NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC - I'm actually going to try my hand at writing something serious now. It might happen. It might fail miserably. Who knows. Come in if you're interested.

Hansien stared miserably out the window in the distance, where the great tower of factoring, symbol of the power of the people, burned. Armed bands poured into cities, overrunning the meek military that had not deserted. He put his head in his hands. It had happened to quickly. His mind was racing, still reeling from the psychological blow that had been dealt to him. He hadn't seen it coming. Heck, nobody had seen it coming.

"Dredon." Hansien marvelled at the tremble in his voice, the faint resignation that had imprinted itself into every word.

His faithful defense minister came to him. "Mr. President?"

"Where are my armoured divisions? Where are the 4th and 5th legions?"

"The armoured divisions are encamped on the perimeter of the capitoline area, Mr. President," said Dredon. He paused, looking down. "The 4th and 5th legions engaged in battle earlier today with the fascists..."

"And?" Hansien dreaded to hear the answer, but his voice was dull, monotone, spiritless. He had resigned himself away, and there was no emotion that he had left to display.

Dredon shook his head. "They didnt have a chance."

"All gone?"

"All gone. Every man."

"No prisoners?"

"Not even one."

At that moment Dailey entered the room, a manilla folder of several critical documents in hand. "Mr. President? The transports are waiting. The skies...have been secured."

Hansien gazed once more at the window. He saw everything - every stone that fell from the tower as it began to crumble, every body as it jumped from hundreds of stories in the air. But this was where he belonged - it was his home - those were his countrymen.

"Mr. President."

There was a sense of urgency in Dailey's voice.

"If I may," broke in Smith, who had been leaning against the wall in the background. He emerged from the shadows of the corner of the president's office. "Mr. President, the opposition is overwhelming. These forces will not last. They've been sent here for the sole purpose of buying time...for the sole purpose of dying...for you."

"What?" The news itself had not been a shock, but the bluntless with which the facts were presented were.

"For the country. All is not last, Mr. President. Still do we control the skies, and still do our vessels guard the seas." Smith removed his sunglasses, and a fierce, determined look was in his eyes. The president had no choice. "There is no time for honor," he said with dead calm. "There are millions of men at your command. They await you, and need your leadership. The people of Zoogiedom beg for calm. They, too, need your leadership. Die for a noble cause if you must, but do not destroy the cause in the process if and when you plan to do it."

Hansien was visibly shaken. Trembling, nerve-wracked, he turned to Dredon for assistane. Dredon inclined his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "But we must leave."

Slowly, trudgingly, the men began to file out of the room. A security detail met them short outside, as they were ushered towards a fleet of military-grade helicopters parked by the backdoor.

Hansien looked with wistfulness at the gleaming spectacle of the presidential residence, at the symbol of federal power and general order, at the symbol which would not have long to live...

Then the thumping of the helicopter blades beckoned him, and he went.

As for the title; I know, it's stupid. I had Lord of the Rings in my head, though, and it just sounded cool. The end justifies the means.

(OOC: Ooh! Ooh! Can I join?)

(sure)

Dispatch to all nations, allies of Zoogiedom, and so forth :

Today is the start of a new era. The suppression and indirect dominance of the capitalist, democratic pigs has at last come to an end. No longer shall our glorious nation be held back by the vices of referendums and bloated bureaucracy; no longer shall the lazy fools and unpatriotic misers dominated. Henceforth shall the Fasces be the symbol of imperial power, of the nation and its unified goal.

Of our allies - those that wish to remain so, we ask your aid in ridding us of the remainder of the old regime, the tyrannical suppressors and the ever-hostile enemy. Of those who choose to abandon us now - feel the mighty blows of our hammers. Ferro et igne. Your time shall come, in due course.

Herr Dumalar,
Emperor; First Vanguard of the People; Zoogiedom,
Master Chairman, Fascist Party of Zoogiedom.

Psst...your cue, everyone! ;)

The sound of mortars pounded men's ears, as the encamped armoured divisions did their best to withstand a massive enemy onslaught. The opposition's army was large, disciplined, and united. They spared no one. They gave no mercy.

All around the Zoogiedom Former Guard's fortified positions there could be heard the agonizing wail of dying men - dying men whose wounds could not be healed, for there were no supplies left; whose misery could not be ended, for no bullet could be spared. All the while the pounding of the enemy tanks continued, and the opposition advanced.

Word quickly spread through the camps, that they should don't waste a single bullet. Not even the most deformed round from a half-broken machine gun could be written off. It had to do whatever it could, because there were none to replace it.

The roaring of tanks was interrupted by the intermittent cha-cha-cha of 50-caliber machine guns. The enemy tanks were not many, and the defenders were armed still with proximal range anti-tank rockets, so none dared venture near. But the arm of the tanks were long, and from afar they pounded the defenders with ruthless determination.

Then, as all hope seemed forlorn, there was heard a distant whirring sound; that of a projectile moving at fast speeds. The whir became louder, and turned into a roar. Scores of streaks appeared in the sky, and a dazzling point of light behind them as their source. The shine of the spots of light drew closer, and it became apparent what they were: missiles.

Suddenly SAMs were mounted, and the enemy soldiers began to shoot their guns aimlessly into the air. One tank slowly began to rotate its turret, when the missile struck it - a Hellfire-type missile that hit its target with pinpoint precision. The tank burst into flames, its entire canopy coming off and landing several feet away from the rest of the charred body.

Chaos took over the once haughty enemy; now, instead of driving relentlessly towards a weary foe, they were the hunted, and drew back in a steady retreat to a safer position. The thud-thud of helicopter blades was heard over the din of gunfire and the cheering of the defending soldiers - the cheering of men with hope renewed.

An entire fleet of Commanche-type helicopters became suddenly visible, as an apparition that was sent from the heavens to save the beleagured and weary forces defending the capitoline area. Rockets and missiles alike now emitted from their wings, and the darkening sky was illuminated by brilliant flashes of light from their 30-mm rotating cannons. The fascists were now taking a beating; their SAMs were for the most part destroyed, and their flak on the large part ineffective. A new sound had joined the fanfare of the Commanches; it was the piercing shriek of fighter engines.

From the sky there descended two squadrons of F-16s; eight aircraft in all, and all armed as armed could be. They unleashed a hailfire of Maverick missiles and Mark 82 bombs on the enemy encampments, turning the tide quickly. Rejuvenated, and taking advantage of this opportunity, the defense tanks began to roll forward, turrets flashing. The forces themselves began to emerge and took more daring shots.

The toll on the enemy was high - this was sudden, unexpected, and they were unprepared. High plumes of smoke arose in the sky as repeated clusters of fireballs arose from their ranks, followed immediately by the defeaning boom of the missile's impact.

Their armament expended, the F-16s egressed in formation.

Herr Dumalar's Throne Room

"What!?" growled Herr Dumalar, standing up with a start. "Destroyed, completely?"

"Not destroyed, but retreated completely. Withdrawn from the region. Had we lingered, we surely would have been wiped out."

"The supply lines to the capital were cut off."

"They're open now."

"We had a griphold - how - "

"Air power, Herr Fuhrer," said a man solemnly, rising from his seat to address the Emperor himself. "Air power. That is what we lack, and that is what will destroy us. We can besiege the capital, but their defense forces persisted that long. What we cannot do is defend ourselves from the sky. The sky is theirs, and not even the best of our divisions can withstand a whole barrage of cluster bombs delivered on them at leisure."

"Where is our nearest air division?"

"Pardon me, Herr Fuhrer, but the goal is to build up, not to destroy. Our air divisions, as with our naval divisions, are few and scattered. We must play cautious for now - most of the nation is within our grasp - and build up the air force and navy later. Their aircraft are largely abandoned, and their fleets have fled, and so establishing air superiority is plausible. But forget about the capital for the moment. Does not Herr Fuhrer have more pressing matters to attend to? Matters of the state?" The man, one of his generals, walked around the room as he spoke. He had captured his audience - even among them Dumalar. But Dumalar persisted; he would not let this go without a fight.

Dumalar growled. "I will not let them escape! Where are Hansien and his pigs!?"

"Escaped. Left by chopper just as the airstrikes decimated our besieging legions."

Dumalar sighed, but reminded himself that patience would be a virtue he had to develop ere he could rule the nation with a mere sweep of his hand. "Very well. Develop our prowress. Secure our realm."

"It shall be done, Herr Fuhrer. Heil!"

Dumalar made a brief gesture, and, sighing, returned to his throne.

<To Zoogiedom>

The Chemical Lords of Jenrak supports the movement of Fascism and complete control in Zoogiedom. If there is anything required for your 'work' to go any faster, we will gladly spare as much as we can.

<Sage Patriarch Saerus

Official Imperial Statement

The Imperial Government declares its full support for the rightful government of Zoogiedom, and vows to send assistence to drive back the would be usurpers.

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

Official Imperial Communique

To: President Hansien
From: Emperor Antonius I

Old friend, as you must be aware, the Empire throws her full support behind you in the fight against those who would enslave your nation under the banner of ignorance and destruction. GIIS has indicated that your armies have suffered terrible casualties, and the only thing keeping your enemies from dining in the presidential palace is your airforce. I intend to remedy this.

As I send this, I issue the order to mobilize the Imperial 7th and 13th armies to send to your nation's rescue. I assure you that before you know it, you shall be able to return to your capital to lead your men to final victory.

Emperor Antonius I,
Sovereign Lord of Generia and Her Dominions

To: President Hansien
From: Generalissimo J.L.

I pledge to aid you as much as I feasibly can. I will resort to any means to ensure your victory.

Fast forward two weeks. After desparate jumping around from makeshift base to makeshift base, the president is arriving in Chisliag.

Jenrak

My lord Dumalar would be most glad for military assistance. While much of the country is within our stable control, there are yet pockets of resistance, and the pressing matter of the fleets of the former guard, which have departed to allied nations in the Isles of Arden. We are vulnerable to the air, because while the resistance is now few, we have no air force of our own...yet.

Any assistance that can be given in these youthful times of the Zoogiedom Imperial Government is most welcome.

Chief of Affairs,
<randomname>

Dumalar

The echo of steps was heard in the hall leading up to the throne room, and seconds later the great doors were pulled open by the guards. A messenger dressed in poor garments came forth - he had nothing to say; it could be ascertained from his garments that he was a slave simply bearing a document from his superior.

"My Lord Dumalar,

The following two transmissions have been intercepted and decoded by agents of the former guard that have been compelled to our service. The allied nations of Generia and Destroyers of Dung-Beetles (the translation was a little iffy) are sending aid.

<enclosed documents>

My armies stand at the ready. If we can tap the resources of the Three Islands, we can find an air force ready to serve you; not a large one, but an air force nonetheless. With our developing navy, we can't cross there, but I do believe we have a worthy general by the name of Langus, who would come to our side.

Chief of Defense Andrews"

Dumalar smiled.

Chisliag

http://home.ripway.com/2004-1/54396/my_map.jpg

Hansien looked out the window. The helicopter was nearing the airforce base in Chisliag; one of the F-16 squadrons had already landed. He called the defense secretary over to give him an update on the situation.

"I have good news and bad news," said Dredon as he climbed over the seat to the rear compartment. "And plenty more bad news."

"What's the bad news?"

"Really? Alright." Dredon took a seat. "We have no more defense. The perimeter defense was forced to withdraw into the capital, because they were wounded and their forces/supplies/etc depleted beyond belief. There was no aid coming for them."

"How many men?"

"No more than a thousand now. The commanding officer was only a major two weeks ago, and he received reports that a new invasion force was coming down from the north. It doesn't appear they're going to attack, but they've reported that either way, they can't hold out much longer."

"Either way? Even if no attack comes at them?"

"Exactly. There's nowhere to run, either. To the east, the 7th division is being defeated as we speak; the 2nd and 3rd surrendered; the 9th and 10th have been utterly destroyed. We have two divisions in Chisliag - and word has it that the enemy is bearing down on these defenses."

"What about our air power?"

"It's not there. Two of our major air bases in the West have been overrun by ground forces; it's not like we had a lot of aircraft in the air to begin with. It was just that there was no opposition. Two weeks ago, they had maybe two hundred aircraft, and we had at least two thousand in all. By now, their force has maybe doubled, and ours halved. The men are losing heart. They are surrendering, crossing over, deserting, committing suicide, giving up - our last stronghold on the mainland is Chisliag."

The helicopter touched down, and a detail of soldiers arrived to escort the president and his staff to a bunker. As he got off the helicopter, Hansien gazed around. He saw men running to their stations, doing their tasks as commanded. He saw aircraft being prepared for combat service. There was no sign of any kind that this was the last major battle station that stood between the Fascists and mainland domination. He wondered what this place would look like two weeks from then.

"We leave for Walthoris tomrrow morning," said Dailey. "So be sure to get your rest."

"What?" It was hard to believe that even this place had to be abandoned.

"It's not safe. Not even here. The Three Islands are our last stronghold. Chisliag is holding out and giving as much hell as they can, but all that's happening is that we're biding time, waiting for the Generians...and reinforcements from the Three Islands."

Hansien sighed. He turned to Dredon. "What's the good news?"

"The good news..." Dredon handed Hansien two papers, on which were printed the declared support of Generic Empire and Roach-Busters. "Received them this morning."

"How long can Chisliag hold?"

"Until they get a formidable air force together."

"It's a question of time, then, isn't it?"

"Yes. A question of time."

Hansien turned away, disgusted. He looked at the distant runway, where a B-1B lancer was taking off into the sky. "Give them hell," he said softly to nobody in particular.

Transports, battleships and lurkers all bearing the symbol of Jenrak sailed towards the land of Zoogiedom, as the water shifted slightly to accomodate their trip.

"This will be a short, one." A soldier grimaced, carrying a lethal dose of chemicals in his pocket.

"Uh, Memkhet, are you sure that is safe?" Another soldier asked him, worried of the damage it could cause

"No, but I couldn't care less." He replied, his enormous eyes unwavered, as the water guzzled around the transport.

"Lord Saerus will have your ass on a plate if you screw up." The soldier replied.

"Shut up." Memkhet snapped back.

Jenrak, which side do you want to enter from? Either shore is fine for me.

Dumalar

"...and I say to you, purge the infidels! burn they who are unfaithful to the zoogies!...pro patria, pro pleci zoogida!"

Dumalar ended his speech with a flourish, and there was a great cheer among the tens of thousands that filled the great stretch of lawn before him. The same speech was broadcast on TV, around the world.

Dumalar smiled to himself. "Come, you Generians. Come, you Crushers of Dung-Beetles. To what?" he said softly to himself.

Jaganda

The supply routes had been open, but little supplies could come. Now, once more, they were closed, as the Fascist Army rolled through and set up stations at every road that entered the capitoline area.

The order had come from Dumalar himself earlier that day - Delenda est Jaganda. Jaganda must be destroyed. The general in charge had laughed; a short, barking laugh, when he heard the news. "And so it shall be!" he had said, and downed his shot of whiskey in one gulp.

Now the tanks charged forth once again. Howitzers stationed further back thundered their shots into the air; the devastating blows fell upon the hapless defenders with ruthlessness. An armoured division crashed through the trees and made a run towards the perimeter line, guns and turrets blazing. The foe was less than half their number, ill-equipped, and half-starved. They were obliterated with ease.

Two MLRS platforms were ferried forward into the battlefield as smoke and fire erupted from the defense camps. They fired heavy volleys of their explosive high-speed rockets at the presidential building, and other such buildings of importance. The first rocket smashed into the top window of what was once Hansien's office. Twenty-four of its kind hit a second later. The building was ablaze. Tanks poured through the gaps in the defense, running over enemy soldiers who could not defend themselves. A flash, a defeaning boom, and the building began to crumble.

An hour later, with fifty-eight prisoners (fifty-seven, after the army had judged one of the prisoners to be the leader and executed him on the spot), a small band of the Fascist soldiers raised the Fascist flag of Zoogiedom in the air, and there was much rejoicing among the Fascist army.

Chisliag

A man stepped forward to the podium, and saw before him several hundred weary faces. He called out the latest developments as one would perform a roll-call:

"Dumalar has won the hearts and minds of our brethren; he has made Arvonsgard his capital and renamed it Dumalareidon. Jaganda has been overrun, burned to the ground, and sewed with salt in a symbolic gesture of total victory. From the North and from the South, Chisliag faces an army bearing down. Only to the east can we look to reinforcements from Walthoris, Trimes, Arimos."

A general walked to the podium and dismissed the announcer. "Thank you," he said. "Now, that was some pretty depressing news, wasn't it? But let there be no mistake - our arm is long. Proud and haughty they may be, but NEVER are they safe from our blows. This much we'll show them. Briefing at 0600."

Runway 3

The last of the ZaS-42s took off and ascended into the sky, above the diminishing rays of the golden-red sun that burned at the horizon. Lt. Ramien joined his wingmen in a daring all-out air assault right at the enemy's throat. They had laughed in incredulity at the proposal at first, but they soon realized how significant it was...and how possible. The hero, fallen, injured, beaten, takes a dagger and hurls it into the enemy's neck. It was an exhilarating thought.

"Where is Lancer?" he radioed back to base. He received the coordinates shortly thereafter; Lancer was nearing its third to last checkpoint.

"Good," he muttered, and then he radioed his wing. "Refueling in fifteen minutes. Rest up, guys, it's going to be a looong night."

Dumalareidon

Dumalar could not believe this. He and all necessary personell had been sent underground, along with just about every document imaginable. It was an absurd precaution. But deep in his mind, he somehow doubted that it was a precaution.

Outside, Dumalareidon's single squadron of ZaS-27 Firebirds took to the skies to intercept the incoming fighters. From his underground command headquarters, Fascist air force chief of staff Daylan kept watch on the giant radar screen that displayed the battle arena of the skies around them.

Four red-colored triangles progressed steadily forward. Four more red triangles appeared, one after another, having just taken off from the air base. Sixteen yellow triangles, eight on each side, converged on the first wing. One by one, the four red triangles disappeared. One yellow dot began to spin wildly off course, and disappeared shortly after.

Then, without another casualty among the Chisliag ZaS-27s, the remaining four red triangles disappeared from the screen.

He cursed.

Dumalareidon - skies

Flak and SAMs flashed in the night sky. They were blotted out and even more brilliant flashes - the eruption of fireballs from the deadly payload of a wing of ZaS-42s and a single B-1 Lancer.

Destruction reigned everywhere. The air base was obliterated; the palace itself charred and ruined. The SAMs, AAA, all were wiped out. Security buildings, construction projects - all fell to ruins at the bidding of the long arm of the Zoogiedom air force. These aircraft had flown for hours halfway across the country, refuelling as necessary; setting flight as the sun was setting and chasing it as if refusing to allow it to set until it had to. And even as the military men in power delighted at their control over the country and command of the army, they were chilled to the core at the thought that even now they were at the mercy of a measly air wing situated thousands of miles away.

Then, the aircraft themselves crashed down into the burning stronghold. The pilots had ejected, knowing there was no return journey, nothing left for them to return to. They had personal firearms, and would do what they could to spread even more confusion amidst the spreading conflagarations.

They rejoiced at having laid waste to the capital of the enemy even as their entire force was being constricted and destroyed, but this was short-lived, for they knew that they were going to meet their deaths.

Jenrak, which side do you want to enter from? Either shore is fine for me.

OOC: I'll assume you're west of me, so I'll come in from the east. I have to go to bed now, so I'll rp tomorrow.

:sniper: The ASV takes a strong stand against the facist governement in Zoogie. You shall have your reckoning, terrorists.

tag

I'm coming, Zoogie!

*Grabs AK-47, jumps into motorcycle sidecar.*

The skies were black as the Imperial fleets glided over the silent depths, dark silhouettes beneath a moonless sky. The 3rd, 4th, and 17th Imperial warfleets had departed the Black Sea of Generia a week ago, shortly after the completion of the mobilization of the 7th and 13th Imperial armies. Now, transports laden with possibly the most vicious of Imperial soldiers, Praetorians, Regular infantry, and all manner of weapons of war cruised slowly in towards the eastern coasts of Zoogiedom.

They would be under the command of General Lew Nys’ky, the so dubbed ‘lion of Alberia.’ He was a man scarred heavily by years of vicious warfare in theaters numbering in the dozens. From Buchiana to the shores of Inkana, he had proved his mettle as a great warrior and leader of men, and now was privileged to command the Empire’s eastern armies.

In the bellies of the transports, his men waited, upwards of two million of them all grooming themselves for battle. As always, they lusted for the blood of their enemies. In separate sections of the massive transport vessels, the darker corners of the ships, silent as death and cold northern nights the Imperial Praetorians waited. Little stirred in these forbidden areas, and the air almost felt heavier, saturated with the breath of the beasts.

On the deck of the GIS Alexium, the flagship of the Imperial 3rd fleet, a massive Alexei dreadnought that often served as an offshore command post for military operations in country as well as a fearsome naval combatant and shore battery, Admiral Karel Adjeszkov gazed out over the water at the silhouette that was the island of Walthoris, passing away behind the fleet.

“The last bastion of sanity.”

The admiral was interrupted from his musings by the call of a subordinate.

“Sir, we are nearing operational range. Shall we send word of our arrival?”

Adjeszkov grunted his approval, before walking towards the front of the bridge. There in the distance he could just begin to make out the ridges of the coastline of Zoogieous Plex, and he longed to set that horizon ablaze.

----------

In the central command room aboard the Alexium, General Nys’ky stood silent with stone expression. He maintained his usually haggard look, a ragged and filthy beard covering his strong chin, and a tattered military uniform, a product of his Alberian traditions. Despite his rustic appearance, he was an imposing figure, someone you definitely did not want to fuck with.

“General, sir, the fleets are approaching the coastlines south of Chisliang, our intended landing zone.”

“Good. Prepare the men.”

“Immediately, sir.”

The warriors of Generia began to stir.

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

“Admiral Adjeszkov, sir, we’re in range for preliminary strikes.”

“Make it so. The 17th fleet is to accompany the first wave of transport vessels to their landing zones south of Chisliag.”

With this order, the decks of the Imperial cruisers and batteships seemed to explode as thousands of Tomahawk cruise missiles rocketed into the dark skies towards designated enemy military targets, SAM installations, troop and armor concentrations, and forward military outposts and airbases.

Aboard the Seven Imperial supercarriers and eighteen Imperial fleet carriers, Generian pilots sprinted towards their aircraft, prepped and ready on the flight decks. GIF-1s and F-78 Sokol air superiority fighters would soon put a dent in the enemy capabilities, and make the drive by Imperial preliminary armored and infantry units easier.

Twelve flights of Imperial aircraft exploded forward towards the embattled city of Chisliag to once more blunt the enemy’s offense into the heart of the city.

Meanwhile, the 3rd and 4th fleets advanced towards the coastline, closing the range for the battleships’ guns to wreak havoc on inland enemy positions and rain hell upon Dumalar’s soldiers.

The 17th Imperial warfleet cruised in towards the southern coast. Battleships trained their guns on known fascist positions, and the thunder roared out across the water and rumbled over into the hills of the coastline. Flights of GIF-1s and F-78s moved in to establish superiority in the skies to cover the landing of the Imperial first waves.

The large transport vessels and smaller (but still reasonably large) landing vessels approached the shore under cover of the bombs and air strikes. Overhead, Imperial GH-2 gunships and GH-2AX transport choppers cruised in to deliver contingents of Imperial Praetorians to eliminate whatever resistance could be found in the area.

"Mr. President, it is my honor, to introduce General Langus."

Hansien stepped off the helicopter to greet the air force general, dressed in casual uniform (:P). He looked around. It was even less apparent that there was war on these islands.

There was something different about the eyes of most of the men on this base, however. Something...detached...disinterested...despite the fact that they were being shipped off to Chisliag. It was disturbing, but he put it aside for now.

"Mr. President," said Langus warmly, offering his hand. "Can I see you for a minute in my office?"

He led Hansien to his office. Dailey started, but Smith restrained him. Dailey was not a particular fan of Langus, and he saw this invitation as blasphemy. He thought the president should see Langus on his own term, not that of Langus, who was only the highest ranking air force general in the nation.

"Filthy ba..."

"Shh!" Smith shot a warning glance at Dailey. He didn't like it himself, and he looked around, sniffing. The casual observer might have thought he was actually sniffing for signs of deceit; in reality, he was simply a little cold.

Discomforted, nevertheless. Smith followed in the general direction of Langus.

Langus

"Close the door, Percy."

The general's assistant shut the door, and Hansien and Langus took a seat. Langus sighed, reclining back in his chair, reaching into his drawer with his other hand. On his desk were two drinks.

"Mr. President...it's an honor." He stood up, lighting a cigarette, and turned around. A gun was in his hand, and it was pointing at the president. The shock on Hansien's face barely had time to register when Smith flung open the door, several DENP agents tugging at his arms. His firearm had been removed.

"Filthy vermin!" Smith shouted. It broke his spirit - a hard thing to do - to see his own men as part of this insurgency. The disease of fascism had struck even among the DENP! What was this!?

There was a sick smile on Langus' face. "Take them away," he ordered curtly. "I want them locked and isolated."

Airfield - Walthoris

"So..." Dredon looked at one of the air force officers who had told him he couldn't yet go anywhere. "Nice place, huh?"

"Yes. Mr. Dredon, we'll tell you when you can go to your quarters. They haven't been quite prepared."

"I see, I see. No rush."

Then, a lean man in his late twenties, a mean and hungry look on his face, was seen exiting one of the barracks. He made his way towards Dredon and Dailey with long, easy strides.

"Mr. Dredon," he said warmly, a smile on his face. "Mr. Dailey."

They shook hands. "Alrighty, then," he said, taking a step back, glancing at the barracks. His demeanor then changed, and he turned to the air force officers. "Lock 'em up."

"What?"

The officers did as told.

"Ha, ha," said Dailey, a smile cracking on his face. "April Fools! Funny, isn't it?"

But the look on the man's face didn't change. "You'll find it funny, I'm sure," he sneered.

Dailey wiped the smirk off his face.

The man went on. "At this point in time, Walthoris has become an official part of the Zoogiedom Imperial Guard. Trimes and Arimos..." he laughed; a short, barking laugh. "You know well how the Three Islands are always together..."

The look on Dailey's face could have murdered, but unfortunately, it did not. Dredon was speechless as he and Dailey were led to high security cells and locked up.

Langus

"Call Trimes. Tell them to send all their fleets to aid the Generian assault on the mainland..."

"Pardon?" Langus's lieutenant was confused.

"They don't know yet. We're still friends with them...then at the opportune time..."

*dark, scary mood*

He cackled. He cackled like the evil witch of the west.

Hansien's dreams

Hansien was in a war zone, surrounded by many warriors fighting with swords and stuff. He didn't know who was on whose side. Then, in the distance, there was a motor car. On it was seated the Lunatic Retard Robot Supreme. In his hand he held an AK-47.

"YES!" cried Hansien.

He then jerked awake. "Sign," a harsh voice ordered. It was a message of greeting and welcome to the Generian fleets. He was offered a fountain pen and several rifle heads.

Trembling, he acquiesced.

Tagyrs

"Long live President West!"

The comment was only half-joking. Everyone present knew that Tagyrs would be the next target. Every last loyal Zoogiedom fleet now gathered around it, preparing for an assault on the closest of the Three Islands, which were all embroiled in turmoil.

Nathan West stepped down from the podium with a grave look on his face. He did not quite relish his new duties, but he had no choice. Hansien - was he alive? He didn't know.

"Resden." The national security adviser turned to him. "Contact the Generian fleets, and inform them of the situation."

"Of course."

"Curtis," he called to the highest ranking general in the room. "Give me the latest sitrep."

"Promising," said Curtis with a grimace. "The actual soldiers are split, confused, and bitter. They're not going to make an effective fighting force of any kind, for either side. The bad news..." He hesitated. "The bad news is, Langus is sending everyone not on his side as reinforcements to Chisliag. They're going to cut to pieces."

West sighed. There was too much going on for him to digest now...he had just gone from a high-ranking defense department worker to the bearer of all burdens, after all. "I'm going to take a break," he declared. "Give me the next report in fifteen minutes."

Dumalareidon

Dumalar emerged and looked at last at the destruction that had been wrought on his capital. It wasn't half bad, he supposed. It could have been worse. He could have been killed.

"Marian!" he barked at his closest adviser. "Make sure this will never happen again!"

"Yes, m'lord."

Tagyrs

They have everything now. They have the mainland, but for Chisliag and the neighboring region. They control the islands Nordil. They have conquered the Methelian islands. They have the Three Islands halfway in the palm of their hand. They have the president and his staff.

But they don't have Tagyrs, and they don't have you.

The words of General Curtis resonated through the ears of the pilots as their aircraft were towed onto the runways. Untold numbers of fighters, bombers, and logistics aircraft would make a comprehensive bombing of Trimes. Aircraft, ships - everything would be gone. One of the Three Islands must be reclaimed. They needed it - the Generians needed it.

Meanwhile, twenty thousand men set sail in marinal transports, headed for Trimes as well.

At an airport on Lesser Kingston, a flock of strategic airlifters sits on the flight line. Close to the entirety of the Robotic Airforce's strategic airlift capacity is concentrated right there, as is several airborne divisions.

Paratroopers file into the cavernous cargo bays, armed with AKG-47s (modified to fire rifle grenades), Sterling SMGs, L4A5 light MGs, RPG-7Ws, and AT. 48 anti-tank missiles. 51mm, 81mm, and 120mm light mortars are also carried, and Unimog trucks armed with SPG-9 recoilless rifles and ATGWs, as well as 23mm AAA cannon, are loaded in along with heavily armed Land Rovers and Sabre light tanks, both equipped with formidable anti-tank and anti-aircraft weaponry. Artillery pieces and airborne MRLs are all stuffed into the aircraft as a fighter escort gathers overhead.

Finally, moments before takeoff, a motorcycle w/sidecar putters into the lead transport.

"We are ready!"

http://www.operations.mod.uk/orf/img/rgbw_brize1.jpg

"Do we have the 'secret cargo' with us?" The foolish captain of squadron 4 asked his assistance.
"You mean the chemicals, yeah." His assistance answered. "I'm want to know, why would you stick a giant chemical missile right here?" He pointed to the large missiles, stocked within the transports next to their bunkers.
"I don't know."
"You'll be the end of us all." He said, as the troops were nearing the eastern ends of the Zoogiedom.

OOC: I'll RP a lot more batter later. I'm just rushed right now.

((OOC: I'll get to RPing this when I can in the next few days, but for the moment I'm too busy writing my AP history application essay.))

[OOC- Tag for now, involvement later. One question. I'm pretty sure I have an embassy in your country and I am also a bit sure I have some type of military base. SO, is this true? Or am I half right? Or what?]

Eh....we do have embassies, it'd be a crime if we didn't. As for military base...if you want to, sure. If you have an embassy, we'll assume it was evacuated long ago, fair? If you have a military base, eh, pick somewhere convenient :)

GE, you suck. I wish I had AP courses.

The calm breeze of Zoogiedom did not touch the blatant faces of the worried, wearied, and simply annoyed soldiers who were stuck sleeping next to unstable chemical missiles for days. The men were weary, and they recieved word aboard the trip that another transport would be arriving soon, once the packages are finished their 'constructive designs'. What that would mean was unknown, but it was true to the fact that these men, despite their apparent stupidity, were veteran elites, Zealots who could battle under great pressures and circumstances. Their late arrival, however, had a different note to take.
"Alright. We find the Fascists, help them in a couple of missions, and go home easy, all right?" The captain asked his crew, who nodded promptly.

"Uh, captain?" A soldier began. "Shouldn't we take the chemical weapons with us?" He pointed to the small drum-like missiles, that seemed to be almost washed out to tide.

"Good idea. Take one, and let's move!" The captain gestured, his fingers pointing to each soldier and correspondingly to each drum. "I don't want any to explode. That happens, it'll cause a chain reaction, and take out quite a bit of land. Don't let that happen." He barked, his men groaning, looking complacent and blank.

"What if we drop one?" Someone piped up, as others agreed.

"Don't." He commanded with a finality in his prebuscent tone, his machine gun charged and ready to fire at anyone clumsy enough to drop a piece of Chemical Weaponry, especially one from a country so adept at inventing them.

"We want to stay quiet, so find our friends and make no sudden movements if we enemy patrols, got it?" The captain asked all of his men, when they walked again.

It was a long journey, but it was finally worth it. At the end of the long, weary, husky day they stopped for a drink, and they were at the overlooking hill of a small town. Knowing that sudden movements would make things worst, they began to set up a perimeter for their camp, as the cover of night begins to fall. It may be strategically advantageous to travel at night, but with so many other enemies do the same thing at such a time, it was more foolhardy and even worse...suicidal. They had to make due.

"Fascist Allies, come in any rebel forces." The captain murmured through his communications radio, as the men grumbled in their sleep. To him it was perfect to work communications at night, since people ignored such communications until the heat of battle.

"We are allies, and we tend to help you. We are in a small perimeter around the hill on top of a town in the east, about 12 km from the eastern shore. Direct location unknown." He now began to whisper. Hopefully a fascist soldier would pick up his transmission, and begin to respond. He waited quietly, but within minutes fell asleep.

Major Gen. Conolly was roused from his sleep by the voices that came over the radio. He distrusted it immediately, but quickly ran a check on the intelligence and the area. The incoming transmission was marked as from Jenrak. Jenrak had declared its alliance with the government (fascist) of Zoogiedom. He could proceed.

"How many are you?" he said roughly, still barely awake.

((OOC: Zoogie, do you mind if I RP a battle with some fascists while taking over a small town near the landing zone? If you care, then I’ll change what I have written.))

As the shells roared overhead towards inland targets, the Imperial landing ships of the 17th assault fleet approached the beach. As they drew a few yards from the shore, they came to a halt, and the massive doors in their sterns opened. Under cover of saturation fire from onboard machine guns, Imperial semi-amphibious GAV-1 APCs rolled out of the vessels into the knee deep water, and accelerated up the beach. Resistance in the spot was expected to be light, if it existed, and the APCs moved confidently if cautiously up the long stretch of beach.

GH-2 borne Praetorian assault teams had recently deployed in areas above the prospective beachhead, and now worked to secure various entry points and suspected resistance holdouts, while flights of F-78 Sokols flew inland to annihilate targets pinpointed by Imperial spy satellites.

Sergeant Stasio Merokovic watched from the open side door of the GH-2 as the rolling fields passed by him, and a small grey town grew larger in the distance. Plumes of black smoke trailed upwards into the brightening sky, drifting northwesterly towards Chisliag, and the enemy.

That small unnamed town had been the subject of bombardment for several hours, a suspected hold for Dumalar’s units in the area. As fate would have it, the task of batting cleanup for the Imperial airforce had fallen on Sergeant Merokovic and his Praetorians.

Through his helmet’s viewfinder, the Sergeant was able to zoom in for a closer look at the destruction wrought by the 24-inch shells and aerial bombs. There was little sign of the enemy, though Merokovic had been in this gig long enough to know that they were in there somewhere. A dozen other GH-2s, and six large GHTs carrying small armored scout cars flew in formation beside his own.

Without dislodging his hand from its position grasping a rail above the door, he turned to check on the others. At that moment, he realized for the first time just how ferocious and animal his men seemed in their combat gear, clutching the heavy GIR-37 assault rifles, their faces invisible behind their helmets, eyes obscured by yellowish glass. Inwardly, he relished this, knowing that they would be a sight to behold when they encountered the enemy, but that their reputation and skill as ferocious warriors would speak for them.

A distorted voice came over the speaker.

“20 seconds.”

Merokovic backed away from the door, to give the side gunner room enough to maneuver his cannon. The GH-2s lowered altitude, skimming the rooftops, passing over shattered concrete and desolate, rubble filled streets. He swore he could make out blood staining the stone. Suddenly, the familiar ‘tink’ of low caliber bullets bouncing off the armor of the helicopters met his ears. Almost immediately, the cannons opened up, a heavy buzz saw whir that forever racked the nightmares of those who had encountered a Praetorian air battalion and survived.

“LZ is hot.”

The chopper spun 180 degrees, and made to touch down on top of a partially shattered two-story parking garage. As the GH-2 neared the ground, he tensed, and threw himself out of the door, rushing to take cover behind an abandoned car. The dozen others followed. As he scanned the area, the door to the stairwell at the opposite end of the platform exploded outward, and a cluster of enemy soldiers poured out. Merokovic’s voice boomed out over the channel to his squad.

“Kill them!”

As he gave the order, he pulled the trigger on his own rifle and ripped open the chest of the first man through the door. There were roughly thirteen hostile soldiers, and as the crossfire exploded, they scrambled like chickens to find cover in the largely open area of the top tier of the parking garage. Merokovic watched as the head of his next would-be target exploded near clean off, his kill stolen by one of his men.

A group of Praetorians rushed forward, and put an extra bullet in each of the dead men, before giving an all clear signal over the radio. Merokovic ordered his men down the stairwell, and into the street, where combat had heated up between another squad and a group of rebels taking cover behind the ruined façade of a small shop. As he stepped into the street, Merokovic watched as a white streak whizzed towards the enemy position, and exploded in a burst of heat and searing flame. The body of a fascist soldier was blown out into the street by the grenade, fired from the built in launcher of a Praetorian’s GIR-37. The man’s legs had landed near his head.

As Merokovic rushed across the street, he caught the scorched and mutilated enemy soldier attempting to reach his rifle, which lay three feet from his legless body. The Sergeant, without thinking, trained his rifle and put three bullets into the head of his failed adversary.

He took cover behind an overturned vehicle as a group of hostiles at the opposite end of the street opened up on the two Praetorian squads. Merokovic peered over the car, and fired a few rounds at his opponents, dropping one with a lucky shot. The fascist soldiers suddenly halted their fire, and turned their heads to the left. With a look of recognition, they broke cover and rushed off down the street, out of sight. A moment later, the telltale screeching of treads split Merokovic’s ears.

Recognizing the situation, the sergeant shouted over the radio for his men to take cover.

“Fuck! Tank!”

Breaking his own cover, he scrambled towards the ruined façade of the shop that the enemy had used as cover not two minutes ago. Diving over the low wall, he lay prone, and peered out at the corner down the street. Sure enough, a long barrel appeared, preceding the rest of the armored beast. Slowly, the turret swiveled, and with a thunderous roar, unleashed the fury of its cannon on a group of Praetorians taking cover near the parking garage.

The tank turned and began to rumble down the street towards him, not yet seeing his position. The beast drew closer and closer, until it came to a halt right beside him. Merokovic did not breath. The vehicle’s cannon roared, and the tank began to move again. Despite the ear protection offered by the Praetorian helmet, Merokovic’s eardrums still rang at the close proximity of the blast. Battling his disorientation, he stood and burst from cover, running at the rear of the armor.

With a mighty leap, he was on top of the beast, riding it like an armored bull. The hatch behind the coaxial gun opened, and the gunner’s head appeared. Merkovic fired three rounds into it, and the corpse slumped over, and sank back into the tank. He moved to the driver’s hatch, and heaved it open. Training his gun into the dark depths of the tank, he flipped the switch on his GIR-37 and pulled the trigger, sending a grenade rocketing into the belly of the beast.

The moment he pulled the trigger, he was blinded by the explosion, and thrown backwards with a force that he was sure would cost him every bone in his body. He landed several yards away on pile of broken glass and concrete rubble, and blacked out, re awakening twenty seconds later to see the shriveled hulk of the enemy tank smoking in the center of the street.

He got to his feet, and attempted to get his bearings. His rifle lay ten feet away, on top of an abandoned car. Another Praetorian grabbed it, and tossed it to the sergeant, still reeling from the encounter.

“Here you go, sarge. The least I can do for pulling our asses out of the fire.”

The soldier saluted, and disappeared to rejoin his own squad.

The battle continued for roughly a half hour, concluding with a total of five Praetorians dead, eight wounded, and an unknown number of enemy casualties. Either way, the small unnamed town was secure.

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

On the beach, an advance Praetorian Guardsmen had assembled themselves in columns and were preparing to move inland with detachments of RM-30 ‘Emperor’ tanks and APCs to establish forward outposts in secured towns and fortifications to make room for the offloading of the remainder of the Imperial expeditionary force, a task that could take weeks at the most.

Official combat operations would begin much sooner than that, however, as the 40th Imperial armored division and an assortment of Praetorian units began the push towards Chisliag to reinforce the garrisons and drive back the armies of Dumalar.

Pics of Uberness

http://usera.imagecave.com/mobrule132001/Landingship.bmp.jpg

Imperial landing ship

http://usera.imagecave.com/mobrule132001/bombardment.bmp.jpg

Random Destruction

http://usera.imagecave.com/mobrule132001/Praetorian.bmp.jpg

Imperial Praetorian in Combat Armor with GIR-37

A dozed transmission woke up the captain, the stout, short and slippery man who was asleep aboard his desk, and his eyes were bloodshot red, refracting off the light on his desk, which he no doubt left on, flickering. He moved to turn it off by clicking the heel button at the back.

Beside him, the transmission flared forwards and back, and the same message seemed to pop up in the communications, "How many are you?" It flickered amongst the radio again, becoming extremely annoying. It was not long before the captain decided to respond after the seventh repeat, knowing it would never end until he replied.

"Rebel forces, this is Jenrak veteran squad Siren 12, and we currently have nearly 2,000 highly armed men, and heavily supplied with all the manner of weapons. We are as well recieving Naval reinforcements from the Sage Patriarch Saerus, and the elite Theocrat army, but that will take time. Please send over someone to escort to your camp." The captain's mannered finished, when the soldiers woke up from his loud jabber.

"We have to scout some areas, now men. You," he pointed to a tall sickly man, "you" He pointed to a short, white haired man, "and you." He finally pointed to another similiar white haired boy, but a fair bit taller. "All come with me. We have to see if there is anything that can be found."

"But sir, what about the lower town?" A woken up solder asked, his pistols and guns still in their proper holster. "We could be spot!"

"I am aware, recruit." The captain snapped. "However, we aren't sticking ourselves to the town. We are going around by the other side, so they can't see us. Understand?" He asked the soldier.

"Yes, sir." The young creeped man answered, his face red with unease, and some nervousness.

"All right," The captain began, "Follow me." Trudging along. "Shouldn't be more than an hour."

A flotilla of aircraft reaches Zoogie shores at a little bit after midnight. Escorted by more than 150 SAf. 27MT fighters, a flock of heavy airlifters prepare to drop their cargo.

"Attention democratic Zoogie forces, this is the Robotstani Zoogiedom Expeditionary Force. We are on our way."

After a few more minutes of flight, the fighters begin to break away. Equipped with ALARM-R and HR. 30 missiles, they engage facist SAMs and AAA radars from up to 90 kilometers distant, and close behind comes a flight of SAa. 25 CAS aircraft, ready to operate from wherever seems suitable.

The fires of battle appear in the distance as the parachute doors open. The shouts of sargeants and officers are just audible over the roar of turbofan engines, and the green light flashes.

"Go, go, go!"

Robotstani paratroopers dive into the darkness, and parachute canopies drift down onto the countryside in the thousands.

The crew of a scorpion-75 light tank dives into the turret and immediately gets on the radio. Land rovers, Unimogs, Sabres, Scorpions, and motorcycles are all collected by their crews and begin to move towards their objectives. Scouts are dispatched out in front of the main body of paratroopers, and they begin to probe into the land, looking for targets and threats.

OOC: Sure. Take as much RP liberty as you want, as long as it's good and doesn't involve a massive nukefest...such events are reserved for Uberstock, no? One thing, Jenrak, the fascists are no longer the rebel forces. The rebel forces are more like the former government.

I'll think up a reply sometime this week.

OOC: Sure. Take as much RP liberty as you want, as long as it's good and doesn't involve a massive nukefest...such events are reserved for Uberstock, no? One thing, Jenrak, the fascists are no longer the rebel forces. The rebel forces are more like the former government.

I'll think up a reply sometime this week.

OOC: Alright, I'll remember that

"TANK! TWO O'CLOCK!"

The driver of the Sabre light tank calls to the commander and gunner that a tank is visible, not three kilometers distant.

"Attention all forces, we have hostile tanks in the area. Prepare for contact."

Overhead, the SAf. 27MTs continue to pound facist ground units in an effort to let the paras sneak up on their armor. The sabre, equipped with a very quiet engine, a low profile, and a miniscule IR signature, is a perfect tank for reconaissance mission, especially for the paras. Its 30mm cannon quickly tracks the vehicle, 'type uncertain,' and the accopanying infantry soon produce an ATGW team, equipped with the AT. 44P missile.

((OOC: LRR, where are your boys located?))

OCC: Eh...well...to tell you the truth...I don't exactly know...

Some isolated and remote corner inland, I'd imagine. Where they can set up a base of operations and not be faced with massive facist forces.

OCC: Eh...well...to tell you the truth...I don't exactly know...

Some isolated and remote corner inland, I'd imagine. Where they can set up a base of operations and not be faced with massive facist forces.

((OOC: I'm thinking of editing some important locations including troop concentrations, command posts, fascist and democratic government supporter strongholds, etc. onto the map to save ZP the trouble and to make coordination a little easier for everyone else. If you don't mind, I'll just put you somewhere remote along the southeastern coast or something.))

OCC: Ok. Coast, ah, c'est bon. Now I can resupply by sea...

*Grins suspiciously*

IC post forthcoming.

Trimes

A hundred missiles smashed into the military dock and neighboring airfield on the lowest of the three islands, Trimes. Smoke billowed from buildings as fires raged, wreaking destruction everywhere. In the horizon, there could be seen faintly the outline of an oncoming fleet. The skies grew dark, and amidst the clouds were multiple squadrons of incoming aircraft...

[i]"What's going on!?" Confusion reigned in tower control. Who had struck? How? Within minutes, tower control itself had tumbled into a heap of rubble.

The aircraft were almost overhead now; scrambled fighters were picked off with ease, and a barrage of bombs and missiles was eliminating every important object in sight on an alarming scale with alarming precision...

ZIS-114CVN Nex

A lieutenant entered the command room of Admiral Gates onboard the carrier Nex, report in hand.

"The strike?" asked the admiral distractedly, looking up from his work.

"Devastatingly effective," said the lieutenant enthusiastically. "Their defenses have been destroyed for miles and miles of beach and land. The forward fleet has taken care of fleeing vessels...the landing platforms should be arriving now."

"Excellent," said the admiral briskly, and began work on a telegram reporting the news to West.

The sunrise is greeted by the cackle of the GPMG and 35mm automatic cannon. Sporadic weapons fire signals encounters between the Robotic paras and facist elements, but it appears as though the element of surprise carried the much more lightly armed paras through to victory, as they were not discovered by any significant concentration of facist troops until the bulk of the airborne force had begun to probe into the countryside.

The paras' first priority is to secure an airfield and a beach, and they have managed to find an adequate sandy stretch that can be used by Robotic logistics ships. If they can hold the region for about a week, ships carrying heavy elements will arrive and facilitate breakout operations.

Colonel-General Louis Maputo waves his Sterling SMG at a pair of Facist troops laying low in an MG nest.

"You two! Hands up and get out!"

The smoking hulk of a tank is nearby, destroyed by an RPG, and paras dig in not far away to avoid sniper fire.

Anti-tank missiles are used to great effect both on armor and on what fortifications exist, and are complimented by 130mm towed MRLs and 82mm automatic mortars.

The Land of Alex is in full suport of the former government of the Zoogie People and refuse to recognize the facist as a legitamite government until elections are held. All zoogie citizens will be granted amnesty in our land. We will help in any way we can, but our military isn't sufficient at the time to act alone.

-Amy Wen, Minister of Foriegn Affairs

((OOC: Added Imperial LZ to map. I’ll add more important positions as things move along: http://usera.imagecave.com/mobrule132001/Zoogiemap.JPG ))

Over the course of the next two days, all manner of military hardware along with thousands of Imperial soldiers were unloaded from the landing ships onto the beaches of Zoogiedom south of Chisliag. Imperial forces had moved into the town secured by the forces of Lieutenant Stasio Marekovic, and had established an in-country command center in what had once been a government building, a mayor’s office from the looks of it.

Colonel Nikolai Stasjanovic stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back, a cigarette hanging suspended in the corner of his mouth, burning away to the butt. His eyes wandered over a map of the theater of operations, displayed on a large monitor that was directly connected to live footage from orbiting Imperial satellites.

“Colonel Stasjanovic, sir, General Nys’ky is on the line.”

Stasjanovic accepted the telephone handed to him by a soldier.

“General Nys’ky, sir?”

“Colonel, congratulations on a secure landing. Now that you have some muscle in the area, you are to take command of the first phase of Operation: Rock Solid. We haven’t much time before the fascist forces break through the defenses at Chisliag, and we can’t afford to see that city fall into enemy hands. Take your armored and mobile infantry divisions north, and break the fascist offensive.”

“We shall begin immediately, sir.”

“For Generia, for God, Colonel.”

“For the Emperor, sir.”

Stasjanovic handed the phone to the soldier standing at attention beside him.

An hour later, seemingly endless columns of RM-30 tanks, G-19A1 APCs, and G-15 IFVs of the 15th, 17th, and 19th Imperial armored divisons were rumbling over the roads to the capital to engage the fascist forces. Overhead, GH-2s roared towards the combat zone to bring Imperial Praetorians to hold the line until the rest of the force arrived.

From the decks of carriers from the 5th and 7th fleets, GH-1s rocketed into the sky, continuing the sorties they had been making for weeks against Dumalar’s fortified positions, armor, and airfields in the Chisliag area. As dusk fell on the third day, a new barrage of cruise missiles exploded from the decks of the ‘Sofia’ class missile cruisers, this one bound for military targets in Melersdon.

The Chisliag Offensive

The GH-2s cast their sleek shadows over the outskirts of the shattered city of Chisliag. Heavy dust from intense fighting hung in the air, and thick black smoke rose from burning hulks of tanks and ruined buildings, creating a nearly opaque cloud, and making it difficult to breathe on the ground. The blasting of artillery guns rumbled away in the distance, a reminder that this lull in the fighting was only temporary.

The Imperial helicopters descended as they neared the western outskirts of the city, touching down on rooftops, in the streets, in areas cleared by explosives, while gunships hovered, watching for targets.

Sergeant Rokliek Nr’iev watched as the gunner threw open the heavy side door of the GH-2. He grabbed hold of the 30mm cannon and swung it to face outward, scanning the ground for targets. Nothing yet. Beside the transport, a sleek GHA-1 attack helicopter suddenly lower nose and accelerated. The rocket pods on the side of the chopper flashed, and a hail of missiles streaked away towards an unseen target. Nr’iev leaned his head out of the door, and watched as a fascist tank in a plaza below exploded in a brilliant display of fire and smoke. He leaned back in as he felt the whiz of a bullet clipping by his ear. The sound of gunfire came shortly thereafter.

“We’ve got hostiles!”

In the cockpit, the GH-2s copilot grabbed the radio transmitter and yelled into the horn.

“El-Zees are hot! Repeat El-Zees are hot! Get the fucking GHAs in here!”

Nr’iev huddled against the metal side paneling of the chopper, clutching his GIR-37 against his shoulder. He said a silent prayer as the noise of combat exploded in full force around the tin can that was carrying him straight into the thick of Hell.

He felt it before he heard or saw it. The chopper jolted violently to the right, sending him sprawling up against the wall he had been leaning on. A great roar split his ear, as if a cannon had been discharged within his head. An orange and white glow consumed him, and burned the back of his eyes. He could feel his world spinning for what seemed hours, until there was one final crash, and everything went black.

He wasn’t sure if he was alive. His mind drifted. He could feel, but he could neither see nor hear. He could smell something burning in the back of his mind, but he could not seem to summon himself enough to decipher what this meant. Slowly, his senses began to return to him. A dull thunder resounded in his ears, replacing the shrill white ringing. Still, he could not see. He moved his hand, at least what he thought was his hand, and brought it to where his face should be. He felt only cold metal and glass. He moved his other arm, and placed it on the other side of this metallic head.

He summoned his strength, and pushed upward, dislodging the helmet from his head. His sight restored, he tried to get his bearings. He looked down at his feet. He seemed to be in one piece, though his suit was covered in burn markings, and a large piece of metallic wreckage lay on his abdomen. He realized that he was still within the fuselage of the downed chopper. He craned his neck, and a bloody face that was no longer a face stared blankly at him. He set his jaw and turned away. Again summoning his strength, he pulled himself from out beneath the metal that pinned him. He flipped over onto his stomach in the cramped space, and saw obscured daylight through a hole in the fuselage. He dragged himself towards the hole, and pulled himself out into the street.

The sounds of war were all around him. The whir of rotors melted into the sound of thunderous explosions. Nr’iev forced himself to his knees, and realized that he had left his rifle in the fuselage of the wrecked chopper. He checked his waist for his sidearm, and drew the heavy pistol. Pressing up against the outside of the chopper’s fuselage, he peered around the edge to check the other end of the street. A bullet slammed into the metal beside his head, and he jolted back behind cover. Gunfire began exploding all over the opposite side of the fuselage, bullets ricocheting, burying themselves in the concrete.

Overhead, from behind a building, a GHA-1 appeared. The gun below the cockpit began to rotate, and the buzz of the cannon echoed the hail of bullets that slammed into the fascist forces at the opposite side of the street. Nr’iev thanked God, and broke his cover to cross to the slight protection of the doorway of an apartment building.

He halted to catch his breath, and leaned against the stone.

“Sergeant!”

He turned his head, and beheld two Imperial soldiers sheltering in the building’s lobby. He stepped in, and holstered his sidearm.

“Good to see you made it out of the crash, sir.”

Nr’iev looked around for any other survivors, finding no one.

“Anyone else make it?”

“No, sir. Just us three by the looks of it. Where’s your rifle?”

Nr’iev gestured back towards the burning helicopter.

“Damn. Here, take this.”

The other soldier grabbed a shotgun from off of a dust covered reception desk, and tossed it to Nr’iev. Suddenly, the ground shook as an artillery shell collided with the building’s third floor, knocking out the supports.

“Fuck! Move!”

The three men scrambled out of the doorway, into the street, where another GH-2 hovered overhead. Another squad of Praetorians were moving towards cover at the end of the street where a newly destroyed fascist tank sat smoldering. Nr’iev followed the squad, and jumped behind the ruined hulk of the tank, beside another Praetorian officer.

“Who are you guys?”

“7th Praetorian air company.”

Nr’iev’s face lit up with relief.

“Us too.”

“That you’re ride?”

The man pointed to the downed chopper.

“Yeah.”

“Just you three then?”

“Just us. You got you’re orders?”

“We’re moving up a few blocks to see if we can make contact with any surviving friendly Zoogie troops. Then we either reinforce them, or hold it alone until our armor gets here.”

“They always give us the lousy assignments.”

“Hell, man. That’s why you’re Guard.”

The officer waved his hand forward, ordering his unit to advance.

“Get your asses in gear! Up the street! Move!”

Nr’iev checked the breach of the shotgun, and followed the team up the street.

OOC: I might have had my guys attacked or something, so please correct me if I was attacked, so I can rewrite it.

IC:

Thunderous roars echoed in the edges of the faint, conscious mind, as the soldiers grew restless, and tired. They felt a small sense of impotence, but they had to move on, despite the weight of the heavy cargo they ensued with them, dragging along the chemical bombs amongst the muddy tarred ground, while the sun taunted them from above, the heat warm enough to make them think twice before accepting this extremely tedious work. Despite all of their complaints, they had a promise to fulfill, to their dying breath, or hopefully near that at the most.

They weren't expecting to die so soon, or so easily, but things became complicated as a stray missile, a sleek shining, massive bullet of chaotic fire, reared towards a chemical missile, and despite the squad's best efforts to deflect it, it crashed headlong into one of the cargo pieces, sending plaques of acidic poison into the bright rayed air. This was not anticipated, but they still had to work around it.

"Gas masks, everyone!" The nearby Captain yelled to this motly group, as the team of soldiers placed masks amongst their faces, and they covered their face in a thick black glove like tightness, becoming a large black spot in the mainland. It seemed from far away they looked like a walking scorch, leaping amongst the rocks and attempting to drink water from the rivers.

It was night, the sky was a blanket over the light that existed, and stars were fogged by the nearby smoke, barely able to be seen. They were almost invisible, but it was too much risky to hope for such a cover. "Alright, everyone." The Captain turned around and began his briefing. "We are at the broken west end of Chiliag." He murmured. "Hopefully we came late enough so that the enemy isn't here, but not too late that we can't reinforce our allies. Now, we have to hold this position for nearly three days, since General Saerus is coming personally." He looked around at the stunned, still groups.

"Deploy all heavy firepower around the southwestern sections of the city. Do not use any loud weapons if enemies are encountered. Use silencer pistols or swords." He turned to another group. "Also, same thing goes for you; deploy the mobile turrets along the north western ends, and once the assault copters arrive we can begin a slow push towards the capital. Keep the communications channel open. We need to fortify the little ground we have left."

"Sir." A soldier asked the captain.

"What is it?" The captain replied.

"When are reinforcements arriving?"

"I already told you that, recruit. They are coming within a few days. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now make yourself useful and go garrison yourself along the buildings there." He pointed to a contigent of broken structures, smoke still billowing from their maws, rubble hanging dangerously through the doorways, as the creeping shadows that lurked within held no, guise.

It was a swift few minutes before the team from the south screamed postously on the communication channel, ripping the quiet, eerie air into a frenzy. "What is happening, soldier?" The captain yelled back on the communication.

"Enemy forces are hiding in the city outskirts! We are under heavy fire! Need...reinforcements! Need..." As the comm went black, a scary staticy sound was all that was left. The captain shut off his comm, pointed to another squad, and yelled at them, "I want you to fortify the position in the south. If there are enemy untis there, we need to distract them or take them out so that the Valor can arrive. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" They yelled as one.

OOC: GE, I'm in the far western outskirt of the city, and I'm assuming you moved your forces north and south of that position. If not, then I'll rewrite it.

The Republic feels that your nation is going to become an oppressive society and feel that we must intervene in affairs. Be warned my air fleet is rather deadly being a highly advanced nation you will soon learn the wrath of the democratic government (and note that the arms industry is our nation's pride so dont mess with us)

The Republic feels that your nation is going to become an oppressive society and feel that we must intervene in affairs. Be warned my air fleet is rather deadly being a highly advanced nation you will soon learn the wrath of the democratic government (and note that the arms industry is our nation's pride so dont mess with us)

OOC: So? I'm the Chemical God. You don't see me bragging. Oh wait, you do. Never mind.

((OOC: Jenrak, basically I've got my boys holding fort along the western, and northwestern edges of the city, just inside what we'd call the outskirts, plus some additional troops holding the southern roads into the city, keeping things clear for the armor that should arrive in a day or two. Your post should be fine.))

OOC: Okay. Also, I'll have one of my main RP characters, A Patriarch General named Saerus. When he battles, it might seem godmodish, so I'll try to keep it minimal since I don't want him to die.

IC:

"Enemy forces are assaulting position!" The remaining troops in the Southern sections roared, bullet spray enflaming the nearby air and ground, as lead particles sleeted through the air, the yelling and screaming of silent soldiers battling with weak but quiet pistols. Silencers sounded like music, and screams were the fored notes in a composition. But there was more to chaos than the notes of music it resembled.

"Destroy them!" The soldier yelled loudly, catching the attention of some enemy troops. "Ah, shit." As they ran forwards and set up their emplacements.

"Deploy heavy turrets!" The reinforcements yelled in the distance, coming along. But it was not a good thing, as the emplacements saw the massive turrets they trudged along, and gunned the infantry holding the weapon down, the bullets ripping through the soft underbodies of the soldiers, and they fell and cursed the foggy sky for being so unforgiving to them.

"Cover me!" A soldier screamed at his friends, as they discarded the silent guns and started to load their rifles. Bullets hit a nearby man's arm, and he showed a massive growing tumor on it, bloody and shocked.

Soon enough, the tumor shrank back into the body, and it exploded painfully, but the man smiled and yelled, "I'm cured!" Little did he know, that machine gun fire still echoed throughout the night, and the bullets slashed right through him as his faint body fell. Flash grenades were thrown by the soldiers to illuminate the path way, and the recruit attempting to get to the heavy firepower left behind by Jenrak's former carriers saw the torn shreds of his friends, and despite the bullet in his hand, he pulled vainly to get the weapon into the bunkerous position.

"Set it up now! I'll distract them!" The man yelled, as the technicians began placing it together amongst the violence. The soldier stood up, and began firing flashes at the enemy, doing virtually no damage. With that, he drew out his sword, and frantically yelled forwards to the gunning infantry, shrieking his almighty cry. Within seconds, his body was an apathy of bullet wounds, and his brain had at least eight holes in them. His sacrifice was not in vain, however, as the turret was set up, and they began retaliating, despite the fact that they were outmuscled.

"Come in, Captain!" The communicator yelled on his comm, static filling the air. "We need reinforcements! We need them now!"

Meanwhile, aboard the Valor, the personal Warcopter of the Patriarch Saerus, and the elite Paratroopers of Venerable, the Patriarch intercepted the transmissions. "How long will it take for us to get there?" He asked his pilot.

"Four days, sir, max." The pilot exclaimed through his bulging headset.

"Alright. We have to mount up in two days."

OCC: GE, I think I'll stick my folks in the northwest region, about where the map transitions from green to rusty.

IC:

The Robotic paras probe into the countryside even further, and establish what they believe to be a good perimeter. Before long, tactical transports trickle in from the closer islands in the Robotic Archipelago, carrying batches of reinforcements, and para-sappers are busy constructing a large airstrip.

At sea, a Robotic task force nears Zoogiedom, bearing tanks, artillery, and other assorted armor as well as a sizable infantry contingent...

The bullets from the low caliber silenced pistols practically bounced off of the Praetorian’s armor, doing virtually no damage as the Praetorians returned fire on their newly located enemies with the heavy GIR-37s.

Sergeant Nr’iev pushed his back up against the low concrete wall. The sounds of war raged all around him. The sky seemed full of steel, GH-2 gunships and attack choppers roaring overhead, unloading lead on the enemy positions, and ferrying troops into the bloody, beating heart of war. He peered around the edge of the wall, and a bullet nearly buried itself in his skull for the second time that day.

“Bastards!”

He checked his shotgun, and whipped around, aiming it over the top of the barrier and twice pulling the trigger. The distinct ‘BOOM’ heralded the end of life for the man whose head had just ceased to exist except for the white bone dust that hung in the air, and that blood now covered the faces of his comrades.

“Good shot.”

As Nr’iev returned to his cover, an explosive rattling ushered in the sound of bullets slamming into the other side of the concrete wall. A lieutenant beside Nr’iev shouted over the din.

“Fuck! They’ve got an MG!”

Nr’iev scanned the street to the right, and saw that the door to a hotel, the façade racked with burn marks and bullet holes, had been blown clean off its hinges, revealing the dark cavern that led to a secure position.

“Sir, we should get in there!:

The officer followed Nri’ev’s finger to the close, but distant cover.

“Well, we’re cooked if we stay here! That looks like our best bet!”

He turned to the other six men who were sheltering behind the same piece of broken rubble.

“You gotta keep that MG under control so we can break for that door! On three!”

The officer shouted a count over the explosive rattle of the street sweeper. On three, three of the men took aim over the wall with heavy weapons, SAWs and assault rifles. Nr’iev grabbed a frag grenade from the ammo belt that hung across his chest, pulled the pin, and tossed it over his back. He heard a shout in a foreign tongue, and the MG fire temporarily halted.

“Move!”

Nr’iev, the lieutenant, and three others broke cover and sprinted for the doorway as the sound of the grenade exploding rocked their already deadened eardrums. They were closing on their destination, ten yards, then seven, then four. It was within arms reach, but then came that awful sound that made hearts sink. The gun opened up once again. Bullets tore through weak points in the lieutenant’s armor, and several pierced his neck and severed his jugular vein. He fell, eyes wide, spasming and grabbing at his neck as a jet of blood sprayed into the air, and landed in a red streak across the ground. Lead tore into the legs of another man, and he fell, trying desperately to drag himself over the concrete to cover, calling out futilely in Generian for his God and Christ to save him from this gory death. His screams halted as more lead rammed into his side, chewing up his innards, and fusing with his ribs.

The others gritted their teeth, and tried not to look at the carnage as they charged through, heads down, towards the shelter of the doorway. One dived the last yard, and slid across the broken marble, slamming into an upturned table. The other was not as lucky. Catching a bullet his shoulder, he dashed through the doorway, and leaned up against the wall to regain his breath.

Outside, the gun had turned its fire back onto the men sheltering behind the wall. Nr’iev popped another shell into his shotgun, and looked over to the stairwell leading to the upper levels of the building.

“Come on, we’re not out of it yet.”

He rushed to the stairway, only to come face to face with a young fascist soldier reloading his weapon, and apparently caught off guard. Instinctively, Nr’iev raised his gun and fired a hail of shot into the man’s chest. He was blown backwards, up the stairs, and slammed against the wall like a ragdoll. Nr’iev cautiously mounted the staircase and made his way up, the other two soldiers following him.

He entered a dingy hallway, a single light bulb swinging like a pendulum from the ceiling, the shade lying shattered on the floor below. Suddenly, a door exploded outward and a piercing warcry betrayed the entrance of another fascist warrior. Like the first, this man met the business end of the shotgun, and collapsed in a heap. Nr’iev checked his ammo belt for more shells, but found none. Reluctantly, he cursed and tossed the gun aside, drawing the saber that hung at his waist, the best friend of any Imperial Praetorian.

“Check the doors to the right. I’ll take that one.”

With saber in one hand, and pistol in the other, Nr’iev approached the first door on the left of the hallway. He positioned himself in front of it, and raised his heavy boot clad foot, before slamming it into the lower middle of the wooden door. With a crash, it swung inward on its hinged, breaking in two in the process. A very alarmed woman began shrieking at the sight of the warrior, and clutched her two young daughters closer to herself. Nr’iev lowered his weapons, and began to turn, but as he did so, watched the door of an armoire in the corner of the room begin to creak open.

He raised his pistol and put five rounds through the door. A uniformed fascist soldier tumbled out onto the floor, and his blood pooled and ran between the floor boards towards the wide-eyed civilians.

Nr’iev turned and entered the hallway to the sound of gunfire in the next room. He rushed in, and saw one of his men standing over another dead fascist soldier. He looked up to see a terrified naked woman cowering on the far corner of a sheet-less bed. The Praetorian lowered his gun and looked over at Nr’iev, before quietly proceeding out.

The end of the hallway had a large hole blown in the left side, which conveniently overlooked the machine gunner’s makeshift nest. Slowly, the Praetorians moved towards the hole in the wall, and took position. The gun below was still hammering away at the Praetorians on the opposite end of the street. Nr’iev held up his hand, signaling the two others to wait. When the gunfire broke temporarily, he lower his hand, and his men opened fire on the position below.

As the gunners fell, another group of foreigners appeared from behind a second concealed position and opened fire on Nr’iev’s position. The men took cover.

“What the Hell are we supposed to do now?”

Almost as a sign from above, the whir of rotors greeted the man’s query. Two GH-2 gunships appeared on either side of the street, and the heavy 30mm cannons began to unleash Hell. In the street, the Praetorians broke cover, and drew steel to charge headlong the enemy position where their suppressed foes waited. The two warriors in their elevated position leapt over the low wall that separated them from the fall to the street, landing heavily on the concrete where they regained their footing.

The Praetorians charged over the covered position, and hacked left and right with their sabers while the GH-2s hovered overhead. Nr’iev followed the other two through the hole in the wall, and allowed himself to make the drop to the street. Cushioned by his armor, the fall was not terribly painful, though the shock of the landing tossed him off his bearings for a few seconds. He drew his saber and followed the others into the fray.

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

Imperial Command Post, South of Chisliag

“Colonel Stasjanovic, sir. Praetorian advance forces report engagements with third party forces. They are believed to be soldiers of Jenrak.”

“Goddamnit. Bastards should know when to mind their own business. Send word to the division en route. Tell them to expect resistance from Jenrak soldiers as well as fascist government forces. And get General Nys’ky on the horn.”

“Yes, sir.”

"Shit! They've taken the first tech team!" The reinforcements yelled, as the enemy fired bullet after bullet, the lead flying through the air towards them, bouncing off the brick surfaces, making a dangerous zone even amongst the edge of the wall, the machine gun, although temporarily disabled, wasn't broken, thankfully; they still had time to fortify a main position.

"Bring the team up the ridge, and around the corner! We have to get the machine gun to the pillbox nearby!" The soldier yelled to his friends, as he pointed to a vivaciously empty pillbox, the whirring of helicopter rotors demoralizing them. Where are the Venerables? The soldier asked himself, as bullet fire sprayed, as it was as thick as the fire that enclouded the poisonous battlefield. As he laid, watching his friends move up the heavily fired trench-like barricades, their bodies repeatedly shot, most falling in instances, he heard a massive fragmentation explosion echo nearby, and it gave him an idea. Shouting in code, he told the soldiers to place their body suits on.

Troops everywhere from Jenrak that heard within the range dropped their tasks dangerously, and began to place specialized gauntlets and heavy thick boots, along with sterile gas masks and thick breathing apparatuses. They looked like scuba divers underwater, although they weren't near the water that much. Within minutes of the ongoing roar, the soldier stuck behind the brick layers flicked off a small glass vial, and threw it blindingly at the firing enemies. In doing so, his fingers were shot, but it was worth it. The vial's thick heavy enconcsed venomous liquid started to spread, and it crept slowly amongst the ground, hugging the thick dirt to meet all that ensemble in its path. Thankfully most soldiers of Jenrak were able to place on their suits, large and cumbersome, before the poison penetrated their soft skins, but some were unlucky.

Seizures and crazed fanatical victims ran around in an insane mode, as they shot at friend and foe, blinded form their pain. Bullets from both sides flew at either ends of the battle, and the Generic Empire's men, with a direct defensive advantage and a direct weapons advantage, was winning a prudent, yet simple battle. Jenrak had to rely on the reinforcements, but whether they would come in time or not would be a mystery.

"We need help!" The soldier with the bleeding hand painly tried to yell in the communication. "Generian troops are massacring us by the numbers! We need reinforcements to garrison the pillbox!"

"Hold on, men." The captain in the western ends replied. "We're coming soon. We just need to finish up setting up the rocket pods. Then, we can send what little men we have left to help you. Are you at your designated position?"

"No, sir. We are pinned down 34 north from our position. Enemy troops gaining ground!"

"Hold your position, soldier! We'll get the reinforcements there soon enough! Just wait another day! Make sure you have at least a safe zone!"

"We can't hold out for long! They have too powerful a cache of weapons! They also have attack helicopters!"

"Hold your position!"

"I can't hold it!" The soldier almost cried, as he felt the bullets whiz by, cutting a painful hole in his ear.

"Damn it, soldier! Don't give up on me now! The Venerable will arrive within a day! Hold...your...position!" But as he said that, a bullet flew through the soft tar of the wall, bashing into the soldier's brain, his communicator dropped onto the cold frozen soil, thick and soaked with blood.

The Paras' scout elements reach the outskirts of Egris, where they begin to engage heavier concentrations of Facist troops.

A gaggle of DPM'd Paras run for cover in front of a cluster of apartment blocks on the edge of Egris. The rattle of LMGs can be heard all over as a battallion of Paras assaults facist positions.

"Go, go, go!"

Private Gregor Sharon rushes across the street and into the ground floor of an apartment building, L4A5 light MG at the ready. His squad rushes up the stairs and into the building, led by their sergeant. The sergeant quickly empties one magazine for his 9mm Sterling SMG, and shoves a new one in just in time to come face to face with a facist fighter. The sergeant is killed outright from the facist's fire, but the fighter doesn't himself survive a blast from Gregor's L4A5.

The squad quickly works towards the top of the building, steadily clearing out facist positions in spite of casualties. By the time Gregor finally reaches the roof, only one other man is left alive in the squad, a corporal with an RPG-7. They dive to the ground when a nearby LMG shoots over their heads, and Gregor shoves in a new magazine.

"Come on!"
"Are you mad?"
"Go!"

The corporal shoots a rifle grenade into the MG nest and proceeds to jump onto the roof of an adjacent building. Gregor looks at his heavy L4A5, and throws it off the roof. He picks up a Sterling and follows the corporal.

On the ground, another group of Paras blows holes in the apartment blocks with RPG-7s, creating entrances for the infantry. Overhead, several Gazelle helicopters provide fire support, with folding-fin rockets and GPMGs.

The corporal blows a hole in the roof with the RPG, and jumps down into the opening...

((OOC: Updated map:

http://usera.imagecave.com/mobrule132001/ImperialoffensiveZP.JPG

"Medic!"

A grenade lands among a group of paras, severely wounding all of them. Within seconds, a number of medics run across to their position. Seemingly bulletproof, they work with no regard to the battle occurring all around them. They take out dressings, antibiotics, and morphine, and await support vehicles.

"Make way for the jeep!"

Three jeeps screech to a halt next to the medics and their patients, and they are rapidly filled to the brim with wounded troops, both paras and facists, and drive away. The medics hang onto the sides of the vehicles, shielding the casualties with their own bodies.

Meanwhile, Gregor and the Corporal begin clearing the next apartment. They cut down tens of facist fighters with their Sterlings before Gregor is hit. A 5.56mm round tears through his knee, and he goes down.

"I'm hit! I'm hit!"
"Hold on..."

The corporal ejects a spent magazine and kicks down the door to the next room, opening up on its occupants the moment he has a shot. However, the rattle of the Sterling is interrupted by the sound of an M-16, and Gregor hears the corporal shout an obscenity before tumbling back through the door.

"Medic! Medic!"

The corporal fastens dressing over Gregor's wound, ignoring his own problems, and slowly bleeding to death. On the street below, paras equipped with knee mortars and RPGs attack the remaining facist strongholds. Light MRLs are wheeled in and fired point-blank into MG nests and tanks.

Meanwhile, ships appear on the horizon. Beachmasters rush to their posts and Rapier SAMs search the skies as a group of large RO/RO ships prepares to disgorge their cargo.

By the end of the day, four Motor Rifle divisions are added to the Robotic strength on the ground, as well as a sizeable contingent of fighter aircraft and helicopters.

T-72Rs and OT-62Rs form up and move out towards their objectives.

"Sir, dropping location now." The pilot chattered to Saerus, as he drew his sword and hard adamantium armor, his robes concealing them vivaciously. His face was covered in a mask, and his armor almost exactly the same as his legions, save for the long burgundy cape billowing from his back, showing the elegance of his movements.

Amongst the chaotic southern sector of the city, the enemy was advancing brutally, the forces of Jenrak being pushed back terribly and quickly, unable to battle the furious onslaught of the enemy. Saerus hoped to even the field, but even he had doubts of an elite brigade battling an entire division. It all depended on his strategy.

Dropping down into the muddy waters, he landed along the borderline of the city's outskirts, and was hidden in the night extremely well. Reaching behind the brigade, he pulled his hand along the shoulder of the captain who thought carefully of the next move. Surprised at the move, the captain whisked around quickly and pointed his gun, but lowered it when he saw the burgundy cape whisp behind him, and bowed down low, to commemerate his arrival and the reinforcements. "Lord Saerus." The captain bowed lowly, his head almost entrenched in the mud, his hair dipping slightly into it.

"Arise, captain." Saerus ordered, giving the captain permission to stand at his heel.

"We are in dire need of reinforcements. We cannot hold back the enemy."

"Where?"

"Down at the south western end. We are attempting to get an anti air support fire into an empty pillbox, but it isn't working very well."

"Get me a reconnaisance bike."

"What, sir?"

"Get me a reconnaisance bike, Captain. Me and my team will bring the battle directly to themselves."

"Yes, sir." The captain praised as he turned around and prepared a team of light, fast, swift bikes, and as Saerus mounted on one, he and his elitist team of soldiers followed suite. "Let's go." He commanded, his men following him on swift bikes, all of them strapped with front bayonets and all of them heavy long ranged rifles.

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

"Ah! Fuck!" The soldier in the boards complaint, as he readied his chemical rocket propelled grenades, trying in vain to try and fire at the garrisoned enemy forces and gass them all to death. It wouldn't work, but they could try. He had his leg fired off, the blood spurting from his sockets when stood up, and later was loosing hope. However, as it is to his religion, he had to maintain a sense of morality and valour, or he will die anyways if he surrendered. Praying, he wanted a miracle to come. It came.

A small but organized tactical team led by the Patriarch Saerus zoomed its way towards the back lines, on top of swift speedy bikes and they began to load up their rpgs and heavy assault rifles as they geared down towards the edge of the pillbox, some being gunned tenciously by machine gun fire.

"Load weapon!" Saerus yelled amongst his team, his mask deafening some of the more loud noises out of the way.

"Aim weapon!" He ordered, as two more of his elites fell. He paid no attention to their soon to be corpses.

"Fire!" He yelled through his mask, as the adamantium warriors blazed off an incredible amount of rockets, softened, but still brutal, as it rocketed towards the enemy. It was on its way, but the lead from the guns of the enemy stopped them quickly in their tracks. Hopefully some would make at least soem damage; if not, then they would have to resort to personnel weaponry.

As night falls over northwestern Zoogiedom, the creaking of tracks can be heard in the still air, as well as the whop of rotor blades and the roar or jet engines.

Tracers light up the sky as BMP-2s pour 30mm rounds into facist concentrations and OT-62s use their 14.5mm guns on similar targets. Robotic ATGWs and artillery rockets fire at targets as the armored force advances, and is steadily reinforced by sea...

(OCC: Jenrak, would you be interested in RPing the overall facist resistance? It feels iffy that I'm fighting an enemy that has so far not been represented by another nation.)

OOC: If The Zoogie People wants me to, then I will.

((OOC: Jenrak, I've got a response in the works, but it's kind of long and I'm juggling it with a chemistry report, so I'll get it up when I can.))

((OOC: Jenrak, I've got a response in the works, but it's kind of long and I'm juggling it with a chemistry report, so I'll get it up when I can.))

OOC: Then I await this. :rolleyes:

OOC: If The Zoogie People wants me to, then I will.

Sorry guys, I've been busy. I will post; really, I will. I think you all know how the fascists are - roleplay them yourselves as necessary, and within bounds it'll be fine.

Sergeant Nr’iev slammed the butt of his rifle into the face of an enemy soldier, knocking the man backwards a few steps. The Generian lowered the gun and fired a burst into the man’s abdomen, ripping a bloody hole in the flesh of his enemy. He looked up, turning his head just in time to see another foe slam into his side, hurling him to the ground. The man was wielding cold steel, and Nr’iev brought his rifle up just in time to parry the man’s sword, saving his face from being cleft in two. His opponent raised his sword once more, and Nr’iev seized the opportunity to roll to the side as the beastly warrior brought his weapon down on the concrete. Nr’iev moved to get to his feet, but his enemy leapt forward, tackling him back to the ground, the cacophonous sound of clashing metal ringing out over the din.

Nr’iev struggled to free himself, as he was pinned and immobilized from the waist down. Gritting his teeth, and summoning all his strength, he thrust upwards with his gun, held sideways in his hands, and slowly pushed his enemy back. He raised himself with his enemy, and as he felt the grip breaking, brought his neck back, and wrenched it forward again, delivering a mighty headbutt with his heavy helmet directly to that of his foe. The man was thrown back, and Nr’iev scrambled to his feet. He let the gun hang, and drew his saber just as the enemy soldier leapt from the ground, his own sword drawn, going for the sergeant’s throat. Nr’iev parried the blow, and the man sprawled forward, allowing Nr’iev to grab hold of him around the neck, and drive his saber into the man’s abdomen.

But his foe was a true warrior, and a blade protruding from his gut did little to abate his fury. He wrenched himself free, and pulled the blade from the bleeding wound, roaring like an animal. He hurled the saber awkwardly at Nr’iev, who leapt out of the path of the spinning instrument of death. The man charged once more, and Nr’iev, now lying on his back, brought his feet together and delivered a powerful kick upward, landing directly on the open wound in the man’s stomach. The beast roared as the shock rocked his innards and the blood vessels in his abdomen burst. He stumbled backwards, and fell to his knees, his eyes still showing the bull-like fury of the warrior.

Nr’iev slowly got to his feet, and stood over his foe, who glared at him, teeth clenched in pain, defiance printed all over his face. The Generian sergeant picked up his saber, and in one smooth motion, brought it down in a chopping motion at the side of the man’s neck. The blade was sharp, clean, and smooth, and the head fell away, and rolled over the concrete, a trail of blood behind it. The man’s body slumped to the side, dead. Nr’iev, realizing the war still raging around him, sheathed his still red-stained blade, and whipped the GIR-37 from off of his back. The enemy had fallen back to a nearby pillbox as the Praetorians had overcome their previous position, and now the Praetorians scrambled for shelter as the Jenrak warriors trained the heavy gun on them. The mechanical chatter started up just as Nr’iev leapt over a sandbag wall, his men doing likewise.

As he pressed his back against the wall he heard the shouts of the enemy in foreign tongue, and peered around the barrier to see a small vial shatter against the concrete, the liquid within dissolving into the air.

“Bastards got VX!”

Luckily all Imperial Praetorians were protected from NBC warfare by the standard issue EMAPS suits. Though lacking some of the features of the Doomingsland VEPR, the EMAPS served their purpose well, providing additional ballistic protection, and still allowing high mobility. The reinforced exoskeleton prevented the noxious toxins from eating through the suits and choking the men inside. In retaliation, the Praetorians continued to rain Hell on their enemies.

As he shoved a new clip into his rifle, Nr’iev’s radio began to crackle inside his helmet.

“Platoon 14, AX Company, we have visual on your position. We are closing on enemy flank.”

A second platoon had managed to work it’s way up the adjacent streets, and now sat positioned directly north of the pillbox where Nr’iev’s foes had taken refuge. Nr’iev watched a white streak rocket down the street to the north of the intersection, slamming into the side of the pillbox in a brilliant display of flame and concrete. Overhead, an Imperial attack chopper moved into position, and hovered, firing a barrage of rockets into the enemy’s fortified position while the 30mm cannon whirred.

The second team of Praetorians charged down the street towards the smoking pillbox, uncertain of the status of the foreign fighters garrisoned inside. While Nr’iev’s men and the attack chopper covered them, the team rushed for the door, firing at their foes and closing to smash into them in close quarters battle.

Again Nr’iev’s radio crackled to life.

“AX company, this is Scorch-17. We have FAV bikes closing on your position. We’re moving to intercept, but keep a heads up.”

The roar of the motors of the enemy recon bikes cut over the din of gunfire and explosions as they rushed through the broken streets. GH-2s and GAHs shifted position, and turned their cannons on the motorcycles, sending some spinning out of control or up in flames as a gas tank ruptured or a tire was blown out. As the motorcycles closed, a hail of rocket propelled grenades erupted from down the street.

Nr’iev was blown backwards as a rocket slammed into the far end of the wall he was sheltering behind. He lay dazed for a moment staring at the grey haze that obscured the sky before the rush of sound returned him to reality. He got to his knees, and made certain his rifle was still hanging from the three point strap across his chest. Several Praetorians lay still and shattered in the street, their comrades returning fire at the source of the sudden barrage. He heard the rushing sound of a rocket, and looked up just as the grenade slammed into the tail of a GH-2. The fuel tank had been struck, and the helicopter exploded in a mass of orange and black, sending the burning hulk spiraling to the street.

Nr’iev dodged the falling wreckage, and rushed to take cover in a doorway, occasionally returning fire at the enemy. He was uncertain of the status of the second platoon that had charged the pillbox, or the status of his own men for that matter. However, he could still hear the whir of rotors, and as long as there were choppers in the air, he knew the tide was in his favor.

"Keep your head steady, and your position natural." Saerus calmly walked around the rooted elite squad, walking casually and leaving an eerie wake in his presence. Even as rocket fire and machine gun fire shot down his men, he commanded to stay firm, show no fear.

For Saerus was known in Jenrak for erratic movements, cunning strategies that often involved the lives of thousands of Jenrakian soldiers day by day. He was not conservatist in his goal; he merely wanted a victory, nothing less, nothing more. As the bullets sprayed around him, the pillbox he sent his to fortify burst into a violent flame, the flashing red and orange glistening and blurring the nearby lights, the fog and smoke emanating from the ruins showing no end, no mercy. Though it was night, the day seemed clear forever.

"Sir! We need help! They're advancing!" A soldier screamed as he was shot, a sniper aimed at his head. A tinted red laser flew to Saerus' armored head as well, but the precarious sniper was taken out by a stray rocket shot in time.

Enemy forces moved up the ridge-like ramp towards the pill box, the machine gun blatantly firing, showing that someone is still alive up there. They had to be saved apparently, because if they weren't, then there would be nothing stopping them from assuming full command of the strategic location they were afforded. Drawing out his wrist launcher, Saerus held out a finger driven caster, a micro hidden weapon, as they were everywhere on his body, traps of his mind that are played out to enemies.

Three flicks of the index finger launched three bolts to the neck of advancing soldiers, giving off a frigid rabid disease, making the enemy soldiers insane, hunting down both their allies and their foes, devoid of their allegiances. Instantaneously, they were gunned down from both Jenrakian soldiers, and Generian troops. Saerus started firing more poison, but his battery was low, his launcher jammed.

Tired of all these enemy reinforcements coming into try and attempt at eliminating the suffering soldiers within the pillbox, Saerus gestured two of his greatest soldiers to follow his whim, and they packed up rockets, and flicked out their swords. They seemed to be able to read Saerus' thoughts tenacitly. "Follow me." He murmured through his thick steel like mask, as he jumped off the protective rift and jumped into the harsh, chaotic trenches, the concrete splattered and the roads broken, into a midst of enemy soldiers moving up the ramp, as rocket fire and lead hurdled at each other high above.

"Kill all now." He simply said, drawing out his gleaming sword, his blade whistling quietly to him when he landed, and skewered on top of a moving soldier.

He caught the attention of all the soldiers, and with the flick of another finger, told his gunners a top the rift to aimed down at his location, and fire at will at all enemies surrounding him. He might suffer a slow pain, but didn't want to die.

"Lord!" Another soldier yelled from beneath, catching his attention, as he pointed up at the spinning rotors flying around, marauding his men.

"Two, six, aim at the helicopter." He coerced his men, as two groups loaded their rockets, and amongst the falling troops, they fired their missiles, hopefully reaching their destination, aimed at the flaring eletrical surge that was the eletronics of the helicopter.

Wind blew coarsely, when the lead started to become more vibratingly tough, as the sleet of bullets echoed throughout the night, rockets leaping from place to place, causing havoc and destruction in their apparent path. The Generic Empire was more reinforced, having a greater deal of soldiers and a much more reliable defensive position. Despite all of that, Saerus did not want to pull out of Chisliag.

What went on in his mind was nobody's guess.

Hansien was being tossed about within the confines of the van, which was travelling at high speeds over very bumpy roads. He was blindfolded, and alone. He had no idea where Dailey, Dredon, or the others were.

He strained his ears above the pounding of the wheels against the rough path to hear the radio.

...and the Generian fronts have suffered yet another humiliating defeat today....utter annihilation...the Great Empire is becoming even more formidable...

He told himself it was pointless propoganda - it had to be. But there was a sinking feeling that gnawed at him from within, a voice telling him that despite everything, it was not.

Dumalaredon

Dumalar listened to his status reports with displeasure. The Three Islands, so recently his, were so embroiled in turmoil that they could not be used effectively. His armies were ever loyal, but suffering defeat after defeat. The combined invasion forces were too much...and the third island, the lowest one, had been lost completely! The turn of events was most unexpected.

"Chancellor," he called, his voice slightly slurred, as he was quite intoxicated. "Chancellor Aggins. We must discuss when we're going to kill off Hansien."

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. Let's have a meeting after lunch."

"Of course, my lord."

"Good." Dumalar sighed, and put his head down in a bowl of grapes, and went to sleep.

Tagyrs

...under the directive of Praetorian General Beaushene, the first of the loyal Zoogiedom legions is to sweep across Zoogiedom and join the Generians in reclaiming what is ours.

...this new army...and all such loyal forces under our central command....are henceforth to be referred to as the Guard of the Zoogie People; Nathan West presiding.

Cherub bless.

West watched from the top of an ancient fortress on Tagyrs, a scenic point from which he saw the departing fleets. The events followed each other in such rapid succession he could hardly believe this was happening. But he knew, he knew all too well, that the struggle against Dumalar would not be an easy one, because they were still his countrymen. Never had enemy civilian life been placed so high on the war strategists' priorities dossier.

He sighed. It wasn't going to be easy.

New MAP!!!

http://zoogies.l2p.net/war.jpg

New map. I'm assuming this is enough progress; the dark stuff and most of the islands belong to the enemy, whom Jenrak is aiding. The bright belongs to the allied forces. The seas surrounding the allied regions effectively belong to the allied regions.

With armored forces comitted, the bulk of the Robotic Expeditionary Force bypasses Egris and expands the Robotic pocket east and west. Landings are made by marine commandos on that peninsula west of the initial landing beach, and a rapidly growing contingent of aircraft supports the Expeditionary Force. However, as of yet the REF had not encountered any Facist heavy forces, and what will happen when the REF does is uncertain. After all, the REF looks more at home in 1970 than 2005.

http://naoruzanje.paracin.co.yu/pt76-2.jpg

Marine commandos, supported by PT-76/75 tanks and BTR-90 IFVs, make a landing in support of mechanized elements further southeast.

The Imperial ST-29 MBTs rumbled over the roads towards the smoking skyline of the city of Chisliag. Accompanied by elements of the 1st Imperial motor rifle division, the 15th Imperial armored division had been in transit over the past day from the Imperial temporary command posts to the city of Chisliag, where they were slated to assist and relieve the Praetorian platoons in the area, currently engaged in holding back divisions of foreign fighters presumed to have dealings with the fascist rebels.

Two separate armored fists split as they approached the city, the first proceeding towards the southern portion of Chisliag, where the Praetorian Guard had established a strong foothold, and the second proceeding north to flank the enemy in the west, cit them off, and annihilate them in a pincer.

Sergeant Nr’iev shoved a new 100 round clip into the GIR-37, and leaned around the wall, opening fire at three enemies armed with heavy weapons that were engaged in battle with the Praetorians. He had watched his warriors turn on their comrades and be cut down from a hail by both sides. His men were being chewed into by the enemy, as a hidden force seemed to rejuvenate them at the appearance of this officer. He wasn’t sure how much longer they could last.

Then, for the first time in what seemed like hours his radio crackled to life. He shouted into the open line over the sounds of battle.

“This is sergeant Nr’iev of C company, is anyone out there! We need fire support ASAP!”

A voice came over the other end, music to his ears.

“We read you. The 15th armored division is on its way. Hang in there.”

As he spoke, a shell exploded in the street near the enemy position, sending a fiery tower into the sky. A rain of concrete and dust sprinkled over the area as the guns of an ST-29, the finest tank in the Empire, the CAD, and possibly the world, opened up on the enemy. The rumble of treads cracking concrete grew louder farther down the streets to the right and left of the intersection, mingling with the whir of rotors and the roar of 30mm heavy cannon from GHA attack choppers.

Cheers went up throughout the city at the appearance of the armor, APCs, and IFVs. Caught in a pincer maneuver between the two armored fists, the enemy would have little place to run.

In the hopes of instilling a renewed national vigor, West had ordered new interim badges to be designed and distributed; they now formed the nose and tail decor of all aircraft; appeared on tanks and served as the basis of all military insignia.

The four thousands soldiers and their auxiliaries swept upwards from their southern landing position to meet with the Generians at Chisliag. As they went, they reinforced a zoogietic sentiment in the populace, whose hearts were gladdened to see finally an army of the old republic marching forth. As West's advisers had made absolutely clear, winning public morale would be crucial in defeating the enemy.

After weeks of trekking across Zoogiedom, at last in the distance there were the sounds of battle. They drew close.

From Trimes and Tagyrs, what air force could be mustered had been sent and were now lifting off from nearby runways, laden with weapons - zoogie, if available, and Generian ordinance if not.

[insert again aforesaid picture of kickass badge]

There were many new designations under the GZP government. The four thousand forces come to aid the Generians were the 1st infantry batalion. A second landing a few weeks later had marked the entrance of the 1st marine expeditionary force. And now, in the sky, flew two refitted F-18s, comprising the entirety of the 1st Reconaissance Air Wing.

Some 400 marines who had been journeying the 1st infantry were also moving forward into the city; most with a brigade of tanks and armoured vehicles, and the remaining 50 or so in a fleet of massive Mi-24 Hind helicopters. The retrofitted Hornets now encircled the city, making high-speed passes, snapping pictures, and identifying targets.

In the distance a new sound appeared; also that of jet engines. A squadron of ZaS-42s was approaching, ready to strike at opposition SAMs and fortified positions with the two 1000-lb GPS-guided bombs they each carried.

Major Horner, the man in charge of the fifty or so special forces being ferried into the city via helicopter, glanced out the window to see a dizzying array of smoke trails.

Before long they arrived on site, in a somewhat quieter corner close to the enemy lines; from the corner of his eye Horner saw that the other helicopters were pulling up in the vicinity.

"DROP!" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar of helicopter blades . The side door of the Hind (hopefully they do have side doors and this is technically correct) slid open, and a few ropes descended to the ground below. Quickly the seven other marines in the helicopter rushed out, rapelling to the combat zone. Horner followed, and set up communication with the others about to drop. "We're ready," he said. "Deploy, operation is a go."

He turned around, checking once more that the coast was clear. He snapped a new (can't think of the word) ammunition package into his rifle, and barked, "Ready!" One of his men then took a step back, in clear view of the pilot of the Hind, and waved with both hands. The helicopter rose up and flew onwards into the battle.

In groups of six to eight people, the advance marine teams went to their destinations. They had two objectives: first, to infiltrate behind enemy lines and attack from the other side; and second, to find and inform the Generians in charge so they don't get blown to pieces as well.

Several of the teams ascended to the rooftops of tall buildings in the area; there were in the midst of a former apartment complex. The others, one by one, darted across the streets so that an equal presence was established on both sides.

Horner peered out and saw a tank roll past a nearby intersection, leaving as quickly as it came. "Are we all clear?" he radioed to each of the teams.

"Clear," said one of the other team heads. "No, wait! - Tank, look out, it's coming up beside you."

No sooner had these words been said than the familiar grinding of tank tracks was heard, growing quickly in intensity. Without a word, all the teams on the ground hid behind whatever they could. Breathing hard, one of the men on Horner's team strained his head to glance at the passing tank without revealing himself. Horner himself was sweating; if they were revealed this early, it would mean failure. "Clear?" he croaked horsely into his radio, spreading himself flat on the ground behind a garbage dump. He switched it off before awaiting an answer.

"Almost..."

Although he could neither see or hear this, one of the neighboring teams was hidden on the roof, a shoulder-launched anti-tank rocket launcher hidden. Through the aiming scope, a single eye squinted, then opened, then blinked. A hand moved slowly to the trigger...and pressed it.

At once the launcher recoiled backwards, causing the marines on the rooftop to brace themselves. A cloud of smoke appeared from the building; already the marines scrambled to leave. The cloud was followed by a high-pitched whistling as the rocket screamed towards the tank; a few short seconds later, it burst aflame with a defeaning [i]boom. Four people or so rushed out from various hiding places surrounding the burning chassis, rifles pointed at ready. Two single shots were fired, and two survivors dispatched.

Horner switched his radio back on.

"Clear," he heard.

"Thanks Andre. Let's move."

His team quickly made the distance of the alley they were in, and they penetrated into enemy lines. About this time, from the rear of Chisliag, the armoured brigade poured in at near-full speed, flanked by a single squadron of Apache helicopters.

Dumalaredon

"But my lord...the nation of LRR poses an imminent threat to the capital itself...their proximity is dangerous, and must be confronted immediately. Problems of such a pressing nature we have not yet faced..."

"So be it, Gramlin, I relent. Send your divisions...send them..."

The next dawn, with the rising of the sun over the horizon came the sounds of two entire divisions mobilizing; mobilizing and converging, from East and West, up to meet the LRR force.

Reconaissance flights of old English Electric Lightnings, still as fast as ever, pick up the mobilization of facist heavy forces.

This is what ground commanders had been dreading for some time. While there are over 300,000 Robotic ground troops deployed in the Zoogiedom, they are spread out over a wide area, with landings being made along the north cost at several locations. While the REF possesses a considerable advantage in ATGWs and rocket artillery systems, the tanks deployed with the REF are old T-72 copies and re-gunned Scorpions. And although their 75mm high velocity guns can do a number on most tanks, they are in for a massacre if obliged to fight facist heavy tanks at close range.

Overhead, Robotic Aeronautics fighter and attack jets get ready to soften up the attacking divisions...

Offshore, a squadron of Type 22 frigates, Type 42 destroyers, and a number of Monitors speed along the coastline. A force of marines in LSTs trails behind, ready to land and seize yet another beachhead for the rapidly swelling numbers of REF troops.

((OOC: I'm going to wait a little longer for Jenrak to respond, ZP, then I'll make my next post.))

OOC: Sorry for the long time no post thing, I just went out with my Girlfriend for a few nights in a row.

IC:

Heavy breathing filled the air, as exploded gas sifted around seemingly harmless in the air, and the black scorch marks taunted them of their pain. Saerus, crouching up behind the edge of the wall, looked around for places to retreat to, but when his eyes felt the notion of no escape following them, he now no longer cared. He had to escape, and with as many men as possible to the nearest safe point.

"Saerus." A cold voice spoke from above the trench, making the Patriarch turn his head, and take off his gas mask, placing him in much danger. "I presume you are Saerus, yes?" It hissed again.

"I am, Sage Patriarch Saerus." he murmured, amidst the brutal war fighting about.

"I have orders to stop what you're doing and leave. I will take care of it." The black figure hissed again, his hood covering the malice intent of his eyes.

"Who are you to think you can command me?"

"Someone who is trained personally by the King himself."

"Lies. You are nothing but an aspirer hoping to gain power through trickery."

"Am I? Here." He lifted out his bloody and shot arm, and a tearing image of a black bell rung througout the veins of his arm, the symbol of the Judgement Caste in Arborgard's court. "My name is Mathkradon the First." The shadowy assasin yelled.

"What do you want?" Saerus glared carefully.

"To have you taken home safe." The rumbling armored vehicles closed around, and screaming and panicked yells from Saerus' men filled the area; they were being slaughtered. "I have arranged a safe transport back to Haasdra. But you must go alone."

"Why?"

"Because that is how the system is done."

"What about my men?"

"Death is their only saviour now. They know that." He peered at the losing men, who fought valiantly but still were being pushed back by nearly endless reinforcements. "Shall you listen to my guidance?"

Saerus did not think so. Although he was cold and cruel in nature, in soul he was kind hearted and soft. He could not let all these men die. Drawing upon all the forces he had under his control, he jabbered in the radio again. "All forces in the vicinity, this is Patriarch Saerus. Abandon position and aid in the offensive of Chisliag."

Nothing came up, but after moments, the static was filled with a deep rumbling, a sound of an engine. "This is the Captain, Lord. We are going to aid you in the final spearhead. Sir, can you hold position for 5 minutes?"

"I can."

"Then we'll be there in minutes." The static rung again.

Saerus saw fire billow around, and the armored tanks now that came out were deathly, almost like great Skriemmens angry in summer, but with plates of steel. He had to hold his position for five minutes.

West of Dalishadar (s.p.?), the Robotic task group appears on the horizon. The low, squat forms of the monitors inch towards the coast, traveling as fast as their engines can carry them. Their guns raise skyward as they move to face the coastline broadside-on.

The LSTs turn south, followed by a pair of LPDs, which both begin to disgorge LCIs. Kilted marines on the large LSTs ready their combat gear as they rush to sandbagged positions on the upper decks. Mortars and light guns are made ready as the MRL crews rush to man their batteries.

In the lower decks, vehicle crews get settled into their tanks and armored vehicles, ready to come out as soon as the clamshell doors open.

Attention ! (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=8799400#post8799400)

(please, carry on this one as you were...I'll post when I'm in a more serious mood)

LRR - Palishdar, but yeah. No big deal.