Jenrak
05-11-2006, 19:48
“I cannot believe this weather. Azhuj is punishing us greatly for our sinfulness.” One of the soldiers murmured to another, as they trudged along.
“Azhuj is not kind to us this year, but we must persevere to please him with our fortitude. Authaulus commands it.”
“I understand what Authaulus commands and I respect my lord’s request, but still, this is a damning mission.”
“Do not talk weary or make no fabrication upon Authaulus. He is a great man, and a devout follower of Azhuj. He knows how to appease great Azhuj. Hail Enkur.”
“Hail Enkur!”
It was a scorching July, the sands nearly steaming with humidity as the airy dunes were drying out in moisture, the soldiers marching along as their massive encampment crawled on treads along them, tied up in the thickening sands frequently as they prodded it out through machine and muscle. Massive azure, steel clad soldiers walked in their drenched, hot suits, trying to move as fast as they could, rushing in the heat as they looked back, their hands sweating beneath the sticky chain mail and their javelins perched in their arms, their muscles seen rippling and vibrating with the veins pulsing beneath their tanned skin. They carried their shields on their massive backs, their shoulder plates visible beyond the thin plastic veil of their uniform, their faces covered by shadows dropping over from their masks and helmets – tall trophies of the sun slashing with heat upon them, the company moving as the soldiers continued to walk.
It was a hot day, it was a hot month, and it was a drenching summer of heat in Jenrak, hotter than usual, even for the heat loving, adaptable Jenrakians. This was one of the hottest years they’ve ever faced in hundreds of years, and for once, the Jenrakians felt battered and baked beneath the golden disk in the sky. The dunes still cackled with laughter, the wind taunting them with a blow of fresh, cool air, before the clouds dissipated away to spy on them from the skies, yet without a burst of lovely rainfall to patter their backs and cool their skin. They continued to march, for it were the orders they were given, trenching through the desert, hiking across dunes, a long line of soldiers moving as tanks whirred in the pits below them, the turrets turning as the engines rumbled in the unbearable heat. The front Temsplace, a tall man in an equally tall armoured suit, his body etched with scars and his arms laden with healing wounds, looked as he held up his hand high, a poisonous green flag in his arms as it swayed in the nonexistent wing. The company stopped, a breathing, straight, broken line. They were hot, and they were thirsty, and while the tasty water in their flasks gave them new energy, they knew they had to continue the march.
The Temsplace looked at the front – he was holy man, yet he knew war quite well. Born in the harsh environment of Jenrak, raised in the brutal and gruelling methods of The Azhujurius, the holy council, he was a man who was loyal to no-one but his god, Enkur of the seven blades. He was in a steaming and baking black armour, slight throbs of burnt skin on his body beneath the shining gleam, yet he ignored the immense pain ravaging through his body. He stayed still, disciplined, unafraid by the uncomfortable feelings he felt in his physical form. Mentally, spiritually, he felt whole and at peace, and that was all that mattered to him, as he stood there still, his flag high as his company looked at him with interest. His thin eyes scanned the terrain before him through sand stricken irises. Below was a drop of a cavernous series of worm-like dunes, the sand stretching beyond the horizon, yet something was seen that made the black armoured Temsplace sigh.
In the distance, visible greatly as a shining obelisk and crystallized city of beauty and stone, stood the giant capital of Haasdra, the whirring bases standing about, the mobile factories billowing out gasses that blocked out the sun, entire sections of the enormous city covered in a dense night fog. He smiled, knowing that finally the march was nearly over, and they could enjoy the rest of their days training in the cool rooms of the large temples along the emerald riverbanks of the hand-shaped Viraigius river. The banks were laden with green, vibrant trees, gardens running along as the balconies were closed, the windows shut down and the whirring of air conditioners evident from a place so far away as where they stood.
From the western end, a series of tanks and a battalion of ships edged along the walled shores of the Viraigius, the giant stone gates opening up to a series of twin dams as large as Enkur’s fingers, the water spurting out sporadically as it cleaned the ships in a soft, subtle spray of cold water, beckoning the Temsplace and his company to walk forwards, to continue their trek towards home. “We are almost there, brothers.” The Temsplace replied on the speakers, the trucks behind them blasting in the air with their speakers. The soldiers sighed, marching on, trying to make their last mile or so a good stretch of exercise.
“We’re almost home.” The Temsplace murmured, whispering, as the city’s beautiful landscape came about, the green horizon visible with a shade of golden precipices that showed the golden towers, glass cities and streets inside the stone city’s walls, people bustling as the anti-aircraft systems and the elongated defences almost snakelike.
Beside him, a thin man in a white robe spoke as they cross down into the small pits of the dunes, slipping slightly yet they moved diligently, problems nonexistent. This man beside the black clad Temsplace was a tall man, taller than the large Temsplace himself, yet his arms were thin and skeletal, his face was malnourished it seemed, and he had no lump of cartilage where his nose would be – simple a healed over void of flesh beneath a white plastic skin. A steel cage of teeth was wired in his jaw, latches and microscopic pulleys pulling along as his voice was a cold, dark shatter of a scream in every spoken word. His shoulder plates were thin, and barely protected, his fingers long and his nails unkempt. He had no hair visible, and his eyes were behind the plastic white screen, his lower body covered in a dress of knives that dangled from his torso.
Yet as he moved, the blades upon his lower dress did not slice his thin legs, nor did they clang with a shrieking noise. He moved quietly, speedily, with almost cat-like reflexes as he stared around, before getting up to full length to look around. He sighed. “I have not seen Haasdra in a long time.” He said, seeing the long black and blue trail of the armies march towards Haasdra, the gleaming oasis of safety and civilization long towards them. For there was a reason for this march, this trek towards the capital of their homeland.
Jenrak had been dormant within the international community, intent on the invasion of Krejeistan, a southern neighbour after the death of Saerus Annirak by a group of dangerous fanatics known as the Heidhakrians. Assuming power, Authaulus built a massive empire after his brother’s rule, but as he expanded south, the northern kingdoms under his domain began to revolt from the foreign rules. Jenrak’s people were becoming complacent, its armies stretched and her nobility all but gone. Authaulus returned home, but after an assassination attempt by a series of marauders, he returned his sights to Krejeistan.
After a series of brutal guerrilla tactics by the local Krejei, and his tactics rivalled by their prodigal young General Kassailiun, Authaulus turned his sights back home, before being pushed back south by the orders of the religious overlord – Therax. Through Therax, Jenrak began to brutally crush city after city with her nuclear weapons upon the once valiant cities of the Krejei, planned air strikes through suicidal missions that disable enemy silos. Too much blood was spilt on Krejei soil, many of it innocent blood. Yet victory assumed herself bold, as Jenrak’s campaign came with the sweet fruits of labour, as within years of their initial campaign, the capital was open, and the people of Krejeistan willing to submit to their overlords, the Tsellian. Another Christian kingdom fell to the Azhjurius.
Yet things changed when they arrived home – people did not cheer them, people did not wave flags of Jenrak upon the soldiers who took the long trek home – the homeland was changed so much that in their absence, the empire of Jenrak was split amongst three rulers. The northern Sandurian empire taken early in the history of Jenrak was ruled by the aristocratic and highly religiously devout families of Viraranaar Kataask, a man who felt the eviscerated cut of war yet who felt no safer by preaching at the pulpit. A commander, a holy councilman and a dangerous man to cross ideologies with, he ruled Northern Jenrak with a fist of guilt, the people highly devoted to the Tsellian, a fanatical empire in stark contrast to it’s brothers.
From the western shoreline, the militaristic domains of Gelectriax the Wicked was glistening in iron. The iron curtain of war was their home-style, the thin yet powerful lines stretching from the Archios wall to the Rithos peninsula a beautiful and menacing thing to see, the people living as a kingdom of masochists, a territory where only the strong and the powerful live – the weak serve as nothing more than fodder and practice for the raging fists of stone.
Yet both kingdoms, northern and western Jenrak, fear their eastern brother greatly. For in the control of eastern Jenrak was Aulocos the Unforgivable, and his influence knew no bounds. A financial juggernaut and an economic monster, Aulocos controlled not only a massive portion of the Jenrakian empires, yet he had complete control of the finances of the nation. He feeds the country, builds it, and makes it strong – he was also a Sadicistra, an aging leper and a psychotic cannibal. Children were his preference, though he was not a pedophile. Still, he commanded great respect and fear by people altogether.
In these three kingdoms that an uneasy unity created the empire of Jenrak, from the religious northern to the gun-toting western to the money mongering eastern, it caused great political instability but eventually turned the empire into something strong, something great. It turned Jenrak from a dangerous religious monarchy to a stable and effective oligarchy, rulers wary of others and their possible repercussions.
Yet as they walked through the long hall-like streets of Haasdra, the split capital, they sighed as the beating sun no longer felt harsh and steaming, but warming and safe, the buzzing air conditioners heard as large screams of mechanical jargon. As they marched to the city square, they heard trumpeting, and a chorus of booming music from a brigade of Temsplace.
Saarakh Akhaduun!
Saarakh Akhakhras!
With that, however, it died down as they reached the square, large numbers of soldiers and Temsplace standing in rows and columns, looking at the woman standing at the podium, her eyes scanning from her large and tall pedestal of stone as she flicked her hair back. She had a silver glaze in her hair, her ears untouched by earrings and her fingers slightly thin. She was a woman of medium height, her thin arms crossed across her chest, her jaw moving around as she slightly wandered about in impatience. Her lips were a fiery red, her skin pale and her eyes bloodshot as if she had no sleep.
Her shoulder small, her waist small and her uniform with a dress of blades – she held a large sword by her side, a blade she carried without sign of difficulty in wielding. Her long sable silver hair fell onto her shoulders, prickling past her back as she looked and scanned still – before a deathly silence filled the square, only the whirring of the air conditioners down the street heard. It was now hot and airy.
She was Rashkta, the Lady of the Tower, and she was the highest General in the armies of the Jenrakian Sadicistra, an army of rapists, murderers and serial killers that were stricken with disgusting fetishes and terrible penchants for cannibalism, carrying sadistic tendencies. They were the psychological armies of Jenrak that broke the steel hearts of men and women, and Rashkta was their Overlord. She was the only person they feared most, a woman who at first seemed innocent and young, her ravishing and unique beauty interesting to note.
Yet she had her own history, a history of consuming criminals and vandals, a history of dark secrets that only lived in her mind – mutilation, torture, murder, cannibalism, sadism. None of these were alien to her – she was experience in them all. Yet here she stood, at the podium, looking at the army that had just come home, she began her speech.
“Let us drink blood and eat flesh – for the flesh of victory comes to us in platter, and the blood of triumph is poured in the waterfall of warfare. We come today, upon the backing and breaking light of the sun to spite the heat with our fervour, our loyalty, and our greatness as the children of Jenrak. We have taught another legion of unbelievers to see the light of Azhuj, the reign of great Enkur. We are a perfect species, a perfect people, that as perfect people, we must be compassionate. And through our compassion, we must help others be near to perfect as us, and they shall prosper because of us. By ridding the filth of intolerant religious from the southern Krejeian lands, we have brought unity and peace towards the continent of Ascherach.
The Krejei have felt our fist, our touching hands of painful assistance, that in our pain towards them, they may grow strong as our people, and in the Tsellia they may grow faithful and blessed to the Tsellia. For in this victory of campaigns, I make this a great day. A day that is to be remembered as the day we reach our last obstacles! This is the day, my brothers! This is the day that Christianity falls within the Akhrodrack.”
That message was played through every outlet in Jenrak. Christianity had fallen against the Tsellia.
OOC: I don't think I need to explain that a religious reason to declare war on me is a good one. Especially if your nation is Christian.
“Azhuj is not kind to us this year, but we must persevere to please him with our fortitude. Authaulus commands it.”
“I understand what Authaulus commands and I respect my lord’s request, but still, this is a damning mission.”
“Do not talk weary or make no fabrication upon Authaulus. He is a great man, and a devout follower of Azhuj. He knows how to appease great Azhuj. Hail Enkur.”
“Hail Enkur!”
It was a scorching July, the sands nearly steaming with humidity as the airy dunes were drying out in moisture, the soldiers marching along as their massive encampment crawled on treads along them, tied up in the thickening sands frequently as they prodded it out through machine and muscle. Massive azure, steel clad soldiers walked in their drenched, hot suits, trying to move as fast as they could, rushing in the heat as they looked back, their hands sweating beneath the sticky chain mail and their javelins perched in their arms, their muscles seen rippling and vibrating with the veins pulsing beneath their tanned skin. They carried their shields on their massive backs, their shoulder plates visible beyond the thin plastic veil of their uniform, their faces covered by shadows dropping over from their masks and helmets – tall trophies of the sun slashing with heat upon them, the company moving as the soldiers continued to walk.
It was a hot day, it was a hot month, and it was a drenching summer of heat in Jenrak, hotter than usual, even for the heat loving, adaptable Jenrakians. This was one of the hottest years they’ve ever faced in hundreds of years, and for once, the Jenrakians felt battered and baked beneath the golden disk in the sky. The dunes still cackled with laughter, the wind taunting them with a blow of fresh, cool air, before the clouds dissipated away to spy on them from the skies, yet without a burst of lovely rainfall to patter their backs and cool their skin. They continued to march, for it were the orders they were given, trenching through the desert, hiking across dunes, a long line of soldiers moving as tanks whirred in the pits below them, the turrets turning as the engines rumbled in the unbearable heat. The front Temsplace, a tall man in an equally tall armoured suit, his body etched with scars and his arms laden with healing wounds, looked as he held up his hand high, a poisonous green flag in his arms as it swayed in the nonexistent wing. The company stopped, a breathing, straight, broken line. They were hot, and they were thirsty, and while the tasty water in their flasks gave them new energy, they knew they had to continue the march.
The Temsplace looked at the front – he was holy man, yet he knew war quite well. Born in the harsh environment of Jenrak, raised in the brutal and gruelling methods of The Azhujurius, the holy council, he was a man who was loyal to no-one but his god, Enkur of the seven blades. He was in a steaming and baking black armour, slight throbs of burnt skin on his body beneath the shining gleam, yet he ignored the immense pain ravaging through his body. He stayed still, disciplined, unafraid by the uncomfortable feelings he felt in his physical form. Mentally, spiritually, he felt whole and at peace, and that was all that mattered to him, as he stood there still, his flag high as his company looked at him with interest. His thin eyes scanned the terrain before him through sand stricken irises. Below was a drop of a cavernous series of worm-like dunes, the sand stretching beyond the horizon, yet something was seen that made the black armoured Temsplace sigh.
In the distance, visible greatly as a shining obelisk and crystallized city of beauty and stone, stood the giant capital of Haasdra, the whirring bases standing about, the mobile factories billowing out gasses that blocked out the sun, entire sections of the enormous city covered in a dense night fog. He smiled, knowing that finally the march was nearly over, and they could enjoy the rest of their days training in the cool rooms of the large temples along the emerald riverbanks of the hand-shaped Viraigius river. The banks were laden with green, vibrant trees, gardens running along as the balconies were closed, the windows shut down and the whirring of air conditioners evident from a place so far away as where they stood.
From the western end, a series of tanks and a battalion of ships edged along the walled shores of the Viraigius, the giant stone gates opening up to a series of twin dams as large as Enkur’s fingers, the water spurting out sporadically as it cleaned the ships in a soft, subtle spray of cold water, beckoning the Temsplace and his company to walk forwards, to continue their trek towards home. “We are almost there, brothers.” The Temsplace replied on the speakers, the trucks behind them blasting in the air with their speakers. The soldiers sighed, marching on, trying to make their last mile or so a good stretch of exercise.
“We’re almost home.” The Temsplace murmured, whispering, as the city’s beautiful landscape came about, the green horizon visible with a shade of golden precipices that showed the golden towers, glass cities and streets inside the stone city’s walls, people bustling as the anti-aircraft systems and the elongated defences almost snakelike.
Beside him, a thin man in a white robe spoke as they cross down into the small pits of the dunes, slipping slightly yet they moved diligently, problems nonexistent. This man beside the black clad Temsplace was a tall man, taller than the large Temsplace himself, yet his arms were thin and skeletal, his face was malnourished it seemed, and he had no lump of cartilage where his nose would be – simple a healed over void of flesh beneath a white plastic skin. A steel cage of teeth was wired in his jaw, latches and microscopic pulleys pulling along as his voice was a cold, dark shatter of a scream in every spoken word. His shoulder plates were thin, and barely protected, his fingers long and his nails unkempt. He had no hair visible, and his eyes were behind the plastic white screen, his lower body covered in a dress of knives that dangled from his torso.
Yet as he moved, the blades upon his lower dress did not slice his thin legs, nor did they clang with a shrieking noise. He moved quietly, speedily, with almost cat-like reflexes as he stared around, before getting up to full length to look around. He sighed. “I have not seen Haasdra in a long time.” He said, seeing the long black and blue trail of the armies march towards Haasdra, the gleaming oasis of safety and civilization long towards them. For there was a reason for this march, this trek towards the capital of their homeland.
Jenrak had been dormant within the international community, intent on the invasion of Krejeistan, a southern neighbour after the death of Saerus Annirak by a group of dangerous fanatics known as the Heidhakrians. Assuming power, Authaulus built a massive empire after his brother’s rule, but as he expanded south, the northern kingdoms under his domain began to revolt from the foreign rules. Jenrak’s people were becoming complacent, its armies stretched and her nobility all but gone. Authaulus returned home, but after an assassination attempt by a series of marauders, he returned his sights to Krejeistan.
After a series of brutal guerrilla tactics by the local Krejei, and his tactics rivalled by their prodigal young General Kassailiun, Authaulus turned his sights back home, before being pushed back south by the orders of the religious overlord – Therax. Through Therax, Jenrak began to brutally crush city after city with her nuclear weapons upon the once valiant cities of the Krejei, planned air strikes through suicidal missions that disable enemy silos. Too much blood was spilt on Krejei soil, many of it innocent blood. Yet victory assumed herself bold, as Jenrak’s campaign came with the sweet fruits of labour, as within years of their initial campaign, the capital was open, and the people of Krejeistan willing to submit to their overlords, the Tsellian. Another Christian kingdom fell to the Azhjurius.
Yet things changed when they arrived home – people did not cheer them, people did not wave flags of Jenrak upon the soldiers who took the long trek home – the homeland was changed so much that in their absence, the empire of Jenrak was split amongst three rulers. The northern Sandurian empire taken early in the history of Jenrak was ruled by the aristocratic and highly religiously devout families of Viraranaar Kataask, a man who felt the eviscerated cut of war yet who felt no safer by preaching at the pulpit. A commander, a holy councilman and a dangerous man to cross ideologies with, he ruled Northern Jenrak with a fist of guilt, the people highly devoted to the Tsellian, a fanatical empire in stark contrast to it’s brothers.
From the western shoreline, the militaristic domains of Gelectriax the Wicked was glistening in iron. The iron curtain of war was their home-style, the thin yet powerful lines stretching from the Archios wall to the Rithos peninsula a beautiful and menacing thing to see, the people living as a kingdom of masochists, a territory where only the strong and the powerful live – the weak serve as nothing more than fodder and practice for the raging fists of stone.
Yet both kingdoms, northern and western Jenrak, fear their eastern brother greatly. For in the control of eastern Jenrak was Aulocos the Unforgivable, and his influence knew no bounds. A financial juggernaut and an economic monster, Aulocos controlled not only a massive portion of the Jenrakian empires, yet he had complete control of the finances of the nation. He feeds the country, builds it, and makes it strong – he was also a Sadicistra, an aging leper and a psychotic cannibal. Children were his preference, though he was not a pedophile. Still, he commanded great respect and fear by people altogether.
In these three kingdoms that an uneasy unity created the empire of Jenrak, from the religious northern to the gun-toting western to the money mongering eastern, it caused great political instability but eventually turned the empire into something strong, something great. It turned Jenrak from a dangerous religious monarchy to a stable and effective oligarchy, rulers wary of others and their possible repercussions.
Yet as they walked through the long hall-like streets of Haasdra, the split capital, they sighed as the beating sun no longer felt harsh and steaming, but warming and safe, the buzzing air conditioners heard as large screams of mechanical jargon. As they marched to the city square, they heard trumpeting, and a chorus of booming music from a brigade of Temsplace.
Saarakh Akhaduun!
Saarakh Akhakhras!
With that, however, it died down as they reached the square, large numbers of soldiers and Temsplace standing in rows and columns, looking at the woman standing at the podium, her eyes scanning from her large and tall pedestal of stone as she flicked her hair back. She had a silver glaze in her hair, her ears untouched by earrings and her fingers slightly thin. She was a woman of medium height, her thin arms crossed across her chest, her jaw moving around as she slightly wandered about in impatience. Her lips were a fiery red, her skin pale and her eyes bloodshot as if she had no sleep.
Her shoulder small, her waist small and her uniform with a dress of blades – she held a large sword by her side, a blade she carried without sign of difficulty in wielding. Her long sable silver hair fell onto her shoulders, prickling past her back as she looked and scanned still – before a deathly silence filled the square, only the whirring of the air conditioners down the street heard. It was now hot and airy.
She was Rashkta, the Lady of the Tower, and she was the highest General in the armies of the Jenrakian Sadicistra, an army of rapists, murderers and serial killers that were stricken with disgusting fetishes and terrible penchants for cannibalism, carrying sadistic tendencies. They were the psychological armies of Jenrak that broke the steel hearts of men and women, and Rashkta was their Overlord. She was the only person they feared most, a woman who at first seemed innocent and young, her ravishing and unique beauty interesting to note.
Yet she had her own history, a history of consuming criminals and vandals, a history of dark secrets that only lived in her mind – mutilation, torture, murder, cannibalism, sadism. None of these were alien to her – she was experience in them all. Yet here she stood, at the podium, looking at the army that had just come home, she began her speech.
“Let us drink blood and eat flesh – for the flesh of victory comes to us in platter, and the blood of triumph is poured in the waterfall of warfare. We come today, upon the backing and breaking light of the sun to spite the heat with our fervour, our loyalty, and our greatness as the children of Jenrak. We have taught another legion of unbelievers to see the light of Azhuj, the reign of great Enkur. We are a perfect species, a perfect people, that as perfect people, we must be compassionate. And through our compassion, we must help others be near to perfect as us, and they shall prosper because of us. By ridding the filth of intolerant religious from the southern Krejeian lands, we have brought unity and peace towards the continent of Ascherach.
The Krejei have felt our fist, our touching hands of painful assistance, that in our pain towards them, they may grow strong as our people, and in the Tsellia they may grow faithful and blessed to the Tsellia. For in this victory of campaigns, I make this a great day. A day that is to be remembered as the day we reach our last obstacles! This is the day, my brothers! This is the day that Christianity falls within the Akhrodrack.”
That message was played through every outlet in Jenrak. Christianity had fallen against the Tsellia.
OOC: I don't think I need to explain that a religious reason to declare war on me is a good one. Especially if your nation is Christian.