The Second Great War
- Thread starter Syrixia
- Start date
REPLY FROM E.V.A:
Your surrender has been acknowledged by Trinster, Our forces will only fire on those who do not surrender, and even then they will be given an opportunity to lay down their weapons.
This has greatly pleased TRICOUN, and we hope peace can now reign between our peoples once again.
Your surrender has been acknowledged by Trinster, Our forces will only fire on those who do not surrender, and even then they will be given an opportunity to lay down their weapons.
This has greatly pleased TRICOUN, and we hope peace can now reign between our peoples once again.
Kannex
TNPer
Private Hans slung the rifle over his shoulder and shifted uncomfortably in his military tunic. He straightened out his jacket, as if going on parade one last time. Then he looked in his bag and made sure he had enough supplies for the trip. Ammunitions, in case anyone tried to rob him. Bandages, in case he needed them. He brought a few cans of crackers and meat, as well as a few wads of Rhuvish dollars. From what he had heard around in the barracks, it was unlikely the Rhuvish dollars would be worth anything soon, but he kept them, just in case he needed them. He left the bunker and took steady steps across the training grounds. The midday sun beat down on the midday courtyard. Everyone was either napping in their bunks or binge-drinking in the mess-hall. A ruckus of laughter and drunken shouting poured out from the open windows of the cafeteria as he passed by.
At the end of the courtyard, at the gates, stood a lone sentry. He was leaning against the wall, smoking and holding a bottle of whiskey. His rifle was nowhere to be seen. "Where are you going, Hans?" the sentry called out cheerfully.
"Home," Hans responded. With one hand he gripped the strap on his firearm.
"You know I can't let you do that." The sentry's hands were nowhere near his rifle. "Why don't you go back?" he suggested. The sentry lifted his bottle to eye level. "There's plenty of booze in the mess hall."
Hans eyed the sentry with a hard look. He broadened his shoulders and adopted what he thought was an intimidating enough stance. "I have my family to return to. Let me pass."
The sentry frowned. He seemed to ponder Hans's words for a few seconds. "Alright. Fine. Go." And he went back to smoking and drinking.
Hans nodded his thanks. He stepped over the line marking the boundary of the base and strided away from the base towards town, where he could find perhaps a bus to his hometown. Despite censorship, he knew that across Rhuvanland, thousands of troops were abandoning their posts. The armories across the country had been thrown open -- government orders, or was it? The people running this country had gone insane. But they knew, no one wanted to fight a war that surely they couldn't win.
At the end of the courtyard, at the gates, stood a lone sentry. He was leaning against the wall, smoking and holding a bottle of whiskey. His rifle was nowhere to be seen. "Where are you going, Hans?" the sentry called out cheerfully.
"Home," Hans responded. With one hand he gripped the strap on his firearm.
"You know I can't let you do that." The sentry's hands were nowhere near his rifle. "Why don't you go back?" he suggested. The sentry lifted his bottle to eye level. "There's plenty of booze in the mess hall."
Hans eyed the sentry with a hard look. He broadened his shoulders and adopted what he thought was an intimidating enough stance. "I have my family to return to. Let me pass."
The sentry frowned. He seemed to ponder Hans's words for a few seconds. "Alright. Fine. Go." And he went back to smoking and drinking.
Hans nodded his thanks. He stepped over the line marking the boundary of the base and strided away from the base towards town, where he could find perhaps a bus to his hometown. Despite censorship, he knew that across Rhuvanland, thousands of troops were abandoning their posts. The armories across the country had been thrown open -- government orders, or was it? The people running this country had gone insane. But they knew, no one wanted to fight a war that surely they couldn't win.
The Grim Reaper
TNPer
South Australia (Alba Longa)
"In Alba Longa, we were born," "Heave away! Haul away!" "Alba Longa, 'round Pauldron," "We're bound for Alba Longa,"
The Rhuvish Sacre Comitate had already set sail for Rhuvanland, for Guslantis, and they rounded the strait towards vessels of the Argent Alliance. In accordance with the promise made to their leadership, a notice of approach was sent promptly to Nebula, and Yeraennus.
A song rang through the fleet, as the preparations were made. Tomorrow, war would begin in earnest. The sound of Alba Longa rang through the fleet, as the officers took every chance to remind the soldiers that where they would be steaming towards foreign land, they would be landing on familiar soil. The soil of home. From here onwards, they would live and die on August territory. The song was led by a number of men and women from the Censorial Service; the cultural affairs department of Imperium, providing trained singers who would, likely, not be at all involved in the invasion. That being said, they all kept a gun on them - just for appearance's sake. For the most part, the fleet had taken up the song with dignity, and cheer.
This was the first war in - well, almost in living memory. A bit of morbid humour never hurt anyone, and it was the keystone of Imperium's life and soul. Men and women alike started writing obituaries for the friends, penning in increasingly ridiculous wills. In the August tradition, a funeral was held for the Proconsul - it was her first war, and so it was custom to lay her innocence to rest. In prior times, such a funeral would be held for Caesar, but it was decided best not to bring to mind his own martial virginity. The soldiers booed the Proconsul's poor taste in funerary music - a tongue in cheek repeat of the Alba Longa shanty that had been sung ad nauseum all night - before it was replaced with a rousing performance of some tinny pop music popular in Neapolis. A kindly obituary was given by the Lictor-in-attendance, on behalf of the Palace, before a distinctly more witty one was given by the Proconsul herself, playing the part of her mother.
In the August tradition, she'd been required to save her whole day's worth of alcohol rations for a half-hour prior, and in the August tradition, she'd been donated the same from more than a few friends. The slurred speech brought laughter and mirth to those in attendance, and it was recorded for those working a shift.
They were, after all, in a battlefield.
There was a mock wedding, too. Again, one of those quaint little traditions. They helped keep up morale; gave everyone something to talk about. And doubled rations? But of course. Keep your mind off things, of course. That was for those who were land-bound, and their officers. It was slightly different for the aircrews - for those who were starting their campaign...now.
Aboard the carriers of Imperium - those sleek, ominous beasts of the ocean - men and women put up scarves around their mouth, protecting them from the jet fuel, mixed into the sea-spray and the gently dwindling light. Pre-flight checks were the order of the day. The sprightly jump-jets that formed the vast majority of Imperium's naval air wing were introduced to some good elbow grease, and crews. A few of them would start conducting night flights; carrying out reconnaissance as the fleet maneuvered into a landing position, and trying to bait out anti-air defenses as a measure of resistance on-shore. Helicopters, too, were being prepared - they would conduct airborne landings, dropping special operators behind enemy lines once the landing had gotten under way. For now, they were simply being equipped for anti-submarine operations, to drop depth charges as the fleet came abrest of the selected landing zone, should they detect the sound signatures of submarine warfare. Their depth charges would force enemy submarines into the thermocline, and the air-independent stealth submarines used liberally by Imperium.
As the fleet maneuvered, making jolly of the day, the secretive AIP submarines of the fleet started to descend below the thermocline, disappearing even from friendly radar systems as they set about the task given to them by God Almighty - 'to be'. They were the fleet in being, raking the layers of water that were so useful for hiding submarines, their diesel-electric propulsion systems issuing noise at levels so low that even a nuclear submarine would envy them, were such a hulk able to detect the nimble daggers. They skulked for one purpose - to intercept anything that should appear next to the thermocline, and they split in half. Those with even hull designations stayed above, those with odd stayed below, to ensure that everyone was doing what they needed to do. To surface was not necessary - the surface vessels would deal with the Rhuvish navy. In this way, they could avoid collateral damage from the August depth charges, simply laying in wait to intercept enemy craft fleeing the bombs.
To: Myroria, Guslantis, Syrixia
From: The Rhuvish Proconsulate (Limitor-Magister)
We would like to inform you that, in tandem with the beginning of Operation Divine Retribution tomorrow, we require air and airborne support to open a front in the North of Rhuvanland. We intend to tie up aerial resources that will be required to repel the screen for an airborne deployment en masse, allowing us to conduct the amphibious component of the operation with minimal casualties. Provisions will be made to allow for preparations in Carrotopolis, and the deployment of forces.
The aerial bombardment campaign will begin in earnest, and will be sustained throughout the day. As is normal for a sustained campaign, we expect losses - however, we expect that after a few hours, Rhuvanland will be unable to respond to the more important matter of an airborne assault, and then the amphibious landings. Our intention is to begin night bombing immediately, using fire-bombs to mark targets like farms and military bases for long-term attacks, reducing the reliance on a unified command structure and magnifying what has been reported as mass abandonment.
We expect that, in conjunction with existing propaganda, this should break morale of the Rhuvish people. We hope for a swift resolution.
General Akerman will be put in the leadership of this operation, hereafter codenamed Copenhagen Gargoyle.
"In Alba Longa, we were born," "Heave away! Haul away!" "Alba Longa, 'round Pauldron," "We're bound for Alba Longa,"
The Rhuvish Sacre Comitate had already set sail for Rhuvanland, for Guslantis, and they rounded the strait towards vessels of the Argent Alliance. In accordance with the promise made to their leadership, a notice of approach was sent promptly to Nebula, and Yeraennus.
A song rang through the fleet, as the preparations were made. Tomorrow, war would begin in earnest. The sound of Alba Longa rang through the fleet, as the officers took every chance to remind the soldiers that where they would be steaming towards foreign land, they would be landing on familiar soil. The soil of home. From here onwards, they would live and die on August territory. The song was led by a number of men and women from the Censorial Service; the cultural affairs department of Imperium, providing trained singers who would, likely, not be at all involved in the invasion. That being said, they all kept a gun on them - just for appearance's sake. For the most part, the fleet had taken up the song with dignity, and cheer.
This was the first war in - well, almost in living memory. A bit of morbid humour never hurt anyone, and it was the keystone of Imperium's life and soul. Men and women alike started writing obituaries for the friends, penning in increasingly ridiculous wills. In the August tradition, a funeral was held for the Proconsul - it was her first war, and so it was custom to lay her innocence to rest. In prior times, such a funeral would be held for Caesar, but it was decided best not to bring to mind his own martial virginity. The soldiers booed the Proconsul's poor taste in funerary music - a tongue in cheek repeat of the Alba Longa shanty that had been sung ad nauseum all night - before it was replaced with a rousing performance of some tinny pop music popular in Neapolis. A kindly obituary was given by the Lictor-in-attendance, on behalf of the Palace, before a distinctly more witty one was given by the Proconsul herself, playing the part of her mother.
In the August tradition, she'd been required to save her whole day's worth of alcohol rations for a half-hour prior, and in the August tradition, she'd been donated the same from more than a few friends. The slurred speech brought laughter and mirth to those in attendance, and it was recorded for those working a shift.
They were, after all, in a battlefield.
There was a mock wedding, too. Again, one of those quaint little traditions. They helped keep up morale; gave everyone something to talk about. And doubled rations? But of course. Keep your mind off things, of course. That was for those who were land-bound, and their officers. It was slightly different for the aircrews - for those who were starting their campaign...now.
Aboard the carriers of Imperium - those sleek, ominous beasts of the ocean - men and women put up scarves around their mouth, protecting them from the jet fuel, mixed into the sea-spray and the gently dwindling light. Pre-flight checks were the order of the day. The sprightly jump-jets that formed the vast majority of Imperium's naval air wing were introduced to some good elbow grease, and crews. A few of them would start conducting night flights; carrying out reconnaissance as the fleet maneuvered into a landing position, and trying to bait out anti-air defenses as a measure of resistance on-shore. Helicopters, too, were being prepared - they would conduct airborne landings, dropping special operators behind enemy lines once the landing had gotten under way. For now, they were simply being equipped for anti-submarine operations, to drop depth charges as the fleet came abrest of the selected landing zone, should they detect the sound signatures of submarine warfare. Their depth charges would force enemy submarines into the thermocline, and the air-independent stealth submarines used liberally by Imperium.
As the fleet maneuvered, making jolly of the day, the secretive AIP submarines of the fleet started to descend below the thermocline, disappearing even from friendly radar systems as they set about the task given to them by God Almighty - 'to be'. They were the fleet in being, raking the layers of water that were so useful for hiding submarines, their diesel-electric propulsion systems issuing noise at levels so low that even a nuclear submarine would envy them, were such a hulk able to detect the nimble daggers. They skulked for one purpose - to intercept anything that should appear next to the thermocline, and they split in half. Those with even hull designations stayed above, those with odd stayed below, to ensure that everyone was doing what they needed to do. To surface was not necessary - the surface vessels would deal with the Rhuvish navy. In this way, they could avoid collateral damage from the August depth charges, simply laying in wait to intercept enemy craft fleeing the bombs.
To: Myroria, Guslantis, Syrixia
From: The Rhuvish Proconsulate (Limitor-Magister)
We would like to inform you that, in tandem with the beginning of Operation Divine Retribution tomorrow, we require air and airborne support to open a front in the North of Rhuvanland. We intend to tie up aerial resources that will be required to repel the screen for an airborne deployment en masse, allowing us to conduct the amphibious component of the operation with minimal casualties. Provisions will be made to allow for preparations in Carrotopolis, and the deployment of forces.
The aerial bombardment campaign will begin in earnest, and will be sustained throughout the day. As is normal for a sustained campaign, we expect losses - however, we expect that after a few hours, Rhuvanland will be unable to respond to the more important matter of an airborne assault, and then the amphibious landings. Our intention is to begin night bombing immediately, using fire-bombs to mark targets like farms and military bases for long-term attacks, reducing the reliance on a unified command structure and magnifying what has been reported as mass abandonment.
We expect that, in conjunction with existing propaganda, this should break morale of the Rhuvish people. We hope for a swift resolution.
General Akerman will be put in the leadership of this operation, hereafter codenamed Copenhagen Gargoyle.
Sebt sighed, asking Sionne to dispatch notice that the Argent Alliance woud accept Rhvanlands unconditional surrender, making sure the message was relayed to all relevant parties but he made sure to give Ceaser's an addendu, requesting when it would be acceptable for the duel to take place and a copy of Wolvesh duelling laws "to read at leisure".
- TNP Nation
- Floresque
- Discord
- DivaythFyr
The Myrorian Foreign Corps's first major military action took place in 1781. It was a minor squabble with the Kianese over a distant, forgotten colonial possession the All-House Union wanted for itself. It was pointless, and seemed so even then.
The Foreign Corps does not ask questions, not least because most of its members do not speak Myrorian fluently. They are, for the most part, strangers, outlanders, aliens. They joined not out of a deep love for the Union, but because it is one of the few ways for an immigrant to apply for citizenship. In the grandiloquent Myrorian formal style, they are "retainers of foreign Houses". In the colloquial style they are "from away", and it is for that reason alone that the Corps is always sent in first.
Over its two-hundred year history, the Corps has become accustomed to death. The proper army - the Council's Army - finds purpose in death, which at its base is incompatible with the tenets of the Myrorian religion. Death is its own purpose and, paradoxically, it is the army made entirely of foreigners that understands this best. The Foreign Corps does not ask questions because only men afraid of death ask questions.
Myrorians do not flash or strut like peacocks before death. In ancient times, a Myrorian strutting would have a Kianese pike driven through his sternum. It is for this reason that Myrorians do not duel. If a noble has a quibble with another noble, they send an assassin with dagger, gun, or poison to kill their adversary. If the assassin is killed or caught himself, then your argument clearly had no merit. To equate honor and bravery with gaudy, flashy swordsmanship or scrotum-adjusting displays of manhood is disgraceful to your stoic, quiet ancestors. Either die quietly, or kill quietly.
The Myrorian officers that command the Foreign Corps, either consciously or unconsciously, put this culture into their divisions and regiments. The Foreign Corps does not ask questions because it is pointless to ask why death happens. It just does. The Council's Army, fat from civilian food and leisure, asks questions. Most Corps barracks are in the outskirts of major cities, where they can train and do exercises while their officers keep an eye on the dangerously decadent liberal side of the Union.
They come from Imperium, Floresque, Vazos, Plembobria, Syrixia, Andalucia, McMasterdonia, Wolfsea, Kannex, Rhuvanland, Cronaal, Hemland, Yeraennus, Svoboda, Nierr, Kialga, etc. etc. They leave as Myrorians, living or dead. There are differences, of course. The Plembobrians and Syrixians wash out. Usually, they complain about living conditions and then desert after a few weeks, blending back into the immigrant population of whatever city they find themselves in. The August usually angle for engineering work. The McMasterdonians won't complain but can't aim worth a damn. The Vazosi are tough.
For most of the war the Corps was on alert, and 750 men were ready to deploy. But the order never came, until Imperium asked for it. The officers grumbled. Many had served with the previous Sedera, Fendryn. He would never sign a treaty with the August, they thought. We should have known his daughter would sleep with whoever she could. A politician to the bone. They thought this, but never said it. The Corps doesn't ask questions.
The enlisted men watched Fendrina's address on the television. On the walls around the barracks were posters, faded and peeling at the edges. One, behind the television, had illustrations of the leaders of the nations Novrith Pact dressed in traditional garb, standing in poses like statues. Fendrina and Tozian had skin like cream. The Vazosi and Funkadelians had skin like chocolate and ebony, respectively. "The Novrith Treaty of Non-Aligned Peoples forges a multi-cultural and selfless community!" it was captioned. Most of the men in the barracks couldn't read it.
"In consideration of the great danger our stalwart allies, the August Empire, finds itself in as the Argent Alliance turns its aggression towards them," she said, in a lilting accent that hardly concealed her steely demeanor, "We have requested, and We have received, the blessing of the Council of Great Houses for a military deployment. 750 members of the 2nd Paratrooper Regiment of the Myrorian Foreign Corps will be deployed under the command of Guslant General Akerman to assist the August Empire in its operations in Rhuvanland. In addition, another 2,000 soldiers of the Foreign Corps and 500 men and women of the Council's Army are to be prepared to deploy upon the orders of Ourselves. Further mustering will be left to Our discretion, with the consent of the Council."
The men, gathered around the television, turned to their commanding officer, who was leaning against the doorjamb. "Translation, Mercanti." one man said in accented Myrorian.
"Those are our orders," the CO replied. "We're to move out." The Corps does not ask questions.
The Foreign Corps does not ask questions, not least because most of its members do not speak Myrorian fluently. They are, for the most part, strangers, outlanders, aliens. They joined not out of a deep love for the Union, but because it is one of the few ways for an immigrant to apply for citizenship. In the grandiloquent Myrorian formal style, they are "retainers of foreign Houses". In the colloquial style they are "from away", and it is for that reason alone that the Corps is always sent in first.
Over its two-hundred year history, the Corps has become accustomed to death. The proper army - the Council's Army - finds purpose in death, which at its base is incompatible with the tenets of the Myrorian religion. Death is its own purpose and, paradoxically, it is the army made entirely of foreigners that understands this best. The Foreign Corps does not ask questions because only men afraid of death ask questions.
Myrorians do not flash or strut like peacocks before death. In ancient times, a Myrorian strutting would have a Kianese pike driven through his sternum. It is for this reason that Myrorians do not duel. If a noble has a quibble with another noble, they send an assassin with dagger, gun, or poison to kill their adversary. If the assassin is killed or caught himself, then your argument clearly had no merit. To equate honor and bravery with gaudy, flashy swordsmanship or scrotum-adjusting displays of manhood is disgraceful to your stoic, quiet ancestors. Either die quietly, or kill quietly.
The Myrorian officers that command the Foreign Corps, either consciously or unconsciously, put this culture into their divisions and regiments. The Foreign Corps does not ask questions because it is pointless to ask why death happens. It just does. The Council's Army, fat from civilian food and leisure, asks questions. Most Corps barracks are in the outskirts of major cities, where they can train and do exercises while their officers keep an eye on the dangerously decadent liberal side of the Union.
They come from Imperium, Floresque, Vazos, Plembobria, Syrixia, Andalucia, McMasterdonia, Wolfsea, Kannex, Rhuvanland, Cronaal, Hemland, Yeraennus, Svoboda, Nierr, Kialga, etc. etc. They leave as Myrorians, living or dead. There are differences, of course. The Plembobrians and Syrixians wash out. Usually, they complain about living conditions and then desert after a few weeks, blending back into the immigrant population of whatever city they find themselves in. The August usually angle for engineering work. The McMasterdonians won't complain but can't aim worth a damn. The Vazosi are tough.
For most of the war the Corps was on alert, and 750 men were ready to deploy. But the order never came, until Imperium asked for it. The officers grumbled. Many had served with the previous Sedera, Fendryn. He would never sign a treaty with the August, they thought. We should have known his daughter would sleep with whoever she could. A politician to the bone. They thought this, but never said it. The Corps doesn't ask questions.
The enlisted men watched Fendrina's address on the television. On the walls around the barracks were posters, faded and peeling at the edges. One, behind the television, had illustrations of the leaders of the nations Novrith Pact dressed in traditional garb, standing in poses like statues. Fendrina and Tozian had skin like cream. The Vazosi and Funkadelians had skin like chocolate and ebony, respectively. "The Novrith Treaty of Non-Aligned Peoples forges a multi-cultural and selfless community!" it was captioned. Most of the men in the barracks couldn't read it.
"In consideration of the great danger our stalwart allies, the August Empire, finds itself in as the Argent Alliance turns its aggression towards them," she said, in a lilting accent that hardly concealed her steely demeanor, "We have requested, and We have received, the blessing of the Council of Great Houses for a military deployment. 750 members of the 2nd Paratrooper Regiment of the Myrorian Foreign Corps will be deployed under the command of Guslant General Akerman to assist the August Empire in its operations in Rhuvanland. In addition, another 2,000 soldiers of the Foreign Corps and 500 men and women of the Council's Army are to be prepared to deploy upon the orders of Ourselves. Further mustering will be left to Our discretion, with the consent of the Council."
The men, gathered around the television, turned to their commanding officer, who was leaning against the doorjamb. "Translation, Mercanti." one man said in accented Myrorian.
"Those are our orders," the CO replied. "We're to move out." The Corps does not ask questions.
The counter assault had been successful. For over the last week the Esplandian forces had driven the Rhuvish back into their own lands. The death of the Furor had left the enemy demoralized and whoever was commanding this front was unaccustomed to retreat. Whenever the Rhuvish counter-surged, Nathaniel de Alayn would through the Huskavrls against them.
Raymond Dracosta's unit was a motley crew of rugged men. They didn't wear uniforms, instead choosing to wear an assortment of military equipment and apparel over civilian clothes. All were mangy tough looking men who bore the scars of past battles. They wore no insignias of rank, nor symbols of nationality, only a patch shaped like a snarling wolf sewed onto the forearm of their shirts marked them as Huskavrls.
Before battle they had a tradition where Raymond would cry out taunts and his men would respond with blood chilling howls, less like the wolves they modeled themselves after, and more like some demonic scream. They were loud enough for the enemy to hear. Psychological warfare to demoralize the enemy.
Each man had a different expertise. There were snipers, demolitionists, counter terrorists, and many other professions. The Huskavrls even allowed foreigners to join, men from all over the world seeking to be a part of Esplandia's toughest unit.
The Rhuvish had dug in outside a small village, one of those picturesque types seen in travel magazines, and the Huskavrls had been ordered to drive them out. At the end of their howling ceremony artillery began to shell the town, lighting up the night sky with brilliant explosions. Then the Fourth Esplandian Infantry Corp, supported by the Third Cavalry in tanks moved up, assaulting the line. Mixed in were many of the Huskavrls, providing support to the regulars with RPGs, 50-cal machine guns, and sniper support.
The full strength of the Huskavrls had been deployed to the west of the town against an enemy position which had been deemed under supported. They came screaming against the enemy position in a full charge, bullets fired wildly, hitting the position with grenades, confusing the enemy.
They stormed into the enemy position, and following them in support was the Tajin First Regiment and the Third and Sixth Esplandian Corps. The enemy line broke and the attackers poured through the break.
By morning Tajin and Esplandian troops were in Rhuvanland, by the afternoon they had secured a large area of territory, and in the evening news of the Rhuvish surrender had reached them.
Nathaniel de Alayn ordered a halt to his advance, and was immediately on the phone with the King. For the time being, the fighting was over.
Raymond Dracosta's unit was a motley crew of rugged men. They didn't wear uniforms, instead choosing to wear an assortment of military equipment and apparel over civilian clothes. All were mangy tough looking men who bore the scars of past battles. They wore no insignias of rank, nor symbols of nationality, only a patch shaped like a snarling wolf sewed onto the forearm of their shirts marked them as Huskavrls.
Before battle they had a tradition where Raymond would cry out taunts and his men would respond with blood chilling howls, less like the wolves they modeled themselves after, and more like some demonic scream. They were loud enough for the enemy to hear. Psychological warfare to demoralize the enemy.
Each man had a different expertise. There were snipers, demolitionists, counter terrorists, and many other professions. The Huskavrls even allowed foreigners to join, men from all over the world seeking to be a part of Esplandia's toughest unit.
The Rhuvish had dug in outside a small village, one of those picturesque types seen in travel magazines, and the Huskavrls had been ordered to drive them out. At the end of their howling ceremony artillery began to shell the town, lighting up the night sky with brilliant explosions. Then the Fourth Esplandian Infantry Corp, supported by the Third Cavalry in tanks moved up, assaulting the line. Mixed in were many of the Huskavrls, providing support to the regulars with RPGs, 50-cal machine guns, and sniper support.
The full strength of the Huskavrls had been deployed to the west of the town against an enemy position which had been deemed under supported. They came screaming against the enemy position in a full charge, bullets fired wildly, hitting the position with grenades, confusing the enemy.
They stormed into the enemy position, and following them in support was the Tajin First Regiment and the Third and Sixth Esplandian Corps. The enemy line broke and the attackers poured through the break.
By morning Tajin and Esplandian troops were in Rhuvanland, by the afternoon they had secured a large area of territory, and in the evening news of the Rhuvish surrender had reached them.
Nathaniel de Alayn ordered a halt to his advance, and was immediately on the phone with the King. For the time being, the fighting was over.
MacSalterson
TNPer
- Pronouns
- They/Them
The Yeraenn fleet, already back in Rhuvish waters, stopped. The commander, an older Low Yeraenn woman named Sivi Y'math, received a call directly from Khiara, Grand Warden of Yeraennus. The Yeraenn, for now, acknowledged the ceasefire, though vigilance on the mighty warships remained constant as they waited outside the city of Bürheim. The few transport ships in the fleet docked in Bürheim, and Yeraenn troops spread throughout the city, relieving Nazo troops of their armaments as they waited for further instructions. The YNMC, or Yeraenn Naval Marksmen Corps, took to the rooftops to act as sentries and lookouts.
Back in Yeraennus, Sphan K'ter sat at his desk, rubbing his forehead as he stared at the first draft of the pact that would determine the fate of Rhuvanland. Khiara stood beside him, silently. Leaning back in his chair, Sphan voiced his thoughts, "We cannot give the Em'firä too much, but I can not but help acknowledge that they assisted us much in this war against the Rhu'uvä Nazos. This pact is most bothersome. Khiara, have you received word of a place to host talks regarding peace and conditions yet?"
Khiara replied, still looking straight ahead, "The Flores'ï have stated they will host. They are latinate, as the Em'firä, but remained neutral through this war. I feel they would be ideal as a meeting place." Her countenance softened, and she glanced down at Sphan's draft, "Sir, once you are at the talks, I am sure it will be easier to decide on the terms."
Thinking for a moment, Sphan nodded, "They will have to do. Let me call the Em'firä Caesar and discuss this with him. I am sure he will agree." Sphan turned to his computer, watching the screen as he contacted the Caesar and waited for an answer.
Back in Yeraennus, Sphan K'ter sat at his desk, rubbing his forehead as he stared at the first draft of the pact that would determine the fate of Rhuvanland. Khiara stood beside him, silently. Leaning back in his chair, Sphan voiced his thoughts, "We cannot give the Em'firä too much, but I can not but help acknowledge that they assisted us much in this war against the Rhu'uvä Nazos. This pact is most bothersome. Khiara, have you received word of a place to host talks regarding peace and conditions yet?"
Khiara replied, still looking straight ahead, "The Flores'ï have stated they will host. They are latinate, as the Em'firä, but remained neutral through this war. I feel they would be ideal as a meeting place." Her countenance softened, and she glanced down at Sphan's draft, "Sir, once you are at the talks, I am sure it will be easier to decide on the terms."
Thinking for a moment, Sphan nodded, "They will have to do. Let me call the Em'firä Caesar and discuss this with him. I am sure he will agree." Sphan turned to his computer, watching the screen as he contacted the Caesar and waited for an answer.
Kannex
TNPer
Admiral Jang's fleet entered Rhuvish waters and soon eastern ports were under the control of the Kannexan fleet. The Rhuvish naval forces were escorted back to their harbors where they were disarmed and kept under watch. From the coast, Kannexan land forces moved inland. The 1st and 2nd Marines occupied the coastal regions, whereas the 5th and 7th of the Army occupied most of the eastern provinces of Rhuvanland that had not yet been occupied by the Wolvesh. The 1st Panzer and 10th Mountain divisions drove straight from Dunorion and Alzenstadt in central Rhuvanland, respectively. The 4th Infantry Division was still being shipped from Kannex, piece by piece, and they were to advance west. The 9th Jäger Division was assigned to the west as well, where there mountain warfare expertise would be best of use.
A flurry of orders had to be passed establishing an occupation government in Rhuvanland as well as a provisional headquarters somewhere securely in Kannexan hands. Admiral Jang was named acting governor.
The regular Rhuvish forces melted away as the Kannexans took over eastern and central Rhuvanland. That was not the surprise. The Rhuvish soldiers simply deserted en masse, taking their weapons with them. The Kannexan occupying forces were to be the only law and order until local law enforcement and defense could be built from the ground up. But as Kannexan tanks rolled into the suburbs of Dunorion and Alzenstadt, they came under fire from armored cars, overturned buses, and windows. The Kannexans advanced into the cities from varying pincers and a few took only potshots from disgruntled Nazo and Staatspolizei forces, while other companies faced organized resistance. The regular Rhuvish army, of course, had deserted, leaving only the diehard Nazos. Although the 1st and 10th could not use air support in the crowded urban streets, they quickly overcame the Rhuvish through sheer numbers. The Kannexan tanks rolled in from all directions and what remained of Nazo resistance came to an end.
The Rhuvish General Staff, proud military men, surrendered to the commander of the 10th Division. Kannexan troops cleared out the government district, rounding up bureaucrats and telling most of them to go home, except those that were absolutely necessary. Kannexan troops barged into Nazo Party headquarters, taking cover in the lobby of the vast concrete palace and rifles ready to fire, but the place was empty. Franck was missing, and Schlother as well. They found Scheurer in his office, at his desk. He had eaten the bullet.
A flurry of orders had to be passed establishing an occupation government in Rhuvanland as well as a provisional headquarters somewhere securely in Kannexan hands. Admiral Jang was named acting governor.
The regular Rhuvish forces melted away as the Kannexans took over eastern and central Rhuvanland. That was not the surprise. The Rhuvish soldiers simply deserted en masse, taking their weapons with them. The Kannexan occupying forces were to be the only law and order until local law enforcement and defense could be built from the ground up. But as Kannexan tanks rolled into the suburbs of Dunorion and Alzenstadt, they came under fire from armored cars, overturned buses, and windows. The Kannexans advanced into the cities from varying pincers and a few took only potshots from disgruntled Nazo and Staatspolizei forces, while other companies faced organized resistance. The regular Rhuvish army, of course, had deserted, leaving only the diehard Nazos. Although the 1st and 10th could not use air support in the crowded urban streets, they quickly overcame the Rhuvish through sheer numbers. The Kannexan tanks rolled in from all directions and what remained of Nazo resistance came to an end.
The Rhuvish General Staff, proud military men, surrendered to the commander of the 10th Division. Kannexan troops cleared out the government district, rounding up bureaucrats and telling most of them to go home, except those that were absolutely necessary. Kannexan troops barged into Nazo Party headquarters, taking cover in the lobby of the vast concrete palace and rifles ready to fire, but the place was empty. Franck was missing, and Schlother as well. They found Scheurer in his office, at his desk. He had eaten the bullet.
Nebula
TNPer
Nebulan ships coalesced along the coastline, desperately searching for an area to get a foothold. One of the primary objectives of the war had been to increase influence over Rhuvanland, and the Emperator wished for a naval center on the coast.
While this was happening, Nebulan aircraft launched bombing runs against Nazo positions in the north. The Rhuvish forces, already collapsing through mass desertions, were pummeled from above by Nebula's sizeable bomber force.
While this was happening, Nebulan aircraft launched bombing runs against Nazo positions in the north. The Rhuvish forces, already collapsing through mass desertions, were pummeled from above by Nebula's sizeable bomber force.
The Grim Reaper
TNPer
"Caesar, just a pair of files."
Caesar placed a pair of spectacles over his eyes. His sight was excellent for someone of his age, although that wasn't saying much at 72, but the glasses still magnified text and made the entire job significantly more pleasant. With the lower light levels preferred in stately institutions, like the palace, the magnification was a welcome boon.
The Lictor-Magister handed him the files at what was an altogether more human hour. It had long been decided that Caesar was done with taking calls at breakfast, and so the Divine-Magister had prepared a small statement for him for the day's work.
The first was a call from Wolfsea, informing him that the Argent Alliance had chosen to accept Rhuvanland's unconditional surrender - oh? Interesting. That file was quickly sent to be burned. The addendum had, of course, also been read - a request for a time for the duel to take place, and notice for the dispatch of some book of duelling laws for his leisure. "Tell Wolfsea we can discuss timing when the time comes to negotiate over Rhuvanland. And, donate the book to...someone, when it gets here. Someone must want it - Spatulus will find a good home."
The second, conveniently, was from Yeraennus, offering to accept the Floresquean offer to hold the Rhuvish negotiations. Floresque was close enough for easy travel - in fact, Caesar could just take the train to Neapolis, and fly out from there. Easier said than done. "Inform the Yeraen that I am favourable towards the Floresquaens as hosts."
The March of the Latin Militia
The Censorial Service band struck up, as amphibious landing craft prepared for their grand overture, and their awaiting passengers the jovial march of the Latin Militia.
"Ma'am, the Rhuvish have surrendered to the Argent Alliance. Word from Wolfsea, via the palace."
"But of course. It was their eleventh hour."
The Proconsul's measured words did not quite match up to the relative uncertainty of tone that she felt. A roll of some substance was offered to her, with a lighter, by the gentleman sitting next to her. His was not the uniform of a combat soldier, although it remained muted, and calm. There were no noticeable differentiations of rank, except for the bandana into which his name was sewn. "Antonius Octavian Lepidus" flashed, in what seemed to be legitimately gold embroidery. On the middle of his neck, at the tip of the bandana, worn as it was over the shoulder, a little, white-gold star stood alone. A diamond in its middle was that marking, a venerable sign of the Terrestrial-Magister's rank.
The Proconsul gave an uncertain look to Antonius.
"We shall do what we have always planned."
Antonius blew out a ring of smoke, inhaling it through his nose. "We shall send these heathens to their Hell; and if their Hell will not accept them, we shall create our own."
The Proconsul gave Antonius a...questioning look. "We shall do what we have always planned. We shall land in Rhuvanland, and we shall allow the people to show us their arms, their backs, or their knees. Our choice shall not come before fate. Our fate is to hold Rhuvanland for the Pax Latina, and nothing the heathen may do shall stop us." Hilaria sighed silently, averting her eyes from that little, shiny star.
It had been decided not to land at an Argent beachhead. Instead, they would test the defenses of Althafen, come to land there, and then follow on the strategic situation as it developed - between the Proconsulate, and its new strategic neighbours. They were expecting almost no resistance, as Rhuvanland desperately disbanded, to surrender to the Argent Alliance. As they spoke, the bombing campaign had already been conducting itself at its own leisure, in the north of Rhuvanland, destroying farmland and any potential for Rhuvish agriculture. If Rhuvish morale was at zero before, Imperium intended to shatter the will of the Rhuvish people totally.
Such a shame, but they could buy their food at market prices from Imperium, come the end of the war. Easy to ship, too.
It was a brisk morning, as Althafen prepared to meet its fate at the hands of Imperium and Syrixia. Imperium had, politely, allowed Syrixia to launch first. Give Imperium more time to organize its landing, and all - they'd have fire support incoming at a moment's notice, should Althafen make the...wrong decision. Imperium's VTOLs, too, were prepared to give aerial reconnaissance information, allowing Imperium to immediately sight any resistance, military or otherwise, that should try to make itself known in the streets.
As the Rhuvish Proconsulate, in all its beauty, took to the shores, Carrotopolis would see to thousands of troops itself. The Myrorian Foreign Corps had been attached to General Akerman's Guslant forces, and would be taking along the Kialga-Lourti Land Guard, to push into the north via airdrops, where the concerted night-bombings had already softened any, even nominally military targets. They had with them a small complement of Latin special operators, to help coordinate efforts with the Rhuvish Proconsulate, but were otherwise under the control of Akerman, and their native command structures.
It was not a small complement of troops, by any means. Imperium did not choose to wage war for the fun of it.
There is war because there must be war. And there are thousands, because there must be thousands.
Caesar placed a pair of spectacles over his eyes. His sight was excellent for someone of his age, although that wasn't saying much at 72, but the glasses still magnified text and made the entire job significantly more pleasant. With the lower light levels preferred in stately institutions, like the palace, the magnification was a welcome boon.
The Lictor-Magister handed him the files at what was an altogether more human hour. It had long been decided that Caesar was done with taking calls at breakfast, and so the Divine-Magister had prepared a small statement for him for the day's work.
The first was a call from Wolfsea, informing him that the Argent Alliance had chosen to accept Rhuvanland's unconditional surrender - oh? Interesting. That file was quickly sent to be burned. The addendum had, of course, also been read - a request for a time for the duel to take place, and notice for the dispatch of some book of duelling laws for his leisure. "Tell Wolfsea we can discuss timing when the time comes to negotiate over Rhuvanland. And, donate the book to...someone, when it gets here. Someone must want it - Spatulus will find a good home."
The second, conveniently, was from Yeraennus, offering to accept the Floresquean offer to hold the Rhuvish negotiations. Floresque was close enough for easy travel - in fact, Caesar could just take the train to Neapolis, and fly out from there. Easier said than done. "Inform the Yeraen that I am favourable towards the Floresquaens as hosts."
The March of the Latin Militia
The Censorial Service band struck up, as amphibious landing craft prepared for their grand overture, and their awaiting passengers the jovial march of the Latin Militia.
"Ma'am, the Rhuvish have surrendered to the Argent Alliance. Word from Wolfsea, via the palace."
"But of course. It was their eleventh hour."
The Proconsul's measured words did not quite match up to the relative uncertainty of tone that she felt. A roll of some substance was offered to her, with a lighter, by the gentleman sitting next to her. His was not the uniform of a combat soldier, although it remained muted, and calm. There were no noticeable differentiations of rank, except for the bandana into which his name was sewn. "Antonius Octavian Lepidus" flashed, in what seemed to be legitimately gold embroidery. On the middle of his neck, at the tip of the bandana, worn as it was over the shoulder, a little, white-gold star stood alone. A diamond in its middle was that marking, a venerable sign of the Terrestrial-Magister's rank.
The Proconsul gave an uncertain look to Antonius.
"We shall do what we have always planned."
Antonius blew out a ring of smoke, inhaling it through his nose. "We shall send these heathens to their Hell; and if their Hell will not accept them, we shall create our own."
The Proconsul gave Antonius a...questioning look. "We shall do what we have always planned. We shall land in Rhuvanland, and we shall allow the people to show us their arms, their backs, or their knees. Our choice shall not come before fate. Our fate is to hold Rhuvanland for the Pax Latina, and nothing the heathen may do shall stop us." Hilaria sighed silently, averting her eyes from that little, shiny star.
It had been decided not to land at an Argent beachhead. Instead, they would test the defenses of Althafen, come to land there, and then follow on the strategic situation as it developed - between the Proconsulate, and its new strategic neighbours. They were expecting almost no resistance, as Rhuvanland desperately disbanded, to surrender to the Argent Alliance. As they spoke, the bombing campaign had already been conducting itself at its own leisure, in the north of Rhuvanland, destroying farmland and any potential for Rhuvish agriculture. If Rhuvish morale was at zero before, Imperium intended to shatter the will of the Rhuvish people totally.
Such a shame, but they could buy their food at market prices from Imperium, come the end of the war. Easy to ship, too.
It was a brisk morning, as Althafen prepared to meet its fate at the hands of Imperium and Syrixia. Imperium had, politely, allowed Syrixia to launch first. Give Imperium more time to organize its landing, and all - they'd have fire support incoming at a moment's notice, should Althafen make the...wrong decision. Imperium's VTOLs, too, were prepared to give aerial reconnaissance information, allowing Imperium to immediately sight any resistance, military or otherwise, that should try to make itself known in the streets.
As the Rhuvish Proconsulate, in all its beauty, took to the shores, Carrotopolis would see to thousands of troops itself. The Myrorian Foreign Corps had been attached to General Akerman's Guslant forces, and would be taking along the Kialga-Lourti Land Guard, to push into the north via airdrops, where the concerted night-bombings had already softened any, even nominally military targets. They had with them a small complement of Latin special operators, to help coordinate efforts with the Rhuvish Proconsulate, but were otherwise under the control of Akerman, and their native command structures.
It was not a small complement of troops, by any means. Imperium did not choose to wage war for the fun of it.
There is war because there must be war. And there are thousands, because there must be thousands.
Sebt sighed, the slow march south-east from Guslantis and through the Rhuvish border had been long and tiring, not due to the distance but because they knew the Imperium could well attack their rear at a moments notice, they were about 20 miles in and had already had to leave a few small garrisons in the small towns they had come across. A few Rhuvish troops still fanatically loyal to Ulrich had waylaid them, indeed Sebt had gotten into a quick scuffle with one not long before, he was none the worse for it but that knife had been closer to his jugular than was comfortable. He turned to one of the troops walking beside him, a Sergeant Major Hewlit "This is just insane..." he sighed, his tone betraying his disappointment in such an easy victory, had he planned too well in forming this alliance? Hewlit, wearing his beret shrugged as best he could "Well Sir, with all due respect we aren't exactly dealing with the sanest of peoples..." prompting the Khan to smirk slightly "Are you speaking as a Wolvesh or as a Soldier Hewlit?" prompting the older man to laugh softly "Ain't no other type of Wolvesh sir... s'what makes us what we are." before he continued with his explaination "These people, these outsiders, they talk about being free and all that yet they willingly give power to these unqualified psychos and incompetents and then wonder why the hell things turn to crap... only difference between a democracy and dictatorships is you get to decide whose boot is on your throat." shrugging again as the private next to him nervously smiled. Sebt thought for a second "Some call us a dictatorship..." prompting the Sergeant to shake his head "It's no secret what you and Lady Sera had to go through as kids sir, you had to suffer to get to be Khan, you had to earn it. These presidents and prime ministers didn't, they just stumped up enough cash to get their faces plastered everywhere with the right quotations underneath to win a popularity contest. Then they have the balls to send out their militaries to fight their battles and then brush them aside when they come back home crippled and broken. That's the difference between them and us Sir, we don't treat our own like pawns. You could've been with the fleet but instead you're here, marching with us. How many of these Democracies can honestly say their leaders are willing to actually lead by example?" his eyes betraying his contempt for such people. Sebt stayed silent for a few moments then spoke "Remind me never to put you on diplomatics dutie Sergeant Major." prompting the soldiers within earshot to laugh, the brief humour breaking up the monotony of their march.
It wasn't long before they encountered yet another group of Rhuvish soldiers, only a small tank division, a few hundred men at most. Their Captain approached "Wolvesh?" he enquired, Sebt nodded "Yes." causing the captain to remove his cap "Captain Gerhardt Wiesse, 43rd armoured corps. We are to surrender ourselves to you upon meeting, yes?" extending his free hand which Sebt shook firmly "Sebt, Khan of Wolfsea, I accept your surrender captain... if you wish you and your man can keep your arms and march with us." "Nein... your... grace?" Wiesse struggled to find the right title "We would rather stay here, even though you are a foreign invader... you are the lesser of the two evils... however..." then he turned to a young man, he was only in his early 20's, pretty inexperienced, the lad ran over and the two made a brief exchange in Rhuvish before Wiesse smiled at Sebt "Lt. Gruber shall accompany you, assist you in your march to the capital." "I see, I thank you Captain, I hope we shall talk again in better circumstances, let your men know we wish them luck and an honourable death should battle come." bowing his head slightly as they continued to march, Schroeder keeping pace with him as they did so. The Boy couldn't stop string at him "Speak freely Lieutenant, one thing I can't stand is when people want to say something and let ceremony get in the way..." "Forgive me... sir... but I have to ask why you declared war in the first place?" the young Rhuvishman seemed almost frightened to ask, Sebt shook his head "Men like Ulrich have no place being in power... when they feel their crowns slipping they use blood to keep it in place, eventually that blood comes from their own people..." then with a discreet smile he asked "You hate us for being here don't you?" "Yes, I do, but... I do admire you, you are a strong people, like we want to be." "It doesn't matte rhow strong you are if that strength is used to beat down and bully others Lieutenant, I truly wish we Wolvesh could be the peacekeepers of the region, to turn our strength to the good of others. That's why we had to stop Ulrich, for all their talks of peace the other nations don't understand peace has to be fought for because there will always be someone who will try to take over the world and we have to stop them..." causing Schroeder to nod, he didn't quite understand but the logic did seem sound.
It wasn't long before they encountered yet another group of Rhuvish soldiers, only a small tank division, a few hundred men at most. Their Captain approached "Wolvesh?" he enquired, Sebt nodded "Yes." causing the captain to remove his cap "Captain Gerhardt Wiesse, 43rd armoured corps. We are to surrender ourselves to you upon meeting, yes?" extending his free hand which Sebt shook firmly "Sebt, Khan of Wolfsea, I accept your surrender captain... if you wish you and your man can keep your arms and march with us." "Nein... your... grace?" Wiesse struggled to find the right title "We would rather stay here, even though you are a foreign invader... you are the lesser of the two evils... however..." then he turned to a young man, he was only in his early 20's, pretty inexperienced, the lad ran over and the two made a brief exchange in Rhuvish before Wiesse smiled at Sebt "Lt. Gruber shall accompany you, assist you in your march to the capital." "I see, I thank you Captain, I hope we shall talk again in better circumstances, let your men know we wish them luck and an honourable death should battle come." bowing his head slightly as they continued to march, Schroeder keeping pace with him as they did so. The Boy couldn't stop string at him "Speak freely Lieutenant, one thing I can't stand is when people want to say something and let ceremony get in the way..." "Forgive me... sir... but I have to ask why you declared war in the first place?" the young Rhuvishman seemed almost frightened to ask, Sebt shook his head "Men like Ulrich have no place being in power... when they feel their crowns slipping they use blood to keep it in place, eventually that blood comes from their own people..." then with a discreet smile he asked "You hate us for being here don't you?" "Yes, I do, but... I do admire you, you are a strong people, like we want to be." "It doesn't matte rhow strong you are if that strength is used to beat down and bully others Lieutenant, I truly wish we Wolvesh could be the peacekeepers of the region, to turn our strength to the good of others. That's why we had to stop Ulrich, for all their talks of peace the other nations don't understand peace has to be fought for because there will always be someone who will try to take over the world and we have to stop them..." causing Schroeder to nod, he didn't quite understand but the logic did seem sound.
In Miragea, Leah stood in a pink dress, alongside Chancellor Leng and Governor Hutchinson, both wearing white. "Surrender, the Rhuvish have surrendered," said Leng, hiding her excitement. "It would be interesting to look at who they surrendered to--the Argent Alliance," said Hutchinson, looking to Leng. "Who?", asked the Queen. "A Wolvesh-led coalition that the Democratic Union didn't think should be concerning itself in these Southern affairs," explained Hutchinson. "Are you suggesting we continue to bombard Rhuvanland after a surrender?", the chancellor asked. "We have, up to this point, put our confidence in Ms. Moore, we will not retract support of her and the Imperium-led government of Rhuvanland, nor can we not back our allies," replied the Queen. "Looks like we have another deal in motion," said Leng, quite disappointed.
The Queen walked onto the makeshift stage in front of the Miragean Town Hall, and looked out at the citizens that had gathered. She was quickly joined by Leng and Hutchinson, who stood to her left and right, respectively. She tapped the microphone and cleared her throat. "People of Guslantis," she said, as the GusProjection roared to life and projected the Queen's face all over Guslantis, and every channel that the GusNet was connected to. She then switched from Mercanti to Old Guslant (German), seeing it the more fit language to deliver the speech in. Subtitles provided the translation of the Queen's speech. "Thank you for your patience and courage in the middle of this hectic war. We appreciate your help in this way, and we hope peace to return to the states in the coming weeks. I'm pleased to announce a man of terror, the one and only Ulrich, is dead, and the nation he once ruled has surrendered. This surrender, however, does not end the war. The people of Rhuvanland are still without a government, and turmoil is abounding. These people need a government, a leader, a guide, a foundation to put themselves in to further secure the future of Rhuvanland and its rise to international status. This can only come from Imperium Augustum and our representative, the financial guru of Beth Moore. We cannot back out on our sister nation of Wolfsea, however, which is why I am speaking today. We ask Caesar and Khan Sebt to put down their dueling weapons and join together to bring what is the best government to Rhuvanland: a triad of nations committed to the cause, Guslantis, Wolfsea, and Imperium Augustum," she began.
She looked straight into the camera, straight at Sebt. "A foreign leader once risked his life to save this nation, this Monarchy, and my best friend. We don't want those sacrifices to be in vain, and want a compromise to be made. Sebt, Caesar, Rhuvanland has no influence in comparison to us. Let us work together, let us build this nation in our strikingly magnificent image, but let us let the people of Rhuvanland be able to craft an original work of art that each nation of our world got the chance to do. Thank you, and we expect a response in the coming days. Our people are exhausted from Southern wars, and we must prevent another war in Rhuvanland due to revolution. Do you not want this terror to end?", she concluded, stepping off of the stage as the GusProjection turned off.
The Queen walked onto the makeshift stage in front of the Miragean Town Hall, and looked out at the citizens that had gathered. She was quickly joined by Leng and Hutchinson, who stood to her left and right, respectively. She tapped the microphone and cleared her throat. "People of Guslantis," she said, as the GusProjection roared to life and projected the Queen's face all over Guslantis, and every channel that the GusNet was connected to. She then switched from Mercanti to Old Guslant (German), seeing it the more fit language to deliver the speech in. Subtitles provided the translation of the Queen's speech. "Thank you for your patience and courage in the middle of this hectic war. We appreciate your help in this way, and we hope peace to return to the states in the coming weeks. I'm pleased to announce a man of terror, the one and only Ulrich, is dead, and the nation he once ruled has surrendered. This surrender, however, does not end the war. The people of Rhuvanland are still without a government, and turmoil is abounding. These people need a government, a leader, a guide, a foundation to put themselves in to further secure the future of Rhuvanland and its rise to international status. This can only come from Imperium Augustum and our representative, the financial guru of Beth Moore. We cannot back out on our sister nation of Wolfsea, however, which is why I am speaking today. We ask Caesar and Khan Sebt to put down their dueling weapons and join together to bring what is the best government to Rhuvanland: a triad of nations committed to the cause, Guslantis, Wolfsea, and Imperium Augustum," she began.
She looked straight into the camera, straight at Sebt. "A foreign leader once risked his life to save this nation, this Monarchy, and my best friend. We don't want those sacrifices to be in vain, and want a compromise to be made. Sebt, Caesar, Rhuvanland has no influence in comparison to us. Let us work together, let us build this nation in our strikingly magnificent image, but let us let the people of Rhuvanland be able to craft an original work of art that each nation of our world got the chance to do. Thank you, and we expect a response in the coming days. Our people are exhausted from Southern wars, and we must prevent another war in Rhuvanland due to revolution. Do you not want this terror to end?", she concluded, stepping off of the stage as the GusProjection turned off.
Kialga
TNPer
- TNP Nation
- Kialga-Lourti
- Discord
- Elegante#5102
Jasmine overlooked the ocean, in the rough direction of Rhuvanland, taking a sip of her coffee. It was curious, to her, how the tide of the war had suddenly shifted. She shrugged, it was none of her business, the Rhuvish oddly timed surrender at least. The Cetian Land Guard was still in support of Imperium, being lead under a General from Guslantis. A small smile made its way to her face as she stood, thinking of what was to come. The Cetians would be in support of Imperium unconditionally, and in turn, it would play to her favor, she hoped. Turning her back to the ocean, she strolled back into her office and glanced around the room. It was time to make her own announcement on behalf of Cetus. Taking a seat behind her desk, she called in her aide.
"Marrissa, please prepare a communication to Cetus. They need to know what is to come once this blasted war in Rhuvanland is done," she stated calmly. Taking another sip of her coffee, she made a small grunt and dropped the coffee, mug and all, into the wastebasket under her desk. "The Rhuvish are priority one, remember Jasmine."
Alexia Gardiner, Private First Class of the Cetian Land Guard, stood in Carrotopolis, watching Imperium aircraft return from the bombings of the night. The private looked around the compound where the Cetians were stationed. General Hardwick had maintained the morale of the division, many of whom had begun worrying what they had gotten into once the Guard of Cetus had made land in Carrotopolis. Gardiner made way to the General's quarters, where the Land Guard was meeting. They were to be part of an air drop under General Akerman of Guslantis. A small chill ran up Gardiner's spine as she looked at the fellow members of the Cetian Land Guard. The General stood tall in front of them, ensuring every solider knew of the plans prior to deployment.
As the final words were exchanged, the soldiers turned to make way to their positions prior to deployment. Alexia stood and faced the other Guards, wondering what they were thinking. As her ponytail blew in the slight momentary breeze, Alexia wondered if she would ever see Mira Balka, or her wife, again.
"Marrissa, please prepare a communication to Cetus. They need to know what is to come once this blasted war in Rhuvanland is done," she stated calmly. Taking another sip of her coffee, she made a small grunt and dropped the coffee, mug and all, into the wastebasket under her desk. "The Rhuvish are priority one, remember Jasmine."
Alexia Gardiner, Private First Class of the Cetian Land Guard, stood in Carrotopolis, watching Imperium aircraft return from the bombings of the night. The private looked around the compound where the Cetians were stationed. General Hardwick had maintained the morale of the division, many of whom had begun worrying what they had gotten into once the Guard of Cetus had made land in Carrotopolis. Gardiner made way to the General's quarters, where the Land Guard was meeting. They were to be part of an air drop under General Akerman of Guslantis. A small chill ran up Gardiner's spine as she looked at the fellow members of the Cetian Land Guard. The General stood tall in front of them, ensuring every solider knew of the plans prior to deployment.
As the final words were exchanged, the soldiers turned to make way to their positions prior to deployment. Alexia stood and faced the other Guards, wondering what they were thinking. As her ponytail blew in the slight momentary breeze, Alexia wondered if she would ever see Mira Balka, or her wife, again.
February 21, 2016
It was a quiet winter's morning in Althafen. The sun sprinkled its thin morning light upon the gleaming oceans, and upon the city itself. The city was still somewhat dark, but human activities were bustling. People were racing to the government soup kitchens, and then back to their homes to protect themselves. Althafen was always tightly guarded by the Nazos, as it was Rhuvanland's chief port and second largest city. Being on the coast, it was always vulnerable, however it managed to become one of the last Nazo holdouts.
The local commander, Kommandant Erich von Richtofen, had set to trying to find ways to protect the city with his regiment, the 36th Regiment of the Volksmiliz Rhuvanlands, while the city mayor, Johannes Oltenstein, was working on getting everyone jobs. With the government destroyed, Althafen, like many other population centers, effectively operated as its own urban commune. However, what was left of the port city's government was about to be neutralized. They could tell when they saw the ships. They were ready to blockade the harbor.
The morning sun was not one complete yellow orb that morning. The shadows of ships had alarmed everyone. The harbor had been cut off. Nothing was to enter or leave without the approval of either of the two Empires. The 36th Regiment began taking up defensive positions north of the southern beaches of the city, where the Syrixians were to land. The landing boats began to approach. All was silent. All was tense. Then the boats opened. Soldiers of the Imperial Badheesena, or Grand Army, poured forth onto the beaches. Rhuvanland took the first shot, killing a corporal. The Rhuvish snipers poured volleys of bullets onto the Syrixian attackers, but the Syrixians pressed on and got through the beach.
Imperial troops swarmed through the coastal areas of the city, capturing beach houses and shops. Civilians were not to be killed. Those who fought the Imperial troops would have their weapons confiscated and were taken to a temporary holding center, their fates to be decided. However, the majority of the civilians in the parts of the city the Syrixians had captured surrendered, their nation's government destroyed, and some even assisted Imperial troops in various ways. Soon, the Empire had captured the southern parts and the harbor of Althafen. The two empires now had a beachhead, however the northern parts of the city and the Nazo commander remained ready to fight and uncaptured. The Syrixian commander, Sanjay Gobindh, ordered his men not to attack beyond what they had already captured, and to defend their occupations and wait for the August troops to arrive, before finishing off the city.
It was a quiet winter's morning in Althafen. The sun sprinkled its thin morning light upon the gleaming oceans, and upon the city itself. The city was still somewhat dark, but human activities were bustling. People were racing to the government soup kitchens, and then back to their homes to protect themselves. Althafen was always tightly guarded by the Nazos, as it was Rhuvanland's chief port and second largest city. Being on the coast, it was always vulnerable, however it managed to become one of the last Nazo holdouts.
The local commander, Kommandant Erich von Richtofen, had set to trying to find ways to protect the city with his regiment, the 36th Regiment of the Volksmiliz Rhuvanlands, while the city mayor, Johannes Oltenstein, was working on getting everyone jobs. With the government destroyed, Althafen, like many other population centers, effectively operated as its own urban commune. However, what was left of the port city's government was about to be neutralized. They could tell when they saw the ships. They were ready to blockade the harbor.
The morning sun was not one complete yellow orb that morning. The shadows of ships had alarmed everyone. The harbor had been cut off. Nothing was to enter or leave without the approval of either of the two Empires. The 36th Regiment began taking up defensive positions north of the southern beaches of the city, where the Syrixians were to land. The landing boats began to approach. All was silent. All was tense. Then the boats opened. Soldiers of the Imperial Badheesena, or Grand Army, poured forth onto the beaches. Rhuvanland took the first shot, killing a corporal. The Rhuvish snipers poured volleys of bullets onto the Syrixian attackers, but the Syrixians pressed on and got through the beach.
Imperial troops swarmed through the coastal areas of the city, capturing beach houses and shops. Civilians were not to be killed. Those who fought the Imperial troops would have their weapons confiscated and were taken to a temporary holding center, their fates to be decided. However, the majority of the civilians in the parts of the city the Syrixians had captured surrendered, their nation's government destroyed, and some even assisted Imperial troops in various ways. Soon, the Empire had captured the southern parts and the harbor of Althafen. The two empires now had a beachhead, however the northern parts of the city and the Nazo commander remained ready to fight and uncaptured. The Syrixian commander, Sanjay Gobindh, ordered his men not to attack beyond what they had already captured, and to defend their occupations and wait for the August troops to arrive, before finishing off the city.
Sebt sighed, pausing as he sent Leah his reply "We will gladly meet around a negotiation table with the Imperium and her allies, and, as you are mutual allies to us both, I am glad to see Guslantis is acting as the arbiter in this situation. Negotiations will take place first but a duel as been called and accepted. Add to this the rogue actions of our Strategic Intelligence Operation Network Navigation Entity, I doubt Ceaser would let it slide. We will negotiate over Rhuvanland, but the duel will go ahead, I doubt Ceaser will let it go and I am forbidden by Wolvesh Law to do so." this time making absolutely sure Sionne did not pull her little trick again before continuing, my ancestor, Yrka, told us that those we once took a sword to are those we must shield after their defeat. The Rhuvish people surrendered to us, they have put their trust in us to be just and fair in victory, I must ask that the highest ranking military officer from the previous rhuvish government join us in negotiations."
The Grim Reaper
TNPer
The Eastman's March
The Eastmen were the communities that bordered what was now the Russian Republic. Known as cavalrymen, as the wild military men who served as mercenaries in the many League Wars of times gone by, it was they who held the most ancient traditions of War, throughout all Imperium. Their family names were well-respected, but rarely seen in common usage, at the upper echelons of politics. Theirs were people who were, to this day, hard-wearing in the rough, elevated lands that formed Imperium's eastern borders. They formed, instead, the body of that most secretive - that most terrifying of services. The Exploratorial Service.
The Explorators were not to be trifled with. They were battle-hardened; brutish; ill-disciplined. A force onto themselves, and one that was, at its worst, more maligned than the Lictors themselves. Imperium merely hated the Lictors - they feared the Explorators.
And it was not because they were terrible people. The Eastmen had long, proud traditions of hospitality - of personability, and of humility. But their preparedness, their hardness against the difficulties of life in the outer worlds of Imperium... what others saw as national service, they saw as a holiday. They were pasturalists, keeping vast herds and flocks afloat, on the steppes of east Imperium, on horseback, fuelling the August economy. They wore blades and whips at their belts out of habit, to keep their animals separated and in control. They were accustomed to death, to pain, and to suffering.
Many of them had served as mercenaries in the War for Eden, in Nierr, and would no doubt be going on to spearhead the liberation of Port Augusta, in McMasterdonia. For the conscripts of Imperium, war was a word they read of, thought of, fought around. For the Eastmen - for the Explorators, it was a business. It was as natural as butchering a hen for lunch, while frying her eggs.
Praetor Lech Kowalski Nielus was the commanding officer of that proud Legion of 10,000 Explorators. He'd himself been on the field in Nierr, during their Redeemist uprisings. Like many of his compatriots in Imperium, leaving various markings in the stubble that was left, and enhanced with tattoos, with deeply personal meaning. The requirements on hair length did not apply to Honoures, like Lech, but it was traditional in Eastman communities to do the same, even in civilian life - indeed, the tolerance of such head-markings, and tattoos, was borrowed from Eastman soldiers by the August military. One was a marking for his school - the small schools of the East had developed favourite ways to recognize former alumni on the field. His had left him a patch of hair behind the right ear, gradiating to nothing, in a straight line around the head. He wore a short moustache and beard, too. His hair had grown somewhat, as they entered the field, but it was traditional for August troops at war to use their recreational time to care for their compatriots' detailed hairstyles, without regard for rank. It was an important means of bonding, for a military that was otherwise rife with interservice rivalry.
The 1st Exploratorial Legion was well-supplied. They were coming into a nominally friendly beachhead, and they were ready for battle.
As a Censorial band played on, the amphibious assault ships of the RSC detached. Carrying the vast majority of the Legion, they would come to port in Althafen to disembark, supported by the rapid airlift of a skeleton crew - a number of Speculatorial Centuries, to set up a logistics operation for the receipt and disembarkment of the Legion, and their comrades from other services later, flying out by ship-based helicopters.
They'd been informed, already, to move to the defensive lines set up by the Syrixians. Their curious uniforms, and the relatively immense size of the Legion, would no doubt be a surprise to the 36th. While Imperium used uniforms that, for the most part, were like most nations, they unusually used full-face masks as well, concealing their identity. The masks hid very basic filters, in theory giving the wearer some extra time to put on a more comprehensive gas mask, if required, and protecting their faces from dirt and grime in the field. More importantly, they helped guarantee a strong seal, fitting over the facial hair popular with August soldiers and therefore negating the need for clean-shaven troops in the face of potential chemical warfare.
Coming in close to shore, the Explorators deployed alongside dozens of amphibious IFVs, carrying a full Pentacle of 10 each, which would provide heavy fire support if necessary. As they arrived, they were near silent, speaking not a word to the Syrixian soldiers, even as the odd Speculator who had arrived by helicopter offered the occasional "How do you do?" in Mercanti.
They made their way in haste to the defensive positions taken up by the Syrixians, saying almost nothing, and giving few hints as to their organization or formation. That being said, the fact that one of the IFVs had an August flag draped over it made the intended point of communication fairly obvious.
The Eastmen were the communities that bordered what was now the Russian Republic. Known as cavalrymen, as the wild military men who served as mercenaries in the many League Wars of times gone by, it was they who held the most ancient traditions of War, throughout all Imperium. Their family names were well-respected, but rarely seen in common usage, at the upper echelons of politics. Theirs were people who were, to this day, hard-wearing in the rough, elevated lands that formed Imperium's eastern borders. They formed, instead, the body of that most secretive - that most terrifying of services. The Exploratorial Service.
The Explorators were not to be trifled with. They were battle-hardened; brutish; ill-disciplined. A force onto themselves, and one that was, at its worst, more maligned than the Lictors themselves. Imperium merely hated the Lictors - they feared the Explorators.
And it was not because they were terrible people. The Eastmen had long, proud traditions of hospitality - of personability, and of humility. But their preparedness, their hardness against the difficulties of life in the outer worlds of Imperium... what others saw as national service, they saw as a holiday. They were pasturalists, keeping vast herds and flocks afloat, on the steppes of east Imperium, on horseback, fuelling the August economy. They wore blades and whips at their belts out of habit, to keep their animals separated and in control. They were accustomed to death, to pain, and to suffering.
Many of them had served as mercenaries in the War for Eden, in Nierr, and would no doubt be going on to spearhead the liberation of Port Augusta, in McMasterdonia. For the conscripts of Imperium, war was a word they read of, thought of, fought around. For the Eastmen - for the Explorators, it was a business. It was as natural as butchering a hen for lunch, while frying her eggs.
Praetor Lech Kowalski Nielus was the commanding officer of that proud Legion of 10,000 Explorators. He'd himself been on the field in Nierr, during their Redeemist uprisings. Like many of his compatriots in Imperium, leaving various markings in the stubble that was left, and enhanced with tattoos, with deeply personal meaning. The requirements on hair length did not apply to Honoures, like Lech, but it was traditional in Eastman communities to do the same, even in civilian life - indeed, the tolerance of such head-markings, and tattoos, was borrowed from Eastman soldiers by the August military. One was a marking for his school - the small schools of the East had developed favourite ways to recognize former alumni on the field. His had left him a patch of hair behind the right ear, gradiating to nothing, in a straight line around the head. He wore a short moustache and beard, too. His hair had grown somewhat, as they entered the field, but it was traditional for August troops at war to use their recreational time to care for their compatriots' detailed hairstyles, without regard for rank. It was an important means of bonding, for a military that was otherwise rife with interservice rivalry.
The 1st Exploratorial Legion was well-supplied. They were coming into a nominally friendly beachhead, and they were ready for battle.
As a Censorial band played on, the amphibious assault ships of the RSC detached. Carrying the vast majority of the Legion, they would come to port in Althafen to disembark, supported by the rapid airlift of a skeleton crew - a number of Speculatorial Centuries, to set up a logistics operation for the receipt and disembarkment of the Legion, and their comrades from other services later, flying out by ship-based helicopters.
They'd been informed, already, to move to the defensive lines set up by the Syrixians. Their curious uniforms, and the relatively immense size of the Legion, would no doubt be a surprise to the 36th. While Imperium used uniforms that, for the most part, were like most nations, they unusually used full-face masks as well, concealing their identity. The masks hid very basic filters, in theory giving the wearer some extra time to put on a more comprehensive gas mask, if required, and protecting their faces from dirt and grime in the field. More importantly, they helped guarantee a strong seal, fitting over the facial hair popular with August soldiers and therefore negating the need for clean-shaven troops in the face of potential chemical warfare.
Coming in close to shore, the Explorators deployed alongside dozens of amphibious IFVs, carrying a full Pentacle of 10 each, which would provide heavy fire support if necessary. As they arrived, they were near silent, speaking not a word to the Syrixian soldiers, even as the odd Speculator who had arrived by helicopter offered the occasional "How do you do?" in Mercanti.
They made their way in haste to the defensive positions taken up by the Syrixians, saying almost nothing, and giving few hints as to their organization or formation. That being said, the fact that one of the IFVs had an August flag draped over it made the intended point of communication fairly obvious.
Trinster will join this negotiation, we hope that no bad blood can form between our peoples and those of the August, and as such would like to prevent any sort of war, be it cold or hot. We will name our delegation once the Council has voted, and the Heads have approved the choices.
-Sincerely, The Committee of External Communications.
-Sincerely, The Committee of External Communications.
- TNP Nation
- Floresque
- Discord
- DivaythFyr
Mabarribil Sannibith joined the Foreign Corps a year and a half ago, but never expected he would actually be in combat. The training for the Corps was brutal then and rumors were that it's only gotten worse since; all the better, he supposed, to prepare him for this. The Council's Army, domestic weekend warriors, probably wouldn't last 12 hours on the ground in Rhuvanland. The Council paratroopers were two or three planes over in the loose formation flying over the north of the country. Every dozen or so seconds, a half-hearted flak would explode in the air near the metal tube filled with paratroopers. Even the Rhuvish seemed sick of everything.
The training was painful, tormenting, and often humiliating. It fostered a strong esprit d'corps among the men and a deep-seated resentment of the Myrorian officers commanding each regiment, company, and platoon of the Foreign Corps. It started with his name; like all recruits, he got a Myrorian one. Kannexan ones, like his birth name, were too hard for the officers to pronounce. Too many hard consonants. Like snakes, they spoke in sibiliants and fricatives. He last heard his birth name a year and a half ago, and to this day it was packed away in a filing cabinet in the headquarters in Pelagis.
From time to time, some of the old-timers said, the building would lose all its records in a fire, or a shredding accident, or an errant sprinkler. Then you were a foreigner in a foreign country with a Myrorian name. It was like an insult, or some sort of gaslighting technique. No one knew your real name or would care if you told them. Your blond Germanic hair, appearing as a big toenail from a holey sock, would tell everyone what they needed to know: you were from away.
As far as Mabarribil knew, though, his record hadn't been lost yet. When his term with the Corps was up, he would get it back, printed in big letters on a certificate of Myrorian citizenship. It was what everyone in the Corps strived for - that is, other than getting back to their old country. No more internal passport. Higher wages. The ability to gather with your friends in public without being dispersed for loitering.
In the back of his mind, Mabarribil dared to hope he would get shot in the arm or the shinbone. Then, you could apply for citizenship immediately - Myrorian by spilled blood. Between their scoffs, the natives might have some guarded respect for you as you told their story. Another flak went off near the plane. A light from above turned red. Mabarribil glanced up, then at the Myrorian officer standing near the back of the fuselage. Like the other men, he wore the gear of a paratrooper. On his left arm was an insignia for the Foreign Corps - an eight-sided flower shape inside an octagon.
"Up! Up!" he said, motioning his hands upward. "Oben! Ibaz! Autem!"
The men stood up. Many were weary, though none had yet fired a shot in anger. The officer lowered the jump door at the back of the plane, and the men stood in line, waiting for the signal. Soon enough, the officer yelled, tapping the first soldier in line on the back and stepping out of the way.
"Go! Gehen! Vade!"
One by one, the men jumped out of the plane. Flak continued to be sprayed into the air haphazardly, hitting a Corps member occasionally. Mabarribil prayed silently to himself and jumped.
The training was painful, tormenting, and often humiliating. It fostered a strong esprit d'corps among the men and a deep-seated resentment of the Myrorian officers commanding each regiment, company, and platoon of the Foreign Corps. It started with his name; like all recruits, he got a Myrorian one. Kannexan ones, like his birth name, were too hard for the officers to pronounce. Too many hard consonants. Like snakes, they spoke in sibiliants and fricatives. He last heard his birth name a year and a half ago, and to this day it was packed away in a filing cabinet in the headquarters in Pelagis.
From time to time, some of the old-timers said, the building would lose all its records in a fire, or a shredding accident, or an errant sprinkler. Then you were a foreigner in a foreign country with a Myrorian name. It was like an insult, or some sort of gaslighting technique. No one knew your real name or would care if you told them. Your blond Germanic hair, appearing as a big toenail from a holey sock, would tell everyone what they needed to know: you were from away.
As far as Mabarribil knew, though, his record hadn't been lost yet. When his term with the Corps was up, he would get it back, printed in big letters on a certificate of Myrorian citizenship. It was what everyone in the Corps strived for - that is, other than getting back to their old country. No more internal passport. Higher wages. The ability to gather with your friends in public without being dispersed for loitering.
In the back of his mind, Mabarribil dared to hope he would get shot in the arm or the shinbone. Then, you could apply for citizenship immediately - Myrorian by spilled blood. Between their scoffs, the natives might have some guarded respect for you as you told their story. Another flak went off near the plane. A light from above turned red. Mabarribil glanced up, then at the Myrorian officer standing near the back of the fuselage. Like the other men, he wore the gear of a paratrooper. On his left arm was an insignia for the Foreign Corps - an eight-sided flower shape inside an octagon.
"Up! Up!" he said, motioning his hands upward. "Oben! Ibaz! Autem!"
The men stood up. Many were weary, though none had yet fired a shot in anger. The officer lowered the jump door at the back of the plane, and the men stood in line, waiting for the signal. Soon enough, the officer yelled, tapping the first soldier in line on the back and stepping out of the way.
"Go! Gehen! Vade!"
One by one, the men jumped out of the plane. Flak continued to be sprayed into the air haphazardly, hitting a Corps member occasionally. Mabarribil prayed silently to himself and jumped.
Kannex
TNPer
The Kannexan troops began to find the first mass graves. They had been burying the dead, so many of them, in large unmarked graves until the very end, when all Rhuvish resistance collapsed. Mounds of bodies lay bare in the hot sun, rotting and half-covered with dirt. They had been stripped of clothing, jewelry, everything. Just sacks of rotting flesh, neither Rhuvish nor Kannexan nor Syrixian. Just dead.
They killed my son. They killed my husband. Murderers! Murderers!
"You fiends!" The butt of the rifle smashed into the Rhuvishman's face and he collapsed to the ground. "Up! Up!" shouted the Kannexan soldiers in their rough German. About fifteen Kannexan soldiers, ranging from pale white to black, were rounding up the Rhuvish. With jabs and kicks the Kannexan servicemen herded the dozen or so Rhuvish Staatspolizei POWs into the back of a truck.
They were to be punished.
They killed my son. They killed my husband. Murderers! Murderers!
"You fiends!" The butt of the rifle smashed into the Rhuvishman's face and he collapsed to the ground. "Up! Up!" shouted the Kannexan soldiers in their rough German. About fifteen Kannexan soldiers, ranging from pale white to black, were rounding up the Rhuvish. With jabs and kicks the Kannexan servicemen herded the dozen or so Rhuvish Staatspolizei POWs into the back of a truck.
They were to be punished.