NationStates Jolt Archive

Through the choppy waters of the North Atlantic cut the less than splendid bows of a small cruise ship belonged to a second-rate holiday company from a probably second-rate nation. Aboard were a few dozen people of various extractions. A few loud middle aged couples from a country with no class, a quiet man with field glasses and other trappings of the enthusiastic birdwatcher, a number of hands loaded-up on cheap spirits from home and more from the last island, one or two younger couples full of regret for having brought their young children on tour of Scotland's ice-cream and theme park deprived western isles. A handful of jittery utopians with garden tools and a bag of hammers hidden under their cagouls as if there was a real chance of somebody identifying them as weapons. The usual.

The boat had taken its time in staggering, aged and intoxicated, though the swells from its last call at the naturally beautiful Monach Isles to a point where its next and final outward-bound stop could be clearly seen.

"That's St.Kilda, that's it!" Whispered one young utopian to the others.
"Yes, yes" replied another, wiping something nasty from his windswept face, "that's Hirta."
"Where's Dun? I can't see Dun, are we coming in the wrong way?"
"No, no, it's there, on the left, and it really doesn't matter which way we come in, we'll be driving, soon."

---

On the far side of the little St.Kilda archipelago there bobbed on the waves of the open sea a rather smaller vessel, this one hired for the day by still more of the mischievous utopians. These chaps, unencumbered by the the weights of women and reason that so restricted their comrades aboard the cruise ship, were positively armed to the teeth! One of them had a single-barrel .410 shotgun, and, rumour had it, several shells which may even have been in working order and of the proper gauge. Another, for some reason, had a rubber-band-fired harpoon gun, while a few others had sporting slingshots, knives, lump hammers, and one, from whom his surprised comrades were doing their darndest on the little boat to keep a distance, had managed somehow to weld several razor blades and large nails to a spade, and also to a sledgehammer. Nobody had quite expected, nor saw the need for that. "Jesus Christ." Muttered one air-pistol-weilding thirty-something in a bright orange knitted hoodie.

---

"A- all right, listen-up!"
"God damn it."
"He didn't hear you, Dave."
"Hit him with the hammers! Go on, he's drunk, he probably wouldn't feel it!"
"No, just, get in there..."
"...It's locked."
"Oh, for... here, hit it with the..." 'Dave' took a slightly sharpened trowel from one of his fellows and began to bang the hilt of it against the handle of the door to the cruise ship's bridge, where in the intoxicated captain could be seen, wobbling and squinting towards the St.Kilda islands.
"Why don't you use one of the hammers, Dave?"

Dave tried not to look as if the notion of removing one of the hammers from the bag, meant to be swung as a weapon, had previously failed to strike him as he withdrew one and used the claw to force at the lock, before a friend took a second hammer and chucked it through the window and then reached inside to grant the half dozen or so conspirators access to the fortress of a bridge. The captain looked positively horrified by the arrival of the hammer and the shattering of glass, and very nearly fell over as the friends dashed on to his bridge, two of the young women shrieking and hopping up and down in excitement while the most nervous young man set to smashing with his recovered trowel several of the liquor bottles that were strewn about. "Ha-ha!" he said.

The captain was quickly surrounded and prodded with fingers and garden utensils until he could stand no more and cried, "Who the f--- are you and why is he like that?!" nodding towards the cackling young Nigel with his trowel.
"We're the bloody Rescue Rangers, and that's just Nigel!" Replied Dave, before a nudge reminded him that, really, they were serious, and people were supposed to know who they were, so he quickly apologised and took-back the Rescue Rangers quip. He explained instead that they were the Skilirs, or very soon would be, because he [the capitan] was going to take them to Hirta [St.Kilda's main island]! What did he think of that?

He thought that was what he was being paid for, and what they had bought tickets for, actually, and really didn't see the need for all of the cackling, prodding, bags full of hammers, but he supposed that, well, he was drunk, so perhaps it made sense, really. "Okay" he said, "I'll have to check with the company" and he looked towards the ship's radio.

"Ah ha! Now we know where your radio is!" Barked Nigel, managing even to provoke a disapproving glance from the hapless Dave.

The ship, eventually, pressed on towards the St.Kilda archipelago, passengers and crew alike wondering, "What's up? Is something happening?" and as minutes dragged on, people began to tire of sitting off shore, with some shrill tourist squeaking about how they'd hoped to see the Amazon's house or some such. The fact of ruffians on the bridge soon became common knowledge as everybody became jolly excited, a mood quickly turned for the worse when the hired boat turned up along side to give the impression of an operation better planned than was really the case. The hammer with razors and nails on it had a certain psychological impact, too.

Hours later, the odd spectacle was still in fact as the sun began to decline, the cruise liner now seriously over-due in whatever country it was expected home.


(Hello there. I am aware that a lot of people play as Britain or parts there of, and that other people use the British Isles as part of their empire, but I'm not familiar with all the details of who and what world and so on and so forth, nor really of whom would be a reasonable role player, but I suppose that, a British involvement would be ideal. Also, just as a tool for introductions and that, it would be okay for someone to play the country of the cruise liner's origin, and for people to play tourists on the cruise, if they wish. No super commandos on a break, unless they're comic super commandos prone to screwing-up, I suppose, as -for the sake of my nation state- I require that most, indeed ideally all of the utopians survive, unless I choose to kill one or two off for the fun of it. I'm not looking to start a war, as, at the moment, Skildir consists of a few utopians from various nations, mainly Britain but also any other nation state willing to give up a citizen or two, without a country, so can't be fighting any wars just now. This is just a light-hearted introduction that should establish my nation, but if someone does end up representing Britain or Britain as part of their empire, if they agree to a sort of slight loss here they can treat the Skildirs as shabbily as they like for all eternity here after.)

^

Long story short...

In the western isles of Scotland, a mid-size cruise liner, somewhat run-down and operating either from a poor nation or a corrupt contractor, has been hijacked, sort of, by a band of utopians drawn from around the world, thanks to the wonders of global communication. The utopians hope to take the St.Kilda archipelago (British territory once inhabited by people with community of goods and their own parliament before hard-line Christianity completely gutted their society and their currency-free economy and the islands were evacuated), now home only to rare birds, few tourists, and a radar station operated for the British military by civilian contractors. They wish to build there a utopian society akin to the one that previously existed without the evils of global capitalism, and was very successful until infested by commerce and religion, where upon it failed totally.

If anyone plays the UK or claims the British isles as part of their emprie, they may wish to get involved, or Skildir shall be formed on this little island chain, and you can cry about it later :)

ooc- I don't RP Britain, but wish to get involved....

IC-
Emperor Francis sat leaning in his chair. He was sipping a glass of Red Wine when Count John Antonette, his Secratary of War and Intelligence walked in.

"Francis, there is a small band of Rouges who wish to establish a nation called Skildir on St. Kilda off of Scotland.

The Emperor pounded his fist on the table.
"DAMN" he yelled, "St. Kilda shouldn't be taken by rouges. My God, we can dispatch a few naval ships and be done with them. I want that isle, or at least make it remain as it was, but not by a band of men not any better than terrorists."

Ridgian Naval Vessels. sighted the Utopian junk ship.
Message to the Utopians-
"We have your ship in sight.. We want the isle. Stay clear and you shall not be harmed."

Murray Mitatchale had no real desire to be hijacked. Had he thought about it previously, he might even have selected a spade with razor blades and barbed wire welded to it as the weapon he least wanted to be hijacked with. On the other hand, the day after he arrived back in the DRP, he'd be walking up the aisle of matrimonial servitude, so he wasn't in any special hurry to leave.

Cameron Redebe was, symbolically speaking, the best man. In more literal terms, he was likely always to be the best man in any room, assuming that that room was in a nunnery or in solitary confinement. It was a measure of Cameron that he had booked a stag weekend cruise to Scotland's windblasted Western Isles because "Muz likes Westerns".

"Muz, wake up!" hissed Redebe. "There's people coming on the boat with weapons and shit!"

Mitatchale opened his eyes. It hurt. "Cammy, for fuck's sake, stop hitting my head"

"I'm not."

"Oh. Right." He wondered whether he should have heeded advice that a cruise to Skye and Islay was not the best occasion to be drinking Spanish whisky.

The door burst open. Standing in the frame was a gentleman whose stockiness enabled him to entirely fill the bottom two-thirds of the doorway. He appeared very much to have a pit-bull's head on a fat child's body, although this is a compromise of words and he was actually slightly less attractive than that. He commanded instant respect. Because there were razor-blades on his spade.

"Cammy, if this one starts stripping, I am going to pull your tongue out through your arse," growled Muz, closing his eyes to the alcoholic and visual pain.

OOC: Tagged, because it's amusing. Sorry, not interested in joining in right now though.

Alexander 'Lucky Jack' Jackson hadn't quite noticed the hijacking at this point, as the hunamoid wolf staggered out of the off-deck washroom after adding somewhat to the unsanitary conditions therein, and made his way to the bow of the ship; a half-empty wine bottle in tow, whose contents might have been mistaken for a rather strong batch of Everclear, if it were not for it's healthy green glow.

After several minutes, the lupine manages to make his way front of the ship, where a trio of boxes lay, along with a hand-rail tripod he had set up prior to reliving himself.

"Who the fushk's been fushkn' with mah stuff?!" he slurrs upon spotting noticing the tripod is set up, befor squinting and bending over to look at it, "Ehh.. ah waths goth'ta go fiss'n anyhey."


And with that, and a swig from his bottle, he continues setting up the gyroscopicly stabalised .50 calibre semi-automatic sniper rifle, all the while humming the off-tune bastard child of no fewer than severn war songs, from nearly half as many countries.

(I am sorry that this has taken so long. I'm not sure if I'll be around constantly from now on, or be prone to silent periods like this, but since my handful of utopians aren't going to be a major force in the world, I'm assuming that it won't put anybody's nation out too greatly if we're a bit unpredictable.)

The early hours of the odd crisis had passed without further event. Eventually, some of the arrivals from aboard the rented boat took charge of the situation, in spite of protests from other utopians in regard to the undemocratic nature of their authority, and the utopians set to the task of... stealing the cruise liner's lifeboats.

What followed was a somewhat daring raid on St.Kilda, with a rented trawler and various powered and unpowered launches and lifeboats bringing a significant number of utopians ashore while the liner was brought in to Village Harbour at Hirta, the archipelago's largest island. The captain resisted, calling the swell too great, and the ship promptly crashed into the harbour's landing ramp. It was after this point, with everyone on board well and truly awoken to the odd reality of their situation, that the bridge received communication from the Cherry Ridgian vessels. This was not really expected by the utopians who assumed that they'd have only the largely mild-mannered British administration to deal with, and perhaps some sort of United Nations intervention that probably wouldn't do them much harm.

Heads were scratched.

In the bowels of the ship (flattered by the title, "passengers' uni-class quarters") Ceri Francis was the tag applied to the edgy chap with the razor-edged spade, as the stag weekenders would -after a couple of hours in his unnerving presence- have figured out. In fact he -like most of the utopians- would turn out to be a fairly amiable acquaintance, putting himself and his comrades out of their way to find Mr.Mitatchale some painkillers... but he was still a big jittery hijacker with a shovel covered in razor blades and nails.

Eventually, with 'their' ship lodged against the harbour wall in Village Bay, the utopian's own 'Dave' replied to the Ridgian vessel, saying, "You want the isle? It's home to the Skilders, now! If any amongst you wish to join our utopian community, you're welcome to lay down your arms and come ashore! We're not giving up our hostages until the [British] government recognises our right to live here!"

Inquisitive hostages would easily learn that the utopians considered that since their forerunners had left of their own free will, and had always recognised the British crown and considered themselves Britons even if they'd had their own parliament, and since nobody had moved in since, London really had no right to expect anyone to pay to resettle the land. The utopians were, they said, simply St.Kildans resettling home and intending to live in the traditional way, with community of goods and a sort of direct democracy as had worked for generations before anyone even invented terms like, "communism", and until Christian busy-bodies arrived to gut the islands.

Observing a map (http://www.northernlight-uk.com/images/kildamap_(c)_hthompson.jpg) of the archipelago, one can clearly see the fairly modest ambition of the aspiring utopian statesmen. The islands presently support no year-round population, and with the capture of a civilian-run military radar station, they are already under full utopian control.

...on Hirta, utopians were opening more bottles of cheap plonk, celebrating their success thus far, and quite out of contact with those still sitting aboard the boat at the radio.

The Ridgian naval ship began to fire above the ship. Surly, it would scare them into thinking they were under attack. It might scare them into thinking it was a real attacks, and to make them surrender earlier.

"JESUS CHRIST! It's the Royal Navy!" Screamed Young Nigel, sprinting from the jetty and towards the surrounding cliffs in a flourish of hammers and bags and mittens that he knew he should have kept on strings, but oh well.

"No it isn't, it's some foreign lunatics!" Bellowed Dave after the runner who was by now lost to vocal range. "Ceri, check if we 'aven't got any Ridgians on board, we'll dangle 'em by their ankles or something until they stop shooting at us.

"Uhm, do you think that'll work?"

"Better idea?"

"...Anybody here from Cherry Ridge? There's a sick Ridgian on the radio for a relative aboard!" Shouted the big shovel-weilding chap in a pretty obvious lie as he hopefully searched the cruise liner for Ridgian hostages.

While the search went on, Dave turned to the radio and tried to contact the Ridgians again. "Look! What do you want?" He pleaded, "We aren't a threat" "Unless the gun the British installed to ward-off German u-boats is still working" muttered somebody in the background, "we're just trying to re-populate lands raped of habitation by meddling Christian missionaries generations ago. You'd better get out of here before the British take your fleet as an invasion and torpedo you. I... look, if any of you want to follow the utopian vision of democracy, independence, and community then maybe you can visit when we're set up, eh?" He said, rather over optimistic.

"What if we agree to give Ridgian tourists first refusal on seasonal holiday homes?" Dave finished with his amazingly poor trump card.

"There are no Ridgians aboard your ship. We are a Catholic nation. Bad move on the Christian missionary remark. You had best surrender before we torpedo you." said the Captain over the radio.

"They're going to torpedo us."

"What, the fricking island?!"

"I assume the liner, eh?"

"But she's run-aground at the jetty."

"Yup."

"And she's full of foreign civilians."

"Aye."

"So these Ridgians are a race of crazy people?"

"What, like us?"

"Crafty devils!"

"Okay, I have a plan. Sort of."

"Oh dear..."

Not much later the little cruise liner, a dangerous hole in its waterline, was moving out from Village Bay. She was laden with her original crew and the multi-national passengers less those few utopians, who had -in the face of lunatics with torpedoes- given-up on their hostage plan and who alone had remained on St.Kilda's main island of Hirta. The crew was instructed to send out a distress signal, as their ship was taking on water and they were apparently in the Ridgian firing-line.

Ashore, the Utopians began taking to the little island's hills atop its record-breaking cliffs, ducking into a few caves, and scattering across the little land they meant to call home. They were in the order of two hundred strong, all told, and using their one and only satellite phone to hassle the world's media on the subject of their cause and its plight.

(Sorry that this keeps taking forever!)

ooc- No problem that its taking so long, sometimes I like a little slower paced RPs

ic-

"Sir, the bastards are sending out a signal"

"Wheres it coming from?"

"The hills"

"DAMN THOSE BASTARDS! FIRE ON THE HILLS"

One after one naval guns began to streak towards the cliffs, hopefully to make some of the rocks collapse.