Five Fallen Heavens (Semi-Open)

Iraelia

TNPer
It was an overcast, foggy day in Tlaakatlandkaali, an odd sight in the capital of the Confederation of Tlaakanders. The city, itself nestled along the lakes of the island Zacatl, while large, sprawling, and often reeking of raw sewage, was normally a sun kissed paradise. A beautiful capital for a beautiful nation.

Although nation is a bit too strong of a word, isn't it? The archipelago of five islands in Northern Iteria were as different as could be, and for most of history it's inhabitants had been at one another's throats. All that bound them together was a shared poverty ridden oppression, and their bastardized Gotic Creole language, a scar of the bygone colonial era.

For as long as any living man can remember, Tlaakatland has been defined by it's relations to others. First it was UKAG, which established a brutal plantation culture on the islands. Then it was Syrixia, with their omnipresent corporate enterprise. Next it was a Malorian intelligence agency, hiding their tyranny behind the bourgeois expatriates they used as cannon fodder to "liberate" the island. But as a new millennia dawned, these systems of control seemed to disintegrate. The national government served to only entrench moneyed interests, and the power of local governments served to show that Tlaakatland was anything but one nation. For a time, this was sustainable. But when the interests of men begin to conflict with the corporations meant to serve them, violence follows in short order. As the Confederation government elected in 2016 further fought to integrate Tlaaktland by extending the control of its corporate entities, the sovereignty of local government was revoked bit by bit. People turned to the polls to rectify this, but it wasn't enough. A re-elected Federalist government meant more integration and more corporate control. A drop in the price of bananas and oil, which was accompanied by massive layoffs, was the final nail in the coffin.

It was a January 5 like you'd see every four years. A newly elected federal government was being sworn in outside the legislature. But what interests us is not what is happening on the premises of this building, but below it. Beneath these politicians, in a complex tunnel system beneath the Capitol, sit three disgruntled miners, all laid off by their employer. All around them are improvised C4 explosives. The men argue, mud dripping from the top of their cave. After some disagreement, one of the men decides to stay back. The others make their way out, nearly a half mile, to the exit. Their solemn comrade waits, playing with a lighter that's in his hand. He lights a cigarette and enjoys the last smoke of his life. As the mud cave fills with a thick cloud, his pocket watch goes off. He puts down the lighter and his lit cigarette, and fumbles around in the dimly lit cave. He grabs two loose wires, the trigger of the very device that will be his executioner, and crosses them.

In an instant, the Capitol erupts into flames. Shockwaves rip through the center of Tlaakatlandkaali. The city, built upon the muddy foundations of a lake, quivers like a tight rope walker above a canyon. And in an instant, nearly everyone in the capitol building is dead.

Somewhere, outside of Tlaakatlandkaali, a yellow flag flutters in the wind. Amidst the banner stood a small reptilian creature, one which commanded the fear of every Tlaakatlander. Below it, in bold black letters, read a phrase in Tlaakatlander Creole. In Mercanti, the translation was roughly:

"Don't tread on me."
 
Last edited:
(OOC: All those wishing to be involved, ping me on the TNP RP Discord Server as well as a summary of your ideal involvement.)
 
Last edited:
A piercing hum echoed in the ears of Iktlli Johaneson. His world was nothing but spinning delirium. As he slowly regained consciousness, the gravity of his situation sunk in. All around him was the rubble of the Tlaakatlanders Capitol, littered all along the premises of the Government campus. A piercing shriek interrupted his daydream like haze. Roughly 10 meters away from him, the Leader of the Opposition Ralf Wilhelm squirmed, his right arm thoroughly crushed and a boulder pressing down on his chest. Beyond him, the Speaker of the Legislature cried in agony, as he struggled in vain to wrest his now crippled torso from the marble pillar that now trapped him. Iktlli looked up with stunted breath. He hadn't fully regained consciousness, but as reality began to sink in he did all he could to fight what he knew he must do. He had served as a soldier in the Tlaakatlander military, he was one of the lucky few to make it out unscathed and permanently scarred. Had his luck really run out? He isn't. He couldn't. He wasn't. Finally, with a spurt of courage, he centered his vision on his lower body. He didn't get much of a good vision before blacking out, all he could see was white, torn clothing, and patches of blood.

He could hear voices. The utterances of orderlies passed in and out of his wilting mind. All the while a TV buzzed in the background, stuck on a Gotic news station. Headlines in Mercanti could be heard in pieces.

"...Radical terrorist organization... TTA... Bombing tunnels underneath the Capitol..."

"...HKT... Declares separation from Confederation... TPC... to follow suit..."

"...Rogue corporations... Taking law into own hands... hundreds killed for trespassing..."

These apparitions entered his conscious like nightmares until, all of a sudden, he was finally awake. He lay in a hospital bed. The room he sat in was washed in white. An IV machine sat by his bedside, as well as a computer monitoring his vitals. In his room was a single nurse, clacking away on a keyboard. He studied his now amputated leg, severed above the knee. He knew he would never be able to walk again. He sat still for a moment, still in shock at all that had transpired. But his meditation was interrupted by a voice.

"Well, you're finally awake."

To his left sat a grizzled man, wearing camouflaged pants and a beret. On his shirt were pinned various medals for valor. It didn't take Iktlli too much time to realize that he was talking to General Tuhaakal Soren. He spoke softly, but with a strong sense of urgency. "We've got a lot to discuss."
 
Last edited:
January 30, 2020

"Be careful with that!"

Magnus vin Boelte watched, in frustration, as a rash of Tlaaktlander workers dropped a crate full of bananas on the ground, shattering the box's frail wooden frame and destroying a portion of the crop.

"Now look what you did!" he managed to bark in the native Tlaakatlander Creole. "You know, we don't have to pay you. Plenty of other people looking for a job out there, especially with what's been happening across this godforsaken land. Salvage the crop and pray we don't cut your pay."

The native began pleading with him, ranting about his family and how he needs the money. Something like that. Did it even matter? He never could understand this language. Gojan and Andrennian were easy enough to understand, but with all of these guttural syllables he could barely make out what others were trying to say, let alone what he was trying to say.

If only I hadn't taken world languages at Bergum, he thought, maybe I wouldn't have to be the damned translator.

His monologue was interrupted by the man, now crying, grasping his pant leg. In an instant, he was roused to a response. He withdrew his pistol, and the guards near him followed suit, brandishing rifles and pointing them at the worker. The man instantly composed himself, and began to hurriedly transfer the surviving bananas to a new crate. Boelte marveled at the pace his arm had compelled the man into taking. In some ways, this war was for the best. Something about a barbed wire fence, full military detail, and armed transport really motivates men to work without question and without complaint.

As the natives finished their work, Boelte began to walk towards the docks. He looked out on the ocean, glimmering emerald in the sunlight.

Another beautiful day, he thought, and another profitable day at that. He gazed at the crates of bananas, pineapples, and other exotic fruits, loaded onto retrofitted military gunships from the Iterian War. In a couple of hours they'd be shipped to a port still under the control of the military junta, before being loaded on a freighter bound for the Phoenix Strait. And when those freighters came back for more, they'd have fat bonuses for him and the rest of the members of the security detail.

"Boelte," he heard a voice call. It was just Heijerman, the plantation supervisor, "I need to see you in my tent, this instant."

Boelte made his way to Heijerman's tent, firearm in tow. As he lifted the flap of the dwelling, he saw a well kept living quarters, complete with cot, stove, and a large table in the center of the room. On it were plots of the plantation, maps of the surrounding terrain, and a computer with solar battery.

"Sit down, Boelte," he said, "we need to talk about your activities in these islands."

"I assure you, I've been following procedure to the letter," he responded, "my workers are nothing if not productive."

"No, it's not about that... We were actually thinking of offering you a promotion."

Boelte smirked. He had grown tired of supervising clueless natives and acting as a mode of communication for his fellow guardsmen. "I'm flattered."

"I'm glad you are. We are incredibly pleased to have seen you progress in your role," Heijerman said, "We read reports your officers issued during your time with the Malorian military. They're quite glowing. Said you were quite an adept leader."

"That I was," Boelte answered, "After I injured my leg, though, I thought it best to leave fighting to the young."

"Well that's a shame... Because we want you expand your role beyond that of a mere sentry."

Boelte was confused. "What did you have in mind?"

"Have you heard of what's happened on Inzi?"

"No," Boelte responded.

"HKT/TTA forces have been making significant ground in reclaiming the island. Plantations on the southern portion of the island are being overrun, with only a few stalwarts left. And while our position on Yacu seems safe... We're becoming less sure of that by the day. TTA and TPC presences are growing near us and other plantation clusters. If they grow too big, they could put an end to our entire operation."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to helm a group of a couple hundred men and march them into the jungle. Once there, you will do anything you can to combat the insurgent presence. We'll arm you with several gunships, as much munitions as you need, and the full support of our organization."

Boelte thought it over. He'd hoped to retire, earning easy money working as a sentry for private security details. But the pay could warrant this move. If he managed to succeed and come home with enough money to relax on a Silean beach for the rest of his life? It certainly would.

"What would my pay raise be for this mission?"

"We'd pay you 500,000 IBU for every year we need you performing these duties. That's in addition to your current salary."

Boelte thought over it for a minute before grinning and shaking his supervisors hand.

"I'm in."
 
Last edited:
February 5, 2020

Tizaak Ilhikaakatl stared down the barrel of his rifle as he polished it's stock. He admired the firearm's form. Not every member of the HKT military had the honor of owning such a rifle. The separatist government of the island Inzi and the Inziatl mostly armed their ammunition with the seized arsenal of the national military. This meant old guns and munitions from the late 1990s and early 2000s. It did the job, to be sure, but mistakes were frequent occurrences. The poorly preserved weapons often misfired, and these events could be fatal for the person in question if they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thankfully for Ilhikaakatl, he was one of the lucky few who managed to loot a new rifle off the bodies of Malorian security men. Which meant that, out of all the men in his unit, he was one of the few with a weapon worthy of modern combat.

"Tizaak!" The booming voice of his commander brought him back to reality, "My tent, now." Tizaak made his way to the tent of his unit's Captain, rifle at his side.

"At your service, sir!"

"At ease soldier. I have something to discuss with you."

"What is it, sir?" Tizaak asked.

"As you know, we're rapidly approaching the southern coast of Inzi and the plantations located there," the man responded, "The problem is, these plantations have heard about our campaign."

Tizaak smirked. The thought of their ragtag militia of rural Tlaakatlanders striking fear into the hearts of Malorian security personnel made him swell with pride. Not even a month ago, he and his compatriots had been farming bananas for mere coins. Now, they were the masters of their own destiny.

"About time," Tizaak said with a smile.

"Ha ha," the captain mocked, obviously not amused, "unlucky for us. They've upped security and have surrounded their crops in mines. We can't do a brute force attack anymore, which is why I brought you in here."

"What did you have in mind?"

"You've been one of our best scouts throughout this conflict. You're the only one of these bastards I trust not to get their head blown off before they've done their job," he explained, "I want you to sneak your way into the New Mitta plantation and blend in with the workers."

The edges of Tizaak's mouth twitched into a grin, he saw where this was going and he was loving every bit of it.

"Once there," the man continued, "we need you to organize a revolt. If we can get them to take out the security personnel there, we can walk right in no problem."

Tizaak put his fist to his chest. This is the mission that would define his military career, his ultimate service to the Inziatl. For generations his children will remember his deeds and the valorous work he was to do. There was nothing he would rather be doing than fighting for this cause.

"You can count on me sir."

"Excellent," the captain responded. He handed Tizaak his dossier and saluted the man before dismissing him from the tent.
 
"President?" Iktli Johaneson said. The word felt foreign in his mouth. Then again, everything about this situation felt foreign. He was in a conference room before top ranking military generals, in a wheel chair, discussing the civil war currently wreaking havoc on the continent.

"A new office, we know, but it's just what this nation needs," General Tuhaakal Soren replied reassuringly, "with the government out of commission we've had to run Callise ourselves. We've done an okay job keeping the peace ourselves but we need legitimacy. You're the last vestige of the elected government. Please, give this nation the steady hand it needs to survive."

Mr. Johaneson frowned. He knew that the junta were only employing him to provide their rule with legitimacy, but he could use this situation to his advantage. With his influence as President he could try and keep the Confederation together and preserve Republican government. He'd need to keep extensive tabs on the military operations of the junta to keep them in line, but he could do this. He had to. He had a responsibility to.

He rolled his chair towards Soren and extended his hand. "Call me Mr. President."
 
Back
Top