NationStates Jolt Archive

Ianapalis - after the Larkinian visit; about the same time as the Andrews coup

Number Four Jameston Place shook as another shell detonated on the streets somewhere behind it.

“Hurry up, you buffoons!” bellowed William Ashtonbury as a couple Company men scrambled to remove vital documents. “It sounds as if they’ll soon breach Sarawak Street!”

Quitting Ianapalis. Just a month or two ago, their position had been so solid such an idea would have seem preposterous. Tarriff and his cronies had been bought like gold, their enemies silenced, and the idealistic and foolish Inswick dealt with forever. Imagine, sending your only son and heir off to die in such a vain enterprise! That damn Vesshamptoner had deserved everything he got, and more.

All that had been needed to quell these damnable riots was a simple application of might. Royal and the Company understood that, even if idiots like Tarriff - or Halders, or Westerton - hadn’t. And yet, it was too late. By the time proper authority had risen to the top, the wastrels had already squandered their time and allowed the unionists too strong a position. No fist could squeeze tight enough to put out the flames that were now engulfing all civilization as the Shield knew it.

“Just one thing left,” reported Matthews, jerking a thumb back towards His Majesty’s room. Ashtonbury smiled thinly. Ever since he returned from that damnable Larkinian’s inauguration, High King James III had been the ‘guest’ of the Big Three in Jameston Place, along with his lovely sisters, rather than living on his rather inaccessible island home of Dûn Ádien.

“Go get him,” confirmed Ashtonbury.

“And the Princesses?”

“Leave them. Jessica’s come down with some sort of illness; we can’t risk spreading that on the trip to Thorntree.”

“Pity,” sighed Matthews. “Seems a shame to leave such a grand prize to the insurrectionists. Especially the younger one - those damn unionists wouldn’t even know what to do with her.”

“Good point,” Ashtonbury admitted. “All right, bring young Alice. She seems to be a good bargaining chip for His Majesty, and it is a long trip to Thorntree.”

“Back in a flash,” grinned Matthews, darting up the stairs. He didn’t hear the front door bang open behind him. But Ashtonbury did.

-------

“Right,” whispered Grand Admiral Sir Richard Tri, creeping across the abandoned foyer. “They’re holding him upstairs somewhere - not sure the exact room. Weathers, you and Quinton’ll check the right side of the hall. Lawrence and I will check the left. Got it?”

“Got it,” replied Weathers in the same hushed whisper. “Damn, though - seems wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Doing something like this without Princie. I still can’t believe he sold out so completely.”

“We all do things we regret for those whom we love,” replied Tri uncomfortably. “Damn! If only I could have told Jeff right then when he was in my office! - but Conroy was there.”

“It’s not your fault, Admiral,” said Quinton quietly. “And it’s not Princeton’s, either. None of us should ever have been put in this position of conflicting loyalties.”

“Indeed,” boomed a new voice. “One might almost think you’d have to make an actual decision.”

All four of the conspirators wheeled. Quinton - poor, helpless Quinton who had never prepared for a firefight - discharged his pistol by accident. A second report followed his by hardly a second, and the elderly butler collapsed like a pile of bricks. Half a heartbeat later, the pile of red mushy flesh which had once been part of his head also plopped onto the floor.

“Stupid,” said the new man, his revolver cocked again before either KIG man or the Admiral could react. “Any of you game? I warn you, I’m a fast shot - and I never miss.”

“Ashtonbury,” hissed Sir Richard. “I’m amazed - surely, a great snake like you would have been well clear of here by now? After all, it wouldn’t do to have the consequences of your terrible mistake crash down on your own head, would it?” As if to punctuate his words, another great blast shook the marble edifice.

“Mr Ashtonbury?” came a crackling voice. “What’s going on? Are the revolutionaries in the building?!”

“No, Matthews,” replied Ashtonbury, operating the handheld wireless unit without averting his gaze nor even wobbling his gun hand. “Just a couple old stodgy reactionaries. Tell you what, though. Get HQ on the line. Tell them to be ready to exterminate Bait Tri.”

“A rescue party?”

“Of sorts. Eliminate them in ten minutes unless you hear from me.”

“Copy that. I’ve got Thorntree on the line now. Oh, and His Majesty would like to say ‘hello’ to the Admiral.”

“Maybe later. Stand by. Ashtonbury, out.”

“You murderous bastard,” said Tri, his eyes burning. However, his gun slowly dropped away from Ashtonbury’s chest.

“Come now, Admiral,” grinned Ashtonbury. “What say we have a bit of sport? Say --” he glanced at the 1000 general sword hanging in Tri’s scabbard, “--a duel? If I win, then Weathers and Lawrence leave with no further trouble and His Majesty comes with me. I lose, and you rescue him. Matthews is a bumbling idiot; he won’t pose any problem for such a cavalry.”

“But what of Anna?” persisted Tri.

“You forfeited her life by coming here,” replied Ashtonbury. “You - Weathers and ...Lawrence, is it? - you are lucky I’ve not eliminated your bait too. You may repay that favor by allowing the Admiral and I our duel with no interference. Swear it on your word of honor as Grenadiers.”

“And if we refuse?” asked Weathers, venom in his voice.

Ashtonbury raised the radio again. “It would be a shame to kill someone as lovely as your wife, Corporal Weathers. What was her name again? - I’ve always loved Ziobians.”

“Damn you,” whispered Weathers. “Damn you to burn eternally.”

“Do I have your word?”

“Yes! - damn your eyes!”

“Remember, a Grenadiers’ word is his bond. And you, Corporal Lawrence?”

“You have it,” whispered the pale young man with the dark hair, his eyes flashing red.

“Then, Admiral,” he said, turning towards the First Sea Lord and drawing his épée, “do we have a duel?”

“I will do what I must,” said Sir Richard, shrugging off his blazer and drawing his sabre.

“Perhaps, however, you’d care to do it with a slightly more elegant weapon?” asked Ashtonbury with a chuckle. “I’m nothing if not sporting.”

“This will do fine to gut as cowardly a fish as you,” retorted Tri. “I may be aging, but there is strength still in these arms, and vengeance in this heart. En garde!”

Weathers and Lawrence, bound by their word of honor, could but watch as the two master swordsmen circled one another, each sizing the other up. Tri was older and heavier than the lanky Ashtonbury. However, he also had benefit of experience: Tri had fought blade to blade not only on the field of honor, but on the quarterdeck of great ships of the line during the last Effitian war. His naval sabre was much heavier than Ashtonbury’s civilian shortsword, but conversely most slower. Ashtonbury wouldn’t be able to parry Tri’s attacks well, but Tri wouldn’t be able to fight in doubletime.

At last, Tri made the first move. His feet moved with the exact precision of a veteran swordsman as he advanced and let fly at Ashtonbury’s middle one of the great slashing cuts which has made the sabre famous. Ashtonbury flicked the blade with his own so that the tip just grazed the front of his clothing, then let fly a riposte at the Admiral’s breast. Tri turned with his swing to avoid it, cursing his sloth as he tried to bring his weapon back to slash at Ashtonbury’s thrusting arm. The entire action threw him off balance, and Weathers and Lawrence let loose a great groan as Tri stumbled over some loose piece of rubble and fell heavily. His sabre went spinning out of his hand and across the floor.

Ashtobury loomed over his helpless opponent The épée hovered over Tri’s neck, then came up and cut a gash deeply into his cheek.

“Touché,” he smiled. “Come now, Admiral, do not disappoint our audience! Surely, they expected a better show! Regain your blade, and let’s have at it again!”

With a lack of dignity quite unbecoming a King’s Officer, Tri scrambled over to where his sabre lay and hoisted it again. Damn that Ashtonbury! He didn’t even seem winded! Another great explosion, closer this time, rang out in the background.

This time, Ashtonbury made the first attack. Tri would have liked to turn and slash at his thrusting arm, but he didn’t dare unbalance himself again. Instead, he parried the sharp point with his blade. The light épée was sent off smartly to one side, but by the time Tri could ready a counterattack, Ashtonbury was back in his on guard position. Tri made an attack anyway, which Ashtonbury deflected again. Tri was able to dodge the lightning riposte - where DID he learn to fight like this? - and retreated a couple steps.

“You can get him, Admiral!” shouted Weathers encouragingly. “Look to his left side! - I think he’s slow on the parry there!”

By now, Tri was breathing quite heavily, but Ashtonbury still didn’t show any signs of fatigue.

“Yes, Admiral,” smiled the Company man. “Come at my left side, or my right if it fits your fancy.”

“Do not think you can goad me into anything foolish,” replied Tri, panting. “I will not waste my life upon your blade.”

Ashtonbury made another lightning attack, which Tri again parried. This time, he was able to catch the front of Ashtonbury’s tunic with his sabre’s point in a counter attack, but paid for it when the épée’s point grazed against his side. Again, Sir Richard withdrew.

“A shame,” commented Ashtonbury. “Not even for poor Anna? Poor, fat Anna - laughed at by her schoolmates, mocked by her employer, and now? Killed by her own father.”

Tri shouted an incomprehensible curse and lunged at Ashtonbury, his sabre flashing.

With a sickening sound, Ashtonbury’s épée punched through Sir Richard’s chest, past his ribcage, and right out his back. The blade was stained a bright red with brilliant arterial blood. His sabre, which was worth more than the combined savings of most working class families, spun off into the distance with a faint clatter. For one moment, everything was silent. The Admiral’s mouth flapped open and closed with speechless shock and rage.

Then Ashtonbury withdrew his sword with a thwucking sound. Sir Richard collapsed down on his knees, his dying eyes still blazing defiance at Ashtonbury. Another shell explosion. And the Company man thrust his blade deep into Sir Richard’s throat, then withdrew it. His brave eyes now glazed over, the First Sea Lord of the Royal Iansislean Navy, who had fought yardarm to yardarm with the Effitians and seen Beth Gellern missiles hammer his fleet of pre-dreadnoughts - the man who had presided over the greatest revolution of military technology in man’s long and glorious history of death - fell breathlessly onto the marble, dust covered floor of Number Four Jameston Place.

OOC: You really, really, really need to check your tms... and now, I'm forced to action...any other plan I had has just been forced from mind...I am calm.

I am controlled.

I am about to launch the largest sea-board invasion of a country since D-Day. :sniper:

...once I sort out how the Hell I can land my elite soldiers, capable of cutting yours to ribbons, when your navy can cut mine to ribbons and shell my ports.

:headbang:

...nah, I'll sort out something... once you tell me what it is.

For now, though...

IC:

Robspierre looked out the window of the embassy, his eyes half-closed. 'Dear God...' he thought, watching the chaos. 'What hath we wrought?'

The Legionnaires guarding the embassy knocked on the door. "My Lord, we must fly soon. The revolutionaries are showing little regard for the safety of ambassadorial personel."

Robspierre sighed, and looked downwards. "...how?"

The Legionnaire blinked. "My lord?"

"You heard me, you imbecilic excuse for an officer! HOW?! How would we get to the airport? How would we get to the boats?"

The legionnaire looked downcast.

They couldn't. All they could do was hope that their communication equipment was working.

And that the Imperial Navy would do something.

((Just so you know, I almost never check my TGs when I'm on the forum. In the future, a little 'you've got mail!' message would be much appreciated.

As for other questions...eh, see the return TG. ;)))

OOC: There's been a return tm. YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

IC: The Imperial navy was doing something, though. The second that last communique had reached WhiteHarbour, actions had been put in place. Firstly, the Company HQ in WhiteHarbour was placed under heavy guard by Imperial Legionnaires, Aguan Marines and Altaran Protectors.

Across the Imperium, orders went out for Shieldian citizens to be placed under heavy guard and the embassy to be watched.

And finally, the White Sea Fleet had rounded up garrison forces across the East Coast, transporting them to launch-off points. The orders were given. The ships were ready.

All that had to happen now, was knowledge of what was going on in the Shieldian naval forces on their half of the White Sea. As Admiral Der'tran himself said in the communique to his captains, "The second it looks like the Empire's naval forces are turning on one another, your orders are to advance and annex every island in the White Sea, as a prelude to further actions."

The Royal Iansislean Navy prided itself on a tradition of command independence. Even after the event of wireless had made practical micromanagement at sea possible, the Admiralty had seen it best to provide their Area Commanders with general guidelines and strategic outlines, and let the dice fall where they might. The Area Commanders, by and large, saw fit to let the individual ship or squadron commanders execute their orders as they best saw fit within tactical constraints. While the lack of directly exercised authority sometimes led to ship or area commanders making decisions that may not have melded with the Admiralty’s grand vision, it also led to command initiative and freedom of action that had saved the day when other navies might have their officers wait for instructions from above.

This independence was rewarded greatly when it became apparent that Ianapalis was as big a battleground as Manila. Far away, near Midway Island, Admiral Lord Westergate turned an about face. Leaving only a token force of mobile aeroflyer docks, light cruisers, and destroyers. He realized that his force would do much more good near the Shield than it would half an ocean away. Meanwhile, Admiral Sir George Rice detached the battleship Behemoth and the battlecruiser King Ian V from his fleet bombarding the Philippines and sent them to join the Home Fleet. With Prince of Shadoran and Queen Consort, which were then working up east of the Tharian Arm, Behemoth, Westergate’s Colossus and Goliath, and Titan and Queen Jessica, which were almost finished refitting in Harbor City after their return from Walmington Station, the RIN would soon be able to put six ships of the line and two battlecruisers into the Western Marches.

And then there was Princess Royal. No one seemed to know where Sir James Redford’s ship had gone since she chased down Gurney off the Golden Quarry.

In the meantime, His Majesty’s Navy was far and away the most battle-ready of all Iansislean forces. The Army had been hit hard in trying to quell the Ianapalis riots, and there were rumors of entire battalions switching sides. The Flying Corps, while exceptionally strong in the American war zone, lost an entire squadron of Norikers in Weshield and was currently shuttling aeroflyers north and away from the fire of civil unrest.

Fortunately for both the Navy and the Flying Corps, there were safe havens aplenty to be had. The Navy’s chief ports on the Shield’s Head, Turnish and Harbor City, were not in danger from the rebellion, and the oil still flowed from Dianatran. The Flying Corps found a place to land in fiercely loyalist Noropia.

However, the commanders all over knew one thing: they could maintain their position, but the Shield could not be allowed to turn republican. Unfortunately, none of their assets were currently in place to interfere with events unfolding in Ianapalis.

Across the north Pacific, LRR military planners look apprehensively to the east.

Iansisle was just a short trip away by boat, and any unrest in Iansisle, if it came to encompass the navy, would no doubt spill into LRR waters.

And the LRRN, consisting of three destroyers, a handful of submarines, and six squadrons of Vosper MTBs, 15 boats each, was in no position to stop any incursion ship-to-ship.

But of course, that's where the LRRAF came in. Unlike the other branches of the military, the LRRAF was very well equipped, with up-to-date jet fighter aircraft (even though the majority of the attack/bomber force is made up of Il-2s).

But still, the LRRN felt compelled to send in one of its submarines in to take a look at the situation.

And that brings us to a small dock on the southeast coast of LRR, where a Whiskey class diesel-electric sub sits tied-up against the dockside.

Such low-key facilities are uncommon in southern LRR, because the coastal geography allows for large shipyards. So obviously something important was afoot.

The sub is towed out to sea by a tug, and submerges a mile out, headed for Iansisle.

Sir Richard collapsed down on his knees, his dying eyes still blazing defiance at Ashtonbury. Another shell explosion. And the Company man thrust his blade deep into Sir Richard’s throat, then withdrew it. His brave eyes now glazed over, the First Sea Lord of the Royal Iansislean Navy, who had fought yardarm to yardarm with the Effitians and seen Beth Gellern missiles hammer his fleet of pre-dreadnoughts - the man who had presided over the greatest revolution of military technology in man’s long and glorious history of death - fell breathlessly onto the marble, dust covered floor of Number Four Jameston Place.

OOC: *grumble... grumble...* "Ashtonbury... Hulk... HULK SMASH!!!" er... TAG I mean ;)

Sneaking into Iansislean waters by submarine may be a more difficult proposition than imagined. The RIN might condemn such weapons as ‘cowardly,’ a ‘last resort,’ or ‘most unsporting’ and refuse to use them, but it also had experienced first hand their effectiveness. The squadrons of Dalenford class sloops which had escorted allied convoys through the u-boat infested North Atlantic now stood a solemn vigil over the Straits and the Western Marches. A Yankee submarine loose in Troobodia Bay could cause severe economic damage before the RIN would be able to respond, and so the RIN took up a policy of stopping such attacks on the doorstep.

Of course, a clever submariner in an advanced boat still might be able to slip through the defenses, but the narrow straits which guarded the entrance to Troobodia Bay were hardly deep enough to allow for any fancy footwork, and the RIN had more defenses in place than just sloops and destroyers.

((I’m afraid, however, that I (most likely) won’t be able to post after tonight. Some things have come up, and I need to leave town for a week or so. I’ll try and cut back into NS when I can, but expect a quiet week upcoming from Iansisle. Sorry to start so many things right before leaving; these are some rather unexpected events. Until next time!))

Director Weatherford looked at the photos apprehensively. It did look as though battling was happening inside Iansisle. Almost impossible to think, but it did seem the case. He picked up the phone and called the President.

A brief conversation occurs (look in twilight thread)

The Royalty of Iansisle was the strong arm that pushed Hodgeania over the edge and into the trash heap of history. If they needed help he was sure President Jefferson and Vice-President Bottom would do what needed to be done.

Quick calls were made to Presidents Jackson and Johnson informing them of the situation.

An intriguing situation indeed.

Plans had been readied for ages for just this such an occurence. The target was a fairly obvious one, in retrospect. The 'Republic' of Weshield had no armed forces, as far as the RIAS could ascertain. The generally held picture in the Imperium's armed forces was that a show of strength by the Divine Legions and Navy, concentrating against the terrorists of Weshield, would be allowed to pass by the Grand Empire's Naval Forces.

Once Legionnaires were landed, then it would be almost impossible for them to be removed. Centuries of Shieldian disdain and contempt would be repaid in a fortnight, as Novar Ohan took action to assist the Shieldians in their own homes.

A discrete communication was sent to the Shieldian Commodore currently in command of the White Sea/Western Marches from his Imperial counterpart.

TO: The Naval Commander of His Iansislian Majesty's forces in the White Sea
FROM: His Excellency Baron Kampien, The High Commander of Her Imperial Highness's White Sea Fleet

It is with great pleasure that I announce that the Divine Imperial Admirality has approved an expedition against the seperatists in Weshield, with the express intention of restoring them to the Grand Empire's embrace. Her Imperial Highness and Her Excellency the Prime Minister have also given their approval for such an expedition, and it will be leaving forthwith.

If at all possible, action will be taken to secure the safety of the Weshieldian Royal Family, and the capture of the traitor's leader for a trial by your authorities. We would like your full co-operation, but we fear that even if that is not forthcoming, we must carry on.

Should we not take action against seperatists in the Grand Empire, the Divine Imperium might be next. This can not be allowed.

~~

The suspicions of the Admiralty and Divine Imperial Government were indeed correct. The Sunset Isles had never been particularly happy with being part of the Divine Imperium. During the Micronesian War, hundreds of Legionnaires had been stationed on the tropical beaches in order to ensure that the native Melanesians remained loyal Imperial Subjects, instead of revolting along with the 'Protectorate' of the Micronesian Peoples.

Under the watchful, yet unseeing, eye of the Divine Imperial Admiralty's largest fleet, the ferment of revolution was planted...

OCC: Well, I wasn't aiming for a big port. The more remote the better, in fact. Some LRRN officers will probably row ashore (fully uniformed, of course) and make their way to the capital.

((All right - I'm back at home with a reliable computer. Sorry about dropping off the face of the (NS) world there for a couple days; I should be back full time now.

However, there's a bit of a backload right now. I've got two or three stories about half-written, plus an assload of stuff to reply to now. Might be a couple hours, even a day or two, before I'm fully back in the saddle. Once again, sorry about the absence.))

((Welcome back...and Thank God! I have no ideas in Maquerade, besides doing something really evil and completely out of the Imperial Character...))

((no actual replies to posts tonight. LRR, there really aren't a lot of terribly accessible ports that provide easy access to Ianapalis. Most everything in the Shield is accessed by passing through the straits around Sentry Island and into Troobodia Bay. You might be able to find something on the western Tharian Arm or the Noropian Horn / Shield’s Head, but it would be hell trying to get to Ianapalis.

http://www.freewebs.com/driquan/geography.htm

Roania: evil AND out of the Imperial character? I’m shocked, simply shocked! that such a thing exists! :P))

No sooner had William Ashtonbury cleaned his blade than he found the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against the side of his head.

“Funny, Corporal Weathers,” he commented, not a trace of fear in his voice, “I had always taken you for a man of his word.”

“I am,” replied Weathers, “and I swore, years before I had the misfortune of casting eyes upon you, to ever protect His Majesty the High King. Or did you really think a grenadier would go back on his solemn word?”

“And now what?” replied Ashtonbury, just trying to keep Weathers talking while he thought of a plan. “You assassinate me, only to let His Majesty fall into the hands of Godless revolutionaries? We can take James the only place he will be safe -”

“Shut your foul mouth!” shouted Weathers, cracking Ashtonbury in the back of the head. The Company man fell forward, blood dampening the back of his head. “What do you think? That Clan Whitman will become the new High Kings of a restored Empire?” He kicked the prone figure, which let out a dull groan. “No, the damn Thortraians had to come down to Shadoran with their coal and muck up the entire Shield with their greedy and manipulative ways!”

The artillery blasts in the background had been coming steadily closer. Now the dust was shaking on the floor of Number Four with each concussion.

“Come on!” insisted Lawrence, who had started shying towards the staircase. “There’s not time enough for scum like him!”

Weathers snorted as the crumpled form lying in front of him, then turned and ran for the stairs as gunfire rattled outside. They had little trouble locating James’ door and quickly forced it, ready to take down Matthews...

...who was lying on the floor unconscious while James tied bed lining around his hands. The bedraggled monarch glanced up at his two bodyguards, whom he had not seen in weeks, with an expression of shock.

“We’re - ah - we’re here to rescue you, Your Majesty,” tried Weathers lamely.

“Glad to hear it!” exclaimed James, standing and embracing Weathers friendly. He glanced down the hall behind Lawrence. “Where’s Richard?”

Lawrence and Weathers glanced uncomfortably at one another. “He ...didn’t make it,” said Lawrence after apparently drawing the short straw. “Ashtonbury ran him through.”

James’ brown eyes narrowed in a rage neither man had seen before. It passed as quickly as it had come on, and James physically shook his head as if to clear it. Neither KIG man wanted to say anything.

“I suppose we still have some work in front of us. Lawrence, I want you and Weathers to make sure my sisters get safely to Dun Adien. Contact the Presidential Palace in Golden Agate directly; I fear our embassy there might be slightly less than trustworthy.” James snapped off the orders with clarity and a natural sense of command, but neither man seemed eager to obey. James glared at them.

“Er, begging Your Majesty’s pardon, but where does that leave you?” asked Weathers.

“I should think the answer to that fairly obvious,” replied James. “Riding north after the last train.”

“Absolutely not,” said Weathers with a shake of his head. “You’re coming back with us.” He gestured to indicate Jessica and Alice. Alice was standing behind James’ back, a hand upon his shoulder. Jessica lay sick in the bed.

“I’m not used to being contradicted in my own realm,” snapped James, a hint of the suppressed rage boiling over in his eyes. “You have your orders.” He moved to push Weathers out of his way. However, a quick foot in a KIG boot got tangled with James’ foot and the monarch fell heavily forward. Lawrence caught him and strong arms quickly bound James’ hands behind him.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” said Weathers, “but I can’t let you play hero; not today. The rioters have reached Sarawak Street at least; you’d be lucky to get out of Jameston without carrying some lead.”

“And so I’m just supposed to let the last child of my good friend be murdered by some heartless bastard in Thorntree?” asked James bitterly. “No, damn it, I’m going!” He struggled against the hastily improvised bindings.

“You’ll not talk him out of it,” said Alice quietly. Weathers and Lawrence started; they hadn’t expected her to say anything. “All he’s been talking about since that radio call is how to rescue Anna and revenge himself on the Company.”

“I know we won’t, Your Highness,” sighed Weathers, “but I have no intention of listening to him. James has to come back to Dun Adien; there are more forces at play in this city than just the Company and RM&M.”

“And you would just let poor Anna die? For heaven’s sake, man, let loose these ropes! We’re wasting valuable time - every minute carries her fate a quarter mile farther north!”

“I’m going,” decided Weathers suddenly. “Your Majesty, we can’t afford to risk you. I’m nobody; I’m expendable. I’ll go.” He nodded to Lawrence and then trotted down the corridor.

“No!” shouted James, “wait, Weathers, you can’t! It’s too dangerous!” But the plucky Shadoranite had all ready vanished around a bend and down the stairs.

Number Four shook so violently with the next blast that the window in James’ room shattered.

“We’ve got to go,” said Lawrence, helping James to his feet. Alice took his arm, either to steady her brother or keep him from rushing after Weathers. With a “beg your pardon, Your Highness,” Lawrence lifted Jessica’s sick form from the bed and held her in his arms.

“Which way?” asked Alice, her keen brown eyes peering down the hall. Lawrence looked; that last blast had knocked some beams and rubble across the stair they had come up.

“This way,” decided the pale faced guard, leading the way towards a fire escape. The unlikely four, James’ arms still bound, broke out into the hazy overcast of an Ianapalis afternoon - most of the raining was done in the morning and evening - and were instantly hit by the smell and sound of the place. Where once flowers had cast their sweet fragrance and birds chirped happily in their perches, now all one could smell was blood and hear was gunfire. There was no sign of Weathers.

Lawrence, encumbered by Jessica’s limp body, ducked and ran towards Troobodia Bay. Regal was tied up at the Jameston Dock, but he’d never be able to sail her himself. Hopefully, there were still a few small craft left at the pier.

“Look!” cried Alice suddenly; Lawrence looked. Out past the lighthouse on Feinwick’s Point came a refreshing sight. Clad in battleship gray, beaten, bedraggled, down by the bows, but every inch a heroine, HIMS Princess Royal struggled into Adien Bay. She had survived a nuclear explosion off the Golden Quarry, forced the Southern Straits past a RIN blockade, weathered a vicious storm off Troobodia, and crossed more than two thousand miles round trip. On review, she would have been especially pathetic, but to a war torn Ianapalis Princess Royal was a guardian angel. Lawrence broke out in an awkward run for the sea as Sir James Redford’s ship started putting over her boats.

They were met halfway there by a group of tough-looking soldiers who wore the insignia of the Seventh Rifles. However, the Cross of St Patrick had been ripped from their sleeves; they menaced the royal party with rifles. James swore under his breath; Lawrence swore aloud.

“Well, Your Majesty,” said a familiar voice, coming from one of the riflemen. James scarcely had time to think about where the memory came from before he noticed that the speaker had only one hand.

“Mr Bradsworth.”

“Indeed; a lot of water under the bridge since last I visited your court, wouldn’t you say? However, let us not mince words. I have you, Your Majesty,” said Bradsworth. He then swung the stump of his left arm out over the black waters of Adien Bay. “But you also have me.”

((You'd be surprised, Ian...very, very surprised. As I see it, I have two options before I have to look into things of that scale. Firstly, arrange for Caddick to accidentally slap Prince Damien's lover, and inform the Grand Empire that their ambassador accidentally tripped and fell onto a cactus from a 7th story window... oh, and that Kroenen started making speeches about the perfidy and evil of the Godless Shieldians.

-Hears you ask urgently about option 2-

Or... I could ask you to make it so that Caddick *was* involved in 'salacious' activities. ;) Bingo, instant divorce territory...of course, all effort would be made to spare the Grand Empire and the luckless Ambassador any embarrasment.))

Robespierre and his family and guards, meanwhile, had also been arranging to flee for the North. Disguised as ordinary peasants, they had slowly made for the main thoroughfare, in the hopes of finding some manner of loyalists... or, failing that, hoping that they'd run into the Trade Unionists who Robespierre himself had created.

He only hoped that they'd be thankful enough to put him on a ship back to the Divine Imperium...or, failing that, intelligent enough to know that the Divine Imperium would take harsh action against anyone even suspected of murdering one of its ambassadors.

((whatever you think best, Roania))

Weathers rode like he had never ridden before. He had appropriated a horse from the stables near Jameston Place and dug his spurs hard into her quarter. She had flown across Gallaga Street and down Port Laughlin. He’d had to ride on the sidewalks; the streets were clogged with Westerton and Stockley horseless carriages. Hundreds of thousands of generals in material goods weighed each down; the rich families who owned the cars must have been forced to flee before the oncoming fight.

What was particularly eerie, however, was the fact that the streets seemed nearly empty. There were a couple looters who scattered when he came galloping past. One or two revolutionaries busy helping themselves to the contents of a million general Ianapalis townhouse bothered to take a shot at Weathers, but their aim was poor. Hardly ten minutes passed from the KIG man setting out until when he burst through the Western Gate.

There he met the rearguard of the refugees. Men, women, and children - once the best quality the Shield had to offer - dragged themselves vaguely north and west from the ruined capital. Westergate, that small community just outside Ianapalis’ walls, would prove small refuge to those pathetic ex-nobles seeking shelter from the flames of revolution.

Briefly, Weathers considered stopping in Westergate. He would need a fresh mount soon, or preferably a motor of some sort. He was losing ground slowly but surely to the last Company train - and the moment it passed out of Shadoran, so poor Anna Tri’s fate would be sealed.

But Westergate’s streets, from the Marquess’ manor to the Footballing Grounds, was crammed full of the refuse Ianapalis had spit at it. Surely every last family was inquiring after one more motor, one more horse - one more anything. Even a soldier of the king would find no help there.

Weathers swore and spurred his valiant horse on; he had never failed James, and didn’t intend to start now. Perhaps there would be a fresh mount at Clearham.

-----

Sir James Redford coughed wetly and grabbed a railing to steady himself. Princess Royal’s seventh lieutenant, standing by his captain, felt a wave of intense worry sweep over him. Sir James shouldn’t be out of bed yet; he had been struck nearly as hard as any man by that invisible plague sweeping over his ship.

That nameless malady had killed nearly two hundred men all ready. Most of Princess Royal’s bridge crew, including the former third lieutenant, were dead, along with a shocking proportion of her firemen, spotters, and divers. Sir James too came down ill, but he was strong. He fought the terror tooth and nail; every breath he drew was one of defiance. He had planned the running of the Southern Straits bedridden from his quarters; he had forced his way to the bridge during that storm off Troobodia; he had been every inspiration any man could ask.

Of course, that Princess Royal had even made it back to Ianapalis was something of a minor miracle. Both the master and the second lieutenant had been killed by the plague. Her upper works had been destroyed in the explosion, leaving her with neither wireless nor radio range-finder, and every man who tried to repair them came down sick.

The seventh lieutenant shook himself free of the sudden reverie. His eyes focused again on Sir James, whose intense eyes were staring out at the black waters of Troobodia Bay. The seventh lieutenant followed them, and saw the focused on Commander McCoy, sitting in the prow of the captain's gig. Two score of marines and armed ratings were crammed into the boat behind him. All were focused on the coming shore.

Sir James wanted to be with them - oh, how he wished it! Sam was a good officer and a good man, but this was his fight, damn it! At first, Sir James refused to consider anyone besides him leading the landing party, but Commander McCoy was in perfect health. Sir James had fought with every ounce of what strength remained in him, but his officers had been insistent. Under no circumstances was he leaving the ship and the corpsman’s care, unless it was to the RSU medical center, of course!


“What do you make of that, Mr Baxter?” asked Sir James suddenly. The seventh lieutenant followed his captain’s pointing finger. Over Jameston Place, a red, white, and green flag was flying in St Patrick’s place. It appeared to depict a spread-winged seagull.

“Can’t say, sir. You don’t think - ”

“That the rebels have taken parliament? I believe that’s quite the case. Damn! Still no sign of movement on the shore. McCoy could be waltzing right into a trap, and there’s no way we’d know.”

“Shall I recall the boats, sir?” asked Baxter hesitantly. He knew what the answer would be.

“Of course not!” snapped Sir James, taking down his binoculars. “Unless you plan to put me on one,” he added, his voice softening slightly. Baxter didn’t say anything.

--------

Cameras liberated from IanCorp recorded the event for future generations. There they stood in one room - the High King of the Empire and the Man with the Golden Tongue. James shook Bradsworth’s unmutilated hand and smiled for the moving picture camera.

Then Bradsworth stepped forward and started speaking. It was a prepared speech, but it didn’t sound that way at all. He had a way of speaking that was so natural, so flowing, so eloquent that it couldn’t be anything but a direct tap to his deepest soul. And yet the ideas and thoughts flowed perfectly as one, each complimenting the other and following a logical direction.

The Empire, he said, was finished. It had served its purpose and ended the pointless fratricidal wars of the Seven Kingdoms. But now it was time for the Shieldian people to seek a new destiny - one steeped in freedom from the corporate yoke and aristocrat’s snobbery. Every Shieldian was equal, he asserted, from the lowliest peasant to the highest lord.

With one broad stroke, he did away with the entire system of nobility in Iansisle. Another broad stroke did away with the corporate system; all property of Royal Mining and Manufacturing, the East Gallaga Company, or the Iansislean International Telegraph Corporation now belonged to the Shieldian State.

“However,” said Bradsworth, “we can go nowhere without a strong leader to unite behind.” The faces of those around him clearly thought the disfigured war veteran fit the bill of ‘strong leader’ but their mouths said nothing. “Therefore, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you the first king of the United Kingdom of the Shield - His Royal Majesty, James I!”

James stepped forward. A few people in the picture applauded him; most did not.

“Thank you, Mr Bradsworth, for that glowing introduction,” he said. “We cannot hope to duplicate your great eloquence, so we shall instead strive for brevity. Those reforms for which we so dearly wished, those reforms for which we hoped and prayed and bled, are here at last.

“However, we know that the struggle is not a Shadoranite one alone. Our brethren in Weshield and Wyclyfe also breathe the free air. We implore both great states; join the United Kingdom. We are far more alike than we are different. The leadership of the Republic of Weshield and of Wyclyfe certainly know that. The wrongs of the old system have been righted; never again will you feel oppressed or mocked.

“If you do not wish to join us yet, we understand. We simply wish to end the bloodshed.” James stepped back and Bradsworth regained the platform.

“I have been elected Premier Interim -” one could see Lawrence Madder’s eyes flash behind Bradsworth “- while a new constitution is drafted for Iansisle - one stepped in legal terms and clear writing, not vagaries and historical precedence. This is a time of great change for the Shieldian people, but you have handled it gracefully. Thank you all, and may God bless the Shield.”

President Jefferson sat at his desk in the early morning with five influential foriegn affairs politicos.

"Sir, it's like this, the photos show an insurrection happening inside of Iansisle. We have credible ground information that the royals are being rounded up and even the democratically elected government in Iansisle has been stormed and taken over." Director Weatherford stated sternly and blankly.

Foriegn Affairs Minister Wheatly slid a piece of paper across the President's desk. "Sir, if the rightful government of Iansisle is being attacked we can propose regime change to the parliament, but we don't have the resources, the backing, or the right to impose it ourself. Furthermore our nation itself rebelled against a tyrannous Empirial government, to say that these people do not have the same right is prepostorous. This paper is a document offering humanitarian aid to the Empire and the United Kingdom of Iansisle with the assistance of Fultonian statemen and peacekeepers. You should sign the document and make a statement to the world regarding the matter."

Senator Spiegleman tapped his chair. "Mr. President we owe Iansisle our very existence, and in my mind we would have done well to elect you King of Fultonia. Empire yes, evil no. Steam our navy off there coast and let it be known that all royals and their immediate servants will be granted asylum within the Grand Republic of Fultonia. Send your aid and offer your assistence to the new kingdom, but keep more than peacekeepers on standby. These insurrectionists should be dealt with harshly."

Congressman White smiled, "I say we send our highly trained Republican Guard units in at night and do everything my esteemed colleague has said. Those Royals might need help escaping Iansisle. Or we can do the right thing and follow the advice of Minister Wheatly"

President Jefferson swiveled in his chair and nodded toward his chief political advisor Karls.

"Well Sir the polls are a bit off. We've been crunching the numbers since you called last night. When asked if Fultonia should defend the government of Iansisle from insurrectionists the polls fall 55% for 40% against and 5% undecided. When asked if Fultonians should lose their lives in defense of the government of Iansisle they fall 50% for 43% against and 7% undecided. The Coastal City Territory support the rightful government of Iansisle and military encursion as do the citizens of Aubania. The people support the royalty of Iansisle."

"Give me 2 hours and I'll make decision."

The men leave the room gathering in a side lobby to await the President's decision.

"No reply, sir!" The ensign clicked his heels together and gave a sharp salute.

The baron nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Very well... commence the operation... we'll show them what we can do!"

He looked out through his window, over his pocket battleship. "And may god have mercy on those Weshieldian souls..."

The White Fleet set out, a mighty fist aimed directly for the Weshieldian coast. An avenging force...

==========

It had been simple enough, once the scientists had put their mind to it. The heavy water and the uranium had been fairly easy to come by, and it had only taken a few trial and error steps in order to come up with the proper type of the radioactive material.

Once the atom had been split, the rest rapidly fell into place. And now, parity would be achieved with the foreigners...

It was a clear day. It generally was, here in the jungle villages. Men worked at their primitive fields, the native women scolded their children. All unaware of the fact that they were being watched.

"Commander, the project is awaiting your orders..."

"Begin."

The bomber flew overhead, its crew trying to spot the village that had been chosen for the test. Once they spotted it, there was a brief communication between the bomb-crew themselves and the pilot.

The single bomb was released. Down below, watching from a specially prepared mountain base, the ground-crew placed their sunglasses on.

The village itself was obliterated instantly. Its structures and people turned into mere shadows on the ground. The area directly around the luckless natives was also eliminated, destroyed by the force of the explosion. Not even the sunglasses had fully darkened the intense light, that growing dome that burned with the heat of a thousand suns.

Over-head. A cloud bloomed temporarily. A mushroom, a fungus...a sign from the Lord?

The observers waited to see if there was going to be anything else. Then, the commander called the Imperial General Staff. "Sirs, the project is successful...Kali has come..."

"No reply, sir!" The ensign clicked his heels together and gave a sharp salute.

((Actually, there was a reply. ;) I just put it in the other thread because it seemed more relevant to Weshield.))

((the promised vague summary of this thread! The relevant stuff's in the middleish, after Venafro's arrival but before his rant.))

Lakeriverwood, Gadsan

The sun shone brightly over the second city of what once had been the Iansislean Commonwealth. Lakeriverwood sat nestled between a bend in the River Jaizar and the towering Median Mountains. Here the river ran muddy with the collected silt of its journey from the Etiques Mountains in northern Healdsburg and across the great Effitian Steppes. The river was navigable for more than a thousand miles, from Delton to well past Veritas. It was the primary link between the Shieldian realm and its sprawling eastern neighbor.

In the Capitol of the Gadsani Dominion, Thomas Pollack shifted nervously. It was an intolerable thing, waiting. And that was all the Dominions had been doing since all effective communications with Ianapalis shut down. The First Consul consulted his watch again; the ambassadors ought to be arriving any moment.

“M. le Marquis de St Helena, Ambassador from the Dominion of Noropia to the Dominion of Gadsan, and party!” announced the doorman suddenly, with a poorly practiced French accent. Thomas smiled - he had hoped that the Noropians would be the first to arrive - and walked over to greet the tall, blonde man at the head of the party.

“My lord,” said he with hand extended, “welcome to the Trader’s Assembly. I only wish that the times which united us again were happier.”

“As do I, Consul Pollack,” replied the Marquis. His voice had the clipped tones of one who had learned English at Royal Standard University and only a trace of the usual Noropian intonations. He shook Pollack’s hand easily; for all the differences between aristocratic Noropia and plutocratic Gadsan, the two had become fast friends. “I trust that this unique meeting has been called to discuss what our governments can do to suppress this ... lamentable movement against the Empire?” Only a slight pause as he searched for the proper word showed the Marquis to be anything but a native English speaker.

“You may,” replied Pollack solemnly. He could feel the Marquis’ sharp blue eyes digging into his own and tried to reply the best he could. However, a friendly smile soon crinkled the aristocrat’s face.

“I have no doubt, my consul, that events in the Empire will soon be brought to a favorable conclusion. I have equally little doubt that our governments will cooperate in the fullest to bring about such a conclusion.”

“Do you speak for the First Lord of the Conclave in that regard, my lord?” asked Pollack carefully. He always had to be careful in distinguishing that which the Noropian ambassador said as a friend and that which he said as a statesman.

“In the fullest,” the Marquis assured him. The door swung open again.

“His Excellency Mr Lambert Hughton, Ambassador from the Troobodian People to the Dominion of Gadsan!” Unlike the Noropian representative, the Troobodian came alone. Troobodia, with less than a half a million people resident and an economy primarily dependent upon sheep herding, could not afford much even in the way of relations with her fellow Commonwealth states. The rotund, jolly-looking man immediately removed his bowler, dropped in unceremoniously in the doorman’s surprised hands, and waddled over to St Helena and Pollack.

“My dear consul!” he exclaimed in a rather high voice, grasping Pollack’s hand and shaking firmly. “How are you?” Hughton’s grip was strong, but his hand dripped with sweat. After letting go, Pollack subtly dropped his hand into a jacket pocket.

“Quite fine, Ambassador,” Pollack assured him. “Thank you for - “

“And you, dear M. le Marquis?” If possible, Hughton’s pronunciation of French was worse than the doorman’s. “I trust everything is well in Chateau?”

“Last time I checked,” replied the Noropian distantly. Pollack coughed into his (now dry) hand and spoke again:

“Thank you, Ambassador, for coming. I feel this situation requires the utmost attention of all the Dominions.”

“As do the Troobodian People, Mr Consul,” replied Hughton, mocking Pollack’s serious tone. “Really Tom,” he added a moment later with a twinkle in his eyes. Before Pollack could ask ‘really what?’ the door swung open again.

“Mr Richard Dwight, from the United Banking Concerns, and lawyers!”

The United Banking Concerns, most often mentioned as the third member of Iansisle’s great corporations along with RM&M and IanCorp, was the largest banking system in the Commonwealth, and perhaps the world. It was also the single largest owner of capital in the Commonwealth. The Lakeriverwood based firm saw its heads spared the bloody revolution in Ianapalis, but it had long since lost contact with most all of its operatives on the Shield.

Richard Dwight was a heavy set man, though not really fat. He most resembled a formerly great athlete long since gone to pasture. He was surrounded by six or seven suits, all of whom looked anxious to avoid any sort of situation where they might have to speak in any realm outside their particular forte.

“Rick, you’re looking well,” said Pollack, shaking hands. Dwight smiled and replied easily. He didn’t seem particularly eager to move towards any serious discussion.

“Only one person left,” said St Helena after a short while, checking his pocket watch. “What do you think - making a fashionable entrance or forgetting trains actually run on time in Gadsan?”

A polite chuckle ran through the assembled delegates, though Hughton refused to laugh and even looked slightly offended.

“From that pompous ass? My guess,” said Dwight in his boisterous voice, “is that it is the former resultant from the latter!” Another polite chuckle, though Hughton still refused to engage in merrymaking at the Tharian ambassador’s expense.

At last, the doorman stepped in once more and announced in a clear voice:

“His Excellency, the Ambassador from the Dominion of Tharia to the Dominion of Gadsan, Giovanni Venafro!”

Venafro swept into the room, his cold black eyes challenging any to dare and ask him why he was late. None did.

“Consul Pollack,” were the Tharian ambassador’s first words. “A pleasure.”

“Quite, Ambassador Venafro,” replied Pollack in (what he hoped was) a cheery tone. “Well! Shall we get started?”

The Gadsani pointed to a large wall map of Tilsitia. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Commonwealth.” Gadsan was marked in a dark hunter green, the rest of Iansisle in a lighter green shade, and the other Tilsitian countries in an unforgiving scarlet.

The Commonwealth occupied the northern twenty per cent of the map. East of that was the sprawling Effitian Fatherland - the Patria Effitiae - and its satellite countries. To the south was the Empire of Ryansisle (strictly it’s Shieldian name), the land of the Golden Quarry. Between the Empire and the Patria was the People’s Republic of Healdsburg, a Stalinist state with few pretensions otherwise.

“Specifically,” continued Pollack, “the Empire of the Shield.” He let those words hang in the air.

“The Empire of the Shield,” repeated the Marquis de St Helena quietly.

“What word do we have about Bradsworth’s intentions?” asked Hughton stupidly. He had seen the recordings as clearly as anyone else.

“Mr Bradsworth,” said Pollack with a sigh, “is ever an enigma. He has formed a constituent assembly to aid in drafting that constitution of his, but that’s about all we know.”

“He speaks well, but he says little - and means even less,” added St Helena.

“We do know,” cut in Dwight, “that there may all ready be dissension in the ranks.”

“So soon?” asked St Helena, surprised.

“Quite. Remember, this thing wasn’t planned out; it just sort of happened when those idiots in RM&M started shooting up peaceful protests.” Dwight’s analysis of events was certainly biased by his employer’s long standing feud with Royal, but no one said anything. “See that man behind Bradsworth, with the lean face? That’s one Mr Lawrence Madders.”

“Madders,” mused Pollack. “You mean the man whom the Shieldians exiled after that strike?”

“The Grand Street Massacre,” nodded Dwight. “It wasn’t his fault, of course. RM&M placed agitators in the strikers, who fired on soldiers while they tried to contain the strike. Forty seven workers and ten soldiers were killed in the ensuing fire fight, but none of Royal’s agitators.”

“Then why’d Madders get the boot?” asked Hughton indignantly.

“Because Royal framed him. The Shieldian law system was helpless before their money, as was poor Mr Madders. They packed him off to Roania or some equally Godforsaken place. Anyhow, he fell under the influence of some radicals while in exile. Then he reappeared mysteriously just before Bradsworth flew in from Golden Agate.”

“But I thought everyone loved Bradsworth,” protested Hughton, “especially the Revolutionaries. What makes this Madders so special that he would seek to usurp Bradsworth’s control?”

“A good question,” nodded Dwight. “Mr Madders is, in our doctor’s opinion, quite unstable. However, he is also rather brilliant. Our sources indicate that, while Bradsworth filled the role of public demagogue, Madders was the actual brain guiding the Revolution’s muscle. No doubt he’s insulted that they chose Bradsworth to act as leader, even temporarily. We don’t know how far that resentment goes - but our reports indicate it is there.”

“Could he be turned?” asked St Helena. “Changed into a counterrevolutionary?”

“I doubt it,” said Dwight. “Remember, Madders’ entire paradigm is shaped by the Grand Street Massacre - he believes that social change can only be effected by force and bloodshed. Also, Charles Bradsworth draws a clear line between the corporations and the government; Madders does no such thing. To him, both are one and the same. If anything, Madders is more dangerous than Bradsworth. Doubtless, he despises this ‘United Kingdom’ idea of Bradsworth’s.”

“So change will have to come from the outside,” concluded St Helena quietly.

“It would seem that way.”

“Well, we can’t do anything,” shrugged Hughton. “Our militias aren’t designed for heavy combat work, and it would take them ages to get outfitted properly, and...”

“I know, damn it,” sighed Pollack. “The New Highlands, may hap?”

“No good,” said Dwight with a shake of his head. “Remember, they have the High King - er, the King ...er, James - up there saying he supports the United Kingdom and ‘just wants to end the bloodshed.’”

“So?”

“So, with Daezeman razed, Imitora expelled, and Iansisle withdrawn, who’s the only founding member left in the Alliance?”

“Larkinia,” answered Pollack instantly. Any schoolboy could recite that information.

“Right. You’d agree, then, that Celeborne, Walmington, Yarrum, and Agrigento are likely to follow Golden Agate’s lead in this discussion?”

“I suppose so...”

“And who is the President of Larkinia?”

“The Duke of Williams,” answered Pollack with another great sigh. He had just fit the pieces together.

“Right. And if James really is happy with the new system, do you think that the Larks - that Jeff Williams - is going to risk spilling more Shieldian, and possibly Larkinian, blood?” Pollack hadn’t needed Dwight to make that jump for him, but Hughton’s eyes lit up with sudden understanding.

“How about this ‘Weshielder Republic,’ then?” asked St Helena, stabbing at the map.

“I don’t know,” answered Dwight honestly. “Andrews is an enigma to me. He was some bigwig in Westerton before the bombardment, and now...” Dwight shrugged. “He would appear to have pulled off one of the most efficient, most bloodless coups in the history of mankind. Just where Weshield is going, however...I don’t think it’s back with the rest of the Shield.”

“What I fail to understand,” said Venafro suddenly. He had been so quiet that most seemed to have forgotten that he was even present. Hughton jumped slightly. “Is why you all seem so convinced that the Empire needs to be restored.” Venafro surveyed the assembled diplomats with his eyes flashing, then spoke again. “It has done nothing but oppress us for years - think, Mr Pollack, of the Gadsani soldiers lying stacked like cordwood on the beaches of Galloquoi, to repress a Dianatranian independence movement. Think, M. le Marquis, of the dark pollution Shieldian companies have been spilling into Noropia’s clean air. Think, Mr Hughman --”

Venafro paused. He couldn’t think of an offense against Troobodia. All eyes were on him expectantly.

“Er, think of the children lying in the streets of Thesia and Carlonia dying of preventable illnesses because the Shieldians couldn’t pay for their medicine!”

Hughton had a hard time thinking of that.

“Bradsworth was right; the Empire is archaic,” continued Venafro. “This new order may not be the best arrangement, but I advise you: look after your own countries. Let the Shieldians look after theirs.”

((Grr...want a nuclear bomb someplace where it'll hurt?)) :headbang: ;)

To: The Naval Commander of His Iansislian Majesty's forces in the White Sea

From: The Special Operations Division of The Republican Navy

I am pleased to inform you that Fultonia is sending a small naval contingent into Iansislian waters with the express purpose of keeping order and providing defensive measures. I have been authorized to carry out rescue missions using the Fultonian Republican Guard and Black Helicoptor Units in conjunction with your approval authorizations. I hope to meet you soon to discuss these very important matters effecting both your grand empire and my great republic.

Sincerely,
Admiral Adams

----------------------------------------------------------------

A flurry of activity began all over the special services division and inside the Ministry of Foriegn Affairs. Special accomodations were being made to house the exiled royals who might make thier way to reside inside the Republic.

----------------------------------------------------------------

President Jefferson sat behind his large oaken desk as a staffer placed the Seal of the Republic upon the front. The lights lit up and the camera which would be shared by all five of the major media players lit up. All over Fultonia television programs were interrupted for the President.
"People of Fultonia, I come to you today on grave and important business. The people of Iansisle have come under attack by insurrectionists and thugs who have begun raping and pilfering that great nation. Our sattelite pictures show mass gatherings of these evil men and the exodus of their noble leaders to the suburbs and countrysides. Blood is in the streets and chaos reigns in this once peaceful nation.
I have ordered a very small contingent of our troops to patrol their waters and offered our military aid to the rightful government of Iansisle. I promise to do all within my power to protect those who protected us in our great war with the Hodgeanian aggressors.
To the people of Iansisle itself I promise to provide all humanitarian need I can to you and yours. To the usurpers who have control of the nation, negotiation is not an option. Comply or face the consequences.
God Bless the Republic and the people of Iansisle.
Thank You and Goodnight."

The camera went off and the lights dimmed. The President stood up and looked out his window. Now was the waiting game.

----------------------------------------------------------------

To the Parliament of Iansisle and to all of of the Kingdom's Regions and Provinces

The Republic of Fultonia and its Provinces would like to open lines of communication with the current ruling faction of Iansislian Politics.

Sincerely,
Foreign Affairs Minister Wheatly

The Parliament of Iansisle could not receive that message, alas, as it no longer existed. However, the National Constituent Assembly which had taken up home in Jameston Place under the Gull Flag did. The message was simply, and Charles Bradsworth thought it prudent that an equally short message be sent back.

My dear Minister Wheatley,

Greetings from the United Kingdom of the Shield! The turmoil of the War Against the Corporations has sapped our diplomatic strength, so we - the National Constituent Assembly of the Shieldian People - would be more than willing to establish ties with your great state. We look forward to sending an agent to your government.

Charles Bradsworth
Premier Interim
In the name of HRM King James I

The note was also received in Lakeriverwood by the group now calling itself ‘the United Dominions for Restoration of the Empire.’ Not surprisingly, Tharia had refused to join. They also accepted Fultonia’s offer of communication, though they couldn’t claim to be the ruler of any part of Iansisle.

-----

The RIN and every cartographer on the Shield had always referred to the body of water west of Iansisle as ‘the Western Marches’ and neither hell, high-water, nor firebirds would get them to change an entrenched tradition. Besides, as Admiral Sir Hunter N. Kennington was fond of saying, “the port’s Mansmouth, not Archangel, damn it!”

Still, Vice Admiral Sir Kenneth Jones was more than a little surprised by the volume of diplomatic missives that were suddenly being sent his way. He was more than a little concerned about allowing any men-of-war, Fultonian or otherwise, into Iansislean waters. They had too much potential for throwing off the balance of power.

His letter to Admiral Adams expressed his concern and hoped that the Admiral might meet him aboard his flagship, His Iansislean Majesty’s Ship Prince of Shadoran, in order to discuss Fultonian cooperation with the RIN before his task force arrived.

Wait...so Bradsworth is in charge now? *shifty eyes*::quickly scraps plan to take out Commie Bastard (remeber, in Imitoran, just about everyone we dont like is a COmmie Bastard) in order to keep peace and get back into the ANH::

Wait...so Bradsworth is in charge now? *shifty eyes*::quickly scraps plan to take out Commie Bastard (remeber, in Imitoran, just about everyone we dont like is a COmmie Bastard) in order to keep peace and get back into the ANH::

(('Fraid so, Imi. Too bad you didn't kill him sooner. :)))

Admiral Adam's was aboard the deck of Flagship AC USS Defiance. He was leading the entire Special Operations Fleet into Iansislian Waters. They were about an hour away from Vice Admiral Sir Kenneth Jones last known position. Adam's was a salty character who had served in both the Fultonian Civil War and against the Hodgeanian Agressors and was just six months away from retirement.
As he stood in the communications room looking over charts Captain Waters strode in and snapped a salute. Adams snapped back. "Admiral, here is the latest report from Naval HQ."
Adams read the document carefully.

To: Special Operations Fleet
From: Fultonian Naval HQ

Fultonia has established contact with two groups within Iansisle as well as thier naval forces. President Jefferson has given you full diplomatic and treaty authority Admiral Adams. However, Vice-President Bottom will be flown in should any major problems arise and you request assistance. A small contingent of Diplomats will also be sent immediately to help you in your duties. Please consider the three priorities given by President Jefferson in his speech.

1. Help the leaders of Iansisle escape prosecution and persecution
2. Establish ties with the various factions within Iansisle although temporarily only official military officials will be considered authorized government members
3. Restore order and stabilize the region

If military forces are granted permission or are otherwise needed use caution. However you do have full authorization from both Parliament and the President to use any force necessary.

End Document

Adams smiled and passed sat the document on his desk. "Captain Waters, send word to Vice Admiral Kenneth that we request permission to land a helicopter on his flagship carrying myself and a small diplomatic corp. Send word to Anora that we also request the prescence of Vice-President Bottom immediately." A short salute was sent and received as Captain waters left the room.

----------------------------------------------------------------

It was a menacing sight to some as the Special Operations Fleet made its way through the Pacific towards the Shield. The smallest of the five Fultonian Fleets but by far the most deadly. Flagship USS AC Defiance escorted by the Battleships Crystal and Dark. The Sea Sprite and Faerie Wand search and rescue vessels lagged behind being watched themselves by the four nucleur submarines searching the depths. The ships were below average but the four troop transports carrying the 1st Special Operations Division were anything but below average. 15,000 troops housed in four vessels made up of 500 Special Operations Units and 14,500 Marines. Escorted by the Frigates North Star and Milky Way this Fleet was trailed by the Destroyer Jefferson, the newest in Fultonia.

Sir Kenneth Jones wasn’t quite sure what to make of this reply.

“Hell-ee-cop-ter,” he said aloud in his private cabin, rolling the unfamiliar word about his mouth. He sat uncomfortably for a moment or two, trying to figure out just what in the green hills of the Shield a ‘helicopter’ was.

Jones didn’t realize it, of course, but he’d actually come face to face with those contraptions, while serving as first lieutenant of the pre-Stalwart battleship King James at the Battle of Salvador. A squadron of Beth Gellern helicopters, flying about on God knows what nefarious mission, had been diverted to expend their heavy anti-shipping missiles against the Iansislean flagship. After seven of the monsters finally capsized the James, Commodore Sir Thomas Gurney had slipped beneath the waves raving and firing a revolver at mysterious, hovering shapes in the darkness. Kenneth Jones spent nearly two years in a Beth Gellern ‘re-education camp’ before returning to a ticker-tape reception, a knighthood, and the command of a light cruiser.

At last, and still not quite sure what manner of beast the Fultonians intended to bring, he sent a brief note to Admiral Adams that, if he was quite sure he could dock a device on the Prince of Shadoran, he was welcome to come. Otherwise, he may have to try the broad docking deck of the light MAFD Nike and then by boat to the flagship.

((point of note -- landing an aircraft in Iansisle is referred to as ‘docking’ it, perhaps due to the long maritime tradition or perhaps due to our need to be different. ;) MAFD stands for Mobile Aero-Flyer Dock or, as it is perhaps better known in the rest of the world, an aircraft carrier. Nike is of the new Pantheon class, a 22,000 ton ship loaded with a circa 700’ flight deck length. I think she’ll be able to handle a helicopter, but Prince of Shadoran probably won’t.))

ooc: Huhn? ANH, whats going on here too?

ooc: Huhn? ANH, whats going on here too?

((This thread and 'House Laughlin' are the two parts of the Iansislean Revolution. Just posted a quick summary of what's been going on in the other one that covers events in this one too. :)

By the way, great to see you again, man! Where you been hiding yourself all summer?))

ooc: I don't know, I just haven't had the time to get on between baseball, family, friends, my girlfriend, and driver's ed.
ic:

Roberto DiPartenza sat still in the worn leather chair. The thin piece of paper slowly slipped from his hand and glided its way to the floor. Even though it was face down the red lettered words of the report could still be seen through the flattened wood pulp.

Confirmed: Grand Admiral Sir Richard Tri Dead

Although the longwinded transcript went on for several more lengthy paragraphs, Roberto found interest only within that clause.

The fact that it was so plain, so bold and so unforgiving, did not dull the pain. A lonely, aging man had lost one of his only friends, and as with the death of his wife; he was too far away to say goodbye. A single tear began to pool in his right eye, not only for the loss of this noble man, but also for the loss of all those like him that Roberto had known. All those kindred souls that had died with him in battle, all of those friends he had grown up with, only to see them snatched away from him in the forsaken jungle of West Islandia.

The tear found its way to his cheek and began to slide further down his wrinkled face. Where is my son? he asked, Atleast he will outlive me, he thought to himself. The small handgun was warm to the touch. All he would need is one bullet.
_______________________

The car raced down the Autostrada toward the suburbs of Varisca. Ignoring the speed limit completely and weaving in and out of traffic, the only sound was his barely audible breathing, as the dull hum of his Government Issue siren began to blend into the natural environ. Barely negotiating the narrow off-ramp, his car slid out onto the wet streets, hydroplaning for a distance before regaining traction. He continued his tireless path; nothing would stop him from returning home.

((Nooo! Roberto!

Sorry to hear about your busy life, man. We want you back at NS more! But, like I always say, real life must take first priority.))

Michael scrambled from his car, stumbling in the rain as he made his way along the cobblestone path that lead to his ancestral family dwelling. The door opened with great difficulty, unlocked but warped from years in the Saldenian humidity. He hobbled into the living room, his leg still recovering from a training accident less than a week ago. The minute he entered the area, lit only by the glowing hearth of the fireplace, he wished he hadn't. There was his father, gun in hand, sitting on the leather chair that his grandfather had made by hand. The hours he must have spent with that cow hide still amazed him to this day, but now those thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind. He stared into the glassy eyes of his father, and immediately he thought of the worst. He began to move closer and closer.......

Slowly taking pained steps toward the lounging body.

Shuffling in the darkness....

The centuries old wood floors creaking with each movement.

Finally he reached his father and began to search for tell-tale blood or signs of a gunshot.

Suddenly the motionless body awoke, apparently asleep. All at the same time emotions came flooding down on the young man. My father is alive. Relief, Joy...and then of course fear. How can he ask this of me?.

The words rang out like gunshots in the night, and chills crawled up and down his spine with each syllable.

"Kill Ashtonbury"

And his father extended his hand, giving the gun to his son, and then embracing him.



ooc: Okay, okay, I didn't have the nerve to do it...call me sentimental.

((The Divine Imperium is going to react violently if Iansisle keeps letting the representatives of other militaries and nations in, over the interests of the most interested and clearly the most affected party. I have two new weapons to test, Ians...and ICly, your nation is starting to look even more tempting then the Jungle natives...))

OOC: might as well jump when the jumpin is good.

IC:

"So hes gona for good?" Lutz asked, checking over the intel report. The only other nation that got as much attention as Iansisle was Adejaani, and that was for other reasons. The network of spies, taps, and informants in Iansisle was large enough so that the INSA, ICI, and IBFA could get updates near instentaniously. "We got any idea who offed him?"

"Guy by the name of Ashtonbury. Fencing death. Some dual or something, didn't really pay attention to that part. All we know is that Tri's outa it, and that left wing bastard Bradsworth is in control. The paper pushers say that we oughta wait to try and take him out now. Sure we could make it look like someone else, but its only gonna delay getting us back in. And I know that whole Chaffin situation isn't gonna help us at all. Speaking of which, the op was a succes. Got rida her, and a few bad agents as well."

Lutz, the current director of the INSA nodded, and fliped through a file folder, offering info on Bradsworth, everythign that could be gained. He thumbed through a few pages, then dropped it back on the desk. "Ya know, inciting a revolution could be considered a terrorist act. Hell, we could use it as a pin to move in troops, take out Bradsworth, put Jimmy back on top, and look like the good guys. Give us a chance to take out a few deposits from the bank, too. I want those new KMAV-0090s."

The other anylyst quickly spoke back. "Yes, we've run that through the tanks, but it doesn't come out looking good, even if teh world does believe us. After all, as much reconciliation is going on, theres no love lost over the Deazeman incident, and I doubt that James would go for it."

Lutz nodded. "Is Fortier gonna handle this one?" The aide nodded back. "Good, that means we have someone who knows what the hell is going on. What about the Fultonians?"

"Nothing major, wanted to help, but no help is needed. Or so the Ians say. I'm not buying it, noone in the Agency is. Last sat shots show them launching a bird, probably diplomatic. Lets just hope this time they dont quickdet a boat again. Fried the sensors on two of our sats, and Fortier was tempted to send them the bill."

"Ok, tell Robert to do his thing. Who do we have as specialized in the area on the naval side of the matter?"

"Wishers is in the area, couple of deserted islands not to far from the general area, we've been using them for Temperate Forest Ops training, and if need be, a forward operations center in case the shit hits the fan. 69th just passed its drop qualifications, so they're good to go if we need them. And the 457th Tactical is with Wishers in the TFO training, in case we need SEAD work. Also, usual detachment of birds from the 156th TAOU are with Wishers, so we are good to role if you wanna go."

Lutz just nodded.
____

Fortier scribbled his hardly translatable signature onto the sheet, and folded it three times. He placed a sticker of the Imitoran Seal over the fold, and slid it into an envalope. By some miracle of modern (and pre modern) technology, it reached Bradsworth very quickly. Within two days, it was sitting on his desk, waiting to be read.

PI Bradsworth,

It has come to my attention within the recent times that a revolution has swept the Shield and all its domains, and that now, a peace has been reached. I'd like to wish you the best of luck with your new position of leadership, and hope that Iansisle continues to progress and prosper. It would be a great honor of mine to be in your company at your soonest conviencence. I would like to talk about furthering relations as well as discuss a political alliance. I look forward to your response,

First Speaker Fortier

_____

On Islas Voleno, approxemately three hundred miles from the coast of Iansisle, a small team of fatigue wearing men armed with carbines hunched outside an airbase. They had been reconing the area for some time, noting attack points, landing areas, and security measures for the landing of the 69th Mobile Combat Unit. The six man team moved quietly through the temperate forest, watching for anyone to come looking for them. That was, of course, when the white flare was fired off, exploding over the base. The defenders were calling off the game.

Many of the gaurds were suprised to find how close the six man team had been able to approach. One man even found himself standing right next to a sniper wearing a ghile. The sniper nodded, and made the short trek to the command center on the base. Once inside, they were quickly breifed on the situation, and told to pack their gear.
_____


PRECERT: 99CV0I
SYSTEM: 450098
VERIFY STATUS CODE: **********
ENCRYPT LEVEL: HIGGINS

START:

ADM. ADAMS, IT HAS COME TO OUR ATTENTION THAT OPERATIONS HAVE COMMENCED IN THE NORTHERN PACIFIC THEATRE. DUE TO SHARED CONCERNS OF THE SITUATION IN IANSISLE, YOUR ASSISTANCE IN THE AREA OF INTEL WOULD BE GREATLY APPRICIATED. WE UNDERSTAND THAT YOU HAVE BEEN IN CONTACT WITH MEMBERS OF THE IANSISLE NAVAL COMMAND, AND WOULD LIKE TO ASSIST. INCOMMING UNITS OF IMITORAN FLAG WILL BE ARRIVING SOON AT YOUR AGREEMENT TO SITUATION. REQUEST RESPONSE ASAP

END

The note was also received in Lakeriverwood by the group now calling itself ‘the United Dominions for Restoration of the Empire.’


Foriegn Affairs Minister Wheatly looked over the telegram and wired the following letter to the group,


Gentlemen,
The Republic welcomes you to the negotiations and we request for you to wire us with your goals, plans, and intentions. We are currently about to begin discussions with his majesties navy over the current situation and would like to do the same with your faction. If you are interested we will escort three delegates of your organization to The Republic's Capital Anora. Respond and we will work out the details.

Thank You,
Minister Wheatly
----------------------------------------------------------------

He only hoped President Jefferson would come to his senses and allow other nations to come to thier own fortunes and fate.

"Kill Ashtonbury"

And his father extended his hand, giving the gun to his son, and then embracing him.

ooc: Okay, okay, I didn't have the nerve to do it...call me sentimental.

((*heart returns to normal beating rate* Thank goodness!

Erk! Which reminds me - I still haven't decided what happens to Ashtonbury! When we last left him, he was lying injured and alone on the floor in #4 Jameston Place. Hmm, he has to escape though - can't kill the main villan yet! *opens a new document in AppleWorks and starts typing out a few experiments* ...man, that's like ten documents I have open right now with 'works in progress'!))

My dear First Speaker,

I thank you for these words of hope and encouragement. I try not to think, however, of these events as a ‘revolution’ as such. I have much respect for the old order of Iansisle, and would hate to see them come to any physical harm. However, the time for change is upon us, and cannot be turned away.

I hope Imitora fares well right now. I have never had the pleasure of visiting your great nation, but am told that it is a unique experience.

As for any future alliance, our ears are wide open. We would be happy to host a conference here on the Shield - of course, given conditions in the capital, perhaps your fine country would be better?

Premier Interim Bradsworth
In the name of His Royal Majesty King James I
The United Kingdom of the Shield

Minister Wheatly,

The United Dominions of Gadsan, Noropia, and Troobodia for Restoration of the Empire thank you for your words. We fear, however, that His Iansislean Majesty’s Navy - for all its bravery and nobility - may be bending to those who have all but usurped our lord and protector’s throne.

We would be honored to attend a conference in your capital. Our diplomats have been singularly unsuccessful in communicating with this so-called United Kingdom of the Shield, which tolerates Godless republic to rule under its mantle of protection and over the subjects of the overthrown High King.

Each Dominion will send its top representative to Anora forthwith. [details of how they will arrive, planning such, et al]

God bless,

The First Consul of Gadsan
The First Lord of the Noble’s Conclave of Noropia
The People of Troobodia

Minister Wheatly waited expectantly for the delegation to arrive. They would land in Providence and then be flown directly to Anora for the meeting.

OOC: sorry Ian, could I get some background that my Intelligence analysts might give the President regarding the three groups I'm meeting in the capital.

((Sure, man! Before the revolution, Iansisle as a whole was known as the ‘Iansislean Commonwealth.’ This Commonwealth comprised of the Empire of the Shield and its overseas holdings, the Province of Dianatran, the Dominion of Noropia, the Dominion of Tharia, the Dominion of Gadsan, and the Dominion of Troobodia.

After the Revolution, the Empire of the Shield broke into three seperate parts - the Republic of Weshield, the United Kingdom of the Shield, and ...well, no one’s quite sure what’s going on there, but the Whatever of Wyclyfe. The United Kingdom claimed the overseas holdings and Dianatran.

However, not much attention’s been paid to the Dominions, so they decided to act of their own accord and formed this group you’re getting ready to meet. The Dominions had a history of self-government and association under the Commonwealth, so it’s a pretty easy thing to do.

Gadsan is the largest of the Dominions, with about 17,000,000 people (to roughly 48,000,000 on the Shield, for comparison’s sake). It comprises a river valley east of the Shield. They are loyal to the Shield, but not particularly loyal to the Empire. However, they generally prefer the stability of the Empire of the chaos of whatever’s going on now. Gadsan is comprised mostly of traders plying the river and its culture is heavily bourgeois.

Tharia is the second largest, with about 12,000,000 people. They, unlike the Gadsani, have always resented and sometimes hated the Shieldians. They refused to join the new association. Tharians resemble Italians more than Shieldians. Most are farmers or fishers; Tharia was one of the last primarily agricultural areas in the Commonwealth.

Noropia the the third largest with about 10,000,000 people. Noropia is north of the Shield and bitterly cold. French is the predominant language. Noropia is also vehemently pro-royalist and all in favor of the Empire. The fact that the High King’s sister is also the Duchess of Chateau might have something to do with this.

Troobodia is far and away the smallest of the Dominions with only about 450,000 citizens. It is a direct democracy where nearly every decision is submitted to public referendum. Sheep herding is the primary activity, though most people spend their time just having fun.

Noropia, Gadsan, and Troobodia will each be sending you a rep.

I’ll type out an actual IC post later.))

OOC: thanks Ian, and you can call me Drew

OOC: thanks Ian, and you can call me Drew

((Drew it is! Nice to meet you :)!))

M. le Comte d’Antangaux, unlike the Marquis de St Helena, was a singularly ugly man. Whereas he had the wavy blonde hair and piercing blue eyes typical to Noropians, he was of very short stature. Normally Noropians towered over the slight Shieldians, but Antangaux saw eye to eye with them. He was also quite overweight, though not quite obese. And there was something ..off about his face. Perhaps his nose wasn’t lined up correctly, or his eyes too close together, or his lips too thin.

Mr Jason Astor, who worked as a liaison between the Gadsani government and the United Banking Concerns and thus had a good working knowledge of both, was quite plain. From his medium brown hair and eyes to his completely average height to his slight potbelly, there was almost nothing to discern him from any other Gadsani.

Gustavus Johnson, a second cousin of the famous Quincy Johnson, was the Troobodian delegation. He was a rotund little man of about fifty who might well have been quite as ugly as Antangaux. However you’d never know it; whereas the Comte was a very severe man, Johnson always had a smile on his face, a joke on his lips, and a grandfatherly twinkle in his eyes.

Together, the unlikely trio landed Providence and was driven to Anora.

As the delegation drove into Anora they would see a dichotomy of sights. Large gleaming towers of steel and glass offset by green parks with lush trees. They would be driven past the grand Anoran harbour where they would see the Golden Eagle of the Republic standing 500 ft, high welcoming all to the Republic. Past the newly built Parliament building, and into the basement of the Ministry of foriegn Affairs.

A Shieldian would have probably looked at the harbor and said “hell. Why didn’t we just sail here?” For that was what a Shieldian thought: anywhere you couldn’t get by ship wasn’t worth going to, and going anyplace you could go by ship another way was a waste of energy and time.

But Noropians with their ice-covered ports, Gadsani with their river and mountains, and Troobodians with their general shiftless attitude didn’t think that way. They were far too absorbed in the modern sights and sounds of the Republic’s capital.

The group soon arrived at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs past the new Parliament building. They exited the car and glanced about.

(([/last post for the night] Sorry, Drew, I’m just about ready to crash. I’ll catch you tomorrow!))

OOC: Bradfield, you see my message to your forces up top.

IC:



Mr. Bradsworth,

I agree, based on what sources say, that maybe Imitora will be the proper meeting place for this get together. Your presenece will be more than welcome in my nation, and a meeting will be scheduled at your earliest convienence in Northampton. I'm looking forward to meeting you in person,

Robert Fortier
_____

Lt. Tasaki Wishers looked over the report, running a hand along the map line. The six operative unit could slip in quietly below radar, and drop in one of the forests around Jameston. They could move in durring the light chaos, and secure a lying up position in the city. From here, they could get in contact with possible Royalist groups, and find out if they needed assistance, and how. The movement would be a light one, more of a recon than an action.

Wishers, followed a trace line, and figured the best entrance in. The lieutenantbegan to write up a supply list for the op, and called up INAVSPECWAR to place a request. Further, Tasaki also made sure that LtCol. Splicker had everything he wanted, after all, a happy 156th made sure the six person unit of INAVSPECWAR's WRITE (or Wartime Recon, Interdiction, and Terrorist Elimination) Team 4 got to where they needed to be quickly and safely.

OOC: Message recieved but can not be acted upon till Admiral Adams returns to ship Imi. besides you're intel is probly ten times better, but rest assured Adams will get back to you.

IC: The three special operations squads were getting readied and equipped in the rear room of the Submarine Amanda, as it quietly and slowly traveled through the waters toward the shieldian coast.

Just a short uninformed reply.....

Tri is dead ???? Arm the nukes and prep the army...somebody is going to die.

OOC: Makes note that if I ever need to attack Fultonia, make sure high ranking officers are out of the nation, that way the military needs to wait...lol

Tri is dead ???? Arm the nukes and prep the army...somebody is going to die.

((*eep!* It wasn't me, it was... *looks around desperately* - HIM! Yeah, you in the corner with the stupid look! *crosses arms* So, what do you have to say for yourself, then? eh? eh?))

The American flag still hung over Honolulu. Indeed, rumours flying about the diplomatic circles said that Hawaii was where the government-in-exile had taken up residence.

The fools.

Citizens looked up, surprised, at a sound similar to that of a thousand bees, all buzzing as one. The more astute amongst them looked up to see a black shape cross the sky.

Then the buzzing sound cut off.

And the black shape fell.

There was a white light as the first Firebird-22 missile succeeded in its mission.

The 12 man squad launched out of the torpedoe tubes in three man fire teams cruising in thier three man submersibles. They were only the span of a 1,000 yards and creeping close to the shoreline and creeping the rest of the way in at the middle of the night would be a breeze. The mission was simple, infiltrate into the shield and find the main concentration camp. Lt. Darren had succeeded in dozens of these missions.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Minister Wheatly sent a secure message to the Imitorans after being confirmed a nuclear test had been conducted by the Roanians.

Code Alpha Helix

Imitora,
The Republic is deeply concerned about four issues in regards to the current situation.

1. The continued safety of the Iansisle Nobility
2. The restoration of the government albeit perhaps in a modified form
3. Stability within the region and alliance with Iansisle
4. The proliferation of nuclear technology.

we look forward to working with you on this urgent matter.

((Ah ha...um, no. Sorry, mate. No dice.))

The 12 man squad launched out of the torpedoe tubes in three man fire teams cruising in thier three man submersibles. They were only the span of a 1,000 yards and creeping close to the shoreline and creeping the rest of the way in at the middle of the night would be a breeze. The mission was simple, infiltrate into the shield and find the main concentration camp. Lt. Darren had succeeded in dozens of these missions.

Mansmouth and Fort Jackson, the two largest cities in Weshield, would be primary locations for such concentration camps.

But then, ‘concentration camp’ might be a little too harsh of a term. The Republic, ironically enough, had been true to its word. The fences here guarded not against inmates but against the barbarians howling at the gates.

Especially in Fort Jackson, anti-nobility sentiment had peaked following the aristocrats inactivity and unwillingness to help those caught in the burning, ruined city. Now they thirsted for blue blood and came daily to stand and scream outside the camp’s walls. Inside, the best families of Weshield crouched, watching with scarcely bemused terror at the howling mob outside.

But President Andrews had made his wishes not to descend into mob rule very clear. The camps were guarded by soldiers of the Republic, each of whom was under strict orders not to let the least harm come to their wards nor let any one of the aristocrats needs or wants go unfilled.

((Ian, in your opinion... is the United Kingdom safe enough for an Imperial Visit? I don't think we should let relations deteriorate further, and I do believe that that's the best way to solve that problem.

Unofficially, every member of the Imperial Government fully understands why you're not letting the Legions in.

Officially...))

((I think the United Kingdom is probably stable enough to do so - I mean, James is still King, so the government there has a sense of legitimacy that the RoW doesn’t. There’s still some sort of social hierarchy, so you won’t see the sort of confusion and mob rule that’s going on in Weshield right now. Of course, Weshield’s unified at the top - Andrews sees to that! - whereas the UK certainly isn’t.

This would also be a good time to stress that the UK is, ooc, temporary. I’ve been waiting MONTHS to use the term ‘Gull Flag Republic’ and I’m not going to give up on it now, damn it! :)))

((Dis-unified country...security not being taken care of...

A name occurs to me. Someone who James knows, and will be safe from any meddling attempts to use him as a hostage.

Prince Damien Alexander Black...

Oh, and Fultonia, in case you don't understand...I'm not as tolerant as Ian is of people using military tech against me that I'm not using against them. I'll tolerate it in Character RP, but unless *Ian* asks me, then I'm just going on as if we're all 1950 tech.

Which means that nuclear powers consist of Iansisle, WoS, Lark, Celeborne...oh, and moi. Who is now in the lead.))

Parking thier submersibles and swimming the rest of the way into shore the team moved slowly across the beach toawrd the small encampment of rocks. Listening to his handlers through his ear mic Lt. Darren led the team toward Ft. Jackson. This was the most dangerous part of the mission, moving from place to place inside enemy territory was far more dangerous than infiltrating any camp. So many ways to be spotted en route.

After trekking a good bit the team came close to the encampment and took up triangular positions around it. Moving in the shadows they turned on their night vision equipment and studied the situation.

I figured that might be the case Roania, I apologize if I stepped on your toe but in that case my entier navy, air force, and land forces cease to exist. Except for one unit of Mustangs that "patrol" the capital city. However, I promise to eb more mindful.

((In interacting with me alone, as per a long standing tradition of mine, any and all tech levels are accepted and welcomed.))

A few Republican solders stood guard watching the coast line around Fort Jackson, but the country was simply too large to be well patrolled with the military in its current state of infancy.

The situation at night was very different from that in the sunlight hours; night and day, one might say. The camp was asleep, there was no howling mob outside the gates, and only a few men patrolled the outskirts of the three-square mile encampment.

Lt. Darren ordered a FT (fire team) A to set up positions triangularly one man to the west, one to the NE, and one to the SE. The nine man team skirted the soldiers silently with the help of FT A. They reached teh fence and scanned for electricity, laser wires, or ground sensors. While a FT B watched for any sign of movement within the camp.

I figured that might be the case Roania, I apologize if I stepped on your toe but in that case my entier navy, air force, and land forces cease to exist. Except for one unit of Mustangs that "patrol" the capital city. However, I promise to eb more mindful.

((Be honest with yourself...if I modernised, then they aren't much use anyway. Also, me and Ian kind-of have a thing going where we don't do anything militarily except clash our sabers. An arms race, so to speak. And since Ian isn't willing to tell me to make a leap in tech...

Don't get me wrong, though. I'm perfectly okay with you in a character rp. Looks fun. :p

But also, even in modern tech, knowing I performed a nuclear test isn't that easy. And it's not my first test. My first test was a nuclear bomb dropped on some jungle villagers. Please bear in mind that I'm at war with the United States of America, too.))


To: Prime Minister Bradsworth, United Kingdom
From: Prime Minister Bencenoff, Divine Imperium
RE: Imperial Visit

We wish to reach a...shall we say, detente,
with the United Kingdom. Hostility across
the White Sea, or as you term it, the Western
Marches, serves no purpose but to frighten away
investment.

In the interests of maintaining the peace, Her
Imperial Highness has informed me that Prince
Damien has expressed an interest in paying an
Imperial Visit to the United Kingdom. Is this at
all possible?

Please respond quickly.

that was actually to confirm my suspicions about the low tech rating. get you fired up so to speak. I'll just ask next time, and you are right thier is no way I would know.... yet.

Arriving, in traditional Shieldian style, in a heavy parchment envelope sealed with wax and Bradsworth's ring:

My dear Prime Minister Bencenoff,

Such a détente, I feel, would greatly serve the interests of both our great states. With open arms we readily accept His Highness Prince Damien’s offer of a royal visit.

Please inform the RIFC of His Highness’ planned arrival, since any ship will have to be taken through the blockade and any flight will have to pass over Weshieldian aerospace.

Charles Bradsworth
Premier Interim
The United Kingdom of the Shield

“Halt! Who goes there? Identify yourself, in the name of the King!”

That was a promising challenge at least, thought Weathers as he pulled up his horse - his third mount without a break - up short of the two dismounted Hussars. They had carbines drawn and were eying him suspiciously.

“A messenger of the King,” he said in a clear voice. “Let me pass; I am on important Crown business.”

“Likely story,” snorted one. “Name?”

“Weathers, KIG.” Their eyes darted to the medal Weathers now held outstretched. “And, may I ask, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? I’m sure His Majesty would LOVE to know what delayed me.”

The intimidation didn’t have quite the effect Weathers would have hoped for. At least they lowered their carbines.

“Stoakes,” grunted one.

“Beaderson,” said the other. “Princess of Shadoran’s Own Hussars.”

“And what, pray tell, are two hussars doing out in the middle of nowhere blocking the road for those more important that them?” asked Weathers harshly.

“Begging your pardon, Weathers,” sneered Beaderson, “but our orders came straight from the King himself.”

Weathers’ heart leapt. So James had made it safely back to Dun Adien! Doubtlessly, the Larkinians had been contacted and were even now restoring order in the capital.

“Those orders?”

“To overtake this train and make sure its occupants were arrested without harm coming to them,” said Beaderson calmly. Stoakes appeared to be either a mute or exceptionally thick.

Weathers narrowed his eyes. “And these orders were carried out.”

“To the letter.”

“My orders,” said Weathers, “Direct from His Majesty, were to ensure the safety of one Anna T - no, I suppose she would be Dame Anna Tri now - and bring her back uninjured to Ianapalis.”

“’oo?” asked Stoakes stupidly.

“The First Sea Lord’s daughter, idiot,” snapped Beaderson.

“’oo?” asked Stoakes again.

“The fat one.”

“Oh, ‘er! Wait, the blonde one, er the brunette?”

After the conversation had continued on that tack for some while, Weathers decided this was getting nowhere and asked to see an officer. It took quite a bit of wrangling and several implications by both sides that His Majesty would be displeased if the other’s opinion was taken, but Weathers at last had Dame Anna released into his custody. HIs mission accomplished, he settled her on the back of his horse and started off at a slow track back towards Ianapalis.

That was a simple enough matter. As the RIFC was informed of Damien's intent, the Prince himself was trying to persuade a certain member of his staff to come with him. "Kathryn, dear..." he softly murmured, and ducked slightly when she rounded on him. "I'd miss you..."

Her eyes narrowed. "They treat women horribly!" She growled, looking at her employer/lover as if he was mad.

Damien made calming movements with his hands, closing the space between them. They both knew that if he really wanted her with him, she had no choice but to go. "I'll make sure they treat you well, Kat."

She felt his hand smooth back her hair, and sighed. "I suppose I should go...if only to give an example to the women there..."

Damien laughed, his eyes amused. "That's the Kathryn I know and tolerate..." he smiled a bit wanly. "What do you want from me?"

"...you not to kill anyone while we're there." He laughed at that, but stopped as he realised she was deadly serious. "In fact, leave your rapier in the tower."

Damien looked uncomfortable, but let her remove his scabbard from his belt. "As you wish..." he sighed. '...One day, I will... um...' he knew that the time when he could have refused her something had gone away, permanently, when he had first kissed her.

It was a most uncomfortable Damien who boarded the ship in WhitePort. He felt naked without his rapier, but knew there wasn't much he could do about it. Even worse, she had searched through his luggage. No hiding one...

The Prince’s ship was escorted through Shieldian waters and the minefields with a minimum of fuss. Damien received a nineteen gun salute from all RIN ships.

((sorry this is so crappy. So...tired...[sleep]))

In a run down apartment building in Ianapalis a man in his mid 30s, of a moderate build and standing five feet eight inches tall was hunched over a small table typing on what at first glance would appear to be a typewriter, but on closer inspection one would notice the numerical rotors and electrical relays that are never found on an ordinary typewriter. One would also notice an eight pointed silver star embossed on the side of the devices wooden casing, this man was obviously a spy and the machine an encrypting device for coding messages.

The star symbol on the device represents the Empire of Europe and Eurasia, an ironicly named nation of about 50 million people that occupies the continent of Greater Oceania, a large continent far south of Iansisle that takes up most of the space east and south of the Australian sub-continent. Europe and Eurasia is a country that usually keeps to itself but has built up an impressive military-industrial complex in its relativly short history due to the E&E peoples distrusting nature and the overall paranoia of its ruling dynasty, the Tsars of house Mabus.

But now the Empire was looking to the north with extreme worry, the developments in Iansisle have made the imperial populace anxious and their ruler, Tsar Xander II feels that the new 'United kingdom' of the Sheild was a potential threat to his own country, and reports from Xanders many intelligance operatives stationed all over the world have indicated that Roania, a country that E&E have long distrusted, has exploded their first nuclear weapons. The E&E people had always felt safe knowing that, if a war with Roania did break out, then they could use their nuclear detterant to its fullest extent, but now the situation had changed, Roania now had the capabillity to strike back and the principals of mutually assured destruction were now in effect, so the Tsar formulated a plan to topple Bradsworths government, restore the Empire of the Sheild to all its former glory (including reintergrating Weshield and Wyclyfe) and neutralising Roanias neuclear arsenal. The first step was to send additional feild agents (they had always kept some agents in every country) to Ianapalis to keep an eye on Bradsworth and to signal when the time was right to implement the next phase of the plan, and thats what this man is sending now, his secure communiqe reads:

To: Imperial Intelligance Beureu, Mabusgrad
From: Feild Operative No. 1608897, Ianapalis

Security cypher: Enigma Delta
Password: Swordfish

Send diplomatic envoy to Ianapalis at once

As the Imperial Transport pulled into Ianapolis's harbour, Damien noted the scars and bullet-holes in the buildings. This would have been a wonderful oppurtunity to practice his 'harvest' skills, but he had nothing except his own hands. And if he stained them with blood she'd know he'd breached his promise. 'What a disappointment...' he growled to himself.

Kathryn, however, was looking at the repair attempts and the marching soldiers. Mostly at the marching soldiers. "...nice. It's like they're trying to make this place look like one of our cities, but have neither the architectural skills or the..." she watched the marching soldiers again, "skill at marching in a straight line."

Damien chuckled, a bit drily. "...you mightn't be a bit biased, then?" Damien put his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. "After all...Aguans don't have the skill to march at all...and your men wear bathrobes all day, every day... and it's not like you've been having much luck on competing with the Shieldians..."

Kathryn made a face at him. "Remember your promise, Damien..." she murmured. "No matter how angry you get, or what they do, or anything... no killing them, their families, and their pets. You want to make a good impression."

((E&E: Welcome to NS and the Revolution! Feel free to to have as many field operatives as you need in Iansisle; we’ve always been rather loose about that sort of thing. In that there were no immigration laws, no customs, no counterintelligence, and until just recently, no searches of incoming cargo. :)))

Adien Bay was, as ever, packed with commercial shipping. Not as usual, however, none of those massive cargo vessels were moving everywhere. It was really quite eerie, watching the multi-thousand ton behemoths, painted in the colors of RM&M, John Company, or any of the other major corporations lying absolutely still at anchor.

The only other ship moving was an RIN destroyer, the Bulwark, as it patrolled the Bay under minimum steerage way. She gave Damien a nineteen gun salute from her heavy anti-air battery, but one could sense the Shieldian tars standing about on deck mocking the way the Imperial sailors mishandled their ship.

The transport then passed by Ian’s Isle. Dûn Ádien, the ancient seat from which House Callahan had ruled an Empire, sat perched atop the great granite block. If it was possible for a building to look sad, then Dun Adien was positively in mourning. She had seen the last of her sons on the Imperial throne, and he would never ascend it again.

But if Kathryn found fault with the soldiers marching in Ianapalis’ streets, she certainly would with the fortress that guarded an Empire. Dun Adien’s walls were paper-thin and her defenses poorly laid out; indeed, the entire poorly-sty led ‘castle’ was drenched in the comfort and decadence of court life. She was the ultimate proof of Iansisle’s long standing policy: who needs stone walls when your realm is protected wooden ones?

Several tugs were soon on hand to ease the transport into a slip near Jameston Place. The Prince was met with a full band blaring the Imperial national anthem and yet another nineteen gun salute. Which was, like all the naval salutes, a calculated insult. In most every country the world over, any sort of visiting royalty was afforded a twenty one guns. All Shieldian royalty got twenty one guns. But Damien, the Dark Prince of the Imperium only got nineteen.

While if his mother had been so insulted, it would be reason for war, Damien didn't particularly care. As he was only the second son of the Kaiserin, he was grateful for (almost) any recognition. However, his ears did *almost* bleed as he recovered from the sound of Tzchaikovsky's Coronation March being butchered by a naval band.

What amused him most was the thought that with one Firebird-22 missile, this entire city would go up in flames. With one Army Corps, this entire country. Because the Grand Empire was actually pretty vulnerable to an invasion, as most major cities were on the coast. The Divine Imperium, however, could not only defend it's borders from land and water, but also afford to lose half its ports.

One day, Damien vowed, he would have Shieldian blood on his hands...or, even better, know the taste of it.

Kathryn, however, only viewed that it was an interesting place for a court castle. The Kremlins in the Stronghold and Tarnaqin were defended by thousands of well-trained soldiers...and were in the middle of the desert, besides. Roslin's Summer Palace was set back from the city itself, on top of a defensible hill. Port Agua had its sea-walls and noble-armies. Darquis Castle, in Fort Derricks, was on top of a mountain that wouldn't look out of place in the Alps or Andes. And the People's Palace in Altaioc...was in Altara. No one wanted Altara. Who wanted windswept plains that could only be farmed with any reasonable success by the natives?

"Kathryn, quit day-dreaming..." Damien muttered to her. "They want some sort of speech."

She blinked, and blushed as her employer raised an eyebrow. "Why not...just say how glad you are to be here, and how you hope to smooth the troubled relations between our two great nations...thank them for their kindness...you know, be your usual sarcastic self."

Damien growled, but was disarmed when she squeezed his hand. "Oh, very well..." he stepped forward, and flashed his perfect teeth, smoothing back his black and white hair with dignity. "Ladies and gentlemen of the United Kingdom, I come to you today as an emmissary of my blessed mother, the Kaiserin of the Divine Imperium of Novar Ohan. It is my express hope that, working alongside your esteemed government, I can bring peace between our two feuding nations. Remember, we have more in common than there are things that seperate us!"

The English wasn't the best it could have been, but the sentiments got across.

Damien’s brief speech was met with a polite - but short - smattering of applause. Perhaps Iansisle, which had always been ruled by the pen rather than the sword, had simply been blessed with too many orators and too much rhetoric to understand brevity or follow a succinct speech.

“Well spoken, Your Highness,” said the most enthusiastic clapper, who walked brazenly up to the Dark Prince still putting his hands together. He was a typically short man of average build. His windswept gray hair was starting to show definite traces of male pattern baldness and his suit didn’t seem to fit him quite properly. “I’m Ben Rinehart, His Majesty’s Director for Foreign Relations. Please, if you’ll follow me?”

He indicated an idling Westerton limousine, clearly waiting to take the Prince to Jameston Place.

Damien nodded, and, (in Russian!) said, "Come, Kathryn...I do believe this man wishes us to enter his limousine." He started to walk to the waiting Westerton.

Kathryn smiled, and pursued. The prince opened a door and let her enter first, before sliding in after her. "...so, Mr... Reinhart, did you say?... what's on the agenda for His Highness?" She asked the DFR in almost perfect English, while Damien studiously looked in the opposite direction, feigning a lack of understanding.

“Well,” said Rinehart, refraining from addressing her specifically, as a proper title didn’t spring to mind, “We had rather planned on having His Highness meeting with Mr Bradsworth, perhaps taking a tour of Jameston Place, and attending the Grand Ball in his honor tonight.”

Kathryn, in full-swing as 'personal assistant', translated to Damien. He steadfastly kept his eyes free from any trace of comprehension, hoping to lull the DFR into a sense of false security. "Ask him about the King..." he hissed in Russian.

Kathryn nodded. "My employer," she addressed herself to Rinehart once more, "is curious as to the location and well-being of His Majesty."

“Well, Miss...” Rinehart paused, expecting Kathryn to fill in the name. Regardless of whether or not she did, he soon plunged on.

“You may tell your employer that His Majesty is currently rather worried about his older sister, who has taken ill. I don’t know if he’ll be able to pry himself away from Dun Adien. However, if your employer feels that a meeting with His Majesty is absolutely imperative, I’m sure we can set something up.”

"Finsternis," she supplied. She watched Damien give a slight shake of his head, and turned back to the DFR. "That is not, how do you say, neccessary. We will just go on with your schedule, sir. His lordship is most anxious to meet Mr. Bradsworth."

((Masquerade had hit a fairly dramatic point...want to have a cliff-hanger? As I'd like to be able to use Daniel in other rps, and with that un-finished...))

FT B waited at the infiltration point as the six man squad led by Lt. Darren made thier way into the building through the small hole in the basement.

The group slowly made thier way around the inept guards and bypassed those skillful in detection going up to the third floor of the building they secretly hid inside one of the many rooms.

It was only at the point that the small girl in the bed screamed did they know how bad they screwed up.

“Miss Finsternis,” repeated Rinehart, stumbling only briefly over the foreign pronunciation. “You may tell His Highness that Mr Bradsworth also greatly looks forward to the coming honor.”

However, the Westerton had just then pulled up in Jameston Place. The broad cul-de-sac was littered with large piles of rubble that hadn’t been cleaned up yet. Still, the five buildings seemed more or less intact. Done with stunning white marble in a Greek revival motif, Jameston Place was part of the brilliant mosaic that was Ianapalis architecture. Beautiful when taken by itself, Jameston clashed horridly with the Gothic office buildings behind it, which in turn clashed horridly with the Art Deco skyscrapers and the red brick townhouses.

A servant opened Damien’s door and waited at attention for the Dark Prince and his assistant to exit. On the other side, another valet let Rinehart out. They had parked in front of #2 Jameston, the former office of the CCP Prime Minister. Arranged all along both sides of the cobblestone walkway, a single line of soldiers done up in their best hunter green and scarlet uniforms. They saluted across their rifles as Damien exited. Granted, the modern .303” rifles looked rather off next to the Napoleonic cross-belts and stovepipe shakos - but then, that was Iansisle.

Damien was led into the main reception room, which was done over in the new Gull Flag of the United Kingdom, and met, not by a secretary, but by a medium-height man with only one hand.

Bradsworth.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing and addressing himself to Damien. “You do honor us with your presence.”

((Whatever you think best, Roania. After all, it is one of your major characters and ...well, not one of mine :)))

--------

Troops came running; it seemed as if every guard in all of Weshield had been awakened at once. It might have been nothing - these royalists still had nightmares from time to time - but there was something more conscious in this scream; it was no midnight terror.

OOC: Fult...who did you not kill that you were supposed to? DO I need to re send advisors to show you how its done again ;-)

IC:

While the darkness of night filled the air, the whuping sound of the whisper quiet rotors was dulled by the wind. The single MH-60I moved quickly over the treetops, the sound reduction system kept the sound of the engine and rotors of the chopper from breaching more than 32 decibles of ambient sound. However, this was only one toy that would assist the 6 man WRITE team in their op.

While intell had confirmed which camp the Fultonians were going after, it left another one open. This is where they moved. The MH-60I came to a hover just on the edge of a small forest that led into the city. The camp was visible in the dark night, and through the passive NVGs worn by the team, it was clear what they were up against. They were out numberd in the presence catagory, but they had the technological and training advantage.

Ropes fell from the chopper, and the six man unit descended quickly, and quietly down the ropes. The 28 foot drop was just as exilerating to the troops this time as it was their very first in ICMC basic. They hit the ground moving, quickly forming a protective circle. A heavy winch pulled the ropes up, as the helicopter slid backward, snapped around, and powered its way back towards the coast. With the team now on the ground, the stop watch held by Wishers was clicked once. Seveteen seconds had passed since the first rope was kicked out. A new team record. However, teh watch was cleard, and the Lieutenant quickly clicked a few more buttons, and the watch was set to 45:00. It started counting down, and using hand signals, the team, who had donned ghille suits and armed their specialized CAR-48 rifles began to move.

It took them 22 minutes to move through the town towards the camp. Normally, the distance they made could have been covered in less than 10, but they had to keep quiet. With plans being made to secure a new treaty and alliance with Iansisle, this was the last thing the Imitorans needed. As the group approached the camp, Wishers spook for the first time since take off.

"Verona, this is Romeo Six Six, I have eyes on Juliet."

The response came back quickly over the secure line, and Wishers heard it in his ear piece. "Romeo Six Six, this is Verona, Prince has given weapons free permision." Wishers wasn't the only one who had heard this.

Two members of the team had taken up sighting positions on a near by hill, and using a tree as cover, watched the camp. "Romeo Six Six, Mercutio Two One, have target, west side wall, one guard. Weapons free, sighted. Fire on three, two, one..." A silent 'PFFT' was the only sound that signified that a subsonic 7.62mm round had been fired, and the only sign of contact was the body slumping down against the wall, his head all but disenigrated. One of Wishers' operatives moved forward, and pulled the body away, dropping it in a back alley.

The team, using ultra high wave length beams, sighted in two more patrolling gaurds, and the dots, only visible through the passive NVG system, quickly became the only mark for the location of several bullet holes, all sized in 6.7mm subsonic, JHP. Those bodies two were removed from the scene.

The six man team quickly scalled teh camp wall, and descended just as fast. They moved along a wall, keeping in the shadows. Moving into one of the barracks, they had to be carefull. After all, six men in ghille suits, armed with silenced carbines, were not exactly the friendliest sight in the world. Wishers gently woke one man, and when the man had promised not to scream, he removed his hand from the mans mouth.

"My name is Takashi Wishers. I'm here to take you somewhere safer. Much safer, where you will be proteced at all times until the anti royal sentiment as died down, and the right people are put back in power."

Lt Darren grabbed the young girl and swung her out of bed sticking the needle into her throat. She fell asleep immediately as the squad turned off the lights in the room and carefully broke the lightbulb. They six man team scattered two hanging from the window, two hiding in the closet, one laying in the tub of the bathroom, and one clinging for life under the bed. If he survived this it would be one hell of a story to tell his kids.

Mr Lawrence Madders, Director of the Department of War, announced today that it would continue the so-called ‘Linhower Plan’ iniated by the Iansislean Admiralty during the last days of the Empire. The Republic of Weshield has agreed to help, acknowledging Shieldian sea power as a key to its continued independence. President Andrews of the Republic warned, however, that Weshield might soon found a navy of its own and that any Shieldian ships built in Mansmouth would be crewed by Weshielders.

To replace HIMS Gurney, destroyed by the Corporates off the Golden Quarry, Mr Madders has ordered a third battleship of the Indomitable class, the Sanguine to be laid down at Jorgensen and Sons’ primary Ianapalis shipyard. The never completed hulk of HIMS Diomedes, that 70,000 ton white elephant of wartime spending, was towed to Coastal Paradise to make room.

It should be easy enough to restart the Linhower Plan. Materials had all ready been gathered by the old regime at shipyards across Shadoran and Vesshampton and all plans were captured intact in the Admiralty House. Mr Edward J. Neckam, who took over as First Lord of the Admiralty following Baron Linhower’s disappearance, has voiced the opinion that the United Kingdom’s destiny, much like the Empire’s before it, lies in the open water and that Iansisle cannot afford to let other powers take the lead at sea.

Indomitable and her sisters are certainly the centerpieces of what was once the Linhower Plan. At nearly 50,000 tons, they will replace the old Behemoth class as the largest Shieldian ships ever constructed. They will also be the best protected ship of the line ever to issue from the Shield’s shipyards.

Curious, however, is the move away from reliance on Walmingtonian 15”/42 guns and back towards weapons that can be manufactured by domestic contractors, the superb but light 14”/45 of the Undauntable and the sub-par but really honkin’ big 16”/45 of the Behemoths.

Jorgensen and Sons, Shipwrights, and Wright Nautical Construction, the yards building Iansisle’s new capital ships, estimate three and a half years construction time, but regard that as the bare minimum.

“The original plan called for five years,” said a representative of Jorgensen and Son, “but the new government has impressed upon us the need for speed in these uncertain times. We are eager to get these new weapons in the hands of those so bravely defending us.”

Also for the first time, the Star-Tribune has been authorized to print the specifications of the new ships before their actual launch. Presented below:

Indomitable class Battleship:

Dimensions:
Length (overall): 792'0"
Length (waterline): 790'6"
Beam (overall): 115'6"
Beam (waterline): 115’6"
Draft (standard): 29'7"
Draft (maximum): 34'6"
Displacement (standard): 45,100 tons
Displacement (full): 49,960 tons
Crew: 2,220
Power and Performance:
Plant: 6 Westerton Mk. XIV 3-Drum
Turbines: 4 Shell J47
Shafts: 4
Horsepower: 129,000
Max Speed: 27.2 knots
Range: 9,300 nm at 14 knots ; 5,100 nm at 22 knots
Armor
Belt: 9" - 15.5” steel
Deck: 5.5" to 7" steel
Forward Bulkhead: 15.5" steel
Broadside Bulkhead: 11" steel
Aft Bulkhead: 6" steel
Turrets: 16" face ; 10" sides ; 7.5" roof
Barbettes: 16" above belt ; 6.5" below belt
Conning tower: 12" sides ; 5.5" roof
Armament
12 x 14"/45 guns (mounted in 4 turrets, with two forward and two aft)
12 x 4.9"/52 HA/LA guns (automatic loading, rad-ranger controlled; mounted in 6 turrets, four port, four starboard)
48 x 2 pounder guns (rad-ranger controlled; mounted in 6 octagonal turrets)
24 x 20mm guns (mounted along superstructure)
Rad-Rangers
Air Search: RSUC model 225
Surface Search: RSUC model 158
Main Battery Fire Control: 2 RSUC model 222FC "Blindman's Bluff II" aided by late-mark RSUC mechanical brain
Heavy Anti-Air Fire Control: 6 RSUC model 226
Light Anti-Air Fire Control: 6 RSUC model 226L

Run:
HIMS Indomitable
HIMS Resolute
HIMS Sanguine

Unequivocal class Battlecruiser

Dimensions:
Length (overall): 764'6"
Length (waterline): 760'6"
Beam (overall): 99'6"
Beam (waterline): 99’6"
Draft (standard): 24'6"
Draft (maximum): 26'9"
Displacement (standard): 36,350 tons
Displacement (full): 41,290 tons
Crew: 1,950
Power and Performance:
Plant: 6 Westerton Mk. XV 3-Drum
Turbines: 4 Shell J48
Shafts: 4
Horsepower: 142,000
Max Speed: 31.5 knots
Range: 7,300 nm at 16 knots ; 4,900 nm at 27 knots
Armor
Belt: 7.5" - 12.5” steel
Deck: 5.5" to 7" steel
Forward Bulkhead: 12.5" steel
Broadside Bulkhead: 8.5" steel
Aft Bulkhead: 5.5" steel
Turrets: 14" face ; 9" sides ; 7.5" roof
Barbettes: 14" above belt ; 4.5" below belt
Conning tower: 10" sides ; 3.5" roof
Armament
6 x 16"/45 guns (mounted in 3 turrets, with two forward and one aft)
16 x 4.9"/52 HA/LA guns (automatic loading, rad-ranger controlled; mounted in 8 turrets, four port, four starboard)
32 x 2 pounder guns (rad-ranger controlled; mounted in 8 quadruple turrets)
20 x 20mm guns (mounted along superstructure)
Rad-Rangers
Air Search: RSUC model 225
Surface Search: RSUC model 158
Main Battery Fire Control: 2 RSUC model 222FC "Blindman's Bluff II" aided by late-mark RSUC mechanical brain
Heavy Anti-Air Fire Control: 8 RSUC model 226
Light Anti-Air Fire Control: 8 RSUC model 226L


Zealous class heavy cruiser:

Dimensions:
Length (overall): 602'6"
Length (waterline): 598'0"
Beam (overall): 64'9"
Beam (waterline): 62'9"
Draft (standard): 21'9"
Draft (maximum): 24'8"
Displacement (standard): 7,550 tons
Displacement (full): 9,800 tons
Crew: 642
Power and Performance:
Plant: 4 Westerton Mk. XIV 3-Drum
Turbines: 3 Shell J47
Shafts: 3
Horsepower: 115,000
Max Speed: 32.8 knots
Range: 5,900 nm at 14 knots ; 2,650 nm at 26 knots
Armor
Belt: 2”-4.2" steel
Deck: 2.2" to 3" steel
Forward Bulkhead: 2.5" steel
Broadside Bulkhead: 2.2" steel
Aft Bulkhead: 1.0" steel
Turrets: 8" face ; 7" sides ; 2.5" roof
Barbettes: 8" above belt ; 1.5" below belt
Armament
6 x 8"/50 guns (mounted in 3 turrets, with two forward and one aft)
8 x 4.9"/52 HA/LA guns (automatic loading, rad-ranger controlled; mounted in 4 turrets, two port, two starboard)
16 x 2 pounder AA guns (rad-ranger controlled; mounted in 4 quadruple turrets)
16 x 20 mm caliber AA guns (mounted along broadsides)
6 x 21" torpedo launchers (above waterline; 3 port, 3 starboard)
Radars
Air Search: RSUC model 225
Surface Search: RSUC model 158
Fire Control: RSUC model 211FC "Blindman's Bluff"
Heavy Anti-Air Fire Control: 6 RSUC model 226
Light Anti-Air Fire Control: 6 RSUC model 226L


Europa class light cruiser:

Dimensions:
Length (overall): 606'0"
Length (waterline): 596'4"
Beam (overall): 63'10"
Beam (waterline): 61'9"
Draft (standard): 21'9"
Draft (maximum): 24'8"
Displacement (standard): 7,350 tons
Displacement (full): 9,650 tons
Crew: 650
Power and Performance:
Plant: 4 Westerton Mk. XIV 3-Drum
Turbines: 3 Shell J47
Shafts: 3
Horsepower: 115,000
Max Speed: 33.0 knots
Range: 6,000 nm at 14 knots ; 2,950 nm at 26 knots
Armor
Belt: 2.5”-5.0" steel
Deck: 2.5" to 3.5" steel
Forward Bulkhead: 3.2" steel
Broadside Bulkhead: 2.0" steel
Aft Bulkhead: 1.0" steel
Turrets: 8.5" face ; 8" sides ; 2.5" roof
Barbettes: 10" above belt ; 1.5" below belt
Armament
8 x 6"/50 guns (mounted in 4 turrets, with two forward and two aft)
4 x 4.9"/52 HA/LA guns (automatic loading, rad-ranger controlled; mounted in 4 turrets, two port, two starboard)
20 x 2 pounder AA guns (rad-ranger controlled; mounted in 5 quadruple turrets)
14 x 20 mm caliber AA guns (mounted along broadsides)
8 x 21" torpedo launchers (above waterline; 4 port, 4 starboard)
Radars
Air Search: RSUC model 225
Surface Search: RSUC model 158
Fire Control: RSUC model 211FC "Blindman's Bluff"
Heavy Anti-Air Fire Control: 6 RSUC model 226
Light Anti-Air Fire Control: 6 RSUC model 226L

((actual responses to come after work!))

sub-par but really honkin’ big 16”/45

::voice of Veronica from Willy Wonka and the Chocollate Factory, or one of my ex girl friends::Those. Those are the ones I want...

Damien bowed in return, clasping his hand over his heart. 'Yes, I do, you one-armed man with the intelligence and understanding of a stunned mullet,' he thought, while at the same time saying, in perfect English, "It is I who am honoured, Premier Bradsworth." He got a hint of satisfaction both from the unamused expression on Rinehart's face and from the disapproving one on Kathryn's. "Your... director, wasn't it, informed me that we had...an appointment?"

He gave a thin-lipped smile, gesturing to Kathryn. "Miss Finsternis, if you would kindly go and look into our rooms...?"

Kathryn glared at him, but curtsied to Bradsworth. "I am most honoured to have met your acquaintance...even if it was only for a few seconds..." she looked at Damien even more disapprovingly but turned to go through the door.

“The right people?” asked the man lying down in a whisper. “The sort who go traipsing about waylaying others in their sleep? I’d almost prefer this damned Republic!”

The noble classes of Iansisle had never quite mastered the covert aspects of life. Naval battles were fought between two opponents who had formed up in line, and none of that lurking about beneath the surface. Intelligence was gathered through brave over flights, not sneaking about in foreign territory. Not that they didn’t understand such tactics and how to counter them; they just drew a very solid line between ‘us’ and ‘the less honorable savage peoples of the world,’ like Jerry and the Yanks.

They also didn’t quite appreciate the need for haste, being a people of words and not action. The man made no sign that he was anything but indignant at having his sleep disturbed.

------

“Hell - light’s broken!” exclaimed the first man into the room, flipping the switch a few times. “Here, Franks, hand me that torch.”

The electric light swept over the apparently abandoned room.

“Who was supposed to be in here?”

“Daughter of the Earl of Dunerbridge. He up and cut out for Mansford during the bombardment; we found her at the family townhouse being cared for by the servants brave enough to stay.”

“Damn aristo,” muttered another man. “She’s not in here.”

“Probably playing hide and seek,” grumbled yet another. “These brats, they don’t know when to play and when not to. All right, sweetie, we see you - come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Check the closet, Franks,” said the first voice again.

----

A valet appeared to lead Kathryn to their spacious apartment in #5 Jameston Place.

“I hate to think of it as an appointment, Your Highness,” said Bradsworth, carefully guiding the Prince into a nearby office. Unlike Madders’ office, Bradsworth’s was exquisitely decorated. The masters of the Shield hung on his wall, a large mahogany desk graced the floor, and a large Gull Flag hung behind Bradsworth’s seat.

The Premier indicated that Damien should take a seat before sitting himself - a gross breach of protocol in the presence of royalty, perhaps, but Bradsworth had spent his life fighting for equality of the classes and wasn’t about to defer to any blue blood, domestic of foreign.

“Well, Your Highness,” he said after a brief pause. “I trust your journey from the Imperium wasn’t overly arduous?”

"Not more than usual..." Damien replied, giving the new flag a fairly contemptous glance. "I must admit that so far things are going rather better than I had expected... no angry mobs, wishing to cut off my head and so on." The prince gave Bradsworth a little-half bow, both mocking and congratulating. "You are to be commended...anyone who could make the conservative forces back in the Divine Imperium recognise his revolution as legitimate must be either incredibly lucky or a genius." He looked the Premier over appraisingly. "I could only wish that in the Imperium I could find men of your calibre..."

Damien knew that if he had a Bradsworth on the NSIWP command board, his own revolution would have been completed years ago...

Bradsworth chose to take Damien’s cryptic comments as a compliment and smiled. “My thanks, Your Highness. However, I did have much help along the way; this revolution, as you style it, was not of my own making.”

He folded his arms across his chest, tucking the handless stub of his left arm behind his right.

“I’ve always said, Your Highness, that the best way to effect a Revolution is not to have one at all. Look at, for instance, the Republic of Weshield: there was not a single drop of blood, royal or common, shed in the entire ordeal, and I dare say they are now a more liberal state than us. Can I offer you some tea, Highness?”

The last question, rather out of place, took place immediately after Bradsworth started pouring a cup for Damien.

Two silent shots rang out in the dark hitting the first man in the throat and the second man in the head. Lt. Darren grabbed the man with the wounded neck and put him inside the closet. A corporal under the bed stuffed the other guard inside a trunk in the corner, he had to bend the body in some very strange positions. The team reassembled and Lt. Darren called in air support, within minutes five low level black helicopters arrived hovering over the courtyard of the complex as 60 Fultonian Special Forces Operatives flew down the ropes being dropped from the ships. THey moved out in circular patterns creating darkness and killing guards. They quickly and methodically began herding the nobles onto the ships once it was safe enough for a landing. They had 15 minutes tops to get everyone loaded and flown back to ship. They were already behind schedule 2 minutes.

2 DAYS AFTER MESSAGE WAS RECEIVED

The morning air was cold and crisp at the Imperial naval yards in Carpathia harbor near the Imperial capital of Mabusgrad where dockworkers, sailors and Officers were preparing for the departure of the HIMSS (His Imperial Majesties Sea Ship) Decimus, a 2,000 tonne surface cruiser that is to take the Imperial Diplomatic Corps most skilled diplomat to Ianapalis to negociate with premier Bradsworth over the new 'United Kingdom' of the Sheilds official attitude toward their far southern neighbor, these negociations, however, are actually a ruse to throw Bradsworth offguard making the Empires true actions easier.

A rather large crowd was gathering at the dock, for it was rare to see a conventional naval surface vessel ever since the great naval overhaul that happened ten years ago had replaced most of them with submarines and Aeronefs, these were literally fliying ships that were made possible through the use of a special type of quartz crystal that contains cesium, it can only be found on Greater Oceania and is the Empires main source of electricity. These same crystals enabled the Imperial armed forces to build the most powerful nuclear bombs ever built, such bombs are contained in the nosecones of the ballistic missiles on board the Submarine Battleship (an IE&EN classification for a small SSBN) HIMUS Tsarina Christine, named after the Tsars wife and one of the most successful submarines in the navy. The Christine is docked on the opposite side of the harbor and is also waiting to depart, but its destination and mission are far different from that of the Decimus.

Standing on the Decimus' dock is an elderly yet well preserved man wearing the uniform of an Imperial Grand Admiral, for he is the Commandant of the Antarctic fleet, but it is merely one ofhis many jobs including First Senator and Second Consul of the Imperial Concillium, he is also the Empires wealthiest industrialist and the most skilled negociator His Majest commands, his name is Grand Duke Alexei Rubius. Standing over six feet tall with a muscular build and sporting a fullmane of jet black hair despite his age, he is very physicly intimidating, but his mind is his gratest weapon, he is able to exploit the deepest weakness a person might have to come out on top in any negociation, such practices have led many to beleive that the Duke is a telepath, and they are probably correct although there is no proof of that so far.

"Well, I mast place my head into the lions mouth once more" sighed Alexei, at 52 years old he is looking forward to his retirement from diplomatic duty, "Don't worry Alexei" came another man standing next to the Duke, "This ship, while old, has been upgraded so it has all the latest defence weaponry the Empire has developed" the man next to Alexei is slightly shorter than the Duke but more muscular than him, and appears to be 15 years old but mistaking him for a juvenile would be careless because the metallic silver colour of his eyes identify him as the one and only Tsar Xander II of the house of Mabus, his youthful appearance crated by a herb which works wonders on the ageing process, although he is still no older than 30. "This nission seems to be an awful waste of time" the unusually dejected Duke remarked to his leader "it may seem that way now, but once my plan has come to fruition you will see how important it really is, now chin up, you cant negociate with Bradsworth feeling misrable, have yourself a good rest on the way over there and try to cheer up" the Tsar said with a smirk "Yes, sire" was all Alexei said, the two then exchanged a handshake and Alexei boarded the ship, which being all ready to go swiftly hauled anchor and sailed away toward Iansisle.

On board the Decimus about two hours later the ships radioman dictated a message from Duke Alexei and promptly sent it to Ianapalis
it reads:

To: interim Premier Bradsworth, United Kingdom of the Sheild
From: Grand Duke Alexei Rubius, Empire of Europe and Eurasia

Sir,
I am sending this message to inform you that a diplomatic delegation from the Empire of Europe and Euraisia in the far south Pacific is currently on its way to Ianapalis to discuss with you relations between our two nations, the delegation is headed by myself and you can expect our arrival one days hence.

Alas for the would-be Fultonian rescuers, there were three guards in the room - the first voice, Franks, and ‘yet another’ man. As the bodies crumpled in front of him, the third man let out a high pitched yelp and drew his sidearm. Running away, always a favorite tactic of ground forces under the Empire, never even occured to him as he squeezed the heavy Camstol Guns semi-auto’s trigger three times, sending .45” rounds ripping into the bed linens. Behind the bed, the drugged girl could be heard to sigh deeply as a bullet tore into her chest and punctured a lung.

Night screams the guards could almost ignore - gunfire, they could not. The compound was bathed with light as giant floodlights ignited. Guards could be seen running to posts all around the building, blocking every exit.

((sorry; ordinarily I wouldn’t be this picky, but I don’t like people declaring my casualties. :P And yes, there were at least three guards in the room.))

Lt. Darren lay bleeding as several of his men laid down suppressing fire. "this is Specs Op team one, requesting full air support following plan Alpha." As teh blood flowed down his chest he gave up the ghost. The two men climbed the window and began firing thier silenced MP5's across the room. This was the most botched mission in Fultonian history, well, if you didn't count the numerous other botched missions.

OOC: hopefully that's better. :( sorry old chap. that was a bit over the line

Submarines! The very word still causes a scandal on the Shield, as proper ladies faint and even the most refined King’s officer use the lower deck’s vernacular. The entirety of His Majesty’s Navy regards them as sneaky, deceitful, and utterly unsporting. Of course, the Europe and Eurasia must all ready know that, if they were sending a surface ship.

The Grand Duke’s words were received on the Shield and caused something of a stir; the Empire, nor that United Kingdom which succeeded it, had never taken much notice of that far southern empire until just this moment. Still, Bradsworth could hardly refuse a good-faith expedition, even if they had given such short notice and so arrogantly expected to be received. However, the Decimus would be stopped at those narrow Straits which guard the interior of Troobodia Bay and Ianapalis by Vice Admiral Jones’ ships of the line and ordered to heave to and prepare for inspection. The Admiral there informed them that no men-of-war from any nation were being allowed past the Straits, but he had a courier boat that he could lend the E&E delegation.

OOC: hopefully that's better. :( sorry old chap. that was a bit over the line

((Don't worry, Drew. It's a rookie mistake; everyone makes / made them. The key is that you learn from making one. I'm not one of those sorts who would make you throw out a post or belittle you for it.))

The third guard, whom the gods had fated to be either very brave or very stupid, lay dead on the floor even before the floodlights burst into existence.

Outside, the men running about - soldiers mixed with frantically panicked noblemen - had no idea what ‘Air Support Plan Alpha’ was or that it had been called in, but their creator had the feeling they wouldn’t like it.

Five very large helicopters with silence suppressing widdles came flying into the night sky raining missiles upon the flood lights as the gunners of the ships scoped out the soldiers with thier night vision goggles and began clipping them off one by one with thier mounted M16's. THe pilots also dropped yellow flares and called in air support from the squad of 12 f-16's circling the fleet. When the ground was deemed secure, 60 Special Operations Soldiers would propell down the ropes and begin securing the site in circular swaths.

At this exact moment the six men who were waiting outside the compound fired four mortar rounds inside the main complex but aimed away from anything of real significance. Meant to scare more than harm.

Wishers, with an agrivated look, replaced his hand over the man's mouth, and with a swift motion, removed an 8inch long knife, black with a galvinzed steel edge, and placed it against the man's throat. While the Ians rarely scared easily, and could argue their way out of anything, Wishers prefered the threat of a really really really sharp knife.

"Listen, you piss me off, and by tommorow, you'll be lucky if one gaurd is alive to hold back the masses that want you dead. The royalists have been lucky so far that the Republic leadership is willing to let you live, but you think it will last? All it takes is for Bradsworth to get upset once, and your gone. Think about it, all those little bastards that have been under your thumb, that you've been, well, for lack of a better term in charge of, all of them, armed and in here, looking for revenge. You wanna be here when that day comes?"

Wishers looked back at the door, where his five other men had secured the door way, and were watching the large courtyard.

OCC: If its not too late or innapropriate, I'd like to continue with my sub that I sent to Iansisle. Just to clarify, this is me using 1955 tech too.

IC:

The whiskey-class submarine LRRNS Goose Bay surfaces several hundred yards outside a remote fishing village. The inhabitants of the village are probably startled to see a large black conning tower appear offshore, flying a flag which, among other things, features a red hammer and sickle. A man dressed in the uniform of an LRRN Sub-Lieutenant climbs down the small ladder from the conning tower down to the body of the submarine, followed by several enlisted men, who carry a small inflatable raft.

The enlisted men produce a bicycle pump and begin to inflate the raft, as the submarine's captain anxiously watches the sky.

Anyone watching the proceedings would probably enjoy the sight of the Sub-Lieutenant slipping off the deck and into the water, and the enlisted men breaking out in raucous laughter. The S-Lt. pulls himself back aboard, and gives the enlisteds a scowl.

Several minutes later, the submarine submerges and the S-Lt. is left to row his small dingy ashore. Dressed in his wet uniform, he is eager to redress into a clean one on shore.

Making for the harbor, he ties up and calmly climbs up onto one of the piers. He begins to walk towards town, past the confused fishermen and their catch.

The delegation walked through the Ministry of Foriegn Affairs as thier tour guide spoke briefly of the history of Fultonia although the guide spoke at length on the subject of Fultonia's Independance. The Group was escorted into a large room where coffee, tea, and Fultonian Lemonade awaited.

As soon as the delegation had seated, Foreign Minister Wheatly sat oppisite on the grand oak table. "Would you like some scrumptous food and wine after your journey?"

Himself taking a glass of lemonade and sipping it slightly.

OOC: wouldn't want you to think I was leaving these fine folks out to dry

"All stop!" the Captain of the Decimus shouted to his first officer who in turn relayed the order to the Engine room, the ships mighty turbines gradualy ground to a halt and dropped anchor as the Sheildian man-of-war that had given the heave to signal pulled up along side them.

Grand Duke Alexei was on the bridge when the ship had first come into view and the Sheidian Vice Admirals message was received, he then sent back a message saying that he will comply with their conditions and take the courier boat the rest of the way to Ianapalis as long as they are allowed to be accompanied by several of the Tsars Imperial Guards who had come with them at the Tsars behest for protection.

On the deck of the Decimus the ships officers and crew were lined up and standing at attention to bid the delegation farewell, a walkway had been put between both ships as the Duke and the rest of the delegation boarded the Sheildian vessel, there they were greeted by a similarly impressive collection of officers and crewmen, once on the ship they were approached by a man of clearly high rank, Alexei extended his hand in greeting and said "Thank you for receiving us on such short notice, I am Grand Duke Alexei Rubius of the Empire of Europe and Eurasia"

The nobleman’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he was dealing with some sort of delusional loony. Surely this man knew that an upset Charles Bradsworth, who was Premier Interim of the United Kingdom of the Shield, could do little to affect the people in the independent Republic of Weshield?

Whatever the situation, he couldn’t answer properly with a hand against his mouth and a knife at his neck.

------

The residents of a Tharian fishing village supervised the launching of the raft from a variety of small craft and the long, wooden pier. They joined in laughing at the Sub-lieutenant’s misfortune. The submarine would be hard-pressed to find a fishing village just about anywhere outside of Tharia without first running into the might of the Royal Iansislean Navy.

This little town was just on the other side of the arm from Thesia, the capital and largest city in the new Empire of Tharia and Sentry Island. True, the Archduchy of Sentry Island, which was really neither Tharian nor Shieldian, was under the administration of the United Kingdom and not the Empire, but such details were quite minor in the eyes of the self-styled Emperor Pietro I.

------

HIMS Audacious, a heavy cruiser of the Duke of Dorchet class and sister ship to the Mainwaring, dwarfed the smaller Decimus with her 10,100 long ton bulk. Eight eight inch guns, aimed by the latest in Iansislean radio-rangefinder technology, stood solemnly at fore-and-aft. She had given Decimus a twenty-one gun salute upon recognizing the E&E banner flying from her, as had been her orders from Ianapalis.

As the Duke walked aboard Audacious, the small band that had been piping out the bombastic notes of ‘Smoke of Unsterbank,’ the old National Hymn of the Empire, fell silent for the boatswain’s call. The side party stood stiffly at attention as the Duke passed them by and headed for the captain.

Captain the Honorable Walter S. Marshson, looking resplendent under the bicorn (complete with white cockade), deep blue tailcoat, elaborate cravat, and white stockings of full dress, had been just starting an elaborate naval salute when the Duke stuck out a hand for the shaking. In one smooth motion, the captain managed to hide his surprise and turn his salute into a handshake.

“Welcome aboard His Iansislean Majesty’s Heavy Cruiser Audacious, Your Grace,” he said in a typically clipped Shadoranite accent. “Their Lordships have informed me that a bodyguard will be perfectly acceptable, providing that it be reasonable in size. Audacious is under orders to ferry you to Fort Jackson, where the Republic will provide you with a cutter to take you to Ianapalis.”

He motioned for the Duke to walk with him. “While you’re staying with us, Your Grace, I have had my personal quarters made available for you.” They ducked under a low hatch. “They’re not the most comfortable in the Navy, but the best we can come up with in a mere heavy cruiser.” Marshson stopped by a hatch. Inside was a comfortable, if small, cabin which was clearly the captain’s. “I trust this will be tolerable, Your Grace?”

-------

The Comte scorned the food with a slight sneer on his meaty features, but Johnson tucked in at once. Astor also helped himself to a glass of lemonade, but retained a businesslike composure neither of the others could.

“I trust, Minister Wheatley, that you do not wish to dance around the subject for another half hour? I find that such a loathsome Shieldian tradition; better to let what needs to be said, be said,” commented Astor in his Gadsani accent, sipping at the drink after speaking.

Writes the Star-Tribune:

The United Kingdom Issues Ultimatum to Thortraia!

IANAPALIS, Iansisle -- In a surprise declaration, Minister of Foreign Relations Rinehart demanded that UK citizens being held against their will in Thortraia be returned to their homes at once. The Thortraia Group includes several notable members of the former government, from Edward Tarriff and the Earl of Dirwisham to Alfredo de Carlonia and Baron Linhower.

Thortraia, now a despotic monarchy, is the home of what remains of the Royal Mining and Manufacturing loyalist forces. The captives were held hostage in Ianapalis and forced to implement corporatist laws during the dying days of the Empire before being moved north.

“The return of these hostages,” said Premier Interim Charles Bradsworth, “is absolutely imperative to the continuation of friendly relations between the Gull Flag and the Kingdom of Thortraia. They must be returned to their families.

Rinehart also had a list of RM&M instigators and collaborators, starting with Sir Penton Dubois, who must be returned to the United Kingdom to stand trial for their crimes.

“All will receive a fair trial and just sentencing,” said Rinehart, “but these men must face justice for those unspeakable crimes they’re accused of doing.”

Meanwhile, the United Kingdom has mobilized a new force, formed primarily from new recruits after the Gull Flag Revolution, of more than 45,000 men-at-arms along the Thortraian border.

“We don’t want war,” said Rinehart, “but those hostages must be returned and those criminals must be extradited. There simply is no other way.”

S.-Lt. Gregor Lennon finds somewhere to change into his dry uniform, and begins his walk towards Ianapolis, dressed in full LRRN uniform.

But it is painfully slow. A lorry passes, and Lennon signals it by waving his peaked cap.

OOC: Wait a tic...so the camps are in Weshield? Damnit...ya know, Im gonna stop pretending like I even know where the hell I am. Please, ignore teh bradsworth comment, and replace it with the proper name...

S.-Lt. Gregor Lennon finds somewhere to change into his dry uniform, and begins his walk towards Ianapolis, dressed in full LRRN uniform.

But it is painfully slow. A lorry passes, and Lennon signals it by waving his peaked cap.

It's a good thing Lennon flagged down the motor; he'd have a long, wet walk of it from the Tharian arm to Ianapalis on the eastern Shield. But the submarine had to come in on the lightly watched, virtually undefended western coast of Tharia; any farther north and she'd have waltzed right into the biggest assemblage of naval power the Western Marches had ever seen - and chances were good that the RIN would shoot first and ask questions later when it came to a submarine of any sort.

The motor lorry was quite dinged up; one could hardly even make out the words 'Westerton Muledeer' which used to be inscribed on the grill. The driver, a grouchy-looking Tharian of perhaps forty or fifty years, glared out the grimy windshield at Lennon before sticking his head out the passanger side window and grunting "Yeah?"

----

((Imi: Heh, just remember Bradsworth = the United Kingdom, Weshield = the Republic ;)

Oh, and that guy still wouldn't be able to react very much with a hand over his mouth. Maybe he could try hand signals or nodding his head, but that's not NEARLY verbose enough for an Iansislean!))

"I need a ride to Ianapolis. You going that way?"

The driver blinked once or twice at Lennon before swinging the door open.

“Don’t expect to drive to Ianapalis, do you?” he asked, almost conversationally. “Be mighty wet, if you catch my meaning.”

The motor bumped and jolted down the uneven dirt road. Outside, the rocky hills of Tharia rolled past under the warm sun.

“I’m heading to Thesia, myself,” continued the driver, indicating the back of the lorry, which was heaped with vegetables. “Have to sell my wares, you know. But from Thesia, you can catch transportation to just about anywhere you’d like, including Ianapalis. Watch out, though - I’ve heard there’s right trouble on the Shield.”

"Thanks for the lift, I greatly appreciate it."

Lennon climbs into the cab of the lorry, taking off his peaked officer's cap in the process, out of habit. It is probably not too different from an Iansisle officer's cap, having been based on the Royal Navy uniform, but with sharp eyes one can pick out the hammer and sickle above the crossed tridents of the submarine force. He is not very tall, but thin due to the tight rationing aboard submarine. He is in his late 20's, but might seem to be nearly 40.

"Trouble in the shield, you say? Well, that's what I've been sent to find out about."

He sticks his hand in his right uniform waist pocket, checking that his Nagant 1895 revolver is still there. Having been soaked in the sea, he doubts that it will be of much use.

The driver had at first spotted Lennon as a Shieldian naval officer, but the attitude and knowledge of local affairs was far too different. He drove half a mile without saying anything in response to Lennon’s question.

“So, you’ve been sent to find out about the troubles, have you?” he asked rather suddenly. “My grandson, he likes to watch the ships as they pass by. Who’re you with?”

Wishers, confident the man would not scream or shout again, slowly removed his hand from the mans mouth. However, even though he pulled the knife back slightly, he kept it ready to strike.

“I have no intention of running away,” said the man lying in bed in the same quiet whisper he had first used. “My home is here, in Weshield. My family is here, in Weshield. I will not turn tail and run away from everything I and my ancestors have worked to build.”

The driver had at first spotted Lennon as a Shieldian naval officer, but the attitude and knowledge of local affairs was far too different. He drove half a mile without saying anything in response to Lennon’s question.

“So, you’ve been sent to find out about the troubles, have you?” he asked rather suddenly. “My grandson, he likes to watch the ships as they pass by. Who’re you with?”

"The LRRN. On the other side of the pacific. Ever heard of the Whiskey class attack sub?"

Minister Wheatly frowned, "Well sirs, my government would like to know three things. What is your position on the nobility? How do you propose to settle the current situation? Finally what assistance would you like to recieve from the Republic?"

He sipped the nice refreshing lemonade.

The old man looked suspiciously at Lennon. The Shield was not the only place where they mistrusted sneaks like submariners.

"No. Haven't heard of - wassit? - 'LRRN' either." That was not surprising, given the almost complete cultural and geographical ignorance of all save the educated elite.

"Listen," Wishers started, "everything you worked for is gonna be gone. All of it. Andrews (or whoever is in charge ATM) isn't gonna let these little camps go on to long. And your not running, your putting yourself in a better position. I know you and your friends dont get this, but warfare isnt all ships lining up to shoot at each other, or troops engaging on an open field of battle, or daring pilots shooting at each other high up. Right now, the best way to get you back into power is to get you out of here right now. And were not leaving anyone behind, we have enoug to evacuate this entire camp, and then some."

Antangaux smiled thinly at Wheatly’s question. “Minister,” he said in a quiet voice and slight accent, “the great families of Noropia and the Shield ‘ave been intermarrying for generations. Elizabeth, la Duchesse de Chateau, is the sister of ‘Is Majesty the 'Igh King. My own cousin is married to the Earl of Dalenford, from whom I ‘ave not ‘eard in more than two weeks. Saving the best sons of Iansisle must be top of our priorities.”

Astor and Johnson weren’t quite so enthusiastic, but neither disagreed with nor contradicted the Comte.

“As for proposed settlements,” said Astor in his quiet, nondescript voice, “we have few ideas and even fewer practical ones.”

“We’re up a creek without a paddle,” added Johnson unhelpfully. Both Astor and Antangaux looked at him disdainfully.

“Any help the Republic might be able to give in helping to restore the proper people to power on the Shield,” continued Astor, “would be most appreciated.”

The old man looked suspiciously at Lennon. The Shield was not the only place where they mistrusted sneaks like submariners.

"No. Haven't heard of - wassit? - 'LRRN' either." That was not surprising, given the almost complete cultural and geographical ignorance of all save the educated elite.

"The Lunatic Retard Robots Navy. That's who I work for, actually. Lunatic Retard Robots is my country. Funny name, I'll admit. Across the pacific. The Whiskey class, well, thats what its western name is, its the sub that I came from. I was sent by my government to appraise the trouble in the Shield and contact your government. I'm not a spy, if that's what you're thinking. If I was a spy I wouldn't have come ashore in full uniform, that's for sure. We've never been good at spying, my country, so the higher-ups picked me, of all people, to just walk in and ask questions."

OCC: You would probably have got reports of a submariner coming ashore by now, I mean if you want to RP you finding about it that's fine, since I didn't make much of an attempt to cover it up and Lennon's rubber dinghy is still tied up at the fishing pier.

“You may be mistaken about that,” replied the man in a fierce whisper. “You may take the women and children - innocents have no place in times like these - and the more cowardly among the men, but I am not leaving the land of my ancestors. You have my word of honor that I will not alert the guards to your operation.”

He glared up at Wishers. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to sleep."

“The Shield’s a tricky place to be asking questions right now, especially in Ianapalis.”

He chuckled. “And be careful round here parts about saying things like ‘your government.’ Nationalism might not be pretty, but it’s hit Tharia like an epidemic.”

The turned a corner and drove under the walls of Thesia into the city. Thesia, unlike the great industrial centers of the Shield, resembled nothing so much as a scaled up fishing village. A single great cathedral stood opposite the only building which could be the secular center, a great palace draped in the red and blue of the Empire and guarded by tough looking Tharians. The old man drove Lennon there and dropped him off.

“If you want to ask about ‘our government,’” he said, “that’d be the place. If you need to get to the Shield, I’d recommend the harbor or the aero-flyer dock north of town. Well, good luck.” And he drove off with a backfire and a cloud of smoke.

OCC: You would probably have got reports of a submariner coming ashore by now, I mean if you want to RP you finding about it that's fine, since I didn't make much of an attempt to cover it up and Lennon's rubber dinghy is still tied up at the fishing pier.

((Don't worry about it; I assumed you picked a pretty isolated place, and Tharia's not in a hurry to tell anyone on the Shield anything, so..yeah. I'll just be ignorant, as usual. :)))

“The Shield’s a tricky place to be asking questions right now, especially in Ianapalis.”

He chuckled. “And be careful round here parts about saying things like ‘your government.’ Nationalism might not be pretty, but it’s hit Tharia like an epidemic.”

The turned a corner and drove under the walls of Thesia into the city. Thesia, unlike the great industrial centers of the Shield, resembled nothing so much as a scaled up fishing village. A single great cathedral stood opposite the only building which could be the secular center, a great palace draped in the red and blue of the Empire and guarded by tough looking Tharians. The old man drove Lennon there and dropped him off.

“If you want to ask about ‘our government,’” he said, “that’d be the place. If you need to get to the Shield, I’d recommend the harbor or the aero-flyer dock north of town. Well, good luck.” And he drove off with a backfire and a cloud of smoke.

"Thanks for the ride!" Shouts Lennon at the departing lorry.

Well then, he thinks, here I am. I guess the only place to go is in there.

He walks up to the palace, still wearing full LRRN uniform. However, he realizes that they might not appreciate the Nagant revolver, so he takes it out of his pocket, holding it by the barrel.

He approaches one of the Tharian gaurds, and offers him the revolver.

Wishers just nodded, and as the man rolled back over, he removed the pistol, a .45 semiauto handgun, and placed it by his bed. He then stood, and walked over to the other five men, and spoke with them breifly. After wards, he stepped outside, and slowly moved over to a bush, and ducked into it, blending perfectly.

"Verona, this is Romeo Six Six, this is gonna be harder than we though. Request evac mass, take out the ones who wanna go, leave the ones who wanna stay. What is ERA on Snow Owl?" He watched through his NVGs the movement of the gaurds.

"Romeo Six Six, this is Prince, launching the horsemen now, reunite in ten. ERA on Snow Owl is Five hours, planned landing daylight. Five on way, luck."

"Gratzi." Wishers stood, and held is silenced carbine by his side, then ducked in. "So how you wanna do this?" he said, looking at his men.

"Noisy," one siad. With no disagreements, it was settled. In five minutes, just like at the Fultonian assault, the sceene would become very bright, very loud, and very fun.

One who even remotely looked like a Shieldian naval officer was quite unwelcome in the Tharian Capitol, as Lennon quickly found out. His pistol was confiscated immediately and the half man, half ape who took it quickly had his own sidearm drawn and pointed at Lennon. The ape-man shouted something in Italian while half a dozen equally burly guards ran over, then gestured for Lennon to lie down on the ground.

Lennon complies, knowing that his best bet lies in taking what comes.

Over the Weshieldian coast, five dark figure pushed through the night, the large rotors noisly 'whuping' as they parted air, pulling them forward. The forest green painted MV-22I Ospreys, although equiped with the sound deadening engines and buffers, were comming in loud.

They moved fast, and withing minutes were over the camp, and nose mounted spot lights (rigged to nose mounted tri barreld 30mm cannons) quickly bathed the camp in light. As the rotors rotated up, the aircraft descended to a meer 40 feet, and came to a hover with their gear down, and rear doors open. The spot light focused on the guard towers. Marines dressed in standard light combat gear, but wearing helicopter pilot style helmets disembarked from the aircraft, securing a circle underneath one of the Ospreys, and allowed the barrels of their weapons to search the outer compound.

In the main barracks, Wishers and his men wathced the display, then turned to the people starting to awake to the noise and lights. The men split up into groups, moving from barrack to barrack, delivering the same message. Wishers had made the men memorize it before launch, and he recited it in a tone that didn't quite demand, but requested respect, and remained generaly calm. "Ladies and Gentlemen. A false government has siezed control of Weshield, and despite promises of safty, offers nothing but destruction of you and your families. My government (a point was made to never say Imitora) is offering those who wish a safe removal from this camp until the proper persons are restored to power. Those who wish to stay and fight against a corupt and illegal government, please note that in less than five hours, forces will be here to offer assistance."

He then stepped aside, and allowed any one who wanted to leave to exit the barracks to one of the five large Ospreys. This is the point where he hoped that the guards were to busy being scared to open fire. Of course, there was a better chance of hell freezing over, but he would deal with that when it came time.

((I’m taking it that Lennon wouldn’t struggle, LRR. If you think he would at any point, just shove it into my narrative at the proper point and we’ll go from there.))

Lennon was handcuffed and hustled into the palace. Not, one might note, the visitor’s entry, but rather an ominous looking passage leading down into the catacombs below. At last, Lennon was dumped, rather unceremoniously, into a dank cell with no window to the outside.

The seven guards chatted among themselves in Italian for a few minutes. At last, one departed and walked up the stairs. The others settled down into seats outside the cell, and one of them slammed the door. Lennon was left in perfect darkness.

--------

Farther north and inland, alarm bells rang at the complex which had once been RIFC St Columba. They pilots who ran from their bunkers didn’t know just what was going on, but they knew enough. Rad-ranger listening stations along the shoreline had picked up five foreign aeroflyers moving towards a resettlement camp with alarming speed. Just where they had launched from was anyone’s guess, but the pilots of the new Weshieldian Aeroforce had one duty: protect their homeland.

One by one, the hefty Norikers the WA had confiscated from the RIFC, with the Bloody Lyre painted on over St Patrick’s Cross, warmed up and hurled itself down the runway. They formed up behind the squadron leader and hurled at six hundred miles per hour towards the bogies.

At the camp, no one really listened to Wishers. There was a lot of screaming and very little organized behavior. Those guards still alive tried to resist and fired randomly into the compound, killing and wounding mostly innocent women and children.

And at just that moment, the Norikers appeared. They had been fitted out with fourteen 3” air-to-air rockets a piece. They released these, marking the first appearance of rocketry in Iansislean warfare in history, at the hovering shapes of the Ospreys, and then opened up with their nose-mounted 20mm cannons.

((I’m taking it that Lennon wouldn’t struggle, LRR. If you think he would at any point, just shove it into my narrative at the proper point and we’ll go from there.))

Lennon was handcuffed and hustled into the palace. Not, one might note, the visitor’s entry, but rather an ominous looking passage leading down into the catacombs below. At last, Lennon was dumped, rather unceremoniously, into a dank cell with no window to the outside.

The seven guards chatted among themselves in Italian for a few minutes. At last, one departed and walked up the stairs. The others settled down into seats outside the cell, and one of them slammed the door. Lennon was left in perfect darkness.


OCC: No, he wouldn't struggle. He knows, or at least thinks that whatever's coming to him will be worse if he fights it.

And hey, what's the Noriker like? The LRRAF still uses a fair number of radar-equipped Beaufighters, which have launching rails for the primitive AM-1 air-to-air missile used by the LRRAF. Its primitive even by 1955 standards, but with luck it can down a fighter if the launching aircraft surprises it. Besides Beaufighters the main fighter types are the Hunter and the Venom, with a few Il-2s and Typhoons flying ground attack. The incredibly modern (by 1955 standards) patrol force is equipped with Shackleton MR.2s.

IC:

Lennon lies on the floor of the dark room. The total darkness is actually somewhat comforting to him. Suddenly he feels weary from the good two days he had spent without sleep, and takes a nap.

The Republic of Agrigento, with the 12th Pursuit Group already in position just outside your waters and the 2nd Fleet currently en-route, would like to establish official diplomatic relations with the new Government of Iansisle, and would like to meet with the leaders of this new government person to person. We would also like to inquire whether it would be at all possible for one of our diplomatic representatives to briefly meet with King James III.

Thank you,
______________________
Dominic Somma
Secretary of Foreign Affairs
La Repubblica d'Agrigento



ooc: These two separate threads are thoroughly confusing my primitive mind... I am wondering what the proper etiquette is. What should and shouldn't be posted in this one, as opposed to the other?

Wishers watched as the Osprey's opened fire onto the guards, and observed, in a slight sense of joy, as one disenegrated under a hail of 30mm HE rounds. The bullets ripped into the guard, blowing him to shreads. Another one fell to the hail of the 6.7mm rounds fired from one of the Imitoran Carbines, and others to .45 from the side arms. Two of the men that had arrived with the Ospreys, from the 58th Tactical Assault Wing, went down from minor wounds, leg injuries, while another took a lucky shot to the face, his head torn from teh rest of the body.

Wishers and his men managed to grab a few Weshieldians, and toss them back into the barracks, forcing them out of the way of the fire. The Ospreys were relatively undamaged from the light fire from the gaurds, and one pulled up to fifty feet, and killed its spot lights, as did the others. As the began their turn, the first one was hit by rockets, and the wing tank exploded, blowing the enitre Osprey to bits. Another one took one of the rockets to the port side engine, and managed to limp a few thousand yards before going down into the forest.

By now, one of the Osprey's although not the most agile of crafts, had managed to swing around, and snap off one of its two mounted Sidewinder missles. However, before it could get off the second, 20mm shells ripped along the spine of the Osprey, and due to the pilots skill and bravery, it managed to limp back to teh compund where it set down (albeit a bit roughly), in order to provide the Imitoran Marines with some form of cover.

The remaining two managed to get away, barely, with the assistance of the three JATO (Jet Assisted Take Off) bottles mounted on either side of the Ospreys. Each pilot triggered the JATO system, and the prop planes disigned with a maximum speed of around 550 KNMph were pushed to 720 KNMph. The airframes shook, and the aircraft rattles as if the wings were to fall off, but the pilots made it out, and once distanceed from the Wesheildian fighters, radioed back to the field headquarters. Snow Owl would need to be ready early.

((The Graye Aeroflyers MPAF-9 Noriker. Named after a solid Austrian workhorse because of its somewhat ‘potbellied’ appearance, the Noriker was designed as a ‘safe middle step’ after the Graye XJ-10 Andalusian failed to take off by the end of the runway during test flights. The Noriker is powered by a single Graye-Henderson TJE Mk. IV ‘Quicksilver’ turbojet developing 5,000 lbs of thrust. The ‘Quicksilver’ was only designed after attempts to license the powerful Bankfield ‘Ascension’ and Walmingtonian ‘Red Bear’ engines failed. The Noriker can make up to 638 miles per hour in a shallow dive and can be armed with either 12 3” air-to-air rockets, 12 6” anti-tank rockets, or 4 8” anti-ship rockets. Two external drop tanks of 106 or 125 gallons can be attached, or else substituted with by 2 125 gallon napalm bombs. 4 20mm cannons, nose mounted, make up the primary armament. The Noriker replaces the aging MPAF-6J Super Colt as Iansisle’s front line interceptor/fighter.

(in short, it’s basically a rip-off of the SAAB J-29 Tunnan ;).)

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=331949
http://members.aol.com/karrart/avpix/tngal1a/1tunn.jpg))


After what seems to be two or three hours - it’s hard to tell time in complete silence and darkness - the door creaks open again. An electric light Lennon may not have even realized was present flickered into light. The LRRN man found himself facing a medium-height but thinly built Tharian with an unpleasant scowl ruining what otherwise might have been handsome features.

“Who are you?” he asked in a voice that had only a hint of a Tharian accent.

-------

((don’t worry too much about it, Ag. The general policy is that anything pertaining to Weshield goes in ‘Laughlin’ and anything pertaining to the United Kingdom goes in ‘Enterprise.’ That’s hardly a strict, God-given rule, though. ;)))

Signor Somma,

We would be most pleased to open diplomatic relations with your nation, who were such staunch allies of the Shieldian people during the Old Regime.

Mr Bradsworth and myself would be happy to meet with your Ambassador, when one is appointed. We feel that openness, after the secrets and lies of the corporates, is the best policy.

His Majesty King James I is currently very busy attending to his sister the Princess of Shadoran, who took ill during her captivity. We can, however, put you on his agenda if it’s absolutely required.

God bless,

Benjamin Rinehart
Director for Foreign Relations
The United Kingdom of the Shield

-------

The lead Noriker was struck by both sidewinders and virtually vanished in a ball of flame and shrapnel. The other hardy jets, however, continued to chase the remaining Ospreys until they were several miles of the Weshieldian coast, where they turned back and headed for WA St Columba.

Meanwhile, the President and his cabinet had been informed on the attack on their protection camp. He passed the information on to Bradsworth before making a brief speech condemning the attackers only thirty minutes after the brief aerobattle. Ianapalis backed up Fort Jackson at once and put the RIFC and RIN on high alert in case the attackers should come back.

Meanwhile, the 2,300 men of the President’s Own Regiment of Foot, based about six leagues away from camp, took up equipment and readied themselves for the march.

Back at the camp, pandemonium reigned. The sudden appearance of the Norikers which chased off the Ospreys those who wanted to escape had planned to ride on and littered the complex with gun and rocket fire caused outright panic. Noblemen and their families ran about helter-skelter with no real plan or objectives. Children cried over the bodies of their mothers and fathers and parents carried the bodies of their sons and daughters, always screaming for a doctor.

OOC: Looks good, I can work with that. And now, all my posts regarding Weshield will be in the Laughlin thread, where my troop transport is sitting off your coast. Also, if you would, ignore the part about it pushing within 15km of the coast, I thought everyone was in your teritorial waters, I'll back it out abit.

Just thought maybe this would help a little with the confusion:

Current Political Bodies in the former Iansislean Commonwealth:
Regions Controlled

The United Kingdom of the Shield
Shadoran
Vesshampton
Dianatran
Sentry Island (administrates and claims)
Gallaga
The Gallanesian Colonies
Insula Modesta

The Republic of Weshield
Weshield

The Igovian Republic of Wyclyfe
Wyclyfe

The Kingdom of Thortraia
Thortraia

The Kingdom of Mansford
Mansford

The Javian Kingdom of the Foothills
the Foothills

The United Dominions for the Restoration of the Empire
Gadsan
Noropia
Troobodia

The Empire of Tharia and Sentry Isle
Tharia
Sentry Island (claims)

((good deal, Imi. See ya in the other thread.))

((The Graye Aeroflyers MPAF-9 Noriker. Named after a solid Austrian workhorse because of its somewhat ‘potbellied’ appearance, the Noriker was designed as a ‘safe middle step’ after the Graye XJ-10 Andalusian failed to take off by the end of the runway during test flights. The Noriker is powered by a single Graye-Henderson TJE Mk. IV ‘Quicksilver’ turbojet developing 5,000 lbs of thrust. The ‘Quicksilver’ was only designed after attempts to license the powerful Bankfield ‘Ascension’ and Walmingtonian ‘Red Bear’ engines failed. The Noriker can make up to 638 miles per hour in a shallow dive and can be armed with either 12 3” air-to-air rockets, 12 6” anti-tank rockets, or 4 8” anti-ship rockets. Two external drop tanks of 106 or 125 gallons can be attached, or else substituted with by 2 125 gallon napalm bombs. 4 20mm cannons, nose mounted, make up the primary armament. The Noriker replaces the aging MPAF-6J Super Colt as Iansisle’s front line interceptor/fighter.

(in short, it’s basically a rip-off of the SAAB J-29 Tunnan ;).)

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=331949
http://members.aol.com/karrart/avpix/tngal1a/1tunn.jpg))


After what seems to be two or three hours - it’s hard to tell time in complete silence and darkness - the door creaks open again. An electric light Lennon may not have even realized was present flickered into light. The LRRN man found himself facing a medium-height but thinly built Tharian with an unpleasant scowl ruining what otherwise might have been handsome features.

“Who are you?” he asked in a voice that had only a hint of a Tharian accent.


OCC: Yeah, the Tunnan was a good plane. But I don't know if it was better than the Hunter...but it was probably better than the Venom, since it was an earlier jet fighter. The LRRAF is thinking about upgrading to the brand-new JAS-35 Drakken, which will make it quite up to date. The LRRAF actually uses about 500 Drakkens still, in 2004, mostly in the ECM, recon, and attack roles. They've been "replaced" by JAS-39s, but the AF is flying them until they break.

IC:

"My name is Sub-Lieutenant Gregor Lennon of the Lunatic Retard Robots Navy, third submarine division, LRRNS Goose Bay."

((I don’t really know too much about anything aviation related, so I’ll just have to nod and smile at that. :)))

“And what, Sub-Lieutenant Lennon, are you doing in the Empire?” asked the interrogator in his cold voice. One thing could be said for Tharians; they didn’t like to dance around the issues for tedious hours on end like Shieldians were wont to do.

((I don’t really know too much about anything aviation related, so I’ll just have to nod and smile at that. :)))

“And what, Sub-Lieutenant Lennon, are you doing in the Empire?” asked the interrogator in his cold voice. One thing could be said for Tharians; they didn’t like to dance around the issues for tedious hours on end like Shieldians were wont to do.

OCC: The JAS-35 Drakken is what came aftet the Tunnan in terms of fighters, since I think the lansen was an attack plane. Its a delta-winged plane, pretty neat in my book. Here's a pic:

http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/world/europe/images/draken-saab_35_2.jpg

IC:

"Well, its actually something of a long story. See, my government was testing out new radio intecreption equipment on the northern end of Kamchatka, and happened to pick up transmissions, apparently battle orders and such, coming from Iansisle. So a spy was sent, but the ship he was on got sent back. Then, the intelligence directorate decided to send a sub, so mine, the Goose Bay, was sent, and I had the misfortune of being picked to go ashore. I'm here to, basically, find out what's going on in this country. Our intelligence gathering capability is somewhat sketchy."

“Sketchy would be a good word for it,” growled the Tharian. But he stood considering Lennon for some time with eyes black as coal.

“You must admit, this is rather curious. You’ll excuse me if I must call you a liar, sir, but can you guess what you appear like to me? A Shieldian spy - albeit an incompetent one - here to undermine Tharian independence.”

He drew him up to his full (though still fairly short) height and glowered at Lennon. “We don’t take too kindly to spies here in the Empire, as I’m sure you can gather. Now, I’ll give you another chance to try another lie. If I’m not convinced...” The Tharian trailed off and made a gesture with his right index finger across throat.

((don’t worry, they won’t execute him. Tharians are 90% bluster ;)))

Five very large helicopters with silence suppressing widdles came flying into the night sky raining missiles upon the flood lights as the gunners of the ships scoped out the soldiers with thier night vision goggles and began clipping them off one by one with thier mounted M16's. THe pilots also dropped yellow flares and called in air support from the squad of 12 f-16's circling the fleet. When the ground was deemed secure, 60 Special Operations Soldiers would propell down the ropes and begin securing the site in circular swaths.

At this exact moment the six men who were waiting outside the compound fired four mortar rounds inside the main complex but aimed away from anything of real significance. Meant to scare more than harm.

((sorry, Drew. I don’t know how I missed this post. Sorry!))

And scare they certainly did. Perhaps it wasn’t quite the slaughter that the later Imitoran operation would be, but there were several people either hit by shrapnel or trampled by a crowd eager to escape over their fallen comrades’ backs.

The Noriker squadron screamed out from WA St Columba and climbed into the air. The Republic might not know who was behind these sudden and unprovoked attacks on their homeland, and their aeroknights might have no chance against superior technology, but they had to do something to protect themselves.

Todd Andrews was more than a little angry at the attacks. Once again, he turned first to Charles Bradsworth, and once again the United Kingdom endorsed the Republic and its sovereign rights.

“Sketchy would be a good word for it,” growled the Tharian. But he stood considering Lennon for some time with eyes black as coal.

“You must admit, this is rather curious. You’ll excuse me if I must call you a liar, sir, but can you guess what you appear like to me? A Shieldian spy - albeit an incompetent one - here to undermine Tharian independence.”

He drew him up to his full (though still fairly short) height and glowered at Lennon. “We don’t take too kindly to spies here in the Empire, as I’m sure you can gather. Now, I’ll give you another chance to try another lie. If I’m not convinced...” The Tharian trailed off and made a gesture with his right index finger across throat.

((don’t worry, they won’t execute him. Tharians are 90% bluster ;)))

"If I were a spy, why would I come right up to your door, and ask for entry, in full uniform? I even turned over my revolver to the gaurd at the door. I'm not a spy."

"The Shieldians have tried more brazen things," countered the guard. But there was a trace of hesitation in his voice. "Do you have any proof that you're from this - ah - Loony Reticulated Robotics place?"

"The Shieldians have tried more brazen things," countered the guard. But there was a trace of hesitation in his voice. "Do you have any proof that you're from this - ah - Loony Reticulated Robotics place?"

"Ah, well, I think I still actually have my tram card in one of my pockets."

The big Tharian withdrew the tram card and examined it. At last: "All right, I suppose you're free to go."

He glowered at Lennon before removing the handcuffs. "But I want you on the first boat out of the Empire, and I want you never to return. Understand?"

The big Tharian withdrew the tram card and examined it. At last: "All right, I suppose you're free to go."

He glowered at Lennon before removing the handcuffs. "But I want you on the first boat out of the Empire, and I want you never to return. Understand?"

"Well, I sort of have some questions to ask you, or whoever's in charge, before I go."

"Well, I sort of have some questions to ask you, or whoever's in charge, before I go."

Lennon had to guess that would be a dangerous thing to say. It was. The Tharian poked him in the chest and said "You just don't know what's good for you, do you? Walzting up to the Imperial palace dressed like a Shieldian, and now asking questions when we've so graciously let you live?"

He barked with humorless laughter.

"It can't hurt, slick. Ask me a question. But remember - you're still under suspicion of spying. If it's about our national secrets, you'll meet the firing squad at dawn."

We have decided it would be most suiting to provide your new government with a new Ambassador. Therefore instead of continuing the almost habitual act of sending the distinguished Signore DiPartenza, we have decided to send a new face, although we assure you she is no less qualified. We will send her as soon as possible, provided your airports are no less capable. Unlike her respected predecessor she will be dividing a good deal of time as resident of the Agrigentian Embassy within your nation.

The Republic hopes to continue our relations with the United Kingdom just as before, and it is firmly believed that we can still remain among the closest and most trusted of allies. Furthermore we hope the best of luck in restoring order, and offer our assistance in any area you might require.

Thank you, and Good luck.
______________________
Dominic Somma
Secretary of Foreign Affairs
La Repubblica d'Agrigento

While it upsets us to hear of Signore DiPatenza’s replacement, we are excited by the prospect of a fresh mission from Agrigento. Naturally, the United Kingdom will be dispatching an ambassador to the Republic as soon as possible.

The Republic and the Ancient Regime were the closest of friends. I certainly hope - and expect - the New Guard can live up to the Republic’s expectations and our great nations may remain the closest of friends. Perhaps someday soon we may even reapply to join the New Highlands Alliance.

Until that day, may God continue to bless the Republic,

Rinehart

Lennon had to guess that would be a dangerous thing to say. It was. The Tharian poked him in the chest and said "You just don't know what's good for you, do you? Walzting up to the Imperial palace dressed like a Shieldian, and now asking questions when we've so graciously let you live?"

He barked with humorless laughter.

"It can't hurt, slick. Ask me a question. But remember - you're still under suspicion of spying. If it's about our national secrets, you'll meet the firing squad at dawn."

"Well, what exatly is going on in this country? We get reports of revolutions, new governments, tons of stuff. There's even been sightings of aeroplane-helicopters by our patrol planes headed for here! And those don't, to my knowledge, even exist."

The big Tharian’s eyes narrowed. “First, Lieutenant Lennon, I’d be careful throwing about terms like ‘this country.’ Tharia is independent and strong; we always have been. What’s happening on the Shield -” he spat on the ground “- is none of our concern.”

He continued to glare at Lennon. “And if I were you, sir, I’d make tracks out of Tharia as quickly as your legs will carry you, before you insult me again.”

"Alright, so I guess I'll go to the shield then. Sorry to insult you...I mean, I didn't know."

Lennon picks himself up off the ground, and salutes the Tharian gaurd.

"How do I get out?"

The Tharian, who apparently didn't quite accept Lennon's apology, pointed up a flight of stairs.

"These men will take you," he said shortly, indicating the pair of bruisers who had first captured Lennon. After a brief conversation in Italian, the two of them grunted and flexed their muscles, but led Lennon up to the daylight with little more than that.

((sorry about your reception...Tharians and Shieldians don't get along too well...at least you didn't go to Dianatran!))

"Thanks" says Lennon to the Tharian gaurds. He then proceeds to walk in the general direction of the Shieldian border, which might take a while.

It might not only take a long time, but be mighty soggy, too.

"Harbor's that way!" called someone, pointing in the direction of Troobodia Bay while others laughed.

It might not only take a long time, but be mighty soggy, too.

"Harbor's that way!" called someone, pointing in the direction of Troobodia Bay while others laughed.

OCC: Oh, so the shield's an island. Now I get it.

IC:

Lennon turns towards the harbor, or at least the direction in which he was pointed, and walks that way.

After about an hour walk, he finally reaches the harbor, and looks for a boat headed for the shield.

((well, not quite. Here's a map of the former Commonwealth. Roania's somewhere to our northwest, Ryansisle to our south, Healdsburg to our south east, and Effit to our east. Tharia's that bit in the south-west of this map...you can see Thesia marked. I had you land there because everything north is heavily patrolled by the RIN and various other navies in the area.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v294/DrIquan/map.jpg))

The closest thing Lennon can find is a Gadsani boat loaded with olives heading for Delton.

"It's not a good idea to talk about the you-know-what around here," he said, looking anxiously around the deserted dock. "But from Delton, you can catch a boat to anywhere - you know where included."

He went on to tell Lennon that he'd be leaving with the evening tide and the journey would take about twenty three hours.

En-Route to Iansisle
Flight GOV-309, Agrigentian Air Force
___________________________________
http://www.airev-lution.de/pics/gulfg550_1.jpg

The large-cabin, ultra long range Gulfstream G550 glided through the clouds with ease, as its twin Rolls-Royce engines turned out a normal cruising speed of approximately Mach .85. Markings on the jet clearly indicated its owner as the Agrigentian Air Force, although it still looked out of place when flanked by its escort fighters. Struggling to keep up with the supersonic jets, all the while trying to maintain enough fuel to complete the final leg of its journey, the flight was not easy for even the most seasoned of pilots, and the escorts were forced to reacquire the silver bird on more than one occasion.

Once it entered the United Kingdoms airspace a message was sent to the designated Aero flyer Dock.

"This is Agrigentian Air Force flight GOV-309, with diplomatic cargo, requesting permission to land and drop off our passengers. I repeat this the Agrigentian Air Force, requesting permission to land."

GOV-309’s call was registered on the Shield, which was still standing at a high level of air alert. The Agrigentian ((that’s your adjective, right? sorry if not!)) flyer was directed to Shadoran International Aerodock north of Ianapalis.

Benjamin Rinehart was there to meet the flyer as it landed.

((sorry that's not very good - just got back from work and I'm feeling rather blah.))

Minister Wheatly clasped his hands and laid them on the table bending slightly toward hsi guests.

"Well, gentlemen what assistance do you need and what do you want?" smacking his lips and giving a slight chuckle he finished with, "and what exactly do we get in return?"

The plane landed smoothly and the usual applause ensued, as the passengers were grateful to finally arrive. While most of the more menial members of the diplomatic staff were sticking out their tenure, the dozen or so higher ups would be replaced, most important of which was the senior ambassador.

While the majority of the new arrivals were taken away to their pre-arranged cars, Signora Valeria Chetichella and her oafish bodyguard approached the waiting Mr. Rinehart.

"Hello, I believe you are waiting for me," she said, her voice stern, yet somehow welcoming.

((sorry about your reception...Tharians and Shieldians don't get along too well...at least you didn't go to Dianatran!))

Didn't I kill them all?

"Well, gentlemen what assistance do you need and what do you want?" smacking his lips and giving a slight chuckle he finished with, "and what exactly do we get in return?"

Astor, Antangaux, and even Johnson blinked at Wheatly in surprise. Even in the Dominions, which had a somewhat looser standard than the old Grand Empire, to simply come out and say something like that! - it was unthinkable, simply unthinkable. It caused all three of the delegates from the United Dominions a few seconds of speechlessness.

At last, Astor found his voice. “Minister, we should like the Republic to issue forth a stinging condemnation of the new Shieldian governments and their policies. Our press men, who have access to many records from the United Kingdom, could help you. As for what we can give you...”

He shrugged.

------

“Signora Chetichella?” asked Rinehart, trying to smile. His Italian accent was fairly horrible, even on a simple word like ‘signora.’ “Indeed I was! Welcome, welcome to the United Kingdom of the Shield!”

Rinehart gestured towards a waiting automobile. “Please, come and join me for the ride back to the city. My men here are under orders to assist your staff in any way possible.”

As they drove into the city: “Mr Bradsworth expressed a keen interest in meeting you, Your Excellency,” said Rinehart. “He considers rekindling old friendships, like those between the Shield and the ANH member states, to be of the topmost priority.”

((nah, there's still some twenty-odd million of 'em running about, Imi.))

((well, not quite. Here's a map of the former Commonwealth. Roania's somewhere to our northwest, Ryansisle to our south, Healdsburg to our south east, and Effit to our east. Tharia's that bit in the south-west of this map...you can see Thesia marked. I had you land there because everything north is heavily patrolled by the RIN and various other navies in the area.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v294/DrIquan/map.jpg))

The closest thing Lennon can find is a Gadsani boat loaded with olives heading for Delton.

"It's not a good idea to talk about the you-know-what around here," he said, looking anxiously around the deserted dock. "But from Delton, you can catch a boat to anywhere - you know where included."

He went on to tell Lennon that he'd be leaving with the evening tide and the journey would take about twenty three hours.

"Hey, could I catch a ride on your boat?"

He knows that the soggy $9.63 in his greatcoat pocket fell out long ago, so if he wanted to go anywhere, it would have to be on kindness.

OCC: Hey, Iansisle, do you want to RP a fighter pilot defecting from one side or the other to LRR? I think that might be interesting.

Needless to say, the Gadsani merchant wasn’t too happy to find that Lennon was a pauper. His face screwed up, his ears flushed, and his hands formed into fists.

But he agreed to take on Lennon in the end.

“Mind you,” he said, waving a finger, “this is no charity cruise. You’ll be working every day, catch me?”

ooc: maybe. What do you have in mind?

"Well, I would be most glad to meet him as well. It is important that we re-establish diplomatic relations as soon as possible," she replied. "I understand a number of your citizens are seeking shelter inside our embassy. I certainly hope we can sort such things out."

"These quarters will be just fine, Captain" replied Grand Duke Alexei after he gave the cabin a once over "I've been forced to live in more cramped quarters than this in my military career" the Duke remarked letting out a short chuckle. "And I'm sure you can give proper acommidation to my associates Count Quintus, Lord Septimus and Lord Aureus as well as our seven security personnel for the duration of the voyage, however I am curious as to how..." the Dukes words were cut short by the sound of a massive explosion originating from theDecimus, the Duke and his Sheildian host turned around to see a fireball engulf the ship and tear it apart, nothing but scattered debrey remained of the once proud vessel, and out of the corner of his eye, in the water, Duke Alexei could just make out the wake of a raised periscope "look, a submarine!" the Duke exclaimed to his companions "it must have been the Roanians! they have never trusted us and must think we are trying to turn you against them" Alexei remarked as him and his associates bowed their heads and said a silent prayer for the dead.

(Roania, if you don't want to be dragged into this just say so and i'll make it so the culprits were someone else)

Needless to say, the Gadsani merchant wasn’t too happy to find that Lennon was a pauper. His face screwed up, his ears flushed, and his hands formed into fists.

But he agreed to take on Lennon in the end.

“Mind you,” he said, waving a finger, “this is no charity cruise. You’ll be working every day, catch me?”

ooc: maybe. What do you have in mind?

"Oh, yes, yes."

Being a naval officer, he is no stranger to work, but aboard submarine his responsibilities were engineering, so if his host's boat was sail-powered, he might be in for a shock.

OCC:

Mabye a pilot decides to escape the fighting and makes a dash across the narrow part of the pacific into LRR. Would that be ok?

...sail-powered...

((*scratches chin* What a brilliant idea! Thanks! :P))

“Fine, fine,” growled the captain, scowling. “Come on, I’ll show you the Josephine.” He led Lennon through the complex mass of vessels, men, and cargo that made up the Thesian harbor, at last stopping before a steel barque with an auxiliary boiler.

“You’ve signed on at the right time,” the captain informed Lennon. “It was no mean task, beating and steaming all the way here from Delton, ‘specially as coal’s getting so expensive now. Now, we’ve got the evening tide and land breeze to get us out to sea, and the westerlies to get us home once we clear the lee of the Arm.”

He looked Lennon up and down. “Are you an experienced topman? We’ll have to run out of Thesia on the royals.”

All Shieldian officers, excepting the new class of midshipmen, whom the navy had been forced to send to sea before their formal education was complete, were trained on operating the old RIN frigate Nestor at the TMA.

------

The explosion of the Decimus rocked Audacious hard over to starboard, throwing Marshson and the Duke off balance. Marshson caught himself on the bulkhead and righted himself. “What in the green hills..” he started, but then was bursting on deck to a sign of chaos. Several Shieldian jacks and a marine had been cut down by flying debris. Many others cried in pain, clutching various parts of their bodies.

Commander William Dobbs was crawling out from behind the bulkhead he had taken shelter behind just as the Duke announced sighting a submarine.

“Mr Dobbs!” shouted Marshson, “beat to quarters, if you please, and give me flank speed! Your Grace, I apologize for my haste of manner, but I must see you below decks.” Marshson either forgot the Duke was a seasoned naval officer or thought, with typical Shieldian arrogance, that a foreigner could have no place making suggestions of offering advice on a King’s ship.

The ship wide intercom came to life with the sound of drums and a Marshson’s personal steward appeared to take the Duke below.

-----

“I’ve head the same,” said Rinehart. “It would sadden me to see them go - of course, the United Kingdom cannot hold people who do not wish to be here.”

Eventually, the Westerton pulled up in front of Jameston Place, and Rinehart led Chetichella to Bradsworth’s outer office, where she was instructed to wait while the Premeir finished one last bit of business.

((*scratches chin* What a brilliant idea! Thanks! :P))

“Fine, fine,” growled the captain, scowling. “Come on, I’ll show you the Josephine.” He led Lennon through the complex mass of vessels, men, and cargo that made up the Thesian harbor, at last stopping before a steel barque with an auxiliary boiler.

“You’ve signed on at the right time,” the captain informed Lennon. “It was no mean task, beating and steaming all the way here from Delton, ‘specially as coal’s getting so expensive now. Now, we’ve got the evening tide and land breeze to get us out to sea, and the westerlies to get us home once we clear the lee of the Arm.”

He looked Lennon up and down. “Are you an experienced topman? We’ll have to run out of Thesia on the royals.”

All Shieldian officers, excepting the new class of midshipmen, whom the navy had been forced to send to sea before their formal education was complete, were trained on operating the old RIN frigate Nestor at the TMA.


"Well, no...I'm actually an engineer, I work with Diesel and electric powerplants aboard submarines...but I think I can be of some help."

The average LRRN officer either has no sail experience or a lot. Lennon has none. With the LRRN populated on the whole by motor torpedo boats and submarines, training emphasis is put on motor repair.

“A smoky, eh?” asked the captain, whose name was Appleton, with a look of obvious disgust. “Well, we won’t need the boilers on the way to Delton; the winds are too good over Troobodia Bay. Right, I suppose we can find something for you in the galley.”

And so it was that Sub-Lieutenant Lennon of the LRRN found himself tending a galley fire as the good ship [Josephine ran before the wind from Thesia to Delton.

“A smoky, eh?” asked the captain, whose name was Appleton, with a look of obvious disgust. “Well, we won’t need the boilers on the way to Delton; the winds are too good over Troobodia Bay. Right, I suppose we can find something for you in the galley.”

And so it was that Sub-Lieutenant Lennon of the LRRN found himself tending a galley fire as the good ship [Josephine ran before the wind from Thesia to Delton.

It certainly wasn't the Goose Bay, but at least he was headed in the right direction.

The smoke and heat is not new to Lennon, having served on some older submarines, and the promise of having a bite to eat provides extra motivation.

OCC: Ian, you still want to do that pilot defection thing?

OCC: Ian, you still want to do that pilot defection thing?

((Yeah. I'm just having a hard time thinking of why a pilot would defect, is all. Any ideas?))

At last, the Josephine arrived in Delton. The leading seaport of the Dominion, once a primary shipping point for RM&M iron ore from the Gadsani highlands on its way to steel mills on the southern Shield, was now almost deserted. Old warehouses had been repossessed by the United Banking Concerns and Royal’s great ships stood motionless at their quays.

Josephine cruised into the harbor.

“Well, Lennon,” grunted Appleton. “You weren’t so bad as I imagined.” He pointed to the northwest. “Shield’s that way, ‘bout fifty miles. Good luck.”

From the Ianapalis Star-Tribune:

The Debate Ends

IANAPALIS, Iansisle -- In a surprise decision today, the Department of War in conjunction with the Admiralty decided to appoint Admiral Sir Hunter N. Kennington First Sea Lord and promote him Grand Admiral.

Kennington has served in many greatly-sung battles, from Cape Deliverance as captain of the Royal Ian to Salvador as the Commander Grand Fleet and the Narrows as Lord Commander Home Fleet. He has been serving in that last role for more than ten years.

“I never expected this honor,” said Kennington in a prepared statement, “and I can only express my hope that I may valiantly serve King and Country with what strength remains in my bones.”

Many expected Kennington to be forcefully retired after being shunted into an assignment to ferry First Lord of the Admiralty Baron Linhower and Prime Minister Tarriff to Walmington on Sea’s Empire Day celebrations some years ago; however, the old seadog has proven unexpectedly resilient.

The gap left by former First Sea Lord Grand Admiral Sir Richard Tri’s sudden death at the sword of an unknown assailant can never be filled, a spokesperson for Grand Admiral Kennington said yesterday, but it can be temporarily plugged.

Admiral the Marquess of Westergate, who has been very much in the news of late with his brilliant campaign against Midway and sudden return to bolster the Home Fleet against foreign powers, was expected to be Sir RIchard’s replacement. However, some say that the Marquess may have burned too many bridges in the current government with his staunchly pro-Royalist position.

“I will support Sir Hunter,” the Marquess said from the deck of his flagship, “and the Admiralty in all its decisions. I know this is the right one for Iansisle.”

In other naval news, Vice Admiral Martin Hansfield was promoted to Admiral and assigned as Lord Commander Northern Fleet, while Westergate was shifted from the Northern to the Home Fleet.

Valeria sat patiently, if there was one thing that she knew it was that virtue. The diplomatic profession is always one of timing. Knowing what to say, and more importantly when to say it was the only skill a seasoned diplomatic should be able to consistently call on, and it was often all that was necessary to solve any situation, regardless of circumstances.


ooc: Just a reminder that my diplomat is waiting :]

The mahogany desk and large Gull Flag hadn’t changed. Bradsworth rose to greet his visitor as she was escorted into the room.

“Ah, Signora Chetichella!” he exclaimed. “Ever so sorry to keep you waiting; this demmed office is more work than I expected.” He extended a hand to shake rather than waiting for Chetichella to extend hers for kissing (as most Shieldian men would have done).

“Welcome, welcome, to the United Kingdom! I trust your journey was not unpleasant?”

Main Camp: Army of the Daldon

The lights still burned in the ancient hotel that was serving as Field Marshal Gregory R. Pennyman’s headquarters when the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves sounded on the cobblestone path.

“Who goes there?” challenged a sentry outside the hotel. “Identify yourself, in the Name of the King!”

“Sergeant Anders,” came the reply. “I bear important dispatches for the Field Marshal from Ianapalis!”

“Advance and be recognized!”

Eventually, they were able to confirm that Anders was who he said he was, and he was rushed into the house.

Pennyman wasn’t the sort who liked being roused in the dead of the night, but neither was he the sort to ignore potentially important changes of situation. He walked, with all the dignity one can muster in a bathrobe, out to meet Anders who saluted smartly and handed over the documents.

Pennyman reviewed them for some time, before looking back up at Anders.

“Major Copplestone has cleared these.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Anders. “Asked for verification and everything. All the proper codes matched, and it came over the direct wire from Ianapalis.”

Pennyman sighed and walked to a window. There, over the rolling Vesshampton countryside, were the remaining campfires of the 45,000-strong Army of the Daldon.

“I will see Harding, Chapman, and Sparrow and their staffs in my office at first light tomorrow,” said Pennyman, referencing his corps commanders. “Take this message to them, Anders; there’s a good man. Oh, and tell them: the men are to be given a good breakfast tomorrow.”

“Sir?” asked Anders.

“I believe my orders were clear, sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make the rounds at once.”

After he was left alone, Pennyman crumpled the brief missive from the Department of War into a compact ball.

"It was quite pleasant actually, I almost regretted leaving the airplane," she said most dryly. "I do believe we have some matters to attend to," she said, finally shaking the man's hand.

Atleast he didn't bow, she thought. The whole country gave her an Old Fashioned feel.

((Yeah. I'm just having a hard time thinking of why a pilot would defect, is all. Any ideas?))

At last, the Josephine arrived in Delton. The leading seaport of the Dominion, once a primary shipping point for RM&M iron ore from the Gadsani highlands on its way to steel mills on the southern Shield, was now almost deserted. Old warehouses had been repossessed by the United Banking Concerns and Royal’s great ships stood motionless at their quays.

Josephine cruised into the harbor.

“Well, Lennon,” grunted Appleton. “You weren’t so bad as I imagined.” He pointed to the northwest. “Shield’s that way, ‘bout fifty miles. Good luck.”

"Thanks. Hey, good luck yourself."

Lennon starts towards the Shield, walking through the depressed harbor. Fifty miles was not the longest distance Lennon had ever walked, but it would take him a day at least, non-stop. He still carries a hunk of bread that he was given on the Josephine, which he hopes will sustain him on his walk.

OCC: I don't know, Ian...mabye a Norriker pilot tired of fighting, or a coastal patrol pilot who is not liked by either side, or has a price on his head?

OCC: I'm not sure weather this post belongs here or in a seperate thread, but I plan to tie it in to the uphevals in Iansisle soon. Mabye Roania or another country would take interest.

Just a little background info, there used to be a monarchy in LRR, but it was overthrown by a mixture of Zionists, communists, and other oppressed minorities in 1911. The royalists, as well as stalinist factions, have several times tried to revolt against the government, and this is one of these revolts.

IC:

Tern Island, Northeastern LRR, in the Bering Strait

The small fishing village of Weston, Tern Island, is the site of fierce fighting between a mixture of rebel elements, including royalists, stalinists, and nazis, and a small force of 350 LRRN sailors. This was just another royalist rebellion, but this one had a difference- the royalists had a sizeable force, over 100,000 armed men, all concentrated on Tern island. All they needed to do was capture the island, and they would have not only a base of operations, but also a large stock of weapons on their side.

WOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHHHHBOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A 76mm round zooms into one of the LRRN barricades, throwing sandbags, pieces of wood, and a few sailors into the air.

"Damn! They broke our right flank!"
"Fall back!"

Through the dust and moderate fog, the shilouette of a PT-76 can be seen, advancing towards the LRRN positions, infantry in tow.

A pair of sailors stay back for a moment, and send a bazooka round into the tank, before being hit by rifle fire.

Reaching fallback positions in the nick of time, the rest of the LRRN force prepares to beat back the advancing infantry. Bayonets fixed, royalist troops armed with a mixture of Ak-47s and Lee-enfield rifles, charge the barricade.

"Hold the line! Hold the line!"

Commander Steve Beauford discards his spent drum magazine, and thrusts a 32-round clip into his PPSH SMG. The .303 water-cooled MG next to him mows down the advancing infantry, before a grenade seriously injures its crew.

The fallback positions are within view of the harbor, where the LRRNS Caspian Sea sits partially submerged, having been hammered by artillery rockets.

A line of centurion tanks becomes visible down the street, and the lead sends a 105mm shell into an MG position overlooking the street while peppering the barricade with MG-42 rounds. Beauford ducks down just in time, but other sailors are not so lucky, falling to the ground dead or seriously wounded.

A 105mm shell explodes on the barricade, and blows a hole through it. Beauford and several other sailors are thrown back, and Beauford is knocked unconsicous for a moment. When he comes to, he watches as a Centurion plows through the barricade, chasing the LRRN defenders down the street and into the harbor. Picking himself up, Beauford starts to run, and, dodging MG bullets, reaches the last line of defense.

A 57mm high-velocity anti-tank gun hidden in a small shed sends a round into the turret of the Centurion, which starts to burn, and gets another one off at the next one down the line before being hit by a 76mm shell from one of the PT-76s converging on the sailors' position.

"Where's our air cover?"

The royalists count on the fog and rain to discourage the LRRAF from flying support missions with what few aircraft are in range of Tern Island, but a squadron of Venoms braves the horrible conditions to give the beleagured defenses some support.

Arriving over the island at low altitude, the Venoms head towards the village, with a load of rockets, bombs, and cannon rounds.

On the ground, royalist troops run for cover at the sight of 15 Venoms bearing down on their columns, guns blazing. The fighters rocket, bomb, and strafe down the Royalist attack columns until a flight of royalist MiG-17s arrives on scene, driving the Venoms away.

Upon news of the Tern Island attack, the LRRN immediately sends a task force to retake it.

It consists of several of the new E Type frigates (http://pictures.werkenbijdemarine.nl/gallerie/maritiem/marhist_powerp/Friesland%20D812.jpg), two Sigmund Freud class Cruisers (http://pictures.werkenbijdemarine.nl/gallerie/maritiem/marhist_powerp/Zeven%20Prov.%20.jpg), and a multitude of gunboats and motor torpedo boats.

Minister Wheatly frowned as he was interrupted by his secretary. "well sirs it seems my government has chosen to take a different course of action. Straightn from the Vice-PResident's office itself. Here are our new plans."

The plans were a constitution that had been formulated and was a mixture of democratic principles and royalist rights. The proposed "peace plan" was disseminated to all factions within Iansisle.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Vice-PResident Bottom was enjoying the sceneray but was hoping to speak to the King soon.

OOC: Okay...what'd I miss? I want to get back in, so...someone kindly fill me in. :)

((Sorry I haven't been able to post. I'm right in the middle of moving, so it might be a day or two. Sorry!

-Ian))

OOC: Okay...what'd I miss? I want to get back in, so...someone kindly fill me in. :)

((Ok, lessee... the United Kingdom and the Republic have started becoming more buddy-buddy with one another, each guaranteeing the other's independence and signing a formal alliance. Wyclyfe emerged from chaos as the Socialist Democracy of Wyclyfe (SDW) and is maintaining closer relations with the other Shieldian states. The UK issued an ultimatum to the Kingdom of Thortraia, demanding the release of the members of Tarriff’s government and the extradition of ‘criminals against the Shieldian peoples’ - also known as corporates hiding in Thortraia. Weshield and Wyclyfe soon backed up the ultimatum, though Thortraia hasn’t replied yet. Erm, oh, and Weshield’s making a lot of noise about the unfairness of raids on her royalist protection camps, which have killed thousands of Weshielders, most of whom ironically were royalists.))

The United Dominions seemed to reply well to Wheatly’s suggestion, but reactions were mixed elsewhere. The Northern Kingdoms, especially Thortraia and to a lesser degree the Foothills and Mansford, declared them too radical.

“We’ve gotten on fine the last few years,” said Sir Penton Dubois, acting in his new rôle as His Thortraian Majesty’s mouthpiece. “And we see no reason we ought to change now. Once we’ve crushed the armed minority claiming to represent the stalwart Shieldian peoples, we will be glad we never tolerated compromise.”

In the South, the United Kingdom, Weshield, and Wyclyfe uniformly declared the plans too reactionary.

“The nobility, and the peerage in particular,” said Director for Foreign Relations Benjamin Rinehart, “have for far too long enjoyed a comfortable living and lecherous existence. They neither have earned nor deserve any special privileges extracted from the sweat of the working-classes.”

OCC: Also, a relatively large island not too far away from Iansisle has rebelled against the LRR government, and is currently the site of a major battle.

OOC: Ah. I shall be making appearances on a fairly random basis, on and off, for the next few weeks. So, no pinning hopes on me, si?

BTW... where do we go with Sarah and Daniel? Pending a comm. from you, I'll assume they're together. If not, then I want to know how deeply scarring their parting would have been. Thanks in advance.

IC:

Damien nodded his approval, and the rest of the meeting with the Premier passed in silence and petty detail finding.

=========

Damien looked through his travel-chest. "Kat, would you say that this is a black-tie affair, this ball, or a ceremonial affair..." he pulled up a complete Imperial silken suit, and then a caftan. "Hrmm?"

Kat rolled her eyes. "The suit, dear...the suit."

The plane landed without incident and his luggage was well taken care of. The AIA’s reach goes far, and he was able to bypass both T-rays and Metal Detection at Variscan International. It was a well-known fact that Agrigento’s leading airline had financial trouble recently, and that Government subsidizing was the only thing that saved it. What wasn’t well known however was that the government did receive certain favors from the airline, Al’Agrigento, in return, the shuttling of spooks and more importantly their gear included.

Once off the plane he of course had a few stops to make, chief of which was his safe house. Established under the old regime, the safe house was known to very few even within the Agency and that perhaps is what made it so ideal for this mission, which wasn’t exactly official, nor was it sanctioned.

Stowing his gear came easy, as did setting up the cot. More difficult than both of those tasks was reconnecting to the Agrigentian Central Military Database. This international net was highly monitored and extremely secure, while dealing with security routines was definitely not his strong suit. Of course the AIA Geek Squad would notice the power spike, and realize that there was an unauthorized access from this terminal, but he wasn’t worried. His chain of friends extended even into the depths of the Cyber Dungeon at 112 Piazza Imperiale, the headquarters of the Agrigentian Intelligence Agency.

Once connected he had access to a wealth of information, limited only by his security clearance, which was fairly high, rivaling even that of the Deputy Director. So he began searching, and it was only a matter of time before he discovered what he was looking for.

The file was recently uploaded to the database, and he could just barely view it, as it was at the highest level of security that he could access. Some agent had risked his/her life to rescue this single file, and it was quite possibly the last bit of information extracted from that troubled country.

The header read Red Flag, the name of the agent, and the information inside was crucial to his whole purpose here. Michael printed it out, logged off and then read, and read and read. Committing the entire report to memory, and then burning it, he was now officially leaving the line between Special Forces Operator and Vigilante far, far behind.




((ooc: I was wondering if you would let me know what’s going on with old Ashtonbury, and what his role in the new government is.))

((ooc: I was wondering if you would let me know what’s going on with old Ashtonbury, and what his role in the new government is.))

((There's really two options of which I can think: one, that Ashtonbury was captured by Bradsworth's forces on the floor of #4 Jameston and is currently awaiting execution as a traitor against the Revolution. Two, that he either managed to escape either northwards to Thortraia or to lay low in Ianapalis.

Roania, I'm working on that Grand Ball as we speak. Been a busy week ;)))

Damien and Kathryn were shown to Number Five Jameston Place, which served as the location for all major international social events not hosted in Dûn Ádien, with a minimum of fuss. They were second in line to be admitted to the foyer.

The couple in front of them were a quite ridiculous pair, to anyone not native to the Shield. The man, perhaps about eighty-five and (if not spry) not quite decrepit, was dressed in a blue tailcoat with golden epaulets and white pantaloons that would not have looked quite out of place in Nelson’s navy. This was, of course, the Royal Iansislean Navy’s full dress uniform a century after it had gone out of style, but the Lords of the Admiralty were notoriously conservative about that sort of thing. Many of the ‘new’ generation of officers, such as Sir James Redford or Ronald Garland, recommended mess dress - a gold-buttoned navy blue blazer worn with tie over a white shirt with a peaked cap replacing the bicorn - for all social events. They’d been repeatedly shouted down by their more conservative superiors and not-so-subtly informed that further nuisance-making would reflect negatively on their careers.

The lady, who looked to be a smidgen over sixty, was dressed in the billowing skirt and narrow bodice that was actually quite fashionable in Ianapalis at this time; a reaction against the liberal waves introduced by the now-vanished High Queen. They were apparently well known to the staff at Jameston, for the majordomo didn’t wait ten seconds before opening the door and admitting them.

“Admiral Sir Hunter and Lady Kennington!” he called.

The First Sea Lord and his wife entered the Grand Foyer at Number Five with all the grace born of the Shieldian quality; all ready, a large crowd seemed to be assembled therein, most of whom paid scant attention to Sir Hunter. Then the door closed again.

“Your Highness,” said the majordomo while bowing to Damien. The other servants were practically on their knees. After giving Admiral Kennington several seconds to clear the entryway, he again opened it to admit Damien. “His Highness the Dark Prince Damien of the Divine Imperium and escort!”

This time, there was quite the commotion. All of Ianapalis society, it seemed, paused in conversation to gaze up at the couple. For several seconds, none seemed to move. And then Charles Bradsworth, dressed in the latest black coat, pants, and vest and heavily starched white shirt that was the latest style in Ianapalis. A tiny white bow tie was barely visible in front of his rigid collar.

“Your Highness,” he said formally with a quick bow at the waist. “Miss Finsternis, isn’t it? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being formally introduced.” He glanced to Damien, obviously indicating that that was his job as her escort.

((EDIT: Oh, and anyone else with an ambassador or something in Ianapalis may feel free to send them to the ball. Be aware, though, that strict Iansislean formal rules are in force and anyone violating them, foreign dignitory or not, will likely find themselves (at best) scorned and at worst challenged to a duel.))

((There's really two options of which I can think: one, that Ashtonbury was captured by Bradsworth's forces on the floor of #4 Jameston and is currently awaiting execution as a traitor against the Revolution. Two, that he either managed to escape either northwards to Thortraia or to lay low in Ianapalis.

Roania, I'm working on that Grand Ball as we speak. Been a busy week ;)))

ooc: Well, it would be pretty interesting if he were alive and well, laying low somewhere. Make it real hard for Vanzano to find him, at the same time your authorities are running an investigation. Dead bodies start showing up, all of them criminals. Just an idea...tell me what you think.

ooc: Well, it would be pretty interesting if he were alive and well, laying low somewhere. Make it real hard for Vanzano to find him, at the same time your authorities are running an investigation. Dead bodies start showing up, all of them criminals. Just an idea...tell me what you think.

((I think it would be great, though I'm pretty lousy at writing that sort of thing. Also, with school starting soon, I don't know how well I'd be able to participate.))

((I think it would be great, though I'm pretty lousy at writing that sort of thing. Also, with school starting soon, I don't know how well I'd be able to participate.))

ooc: School will be starting for me too, and I'd be new at this as well. I don't think we need to worry about making it too intensive.

((...And Daniel/Sarah? Your call, mate :) ))

After much soul-searching, Damien had decided to go with his formal dress-uniform. His carefully and expertly tailored black silk-uniform, with its red captain's bars and gold-worked sheathe for a duellist's sabre (which wasn't, much to his disgust, in his possession), contrasted with the white half-cape that hung over his right shoulder, concealing the holster for his officerial Machine-Pistol (also absent). He barely acknowledged the bow as he passed the majordomo, his eyes dark with dark dreams and forbidden things, of thoughts beyond the comprehension of most mortals... 'I wanted to wear the Caftan...'

Well...two out of three isn't bad.

Kathryn was dressed in a loose light-blue dress, her hair carefully combed out to flow down her shoulders and a sapphire tiara placed artfully on her hair. Damien, in picking that dress for her, had wished to send an unmistakable message to the United Kingdom's Aristocracy, she sourly thought. 'Look! Even our Personal Assistants are dressed better than you!' As they waited, she carefully brushed some of the hair forward over her ears, self-consciously.

She only hoped they wouldn't be too offended by Damien's own choice of clothing; she was sure it was most improper for him to be dressed in a Legionnaire uniform. She curtsied back to the majordomo as Damien curtly entered. She waited three seconds and then entered behind the Prince, hoping that she had timed correctly so that she'd be far-enough back.

She was, indeed, the required four steps behind the Prince as they entered, him suddenly seeming to glide across the floor with an almost amazing grace and poise.

Damien regarded Bradsworth with a barely concealed twinkle in his eye, though that expression quickly switched over to an outright and not-very-well hidden warning as the idea percolated through the Prince's head that Bradsworth was paying far more attention to Kathryn than a mere Personal Assistant warranted. His eyes imperceptibly narrowed as he gave a (very) slight bow in return. "Yes...allow me to represent my Personal Assistant, Miss Kathryn Finsternis..."

((Ah, I meant to say something about that in the last post - honest, I did! As far as I’m concerned, Sarah became your character at the end of the Masquerade. I haven’t filled out the forms in triplicate yet, of course, but you’re still welcome to make up whatever ending story you’d like. If you need any background information, just ask and I’ll make it u ... er, tell you :).

Oh, and I ought to add that it is completely inappropriate to attend an Iansislean Grand Ball stag. That’s why everyone is assuming that Kathryn is Damien’s escort, not secretary. Sorry for not mentioning that sooner!))

Fashion, like its sister Beauty, is very much in the eye of the beholder. Kathryn received more than a few overt stares as she followed Damien across the foyer.

“What is she playing at?” asked the Viscountess Clyfton of her husband and the couple with whom they were conversing. “Coming here, dressed like that, as if she were the next High Queen!”

“She is from Roania,” ventured the Viscount. “They do things differently there.”

A humph! noise indicated just what the viscountess thought of the Imperium’s culture - that last word always said on the Shield surrounded by quotation marks - and they turned the conversation back to more relevant things.

“Of course,” replied Bradsworth, kissing Kathryn’s hand if it was offered and bowing to her otherwise. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms Finsternis.”

He produced two sheets of paper from his pocket and handed one each to Damien and Kathryn. “Your dance sheet, Your Highness,” he explained. On it was listed four sets of either four or five dances, from the opening Grand March to jigs, quadrilles, minuets, cotillions, polkas, and - scandal! - a waltz in the third set!

“You will, of course, lead the Grand March, won’t you, Your Highness?” asked Bradsworth after a couple seconds. A few yards away, one could see Admiral Kennington’s head turn sharply. It was tradition that the highest ranking officer to lead the March if there were no members of the Shieldian royal family present. As First Sea Lord, he was far and away the highest ranking military man on the Shield, and had previously led one in front of foreign dignitaries of all kinds, including the Emperor of the Golden Quarry himself! But a strict sense of decorum kept Sir Hunter from saying anything in protest.

The March was to take place in roughly fifteen minutes. The delay between the arrival of the guests and the opening of the ball was to give the men a chance to make sure that they could plan out their evening. It was appropriate to dance the first, last, and majority of numbers with his escort, but otherwise he ought to “spread himself around,” making sure that every woman had a partner for every dance if she so desired. Of course, the system was complicated by the fact that women were strictly forbidden from asking men to dance! - but somehow the Shieldian people had managed to keep repopulating for hundreds of years.

Back at the door, yet another prestigious guest was announced - and one whom no one had thought would attend. The majordomo announced clearly:

“Her Royal Highness the Princess Alice Callahan and His Grace the Duke of Evanpass!”

Damien inwardly groaned as he noted the Grand March. 'Not a jot on the Marche Slave, I should think...' he thought to himself, his eyes narrowing even further when he saw such foul and alien things as jigs and quadrilles. on the dance sheet. 'What the deuce is a quadrille...' he pinced the bridge of his nose when he saw, in broad-lettering, the word 'polka'.

'A dance for peasants, children, and Jews. I have no doubt that that's what these revolutionaries amount to, though.' He watched, most disapprovingly, when Bradsworth kissed the hands of his Kathryn. And his expression turned even more steely when he saw her blush slightly afterwards.

However, when he heard the name of his Shieldian opposite-number spoken, he immediately spun on his heel, a smile plastered on his face as he sunk to the floor, holding his clenched fist over his heart. 'Well. Well. Well. What have we here?' He thought, calculatingly.

James’ youngest sister was just days on the younger side of twenty, and she had all the beauty and grace required of royalty. That brown hair so characteristic of the House Callahan framed a long, elegant face and high cheekbones. Alice, like all the other ladies present, wore a great billowing skirt, above which she seemed to glide as if she didn’t need her legs to walk.

Alice condescended to be holding Lord Evanpass’ arm as they walked into the foyer. The expression on the His Grace’s face was one of sublime joy at the attention, even if there was a tinge of astonishment that he had been so lucky to attend the king’s youngest (and some said favorite) sister. He was a year or two shy of thirty, to judge by his face, and thus one of the younger peers of the realm, and sported the nondescript suit every other man wore. If woman strove to be seen above everyone else, men’s fashion on the Shield seemed centered around not being seen; if one was noticed for what he was wearing, he probably had done something wrong.

The entire Hall set to bowing in eerie silence as she walked in. However, Damien perhaps saw a flash of anger and hostility cross the Duke’s blue eyes, and he realized that Bradsworth was still standing fully erect. A slight nudge from Alice sent the couple gliding in that direction, the Ball guests rising in their wake.

“Premier Bradsworth,” said the Duke in a deep, rich voice. “May I present Her Royal Highness? Your Highness, the Premier Interim of the United Kingdom.”

Of course Bradsworth and Alice had met on several previous occasions - the most notable on the dockyards of Jameston Place just a hundred yards distant - but a woman had to be presented at each and every Grand Ball.

“Charmed and honored, Your Highness,” said Bradsworth, deftly kissing the hand which Alice condescended to extend.

“Likewise, Mr Bradsworth,” she replied, but not in the distant and airy tone that her posture and manner would have seemed to indicate. Her voice was steady and as cutting as steel. Curious eyes drifted from Bradsworth over to Damien.

Damien went from a kneeling position to a standing position in less than a second, his movements unnoticable. He glided on his feet to a position just a step or two away from the couple, his eyes twinkling with concealed amusement. There was a sharp conversation in guildspeak, and then Kathryn suddenly appeared at his side. She looked at him sharply, but sighed when he gave another hand-symbol.

The young woman slid over to Bradsworth's side, and curtseyed to the Princess. Then she turned to Bradsworth, and in a soft voice asked "if His Serene Highness might be permitted to be introduced to Her Royal Highness?"

Damien gave the 'Duke' an almost contemptuous look as he sized the man up, the half-cape almost seeming to billow menacingly even in the stale air of the ballroom. His grey eyes suddenly went cold again, making the previous twinkle seem to have been an impossibility. '...anyone of the Divine Nobility could crush this man like the grey-suited slug he is. Typical Anglo-Saxon.'

“Your Grace?” asked Bradsworth, passing the ball. He did not bother to introduce Evanpass to Damien, as everyone in Ianapalis knew who the Dark Prince was.

“Of course,” said the Duke. He had let his arm drop at what he perceived might be a slight from Bradsworth to his lady, though he obviously couldn’t decide if it were worthy of the field of honor yet. Now that arm was used to gesture at Damien.

“Your Highness, I have the honor of presenting to you His ...Serene Highness the Dark Prince Damien of the Imperium.” There was a slight pause before Damien’s honorific, probably because Evanpass thought it ridiculous and oriental. Alice extended her hand to Damien, palm down, while she examined him with those keen brown eyes.

“A pleasure, Your Highness,” she said in a much more quiet tone. “I trust your state visit is going well? There has been talk of little else on the Shield over the past week.”

“If you’ll pardon me, Your Highness, Your Grace, Your Highness,” said Bradsworth, bowing ever so slightly, “I fear I really must run. The March will be starting in a few minutes, and there’s still much to be done. Oh - your dance cards, Your Highness, Your Grace.”

With another slight bow, Bradsworth departed, even daring to turn his back on such a prestigious gathering of royalty and nobility.

In the mean time, Evanpass had been sizing up Damien. Sure do make them brutal in Roania, he thought with an inward snort. but then, what could you expect from a race of semi-barbarians? I hear they're even worse than the Tsar's court: unrefined, crude, and cruel.

Damien very briefly kissed her ring, before once more giving the Duke a casual examination. 'He looks a bit Jewish around the nose, then... still, what do I care?' He thought, before banishing the inferior from his mind. "My trip has been well, up to this point..." he replied, carefully, watching Bradsworth walk away with detached amusement. 'One knife. All I'm asking.'

Damien would have been most surprised, as would any one from the Divine Imperium, that the Shieldians viewed them to be uncultured. After all, Novar Ohan had been settled by the Russians years before Iansisle was even thought of. If it had been pointed out to him, he would probably have laughed and said "Well, what do fools who dance peasant-dances and waste their time upon the sea know of true culture?"

But the Prince was concerned about these...dance-cards. With a sharp glance back at Kathryn, he gave a slight signal to her with the light dashing off one of his rings. She nodded, and slid forward, crouching and half-curtseying every step of the way. "Most gracious lord," she half-begged Damien, "would you please tell me what it is I'm meant to do with this form?"

Damien gave a thin-lipped smile, indicating his thanks with another flash of light from his ring. "Ah, Kat... just in time. Might I introduce Miss Kathryn Finsternis?" He gestured half-heartedly. He spoke some nonsense words in Russian, before turning back to the Duke and Princess. "My lord and lady, I do beg your pardon...but my own ability to explain such things to her is limited is limited. She is an Aguan, after all... I was wondering if, perhaps, his grace would care to explain what she is meant to do?" 'And if he will not, then...' the thought of being able to sleak his thirst in such a way as Kathryn would be unable to interfere brought a thin smile to his face.

Evanpass would have been even more surprised to find that Damien considered Novar Ohan older than the Shield. After all, the archeological record from the Shieldian people stretched back to long before the Varangians had turned the Rus’ from nomadic farmers into any sort of modern state; two thousand five hundred years back the archeologists could trace the evidence of people living on the Shield. Nineteen hundred to fourteen hundred years back was the period of Sentrian domination; Weshield, the oldest of the Seven Kingdoms, could trace its King’s lineage back to 1316, when the Russian principalities were still laboring under the Tartar Yoke, and there was evidence of an organized state long before then.

He watched the exchange between Damien and Kathryn with some well concealed derision; he laughed, but only in his eyes. Facial control was an art long refined on the Shield and one that commanded great respect in the land where the pen had always and unquestionably been mightier than the sword.

“Miss Finsternis,” said the Duke, kissing her hand if it were offered and bowing otherwise, “it would be an absolute honor to explain this quaint custom of ours to one so lovely.”

It’s a long Shieldian tradition of teaching manners to savages, he thought.

“One simply records the names of the people to whom one has committed oneself over the evening on this,” he continued, indicating his blank sheet confusingly.

“Perhaps an example would work just as well,” cut in Alice suddenly. Most women would have been frowned at for such impetuosity and the contradiction of a male, but no one dared offend royalty.

“I have committed myself to His Grace for the Grand March and the first minuet,” she continued, either ignoring or uncaring about her (what would have been for anyone else) faux pas. “So I write his name down under those dances.” Alice helped herself to a pencil from a nearby table and jotted down ‘Evanpass’ under the Grand March and the first minuet.” She smiled. “See?”

“The ladies and gentlemen will please assemble for the Grand March,” called several servants at once despite being arranged about the foyer in such a manner that their voices might be heard by all.

“Did I understand that you are to lead the March, Your Serene Highness?” asked Evanpass. He had the feeling Damien did not know how and wanted to see him squirm.

Sub-Lieutenant Gregor Lennon continues down the side of the road, no longer knowing where he was headed.

"Excuse me," he says to a passer-by, "could you direct me to the buildings which house your government?"

The man blinked once or twice. “Why, at Jameston Place, of course!” he said, apparently shocked that anyone might not know that. “It’s down towards the waterfront - five big marble buildings at the corner of Gallaga and Empire.”

The man blinked once or twice. “Why, at Jameston Place, of course!” he said, apparently shocked that anyone might not know that. “It’s down towards the waterfront - five big marble buildings at the corner of Gallaga and Empire.”

"Why thankyou, my good man," says Lennon, trying to mask is Polish accent.

Turning right around, he starts towards the waterfront, and sure enough, at the corner of Gallaga and Empire, there are five imposing marble structures that you'd have to be blind to miss.

He walks up to the front gate, still wearing his LRRN uniform. The guards would probably notice the different insignia, especially the red star present in Lennon's cap emblem.

There had also been enough trouble with corporate mischief makers that the guards weren’t terribly eager to let him anywhere near any of the buildings. One, still wearing the khaki of the old Army Corps, but with a Gull Flag patch on his arm, challenged Lennon.

“And just where do you think you’re going, then?”

((sorry I can’t be more descriptive. I’m running out the door to class :(.))

There had also been enough trouble with corporate mischief makers that the guards weren’t terribly eager to let him anywhere near any of the buildings. One, still wearing the khaki of the old Army Corps, but with a Gull Flag patch on his arm, challenged Lennon.

“And just where do you think you’re going, then?”

((sorry I can’t be more descriptive. I’m running out the door to class :(.))

"Er...I would like to speak with someone who could tell me about what's going on in the Shield lately. Its sort of a mystery to my government."

Given at Jameston on this, the Thirty-Seventh Day of the First Year of the Reign of His Shieldian Majesty James I:

These words pain me more than any other to write. For nearly a fortnight now, my ministers and I - in conjunction with the leadership of the Republic of Weshield and the Socialist Democracy of Wyclyfe - have worked feverishly to persuade His Most Splendid Majesty King Clancy I of Thortraia to see reason.

However, His Most Splendid Majesty has proven himself as obstinate as ever. He refuses not only to grant the terms of our quite reasonable demands - the return of prisoners taken by his government during the Corporatist Yoke - but even to acknowledge our diplomatic communiqués.

Thus it is with great remorse and sorrow that I must announce that, as of last night, the military forces of the United Kingdom and the Republic of Weshield have commenced military operations against the Kingdom of Thortraia.

We call upon the great, noble soldiers of that country to lay down their weapons. They will be granted a full pardon and allowed to return to their homes. Do not waste your lives for the greater glory of a ruthless tyrant and international pariah.

C. Bradsworth
Premier Interim

-----

“Then it’s confirmed?” asked Field Marshal Sir Edward S. Service, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the North, looking from Bradsworth’s written proclamation to his aide-de-camp.

“Yes, sir. The Army of the Daldon - forty five thousand strong of light horse, foot, and field artillery - marched from its camp at Updal yestermorn. They crossed the border and camped outside Lewnshore, sir.”

“Awfully good intelligence, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Our cavalry’s been doing a bloody good job so far, if I may say so, sir. One of our platoons - Lieutenant Kotkin’s of the Third Light Dragoons, sir - caught a platoon of hussars at the bridge in Patscross and wiped them out. The Shadoranites didn’t know what hit ‘em, sir, and we were able to scout unhindered on that flank. They’ll have noticed by now, sir.”

“Put this Lieutenant Kotkin in for an award - make a note of that, Peters. Now then, what’s your estimation of our current status, Mr Stillwell?” Service all ready knew all the important facts, but it couldn’t hurt to have a fresh set of eyes review the facts.

“Well, sir, we’re thirty thousand strong on paper...”

“Why do you add ‘on paper,’ Mr Stillwell?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think we can count on most of our men come battle. They’re most fresh recruits drawn from the countryside over the past couple weeks, sir. They’ll probably cut an’ run at the first Shadoranite volley, sir.”

“My analysis exactly. Continue.”

“Well, sir, the Shadoranites didn’t bring any siege guns or howitzers. But we don’t have any artillery whatsoever. They also have complete aerial dominance, but haven’t bombed anywhere yet. I think ol’ Bradsey might mean what he says about not wanting to kill anyone, save maybe His Majesty, of course, sir. Erm, begging your pardon, sir. Oh, and our cavalry is pretty low. We have enough to scout decently enough, but they won’t be a bit of good in battle, sir.”

“Agreed. What do you advise?”

“We can’t afford to be drawn out into the field, sir. We need to use the terrain to our advantage. If we’re caught on a field, their field artillery will cut us to pieces, sir. Most of the men would probably panic and fall back real disorderly like - their cavalry’d love that, sir.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Mr Stillwell. So tell me: do you have a place to make a stand in mind.”

“No, sir,” admitted the aide.

“Well, luckily I do. Very good work, Mr Stillwell. You came to the same conclusions I did.”

“Thank you, sir.” Stillwell beamed at the compliment.

“Dismissed,” said Service, turning his back towards Stillwell and looking over a large map of the Vesshampton-Thortraia border. Stillwell saluted quickly and left.

-------

“Your government?” asked the guard suspiciously. “And which government is that? And what business is it of theirs what goes on on the Shield, anyhow?”

"Awww forget it!" yells Lennon, as he walks back into the street, his mission utterly pointless. He heads back the way he came, hoping to find a boat back to Tharia, where he could be picked up by his submarine.

The guard watched as Lennon walked out into the cacophony of different styles that was the architecture of Ianapalis. There were towering art deco skyscrapers and crumbling brick tenement buildings and elegant baroque townhouse; each had been put up in its turn as either the “latest thing” to impress one’s friends or “a charity to those vile commoners.”

Lennon was on Gallaga Street, which ran parallel to the waterfront. Out in the bay he could see Ian’s Isle, Dûn Ádien crouched morosely upon its granite peak like a fortress under siege. North along Empire Street, Lennon saw Unity Square - well, that’s what it was under the Old Regime; now it was the Square of the Revolution - with its marble monuments and the towering spires of St Patrick’s cathedral. To his east was the vast industrial sector; humble multifamily homes, dotted every now and then by the smokestacks which thrust into the sky, stretched as far as the eye could see. There had never been an official census, but that district housed some eight and a half million of Shadoran’s twenty one million people. One could get lost forever in there.

It started to drizzle. Most people Lennon could see opened their umbrellas, not so much because it was wet, but because they knew what would happen. The afternoon rains would come, like they did nearly every day, and drown the city. Strangely, however, very few native plants, which were nearly flooded with water, seemed to grow ‘up’ like they did in the enormous conifer forests of Noropia. There were a few trees - the stout Shieldian oak (Quercus iansulae); several species of cypress; and a few pines, maples, hollies, birches, dogwoods, and hickories - but not in the numbers or concentration seen in Noropia. Rather, the Shield grew moss - and lots of it. The famous expression “the green hills of the Shield” (used in “By the green hills of the Shield!” or “I’ve never seen anything like that in the green hills of the Shield!” or “What in the green hills of the Shield!?”) was not a simple literary device; the moss overtook anything it was allowed to find and spread itself out trying to gather the suns warm rays. It almost substituted for grass in many parts of the former Empire.

And after a few hours trying to find a boat, Lennon becomes lost. His uniform gets soaked, and the red star on his cap seems to ward off passers-by.

Finally, he stops in front of an old tavern. As he steps into the street, a flashy sedan sends the contents of a puddle his way, further soaking him. Lennon shakes his fist angrily at the car, which disappears further down the street. Careful to avoid other cars, Lennon runs to the opposite side of the cobblestone street, to where the tavern is.

With a slight jingle, the door opens and Gregor Lennon enters, dripping wet onto the floor. His appearance draws many amused and unhappy looks from the crowd.

The tavern seems mostly populated by people trying to escape the downpour outside. A few look like regulars; they sit at the bar patiently reading slightly wet newspapers or smoking pipes. Others were a little more out of place, as if they’d been caught unawares by the sudden storm and forced to take the nearest shelter.

The innkeeper behind the bar kept his hands on Lennon for a few seconds, before returning to patiently washing the cup he held in his hand.

Lennon hangs his wet uniform overcoat on the coatrack, and walks over to the nearest empty barstool. His cream-colored cotton sweater is less wet than his overcoat, but he is still in visible discomfort.

Withdrawing a wet newspaper from his pants pocket, he waits for the bartender to come over while reading The Damogran Gazette.

"What'll you have?" asked the keeper, coming over and setting the glass he'd been washing down in front of Lennon.

A glance at the filthy rag was perhaps enough to make Lennon want a new glass.

Gregor looks at the 'used' rag and back at the glass. Anything he had was bound to kill whatever might be living on the towel or in the glass.

"What's the popular drink?"

"Depends on how hard the day was." A critical eye passed up and down Lennon. The first mug vanished and was replaced by a shotglass. "From the look of you, I'd say something hard. Whiskey?"

"Depends on how hard the day was." A critical eye passed up and down Lennon. The first mug vanished and was replaced by a shotglass. "From the look of you, I'd say something hard. Whiskey?"

"Whiskey's fine."

Lennon checks his pocket to make sure that he still had a few bills and coins of Iansisle currency, which he still did not know the name of, and waits for his drink to arrive.

"That'll be a quineral," said the innkeeper, holding out a dirty palm. Lennon needed a copper coin with a picture of an elephant on it. Lennon might wonder at the price; just a few years ago, it had been only two ken for a shot of whiskey.

If he had any bills in his pocket, he'd been decieved. Iansisle was one of the last countries on earth with an entirely coin based monetary system.

Searching through his pocket, Lennon finally produces the coin. He puts it in the keeper's palm, and takes his glass of whiskey.

"Do you know where I could catch a boat to Tharia?"

“Tharia, son?” asked the keeper, picking up his glass to start ‘cleaning’ it again. “What’d you want to go visit the kulikers for?”

“Tharia, son?” asked the keeper, picking up his glass to start ‘cleaning’ it again. “What’d you want to go visit the kulikers for?”

"That's where I landed, so my sub's bound to be back in the next few days. I'm hoping to get back home soon."

Lennon takes a swig of his whiskey and looks outside. Traffic passes the inn, traversing the rainy streets. So far, Lennon's time in Iansisle had turned up nothing of value, and was more like a bad vacation than an intelligence mission.

That quieted down the entire inn. The keeper didn't bother to refill Lennon's glass but rather glared at him. "So you're with Jerry, then?" he bellowed as all eyes turned towards the commotion. "Down in Tharia incitin' an' intriguing? Is that it?"

OOC: I just now got my internet up and running, so I'm sorry I havent been posting for a while. Im way to far behind to even try and catch up, so appologies, and next time I'll try to not get involved a week before I gotta get back to school...

((LOL, don't worry about it, Imi. I understand RL constraints, as I'm sure everyone else here involved does. Catch up as you can; there's no hurry.

Oh, and Lark's back!))

"Er...no, not really. I was sort of dumped here for a week. See what I could find out about the rebellion."

Lennon half expects to be shot, but hopefully he would be able to calm the inngoers down enough to get away with a short bought in the local prison.

A couple locals, drawn up to their full (if not all that imposing) five foot five, settle themselves between Lennon and the door. Meanwhile, the bartender has retrieved a handgun from somewhere.

“Just doing some scouting, right? Looking for the best places for your Teutonic hordes to land?”

Someone with a heavy looking baseball bat came up behind Lennon.

“Jim, what do we do to the krauts around here?”

“Use our blunt objects,” grinned the man with the bat, taking a practice swing.

“Now just a damn minute!” exclaimed one of those who looked to be taking shelter but not a regular. He was an older man with suspenders and a shock of white hair. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Honestly, you all ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Is this how Shieldians act?”

What? Who do they think I am? thinks Lennon. He is very alarmed already, and doesn't even dare look back at the bat-wielder.

"Wait a minute here! If I were a nazi spy, do you think I'd tell you? I'm no spy, I came to ask about this rebellion type thing that I thought was going on! Look, here's my hometown."

He unrolls his newspaper, which displays a photograph of the city of Damogran, with the LRRN's four Sigmund Freud class cruisers tied up to the port. What you couldn't tell from the photo was that they didn't have engines. Several Tribal-class destroyers also sit at port, clearly not german if any of the inngoers knew anything about British ship classes. A smaller photo on the same page showed a younger Lennon in front of the LRRNS Laptev Sea, a destroyer, in full uniform.

“See!?” insisted the old man, “What did I tell you? Honestly, Herm, do you think Fritz is as stupid as you are?” The bartender bristled, but didn’t say anything.

“Come on,” muttered the old man, pulling Lennon out of the tavern and grabbing his jacket on the way. The men by the door offered no resistance, obviously confused by what was happening.

At last, they were a safe distance from the inn, though out in the freezing rain.

“That was stupid,” the old man said, “everyone knows you don’t mention a submarine on the Shield, not if you want to keep your face in its current arrangement.”

“See!?” insisted the old man, “What did I tell you? Honestly, Herm, do you think Fritz is as stupid as you are?” The bartender bristled, but didn’t say anything.

“Come on,” muttered the old man, pulling Lennon out of the tavern and grabbing his jacket on the way. The men by the door offered no resistance, obviously confused by what was happening.

At last, they were a safe distance from the inn, though out in the freezing rain.

“That was stupid,” the old man said, “everyone knows you don’t mention a submarine on the Shield, not if you want to keep your face in its current arrangement.”

"Oh...thanks for helping me out there. I could've died. That was very nice of you."

Lennon puts his coat back on, but realizes that he forgot his cap inside the inn. They could keep it, for all he cared.

"You know, I actually am not a submarine officer. Motor torpedo boats are my assignment."

“Hmph,” replied the man with out commitment, pulling Lennon towards a covered doorway. “Well, we can’t go back there. And again, I cannot impress on you enough the importance that you don’t come from a submarine! Motor-torpedo boats are much more generally recognized, even by the Mob.

“Now, then: you said you want to get to Tharia, correct? That’ll be a difficult task. The Tharians have blocked all Shieldian ships from making their harbors, and even the United Kingdom is powerless to force them.”

“Hmph,” replied the man with out commitment, pulling Lennon towards a covered doorway. “Well, we can’t go back there. And again, I cannot impress on you enough the importance that you don’t come from a submarine! Motor-torpedo boats are much more generally recognized, even by the Mob.

“Now, then: you said you want to get to Tharia, correct? That’ll be a difficult task. The Tharians have blocked all Shieldian ships from making their harbors, and even the United Kingdom is powerless to force them.”

"Oh...that does throw a wrench in the works," says Lennon with a slight chuckle, which, coupled with the fact that he is soaked and his teeth chatter in the cold, might amuse the Shieldian he is with.

"Do you think I could take a boat to somewhere bordering Tharia, and from there cross in?"

"Alas, Tharia's only land border in with Dianatran, and that's closed - the hollywacks are still under Shieldian protection, you see - but there's other options. You could hitch a ride on a ship not registered on the Shield, but they're harder to come by in Ianapalis than you think.

"Hmm...you could take a Shieldian ship - or the railer - somewhere else, like Gadsan or Noropia, then double back to Tharia. Yes, that's probably the best option."

"Alas, Tharia's only land border in with Dianatran, and that's closed - the hollywacks are still under Shieldian protection, you see - but there's other options. You could hitch a ride on a ship not registered on the Shield, but they're harder to come by in Ianapalis than you think.

"Hmm...you could take a Shieldian ship - or the railer - somewhere else, like Gadsan or Noropia, then double back to Tharia. Yes, that's probably the best option."

"Sounds good. Say, what's the railer?"

Lennon turns momentarily, distracted by the passing of a bus. The weather reminds him of home, although if he had an umbrella he would have enjoyed it much more. And in LRR, almost nobody had cars. Either they took the train or drove tractors. Or took boats. There were tons of rivers in LRR.

((heh, just realized that's a term I stole (somehow without thinking about it) from New Eastgate. Dang. Sorry! [stopsusingit]))

"No, no, I said railway," the old man shouted. Between the rain and the traffic, one could hardly make themselves heard. "You could take it to the Marlands in Gadsan, or to Château in Noropia, and catch a steamer for Tharia from there!"

"Oh, sorry. Railway. Well, that's what I'll do then. Where's the nearest station?"

The rain lets up slightly, from a pounding pour to a more mild pour, allowing Lennon's voice to be heard more clearly. At least the rain water had washed the salt off.

Off the LRR coast, the LRRNS Goose Bay sails along the surface of the water, like a duck in the rain, collecting fresh water for the trip to the remote fishing village in Tharia. Several crewmen fish off the bow, while the captain sits on the conning tower, sketching the coastline.

“Three blocks south and five east,” replied the old man quickly. “At the corner of Commonwealth and MacDunn.” He pulled out a pocket watch and checked it. “If you hurry, you ought to be able to make the five forty-five heading over the gap. Look, here’s a fiver -” he pushed a five general coin into Lennnon’s hand “- and Godspeed, all right?”

Five generals was quite the windfall; it was a whole day’s work for the luckier of the laborers, enough to pay half a week’s rent in the industrial sector, but hardly anything to the wealthy elite of the government sector.

"I don't know how to repay you...thanks a lot. Mabye we'll meet again."

Before running off, Lennon gives the old Shieldian his pocketwatch which bears the LRRN motor torpedo squadron crest, a durable, waterproof design made for seafarers, which has on the inside cover a photo of Lennon's MTB crew.

Lennon then runs out into the rain, headed for the train station.

He arrives at the station shortly later, and walks up to the ticket booth.

"Excuse me, sir. How much is a ticket for the quarter of six, over the gap?"

Lennon thinks of the trail of personal effects he had left across the country. A small rubber raft with an LRRN compass, various buttons and cards, his hat, and his watch trace his route in Iansisle.

“Wait!” the old man started to say. “I can’t take this!” But Lennon was all ready gone.

There was quite the crowd at the station. Their bumping and jostling for position was made all the worse for the rain, which was still coming down steadily. It would slack off around seven o’clock or so and not pick up again until the next morning. Such was Ianapalis’ weather.

“Over the gap, eh?” asked the harried looking man behind the counter. “Well, suppose we can arrange that.” He looked through a filing cabinet, jotted some figures down on a sheet of paper, and came up with “Three gee sixty five ken. Includes a bed in the sleeper and your own toothbrush. You good for it?

Three gen sixty five ken meant 3.65 generals. ‘Over the gap’ was the usual way of speaking about traveling from the Great Shield to Noropia, via the narrow mountain pass that had long served as the only connection between the two despite their shared four hundred mile long border.

Lennon slaps the fiver on the counter in front of the ticket seller.

"This 'll cover it."

Without his cap, Lennon doesn't look much different from an officer in the Iansisle navy, his uniform being based on the british model. A keen observer might note some minor but telltale differences, such as the star buttons and the two extra pockets.

Fortunately for Lennon, the Shield was not well renowned for its keenly observant people. The teller assumed he was a military man - and even applied a slight discount, perhaps to placate some vague threat from the government - who was traveling to the fleet base at Château. Noropia had closed her ports to RIN ships, but the base remained open.

“Just one last thing, sir,” said the teller, handing Lennon back a gen thirty five and a ticket. “This train will be traveling through the Javian Kingdom of the Foothills on its way to Noropia. The United Kingdom has issued a travel advisory for all people going into or through the Javian Kingdom. If I could just get you to sign this waiver?”

He produced a clipboard and a pen seemingly from nowhere.

Lennon takes the pen and signs 'S-Lt. Gregor Lennon' on the clipboard. He then takes the ticket and walks onto the platform. He boards the train and finds the berth assigned to him on his ticket, and climbs into it. The window offers a good view of the outside, which currently consists of a bustling crowd, but promises to get better as the trip progresses. Lennon takes off his overcoat and sweater, until he wears only his standard-issue white t-shirt, several sizes too big, and his pants, with his socked feet protruding out the bottom.

Lennon takes his newspaper out and begins to read the major stories from two months ago.

With a bone startling lurch, the train took off. It made its way through the industrial sector and the complicated system of switches just beyond it. At last, it was steaming its way north at a good clip and the conductor started coming around asking for tickets.

When the conductor reaches Lennon's berth, he panics for a moment, his ticket not being in his pants pocket. But he then remembers that he had placed his ticket in his overcoat pocket.

Lennon hops down and withdraws the ticket from one of his overcoat pockets, one that shouldn't have been there if he was a royal navy officer.

The conductor didn’t seem to notice. The again, he looked to be about sixty five years old (extremely old for the Shield, with its life expectancy at birth of forty five!) and with extremely poor vision; he had to hold the ticket right up to his nose to read it.

“Very good,” he wheezed at last, ripping something and handing the stub back to Lennon. “If you need any refreshments, the dining car is two towards the engine. Here’s your complementary toothbrush.”

Handing it over, the conductor made for the next person.

Lennon takes the toothbrush, and puts it in the pocket of his drying pants, along with the remainder of his monetary reserves.

He suddenly feels like a bite to eat, and puts his sweater on for the trip to the dining car. He then starts foreward, as the countryside rushes past. The lush, green foliage rushes past, while the land climbs upward, approaching the gap.

Lennon arrives in the dining car, and walks up to the counter.

The moss-covered hills and low trees of the Shadoranite landscape still dominated outside as Lennon made his way to the dining car. Every now and then, the train rolled past a town or city, but it never stopped; he was lucky enough to pick the express to Château.

The dining room was comfortable but not ornate. One or two other passengers sat around at the garishly painted booths to either side of the aisle, either reading the latest Star-Tribune or chatting amongst themselves and paying Lennon scant attention. A single waiter, Gallagan to guess by his appearance, flitted about from table to table taking orders and refreshing drinks.

“Mister Christopher Langley Bishop?” The crowd assembled in the Square of the Revolution, which had been shouting rowdily, quickly fell into silence as the Lieutenant Justice of Ianapalis spoke.

“Yes. That’s me.”

“Mister Bishop, you have been found guilty on three counts of treason against the King and the People, four counts of willingly aiding and abetting a known terrorist, and one count of murder in cold blood. By the order of Director Madders and the High Tribunal, approved by His Majesty and the Premier, you have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. Have you anything you wish to confess before sentence is executed?”

Bishop’s eyes, still blazing a bright blue with defiance, glanced over at the black robe and collar of the priest standing with head bowed near the rough wooden staircase.

“I have nothing to say to a governmental lackey. I have made my own peace with God and trust in Him to deliver this country from your heretical reign after my own death.” The brief speech was delivered with a haste not evident in Bishop’s manner. It was as if he expected to be cut off and were trying to spit out every word he could.

“Very well. Then under the sight of God, I order your sentence to be executed forthwith.” The Lieutenant Justice folded his parchment and watched in anticipation as the noose was draped around Bishop’s neck. Down below, a trio of drummers beat their instruments rapidly. A lever was pulled and the drop opened.

The crowd managed to stay silent for few heartbeats; then the rope snapped taut and a loud cracking noise echoed across the square. As Bishop’s corpse dangled lifelessly a couple of feet above the ground, the mob broke out into a hearty cheer.

William Ashtonbury scowled and slammed his curtains closed. It was a blessing and a curse, these quarters; being able to watch everything that happened on the corner of Empire and Commonwealth was quite convenient, but watching his friends and companions caught one by one and dragged up to the hangman’s noose before a bloodthirsty rabble was almost more than even his solid constitution could bear.

Bishop had been the worst. Ashtonbury had served with Bishop in their younger days as officers in the Company’s army and had grown quite fond of the younger man. And now he was dead - not in glorious victory while storming a native village or in pitched battle against the Chaingese, either, but at the hands of an unworthy successor government flaunting its muscle. At least those goons hadn’t gotten anything out of Bishop; if they had, surely revolutionary soldiers would all ready be knocking on - or down - his door.

If Ashtonbury had only known - damn that man Bradsworth! He didn’t play his part at all properly. Why, God, why did he allow James to retain the monarchy, thereby establishing a legitimacy for the new regime and allowing the foolish king to seek revenge for his best friend? Bradsworth should have done like Weshield; surely, in more conservative Shadoran there would have been a second revolution for Whitman and his cronies to exploit! And Ashtonbury would have been able to bury Grand Admiral Tri’s skeleton, like he had so many others, including Markus Rumbiak’s, deep in the back of his closet. But no! everywhere Ashtonbury turned, his face scowled back at him above a five million general reward offered directly by the crown.

He had to get out of Ianapalis. Every week, it seemed, one of his contacts was arrested, interrogated, tried, and led to the gallows. All ready, Ashtonbury had had to abandon two hideouts with all haste as the soldiers came trooping up the alley. But where could he go? Noropia? - no, too royalist. Thortraia? - no, Whitman’s realm was collapsing around his ears. Gadsan? - no, the UBC wouldn’t appreciate a Company man running around. The Foothills? - now there was the only choice that made sense. But how would he get there; hell, how would he get out of this miserable apartment next time he needed food?

The moss-covered hills and low trees of the Shadoranite landscape still dominated outside as Lennon made his way to the dining car. Every now and then, the train rolled past a town or city, but it never stopped; he was lucky enough to pick the express to Château.

The dining room was comfortable but not ornate. One or two other passengers sat around at the garishly painted booths to either side of the aisle, either reading the latest Star-Tribune or chatting amongst themselves and paying Lennon scant attention. A single waiter, Gallagan to guess by his appearance, flitted about from table to table taking orders and refreshing drinks.

"Excuse me, could I have a glass of water, please?" calls Lennon to the waiter. He looks again out of place, his hair wet and matted, among the classier occupants of the dining car.

The waiter bowed but said nothing. He vanished into the back and returned, still mute, with a glass of water.

A man sitting two seats away seemed to take an interest in Lennon. At last, he folded up his newspaper, tucked it under the arm of his cheap suit, and made for Lennon’s booth.

“Mind if I join you, sailor?”

"Eh...not at all."

Lennon looks at the man about to join him, apparently a businessman. He doesn't really expect anything bad, since in LRR there aren't any shadowy intelligence services to worry about. He takes a swig from his glass of water as the suit sits down.

The man had been in the process of sitting down with the confidence that he would not be refused when Lennon had spoken. A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed as the newcomer examined what remained of Lennon’s uniform.

“On your way to Château, I’d wager?” he asked, speaking too quickly to let Lennon get a word in edgewise. “Ruddy bad job to appear to your new commander looking that way. Look, I run a little shop near the harbor; just got a shipment in that I really think could help you. That’s why I was down on the Shield, as a matter of fact. Why don’t you stop by when you arrive, eh?”

The man produced a business card from thin air and handed it over. There were no fancy embossing or anything; just a name - “J. L. Besterham, Imports and Exports” - and an address in Château.

"Oh, thank you. I'll stop by when I get into town."

Lennon takes the card and sticks it into his pants pocket. Outside, the landscape continues rushing past at a fast rate.

Lennon realizes that this job might be what he needs to get out of the shield and back to Tharia.

"Say, do you ship into Tharia?"

Back off the coast of LRR, the rain continues to pour down. Overhead, a Shackleton patrol plane flies over the Goose Bay as it slowly slides underwater.

The other man snickered. "Tharia's cut off all trade relations with the Shield, and visa versa. It'd be mighty illegal for me, an honest and legitimate shopkeeper, to import to or export from Tharia. If you know what I mean, sir."

The train started slowing.

"Hell," grumbled Besterham. "We're at the the border. Those damn Foothillsmen, thinking they own the gap."

He fished in his pocket and withdrew a half general coin as they came to a complete stop.

"Just because the Grand Empire collapsed, these barbarians think they can get away with extorting a dimideral from every God-fearing man to cross their borders!"

((*retag while I figure out how to get back in on this* :) ))

Lennon takes out the last remnants of his funds, about .75 generals. Hopefully, it would be enough.

"Er...just out of curiosity, do you ship to anywhere from which I could get into Tharia? That's where my business takes me."

Meanwhile, off the Tharian coast, a large black fin rises above the water. In the dead of night, it probably would not be seen, if it wasn't for the full navigation lighting.

Besterham arched an eyebrow. “I do hope you’ll excuse my curiosity, sir, but what business could a shabbily dressed RIN officer have in Tharia?” His tone was lower than it had been, almost conspiratorial, and he leaned closer over the table.

Meanwhile, the train had come to a complete stop. A man in a khaki uniform was moving slowly from the front backwards collecting the toll, but it would be a couple minutes before he got to Lennon and Besterham’s table.

I undertadn you are a busy person Ian but could you perhaps give me a quick update on the situation so far in regards to both enterprise adn twilight?

Besterham arched an eyebrow. “I do hope you’ll excuse my curiosity, sir, but what business could a shabbily dressed RIN officer have in Tharia?” His tone was lower than it had been, almost conspiratorial, and he leaned closer over the table.

Meanwhile, the train had come to a complete stop. A man in a khaki uniform was moving slowly from the front backwards collecting the toll, but it would be a couple minutes before he got to Lennon and Besterham’s table.

Lennon lets out a sigh and begins his story.

"First off, I'm not an RIN officer. I am actually headed into Tharia to get a boat home."