NationStates Jolt Archive

Tokon Usupova fidgeted, wiping her hands on a teatowel as her son bustled around her, gathering up the papers he had spread over her kitchen table.

"Emil, you vex me so. Why do you have to cause trouble? You are not a bad Muslim for praying with us in the house. Do you think we are bad Muslims?"

"Mama," he replied, "you are not a bad Muslim because you do not go to the mosque. Marie is a bad Christian for not allowing you to do so. I pray in the house for Allah; I pray in the mosque for you."

"Emi, you be careful," she called, but he was already out of the door.



Emil arrived at the market and looked up at his mosque. The paint had been flaking for centuries, the windows were dirty. Emil's great-great-grandfather's father had been too young to remember the last time a crescent had adorned the minaret; his grandfather, in turn, too young to remember the last muezzin's call.

Even that last muezzin had lived his whole life under the Isolation. The Kaiser had shut Kanarra like an iron box three hundred years ago, or more. Folk tales were sung of the handful that had got out in that time. Myths and fairy stories whispered of those that had got in. And now, everything was different. Centuries of hiding, over in a morning, when Kaiserin Marie sat har adolescent behind on the golden throne.

The Chamber was overflowing with merchants from Kuzern and Argovilla, hawking silks and fruit, salt fish and grain, and, now, many, many things Emil could not identify. Marie's teenage rebellion had brought the world to Mirzarabad, and it seemed that the world and his mule were in this one scruffy hall. Of course, to them, to the Kaiserin, to the world, that building was the Mirzarabad Chamber of Commerce. To Emil, it was the once and future Mosque of the Imam Kuzmat.

"Boo!" Emil spun round to face the gurning features of Borat Ismankulov, idiot, buffoon, cretin and his best friend in the world.

"Ismankulov, you moron, try to be serious. Aren't you nervous?"

"Ha! No, but Asanov is. Look!"

They looked across the marketplace to where a young man, good looking with long black hair slicked back with sweat, was playing with a ball of wicker, kicking and kneeing it up in the air, and watching it fall to the ground every half-dozen kicks with a look of frustration on his face. A crowd of young men and women surrounded him, whooping encouragement and derision.

"He did a thousand last week. Now he plays like a girl," said Borat, not bothering to hide his delight. As if to prove his point, a girl in her early teens knocked the ball out of the air with her head, and proceeded to juggle it like an acrobat, ending by catching it on the back of her neck. Even Yury Asanov cracked a smile.

The two walked over. "Emil," said Asanov, grasping Emil's hand, "are you ready?"

"Ready enough, God willing."

"Then let's do this." Asanov raised his voice to address the group. "Ladies and gentlemen, you know what to do. It's what we are meant to do every day. It's your right, and your duty. No-one will keep you from it any more."

The youths turned and strode, purposefully but nervously, through the crowded square to the giant open doors of the Chamber of Commerce. They spread out once inside, jostled by traders and shoppers, and looked up at the mihrab in the tall East wall, visualising Mecca through that formerly ornate false window. In front of the mihrab, a wooden platform allowed the customs men to watch over the trading on the floor. Asanov climbed onto this platform and faced the hall.

The official on the platform began to say "Excuse me, son, you can't - ," but before he could finish, Asanov had filled his lungs and cut through the bustle of the hall with a passionate, clarion call to prayer.

As the merchants and their customers turned to to gawp at Asanov in shock, his friends pulled prayermats from satchels and sacks, rolling them on to the trading floor and kneeling to Mecca, praying in their own mosque for the first time in ten thousand Fridays.

I am going to help the rebals.

Sending 8000 MV-22 Ospreys with 25 RAF Guerrilla WhiteSkulls
Sending 4000 RAH-66 Comanches
Sending 100 B-1B Lancer Bombers
Sending the 30th - 40th 2nd Marine Expiditionary Regiment (will send stats later)

OOC:

No offence to Roman Republic but:

a) All that has occurred is an unauthorised religious service. The authorities have not even acted against us yet. I cannot see how this is a reason to send an army.

b) Your force is massive. Mine is two dozen kids. What part would I have to play in this story if there were thousands of aircraft attacking Kanarra? Answer: none. Please let me roleplay.

c) Kanarra is a new nation. It cannot hope to defend itself against you. A small civil struggle could go either way - it's interesting. You turning Kanarra to glass in an afternoon is not.

For these reasons I suggest to Kanarra that we ignore the Roman Republic intervention.

OOC:

No offence to Roman Republic but:

a) All that has occurred is an unauthorised religious service. The authorities have not even acted against us yet. I cannot see how this is a reason to send an army.

b) Your force is massive. Mine is two dozen kids. What part would I have to play in this story if there were thousands of aircraft attacking Kanarra? Answer: none. Please let me roleplay.

c) Kanarra is a new nation. It cannot hope to defend itself against you. A small civil struggle could go either way - it's interesting. You turning Kanarra to glass in an afternoon is not.

For these reasons I suggest to Kanarra that we ignore the Roman Republic intervention.

My bad. I thought I was a full scale rebellion with alot of resistance aganist the goverment..

OOC: Alright I will reply now, this should be interesting, most interesting




IC:


As the youths began thier prayers a old merchant backed out of the Chamber and ran as fast as he could thru the streets to the police station down the block.


"Jose! Jose! Jose!" he yelled bursting through the front door "Some Muslim youths are praying in the Chamber of Commerance!"

Jose de la Hoseavilla, the 30-odd year police chief stood up in shock "What?! That is impossible! They know full well that their devil reilgon was banned!"

"They are Jose! Listen!" persisted the old man, just then the muzzien's call filtered in.

Grabbing his night stick and hat Jose yelled loudly "Alright all officers on duty in this room follow me now! We will put a stop to this... NOW!!!"

A few moments later the police men burst into the Chamber night sticks raised, Chief de la Hosevilla walked to the front of the front of the room and bellowed loudly.

"ATTENTION!!! YOU KIDS ARE NOW ORDERED TO DISPERSE IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER, SON, AND HOLY GHOST!!! YOU HAVE 10 MINUTES TO PACK IT UP AND MOVE OUT, OR WE WILL BE FORCED TO USE FORCE!!!"

de la Hoseavilla looked around and signaled to his men to seal off the exits as he waited for the youths response.


IN THE GOLDEN PALACE, AUSVIELLES

Kaiserin Marie looked at the paper in her hand, the letter from the so called Khuduk Liberation Front. She grew angery the more she read.

"Advisor Lundorrf.... tell Commander Rustoff to march on Mizarabad and crush this movement" said Marie, her lips a thin red line and her voice cold.

"My Kaiserin do you not think that sending a army division to deal with the problem is a bit of an overkill?" asked the advisor nervously

"Do not question my orders Advisor Lundorrf, just do as I say!" yelled Marie

Lundorrf nodded and spoke "As you command my Kaiserin" and then scurried like a rat out of the room.....

Yury Asanov held de la Hoseavilla's gaze for a second, then turned and knelt. As he lowered his head to the floor, he heard the officers rush in to arrest his friends. He fought the urge to turn and look; he just continued to pray and waited to feel a stick on his own back.

Emil caught glances as the policemen attacked. Chingiz Dyryzdayev, to his right, was knocked unconsious with a single blow. As the officer stoooped to grab Dyryzdayev's shoulders, Emil saw that it was Matthew LeBretton, who had built a treehouse with both Chingiz and Emil less than ten years ago. LeBretton dragged Dyryzdayev toward the door.

On his right, he saw an older officer grip Shazia Aliyeva and pull her to her feet. Aliyeva screamed and struggled, and as he did so Emil saw a knife tucked into the waistband of her trousers. The officer threw her to the floor and grabbed at her wrists. Shazia's one free hand reached for the knife.

"Shazia! No!" yelled Emil, rising to his knees, but the knife was already on its way up, up, into the man's side. Blood spilled across Shazia's prayermat and the officer fell.

At that bloody signal, the dozen officers by the door charged. A young officer swung at Shazia without breaking his stride. She was carried into the girl in front of her by the force of the blow and lay motionless on the stone floor, blood dribbling from her mouth. Emil looked up to see another officer running towards him, baton raised. Emil threw himself at the man's middle, carrying him to the ground. He grabbed the officer's wrist, smashing it against the floor and taking the weapon. He stumbled to where Shazia lay and turned her over, but there was no response. Emil swung the baton at an oncoming policeman. The man recoiled and raised his own weapon. He made to step forward again but was wrenched to the side by a flying Borat Ismankulov.

Emil dragged Shazia under the skirts of a leather trader's stall, laid her down and supported her head. She was breathing, shallowly.

"Shazia, can you hear me? Oh, Shazia, why did you bring that knife? It doesn't matter now, just wake up. Talk to me. I'm sorry I talked you into this. We'll lie to the police, we'll tell them you weren't even here and you'll get off. You can forget all about freedom fighting."

Shazia's eyelids fluttered. She looked at Emil through her puffy, purple and black eyes. "I talked you into this. You arrogant bastard," she croaked. A thin smile struggled to her lips.

She disappeared back into the hall, dragged by the ankles by two officers. Emil heard her pulled to her feet. A man shouted "you're the one that stabbed Johannes, aren't you?" A sickening sound like a butcher's mallet cracking a joint. "I said aren't you, you Mohammedan whore?" He threw her to the floor. Emil could see the back of her head, hair matted with blood. The man kicked her. "Say something, bitch!" His companion stooped. Emil worried that he might be seen, then cursed himself for being so selfish. "Leave it," the second officer said, "this bitch is dead."

Emil sat under that stall for hours, weeping, cursing, fearing every footstep that passed, talking to Shazia in his head, apologising over and over, swearing vengeance, begging forgiveness. The sun went down, the police cleared the hall, the customs men closed the great doors. Emil was left alone.

He crawled through a shutter and dropped down into an alley. Emil walked home. He knew they'd be looking for him, but he didn't feel like hiding. He almost wished they'd catch him, it'd serve him right for failing Shazia. But he saw not a soul until he opened the door of his home and saw his mother weeping at the table.

"Emil!" she wailed, "I thought you were arrested or killed or... How could you do this to me, Emil, I was dying with worry"

"I'm sorry, mama." Emil walked round the table and embraced his mother, holding her like he had when he was a toddler. He wept. He cried himself dry then, throat aching, shoulders shaking with dry sobs, he sat down.

"Emi, I told you not to make trouble. There's no good in it. I know the Kaisers keep us in our houses, tell us we can't pray. The police beat us, arrest us. But you'll only make it worse. What good can come of-"

"Cousin Shazia's dead."

Emil waited for his mother to start screaming, but it never came. Tokon Usupova looked her son in the eye for a minute, tears welling in her eyes. They spilled down her pale cheeks and she turned her face downward. Not sobbing, not wailing, not yelling, she let her tears drop onto the table for a long time.

Then she got up and left the room. Emil called to her, but she did not answer. Presently, though, she returned, carrying a long wooden box. She placed it on the table. "Emil, this was your father's. I wish it never had to be yours. But now it is."

Emil opened the box and found himself looking at a fine steel sabre, dull but smooth and untarnished. He covered his mouth with his hands, then reached down and took the grip. He lifted the sword from its box and held it, the blade lying on the table. He looked up. His face was hard.

"Sorry, mama."

Tokon leaned out of the door to the stairwell. "Ibrahim! Go to your cousins. Tell them Emil needs to see them."

Joseph Rustoff was no stranger to the Muslims living Mirzarabad, the old warrior was to them a brutal and conquering demon that could not be stopped. Amongst Christians he was tried and true man of God, deeply devout he named his divisions after Popes and his cannons after the twelfe apostles of Christ. At the moment in the Police Station he was very angry....



"YOU DID WHAT?!" he screamed "You Idiot! Don't you know that this will cause an outrage! You spilt the blood of children you idiot! This will probably cause a Jihad!"

Chief de la Hoseavilla got up and stood eye to eye with Rustoff "I did what I had to do Rustoff. Mohammedeans do not understand anything but blood spilling, you know this well Rustoff, as well as I do. And what is a Jihad?"

Rustoff wanted to wrench the neck of the Police Chief but controlled himself "A Jihad is probably the most horrible warfare humankind has ever expeirenced, and your spilling the blood of unarmed children will cause one to flare up!"

"They have been unarmed but they were past the age of innonence, they made the choice to follow Satan and that led to their destruction" said de la Hoseavilla, trying to equal Rustoff's gaze

"But you could have shown them the kindess of Christ you idiot! Think of the impact that would have left!" Rustoff sighed and held up his hand to silence de la Hoseavilla "We now have no choice but too close off this town and this region from the rest of the country, no one gets in no one gets out. Oh and when I make my report to das Kaiserin I will request for complete dictatoral powers over this area, so you can count losing this position" with that Rustoff rose and left.


The next day the town woke up the sounds of stomping boots and the clip-clomp of horse shoes as the troops of Rustoff's forces entered. blockades were set up at every possible place along the streets, troops regularly entered homes forcefully searching for who ever escaped the Chamber of Commerence. And on every pole and wall a paper bearing the words of Commander Rustoff in Spanish and Arabic were printed out:


Attention!

Effective immeadiatly!

Commander Rustoff, of Her Most Catholic Majesty's armed forces does hereby declare this city, this entire region on lockdown until the last of the Khuduk Liberation Front are caught. If you know the location of any of these people please report too the nearest patrol or celergyman.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Commander Joseph Rustoff

Five men hid under a cart as the patrol passed. Emil and his cousins crept out from their hiding place and along the wall of the guardhouse, in single file.

"Arzat," whispered Emil, "go."

Arzat Usupov, a skinny and ungainly boy of fifteen, walked up the line and stood by his cousin. "Good luck, Azi," Emil offered.

Arzat placed his hands on the stone wall and began to climb. He looked as if a breeze could snap him in two, but he was surprisingly strong. Pulling himself up on a fingertip, pushing up on a toe, Arzat made the two-storey climb and hauled himself onto the roof. He took the homemade rope ladder from his satchel and tied it to the protruding roof joists, letting the end fall to the street.

His four cousins climbed, one at a time. There was silence but for their breathing, exertion mixed with fear and anticipation.

The men climbed over the ridge of the roof and down to the far side, overlooking the market, deserted but for a scattering of bored, cold soldiers. Peering over the edge, they could see the balcony from which de la Hoseavilla had announced Rustoff's orders that afternoon. Of course, de la Hoseavilla would be tucked up in bed now, as would his all but a handful of his officers. Of course. Insh'allah.

Emil dropped to the balcony first, and peered through the slats of the screen doors. He looked up, and nodded. The other four followed, swinging themselves over the edge to hang by their arms, before dropping the last yard to the balcony floor.

Emil drew his father's sword, and slipped it between the doors, searching for the latch. Finding his, he drew the blade upwards. There was a dull, wooden 'clunk,' and the doors swung apart. They men slipped into the briefing room, a soulless, functional place with many battered old chairs, a blackboard, and a table, strewn with rectangles of paper. Strewn with insults. "Attention! Effective immediately!..."

They crept downstairs, hearts stopping at each creak, to the guardroom. Their, they found their prayers answered: a fat policeman asleep at his desk. Wordlessly, Melis Eshimkanov stepped forward, drew a cosh from his coat, raised it, and brought it down the officer's head. The policeman's chair fell backward with a crash, and his eyes flew open. Melis was ready. Before the chair had hit the floor, he had the policeman by the shoulders, and smashed him to the floor. The policeman's eyes closed once again and his tongue lolled.

The men took the keys from the unconsious guard and made their way through to the cells. "Emil!" exclaimed Borat Ismankulov, from his cell, "I - ". "Shhh!" urged Emil, unlocking the cell, "Don't made a sound." Emil greeted every one of his friends with a smile and a 'click' of liberty.

All the doors were open, but someone was missing. "Where's Yury?" asked Emil, his eyes wide with anxiety. "I think the Inquisition took him, Emil," answered Borat. "I'm sorry."

Melis placed his hand on Emil's shoulder. "Emil, you can't think about that now. Archbishop Martell will be as worthy of your sword tomorrow. We have to get out."

"You're right. Let's go."

They stepped through to the guardroom. Emil put his hand on the doorhandle to leave, but it swung towards him. Four of Rustoff's patrolmen stood at the door. Emil thought they looked like steel giants.

"Run! run!" he shouted, spinning to his right to dodge the soldier's grasp before sprinting for the stairs. At the top, he found Melis ushering the prisoners through the doors and over the balcony, the young men and women scattering into the winding streets artound the marketplace.

"Emil! Go!" Melis shouted. Elim ran to the balcony, and saw three of the patrol charging across the marketplace to hunt their quarry in the alleyways.

Emil jumped. As he hit the ground, his legs buckled under him, but he was quickly back on his feet. There was time for pain later. He ran a few paces, then stopped, turned, looking for Melis. His cousin was bent over the balcony rail, his throat in the iron grip of the fourth soldier.

Emil charged back into the station, drawing his sword awkwardly as he climbed the stairs at a sprint. He stumbled into the briefing room. He pulled himself up to face the back of the soldier and raised his sword.

Emil heard his father reciting the Qur'an.

"Anyone who murders any person, it shall be as if he murdered all the people."

"Emil, help me!" croaked Melis.

"You shall not kill any person - for God has made life sacred -"

Emil plunged his father's sabre between the shoulderblades of the Kanarran soldier. Blood sprayed into his face and down his chest. The soldier fell, pulling Emil's sword arm with him, until the body slid off the blade, leaving it ruby and glimmering.

Emil looked down at the body. "- except in the course of justice."

The morning light filtered into the room, giving it a feel of holiness as the commanders filed into the room.


"Attention! Stand Ready!" yelled the head guard as Joseph Rustoff walked into the room. Instead of taking his seat Rustoff began placing, then he stopped in front of a painting of Christ on the Cross at Cavalry and turned around to face his commanders.

"Last night a group of Muslim boys broke into the jail. Many more than the ones that escaped the Chamber, this movement is growing gentlemen, and now we must stop while it is still small." When he was not yelling Rustoff's voice sounded like soft steel wrapped in velvet gloves.


The commanders looked at each other, finally one stood "How do you propose we do that?"

"A guard watched one youth, named Emil he thinks it was, kill a another guard with a scimatar, by the descripation I think this boy might have been one of orignal protesters at the Chamber...."

"Should we arrest him?" asked another commander

"Don't be a fool, there is probably hundreds of Emils in this city." Rustoff began pacing again, then stopped suddenly, this time in front of a painting of Christ the King coming to Earth a second time.

"This whole thing started because they protested to thier mosque was turned into a Chamber of Commerence, correct? Well then if we were to turn it into....... a church then that would infuriate them correct?"

The first commander nodded cautiously "Yes...."

"My plan gentlemen is to drawl out our little problem by doing something that will get thier blood up, then once they make thier move we will spring our trap and catch them all. In fact on top of turning that mosque into a chruch let's try the one Muslim youth from the jail that the Holy Inquistion is holding in front of it. These events combined should draw them all out if they are thinking like I beleive they are."

The commanders looked amonst themselves and exploed into a flurry of comments

"That plan is crazy!"

"It won't work!"

"Are you insane?!"

"All of this will fail!"

Rustoff rolled his eyes and and slammed a fist on the table

"ENGOUTH! As of 6:00 AM this morning Her Most Catholic Majesty decreed I am the de facto dictator of this region until this crises is resolved! On top of that I am not superior? Did not God say to obey those put in authority over you?"

The commanders hung their heads in shame and nodded

"Good, now I will put engouth guards around the church and Inquistion proceedings to be believable, but still a small number. I want Gregory de Villa, the new police chief to place a number of diguised officers in the crowd. I will put a number of diguised soldiers from division "Pope Gregory I" and division "Pope Nicholas V" into the crowd as well."

Then Rustoff walked to the front of the room, where he raised his arm in salute "Now go and do your duties gentlemen! For the Glory of God, Mary, and all the Saints!"

The commanders stood up and returned the salute, shouting "For the Glory of God, Mary, and all the Saints! Amen!"

The monday market bustled under the suspicious eyes of Rustoff's patrols. They had been provided with a description of the murderer, what was his name, Elim? Emis? But, well, they all look the same, don't they?

Also watching over the market were the workers on the scaffolding that covered the Chamber of Commerce, whistling at passing girls in between hoisting stained glass, gold leaf and saints onto its crumbling face. By Thursday night, they had been told, it would be a church to be proud of. Well, that all depended on how many girls walked by, didn't it?

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

Attention!

This Friday, at noon, commenceth the trial of Yury Asanov, charged with blasphemy and treason. The defendant shall be tried in public, pour encourager des autres, at the Basilica de San Domingo, formerly the Chamber of Commerce.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Commander Joseph Rustoff

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

"Melis," said Emil, interrupting his cousin's work, "what are we going to do about Yury?" Eshimkanov looked up from his plane, and sighed.

"Emi, we don't even know where he is. What can we do?"

"We know where he is going to be on Friday. Here." Emil handed him the poster, torn where Emil had ripped it from a fencepost in the saltmarket.

"Right enough, but what can the five of us do in front of Rustoff and a judge of the Inquisition?"

"It's not five any more, Melis," replied Emil, eyes blazing, "there's scores of us. All those boys we sprung last week, families of Mama's friends from market, all of Yury's sepak takraw team. I was at Professor Edzim's last night, from the college, and his sons were tying knives to broomhandles. He said his whole class had been talking about fighting back. You know they're not allowed to go to school anymore; they've turned it into a bible college for the garrison."

"Emil, are you serious about this? Breaking into a deserted prison is one thing. Are you ready to fight those soldiers in the streets?"

"Melis! I don't have any choice! Those bastards killed Shazia, they're torturing Yury, they treat us like pigs and slaves and we cannot just kneel down and take it! My father woudn't stand for this, Melis, and neither would yours. We don't get to decide whther to fight. We're the ones being beaten, kicked spat on every day by that bitch in Ausvielles and her fat family. All we get to decide is whether to fight back. And don't tell me you don't know what I'm saying, Melis, because I know you see it as well as I do. I know you feel the same as I do."

"Yes, Emi, I do. I was ready to pick up that hatchet there, the second I heard about Shazia. I just needed to know, Emi, really: are you ready to die?"

Emil looked at the floor, then raised his head and looked his cousin in the eye. "On my way here, a soldier pushed me to the floor. Just walked up behind me and shoved me. And I turned round, and he was there with his patrol in their armour and I thought what can I do? He could keep pushing me to the floor all day if he wanted to, every day for the rest of my life and I can't do a thing about it. And my face was burning and I thought I was going to cry and I thought if I had my sword I could kill him, and then of course they'd kill me and I'd go to Dada and Shazia and Uncle Bolot and would that really be worse than lying here in the mud, listening to those bastards laughing and trying not to cry?"

"Okay, then, Emil Usupov. Let's change the world." Melis smiled, and they shook hands, and hugged.

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

"...that we're not alone. Here is a newspaper from Phonque in Africa." Melis held up the crumpled broadsheet to his audience. A hundred or more men and a scattering of women were crowded into the cafe, which was little more than a cavern with a few tables, to listen to the carpenter speak. "Did you know there were newspapers in Africa? No? It that because you are stupid, or is it because the Kaisers didn't let you ask? Here, you see in Phonque they are having elections to choose their governors, and every man and woman has an equal say. Did any one of you ever get to decide which Knight of Christ was going to rule over us? In Phonque, your voice would be as loud as the Kaiserin's!

"Phonque is not a fairytale. This is a real newspaper, sold from real stalls in a real city in this world we have been ignoring for centuries. It has much to teach us, but still Marie will not listen. You could buy foreign papers in this city for four days. Four days! And then something happened Marie did not expect: we read them!" There was a ripple of laughter. "And we saw that other Muslims do not cower under the boot of an oh-so-Christian despot. There is a mosque in Rome! So a handful of brave men and women did what their ancestors for ten generations would have done if only they had known the truth, what any other Muslim on this great earth would take for granted. One Friday, they went to the mosque, and they prayed." A roar of applause; Melis acknowledged it but signalled for hush. "And for teaching the Kaiserin what freedom means, one of those men is in the hands of the Inquisition. Yury Asanov." More cheers, louder than before, and Melis did not try to truncate them. "And another is my cousin, Emil Usupov, and he's going to tell us what we're going to do about it!" Melis's voice rose to a crescendo, and was followed by another wave of approval, the applause bouncing off the rough stone curve of the ceiling.

Melis turned to Emil, and smiled, and said, in a low voice, "Just tell them what you told me, Emi."

Emil got to his feet as the last of the applause died down, and cleared his throat. Then he turned back to the table, took a drink from the glass of water there, and faced the crowd again. "Yesterday I went to see my cousin, Melis Eshimkanov," he gestured to Melis, "in his workshop. And on the way I passed a patrol..."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
OOC: Boy, did this give me writer's block. Sorry for being a slowcoach.

OOC: 10 views? 10? We're writing a masterpiece here! No-one apprecietes my art! *sulks*

I disagree, this is very good...keep it going. If this comples you, after some (long) time this might develop into a full rebelion, and then other nations could have fun w/ this too. It'd be worthy of the Archives fo' sho'.
(or don't do that, either way this is damn fine writing...)

"Our hearts go out to the Khuduks in their fight against the tyranny of their oppressors. If any help is needed to the Rebels, the people of the Great Socialist Jamahiriya of Karuchea would surely be willing to give aid. "

-In solidarity, In hope and By the name of Allah, Prime Minister Mohammed El-Shabazz.

Premierminister Eric Rechnitz was tired. It had been a long day, signing paper after paper approving or disapproving something. His phone sprung to life, ringing loudly enough to make Eric leap out of his seat for a moment. After gathering his wits, he picked up the receiver and placed it next to his ear.

“Rechnitz here.” He calmly stated into the phone, continuing to review papers.

“Sir, something has come up in Khudukstan. I’m faxing you the report right now.”

Rechnitz recognized the voice as his minister of foreign affairs, Karl Teuber. “Alright Karl, send it over immediately. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m done reading it over.” The fax machine soon began pushing out sheet after sheet of paper, describing every detail of Khudukstan and what was going on there.

“A revolution… Maybe we should give them a hand.” Rechnitz thought as he looked at the button on his phone labeled, “Minister of Defense”

OOC: Great to have some international attention for our wee scrap, but this is our kid Kanarra's first RP, so I'm going to lay down the law:

This is not a war RP. Kanarra and I will work out any conflict between us in a collaborative fiction stylee. I've got a mighty big Ignore Cannon here for the first one to post... I was going to give a parody of an army list here, but you just have to look at Roman Republic's contribution, above, to see what not to do.

Definitely no military intervention until Kanarra's back and we've discussed it. Quite possibly we'll still request that you keep the boys in camo out of it even after that.

On the other hand, it's open season on diplomatic pressure - after all, that's why I used a student sympathiser (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=393438) to solicit the support of Karuchea. Get those letters of support for Marie or the Khuduk Liberation Front flooding in, pronto!

Thanks again for noticing our corner of the world. And thanks especially for taking my side!

OOC: No worries. I wont send in a massive military force, maybe a dozen or so guerilla fighters would do.. or something. TG what I can and can't do and I'll make sure I don't screw up the thread.

OOC: just to reiterate, keep the military out of it for now. Kanarra and I will decide between us when or whether to let that happen, and she's not online at the moment. There's nothing to stop you threatening SpecOps though...

OOC: Tiny little gray fonts are FUN!!

OoC: I assume that will be able to roleplay my military observer that has been exchanged with the Kannarian military without getting an ignore cannon fired at point-blank range?

OOC: To Dumpsterdam: Atta boy! A nice bit of character RP and we're all having fun! Go for it!

OOC: To Dumpsterdam: Atta boy! A nice bit of character RP and we're all having fun! Go for it!

OoC: Sure, this'll give me the chance to work our Wolf to his full potential.

Looking forward to a very good RP here.

Wilhelm, or Willi, Strausser calmly sat in the Super Puma helicopter as he passed miles of uninhabited land and water. He was being sent by the defence ministry to infiltrate Khudukstan, and record all that happened. This was his first time since passing Spezielle Kräfte (Special Forces) training that he would see action, since not many countries were of any importance to Buechoria.

“We’ll be landing in a few moments, Strausser!” barked the pilot over the roar of engines. Willi replied with a thumbs up and gathered his two small bags. Soon the helicopter hovered over the outskirts of a city. However, at that moment, as Willi disembarked from his transportation and began walking towards the city, Emil was giving his speech.

As Strausser entered, he released his baggage and took out a communiqué with the address of a small apartment with everything he would need to relay information back to Buechoria. He heard a voice in the background, and the applause of a crowd. After picking up his things again, he soon found the group Emil was talking to. Realizing he should be taking this down, he retrieved a tablet PC from one of his suitcases and began writing down everything the boy said, without any thought of looking suspicious.

http://www.aer.mil.br/aeronaves/SPUMA/spuma.jpg
OOC: This is the Super Puma helicopter.