NationStates Jolt Archive

Carloman stepped from the flames of his internal prison, wreathed in the smoke of his charred skin. Clad in steel armor, from head to toe, he seemed a diety, sword swung across his broad back, crystal cross on the hilt, glittering against the red and orange flames. The two guards, given the task to keep watch on this dimension of hell, stepped back, gaping at the site, standing high before their very eyes. Carloman took no heed of their presence and recited his condemnation upon the world,"For one thousand years I have been held from my throne. For a millenium I have been chained to a fiery grave. These shackles have now been split and I am no longer a slave of the Emperor of the Golden Throne, pretender to a seat meant for the dark. I will regain my dark realm, I will once again rule this Earth. No army shall be able to stop me."

Carloman unsheathed his longsword, sliding it from his back, steel shrieking against the inner alloy of the sheath. The two guards stood their ground, and they themselves prepared their blades. Behind Carloman the flames of his prison danced to his rythim. The day was his and his rise inevitable. The prison had grown too weak for him. For one thousand years he had prepared for his return. It was time.

As if an extension of his arm, steel blade just another muscle portruding from his tight white skin, he beautifully cut swaths through the air. In two fall swoops both guards, foold for their attempt to stop Carloman, fell before him, cut and slain. He smiled and congratulated himself,"The first two to surrender to Carloman, Lord of the Dark. The weak shall fall underfoot."

He continued, leaving the pits of fire behind, and made his way up the staircase, leading to the Fortress of Light, built by the gods themselves, over ten thousand years before. The pathway was lit only be candles, glowing against the dark contrast which enveloped the staircase. The walls to either side were of pure stone, of ancient constructed, heralds of the old dynasty marking it, proving the glory of the post-Carloman age. He scoffed, and continued up. He stopped and looked at the stone wall beside him. It was encrypted with the ancient writings of the prophets of the Old Empire, a time of chivalry, knights, and feudalism. It was only modernization which caused the old Empire's final downfall. He put his hand over the golden script and read it aloud, "Here lies the prison of Carloman, scourge of the gods, pretender of thrones. Here lies the forsaken one, who dared attempt the hand of the Emperor. This is the consequence of his failure. Stranger beware, beyond this passage way lies the evidence of hell, the fiery pits of Carloman, where his prison and grave keep him shackeled forever."

He slowly made his way up, and stopped at another inscription,"Carloman will be freed by an unholy slave, and Carloman will rule the world, unless..."

There it was cut off. All for the better. He laughed out load, a sinister crackle, and he began to run up the winding stair case, steel longsword in hand, almost two meters long, at least ten centimeters wide. He made large strides, the faster he arrived at the core of the Fortress, the easier it would be to take it. However, his movements did not go un-noticed. A single guard heard his approach, and swung the massive bells of ancient days, sending a ring through out the heartland of the Empire. The age of flames had begun, Carloman had escaped.

The warlords of the land had conjured at the Fortress of Light the night before for the annual feast. They were those who were meant to defeat Carloman in case of his freedom. Indeed, the task was handed down through lineage and family, from the most ancient of lines known to the human being. One had proved weak, and dark, and that was the only probable case of Carloman's escape. But now there was no time for analyzing and division, now there was only time for war. The warlords all awoke from their sleep, swords by their side, and marched to end the life of Carloman before their own was destroyed. The Lord of the Dark stepped from the pits of hell into the Fortress of Light, built to defend the only tangible entrance into the Dark's realm, and spoke with a boom in his voice,"I am free."

The warlords, garbed in body armor, helmet snug on their head, thought not, and stepped foward, fearing nothing, prepared to take their stance. They had been trained and brought up to die for this moment, and as it came they flinched not a millimeter. Carloman, black steel blade in his right hand, advanced, cutting one of the fighters to shreds, blood splattering throughout the walls, and borken limbs falling quietly onto the fortresse's stone floor. In a majestic procession he proceeded to destroy the warlords and after thirty minutes of brutal duals only three warlords were left upright. Carloman nodded and spoke first,"The time has come that I return to my rightful place. You have done well to change to the dark. I have promised you powers beyond your imagination, and that you have received. However, now you are my warlords, and now you shall conjur an army from the seven seas, from the four corners of this world, so that I can regain what is rightfully mine."

Artorius Castus, Lord of Locus Mariacus, the easternmost realm of the old Empire, stood forthright, red sword back in his sheath, and responded,"I promise you an army of one hundred thousand souls. No less, no more."

Lucretius Armania spoked next,"Two hundred thousand. Sire, they will serve the dark to their death."

Finally, Theodorus Corbulo spoke last, "I promise you my own life, but I cannot promise you men."

Carloman nodded again, and gave his thanks. His final words sealed the fate of the world,"Go, and bring me your slaves, for tomorrow we shall wage war."

-----

Castus Lucis 5:23
Carloman will be freed by an unholy slave, and Carloman will rule the world, unless the First Convenant rises from its forgotten ashes. The First Convenant will strike at the heart of dark, and will shatter its forces. But it will fail, and a new world order shall fall upon this Earth. Pity on the generation of hell.

The clash of steel upon steel rang through the empty halls of the Fortress of Light, the clash of good and evil piercing the air. Four riders jumped on their black steed, they themselves dressed in black overcoats, with black hoods, face all but invisible in the night and day alike. Tightly held under their tunics were four indenticle manuscripts, shut with the blood red herald of the ancient dynasty. The riders would guard them with their lives. Taking not a look back the riders set out, moving through the open stall doors, and moving quickly down the secret dirt pathways.

The pathways led to two nations, who had once, thousands of years before, signed a pact worth a million other allegiances. A thousand years before today's sunrise they had formed the First Covenant. Four nations, the four protectors of the light, promised to protect each other from Carloman, the scourge of the world order, and today it was time to test said allegiance. One rider headed east to Guffingford, yet another rider headed west to the Freek Empire, and another rider headed north, to Fedala, to warn the new overlord of the Empire of the Golden Throne. The fourth rider would ride the world until a fourth covenant nation was found, for the ancient Empire who comprised this fourth seat had long been erased by the barbarian hordes.

The dust kicked as the horses who never rested galloped to the receivers, tunics of the riders failing to move even in the strongest of winds. Not on stop would be made, not one second of sleep. The world could not rest until the messages had been sent. Each message said the same, each message carried the same grave warning:

Powers of the Covenant ,

The light calls on you. The impossible has sprouted from the very pits of hell. Carloman has escaped from the prison we built a thousand years ago, forged by the hands of the gods. He has broken through and the Fortress of Light is as good as lost. The world hangs on our resistance, we must crush the dark, or a black curtain will descend upon all that is beautiful and holy.

War has begun.

There was little time to lose. Carloman had already sent his three Warlords of the Dark to conjur up their army of three hundred thousand tainted souls. Wretched humans were they, those who gave the light up for the dark, those who turned from good to evil. They were no longer homonids, instead, they became disfigured soldiers, corrupted through the soul to become soldiers of Carloman, given strengths only imagined by pure race beings. Carloman's Militis Miser, Army of the Damned, grew larger every day, as his putrid lyrics of a new 'dark overlord' attracted the foolish like a magnet. The dust clouds of war were kicking up.

----

Castus Lucis 5:24
Only three of the four nations of the First Convenant shall stand the test of time to face the rising tide of black conjured by Carloman. The new fourth nation shall be one who witnesses the gods above and who moves to protect his brethren. But this fourth nation shall be the keystone of eventual victory, without him, the wars will end in the destruction of the Golden Throne.

Midnight was upon Taldaan. The moon shone its pale eye on the rain-slicked streets below, and ragged clouds hung over the city like a rotting shroud. This was a city of hospitality and compassion, but at this hour its appearance was a baleful one, and the screeches of gaily coloured parrakeets were replaced by the guttural cries of the raven. A few lights shone from the windows of the houses, but most of the buildings were darkened. No cars moved in the streets, no drunken singing sounded from the pubs. The shadow of the Reaper hovered over Taldaan, although the slumbering men, women, and children below did not know it. Overhead, the storm raged, a harbinger of what was to befall so many of the citizens of the realm.

Rain lashed down on the mosaic plazas below, gutters overflowing. Heavy drops beat on the roofs below like a hundred war drums, the wind the battlecry of brave warriors, and the mist their standard. The streets were slick with water, small rivers forming and flowing along the wide thoroughfares. Only one man could be seen on the streets below even by the most careful observer.

A lone horseman clattered along the road below, water spraying up from beneath the hooves of his steed. Steam rose from its flanks, testament to the pace it which its cloaked master had been driving it through the driving rain. The rider upon it spurred his horse to gallop ever faster as he approached the centre of the city, his eyes fixed determinedly straight ahead. He was dressed from head to foot in black, seeming like one of the ravens that wheeled overhead, brought with the hellish thunder and lightning that split the sky in two. His face was hidden under the hood of the cloak, buried so deep that not even the tip of his nose was visible.

Reaching Parliament Plaza, he pulled his panting steed to a halt and swung himself out of the saddle in a single practiced motion. His feet hit the ground with barely a splash, although the water was by now half an inch deep. Looking around, he strode over to the mahogany double doors of Parliament House, not stopping to marvel at the beautiful buildings around him. Reaching the doors he stopped and raised one gloved hand. He knocked three times, the heavy blows echoing throughout the building. There was no answer. He knocked again, this time with the force of a battering ram. The door shook under the impact, threatening to break off its hinges.

It was opened by a short, timid-looking man. He was dressed in a grey suit and wore a pair of silver-rimmed glasses. He recoiled slightly from the hooded messenger.

"What is your business here in such a night?"

The hooded stranger spoke in a deep, rich voice that rumbled into the small man's ears with the unstoppability of a tidal wave.

"I wish to see your master, Sergyn Torshan. I have a message for him, one that I believe he will be most anxious to hear."

The small man tried to resist. This stranger could be anyone. He could have been sent to strike down the leader. But he could not. The power radiating from the messenger would not allow him to. In a trance, he pointed to the President's chambers, where he could be found.


The fire flickered in the grate, and a book of mythology lay open on the carpet. The President lay back in his high-backed chair, trying to block out the crash of the thunder above. Suddenly, at his door there was a knock the noise of which rivalled the storm itself. He stood up, brushing his hair out of his eyes, and opened it. A chill wind rushed in, extinguishing the small fire and ruffling the pages of the book. There, in the doorway, was a figure hooded and cloaked, bearing a letter in his hand emblazoned with a seal. It uttered a short proclamation, placed the letter in his hand, and then strode away. Sergyn was left standing dumbstruck, clutching the letter, the figure's words ringing in his ears.

"Heed this well, for if you do not the world will be consumed in darkness."

He broke the seal with trembling fingers, eager and yet terrified to see what was contained within. A sheet of parchment fluttered down ghostlike, landing on his desk. He read it, and read it again more slowly. Then he stood up. He walked out of his chambers and into the Chamber of War. Pulling a lever, he activated his live feed to all of his Generals and Admirals. And then he began to speak.

Brave warriors, I speak to you now to ask you to prepare for a battle more terrible than any you have fought before. I ask you to take up your arms against forces terrible beyond imagination. You will face horrors that will make a man go insane. You will plant the banners of Taldaan on the fields of The Macabees, and yet it will be like planting a standard in the fires of Hades. And you will not falter, for to falter would be to die. You will not break, because you are Taldaani warriors, and your armies are unbreakable as the mountains. We may not have numbers, but we will triumph through our unity and indomitable will.

General Brinksman, I give you command of the Army. Take up your sword. You will go now, and rally one-hundred and twenty thousand good, brave men.

Admiral Kureynov, I give you command of the Fleet. I want you to assemble a navy, and I want them to be ready to sail with the afternoon tide.

Victory or death!

He shouted the last words, and there was a rumble from the speakers as the assembled Admirals and Generals repeated them. And they meant it. Taldaan was going to war.

ooc: Like I said, if my skills are not to scratch feel free to kick me out.

It was truly a fortress, but one that time had forgotten. Vines crept along the run down walls, little light shone from the secluded main buildings perched in the forested mountains. But along the old road, a car traveled, silent and with no lights to reveal its presence.

The night truly surrounded it, the only noises those of the animals and the gravel under the tires. The man inside it did not worry though, thanks to modern technology he could navigate his way without giving the slightest hint that he was there.

Finally, he brought his vehicle to a stop just before a felled tree, massive and covered in moss. This was truly the most horrifying part of the experience. The man knew they were out there, but he could never know where they were until they revealed themselves. He sat there, sweat beginning to trickle down his pale face, in acute awareness of the amount of firepower that was now focused on him. And then he saw what was once a bush rise, the thick barrel of a silenced weapon protruding from the ghille suit. Several more appeared, but the man knew there would be more lurking in case he intended on trouble. The one closest to the passenger door did a thorough identity check using biometrics, and his vehicle was deemed clear. The tree suddenly lifted up, and he was taken out of the car and given a ghille suit to wear as a suited man drove the vehicle deeper into the woods. The man himself walked with the soldiers towards a carefully hidden tunnel. It was pitch black inside, though once it was firmly closed, dim red lights sprang to life. He walked downward, noting that his steps made not a sound: even the acoustics were hidden from the outside world through expensive construction.

Plodding his way across the tunnel, he reached an elevator, where another soldier stood, bearing a much simpler, unmarked uniform but an equally deadly gun. He stood watching the man as he went through another biometric, and the elevator began to lift. It stopped, and the doors opened to reveal a grand hall, windowless but well lit, with many others standing in it. They all wore similar suits, some with rank insignia.

An older man, in his sixties, approached him with a great smile and a glass of what was no doubt an expensive red wine.

"Service to the Emperor."

"Glory to the State." he replied, extending his hand, which was met with a hearty shake.

"So nice of you to join us, Alvin. We've been having some issues lately, ones we need your help on. And please, take this glass, its the vintage you so enjoyed last time."

Alvin thanked him, taking a sip of the wine and then following the man to a greater dining hall, where they were beginning to take their seats. That man, though looking harmless, was one of the most ruthless and cunning men in the nation. Tiberius Drake. A man who had virtually controlled his career, before he even knew who he was. The Coup. The March. And finally, his induction.

Arch-Strategos Alvin Mueller was actually a fairly recent induction into the Council, only a member for 10 years. But he, like many others, embodied the ideas of the Drakes before they even overthrew the old government, and thus earned a place with them.

Tiberius Drake, on the other hand, was the Senator for Central Auerfrisia. He had been tracking the progress of Mueller as he demonstrated the right politics and the merciless efficiency of his strategy. Ever since then, Tiberius had been roping Mueller in until he was practially one of his greatest friends, both socially and politically. And that was a reward indeed. Drake was one of the closest in bloodline to Julius Drake himelf.

The Drake history is complex indeed. Since the 400s BC, the Emperor of Imperial Auerfrisia had been assisted by an intelligent and cunning council of eight men, lead by Julius Drake, who assisted the Emperor in his campaign to bring the city states together. The Drake family became one groomed for military, economic and political success. The council became known as the 'Drakesmen', and it chose its own successors, a mix of oligarchy and monarchy.

But in the early 1000s, the people in the North in the empire rebelled against the Emperor, who was by now a Drake figurehead. The Drakesmen, tens of thousands in number, rallied their men and power to save Auerfrisia, the South and seat of the Empire. But they could not. A purge began, all those in loyalty to the Drakes being mercilessly cut down by the Northern nations or by those thirsty for money in the South. And thus the Drakes went into hiding, carefully orchestrating the South from behind the scenes.

And for over nine hundred years, war raged. The sides changed, the beliefs changed, but it was constant: Berliston wanted to bring back the Auerfrisian Empire, and Peringeln wanted to destroy it. These two city states had allies that switched from side to side until only they truly held the grudge. But by 1949, the war had ended. Auerfrisia was the victor, but the Drakes knew a democracy would be the only acceptable government now. But that democracy quickly spiraled out of their control. And by the turn of the century, they had enough. The Coup began, and the Drakes brought new laws, still a democracy, but now the majority of the nation's military, political and economic powers were those aligned or in the Drake council.

Alvin could see it had become larger from where he sat. The Drake Council, though united for a common goal, had differing ways of deciding how they should go about doing it. Alvin himself was a firm believer in the current system, but as the conversation went on, he began to have some doubts. Calls were made by many to lay down more restrictions on many of the more liberal laws of the nation. Drugs, sex, alcohol, and more were the basis of complaints on the corruption of the populace.

Alvin seemed at ease, participating in the discussion, but he could feel the onset of a great headache in the back of his skull. Perhaps he had consumed too much of the wine. It was good indeed, but he knew the ailments brought on by excessive drinking, and whatever this was, it was not from the wine.

Eventually he retired to one of the myriad guest rooms, and slept. But it wasn't truly sleep. Now the memories of the Coup returned to him. Pristine streets filled with fleeing people, smoke, fire and death. The bulky outlines of soldiers making their way through the city, killing everyone in their way. And yet, it seemed different than what he had remembered it as. Then the March. Or, at least he thought of it as the March. The pounding rain and mud was there, as always, not enough to quench the flames they had created. Armored monsters grinding from town to town, killing the opposition without second thought. And he was shouting the same orders. But it was not the same. The dream only spired deeper into nightmare, things he could not describe, and yet things he somehow knew.

He woke with the name of a man on the tip of his tounge, but it did not come. He looked at a clock, and recalled the date. Tomorrow, one thousand years ago, a war had begun.
OOC: Before anyone freaks out, I've talked to Macabees about this...

The skies turned charred black, but it failed to matter for Carloman. His presence outside the vaults of hell was enough to push him three slaves, his warlords, to move fast, and conjur their army. For a victory to settle Carloman would have to defeat the Golden Throne before the First Covenant could react. So, the three warlords still alive from the night's slaughters had spent the week riding hard to their respective kingdoms, banners in hand, through rain and sunk alike, preparing their armies for the war to come. And it was coming. The ground trembled under the feet of the Milites Miser, marching towards the callings of the dark overlord, arming themselves with the weapons forged at the gateway of hell, the Fortress of Light.

The men did not appear like men, they were monsters. Indeed, armored in red, constructed of strange alloys and even stranger ceramics, they marched, helmets shut tight around their heads, black visors allowing no view of their eyes. They were robotic, as if something had taken over their minds. Something had. They packed in large groups, their red banners, the color crimson, a foreshadowing of the violence ahead, waving in the sun, already retreating from sight. Everything tainted by the dark did not wave, did not move, impervious to wind and force alike. These were truly the creatures of hell.

Artorius Castus and Lucretius Armania had been faithful to their word, and within two days an army of three hundred thousand had joined together for the war which would shape not only the Empire of the Golden Throne, but the world as well.

On one side of the camp Lucretius Armania spoke to the man he assigned to lead the armor, Scipio,"Prepare the armor, prepare your arms. Because tomorrow the war begins."

Scipio nodded and turned around, while his warlord galoped off on his black steed. Before Scipio were rows upon rows of tanks, guns risen high, and crews looking fervently at their commander. The tanks extended to the horizon, farther than the eye could see. In fact, Lord Lucretius Armania had been able to bring an armored fist of over ten thousand tanks, stolen from the depths of the Second Empire's armories. Scipio smiled and placed his right fist, clenched, on his left breast and gave a wild howl. His men followed in earnest. Every man was ready to die. "Soldiers of Carloman, your overlord calls on you to bring back what is rightfully his, the Golden Throne. It has, for over one thousand years, been in the hands of one who does not deserve it. Our one hundred year civil war, fought between the petty humans who squabbled over said throne, proved that there should be no other than Carloman. Some say that his rise will bring a dark era. I say, so what? I rather live under that dark era and flex our power, than under a golden era, where peace is the fruits of our disaster! What do you think?"

The crowds cheered, and he continued,"Good! For the dark, for the Empire, for Carloman! Tomorrow, you and I, shall be the scourge of this world, and the spearhead of the next!"

The tank crews' screamed rose above all others, and any noise was drowned out by the subsequent uproar. Clenched fist met breast, and even some stiff arm salutes shot into the air. As if by command a dark cloud moved overhead, casting a shadow over the forces of evil.

Ten thousand tanks, twenty thousand artillery guns, over one hundred thousand infantry, were all prepared to die for Carloman. The armies of hell had risen to new heights, and now was fully prepared to squash all resistance under foot. The entire camp was full of noise, as men cheered for their commanders, or moved around, readying for the following day. The slaughter would begin one way or the other, but it was ensured that this war would not be short. Already, the two surviving nations of the First Covenant, other than the Golden Throne, had failed to pay heed to the warnings. Nothing had arrived. It seemed the world was to die in the apathy of its new occupants. Carloman's strength grew from the weaknesses of the world, and today, he felt his strongest.

However, there was one nation who did not resist the call of hell. Taldaan. Perhaps a new glory had come. Perhaps the fourth nation of the covenant had been reborn. Perhaps it was a new nation, a new fourth blood ally against the dark. Only time could tell. But what was certain was that the First Covenant, whether without the first nations or with, would not fall easy.

Other uncertainty stirred, but only to the knowledge of Carloman. He had infested the dreams of the Drake, Alvin was his name. The Fourth Covenant had been overran through his orders, even though he was in his prison, and what remained was a New Empire. It had already suffered a civil war, the barbarian south had overrun the north, the once Fourth Nation. However, the covenant had failed to aid the North, and the South became supreme. It was time that part of the covenant coverted to Carloman's sins, it was time it left the covenant. Whether the Drake Government, under Alvin, would come to aid Carloman was not known, although the New Empire would undergo a civil war to shake all others. Time again was the factor.

But not matter, two nations, one of the covenant, the other to take his place, had arisen. In the end, the light had prevailed this time. But the dark was quickly encroaching.

Tag, I will write a response soon.

Alvin washed and dressed, contemplating the dreams he had that last night. As he did in most times of stress and especially strife, he checked that his Gewehrsburg Long-Slide was in its place.

He walked down the hall of guest suites, when a tall, scarred man approached him. He was an ex-specfor man, now in the SSA. They made small talk, though Alvin mostly ignored it. The guttural accent suggested Nordsprache, the curious Dutch-German-Slavic mix common to the northern reaches of the nation. As they shook hands though, the man pressed a slip of paper into Alvin's hand. He stared at it in shock, and then went to breakfast, attempting to stay cool.

The meeting continued to boil over issues such as the increasing government ignorance to economic exploitation and mass crime in the North and the neglect of the Pandrea islands.

But he left, conspicuously silent as he remembered the instructions. The man, he learned, was Hans Klerbock. And at this point, he was certain they were being monitored after the fierce debate. He would have to act calmly until he was out of reach of his guards and eyes. The soldiers themselves did not impede him as he left the complex. Safe in his car, he made course towards Halisfavon, through the streets until he arrived at a decrepit old parking garage. This was the place. He drove into the pitch dark of the bottom level, until, suddenly, a bright beam blinded him. He tried to look away, but by the time it ceased his night vision was gone, glowing shapes dancing across his sight.

A series of dim red lights snapped on, and he saw Hans standing, wearing casual clothes, along with several other men.

"Sorry about that, just checking you out. Your car is bugged, we talk later."

He was hustled through a service area until he reached the surface floor, and traveled out the door, down an alley and towards a series of three different cars. He piled into a SUV with Hans. They sat in, and immediately began moving, the hydrogen engine humming as he navigated the streets, seeking open road.

"Now I can explain... This is gonna be a lot, so let me be blunt. Your real name is Alvin Elsdor, and you're the King of Peringeln."

1909

King Jakob Elsdor looked from the tower of his last sanctuary, one of his vacation manors. But now it was anything but a pleasure home. Guns of varying size and purpose protruded from every possible defense, the Royal Guard and the last remnants of one of his Panzerkorps engaging the Auerfrisians or waiting for them in man made thunder. Rain poured down, steam rose from the hot tubes of artillery. The dual engines of Auerfrisian attack planes roared, and Elsdor hustled down, into the cellar. They were at their last ropes. He had no future, nor his army... But the nation, the Monarchy did. His son, Karl, was now riding with a 'refugee convoy' of Royal Guard, and the loyal concubines and servants.

He supposed he had it coming... Though the South was certainly not a barbaric nation in terms of technology and economy, it was morally, a disgrace compared to the more traditional values of the North. The only way for his son and the monarchy to escape was to go South, live as a common people under a false name until the Royal Guard decided the time was right.

It might be centuries before that time came, but his nation had been fighting for 900 years. He went down to the armory, checked his sword and reached for an automatic carbine and a rig of ammunition.

He could wait.

Alvin took it in, slowly thinking the possibility over... His respect among the Northern Drakes, Tiberius' urge to keep him and others like him on a leash... It all made sense now. Hans pulled up a sleeve to reveal a tattoo, a symbol he had seen before in textbooks: The very faint sketch of the royal seal. So it was true. They did still exist... And he was their leader.

"Where are you taking me?"

"We're going to a cathedral, up in the Peringeln Range. And you might want one of these. Never know what we're gonna run in to now."

The man tossed him a folded up suit, a bit heavy, but tough looking. He looked over the marker... A bodyglove. Jesus. These things were hugely expensive due to manufacturing, a suit of body armor you could wear under plainclothes. Though he supposed he would need it.

The car traveled into the Northern reaches, where spring had started to break out. They kept on moving, parking the cars under rock outcroppings, covering them with camouflage netting, and then setting off on foot towards what appeared to be a cliff. Under the dense tree growth, though, rose the destroyed walls and spires of a cathedral, now dwarfed and hidden by nature's growth from over a century.

"This is our HQ... From here, we have the royal artifacts and contact lists of the royalists. Come on, we've gotta move quick."

Over a kilometer away, a man, covered in ghille, minutely adjusted a rifle. The thermal sight couldn't reveal who was who, only who was packing the most firepower. Not that it mattered. They had fully cased the area through Micrite surveillance, this was their chance to eliminate the North before things got out of hand. Everyone here was to disappear.

He calmed himself, putting all other thoughts out of his mind. He became his lungs, his eyes and his trigger finger. He sighted the round, made some adjustments for ballistics, and fired.

The handloaded .408 came down like a bolt from the heavens, slamming into the head of one of the Royal Guards. It exploded into an array of material, splattering the walls with fresh blood and gore.

Nothing was said, they whipped out their armarment. Hans looked up in what he assumed was the direction of the shot, seeing a cloud of dust rising. But they were getting in cover now, that sniper couldn't take out everything. He radioed a quick message to the people on the inside, hopefully they could get a response team to deal with them. But Hans knew tactics, there would be an assault team, down here.

They waited, in cover, until Alvin picked out the first of the enemy. Wearing a full Orc-series battledress, the strange armor and helmet made him look otherwordly. A massive looking automatic was in his hands, a huge drum of ammunition. He didn't seem to see him yet, but that was only a matter of time.

Alvin already had his long slide in hand, loaded with an extended magazine. He looked at Hans, who nodded. He spun out, bracing the pistol with both hands as he peered down the sight and fired the 10mm into the head of the man. The helmeted form snapped back, a spurt of blood on the opposite side. Now the column he took cover behind was peppered by bullets, the suppressed submachineguns filling the air. The other Royal guards now brought their weapons to play. Hans was moving from column to column, a cut down semi-automatic shotgun roaring away. The thing fired the equivalent of a scaled down Anti-Tank ground ,easily going through the armor. There were at least 36 of the Draka against only 12 of the Royal Guard. Somehow the odds weren't encouraging.

Alvin now was running low on his ammunition. As he crouched in the remnants of a chamber's walls, he found only had four rounds left for his longslide. There was a corpse outside the doorway, and he dragged the booted ankle until he could reach the submachinegun. It wasn't a model he himself was familiar with, too specialized and not standard issue. He located the saftey, flipped down a grip, and hoped for the best. He peered outside the doorwy and made bursts of round, realizing that his new armarment would soon be expended.

The sniper swore as he found the targets too difficult. Damn fools had moved in too quickly, but with the radio silence not to be compromised, he could only hope to move quickly and retarget. Going to his feet, he began to unpack his sniper rifle when he noticed the dust. DAMMIT!

He had underestimated just how much debris he had sent into the air with the huge muzzle expulsion. And then the gunfire started, much closer than he would have liked.

"For the King..." he whispered, as the Royal Guards from inside the sanctuary. Climbing from one of the various tunnels, they were armed to the teeth, and had caught the sniper at just the right moment. He had chosen to move. The red dot of the reflex sight settled on his chest, and he squeezed out a burst. It impacted, but on his arm. Not a good shot.

The sniper's vision went red as the bullets slammed into his left arm. He nearly dropped the rifle, if not for the sling, and raised his small submachinegun. But it was too late. He was dead. The next volley of gunfire made it official.

But things below were not the best. The air stank of gunpowder and death, and now most of the ammunition was gone. Half the Royal guards were dead, and now Alvin was isolated, in some cloistered area, a long combat knife drawn. It was a foot in length, laser sharpened to the point that it could cut through enemy body armor with the right technique. It was quiet, but he could hear the footsteps of one of the enemy on the weathered stone. He now saw him, and in a flash he leapt at the man in three strides, by the time he was turned around the knee of Alvin had pushed him into the ground, soon followed by the knife into his throat. Blood leaked out now, but Alvin didn't take the time to appreciate it. He could feel the hammerblows of the Draka automatics into his body glove, throwing him down and stealing his breath.

Hans was already moving, still with three rounds in his shotgun. From a distance of 10 feet, he pounded two into the soldier's back, killing him.

Alvin rose, shakily and gasping for air. His ribs were broken, god knew where.

"Perimeter search. One of you take the King in. They've got us found. We need to move."

They traveled quickly, Alvin realizing how much power he now held. Peringeln would have its revenge. But they would need help.