The Aurorea
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Predice
TNPer
July 8th, 2022
Ukmėrge, Tauroga, Scalvia
0645 hours
Morning of the Aurorean invasion
“Sign here please,” echoed the words of Ensign Taavi Meerits, as he presented the man with a paper for the shift, with every serviceman of the company’s name, with two boxes next to each name, marked on top with ‘RECEIVED’ and ‘RETURNED’
“Of course,” echoed the response of Senior Sergeant Mario Tromp.
He quickly signed his ‘RECEIVED’ box for the day.
“Great,” Meerits said, as he briefly left the window. It wasn’t long before he returned with the A-18 Rifle.
“She’s all yours for the day. Well taken care of by the way, I’ve been in conscript units before, and it was hell,” Meerits continued.
“Tell me about it. Snotnosed 18 year old kids is why I transferred to the Border Guard. Couldn’t take it anymore.” Tromp responded in agreement.
“Say, you’re early this morning. The Shift change isn’t for another half hour. What’s the rush?” Meerits inquired curiously.
“Yeah I’m a bit early. Šaulys called, said he had a family emergency. Asked me to come in early. I owe him a bit of a favour, so I came over.” Tromp answered as he checked the rifle.
“Yeah. Crazy shit in general going on. You can hear the Aurorean engines all the way here.” Meerits said, quite matter-of-factly.
“They’ve been very jumpy since our flyboys shot one of them down. Well… even more jumpy than usual I guess.” Tromp responded.
“Man, I have a feeling that some shit will go down today,” Meerits said, forebodingly, before continuing, “I really fucking hope that they don’t try anything, but I have a pit in my stomach. Something’s gonna happen. Stay safe man.”
“I will. Have a good day man.” Tromp responded as he headed out.
Sergeant Šaulys was waiting for him outside, and quickly went to give Tromp a hug, which he accepted.
“Thanks for showing up early man, my wife’s gone into labour, I have to get to the hospital like pronto.” He said as he embraced his friend.
“Don’t mention it, bud, but we’re even now.” Tromp responded, chuckling.
“Sure. But look I’d chat longer if I could. Have a good one man.” Šaulys said as he headed inside to sign out his rifle.
“Alright man, see you soon. Don’t be a stranger!” Tromp responded as he waved to Šaulys.
And so began just another day at the Ukmėrge border point. None of these men knew, that in just three hours they, and by extension their country would be fighting for their lives.
Ukmėrge, Tauroga, Scalvia
0645 hours
Morning of the Aurorean invasion
“Sign here please,” echoed the words of Ensign Taavi Meerits, as he presented the man with a paper for the shift, with every serviceman of the company’s name, with two boxes next to each name, marked on top with ‘RECEIVED’ and ‘RETURNED’
“Of course,” echoed the response of Senior Sergeant Mario Tromp.
He quickly signed his ‘RECEIVED’ box for the day.
“Great,” Meerits said, as he briefly left the window. It wasn’t long before he returned with the A-18 Rifle.
“She’s all yours for the day. Well taken care of by the way, I’ve been in conscript units before, and it was hell,” Meerits continued.
“Tell me about it. Snotnosed 18 year old kids is why I transferred to the Border Guard. Couldn’t take it anymore.” Tromp responded in agreement.
“Say, you’re early this morning. The Shift change isn’t for another half hour. What’s the rush?” Meerits inquired curiously.
“Yeah I’m a bit early. Šaulys called, said he had a family emergency. Asked me to come in early. I owe him a bit of a favour, so I came over.” Tromp answered as he checked the rifle.
“Yeah. Crazy shit in general going on. You can hear the Aurorean engines all the way here.” Meerits said, quite matter-of-factly.
“They’ve been very jumpy since our flyboys shot one of them down. Well… even more jumpy than usual I guess.” Tromp responded.
“Man, I have a feeling that some shit will go down today,” Meerits said, forebodingly, before continuing, “I really fucking hope that they don’t try anything, but I have a pit in my stomach. Something’s gonna happen. Stay safe man.”
“I will. Have a good day man.” Tromp responded as he headed out.
Sergeant Šaulys was waiting for him outside, and quickly went to give Tromp a hug, which he accepted.
“Thanks for showing up early man, my wife’s gone into labour, I have to get to the hospital like pronto.” He said as he embraced his friend.
“Don’t mention it, bud, but we’re even now.” Tromp responded, chuckling.
“Sure. But look I’d chat longer if I could. Have a good one man.” Šaulys said as he headed inside to sign out his rifle.
“Alright man, see you soon. Don’t be a stranger!” Tromp responded as he waved to Šaulys.
And so began just another day at the Ukmėrge border point. None of these men knew, that in just three hours they, and by extension their country would be fighting for their lives.
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Introduction
The human mind is a far greater athlete than any gymnast, even when faced head-on with an apocalyptic reality it will continue to tell itself something otherwise is occurring. Time and time again we tell ourselves the same comforting lies, that our Neighbours do not want war, that they will be reasonable. That self-made delusion helps us sleep at night and it is in that unconscious state that we remain, right up until the moment that reality violently forces us awake.
We stare in white-knuckled horror at television screens overflowing with images of oncoming destruction, we gaze wide-eyed with hands over agape mouths and we ask that naïve question.
“How could this have happened?”
The signs of war were always there, of course, we just didn’t want to see them, we tell ourselves dictators will know when to stop, that ambition and greed have rational limits. However, time and time again these soft, warm, assumptions of the world are proven untrue and when the mirror of illusions shatters, we are all cut by the falling shards.
Oscium
Northern Volshan
July 8th 2022
0700 Hours
Larthe Lucini had witnessed many terrible days in his 62 years of life, it came with the territory, life on the borders of the autocracy had guaranteed that. He had lived through the air raid sirens, whimpered in a darkened bomb shelter and when the incursion had begun, he had fought in defense of his homeland. The Aurorean incursion had left him with a hand that never quite gripped the same and a leg that could barely hold his weight, still he had survived everything the frontier could throw at him.
Even now in his twilight years Larthe continued to work, continued to serve his country in his own small way, his leg might have been crippled but his mind was still sharp as a Volshan spatha. Besides, work was an anchor, it gave him an excuse to forget about that lonely homestead he called home. Working as a police dispatcher rarely fazed Larthe, he’d already seen far worse, but today was like nothing he had witnessed.
The phone line had been ringing off the hook all morning, an endless stream of panicked calls, the line had crashed repeatedly as the volume of calls grew too numerous. Sharing a border with the Aurorea tended to inure people to the frequent military stunts that the Barthe regime pulled, but today Larthe could hear the fear in people's voices. Normally stoic farmhands and frontiersmen sounded just as frightened as the housewives and elders who were calling in.
“No ma’am I can assure you there are no Aurorean troops massing near the town, no ma’am if that were to happen, we would know” Constable cluclina said in a placating tone as a panicked female voice buzzed on the other side of the phone
Larthe couldn’t really blame people for being scared, the signs of danger were everywhere, the recent violation of Scalvian airspace, the Aurorean presidents' delusional speeches and now an entire Phalanx of Volshan troops redeployed to the border. People were right to be scared, the situation was getting more combustible by the hour and it would only take one miscalculation to turn the whole thing into a firestorm.
“These callers are getting out of hand!” Cluclina muttered irritably as he set the phone down
“People tend to act that way when they hear news of armies massing at their neighbors' borders” Larthe said matter-factly
“Surely this is just another political stunt, an attempt to scare the rest of Ethia into providing economic aid, they would be risking too much going to war!” Cluclina declared confidently
“Maybe and I hope for everyone's sake you are right, but you should never look at a desperate man and expect him to react in a rational manner” Larthe said with a weary smile
Cluclina wasn’t a bad person, not even close, but he had studied at some fancy university and now thought he had the world figured out. He was the sort of man who subscribed to all the latest publications, could quote the Auroran financial times like religious scripture and spent his free time watching GNN. He believed that war was impossible in a modern world of linked economies.
Larthe often thought about the generational differences between himself and his colleague, the former had lived through the incursion whilst the latter had only ever known peace. Fighting the Auroreans on Volshan soil had removed any rose-tinted assumptions from Larthe’s mind, the Barthe regime wasn’t interested in peace they would keep trying to subjugate their Neighbours until they succeeded or were deposed. But according to Cluclina all they needed was more Aurorean products on Ethian shelves to tame the beast.
“Look, I know you fought in the Incursion but honestly that was nearly half a century ago, the Aurorean’s would lose as much from this war as the rest of us, it would destroy their economy!”Cluclina proclaimed as trying to convince himself as much as Larthe
“And if their economy was already a mess?” Larthe said quizzically
Cluclina didn’t answer, Larthe grabbed his cane and rose with a pained grunt from his chair, he did his best to ignore the dull ache in his left leg as he did so. He needed to get away from this room, needed to reach out to people he had left at arm's length too long, his instincts were screaming for him to run. He knew the feeling all too well, that racing anxiety that proceeded something truly terrible, war was coming he knew it.
“Where are you going?” Cluclina asked in a surprised voice
“Need to make some calls,” Larthe said as he left the room
He would call his son first, Teitu had been stationed at the airbase for months now, he needed to hear his boy speak and say things that should have been said long ago. He had not been a good father, he had been a worse husband, but right now he needed to know people lived and were safe. He would even call his ex-wife, ask her to make the necessary offerings and say the right prayers, their son would need them. He reached for the phone and began to dial.
*************************************************************************************
Joint Military Command
Theunis
Southern Volshan
8th of July
0800 Hours
General Thana Masu stared at the screen with growing unease, the satellite photos painted a grim picture, The Aurorean military was on the move, they would cross the border into Scalvia in the next hour. The size of the enemy force was immense, convoys of Armour stretching for miles and thousands upon thousands of infantry in tow.
Volshan intelligence had been watching the buildup for weeks, at first everyone had assumed this was just another piece of Barthist theatre, the political equivalent of a child's tantrum. Everyone had hoped that it was just a desperate attempt to get aid, but that theory had quickly fallen out of Favour when the scale of the mobilizations became apparent. There could be no doubt anymore, the Aurorean’s were invading Scalvia and soon all of Ethia would be forced to pick sides.
Reaching for the phone Thana dialed the Zilathe’s number, the head of government would need to be informed of the growing crisis. Arnthe was not a military man but he knew when to listen, it was a quality that made him an easy master to work for, she hoped that he was in a suitably pliant mood today.
“General? What can I do for you?” Zilathe Arnthe asked in a grandfatherly voice
“Sir we have a developing situation on the Scalvian border” Thana said eyes still fixed on the chaos on the screen
“How bad?” Arnthe asked
“The Aurorean military is mounting a massive offensive, their forces will cross the Scalvian border within the hour” Thana replied trying to sound calm
“Aurora help us, general I want hourly reports on the situation and put the military on the highest alert” Arnthe said his voice filled with a tone of shock
“Yes sir” Thana replied obediently
“I will be calling the Synod for a closed session, for the moment though we need all eyes on that border, good luck general,” the Zilathe said before hanging up
“Auvoi preserve us,” Thana said under her breath
She looked at the screen one last time, the Scalvian border seemed so peaceful, soon the tranquility would be broken by explosions and screams. Thana couldn’t help but feel utterly impotent, even if the Synod voted to come to Scalvia’s aid in record time it was too late, those trapped on the border were doomed.
The human mind is a far greater athlete than any gymnast, even when faced head-on with an apocalyptic reality it will continue to tell itself something otherwise is occurring. Time and time again we tell ourselves the same comforting lies, that our Neighbours do not want war, that they will be reasonable. That self-made delusion helps us sleep at night and it is in that unconscious state that we remain, right up until the moment that reality violently forces us awake.
We stare in white-knuckled horror at television screens overflowing with images of oncoming destruction, we gaze wide-eyed with hands over agape mouths and we ask that naïve question.
“How could this have happened?”
The signs of war were always there, of course, we just didn’t want to see them, we tell ourselves dictators will know when to stop, that ambition and greed have rational limits. However, time and time again these soft, warm, assumptions of the world are proven untrue and when the mirror of illusions shatters, we are all cut by the falling shards.
Oscium
Northern Volshan
July 8th 2022
0700 Hours
Larthe Lucini had witnessed many terrible days in his 62 years of life, it came with the territory, life on the borders of the autocracy had guaranteed that. He had lived through the air raid sirens, whimpered in a darkened bomb shelter and when the incursion had begun, he had fought in defense of his homeland. The Aurorean incursion had left him with a hand that never quite gripped the same and a leg that could barely hold his weight, still he had survived everything the frontier could throw at him.
Even now in his twilight years Larthe continued to work, continued to serve his country in his own small way, his leg might have been crippled but his mind was still sharp as a Volshan spatha. Besides, work was an anchor, it gave him an excuse to forget about that lonely homestead he called home. Working as a police dispatcher rarely fazed Larthe, he’d already seen far worse, but today was like nothing he had witnessed.
The phone line had been ringing off the hook all morning, an endless stream of panicked calls, the line had crashed repeatedly as the volume of calls grew too numerous. Sharing a border with the Aurorea tended to inure people to the frequent military stunts that the Barthe regime pulled, but today Larthe could hear the fear in people's voices. Normally stoic farmhands and frontiersmen sounded just as frightened as the housewives and elders who were calling in.
“No ma’am I can assure you there are no Aurorean troops massing near the town, no ma’am if that were to happen, we would know” Constable cluclina said in a placating tone as a panicked female voice buzzed on the other side of the phone
Larthe couldn’t really blame people for being scared, the signs of danger were everywhere, the recent violation of Scalvian airspace, the Aurorean presidents' delusional speeches and now an entire Phalanx of Volshan troops redeployed to the border. People were right to be scared, the situation was getting more combustible by the hour and it would only take one miscalculation to turn the whole thing into a firestorm.
“These callers are getting out of hand!” Cluclina muttered irritably as he set the phone down
“People tend to act that way when they hear news of armies massing at their neighbors' borders” Larthe said matter-factly
“Surely this is just another political stunt, an attempt to scare the rest of Ethia into providing economic aid, they would be risking too much going to war!” Cluclina declared confidently
“Maybe and I hope for everyone's sake you are right, but you should never look at a desperate man and expect him to react in a rational manner” Larthe said with a weary smile
Cluclina wasn’t a bad person, not even close, but he had studied at some fancy university and now thought he had the world figured out. He was the sort of man who subscribed to all the latest publications, could quote the Auroran financial times like religious scripture and spent his free time watching GNN. He believed that war was impossible in a modern world of linked economies.
Larthe often thought about the generational differences between himself and his colleague, the former had lived through the incursion whilst the latter had only ever known peace. Fighting the Auroreans on Volshan soil had removed any rose-tinted assumptions from Larthe’s mind, the Barthe regime wasn’t interested in peace they would keep trying to subjugate their Neighbours until they succeeded or were deposed. But according to Cluclina all they needed was more Aurorean products on Ethian shelves to tame the beast.
“Look, I know you fought in the Incursion but honestly that was nearly half a century ago, the Aurorean’s would lose as much from this war as the rest of us, it would destroy their economy!”Cluclina proclaimed as trying to convince himself as much as Larthe
“And if their economy was already a mess?” Larthe said quizzically
Cluclina didn’t answer, Larthe grabbed his cane and rose with a pained grunt from his chair, he did his best to ignore the dull ache in his left leg as he did so. He needed to get away from this room, needed to reach out to people he had left at arm's length too long, his instincts were screaming for him to run. He knew the feeling all too well, that racing anxiety that proceeded something truly terrible, war was coming he knew it.
“Where are you going?” Cluclina asked in a surprised voice
“Need to make some calls,” Larthe said as he left the room
He would call his son first, Teitu had been stationed at the airbase for months now, he needed to hear his boy speak and say things that should have been said long ago. He had not been a good father, he had been a worse husband, but right now he needed to know people lived and were safe. He would even call his ex-wife, ask her to make the necessary offerings and say the right prayers, their son would need them. He reached for the phone and began to dial.
*************************************************************************************
Joint Military Command
Theunis
Southern Volshan
8th of July
0800 Hours
General Thana Masu stared at the screen with growing unease, the satellite photos painted a grim picture, The Aurorean military was on the move, they would cross the border into Scalvia in the next hour. The size of the enemy force was immense, convoys of Armour stretching for miles and thousands upon thousands of infantry in tow.
Volshan intelligence had been watching the buildup for weeks, at first everyone had assumed this was just another piece of Barthist theatre, the political equivalent of a child's tantrum. Everyone had hoped that it was just a desperate attempt to get aid, but that theory had quickly fallen out of Favour when the scale of the mobilizations became apparent. There could be no doubt anymore, the Aurorean’s were invading Scalvia and soon all of Ethia would be forced to pick sides.
Reaching for the phone Thana dialed the Zilathe’s number, the head of government would need to be informed of the growing crisis. Arnthe was not a military man but he knew when to listen, it was a quality that made him an easy master to work for, she hoped that he was in a suitably pliant mood today.
“General? What can I do for you?” Zilathe Arnthe asked in a grandfatherly voice
“Sir we have a developing situation on the Scalvian border” Thana said eyes still fixed on the chaos on the screen
“How bad?” Arnthe asked
“The Aurorean military is mounting a massive offensive, their forces will cross the Scalvian border within the hour” Thana replied trying to sound calm
“Aurora help us, general I want hourly reports on the situation and put the military on the highest alert” Arnthe said his voice filled with a tone of shock
“Yes sir” Thana replied obediently
“I will be calling the Synod for a closed session, for the moment though we need all eyes on that border, good luck general,” the Zilathe said before hanging up
“Auvoi preserve us,” Thana said under her breath
She looked at the screen one last time, the Scalvian border seemed so peaceful, soon the tranquility would be broken by explosions and screams. Thana couldn’t help but feel utterly impotent, even if the Synod voted to come to Scalvia’s aid in record time it was too late, those trapped on the border were doomed.
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Initial Assessment of the potential for a Volshan Intervention
Timmithius Commidus, Adam Lippmaa, Pikad Campong Gatchalian, and Aðalsteinn Eks
JULY 9th, 5:00 PM SST
The Aurorean President Bartolomeu Barth began a large-scale invasion of Scalvia on July 08, likely aimed at a complete regime change and the occupation of Scalvia. In the hours since the invasion began, there have been multiple developments both on the diplomatic and military front, in the midst of widespread international condemnation the southernmost neighbor of the Aurorea, the Volshan Autocracy presents a potential second front for the war.
Key Takeaways
2) The frontier will likely decide the course of the wider war given the mountainous nature of terrain along the Volshan-Aurorean border:
3) There remains a small chance of Volshan politicians supporting a less belligerent stance but it is heavily dependent on the actions both of the Zilathe and of the minority groups within the Synod.
Timmithius Commidus, Adam Lippmaa, Pikad Campong Gatchalian, and Aðalsteinn Eks
JULY 9th, 5:00 PM SST
The Aurorean President Bartolomeu Barth began a large-scale invasion of Scalvia on July 08, likely aimed at a complete regime change and the occupation of Scalvia. In the hours since the invasion began, there have been multiple developments both on the diplomatic and military front, in the midst of widespread international condemnation the southernmost neighbor of the Aurorea, the Volshan Autocracy presents a potential second front for the war.
Key Takeaways
- Despite a fierce opening offensive, the predicted collapse of the Scalvian military has not eventuated, resistance remains fierce and Aurorean forces have struggled to seize vital objectives.
- The Aurorean forces have thus far failed to achieve air superiority over Scalvian airspace, this has opened potential avenues for counter-attack and asymmetrical warfare.
- Closed sessions in Volshan and the UAS are currently underway, they are unlikely to bear fruit in the immediate present but may spell greater interventions in the near future.
- Aurorean forces appear to have been unprepared for the level of resistance the Scalvian forces have presented. Scalvian units have been successful in slowing down and in some cases completely halting advances by the Aurorea into Scalvia.
- Scalvian successes are being broadcast to the Volshan public via social media, streaming services, and mainstream news, these victories are likely to increase public support for intervention.
- Political support for intervention is currently high with only a small minority in the Synod currently advocating for negotiation or sanctions.
- The Volshan public still remembers the trauma of the 1974 incursion war which left thousands dead and displaced over a million Volshan citizens. Revanchism and support for military action is popular amongst the general public with a recent poll suggesting over 70% of Volshan citizens would support action against the Aurorea.
- Relations between Volshan and Scalvia have traditionally been warm and cooperative, this will likely reflect in the attitudes of the public toward support for military action.
- The Volshan military has been modernizing for the better part of 30 years in preparation for renewed conflict with the Aurorea.
- While he has long portrayed himself as a pragmatic moderate who eschews partisanship, the current Zilathe Arnthe is known to maintain an inner circle of advisors within both businesses, intelligence, and military branches. The Zilathe is likely to listen closely to any advice this collection of specialists gives and the prevailing sentiment amongst the security apparatus is that war with Aurorea is likely to be inevitable.
2) The frontier will likely decide the course of the wider war given the mountainous nature of terrain along the Volshan-Aurorean border:
- Failure to secure air superiority would doom any potential offensive, there are few roads connecting the Volshan border to the Aurorea and any attempt to launch a ground offensive would be easily detected without the aid of a strong air campaign.
- The Aurorea maintains a large southern command in the border region, this includes several large formations of air units and multiple garrisons.
- The Volshan military would have limited time to secure a foothold in the Aurorean lands, any military action would need to be rapid and cripple the Aurorean forces before they have time to dig in and fortify.
- Most Volshan logistical chains would rely heavily on air transportation due to the lack of roads in the border region.
3) There remains a small chance of Volshan politicians supporting a less belligerent stance but it is heavily dependent on the actions both of the Zilathe and of the minority groups within the Synod.
- The messianist new way party vocally opposes military action, though they remain a fringe group with little influence.
- A small coalition of socialists and libertarians have stated their opposition to any military intervention, however, they represent less than 3% of the total Synod.
- Most of the Volshan industrial complex is in support of military action due to the potential for a commercial windfall that wartime production would create.
- Barring a sudden and dramatic collapse of Scalvian resistance there is unlikely to be any major shift in public or political opinion.
- Aurorean forces are infamous for their political theatre along the volshan border, sudden military drills and artillery demonstrations have long served as a means of intimidating the Volshan public on the frontier.
- Continuing acts of provocation would likely push an already angered public into full support for war, the Aurorean military could easily provoke a war if they take the wrong action in the coming days.
- There are over two phalanxes (equivalent to two divisions) of Volshan troops stationed on the border, and any act of aggression by the Auroreans has the potential to spill over into full-blown hostilities.
- The Harbi refugee communities in Volshan have strong opposition to the Aurorean regime, they are likely to become more visible if the Aurorean's continue to present overt hostility toward the Volshan autocracy.
- The Synod remains in closed session, their decision is likely to be heavily influenced by the course of war in the next few days.
- If the Aurorean government chooses to double down on threatening or belligerent displays they risk provoking a full-blown war.
- The UAS is unlikely to take strong action in the immediate future but its members could hold immense influence in the coming months.
- Air power is likely to determine the course of battle regardless of which front it is utilized on.
- Aurorean forces are currently attempting to seize the capital of Tauroga, failure to achieve this strategic goal quickly would create major delays in the wider offensive and give the Scalvian military an opportunity to regroup and mount greater resistance.
Pikabo
Makopa/Zhen
- Discord
- pikabo8380
OOC Notice: The dates are not final.
"UAS silence on The Aurorea's invasion of Scalvia is deafening"
- The Aurorean News; July 11, 2022
"Foreign Ministry: UAS is more sensible than Scalvia"
- ABS News; July 11, 2022
"The Imperium falls into civil war but Esthursia is still not a power"
- The Aurorean News; July 12, 2022
"Andrenne is a bigger enemy than Esthursia. And they're far, half-way across the world. They're not even fighting on the ground. All the Andrennians have to do is give Scalvia the additional economic and military firepower. Honestly, I'm surprised, that nations could easily opt out from UAS mutual defense agreements. Then you have Sorovians acting like they're the biggest shit in this continent when they're really just shit. Instead of the total war on all sides, we get homosexual socialists and race-mixing hippies crying from the comforts of their safe space. You can't build international communities with members like these. Come on world! Give us a real challenge."
- Berti Chuma Tam; August 5, 2022
"Esthursian sanctions: Unclear effects on Aurorean economy"
- ABS News; August 8, 2022
"Sanctions from Esthursia is just the beginning"
- The Aurorean News; September 23, 2022
"What is the worth of the Aurorean-Esthursian trade? I'm the Information Minister of The Aurorea. I can tell you that Esthursia is certainly not one of The Aurorea's big trade partners."
- Berti Chuma Tam; August 10, 2022
"Esthursia: Geopolitical keyplayer or diplomatic inconvenience?"
- The Aurorean News; September 23, 2022
"This whole affair in Esthursia with Prydania shows that Esthursia can't do shit in their own backyard and would rather shit on a random country. I'm absolutely fine with that. The Aurorea will establish much-needed peace and order."
-Berti Chuma Tam; September 23, 2022
"'Pikad Campong Gatchalian,' 'Jolanthe'...I get it when people don't get it right the first time. No disrespect towards my colleagues in the Markov Group. But doing it so many times after that? I don't know where to begin."
- Pikad Said; October 27, 2022
"Sorovia closing its borders would be a huge loss to them, not us. Our borders with Iolanti are still open. Unlike the authorities in Sorovia or Esthursia, the Iolanti government has been very consistent and very predictable. Economic relations between our two countries will certainly grow. Even in war, I see no reason as to why it wouldn't lead to mutual prosperity."
- Berti Chuma Tam; November 11, 2022
"UAS silence on The Aurorea's invasion of Scalvia is deafening"
- The Aurorean News; July 11, 2022
"Foreign Ministry: UAS is more sensible than Scalvia"
- ABS News; July 11, 2022
"The Imperium falls into civil war but Esthursia is still not a power"
- The Aurorean News; July 12, 2022
"Andrenne is a bigger enemy than Esthursia. And they're far, half-way across the world. They're not even fighting on the ground. All the Andrennians have to do is give Scalvia the additional economic and military firepower. Honestly, I'm surprised, that nations could easily opt out from UAS mutual defense agreements. Then you have Sorovians acting like they're the biggest shit in this continent when they're really just shit. Instead of the total war on all sides, we get homosexual socialists and race-mixing hippies crying from the comforts of their safe space. You can't build international communities with members like these. Come on world! Give us a real challenge."
- Berti Chuma Tam; August 5, 2022
"Esthursian sanctions: Unclear effects on Aurorean economy"
- ABS News; August 8, 2022
"Sanctions from Esthursia is just the beginning"
- The Aurorean News; September 23, 2022
"What is the worth of the Aurorean-Esthursian trade? I'm the Information Minister of The Aurorea. I can tell you that Esthursia is certainly not one of The Aurorea's big trade partners."
- Berti Chuma Tam; August 10, 2022
"Esthursia: Geopolitical keyplayer or diplomatic inconvenience?"
- The Aurorean News; September 23, 2022
"This whole affair in Esthursia with Prydania shows that Esthursia can't do shit in their own backyard and would rather shit on a random country. I'm absolutely fine with that. The Aurorea will establish much-needed peace and order."
-Berti Chuma Tam; September 23, 2022
"'Pikad Campong Gatchalian,' 'Jolanthe'...I get it when people don't get it right the first time. No disrespect towards my colleagues in the Markov Group. But doing it so many times after that? I don't know where to begin."
- Pikad Said; October 27, 2022
"Sorovia closing its borders would be a huge loss to them, not us. Our borders with Iolanti are still open. Unlike the authorities in Sorovia or Esthursia, the Iolanti government has been very consistent and very predictable. Economic relations between our two countries will certainly grow. Even in war, I see no reason as to why it wouldn't lead to mutual prosperity."
- Berti Chuma Tam; November 11, 2022
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The Aurorea
Skies above Al-Zahra
The drones' sensors rendered the world in an ominous shade of night vision green, targets and constantly updated trajectories calculating and being fed back to the command Centre in Oscium. Below the city was bathed in night with only a small number of lights daring to glitter in the face of potential air raids and artillery barrage.
The drones' motors kicked in and it began its descent, clouds gave way to clear skies and the capitol of Auroria beckoned ever closer. A target was programmed into the drone's onboard computer, the Aurorean ministry of defense, firing solutions and pathways were already pre-loaded, the pilot just needed to get the hardware to its destination in one piece, the Kerberos missiles would do the rest.
The X-51 was a truly terrifying weapon, in the right hands, a turboprop engine capable of horsepower in the triple digits and a complement of weapons capable of leveling a city block. The Esthursian upgrade kits had helped as well, advanced sensor suites giving an already impressive weapon system capabilities which made it a terror for anyone on the ground.
Stealth technology would allow for a relatively clean approach, radar jamming and assistance from cyberwarfare divisions would shroud the drone for a time. Once the missiles were away however it would be a matter of seconds before the Aurorean’s turned the skies into a target range, speed and precisions would be vital.
Like a predatory demon the drone lined up and began its run, all black paint making it appear like a shadowy nightmare as it swooped in low and locked. The ministry of defense lay nestled on a tall hill in the capitol's government district, an ugly brutalist structure designed to project the power of the Barthist state. The war was drawing to a close however and the Volshan military had deemed a beheading strike appropriate, tonight the illusion of Barthist strength was going to be broken.
Targeting reticules lined up in threatening red as the tactical computer assessed the buildings structural integrity, weak points were identified and marked for destruction. From the safety of a CIC in oscium airbase a pilot gave the command for weapon release, the drone systems burning into life as it checked its weapon complement and did the pre-fire check, this occurring in milliseconds.
“Weapons hot, firing” the pilot said as the drones' missiles shrieked free from containment
A full salvo of Kerberos missiles screamed into life as their propellant ignited and they roared towards their targets. There was a brief silence and then the world quite literally exploded in a sea of fire, debris and alarms. The missile detonations shattered glass on every building adjacent to the ministry, alarms shrieked like damned souls as a sea of fire engulfed the defense headquarters.
Air raid sirens blared into life as the Aurorean military reeled from the attack on its command headquarters, AA guns lashed the sky with impotent rage as they searched for a target. The drone was already climbing back into the safety of the clouds, its disengagement protocols having activated as soon as the missiles had launched, a few seconds had been all that was required to launch and abscond.
By morning the assault would be broadcast on new stations across Eras, the message was intentionally simple “We can strike anywhere and none of your leaders are safe”
Skies above Al-Zahra
The drones' sensors rendered the world in an ominous shade of night vision green, targets and constantly updated trajectories calculating and being fed back to the command Centre in Oscium. Below the city was bathed in night with only a small number of lights daring to glitter in the face of potential air raids and artillery barrage.
The drones' motors kicked in and it began its descent, clouds gave way to clear skies and the capitol of Auroria beckoned ever closer. A target was programmed into the drone's onboard computer, the Aurorean ministry of defense, firing solutions and pathways were already pre-loaded, the pilot just needed to get the hardware to its destination in one piece, the Kerberos missiles would do the rest.
The X-51 was a truly terrifying weapon, in the right hands, a turboprop engine capable of horsepower in the triple digits and a complement of weapons capable of leveling a city block. The Esthursian upgrade kits had helped as well, advanced sensor suites giving an already impressive weapon system capabilities which made it a terror for anyone on the ground.
Stealth technology would allow for a relatively clean approach, radar jamming and assistance from cyberwarfare divisions would shroud the drone for a time. Once the missiles were away however it would be a matter of seconds before the Aurorean’s turned the skies into a target range, speed and precisions would be vital.
Like a predatory demon the drone lined up and began its run, all black paint making it appear like a shadowy nightmare as it swooped in low and locked. The ministry of defense lay nestled on a tall hill in the capitol's government district, an ugly brutalist structure designed to project the power of the Barthist state. The war was drawing to a close however and the Volshan military had deemed a beheading strike appropriate, tonight the illusion of Barthist strength was going to be broken.
Targeting reticules lined up in threatening red as the tactical computer assessed the buildings structural integrity, weak points were identified and marked for destruction. From the safety of a CIC in oscium airbase a pilot gave the command for weapon release, the drone systems burning into life as it checked its weapon complement and did the pre-fire check, this occurring in milliseconds.
“Weapons hot, firing” the pilot said as the drones' missiles shrieked free from containment
A full salvo of Kerberos missiles screamed into life as their propellant ignited and they roared towards their targets. There was a brief silence and then the world quite literally exploded in a sea of fire, debris and alarms. The missile detonations shattered glass on every building adjacent to the ministry, alarms shrieked like damned souls as a sea of fire engulfed the defense headquarters.
Air raid sirens blared into life as the Aurorean military reeled from the attack on its command headquarters, AA guns lashed the sky with impotent rage as they searched for a target. The drone was already climbing back into the safety of the clouds, its disengagement protocols having activated as soon as the missiles had launched, a few seconds had been all that was required to launch and abscond.
By morning the assault would be broadcast on new stations across Eras, the message was intentionally simple “We can strike anywhere and none of your leaders are safe”
WESTERN AUROREA
THE MOUNTAINS OF HARBI LAND
Mescius reached for the amulet around his neck and raised it to his mouth, uttering a prayer for protection and success before pressing the burning wings to his lips, once finished he placed the icon of Aurora back under his shirt. He hoped the mother had heard his prayer; he would need her blessing if he was to succeed in his undertaking.
“Camp is up ahead; I hope you are ready,” his driver said in a thick and decidedly nonchalant Gotic accent
The man who had just successfully smuggled a full convoy of weapons across the border had a silent quality that made Mescius’s skin crawl. He didn’t talk much, he didn’t need to, the metal claw prosthetic and the eternally cold expression on his face said more than words ever could. Herr Klaw was not a talker, but he knew his craft like no one else, Mescius would be glad to part ways with him when this was done.
VSI* had deemed it necessary to open a third front in the war, the already crumbling Barthist regime would be dealt yet another fatal blow, for this they had turned to the long-oppressed Harbi. The people of west Aurorea had a long and complicated history, fierce and proud, they had been under the Barthist thumb for over a century, enslaved in all but word as the state slowly crushed them. But old blood ran true and they remembered the freedom their fathers had lost and coveted it; they just needed the tools to seize it back.
The camp of the mighty warlord Nuur Soros was located in a barren mountain range, a dust-strewn expanse of jagged rocks and parched ground. Here the cave networks and hidden valleys kept the Harbi resistance alive, until recently they had barely kept it on life support, but to do more than survive, they would need Volshan armaments. That was why Mescius was here, to help kickstart a revolution.
*************************************************************************************
After what seemed like an eternity of pat-downs and stern commands barked in coarse Harbi, finally, Mescius was led into the tent of Nuur Soros. The leader of one of the largest coalitions of Harbi was an imposing figure, he had long black hair that was tied in tight braids and his face was fine-boned with two sharp black eyes that glared like bladed implements. He looked like a hawk as he sat cross-legged on a simple carpet, or a panther ready to pounce.
A fire burned brightly as Nuur observed the arrival of the Volshan agent, he was a tall man, lanky might have been an apt if impolite descriptor. He sat with arms resting on his knees, he was bare-chested and wore only green fatigue pants and a scuffed pair of combat boots, snaking tattoos marked his upper body and chorded muscle was visible across both arms. His guard whispered something in Harbi and he nodded, motioning for Mescius to sit.
“You are a long way from home son of Volsha” Nuur said in a bitter voice
Mescius noted the weary expression on Nuur’s features, the lines under the man's eyes and the unshaven face, this man did not sleep often and when he did it was evidently far from restful. Nuur looked like a man that spent every waking hour fighting and now that Mescius thought about it, he probably killed Aurorean’s in his sleep too. He looked every bit the jaded freedom fighter the Volshan state wanted to arm.
“I go where my country commands sir” Mescius replied in a respectful voice
“And now they send you to my lands, for what? Does your Zilathe intend me to fight a war with how is it you say “thoughts and prayers” I have heard countless hollow words from men such as your leaders”
“I come with more than words; I have the arms to back them” Mescius replied motioning to the crate presently being hauled into the tent
A few moments of struggle with a crowbar and the case was cracked open to reveal a treasure trove of death. Rockets, assault rifles and grenades lined the inside of the crate and more equipment and ammunition waited in countless other containers outside. The Volshan’s had promised support and they had spared no expense in providing it.
“With complements of my government” Mescius said giving Nuur a knowing smile
Nuur rose from the ground and strode over to the crate, reaching in with one slender arm he retrieved a rifle and examined it with an appraising eye, like a jeweler might regard an uncut diamond. He tested the weight and the responsiveness of the trigger and charging handle, he clearly knew his way around weapons and went about his checks with a natural and effortless speed.
“Skandan?” Nuur asked, his tone now that of an excited child who had just been given a long-desired gift
“Type 72’s, easy to use and deadly in all terrain” Mescius replied with a nod
Nuur nodded approvingly and continued his inspection, he poured over the entire inventory, more crates were soon being unloaded for him to inspect. Mescius found himself respecting the man's willingness to investigate for himself, here was a leader not afraid to sully his own hands. Finally, Nuur finished his inspection and signaled to his guards in Harbi, the softer tone seemed to indicate satisfaction.
“Do you know what these Barthist’s have done to my people Volshan?” Nuur asked quizzically
“I've had chance to study the history” Mescius replied uncertain if he had given the wrong answer
“It is not the same as living it, I have been fighting since I was born, I watched them take our men for labor camps, our women for their brothels, they deny our elders medicine and indoctrinate our children into little Aurorean’s, we are beaten if we speak our mother tongue and we are killed if we protest our conditions, your studies are distant and safe, we live this struggle each day” Nuur explained, passion, bitterness and grief filling his every word
“it is a struggle my government wishes to help you win,” Mescius said trying to sound confident after a long pause
“Perhaps” Nuur replied not yet fully convinced “I have only one question left”
“Ask,” Mescius said
“Are these automatic?” Nuur asked grinning wickedly for the first time
“Yeah, they are” Mescius replied meeting the Harbi’s grin with his own
“Then come and fight with me Volshan, let me show you the meaning of our words” Nuur said patting the Volshan agent on the shoulder
“And those are sir?” Mescius asked
“Vele Cambe Esh*” Nuur intoned solemnly
Western Aurorea
Dawn
When VSI had drawn up plans to arm the Harbi resistance no one could have predicted just how quickly the hostilities would begin. It was like throwing an open match onto gasoline, the raging fires of a newborn uprising soon emerged to consume everything in their path. Within days the Harbi were rising in full revolution.
The Aurorean military presence in the area had been greatly diminished, and their best troops pulled away to other more vital areas of the country. The collection of reservists and Barthist militia proved entirely unprepared for what followed, their limited experience and lack of heavy weapons crippling their ability to respond. Overstretched and poorly led, the remnants of the Barthist state in western Aurorea were paralyzed when the screams of vengeance began to fill the air. It started with labor camps and mining towns, untold numbers of incarcerated men and women being freed and armed by the Binahi Soros*, with his numbers swelling, Nuur led his forces on the regional capital. Sirens and fire followed; the accumulated wrath of a people long oppressed fell upon the Barthist defenders.
The streets were choked with the bodies of slain Auroreans and the skies were blackened by smoke from raging fires as the victorious Harbi put to the torch all representations of their oppressors. Statues were torn from their plinths, police stations, and courthouses burned and the governor of Harbi land was dragged shrieking from his offices. They beat him to a bloody pulp and then hung him by the neck from a nearby lamp post, a warning to any who would seek to impose Barthist tyranny.
One word echoed through the night as the capital burned “VELE CAMBE ESH! VELE CAMBE ESH! VELE CAMBE ESH!”
For the Harbi it was the beginning of a new age, for the Barthists, it was the dawn of the end times.
*Volshan State Intelligence, the primary intelligence and operations agency of the Volshan Autocracy.
*Motto of the Harbi resistance literally “We Face Death”
*The Harbi name for their resistance fighters literally “Warriors of dawn”
THE MOUNTAINS OF HARBI LAND
Mescius reached for the amulet around his neck and raised it to his mouth, uttering a prayer for protection and success before pressing the burning wings to his lips, once finished he placed the icon of Aurora back under his shirt. He hoped the mother had heard his prayer; he would need her blessing if he was to succeed in his undertaking.
“Camp is up ahead; I hope you are ready,” his driver said in a thick and decidedly nonchalant Gotic accent
The man who had just successfully smuggled a full convoy of weapons across the border had a silent quality that made Mescius’s skin crawl. He didn’t talk much, he didn’t need to, the metal claw prosthetic and the eternally cold expression on his face said more than words ever could. Herr Klaw was not a talker, but he knew his craft like no one else, Mescius would be glad to part ways with him when this was done.
VSI* had deemed it necessary to open a third front in the war, the already crumbling Barthist regime would be dealt yet another fatal blow, for this they had turned to the long-oppressed Harbi. The people of west Aurorea had a long and complicated history, fierce and proud, they had been under the Barthist thumb for over a century, enslaved in all but word as the state slowly crushed them. But old blood ran true and they remembered the freedom their fathers had lost and coveted it; they just needed the tools to seize it back.
The camp of the mighty warlord Nuur Soros was located in a barren mountain range, a dust-strewn expanse of jagged rocks and parched ground. Here the cave networks and hidden valleys kept the Harbi resistance alive, until recently they had barely kept it on life support, but to do more than survive, they would need Volshan armaments. That was why Mescius was here, to help kickstart a revolution.
*************************************************************************************
After what seemed like an eternity of pat-downs and stern commands barked in coarse Harbi, finally, Mescius was led into the tent of Nuur Soros. The leader of one of the largest coalitions of Harbi was an imposing figure, he had long black hair that was tied in tight braids and his face was fine-boned with two sharp black eyes that glared like bladed implements. He looked like a hawk as he sat cross-legged on a simple carpet, or a panther ready to pounce.
A fire burned brightly as Nuur observed the arrival of the Volshan agent, he was a tall man, lanky might have been an apt if impolite descriptor. He sat with arms resting on his knees, he was bare-chested and wore only green fatigue pants and a scuffed pair of combat boots, snaking tattoos marked his upper body and chorded muscle was visible across both arms. His guard whispered something in Harbi and he nodded, motioning for Mescius to sit.
“You are a long way from home son of Volsha” Nuur said in a bitter voice
Mescius noted the weary expression on Nuur’s features, the lines under the man's eyes and the unshaven face, this man did not sleep often and when he did it was evidently far from restful. Nuur looked like a man that spent every waking hour fighting and now that Mescius thought about it, he probably killed Aurorean’s in his sleep too. He looked every bit the jaded freedom fighter the Volshan state wanted to arm.
“I go where my country commands sir” Mescius replied in a respectful voice
“And now they send you to my lands, for what? Does your Zilathe intend me to fight a war with how is it you say “thoughts and prayers” I have heard countless hollow words from men such as your leaders”
“I come with more than words; I have the arms to back them” Mescius replied motioning to the crate presently being hauled into the tent
A few moments of struggle with a crowbar and the case was cracked open to reveal a treasure trove of death. Rockets, assault rifles and grenades lined the inside of the crate and more equipment and ammunition waited in countless other containers outside. The Volshan’s had promised support and they had spared no expense in providing it.
“With complements of my government” Mescius said giving Nuur a knowing smile
Nuur rose from the ground and strode over to the crate, reaching in with one slender arm he retrieved a rifle and examined it with an appraising eye, like a jeweler might regard an uncut diamond. He tested the weight and the responsiveness of the trigger and charging handle, he clearly knew his way around weapons and went about his checks with a natural and effortless speed.
“Skandan?” Nuur asked, his tone now that of an excited child who had just been given a long-desired gift
“Type 72’s, easy to use and deadly in all terrain” Mescius replied with a nod
Nuur nodded approvingly and continued his inspection, he poured over the entire inventory, more crates were soon being unloaded for him to inspect. Mescius found himself respecting the man's willingness to investigate for himself, here was a leader not afraid to sully his own hands. Finally, Nuur finished his inspection and signaled to his guards in Harbi, the softer tone seemed to indicate satisfaction.
“Do you know what these Barthist’s have done to my people Volshan?” Nuur asked quizzically
“I've had chance to study the history” Mescius replied uncertain if he had given the wrong answer
“It is not the same as living it, I have been fighting since I was born, I watched them take our men for labor camps, our women for their brothels, they deny our elders medicine and indoctrinate our children into little Aurorean’s, we are beaten if we speak our mother tongue and we are killed if we protest our conditions, your studies are distant and safe, we live this struggle each day” Nuur explained, passion, bitterness and grief filling his every word
“it is a struggle my government wishes to help you win,” Mescius said trying to sound confident after a long pause
“Perhaps” Nuur replied not yet fully convinced “I have only one question left”
“Ask,” Mescius said
“Are these automatic?” Nuur asked grinning wickedly for the first time
“Yeah, they are” Mescius replied meeting the Harbi’s grin with his own
“Then come and fight with me Volshan, let me show you the meaning of our words” Nuur said patting the Volshan agent on the shoulder
“And those are sir?” Mescius asked
“Vele Cambe Esh*” Nuur intoned solemnly
Western Aurorea
Dawn
When VSI had drawn up plans to arm the Harbi resistance no one could have predicted just how quickly the hostilities would begin. It was like throwing an open match onto gasoline, the raging fires of a newborn uprising soon emerged to consume everything in their path. Within days the Harbi were rising in full revolution.
The Aurorean military presence in the area had been greatly diminished, and their best troops pulled away to other more vital areas of the country. The collection of reservists and Barthist militia proved entirely unprepared for what followed, their limited experience and lack of heavy weapons crippling their ability to respond. Overstretched and poorly led, the remnants of the Barthist state in western Aurorea were paralyzed when the screams of vengeance began to fill the air. It started with labor camps and mining towns, untold numbers of incarcerated men and women being freed and armed by the Binahi Soros*, with his numbers swelling, Nuur led his forces on the regional capital. Sirens and fire followed; the accumulated wrath of a people long oppressed fell upon the Barthist defenders.
The streets were choked with the bodies of slain Auroreans and the skies were blackened by smoke from raging fires as the victorious Harbi put to the torch all representations of their oppressors. Statues were torn from their plinths, police stations, and courthouses burned and the governor of Harbi land was dragged shrieking from his offices. They beat him to a bloody pulp and then hung him by the neck from a nearby lamp post, a warning to any who would seek to impose Barthist tyranny.
One word echoed through the night as the capital burned “VELE CAMBE ESH! VELE CAMBE ESH! VELE CAMBE ESH!”
For the Harbi it was the beginning of a new age, for the Barthists, it was the dawn of the end times.
*Volshan State Intelligence, the primary intelligence and operations agency of the Volshan Autocracy.
*Motto of the Harbi resistance literally “We Face Death”
*The Harbi name for their resistance fighters literally “Warriors of dawn”
Trench line Deimos
9 miles from Al-Zahra, the Capital of the Aurorea
The nights were usually colder, the barren terrain offering no warmth to those who trod its nocturnal face, tonight though the heat of battle erased all memory of lonely nights in the chill. Flares periodically lit the sky like second suns and the ubiquitous sound of gunfire and screaming greeted this false dawn. The Barthists were desperate, maddened by months of siege and now they had chosen to throw everything they had left at their Volshan besiegers.
“Plenty more lead where that came from Barthebags*!!!” A gunner roared as he showered the charging enemy with bullets, the words “remember Tauroga” were carved into the receiver of his weapon.
Bravado and terror intermingled as young soldiers fought for survival amidst a hail of shrieking rounds and booming ordinance. Wrecked and burning Armour lit the distance, the remnants of the Aurorean mechanized forces reduced to blazing heaps of twisted metal by waves of artillery and drone strikes. Still, the Barthists came, fanatical dogma and likely more than a few narcotics driving the Aurorean's suicidal advance.
They were closing in on the trench, Sergeant Damocles could hear them crashing about as they struggled to navigate the barbed wire. The Auroreans had fought like demons throughout the entire campaign, they were not stupid, but this new phase was something less familiar. The enemy was fighting a losing war on their own soil and the more desperate it became the more ferociously they seemed to fight like rabid dogs backed into a corner.
“Thresu*! Get those rats off the wire” Damocles yelled over the cacophony of battle
Moments later a giant of a man emerged from the dugout carrying a grenade launcher, Thresu said nothing as he loaded the fearsome weapon and took aim. He was an imposing sight, bare-chested save for a flak vest and his hair kept in a Volshan plume* that could barely be called regulation. His name meant hammer, it was apt, he was a blunt instrument to bring out when the fighting got ugly.
Thresu waited for the explosions to ebb and then he fired, screams filling the air as grenades found their mark, those same horrified noises extinguished by the boom of a detonation. Dust and gore rained down into the trench as the murderous giant went about his grim task, eventually, the sound of gunfire faded and only the distant roar of alert sirens remained. Barrel still smoking, Thresu paused to regard his handiwork.
“Think you got em,” Damocles said approvingly
Thresu said nothing, Stenia didn’t know what the hammer had seen, the rumors spoke of an IED and the loss of a squad. The truth would probably never be known, Thresu wasn’t saying anything at any rate, he just stared off with that gaze that just seemed to go on forever. Stenia hadn't realized it before, but the man was young, probably mid-twenties at most, another soul aged prematurely by the horrors of war. Thresu saluted and walked off silently into the darkness, Stenia resisted the urge to shudder.
Armed mop-up teams now combed the wire, boots sloshing as they moved through the horrid mess that had moments earlier been the enemy. Occasionally a scream would pierce the darkness only to be promptly silenced by the crack of rifle, nearby someone was screaming in broken Volshan, one of the Auroreans was still alive and presently using his last breath to make his existence known.
“Fuck you tan backs*!!! FUCK YOU!!!!” the man's voice roared with a mixture of rage and pain
The mop-up squad’s torches zeroed in on the lone survivor, guns were aimed, and a series of loud bangs followed, killing the violent row in a bloody hail of discharged weaponry. The yelling stopped and a grim silence fell over the battlefield. For now, it was over.
*************************************************************************************
Rosey-fingered dawn pointed firmly to the night's atrocities, its light laying bare the merciless carnage that the night had concealed. Bodies littered the approaches to the trench lines, maimed and in some cases rendered unrecognizable. The air reeked of burning petrol and spent ammunition and the no man's land was a pockmarked collection of blackened wrecks and smoking craters, an apocalyptic wasteland.
Damocles cast a tired eye over the entire scene and instinctively reached for the bronze amulet tucked into her shirt. Aurora’s burning wings glittered in the dawn and Stenia held the trinket close as she mouthed an exhausted prayer to the mother, she gripped the wings so tight in her first that the knuckles went white, and the bronze dug into her flesh.
“Mother raise us from darkness on wings of fire, forgive us our sins, and purge them clean in absolving flame” she repeated the prayer in a maddening drone that seemed to go on forever
No one disturbed her, most just stared out at the horror with a look of pained oblivion, the news on the radio of the imminent arrival of Scalvian troops did little to lighten the mood. The war might nearly be done but its ghost would haunt dreams and scar minds long after the last gun had ceased to fire.
* Barthe Bag is a derogatory term for Aurorean’s a play on words that both hints at the Auorean dictator Bartolomeo Barthe and his surname's similarity to Mercanti slang for vomit
*Thresu translates to “hammer” in Mercanti
*A Volshan Plume is a hairstyle involving the use of gel and wax to shape the hair into a protrusion resembling a horsehair plume found on classical volshan helmets, the style gained popularity overseas and has come to be associated with anti-establishment sub-cultures.
*Tanbacks is a derogatory term for Volshan soldiers owing to their usage of tan battle dress when operating in the Aurorean desert, this having replaced earlier grey uniforms seen at the start of the conflict.
9 miles from Al-Zahra, the Capital of the Aurorea
The nights were usually colder, the barren terrain offering no warmth to those who trod its nocturnal face, tonight though the heat of battle erased all memory of lonely nights in the chill. Flares periodically lit the sky like second suns and the ubiquitous sound of gunfire and screaming greeted this false dawn. The Barthists were desperate, maddened by months of siege and now they had chosen to throw everything they had left at their Volshan besiegers.
“Plenty more lead where that came from Barthebags*!!!” A gunner roared as he showered the charging enemy with bullets, the words “remember Tauroga” were carved into the receiver of his weapon.
Bravado and terror intermingled as young soldiers fought for survival amidst a hail of shrieking rounds and booming ordinance. Wrecked and burning Armour lit the distance, the remnants of the Aurorean mechanized forces reduced to blazing heaps of twisted metal by waves of artillery and drone strikes. Still, the Barthists came, fanatical dogma and likely more than a few narcotics driving the Aurorean's suicidal advance.
They were closing in on the trench, Sergeant Damocles could hear them crashing about as they struggled to navigate the barbed wire. The Auroreans had fought like demons throughout the entire campaign, they were not stupid, but this new phase was something less familiar. The enemy was fighting a losing war on their own soil and the more desperate it became the more ferociously they seemed to fight like rabid dogs backed into a corner.
“Thresu*! Get those rats off the wire” Damocles yelled over the cacophony of battle
Moments later a giant of a man emerged from the dugout carrying a grenade launcher, Thresu said nothing as he loaded the fearsome weapon and took aim. He was an imposing sight, bare-chested save for a flak vest and his hair kept in a Volshan plume* that could barely be called regulation. His name meant hammer, it was apt, he was a blunt instrument to bring out when the fighting got ugly.
Thresu waited for the explosions to ebb and then he fired, screams filling the air as grenades found their mark, those same horrified noises extinguished by the boom of a detonation. Dust and gore rained down into the trench as the murderous giant went about his grim task, eventually, the sound of gunfire faded and only the distant roar of alert sirens remained. Barrel still smoking, Thresu paused to regard his handiwork.
“Think you got em,” Damocles said approvingly
Thresu said nothing, Stenia didn’t know what the hammer had seen, the rumors spoke of an IED and the loss of a squad. The truth would probably never be known, Thresu wasn’t saying anything at any rate, he just stared off with that gaze that just seemed to go on forever. Stenia hadn't realized it before, but the man was young, probably mid-twenties at most, another soul aged prematurely by the horrors of war. Thresu saluted and walked off silently into the darkness, Stenia resisted the urge to shudder.
Armed mop-up teams now combed the wire, boots sloshing as they moved through the horrid mess that had moments earlier been the enemy. Occasionally a scream would pierce the darkness only to be promptly silenced by the crack of rifle, nearby someone was screaming in broken Volshan, one of the Auroreans was still alive and presently using his last breath to make his existence known.
“Fuck you tan backs*!!! FUCK YOU!!!!” the man's voice roared with a mixture of rage and pain
The mop-up squad’s torches zeroed in on the lone survivor, guns were aimed, and a series of loud bangs followed, killing the violent row in a bloody hail of discharged weaponry. The yelling stopped and a grim silence fell over the battlefield. For now, it was over.
*************************************************************************************
Rosey-fingered dawn pointed firmly to the night's atrocities, its light laying bare the merciless carnage that the night had concealed. Bodies littered the approaches to the trench lines, maimed and in some cases rendered unrecognizable. The air reeked of burning petrol and spent ammunition and the no man's land was a pockmarked collection of blackened wrecks and smoking craters, an apocalyptic wasteland.
Damocles cast a tired eye over the entire scene and instinctively reached for the bronze amulet tucked into her shirt. Aurora’s burning wings glittered in the dawn and Stenia held the trinket close as she mouthed an exhausted prayer to the mother, she gripped the wings so tight in her first that the knuckles went white, and the bronze dug into her flesh.
“Mother raise us from darkness on wings of fire, forgive us our sins, and purge them clean in absolving flame” she repeated the prayer in a maddening drone that seemed to go on forever
No one disturbed her, most just stared out at the horror with a look of pained oblivion, the news on the radio of the imminent arrival of Scalvian troops did little to lighten the mood. The war might nearly be done but its ghost would haunt dreams and scar minds long after the last gun had ceased to fire.
* Barthe Bag is a derogatory term for Aurorean’s a play on words that both hints at the Auorean dictator Bartolomeo Barthe and his surname's similarity to Mercanti slang for vomit
*Thresu translates to “hammer” in Mercanti
*A Volshan Plume is a hairstyle involving the use of gel and wax to shape the hair into a protrusion resembling a horsehair plume found on classical volshan helmets, the style gained popularity overseas and has come to be associated with anti-establishment sub-cultures.
*Tanbacks is a derogatory term for Volshan soldiers owing to their usage of tan battle dress when operating in the Aurorean desert, this having replaced earlier grey uniforms seen at the start of the conflict.
Pikabo
Makopa/Zhen
- Discord
- pikabo8380
Excerpts from "Life of a Battlefield Diplomat"
By: Viscount Kjellse-Tages-Tuura
Kruna, published 2030.
The situation in The Aurorea was rapidly deteriorating. But Barth continued acting as if it was business as usual. Berti Chuma Tam, the Aurorean information minister, had been injecting and snorting anything that could induce fantasies of annexing the entire continent of Auroria. It was the other ministers who had kept in touch with whatever embassy was still in Al-Zahra. They reached out to the Severogotian Embassy in late February when Scalvia and Volshan started occupying Lais and Roheen respectively.
Unlike other international observers, the Severogotian government never condemned the Barth administration. Although the State Chancellor insisted on neutrality, the Collegium of Foreign Affairs begged to differ. The CFA always acted on behalf of the interests of the Rokzakon and they cared little about the ramblings of a dirty Mountain Cossack, even if one would ever dare to shit on the throne.
I personally supported neither side. The State Chancellor and the Rokzakon can throw their shit at each other for all I care. But more did I fear the idea of a democracy like Scalvia and a polygamist society like the Volshan jointly transforming The Aurorea into a "better place." Something must be done to ensure that an independent, untainted Aurorea would emerge from this war. A case that I planned to make with the Scalvians. They could be persuaded. Despite the unhealthy dose of liberalism present in their country, traditions remained a central part of Scalvian family life and I didn't think they viewed the UAS in a favorable light. It was my firm belief that there was an opportunity to be had with them for a future global conservative alliance.
The Volshans were too strange for me to assess if they could be trusted. Their ways confused me. The more I read about them, the more I want to bang my head on the wall. I opted to depend on the experts on this one.
Until then, I agreed to hold secret meetings with the more reasonable elements of The Aurorean government to help them prepare for postwar rule. Major concessions were going to be made, I warned them. The Harbi might be given their own state. The entire Severogotian diplomatic service was going to try to mitigate the shitstorm. But that was the price of Barth's stupidity. As much as I admired countries that trust and build on their past, the President was mad to start a fight with two countries of considerable size at once.
By: Viscount Kjellse-Tages-Tuura
Kruna, published 2030.
The situation in The Aurorea was rapidly deteriorating. But Barth continued acting as if it was business as usual. Berti Chuma Tam, the Aurorean information minister, had been injecting and snorting anything that could induce fantasies of annexing the entire continent of Auroria. It was the other ministers who had kept in touch with whatever embassy was still in Al-Zahra. They reached out to the Severogotian Embassy in late February when Scalvia and Volshan started occupying Lais and Roheen respectively.
Unlike other international observers, the Severogotian government never condemned the Barth administration. Although the State Chancellor insisted on neutrality, the Collegium of Foreign Affairs begged to differ. The CFA always acted on behalf of the interests of the Rokzakon and they cared little about the ramblings of a dirty Mountain Cossack, even if one would ever dare to shit on the throne.
I personally supported neither side. The State Chancellor and the Rokzakon can throw their shit at each other for all I care. But more did I fear the idea of a democracy like Scalvia and a polygamist society like the Volshan jointly transforming The Aurorea into a "better place." Something must be done to ensure that an independent, untainted Aurorea would emerge from this war. A case that I planned to make with the Scalvians. They could be persuaded. Despite the unhealthy dose of liberalism present in their country, traditions remained a central part of Scalvian family life and I didn't think they viewed the UAS in a favorable light. It was my firm belief that there was an opportunity to be had with them for a future global conservative alliance.
The Volshans were too strange for me to assess if they could be trusted. Their ways confused me. The more I read about them, the more I want to bang my head on the wall. I opted to depend on the experts on this one.
Until then, I agreed to hold secret meetings with the more reasonable elements of The Aurorean government to help them prepare for postwar rule. Major concessions were going to be made, I warned them. The Harbi might be given their own state. The entire Severogotian diplomatic service was going to try to mitigate the shitstorm. But that was the price of Barth's stupidity. As much as I admired countries that trust and build on their past, the President was mad to start a fight with two countries of considerable size at once.
Last edited:
Al-Zahra
Outskirts of Hilal Barthe Memorial Airport
Outskirts of Hilal Barthe Memorial Airport
Jets screeched overhead, payloads detonating and filling the air with the choking reek of black smoke, Al-Zahra burned and still, the war did not end. From the overpass, the crew of the “Hoplon” had a commanding view of the chaos in the city below, a two-pronged offensive was underway, Volshan forces advancing from the south and Scalvian from the west.
The radio was a cacophony of buzzing voices, the complex communications of thousands directing the course of the war's last act. No one had any allusions that the final battle would be easy, the Barthists were fighting like cornered beasts, determined to die fighting even as the war became quite clearly unwinnable, and their regime collapsed in fire around them.
“Toxotai this is Harpy actual, beginning our run, this one's for Tauroga” came the update from the fighters, a formation of Z-18 diving low and raking the streets below with missile fire.
The city burned, military installations were reduced to rubble by allied artillery and the once proud columns of Aurorean Armour were rendered down to burning wreckage by the merciless strafing of Scalvian combat helicopters. The day of vengeance had finally dawned, and mercy was the last thing on anyone's mind as the Allies set out to punish Barthism for its myriad sins. It was a man-made apocalypse, a literal end of days for Barthism, but still, they refused to surrender.
Nowhere was this fanatical defiance more evident than the airport, air power had destroyed their tanks and forced them underground, but the Republican guard refused to abandon its position. Command had attempted to gain a peaceful surrender, but that had failed, they held their patch of rubble and sacrificed themselves like martyrs. Colonel Seneca could almost respect them, but he pitied them more, their sacrifice was a wasted gesture offered up to an uncaring tyrant, assuming Bartolomeo Barthe was still alive enough to know.
“Try the speakers one more time, then we move to seize objective Tulia” Seneca commanded to his second
Tulia, Antyr, and Leinth, code names for the three most vital targets for the Volshan military advance, seizing them would end the war, failure would prolong it and cost countless more lives. The palace, national martyrs square, and the airport were three strong points whose capture would throttle whatever life out of Barthism. They just had to get through the thousands of suicidal defenders who refused to surrender.
A helicopter strafed overhead, taking care to stay out of range of small arms, it circled the airport blasting out the same tired and ineffectual message. It was worth a try, Seneca reasoned, he knew it was futile but far better to try and save lives than to end them without hesitation. The message echoed through his earphones, and he felt a chill run down his spine.
“Soldiers of the Aurorea! You have satisfied all the requirements of honor! Lay down your arms and save yourselves! Do not die for a dictator who cares nothing for your sacrifice!” came the tired entreaty, blared over loudspeaker in fluent Hessaist
Small arms fire was the only response, Seneca sighed and nodded to his second, diplomacy had failed, and now came the bloodletting. Seneca reached for the microphone and set it to transmit, his message intended for every element under his command. He took a deep breath and paused for a moment that seemed like an eternity, then he raised it to his mouth and spoke.
“All units this is Helios actual, move to take objective, I repeat move to take objective,” Seneca said in a grim voice
*************************************************************************************
“Move to take objective” came the ominous order via the comms
Lieutenant Alexia Commidus scanned the ruins of the airport with her binocs, it was a labyrinth of rubble and burning armored vehicles, claiming it was not going to be an easy task. Around her the warriors of Typhon squad readied themselves, these soldiers had fought their way across the Aurorea and now the final action was all that remained. Everyone knew the risks; casualties were almost certain and the Auroreans were determined to go down fighting.
“Sergeant Damocles! I want our marksman combing the rooftops when we advance, we are not losing men to snipers this late in the damn war! The Taurus’s will keep the enemy suppressed while we advance, once the smoke is popped everyone moves and no one stops till we are out of the Killzone”
Said Killzone was a long stretch of concrete, pockmarked by shellfire and exposed to mortars and sniper fire. The crossing was going to be risky but if the airport was still in Barthist hands the war was not over, the terminal had to fall. Several taurus IFV’s readied their launchers and took aim, overhead jets continued to strafe the downtown area, loud rumbling booms heralding more destruction. The Taurus fired their smoke, and the troops began to advance.
“Keep it loose! No bunching up!” Damocles barked as the platoon broke into a run
Stenia Damocles knew more about the danger of Aurorean ambush than any person in the squad, she'd seen her co, the late Colonel Pesna*die right in front of her courtesy of Aurorean snipers, she wasn’t taking any chances. Alexia respected her NCO’s ability, though she had often felt intimidated by the woman's greater combat experience and blunt manner.
“Mortars! Keep moving!” Alexia yelled over the smoke and cacophony of battle
A shell shrieked down and tore into the platoon's flank, a man was reduced to a rain of gore and missing limbs as he vanished in a violent explosion, there was no time to stop everyone continued to run. Mortars continued to rain down fire, even as the armored vehicles raked the Aurorean positions with bursts of fire from their autocannons. The rubble-strewn breach in the side of the international terminal beckoned ahead.
“This is it men! Stack up and prepare to assault and clear!” Sergeant Damocles barked, signaling for the men to get in position
They stacked up on either side of the breach and flashbangs were lobbed into the opening, a loud crack followed and then they advanced. After so many months of combat, the squad moved like a well-oiled machine, every corner covered by a trained eye and every soldier knowing their role and carrying it out in unison.
A scream echoed from the smoke as a man in tattered black fatigues tried to rush the Volshans with a bayonet, he died in a hail of rifle fire, body shredded as badly as his uniform had been. The air reeked of dust, blood, and Gunsmoke and the silence that followed was deeply unnerving as the squad moved deeper into the terminal.
Countless gutted shopfronts greeted the Volshans, cheerful slogans and advertisements now seemed mocking as they contrasted with the carnage around them. Most stores had already been looted or burned, the windows had all been shattered by artillery fire and airstrikes. The place had the air of an apocalypse about it, a world however corrupted it may have been dying and it was an ugly and drawn-out end.
“Didn't even think the Barthe bags flew anywhere, assumed no one let the Drongus’s*in” one trooper muttered in surprise
“Even dictatorships have people who go on holiday” someone else replied grimly
They moved down the long corridor of shops, a food court an escalator awaited at the end of the arcade. Rifles were immediately trained on the walkways above as troops raced up the escalator with weapons raised. Everyone expected crazed republican guardsmen to begin screaming their mad slogans and commence firing, instead, there was just silence only occasionally broken by the call of “clear”
“Spread out and check for stragglers” Alexia commanded as they scanned the second floor
The mortar positions, which had been so carefully hidden behind fallen concrete and shattered bulkheads now revealed themselves. Two field mortars, each concealed behind piles of rubble, lay silent, their crews strewn about them in bloody heaps. The marksmen and IFVs had done their jobs well, perhaps a little too efficiently.
“Hillfathers balls!” a soldier cursed in disgust
A barthist soldier lay slumped on his back, field binoculars still gripped tight in his dead hands, his face was gone, replaced by a Gorey hole and what was left of his brains now lay in the ruin of his helmet. The others were little better, slaughtered human meat ripped to pieces by high-caliber fire. It took every ounce of willpower for Alexia to resist the overwhelming urge to vomit.
“No great shootout then? Just as well” Stenia muttered approvingly
The sergeant had seen the horrors of the war up close daily, by now the gruesome sights were trivial to her. For Alexia it was harder to ignore, she’d been prepared by the officers’ college for a glorified desk job, the draft had done away with that. She couldn’t help but feel deeply inadequate when measured against her sergeant, one a working-class citizen drafted and sent to fight and the other a legacy seeking to advance her career.
“Radio command, tell them the terminal is in Volshan hands,” Alexia said as she surveyed the burnt-out ruins
“Hardly a great prize but at least most of us made it” Stenia muttered bleakly as she lit a cigarette
The Volshan flag was soon raised atop the rubble of the airport's observation deck, the hill-fathers red helm and the Eye-eaters serpentine body dancing in the wind for the whole of Eras to see. Cheers could be heard below as more troops arrived to take possession of the airport, it all felt hollow after the slaughter that had proceeded.
“ma’am! You're going to want to see this!” A soldier that Alexia recognized as Bassilus called out in alarm
*************************************************************************************They were a pitiable sight, old men and boys in tattered uniforms all covered in a thick coat of dust that left them looking like ghosts. Most had gaunt, malnourished faces, a few looked positively skeletal, and none appeared to belong on a battlefield. They raised shaking hands in a fearful gesture of surrender as torchlight flashed across scrawny faces, a young man in an ill-fitting jacket was nudged forward.
“Please, don’t shoot us!” the man said in broken Volshan, the heavy emphasis put on the “Don't” and “Shoot”
“where's your commander!?” Stenia snapped, pistol still trained on the rabble
The man didn’t have enough comprehension to speak the word, he put a finger gun to his head and mimed a bang. That was not surprising, suicide by high-ranking officers was the norm for Auroreans, Stenia was certain most combat veterans now had trunks filled with ornate pistols. She holstered her sidearm and nodded to the aurorean.
“Please, many wounded, need a medic” he pleaded urgently
“Show me,” Damocles said wearily, motioning for the man to lead her
The man led her to a derelict camera store, the metal shutter had been pulled down, and taking a deep breath the man pulled the security shutter up and immediately stepped back. The sight that greeted Stenia was nothing short of a slaughterhouse, bodies had been stacked at the back of the room, red stained jackets serving as improvised shawls, and the living were little better than their comrades.
They lay in dirty field cots, eyes bulging from sickness and agony, the reek of gangrene and spent medicine was so intense that even Stenia had to cover her nose, everywhere the moans of the dying filled the air. Men with bandaged faces and missing limbs pleaded in pitiful, low, and droning entreaties, others just stared off into the distance their minds snatched away by the horror of their surroundings. Flies buzzed on almost every surface and the floors were sticky with gore and human waste.
“Aurora preserve us!” Stenia hissed
“Bazza!” She snapped
Bassilus was presently throwing up his lunch, to his credit he stumbled upright and attempted to appear attentive. The man had served since Operation Ethian Dawn without faltering, now though even he found himself paralyzed by the abject horror of what was in front of him. He forced back another wretching fit and awaited his orders with a weak salute.
“Ma-Ma’am!” he said in a shaking tone
“Go tell the lieutenant and then grab some of the men, we need to get these people out,” she said gently
Stenia had seen war in all its horror, at the battle of the trench line the Barthists had charged the Volshan lines, and their corpses had littered the highlands for days after as limbs and maimed bodies were collected for disposal. She suspected she would never be the same after all the horrors she'd seen, but at least she could try to save some shred of humanity by helping the miserable wretches in this death room. She covered her mouth and moved in to try and commence retrieving some of the wounded.
“I will count myself blessed if I never see another day of war,” she said miserably as she began
*Posthumously awarded the Order of Tollus, a national hero for his leadership during the assault on Tel Khitana.
*Drongus translates from Volsha to “Idiot” in Mercanti
Al-Zahra, Capital of the Aurorea
National Martyrs Square
It was late afternoon when the advance began and it was raining, that in of itself wasn’t unusual even here in parched Aurorea but the downpour lent the final stages of the war a grim atmosphere. The streets were empty, any civilians had either fled or gone into hiding, the only thing that greeted the advancing Volshans was silence and rotting carcasses. Al-Zahra had been cradle to the Barthist regime, now though it was instead a sepulcher.
The grandiose townhouses and apartment blocks that the column passed were a far cry from the mix of utilitarianism and grinding poverty that defined the rest of the country. The people here had lived lives of relative comfort, insulated from much of the suffering that had blighted the rest of the Aurorea. Even after days of bombing runs and artillery barrages, pockets of the city's former beauty had survived the devastation that had turned much of it to rubble.
The rumble of modernized Andrennian Oslo’s and Volshan Laucathe's soon dispelled the silence, a vast column of heavy Armour was moving at pace toward a vital target. Lines of infantry flanked the tanks from either side, their presence necessary to keep the ever-looming threat of snipers and ambush at bay. The soldiers kept their rifles trained on the many balconies, no one wanted to be killed by a stray rocket before the wars end.
From within the vast compartment of his command vehicle, Colonel Trenkh Overshaw surveyed the murky battlefield outside through countless glowing screens. The Lauchathe was an unusual weapon, one uniquely volshan, the tank's large dome-like turret was far more spacious than most, its inner world a roomy suite of sensors, countermeasures, and digital equipment. It was less a tank and more like an exposed nerve, always the first thing to react.
“Anything?” Trenkh asked in a calm voice
“Nothing sir, drones are still sweeping the area” Phatos, Trenkh’s second, replied with a shake of his head
The Laucathe had a drone bay for good reason, it gave any company the vehicle was attached to yet another set of eyes, in a place like the Aurorea that often meant the difference between life and death. Presently the recon units were performing aerial sweeps with their sensors, the majority of the Aurorean forces had been pushed to either surrender or go to ground, which turned a standup fight into a violent game of hide and seek.
Trenkh sighed and took a swig from his canteen before resuming his observations, they were coming up to national martyrs square now, the vast chest-beating monument to the country's tyrannical overlords. Hilal Barthe deified and raised to power by winged angels, it was classic Aurorean propaganda and as always it obscured the millions the Barthe family had buried to ensure their rule.
Trenkh didn’t have anything against the average Aurorean, most of them just seemed scared or confused, they had lived under a tyrant for so long that the sudden shock of invaders must have been like being awakened from a deep sleep. Most hid at the first sign of his troops, others though seemed enraged by the presence of foreigners and the chaos they brought, the children often threw stones and the elders just stared on with glares that burned into memory such was the level of hatred.
They were like naïve children who had never known anything other than the lives they had; it was understandable that they might resent those who had come to tear down their world. Still, that world had been ruled over by monsters and the tide of blood and misery that Bartolomeo Barthe had brought forth had now washed back onto his own lands, the Aurorea of tyrants was doomed to die and it deserved its violent end.
“Sir drones picking up something in that window!”
Almost In answer, a concealed soldier raised a launcher and fired from the balcony. The warhead screeched down and exploded as it smashed into an advancing Oslo. The tank's reactive armor exploded on contact, dissipating most of the impact and leaving a blackened mark where the warhead had impacted. Trenkh frowned and turned to his gunner.
“Icathe, put a rocket into that building!” he said sternly
“Yessir!” Icathe replied before keying in a firing solution
Moments later a far more advanced and accurate warhead roared free of its pod and raced toward the apartment balcony in reply. An explosion of fire, rubble and glass erupted from the balcony as the warhead found its mark. Abandoned cars below were pelted with a rain of falling debris and burning human viscera.
“Good kill!” Trenkh said to Icathe with a nod of approval
He felt a surge of guilt as he found himself grinning inwardly, he loved this war, he felt dirty and immoral for admitting it but there it was. Ever since he’d left the strictures of life on a religious commune hed chased that excitement, mining and oil rigs had sufficed but never delivered anything like the thrill he enjoyed now. Trenkh had found his calling, not in the calm comfort of asceticism but in the raging tumult of battle.
“Convoy move up, let's take this objective!” Trenkh ordered through his comms
*************************************************************************************
It was an eerie sight, a vast processional of white marble, angels and deified men glaring down at the invaders. The national martyrs square was a vast expanse of propagandistic extravagance, the great butchers of the old revolution depicted instead as saintly heroes, their gentle expressions belying their deeds. And at the Centre of it all, the father of tyrants himself, Hilal Barthe.
The great tyrant stood on a pillar of purest white, his bronze form staring down eternally at the nation he had seized. His shoulders were adorned in a silk cloak and his bearded face bore a look of unshakable determination, eyes glaring out to the future, one hand raised to heaven in thanks and the other beckoning for his subjects to follow. They had turned a man responsible for the deaths of millions into a prophet.
“All units spread out and secure the square” Trenkh commanded as he glared at the bronze abomination in front of him
It didn’t take long before the all-clear came in over the comms, the days of aerial bombardment had taken their toll and much of the regular Aurorean military had already collapsed. The enemy had evaporated like smoke in rain, the diehard elements of the Barthist regime had fled toward the palace district, and vast swathes of the city had thus fallen without a single shot. Thankfully it was the same here, silence and the looming stares of marble gods were all that greeted them.
“Phatos, send a message to command, Objective Antyr has fallen with minimal resistance and no casualties”
“Yes sir” Phatos replied affirmatively with a quick salute
The formalities had been attended to but there was something else that needed to happen, something spiritual, something long overdue. Trenkh activated his comms and sent out the request that would enshrine the moment in history.
“Duelist this is Doric actual,get a chain around that statue!” Trenkh ordered
It didn’t take long, a large chain was tied to the neck of the statue, like a state execution and the steady and brutal tug of two diesel-powered Andrennian engines did the rest. The statue began to buckle and crack as it was wrenched free from its foundation, a great shriek of tortured metal followed and then it was torn free at the knees. Hilal Barthes's statue fell to the ground, a great cloud of dust and the vibrations of discordant metal followed.
Like a last violent herald, the founder of Barthism had now been dislodged from his marble-accented perch. The illusion of heaven that the Barthist regime had sought to cloak itself in now disintegrated as the image of its illustrious founder lay in the dust, the symbol had been broken, and now all that remained was for his flesh and blood descendants to be similarly toppled.
National Martyrs Square
It was late afternoon when the advance began and it was raining, that in of itself wasn’t unusual even here in parched Aurorea but the downpour lent the final stages of the war a grim atmosphere. The streets were empty, any civilians had either fled or gone into hiding, the only thing that greeted the advancing Volshans was silence and rotting carcasses. Al-Zahra had been cradle to the Barthist regime, now though it was instead a sepulcher.
The grandiose townhouses and apartment blocks that the column passed were a far cry from the mix of utilitarianism and grinding poverty that defined the rest of the country. The people here had lived lives of relative comfort, insulated from much of the suffering that had blighted the rest of the Aurorea. Even after days of bombing runs and artillery barrages, pockets of the city's former beauty had survived the devastation that had turned much of it to rubble.
The rumble of modernized Andrennian Oslo’s and Volshan Laucathe's soon dispelled the silence, a vast column of heavy Armour was moving at pace toward a vital target. Lines of infantry flanked the tanks from either side, their presence necessary to keep the ever-looming threat of snipers and ambush at bay. The soldiers kept their rifles trained on the many balconies, no one wanted to be killed by a stray rocket before the wars end.
From within the vast compartment of his command vehicle, Colonel Trenkh Overshaw surveyed the murky battlefield outside through countless glowing screens. The Lauchathe was an unusual weapon, one uniquely volshan, the tank's large dome-like turret was far more spacious than most, its inner world a roomy suite of sensors, countermeasures, and digital equipment. It was less a tank and more like an exposed nerve, always the first thing to react.
“Anything?” Trenkh asked in a calm voice
“Nothing sir, drones are still sweeping the area” Phatos, Trenkh’s second, replied with a shake of his head
The Laucathe had a drone bay for good reason, it gave any company the vehicle was attached to yet another set of eyes, in a place like the Aurorea that often meant the difference between life and death. Presently the recon units were performing aerial sweeps with their sensors, the majority of the Aurorean forces had been pushed to either surrender or go to ground, which turned a standup fight into a violent game of hide and seek.
Trenkh sighed and took a swig from his canteen before resuming his observations, they were coming up to national martyrs square now, the vast chest-beating monument to the country's tyrannical overlords. Hilal Barthe deified and raised to power by winged angels, it was classic Aurorean propaganda and as always it obscured the millions the Barthe family had buried to ensure their rule.
Trenkh didn’t have anything against the average Aurorean, most of them just seemed scared or confused, they had lived under a tyrant for so long that the sudden shock of invaders must have been like being awakened from a deep sleep. Most hid at the first sign of his troops, others though seemed enraged by the presence of foreigners and the chaos they brought, the children often threw stones and the elders just stared on with glares that burned into memory such was the level of hatred.
They were like naïve children who had never known anything other than the lives they had; it was understandable that they might resent those who had come to tear down their world. Still, that world had been ruled over by monsters and the tide of blood and misery that Bartolomeo Barthe had brought forth had now washed back onto his own lands, the Aurorea of tyrants was doomed to die and it deserved its violent end.
“Sir drones picking up something in that window!”
Almost In answer, a concealed soldier raised a launcher and fired from the balcony. The warhead screeched down and exploded as it smashed into an advancing Oslo. The tank's reactive armor exploded on contact, dissipating most of the impact and leaving a blackened mark where the warhead had impacted. Trenkh frowned and turned to his gunner.
“Icathe, put a rocket into that building!” he said sternly
“Yessir!” Icathe replied before keying in a firing solution
Moments later a far more advanced and accurate warhead roared free of its pod and raced toward the apartment balcony in reply. An explosion of fire, rubble and glass erupted from the balcony as the warhead found its mark. Abandoned cars below were pelted with a rain of falling debris and burning human viscera.
“Good kill!” Trenkh said to Icathe with a nod of approval
He felt a surge of guilt as he found himself grinning inwardly, he loved this war, he felt dirty and immoral for admitting it but there it was. Ever since he’d left the strictures of life on a religious commune hed chased that excitement, mining and oil rigs had sufficed but never delivered anything like the thrill he enjoyed now. Trenkh had found his calling, not in the calm comfort of asceticism but in the raging tumult of battle.
“Convoy move up, let's take this objective!” Trenkh ordered through his comms
*************************************************************************************
It was an eerie sight, a vast processional of white marble, angels and deified men glaring down at the invaders. The national martyrs square was a vast expanse of propagandistic extravagance, the great butchers of the old revolution depicted instead as saintly heroes, their gentle expressions belying their deeds. And at the Centre of it all, the father of tyrants himself, Hilal Barthe.
The great tyrant stood on a pillar of purest white, his bronze form staring down eternally at the nation he had seized. His shoulders were adorned in a silk cloak and his bearded face bore a look of unshakable determination, eyes glaring out to the future, one hand raised to heaven in thanks and the other beckoning for his subjects to follow. They had turned a man responsible for the deaths of millions into a prophet.
“All units spread out and secure the square” Trenkh commanded as he glared at the bronze abomination in front of him
It didn’t take long before the all-clear came in over the comms, the days of aerial bombardment had taken their toll and much of the regular Aurorean military had already collapsed. The enemy had evaporated like smoke in rain, the diehard elements of the Barthist regime had fled toward the palace district, and vast swathes of the city had thus fallen without a single shot. Thankfully it was the same here, silence and the looming stares of marble gods were all that greeted them.
“Phatos, send a message to command, Objective Antyr has fallen with minimal resistance and no casualties”
“Yes sir” Phatos replied affirmatively with a quick salute
The formalities had been attended to but there was something else that needed to happen, something spiritual, something long overdue. Trenkh activated his comms and sent out the request that would enshrine the moment in history.
“Duelist this is Doric actual,get a chain around that statue!” Trenkh ordered
It didn’t take long, a large chain was tied to the neck of the statue, like a state execution and the steady and brutal tug of two diesel-powered Andrennian engines did the rest. The statue began to buckle and crack as it was wrenched free from its foundation, a great shriek of tortured metal followed and then it was torn free at the knees. Hilal Barthes's statue fell to the ground, a great cloud of dust and the vibrations of discordant metal followed.
Like a last violent herald, the founder of Barthism had now been dislodged from his marble-accented perch. The illusion of heaven that the Barthist regime had sought to cloak itself in now disintegrated as the image of its illustrious founder lay in the dust, the symbol had been broken, and now all that remained was for his flesh and blood descendants to be similarly toppled.
Last edited:
OBJECTIVE LEINTH
HESSAIST MEMORIAL PALACE
AL-ZAHRA
Colonel Atla ducked to avoid a spray of machine gunfire from a nearby window, the hedge he had been kneeling behind was promptly reduced to a pile of burning twigs. A nearby Taurus returned fire from its concealed position and a violent explosion followed as one of the palace windows was blown to pieces by high powered ordinance. The air reeked of spent ammunition and burning grass, the last battle of the war ending as violently as the first.
The so-called “Sublime edifice” was better known by the Volshans as objective Leinth, named for the goddess of the dead as its seizure would effectively terminate the Barthist state. It was a vast, gilt-accented, monstrosity of a building and its many golden domes and marble towers were a shameless display of the absolute power its occupants had wielded. The honor of seizing it had fallen to the 188th Para-Marines, the elite of the elite, today Barthism would finally die a long overdue death.
“Taxos get the section to put some fire into those roofs” Atla yelled to his second
Taxos signaled to the heavy weapons units and the air filled with the roar of heavy machine guns, searing hot tracer rounds smashed into the domes of the palace, anyone not in cover was ripped to pieces by volley after volley of high-caliber ammunition. A Republican guardsman fell from the parapet of a nearby tower, smashing into the pavement below.
“Come on men let's move it up! Immortality is waiting for you on that hill!” Atla roared as the 188th broke cover and charged
The formerly pristine gardens became a killing zone as the advancing Volshans traded fire with the fanatics of the republican guard. The mazes rang out with screams and automatic weapons as the final act of the war reached its bloody crescendo. Taxos was at Atla’s side, an enormous K80 LMG tearing into hedge and man alike as they cleaved a path toward the palace.
The Auroreans died in droves, they fought like men possessed and they died like cattle in a slaughterhouse. No quarter was given as the 188th advanced, none was to be received either, this last battle was nothing more than naked brutality, a slaughter of humanity that would end only when one side had been annihilated.
The palace steps came into view as the formerly unblemished marble of the edifice became blackened and pockmarked by ordinance and gunfire. The Volshans stepped over bullet-ridden corpses as their grim advance continued, the marble stairs slick with gore as the dead piled up. Their advance was covered by the deadly sights of green section, anyone peering through the windows risked having their head reduced to a pink mist. Soon the forward elements were beneath the cover of the gatehouse, within striking distance of the Barthe residences.
The 188th stacked up either side of the ornate cedar doors and prepared to breach, a trooper holding a battering ram promptly reduced ornate wood to ornate splinters as the doors snapped open. Grenades and smoke were hurled into the opening and as they detonated the assault began. A great entry hall greeted the attackers, a machine gun emplacement awaited on the stairs.
“Cover!!!” someone cried out as the machine gun vomited forth a stream of superheated lead
Men leapt behind statues and antique furniture as the volley of fire raked the entry hall. A marine took a glancing blow to his helmet and fell dead, half his helmet and much of the head underneath missing. Another attempted to return fire only to be riddled with ammunition as he was mowed down. Atla gritted his teeth and loaded the grenade into his launcher. Splinters filled the air as the former elegance of the palace was obliterated, taking aim from Atla fired. The stairs exploded, limbs, debris, and twisted metal raining down as the grenade found its mark.
“Everyone up! Keep moving!” Taxos barked as the section regrouped and began to move again
*************************************************************************************
The sound of gunfire was drawing closer and closer now, the Republican guard fighting to the last man, Aman Ishmael sighed as he finished his grim duties. He had served the Barthe family for over forty years, tending to their every need and whim with slavish devotion. He wasn’t sure if he loved them or feared them, he only knew that life in a palace had been far easier than the hardscrabble misery in the provinces. In the end, it hadn't particularly mattered, love and fear tended to intermingle when the Aurorea’s rulers were concerned.
He had known they were ruthless of course; Bartolomeo had been every bit his father's son, charismatic, well-read and possessed of the same erratic temper. Bartolomeo like Hilal had been capable of both immense generosity and extreme cruelty in equal measure. He had regularly sent his servants home early; he paid them all a salary that a poor worker in the provinces would not see in two lifetimes.
He had also once had a cellist shot for poor playing and people that displeased Barthe had tended to vanish without questions ever being asked, no one liked to talk about the bodies that were fished out of the nearby lake. In Bartolomeo Barthe’s eyes, his inner realm was a divine space, a heaven for himself and his closest, those that did not measure up were doomed to be summarily cast out.
That heaven was presently being torn apart by small arms fire and allied ordinance, the Scalvians were advancing from the north and the Volshans from the south. Between the vice of two vengeful enemies, the end was assured, Bartolomeo had wasted no time in preparing an exit that would prevent his enemies from dragging him away in chains, there would be no show trial for the would-be Saviour of the Hessaists.
The meal the chef had prepared had been impeccable, succulent meats and exotic delicacies had been prepared from the private stores. Wine that had aged to perfection was consumed by the barrel, drunkards had promptly wandered off to purge and then come back eager to continue. Desserts and countless party Favours had been offered as the elite of Barthist Aurorea had shared a last meal. The fact that most of their subjects were starving or reliant on foreign rations was not considered.
“Brothers and sisters!” Barthe had declared as he rose with a full glass of red in hand
Barthe had seemed on the verge of tears, a display he would never have shown in public, he was also profoundly drunk. The strongman of Aurorea now suddenly seemed less awe-inspiring, little more than a tired and frightened old man in a stained uniform. If his subjects had been able to see this, they would have torn him to pieces in a blind rage.
“The cause our fathers spent their life's blood upon has been lost! The glory of Barthism was torn from our hands by the cowardice of the people and the lies of the invader! But this night we shall light a funeral pyre! That from the embers of our defeat a new fire will rise!” Barthe roared with a mix of tearful despair and red-hot fury
After that, the drinking had continued, then had come the smoking and the narcotics and finally, there had been nothing but dead silence. The poisons that had laced the food and drink had done their work and over one hundred people lay dead, the servants had returned not long after and set about the macabre disposal of bodies. In the end, only the immediate family of Bartolomeo Barthe had not been summarily cast into fire, the leader had desired a more dignified end.
But then the Volshans had commenced their advance and any attempt to give the leader a dignified sendoff had been lost. There was simply no time, the soldiers had rushed to their positions to mount their suicidal, and as far as Aman was concerned pointless, last stand. Now the soldiers were all likely dead and here in the great banquet hall they lay, the leader and his family wrapped in Aurorean flags.
He could have tried to set the building alight, to carry out his leader's wish no matter the cost, but then to what end? He had not been free of guilt, he had been the servant of two generations of tyranny, but now those men were dead and the world quite literally collapsing around him. Perhaps the people deserved to see the face of their erstwhile leader. To know truthfully that their leader was nothing more than another power-hungry man who, when faced with his end, had taken the easy way out.
It was tempting and more to the point it would likely be one of the only acts in his life that Aman had chosen of his own free will. Aman set down the petrol and instead reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a cigarette, he lit it with a weary hand and inhaled the stale tobacco smoke as the ceiling shook and the lights flickered. He didn’t know what lay ahead, but he knew that he was a slave to the Barthe’s no longer.
He went to the wine cellar and pulled out a bottle from the most expensive shelf, a few days ago that would have ended with him being shot, now there was no one to stop him. He sipped greedily from a bottle of Predicean wine labeled “Anno 1899” and thought nothing of the sin of drinking from the bottle. He wasn’t sure how much time passed in the cold dark of the Barthe’s wine cellar, only that the silence was broken by the crash of a door upstairs.
*************************************************************************************
The day had been bloody, the 188th had lost over a dozen good men in taking the marble atrocity of the Barthist palace, and now the fighting was largely over. The wings of the outer palace were a charnel house of fire and blood, spend cases and the corpses of the slain marking every costly advance. Taxos would have been quite happy to see the whole palace go up in flames, and perhaps it still would, but for now, they had one last objective to meet.
As the doors the Barthe’s private residence crashed open, the 188th were greeted by silence, they entered with weapons drawn and heads on a swivel. It didn’t take long to ascertain that the place was empty, the all-clear was given and then the investigation began. About five minutes followed before a para-marine returned from scouting the wine cellar, holding a frightened holding man in a crumpled servant's uniform.
“You speak Mercanti old man?!” Taxos asked in broken aurorean
“F-fluently sir” the man stammered fearfully
Taxos signaled for the marine to release the old man, he looked so frail he might die from fright. It was strange to think about things in past tense, a few months ago this old man would have been cleaning dishes and going about his life in the same casual monotony as any other person on Eras. Now he was standing before a group of armed foreigners and likely wondering if they were going to shoot him or declare him liberated. Taxos reached into his plate carrier and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, taking one and passing the other to the servant, he lit both and then motioned to the dining hall.
“We found bodies in there, wrapped in flags, I'm guessing those are who I think they are?” Taxos asked in a gentle but firm voice
“The late president and his family, they took poison yesterday evening”
Taxos grimaced in disgust, it was a horrific thought that seemed to darken the psyche at the mere mention. Barthe’s suicide was an expected act, at least if the habits of his officers had been anything to go by, but taking his wife and children with him? It was unconscionable, hideous, and spoke of narcissism that no sane man would ever comprehend.
“What a bastard” Taxos muttered grimly
The servant didn’t say anything, he just nodded
*************************************************************************************
The orders came down not long afterward, bury the family but keep Barthe’s body above ground. After that only silence and waiting, the soldiers slide down the ornate banisters, drank wine in the Barthist's elegant sitting rooms, and jokingly sat at the great banquet table, eating Volshan MREs with ornate table wear. At any other time, Atla or Taxos would have stepped in and imposed disciplinary measures, but these men had done all their country had asked and better yet they would get to go home alive, exceptions could be made.
Atla did not partake of the wine and he didn’t sit with his men, instead, he was busy focusing on a strange tapestry that lined one of the hallways. It was old, probably pre-dated the Barthist regime, it was a hunting scene on a verdant plain, unmistakably aurorean and in immaculate detail. Farmers cheered the hunters from their bountiful fields, animals of every sort wandered the fertile lands and the sun glittered in vivid gold as it shone down upon a land blessed.
Perhaps the horrors of the last year had left Atla starved for hope, perhaps the thought of something beyond the misery of killing and destruction was too welcome an occasion to ignore. The Auroreans were not any better or worse than any of the other billions that lived and died on Eras, just people with bad history. Perhaps he took the tapestry as a sign, a promise that things might one day be like the scene in front of him again, he hoped that this was true, everyone deserved the chance at a fresh start.
“Sir, sorry to interrupt,” a trooper said saluting
“At ease private, and it's really no interruption, what is it?” Atla asked in a relaxed voice
“There are Scalvian troops outside, asking to speak with our commander” the soldier replied
Atla felt a great weight lift from his shoulders, an invisible burden dissolving in the ether, he nodded and then strode out to meet his allies, while he couldn’t say it for fear of jinxing it. Deep down he suspected the war was finally over.
HESSAIST MEMORIAL PALACE
AL-ZAHRA
Colonel Atla ducked to avoid a spray of machine gunfire from a nearby window, the hedge he had been kneeling behind was promptly reduced to a pile of burning twigs. A nearby Taurus returned fire from its concealed position and a violent explosion followed as one of the palace windows was blown to pieces by high powered ordinance. The air reeked of spent ammunition and burning grass, the last battle of the war ending as violently as the first.
The so-called “Sublime edifice” was better known by the Volshans as objective Leinth, named for the goddess of the dead as its seizure would effectively terminate the Barthist state. It was a vast, gilt-accented, monstrosity of a building and its many golden domes and marble towers were a shameless display of the absolute power its occupants had wielded. The honor of seizing it had fallen to the 188th Para-Marines, the elite of the elite, today Barthism would finally die a long overdue death.
“Taxos get the section to put some fire into those roofs” Atla yelled to his second
Taxos signaled to the heavy weapons units and the air filled with the roar of heavy machine guns, searing hot tracer rounds smashed into the domes of the palace, anyone not in cover was ripped to pieces by volley after volley of high-caliber ammunition. A Republican guardsman fell from the parapet of a nearby tower, smashing into the pavement below.
“Come on men let's move it up! Immortality is waiting for you on that hill!” Atla roared as the 188th broke cover and charged
The formerly pristine gardens became a killing zone as the advancing Volshans traded fire with the fanatics of the republican guard. The mazes rang out with screams and automatic weapons as the final act of the war reached its bloody crescendo. Taxos was at Atla’s side, an enormous K80 LMG tearing into hedge and man alike as they cleaved a path toward the palace.
The Auroreans died in droves, they fought like men possessed and they died like cattle in a slaughterhouse. No quarter was given as the 188th advanced, none was to be received either, this last battle was nothing more than naked brutality, a slaughter of humanity that would end only when one side had been annihilated.
The palace steps came into view as the formerly unblemished marble of the edifice became blackened and pockmarked by ordinance and gunfire. The Volshans stepped over bullet-ridden corpses as their grim advance continued, the marble stairs slick with gore as the dead piled up. Their advance was covered by the deadly sights of green section, anyone peering through the windows risked having their head reduced to a pink mist. Soon the forward elements were beneath the cover of the gatehouse, within striking distance of the Barthe residences.
The 188th stacked up either side of the ornate cedar doors and prepared to breach, a trooper holding a battering ram promptly reduced ornate wood to ornate splinters as the doors snapped open. Grenades and smoke were hurled into the opening and as they detonated the assault began. A great entry hall greeted the attackers, a machine gun emplacement awaited on the stairs.
“Cover!!!” someone cried out as the machine gun vomited forth a stream of superheated lead
Men leapt behind statues and antique furniture as the volley of fire raked the entry hall. A marine took a glancing blow to his helmet and fell dead, half his helmet and much of the head underneath missing. Another attempted to return fire only to be riddled with ammunition as he was mowed down. Atla gritted his teeth and loaded the grenade into his launcher. Splinters filled the air as the former elegance of the palace was obliterated, taking aim from Atla fired. The stairs exploded, limbs, debris, and twisted metal raining down as the grenade found its mark.
“Everyone up! Keep moving!” Taxos barked as the section regrouped and began to move again
*************************************************************************************
The sound of gunfire was drawing closer and closer now, the Republican guard fighting to the last man, Aman Ishmael sighed as he finished his grim duties. He had served the Barthe family for over forty years, tending to their every need and whim with slavish devotion. He wasn’t sure if he loved them or feared them, he only knew that life in a palace had been far easier than the hardscrabble misery in the provinces. In the end, it hadn't particularly mattered, love and fear tended to intermingle when the Aurorea’s rulers were concerned.
He had known they were ruthless of course; Bartolomeo had been every bit his father's son, charismatic, well-read and possessed of the same erratic temper. Bartolomeo like Hilal had been capable of both immense generosity and extreme cruelty in equal measure. He had regularly sent his servants home early; he paid them all a salary that a poor worker in the provinces would not see in two lifetimes.
He had also once had a cellist shot for poor playing and people that displeased Barthe had tended to vanish without questions ever being asked, no one liked to talk about the bodies that were fished out of the nearby lake. In Bartolomeo Barthe’s eyes, his inner realm was a divine space, a heaven for himself and his closest, those that did not measure up were doomed to be summarily cast out.
That heaven was presently being torn apart by small arms fire and allied ordinance, the Scalvians were advancing from the north and the Volshans from the south. Between the vice of two vengeful enemies, the end was assured, Bartolomeo had wasted no time in preparing an exit that would prevent his enemies from dragging him away in chains, there would be no show trial for the would-be Saviour of the Hessaists.
The meal the chef had prepared had been impeccable, succulent meats and exotic delicacies had been prepared from the private stores. Wine that had aged to perfection was consumed by the barrel, drunkards had promptly wandered off to purge and then come back eager to continue. Desserts and countless party Favours had been offered as the elite of Barthist Aurorea had shared a last meal. The fact that most of their subjects were starving or reliant on foreign rations was not considered.
“Brothers and sisters!” Barthe had declared as he rose with a full glass of red in hand
Barthe had seemed on the verge of tears, a display he would never have shown in public, he was also profoundly drunk. The strongman of Aurorea now suddenly seemed less awe-inspiring, little more than a tired and frightened old man in a stained uniform. If his subjects had been able to see this, they would have torn him to pieces in a blind rage.
“The cause our fathers spent their life's blood upon has been lost! The glory of Barthism was torn from our hands by the cowardice of the people and the lies of the invader! But this night we shall light a funeral pyre! That from the embers of our defeat a new fire will rise!” Barthe roared with a mix of tearful despair and red-hot fury
After that, the drinking had continued, then had come the smoking and the narcotics and finally, there had been nothing but dead silence. The poisons that had laced the food and drink had done their work and over one hundred people lay dead, the servants had returned not long after and set about the macabre disposal of bodies. In the end, only the immediate family of Bartolomeo Barthe had not been summarily cast into fire, the leader had desired a more dignified end.
But then the Volshans had commenced their advance and any attempt to give the leader a dignified sendoff had been lost. There was simply no time, the soldiers had rushed to their positions to mount their suicidal, and as far as Aman was concerned pointless, last stand. Now the soldiers were all likely dead and here in the great banquet hall they lay, the leader and his family wrapped in Aurorean flags.
He could have tried to set the building alight, to carry out his leader's wish no matter the cost, but then to what end? He had not been free of guilt, he had been the servant of two generations of tyranny, but now those men were dead and the world quite literally collapsing around him. Perhaps the people deserved to see the face of their erstwhile leader. To know truthfully that their leader was nothing more than another power-hungry man who, when faced with his end, had taken the easy way out.
It was tempting and more to the point it would likely be one of the only acts in his life that Aman had chosen of his own free will. Aman set down the petrol and instead reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a cigarette, he lit it with a weary hand and inhaled the stale tobacco smoke as the ceiling shook and the lights flickered. He didn’t know what lay ahead, but he knew that he was a slave to the Barthe’s no longer.
He went to the wine cellar and pulled out a bottle from the most expensive shelf, a few days ago that would have ended with him being shot, now there was no one to stop him. He sipped greedily from a bottle of Predicean wine labeled “Anno 1899” and thought nothing of the sin of drinking from the bottle. He wasn’t sure how much time passed in the cold dark of the Barthe’s wine cellar, only that the silence was broken by the crash of a door upstairs.
*************************************************************************************
The day had been bloody, the 188th had lost over a dozen good men in taking the marble atrocity of the Barthist palace, and now the fighting was largely over. The wings of the outer palace were a charnel house of fire and blood, spend cases and the corpses of the slain marking every costly advance. Taxos would have been quite happy to see the whole palace go up in flames, and perhaps it still would, but for now, they had one last objective to meet.
As the doors the Barthe’s private residence crashed open, the 188th were greeted by silence, they entered with weapons drawn and heads on a swivel. It didn’t take long to ascertain that the place was empty, the all-clear was given and then the investigation began. About five minutes followed before a para-marine returned from scouting the wine cellar, holding a frightened holding man in a crumpled servant's uniform.
“You speak Mercanti old man?!” Taxos asked in broken aurorean
“F-fluently sir” the man stammered fearfully
Taxos signaled for the marine to release the old man, he looked so frail he might die from fright. It was strange to think about things in past tense, a few months ago this old man would have been cleaning dishes and going about his life in the same casual monotony as any other person on Eras. Now he was standing before a group of armed foreigners and likely wondering if they were going to shoot him or declare him liberated. Taxos reached into his plate carrier and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, taking one and passing the other to the servant, he lit both and then motioned to the dining hall.
“We found bodies in there, wrapped in flags, I'm guessing those are who I think they are?” Taxos asked in a gentle but firm voice
“The late president and his family, they took poison yesterday evening”
Taxos grimaced in disgust, it was a horrific thought that seemed to darken the psyche at the mere mention. Barthe’s suicide was an expected act, at least if the habits of his officers had been anything to go by, but taking his wife and children with him? It was unconscionable, hideous, and spoke of narcissism that no sane man would ever comprehend.
“What a bastard” Taxos muttered grimly
The servant didn’t say anything, he just nodded
*************************************************************************************
The orders came down not long afterward, bury the family but keep Barthe’s body above ground. After that only silence and waiting, the soldiers slide down the ornate banisters, drank wine in the Barthist's elegant sitting rooms, and jokingly sat at the great banquet table, eating Volshan MREs with ornate table wear. At any other time, Atla or Taxos would have stepped in and imposed disciplinary measures, but these men had done all their country had asked and better yet they would get to go home alive, exceptions could be made.
Atla did not partake of the wine and he didn’t sit with his men, instead, he was busy focusing on a strange tapestry that lined one of the hallways. It was old, probably pre-dated the Barthist regime, it was a hunting scene on a verdant plain, unmistakably aurorean and in immaculate detail. Farmers cheered the hunters from their bountiful fields, animals of every sort wandered the fertile lands and the sun glittered in vivid gold as it shone down upon a land blessed.
Perhaps the horrors of the last year had left Atla starved for hope, perhaps the thought of something beyond the misery of killing and destruction was too welcome an occasion to ignore. The Auroreans were not any better or worse than any of the other billions that lived and died on Eras, just people with bad history. Perhaps he took the tapestry as a sign, a promise that things might one day be like the scene in front of him again, he hoped that this was true, everyone deserved the chance at a fresh start.
“Sir, sorry to interrupt,” a trooper said saluting
“At ease private, and it's really no interruption, what is it?” Atla asked in a relaxed voice
“There are Scalvian troops outside, asking to speak with our commander” the soldier replied
Atla felt a great weight lift from his shoulders, an invisible burden dissolving in the ether, he nodded and then strode out to meet his allies, while he couldn’t say it for fear of jinxing it. Deep down he suspected the war was finally over.
Pikabo
Makopa/Zhen
- Discord
- pikabo8380
"Echoes from Gilad" by Nazih Nasir, former Aurorean Minister of Agriculture
Published in 2028
Digitized by the National Library of Iolanta
Book Cover
Chapter 1: Caught Off-Guard
Behind closed doors, contrary to what other people have said about President Barth, he was not actually the all-powerful dictator many would like to believe. But this is not me trying to absolve Barth or downplay his absolute power over Aurorea. This is indisputable. I do not need to put my reputation on the line. I am waiting for my trial as I write this from prison. I have accepted my part in this regime and I am willing to pay for it.
What I would like to point out is that Barth depended on the support of many people who should be held equally responsible for the war. The fact that it was a complete personalist dictatorship is misleading. They enabled him to do what he and his family wanted. I know because I was one of them.
The Nasir family had stood by the Barth family for decades. It began with Jamilah Nasir, my mother, and Nadia Barth. They were the first women cabinet members in The Aurorea. They were led in a revolutionary government by General Laris Velthina, a Harbi man, who was the first Secretary-General of the Aurorean Socialist Party. After the monarchy fell in 1907, he became the first President of The Aurorea. They were liberals in the midst of fundamentalists and communists. But everyone agreed that a future Aurorean nation should be a state for all people and all faiths. A socialist republic of Mehrabists, Messianists, Shaddaists, Ethians, and Aurorians. In order to create a world with no flags, we must learn how to create nations without color or creed.
But in 1923, the Corrective Revolution destroyed everything. What little progress we made was torn down by the fundamentalists and ultranationalists who took over the Aurorean Socialist Party. Then it became the Hessa Party that only stood for the Aqdas and the so-called pure-blooded Auroreans. The majority of the party membership were Aurorean peasants, but the party leadership was diverse with a Harbi secretary general. Hilal Barth, as Deputy Secretary General, was supposed to help maintain unity. Instead, he used racial tensions to unite the Auroreans against their own compatriots. Hilal wanted power and he got it with the help of racist, opportunistic Aurorean leaders who represented the powerful peasant and religious councils. They started purging the minorities and the liberals and socialists. They murdered General Velthina, his family, and his supporters. Jamilah and Nadia initially escaped to Iolanta. But Nadia's husband, Malik, was one of Hilal's followers. Hilal was Malik's older brother. Malik probably felt he had a duty to support his brother. They promised Jamilah and Nadia would not be harmed if they came home. Jamilah refused to return. Nadia could not stay away from her children who were still in The Aurorea. She became Minister of Education and Families. She built the bureaucracy that kept the state indoctrination system effective all these years.
Once they took over, they started peddling imperial revanchism. Their mouth watered at Sorovia, Scalvia, and Iolanta and their teeth gritted at Predice, the Imperium, and Aydin. At the beginning, they had little support amongst the Aurorean people. They supported the Aurorean Socialist Party. They supported Laris Velthina. Not Hilal or his lackeys. Eventually, they got used to him. Eventually, after Jamilah passed, my part of the family returned to take advantage of our relationship with the Barth family. Then the Five-Day War came. The border skirmishes, the nakbas, a long period of instability. The Barth family survived all of that. Many people in the country, despite suffering more than enough to justify violent action, were deluded to believe the Barth family were the only people who maintained "an air of stability in an environment of chaos" and, therefore, worthy of all their trust. I think that quote was actually said by a Scalvian or Sorovian journalist.
The issue with Scalvia was not new. There was the Five Day War. We had skirmishes over the border in the latter decades of the 20th Century. Scalvia, being a democracy, has pointed out from time to time that the Barth dictatorship should step down and call for elections. I did not suggest making Scalvia the scapegoat for our drought. I actually suggested Sorovia. At the time, ministers like me did not anticipate Barth or his revanchists and his irredentists to seriously consider invading any country. What was only apparent at the time was that we were going to create a diplomatic crisis. It would be a useful distraction. The people have not been totally consumed by the propaganda machine set up to indoctrinate them into the party. I am confident to say that the majority of the country were not true Hessaists. They were Barthists through and through. Instead of the party, they became loyal to the personage at the top of the party leadership. Perhaps that is why people kept referring to President Barth's regime as a personalist dictatorship.
Published in 2028
Digitized by the National Library of Iolanta
Book Cover
Chapter 1: Caught Off-Guard
Behind closed doors, contrary to what other people have said about President Barth, he was not actually the all-powerful dictator many would like to believe. But this is not me trying to absolve Barth or downplay his absolute power over Aurorea. This is indisputable. I do not need to put my reputation on the line. I am waiting for my trial as I write this from prison. I have accepted my part in this regime and I am willing to pay for it.
What I would like to point out is that Barth depended on the support of many people who should be held equally responsible for the war. The fact that it was a complete personalist dictatorship is misleading. They enabled him to do what he and his family wanted. I know because I was one of them.
The Nasir family had stood by the Barth family for decades. It began with Jamilah Nasir, my mother, and Nadia Barth. They were the first women cabinet members in The Aurorea. They were led in a revolutionary government by General Laris Velthina, a Harbi man, who was the first Secretary-General of the Aurorean Socialist Party. After the monarchy fell in 1907, he became the first President of The Aurorea. They were liberals in the midst of fundamentalists and communists. But everyone agreed that a future Aurorean nation should be a state for all people and all faiths. A socialist republic of Mehrabists, Messianists, Shaddaists, Ethians, and Aurorians. In order to create a world with no flags, we must learn how to create nations without color or creed.
But in 1923, the Corrective Revolution destroyed everything. What little progress we made was torn down by the fundamentalists and ultranationalists who took over the Aurorean Socialist Party. Then it became the Hessa Party that only stood for the Aqdas and the so-called pure-blooded Auroreans. The majority of the party membership were Aurorean peasants, but the party leadership was diverse with a Harbi secretary general. Hilal Barth, as Deputy Secretary General, was supposed to help maintain unity. Instead, he used racial tensions to unite the Auroreans against their own compatriots. Hilal wanted power and he got it with the help of racist, opportunistic Aurorean leaders who represented the powerful peasant and religious councils. They started purging the minorities and the liberals and socialists. They murdered General Velthina, his family, and his supporters. Jamilah and Nadia initially escaped to Iolanta. But Nadia's husband, Malik, was one of Hilal's followers. Hilal was Malik's older brother. Malik probably felt he had a duty to support his brother. They promised Jamilah and Nadia would not be harmed if they came home. Jamilah refused to return. Nadia could not stay away from her children who were still in The Aurorea. She became Minister of Education and Families. She built the bureaucracy that kept the state indoctrination system effective all these years.
Once they took over, they started peddling imperial revanchism. Their mouth watered at Sorovia, Scalvia, and Iolanta and their teeth gritted at Predice, the Imperium, and Aydin. At the beginning, they had little support amongst the Aurorean people. They supported the Aurorean Socialist Party. They supported Laris Velthina. Not Hilal or his lackeys. Eventually, they got used to him. Eventually, after Jamilah passed, my part of the family returned to take advantage of our relationship with the Barth family. Then the Five-Day War came. The border skirmishes, the nakbas, a long period of instability. The Barth family survived all of that. Many people in the country, despite suffering more than enough to justify violent action, were deluded to believe the Barth family were the only people who maintained "an air of stability in an environment of chaos" and, therefore, worthy of all their trust. I think that quote was actually said by a Scalvian or Sorovian journalist.
The issue with Scalvia was not new. There was the Five Day War. We had skirmishes over the border in the latter decades of the 20th Century. Scalvia, being a democracy, has pointed out from time to time that the Barth dictatorship should step down and call for elections. I did not suggest making Scalvia the scapegoat for our drought. I actually suggested Sorovia. At the time, ministers like me did not anticipate Barth or his revanchists and his irredentists to seriously consider invading any country. What was only apparent at the time was that we were going to create a diplomatic crisis. It would be a useful distraction. The people have not been totally consumed by the propaganda machine set up to indoctrinate them into the party. I am confident to say that the majority of the country were not true Hessaists. They were Barthists through and through. Instead of the party, they became loyal to the personage at the top of the party leadership. Perhaps that is why people kept referring to President Barth's regime as a personalist dictatorship.
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