.
Valentini nodded back.
“The Generalissimo shall begin taking questions at this time, we will begin with the gentleman in the back.”
A young man stood up from his chair. “Yes, hello, my name is Ambrosio Padovan and I write for the Tylisselium Post, for the neglected infrastructure in our new South, the railways in particular, are there any plans to bring that up to modern standards, or will new structures be built to replace them?”
“Excellent question. We will be doing a mix of both, many of the cities in the South that have been abandoned are in bad shape. We will be doing mass renovations of these cities, of course, while leaving structures that are still usable untouched. The roads that were not in use during the reign of illegitimate state shall also be repaved as needed, as the jungle growth has damaged many of these. The railroads however had maintained constant use, and have been well maintained so all that needs to be done is connecting them to the Northern lines.”
“Next question.” Valentini yelled, pointing towards the middle of the room. “You there.”
“I am Adriene Cremonesi, for the Dyta Times, I just want to ask, how do you intend on integrating the Southern Maro into larger Marossian society? After two centuries, our societies have converged quite a bit.”
“Excellent question, while our Southern brethren have diverged quite a bit, their core identity has not been touched. The changes between us are minor, necessitated by the need for them to be isolated from the dominated Krakian society. We have begun setting up social programs to aid with the integration, and we encourage parents to have their children join the Phoenix Youth Legion to instil in them the proper values.” Cojocarus replied.
“Alright, next question, the blonde woman seated towards the right wall.” Valentini barked.
“Yes, my name is Ludmilla Cybulka, and I am representing Kashaniva News Network. My question is, how do you reconcile the brutality and destruction you have allowed with this war, with your desire to be seen as a reformer?”
“...Pardon me, miss?”
“The war with Krakheim. Do you think the amount of force you used was appropriate? So much force you destroyed millions of egg nests dooming the Krakian species to extinction?”
“Those weren’t the intended targets in the war, they were just unfortunately hit in the crossfire.”
“Unfortunately, hmm?” She paused for a few seconds, for dramatic effect. “As unfortunate as all the Krakian villages leveled as a result of the firebombing, killing millions?”
“Those villages either contained combatants or weaponry.”
“Combatants and weapons...perhaps...the Marossian definition of combatants is broad? Extending to...the elderly and children?”
“Excuse me? I think-”
“Do you think calling a war for the flimsiest reason-”
“The war was justified, I don’t see how you expect-”
“Do you enjoy hurting others, Mr. Generalissimo? Do you enjoy watching suffering?” The young journalist cried out, arms being grabbed roughly by the guardsmen. “Do you even realize what you have done? Do you even care? You’ve wiped out an entire civilization, an entire race!” She practically screeched while twisting and pulling away from her captors.
“There is blood on your hands Mr. Cojocarus, the blood of innocents! You and your ilk will rot for what you have done!” The sound of her heels dragging on the marble floor was near inaudible over the sound of her voice.
She screeched further as the guards attempted to drag her through the doors. “You are not a Reformer, you are a Murder, a driver of Genocide. You are filth!”
The door slammed shut, and an uncomfortable silence hung over the press room.
“...I...do believe we are done for the day. No more questions.” Cojocarus declared, frozen faced. “...If my press secretary would, follow me outside, please.”
Valentini blinked, then nodded. “Of course, sir. Members of the press, please follow the guards to find the proper exits, thank you.”
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In the safety of his office he was able to express and process his thoughts. Unfiltered. No press, no diplomats, no need to keep up appearances. It was a much needed refuge from the near insanity that has enveloped himself, and his nation from the moment he entered office.
A privacy, he was very, very much grateful for as he stared at the portly man in front of him.
“What the hell was that?” Cojocarus seethed. “I thought foreign reporters were barred.”
“No, no sir...not every country.” Valentini mumbled.
Cojocarus sighed. Of course. Enough incidents have already happened to where it certainly felt like they have been, anyhow.
“...Make it so, if you would please. Send out a statement, I don’t care how you spin it. We don’t need another one of...that.”
Valentini nodded. “Of course, I’ll begin a draft promptly.” He began walking towards the door before pausing, and slowly turned back towards Hugo. “Should I...cancel next month’s press conference?”
“...Just go please.”
“Alright, alright...” Valentini relented, before walking away and closing the door behind him.
Alone against the Coming Storm
Nea Roumatta Acropolis
The twin suns shone brightly over the capital city. Even though much of it was in ruins. Celebration of the end of the civil war marked in a peaceful resolution that ended the seven month infighting. Both loyalists and triumvirate members embraced one another as their leaders have talked throughout the week of negotiations. Even then so, much work was needed to be done, much of the nation was in shambles and it would take months to even repair the entirety of the damages. King Myron was breathing slowly as to not let his nerves get to him as he stood in front of the main entrance of Nyx Palace. Smoking his lack cigarette from his package as he sighed into the distance. Seeing the crystal blue ocean waves lap against the shoreline gave the king of Iralkta a sense of peace. Something that he greatly needed as he needed to escape from the politics. He was in his thoughts before a warm soft hand caressed his face.
"My king... what troubles you?" Lyssandra spoke in a soothing calm that Myron grew to love and respect. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand more and held it in a tender grip, as if his responsibilities have washed away as she waited for an answer from her husband as she pressed her forehead against his. He returned the gesture as they have not seen each other since the start of the conflict. "It has been a long time being away from you..." his queen admitted to him as they stood together alone in the empty palace.
"Just tired my love." He said in a defeated tone as he tried to break a smile to her. Convincing her that he is alright despite that she can read through his deception. Lyssandra just flicked his forehead, causing Myron to blink a bit but did chuckle a bit. "It has been a long time my love. I truly did miss you." He said in a soft tone before sharing a tender kiss. A few seconds later, she broke away and crossed her arms
"King Myron, you are an Ikraen. Warfare should never tire you." She joked as she was concerned for his well being. Myron just laughed softly as he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm only joking my king." She said as she did her best to supress a giggle.
"You are lucky that you can openly mock a king." Snarking back as he laughed a bit too. While the two were joking amongst each other, the Evzonoi Commander Haktos cleared his throat to alert the royal couple. He was quite the intimidating figure to the unaware. Despite his muscular build, he was well beyond his prime but that did not fool anyone considering that he was quite capable of killing anyone that would have threatened his higher-ups. Dressed in the Evzonoi combat uniform with a beret that befits that of Marossian fashion.
"Forgive me for my intrusion, King Myron. The citizens are anxiously awaiting for your glorious speech." the commander bowed slightly as he waited for Myron. Lyssandra nodded softly before kissing her husband on the cheek and whispered in his ear. Haktos had to stiffen a chuckle as he saw the king's face go red. After that the King shook his head back into focus and gave the commander a scowl.
"You done?" He said in a intimidating tone which did not made Haktos flinch at all. The King looked at his tablet and stack of papers.
"Yes my king, just seeing you two lovebirds made me remind of my own lover." He said as he walked with Myron to outside.
"I see. I'll make an exception for now Haktos." Myron in a playful tone as he composed himself for the symposium that he gathered the returning citizens.
"Yes, yes. I've heard the threats before by the pompous elite here. Part of the job description, my king." He said in a nonchalant tone as if he had to repeat this several times. Myron only nodded as the commander opened the front door and the roar of the observing crowd roared in approval as he waved to the citizens of Nea Roumatta. They were cheering his name as he walked up the stairs to a symposium stage that stood three feet taller than the average man. In front of the crowd of people were several cameras from the National News Network planning to give his speech to the world. As the King continued to wave his hands too the adoring crowd for several more seconds. He placed two fingers to his lips as a sign for silence. Almost immediately, the crowd understood what he wished for and the acropolis went dead. Except for slight muffled coughing and the cameramen pushing the recording buttons. Hoping that anyone in the world can see what he is about to say.
"Good afternoon everyone." He paused for a second to breathe slightly before continuing. "I am Myron Vassos, King of Iraklta. Commander-In-Chief of the National Armed Forces. I am here today to announce that the civil war that was plaguing the City-State Republics has officially come to end after seven months and fifteen days of this year. This war was caused by our own people not influenced by foreign nations with an agendas. They want immediate change that threatened to destabilize this great nation." He then paused as the crowd applauded and cheered for this wonderful news. "After a week of negotiations with the leader of the Triumvirate, Isidoros Tipris. Also known as the Emissary of Lethani. He has agreed to surrender and accept his conditional surrender. A righteous victory for the Republics." He exclaimed as the crowd again applauded before stopping. "Isidoros will be facing trials in Larynthus for the terrorist attacks in Elaion that sparked the civil war. Even when the world is on the verge of another global war." He paused again to give breath as he looked at the audience beyond the cameras. "Nerokhori is to blame in giving Ruzalka's rise to power. We have given them the fleet of carriers due to their bid. As karmic punishment, we as a nation has become isolated from the rest of the world due to the ill-planned mobilization of our forces that left our allies baffled and eventual ousting from the Sovereign Free Assembly. An alliance of freedom and democracy that was to counterbalance against the threat of populism. While Populism is a great cause of debate in our nation, we have come to be disgusted in Ruzalkan populism, a tyranny most foul indeed." Putting his hand against his chest where the heart would be.
"We respected Ruzalka when they were another beacon of liberty and democracy. To see their government become a decrepit shadow of it former self is quite pitiful. But now, their shadow is threatening to overcome every nation and swallow us all in their iron grip." The crowd was deathly silent as he continued on. "We may be alone but are Nerokhorians. We are a symbol of democracy and freedom. We may not be as powerful as Servoth, Vanhania or Ruzalka. But we will stand for what we fight for. And that is the freedom for all of Lerodas. Even if that may cost us our way of life and if the gods demand that we are to fade into the night. Let it be known that we will not go down quietly, we will gladly fight to the last man and woman of the Republics." The crowd roared in high approval and approved but stopped to allow their King to continue.
"As your king and one of the surviving members of the thirty-first National Council. We have agreed to hold a snap election that will start as of today and will run until 2 months later to elect a new Council. Once a new council is made, I will be stepping down as councilor from Iraklta and allow Queen. I have also laid the foundation for a new government body that will observe the Council's and scrutinize its every decision. I have decided to create the National Senate. Three Senators will be elected from each administrative district for a total of sixty. I will have the constitution relayed to the national news network and our government website. May the gods watch over us." He said and ended his speech and the applause from the crowd began to thunder across the acropolis.
With his speech done, King Myron now awaits for the international community's reaction.
Atlexil, Aatelisia, and Fostland
Map Update February 2nd, 2020
Post self-deleted by New bej.
Over Dridan Flies the Red Banner
For someone with a civil war going on outside his bedroom window, Captain Allen Grist of the 333rd Multirole Fighter Squadron was remarkably relaxed. The captain sat on the floor of his room with the lights out; the generators on base had either ran out of fuel or been destroyed the day before by besieging Reds. The only reason he now sat on the floor was because a stray bullet had smashed through his window, whizzed by his ear while he'd been lounging on his bunk, and lodged itself in the ceiling. If not for that, he'd still be up on his bunk. Either way, Grist had more important concerns on his mind than life or death: sheer boredom, and the fact that the cigarette he was puffing on was his last.
By the moonlight, the dim glow of spurts of tracer fire, and especially the occasional flare, Grist could squint just enough to read the rest of the article in the latest edition of Dridanian Sports he had, dated nearly three months previous. After all, if the post couldn't get through the Red trenches outside the perimeter fence, neither could his magazine subscription. But Grist didn't hold any grudge towards that probable civvie with a red armband who was reading his mail-ordered copy of Dridanian Sports. With the stuff that guy was going through—being forced by his superiors to charge fortified machine gun nests—he probably earned that more recent article on Millers #34 Pete Fenster than the one Grist had reread a hundred times.
He reached up and placed his cigarette butt in the ashtray on his bedside table. He sighed, wondering what he would do to relieve the boredom. Outside, another sputter of machine gun fire went up, followed by what was either the scream of a mortar or a dying man. At last, Grist's endlessly inventive mind thought up the magnificent plan of getting up and going across to hall to see what his rookie wingman was up to. He put on some slippers and strode across the hall, knocking on the door labelled simply "Twitch."
"Burn in hell, dirty Red!" shouted a panicked voice from inside.
Grist sighed and put his hands on his hips. "Twitch, it's just me. I need some smokes."
"Captain Grist?"
"Yeah, kid. Who else?"
He heard the lock click and the door swung open to reveal a quivering gun barrel pointed right at him. With the swiftest movement he'd made in days, he knocked it right out of the rookie pilot's hands. "Sweet mother—you trying to kill someone?!"
"Sorry! Sorry captain! I wasn't sure if it was some Red pretending to be you," the frantic young man beat a hasty salute.
Grist picked up his gun and handed it back to him. "Well, if I were some Red, you wouldn't have killed me neither. Safety's still on."
The kid mumbled another embarrassed apology as he took back his sidearm. Then they both looked to the window, where another flare had gone up, illuminating them through the blinds.
"Another Red assault," Grist muttered.
"They might break through this time, Captain. You never can be so sure."
"Yeah, they might. And if they do, what do you plan to do?"
"Well, defend myself, of course," Lieutenant Alex "Twitch" Billet replied, puffing up his chest.
"Go down fighting?" Grist smirked. "You're just one man with a pistol."
"I can handle myself."
"Uh-huh," Grist said. "You feel free to make your last stand then. I'll be across the hall."
It was clear the kid didn't have any smokes left either, and Grist didn't want to get caught in a useless crossfire. At least the brief scare with the gun had excited his nerves. He turned to leave.
"Wait, captain," Billet grabbed his arm. "What do you plan to do, y'know, if the Reds do make it in?"
"Oh, that's simple. Surrender."
"Surrender?" the rookie repeated the word as if he'd never heard it before.
"Yep. Way I see it, the Reds have been besieging this air base for months for a reason. They don't want to destroy it, or else they would've shelled us, the runway, the hangars, the fuel storage, everything. They want to capture it, and use the planes for themselves."
"But to use planes...they need pilots. They need us."
"Now you're catching on, Twitch," Grist grinned.
"Do you really think they'll take us?"
"I have no clue. But there's a better probability I survive if I defect than if I go out guns blazing."
Billet looked down at the sidearm still in his hand, thinking for a moment. Then he holstered it. "Okay, I'm with you, Flight Leader," he saluted.
"Good. Now go take off that holster and put away that gun. They might still shoot you if you surrender while armed."
---
Sure enough, an hour before the dawn, the Reds finally overwhelmed the base's defenses. Amidst the clatter of automatic fire that they usually heard outside the window of their pilot's quarters came a new sound: the stomping of boots across pavement. Muffled shouts and terse commands swarmed around the doors on the floor below. Grist had found another pack of cigarettes left behind in the lounge. He was smoking another cigarette on his bed when a soldier with no uniform but a red armband and no weapon but an old, beat-up assault rifle barged in. He leveled the muzzle at Captain Grist, who reached over and put out his cigarette butt before lifting his hands above his head. "I surrender," he said.
Once the rest of his comrades had piled up by the door, the one in front finally ordered Grist to get up. Two soldiers patted him down and they only found the pack of cigarettes.
"Go ahead and take 'em, but leave me one, won't you?" he asked. The Red obliged him.
"He's clean, Comrade Sergeant," he turned to his commander after pocketing the pack for himself and leaving one cigarette in Grist's front pocket.
"Very good," the one by the door nodded. "You are an air force pilot, correct?"
"Yes sir. Captain Allan Grist, 333rd Multirole Fighter Squadron."
"Come with me, Captain. Comrade Colonel Hayes would like to see you."
They led him across the base to the old familiar briefing room. The sky was already pink, and a rim of blood orange was rising on the eastern horizon, behind the columns of smoke on the perimeter fence. It would be a good day for flying, but he didn't expect to do any. There were Red soldiers everywhere, swarming like ants over every building, piece of equipment, and prisoner they could find. Captain Grist's personal escort passed a whole column of base personnel being marched away with their hands over their heads. He recognized a few faces, after getting past their exhausted, gaunt faces dirtied with gunsmoke and blood. His stomach churned a little bit at the fact that he had been smoking cigarettes and reading magazines while they had been shot at and blown up every night the Reds attacked.
Inside the briefing room was Twitch and the other two pilots in his flight: Thumbs and Boxer. Each seemed to have their own Red escort like him sitting beside them. They were all smart enough not to fight when the fight wasn't worth it—just as he'd taught them—so none of them had black eyes or handcuffs around their wrists. In front, flanked by his own guards, though certainly not handcuffed, was the Red commanding officer. Of all the Red soldiers Grist had seen so far, he was the first Red professional enough to actually wear a combat uniform. Instead of the republic's flag, a big red banner was stitched to his shoulder.
"Comrade Captain. My name is Comrade Colonel Hayes. Please have a seat," the man at the front gestured.
Grist happily settled in among his captors.
"Earlier this morning you were liberated by the courageous soldiers of the Red Guards," Colonel Hayes addressed Flight 3 of the 333rd. "In exchange for your liberation, your gracious gift in return to the people of Dridan will be to fly under their patriotic banner. You may have been told many lies about the Red Guards and many false accusations, but know that we fight only to restore power to the hands of the people and to spread harmony and peace, not discord and war, across our dear country. The regrettable civil war we have fought against each other has been the result only of the stubbornness of the previous, decadent regime. I welcome you pilots as my comrades in arms."
"With your service, we have the opportunity before us to end once and for all that regime and all the misery they have inflicted on our people. Your mission will be to fly to the capital Ochre and destroy the last stronghold within the city under Parliament Hill, where the last vestiges of the old government have hidden themselves away in a large bunker complex."
"Any personnel or equipment you require from this base will be made available to you for this mission. But though I trust you completely as my brothers, I must ensure that trust is not misplaced. Dmitri?"
A soldier stepped forward with a small tray of shot glasses. Inside each was a colorless, odorless liquid.
"This is a slow-acting poison. On average, it takes six hours for it to kill someone, though you will feel some discomfort beforehand. The antidote is quite common; we've even found it in your own base infirmary. You will each drink this poison, fly for us, and return to this base. Once you have, we will administer the antidote and you will live with no permanent injury."
At last, one of the pilots had something to say. It was Boxer, who eyes were wide and darting between the shot glasses and his commander. "Captain, this is insane."
The others remained silent. Grist steeled his jaw and considered his options. He was hoping he wouldn't have to fly today, especially not for the Reds. But he wasn't expecting them to poison him either.
"Promise me one thing, Colonel, if I drink this," he finally said.
The colonel cocked his head.
"You'll give me a drink of whiskey after you give me that antidote."
The colonel offered a thin-lipped smile. "Of course."
Satisfied, Grist picked his shot glass off the tray and slugged it down his throat. It had an awfully bitter taste, worse than vodka. Reluctantly, Twitch followed suit, and then Thumbs. Lastly, Boxer, stealing a glare at his commander, downed the poison himself. Grist rose and saluted. "Flight 3, 333rd Squadron, moving out."
When he got to his plane, Grist found a bunch of Reds milling around it, running their dirty hands all over its sleek air frame and admiring the beast from every angle. They were also messing with some tools scattered around the hangar, until Grist (or more accurately, his Red escort) forced them out. He requested his ground crew. His crew chief Handel, with a big bandage wrapped around his forehead, arrived five minutes later by Grist's anxious watch.
"Handel, thank Mother you're alive."
"You as well, Captain Grist. So we're flying for the Reds now, eh?"
"Better to fly than live in a prison."
"Fair enough. What do you need?"
His stomach, and Handel's work, was on the clock. Grist's previously leisurely voice now broke into quick, professional commands. "I'll be needing two GBM-14s in the bay. Get over to Thumbs' chief and get him to mount a radar pod and some AG-213s, he'll be running SEAD for the mission."
Handel saluted and turned to repeat the orders to his crew, who had been marched over from the Reds' holding cell. Grist tapped him on the shoulder.
"Can you paint over the roundel too?"
"With what?"
"Just red. Paint it all red."
---
Flight 3 took off 89 minutes later in its new makeshift Red regalia. It felt good to be in the air, though Grist wondered if the unease in his stomach was from the poison itself or just his own nerves. He pushed on as they formed up in close echelon and proceeded southeast.
"Cap, my stomach doesn't feel too good," Thumbs said.
"You're a damn fool for taking this one, Cap," Boxer moaned.
"Ease off him, Boxer," Twitch piped up. "What're your orders, captain?"
"Engage afterburners. I'd like to be home for lunch once they've pumped our stomachs."
The four jet fighters broke the sound barrier somewhere over Talon and pushed Mach 1.9 as they burned towards the capital.
"Alright, we're a hundred clicks out. Let's dive low and follow the terrain. Gotta give ourselves as much time free from AA as possible."
They dove and weaved between the dry hills and valleys. On the highways they saw burned out hulks. In the towns they saw ruined buildings. Around tents in the refugee camps milled thick clouds of black dots: people without homes anymore. That colonel did say something right, Grist thought. If this mission ended the war, it was worth doing, even if they were doing it for the Reds.
Thirty kilometers out from Ochre, with the abandoned suburbs rushing by underneath, the flight was first spotted on radar by the city's defenders. "They're still trying to figure out IFF. Must still have us registered as some of theirs," Thumbs said from his display.
Grist switched the knob on his radio over to the emergency channel. Sure enough, blasting into his ears came a distressed voice: "Unidentified flight! Switch on transponders and identify yourselves!"
He flicked it off. "Go ahead and blast their radars, Thumbs. Once they start firing, it's up to you to go after the launchers."
"Aye aye, cap," Thumbs broke off and climbed.
"Form up behind me," Grist ordered Twitch and Boxer. "We'll do a direct-in approach on Parliament Hill. Aim for where the Hall of Parliament oughta be."
"Why, what happened to it?" Twitch asked.
"The Reds shelled it, you idiot," Boxer muttered.
Suddenly, the computer's digital voice screamed in Grist's ear: "Missile! Missile! Missile!" He dove closer to the ground and broke left. "Grist, defending. Twitch and Boxer, keep going! Thumbs, get rid of that SAM!"
He started breathing heavy. It wasn't his fright—well, maybe some of it was—but his training. If he didn't breathe hard in a high-G turn, he'd lose the oxygen flow to his brain. It wouldn't matter if a SAM was chasing him or not if he passed out a few hundred meters above the ground. He bobbed and weaved over another office complex. Somewhere behind him the SAM self-detonated instead of taking out a building.
A cool voice broke over the radio. "Good hit on launcher," Thumbs said. But the missiles kept coming; there were clearly a few more.
"Boxer defending!" Boxer shouted.
Grist turned back to 290 on his indicator. He began to recognize some of the buildings, or the buildings that were left to be recognized. He'd grown up in Ochre. In fact, they probably had flown over his own childhood home. He was only ten clicks out.
Eight clicks out. Another missile targeted him and he broke right this time. Boxer was still defending, Thumbs was out of anti-radar missiles. Twitch hadn't said a word since Grist broke away the first time.
"Twitch, status," he asked. Now his blood was really running cold.
He repeated it. "Twitch, status."
Suddenly, off to his eight o'clock, a bright flash illuminated the early morning sky. A black ribbon of smoke tumbled down towards the ground.
"Who's that? Who's hit?!" Grist exclaimed. "Talk to me!"
The missile behind him ran out of fuel and self-detonated. He leveled off and cooled down. "Flight 3, sound off."
"Thumbs here," was the only reply.
They flew in silence for a few moments over the ruined city. Had Grist really lost half his men? Had he really lost the rookie?
He shook his head inside his helmet. He was frustrated he couldn't reach up and rub his own face of the loss. Reluctantly he turned back onto his target, just four clicks away. He switched to the targeting interface and lined up a crumbling marble silhouette sitting squat above the city on a cratered hill.
His finger hovered over the trigger button. Then in front of him the whole building went up in a tremendous blast. Grist broke off to avoid flying into the rising fireball.
"Twitch here, how was that Cap?"
Grist smiled. He felt a little damp on the cheeks underneath his visor. "Good hit, kid."
The two planes joined up and quietly flew north, towards home.
---
"Boxer, if you hear me, identify."
"Boxer, if you hear me, identify."
"Boxer, if you hear me, identify."
"Boxer, if you hear me, identify," Grist repeated for the fourth time.
"It's no use, Cap, I think that was him that got hit," Thumbs said.
The captain answered, holding back his emotion. "I think so too."
"Mother bless him," Twitch said mournfully.
The three pilots returned to their base by 10:49. Four hours into their poisoning and the pilots already had to be helped out of their seats; it was only the adrenaline that had kept them conscious while they flew in and stuck the landing. As the vision faded from Grist's eyes, he heard the distant cheering and celebrations of the Red soldiers all crowded around him. He went to sleep in the gentle arms of some civvie with a red armband and an assault rifle slung over his shoulder.
---
Grist awoke in the base infirmary, only for the second time in his military career. Like the first time, he felt like he had a terrible hangover. He turned over to see Lieutenant Billet waiting for him there in his own hospital gown, fast asleep in the visitor's chair. Beside him, on the bedside table, sat a bottle of whiskey. Grist craned his neck to yank out the note set underneath it. "Excellent work," it simply read.
Outside the infirmary blinds wasn't any tracer fire, nor distant explosions and cracks of sniper's rounds. There was shouting, but it wasn't angry and frightened. It was joyful, and intermixed with plenty of singing and whistles. The lieutenant stirred, sensing his commander's tossing around. "Mmm...good evening, Cap."
"Good evening, Twitch."
"Did you hear the news?" the tired rookie said.
"No, I didn't."
"The war's over. The republicans in Ochre surrendered."
Grist let out a low whistle of his own. "We're a Red country now."
"We're Red pilots now, too," Twitch mumbled, before falling back asleep.
Servoth, The United Roman Reich, Aelythium, Nerokhori, and 1 otherYechia
Map Update February 9th, 2020
Just Another Day
Elliot groaned as he collected his jacket under his arm while balancing his coffee and briefcase in the other. He knew he should’ve grabbed the small instead, might’ve been easier to carry, and by The Father it’d have been better for his cholesterol. He shook his head slightly as he collected himself, self-assured that the coat and his briefcase were secure under his arms. With a small ding, the elevator doors finally opened, and he was able to walk into the clean modern-looking elevator. Maneuvering himself, he managed to jab at the floor 56 button with his elbow, pressing it on his second try. Smiling contently, he waited for the doors to close, until he heard a voice call out from further down in the lobby. “ Hold the door! Hold the damn door!” Elliot quickly jabbed his foot into the way of the elevator doors, recognizing the voice almost immediately. Turning the corner and entering the elevator was a short man, balding on top, with a pair of large spectacles just barely still sitting on the tip of his nose.
He entered the elevator and nodded his head at Elliot, as he breathed heavily, attempting to catch his breath. As the doors slid closed, he recovered and looked up at Elliot, who was a good foot taller than him. “ Thanks kid, you saved my bacon. The President would kill me if I was late to a session again.” Looking at Elliot’s full hands, he smiled. “ I’d shake your hands, but it looks like they’re full. Either way, my name’s—“
“ Alexander Masser, of course. I know who you are! You were the commander of Tipathica’s military during the closing days of the Reunification War!” Elliot interrupted frantically, as he attempted to shift the objects in his arms to free up his right hand.
Masser smiled at the younger man, “ So you know me, well, then what’s your name son?”
Finally freeing his hand, Elliot reached out and vigorously shook Masser’s hand, grinning like a loon the entire time. “ My name is Elliot, I’m one of the aides to Senator Descho. I had no idea I’d meet someone as important as you when I signed up for this internship.”
Masser chuckled sheepishly, “ I don’t know how important I am, I’m just a general, it’s the Senators who do the real work. After all, they’re the ones who’re voting on the isolation act today, not me.” The elevator doors slid open as it reached floor 56, exposing the grand marble foyer which led to the Senate Hall. Masser and Elliot walked into the foyer, and Messer held out his hand to shake Elliot’s. “ It was good to meet you Son, and well, I suppose I owe you for the door, you need anything, you come find me.”
Elliot smiled and babbled as Masser shook his hand and began to walk away, “ Of course, Sir. Absolutely, thank you Sir. I will, sir.” After standing for a moment, watching as Masser headed off into one of the numerous ancillary corridors in the lobby, he seemed to remember that he was in a rush and dashed into the Senate Hall.
—————-
Masser entered into the meeting room, nodding at the heads of State from Dromchi, Petroburg and Drammer, as he worked his way to his seat. President Devrae shot him a glance as he entered, taking note of his lateness, but didn’t pause in his report to draw attention to it. “ As you know gentlemen, the Senate is voting now whether to reopen our borders, and declare ourselves a sovereign nation. We’ve been working towards this for a long time, ever since the Reunification wars ripped us apart so long ago. We’ve moved from colony of a failed state, to a functional country of our own. It’s time for us to introduce ourselves to the world, and to finally remove ourselves from being confined to this pathetic island.” He turned back to look out the massive window which covered the easternmost wall of the meeting room, and gazed out across Capitol City, where the celebrations celebrating Dervesh’s newfound public identity had already begun.
Autochthonia Introduction:
Rising from the Darkness
"It was told, in the times of old, that a terrible calamity would cover the world in ice, fire and lightning. So, our ancestors, in the fear of such prophecy, abandoned the surface, for only in the bowels of the earth would we be safe.."
The Proceptor, guiding the class of the Infants in the crèche, used a 3d Hologram to exhibit to the young ones an artistical concept of the Exile, the time where an ancient catastrophe would devour the world, and the only means to escape this event was to hide beneath the earth, and wait for the terror to pass.
"We then begun to see that life underground was not more safe then in the surface - much by the contrary: cave-ins, inundations, gas build-ups, lack of oxigen, lack of heat dispersal... the dangers only piled one over the other."
The image of the 3d Hologram changed, showing the diferent dangers cited by him, and much more.
"But, after long praying and claiming for someone to hear our pleas for help, we had been heard: Autochthon, The Engine-Father and Lord of Gears heard us, and by the means of his Prophet, Agnes Sonnedottir, that we begun to have the means to guard ourselves against danger."
Then the image changed, showing the Jàrnalfar on their knees, crying in despair and pleading, and from above, a beautiful female appeared, carrying a book, a torch, and a hammer.
"The First Tools granted us much:
The Book allowed us to never forget and never become too dependent on our own memories or points of view, and from them to learn from people who are not in front of us or long dead;
The Flame allowed us to face the darkness without fear, giving us courage and guiding us to safety;
The Hammer allowed us to forge tools, incredible things, and the means to guard ourselves against the vagaries of Fate;
It showed then the image of an elder individual writing in a gigantic tome; a female carrying a torch and pointing it against shadow-like shapes; and a muscular man, with his hammer ready to fall upon a piece of metal.
"But it was necessary much more for us to thrive in the darkness. We still needed more tools, and more means to garantee that, one day, we could withstand the Exile, and finaly walk beneath the sun.
So, by the blessings of the Book, we had found a way to change our own bodies: an alchemical concoction allowed us to see better in the dark, and to shield our bodies against the oppressive heat. The enhancement, however, was primitive, and many of us died. But the ones who survived the process from that day onwards were guarded against much of the dangers that exist underground"
The image changed again, now showing a group of Proceptors offering to the people and one another a vial of liquid, drinking it, and while some fell ill and died, some begun to change: their skin darkened, but walking beneath waves of heat without complain or pain; and their eyes glowing red like glowing coals, allowing him to see in complete darkness.
"And from that day onwards, we continued to grow and prosper: the Book allowed us to carrying our accumulated knowledge onwards, learning more and recording more, until we developed computers to store this knowledge, and developing the caretaker of our people, Armored Mother."
The image changed to the Proceptors first in an apothecary, writing in books, and then changing to a university library with a printing press, then to a computer center, then to modern Proceptors bent down in veneration, with tears falling from their eyes but with expressions of happy beatitude, to a huge holographic image of a female that was extending her hands over them in blessing.
"The Flame allowed us to face the darkness without fear, and face the horrors that long ago the forgotten Creators had made and send them away beneath the ground;"
The image showed armored knights - the first Protectors - with torches and swords facing indefinite and inhuman shadow-like shapes, then the warriors were then using flintlocks and halberds, then modern rifles and war machines, and then marching with full uniforms, with smiles of pride, lauded by the people.
"The Hammer allowed us to build our City, our farms, our homes, and many other things of beauty and utility, so that we can make life worthwhile and good"
The image changed to a blacksmith in a humble forge - the original Proletarian - and then many others, building, farming, crafting, forging and constructing, until a mighty bastion was seen at the corner, while a Proletarian, with a smile of joy, look upon this wonder in the distance.
"But the final Tool came to allow us to withstand the underground - Panacea, the nanomachine all-healing medicine that not only would allow to heal without scars, but also fortify our bodies beyond anything imagined"
The it showed a female injecting a vial upon a couple of newborn Jàrnálfar, then the babies reaching puberty, eating an impossible amount of food for someone of his age, and commiting themselves to exercises that would be impossible to be achieved by a mere human, until showed them - a male and a female, now adults - with bodies akin to olympic gods.
"And now, after thousands of years of hidding in the darkness, it is time to return to the World Above, to walk once again beneath the sun, and to shout a cry against Fate"
The Proceptor then turned off the hologram, and then said:
"Come, children. Time to challenge Fate."
The Proceptos and the Infants leave the room, followed by other groups of children accompanied by their Proceptors, leaving the crèche grounds and walking the streets of a city that was not only monolithic in size, but also in shape and form, with each building looking like it was sculpted from the rock itself in place of being built. Accompaning the children, there where others, from the three castes walking towards the outside of the walls of their capital, Metallica.
The energy in the air was electrifying, with a happy tension in the enviroment. People were talking animatedly about the great event of, after thousands of years, leaving underground.
They all then received a message in their NanoCom Systems to don ther dark glasses, and as one, they lowered their dark tinted googles upon their eyes.
It was then that the population came towards a show stage, where the famous Metal group Rammstein where preparing themselves to play for them, the people screaming in joy and recognition.
But behind them there was an immense wall, where Proletarian miners where positioned, hammers and pickaxes in their hands.
It was so that silence fell upon all, lights where turned off, with darkness covering everything.
Then the song begun...
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ya9Jsh5aV0I)
It was a song of excitment, a song of joy, a song of freedom...
A song of Wrath.
And when the weight of the song came, the Proletaran workers begun to hammer and dig the wall following the rhythm of the song.
And the singer, a tank of a male, in a gutural voice, begun to sing
Translation of Novalingua
"Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben, acht, neun, aus
(One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Out)
Alle warten auf das Licht
Fürchtet euch, fürchtet euch nicht
Die Sonne scheint mir aus den Augen
Sie wird heut Nacht nicht untergeh'n
Und die Welt zählt laut bis zehn
(All are waiting for the light
Fear it, don't be afraid
The sun's light is shining from my eyes
It will not set tonight
While the world counts loudly to ten)
Eins - hier kommt die Sonne
Zwei - hier kommt die Sonne
Drei - sie ist der hellste Stern von allen
Vier, hier kommt die Sonne
(One - Here comes the Sun
Two - Here comes the Sun
Three - It is the brightest star of all
Four - Here comes the Sun)
Die Sonne scheint mir aus den Händen
Kann verbrennen, kann euch blenden
Wenn sie aus den Fäusten bricht
Legt sich heiß auf das Gesicht
Sie wird heut Nacht nicht untergeh'n
Und die Welt zählt laut bis zehn
(The Sun is shining in my hands
It can burn, it can blind you
When it breaks out of your hold
It will scour down on your face
It will not set tonight
And the world loudly counts to ten)
Eins, hier kommt die Sonne
Zwei, hier kommt die Sonne
Drei, sie ist der hellste Stern von allen
Vier, hier kommt die Sonne
Fünf, hier kommt die Sonne
Sechs, hier kommt die Sonne
Sieben, sie ist der hellste Stern von allen
Acht, Neun, hier kommt die Sonne
(One - Here comes the Sun
Two - Here comes the Sun
Three - It is the brightest star of all
Four - Here comes the Sun
Five - Here comes the Sun
Six - Here comes the Sun
Seven - It is the brightest star of all
Eight, Nine - Here comes the Sun)
Die Sonne scheint mir aus den Händen
Kann verbrennen, kann dich blenden
Wenn sie aus den Fäusten bricht
Legt sich heiß auf dein Gesicht
Legt sich schmerzend auf die Brust
Das Gleichgewicht wird zum Verlust
Lässt dich hart zu Boden gehen
Und die Welt zählt laut bis zehn
(The Sun is shining in my hands
It can burn, it can blind you
When it breaks out of your hold
It will scour down on your face
It falls painfully on your chest
And all balance is lost
It lets you fall hard on the floor
And all the world loudly counts to ten)
Eins, hier kommt die Sonne
Zwei, hier kommt die Sonne
Drei, sie ist der hellste Stern von allen
Vier, und wird nie vom Himmel fallen
Fünf, hier kommt die Sonne
Sechs, hier kommt die Sonne
Sieben, sie ist der hellste Stern von allen
Acht, Neun, hier kommt die Sonne(x2)
(One - Here comes the Sun
Two - Here comes the Sun
Three - It is the brightest of all stars
Four - and from the Heavens will never fall
Five - Here comes the Sun
Six - Here comes the Sun
Seven - it is the brightest star of all
Eight, Nine - Here comes the Sun) (x2)"
With the last beat, and the choir sung by a female dressed to represent the Prophet, the cave wall finally falls, revealing to the Jàrnálfar the surface for the first time in 3000 years, showing the eastern sky, and the sun rising on the horizon, the Jàrnálfar crying and screaming in joy and wonder.
It was said that, on that day, on distant places, it could be heard a distant bellow of a multitude that was akin to legions of rebels finaly achieving freedom, and now challenging the universe itself to dare put them back in chains.
Autochthonia is now back to a very different world that they left, a world that they barely remember, and now is an alien thing.
And with that, the sun once again rises.
The United Roman Reich, Nerokhori, and Yechia
Map Update March 29, 2020
The United Roman Reich and Nerokhori
After over 4 years as head admin time has finally come to step down. I will be leaving the region to join another with a new setting and premise.
CoG have been good to me thoughout the years and I've found good friends here.
You've all meant a lot to me, both those that are still here and those that are no longer with us.
To those that won't be seeing me again, I wish you all the luck and happiness in the world.
For no matter who we are, no matter how small, how estranged, how rich or how poor, we all deserve to be happy and I wish you all the best.
//Yours truly, RU
Is this region still alive?
Really
Hey! Nice to see you again :D I was surprised too. It's all cloak n' dagger though. Nothing said publicly. People removed or blocked from discord. All very strange.
hello?
Belated greetings!
hewwo
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