The Dajan Reich
20-04-2007, 17:00
Late April was a warm time within the Reich's borders. As winter lost her grip, clothing should have become more scarce, color more common, and laughter should have sounded nearly constantly. In the past, the last day of April had been a joyous festival, with feasting and dancing and love-making.
But for more than thirty years the Despot had ruled, with the aid of lurking foreign powers, and he had ground the Dajan people beneath the heel of his boot. Liberties vanished and suffering became commonplace. Some years, folk in the far Highlands starved during winter, and yet the Dajan government still managed to export generous quotas of beef and grain from the rich lowlands of the North.
And now, still twelve-days short of the appointed date, the preperations were underway for the thirty-third Triumph, the great military maneuvers and parades of the Lannister despot. The fierce old dictator would be in attendance himself, as always, and as such, the military and civilian security inside the Reich's capital city of Daja was swarming.
So, it came as a suprise to no-one that the fellow who stood near a the front of a warehouse not far from the main depot of military vehicles and ordinance, casually puffing at a rolled joint that emitted a pungent and sweet-smelling smoke, was accosted by a white-sleeved Stalwart. With a frown the soldier pulled his sidearm and barked,"Y' gone fuckin' daft there? Toss that t' the ground, there an' then raise your hands."
Nor was anyone suprised when the Stalwart stepped forward and struck with the pistol barrel, bringing it down with bad intentions at the man's skull.
What did suprise those who watched was when the smoking man leapt, never losing his smoke, and kicked the soldier in the jaw. The wet crunch was audible all along the busy street, as was the snick-snick of the Stalwart's gun, caught and reversed by his assailant, the clip sliding free and into his other hand before the legs of the corpse gave way.
He stood, absently looking over the piece as screams sounded all along the street and the alarm was raised. Seconds passed in this manner, chaos erupting around him, with the man standing and staring at the shining weapon in his fist.
Fuck. Now why'd I do that? went through his mind just as the first shots sliced down the street, uncaring of civilian bystanders. The man hit the ground and rolled, dragging back the slide on More screams sounded and echoed off the storefronts surrounding the area, now flickering bright with muzzle flashes.
The man was rolling, away from the strafing fire of the fistful of white-sleeves he could see gathering, his new gun coming up and his smoke still clamped in his teeth, though now broken and nearly disintegrated.
And so, John Rocker, thug, killer and mobster, became a Revolutionary, and all because of a woman, her shit, and the joint that would have put her behind him. Fuck.
But for more than thirty years the Despot had ruled, with the aid of lurking foreign powers, and he had ground the Dajan people beneath the heel of his boot. Liberties vanished and suffering became commonplace. Some years, folk in the far Highlands starved during winter, and yet the Dajan government still managed to export generous quotas of beef and grain from the rich lowlands of the North.
And now, still twelve-days short of the appointed date, the preperations were underway for the thirty-third Triumph, the great military maneuvers and parades of the Lannister despot. The fierce old dictator would be in attendance himself, as always, and as such, the military and civilian security inside the Reich's capital city of Daja was swarming.
So, it came as a suprise to no-one that the fellow who stood near a the front of a warehouse not far from the main depot of military vehicles and ordinance, casually puffing at a rolled joint that emitted a pungent and sweet-smelling smoke, was accosted by a white-sleeved Stalwart. With a frown the soldier pulled his sidearm and barked,"Y' gone fuckin' daft there? Toss that t' the ground, there an' then raise your hands."
Nor was anyone suprised when the Stalwart stepped forward and struck with the pistol barrel, bringing it down with bad intentions at the man's skull.
What did suprise those who watched was when the smoking man leapt, never losing his smoke, and kicked the soldier in the jaw. The wet crunch was audible all along the busy street, as was the snick-snick of the Stalwart's gun, caught and reversed by his assailant, the clip sliding free and into his other hand before the legs of the corpse gave way.
He stood, absently looking over the piece as screams sounded all along the street and the alarm was raised. Seconds passed in this manner, chaos erupting around him, with the man standing and staring at the shining weapon in his fist.
Fuck. Now why'd I do that? went through his mind just as the first shots sliced down the street, uncaring of civilian bystanders. The man hit the ground and rolled, dragging back the slide on More screams sounded and echoed off the storefronts surrounding the area, now flickering bright with muzzle flashes.
The man was rolling, away from the strafing fire of the fistful of white-sleeves he could see gathering, his new gun coming up and his smoke still clamped in his teeth, though now broken and nearly disintegrated.
And so, John Rocker, thug, killer and mobster, became a Revolutionary, and all because of a woman, her shit, and the joint that would have put her behind him. Fuck.