NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This is going to be different from the plot I explained a bit. It’ll be a much more subtle one, and Darakle won’t have any things against the Jenrakians yet. Anybody can post accordingly anytime, but don’t act as if you know there’s a war coming. Remember, it just looks like a normal death of a dearly departed king. It’ll lead to a grudge war.

The House of Lords
He only sat down in his tears, his sombre cry a breeze of sadness choking through his every fibre, his every vein. A cold breath of lament shaking through his soul, his voice shaking, his throat a little wavering in a high pitched voice, as if he was a crying little child over the death of his pet hamster. Yet this was more importance. Much important – the weeping was of in the memory of Maraclus, the pale faced, red cheeked king laying cold as ice and hard as stone on his bed, his hands like twigs laid softly on his frozen belly, his robes in stark red to a brilliant gold crown encrusted with emeralds and rubies. At his side lamenting at his feet, tears swelling up and falling with an elegant grace, his son only sniffed loudly in the midst of the people stationed there, the room quiet and steady. Ministers and priests, all standing in their benevolence, wrinkled faces or sorrow, their lips lapping together like a obedient dogs on their master’s heel, watched in the sight as well. Maraclus was dead, his mouth emanating no sound, no breadth of life, as Darakle knelt by his side, his warm hands encompassing his cold ringed fingers.


In news today, Maraclus was found to have been very ill, unable to move or speak barely if at all any words if coherency. This channel news would certainly like to report that we hope the best to all of the Rith, and that Maraclus is steadfast back to the throne.

“Father, please don’t leave us.” Darakle said, his voice nothing but a soft whimper, his cry nothing but a quiet plea of desperation; for too long he was attached to this man, his father, that he grew dependant on him psychologically. No more sunny days on the balcony, discussing politics, food, wine and art; no more life and talk with music and love. Only a cold corpse, devoid of personality, devoid of life, lifeless and a still in the light, frigid as the cold touch of death stroking his face – that was what the darkness of death gave poor Darakle. Tears running down his face in full motion, the eyeliner on his eyes fading off as his makeup and perfume fading, Darakle only shook with sorrow. “Don’t, please?” He asked desperately once more, but no reply came.

Walking over to the befallen and sad prince, a minister only laid his hands on his long wavy hair, touching his shoulder, to which the prince held back tenfold in grip and strength. “He is not dead.” He said adamantly, the doubt in his voice a slight tingle of remorse and disbelief. It would not seen that god would punish such a desirably great and powerful youth, strong and smart and handsome, his features lighting up the darkest corners of the world itself. Or he thought. Nevertheless fate proved to be a far more harsh taskmaster than he previously thought, his father’s death the main reason. Standing up, his sister grabbing his arm in comfort, he only motioned her to let go of his arm. Approving, the princess nodded.


Darakle of Blades will be reported to be the heir to the Rith throne, and will have command of all the military, religious and political systems in the Rithman-naar. We will have more details on Prince Darakle later at 6:00.

Darakle’s chin shook as he cried, looking back at the ministers still sombrely looking at the old feeble man’s body perched so peacefully on the bed, the sunlight shining through his pale yellow curtains, azure drapes lining the stone walls as a fireplace flickered in their presence, the warmth of the blaze not even helping the corpse gain heat – always, it was lifeless, it was cold, and it was frigid as if frozen in death. “He’ll wake up.” Darakle said loudly, to the surprise of the ministers, the priests, and his sister, all of whom had curious stares in their faces, but shook their heads disapprovingly when they finally came to notion of what he had suggested. “He’ll wake up. I know he will.” Tears were now flooding regularly down his eyes.

As his sister tried to take him out of the room, he struggled to push her away, but his overwhelming grief could not bear to help him – only hurt him as he shook in a nasty reprisal, trying to regain balance and stability, but to no avail. “He wake up!” He yelled, crying, his voice echoing like the chamber songs, with a pain and suffering, the lyrics ominous and crippling. Still crying, still tears falling down his dripping face, the shadows of his former father but a faint and sleek memory.

Rithman-naar Declaration
From the Desk of Minister Michael
It is, with great grief and discomfort that to the world Rithman-naar has suffered the death of the great monarch, Maraclus the compassionate, to the womb of old age. We knew that he lived to be a ripe 84 years, when his heart gave out, and his mind no longer could go on. Our hopes with his soul to the heavens, for a he was a kind man. Taking the throne will be Darakle when his mind is softened and his tears have hardened.


It has been officially declared that the King Maraclus is dead. In his steadfast the Prince Darakle will be crowned King in the ceremony pending next week. In all our hopes and all our fates we leave to King Darakle.

A strong echo, an emphasis it might be, focused on the last clinging line of the statement - …all our fates we leave to King Darakle.

OOC: I’ll be using the help of others. My characters (Denise and Viraranaar) are off somewhere doing stuff. Anybody who has a character in Jenrak isn’t in danger. Don’t worry.

Necromarnen
Today was not a good day for Alledrias to be missing – Maraclus death had reached throughout all the provinces of Jenrak, the fall of the peacekeeper king who kept the places fair and the politics even between both Jenrak and Rithman-naar fairly knowledgeable. Unlike the wretched Alghozim of the Hsac eastern territories, Maraclus was a good friend of the late Watcher, Illuminaatrix, killed in his search for the missing queen Alledrias; a spoiled 7-year-old girl with a tongue sharper than any sword ever crafted. So who was in charge of the Chemical Lords? Who held the reigns on these extirpating fiends? These mindless corporate beasts?

Why, the church of course, the divine grip of the Tsellian belief, with their holy sceptres and sparkling crowns, high and mighty, their hats tall and unopposed in their view. Yes, the Jenrakian church would have all power until Alledrias was returned, and in this little girl’s absence, nobody else. But for some eerie reason, unknown to all, Jenrak was at peace – no civil wars, no massacres, no genocide of a grand design. Only the quiet peace, the soft bustle of people moving on in their daily lives – or perhaps it was a government mirage? A maelstrom of deception? It mattered not – the church was still in power.

Standing at the height of the church, in the view of the great, stood Authaulus, in all his glory and demeanour, his short swift hair dangling in bags above his forehead, a small strand getting into his eye as he rubbed it out furiously. Leaning on a stone pillar, its height reaching to the top of the inner sanctum of stone and steel.

Statues lined the hallway, intricate and elegant, splendours of tall and powerful heroes, their glory untarnished, unfinished, never-ending into the great glance of the future. For without them, the lands of Jenrak would have never existed – only a barbarian tribe that would label themselves as the unworthy children of Methronn. Perhaps one day, he hoped, Authaulus would be one of them, nothing but a stone statue on a marble pedestal, for the people to gawk and awe in his dead presence – in his valour. But alas, such thoughts of naïve glory fuelled him slightly; it was the church he was loyal to, not the stone. His armour still latched onto his clothing underneath, Authaulus sipped the small teacup carried in his large fingers, being careful not to crush it into a delicate pulp.

Dust gathering around his feet, he was high up, obviously, but it was a strange sight. As if nature fawned over him like a cat, so dearly attached to its owner, its master. Ye, Authaulus was no master of anything – he controlled nothing, just the position of the Watcher, the most powerful position that could be attained. He was in power, of course, but he would also be a slave to the church. Yet as long as he had his tea, he was content with whatever title he was given. Such was the way of a Jenrakian Temsplace.

1 Week Later
He was still in grief, sombre and sad; a nihilistic existence fate presented him. Driven in his solitude, the darkness encompassing him, Darakle only said, a light breaking through the crack of the doorway, the whining creak of the hinges taunting him, two figures emerging from the light, into the darkness of his bedroom, as Darakle turned around, his robe draped around him magnificently, the stench from his perfume exhilarating. Lashes on his eyes a beautiful black stripe, his makeup delicately put on his rosy red cheeks as the rest of his face a pale rhino skin-like tone, a white smile only greeted the entering escorts, armed with their long powerful and brutal weapons, armour edged up to their hilts. It seemed as if Darakle had forgotten all about the death of Maraclus, and indeed, he could be – yet looks are commonly deceiving in the lands of the Rith. Beneath his powdery white face, his shining white smiles, his symmetrical eyelashes, was the burning of possibly still the sadness of his father, the death of the one man he enjoyed to accompany. Now he was dead. There was probably a lesson in Maraclus’ death that could be learned, but that was not on Darakle’s mind right now – only his coronation came to his vapid thoughts.

“Let us go immediately.” Darakle commanded, his regal voice already a sleek smooth command; he would make a great king, if he were not foolish. Whether he was, or not, would remain to be seen, as he walked alongside his soldiers, the tall and creeping legions in their black soot armour, their vision goggles watching every moving inch of their environment. “Are any of your families here?” He asked them in a general tone, trying to spark a conversation.

“Lord, we are under no allowance to reply in any such casual manner.” One of the soldiers replied, his face still autonomous, monotone, emotionless, as he walked alongside his men. Darakle, let down slightly, only gasped, as they crossed through the golden paintings lining his bedroom halls, walking past his fathers dying bedroom door.

For that fleeting moment, for that microsecond of that voyage, Darakle felt all of his base emotions, all his primal senses of anger, suffering, torment and death come back to him – everything he had felt when he saw the last breath drawn from his fathers failing lungs, the heartbeat no longer throbbing in their place. Breathing heavily, even hyperventilating, Darakle got into a frightening frenzy, the memories of his father lying on his deathbed returning in full colour, full picture and splendour. Falling down to his knees in angered grief, his escort immediately turned into a turtle position, the captain shouting in quietened commands.

“Check the vents, make sure there’s no poisonous substance in the air. Prepare to fire at anything that moves.” The captain ordered, putting his hood on, his helmet tucked safely under its fabric cover. Ducking down into the covering group as his men scoured the immediate area, the captain in his deep dark voice, slow and steady, braced the king, believing him to be under ailment. “Don’t worry, my lord. Just hang on a little bit further.” He urged, to which Darakle held his hand up to dismiss him.

“It is alright, captain. I am merely brought my memories best left untouched.” Darakle said sadly, his eyes watering and slippery, gazing back at the door that was barred off, the door in chains and stone – his father’s dying bedroom door. Ever since Maraclus died, and after his burial in the dark chasms of the virtuous rivers, the body dipped in magma and carried across distances to finally burn in a great blaze of flame, Darakle felt empty. He felt like a void was in his heart, his soul. Be nevertheless, he had a coronation to attend to. The weeping, if he would remember after such a joyous day, would have to be postponed until later.

Besides, he was planning an arrival into Jenrak later that week, so he had his mind on the Jenrakians, and what he believed would be their immediate approval of their new ally. Of course, everybody loved him.

Jenrak – Necromarnen
“How boring.” Authaulus replied, flipping through the channels of the television, the nightline of Jenrak sparkling in a dazzling display of lights, the honking of the cars on the highway, the scattered sounds of the lights beeping and the trains running about – sounded like the typical blend of the Jenrakian night-life, the typical Jenrakian life. People bustling about, minding their own business, trying to tip their toes on the government’s foot. As he flipped through channel upon channel, static popping up occasionally, he felt disturbingly bored, unable to constantly think, let alone coherently or consistently. “I can’t believe this.” He said, until he fell upon the attractive, wholesome, but still heavily powdered and pretty face of the Rith news anchor, her quick witted tongue slurring through the commentary.


“…Prince Darakle, the infamous Prince of blades…”

“Heh. How cliché.” Authaulus chuckled, wishing to see the extent of this ‘Prince of Blades’ in real combat – the art of guns, rockets and projectiles, not old aged weaponry. This was not a time of honour – this was an age of nuclear weapons. “Nevertheless, he can dilute his mind with whatever title he pleases, I guess.” Authaulus said.


“…he has been claiming to become monarch tonight, and on his list of agendas, most intriguingly, it to provide stronger items and support for environmentalists, and turn his nation into a democracy. Also from the podium, Darakle has promised to influence Jenrak, Sanduras and Dren, all of them satellite nation states of oppression and tyranny…”

“This woman judges us too harshly.” Authaulus remarked, amused as he snorted in a soft chuckle beneath his armour.


“…and he will be visiting the nation Jenrak to discuss political matters and talk to citizens with Jenrak…”

“What? He wants to come here? Over my dead body.” Authaulus retorted in a fury, his powerful hand smashing onto the wooden desk beside him, the splinter flying apart as it smashed into pieces. “When he’s crowned officially monarch, I’ll let him come over. Just to see how much the people of Jenrak hate this Rith filth.” He argued.

“Egotistic bastard.”


“Prince Darakle has confirmed of becoming monarch, and the ceremony is being held as of now. We are going to the coronation ceremony.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Enkur spoke in surprise.

“I hope not literally.” A tall, pale, long haired woman, with silky blonde hair, piercing green eyes and a dangling rifle at her belt. “Because you’re a Temsplace, and you represent the goodness in all of us.” She explained, her cheekbones a thin wiry form, her face a little sultry, her fingers like skeletons fingers, as they bore marks of long calloused hands and her neck revealing many varied tattoos all crawling down her neck like spider stickling upon her flesh.

“Ah, Rashkta. Come to complain to me on my position?” Authaulus said impatiently, his anger getting the best of him as he grip the small stick of wood in his hands with a malice. He showed a small tingle of love for this woman, but right now, the only emotion he was drowning in was anger – anger that such a fool, to him, as Darakle could be crowned king of an entire nation. If the people elected such a spoiled brat to be an absolute ruler, then they must have been the legions of stupidity as well.

“Don’t be so hard on the boy. His father died, he has never seen death.” Rashkta told Authaulus.

“I’m not being harsh on him. Circumstances are being hard on me.” He reasoned back at Rashkta, who had her arms wrapped him his neck playfully. “You’re not to cut my throat out, are you?” He asked. While it would seem like a comical gesture, and while Rashkta took it as one, she was a member of the Sadicistra, the deadly cannibal army that fed off the dead to stay alive, to feed themselves.

“No, you’re my big bear.” She said again, chuckling.

“I thought you liked Lord Gelectriax.” Authaulus replied.

“I have two different worlds, you know.” She said, to which Authaulus chuckled.

IC:Central Desert, Red Tide, Restricted Military Training Ground

Explosions blasted dirt up and down the opposing hillside and top as 175mm artillery rounds ripped into it, turning the hilltop and opposing hillside into craters of mud and dirt. With the roar of vertical thrusters, a sqaudron of six H/K-1 Surface Attack Aircraft rippled into the desert hilltop, so rare in the central desert, with rockets and their 30mm gattling guns(not exactly the same type used on the A-10, much less powerful), Before spinning around and hovering on their vertical thrusters and selecting targets for their ATGM-4s and firing, sending more explosions into the air. Up on the hillside NOT being pounded with artillery were spread out MBT-66 Tanks, LBT-44 Light Tanks, APC-45 Carriers, and Tunguska-RT M1s.

They rolled upwards on their treads at 40 kilometers-per-hour, leaving their mark behind them, the MBT-66s were taking up the head, zig-zagging about to avoid enemy 'fire' while returning fire with their 130mm ETC Guns, APC-45s and LBT-44s were behind them, also zig-zagging and shooting their 30mm Autoguns, ATGM-4s(APC-45s), and 105mm ETC cannons(LBT-45) side to side in a sweeping manuever, the APCs carrying the Red Tidean Soldiers inside, nicknamed 'MeatPuppets' because they were usually depicted as human wae style soldiers that mindlessely followed their orders... only the former was false. Their M-100 Assualt Rifles, M-200 LMGs, and MDM-1 Rocket Launchers sitting right infront of them in their compartments as the APCs trundled along. Behind the APCs were, predictably enough, the M1 Tunguska-RTs. Their 30mm autoguns were not firing, but sweeping the sky for air 'threats', as were their QMSAM-10 Launchers, ready to rip any 'enemy aircraft' foolish enough to fly to low to shreds. Finally, bringing up the very rear, just out of 'enemy fire' were regular trucks, the forward most ones carrying Meatpuppets, the ladder ones carrying ammo, then fuel trucks, then a line of Anti-Tank Guns of 105, 130, and 175mm calibers, all three were ETC, with their trucks(for the 105 and 130mms) and tractors(for the 175mms) ready to hitch them up and move them at a moments notice. In all, there was 2 'heavy' divisions(Specifically a Red Tidean Mechanised-Infantry and Armored Division) aswell as 3 Infantry Divisions(a mis-leading named as they mostly moved around by truck), as well as attached Artillery, Anti-Aircraft, and Close-Combat Brigades. Not to mention the artillery(which was 20 kilometers away pounding the beejesus out of the hilltop) and air-support.

This was the 18th Red Tidean Corps on manuevers, one-hundred-seventy-five THOUSAND men and their material moving around. This was not including the air support and logistics units. Major-General Wevori Kemmetovich, the CO of the 18th corps, watched troops at a midway point between the 'frontlines' and the artillery formations via IVIS and GPS, he was in touch with Regiment Colonels and Battalion Corporals via advanced communications equipment, his division Lieutenant-Generals were with him, as were their Brigadier-Generals... not to mention his and their assigned Intellegince-Consortium Agents and a guest... a scientist who had been assigned to watch him. The scientist was very nervous, obviously not professional, and for that, Kemmetovich initially despised him.

A half-hour later, the exercise was over. The hilltop had been captured with minimum casualties and resistance... as always. The scientist, some guy who specialised in the mind he was told, had watched with interest, which gained him some respect. Now the tanks were going back to their bases, now Kemmetovich flicked on the TV and was greeted with a foreign newsbroadcast translated to Russian.

He was puzzled momentarily until he looked at the logo... it was from... ah yes, Rithman-Naar. He was interested in this for some reason... it was about their king had died or something. He didnt know why, but it interested him.

OOC:This is just an introduction to the ground unit I will be deploying and their commanding officer.

Kilani Central Intelligence Division, Green River City

The imposing office building did not stand out from the many surrounding it. IN fact, it looked exactly like all the others. There was a sign out fron that read:

KCID

A kilani flag hung on the flagpole outside. Aside from that, it was virtually identical to every other office building you could find in the city,

Inside it was a bustling hive of activity suited office workers hurried back and forth, carrying files and tapping away at computers. On the seventh floor, behinda large door a very officious looking man was looking over the top priority intelligence files for the day. It was this man who would pass the information regarding Jenrak up the line to the President. His name was Justinian Lorenko, head of the KCID.

Lyrian S'elothor held his cup of wine elegantly in one hand as he looked out the window of his small apartment onto the streets of Jenrak. To him, used to the quiet of the Nistolonian nights, it seemed loud, filled with bright flashing lights. One couldn't even see the stars or hear the animals that lurked during the darker hours. He sighed. He was thinking of home again. Even after years of training and 6 years of living here, he still wasn't used to it. He took another sip of wine and turned back to the nistolonian sitting accross the worn wooden table from him. The other mans face was shrouded in shadow, and Lyrian could only see him fully with the benifit of is keen nistolonian eyes.
"I'm sorry, Kisiian. What were you saying?"
Kisiian glanced down at the report in front of him. "Milord, the Rithman-Naar leader is dead. His son, the so called Master of Blades, is now in control of the country."
"Ehmm" Lyrian took another sip of wine "Continue"
"He is to be visting Jenrak sometime in the near future, to talk to the citizens and, presumably, some government officials. Due to the...absense of Queen Alledrias, the church is now the government, and is to them that he will probably be talking too. About what, I have no idea, milord. The two countries have hated each other for years."
"Well." Lyrian put down his wine and began to type on the small computer next to him. "This is news, to an extent. Anything else?"
"Well, reports from agents in Rithman-Naar indicate that Darakle is in a state of dreadful grief over his fathers death. He may be unstable."
"I see." Lyrian continued typing. "Well, I'll send this over to NIS. They'll decide what to do. Your beds been prepared upstairs."


OOC: Nistolonia doesn't support either side yet. They will soon, but they'll need more information.

Jagada's Keep,Christendom

Jenrak was an--unusual nation in the eyes of York. He assumed anyone who called themselves the Extirpating Lachrytomists which in one form or another meant 'Chemical Destruction', along with their obession of chemicals and chemical warfare--were probably pretty insane. The caste system in Jenrak outright confused York, it meant that if a lower caste got this genius idea, then it probably wouldn't be brought before the upper castes and a chance for Jenrakian surpremecy in the world may have been lost. That was why, even with the Trinity Empire installed and a new State Religion, Jagada retained a lot of civil and political rights which in Jenrak would seem taboo. He'd been watching Jenrak occasionally for years, even during the Fanatical Civil War he would get some kind of message regarding them. Due in fact that Jenrak, like Jagada, had just gotten out of a civil war. A civil war which included genocide, indiscriminate mass murder, and outright chaos. York respected Jenrak for coming out of the mess. He didn't, however, respect Jenrake for allowing a pagan religion to take hold. The 'Church' that controlled Jenrak wasn't like the 'Church' known in Jagada, the aforementioned 'Church' in Jagada would have given someone the impression of Catholic rule. Though York knew it was far, far, far from that. Jenrak had some complex, and unknown religion.

Despite all that, York continued to be amazed by events which pretained to Jenrak. In a recent event, which was sure to inflame the area, the death of Rithman-Naar's King Maraclus, was sure to bring a period of tension and hostility, though probably not outright war. The new King of Rithman-Naar, a Prince (or should one say King) Darakle was considered a red-faced coward. York didn't expect him to try anything against Jenrak, even if Jenrak was an insane nation. Then again, York didn't much like Rithman-Naar either. It was prehaps a bit more free than Jenrak, but just like them it had a caste system (even if it was a lot more loose) and instead of chemical warfare, the Rithman's enjoyed the soothing effects of nuclear warfare. York would have by now bathed both of them in Nuclear Armageddon if he wasn't absolutely sure Jagada would also be destroyed in the process. Such vile and evil nations needed to be crushed under the jackboot of 'Armed Christianity'. York knew the ideal of 'Armed Christianity' was hypocritical to the very foundations of the Bible and Jesus Christ, but in such a world as this it was going to take one Christian nation to be the 'bad guy' in the world, and prop up Christianity wherever it could. It and its leaders would stand before God and have to answer for it, but at least York knew he could stand before the Almighty and confess to having given billions the chance to accept God, even if in the process he whiped out everything around them.

York would watch the situtation in Jenrak and Rithman-Naar. Prehaps one could be a useful ally against the other, prehaps King Darakle's nickname the "Prince of Blades" was more than just some self-styled title. Prehaps the boy would live up to the standards he'd impressed upon others.

OOC: Okay, I will get to the war immediately, say his trip was over.

In a great silky sliver of the ballroom, people wandering about in their most beautiful and most expensive of garments, men in tall lumbering suits, admirals and commanders walking about as common soldiers amidst the place all walked in delicate form, watching and clattering on, his face in a dark red pigment, his jaw twitching in a strong, muscular motion, like a clatter. He watched as his Generals, his commanders, and his captains, all of them with their precious medals pinned on their tuxedos, the soldiers standing about in security, armed to the tip, fingers twitching at the very thought of violence surging out. His angry, blood filled face breaking into a contagious smile, as far as the dome could tell, as bright as the sun itself, Darakle lifted his arms, his crown perfectly situated on his head, a tall brilliant twinkling gold structure, encrusted with many jewels and wondrous objects.

“My people!” Darakle yelled in a tumultuous roar, his commanders and generals roaring back in fervour. “My people!” He yelled even louder, with more conviction, more charisma surging through his every syllable, shaking with power and glory.

“My father is dead, my heart is grieved.” He said, his face a sad, sorrowful glance, his left hand on his jewel encrusted chest, tapping slightly as if to show his pulse. “I have visited our brothers, the Jenrakians.” He said, to the roaring boos of the Rith commanders.

“And they treated me like a common man!” He yelled, his hands in the air, his voice strong once more with a powerful aura about, swinging through his voice. “They treated me like nothing – despite the fact of my royal lineage!” He yelled, his fingers pounding on the podium in fury.

“They treat us like dogs! They treat us like nothing but the commoners – superior we are! Greater, we have grown to become! Let us show them proper etiquette! Let us show them the real power of a man who is not turned down! Your king – Lord Darakle, commands the killing of every Jenrakian in the country!” Darakle said, turning around back into the chamber, as the commanders laughed and roared in approval.

The next morning, everywhere in Rithman-naar, anybody of Jenrakian descent was found to have been rounded up, alongside brick walls and in ghettoes, and gunned down mercilessly by the officers, the people of the Rith throwing bricks and stones, firing off bullets and stabbing Jenrakian men and women, children burnt alive on stakes, women disembowelled and men cut into parts for the dogs of the Rith masters to feed.

Entire pieces of property were seized, many were burnt, others were simply used up by other Jenrakians, complete businesses were shut down, and others bombed to oblivion. In only a few days, the remaining Jenrakian found were rounded up on the outskirts of the abandoned city of Alexian, the stone mortars and its crude shadowy walls cackling and whispering of untold secrets and portents, but here a small enclosed and careful base was kept. Atop the tip of sunrise the day after the Jenrakian survivors were rounded up, the ‘cleansing’ began, as a large firestorm was triggered, a brilliant display of blood red fire. Within their own bounds, because of a bad trip, a tactical nuclear device was activated to kill off the remaining Jenrakian in the Rithman-naar.

Dweladelf Capital of Dweladelfia Prime

Prime Minister sits at his desk at the High Command HQ siping his favorite drink Strawberry fiz. His Forign Minister walks in the door. "Sir we have a situation here." "What is it?" "It seems an army is invading our Ally Jenrak." "Where are the carriers?" "Are you saying were going to war?" The prime Minister jumped out of his chair. "No, I'm saying we are going to stop this conflict from happening or so help me god." "Yes Sir. The Empire and the Yellowstone are already on rout to Jenrak." "Good. I want some Battle ships there to." "Yes Sir." "And send a message to these savages."

Message to all who dare invade Jenrak

We bid you to remove all forces around Jenrak and return to your nation. Or you will face the rath of Dweladelfia Prime.

In exasperation, in oddities of surprise and faint disbelief, the politics murmured and roared in tumultuous fury, their anger rising up to great boiling levels of uncontrollability, the banging of the gavel the only ringing heard throughout the large dome-like conference chamber. Sitting in the tall, winding throne latched of bone and steel, was Authaulus, high a mighty, his chin resting on his hands, his feet tapping impatiently as he stood up to his full length in a particularly nasty reprisal. “Silence!” He yelled with a strong, echoing blast, his racketing anger shaking through the place. When the wary councillors did not wane, Authaulus unsheathed his long, steel sword, only to have its ringing hymn cause the rest to fall silent.

“Now, that the court is silent.” He said, his face glaring about. “We are here to discuss the progress of the thoughts against this sudden move of Rith genocide.” Authaulus roared, his voice loud, booming, ringing with a blaze of strength. “We are to stop these monsters, if possible, but that is my opinion.” Authaulus said.

“What is the thought of others in our scenario?” He asked around calmly, to which the politicians all had the same answer, the only answer: War. Everywhere, in every direction, the roaring was heard, the same word repeating itself over and over again, never ending. Authaulus sighed in content, but he still disapproved of the course of action.

“Very well. But there are economic and civil issues to partake in. We do not want to risk another revolt on the civil side.” Authaulus reasoned, and with good motive – the last war Jenrak was in caused it to be heavily damaged due to a civil war incited over the war itself.

“What is the condition of the society?” A tall, leering fanged man asked, his arms thinning, his skin pale ghost-white and his fingers a nasty crinkle. The politicians seemed to cower down back into their seats obediently, as if this man was going to kill them all.

“Yes, what is the situation?” Authaulus asked.

Standing up, a chubby, plump-faced man in a crisp grey suit only coughed slightly, before saying what he had to say. “Lord Authaulus, the civil issues are swell. This move is going to have Jenrak behind your back completely.” The man said, to the applause of the others, as he sat down.

“I see.” Authaulus said, nodding. “Well, then it is decided. We are officially at war.” And with that, a mighty blast of his gavel was launched.

To Darakle
Your days are numbered, you ethicist. We shall now pay back all the lives of the lost Jenrakian in double, and it will be the lives of those whom you will dearly miss.
<Authaulus>

General Wevori Kemmetovich was woken with the shake of his shoulder. He slowly opened his eyes,

"Yes?" He said wearily.

"Get up," It was the voice of one of his Lieutenant-Generals, "orders from High Command, directly from the Supreme Commander himself."

Groaning, the Kemmetovich sat up, rubbing his head, he looked around wearily and said, "What is it?" The Lieutenant General handed him a paper. Kemmetovich eyes looked at it, then widened, he looked up and said, "What? When? Where? Why?" A pause, "How?"

"That does not matter," The Lieutenant General said, "We HAVE to prepare to get going, the 3rd SuperDreadnought Battlegroup is leaving port right now, we have to get the Corps moving."

Kemmetovich sighed, he knew that he wouldnt be getting enough sleep for awhile from now on. He stood up, stretched, and then went off to prepare the 18th Corps for movement to the Southern Naval Bases where they would be loaded onto transports and sent off towards Jenrak... and War.

Official Statement From Red Tide Goverment
"In light of the recent hostilities between the Nations of Jenrak and Rithman-Naar, we have decided to fully support Jenrak in its righteous cause. At Jenraks request we will deploy the 3rd SuperDreadnought Battle Group and 18th Corps to help Jenrak in its glorious battle against the evils of Rithman-Naar."
End Statement

OOC: Dweladelfia... this is a Closed War.

Imperial Compound AC-0001, Central Pudite Forest, 10:20PM, Sunday

The Emperor sat behind his large mahogany desk, which was, as usual, covered in a thick layer of paper, books, and, well, evens more paper. Behind this mountain he sat, working his way down a stack of papers that required his signature this day…

He was used to the work routine, and never really minded the tediousness, but welcomed the respite offered then by the sudden arrival of a visitor.

Mr. White, the Pudite AC-0001 Compound’s foreign relations officer, strode into the small office, dirty-grey greatcoat brushing the door as he closed it behind him with a gentle thud. He stood in the center of the room, overhead lights just barley reflecting off his shoulder-length silver hair.

“Sir,” he began in a very smooth, steady, calm voice, “I have interesting news.”

“Well,” said the Emperor, still staring down at his desk and work, “What is it?”

Mr. White stood still, totally unmoving as he delivered his response. “We have just received news of an attack on the nation of Jenrak by its neighbor, the kingdom of Rithman-Naar.”

The Emperor stopped writing for a second, the cease of the pen scratching throwing the entire room into an uncomfortable silence. He had never heard of either of these nations before, maybe the break was not so welcoming. He had watched hundreds of wars pass by his office without so much a word from White, what was the difference here?

“Why, White, why do you bother me with the affairs of an unknown nation?” he responded, without looking up as he began again to read over one of the documents littering his desk.

Mr. White expected this unenthusiastic response, and knew what to say to convince him of what he knew he would want.

“Jenrak is an older nation, to the south of us; similar to us in that they organize themselves as we once did, but that is not why we care,”

“Why is it then that we care, White?” the Emperor interrupted, a little aggravated now at this seemingly pointless interruption.

“You remember Pananab don’t you, sir? Of course you do, we lost our colonial chance there, and this war presents us a second chance.”

“How so, you say these are larger nations, surly they would be able to resist such blatant imperialism?” answered the Emperor, who was by now, intrigued, but still skeptical.

“Sir, Rithman-naar, the invading nation, is a prime target for our next attempt, to put it bluntly. I say we enter the war on some pretext, their imperialism, some genocide issue, threat to our Empire, your decision. We dispatch a task force, capture some land ‘for the war effort’ and then keep it as payment for our aid in the fight?”

“Not being too subtle are we, White.” The Emperor chuckled, quickly having become convinced of the need for the war. “This war is in your hands now, order the first convening of the High Council.” The Emperor swiveled in his chair to face the white large curtained window behind him, “Also, see too it that Admiral Kadova’s fleet be made ready, and revive and brief divisions 22 through 31 Infantry. I do not want to lose this opportunity…”

Mr. White strode out of the room, looking for a telephone.


Naval Compound PC-2133, Eastern Pudite Coast, 9:45AM, Monday

The port compound of PC-2133 was bustling with activity. Worker caste men loaded supplies, the Artisan caste checked over the vehicles before deployment, with officers of Warrior and Noble castes shouting orders over the din of the heavy cranes and loading craft. There were hundreds of thousands of men assembled on the docks today, all working towards he quick launch of the fleet designated Task Force 03.

Outside his window on the observation deck of the Noble’s tower on compound PC-2133 Admiral Kadova surveyed his charges. He had never had a command this large, and he was eager to prove his ability. What better way to prove your worth than by succeeding where your comrades had failed.

Sitting out almost a mile offshore sat his flagship, the Gavin Newsom class carrier, His Will, surrounded by the other capital ships of Task Force 03. There was the Roydia RefitA class battleship Divine Right, her two sister ships, the Light of the Ascension and the Intolerance. Out of the four huge ships, only one of them, the Divine Right, had ever seen combat.

The Divine Right, captained by a Noble by the name of Protivek, led the Task Force 01 ships assigned to the ill-fated Pananabian campaign a few years back. Since then, much of the experienced crew had been replaced and the ship outfitted with new systems, forcing even the men who remained to re-learn what they once knew.

Surrounding the capital ships were seven large cruisers, three Carthage class air defense cruisers, two Helina class battlecruisers, and two Portlandia class guided missile cruisers. Beyond these larger ships sat the hosts of escorts. Most of the smaller ships were still in port, loading supplies for the journey, later to be distributed to the other ships of the fleet, or on picket duty two miles outside of the docks. These escorts numbered twelve Swiftsure class destroyers, six Adari class air defense destroyers, and seven Lionfish class missile frigates.

The fleet was ready to move, the last of the cargo was being stocked, and the cranes were pulling their booms back. Admiral Kadova strode back across the room to the elevator waiting for him, and pressed the ‘one’ button.

Half an hour later, Pudite Task Force 03 was launched, moving at a steady thirty knots in the direction of Rithman-naar. Following shortly behind them was the First Imperial Transport Flotilla, as escorted by Captain Vostroi and his command, the ten ships of the 54th Cruiser Squadron. Contained within the heavy ships of the flotilla was the first wave, the fifty-thousand Pudite Orthae, upon whom the hopes of the entire Dominion rested…

OOC: Sry didnt know that.

Jagada's Keep,Christendom

The die was cast, and the nations scrammbled to their positions. The news of Rithman-Naar's genocide was a bit of a shock for York, and even Halibard. They didn't expect this 'Prince of Blades' to have the sheer guts to clense their nation, threw the hellfire of nuclear weaponry, all the Jenrakian peoples. Such was cowards move prehaps, but then against York had just recently done the same, save the nuclear weaponry, on the Moslems in Jagada. He sat back, on his desk was a special fax machine. If any reports came into Jagadian media stations regarding the Jenrakian-Rithman ordeal or if 'The Eye', the Jagadian Intelligance Agency, got anything all of it was ordered to be sent to him, refusal or outright not sending it to him would result in something far worse than one could imagine. Fear wasn't the motive though, it was just a nice 'don't-get-any-ideas' way of telling the people to obey. The majority did so out of willingness and a longing desire to improve their crippled nation--save Jagada had rapidly recovered in terms of industrial and infastrue output.

"Sir, if the Jenrakians do declare war, which they should, who will we sent to assist them or have you not decided on that yet," asked Halibard.

"Assist the Jenrakains? No, no, my friend they are who we will be fighting. The Rithmans could prove useful allies to stopping Jenrak and putting it down," stated York.

Halibard smiled, "So, you've chosen the high road then. You never were one to make things easy."

York returned the smile with a nod, "Indeed. Though if we go to war with Jenrak. We will not make the same mistake of Norris and Remington. We will not give only a fraction of our forces. We will throw ourselves fully against the enemy. This war doesn't threaten us directly, but it threatens the will of our power. If we come back from another war with only body bags. We might as well kiss any chance of a quick recovery goodbye, cause the people will be down right angry."

"So, this is an all or nothing situtation sir," asked Halibard.

"More like a death or glory charge," stated York. Suddenly the fax machine came alive and out spewed a sheet of paper. York reached up, grabbed it, and began to read.

"Well the first part of this story is true. The Jenrakians just declared war," stated York. Halibard smiled, "Well at least we got something right so far."

Before York could put the paper down, the machine came alive again and out came another sheet of paper, York scanned threw this one. And before he could even speak the machine roared in activity again, Halibard reached down and grabbed this sheet.

"It seems some nation called Red Tide has just joined the war on the side of the Jenrakians. Will probably make our situtation much harder," said York.

Halibard's face went into a depressed look, "Well appearntly sir, it gets worse. And nation, which calls itself Emperor Pudu has just reported to be sending a rather large task for to Jenrak. Our diplomat sources suggest they are siding with the Jenrakians though."

"Well no one said this would be easy. All the more reason we put all we have into this conflict," stated York.

Halibard saluted, "Yes sir. I shall mobolize the Crusaders immiedately." With that the tall and lean Field Marshall dressed in a royal blue military uniform marched out of the room. The Crusaders were going to war.

---

Inn,Jagada

They stood in formation, one lined up beside the other. Side-by-side, like the warriors who came before them. Upon the ancient rally grounds of Inn Square. Lord Jagada had rallied the old Crusaders upon these grounds for the Imperial Warriors, and the Unification Wars. It was also upon these grounds thats Pastor Smith lead the Religious Forces during the Religious-Athiest War several centuries ago. Not to mention the thousands of religious rallies held here by both Christians, Moslems, Bhuddists, and Hindus. Truly this ground was to some degree sacred. It had never let the nation down, both Norris and Remington had declared their victory prophecy from Jagada's Keep, and both had failed. Halibard and York wouldn't make the same mistake. As the Crusaders stood in unified formation. Upon the grand stone stage with dozens fo Jagadian Flags waving in the eastern winds, York walked upon the stone sending echos threw the entirely quiet rally grounds.

He stood about mid-way. "It was upon these grounds, that so many men like yourselves have been brought for the purpose of going to fight in domesitc and foreign wars. It was upon these grounds that your fathers, grandfather, great grandfathers and so forth came to listen the great leaders of the past tell them that they were going off to die for the glory of Jagada, for our freedom and independance, so that we may secure our interests overseas. Though I tell you now. We go not to fight in some meaningless foreign war. We go today to fight for our standings in the World. This World has turned its back on Christianity, has spit upon it. We all know of Roach-Busters conversion to Liberalism, we all know of the Generalissmio becoming a liberal and allow the homosexuals to marry, allowing the genociding of unborn children, to allow the filth of pornography to spill into his nation. That is his affairs, but it prove a point. That Neo-Liberalism, Heretic Religions, and Sin is consuming even the most moral of nation. With the Fall of J.L, we must now look to secure a place for Christianity to stop Neo-Liberalism from spreading beyond its borders. Jenrak is that neo-liberal state, their allow cannibalism, they allow the raping of women and children for the sheer 'fun' of it. They have installed a Heretic Religion which denies the One True God! I say now it the time to march into Jenrak and lay waste to these heretics."

"Though, you may ask why march in and lay waste when we could conver them, give them a chance to accept God. I tell you, do not try this. Their 'Church of Evil and Sin' had entrenched itself too deep for salvation. My men, I say we must clense them from this World. Do not try to convert them, they will only be nominal Chrisitans. It would be better to clense them and save Humanity from their corrupt and sinful ways than to conver them into nominal Christians and risk our nation being infected by these heretics. My men, we go to war, we go to fight, we go--to clense this World of evil!"

The Crusader gave a crisp salute and in a single united shout said, "Cast in the Name of God!".

With that the Crusaders mobilized for war. The Grand Fleet was being drawn up, dozens of smaller carriers were everywhere, while several large carriers sat in the middle of this armada. Everywhere we countless destroyers, crusiers, battlecruisers. The massive battleships stood has a reminder of Jagadian Navy experiance. Though these vessels were dwarfed by the immensely powerful SuperDreadnaughts. Espically the JGFS Pro-Life and JGFS Vengful Mercy. The Crusaders were being loaded, by the thousands. A sea of men one could put it. Never before had such vast amounts of men, reaching into the millions, be launched to fight in a foreign war. Now was that time--The Trinity Empire was going to War.

OOC: What year of TL should this be, give or take? 2020 or so?

IC:

The NIS HQ was a busy place most of the year, and at this time, the emergancy command staff had been up all night listening to reports from Jenrak. Intelligence cells were providing a steady stream of information to the NIS as Jenrak mobilized their forces and Rithman-Naar commited their acts of genecide. Some of the command staff listened to the Ops Officers on the line, others were contacting the heads of the armed forces. Within an hour of the killings in Rithman-Naar, Warmaster Heli'n was in a meeting with his Council of Blood. (IE: Family Military Advisors)

The council room was dark, made even darker by the lack of a moon this night. The 16 nistolonians sat around the large metal table, each one glancing down at the computer in front of him as the meeting began.
"Well?" Asked J'hadas, sitting across from Heli'n. "Do we attack? Do we send in our armies?"
"I'm thinking, uncle, I'm thinking." The young warmaster was looking down at his screen, which kept him updated to the events as they came in.
"It could be a way to get Jenrak as an ally" suggested F'lysina, "They are a powerful nation. A trade agreement, maybe a mutual defence pact..."
"True, true...But at what cost?" De'athor, always cynical, pointed out "We could lose millions of soldiers. What if Rithamn-Naar wins?"
"The Nistolonian army is undefeated" commented F'lysina
"We've never faced anyone this powerful. There was Slovakastania, and Calus, but they were small, under funded. Rithmaan-Naar has a huge army, nukes..."
"Enough." The Warmaster spoke softly, but it was enough. "No-one will insult the honor of a Nistolonian. He tapped his keyboard. "General Ka'fae?"
the generals voice floated back through the comm unit. "yes, Milord?"
"Prepare your Battlegroups. You have your other orders."

So be it. It is a war to the knife, to the blade, and I shall show you fools what a battle is won like.
~~Monarch Darakle

The Gathering of Minds – Phase 1
A brief chatter, a brief laughter and a tone of amusement was sound throughout the room, the polyester curtains dangling softly on the windowsills. Stairs were seen at the end of the chamber, shown through a door opened ajar, wooden and rotting, but still large enough to fit an entire battalion though, the sound of marching men and chattering women outside. Yells and gunfire were seldom heard, stained glass windows with a touch of the tales long lost.

The light was bursting through the room, invading and destroying every shadow with a beautiful glitter of bright rays, as the familiar shadows left was all hunched about, looking over a large, aged, and heavily labelled map of a twisted nation, islands dotting its coastline – Jenrak. “Here is the city of Haasdra, and the brain of all Jenrakian thought.” General Elekance said with a touch of vanity in his voice. “This is our target.” He pointed, moving his white gloved finger about towards the map, showing a small black dot, in the shape of a tiny triangle, as it stood out from the aqua blue around it.

“Haasdra doesn’t seem that difficult to take – this war will be an easy one.” Another General said, to the raised suspicion of others. “Our Christian Empire is at an ease.” The General assured.

“I might have to remind you that our Lord has better things to do than help us in this, and I assure you that this will not be the easiest thing to take.” Elekance snapped back, his other hand moving to encompass the tall, winding group of mountains to the far eastern boundaries of the Jenrakian map. “Here is the wall of the East, and here lies the lake of Nahm.” Elekance pointed to a large, bulging body of water that stood adjacent to Rithman-naar boundaries. “The Jenrakian infantry is powerful, and their navy is superb and highly advanced. But they have dated and laughable air force, so we must defeat them through the skies.” He pulled about a long red sheet, covered the map, and it revealed a long string of lines on the map, only the bones of the mountain showed.

“Now, there are fortifications that they use here,” Elekance showed them a small ridge, as if it were a gateway to the northern steppes, “here,” He pointed to another image, flat and dusty, “and here.” To an identical spot like the previous one, but slightly stronger with plains of deserts and harsh mountains dotting its landscape.

“The northern steppes are to be easy to take.” A commander, tall and muscular, in his beautiful and professional military suit, blue and fiery with colour and badges. “But we must concentrate our men to the south, and we will not even think of breaching into the waters, until the lurkers are taken off the map.” He said, referring to the Jenrakian Lurkers, a submarine class that was known for driving under ships, and drilling holes in the bottom. While it might have seemed logical to simply detect and stop them, it was extremely easy and cheap to produce these drone like little subs, as they were controlled by usually a nearby capital ship, and they could come in masses.

“Yes, the Lurkers will need to be taken care of.” Elekance spoke. “But there are the Super Dreadnoughts and the Steel-Class Battleships they use.” He reasoned, to which the murmur arose. Clearly if there was any naval war going on, then the larger, more powerful ships of the elite Jenrakian navy was to be stopped from turning the tides.

“We can use our own Aircraft Carriers to take them out. We can deploy a series of Carriers in the grid formation, surrounding our waters and defending our ports, and we can launch a number of smaller ships to maraud their trade ships.” One of the General piped to the agreement of his peers – even Elekance agreed, but geography was not as kind to this brilliant manuever.

“The only naval battle we will be facing is in the Viraigius, will all of the Jenrakians control. Not to mention the long line of coastal turret defences, the Vizi-Cannons, as they call it, and islands of Jeviz’Kraa.” One of the commanders told Elekance and his men.

“The Golden Sea is too rough and dangerous to actually have any battle, as the sea storms will certainly destroy our fleet before they could even reach the four castles. And even then,” He added, “The Argus Islands will definitely crush our position – it’s foolhardy to fight the thickest steel wall.” The commander spoke.

“Then there’s only one method of execution.” Elekance chimed again, taking the red tone off, showing the map in full once more. “We will fight an air war, and we will do thus.” He pulled out a small wiry metal rod, pointing it to the small branch of land connecting the two countries. “The Vizi-Turrets will slaughter our forces at sea, but we will destroy them safely by breaking the Wall.” He pointed to the small contingent of land connecting the two. “We will send over artillery against their wall, and we will have to use aircraft to fight the mountains. The place will be a staging point, as we can fight along the walls, and use our navy to bombard the wall. The range will be too short for the infantry of Jenrak to reply, so they will deploy their own air force, since theirs is on the edge of the Golden Sea.” He explained, to the prerequisite revelations from his peers.

“And we will use our aircraft to crush their pathetic air force, and use that as a staging point. Once that is done, we can race through Naharank, Delidrias and Scion right towards Rephalim. Once the city falls, Haasdra will be left ripe for the taking.” Elekance explained.

“It won’t be easy, I won’t lie, but I’ll be damned if this doesn’t work. It’s flawless, and even with all the help Jenrak is getting they won’t be able to fight in the air as well as us – we’re the best in our class in this.” He joked, as his fellow Generals laughed in tandem. As they walked away, the familiar smart mouthed commander walked over to Elekance, his breathing heavy as if he ran.

“General, what about our nuclear stockpile?” The commander asked. “Surely that would help us greatly?” He said.

“The nuclear stockpile will certainly be helpful, but we’re saving that for the province capitals.” Elekance said with a devilish sneer. Sheer chaos was for chaos purposes, only, it seemed.

Within hours, a large, marching mobilized force swept out of the Jenrakian-Rith peninsula, soldiers marching through the narrow bridge of land, as aircraft swept through the air, sweeping and carpet bombing everything in sight, artillery blasting off in a massive, jointed, beautiful and rugged display of destruction. In a swift momentous assault, as if it were a decisive dance, a fluid movement of brilliant chaos, the people were gunned down, the nearby Jenrakian villages cut apart and sawed open, the bodies hung apart by their entrails, their screams heard aghast, land mines being set up, carried across and naval ships roaming through the seas, a blast of the massive cannons blundering giant holes into the helm.

The War was official – Darakle had turned a personal issue, into a military conflict.

OOC: Present Tech. 2006.

When news of the Rith attack on the narrows trip of land shared by them was heard, it was unanticipated so early, but still, Jenrakian forces had prepared for this, they had prepared for so long against their Rithman-naar brothers. They were going to enjoy it, and the especially would indeed back them up this time. Rithman-naar’s attack, their first move against the Jenrakian kind was certainly quick, decisive and possibly damaging, but it allowed the Jenrakian army two powerful morale victories – it would allow them to calculate the strength of the enemy army, and also allowed the Jenrakians to know that they would not resort to nuclear weaponry early on, a tactical mistake on their part.

It would be a crushing blow to their army when Jenrakian chemicals would pour out of the steppes out against their camps. Walking along the courtyards of the Necromarnen, his armour donned and his large sword at his side, Authaulus only trudged back and forth, watching the Temsplace stand in guard, their emotionless stares behind a veil of metal masks, electronic beeping showing their many infrared rays and their electronic scanning.

“Now, you understand, that the Rith have broken through the peninsula, and are marching up through the land bridge. Even as we speak, millions of Rithman-naar troops are marching through the land, raping, burning, pillaging and cutting everything in sight. They’ve massacred our people in a distant belief of some form of genocide, and its all because their spoiled brat of a King, Darakle, didn’t get the perfect utopia he expected from us.” Authaulus said, to which the Temsplace stayed still and motionless, despite the overwhelming armour heat and the bright sunlight.

“They will certainly fight at night, for they cannot handle the Jenrakian desert. Our temperatures reach up to a deadly high of almost sixty degrees, and they expect to march through it? Heh. So we will be fighting them at night, and we will be sleeping during the day. Anybody not liking that idea?” He asked, to which nobody raised his hands.

“You are the Temsplace, the elite of the Church, the fist of Jenrakian religion. As the fist, you are to be called first into the fight to stop the advancing horde, and you are expected to win. You are expected nothing but perfection, for that is what you are trained to become – perfect. There will be Fists of Stone and the Sword Bearing police accompanying you, but it is clear that you are the leaders, and anybody against will be taken out of commission. Now, these Rith…” He said, walking around, his gaze watching.

“…they’re animals, wanting to kill us because their blind Christian King believes himself to truly be appointed by god. And now he wants to fight us. Fighting us will be like fighting reality for him – he won’t be able to fight it off. Our infantry divisions are being assembled right now, and we will begin the attack at nightfall.” Authaulus said, yelling to one of the Temsplace.

“Adokax!” He cried, to which the Temsplace emerged from the small group, kneeling in his heavy armour to Authaulus’ kness. “You may arise, for we are not better than any.” Authaulus said, as the tall Temsplace rose to full stature.

“Yes, Lord?” He asked.

“Prepare your battalion. I have another job for you, and it will require your entire strength.” Authaulus reasoned.

“What reason might it be?” Adokax asked. Authaulus only shook his head.

“Do not worry. It will be relatively safe.”

“What do you mean?”

“It a battle of politics, not blood and bone.”

“So I am left from the joy of destroying our hated enemies?”

“No, but you will delayed little. This will help us greatly, Adokax. You are a great master of diplomacy, and you will be needed in Sanduras.”

“What is required of me in the Ithrimm Kingdom?”

“We need to heighten the Sandurian defences, and feed the people of Sanduras hate against the Rith. We shall not let this become a Sandurian uprising.” Authaulus said.

“I shalt do it immediately.” Adokax said.

The Bridge, His Will, 8:47PM Wednesday

Pudite Task Force 03 had been at sea for almost two days now, and the fleet was almost halfway there.

The bridge of Admiral Kadova's flagship, the His Will, was nearly silent. The crewmen and officers stationed here were all fixed on their instruments. The only noise in the room was the low voice of the radioman in the back of the bridge relaying messages to and from the smaller ships of the fleet.

Suddenly the silence was penetrated, a quick beep was heard from the left side, where the main communications were located. The beep was followed by a low hum of a laser printer spitting out its documents. Startled by the interruption, one of the young officers ran over to the machine, ripping the message off and running out of the room.

Kadova’s Quarters, His Will, 8:51PM Wednesday

The Admiral was sitting at his desk, going over various reports that had been coming on over the past few hours; a nation called Jagada was amassing a rather large fleet, which worried Kadova slightly, Nistolonia was following suit with their own navy, as was Red Tide2, a nation which the Dominion had encountered in Pananab. Kadova made a mental note to ask Protivek about them later…

He was surprised when the officer’s knock came.

“Enter!” he shouted, a little perturbed at the disruption,

The man opened the door and stepped in, remaining just inside the doorway as he spoke,

“Sir, a message from Senator Milashek, faxed it to the bridge sir.”

“Well, give it here.” Kadova extended his hand angrily, wondering why this couldn't have just been sent to his computer. The man stepped forward across the small room, handed it to him, and quickly backed out of the cabin bowing with respect his commander.

“Well Senator, what do you have to say…” mumbled the Admiral as he turned the message over and began to read,

To: Admiral Kadova, His Will
From: Senator Milashek, Compound PC-2133
Subject: Task Force 03 – new orders
Message: Kadova, take your fleet to the provided coordinates and rendezvous with the 1st and 6th OPARR fleets before two days are out. These men are to be from there on treated as members of your Task Force 03. After the rendezvous proceed to your original target, using the re-enforcements provided to best effect. These are the orders of the Council, and we trust you will not fail us.

An overview of the combined fleets resources;

- 2 Roydia Class Battleships
- 6 Helina Class Battlecruisers
- 8 Triara Class Light Cruisers
- 12 Swiftsure Class Destroyers
- 10 Lionfish Class Missile Frigates
- 4 Executor Class Combat Logistics Ships

- 3,900 Orthae
- 56 DAS-10 Cormorant Helicopters
- 42 DAS-9 Sparrow Helicopters
- 12 ST-37K1 Mekhev MBTs
- 8 Z-38 Panther Self-Propelled Howitzers
- 80 DAS-6 Scimitar fighters
- 92 LV-08 Light Infantry Vehicles

Coordinates: XXX-XXX

Good day.
Senator Milashek

The first Rith attack came decisively, came quickly, and was expected, hence why the wall had fallen so fast – clearly it would be simply a waste of good defences and units to have it fight against a battle they would certainly lose. Instead, the people’s deaths were necessary, and would and could be used to rally the common Jenrakians to the cause of war. Marching through the streets with valour, the soldiers only nodded and watched, their glazed glances seldom and proud, their eyes emotionless as it stared into an empty void of the darkness in their hearts.

The first attacks against Rith forces came only a few hours after Authaulus had given a talk to his Temsplace commanders. Marching powerfully into battle, the tanks drenched across the harsh Jenrakian desert, men forming a long, wavy line as they marched, and march, their footsteps in the sand leaving behind a large trail behind, leaving nothing to the imagination. The night was cool, the moon bright and full, like a shining coin twinkling amongst dancing stars in the night. It was dry and windy, and they were a bit taken aback by the extreme temperature changes – a little chilly by night, scorching by day. But everything was eventually worth it.

Past their trek, along large dunes and vast bodies of water, past fervent marshlands teeming with buzzing nightlife, the soldiers and the grand division of the Temsplace first battalions finally reached their objective, the winding and narrow land strip, only a couple kilometres wide and extremely long and different in elevations. Any attack on the strip would have to be quick, and wouldn’t stop. As the soldiers watched carefully, the camps were a little glitter with lights, possibly soldiers cheering, training, or other activities as they wait for daylight to break so they could advance. But no, Jenrak has no mercies for those who kill the brothers of the nation.

“Come here.” Whispered the Temsplace commander, as a pair of scouts ran over to him, dressed and adorned in light, swift armour, their heads turning and swivelling to have a good look at the valley-like landscape of the enemy camp below. “How many do you spot?” The Temsplace asked.

“I see four command tents.” The first scout said.

“I see six.” The second one said, pointing to them, as the Temsplace nodded.

“Alright, tell the cannons to fire.” The Temsplace ordered, as the scouts ran back shouting loudly. Whether if the enemy heard them or not, it didn’t matter; any other way, the cannons had already pulsed up violently, shaking about and flinging large metal shells into the sky, as they are about to drop into the enemy camp. But this was not the bombs of fire, no – this was acid. Pure, slippery, horrific Jenrakian acid, strong enough to rip through flesh and chew through metal.

“We keep our position firing, and target any enemies that get out.” The Commander told his troops, the second volley firing.

The first Viper Combat Transports had cleared the rise into Jenrakian territory, leaving the fleet from which they had launched far behind. These were not the basic troop transports, though. These were the advance units, Black Dragon Special Forces teams, sent in to aid the Jenrakian Armed Forces until the rest of the task force, following a days behind, arrived. The gunships had hardly landed when Major Koer'is ran back, talking into the comm unit in his helmet. The troops, standing next to the refueling vipers, looked at himn expectantly.
"Mount up, boys" said the major, pulling his helmet back over his face. "Temsplace troops have encountered enemy resistance. We're to head over that way. It'll be a few hours by plane, and we'll have to refuel along the way." With his balck, featureless helmet on, it was impossible to see what he thought of the orders. "Ok, Anaconda-though Dragon teams, mount up, stand by for liftoff."

The 4 Vipers lifted off, shifted their engines into flight mode, and accelerated towards the front. Inside, Koer'is was examining his ops plan on his small computer, and the others checked their new N-34 Rifles, made last minute adjustments to their ShadowSuits or prayed. The 4 planes flew on.

Unknown Location...

On board the JGFS Quiet Fury, the Fenix-Class SuperDreadnaught the flag ship of the Grand Fleet, and the overall command vessel of what was being called the 'Grand Armada'. The Fleet was just beginning to sail, it was at least two weeks from Rithman-Naar, and already the Fleet was getting worried. Word had come down from 'The Eye' and it had been reported that the Jenrakian Navy was on alert and could pose a problem for docking in Rithman Naar. It had also come down that an unknown sized fleet from Emperor Pudu and even one from Ride Tide were being launched in the general area of Rithman-Naar and Jenrak, it was unclear of which they were going to, but the fact was that they were heading towards the conflict zone and thus could be a problem for the Grand Armada.

Nontheless, the Aramada sailed on. Already messages had been sent from Christendom to Rithman-Naar to inform them about Jagada's entry into the war, on their side. A recent development from Rithman-Naar had actually increased morale amoungs the Crusaders, not that morale was a problem as the Crusaders were in a neutral amount of morale, they were saving their zeal for the battlefield. Though the news was that Rithman-Naar was a Christian Empire, just like Jagada, save Jagada didn't genocide their enemies--even if that was about to change. Needless to say it was much more legimate to tell your men that you go to burn heretics and defend a fellow Christian nation, than to tell them their just going to root out the evils of the world in some far off country.

The Fleet would sail on, but would constantly be in high alert. It was known that the Pudite and Red Tidian Fleets were out there, and the satelliates could watch them to ensure nothing foolish happened. Jagada didn't expect either of them to bring as much arms to bear as it. They expected them to provide some minor forces to Jenrak, just to get their foot in the door in a surrender talk. Though the only one surrendering in Jagada's opinion would be Jenrak. Peace was also acceptable outcome, much better than outright defeat, but surrender was preferred.

Naval Compound PC-2133, 9:02PM, Wednesday

Even as the Task Force was nearing its destination, a second fleet was being assembled in Compound PC-2133. This fleet, commanded by Admiral Nakhval, was named Special Tactics Force 01, and was to be the Dominions first use of Dreadnought-class vessels.

It was seen by the higher-ups of the Pudite command that this was not going to be a conflict between but two nations, but did in fact include at least six even at this early point, and there was nothing to stop that trend that has been identified as of yet. Because of this overpopulation of the war zone, the High Council has deemed it necessary to deploy the largest ships they have available.

At this time, there were four Calypso class Super Dreadnoughts floating off the docks of PC-2133, surrounded by dozens of smaller cruisers, fleet carriers, and battlecruisers. This second fleet had no set deployment date, and was to be held in reserve should anything occur that would warrant such a massive investment into such a small, in the eyes of the Emperor, war.

45km off Pudite coast, Fires of Retribution, 9:05PM Wednesday

There was however, one investment that had already been made. A single Calypso class was now moving at full speed towards the point of rendezvous of Kadova's Task Force and the two OPARR fleets. There the ship, the Fires of Retribution commanded by Captain Evagrii, would link up with the already growing naval force, and continue the sail south, into war…

“Give me death, or give me the chance to save the children of Satan! For the touch of the Trinity, they shalt be the founding bloodline in our war.” Darakle yelled in a strong burst of valour, across the clapping, and yelling, and up roaring peoples, his commanders clapping in amusement and admiration. “Do not let them burn you, do not let them hurt you, hunt you, nor touch you with their filth!” Darakle yelled again, to which they cried in agreement.

“I don’t think the King knows even any parts of the bible.” Elekance whispered during the ceremony to his fellow General, who chortled slightly on his soup.

“He read a small piece on Genesis, but that’s all I know of him reading it.” The General talked back.

“And he’s king now? Of a Christian Empire and he’s never fully read a single page? Just a little?” Elekance asked in amazement.

“He read one psalm, but that appears to be it.” The General friend talked back, finishing his bowl of soup.

“Which psalm?”

“The Good Samaritan.”

“Ah, a classic.” Elekance chuckled.

“How is the war going?” The General asked Elekance.

“Swimmingly.” Elekance replied.

On the battlefield, it was a horror of monstrous proportions. The seeping green Jenrakian acids have splattered all over the encampment, medics running wildly about, soldiers screaming and jerking in pain and torture, their flesh peeling off to reveal a glistening red fleshy surface, their shrieks of pain echoing in the night.

Still, only a small number was actually afflicted to a dangerous degree, as the remaining soldiers rallied to their positions, shrieking on their radios and preparing their counter assault. “Bring up the rockets!” The soldier yelled into the communicator, as a large, green, trekking pair of vehicles carrying two massive rockets lurked up into the fray, their winding gears crackling, as the blast of the missiles swung highly into the air, like beautiful fireflies of destruction, gracefully swinging to their targets.

“Those fiends.” The Temsplace said, his voice a wary awe, as he saw the flying missile, like a dazzling display of light, hurl towards them, the enemy force crashing with a brilliant illumination on the battlefield. The force of the twin explosions crushing the stationed artillery into shrapnel, metal shards flying into the soldier’s eyes, their shrieks and yells only deafened by the shrieks and yells of the enemy from below. Blood spilt down like creeks upon the trenches dug out hundreds of years ago, organs and bones littering the battlefield with a white streak, flash grenades and gunfire’s blaze only making the battlefield a more horrific site. His own men, burning from the unleashed containments of the acid, gasped in horror, voices with an acrid, creeping taunt.

“Dear Enkur!” The soldier cried out a triumphant task, but it had no relevance to his pain. “Dear Enkur! What pain has befallen upon my eyes!” He yelled, a thick, clear glucose-like liquid oozing softly as warm grease bubbling upon his face, his bone a stark white amongst mahogany pale skin. His gleaming eyes, tears waxed full, only reflected the reflections of the many soldiers grimacing, the two large behemoth missiles smashing into their front flank, sending fire and storms of metal and sheet steel flying across the sands. When the Temsplace commander only stood up in his fallen grace, he murmured something darkly.

“That was an unexpected attack.” He said to himself, his fingers entrenched in blood and steel prickling along, his gauntlets strong and sturdy still – he was not damaged at all by the shrapnel flying about freely, and his distance from either explosion kept him relatively unharmed. However, the rest of the battalions were angered, at the attack from the Rith scum. “Deploy the Elax Cannons.” The Temsplace commander ordered.

Trudging onto the battlefield, tall, numerous, like massive hands gripped into the earthly soft ground, sand billowing about its base, rust decorating its outer frame, large cannons were rolled up, their motors a large crackling spit of diesel poisoning, their body strong and muscular, the wheels on their bottoms crushed beneath the many tonne objects. They were encumbering, thy were heavy, they were massive, but they would be the thing the Jenrakian army needed to cause a bang, and a large, gleaming, fiery bang was certainly required. If not only to match the destructive force from their enemies.

“Get ready to fire on my command.” The Temsplace said aloud, the yells of war aloud in full blast, the quiet assault over – it was a slaughter on both sides now, the screaming and tortuous yelps the only decorating part of war. “Do not fire until my orders are.” He kept his stony fingers up, his sword dangling by his side, the hilt etched deep into the sand, a large heavy blade, dull and stapled together by large sheets of rusty metal, a menacing adornment to his already formidable armour.

Clouds were breaking, the moon was shining brightly, like the dawn of a new battle, the even the flash grenades were no longer needed, as the careful shade of colour coming from the bluish light. “Scouts!” The Temsplace yelled, as familiar light armoured, lightly armed and swift running infantry began to pop up by his side, many of them crawling from the winding trenches, like diamonds in a coal mine emerging for their owners. “What are the reports?” He asked, his voice strong, confident, as if he was sure the battle would be won.

A sceptical look only overcame the scouts, as they looked at each other, wondering what he was meaning, their eyes shifting about from the gory battlefield flooded with blood and bone, to the clean, well meaning Temsplace General that stood atop the battle’s rugged plains, as if he was some superior being controlling the heavens himself. His vigour was noticed, his valour was commendable, even his fearless demeanour was a trait they could all welcome, but these scouts simply did not understand their Lord. “What reports?” They asked, for there could be many reports on many things, from the enemy’s artillery, to any possible reinforcements, to any foreign intervention. It would be too numerous and overwhelming to notice them all, save for the harsh sands destroying enough so that they could give him an overview.

“I have not been clear, now have I?” The Temsplace General asked back. “How many casualties?” He asked them more specifically, although there still was a slight sense of vague scepticism in the air.

“On which side, Lord?” The Scouts asked in tandem, as they gathered around his aura of power. “Our hated enemy? Our beloved soldiers?” They asked once more, the emphasis much stronger now.

“The enemy, and our men. Both.” The Temsplace commander said to them, to which they sighed in relief and grief. It was an odd thing to do, yet they still did it, they still had mixed feelings on their task.

“The enemy is strong, but they are being pounded by acidic liquids. If they survive, surely our legions will push them back right to the line of their blast country, and we can begin the assault upon the Rith homeland.” The first scout said, a tall wiry man with a slight gas mask on his face, drenched in black paint and his armour a slight obsidian shield. A small oynx-coloured ‘1’ appeared on his shirt, to prove his authority and rank amongst the others. Clearly, he spoke for the group, as he always did.

“The enemy twin missiles are dangerous, and not many of our forces were on the front lines. Yet we have to reply back, and the time it could take to deploy the cannons could be strenuous.” The scout added.

“The cannons are indeed strenuous to deploy, but remember that they are not aware of our siege weaponry. We must keep the firepower under check, and we must keep our forces going. What of our other legions?” The Temsplace asked once more, his voice still strong and confident.

“We are receiving many more troops more from Lord Authaulus, but the Lancers are ready to be utilized. They are preparing themselves, and they wish to join in their zeal, so we may allow them so to reach upon us and our location.” A scout piped up, not necessarily the black painted first scout that answered for them all.

“Very well. Defend our positions with the soldiers until the cannons could be fired. I will tell the Lancers to prepare their legions.” The Temsplace ordered. “We must prepare ourselves to take this battle to heart. We must never overuse our defences.” He also added.

From the hearth of the Jenrakian war-castles, amidst the long, wavy lines of sand, a large legion of speedy tanks and rocket buggies cascaded over the sands, the large sound of a brilliant trumpeting horn sounding in the ringing distance, like a bell hoarding the people over to their location. It stretched until the horizon, a long steady line of malicious, sword bearing, pirate-like soldiers, rocket launchers perched on the back of their vehicles, machine guns carried atop their tanks, as the treads raced through.

With another glorious yell, they sped forwards, the familiar blue and silver motorcycle, laced with a golden arch of light, sped to the front of the large army, a dark blue armour donning his body, a black mask covering his face tightly as the only slits were blood red from the sand in his eyes. This man, vivacious and full of pride, only laughed and chuckled as his legions followed his every move, their chattering and their playful cries heard only barely over the trudging tanks and the missiles carried on their backs. These, were the Lancers, the elongated and swift moving raiders of the Jenrakian army, cutting and ripping through heavy armour like a stone knife cutting through a soft warm piece of flesh.

At the head, laughing maniacally in the midst of all this, was the long sword carrying, red eyed, cackling Jack of Spades, the council member of the infamous Revenant. His sparkling appearance amongst the Lancers meant two things – that Saerus was back in the war, his alter ego, and that the Revenant would assist Jenrak in their time of need. This turn of events would certainly raise morale, when on his communicator the familiar Temsplace voice breached Jack’s interface.

Switching it on as he was driving, he privately replied. “Jack.” He said, awaiting a response.

“We need your armies in the bridge, Lord Spades.” The Temsplace General said, chattering in the background as static fogged it up.

“The Lancers? My men? How many?” He asked.

“All of them that’s not in reserve. We need the acting force, not the whole sector.” The Temsplace snapped back.

“I thought someone of your stature could handle this.” Jack sneered back on the communicator.

“It’s not so much of a physical or tactical matter, but a matter of psychological warfare. We must make it look hopeless.” The Temsplace replied, as the familiar yell of damage filled the air.

“I’ll arrive.” Jack said, turning off the communicator, his voice a passionate cry into the moonlit night, his bike speeding as his men followed.

Jack of Spades was coming, his men, the Lancers behind him. It seemed victory would be apparent for the Jenrakian army – it seemed revenge would be their only quench of their thirst for warfare.

[OOC: Sorry for the OOC only post. But I'm having severe headaches, so my posting will be spotty for a bit. I'm not pulling out, I'm just saying I am ill right now and posting will be rather difficult.]

OOC: That's okay. I'm just waiting for someone to reply right now so I can repost as Rith.

IC:

“Jack?” A soldier asked, his face swimming with brilliance as he seemed to float like a ghost over the sleepy commander, eyes droopy and his mask showing only slight black strips. “Sir?” He asked once more.

[OOC: Do you happen to have a map?]

Offshore of Rithman-Naar...

Admiral Bradley II, son of the infamous Admiral Bradley, stood on the deck of the flagship of the Jagadian 'Grand Armada' called the JGFS Quiet Fury staring at the shore of Rithman-Naar. He was unsure of what awaited the Crusaders, and Field Marshall York for that matter. The troops had a great boost in morale now that their beloved leader the Lord Protector Franco York, their loyal patriot during the War against Norris, their father figure and protector during the Failed Wars, and their humanly saviour during the Fanatical Civil War--they admired this man, nearly to a idol point. York's rule over Jagada was uncontested and for good reason--he'd gained the absolute love of the people. Bradley II could only stand in admiration of York, whom was a close friend of his late father, Albert Bradley whom were killed when his flagship the JGFS Humble was sunk by Fanatical Aerial Forces. He could only hope he would live up to his fathers reputation.

He felt a presence come behind him, he turned and there stood the famous Franco York in full military uniform, his old military uniform which was tattered from the Fanatical Civil War. He had a much happier look on his face, even though his face belonged to that of a sixty-five year old, four-time war veteren. Bradley felt sorry for York, he'd sacrificed everything--including his youth to keep the Religious Ideal of Jagada alive. York was barley thirty five but his body had been pushed to such extremes mentally and physically it aged rapidly, eventually stopping at its current state. Bradley's usually stone-cold face relaxed in the presence of York he walked up beside the Admiral.

"Feels good to be back into uniform. I hate wearing those fancy suits. Too restricting for me," stated York.

"Yes sir, and you look much more imposing to the men in a uniform than you do in a business suit," replied Bradley.

"You think? I never really paid attention, I know those men will follow me threw any battlefield. I'm glad I earned their respect," stated York.

Bradley nodded. "So Admiral, once me and my men undock. What is your suggested stratgey for the Navy?" stated York.

Bradley looked at York with a confused expression, "Sir, your orders did state to engage the Jenrakian Naval forces in an attempt to make them divert more resources to a naval war."

York kept a stone-cold face and looked straight forward, "I did, didn't I? Well, I gave your father the option of changing his orders based upon situtation. I gave you a pre-engagement order, now I want your stratgey now that we're here in the field, and that I'm not a naval expert," stated York.

Bradley II smirked, "Right. Well right now just protect our unloading troops, and secure supply lines. The Jenrakians wouldn't dare to attack us. From what I gather from reading up on past Jenrakian engagements they have tiny subs which go under captial ships and drill holes into them. Very unorthodox stratgey, but sends a billion dollar captial ship to the bottom of the sea with an inexpensive mini-sub."

York's faced twisted with displeasure, "So, how do we avoid this?"

"Very simple, sir. We play defense and we employ our own weapons of war. Which including our Serpant-Class Attack Craft. We can rig them to also be anti-submarine, wouldn't take long, and we can keep most of our convential force ready to take on any of their counter-parts," replied Bradley.

"Very well then Admiral Bradley, commence with your own stratgey. Just relay all such moves to me so I know where the ships are," said York. Bradley replied with a quick 'Yes sir'.

As they finished their conversation the Jagadian Grand Aramada stopped off the shore of Rithman-Naar, at their closest and safest port. Now they would begin to land onto Rithman-Naars land and prepare for combat.

---

The Grand Armada was humbly known as the "Five Trillion Dollar Fleet" because five trillion dollars had gone into deploying, supplying, stocking supplies, ammo, food, and special ships and platforms for the Armada. No port could hold this many troop, supply, tank, and aircraft transports. Thus artifical docks were brought in, and assembled on the Rithman-Naar ports. From there the massive fleet dissembled. Hundreds of troops transports went to the port and there the Crusaders unloaded.

Thousands of them marching into the streets of the Rithman-Naar ports. Followed closely behind by hundreds of tanks ranging from the Jagadian 'Titan' to the Macabee 'Cougar' Main Battle Tanks. These metallic monsters strolled down the streets proudly displaying the pride of Jagada to the people of Rithman-Naar.

It would take Jagada as week to get situated and ready for full combat duties. But at least now things were in order.

So be it. It is a war to the knife, to the blade, and I shall show you fools what a battle is won like.
~~Monarch Darakle

The Gathering of Minds – Phase 1
A brief chatter, a brief laughter and a tone of amusement was sound throughout the room, the polyester curtains dangling softly on the windowsills. Stairs were seen at the end of the chamber, shown through a door opened ajar, wooden and rotting, but still large enough to fit an entire battalion though, the sound of marching men and chattering women outside. Yells and gunfire were seldom heard, stained glass windows with a touch of the tales long lost.

The light was bursting through the room, invading and destroying every shadow with a beautiful glitter of bright rays, as the familiar shadows left was all hunched about, looking over a large, aged, and heavily labelled map of a twisted nation, islands dotting its coastline – Jenrak. “Here is the city of Haasdra, and the brain of all Jenrakian thought.” General Elekance said with a touch of vanity in his voice. “This is our target.” He pointed, moving his white gloved finger about towards the map, showing a small black dot, in the shape of a tiny triangle, as it stood out from the aqua blue around it.

“Haasdra doesn’t seem that difficult to take – this war will be an easy one.” Another General said, to the raised suspicion of others. “Our Christian Empire is at an ease.” The General assured.

“I might have to remind you that our Lord has better things to do than help us in this, and I assure you that this will not be the easiest thing to take.” Elekance snapped back, his other hand moving to encompass the tall, winding group of mountains to the far eastern boundaries of the Jenrakian map. “Here is the wall of the East, and here lies the lake of Nahm.” Elekance pointed to a large, bulging body of water that stood adjacent to Rithman-naar boundaries. “The Jenrakian infantry is powerful, and their navy is superb and highly advanced. But they have dated and laughable air force, so we must defeat them through the skies.” He pulled about a long red sheet, covered the map, and it revealed a long string of lines on the map, only the bones of the mountain showed.

“Now, there are fortifications that they use here,” Elekance showed them a small ridge, as if it were a gateway to the northern steppes, “here,” He pointed to another image, flat and dusty, “and here.” To an identical spot like the previous one, but slightly stronger with plains of deserts and harsh mountains dotting its landscape.

“The northern steppes are to be easy to take.” A commander, tall and muscular, in his beautiful and professional military suit, blue and fiery with colour and badges. “But we must concentrate our men to the south, and we will not even think of breaching into the waters, until the lurkers are taken off the map.” He said, referring to the Jenrakian Lurkers, a submarine class that was known for driving under ships, and drilling holes in the bottom. While it might have seemed logical to simply detect and stop them, it was extremely easy and cheap to produce these drone like little subs, as they were controlled by usually a nearby capital ship, and they could come in masses.

“Yes, the Lurkers will need to be taken care of.” Elekance spoke. “But there are the Super Dreadnoughts and the Steel-Class Battleships they use.” He reasoned, to which the murmur arose. Clearly if there was any naval war going on, then the larger, more powerful ships of the elite Jenrakian navy was to be stopped from turning the tides.

“We can use our own Aircraft Carriers to take them out. We can deploy a series of Carriers in the grid formation, surrounding our waters and defending our ports, and we can launch a number of smaller ships to maraud their trade ships.” One of the General piped to the agreement of his peers – even Elekance agreed, but geography was not as kind to this brilliant manuever.

“The only naval battle we will be facing is in the Viraigius, will all of the Jenrakians control. Not to mention the long line of coastal turret defences, the Vizi-Cannons, as they call it, and islands of Jeviz’Kraa.” One of the commanders told Elekance and his men.

“The Golden Sea is too rough and dangerous to actually have any battle, as the sea storms will certainly destroy our fleet before they could even reach the four castles. And even then,” He added, “The Argus Islands will definitely crush our position – it’s foolhardy to fight the thickest steel wall.” The commander spoke.

“Then there’s only one method of execution.” Elekance chimed again, taking the red tone off, showing the map in full once more. “We will fight an air war, and we will do thus.” He pulled out a small wiry metal rod, pointing it to the small branch of land connecting the two countries. “The Vizi-Turrets will slaughter our forces at sea, but we will destroy them safely by breaking the Wall.” He pointed to the small contingent of land connecting the two. “We will send over artillery against their wall, and we will have to use aircraft to fight the mountains. The place will be a staging point, as we can fight along the walls, and use our navy to bombard the wall. The range will be too short for the infantry of Jenrak to reply, so they will deploy their own air force, since theirs is on the edge of the Golden Sea.” He explained, to the prerequisite revelations from his peers.

“And we will use our aircraft to crush their pathetic air force, and use that as a staging point. Once that is done, we can race through Naharank, Delidrias and Scion right towards Rephalim. Once the city falls, Haasdra will be left ripe for the taking.” Elekance explained.

“It won’t be easy, I won’t lie, but I’ll be damned if this doesn’t work. It’s flawless, and even with all the help Jenrak is getting they won’t be able to fight in the air as well as us – we’re the best in our class in this.” He joked, as his fellow Generals laughed in tandem. As they walked away, the familiar smart mouthed commander walked over to Elekance, his breathing heavy as if he ran.

“General, what about our nuclear stockpile?” The commander asked. “Surely that would help us greatly?” He said.

“The nuclear stockpile will certainly be helpful, but we’re saving that for the province capitals.” Elekance said with a devilish sneer. Sheer chaos was for chaos purposes, only, it seemed.

Within hours, a large, marching mobilized force swept out of the Jenrakian-Rith peninsula, soldiers marching through the narrow bridge of land, as aircraft swept through the air, sweeping and carpet bombing everything in sight, artillery blasting off in a massive, jointed, beautiful and rugged display of destruction. In a swift momentous assault, as if it were a decisive dance, a fluid movement of brilliant chaos, the people were gunned down, the nearby Jenrakian villages cut apart and sawed open, the bodies hung apart by their entrails, their screams heard aghast, land mines being set up, carried across and naval ships roaming through the seas, a blast of the massive cannons blundering giant holes into the helm.

The War was official – Darakle had turned a personal issue, into a military conflict.

We are sorry to hear about the death of your father, Maraclus. He was a great man and his death has been deeply felt. We fully support you in your war against the evil nation of Jenrakian, for too long has its influence corrupted the world. Count on our full support in ridden the world of that dreadful nation, the complete disposal of our conventional, chemical, and nuclear weapons are at your service.

Meanwhile inside the High Command
General Braddack was looking at the status report on the forces of United Earthlings. "Hmmmm- not the best time to go to war with all these personnel out on leave, oh well Generals never get to pick when the war will be fought only where." After issuing his orders to his deputy, throughout United Earthlings military personnel where being recalled, ships were being prepared to sail and aircraft being inspected and certified that they were in looking over.

The following Battle groups are being ready to leave port:
1st Carrier Battle Group, 5th Surface/Subsurface Battle Group, 8th Surface Fleet Battle group, and all of 3rd Fleet has been put on high Alert.

OCC: heres my factbook again- Ingore the FT part- I'll be using only MT. My Factbook (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=466076)

Come out, Darakle. Come out and fight, you coward. I bleed and suffer for my people, yet I see not this king of supposed legendary prowess to bleed for his. Or perhaps have you been a frightened pet of your vaunted ego for too long? Are you too vain to believe yourself above the battle?
~~Authaulus

“But my Lord! You cannot go out yourself! Death is at every door!” The advisor said, as he fumbled alongside the tunnel, the tall and glorious King shaking his head defiantly, trying to stay away, his long frivolous, beautiful hair flocking around in a rebellious manner, as it shone in the light with a glisten in the sunlight. The waft of a beautiful dinner awaited him as the night was soon to become morning, and his news of the attack alongside the coast was the most anticipated attack he had thought of originally. “Do not worry, Maximus.” Darakle chuckled, a hearty laugh toned down to a slightly softer sound, like a little whisper of amusement.

“Maximus, prepare my armour.” Darakle asked courteously, to which the advisor shook his head, his hand slapping down on the table in anger.

“I will not let you be killed!” The advisor said. “You are too important to die in this state of the government! That demon Authaulus is taunting you! He is trying to kill you! You musn’t die – no heir is in your blood!” The advisor said, complaining.

“And I am to have an heir before I fight?” The Rith King asked back chivalrously. “I’m sorry Maximus, but you are in the charge of this nation while I am off fighting against the Demon Authaulus.” Darakle said, before standing up from his table, and strolling off away to get himself ready to join the attack.

The desert landscape continued to fly by as the Special Forces team continued toward the battle zone. Despite the occasional garbled transmission, they were out of range of the Jenrakian Forces communications, and had not been given the Jenrakian Command frequency. Major Koer'is was cursing himself for overlooking that fact.
"Milord?" The copilot called back to him
"What is it?"
"Our task force has just reported in. They are in visual range of Jenrak and will begin to unload troops shortly."
"Thank you. Whats our ETA at the battle?"
"About 30 minutes, milord."
"Tell everyone to stand by in 15 minutes."
"Yes, milord"

“What words of the attack?” The Temsplace commander asked, the booming of the cannons roared with an explosive noise upon the softened earth. “What news?”

“Forces approaching from the west, but they are not the designation of the Rith breed.” One of the nearby scouts chimed up, running, along his breathing laboured and heavy as the shaking of the earth made him lose his balance slightly and only marginally.

From the lands of Sanduras, walking onto the podium, a careful, brooding feeling waved all over him, as if he was ready to vomit, but he had to persist – his politics could mean the difference between a victory or a defeat within this. As the Sandurian people gathered around, their eyes wary, their ears awaiting the poetic voice, they awaited.

“Sandurians, children of Decimiclus.” The Temsplace said, taking off his helmet to reveal a young, clean faced, seemingly naïve man, who looked and had an expression that could have mistaken him for nothing more than an innocent boy. “I am here to speak on behalf of the Lord Authaulus, the watcher of Jenrak.” He yelled loudly, the people murmuring amongst themselves, despite the cold foggy night.

“We are at war against the Rith, and we wish that the Sandurian people aid us in our struggles.” He said that sincerely, sadly, and with a tone of pity trying to emanate from his mouth, yet they only laughed and mocked at him. From the crowd, one of them gave him the finger, to which the Temsplace’s jaw twitched in anger.

“Leave!” The Sandurian man yelled, as they agreed with him whole-heartedly, an upheaval of roaring enjoyment and amusement from the crowd. “Leave Jenrakian scum!” To which the crowd yelled in agreement.

The Temsplace had enough – these people were too short minded, unable to grasp on the finer points on what they claimed. “Okay,” he said, trying to sound as if he was defeated, “I’ll leave. I’ll leave, but remember that Archios borders to your north, east and west, and the rest of Jenrak is in the south.” The Temsplace said, as they people cackled raucously.

“And how would that hurt us? Are you going to invade us again? You would only hurt yourself!” They laughed at him, as he shook his head.

“Darakle is ravaging through to kill all Jenrakians, and that means all Jenrakians in Sanduras, and he would gladly step through Sanduras and rape and pillage and plunder his way through to get to Archios. And what happens when Jenrak is dead? The Rith occupation. Tell me, you are all Tsellians. How would you like to live in a Christian kingdom?” He asked angrily, as the people quietened down, finally realising the scale of the situation.

“Would you like to become a slave? To be persecuted? To bow down to a man who lives farther from Sanduras than we do? We don’t ask you people to bow down, but he will!” The diplomat shouted, pointing south. “I’m not here to argue, but you are taking things into your own hands, and your hands are calloused and damaged, children of Decimiclus! Sanduras took its chances against Jenrak, and it failed. Now Rithman-Naar is taking their chances, and they are going to fail! You do not understand!”

The crowd was silent, ashamed, as the Temsplace cleared his throat once more. He was not accustomed to yelling at the populace.

Twelve hours off Rithman-Naar coast, His Will, 4:44AM Friday

Admiral Kadova looked out from the bridge on the command tower of his flagship, surveying the fleet arrayed before the carrier in the morning sunrise. He was only hours away from his targeted assault zone, and with this being his first large command, he going over his strategy over and over in his head, looking for even the slightest error.

“Sir,” shouted a young sailor jogging up to the commander, “Fleet approaching Assault Zone 1, requiring orders!” The man stopped a few feet away from the admiral, standing at attention, body straight up and his white-clad arms seemingly glued to his sides.

“Issue orders to proceed with Assault Spread 08, with Captain Branisav heading the leading sub-force. Keep fleet moving forward at designated task speed, bring flotilla thirteen up to the front of the line, launch, and order the flight of Rotary-Wing Surveillance Flight 01 on basic long-range survey pattern.”

As soon as Kadova finished the sailor nodded briskly, turned, and jogged back out of he room. Relaying his orders to the communications room, where they would be spread to the remainder of the fleet.

Twelve hours off Rithman-Naar coast, Task Force 03, 4:47AM Friday
The deck of the His Will was drenched in the noise of jet engines. There were over twenty planes queued and ready for their launch, with two aircraft in the process of taking off now. A total of eighty DAS-6 Scimitar air superiority aircraft were deployed from the deck of the flagship, followed by twenty of the carriers fifty DAS-3 Sea Fury strike aircraft to serve as an airborne reserve should the Scimitars make contact. Normally all this would have been overkill for simple fleet maneuvers, but satellite images had revealed that recently a large Jagadian fleet had come to shore further down the coast of Rithman-Naar, and Kadova was taking no chances, even with the two fleets distance from one another.

The rest of the Pudite ships were moving forward at full speed at the north of the Rithman-Naar, and already the Orthae were being roused, armed, and briefed in the lower decks of their respective assault ships. In twelve hours they would be among the first wave of Pudite soldiers to touch foreign soil since the Dominion failed in its last effort. This pressure was not playing any effect on the Orthae however; they were indeed the best the Emperor had…

"Schematics?" The Temsplace asked, as the scouts had their information hooked up on the battlefield. "How many siege legions connected?"

"We've loist only a minimal amount, and the enemy has been taking a fairly low offensive despite hte acid."

"Number change?"

"Rose."

"Our enemies, I mean."

"Rose."

"So reinforcements are coming into the Rith armies? Will that strain their forces?"

"No, they still have large reserve armies deeper into the Rith heartland."

"Dear Enkur, what kind of military force have these forces come up with? What's the composition?"

"Much of it being militia."

"Heh, this won't be hard, then."

Rithman-Naar

Major General Kolbert glared at the map of Rithman-Naar, examining it for the quicket route to the current battle. He was in command of the 21st Heaven's Knight Divison. These were the best troops Jagada could produce for convential warfare. While the rest of the force step up for operations in Rithman-Naar, this force of twenty-thousand men, with mechanized vehicles, some light tanks, and alot of skill were to advance to the main frot.

"Sir, our troops are assembled, they only need to be told where to go," asked an aide.

"They shall go towards the current battlefield, keep scouts out to ensure no ambushes await us," stated Major General Kolbert.

[OOC: Really sorry about this horrid post. I just am very busy, and getting over the sinus infection. If you could also provide me with a map of Rithman-Naar and Jenrak, please. Thank you very much.]

OOC: Sorry for this pure ooc post, but I will post up a map and reply as Rithman-naar soon, once I can get the scanner to work.

Raunin, Jenrak

The ten fortress military bases were on full-alert when they got the order from Prince Edward. Some piss ant nation called Rithman-Naar was starting trouble with the Dominion ally. Not one of their favorite ones but Jenrak was their ally. Their AA guns and SAM sites powered up as the force began to get attack.

The whole division of the 3rd Jackson's Roughnecks (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/3rd.jpg) were stationed in Jenrak. 1,000,000 men strong and tough as nails. They were stationed in the 10 military bases in parts of Raunin, Jenrak. Bases that looked like fortress from the medieval ages. Huge stone castle like wall that stood over 25 feet tall. Huge stone buildings inside the walls. AA guns and SAM site on hidden on the wall. This base could house 200,000 soldiers for a long time.

But they were not the only Dominion soldiers in Jenrak. The whole division of the 19th Hound Soldiers (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/19th.jpg) were stationed, too. The whole division of the 34th Hel Digunners (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/34th.jpg) and the 41st Hobgoblins (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/41st.jpg) were stationed at the bases. Each division were 1,000,000 men strong. Four million Dominion soldiers not counting the Dominion Air Force pilots.

At Base Omega

Colonel Wes Morell (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/Morell.jpg) was getting together with the other Dominion Air Force commanders to plan attacks on the Rithman-Naar dogs. That meeting was happening in one of the hangers of the base.

But at the command HQ building, Lieutenant General Derek 'Death's Hand' Jackson (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/DeathsHand.jpg) was having a meeting with his top officers; Major Tony Norris (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/Norris.jpg), Major Gaylord Hart (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/Hart.jpg), and Major Sean Waltman (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/Waltman.jpg).

Sanduras

Meanwhile, the Dominion control Sanduras with Jenrak. And the Dominion Army had built five military bases like the ones in Raunin, in Sanduras. They are the same as the one in Raunin but had different Dominion soldiers stationed there. The whole division of the 18th Storm's Demons (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/18th.jpg), the 28th Death Saurers (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/28th.jpg) and 31st Battle Cougars (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/31st.jpg) were stationed at those bases. A total of three million Dominion soldiers not counting the Dominion Air Force pilots at those bases.

Major Victor Storm (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/Storm.jpg) and the other leaders of the other division; Major Micheal Plotcheck (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/Plotcheck.jpg) and Major Dwayne Johnson (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/CountJWolf/Johnson.jpg), were in meeting at Base Wolfe’s command HQ.

[OOC: Ah, cool. I guess you also signed up Trans, the list is gone but I semi-remeber you joining. If you didn't, I think this is still a Closed Rp. Though Jenrak may have made an acception.]

The Pennisular Battle

As the troops of the 21st Heaven's Knight Divison came upon the Rithman-Naar frontline they were not overally surprised by the sight they saw. The sizziling sounds of melting flesh was a quiet, yet hearable reminder that the enemy they fought did not care how he killed a man--just that he kill him. The smell was just a constant reminder of why the men of the 21st didn't want to get hit by these acid shells. Though they went threw worst. They were in the city of Broughtunia when it was bombarded with low-yield nuclear weapons which leveled the city. These men fought in, and even when the Fanatics launched a full-scale assault they held out for three weeks before being reinforced. Though their history mattered little to the men of Rithman-Naar, Jenrak, or anybody else in this conflict. These countries all had their heros too, so hearing of foreign heros mattered little.

The men of the Rithman-Naar looked with grim faces upon their Jagadian friends, they're looks were that of men who wondered why their allies came now--after their horrific ordeal. The men of Rithman-Naar had probably never seen men of Jagada before, since Jagadians were a mix of Oriental and European--they looked rather unusual. Though it was the religious symbols the Jagadians carried which allowed them to immiedately bond with the Rithman-Naar allies. Fellow Christians fighting against the Northern Heretics was a cause that could hardly be surpressed.

As the men accquainted themselves with their new friends, Major General Kolbert immiedately went to the Rithman-Naar commander. He immiedately learned about the acid bombardment, that event twisted Kolbert's stomach the Jagadians had come well prepared for chemical warfare, though the useage of acid hadn't been planned on. Though Kolbert found a bit of hope in the fact that a Rithman-Naar counter attack with missiles had managed to inflict similar horror on the Jenrakians. After learning the general situtation he had but one question.

"Where are the Jenrakians and to what use can we be in helping your offense?"

With that the Jagadian entrance into the Rithman-Jenrakian War was absolute. The Jagadians were ready for war.

[OOC: Ah, cool. I guess you also signed up Trans, the list is gone but I semi-remeber you joining. If you didn't, I think this is still a Closed Rp. Though Jenrak may have made an acception.]

OOC: I got him AIM last night and asked if I could join. Me and him have some history. Two of my royal family members live there and their children live there. One is married to Ashili and the other is married to Jake of Spades. To make this not pure OOC post, I will add some IC in it.

IC: At Base Omega, The Hellions Hanger

Colonel Wes Morell walked in front of eleven other men wearing all black jump suit. “Hellions!” yelled Wes. “We are here to show the Jenrakian that we are their allies. They will need our air support in war.”

“All of us know that their air force is a outdate program.” said Wes. “But this Naar dogs have better air forces.”

“But they have not met the Dominion in air combat.” he said with a smile.

OOC: Sorry for the Pure OOC post, but here's a crudely drawn map:
http://img231.imageshack.us/img231/3921/strip16ea.jpg

“Those sneaky bastards.” The Rith Commander said, as his lieutenant rushed forwards, his face red and his breathing afresh with strain and tiresome, laboured gasps of air, as the pummelling firepower shook about the battlefield, flares and missiles passing each other like snowballs thrown vigorously in a snowball fight. Napalm incinerated entire leagues and whole battalions, but the sides would have to press on. Certainly Jenrak had less men, unable to put their army together quick enough to push back against the Rith legions, and five more armies awaited at home in the beautiful city of Darakusople, the familiar golden pavilions and gargantuan cathedrals dotting its fervent landscape with a beautifully craved out centre, build amidst fiery passions. But this was not their home, this was not Darakusople. This was the Jenrakian-Rith peninsula, and it was as close to hell on earth that they would get, fire and stone at every corner, gunfire blazing as flames flickered hungrily on their bodies. Napalm roaring in a contagious fever of death, gas following in the fire’s wake, artillery blasted from their bunker-like positions, the deafening roar slightly blowing their ear drums.

“We’ve been pushing the front against them so far, and we’re almost there at cutting off their attacks.” The commander said to the Jagadian men. “Our soldiers are pushing up the west front. We need your assistance. If you don’t mind, concentrate all your forces to the west front, and we can keep a strong defence on the east front. Once the Jenrakian line in the west end is broken, the infantry can destroy the Vizi-Turrets from behind and the ships can begin the bombardment for the way of a land invasion.”

From the Rith sea, looming along the side, the small scout ship the Fourth Finger, a sleek and steady ship, quick and smooth on its journey through the foggy night, not even aware of the far off gunfire flickering as it crackled in the east, trudge slowly. It drifted with a ghostly presence, the crew aboard like the thick, mysterious shadows that lurked upon the water’s surface.

“What’s your steady position, A-12?” The communications chimed up annoyingly on the boat, the Fourth Finger tumbling slowly at sea, as a small shadow showed up on their sights, the captain curious.

“Turn on the heat sensors.” The captain commanded, his voice incredulous and overwhelming, his tone with a brisk sense of power echoing his every syllable. A tall, but scrawny and certainly cowardly man, if his moustache was as thick as many times he committed a controversial move, this man certainly facial hair to suit. Balding on his scalp, eyes watery, he slowly went from position to position, his voice trailing usually in the middle of work.

“Any detection?” The captain asked his crew, but no negative replies came along – all the same – just a simple jargon of a large rock, or possibly even a small building masquerading as a ruin.

The shadow grew larger, but it only whirred a small and familiar but deadly sound that would strike fear into the hearts of his men and himself most often, a dangling copper cross on his chest dangling from a string around his neck. “Save me lord.” He said quietly, as the whirring object finally lit up, a straight blast from it’s end launching a thick and piercing shell straight through the ship, the soldier who was unfortunate to stand there ripped apart into shreds, half of his organs still dangling on the edge of the metal ripped sheet, before it exploded.

Two Miles off the coast of Designated Landing Zone Alpha, Task Force 03, 2:31PM Friday

The Pudite ships were now approaching their designated positions off the coast of Rithman-Naar from which they will proceed with Orthae landing operations and ground attack runs for the next twelve weeks. Kadova’s first obstacle was the beach itself, the only suitable landing zone available to him was a short stretch of beach guarded by two large compounds known locally as ‘The Eyes of the Rith.’

He planned to launch his operation from here, and so he needed those structures gone. Already bombing missions were ordered, and have been proceeding for the last seven hours, after final intelligence reports were received. The thirty-five DAS-4 Swordfish aircraft on this assignment carried on them over fourteen thousand pounds of ordinance per aircraft, per mission. Each pilot would bring his plane in at around sixty thousand feet, with every other bomber targeting the same structure.

Once within range, these bombers were supplemented by a large-scale shore bombardment released from the fleet. Missiles screamed off the decks of all five Roydia class Battleships, followed shortly by a salvo from the rest of the fleet, all in all, seventy-four ships capable of launching a missile attack, ranging from the lumbering Helina class Battlecruisers, to the nimble Lionfish class Missile Frigates. This assault would go on for the next eight hours, or until each individual ship had used up the designated number of missiles, whereupon they would wait quietly by for the larger craft to finish.

A picket of twenty DAS-10M Cormorant naval helicopters had been active for the majority of the journey and were now, upon reaching the combat zone, re-enforced by Rotary-Wing Naval Flights 2-4, numbering a combined sixty craft.

The Orthae were all ready prepared for, and briefed on, their second naval landing in their organizations history. Between the compliments of the ships of Task Force 03, the cargo of the First Imperial Transport Flotilla, and the men loaned to Kadova by the two OPARR captains, there were a little over 100,000 soldiers at the Admirals disposal. In eight hours the assault would begin, and the future of one-hundred thousand men would be decided…

OOC: Sorry to be a buzzkill, but I won't be able to RP as two countries for a while. I just don't have enough time to do it.