Abargrapt
19-07-2004, 01:57
ABARGRAPT
The situation:
Inhabiting The Continent along with The Eastgater Federation’s five states and unknown numbers of native Polynesian stone age tribes, Abargrapt’s old leadership had waged a suicidal war of expansion against Federal interests and had been crushed by their larger neighbour. At one stage, when the tide of war was beginning to change in Federal favour, the Abargraptines had been offered membership of the Federal Union under the Eastgater King, but had stubbornly refused. Months later, Federal forces stabbed across the Gran Desavi river, penetrating the Abargraptine heartland and forcing a less kind armistice.
Prince Willard, the idiot son of the Eastgater king, had been imposed upon the now Principality of Abargrapt, and the once ambitious nation had been forced to labour under punishing tariffs and countless restrictions to its sovereignty.
Just a few years ago began serious movement for change. It started with nationalist rabble-rousers sneaking about in the shadows, stepping out to throw a daring curse at Principality Constables before retreating again to get drunk and speak well of the stuffy old buffoons that’d lead their country to war (and ruin). When a sickly but vocal little draft-dodger named Swann was rescued from a hunger-induced faint in the gutter and taken to the local headquarters of one such shadowy organisation, the Bluesocks, things began really to change. Swann became friends with a major thug in the ultra-nationalist Bluesocks movement (so called because its vigilante recruits wore a uniform characterised by its knee-high blue stockings), a Sergeant Hercule Shoemake, rhetoric and violence were married. A brawl that lead to the murder of a member of the Principality Constabulary put Swann and some of his comrades in gaol, the little spitfire contracting tuberculosis during his stay.
In the months following his release, Ernest Swann, now a hero to the working class, became head of the Movement For Abargrapt. From there Swann was created Chancellor of the Abargraptine People’s Republic when the Movement was consolidated in the form of the Abatov Party and swept to power in elections arranged by the party itself. Prince Willard’s royal train was intercepted, reportedly by angry civilians, as he tried to leave for the Federation, and the entire royal household was slaughtered. With Abatov’s treaty-breaking military build-up and the Federation's long-running culture of complacency, New Eastgate was unable as well as unwilling to act.
Now Chancellor Swann looks to build upon his momentum and to reclaim lands lost to his Republic of fifteen million emancipated souls, lands occupied variously by thousands of primitive natives, hundreds of lawless prospectors, and more than twenty five million Federal citizens.
THE PACIFIC OCEAN, OFF WAYLU STATE
“...nine knots, steady as she goes, sir.”
“Very good, Hyulens.
"Ensign, tell the Admiral I shall join him for tea in twelve minutes, when the watch changes.”
The young ensign gave a prompt, “Aye, sir!” and departed the bridge without managing to hide much of his paranoid confusion over whether he was to deliver the message to Admiral Tarnat in twelve minutes, or, “Oh! Excus... Si... Admiral... the ah, tea...”
Tarnat hurried the words out of the boy that’d just crashed into him and almost gone over the railing, and then waved him off. That damn Captain Griffiths rubbed Tarnat the wrong way with his to-the-letter adherence to protocol. Tarnat had penned the damn rules, and didn’t appreciate being made to follow them at the insistence of some ruddy seadog. Tarnat himself didn’t much like boats, when he grew up Abargrapt had no navy. He became an Admiral because it was an opportunity for social progress and had presented itself quite suddenly, following the election or coup as it may be called, depending on what side you fell.
Tea was uneventful. The hour following it, however, was not, for both Captain Grace Griffiths and Admiral Tarnat were coaxed from their cabins by the reported sighting by AS Comrade, their destroyer escort, of torpedoes ahead. It turned out to be a false alarm, again, and Tarnat muttered in pleasure as the little vessel turned for home following the event, citing the severe depletion of its modest bunkerage. The Captain was less thrilled, for he rather felt that the much-reduced Federal Admiralty was, in lieu of worthy warships, likely to deploy torpedoes to counter the sudden emergence of the Republican fleet. Much better to have 500ts of destroyer plough into a nest of torpedoes than to risk the battleship Kindsley’s 8,000ts.
The hours rolled on as Kindsley steamed south, the great Clades peaks, visible off port, fading slowly away as the 460 Republicans, nearing the end of their long-range patrol, passed from neutral to Federal waters.
A whistle again called the attention of the higher-ups, but this time Tarnat took no mind, assuming that some watery fool had caught site of a peculiar bird or some such. Griffiths made his way above the bridge to the lookout’s post.
“What have you, seaman?”
“It’s a ship, sah.” Said the young man, stepping away from the telescope and nodding to the southeast. “Just off shore, sah, looks like the Testudo.” He bravely ventured.
“No.” Said the Captain, slowly.
Peering through the eyepiece he added, “She was rusting in drydock while you were still a boy, it must be Chelonia.”
Griffiths clucked his tongue to himself as he gave a glance to the man at his side, realising that this was still a boy who could hardly have been more than sixteen, and probably wasn't born when the Testudo turned to rust.
“Sound the guns.” The Captain ordered, indicating the need for ringing of the ship’s bells in such a fashion as to instruct the men to make ready for action. Kindsley was preparing to engage what she held to be an ancient ironclad of the Federal Fleet. The Admiral was woken to confirm standing orders that would authorise such an aggressive action so far from home.
The situation:
Inhabiting The Continent along with The Eastgater Federation’s five states and unknown numbers of native Polynesian stone age tribes, Abargrapt’s old leadership had waged a suicidal war of expansion against Federal interests and had been crushed by their larger neighbour. At one stage, when the tide of war was beginning to change in Federal favour, the Abargraptines had been offered membership of the Federal Union under the Eastgater King, but had stubbornly refused. Months later, Federal forces stabbed across the Gran Desavi river, penetrating the Abargraptine heartland and forcing a less kind armistice.
Prince Willard, the idiot son of the Eastgater king, had been imposed upon the now Principality of Abargrapt, and the once ambitious nation had been forced to labour under punishing tariffs and countless restrictions to its sovereignty.
Just a few years ago began serious movement for change. It started with nationalist rabble-rousers sneaking about in the shadows, stepping out to throw a daring curse at Principality Constables before retreating again to get drunk and speak well of the stuffy old buffoons that’d lead their country to war (and ruin). When a sickly but vocal little draft-dodger named Swann was rescued from a hunger-induced faint in the gutter and taken to the local headquarters of one such shadowy organisation, the Bluesocks, things began really to change. Swann became friends with a major thug in the ultra-nationalist Bluesocks movement (so called because its vigilante recruits wore a uniform characterised by its knee-high blue stockings), a Sergeant Hercule Shoemake, rhetoric and violence were married. A brawl that lead to the murder of a member of the Principality Constabulary put Swann and some of his comrades in gaol, the little spitfire contracting tuberculosis during his stay.
In the months following his release, Ernest Swann, now a hero to the working class, became head of the Movement For Abargrapt. From there Swann was created Chancellor of the Abargraptine People’s Republic when the Movement was consolidated in the form of the Abatov Party and swept to power in elections arranged by the party itself. Prince Willard’s royal train was intercepted, reportedly by angry civilians, as he tried to leave for the Federation, and the entire royal household was slaughtered. With Abatov’s treaty-breaking military build-up and the Federation's long-running culture of complacency, New Eastgate was unable as well as unwilling to act.
Now Chancellor Swann looks to build upon his momentum and to reclaim lands lost to his Republic of fifteen million emancipated souls, lands occupied variously by thousands of primitive natives, hundreds of lawless prospectors, and more than twenty five million Federal citizens.
THE PACIFIC OCEAN, OFF WAYLU STATE
“...nine knots, steady as she goes, sir.”
“Very good, Hyulens.
"Ensign, tell the Admiral I shall join him for tea in twelve minutes, when the watch changes.”
The young ensign gave a prompt, “Aye, sir!” and departed the bridge without managing to hide much of his paranoid confusion over whether he was to deliver the message to Admiral Tarnat in twelve minutes, or, “Oh! Excus... Si... Admiral... the ah, tea...”
Tarnat hurried the words out of the boy that’d just crashed into him and almost gone over the railing, and then waved him off. That damn Captain Griffiths rubbed Tarnat the wrong way with his to-the-letter adherence to protocol. Tarnat had penned the damn rules, and didn’t appreciate being made to follow them at the insistence of some ruddy seadog. Tarnat himself didn’t much like boats, when he grew up Abargrapt had no navy. He became an Admiral because it was an opportunity for social progress and had presented itself quite suddenly, following the election or coup as it may be called, depending on what side you fell.
Tea was uneventful. The hour following it, however, was not, for both Captain Grace Griffiths and Admiral Tarnat were coaxed from their cabins by the reported sighting by AS Comrade, their destroyer escort, of torpedoes ahead. It turned out to be a false alarm, again, and Tarnat muttered in pleasure as the little vessel turned for home following the event, citing the severe depletion of its modest bunkerage. The Captain was less thrilled, for he rather felt that the much-reduced Federal Admiralty was, in lieu of worthy warships, likely to deploy torpedoes to counter the sudden emergence of the Republican fleet. Much better to have 500ts of destroyer plough into a nest of torpedoes than to risk the battleship Kindsley’s 8,000ts.
The hours rolled on as Kindsley steamed south, the great Clades peaks, visible off port, fading slowly away as the 460 Republicans, nearing the end of their long-range patrol, passed from neutral to Federal waters.
A whistle again called the attention of the higher-ups, but this time Tarnat took no mind, assuming that some watery fool had caught site of a peculiar bird or some such. Griffiths made his way above the bridge to the lookout’s post.
“What have you, seaman?”
“It’s a ship, sah.” Said the young man, stepping away from the telescope and nodding to the southeast. “Just off shore, sah, looks like the Testudo.” He bravely ventured.
“No.” Said the Captain, slowly.
Peering through the eyepiece he added, “She was rusting in drydock while you were still a boy, it must be Chelonia.”
Griffiths clucked his tongue to himself as he gave a glance to the man at his side, realising that this was still a boy who could hardly have been more than sixteen, and probably wasn't born when the Testudo turned to rust.
“Sound the guns.” The Captain ordered, indicating the need for ringing of the ship’s bells in such a fashion as to instruct the men to make ready for action. Kindsley was preparing to engage what she held to be an ancient ironclad of the Federal Fleet. The Admiral was woken to confirm standing orders that would authorise such an aggressive action so far from home.