Iansisle
08-08-2004, 07:33
((NB: This thread is the third counterpart to the ‘Twilight for the House of Laughlin’ and ‘A Glorious Enterprise’ threads. Whereas ‘Twilight’ describes the Revolution as specific to Weshield and ‘Enterprise’ specific to Shadoran, ‘Salvador’ describes it referring to Wyclyfe. This thread should be considered AFTER the Shadoranite and Weshieldian revolutions, but not necessarily after the subsequent events in those threads.
Oh, and in case any of you wonder, I have every intenton of replying in the various threads in which I’m already involved. It’s been a busy couple days and I’ve spent most of my effort on this, as I’ve been meaning to get it up for some time now. Sorry for the delay!
Oh, and in case anyone wonders about the vague references to ‘Salvador,’ ‘King James, or ‘Sir Thomas Gurney’: The Battle of Salvador was the center piece of the (in Iansislean style) New Tiamat Crisis. The Tarriff Government, eager to smite what it saw as communist aggression, offered military protection to the Kingdom of Victoria and Salvador against Beth Gellert. Long story short, Iansislean hubris combined with poor technology to lead to 3,000+ dead Shieldians and two Beth Gellens lost to enemy action. HIMS King James I was the Iansislean flagship and was sunk with a little less than 700 men, including Commodore Sir Thomas Gurney. Gurney was later elevated to some sort of martyr-hero, even if was more than a little mad , an anti-communist fanatic, and a very poor example for children everywhere.))
Wyclyfe, the Kingdom of Wyclyfe
The door to the pub slammed open and one Lord Sean Galadason, second son of the Duke of Eastmorn threw himself in. The lanky youth took a few seconds to scramble behind the deserted bar and sat there panting. At last catching his breath, Lord Sean had time to examine his surroundings more carefully.
He was in the Blotted Parchment, the local patriotic nonsense pub. The walls were still dotted with the red and white of St Patrick’s Cross and the colors of various famous units, like the IV Rifles and II Light Dragoons. Behind the bar hung a large painting depicting the Battle of Salvador (or at least the artist’s version of it); King James steamed valiantly away from the island, firing her main battery at what seemed to be distant ships of the line while shells dug into the ocean around her.
But Lord Sean didn’t have time to criticize the decor. He’d hardly been there a minute when the door burst open again. He rolled back around the bar and fired at the shadowy figure just coming through the door. Lord Sean worked the bolt action with the skill born of years of hunting on his father’s private game reserve, but swore as the magazine came up dry. He hadn’t been keeping track of how many shots he had left. Retreating back behind the bar, Lord Sean worked feverishly to eject the spent magazine and insert another one. He’d done it thousands of times, but it was different here, where gunfire rang outside and someone who wanted to kill him was only a handful of yards away. He dropped the magazine, swore again, and reached to pick it up.
He was stopped by someone who pressed a blade against his throat. Lord Sean followed the rating’s cutlass back to its hilt, and then to the face above, which had perched above it a green, white, and red cockade.
“A Gull Flagger,” Lord Sean whispered, his eyes narrowing in distaste.
“And you’re a Royalist,” replied the other man, studying Lord Sean’s white cockade. “Your gun, please,” he added, extending his free hand. Lord Sean handed it over, regretfully.
“Go ahead and kill me,” said Lord Sean, trying to hold a brave voice but failing miserably. “I fear not death, and will gladly die in service of King and country.”
“Not today, I don’t think,” smiled the other, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and removing the blade. “Perhaps another time.” The Gull Flagger tipped his hat to Lord Sean, tuned, and opened the door to the pub. Almost at once, his body was torn apart by rounds from at least three rifles. The bloody pile of flesh and bone that had once been a man fell wetly onto the floor while Lord Sean looked on in horror. Outside, he could see shadowy shapes advancing on the door.
Quickly, Lord Sean drew his revolver and cocked it. He didn’t know who these new ones were, but they weren’t royalists. For a few seconds, he lay on the dusty floor, not even noticing he was right next to a chunk of what used to be the Gull Flagger’s brain, and waited with his heart pounding his temples.
Nothing seemed to happen. No one tried to walk in the door for those long moments and Lord Sean started to wonder if perhaps they had gone away. Then a hand appeared briefly. Lord Sean fired at it and missed. The report didn’t let him hear the clink clink of a grenade rolling across the room. He saw it stop right in front of him and had just enough time to realize what it was.
------
The Gull Flag barricade on Edward Street raised a ragged cheer as the Super Colt flew overhead, raking the attacking formation with 20mm cannon fire. One or two of the Radicals were torn asunder, but most crawled into cover and started to regroup. The Colt banked high over the city and started to come about for another pass when suddenly a rocket exploded out of one of the buildings. It followed the Colt through an evasive maneuver, then slammed into the aeroflyer.
The Colt exploded spectacularly, raining part of the eastern city with metal and fire. Before the Gull Flaggers could even conceptualize what was happening, the Radicals were on them again.
It was never a fair fight: the Radicals held every advantage, from firepower to manpower to technology to training. Bit by bit, the Gull Flaggers were killed or forced back until the last few threw down their weapons and surrendered at the city’s edge. Those who surrendered were allowed to return to the United Kingdom without exception, providing they wasted not time in doing so.
Back at the Blotted Parchment, Comrade Marhanson stepped gingerly over Lord Sean’s corpse. It was hard to avoid, given that they boy was splattered all over the floor and walls.
“Poor boy,” whispered Marhanson, picking up the tattered cocked hat which lay near what may have once been a face. He held it in his hand for several seconds, before gently setting it on a nearby chair. “But what must be done, must be done.”
Behind him, one or two of his faithful along with that Old Guard man stepped into the room. Marhanson deliberately avoided their eyes; his own ended up on the giant poster of King James and the flanking portraits of Sir Thomas Gurney and Sir John Northrupt.
“Take them down,” he ordered, his voice much steadier than he had expected it to be. “Take them all down and cast them into the street.”
Oh, and in case any of you wonder, I have every intenton of replying in the various threads in which I’m already involved. It’s been a busy couple days and I’ve spent most of my effort on this, as I’ve been meaning to get it up for some time now. Sorry for the delay!
Oh, and in case anyone wonders about the vague references to ‘Salvador,’ ‘King James, or ‘Sir Thomas Gurney’: The Battle of Salvador was the center piece of the (in Iansislean style) New Tiamat Crisis. The Tarriff Government, eager to smite what it saw as communist aggression, offered military protection to the Kingdom of Victoria and Salvador against Beth Gellert. Long story short, Iansislean hubris combined with poor technology to lead to 3,000+ dead Shieldians and two Beth Gellens lost to enemy action. HIMS King James I was the Iansislean flagship and was sunk with a little less than 700 men, including Commodore Sir Thomas Gurney. Gurney was later elevated to some sort of martyr-hero, even if was more than a little mad , an anti-communist fanatic, and a very poor example for children everywhere.))
Wyclyfe, the Kingdom of Wyclyfe
The door to the pub slammed open and one Lord Sean Galadason, second son of the Duke of Eastmorn threw himself in. The lanky youth took a few seconds to scramble behind the deserted bar and sat there panting. At last catching his breath, Lord Sean had time to examine his surroundings more carefully.
He was in the Blotted Parchment, the local patriotic nonsense pub. The walls were still dotted with the red and white of St Patrick’s Cross and the colors of various famous units, like the IV Rifles and II Light Dragoons. Behind the bar hung a large painting depicting the Battle of Salvador (or at least the artist’s version of it); King James steamed valiantly away from the island, firing her main battery at what seemed to be distant ships of the line while shells dug into the ocean around her.
But Lord Sean didn’t have time to criticize the decor. He’d hardly been there a minute when the door burst open again. He rolled back around the bar and fired at the shadowy figure just coming through the door. Lord Sean worked the bolt action with the skill born of years of hunting on his father’s private game reserve, but swore as the magazine came up dry. He hadn’t been keeping track of how many shots he had left. Retreating back behind the bar, Lord Sean worked feverishly to eject the spent magazine and insert another one. He’d done it thousands of times, but it was different here, where gunfire rang outside and someone who wanted to kill him was only a handful of yards away. He dropped the magazine, swore again, and reached to pick it up.
He was stopped by someone who pressed a blade against his throat. Lord Sean followed the rating’s cutlass back to its hilt, and then to the face above, which had perched above it a green, white, and red cockade.
“A Gull Flagger,” Lord Sean whispered, his eyes narrowing in distaste.
“And you’re a Royalist,” replied the other man, studying Lord Sean’s white cockade. “Your gun, please,” he added, extending his free hand. Lord Sean handed it over, regretfully.
“Go ahead and kill me,” said Lord Sean, trying to hold a brave voice but failing miserably. “I fear not death, and will gladly die in service of King and country.”
“Not today, I don’t think,” smiled the other, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and removing the blade. “Perhaps another time.” The Gull Flagger tipped his hat to Lord Sean, tuned, and opened the door to the pub. Almost at once, his body was torn apart by rounds from at least three rifles. The bloody pile of flesh and bone that had once been a man fell wetly onto the floor while Lord Sean looked on in horror. Outside, he could see shadowy shapes advancing on the door.
Quickly, Lord Sean drew his revolver and cocked it. He didn’t know who these new ones were, but they weren’t royalists. For a few seconds, he lay on the dusty floor, not even noticing he was right next to a chunk of what used to be the Gull Flagger’s brain, and waited with his heart pounding his temples.
Nothing seemed to happen. No one tried to walk in the door for those long moments and Lord Sean started to wonder if perhaps they had gone away. Then a hand appeared briefly. Lord Sean fired at it and missed. The report didn’t let him hear the clink clink of a grenade rolling across the room. He saw it stop right in front of him and had just enough time to realize what it was.
------
The Gull Flag barricade on Edward Street raised a ragged cheer as the Super Colt flew overhead, raking the attacking formation with 20mm cannon fire. One or two of the Radicals were torn asunder, but most crawled into cover and started to regroup. The Colt banked high over the city and started to come about for another pass when suddenly a rocket exploded out of one of the buildings. It followed the Colt through an evasive maneuver, then slammed into the aeroflyer.
The Colt exploded spectacularly, raining part of the eastern city with metal and fire. Before the Gull Flaggers could even conceptualize what was happening, the Radicals were on them again.
It was never a fair fight: the Radicals held every advantage, from firepower to manpower to technology to training. Bit by bit, the Gull Flaggers were killed or forced back until the last few threw down their weapons and surrendered at the city’s edge. Those who surrendered were allowed to return to the United Kingdom without exception, providing they wasted not time in doing so.
Back at the Blotted Parchment, Comrade Marhanson stepped gingerly over Lord Sean’s corpse. It was hard to avoid, given that they boy was splattered all over the floor and walls.
“Poor boy,” whispered Marhanson, picking up the tattered cocked hat which lay near what may have once been a face. He held it in his hand for several seconds, before gently setting it on a nearby chair. “But what must be done, must be done.”
Behind him, one or two of his faithful along with that Old Guard man stepped into the room. Marhanson deliberately avoided their eyes; his own ended up on the giant poster of King James and the flanking portraits of Sir Thomas Gurney and Sir John Northrupt.
“Take them down,” he ordered, his voice much steadier than he had expected it to be. “Take them all down and cast them into the street.”