NationStates Jolt Archive

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Ankara, The Ottoman Empire
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News of the fall of the Sabiri government (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=463477) had reached the Empire long ago, but for a long time, they had done nothing about it. It seemed that with the Afghan situation (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=471616) at a height, there was no point in overexerting one's empire or military resources. But what had once been Al-Sabir was now far out of the publics eye, and that was a good thing, or so the Sultan thought.

It was the dead of night. Rarely did the Three Houses convine together, nor indeed, at this time of day, but for now, it seemed that the express invitation of the Sultan was enough to sufficently awe the pompous and corrupt members of the Ottoman Parliment. They came at different times, for the Sultan had not specified the time, but that was not of the matter. They were all here and that was all that the Sultan cared about.

It was a fairly impromtou session, but the Sultan did not see it that way. Silently, he strode up to his ornamental chair at the head of the massive Parliment Building, pomp and ceremony radiating around him. But that was not what made all the other members of Parliment stand still and unright in their seats. He was wearing a deep rode, dark and long, and they seemed to stare at him amazed. He had a sheathed sword at his side, the first time a sword had been brought into the great domed building.

But it was what he said that was so surprising. As he began to speak, his audience seemed uneasy, shifting in their seats, but as he continued, their apprehension disappered. They watched as their monarch began to outline a plan, a daring an dangerous plan. They listened keenly as he described exactly what they would do. And when he finished, they broke into tumultous applause, sending pigeons in the roof of the building scattering.

As he finished, the Sultan leaned back in his throne, content. What had been done, had been done. The first seeds of empire had been planted. The rising sun, sending its first rays onto the empty streets of Ankara heralded a new dawn. An Ottoman dawn.

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Two Weeks Later, Gaziantep Province, Former Sabiri Land
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It was rare enough to see Ottoman troops armed with AK-47s. It was even rarer to see Ottoman troops out of the bounds of the empire. But things were changing. For the past two weeks, something had been happening within the bounds of the Turkish lands. Raids had begun, large and small both, across land which had once been Sabiri. There had been Ottoman forces marching, marching across land which had long since been lost to them, ages ago.

This particular raid was made up of several thousand Ottoman troops. They looked hardened, as if they had been here before, had done that before. It was a small town which seemed their aim, a town not far from Gaziantep city itself. A few hundred people still lived here, tending crops and animals and living a good, if not great, life. But that was all about to change.

Since the fall of the Sabiri government, these men had been totally self-governing, though few warlords often passed through, demanding supplies. But now an army of the Empire itself lay at thier doorstep and their capitulated quickly. To incur the anger of the Empire was pure folly. But what was happening was something totally different. They were the first of many, and would be the start of a new era.

The Ottoman Empire was taking back land which it had held only in antiquity.

And Ottoman agents were flooding Beirut with propoganda...and more...

Taggety Tag!

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Beirut, Former Sabir
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He strode down the back alleyway, ignoring the stench which rose from the trash piled against the wall. Water dripped down the dirty brick walls of two old apartment complexes which rose on either side of the sewer which ran alongside the alley. It was the dead of night, a few lights blinking their way across the upturned cans of trash and muck. Most lights were broken, now. It wasn't rare to see an increase in crime following the fall of a powerful country, especially here.

The man looked behind him and in front of him, quietly, his right hand still dipped into the front of his coat. This was Hezbollah territory, and was dangerous for one of his religious inclination and one who followed who he did. The Sultan had taken to calling himself "Protector of the True Faith" and while it was an old and presitigious title which had often been used to refer to a Sultan, Hezbollah hadn't liked it. But they were like that.

He stopped, suddenly, aware of footstpes paddling along behind him. The other, whoever he was, was trying his hardest to be unheard, but it had been no use. The man had sharp ears. Grinning, he reached down, picking up a slimy rock with his gloved left hand. It was a good thing that he had practice skipping rocks. He quickly threw it, letting in bounce along the alleyway, sounding all like the world like a man walking. Smiling again, he ducked into a nearby tent to watch the fun.

Two men, each armed with Elias-made submachineguns (wherever they had got those) were creeping in the shadows of the street, avoiding the little light that was there, avoiding the pale pallor cast by that light. Each wore a black bandanna and one was silently mouthing the words of the Prophet under his breath. He looked terrified. The man in the shadows nodded his head. Fright was goodn in your enemies.

He suddenly removed his right hand from his pocket, revealing a long pistol. Nay, it was a silenced revolver, utterly unaudible, and yet totally sucessful. It would have cost a lot, but the man had money. He raised it and fired, letting a soft puff of smoke lazily rise into the air as the second of the two men fell to the floor. His other companion, the frightened one, jumped back as the lifeless body of his compatriot fell to the street.

He immediately kneeled down, his gun clenched tightly in his hands, muttering a prayer for the dead. The man in the shadows lightly stepped into the street. He pressed his gun to the back of the other's neck. "Take me to Omar." he said, speaking in clear Arabic. The other gulped and nodded. They all had jobs to do.

OOC:This role-play is closed for members of the A Modern World RP'ing group. If you would like to join or see more, click here (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=376859&page=1&pp=15). In the meantime, please delete your post. Thank you.

[OOC: I'm suprised United Elias hasn't taken an interest in this thread.]

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Beirut, Former Sabir
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The man called Omar was fat, very obese. He ran a run-down little shop about a half-kilometer from the alleyway which had been the scene of the previous little incident. He had narrow eyes, however, which narrowed considerably more when he saw the two men, one of whom was holding the other by the back lapels of his coat and holding a gun to his neck, walking through the dense fog of the early morning. Then he gave a start.

"Rare to see you here, eh? Expected a price on your head would keep you away, no?" Omar had a thin, reedy, voice, but he looked angry and sly. He face seemed like he was concealing a secret, though by the looks on the faces of both men seemed that they didn't care in any way, shape, or form exactly what he thought of them. That was good. He didn't seem to be a mechanic of any skill. A few broken motorbikes lay across the floor, and an oil stain or wrench here or there, but it seemed that it was mainly for show.

"I'm always around, Omar. You know why I'm back, right?" The man tossed the other by the side of the road, ignoring his pleas. Then, silently, he raised the gun which he was holding, and shot. The other fell by the wayside, dead. Omar's face betrayed his fear. He had not, at all, been expecting that. The other nodded warily.

"Yes, I do. Foolish dog, following the order of the Sultan. Son of a bitch." The other's face darkened.

"You are an insult to the true faith, Omar. Now do as I ask and tell them what I want them to hear." The other's face was a thundercloud and his words came out cold and menecing.

"What do you want them to do?" Omar's voice was now a squeak, though of fright or ignorance, it was not clear.

"Nothing. I don't want to here anything, see anything. What we do is our business, and I don't want interefereance. Or else." Omar opened his mouth, then thought better of it, then shut it. There was not question what he meant. But just what he was saying was crazy and irrational.

OOC:Not that great a post, but I have got to go, so, sorry.

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A Military Base, South of Izmir, The Ottoman Empire
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He was the brains behind the Ottoman war machine. Without him, they would have had nothing.

Muhammed Abdullah Khan was no ordinary man among the host of Ottoman lord and ladies. He was the head of the Ottoman military, a hard, tough, soldier who had fought in numerous campaigns as a mercenary during that brief time ages ago when the Ottomans had loaned out their soldiers for quick use to foreign powers. He had had experience fighting alongside men of all colors, all races, all types, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

He stared out at the sun, towering ahead in the sky, overshadowing everything and everyone around. A group of young military recruits paraded and shot at barrels of hay and propped-up soldiers in front of him. He had come outside to stretch his legs and had, instead, found himself instructing the organizers and trainers of the young soldiers. He shook his head. All this playful foolishness was nothing like war itself.

He had been shaped by war; been toughened by war, and it was war which had made him what he was. The heat of the desert, the cold of northern winter, the endlessness of the open waters; all had made him what he was. They had each contributed to changing him, helping him become was he was. The earth and the battle had been his classrooms, guns and swords his teachers, and death, his classmate. He had learned there, what men learned in their houses, and there was no question who had succeeded more.

He waved his hand at an instructor, calling him over, then giving him a small order. The man nodded, and then set the young recruits at a different drill, as he had been instructed to tell. He nodded approvingly. The first thing one needed for an army was discipline, and his "army", if one could call that motley array an "army" had that. The battlefield would teach them everything else they needed to know.

A man ran up to him, passing a paper into his hand silently. He opened up the folded and battered dusty piece of paper and read what it had to say. "This comes from Aziz?" he asked, the other nodding quickly. He crumpled it up, tossing it to the ground, as sudden smile on his face. "Tell him he has the go-ahead. And tell him he doesn't need to report to me everything. Tell him to follow his feelings. I'll take the blame." What they were about to do was both entirely dangerous and entirely illegal.

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The Gulf of Antalya
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Muhammed Abdullah Khan stood at the railing of one of the largest ships in the Ottoman navy. This was no broken wooden ship, not a steamboat, nor anything near. This was a large, modern, battleship, manufactured not far from here, on the coasts of Mersin Province, by modern companies looking to get quick money from the rich and fast-spending Ottoman government. It was a marvel in military engineering.

Gleaming guns and rows upon rows of ships gathered here, the weight of the Ottoman navy, young sailors, in the prime of life, ready to live out their dreams, wherever they would go. Large and small, black and white, of all religions, ethnicities, and backgrounds, these men had gathered here to further the dreams of the Sultan and the Empire.

Fire would be brought wherever they would go, that much was clear. Muhammed's face was grave as he raised his hands, signaling an advance to the south-west. Like a behemoth, a conjoined behemoth, the Ottoman fleet moved forward, speeding their way into the central Mediterranean. But it would take days to get where they were going, ample time to be spotted by their allies, and by others.

The water was calm and clear, but wherever this fleet was heading, it would be dyed red.

OOC:This is not that good of a post, but it is mainly a linker, between the battles, and the preperation.